Night, Rediscovered

There's something to be said for the hours of late afternoon and early evening. Most of the world spends these hours either rushing from place to place or cursing the traffic that prevents said rushing.​ They are rushed, squashed and downtrodden.

But suddenly, they are all mine.​

With grad school behind me, and having said farewell to my weekly piano students, I am discovering all sorts of things to do in the evenings:

• Walk. These days I have the freedom to go just about anywhere -- no one is going to mess with a dingo -- and, thanks to a prong training collar, can even enjoy it without a battle of wills. Especially loving the Indian Summer weather that enables me to stay out for an hour without getting gross and sweaty.
• Cook. I especially enjoy the challenge of using up CSA veggies: tonight I made a velvety, warm broccoli soup with local cream and smoked salt. And some baba gannoush, topped with tomatoes and mint from my own backyard. Currently working my way through my parents' thoughtful birthday gift. 
• Read. After a love-hate journey through the Game of Thrones series, I picked up the books and got pretty thoroughly engrossed in the impossibly complex plotline, complete with gratuitous sex and violence (though not nearly as much as in the TV show!) I know it's half garbage, but the other half is great character development. Hey, I'm still reading Homer, Hemingway and Wilde for school!
• Listen. My brother got me the most ingenious little invention: it does a great job of magnifying sound from my phone, so I can listen to podcasts while I garden or drive or clean.​
• Pray. Most dear to my heart is the opportunity to attend weekday Vespers at my parish. The last time I went regularly was over a decade ago, before I had even met my husband. ​

Most happily, very little of this time is spent staring at a screen (I have it on all day at school) and I have enough hours to myself that I can stop happily in plenty of time to clean up and go to bed. Sleep is a gift in a class by itself!​

Maybe Not So Predictable

It's been a year since I wrote about my Top 8, so I was surprised to discover the other day that almost all of them have changed:

• Gmail: Still number one. No matter how much I try to hold it at bay, it's always the first and last thing I see on the computer . . . and I'm on the computer a lot!
• The American Conservative: My friend Rod is so prolific I can't subscribe to his feed, but I do check the site at least once a day. 
• Google Reader: This is where I get my other blog fix-es. Just about all of them are personal friends, but I do enjoy a few places to lurk as well. (Don't click there unless you want to become a permanent lurker too!)
• Yelp: I discovered this site last winter we didn't have a kitchen and ate out several times a day. I quickly climbed to Elite status and now enjoy free fun outings from time to time, as well as obsessively chronicling my trips to area restaurants. (You can review anything on Yelp, but for my sanity's sake I've limited it to eating establishments!)
• Amazon: Despite having read this fantastically depressing memoir about the side effects of quick-ship policies, I cannot wean myself off this giant e-tailer. It drew me in with a free Prime membership for a year, then offered me half-price for another year: basically, whatever I want is at my doorstep within 48 hours, and often in 24. Plus, free movies and TV shows to supplement Netflix' more meager offerings (we eventually cut off our DVD membership, but continue to watch instant movies from time to time.)
• SquareSpace: I'm a dedicated convert, and we're actually in the process of moving to the new platform, which is totally different, in a much better way. Stay tuned for the facelift.
• Rosetta Stone: Frantically trying to finish the program before school starts, or at least get further than halfway! I really have enjoyed the method and have a couple of ideas for integrating its philosophy into my classroom. 
• The New York Times: I might grouse (and I do!) about the unabashedly liberal bias and paid-only availability, but the fact remains that, perhaps because it's so large, its articles are better-written and more diverse than almost anywhere else. Which reminds me that there's still a handful of pieces I want to share with you before I return to the Paris series. Here we go!

A New Spin

Euh … bonjour … (Um … hello …)

Yes, I’m well aware of what happens when I make blogging promises: I fail spectacularly.  As proof of that, I submit my vow to blog every day during my recent Paris trip, when in fact I didn’t blog once.  Part of the reason was logistical; using the phone for data was hugely expensive, so even the super-easy SquareSpace app was impossible to run unless I was in a wifi hot spot (and believe me, it feels like I spent half the trip looking for those!)  Our hotel had free wifi, but we really only returned there to sleep for a few hours at the end of each long, exhausting day.  And I had brought the iPad, but felt nervous toting it around the city in search of an inspiring AND plugged-in spot to write.

So: no blogging.  But: plenty to say.  So much, in fact, that I’ve organized my thoughts into ten basic categories. I’m hoping to write briefly about each one, somewhere in between a meditation and a guidebook.  If you’re going to Paris, I hope you’ll read these first.  And if you’ve already been, I hope you’ll join me in remembering what makes this such an amazing city.

My plan was to write about one thing each day for 10 days (to make up for the 10 days I didn’t write a blessed thing.)  But we all know what happens when I tell you about my plans.  Instead, I’ll just promise to make my way through the list as soon as I can find the time, energy and brain power.  Look for the first installment soon.

Commencement

Mrs. Lowe, Thanks making class so interesting for Nicole this year. We had a lot of fun discussions about a number of her assignments. Have a great summer.

We loved this year. I think Kayleigh is improving greatly. I can’t wait for next year. Thanks for everything you do, Emily!

My scores went up 180 points! I’m so happy! Thank you so much!

Mrs. Lowe - Thanks for being such a great teacher that puts up with my constant opinions. I hope I have you again.

Commencement. I’ve been thinking a lot about this word, having attended quite a few last month (one of the many reasons I never made it over here to let you know!)  It marks the end of something momentous: for my students, four years of studying, learning and growing up; for my sister, a decade of decisions, indecisions and redecisions; for me, too many semesters of slow, plodding progress toward a goal.

And now we’re finished.  Finally.  My sister has the piece of paper that will save her endless headaches trying to work overseas.  My students are at Senior Week, making up for all the responsible and moral decisions they made in my classroom.  And I am Officially A Teacher, pending sixteen weeks’ worth of paperwork from the good people at the Maryland State Department of Education.

But they don’t call it “finishment” or even “completement.” It’s called “commencement,” because as much as we think we are (want to be) finished, we are really just beginning.  We all have plans, but we also know they are just that — plans — and they will almost certainly change, most likely at the time and place we least expect them to.  There’s something oddly comforting about that, the way a neat stack of folded onesies belies the messes that will call them into service one by one.

For me, it means embracing what I have resisted for so long: commitment. Sure, I have done my job and done it well, I think. But now I will see what it’s like for the millions of teachers who get up early every single day, turn on the lights in their classrooms, and teach until the final bell. I’ll have a classroom. I’ll teach all day. And I’ll have a new challenge in a French class. That’s right: I get to be the one to teach them the joys of this language I have loved for so long. I still remember my first year of French in seventh grade, and how much I loved every minute of the teacher’s blend of careful instruction with goofy antics. They are huge shoes to fill.

But first I have my own French adventure to enjoy, starting tonight. My husband, who rarely asks me for anything, wants me to journal every day, and he bought me a new international smartphone to make the process easier.  So I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the next couple of weeks!

Reach Out and Tweet Someone

Rarely have I read such an articulate, insightful and disturbing status report about the human race:

We’ve become accustomed to a new way of being “alone together.” Technology-enabled, we are able to be with one another, and also elsewhere, connected to wherever we want to be. We want to customize our lives. We want to move in and out of where we are because the thing we value most is control over where we focus our attention. We have gotten used to the idea of being in a tribe of one, loyal to our own party.

I see this behavior all the time, especially in adults. I hate it. Often I want to ask the person, “Why are you here? To interact with me, or to check your e-mail?”

And yet, I am certain I am guilty of the same behaviors. Being blessed with a husband who loves to drive, I often use my time in the car to communicate with clients and friends, sending messages and playing my single iPhone vice. In the guise of taking notes, I can read the news on my phone during boring meetings; I have noticed that I no longer sketch chair backs and light fixtures in the margins of my agendas, and honestly, I kind of miss that last connection to years spent with a pencil glued to my hand.

Later, the author continues:

We expect more from technology and less from one another and seem increasingly drawn to technologies that provide the illusion of companionship without the demands of relationship. Always-on/always-on-you devices provide three powerful fantasies: that we will always be heard; that we can put our attention wherever we want it to be; and that we never have to be alone. Indeed our new devices have turned being alone into a problem that can be solved.

The great irony of this: I love being alone. In fact, most days I find myself working at the computer and thinking, “If I can just get this finished, I’ll go work in the garden / start dinner / read a book on the front porch.” And suddenly, after work with distractions all day it’s time for bed.  Or, more likely, way past time for bed. So, for me at least, it’s a matter of control. How can I keep these (innovative, useful, efficient) devices at a life-enhancing, and not a life-encompassing, level? I’d love to know how other people are handling it.

What I Taught Myself Thirteen Years Later

Of all the amazing moments in the fascinating and weighty American Beauty, it’s Lester Burnham’s last words that I recall most often: “Man, oh man.  Man, oh man, oh man, oh man.”  He’s looking at a photo of his family that seems untouched by the psychosis and pain that’s haunted them throughout the film.  They are young, happy, united.  His words are at once a meditation on the depraved and surprising nature of humanity, and a simple inability to express one’s feelings about said nature.  In this state of transcendent meditation, his life is cut short, and the movie effectively ends.  This is its thesis statement.

I feel something similar when I look at my own life, or at least at the period about which I wrote so much in those letters I republished last month.  It’s hard to read them, in part, because I see so many failings in them. Failure to see things as they really were: I was foolishly optimistic about the situation there for far too long. Failure to see almost anything beyond myself: I wanted to leave the letters untouched, but couldn’t bring myself not to edit out the most navel-gazingly offensive passages.  Failure, above all, to see that what mattered most was very far from what I spent most of my time trying to do.

Above all, I was surprised to learn that although I had always believed these letters were the start of my writing career, the writing itself wasn’t that great.  At times there was a glimmer of something real, but in the main it was simply what it sounded like: me telling stories about my life, which although amusing at times, was pretty ordinary.  That fact was both shocking and freeing.  God knows I need to be reminded more often about how ordinary I am.

Two things inspired me about this experience.  The first was the similarity of my seventeen-year-old self with my only-very-slightly-younger students of today.  As the age gap between us grows (I am now roughly twice their age) I find it harder and harder to relate to them, and I can be especially unforgiving of shallow self-centeredness. But reading my own entries from that time has reminded me that this is how teenagers are, and I was like that too. So if I don’t rush too quickly to judgment, my own students may follow a similar path to a greater understanding of the world.

The other was the space between my letters.  A weekly missive may seem extreme for a college student, but in fact it was barely enough; I remember keeping lists in my head and on paper in preparation for Sunday, when I’d include the thoughts and anecdotes in my pre-blog entry.  Having time to think before I wrote — imagine! — is probably what I miss most about that style of writing, and there’s no reason I can’t institute that here.

So my posts will probably be less frequent, at least for awhile.  Thanks to everyone who has checked up on me, but honestly, I’m fine.  I just want to wait until I have something to write that’s worth the space.

A Look Back

I am a thinker, a reasoner, and a questioner.  This is an asset in many ways and a great burden in others: I can wear myself out without moving a muscle, just puzzling and debating and agonizing inside my own head.

After the past couple of months, I need to take a break while I contemplate the future of this blog.  There are so many reasons for this that I won’t bore you with the details (if you want them, please e-mail me privately.)

While I do this, I’d like to leave you with something to read, though; nd I thought it would be appropriate to go back to the very beginning of my writing career – the Cooper Chronicles, a series of weekly e-mails I sent during my time in architecture school in New York. 

Sometimes things are clear, and at the time it seemed very clear that I loved writing, people loved reading it and I should continue for as long as possible.  None of those things seem clear thirteen years later, so my hope is that a break, coupled with some inspiration from my past self, will provide that.  I’ll continue to read your comments, of course (one of my greatest joys!) and I’ll be back in a month, God willing, with a fresh perspective and a plan.

So, without further adieu: the story of a little girl in the big city.

august 23, 1998

well, the time has come — the time is now — for me to move on.  i’ve been slowly packing my life up into cardboard boxes and duffel bags, gathering up the memories, the hippie skirts and the kitchen utensils for loading into the car.

this letter is an introduction to the latest phase of my life. in less than 24 hours i will be leaving for college in the east village of manhattan, going to study architecture at “the cooper union for the advancement of science and art.”  it’s a disproportionately long name; there are only 30 freshmen architecture students, and about 850 in the whole school — which offers art, architecture and engineering majors — combined.

if it sounds like i know anything about what i’m doing, don’t believe it.  i have no idea what to expect.  in tenth grade i experienced an architectural epiphany and decided that i had to try it.  never mind that i had no experience in the field, had never taken an architectural drawing course (or any kind of drawing, for that matter) and my father was saying things like, “if you think you’ll get to design houses, you’re wrong.  you’ll end up restructuring storefronts for wal-mart!”  i was hopelessly smitten.

as in any love affair, though, i was unsure.  what if i got to school and discovered i had no talent for it?  what if i *didn’t* get into school at all?  where was i going to school, anyway?  was i supposed to be worrying about these things?  to his credit, my father eventually reversed his position on architecture; in fact, i never would have applied to any of those schools if it hadn’t been for him.  he was the one who bought the college catalogs and “u.s. news” ratings, called his architect friends, and got the inside info on where to apply.  i had thrown up my hands in despair a long time ago, back when i was being inundated with piles of mail from schools that all looked good to me.  cooper union looked better than any other on paper, because it was free.  every student who was admitted got a full academic scholarship.  of course, they neglected to mention the price of living in manhattan.  the other catch is that it’s not so easy to get in; for me, it required a miracle.

the criteria for admission is primarily how one scores on the home test that they send out.  i have no idea what they were thinking when they looked at my scrawls — i also have no idea what i was thinking when i drew them.  i think i was trying to be even more ambiguous and bohemian than their instructions were (example: “Box Two.  Self-portrait with no reference to body.”  huh?), but i’m not sure.  maybe they were just tired of my once-a-day phone calls for a week to find out if i had been accepted or not.  (i was sure i had been rejected; i just wanted confirmation.)  either way, i got home from church one fateful friday night to find a message from dean richard bory on my machine.  he apologized for the delay (“i’m sohrwy i haven’t cooled soonuh”) but, to give me “some cause for celebration,” i had gotten in.  whoo-hoo!

somehow i had gotten into the school of my dreams.  i visited it the next weekend … i was awed by the urban atmosphere, the spacious studio and the number of body piercings on our student guide.  i had to go.  we took out loans, signed housing forms — and i got a hepatitis vaccine, which the doctor explained was “always good for kids who are moving away.”  (yikes!)

so soon we’ll be on the road … wide-eyed innocent me in the back seat, surrounded by family members and bags that wouldn’t fit in the trunk, off to a much bigger world than i’m leaving behind.  i have no idea what to expect.  i haven’t even met my roommate yet — she’s been traipsing about europe for the summer and just flew back this afternoon.  i don’t know if there will be a piano that i can play when i’m frustrated with schoolwork and need to vent.  i don’t even know what i’m going to eat for dinner on my first night without parents.  (but it will probably involve bagels and hummus, if i can find somewhere to get dried chickpeas.  i’ve heard that manhattan is famed for gourmet food, but the only grocery store we visited last time had aisles so small you couldn’t turn around inside the store.  you had to inch your way out sideways.) 

i guess that’s what’s so cool about this stage of life.  there are so many choices to make.  if it turns out that i hate living in new york city, i’ll transfer somewhere else.  if i discover that architecture is not my “bag,” i’ll change my major.  for now, though, i’m following something that started as a fancy and blossomed into a dream.  i can’t wait to find out where it takes me.

The Christmas Letter

As long as I have a hand to write with and a tongue to moisten the seal, I will try my darndest to send out real Christmas cards — the old-fashioned, tree-killing, carbon-producing kind.  I just like the feel of a card in your hands: it’s a physical connection between you and someone you haven’t seen in a long time.  I’d much rather meet you for lunch, of course, but we can’t always do that.  Hence the cards.  This year’s came from England. See how much I love you?

On to the wrap-up.  2011 began with snow on snow on snow: quite a lot, though not nearly as much as last year.  Snow is usually accompanied by snow days.  Cinnamon rolls optional. 

When things had thawed out a bit, we headed north for a brewery pilgrimage with some friends and family.  Here’s us with my parents on the beautiful, chilly Delaware beach:

However, I happen to prefer this photo as representative of my nearest and dearest:

Spring brought a new friend and beautiful colors to compliment the Little Red House:

We enjoyed a brief jaunt to Boston, where our dear friend Stephen was elevated to the priesthood and Rob made a new friend (no, I don’t mean the duck!)

And scarcely had we returned than we flew south for a whirlwind week in New Orleans, where we were treated to uncharacteristically fine weather and characteristically fine food and drink.  Matthew was definitely the star of this trip — he wheeled and dealed at the antiques market, doubled back in an ingenious move for a second batch of beignets at Cafe du Monde, and almost left his wife for a 50-year-old bartender.  

But in the end he stayed.  Why wouldn’t he?!

We enjoyed a quick weekend in the Carolinas, where Rob’s beautiful cousin was married: 

What’s that?  You don’t believe I was really in the American South?

Ham, peanuts and BB guns.  Yes, sir.  And the views across the fields were spectacular. 

As the summer began in earnest, I enjoyed writing weekly about the food from our CSA.  You can read these columns, as well as quite a few others, at Catonsville Patch.  

We also welcomed our brother Zach for an extended visit.  Zach presided over a series of dinners that started big (The Goat Meal) and ended bigger (a Georgian-style supra for 13 guests that lasted about six hours, with almost that many courses.)  In between, we steamed live crabs for the first time: 

Six hours is also the amount of time we waited in line for front-row spots when U2 played in Baltimore.  Totally worth it.

Once I had recovered from my swoon, we had a long visit with the West Coast, seeing the sights, visiting family and playing with friends.

And by “playing with friends” I mean we sat in our hotel room in beautiful Sonoma for embarrassingly long lengths of time, playing simultaneous games of “Words with Friends” on our iPhones.  Hey, it’s Apple Country. 

Somehow, we managed to harvest a few things from our sadly-neglected garden: I blame the beautiful raised beds my dad built for us, without which I think we would have only had weeds. 

More guests — human and feline — followed by a quick trip to Atlanta to claim our inheritance and gallavant with cousins. Cat games, long dinners and the best Elton John impersonator I’ve ever seen. 

Labor Day brought one last chance to enjoy the sun — this time at beautiful Lake Eufala in Oklahoma.  Our BFF’s hosted, assisted by a pack of semi-wild dogs that often outnumbered us. 

School began again, and we buckled down: business as usual for Rob, who’s working on some landscape projects as well as teaching architectural design, and one last semester of grad school plus high school for Emily, who is almost finished with her MAT and continues to teach English at a private Catholic school. We took a break in October to accompany the same wonderful family (and the same semi-wild dogs)  to Lewes in celebration of Jamie’s 30th birthday.  Long walks on the beach, light sightseeing and an incredible late-night bonfire: 

The fall wound down with a few great concerts and a day trip to Bear Run, Pennsylvania, where Rob took his students to see some architecture and Emily tagged along for the scenery.

And we saved the last month of the year to tackle two daunting projects: a new kitchen and a new member of the family.  This is Mishka, the stray who whined and chewed her way into our hearts.

 

Kitchen photos will have to follow in a week or so.  And now, back to Christmas preparations: wrapping, decorating and practicing music.  For the first time I can remember, we’re celebrating Christmas on Christmas this year: church in the morning before returning home for breakfast, presents and a day of family traditions.

How we wish you could be here with us — and you are, in our thoughts and prayers.

Love, Rob and Emily