tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91071519584536691112024-03-18T19:17:53.350-04:0037 PaddingtonLove is the what37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.comBlogger2524125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-63411583041095208232024-03-18T12:30:00.007-04:002024-03-18T16:01:48.173-04:00Tonglen—"I breathe out love"<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7nTXZ_IT1KtPhhHMLQArF1irsyL9ZgC4GSnAxAfBXm3yYlqnXhP9fZyaZMzD3nDVmbPUnCfZXCO2fyREuc1RsygxZ4Do5urHIJsys8e46JNRptMRGxfBZETkp3iA-vueYf-DmHpEL0qUJzuUT_IIpKOX6qzpKZ0ITdl2xjWQ12RSWr9wU9y_P8MCt2gk/s1229/IMG_0022.jpg.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="947" data-original-width="1229" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7nTXZ_IT1KtPhhHMLQArF1irsyL9ZgC4GSnAxAfBXm3yYlqnXhP9fZyaZMzD3nDVmbPUnCfZXCO2fyREuc1RsygxZ4Do5urHIJsys8e46JNRptMRGxfBZETkp3iA-vueYf-DmHpEL0qUJzuUT_IIpKOX6qzpKZ0ITdl2xjWQ12RSWr9wU9y_P8MCt2gk/w640-h494/IMG_0022.jpg.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />After my conversation with my friend yesterday, I looked up the Tibetan Buddhist practice of Tonglen, and here is what I found:<br /><br /><i>Tonglen practice, also known as “taking and sending,” reverses our usual logic of avoiding suffering and seeking pleasure. In tonglen practice, we visualize taking in the pain of others with every in-breath and sending out whatever will benefit them on the out-breath. In the process, we become liberated from age-old patterns and begin to feel love for both ourselves and others; we begin to take care of ourselves and others ...<br /><br /></i><div><i>Usually, we look away when we see someone suffering. Their pain brings up our fear or anger; it brings up our resistance and confusion. So we can also do tonglen for all the people just like ourselves—all those who wish to be compassionate but instead are afraid, who wish to be brave but instead are cowardly. Rather than beating ourselves up, we can use our personal stuckness as a stepping stone to understanding what people are up against all over the world. Breathe in for all of us and breathe out for all of us. Use what seems like poison as medicine. We can use our personal suffering as the path to compassion for all beings.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>When I feel helpless at the chaos and pain of our world, I can pause and breathe in suffering and, with intention, breathe out love. This, I can do.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's more <a href="https://www.lionsroar.com/how-to-practice-tonglen/#:~:text=In%20tonglen%20practice%2C%20we%20visualize,care%20of%20ourselves%20and%20others.">here.</a><br /><br /></div><div>The photograph is by Xan Padron.</div><div><br /></div>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-67518089573889283672024-03-16T13:54:00.022-04:002024-03-18T11:32:19.662-04:00Twas a good week (plus update)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUgLZcggLe4moQwQb_wZKDuFMizdbDwI5zXg8UzpVZedFIDqtn5i5MVJ3PPhrXuBLzotXGZqeNeeBzYMoGUhyphenhyphenPLfRgpHvoR7Lam_tKheA2FMpDQXMELWKXGg_gdSwNy0cFwJvmRMGprGqInjJvqRMBOogDvWIQnMaP229M-JxOa3Qje_DyakBi_UCvDY/s2048/IMG_0306.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUgLZcggLe4moQwQb_wZKDuFMizdbDwI5zXg8UzpVZedFIDqtn5i5MVJ3PPhrXuBLzotXGZqeNeeBzYMoGUhyphenhyphenPLfRgpHvoR7Lam_tKheA2FMpDQXMELWKXGg_gdSwNy0cFwJvmRMGprGqInjJvqRMBOogDvWIQnMaP229M-JxOa3Qje_DyakBi_UCvDY/w480-h640/IMG_0306.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHt_FYOV9W1nDDhAsEfHmDABu1LUQ_eyyrTf50XyhyxkMZbznmJIlF4i94kGzBm1Zdw29LXVPdTsp6680iedQWnDRvLhQI29KPSrGxrHGoH8gK2PtTtdPOrLqiH2qLDrAgIwvtjLdynn8gsg6dSY_DA1z_qxYHrGvAB0DDmmMTmsQoztdib7EG1DqJ_u0/s918/FullSizeRender.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="918" data-original-width="768" height="583" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHt_FYOV9W1nDDhAsEfHmDABu1LUQ_eyyrTf50XyhyxkMZbznmJIlF4i94kGzBm1Zdw29LXVPdTsp6680iedQWnDRvLhQI29KPSrGxrHGoH8gK2PtTtdPOrLqiH2qLDrAgIwvtjLdynn8gsg6dSY_DA1z_qxYHrGvAB0DDmmMTmsQoztdib7EG1DqJ_u0/w489-h583/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="489" /></a></div><br />By all accounts they had a fabulous time on my girl's bachelorette weekend in Puerto Rico. My nieces told me this group of six was a perfect easygoing meld of good vibes, and my daughter confirmed that with a Friday cocktail class, a Saturday boat ride, pool afternoons and dancing nights, everything couldn't have gone better. Then on Monday, I met my daughter and two nieces (the ones on the right, above) in Dallas and we spent the week thoroughly entertained by little Harper, below with her Titi Kai.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPPRxmnoQYXBrZetiq68PqwaXym9WY01RC6wZcd5SAlfVLkA-0aIjjvdv94GKQYmXB31aO7KE0gYYyp08svkyGyVzV8w_aYF1Z64W2ylmnz_0p21w-_9iEQeFqrPNfvzNP2UpQ8_E-oDAAzQ-24qG7tDQ71CnRJf-pfcbakWpMhZpGJjY8aodb_qkKgk/s3140/IMG_9984.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3140" data-original-width="2416" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPPRxmnoQYXBrZetiq68PqwaXym9WY01RC6wZcd5SAlfVLkA-0aIjjvdv94GKQYmXB31aO7KE0gYYyp08svkyGyVzV8w_aYF1Z64W2ylmnz_0p21w-_9iEQeFqrPNfvzNP2UpQ8_E-oDAAzQ-24qG7tDQ71CnRJf-pfcbakWpMhZpGJjY8aodb_qkKgk/w492-h640/IMG_9984.JPG" width="492" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dKCzcPkwbfeZF2azqvHjXopJGVVcE9sela8BhHTlGreeVUPzj4k7cnvlgBCvecSJeIklbNu8p7EvDveTJEToDozAKEib3hjHwGmtNV9o3eRot84mVng60axQ-RU9WV0EVVTPHspWQ_bz7A8gRb79kFBwg7Jq-cXhfhekLg4F83uanHzjGjXNjhR7N5M/s2672/IMG_9985.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2672" data-original-width="1811" height="721" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dKCzcPkwbfeZF2azqvHjXopJGVVcE9sela8BhHTlGreeVUPzj4k7cnvlgBCvecSJeIklbNu8p7EvDveTJEToDozAKEib3hjHwGmtNV9o3eRot84mVng60axQ-RU9WV0EVVTPHspWQ_bz7A8gRb79kFBwg7Jq-cXhfhekLg4F83uanHzjGjXNjhR7N5M/w489-h721/IMG_9985.JPG" width="489" /></a></div><p>And now I'm back in New York, wrestling with tile choices for the upcoming bathroom redo. I want blue hex floor tiles the color of the ocean I grew up with. White for the wall tiles and a light oak sink vanity, and 2"white and gray hex tiles for the walk in shower floor, accessorized by a cute free standing shower bench in teak. I'm also thinking brushed nickel fixtures instead of shiny chrome. I considered gold, but I'm a seventies child, and back then, gold fixtures looked dated and gaudy, so even though they're cutting edge now, I can't quite go there. I'm still uncertain about all my other choices though. My desire for color collides with my desire for classic neutrality. I’m trying to remember it’s not that deep. </p><p>Update on Sunday, March 17: I spoke with a dear friend on the other coast this morning and she told me something I never considered. I lamented that I was so stressed over renovating a bathroom and how ridiculous that was given that children are dying in Gaza. She said that my stress wasn’t about the bathroom; it was merely a convenient place to put my angst about the state of the world. We can’t keep it all inside us so we find ways to spend our existential despair, bit by bit, on whatever and whomever is before us, and in this way, we survive. She counseled me breathe while whispering a Tonglen mantra—“I breathe in suffering”—inhale—“I breathe out love"—exhale—and to honor my angst regardless of where and how it shows up, to let it flow through with judging it. I think she has no idea how much her words helped. I am thankful for wise friends. </p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-25542798627309598852024-03-07T15:25:00.011-05:002024-03-07T15:33:22.724-05:00News from my small corner<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZwDhbkvQZqXncgDiSutCogR-YpGu8l0au2V-QWESUnWond_7-WVzBMn1khHI8crWI1tw5-20uaHVgCZhlU53vc0HNItqnxxOL1JaljKmz4y8OqNLXIpJjiarLuem7jBT2XoZr7jQPmWQeDoUeGSqE5enMkj2UgRlw6UR6vucY6w5SSuyU2IQhUY-7vw/s1065/IMG_9804.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="946" data-original-width="1065" height="568" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZwDhbkvQZqXncgDiSutCogR-YpGu8l0au2V-QWESUnWond_7-WVzBMn1khHI8crWI1tw5-20uaHVgCZhlU53vc0HNItqnxxOL1JaljKmz4y8OqNLXIpJjiarLuem7jBT2XoZr7jQPmWQeDoUeGSqE5enMkj2UgRlw6UR6vucY6w5SSuyU2IQhUY-7vw/w640-h568/IMG_9804.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>This gorgeous crew, plus one more friend who is joining them from Boston, is touching down in Puerto Rico as I write, all of them set to celebrate my girl on her bachelorette weekend fling. I asked them to send me pictures so I can live vicariously, but I'm not holding my breath. Still, I will enjoy thinking of them together, my daughter and her three cousins, her sister-in-law, and the friend from Boston of whom she once said to me, "The friendships you make as an adult, when you're both fully who you are and choosing each other, are rock solid." There are other celebrations planned along the way to the happy couple's nuptials in July, including a gathering with her childhood friend group known as The Six, and a bridal shower thrown by me, to which all comers will be invited. I'm not a good event planner, that is my daughter's forte, so I have a bit of agita about planning the shower. But it's still a couple of months away, and so I don't need to enter full blown anxiety over the matter quite yet. Also, her wedding dress arrived at the shop this month. This thing is happening!<p></p><p>The book I've been working on went up on Amazon last Saturday, and technically I'm now allowed to share my role in its writing, but I won't just yet. I still feel a bit shy. I'll just say the pub date has been set for September 3, so I'll definitely post about the book then, if not before. Now that we're coming to the end of the publishing process, I have to say, this project felt charmed from the start, as if all the souls who participated in the book's making had got together before we ever incarnated into this life and said, let's all find each other and do this cool thing when we get to planet earth. </p><p>My son, who drove his wife, his sister, and two cousins to the airport this morning, is going with me to the tile store tomorrow to choose tiles for the back bathroom redo. Now that the book is done, I'm ready to embark on that upheaval, and as usual, I don't trust my choices, but it helps to remember I don't have to achieve a <i>House & Garden</i> bathroom, just one that is clean and neat with a nice walk in shower, and tiles that are classic and timeless. The home improvement project continues. The good news is I still like my kitchen reno two years later, and the front bathroom is okay, too, though those white hex floor tiles show every speck of dust, something to keep in mind as I consider floor options this time around.</p><p>My agent asked if she should start putting my name back out there. I told her not yet, which in this freelance life feels risky. No idea yet what the next job will be but I think I want a little down time, with just the magazine editing for a while. Here is the puzzle on my dining table.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86-rcmDrQohwhDFprtr_KpUFHEz2w51jkj22rL82A9p7XsFWJVUhihp9iVzRYB4siZvBVdKmDrd2FlRsIa67ejPN55ZwSmvz_qpq8fXjSIgIuffpmSCeHY_xECYRbBnTwXAcJJEmynZMAl3G_WYi1FWY_nESbb6aHw0e1MmL6F00Ccx0eKENfNUvphWo/s1194/Havana.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="874" data-original-width="1194" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj86-rcmDrQohwhDFprtr_KpUFHEz2w51jkj22rL82A9p7XsFWJVUhihp9iVzRYB4siZvBVdKmDrd2FlRsIa67ejPN55ZwSmvz_qpq8fXjSIgIuffpmSCeHY_xECYRbBnTwXAcJJEmynZMAl3G_WYi1FWY_nESbb6aHw0e1MmL6F00Ccx0eKENfNUvphWo/w640-h468/Havana.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-73928535999243892852024-03-03T12:12:00.011-05:002024-03-13T10:14:27.592-04:00Looking forward and back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0v6uaOHEjMKnlqdXIXeMOj-0F-0DwUZu-Zs44XN_-Qe7-JS6HawvJeelDePB2LOPYkGLh4e7leyAZZJXYVEz4CrEPFkOlYCyODvbJR0Wk2cbgQEbb5v-nvAvz4JFrQBDEIy0U3ZVzeSNCPwc6XpyCPOQ0WO18RcfsC0QCdkGlqP0SN0dCdlkK5_kSF3Q/s1284/IMG_9753%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1270" data-original-width="1284" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0v6uaOHEjMKnlqdXIXeMOj-0F-0DwUZu-Zs44XN_-Qe7-JS6HawvJeelDePB2LOPYkGLh4e7leyAZZJXYVEz4CrEPFkOlYCyODvbJR0Wk2cbgQEbb5v-nvAvz4JFrQBDEIy0U3ZVzeSNCPwc6XpyCPOQ0WO18RcfsC0QCdkGlqP0SN0dCdlkK5_kSF3Q/w640-h634/IMG_9753%202.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>I'm off to Dallas in a week to see this darling little girl and her parents. She's nine months old already! Her mama texted me this morning and said, "Want to come to a Harper party when we're back from PR?" to which I responded yes with several exclamation points. My daughter and three of her cousins and her sister in law are all headed to PR next week for her bachelorette getaway on a beach, in a place with a pool and karaoke, and two of their number, my daughter and my niece Leah, will be traveling back to Dallas with Harper's mama afterward to spend a few days with that precious little one. Her dad, who works from home, will be traveling, so it will be good company and help for Harper's mama, who will probably need to be back at work in her dental practice. Harper will be in good and loving hands with her aunties and me. Plus, I'll get to hear all about the bach party on the beach while it's still fresh for the revelers. My girl has come up with a reality TV theme for the trip, including a <i>Survivor</i> challenge day, as all the young women on the trip are big <i>Survivor</i> fans (as I am). So! Dallas to see magical little Harper! I'm excited!</p><p>*</p><p>Last night, as part of our church's 200th anniversary celebration, I attended the showing of a film, <i>The Philadelphia Eleven</i>, about the first eleven women to be ordained as Episcopal priests, against the wishes of the male bishops of the church, the majority of whom had voted down the idea of women in the pulpit at their 1973 convention. A year later, three bishops went against the church brethren and ordained eleven women deacons as priests anyway, holding the service at a Black church in Philadelphia. The Black minister at the Church of the Advocate queried his congregation as to whether they would support the act of ecclesiastical disobedience and they overwhelmingly were in favor of ordaining the women. Black people understood the value of civil disobedience in moving society forward.<br /></p><p>This was in 1974, fifty years ago now, yet it seems so recent. I have vivid memories of my life in that decade yet I have no real time recollection of the fight to recognize women priests in the Episcopal Church. In fact, it never occurred to me back then that women could not be priests, at least in the church denomination in which I was raised. How oblivious I was. The women who were ordained were threatened, harassed, and vilified; the men, supposedly of God, who opposed them said the most hateful, misogynistic things in their desperate quest to uphold patriarchal power. The film was affecting, such that if I had seen it in my youth, I might well had climbed aboard that train, or at least covered the story when I became a journalist. Male priests who invited the women to conduct services from their houses of worship were actually put on trial by the conclave of Episcopal bishops and admonished, and even drummed out of the ministry. </p><p>Here's <a href="https://vimeo.com/797111253" target="_blank">the trailer </a>for the film, and the first eleven women.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44dBBIuqZIufsMduO5unPRZdtfZQbIpgOb_K_LdGCDlWrBKh-IR5Mi-oSECYdIXdAUcOMSArwHixgllNK-FPLIQFEuR2AB9GTMSLujmld_mIz71dgYrnUTJQyDxJk72WR5ZNJmeD_EGstO03-J_EFkRQGKDoP0QOZvELY6CooQSHUGiusvJbicAm1D3M/s1920/the%20philadelphia%20eleven.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1920" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj44dBBIuqZIufsMduO5unPRZdtfZQbIpgOb_K_LdGCDlWrBKh-IR5Mi-oSECYdIXdAUcOMSArwHixgllNK-FPLIQFEuR2AB9GTMSLujmld_mIz71dgYrnUTJQyDxJk72WR5ZNJmeD_EGstO03-J_EFkRQGKDoP0QOZvELY6CooQSHUGiusvJbicAm1D3M/w640-h354/the%20philadelphia%20eleven.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNgPGr0KumRjRXLENvxH89G8kInyBqAwsZhXEHeyCXVS_bXnnwyBW0G6b-t_OdLR8YvOa-61mSoYOE7ROSn2_R2e4APWnt1GmdBOxh5knrPH3TE8zCxgKf0Y2FZkNXifymsvM0m76biTuHUX4yd9dMFgc-caPYO_q5uuVtkoHq0Cst66mQZ9sqXr9-UCQ/s960/pauli-murray-960.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNgPGr0KumRjRXLENvxH89G8kInyBqAwsZhXEHeyCXVS_bXnnwyBW0G6b-t_OdLR8YvOa-61mSoYOE7ROSn2_R2e4APWnt1GmdBOxh5knrPH3TE8zCxgKf0Y2FZkNXifymsvM0m76biTuHUX4yd9dMFgc-caPYO_q5uuVtkoHq0Cst66mQZ9sqXr9-UCQ/s320/pauli-murray-960.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It wasn't until 1977 that the Rev. Pauli Murray (right) became the first Black person perceived as a woman (she was nonbinary) to be ordained to the Episcopal ministry, which made it somehow more meaningful that the first eleven woman, all of them White, had been ordained in a Black church. One of those eleven women, Merrill Bittner (third from right in the second row of photos above), moved me unaccountably. She had been a shy, reclusive girl who somehow fell in love with the Episcopal church and dreamed of the priesthood. As a young woman, despite her core nature, she stepped into that bright, hostile spotlight for a cause she believed in. She later left the ministry, disillusioned by the men as much as by the need to be constantly on stage. As something of an introvert myself, one who dislikes being on stage, I felt such admiration for the fact that she understood the historical moment and didn't shrink from meeting it. <p></p><p>The little church in Harlem of which I am a member sponsored two of those
eleven women deacons fifty years ago, and was at the forefront of the fight to have
their ministry legitimized. I may not be in the pews on Sunday very much, but I do love that little church where my husband is a pillar of the community. The ministry is his path not taken, though he is no proselytizer. Rather he is a man of deeds. As head of the 200th anniversary committee, he hired a catering company run by ex-offenders to feed the audience at last night's showing. The food was good, too, and beautifully presented. </p><p>*</p><p>And now I am off to binge watch <i>Slow Horses</i>, which a few friends have recommended to me. I hope I like it as I have absolutely nothing else planned for this Sunday. I may take a walk around the gardens later, sit in the sun, and maybe read a bit more of the brilliant, searing, and often hilarious <i>Black AF History: The Un-Whitewashed Story of America</i> by Michael Harriot. I'm otherwise unfettered, and trying to lean in to the possibilities of that. What movies or series have you streamed lately that you might recommend?<br /></p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-86297786147115133572024-02-29T18:06:00.006-05:002024-02-29T22:46:01.086-05:00Leap Year<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y7JAnxWwvdqyLff9eXV3u6XbWuvRnaSCGSY4z1AKR5NelG5xH6nL4x7DkQwnBJgmlpnSqkgpQIZBUGFYEVORoOS0pECKSCUeVXdicv2AOjZ7TzM9-mGw2p-g_CZG8H3GgXjZXi7Nwp6FvPS75H_svib582U2GuuUejZuGCP8sFX1LxYy3dsWsrVtjlc/s986/IMG_9782.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="963" data-original-width="986" height="626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-y7JAnxWwvdqyLff9eXV3u6XbWuvRnaSCGSY4z1AKR5NelG5xH6nL4x7DkQwnBJgmlpnSqkgpQIZBUGFYEVORoOS0pECKSCUeVXdicv2AOjZ7TzM9-mGw2p-g_CZG8H3GgXjZXi7Nwp6FvPS75H_svib582U2GuuUejZuGCP8sFX1LxYy3dsWsrVtjlc/w640-h626/IMG_9782.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />I'm out of practice writing here. I've been busy finishing the book, all the stray details, there are still a few, but the heavy lift is done, the work is accomplished, and one year ago, I could not quite imagine being in this place, but here I am. The people who need to be happy are happy, and I am, too. But now I have no idea what to do with myself, after a solid year of knowing very clearly what my day was about, even when I chose not to be about the central labor, the writing, it was there waiting for me, a structure, an organizing principle, a source of everyday meaning. And now, not three days after the manuscript has been officially "transmitted," meaning no more writing to create whole cloth, no more nips and tucks and revisions, just the steps of the publishing process from here on in, how quickly the thought reasserts itself, what on earth am I doing with my life, there's a whole world out there, and I can't bring myself to go out and engage with it, and be useful in it, useful even for the purpose of entertaining myself, I am at a loss again, no more hiding out, no more sense of purpose, just me, too much with myself, devoid of imagination as to what to do with my days. <p></p><p>Soon the magazine I edit for will gear up again for the next issue. Stories will begin showing up in my InCopy queue for me to top edit, but for now, I am aimless, lost, imagining the rest of the world busy and purposeful while I lack all imagination of how to meaningfully occupy myself. My son in law to be gave me a one year pass to an art cafe for Christmas, so now might be the time to investigate that, busy myself with a creative enterprise, but really, I crave company, and everyone else is busy, doing their day jobs, especially the young people, they're all gainfully employed and I am at a loose end again, but not ready to dive into another book collaboration yet, and don't I sound pitiful and poor me. Hello out there, friends. I'm getting used to this shore again, dipping my toes into the tide, glad to be back with my friends in this virtual place, today you feel like my salvation. </p><p>Here's something. My niece, the youngest of them, who moved to the city after college last summer, stopping over in our home for a couple of months while she searched for an apartment, reached out to her uncle and me to see if we wanted to go see the movie <i>Dune 2</i> with her. I have not much interest in this movie, but I was so touched that she wanted to go see a movie with her aunt and uncle that I said yes, to which she texted back, "The roomies ride again." So I'm going to the movies tonight at the theater with the reclining red leather seats and if there are too many explosions on screen I can just drift right off comfortably, my head on my man's shoulder, and it will be good to get out of the house for any purpose at all. I seem to lack imagination these days about what to do, so I'm glad she proposed the movie.</p><p>Painting: "Cross the Tropics" by Ali Beletic <br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-9752045963034876042024-02-13T14:38:00.004-05:002024-03-01T07:42:32.075-05:00Tuesday morning <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9V7MkS-EXBLfCdF2irjOuZPhayehr9kpssb2UsS-jITRxvy1xJKioSDLmQNvDFTnF_18sJewGY6FWS5dsR1GGTpejC3Cng3fAy9gK_bMb6NNzZ_oSUmywD45DbLcmwCAM0lZ73MSYLj3cgUBYPd3Ll7I5LczCsCxRuswQiiF6-ZN32D5lKe6e4THAFOQ/s4032/IMG_9686.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9V7MkS-EXBLfCdF2irjOuZPhayehr9kpssb2UsS-jITRxvy1xJKioSDLmQNvDFTnF_18sJewGY6FWS5dsR1GGTpejC3Cng3fAy9gK_bMb6NNzZ_oSUmywD45DbLcmwCAM0lZ73MSYLj3cgUBYPd3Ll7I5LczCsCxRuswQiiF6-ZN32D5lKe6e4THAFOQ/w640-h480/IMG_9686.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The snow is coming down today. A blanket of swirling flakes muffling the world. Kids are sledding outside my window. Bright primary colored plastic sleds zipping down a sloping field of white. I never tire of that scene. Children allowed to be children. Two nights ago, people cheered for the singer’s boyfriend running to the end zone as in Rafah the bombs fell. I feel insane reading the news this morning, feeling helpless to do anything but be a witness. Sometimes I glimpse the full horror behind the curtain. And yet I take the next breath; do the next indicated thing. <p></p><div><br /></div>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-3945315650756741882024-02-12T21:20:00.009-05:002024-02-19T08:27:30.107-05:00Super Bowl party on Work Island<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rV8bK8m58qr_ldjdCAlIEoR44UySDhpfHZhs8OFP3iLkZlwpgJdduoWiB45JmdpD4_Ad_ado39ClxifPxDPwshHJLZ54c8okBzw4MoEET-2x1bB_TbiU7rWwgpby00VOXYhP7SFiBcOwkykPiNoVHrkbnTssZTjELQBd3iOW2Y9lt_3o7LDB1BUrdWs/s4032/IMG_9639.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6rV8bK8m58qr_ldjdCAlIEoR44UySDhpfHZhs8OFP3iLkZlwpgJdduoWiB45JmdpD4_Ad_ado39ClxifPxDPwshHJLZ54c8okBzw4MoEET-2x1bB_TbiU7rWwgpby00VOXYhP7SFiBcOwkykPiNoVHrkbnTssZTjELQBd3iOW2Y9lt_3o7LDB1BUrdWs/w400-h300/IMG_9639.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtGsrJlVowe6fUbStsF9_dFZZpTgFVVVswKHspD55wnuSGW6F5ZfwAJOrftnBW3M6hAatKWoHgB1NnI6T3e_D9h06Ly_NFi1DnrGLD7Ha20147CSIE8qZCNqWwTNs96glANqSAsQCqNbCGM9nTSgejzO87P6_vQ3vrRNRO2_lNjm7TeWtQmtFqY1WaJz8/s1221/IMG_9693.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1221" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtGsrJlVowe6fUbStsF9_dFZZpTgFVVVswKHspD55wnuSGW6F5ZfwAJOrftnBW3M6hAatKWoHgB1NnI6T3e_D9h06Ly_NFi1DnrGLD7Ha20147CSIE8qZCNqWwTNs96glANqSAsQCqNbCGM9nTSgejzO87P6_vQ3vrRNRO2_lNjm7TeWtQmtFqY1WaJz8/w400-h303/IMG_9693.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqM3RUq1T5J_dw-qB2TTMpo-FUqJ5pgIBOTHESnBkL56RjBu0NVNt6_0UxYNgpxCah7G4SmQtz2oo9k7gVF8GXPR79lgEWaKmZels8MP74GCg8mR0PC6zBGMDt3Le2xLKXrN9YVqK7Op0pMLLFlHVQGPheyoZVbKIonEDLhDlLFPqnaRp7FbQnk1pmZmU/s4032/IMG_9647.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqM3RUq1T5J_dw-qB2TTMpo-FUqJ5pgIBOTHESnBkL56RjBu0NVNt6_0UxYNgpxCah7G4SmQtz2oo9k7gVF8GXPR79lgEWaKmZels8MP74GCg8mR0PC6zBGMDt3Le2xLKXrN9YVqK7Op0pMLLFlHVQGPheyoZVbKIonEDLhDlLFPqnaRp7FbQnk1pmZmU/w400-h300/IMG_9647.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div></div><p>The Kansas City Chiefs defeated the San Francisco 49ers by scoring the game winning touchdown with 3 seconds left on the clock in overtime. An exciting game. We were all rooting for the Chiefs. Just can’t get behind the 49ers after how they did Colin Kaepernick wrong. The man and I had planned a quiet evening till our son called and proposed having a party here. His pitch was he would take care of all the food and snacks and libations, all we had to do was open the door. He and his wife and one of their friends came, plus the nieces and one niece’s roommate, and one of my friends. Nine of us in all. Twas low key fun though we missed my girl, who’d been in Boston for a conference all week and came home sick. She and her love just cocooned at home in Brooklyn. </p><p>Technically, Brooklyn is New York City, but to those of us who live on Work Island (which is what Gen Z’ers now call Manhattan because they all commute in from the outer boroughs for work), Brooklyn is like living in another place entirely. You never see the folks who live in Brooklyn unless you make a firm plan. My son lives near enough in Astoria, Queens to casually drop by but Brooklyn feels far. Funnily enough, when I moved to New York City more than four decades ago, young people never dreamed of living in the outer boroughs. That was for squares, old fogies, and families. But Work Island is priced out of reach these days so the outer boroughs have become where young people go, the new happening place to be. All the same, I miss having my girl nearby so I can pamper her when she's not feeling well. It's just the flu, not covid, and she's already feeling better, but still.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-43313168257417857372024-02-06T16:21:00.002-05:002024-02-06T21:14:58.776-05:00*Hey Siri, search baby gates<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmeRkZ1Iox-bY9WS-zMs_Mw1Z_1uAm1nSGCZfdHk53vfOwTYDv6J3pr247ustm6tTWivktcWtbMlc8ph77QDpghNRscsYWz9xoS6V21OIIZm5esQ-uhy7i8NHG_kkhVWUC7tT4MReYhk2qFZqcnxVWdAgCWLNLvmB9fUWVW2aunsoRHBYF2Dc5vtvwz8/s5426/IMG_0576.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5426" data-original-width="4070" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhmeRkZ1Iox-bY9WS-zMs_Mw1Z_1uAm1nSGCZfdHk53vfOwTYDv6J3pr247ustm6tTWivktcWtbMlc8ph77QDpghNRscsYWz9xoS6V21OIIZm5esQ-uhy7i8NHG_kkhVWUC7tT4MReYhk2qFZqcnxVWdAgCWLNLvmB9fUWVW2aunsoRHBYF2Dc5vtvwz8/w480-h640/IMG_0576.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /> Doesn't little Ms. Harper look like someone with places to go and people to see? Who's managing her social calendar?<p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-31232629696836917142024-02-02T16:59:00.011-05:002024-02-03T19:12:10.725-05:00Women friends<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxslWNuj4tmPQMLHpnOVY84QZMOg1oK9C7hbQs6SD40_npTH_cM4L6ydVQ00ZfMjH7C4utmFjWwspXAdn3b_5wCK8_QNk6uywcB3go8BNhsT0dw0h49r-5OrgIiGT4WnMrPGWSMjH2iCFCcXzfGVPOdAZKAL9Ho2eSD-8Gj-q7jnWssE9NjVcrFj5rLo/s3830/IMG_9437.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2872" data-original-width="3830" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxslWNuj4tmPQMLHpnOVY84QZMOg1oK9C7hbQs6SD40_npTH_cM4L6ydVQ00ZfMjH7C4utmFjWwspXAdn3b_5wCK8_QNk6uywcB3go8BNhsT0dw0h49r-5OrgIiGT4WnMrPGWSMjH2iCFCcXzfGVPOdAZKAL9Ho2eSD-8Gj-q7jnWssE9NjVcrFj5rLo/w640-h480/IMG_9437.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>This is the lovely puzzle keeping me company as I work. Mary Moon says this one has magic in it, and I believe this to be true. I'm heading out to dinner with two dear friends in an hour. These women always welcome me to come as I am. Women need other women in their lives. There is such comfort in true women friends, especially decades in—no judgment, just the balm of feeling seen, accepted, and radically understood. </p><p></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-65833097005944554632024-01-31T09:36:00.002-05:002024-01-31T10:17:53.089-05:00In my Carnival jacket and Valisia lipstick, I danced<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaIwcmmUzfm12b5ozRGUvgxw90JJ_Zu7D8pIp75E62h9M-Bpy7VAB80d5bo-jaOoBcAvjHDB11UVRhjtwZsx2KGPBK4tYugj0N1uFX8XEIgq1sIDNbIYbIIj-u8gYIAvI9uZCaOw9qdCeo6HZ6JCzpsCMsKmSbsM2leFykTOebNMLLf5pU0iZnU80k_hA/s950/IMG_9389.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="950" data-original-width="647" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaIwcmmUzfm12b5ozRGUvgxw90JJ_Zu7D8pIp75E62h9M-Bpy7VAB80d5bo-jaOoBcAvjHDB11UVRhjtwZsx2KGPBK4tYugj0N1uFX8XEIgq1sIDNbIYbIIj-u8gYIAvI9uZCaOw9qdCeo6HZ6JCzpsCMsKmSbsM2leFykTOebNMLLf5pU0iZnU80k_hA/w273-h400/IMG_9389.JPG" width="273" /></a></div>I dreamed that my daughter and I planned a birthday party for my son, and everyone from all the different circles of our lives was invited. It was held at a large gracious wooden house where in the dream I lived with my husband, and we set up a tent in the front yard, and people danced all day long, from morning and far into the night, bodies gyrating with abandon in the yard and on a deck of the house overlooking the yard, faces alight and turned up to the sky, and my subject and her family were there, her daughter deejaying the music with two of my son's friends, one of whom had traveled all the way from England, a skinny pure-hearted guitar-playing boy who is a favorite of mine, and all night in my sleep people kept dancing, the joy unalloyed, nothing anxious or wrong, and I woke up this morning with a bemused smile and then it came to me that I was celebrating all night having completed this huge work, which when I started a year ago seemed not just daunting, but impossible, but I knew even then it had already been completed in a parallel universe, and last night in my dreams that universe and this one partied. That picture of me is from when I had dinner with the book team in Washington, D.C. last year. It is my current favorite picture of myself because the light is gentle and it is cropped just so, and I am wearing my carnival jacket and Valisia lipstick, which is always a bold choice. Here's to more bold choices before and to the festivities after. There are still trailing details to fulfill, like photo inserts and formatting end notes and chasing permissions, but as my soul reminded me last night as I slept, <i>I did the thing.</i><p></p><p><i> </i><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-4972003879800175362024-01-29T15:35:00.016-05:002024-01-30T04:20:02.138-05:00Counting every day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78saiqb6tHQY7cbd6aQKc9M4rDlcxIZx6akx5Ch7zyuBmuE-VvOmwuZgS68X77uzYumZPIpwvJKdsIdRAL21IAnEjuk4kREIgYovXQdFNa8xVl2jJLxG54WCp2plwUlRQr1BwWeCgdEGqclwZU41PNTWO05ix_b0PDkPOyPbZKQuSdS9c2m7Rhde7zcY/s1503/IMG_9246.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1503" data-original-width="1207" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78saiqb6tHQY7cbd6aQKc9M4rDlcxIZx6akx5Ch7zyuBmuE-VvOmwuZgS68X77uzYumZPIpwvJKdsIdRAL21IAnEjuk4kREIgYovXQdFNa8xVl2jJLxG54WCp2plwUlRQr1BwWeCgdEGqclwZU41PNTWO05ix_b0PDkPOyPbZKQuSdS9c2m7Rhde7zcY/w514-h640/IMG_9246.jpeg" width="514" /></a></div><br />I ran across one of the questions people like to ask on social media: If you could give your eighteen year old self one bit of wisdom in three words, what would you say? I thought about it for a long time, and was honestly stumped. <i>Travel the world</i> maybe, to which I would add the unspoken—do it while you're still young and strong and your joints still work and you can fly up stairs and walk long distances without pain. I knew what I <i>should</i> tell my younger self. I should warn her to pay attention to the body as well as the heart and mind, to eat right and exercise, especially to exercise, but I knew it would have been futile, my younger self wouldn't have listened, because the body would work until the day it didn't, the day in my twenty-seventh year when I fell from where I was standing on top of my desk trying to dust the top of a picture frame, because the brother of the man who was not yet my husband was passing through New York and stopping by to visit, and I wanted to make a good impression. <p></p><p>I fell off that desk and wrecked my left knee. I wore an immobilizer on that leg for weeks, innocently wrecking my other knee as it did all the compensating, adjusting and twisting and accommodating and putting itself in unnatural positions to keep me moving forward heedlessly. I was traveling a lot in those days, as a reporter for LIFE magazine, jumping on planes every other week, working with photographers in near and far flung places, living in hotels and motels for weeks at a time, always on the go. </p><p>Thus my body began to shift out of sync, and I just worked around the discomfort, then the pain, for too many years, never really addressing it, and I can draw a straight line from my once youthful sense of invulnerability to where I am now, every joint complaining, none of it helped by the below freezing temperatures in the city, the cold sneaking in through the seams of windows and the vents of AC units and settling in my bones. And then, there's an extra portion of lingering pain from my recent dance with Covid, I am definitely not imagining the aches that have not gone away. My son tells me he feels them, too, and I pray the fact that he does eat right and exercise will spare him from the arthritis I inherited from my mother. It seems Covid finds the places where your body is weakest, and burrows in there, and for me, that is most definitely the joints and the scaffold of no longer young and never invulnerable bones. </p><p>Anyway, this wasn't where I thought I'd go when I opened this page. I thought I was going to report that I turned in the final draft today, and yay, team!</p><p>Also, what advice would you give your eighteen year old self? In three words </p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-77920563996706303852024-01-25T17:01:00.022-05:002024-03-07T16:12:13.991-05:00Perception management<p>Every morning at 4AM, I get an affirming message in my email called "Tut's Note from the Universe." I subscribed to these notes a while back, and though I no longer open them every morning, on the days I do, I'm usually charmed. Here was the note today.</p><p><i style="font-family: inherit;">Perception Management for Advanced Souls—The next time someone upsets you, think, "Thanks for pointing out that I've begun depending on your approval. Time I lose the expectations." And the next time someone doesn't take your view into account, think, "That's okay, I was once like that." And if someone steals from you, think, "It was nothing, my supply is the Universe." Or lies to you, think, "I'm sorry you feel that need." Hurts you, "All for my growth and glory." Is rude to you, "Cheer up, dear soul, it'll be okay." Judges you, "Thanks for sharing your truth." Drives by you like a bat out of hell, "Be careful, my friend. You’re loved." And the next time someone greets you with a smile, smile back, like you're sharing a secret.</i></p><p>Tut's Note made me smile and wish I could be that enlightened, and also less insular and self-absorbed. When I was eighteen, twenty-five, forty, I thought I would age gracefully, philosophically, but I am definitely not doing that. I thought I would acquire a map of gentle lines on my face; I didn't reckon with these valleys, ravines, and grooves. I looked at my profile in the mirror last night for the first time in forever and felt too ugly to live. Don't worry, I'm not in danger of doing anything stupid. But as I climbed into bed I wanted to ask my husband, who was reading on his Kindle next to me, how can you stand to look at me? I didn't actually ask the question, because I knew the response I wanted was: What are you talking about, I love looking at you; whereas the response I more likely would have got is: What? You're being ridiculous. I think sometimes he doesn't really see me. He sees who he thinks is in front of him, and hasn't really focused on the changes wrought by years. I might be grateful for that, I'm not sure. </p><p>I do know that I cannot bear to see myself in the mirror. The face staring back is appalling, I don't know who she is, though I do recognize my father's face in mine, and that's how I know it really is me. I'm not gonna post any pictures that show what I see in real life. If I post pictures of myself here, it will be the ones with merciful angles, that don't show the wattled neck and chin line, thanks to shadows that fall just so. I'm vain like that. Who knew? I know I need to make peace with this face, but I haven't had a lot of success making peace with myself in the course of my life so far, so it'd be something of a miracle to find that door now. </p><p>Here's something ridiculous: That’s an AI portrait of me that looks like a photo from back in the day. The crazy thing is, in a world with no mirrors, this is how I still see myself. That’s my weird little secret. </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_1194503188096789167layout" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; min-width: 100%; orphans: auto; table-layout: fixed; text-decoration: none; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; width: 100%; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" class="m_1194503188096789167column m_1194503188096789167scale m_1194503188096789167stack" style="margin: 0px; width: 600px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_1194503188096789167image--mobile-scale m_1194503188096789167image--mobile-center" style="table-layout: fixed; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td align="right" class="m_1194503188096789167image_container m_1194503188096789167content-padding-horizontal" style="margin: 0px; padding: 10px 20px;" valign="top"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsoxAu80b0UBa_qY79p8FWK_sTI_IISdOh-OIt9ME2U_AE6JEwAYNjNBlD87dDp1FPNcn97-9JyABa7vbBYqALs3eHVmBeShlUB2D1PSmNEPJJ5J3UbxA-xAnFnLEnx2AwMzhNtBN-iqinCNzbWc9b3BHT91FNoZZd9n0qJk7x9mC72ci_zTHjyRv-yY/s1284/college.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="1284" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsoxAu80b0UBa_qY79p8FWK_sTI_IISdOh-OIt9ME2U_AE6JEwAYNjNBlD87dDp1FPNcn97-9JyABa7vbBYqALs3eHVmBeShlUB2D1PSmNEPJJ5J3UbxA-xAnFnLEnx2AwMzhNtBN-iqinCNzbWc9b3BHT91FNoZZd9n0qJk7x9mC72ci_zTHjyRv-yY/w400-h398/college.jpeg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-9339739714631582902024-01-21T11:00:00.009-05:002024-01-21T11:07:19.347-05:00Snow day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5CC2jXe0YZnX1roDHdxPpGlMrESVctc3BXS43Dlxykc9hYB84qAdH6GvYL9_bM693QK_S5-4xGKB3QVzm83RHoAVh3p7KXIw4vPsrjKa1ojBuwOXtF1UQerDgz3sdF1llFQcKbpCgKXjAi8KGm7WyHIX3dZqt1Rfggq-kkgyqOHRS2pWv11CcdjEUIY/s4032/IMG_9341.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH5CC2jXe0YZnX1roDHdxPpGlMrESVctc3BXS43Dlxykc9hYB84qAdH6GvYL9_bM693QK_S5-4xGKB3QVzm83RHoAVh3p7KXIw4vPsrjKa1ojBuwOXtF1UQerDgz3sdF1llFQcKbpCgKXjAi8KGm7WyHIX3dZqt1Rfggq-kkgyqOHRS2pWv11CcdjEUIY/w640-h480/IMG_9341.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">It finally snowed in New York. I sat at the window and watched the finest flakes swirling down all day, dusting the earth in tiny sparkles. I was snug and warm inside my house, being a good little schoolgirl from morning till night, trying to get my work done. Things are a bit intense, but I'm all the way in, and the journey is thrilling sometimes. Life is never just one thing, and I'm learning to just breathe and go with that. Ooop, gotta go. My nephew has been here since Thursday. He's on his way back to college upstate after his winter break in Jamaica, and his ride just arrived. I'm heading downstairs into this freezing cold day to greet his traveling companions and help him pack the car. <br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-81487567720503826502024-01-13T10:08:00.004-05:002024-01-13T10:33:22.372-05:00Here and there<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_n6-eVuobf9JEknHtbC8wsKwhhnAfhU8RrvTHm8Y-Q-J5l3KS6f1Z0fo2L9KB5wm9ziNZYwSbgue5jTC6toWBv-nTOejivhLwRMrM2F6hCli_4CgDo4-i9HIpDJ3AtIzG0XgZW30Bapg-W7qcT4QplhKx8qlw8r1fBZuDWGug5OtdI9K0XmCbuUwcp0/s1377/IMG_9336.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1377" data-original-width="1251" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_n6-eVuobf9JEknHtbC8wsKwhhnAfhU8RrvTHm8Y-Q-J5l3KS6f1Z0fo2L9KB5wm9ziNZYwSbgue5jTC6toWBv-nTOejivhLwRMrM2F6hCli_4CgDo4-i9HIpDJ3AtIzG0XgZW30Bapg-W7qcT4QplhKx8qlw8r1fBZuDWGug5OtdI9K0XmCbuUwcp0/w509-h560/IMG_9336.jpg" width="509" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>There we are, my girl and me, in our usual January theater selfie. It's tradition now, that my girl gives me tickets to a Broadway play for Christmas, and we go out to dinner beforehand, and make a night of it. We both love the theater, especially musicals, but neither of our partners is as in love with the live musical experience as we are, which is okay, because we have each other, and can go together. It is my very favorite thing that I look forward to every January. This year, we saw <i>Hadestown</i>, which won both a Tony and a Grammy for Best Musical in 2019, as well as an armful of other awards, including Best Scenic Design and Best Lighting Design. I have to say, the lighting design was truly extraordinary. Usually, it's just part of the experience for me, the lighting that is, but in this show, it was a character onto itself, and I was blown away. <i>Hadestown</i> is a modern-day retelling of the Greek myths of Hades and Persephone and Orpheus and Eurydice, set in a New Orleans meets <i>Mad Max</i> dystopia. We loved it. Most of all, I loved spending the evening with my darling girl.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ48zjcZmjN3vFztkHiEBUAkFZm2qkaokfibiji_mlnShJkMvZmTEkOTOIu8HvOeKjvGkSFVvVknZYtOrROzwLT5eguHFA-VQFOi7TP8rsuh7HxhA6XWjTHsH5cASLK9q-kS9XSEFkqQrXWQOIityOjJRyvYeFaoqPyWgrvDyXR60upUlOvi7xq4qnJts/s1870/Hadestown%20%20Official%20Broadway%20Site.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1870" data-original-width="1284" height="743" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ48zjcZmjN3vFztkHiEBUAkFZm2qkaokfibiji_mlnShJkMvZmTEkOTOIu8HvOeKjvGkSFVvVknZYtOrROzwLT5eguHFA-VQFOi7TP8rsuh7HxhA6XWjTHsH5cASLK9q-kS9XSEFkqQrXWQOIityOjJRyvYeFaoqPyWgrvDyXR60upUlOvi7xq4qnJts/w511-h743/Hadestown%20%20Official%20Broadway%20Site.jpeg" width="511" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbopRnrfcnGwOSYR9vfbJ-46U-F_tYLIxjeWxbpLxQfY6KVD0dq0IEKH_hNaU567vmPcARz7TB0weHMPw4qck5KtVmAvUHsR2m4PSSyKzKsAISqnerGvdrVV3bHWtvKmzROKpMxvmKndVVuc-PUxKx5xTq6A0w16h5VBG5K-SVn6EP7eto18nYAKuDFtA/s1024/IMG_9315.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbopRnrfcnGwOSYR9vfbJ-46U-F_tYLIxjeWxbpLxQfY6KVD0dq0IEKH_hNaU567vmPcARz7TB0weHMPw4qck5KtVmAvUHsR2m4PSSyKzKsAISqnerGvdrVV3bHWtvKmzROKpMxvmKndVVuc-PUxKx5xTq6A0w16h5VBG5K-SVn6EP7eto18nYAKuDFtA/w516-h344/IMG_9315.jpeg" width="516" /></a></div><p></p><p>Meanwhile, in Jamaica, my grand niece Harper was meeting other family members, and her mom sent me pictures. I love these two of Harper at the home of my cousin Maureen. Everyone says Maureen and I look alike, and I'm intrigued to see she's even wearing glasses that are similar to mine. She's four years older than I am, but for whatever reason, I look like the older cousin now. Sometimes I look in the mirror and it seems as if my face is melting—but enough of that! Aren't my cousin and our grand niece beautiful? And there Harper is in the second photo below with Maureen's granddaughter Lauren, another beauty, after Harper's first swim in my cousin's pool. I love seeing the next generation of cousins getting in their bonding time. I do love my family.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAENTBvxKVnImSGgY8ScHNt774ZPdO5G5xDU6BcvtwPAtYMzjL1H_pYO-UGpzmRIQdgCqhCzhvO_AN-E_7wlJOQ371dMd7-hiMAgVW-z9k_mY22SVRTV1H93yxUeyM69Dy9sMtH0zn4rFe1ifv84p3hSPxN7UPnGm2L7JjwycYvEwfZeybotbbxkApMkc/s1647/Screenshot%202024-01-13%20at%209.31.35%E2%80%AFAM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1647" data-original-width="1245" height="689" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAENTBvxKVnImSGgY8ScHNt774ZPdO5G5xDU6BcvtwPAtYMzjL1H_pYO-UGpzmRIQdgCqhCzhvO_AN-E_7wlJOQ371dMd7-hiMAgVW-z9k_mY22SVRTV1H93yxUeyM69Dy9sMtH0zn4rFe1ifv84p3hSPxN7UPnGm2L7JjwycYvEwfZeybotbbxkApMkc/w521-h689/Screenshot%202024-01-13%20at%209.31.35%E2%80%AFAM.jpeg" width="521" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqtzsmWFY6COWnX-9xlO7PxGiwCHN2mwEKoWJfmIr06GxoABmFeeo26fwW0kK3DxNCRdXYQgbR7391b8e2_ekLTiVPw8Q2-7VK2V43gLL_FnA6KThBqH_gYMAOHA3pMgeyejGPp_WFA-wo5ZbtZSFmx1kvRx5h5BgA52W1sKiHHjU4tvgSyoun7xCeNo/s3516/FullSizeRender.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3516" data-original-width="2569" height="708" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqtzsmWFY6COWnX-9xlO7PxGiwCHN2mwEKoWJfmIr06GxoABmFeeo26fwW0kK3DxNCRdXYQgbR7391b8e2_ekLTiVPw8Q2-7VK2V43gLL_FnA6KThBqH_gYMAOHA3pMgeyejGPp_WFA-wo5ZbtZSFmx1kvRx5h5BgA52W1sKiHHjU4tvgSyoun7xCeNo/w518-h708/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="518" /></a></div> <p></p><p>Good January to you, dear friends. I'm just tipping in for a hot second to say hey, then tipping out again. Work and life and the wider world are plenty intense right now, and I think we're all dancing as fast as we can.</p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-51739944921670115122023-12-31T09:41:00.023-05:002024-01-01T13:01:09.007-05:00High Kicks<p>This is my next puzzle. Isn't it a perfect New Year's Eve image? It was sent to me by a very dear friend. The fact that her fingers touched every piece in this box as she herself did the puzzle will make the process of putting it together myself that much more special—like a communion across miles. Thank you, my sister spirit. You knew I'd love this one.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfX8Z6hnBwAyzrR0LYOZzwRjJ-1kb4jLE_QEI-ytF243z4fNEUQNoe2-cHaRwztw3EiA5mezaAxpW2YkGOG6m4M12KIHTDnR3JEgGpxdy50hlvmDTSWqS0lAwBVTC0JICWLhV6BQDgTw8BZeCImoZjA7noBI9_knwaRF9CqvrSNQal1Is29dJgQkHXB4/s1284/ny%20puzzle%20co.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="1284" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfX8Z6hnBwAyzrR0LYOZzwRjJ-1kb4jLE_QEI-ytF243z4fNEUQNoe2-cHaRwztw3EiA5mezaAxpW2YkGOG6m4M12KIHTDnR3JEgGpxdy50hlvmDTSWqS0lAwBVTC0JICWLhV6BQDgTw8BZeCImoZjA7noBI9_knwaRF9CqvrSNQal1Is29dJgQkHXB4/w640-h506/ny%20puzzle%20co.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>And now it's the last day of the year and my whole family is either down with or emerging from Covid. My son seems to have had it the worst so far, but he just called and believes he's turned a corner, but now his love is coming down with it. "If she had to get sick I'm glad it was delayed," he said, "because she's been taking care and now at least I'm on the mend enough to take care of her." His bout was not mild. For three days he was miserable. He also had to go to Urgent Care to get a PCR test done, as the fire department requires it. This morning, when he went to headquarters to turn in the sick leave paperwork, he was in a line with about ten other firefighters, all of them also sick with Covid. </p><p>A newspaper headline today read, "Everyone in New York City is sick with Covid." It's like that Omicron winter two years ago, except this strain, whatever it is, seems to kick your ass a bit harder. And it seems to rampage through any group of humans it comes in contact with, because what were the odds before this that my <i>entire </i>family would be down with Covid at the same time. My husband, who slept most of yesterday, keeps responding to "How are you feeling?" with a terse "I'm fine." He may well be, despite the bouts of coughing, because he's right now yelling at the refs for Arsenal-Fulham game on TV. I hope he never gets as sick as my son just described feeling.</p><p>The book. It's morphing. As we address the editor's comments, my subject and I, we happen across new stories worth telling, and so we are writing fresh pages and layering them into chapters, and I need to ensure the insertion of new material is effortless, and not janky. My subject goes back to work next week, and so our three week period of full engagement will necessarily end, but she's been a queen, giving me everything I need and then some to do my part. I worry the book is getting too long, too dense, but as my husband said, "She's had a big life, of course it will be dense." I need to make dense flow, however, make it accessible, not bogged down with too much detail, even though my subject has a very detailed mind. </p><p>Yesterday I caught myself rushing, trying to be the good student and get the thing done on a timeline that would be relieving to my subject, but the chapter I was in still felt unwieldy, and then I realized that I'm working with a lot of new material, first drafts of new pages, and I need to give them their due, weigh every sentence for purpose and pacing, make sure things hang together, and so I texted her that, to explain why I needed more time than I had promised, and she texted right back, "This makes perfect sense. And I'm grateful. Please take whatever time you need." Have I said yet that I adore her? </p><p>This does not in any way feel like New Year's Eve, and I'm just going with that. The year that is closing had a lot of hard moments, but I'm choosing not to tabulate them, and to just lean into the impression that I was outrageously blessed as well. If we're lucky, the curtain on 2023 will find the man and me sound asleep. How's it going where you are? What are your plans for the turn of the year? 2024! Still sounds like science fiction to me.</p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-88521695661111307702023-12-30T18:00:00.006-05:002023-12-31T08:47:37.472-05:00Dominoes<p>The man and I are both in bed, under two layers of comforters on a cold gray Saturday. It’s late afternoon, or maybe already evening, and we have Covid. I’m a couple of days ahead of him. He’s in the thick of it, while I’m emerging, the chills and the sore throat gone, but now my left knee has given up the ghost, and I’m lying here in my heavy wool socks trying to cajole that knee. My daughter had it first. Then my son spent an hour with me on Tuesday in between getting off from the night shift at the fire house and heading to get his wife from her parents’ home in New Jersey. I had no symptoms yet. But it turns out I was contagious. My girl was upstate with her in laws, after spending the past week with us. She had started feeling sick but wasn’t testing positive yet. A day later she let us know we’d all been exposed. “Took my whole family down,” she said ruefully. “Dang.” We fell like dominoes. First my daughter. Then me. Then my daughter’s partner, then my son, and after valiantly holding out, my husband, who had refused to isolate from me. My son’s wife seems to still be okay. My daughter’s mother in law too. May they both escape this thing. It’s what they call mild. But for two days of that, mild feels like a lie. And then in the stage I’m at now you feel quite normal (knee notwithstanding), and you’re doing stuff, working, interviewing, writing new pages, revising, editing, and then all of a sudden you’re slammed with exhaustion and need to crawl into bed again. So here we are. Covid new year. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMgF-Z_VHPaB66BUfVnzRjpAP_c4UN4filzqz_oVKyVWH-LuR1_KVCCRxEkch0y7K8Q9N3ceJc9BWoDP8VGmSH4x1CAj8IUc4fmp11Bwywlh-A8VaPJU1M__bE5BwyUgryGa1YUnur1biXa-5eqDifD6ebcy_hK3r8Po0XQUPQCjjn5c8kDUnzYzcWYw/s1591/IMG_9245.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1591" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMgF-Z_VHPaB66BUfVnzRjpAP_c4UN4filzqz_oVKyVWH-LuR1_KVCCRxEkch0y7K8Q9N3ceJc9BWoDP8VGmSH4x1CAj8IUc4fmp11Bwywlh-A8VaPJU1M__bE5BwyUgryGa1YUnur1biXa-5eqDifD6ebcy_hK3r8Po0XQUPQCjjn5c8kDUnzYzcWYw/w517-h640/IMG_9245.jpeg" width="517" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-29298207778579978822023-12-26T13:57:00.006-05:002023-12-31T12:59:32.446-05:00Happy birthday to my beautiful niece 💕<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAo_MFTi_Nb0t53eMZ45eAJY7o6EmGKtcE6Iqw6djDXqBaTGkXC88X4jVqXowFP-R3yxM3_gMhGSWJHnIfC1oXW4L1FfwoItVS-PuWeIVzvdt3qrx9tThe3VXELvx-ic3xRxMkB-zhCgE2CcYZoQTIqZ_3RPIm8qFhBYphFp60732q6Px8G-R3M8Kijc/s1923/IMG_9232.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1923" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAo_MFTi_Nb0t53eMZ45eAJY7o6EmGKtcE6Iqw6djDXqBaTGkXC88X4jVqXowFP-R3yxM3_gMhGSWJHnIfC1oXW4L1FfwoItVS-PuWeIVzvdt3qrx9tThe3VXELvx-ic3xRxMkB-zhCgE2CcYZoQTIqZ_3RPIm8qFhBYphFp60732q6Px8G-R3M8Kijc/w428-h640/IMG_9232.jpeg" width="428" /></a></div><br />My darling Leisa, this is your first birthday as a mom. Life will never be the same, and I think you already know that’s a magnificent thing. I love you, darling girl, always and forever. Enjoy Jamaica at Christmas for us winter birds here. <p></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-42749142941454258012023-12-25T11:09:00.003-05:002023-12-25T11:09:41.141-05:00Last night in Harlem<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvuN7nxp4tzgZGDiznMTYLzj2imCNWll7mKTNWomKqRu7e1NfjYjFaNotPt9YnuusuvsMTvtNO_ZuikWroi2rXFrM9n94ZqGQc6OyNCcjY8ETpkWRHnn0qXS1SHGEDUXtwg8TT9bbUqWR0Osdgbm8w0eoRsx0VVskeZEW7iJnANrdQrn6a35-M9vLQrk/s2589/IMG_9213.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1942" data-original-width="2589" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvuN7nxp4tzgZGDiznMTYLzj2imCNWll7mKTNWomKqRu7e1NfjYjFaNotPt9YnuusuvsMTvtNO_ZuikWroi2rXFrM9n94ZqGQc6OyNCcjY8ETpkWRHnn0qXS1SHGEDUXtwg8TT9bbUqWR0Osdgbm8w0eoRsx0VVskeZEW7iJnANrdQrn6a35-M9vLQrk/w640-h480/IMG_9213.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> Merry Christmas, all.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-20047681070854603912023-12-20T13:39:00.010-05:002023-12-25T11:10:46.072-05:00Did you catch my girl on Hoda and Jenna?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfkfqcBT3lKsuTYhV558yp-48Xm7o4QQSQiv_ZMpunKkJhgc45w7uzrNoWf2jEqId5hAEs68-HPQyW4CHjgdJd43DTSvbxZbGH18f0-aiS0w2LZafxU3LqY4QizTm3JA7djB4gY4Nzd7ziPbBz7q2rwmAzcBg7fWWB4WnOeef7gaEyA1qQIxgMfz1ED0/s3918/FullSizeRender%203.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2938" data-original-width="3918" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfkfqcBT3lKsuTYhV558yp-48Xm7o4QQSQiv_ZMpunKkJhgc45w7uzrNoWf2jEqId5hAEs68-HPQyW4CHjgdJd43DTSvbxZbGH18f0-aiS0w2LZafxU3LqY4QizTm3JA7djB4gY4Nzd7ziPbBz7q2rwmAzcBg7fWWB4WnOeef7gaEyA1qQIxgMfz1ED0/w640-h480/FullSizeRender%203.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUp0EUMluyiEKpKsyKZvVBsJny7KrIPzLUaT_PLFxEoFvm0-Z5PEqhNmTLRkDg41kjaw8n3pC1VBBoqHBGuqZ3mca1QCW_ZhcMBtvUEKYlhANtj23nC4606D9c_Cvgt0ULiyEiJsyWfgW92UUZtYOYoZPpW0AJihQ54aKV3e_TxmfhzT9Bt2Cnbap6kKM/s3859/FullSizeRender.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2188" data-original-width="3859" height="362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUp0EUMluyiEKpKsyKZvVBsJny7KrIPzLUaT_PLFxEoFvm0-Z5PEqhNmTLRkDg41kjaw8n3pC1VBBoqHBGuqZ3mca1QCW_ZhcMBtvUEKYlhANtj23nC4606D9c_Cvgt0ULiyEiJsyWfgW92UUZtYOYoZPpW0AJihQ54aKV3e_TxmfhzT9Bt2Cnbap6kKM/w640-h362/FullSizeRender.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>My daughter was on <i>The Today Show</i> this morning, on a segment about accessorizing for the holidays. I was such a besotted mom, taking in her megawatt smile. It's her third time appearing on Hoda and Jenna for segments like this. Once she was a makeup model, the second time a hairstyle model, this time a holiday wear model. Hoda, in particular, always welcomes her warmly. I think she's charmed by the light my girl exudes. As are we all. Oh, and my girl got to keep those beautiful earrings!</p><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-25097994099360101832023-12-18T12:22:00.023-05:002023-12-25T13:52:48.229-05:00Randoms<div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbV6GCw90Uo0CWYFe3_Lw5QGvY28IpBUgBp4OSEz-5vWArTLCrrJ50ghhmt6yn-brfGS_RGAvZUKYA1R3h0fnKa-JuTP6nx7pLSWzDxE0RmW02fe_mmrlqAvhRHLoniZ-uEsBWQYVRkNWtyAI46I-06ocNVN_sGQhn2JqMF6rHcjJeRr8ohyphenhyphenaPwBlH_Jo/s4032/IMG_9160.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbV6GCw90Uo0CWYFe3_Lw5QGvY28IpBUgBp4OSEz-5vWArTLCrrJ50ghhmt6yn-brfGS_RGAvZUKYA1R3h0fnKa-JuTP6nx7pLSWzDxE0RmW02fe_mmrlqAvhRHLoniZ-uEsBWQYVRkNWtyAI46I-06ocNVN_sGQhn2JqMF6rHcjJeRr8ohyphenhyphenaPwBlH_Jo/w480-h640/IMG_9160.JPG" width="480" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My darling ex-sister-in-law Hilary sent that shell angel ornament for me with her brother and niece, who were visiting from Jamaica and were our house guests in New York this weekend. Hilary and her brothers, and my brother and I grew up together, a few houses apart on storied Paddington Terrace, for which this blog is named. Robert and I agreed on how happy we were that after my brother and his sister married and then divorced, Hilary found the love of her life in the form of a nuclear physicist on the other side of the world.<br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbG259giTdJPJkP74VAigbBu-m9Qm3fFoZDEusMo9gb3KAWDxD3X7pyNAF00MLV25NkQziqIUR_Wz34trZ4Wpi5_p58GDXW4I-2m3YLMhbsbqZQ1QOoAs2oxYUj6G8EY7PTgoWumg6NiX52iWADJkmouYYrjHoTYBBq_yPHGFTpsy2Q0admprfh4CGXc/s1563/IMG_9166.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1563" data-original-width="1247" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbG259giTdJPJkP74VAigbBu-m9Qm3fFoZDEusMo9gb3KAWDxD3X7pyNAF00MLV25NkQziqIUR_Wz34trZ4Wpi5_p58GDXW4I-2m3YLMhbsbqZQ1QOoAs2oxYUj6G8EY7PTgoWumg6NiX52iWADJkmouYYrjHoTYBBq_yPHGFTpsy2Q0admprfh4CGXc/w510-h640/IMG_9166.jpeg" width="510" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My son's wife and my daughter just might be soulmates of a sort. They get along so happily and effortlessly, and have done, right from the start. In fact, some years ago at a party, my daughter told her brother, "If you don't marry this girl, I will."<br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPr545HiZy8C4UpPFNesdAc22Cg6X9ZvxXDBvTyei-JrkdjUHffQlN6udJyFo_viqQ7qtxrkWv_rGQnIvJG2xliBEpzCvJeXCkZdXK5ktG4IPe7cfLwEkfJEcKb7SMldIzqcr7G1vvzYO_5Cw_eYnITT8mcuOWzXUbT81aJ4o5T9vRwjzClzRoJcFc6TE/s5712/IMG_1601.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5712" data-original-width="4284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPr545HiZy8C4UpPFNesdAc22Cg6X9ZvxXDBvTyei-JrkdjUHffQlN6udJyFo_viqQ7qtxrkWv_rGQnIvJG2xliBEpzCvJeXCkZdXK5ktG4IPe7cfLwEkfJEcKb7SMldIzqcr7G1vvzYO_5Cw_eYnITT8mcuOWzXUbT81aJ4o5T9vRwjzClzRoJcFc6TE/w480-h640/IMG_1601.jpeg" width="480" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My girl took a weekend trip to a snowy place with the one she actually plans to marry this year. They decided to explore somewhere that felt completely unfamiliar to them, which is how they ended up in Colorado.<br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqKgoNv3Vpt3CAyFEdnugiUx5dLZ-lwx-tWrH6abspkfJNo8g9KmTiESOJB2NXd6_xldOmKe2ml5arc4eDp5mn47lGRA8sziiy-ybXLt9PHc8D2u2PQdjNhtYwXgnUvRPf3-ZXr1hUTS6Nm42gP24fJOEqERlvUTY-118SN_0-c6F7FfcBqmY4ApEYX8/s1903/IMG_9167.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1903" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqKgoNv3Vpt3CAyFEdnugiUx5dLZ-lwx-tWrH6abspkfJNo8g9KmTiESOJB2NXd6_xldOmKe2ml5arc4eDp5mn47lGRA8sziiy-ybXLt9PHc8D2u2PQdjNhtYwXgnUvRPf3-ZXr1hUTS6Nm42gP24fJOEqERlvUTY-118SN_0-c6F7FfcBqmY4ApEYX8/w432-h640/IMG_9167.jpeg" width="432" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My choral group held its winter concert on Saturday, and it went off beautifully. In fact, it is probably the best our choir has ever sounded, especially our concluding rendition of <i>The Hallelujah Chorus.</i> That's me and one of my best buds Lisa behind me, as we were filing out after singing it. I do love making a joyful noise at rehearsals every week with my friend, and then going for soup and a good catch-up session afterward. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOdDugrz3RQUTiNvFUz1Q8m4GsCn3hUc1eYYabQ9ndVJpzpoahJpdVXKfIQcn79ZyNB90f0dh1fDkrdiyMvB8YU21FD9NLRN1isDzfw7CxrCsiy9LHB81YUtuXQDSnV3Q3YrYxk3Zg9uV3sWVWazQP1crS4bsF36k6la5vrWUPgMKpHPSC9hq8z2-OWk/s1588/IMG_9053.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1588" data-original-width="1284" height="546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOdDugrz3RQUTiNvFUz1Q8m4GsCn3hUc1eYYabQ9ndVJpzpoahJpdVXKfIQcn79ZyNB90f0dh1fDkrdiyMvB8YU21FD9NLRN1isDzfw7CxrCsiy9LHB81YUtuXQDSnV3Q3YrYxk3Zg9uV3sWVWazQP1crS4bsF36k6la5vrWUPgMKpHPSC9hq8z2-OWk/w442-h546/IMG_9053.jpg" width="442" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My musician nephew's public profile is about to go wide. Watch this space.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <br /></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAe4kd74vpUyQmb1RUY54LFH9Wb5Y-CKAsZsDkO8T_83000X_WjRxnJ-G7uhWmCq3y2_ffaxmWV4JIe8gFbHV35li9wzQsyDIQ5nOBJ3TmEDK3zdCKtm60OZEE3W1HWB2U-9R6K2N7o-r6nPHS-H5YBasQKzK2bk_DBhYe21vL2TcmQopFt-lYHtzHI28/s1704/IMG_8616.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="1692" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAe4kd74vpUyQmb1RUY54LFH9Wb5Y-CKAsZsDkO8T_83000X_WjRxnJ-G7uhWmCq3y2_ffaxmWV4JIe8gFbHV35li9wzQsyDIQ5nOBJ3TmEDK3zdCKtm60OZEE3W1HWB2U-9R6K2N7o-r6nPHS-H5YBasQKzK2bk_DBhYe21vL2TcmQopFt-lYHtzHI28/w455-h458/IMG_8616.JPG" width="455" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here's a photo of me at age 11, run through a photo repair app. The original is grainy, but I think I might prefer it. I look into the hopeful face of this girl and wonder, how did she see her life unfolding? Isn't it always a surprise, the loves we meet and the turns we had no idea we would take alongside them? I’ve now reached the age my parents were when I thought they were old. Now I understand that only the body ages, and we are all the bright hopeful ages we ever were inside. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywqHhZNVOChEVYMRupf06u0Qm9pykFPCfppqsO6mAJHcIwHegsVWKJ9eCbeUcxipFD3PO-opr9oBwLEuBFtqS58F2stSC0C0TAylBHtG3MyIOQBxBFYcSw8o5HmNUlOgiMv1fphLcwvTsV6utUFao2hwnSb7zWsk3-obmZNfSu92ETYxXfwTRfeV50xQ/s4032/IMG_8775.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhywqHhZNVOChEVYMRupf06u0Qm9pykFPCfppqsO6mAJHcIwHegsVWKJ9eCbeUcxipFD3PO-opr9oBwLEuBFtqS58F2stSC0C0TAylBHtG3MyIOQBxBFYcSw8o5HmNUlOgiMv1fphLcwvTsV6utUFao2hwnSb7zWsk3-obmZNfSu92ETYxXfwTRfeV50xQ/w480-h640/IMG_8775.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I get so few pictures of my son. This isn't a great one in terms of photo aesthetics, but it captures a moment of deep and thoughtful conversation between us, so I cherish it.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsaTMqsd06lBSBRZgkLNPfAZ7Q2OGFor2NqtLmQYoU2quJc-gmKu9tTwXTPMXKtio8BplKRy5m7dGn-uTjgdBxNheIN4VxxWyJTF0g-xRR__fwJQWagTMGE_YnEgg6ziuCeKZR9iS0KQBjwsbZYWt1LxaUp8i0ir5FmgYUqkfmCeSHnI6RVBlH-X9eBo/s4032/E0590345-888D-442D-956F-9C3B426AF85F.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsaTMqsd06lBSBRZgkLNPfAZ7Q2OGFor2NqtLmQYoU2quJc-gmKu9tTwXTPMXKtio8BplKRy5m7dGn-uTjgdBxNheIN4VxxWyJTF0g-xRR__fwJQWagTMGE_YnEgg6ziuCeKZR9iS0KQBjwsbZYWt1LxaUp8i0ir5FmgYUqkfmCeSHnI6RVBlH-X9eBo/w640-h480/E0590345-888D-442D-956F-9C3B426AF85F.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"> The predicted storm this morning was a monsoon. From inside my house, the pattering sound was like soft drumming and light cymbals swishing. The winds and rain have tapered off now, which is good, because my daughter and her love will be flying home this afternoon. Traveling mercies to all of us here, whether we venture far afield or not this season.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p></div>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-73880950752991090232023-12-11T10:43:00.018-05:002023-12-11T23:19:08.609-05:00Feeding the soul<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LSnf8c9UWk20h3vY3Fa33tdBN9yoUo7s9ttmdsgztGMlxM_WezJDihqW6Cv3zLiyaKXc9wyg9I1L6Q5nk2inyuWXr2fGUUZ69QT0G3stsov5RUZPYltSZ1u6odO3K1R8V4HqWT0hLEqzN7oCRIMm_K8_zCt0JhTfl0RHYMlG_51roJyY7VNQ3V_mnK8/s1976/IMG_9096.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1976" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LSnf8c9UWk20h3vY3Fa33tdBN9yoUo7s9ttmdsgztGMlxM_WezJDihqW6Cv3zLiyaKXc9wyg9I1L6Q5nk2inyuWXr2fGUUZ69QT0G3stsov5RUZPYltSZ1u6odO3K1R8V4HqWT0hLEqzN7oCRIMm_K8_zCt0JhTfl0RHYMlG_51roJyY7VNQ3V_mnK8/w416-h640/IMG_9096.jpeg" width="416" /></a></div><br />As a Christmas gift I'm going to take my daughters, the one I birthed and the one my son married, to see <i>Hell's Kitchen</i>, a new musical currently at the Public Theater that is making its way to Broadway. Word is the show could get as big as <i>Hamilton</i>, so I thought we'd get in early, before tickets get sold out or priced out of reach. It's the story of Alicia Keys coming of age in New York's gritty, buzzy, artistic Hell's Kitchen neighborhood, and the soundtrack, including new songs written for the show, is supposed to be glorious. <p></p><p>I'm actively trying to feed my flagging spirit, to shore up my creative soul, as the stage of the work I'm doing is rather stressful, all the more so because I feel a great responsibility to get this right. There are so many moving parts, so many different people's comments to reconcile, fact checking changes to input, deeper layers of the story to access, all without bogging down the pace of the narrative, and may I be worthy. I worked all weekend, but I did take a break on Saturday evening to climb under a cozy comforter and lose myself in the movie <i>The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society,</i> which I absolutely loved. I'd heard it was an enchanting piece, a historical drama and love story set in Guernsey Island right after the German occupation during the Second World War. Yet I kept passing it by; the name of the film made me think it might be corny, which it was <i>not</i>. It's a writer's story, really, and I particularly enjoyed that aspect of it, the recognition that writers write to make sense of the world, to set things right inside themselves, and it seems to me that we are, all of us gathered in this virtual place, engaged in exactly that task.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1qNrv8tv9NKyyfaLS0b08Maio5e14tuKkjNf3dG_XqBFWk_SpiWjMnT4E43otD2Xyuct4OCepQ4to_wLTxjtHojgx3PY7X2TzZ-tYrfdMA8Zb4oeyvFWxWgEN225k66JPC0bjJ7yGToAOXlXn4Ieamai3UsHM8XisMI40LBxdPXo0e2YjjNCYuR9cqQ/s1000/guernsey-c2a9-studiocanal-s-a.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1qNrv8tv9NKyyfaLS0b08Maio5e14tuKkjNf3dG_XqBFWk_SpiWjMnT4E43otD2Xyuct4OCepQ4to_wLTxjtHojgx3PY7X2TzZ-tYrfdMA8Zb4oeyvFWxWgEN225k66JPC0bjJ7yGToAOXlXn4Ieamai3UsHM8XisMI40LBxdPXo0e2YjjNCYuR9cqQ/w640-h360/guernsey-c2a9-studiocanal-s-a.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br />Tomorrow is my niece's birthday. This one grew up in Jamaica and moved to New York City last summer, right out of college. She asked me a month ago if we could have a family get together for her birthday. I misunderstood at first, and thought she was inviting us to her Brooklyn apartment to celebrate. "No," she said, "I thought we could do it here, because this is where the family gathers." She has no idea how that touched me, especially as this niece is not overtly demonstrative; her cousins tease her that she has a world class RBF (resting bitch face); the comment doesn't offend her, it makes her laugh. Her default expression may be famously unimpressed, but her heart is tender, and full of family feeling, as we have all come to know. So tomorrow evening we will blow out candles and eat cake, and we will trim our little tabletop tree, and my man will make hot mulled apple cider (are "hot" and "mulled" redundant?). And as we sing for our newest New Yorker, I will take joy in knowing that, as her mother told me when last she visited, my niece is relishing the chance to be close to her family here. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlZBUbvSs-mBEnjtdxTBoKr4STM9pcct4GTZ0-sDle4B4hvdSj4bJm-r0cn24hz_xfq6P9TSyzJyKrdnjc7SokldHd2xisq9lVkdtYMqdKg7Zd1lBWRe4jkndmo6NVsQZ90flShzkC4kH02jTRrxhWPQeUpEDTDIbnHfqC6xfCIXmMe-PAlmurdkIybk/s1765/FD771384-9815-4DA2-BBC7-19F558FE8500.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1765" data-original-width="1765" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGlZBUbvSs-mBEnjtdxTBoKr4STM9pcct4GTZ0-sDle4B4hvdSj4bJm-r0cn24hz_xfq6P9TSyzJyKrdnjc7SokldHd2xisq9lVkdtYMqdKg7Zd1lBWRe4jkndmo6NVsQZ90flShzkC4kH02jTRrxhWPQeUpEDTDIbnHfqC6xfCIXmMe-PAlmurdkIybk/w400-h400/FD771384-9815-4DA2-BBC7-19F558FE8500.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-45023301474296315662023-12-08T14:19:00.028-05:002023-12-09T14:42:28.171-05:00Winter light<p>We had another book team meeting yesterday morning, and I was greatly relieved afterward, as we collectively clarified those editorial notes that were giving me agita. I feel more able to move forward now, and accomplish the next draft of the thing. This stage is the second hardest of the entire book writing endeavor, the first being getting down a complete first draft to begin with. On we go.</p><p>I feel a bit fragile lately, possibly it's the seasonal blues, making me feel vulnerable, solitary, imagination running amok, sensitivities naked to the barest breath. The sky outside reflects my mood. Strictly speaking, nothing is
desperately wrong in my little corner, not really, not when compared. Life is just life, and none of us makes it
through this earth school unscathed by its lessons. Nothing to do but
study hard and seek the light. A
blessed Hanukkah and soon-to-be Christmas and Kwanzaa to those who
celebrate.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjn4qZLOWyLcMtDdW2U7n-WJl5iCZOnH5xGHJePtF6l-4RG8fpe9opRV2D2wEcc6rIIHLoHS18BUkVf_MGHMAU7yJaWcw1Ua3sHmYvA48IQH06OcZV01NSErlrBEr_Z6O-G1wxINcARllL9Lg9Q5KowUZemB7DpA5C6SwL1y7i5OwV15CNE3iVHYodRLno" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2895" data-original-width="3861" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjn4qZLOWyLcMtDdW2U7n-WJl5iCZOnH5xGHJePtF6l-4RG8fpe9opRV2D2wEcc6rIIHLoHS18BUkVf_MGHMAU7yJaWcw1Ua3sHmYvA48IQH06OcZV01NSErlrBEr_Z6O-G1wxINcARllL9Lg9Q5KowUZemB7DpA5C6SwL1y7i5OwV15CNE3iVHYodRLno=w640-h480" width="640" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-35121372371621999482023-12-08T02:40:00.003-05:002023-12-08T12:59:06.353-05:00The text message my daughter sent to me last nightSomewhere between then and now,<br />It went from "Mom, stop telling me what to do" <br />To "Mom, please tell me what to do."<p>Somewhere between then and now<br />It went from "Mom, you don't understand" <br />To "Mom, I don't understand."<br /><br />Somewhere between then and now<br />It went from, "Mom, stop asking so many questions"<br />To "Mom, I have so many questions."<br /><br />Somewhere between then and now <br />It went from "Mom, leave me alone" <br />To "Mom, never leave my side."<br /><br />Somewhere between then and now <br />I realized the other half of my heart was always <br />the person who created it in the first place.<br /></p><p>*</p><p>My daughter didn’t write this. She saw it somewhere and it made her think of us, with the result that these lovely sentences appeared in my text messages as I was drifting off. I did not toss and turn this night. I think I was smiling in my sleep.<br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHIYe7OlLScWs213FjZxHlbv7Nkd2O1wicp-9XG-9gAGqO2NJ0PZO2gdqKDRpDf-N2ViqbZbqlZvGRfxX9bPRXozIVR-2qhKqBB4UdIHmy0EmsbZWv7qo1yM1COru02u5tq_fXKsFCdNmxl3PdY1OYfx4R8-qPygT3EU1bV3aoEp4NhiRKpW0OWPeKsHA/s1284/IMG_9089.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1272" data-original-width="1284" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHIYe7OlLScWs213FjZxHlbv7Nkd2O1wicp-9XG-9gAGqO2NJ0PZO2gdqKDRpDf-N2ViqbZbqlZvGRfxX9bPRXozIVR-2qhKqBB4UdIHmy0EmsbZWv7qo1yM1COru02u5tq_fXKsFCdNmxl3PdY1OYfx4R8-qPygT3EU1bV3aoEp4NhiRKpW0OWPeKsHA/w400-h396/IMG_9089.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-87667245247727683652023-12-04T01:01:00.005-05:002023-12-04T09:22:19.495-05:00A little rain<p>I wish I could describe what I’m feeling. I don’t quite have the words. The label I suppose is anxiety—fear of what’s waiting in the shadows to disturb your peace, disturbing your peace even before it arrives. You fear its arrival, which may never come, even as you live beneath the suspended sword, looking up, breath caught somewhere in the throat. You thrash and spin against the physicality of your dark thoughts, your worst case scenarios conjured just in case—in case of what? Do you imagine this conjuring will prepare you to weather that which you most fear? All emotion is either born of love or born of fear. Is it love when we fear for the ones we love, hold our breath at the thought of them having to go through life’s portion of pain, even though, as my mother used to say, quoting Longfellow, “into each life some rain must fall.” I worry for my children’s hearts. All of them. The ones I birthed and the ones they brought home to <i>my</i> heart. I worry for them. I don’t fear my own pain. I fear theirs. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5uN8IADSLIMp6bnAVroHKNsWCu5r_9i02jA_d2PpG5cAk3SBluaaxgYSuT0-wRPGf2EtXhJqcsLS6k3vd70jP4t5E4E0i-r3UpIgoWkK_cyyF8o1Ge23sc8E5zX1EB2MtesqnOng6GBgX4yqAoEpv1MMkdJoshE3Bbfi7ctMolRA6RK0wTybfCuv7dM/s2121/IMG_9037.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2121" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5uN8IADSLIMp6bnAVroHKNsWCu5r_9i02jA_d2PpG5cAk3SBluaaxgYSuT0-wRPGf2EtXhJqcsLS6k3vd70jP4t5E4E0i-r3UpIgoWkK_cyyF8o1Ge23sc8E5zX1EB2MtesqnOng6GBgX4yqAoEpv1MMkdJoshE3Bbfi7ctMolRA6RK0wTybfCuv7dM/w388-h640/IMG_9037.jpeg" width="388" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Painting by Naomi Takeda</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>37paddingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12400464105403622384noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9107151958453669111.post-4054634389543762712023-12-01T09:46:00.011-05:002023-12-01T12:09:12.549-05:00Wrestling beautiful chaos<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpoVforGNnBTXCTidjOcSbi1_ugF72y1gHXE28ov4gT3KaPjZbGM63FYOpcdhGp6WdROGQgfXR_iAgHpHBlyKVvViF8F8M6VWjyGLgiC-G7guea_DfbzjIAsNfqsOPhQR-TAOEp6niH-OVEjKS9e0vyfw7pJi_rR7NiNqU6Rn-Yx9hI6w1br92qls6UU/s4032/IMG_8307.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpoVforGNnBTXCTidjOcSbi1_ugF72y1gHXE28ov4gT3KaPjZbGM63FYOpcdhGp6WdROGQgfXR_iAgHpHBlyKVvViF8F8M6VWjyGLgiC-G7guea_DfbzjIAsNfqsOPhQR-TAOEp6niH-OVEjKS9e0vyfw7pJi_rR7NiNqU6Rn-Yx9hI6w1br92qls6UU/w480-h640/IMG_8307.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br />Our week of being thankful was topsy-turvy and wonderful, as was Baby Harper's baptism the Sunday before. She was curious about everything and everyone, didn't cry when the holy water was poured over her head (she does take infant swimming lessons with her mom in Dallas, so it probably wasn't a new sensation for her). And then our minister took her from her parents arms and said, "Now Harper is going to meet her people." As she walked with her around the church to be greeted and welcomed by everyone there, I swear you could almost see little Harper giving the royal wave, such was her demeanor and her beaming little face, our delightful little crowd pleaser, a natural born star. <p></p><p>Harper was absolutely the highlight of the season for everyone. She adored being in the mix, went from arm to arm with no fuss, fixing each new person with her piercing curious stare before breaking into a smile that lit up all hearts. We had seventeen people on the feast day itself, eleven of them who were sleeping under our roof for the twelve days Harper was here with us. Several of my friends asked me to run down for them where everyone slept in our modest three-bedroom apartment. We explained that trundle beds and couches were pressed into use, with the back bedroom functioning much like a camp dorm. My daughter and her love left late each night to sleep in my mother's former studio across the courtyard, and they were back early each morning to rejoin the pile up of people and the chatter and the joy. I weathered my usual anxiety before the feast, but it started to abate once the food was on the table, and everyone was serving themselves a plate. After that, I did okay, dissipating my OCD by regularly cleaning up in the kitchen. More than once my niece looked up from nursing little Harper and said, "Are you wrestling chaos?" Yes, yes, I was.<br /></p><p>My brother, here with us for the first time, was thrilled to have his four children and first grandchild all together under the same roof. He was the master of libations all week, our bar set-up more crowded with spirits than ever before. At one point my brother, who is high up in his lodge and veteran organizer of formal ceremonial events, advised my husband and me to come up with a checklist to make staging our annual feast a well-oiled affair. His oldest daughter, my niece Leisa, Harper's fiesty mama, backed him off at once. "Excuse me Daddy," she said, hand on hip, "but this is your first time here. Do you have any idea how many years Auntie Rosie and Uncle Rad have been doing this? They are not new to this, they are <i>true </i>to this, so put your advice back in your pocket." We all laughed heartily, including my brother, and I have to admit I loved Leisa rushing to defend us, and with such a poetic remark. I think my brother will be back next year, at least I hope so. He seemed to have a grand old time.</p><p>On Friday we binged watched all four of the Hunger Games movies in sequence, in between serving ourselves leftovers, in anticipation of our usual night en masse at the movies; this year the choice was the new Hunger Games prequel, <i>The Ballard of Songbirds and Snakes, </i>which we all enjoyed. By Saturday our guests began leaving, starting with my nephew taking the bus back north to college, with the last four family members flying home to Dallas and Trinidad on Tuesday. The next day, the editor and the publisher on my current book project sent their editorial comments on the first draft manuscript. So I am once again immersed in the work. This stage always feels a little overwhelming to me, as I find I don't always agree with the margin notes, especially at first, but I know I have inflicted this anxious resistance on writers myself when I am wearing my editor hat, so I do settle myself down and weigh each and every comment in good faith, trying to see where the editor is coming from. Invariably, editors make a book better, and I know this. My work now is to do my part of the dance with faith in the process and a heart that remembers everyone on this project is operating from a place of love.</p><p>In no particular order, here is an album of my beloveds from the two weeks that were. Needless to say, magical Harper is heavily featured. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKmjbxDSfVLjIv83ItpuVTBzZb-nvIdUTS0EyQwXDLU_e8gwLjPDZAm05sSIvRWlH0HPZ3hExNRZwUPmljpVyqEbsUa6rE9Pr0YVgXiPjSrUUXGktt58TbgaMqocmfaduu-Nci3ODh0CtUvwaa6Nio8zwfzpSQC3qGpJFxYNobb19kt0zkERWljpRKVA/s4032/IMG_8977.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKmjbxDSfVLjIv83ItpuVTBzZb-nvIdUTS0EyQwXDLU_e8gwLjPDZAm05sSIvRWlH0HPZ3hExNRZwUPmljpVyqEbsUa6rE9Pr0YVgXiPjSrUUXGktt58TbgaMqocmfaduu-Nci3ODh0CtUvwaa6Nio8zwfzpSQC3qGpJFxYNobb19kt0zkERWljpRKVA/w491-h368/IMG_8977.JPG" width="491" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJAm1EJyK8k8RnjYneMMQNAubE4CQbKEYWSJAXsGryonMsnHgO-inWao7lQS-Xtdn5VesUhCNLvmDK_h2lqrlUWheNKZ-xtKZto55N-WwTHeElh-FliNI_opYYbgNFmgdLbxkpxLJm9f-AnI8BGcRLGxNUQEvzjvLrVbEbpN97_aFpe0ATVmWD49xpUY/s1440/721CD0DB-F207-4F64-8C84-61813E56AF18.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1440" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAJAm1EJyK8k8RnjYneMMQNAubE4CQbKEYWSJAXsGryonMsnHgO-inWao7lQS-Xtdn5VesUhCNLvmDK_h2lqrlUWheNKZ-xtKZto55N-WwTHeElh-FliNI_opYYbgNFmgdLbxkpxLJm9f-AnI8BGcRLGxNUQEvzjvLrVbEbpN97_aFpe0ATVmWD49xpUY/w486-h366/721CD0DB-F207-4F64-8C84-61813E56AF18.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-QBJaTnS1XXGNOcciWq5QyDinMHJsta5-nL_clcPsPy6MwjSbLNPQX8q0kvS4zQVgYqV_WRKcMjywa5uizbhYuKNZStmemPx4BSmiumQxlkv1JHu2gfg7QbzTxAJ6tVQTc_rAGssDVvooptgKzz0Lki9dFGfrQO9CdGK4fGtXNRa_FxOBTIy9rZzYW8/s1440/72006EE7-90D7-4BD5-AD23-4B848A7B6893.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-QBJaTnS1XXGNOcciWq5QyDinMHJsta5-nL_clcPsPy6MwjSbLNPQX8q0kvS4zQVgYqV_WRKcMjywa5uizbhYuKNZStmemPx4BSmiumQxlkv1JHu2gfg7QbzTxAJ6tVQTc_rAGssDVvooptgKzz0Lki9dFGfrQO9CdGK4fGtXNRa_FxOBTIy9rZzYW8/w490-h368/72006EE7-90D7-4BD5-AD23-4B848A7B6893.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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