A few weeks ago my running partner and I were jogging past Lake Massapoag, chatting away about the usual events of the week - kids, work, husbands - when suddenly a car pulled over to the side.
"We play soccer at ForeKicks in Norfolk, 9:30 every Friday," a friend said, leaning over so we could hear her through the rolled-down window. "A bunch of women, play as you go - 10 bucks. It's really fun, informal. You should come." And then she drove off.
As I readied myself to resume our discussion about our boys' high school homework, my friend had a different thought. "It might be kind of fun," she said, in between strides. Now I could think of many words to describe what playing indoor soccer would be for me at this point in my life, and I have to tell you, fun wasn't one of them.
Sure enough, a few days later, there was an e-mail in my in-box. "Are you up for our run next Friday at 8:00? And then we can check out the indoor soccer game at 9:30. What do you say?"
Some background is in order here. Though my running partner had also never played soccer, she is an athlete who played Division I volleyball in college.
Other than my pathetic stint as a fourth string bench-warmer on my eighth grade basketball team, I've never, ever played a team sport. The reason I like to run is that it requires zero athleticism. I was determined to not get talked into this soccer thing. But then I got thinking.
I did make a New Year's pledge to try new things, so the following week, after our run around the lake, we headed over to ForeKicks, meeting another friend (also a former college volleyball player), who my running partner had talked into coming. While our other friend had come equipped with shin guards, we had to borrow them. Mine were a miniscule pair - no doubt left behind by some fourth-grader - that barely covered my legs.
Walking onto the indoor court, I eyed the regular players, checking for evidence of fitness and skill. Someone quickly explained the rules of the game -"We play three 20 minute periods, and rotate positions every five minutes. We don't keep score. That's about it." Responding to my confused, worried look, a player offered words of reassurance. "You'll be fine."
It took less than a minute for me to have renewed respect for my son and his friends who play this game so well. Who knew how hard it could be to dribble, kick, work the boards, and win the ball? As clumsy as I felt at defense, it was even more horrifying when I moved up to offense. The other women were amazing, dribbling, defending and passing like pros. But they were also incredibly nice-setting us newcomers up for goals, offering words of encouragement. Just when I felt like I was getting it, though, I'd do something really stupid, like totally miss the ball, leaving my leg suspended in mid-air. I just may be one of the few people to ever "swing and miss" playing soccer.
When it was my turn at goalie, I was almost paralyzed by the thought of getting smacked in the face with the ball. But then something happened. I jumped high, stretching my arms to make a save, and a few minutes later had another one, rolling on the ground, securing the ball between my knees. As I stood up, and was greeted with cheers and high-fives, I started to think that maybe this position was made for me. And then the ball - kicked by one of my friends, no less - rolled right in the goal behind me.
As we moved into period two and then three, I started to feel a little less stressed. My friends fared better than I did, scoring goals, making great plays on defense. I was, though, quite proud of my one stellar moment - a perfect left-footed pass in front of the goal, kicked in by my running partner.
Later that day, I began to feel the effects of the morning, every inch of my body throbbing in pain. When my son got home from school, I told him about my adventure. I was sure he'd be mortified at the thought of his mother running around an indoor soccer field. His reaction, though, took me by complete surprise. He smiled widely and patted me on the back. "I know," he said. "I heard. I can't believe you played indoor soccer. That is so great."
I went on to tell him about it - my stumbles, my missing the ball, my aches, my pains. He then proceeded to give me advice, demonstrating the correct way to dribble and which part of the foot to place on the ball when kicking.
Though I've not ruled out another go at it, truth be told, I'm not anxious to return to the soccer field anytime soon. Like everything, I suppose, the more you practice, the better you get, the more fun it is. If there is a next time, I'll do some things differently. For starters, I'll bring my own shin guards, and maybe wear something other than running shoes. And I'll definitely follow the advice I ignored the first time and take those three Advil when I get home.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
War and Truth
Truth, as the saying goes, is stranger than fiction. But sometimes fiction can be truer than truth. In his masterpiece The Things They Carried, writer and Vietnam veteran Tim O’Brien creates a perfect horrific vision. His imaginary retelling of war is as real as it gets. A true war story, he says, is never moral. If you feel uplifted, you’ve been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude, no virtue. Sometimes, he says, a true war story is simply beyond telling.
There has been much debate about the truth behind the war in Iraq. One thing we know to be true—the reason justifying our being there turned out to be false. Some have responded by creating new justifications. In the meantime, every day, more civilians and soldiers are dying.
I was watching the news the day the number of dead American soldiers in Iraq reached 2,000. At the end, the newscaster announced that pictures of fallen soldiers would silently scroll across the screen. Shamefully, I started to change the channel. I had turned on the news to be informed, to fill my head with information and facts. I wasn’t prepared to feel. I wasn’t, as O’Brien would say, prepared to make my stomach believe.
Something, though, compelled me to watch. I looked into the eyes of the 19 year-old from Morrisville, Pennsylvania and the 23 year-old from Rosedale, Maryland and the 34 year-old from Arlington, Texas and the 22-year old from Knoxville, Tennessee. Some were dressed in uniform, some were not. Mostly they were smiling, all of them now gone. Numbers can lie, or at least they can hide things. Those photographs were the real news, the quiet faces of truth.
It goes without saying that on Veteran’s Day—on all days for that matter—we should honor those who fought for our country, remembering soldiers from every war, past and present. It is beyond “should.” It is our moral duty. We salute and we march and we pay tribute and we listen to the trumpet sounds and we hold our hand on our heart while we pledge allegiance and watch the flag ripple in the wind. We acknowledge bravery and respect sacrifice. You can be against a war and still support the soldier who fights in it.
And so on this Veteran’s Day I will read truthful fiction by someone who has lived through the very worst of human experience. I will enter the haunting stories he tells from the trenches of his gut. If nothing else, we must be reminded of the horrific in a way that takes us beyond generalizations, in a way that, like it or not, makes us feel. Though I will never come close to understanding the true horror of this thing called war, I hope I will never stop trying to understand.
As O’Brien writes, “In the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.”
And that is the truth, plain and simple.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
There has been much debate about the truth behind the war in Iraq. One thing we know to be true—the reason justifying our being there turned out to be false. Some have responded by creating new justifications. In the meantime, every day, more civilians and soldiers are dying.
I was watching the news the day the number of dead American soldiers in Iraq reached 2,000. At the end, the newscaster announced that pictures of fallen soldiers would silently scroll across the screen. Shamefully, I started to change the channel. I had turned on the news to be informed, to fill my head with information and facts. I wasn’t prepared to feel. I wasn’t, as O’Brien would say, prepared to make my stomach believe.
Something, though, compelled me to watch. I looked into the eyes of the 19 year-old from Morrisville, Pennsylvania and the 23 year-old from Rosedale, Maryland and the 34 year-old from Arlington, Texas and the 22-year old from Knoxville, Tennessee. Some were dressed in uniform, some were not. Mostly they were smiling, all of them now gone. Numbers can lie, or at least they can hide things. Those photographs were the real news, the quiet faces of truth.
It goes without saying that on Veteran’s Day—on all days for that matter—we should honor those who fought for our country, remembering soldiers from every war, past and present. It is beyond “should.” It is our moral duty. We salute and we march and we pay tribute and we listen to the trumpet sounds and we hold our hand on our heart while we pledge allegiance and watch the flag ripple in the wind. We acknowledge bravery and respect sacrifice. You can be against a war and still support the soldier who fights in it.
And so on this Veteran’s Day I will read truthful fiction by someone who has lived through the very worst of human experience. I will enter the haunting stories he tells from the trenches of his gut. If nothing else, we must be reminded of the horrific in a way that takes us beyond generalizations, in a way that, like it or not, makes us feel. Though I will never come close to understanding the true horror of this thing called war, I hope I will never stop trying to understand.
As O’Brien writes, “In the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow. It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.”
And that is the truth, plain and simple.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Monday, January 15, 2007
Ansel Adams: Beauty in Black and White
All through my life, I have taken photographs. In college, I was the one who could be counted on to record special moments—dancing in our dorm to “Saturday Night Fever,” playing football on Crane beach, jumping from a snow bank after the blizzard of ’78.
As a new mother, I took many photos of my infant daughter (more than I’d like to admit.) A good part of one album is filled with pretty much the same images of her smiling, laughing, eating—even sleeping. And though my picture-taking rituals became a little less ridiculous, I continued recording all those ‘firsts’ of my son, as well as the seconds and thirds. To this day, I take pictures of both special events and everyday slices of life. For me, it is a way to preserve the past, to capture moments in a way that lets me enter them again.
My interest and appreciation of photography and art lead me to the current Ansel Adams exhibition at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. While I have tried over the years to preserve memories, Adams was focused on creating them. And create them he did, one brilliant masterpiece after another.
Many of Adams’ photographs capture contrasts in ordinary scenes. In “Church and Fence,” shadows fall on straight slim pickets while wave-like impressions dance on the soil. The photograph is an intriguing mix of textures—smooth sky, rippled ground, wispy grass—in competing, but complementary angles. The effect is simple, stunning.
I am drawn to Adams’ photographs because, I too, appreciate the beauty of the ordinary—a solitary church on a hilltop, wind-swept dunes, bare and snow-covered trees. As focused as he was on simplicity, Adams also appreciated the majestic variations seen in nature—clear water juxtaposed with jagged mountains, rocky cliffs, blurry pines.
One of my favorite photographs is “Monolith—The Face of Half Dome” in Yosemite National Park. Shadows and light streak down the steep, ominous cliff as snow rests at the bottom. Adams described the photograph as a visualization that “captured the emotional impact of the scene rather than the way it actually looked.” Perhaps that is why his photographs are so powerful. Like all great works of art, we can’t help but be touched by them.
Though Adams often captured contrasts, he sometimes showed how we are connected to our surroundings. In one such photograph, an old man sits in a wooden chair, cane resting at his knee. The man is framed by a weathered wooden fence whose paint chips show the passage of time.
Some of Adams’ most spectacular pieces are the large Japanese screens covered in ferns, grass, pools and storms. And there are so many more breathtaking images—a delicate rose on driftwood, brightly lit aspens, a quiet moonrise, a single white cross leaning into a darkened sky.
Through his photographs, Ansel Adams revealed the splendor of the ordinary, the simple beauty of the majestic. This is one exhibition that is not to be missed. It is truly something to see.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
As a new mother, I took many photos of my infant daughter (more than I’d like to admit.) A good part of one album is filled with pretty much the same images of her smiling, laughing, eating—even sleeping. And though my picture-taking rituals became a little less ridiculous, I continued recording all those ‘firsts’ of my son, as well as the seconds and thirds. To this day, I take pictures of both special events and everyday slices of life. For me, it is a way to preserve the past, to capture moments in a way that lets me enter them again.
My interest and appreciation of photography and art lead me to the current Ansel Adams exhibition at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. While I have tried over the years to preserve memories, Adams was focused on creating them. And create them he did, one brilliant masterpiece after another.
Many of Adams’ photographs capture contrasts in ordinary scenes. In “Church and Fence,” shadows fall on straight slim pickets while wave-like impressions dance on the soil. The photograph is an intriguing mix of textures—smooth sky, rippled ground, wispy grass—in competing, but complementary angles. The effect is simple, stunning.
I am drawn to Adams’ photographs because, I too, appreciate the beauty of the ordinary—a solitary church on a hilltop, wind-swept dunes, bare and snow-covered trees. As focused as he was on simplicity, Adams also appreciated the majestic variations seen in nature—clear water juxtaposed with jagged mountains, rocky cliffs, blurry pines.
One of my favorite photographs is “Monolith—The Face of Half Dome” in Yosemite National Park. Shadows and light streak down the steep, ominous cliff as snow rests at the bottom. Adams described the photograph as a visualization that “captured the emotional impact of the scene rather than the way it actually looked.” Perhaps that is why his photographs are so powerful. Like all great works of art, we can’t help but be touched by them.
Though Adams often captured contrasts, he sometimes showed how we are connected to our surroundings. In one such photograph, an old man sits in a wooden chair, cane resting at his knee. The man is framed by a weathered wooden fence whose paint chips show the passage of time.
Some of Adams’ most spectacular pieces are the large Japanese screens covered in ferns, grass, pools and storms. And there are so many more breathtaking images—a delicate rose on driftwood, brightly lit aspens, a quiet moonrise, a single white cross leaning into a darkened sky.
Through his photographs, Ansel Adams revealed the splendor of the ordinary, the simple beauty of the majestic. This is one exhibition that is not to be missed. It is truly something to see.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2005)
Outsourcing the Stuff of Life
I’m jogging down the street, hunched over, one hand resting on my daughter’s bicycle seat, the other outstretched, ready. I watch her wobble left and then right. She tumbles over to the side, pink Schwinn flopping on top of her little legs. She brushes gravel from her knees, looks up and pleads, “Can I try again, Mom?” I rub my aching back as I look into her proud, eager eyes. “Sure, why not?” Other than the color of the bike, it was pretty much the same with my son.
It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.
I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.
If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.
For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”
The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…
I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
It’s hard to believe that scene was over a decade ago. While I certainly wanted my children to learn to ride a bike, it never felt like a goal that had to be achieved by some predetermined deadline. When they were ready, they’d learn. In the meantime, I’d offer support (and try not to complain too much about my backache.) It was just another one of those things that I did to help my kids on the road to independence, like encouraging them to sleep through the night, walk on their own, and get out of diapers. These are the moments that make us—the trial and error, the getting up after falling down. And these are the moments that make our relationships—offering words of encouragement, and yes, coping with frustration and pain.
I thought about my own experience helping my kids with bike riding as I read about a new and disturbing trend—paying someone to do things we used to do ourselves. It seems that there are people out there selling themselves as bicycle coaches who, for $60 an hour, will teach your child to ride a bike. The so-called expert will even teach your kid to roller blade, and will play catch with your child in your backyard to improve her baseball throwing skills.
If that isn’t shocking enough, there’s the personal shopper service. For an hourly fee, an expert will take your teenager clothes shopping. While having someone rummage through the racks at H&M with your teenage daughter may indeed eliminate fights, there is a price to be paid that goes beyond the consultant’s charge. Though we may not openly seek them, disagreements and struggles are what help build a relationship.
For the younger set, there are services such as “thumb-buster,” where experts work to eliminate thumb-sucking with techniques like tongue retraining. (I am not making this up.) And then there are the consultants who come into the home to potty train your child, using elaborate reward systems. I certainly sought help to get through some of my kids’ developmental milestones. I frequently called my mom and sisters, and flipped through my assortment of books by Dr. Spock, Penelope Leach, and Dr. Ferber (of ‘Ferberizing” your baby to sleep fame.) Other than the words of wisdom from my mother, the best advice I ever got was from Spock—“trust yourself; you know more than you think.”
The ‘going with gut’ philosophy that worked when my children were younger is equally important today. With a daughter now in the throws of the college application process, I have become painfully aware of a whole other set of experts just salivating at the chance to assist with things that used to be handled by students (with support from their parents)—researching colleges, completing applications and writing essays. The college admissions consultants offer packages ranging from $250 for an initial consult, to $1,500 and up for a comprehensive review and editing service. True, the college search and application process has become an onerous one. But still…
I’m not quite sure what the answer is. I only know that I will do my best to avoid being sucked up in it all—into the cut-throat drive to perfection, circumventing the equally important, albeit sometimes challenging process. Though tempted by the ‘flawless lure,’ I will try to stick to my guns. After all, perfection isn’t the goal, not for me, anyway. It’s the muddling through that really matters.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Skinned knees and all.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
Driving By Fields on My Way Home
I always slow down on the stretch of road that leads to my Sharon home. Right off the highway after passing Shaw's Plaza, I enter a place from the past. In the fall, a brilliant cranberry bog glistens behind trees along the road. Fields, long and wide, sprawl on both sides.
Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."
There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.
They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.
The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.
Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.
The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.
I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.
Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.
The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.
Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)
Depending on the season, I might see sunflowers or cornstalks, tomatoes or pumpkins. And though I can't see them from the road, the early summer fields are filled with rows of plump strawberries and blueberries. If I listen carefully, I can hear the message in the wind as it blows across the fields - "slow down, take a breath, smell the flowers, see the trees."
There wasn't such vast farmland near my childhood home in Bethesda, Maryland, but the little bit there was I will never forget. It was a small patch of pasture next to the road, home to the Black Angus cows. Though it's been almost 40 years since they've stood in the field, munching on their grass-suppers, swatting flies with their tails, I still think of them whenever I visit home.
They were there, even when cars went whizzing by. They were there, even when the new development went up across the street. They were there when it seemed impossible that they could still be standing there like that. And then one day I looked out my family's station wagon window to the grassy fenced-in field surrounded by progress, and they were gone.
The area near my family's home was always congested. Old Georgetown Road - the road next to the cows - was a main thoroughfare for residents in the northern suburbs of D.C., minutes from the Beltway and Interstate 270. Rockville Pike, several miles up the road from the cows, was littered with development - Arby's, McDonald's and Burger King, K-Mart, Penney's and Loehmann's. There were movie theatres and car dealers, an indoor roller rink and outdoor mini-golf. I think that's why I remember the cows. They were an anomaly, a beautiful remnant of country life suspended in the midst of vast suburban sprawl.
Once the cows were gone, the changes escalated. Townhouses were the first things to go in, and they went in just about everywhere. Years later, a road was bulldozed right through the cows' field connecting Old Georgetown Road to Rockville Pike, making a short-cut to White Flint, an elite mall with pricey boutiques and shops. More recently, other, even larger developments have gone in.
The latest was a group of million-dollar four-level mansions set yards apart with little land, no grass and few, if any, trees. It is funny how these developments, with their cleared forests and lack of green, always seem to have names connected with nature. The one across from the old cows' field is called The Oaks.
I've thought more and more about my childhood neighborhood as I've seen the recent changes in Sharon, the town that has been my home for over 17 years. There was the massive clearing of forest to make way for the Hunter's Ridge development on North Main Street, and now a proposed development on Norwood Street - Route 27.
Like the development near my childhood home, Pine Woods, with its planned clearing of trees in 26 acres, is also inaptly named for nature. I'm relieved that with the recent Town Meeting vote, initial steps have been taken to preserve our beautiful lakeshore property around Lake Massapoag, and I hope for the best when it comes up for a vote in the future. It would be sad to see fallen trees and built-up housing units and homes along one of my favorite running routes in Sharon.
The thing is, once something beautiful is gone, there's no turning back. When the trees are cut down, they are gone. When an open field is filled with townhouses and homes, it is gone. Forever. And life will never be the same. Like the cows in the pasture near my childhood home, the only thing left is a memory.
Whenever I visit Borderland Park, go hiking and snowshoeing in Moose Hill, or catch a glimpse of the cows in the pasture next to Crescent Ridge Dairy, I think how lucky I am to have all of this - the lake, the trails, the trees, the fields - in my hometown. It is a welcome refuge from the fast-paced, frenetic world that surrounds us. There is nothing more beautiful, or more peaceful, than driving by fields on my way home, sun setting in the distance.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com December, 2006)
Finding Hope in Troubling Times
In the weeks after the terrorist attacks five years ago, desperate for a way to cope with my anxiety and sadness, I started a journal. I wrote page after page of raw unpolished prose, recording my thoughts, feelings and fears. In the beginning I wrote of the constant heaviness, the oppressive force that pulled me down, down.
I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.
Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.
What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.
About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.
It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.
These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.
When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
I couldn't stop thinking of all those lives so viciously wiped out, just ordinary people going to work, making a phone call, getting a cup of coffee, or a family going on a vacation, perhaps returning home. I couldn't stop thinking of all those who died trying to save others.
Later, I wrote of my weakness and shame. How could I - someone with no loved-one killed or injured - be so completely torn apart? Deep down, I knew that though I'd been spared in some ways, this was something that affected all of us. I think that now as I see what is happening in the world - the war in Iraq and the Middle East, the tragedy in Darfur, and other areas marked by death and despair, including places closer to home.Though these tragedies may not directly affect me, they too, touch all of us.
What struck me as I read through my journal entries, and what I remembered at the time, was the universality of my experience. When talking to family and friends and hearing reports from people I didn't know, I noticed we shared the same thoughts and worries, sometimes even using the same words to describe our feelings, talking of our disbelief about this new, changed world. What helped me then, as it does now, is to remember we are not alone. Other people are out there trying to cope, both with everyday problems and with tragic world events that are beyond our understanding.
About a month after the terrorist attacks I found myself in a parking lot sitting in my car, unable to move. I turned and saw an old man in the car next to mine. I wondered if his life experience had better prepared him to handle the enormity of what had happened. He must have been a young man during World War II, I thought. Perhaps he was a soldier. I wondered how living through that war affected him. Did he feel helpless? Was he afraid? Just knowing people got through that terrible time helped lessen my anxiety. For a brief moment I was strangely connected to the old man, and felt a faint glimmer of hope.
It helps to remember we are not alone, but we also need to believe that things will get better. In those dark days five years ago we were desperate for positive stories about the good side of humanity, about ordinary people doing brave things, about rescues against all odds, about strangers helping strangers. There was no shortage of such stories.
These days we are overwhelmed with disturbing reports. Though we may have to search for positive stories, we must find them. When we read about a Palestinian boy scout camp giving pins for promoting hate, we need to hear about Seeds of Peace, where Arab and Israeli teens come together to promote understanding. When we learn of anti-Semitic or anti-Arab attacks, we need to hear how local interfaith groups are bringing people together to foster acceptance and celebrate differences.
When we see the ongoing suffering of those hit by Hurricane Katrina, we need to hear about the extraordinary resilience of those who have recovered. We need to be inspired by people who refuse to accept the status quo, who are steadfast and optimistic even in the face of dire conditions. For it is in the worst of times that we most need to have hope.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)
Retrieving Remmants of the Past
There have been many heartbreaking stories in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina - tales of utter devastation, unbearable loss.
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
The most precious thing that can never be replaced is of course, life. But those who were spared the worst kind of grief are still deeply affected by the loss of their life mementos.
There were the New Orleans residents who returned to retrieve something - anything - from what was left of their homes. A man found his parents' rings, an old football trophy, his wife's wedding dress, a teddy bear. The dress and bear were tattered, mildewed, most likely unsalvageable. A woman saved a few family photographs enclosed in warped wooden frames.
These stories left me wondering. Why are some things so precious that people would return to their destroyed homes, trudging through mud and debris to retrieve them?
Perhaps it's because they are vital links to our personal history. A photo of a child's gap-toothed smile, a honeymoon airplane ticket, a father's hand-scrawled note of apology - these are things that would pain us to part with.
I have no luxurious possessions that I would be desperate to save - no high definition TV or elaborate stereo system. No antique furniture, heirloom china or expensive jewelry.
Most things I own I could easily do without. Sure, I'd miss my favorite worn-in jeans, my cashmere sweater, my multi-colored Fossil belt. I'd miss my collection of Jane Austen novels and classic movies. I'd miss my CDs, including Haydn's Cello Concerto, Corelli's Concerti Grossi, and the nostalgic sound of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. I'd miss Ella and Frank. I'd miss my turtle collection of figures and boxes made of wood, clay, soapstone and glass.
Mostly, though, I'd miss the things that meant something to me that would be forever lost - my children's stories, drawings and homemade Mother's Day cards, the ruby anniversary bracelet from my husband, the long-ago letters from college friends, my mother's paintings and stained sock doll she had as a child.
I'd miss the newborn stocking caps taped at the top, and my children's first pair of little white shoes. I'd miss my journals where I've recorded bits of my life.
I'd miss the things that belonged to those who are gone.—my grandmother's crocheted shawl sewn with pearls, my grandfather's plaid flannel shirt, my father's favorite wool cap and a gold pocket watch. When I hold my grandmother's shawl, I see it draped around her frail shoulders. When I touch my grandfather's shirt, I watch him working in his wildflower garden.
When I open the wooden box where my dad's pocket watch rests, I see him tucking it into his suit vest pocket, the gold chain dangling down in a U shape. I see his smile as he reads the inscription etched on the back. Having something that belonged to people I loved helps me feel close. It pulls me deep into the core of their spirit.
I treasure the links to yesteryears - the journals, scrap books and letters, the photographs, caps and dolls. These things have the power to evoke, to stir. They help me tap into my essence. Without them, there is nothing to help me remember. As I get older and more and more of my life builds behind me, it is more important than ever for me to feel connected to my past.
And so I would think carefully about which things to save. My choices would tell the story of my life. I would save as many photographs as I could gather. And the letters and the journals and the paintings and the shawl and the flannel shirt and the bracelet and the sock doll and the wool cap.
And the gold pocket watch. Even though it no longer ticks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2005)
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