Memories in a Makeup Shop

I knew it would happen like this, the slow sinking-in of how things have changed. I haven’t seen my daughter lately. It’s not because we are on different schedules—she a night owl sleeping late into the morning, and me an early-to-bed-early-riser. It’s not that she is busy with homework, at play rehearsal, out with friends or working at her summer job. It is not for any of the usual reasons. My daughter has left home for college. She really is gone.

I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.

There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.

We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.

The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.

We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.

Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.

I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.

My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.

Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.

(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)

A Fresh and Familiar New Year

Last year I tried a different approach to New Year’s resolutions. Rather than setting unrealistic, largely unattainable goals that would just make me feel like a failure when I didn’t reach them, I vowed to make a simple commitment to discovery. I promised to take on each day with a new attitude, to try things I’d not done before, to look at old things in new ways.

I could discover a new author, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story. I could find newness in anything — a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd, or be stirred by the power of a single word.

Looking back, I only partially reached my goal. Sure, there were some moments of newness. I discovered authors like Marilynne Robinson, Dave Eggers, Robert Olen Butler and Ann Patchett whom I’d never read before. I explored the beautiful city of Vancouver with my husband, and spent time with my mom in small New England towns where I’d never been.

I saw some new art exhibits — “Americans in Paris” at the Museum of Fine Arts, “Paris in the Countryside” at the Portland Museum of Art and the wonderful “Trees” exhibit at Moose Hill in Sharon. I worked on a political campaign, something I’d not done in over 20 years.

Though I didn’t learn to crochet, I took a creative non-fiction course, writing and learning from some terrific writers. I played indoor soccer for the first time ever — only once — but I tried it nonetheless. And there were other little bursts of discovery, taking on different work projects, listening to new songs.

What I remember most about the past year, though, are not the new things, but the old. As much as I sought to discover, I found myself seeking things that were comforting, reassuring. I re-read some of my favorite books — “Anna Karenina,” “Pride and Prejudice” and Tobias Wolff’s memoir “This Boy’s Life.”

I re-watched some of my favorite movies, “It Happened One Night,” “Notorious,” and “Dave” (twice). I fell into the routine of life, catching up with family and friends, shuttling my son to sports practices and games, managing work projects, running and writing, preparing the usual dinners, watching movies at home with my husband on Friday nights.

For the most part, my new experiences over the past year didn’t happen because I planned them. It was just life. By far the most significant change was my daughter leaving home for college. While my daughter’s departure meant major changes for her, it also created a challenge for me as I adjusted to daily life without her. And though my high school-age son is still at home, he has his own busy life with school, homework, sports and spending time with friends. It won’t be long before he, too, will leave home.

As I watch my children grow and change and see how fleeting everything is, I feel a sense of urgency. As much as I want to discover new things, I find myself longing for both the old traditions and everyday moments with family and friends. I know my life this New Year won’t be the same as the last. It shouldn’t be. But still, I want to hold on to all that is good about the past. I suppose what I want is the best of both worlds — the old and new coming together, creating something exciting and different, but at the same time reassuringly familiar.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com January, 2006)

New Year Discoveries

Beginnings and endings are times of reflection. As I reach the end of this year, I inevitably look back. I praise myself for accomplishments, and wonder what I might have done differently. As I look ahead, I also wonder. With a blank slate before me, anything seems possible. In some ways, the idea of a new start on a new year is arbitrary. There is, though, something appealing about a chance for a "do-over" or a "finally do."

Though daunting, the unknown is also exciting. As I imagine all the possibilities, I am determined to get things right. I think that is why, like many people, I make promises to myself at the beginning of a new year. My resolutions tend to fall into two categories: things I want to start and things I want to stop. It sounds simple enough. Why then, I wonder, do I so often seem to fall short?

I thought and thought and thought about this, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the answer - my answer -came to me. And like many revelations, it was in plain view all the time, rooted in the name of the holiday itself. New.

If I seek out the new, if I discover the fresh in the familiar, I will be doing something hugely important. I will make no specific promises. There will be no rules. No things that I should (or shouldn't) do. I will simply make a commitment to newness, to trying what I haven't, to noticing what perhaps has passed me by. There's a freedom to this kind of thinking. Rather than restrictive resolutions, I'll alter my outlook, one in which every day has a clearly defined, straightforward purpose - discovery.

With no oppressive pledges hanging over me, I will be free to determine my destiny. The discovery could involve anything from the simple to the complex. I could visit a new city, explore different work, try a new recipe, discover a new author. I could take on a cause, hike a hidden path, learn to crochet, write a new story.

While I desire new experiences, I also want to discover the newness in the old ones. The other day, I had a moment like this when I gazed up at the sky. The cloud-covered winter sun has an altogether different feeling than a summer sun hidden by clouds. The winter sun is quietly mysterious. I'd never noticed this before. I'm not sure why it's like that, but it is. Maybe it's because I don't expect to see a warm sun - even a cloud-covered blurry one - in the backdrop of ice and snow and bare trees. Whatever the reason, it is. Quiet. Mysterious.

I could find newness in anything - a sound, a touch, a feeling, even an idea or opinion. I could hear softness in the storm, anger in the calm. I could sense loneliness in a crowd. I could be stirred by the power of a single word. A fresh take on the familiar could lead to more tolerance as I see someone's annoying habits (even my own) as quirky, endearing.

So this new year, I will steady myself as I step into the whirling winds of the unknown. I will breathe with my full being so that everything penetrates. I will do my best to embrace the new and rediscovered things that surround me.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)