the love letter

A few months back, I was scanning through my Facebook feed, killing time while waiting in line at Starbucks. It was pretty standard fare: a potpourri of kiddie pix, instagrams, cat memes, food porn and the occasional rant about politics or the weather. My thumb scrolled up and up, occasionally gliding across the “like” button as I caught up on the details of my friends’ daily lives. And then came a post that caused me to pause.

It was an image of a watercolor depicting a faint landscape: earth, air and a star-speckled sky.  Over the image, in a handwritten typeface, was a quote from Buddha.

“The trouble is, you think you have time.”

It was posted by a friend, a mother of two beautiful children, who had just completed a course of chemo after being diagnosed with breast cancer.

I froze for a second, deeply touched by this simple, yet profound—and for her so very intimate and personal—truth. I took a deep breath, tilted my head back to suck back the tears, and moved to the front of the line.

Though I went on with my day that post and the emotion it triggered stayed with me. As a parent, it’s something I reflect on often. In the past week, it’s been all the more visceral.

You can plan and strive and dream and live…and in an instant, you could leave this earth.

The other day, I watched a CBS “Sunday Morning” segment entitled, “If Only.” It focused on the utter fragility of life—how inexplicable, unexpected circumstances like 9/11 and more recently the Boston Marathon bombings and Texas fertilizer plant explosion, can not only end lives tragically, but leave those that remain with guilt and regret for words left unsaid, paths not taken, feelings left unshared.

The question was posed: ”What would you do differently if you knew? What would you have said to a loved one, a spouse, a parent, a brother or sister, a mentor, a friend or even an enemy?

They then profiled people who filled in the blank.

“If only…I would’ve had the chance to thank the family that hid me and my parents from the Nazis during the Holocaust…”

“If only…I would’ve told my grade school teacher ‘I’m sorry for making fun of you—the clothes you wore and the way you walked. You taught me so many things…and inspired me to become a teacher’…”

Each person wept as they read out loud words they had written but would never be heard.

"The trouble is, you think you have time."

The truth is, most of us waste it—buried in the weeds, busying ourselves with activities, scanning, surfing, doling out trivial tidbits that pass the time, and only skim the surface of true emotion. We miss the opportunities we have every single day to thank someone, to say I’m sorry, to encourage, to praise, to appreciate.

Usually it takes a catalyst (an illness or a tragedy) to push us over the edge. To step out side of our comfort zone and into vulnerability. To truly see another person and tell them how you feel. But doing so can become a catalyst for something so much bigger than yourself.

My mom was the youngest of fourteen kids. Her mom died during childbirth so she never knew what it was like to have a mother. She grew up in a culture where emotions weren’t expressed, so a terse “Be good.” “Study hard.” or “Love you.” were the extent of feelings shared. I knew she loved me through her actions, not often through her words. But at some point along the way, 13 years ago to be exact, she wrote me a letter—astounding, unexpected, so genuinely heartfelt—and I will cherish it for the rest of my life.

Though I am truly blessed with an amazing family, great friends, a solid job, a home in a city that I love, I also have doubts, insecurities, questions about what I’m doing and what the future holds. I am, like we all are, simply trying to do my best, vacillating between clear direction and completely winging it.

I came across the letter randomly, tucked away in a shoebox full of pictures and miscellaneous mementos I had collected through the years.  I found it—or it found me—at a time when I needed a nudge, a little reassurance, words of encouragement when I started to doubt.

We didn’t always see eye to eye. She wanted me to be a lawyer and I chose a career in advertising. She was no frills; for me, the fancier, the better. She came from a country and a mindset thousands of miles away from where they raised us. But the letter bridged the gap, revealed a depth of feeling that I never knew she had.

My Dearest Celia,

I have been wanting to try this new stationery for a long time now, so…finally I found the box and put it on my desk and started writing to you.

I can’t believe you are so grown. To me, you are still my baby. I guess I cannot believe either I am as old as I am.

Cel, you have grown to be so mature, so charming, so beautiful, so loving, so responsible, etc., etc., etc. Your dad and I are so proud of you. We are so lucky to have a daughter like you. We love you very much.

We’re happy you enjoy and love your work. I did not doubt for one minute you would achieve such advancement. So fast! I have seen and witnessed how talented to you are. You are such an incredible being. I have always admired you. You can always attain what you strive for once you put your effort into it. As you know, I have consulted you about different things even when you were just in high school.

I just want to emphasize once more that you make us happy with what you do and we are proud of you…Stay as sweet and as wonderful as you have been. Follow your instincts. Always be thankful for the gifts you have. God bless you.

Love,

Mom

I'll never know what caused her to put pen to paper that day. It was so unlike her. Yet here she was, a successful neurologist who built a practice filled with patients who loved her, expressing how much she admired me?! It was shocking, heartfelt…and so, so beautiful. Years after it was written, it still had the power to cast a whole new light on our relationship. The letter was a gift—tangible, real, something to hold onto despite the fact the she is gone.

We think we have time…but nobody knows for sure. Write a letter. Pick up the phone. Say the words that need to be said. You have nothing to lose. And the person on the receiving end has everything to gain.

happy pants

We’re hearty Midwest stock. We should know better. But every year we ride the same emotional rollercoaster. In winter, we hunker down, brace ourselves each morning to brave the bone-chilling cold. With brows furrowed, we slog through slush, making sporadic eye contact, through veiled faces, with the slivers of eyes peeking out of warm woolen scarves.

And then it happens. An unexpected warm spell. Usually on a random weekend in March, it hits. BAM! 65 and sunny. The streets, the lakefront, the sidewalks are all teeming with humanity. We’re people again, not scowling robots trudging as briskly as possible from point a to point b to escape the frigid temps. Our bodies—and our souls—embrace the welcome thaw, relishing in the warmth and the return to life and vibrancy. Spring is finally in the air!

Or so we think… As inevitable as the dreaded Monday morning buzzkill, Mother Nature shows her true colors. In an instant, our zeal, optimism and “ding, dong, the wicked winter is dead” dance is silenced by the onslaught of downright nasty weather. “Take this!” she taunts, slamming us with torrential downpours, arctic chills, marble-sized hail, and howling wind.

There’s a technical name for this phenomenon, which I learned during the course of my twenty years living in Chicago. Wait for it…[drumroll] it’s a Midwest winter.

I include myself among the millions who fall for the folly every year. Mother Effer….err Nature is going to blast us a couple more times for good measure. She will, just like last year and the year before. So what can we mere mortals do about it (besides the obvious swearing, cursing and picture posting of the latest shaft to our heat-seeking psyches)?

Well, when I’m in the throes of weather-induced depression (aka SAD), I tend to pine, agonize and long for sunnier locales. LA, Miami, Tuscany. Idyllic trips I’ve taken, where my favorite ensemble was not a flirty sundress or Tory-inspired tunic, but the simple cloak of sun enveloping by body—no, my being. Yet dreaming of delightful getaways has its perils. It feels good at the time, but usually plunges you into greater depression when you realize you’re here and NOT there. #realitysmackdown

During one particular moment of reverie, I did have a revelation. It was a dark, rainy day, so naturally I reached for my goth go-to: the handy black cowlneck—warm, practical, reliable. Reflective of my blah mood and the bitter weather outside. Trudging and scowling, all I could think of was “At this time last year, I was in Los Angeles.” Shorts, sun, sand. Palm trees and balmy breezes. It was torture.

There was one day in Lala Land that stood out vividly in my mind. We were headed back from a road trip to San Luis Obispo, admiring the coastline along PCH. “Hey guys, look! There’s a rainbow.” The colorful arch emerged from a mass of clouds far off into the distance and stretched out over the vast expanse of sky.

“It must be our lucky day,” we all agreed, and continued on our drive.

“There’s another one…and another!” The boys were squealing.

“No, it’s probably just a different part of the same one,” I dismissed, turning around to console them. But when I gazed out the window, I found that they were right! Crazy mist or sea sprays or magic created rainbows all across the sky. I had never seen anything like it. Nature had stolen a page out of Pixar’s playbook and, over the course of an hour’s drive we counted a jaw-dropping total of six separate rainbows.

As I crustily made my morning commute, I thought about that day. It’s crazy how the colors caused grown adults to giggle with delight. We were just as excited as the kids, scanning the skyline for our next ROYGBIV fix…and then it occurred to me. Why do we have to wait for such spectacles? For blue skies to wipe away our blue moods? As if our very sanity rests on a sliver of sun stingily doled out on a whim?

When you’re so dependent on the weather all you can do is wait—impatiently—for Mother Nature to cooperate. Or you can take matters into your own hands. Turn to color in its absence. Over the last few months, I’ve invested in some shall we say “bright” articles of clothing. Hot pink, brick red, cobalt blue jeans. Lemon yellow Hunters. Emerald green dress. Statement pieces perhaps. Tacky, maybe. But I don’t care. They actually lift my spirits. Make me happy when I wear them.

Perhaps a splash of color just might be the sunshine you need to get through this schizo weather until spring officially arrives. Who says toddlers and trannies are the only ones who can have some fun with color. Lighten it up. Brighten it up. Put on your happy pants and show Mother Nature where she can stick it.

wanderlust: paris, je t'aime

I missed the shot. It’s been seven years since we went to Paris, but the image is still seared into my brain.

There we were, standing on the famed Boulevard Saint-Germain. The day was winding down and the street was just beginning to bustle with the energy of commuters weaving through the streets to make their way home. Friends clustered on sidewalk cafes, scarves artfully wrapped, lips primed and puckered for the double air-kiss greeting, and cheek bones accentuated by the long, deep drags of their cigarettes.

As we prepared to brave the busy intersection en route to Café de Flore, I saw her. She had a Vidal Sassoon-style bob. Smooth, glossy, perfectly coiffed despite her hurried pace and the slight breeze gently blowing through her hair. She wore a crisp navy blazer, perfectly tailored, with a striped boatneck tee peeking out from underneath. Skinny dark jeans, shiny black flats and a simple red scarf tied elegantly around her neck perfected the look. A cognac leather backpack adorned one shoulder, brass buckles gleaming in the sunlight and the flap shifted over to make room for a single, slender baguette sticking out of the top.

I hastily reached for my camera and fumbled over purse straps and lens caps. I quickened my pace to catch up to my muse. But as soon as the light changed to green, she was off. She walked briskly, confidently toward a balmy tree-lined side street, and by the time the viewfinder made contact with my eye, she was gone. 

What was it about that image that I needed to capture? That I simply can’t forget all these years later? Sure she was attractive, but far from gorgeous. There was an undeniable elegance and effortlessness to her style. But that wasn’t even it…

It was the baguette. Totally jarring, unexpected. A big, fat middle finger pointing directly at our grab ‘n’ go, convenience-driven culture. In contrast to the sad loaf of hard but healthy sprouted grain Ezekiel bread in my fridge, this was a delectable surprise that offered a glimpse into Parisian life. Was this her routine? A post-work ritual, stopping in a favorite boulangerie to pick up her daily bread? Or was she planning a romantic picnic at the Luxembourg Gardens, racing to meet her lover with a wedge of Camembert and bottle of Beaujolais tucked away at the bottom of her knapsack? Or perhaps she was trying a new bouillabaisse recipe and hence needed a thirsty baguette to soak up all the flavors of the sea?

I have no idea. But the image gave me permission to dream. About her life. And mine. To contemplate what I wanted to take from this magical place, to savor and eventually bring home.

I missed the shot…well my camera did. But the image is still with me, along with countless others that shaped a tapestry of life as it should be lived.

The French call it “joie de vivre.” It’s not just about the beauty, but the ethos of the people and the place. The art of living: dressing without self-consciousness, eating without guilt, making time to laugh with friends in cafés, singing on street corners, or simply sitting in quiet contemplation.

Seven years later, I am reminded. We don't have to be in Paris to live like this... 

#worthit

it’s one of my favorite mantras. one that i whisper to myself as i justify pulling the trigger on a shiny new pair of shoes. or egging my friends on when they debate eating their healthy, packed lunch or going out for a splurge. i say it half jokingly, and half-serious—because even though i probably don’t need that last glass of bubbles, i certainly feel like a million bucks (and hence am #worthit at the time) to soak up some pampering, though i pay the price in a high-roller hangover the next morning.

the truth is we all need—and deserve—a little indulgence here or there to help us get through the drudgery. but sadly, if you’re a mom, those moments of “me time” are few and far between.

i do my best to pull it together: look presentable, accessorize, prioritize, but most often it feels like each day is a whirling mass of semi-organized chaos. get up. get dressed. feed kids. fill out forms. pack lunch. track down hats, gloves, mittens, boots. go to work. hop on train. pick up one. hop in car. pick up 2. back home. homework. make dinner. eat. bath. brush teeth. tuck in. lather. rinse. repeat.

the daily grind is a far cry from the bump ‘n’ grind of life before kids. i think about all the “stuff” i used to buy. all the time i used to have. all the friends i used to see. all the dates we used to make. and try to cobble together bits and pieces of those aspects of life that made me whole.

i have to admit: sometimes the constant struggle to balance it all gets to me. i lose it. when the dervishes are whirling, and the eyes are rolling, and the shoes are stomping, and the bickering turns into full-on brawls, i don’t hesitate to play the tried and true parent card. given my shoe selection, they most likely wouldn’t buy the “walking barefoot for miles to school” shtick that my mom and dad used on us, but the whole lecture about sacrifice and gratitude…please. “everything we do is for YOU.” (queue up bryan adams…)

to say it’s being dramatic is simply inaccurate. every word of the speech is true…but it can also feel like the reverse is true. as a parent, does prioritizing yourself always come last?

one night i was sitting on the couch and i’d just hit a wall. i was done. dishes in the sink. laundry in the basket. to-do list left untouched from the day before. from the distance, i could hear the wild elephants approaching.

“keep it down guys! it’s too loud for the neighbors!” ugh. “FML.”

the stomping got louder.

“MOMMY!!”

“WHAT?” in my mind, i was readying my response, preparing to pull from the repertoire of phrases uttered infinitely throughout the day. “you’re 8, he’s 3. give it back; we don’t take other people’s things. if you don’t share, you both are going to lose it. because i said so, that’s why…”

“we have a surprise for you!” an outburst of giggles. hands behind their backs. grinning from ear to ear. before i could even respond, they threw their hands open. “it’s you, mommy!”

in the midst of playing, they made a little lego figure of me.

“look she has blue pants just like you! blue is your favorite color, right mommy? and see, she has a big bracelet and long hair that’s in a ponytail. she even has a white purse, mommy. that’s YOU!”

their uncanny attention to accessory details aside(!), i thought “wow…that’s me”… and i’m also a chair when the little one climbs into my lap. and a measuring stick for the biggie to compare himself to. and a hand holder. and a boo boo blower. and a pasta maker. and a chocolate sharer. and a “fancy shoe” wearer.

they watch. they pay attention. they know your likes and dislikes. they shape you. and they are walking, breathing little pieces of you.

no one’s identity is fixed. and your sense of meaning inevitably changes as you move from one stage in life to the next. motherhood is not ALL of me. but it is a huge, indelible part. though sometimes i miss the freedom, simplicity, and yes, even selfishness of those early days, in an instant, i’m reminded why my broken nails, bloodshot eyes, chipped plates, crayon on walls, never-enough-time-for-anything existence is completely, undeniably #worthit. 

delicious ambiguity

i’m not big on new years resolutions. i’ve made it through the bulk of january without buckling under the pressure to codify grand proclamations about the “new and improved” me that will emerge this year.

it all feels too contrived. or perhaps too pressured. a commitment to expectations that, if left unfulfilled, become another potential source (as if we need anymore!) of stress or disappointment. hopes and dreams #fail…or something like that.

but inevitably, the beginning of a new year does cause you to take stock. consider the status quo. contemplate changes. assess risks. hit the reset button on the same old, same old.

i have utterly no idea what’s around the corner, but the strangest feeling has hit me over the course of the last few weeks. something just clicked. it’s like a switch has been flipped. maybe it’s the lingering afterglow of holiday happiness. or warm fuzzies from quality time with the family. or simply just the vaguest sense that good things are in store.

…ironically, as the wet, arctic icy blast is blowing through the city, i can’t help but feel the warmth of possibility. i woke up this morning, eyes still shut, but a slideshow of images, some of my favorite shots, cycling through my mind. 

"what changes are you planning to make?" a friend recently asked me.

"don't worry about it," i said...because i'm not. 

some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. delicious ambiguity...    -Gilda Radner