tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45713252931024373142024-03-04T21:15:02.887-08:00No Small Thing: Mindful MeditationsEssays to promote awareness and appreciation. Permission for re-use is available to yoga studios, life coaches, therapists, corporate trainers, and other organizations supporting mindfulness.Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-79172825321881940832013-06-15T08:06:00.000-07:002013-06-15T08:13:24.621-07:00<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thanks for visiting the No Small Thing blog. We have moved to a new site and invite you to visit No Small Thing at our new site: <a href="http://www.nosmallthing.net/">Click here to go to the new No Small Thing site</a>.</span>Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-33722336214519329882013-04-07T14:30:00.001-07:002013-04-07T14:30:13.432-07:00Own It. Wear It.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcGwRIHNs-at55eS5bSt_gIm8bxYN8jkTFmg3I7VFr7WpP8zpckatNQ0jviTROyo7YE3MFO8zq2JilXLXH_l9FQrb18SQF8EigWF2RVaLC5K0Ky9L_fs6S1FpTX-84g2S-ZaeTSg7HGM/s1600/novel+sweatshirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVcGwRIHNs-at55eS5bSt_gIm8bxYN8jkTFmg3I7VFr7WpP8zpckatNQ0jviTROyo7YE3MFO8zq2JilXLXH_l9FQrb18SQF8EigWF2RVaLC5K0Ky9L_fs6S1FpTX-84g2S-ZaeTSg7HGM/s320/novel+sweatshirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last Monday, I checked out a new writers group that I’ve
been thinking about joining. Poets and playwrights, true crime tale spinners, and
authors of historical fiction came prepared with copies of recent efforts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout the two hours I spent as a visitor, I listened to
each writer read his (or her) material out loud. But I had problems
concentrating. I couldn’t keep from staring at one member’s sweatshirt. It
read:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Careful, or you'll end
up in my novel.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ha. That’s a good one, I thought.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>I like to think of intelligent, insightful people, instead of
athletic or fashionable types, getting the last laugh. I like the idea of a simple
but witty scribe holding this kind of power. Yes, I concluded, the saying on
this shirt was referring to someone like <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i></b>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also liked the idea that Barry (the man making a personal
and fashion statement) was willing to tell people he was a writer. He was willing
to declare himself a wordsmith and willing to wear the self-ascribed label in
public. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Am I ready to own what’s important to me? To declare it? To
wear it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After smiling inwardly at Barry’s chutzpah for wearing his writerly
interests on his chest, I scanned the Internet for other catchy tee shirt
sayings that might speak for me and what’s important to me. I actually saw one
that read, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No one cares about your blog</i>.
The idea that there would actually be a tee shirt marketed with this sentiment
made me laugh for a moment. It’s funny when something or someone says what
other people might be thinking but are afraid to say out loud. Then I stopped
to ponder my own efforts on this evolving journal of appreciation and gratitude.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started writing essays about little things I felt grateful
for about three years ago. This writing practice has become an important part
of my life. As I reflected on the sources of gratitude and joy for me, I
developed a greater capacity to see little things within the moments of my life
that brought me more happiness. In other words, having an attitude of gratitude
writing practice has made me happier. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I have to ask myself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why
don’t I just keep a journal? Why do I need to post my thoughts on the Internet?
Am I writing for me, or am I writing for someone else?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the answer is both. I write because it helps me
understand my own thinking more clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Writing has always been a great way for me to understand myself and make
choices that are aligned with what I value. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am writing for others too. I put time into cleaning up
each entry and making sure personal material would make sense to someone else.
I keep this blog because I want to provide actual examples of how I trace a brief
awareness back to a core understanding of what it is in an experience that
gives me joy and stirs feelings of gratitude so that others may be encouraged
to practice similar kinds of mindfulness in their lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know that I’ll get a tee shirt made that says <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Read
my blog </i></b>in large block letters, but I am not ashamed to tell people to
check out <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Small Thing</i></b>. I am ready to declare that I have something of
value to share.</div>
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Being able to own who you are and what you have to give is
no small thing</div>
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-64819084723054519012013-03-31T19:05:00.002-07:002013-04-01T05:40:03.459-07:00Memory Maids<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_xQw0EX44Sw6ZvW65Gs3Xj8nQ9XZ3mtPHqK6YVML9_6Xg8ZVTefW1k4mvw6s29xQKBgejtSRrDE19163ZqvfZwFLqlg-qxU6VASAzDI6N22zOy-WZgGKHgvPXb1oVw5nPjBlrbTFHAs/s1600/024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_xQw0EX44Sw6ZvW65Gs3Xj8nQ9XZ3mtPHqK6YVML9_6Xg8ZVTefW1k4mvw6s29xQKBgejtSRrDE19163ZqvfZwFLqlg-qxU6VASAzDI6N22zOy-WZgGKHgvPXb1oVw5nPjBlrbTFHAs/s320/024.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week, when I went to our refrigerator to get a glass of
cold water, I saw an unfamiliar yellow-orange dot of light glowing from the top of the
display. Under the glowing dot were the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water Filter<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></i> and explanations for different color codes. Hmm. I
pulled out the Frigidaire® manual which was filed away with pounds of other
warranty cards and manuals. The light was telling me that it was time to order a new filter. I read the ordering instructions and noted how often filters typically needed changing (every 200 gallons) – and I
then marveled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isn’t it great that the fridge knows when its parts need to
be replaced? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started to think about the many systems that are in place
in my life so that I don’t have to spend energy trying to remember details that
don’t affect me in the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like
having a maid for my memory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I can record appointments, even phone calls, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outlook</i> and program alarms so that I receive
notifications a week before, a day before, or an hour before a scheduled event.
But there are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">memory maids</i> in my life
that live outside of my computer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get notices from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jiffy
Lube</i> or my car dealer when I need to have routine maintenance. I’ll get
confirming calls from restaurants the day before a reservation to remind me of
arrangements I may have made weeks earlier. I get silly postcards from my dentist, usually
with grinning orange Garfield cartoons, to remind me it’s time to have my teeth
cleaned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get notices from the library
when a book is a week overdue so that I don’t inadvertently rack up excessive fines.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often balk at invitations to get me to be more organized. I
am not an organized person by nature. I have mountains of legal pads and
loaded Pend-o-flex file folders because I am resistant to rely on paperless computer
directories. I leave myself Post-its® everywhere to help me jog my memory about
things I might want to buy at the store. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But tools for helping me keep appointments or remember
promises – I feel a great debt of gratitude for things that help me on these
counts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I view time as precious, and I don’t want to miss anything
that may be important. I don’t want to be disrespectful of any friend or
colleague with whom I made plans who may be counting on connecting at a certain time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In some ways, I think time is one of the few things of any intrinsic
value. I consider what I spend my time on to be a total reflection of what’s really
important to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that while I love to test my memory (I am good at
recalling zip codes, song lyrics, and menus from stellar restaurant meals eaten
since I was eight years old), trying to juggle details about where I need to be or
what I need to respond to based on old promises, is a mental chore I would just
as well farm out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks to all the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">memory
maids</i> in my life, the people and systems in place that absolve me of the
need to keep track of many things directly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">maids</i>
silently keeping watch for me, I can give my full attention to what I am
experiencing in the present moment, and that’s no small thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-51022886709592322392013-03-24T15:45:00.000-07:002013-03-25T14:31:39.240-07:00When Reality TV Meets The Four Agreements<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdMLGxVpMGE09CCEhbRRj9AdHFMP4oNNBlLtz3bgogKKukQVw-JSnBklPY5MIi2r-fs8HOAqBOrttsKRsFVRcSqMsTm-LfyswqW8vVtVLuVszZ2h4WJjLO9SchkYGZVqq6eTndrc4OPk/s1600/fnd-chopped-basket_s4x3_lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdMLGxVpMGE09CCEhbRRj9AdHFMP4oNNBlLtz3bgogKKukQVw-JSnBklPY5MIi2r-fs8HOAqBOrttsKRsFVRcSqMsTm-LfyswqW8vVtVLuVszZ2h4WJjLO9SchkYGZVqq6eTndrc4OPk/s320/fnd-chopped-basket_s4x3_lg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“Chefs, open your baskets.”</div>
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On Tuesday evenings, I will often find myself settling into my living room couch in front of our jumbo-sized TV screen for my favorite show, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chopped</i></b>. On Tuesday evenings, the Food Network will feature a new episode along with older episodes in a veritable marathon of culinary creativity and expert nit-picking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I normally don’t like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reality TV</i>. Reality TV shows tend to be mean-spirited, frivolous, and – well, not very real. Watching <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chopped</i></b> is a sort of guilty pleasure for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Host Ted Allen starts the show by introducing a panel of judges, veteran chefs and successful restaurateurs. Then they provide pre-recorded vignettes highlighting some back story on the evening’s competitors, noting where they’re from, what kind of cooking styles they tend to employ, and offering a hint as to why they want to compete; what it would mean to them to be a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chopped Champion</i>. Early moments of the show will also include close-ups of the competitors’ almost teary-eyed faces as they explain what they would do with the $10,000 prize. </div>
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Seeds for some later drama can be sown here. I, myself, have often picked a chef to root for based on a personal story of battling back from cancer, or wanting to go back to Singapore to visit a dying father, or a wish to renovate their restaurant, or a desire to make a child or spouse proud.</div>
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The show pits four chefs against each other in preparing a three-course meal from ingredients supposedly a mystery to them until the baskets are opened during the competition. Each course must be prepared in a ridiculously small amount of time and efforts are judged based on creativity, presentation, and taste. </div>
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Why am I so enamored with this show that I can watch back to back to back episodes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is so entrancing about the studio kitchen’s ultra-contemporary stainless steel appliances and homey wicker baskets of ingredients that I would never in a million years think of combining? (Razor clams, lemon flavored jelly beans, canned lychee nuts and fresh matzah – What the __?)</div>
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But I love the show. I do.</div>
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Creativity in any form makes my heart sing. Culinary creativity is a special delight because a wonderful dish will appeal to my eyes, and nose, and tongue. A really innovative offering may even appeal to my sense of touch. When chefs create dishes that feature complementary textures, I have to consider it almost a tactile quality. </div>
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And I guess I like the time element of the competition. We all are given the challenge of making the most out of our lives, making the most out of the mystery baskets of our personal qualities in however much or little time we have on earth. I like how the show allows you to see the bustling activity involved in cooking while the audio runs the different chefs’ voices explaining what they’re trying to do. What an interesting experience, being privy to someone’s inner dialogue!</div>
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I also like the surprises that take place in the kitchen as the clock for any one course winds down. Each show has pans full of ingredients that don’t work as they were intended or were burnt and then are thrown in the trash. In each show, there will be a cut finger, or clash between two chefs who want to use the same kitchen device at the same time. You can also witness a kind of ballet that goes on where each competing chef is acutely focused on his own agenda yet choreographs his way through the kitchen, past the burners and utility tables and racks of plates, so as not to disturb the other competitors. </div>
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And here is where <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chopped</i></b> meets <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Four Agreements; The Four Agreements </i></b>being Don Miguel Ruiz’s primer on ancient Toltec wisdom. The first three Agreements (<i>Be impeccable with your Word, Don’t take anything personally, Don’t make assumptions</i>) are probably not applicable, but the joy of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chopped</i></b> is summed up perfectly in the Fourth Agreement; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Always do your best.</i></div>
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Whether a guest chef executes his intentions perfectly or not, whether he wins the $10,000 prize and can go home to Singapore or buy a new stove for his struggling tapas bar, it doesn’t matter. I don’t cotton to the cockiness of some chef contestants whose egos are focused on crushing the competition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when a culinary contestant opens his mystery basket and applies all his imagination and technical training to make something unique and flavorful, when he can express himself fully in the preparation of a meal that can sustain and delight, I can’t help but be impressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Anytime you give all you can give to something you love, it’s no small thing.</div>
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-11402911573451214622013-03-17T18:00:00.000-07:002013-03-17T18:00:00.108-07:00Like Marilyn Monroe in a Sundress<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfhFRphqSwQyXgGn4-Y0WtW9fnOQPEoqHu6sndP08lnKKhHG_5gQudIK_FG0joDxKuMj-xpbuRJicxNcvIGofY6xsT4Yv56O1jX9H68OlaXbTyhhLUD3iOCjpDy_ydXFH57RyXFQkuM4/s1600/Marilyn-Monroe-blue-sundress-e1343919088793.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfhFRphqSwQyXgGn4-Y0WtW9fnOQPEoqHu6sndP08lnKKhHG_5gQudIK_FG0joDxKuMj-xpbuRJicxNcvIGofY6xsT4Yv56O1jX9H68OlaXbTyhhLUD3iOCjpDy_ydXFH57RyXFQkuM4/s320/Marilyn-Monroe-blue-sundress-e1343919088793.jpeg" width="245" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day, I called up my friend Joanne. I hadn’t talked
to her since my Mardi Gras party, and I knew she had taken a trip to New York
shortly afterwards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We dispatched my status update quickly. I shared a few
details around my efforts to build traffic for this blog and find people who’d
be interested in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Attitude of Gratitude</i>
writing workshops. We skimmed the topic of my diet and the progress she had
made with her personal trainer, an ex-marine who’s not afraid to admit he’s
partial to Pilates. Then I settled in for a good New York story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hotel she stayed at in Murray Hill, which she thought
was going to be posh, turned out to be like a space-saving dorm-o-tel for
student travelers, furnished by IKEA. She relayed how she found the perfect pair
of black pants at Bergdorf-Goodman, a retail empire I have never ventured into,
after finding the perfect New York type of sales lady. You know, the kind that
almost immediately announces, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know just
the thing</i> – and does. We laughed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then she told me the story of her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Made in America</i> dream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joanne is a very special lady who has taken to a common
calling for women and re-invented it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She loves retail, but she loves to do it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her way</i>. She loves quality fabrics; how different elements of a
person’s look might come together. She has a knack for inward thinking, looking
to her own experiences of fashion and shopping, and also looking outward,
scanning the Internet or taking special side adventures when traveling, to
think of ways she could turn what she values into a successful business. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She ran a shoe business some years ago, starting with both a
clear vision and a willingness to adapt. She ran a small storefront carrying
lines she loved, securing arrangements, at some points, with manufacturers that
could make nice knock-offs of favorite designer offerings. She fine-tuned her
niche to focus on wedding shoes, developed an attractive and functional website,
then ended up closing her storefront and doing extremely well selling wedding
shoes online. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who’d have thunk it? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I listened to her tell me her plans for starting a new clothing
line -- the types of styles and fabrics she’d feature, her emphasis on classic
over trendy, how her idea sprang from her own unfulfilled desire for attractive,
no-fuss day dresses that would be wonderful for spontaneous trips – I had to
smile at her enthusiasm. When she told me about how she was led by a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wall
Street Journal</i></b> article to contact a small garment factory in New York
during her trip, I was filled with admiration for her spunk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who wouldn’t want to
look like Marilyn Monroe in one of those classic sundresses?</i> she asked
rhetorically after talking about her line’s name, how she plans to handle photography
and sell the line without opening a store, how she worked out minimums with the
factory manager she met based on the feature in the WSJ. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Real quality, classic fashions MADE IN AMERICA</i>, she went on. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s a great story.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After she closed her shoe business, she went into a sort of
cocooning mode. Not being clear about what she wanted to do next, she sat with
her emptiness until she knew what she wanted to do. And when she was ready, I
could tell she was filled with conviction as well as ideas. I have no doubt she
is going to make this happen. The joy that pulsed through her at the notion of
making something new a concrete, marketable, job-generating enterprise – was
palpable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I found myself falling in love with her creation; a
concept for a line of clothing, and I am not even a fashionista. Bringing
something new into the world is no small thing.</div>
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-84350635193613106032013-03-10T13:50:00.001-07:002013-03-10T13:50:20.836-07:00Being There<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqz8HR41TG1eNz6LksjM7qrnOp2fka0zg4BytvzA7Kn0mZjHBhI7IZhVwh4MIefIKaCi6JDlG99Hvxi2crRg7uMUdtqoOsGVpu1hg6knf5EfswcnLQTOCdnPJrIuCMqM5SZZLGyDyRb4/s1600/united+center_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqz8HR41TG1eNz6LksjM7qrnOp2fka0zg4BytvzA7Kn0mZjHBhI7IZhVwh4MIefIKaCi6JDlG99Hvxi2crRg7uMUdtqoOsGVpu1hg6knf5EfswcnLQTOCdnPJrIuCMqM5SZZLGyDyRb4/s320/united+center_3.jpg" width="240" /></a>A couple weeks ago, John and I went to the United Center to see a Bulls game. After looking forward to the date for a while, when the day finally arrived, there was a distinct possibility that we weren’t going to go.<br />
<br />
We decided to get tickets weeks earlier, largely on the basis of my analysis of the schedule and more than a small amount of wishful thinking. Like most other basketball fans in Chicago, we've been waiting most of this season for Derrick Rose to return from a torn ACL injury suffered during an early round play-off game last year. <br />
<br />
I convinced myself (and John) that the Cleveland game would mark Rose’s debut and we purchased tickets online from a season ticket holder who probably didn’t share my conviction about the date for Rose’s return. <br />
<br />
But on the morning of the game, local radio sports pundits announced that, despite rumors, Rose was not yet ready for his comeback. To further deflate our enthusiasm about visiting the Madhouse on Madison, we learned that the Cav’s very talented point guard, Kyrie Irving, was not going to suit up either. On top of that, it snowed.<br />
<br />
Chicago wasn’t blanketed with paralyzing mountains of white powder, but from the wee hours of the morning through the beginning of the evening commute, heavy wet snow gummed up traffic and kept the salt truck crews busy. We weren’t sure about street parking restrictions being enforced around the stadium and the thought of dropping $20 on top of the cost of the tickets did not thrill us either.<br />
<br />
Then <i>the naysayers</i> chimed in via an onslaught of texts. John’s friends, who may have enjoyed going on such an outing themselves when it was first planned, now had a different message; <i>You eating the tickets? </i><br />
<br />
As we gobbled down dinner, John must have asked me ten times, <i>Are you sure you want to go?</i><br />
<br />
I got the distinct vibe that he didn’t. He didn’t want to drive in the mammoth exhaust flavored slushy that the main boulevards were turning into. He was having a debate with himself about the entertainment value of a contest between two teams without their biggest stars.<br />
<br />
Maybe it’s the Scottish in me (I had a hard time accepting the idea of not using tickets that were already paid for), but I was pretty adamant about going to the game. The streets were a little slow, but we were not miserable. We were also able to park FOR FREE only six blocks from the stadium.<br />
<br />
What can I say, I like BEING THERE. I like being at events -- at plays, concerts, friendly card games between neighbors. I appreciate the convenience of cable TV or indulging myself by curling up in a big chair with a big book, but I really like experiencing things LIVE.<br />
<br />
We sat in the back row but had good sight lines for the game. An adorable 10 year-old Chinese boy with his <i>Tiger Dad</i> sat next to us. <i>Dad</i> was on his hand-held device the entire time. The giant scoreboard showcased clips of the Bulls acting goofy and occasionally projected images from the crowd. We saw plenty of grown-ups doing totally silly things to get free tee-shirts. There were lots of teens and folks who were not season ticketholders because, we conjectured, people who only got to go as a treat were more willing to make the effort to show up on a snowy night without marquee talent. Players who normally sat on the bench saw significant minutes and used the opportunity to show off their best stuff. The lead went back and forth the entire game. The crowd was really into it. <br />
<br />
We ended up losing the game by three points but had a great time. I was happy -- walking out of the stadium with other fans, navigating around ice floes on the way back to our car, driving home and listening to post-game interviews on the car radio. <br />
<br />
People can make all sorts of excuses for not doing things, for not making the effort. I know I can make up reasons not to do things to avoid being disappointed. I am usually happy, though, when I choose to get to the game (or party or concert).<br />
<br />
Being somewhere LIVE is no small thing.<br />
<br />Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-18430517969770304232013-03-03T16:45:00.001-08:002013-03-03T16:45:36.397-08:00View from the Top<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdR8hQ1wofDemgTCCOxo1QdVTt2K0BVSUljvWElnTvy80RFUuXkj_OIL-RxF0QsLtbQTh4SQzfwXdKojkxoKbRYwZFeD-2dTW2hjvWPmZmIhB-LGy6qNtI5CdsmyNNGElFnKIE3p0Z_nU/s1600/nightime+view+from+willis+tower1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdR8hQ1wofDemgTCCOxo1QdVTt2K0BVSUljvWElnTvy80RFUuXkj_OIL-RxF0QsLtbQTh4SQzfwXdKojkxoKbRYwZFeD-2dTW2hjvWPmZmIhB-LGy6qNtI5CdsmyNNGElFnKIE3p0Z_nU/s320/nightime+view+from+willis+tower1.jpg" width="320" /></a>The other night, I went to a party celebrating the twentieth anniversary of a company I frequently do work for. It was quite an affair. Women were asked to wear cocktail attire and men were asked to wear suits for drinks and hors d’oeuvres, dinner and music on the 99th floor of the Willis (formerly Sears) Tower, the tallest building in North America.<br />
<br />
Speeches were made and stories told of the company president’s odd jobs before he became a very successful consultant. Thanks were shared generously. Company officers were acknowledged for their hard work while steering the enterprise through economic challenges. Staff and regular contractors were applauded for consistently delivering on client expectations.<br />
<br />
It was fun to see co-workers dressed up for the occasion and to see spouses that I had only heard about before. They gave away programs with notes of congratulations from key clients and city politicos, even the mayor. It was nice to feel like a part of the company’s success story, especially since I am not on the official payroll.<br />
<br />
After dinner, they had a few special things planned. A mini casino -- with craps and blackjack tables and a roulette wheel – was set up along one glass wall. Professional croupiers changed gifted play money for chips and patiently supervised our harmless gambling adventures. And guests were escorted, ten or so at a time, to a private elevator for a short ride to the 103rd floor, the actual observation deck. There, we were invited to step onto a clear fiberglass enclosure, a ledge that jutted out six feet from the face of the skyscraper, so that souvenir photos could be snapped. The pictures made us look like we were floating over the city. <br />
<br />
I have been up to the observation deck many times, often escorting teen groups or busloads of seniors touring Chicago, but this night it felt like a new experience. Normally not too thrilled about heights, I summoned up my courage and, like most of the other ladies, made silly comments about the people below being able to see up our dresses. Somehow, in such an intimate group, all of us having a good time, stepping onto the ledge was not as hard as I thought it would have been. <br />
<br />
And the view of the city – it was breathtaking!<br />
<br />
We could see in every direction. Whether sipping cocktails on the 99th floor or strolling around the top floor waiting our turn to go out onto the <i>ledge</i>, we enjoyed genuine 360⁰s. That in itself is pretty remarkable. How often can you see in every direction? From such a vantage point, you can see how different things affect each other. You can become mesmerized by the flow of traffic or the twinkling of street lights. You can identify patterns of movement or concentrations of objects. Invariably, I felt compelled to try and identify landmarks, buildings or streets or parks that look so different from ground level.<br />
<br />
And I found myself shifting between looking at things broadly and viewing things in fine detail. I delighted in my ability to go back and forth. I would look out the window from fourteen hundred feet in the air and see a backdrop of lights and objects and space that I knew from a different perspective as the United Center or the Dan Ryan Expressway or Milwaukee Avenue. Then I would look at my glass and observe, with a sense of wonder, how the squeezed out wedge of lime was disintegrating. Or I’d look at the faces of my co-workers and feel genuine surprise over how the top of the Tower’s moody lounge lighting made them look so different than the people I’d see around a conference table.<br />
<br />
During my few seconds on the ledge, smiling for the camera and squeezing my boyfriend’s hand, I thought about why I try to get a window seat when booking air travel. I love looking at the world with panoramic vision because it seems to make me see little things within arms’ reach so much more acutely.<br />
<br />
Seeing the world from the top of the tallest skyscraper in North America is no small thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-66903263858444214242013-02-25T09:13:00.000-08:002013-02-26T12:47:37.670-08:00Clear Path<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Fdx9fSvOspRSeYWg_c7LNVNgA7Y74pjRRZvF7GZLL3C-IU6BH78BEcOKN8wYoUanaayIkhj7_0Np0W-KcPN82fT3SrrScmCVkgZpS45RQJBDlnOJAcJjEAlKIWUOr5ZmRGJYY8iKqZ0/s1600/snow_shovel_1-s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Fdx9fSvOspRSeYWg_c7LNVNgA7Y74pjRRZvF7GZLL3C-IU6BH78BEcOKN8wYoUanaayIkhj7_0Np0W-KcPN82fT3SrrScmCVkgZpS45RQJBDlnOJAcJjEAlKIWUOr5ZmRGJYY8iKqZ0/s320/snow_shovel_1-s.jpg" width="305" /></a><br />
While Boston and the Northeast were socked with Nemo, or whatever cartoon character the National Weather Bureau decided to call our recent round of winter storms, it seemed that Chicago pretty much dodged the big white blanket. We’ve barely had a few flurries this season – at least up until Friday. <br />
<br />
You wouldn’t have understood the actual scale of our little blizzard based on Thursday’s newscasts. Every major network, led off their five-o’clock broadcasts with news about the approaching weather front. Perfectly coiffed reporters, in their best Eddie Bauer parkas, were stationed in front of heavily traveled toll roads as salt trucks rumbled behind them. Who’d think that a little snow in the heart of the Midwest should be such big news, but fierce snowfalls have crippled our town before and elections have been lost because streets did not get cleaned soon enough. <br />
<br />
Before the announced storm hit, I shopped for staples and made sure I knew where my good boots were, the water-proofed ones with the fake fur lining and dependable zippers. John and I made dinner at the usual time then settled in for an evening on the couch in front of the TV. We took turns getting up and looking through the blinds to see when Whipple Street would start looking like <i>It’s a Wonderful Life’s</i> quaint town of Bedford Falls on Christmas. The forecasters were calling for four to six inches, falling mostly between nine o’clock and morning. <br />
<br />
On Friday morning, I opened our back door to see an undisturbed layer of sparkly white powder, probably around four inches thick. Ah, how beautiful snow is -- at least until people start tracking through it. Before John left for work, he dusted off the steps from our upstairs tenants’ rear landing down to the concrete below our steps and then chiseled out the narrowest of channels leading to the garbage cans in the alley with one short pass of a shovel. We agreed that I would come back out and do a more complete snow removal job later.<br />
<br />
When I did walk outside later in the morning, our upstairs neighbors had not yet gone to their car, Except for the narrow groove John forged, the rest of our concrete parking pad was covered with a layer of pristine snow. I had only 45 minutes to make footing it to the alley easy and clear paths along the side of our building, the section of sidewalk in front, and our front stairs (a small courtesy for the postman). <br />
<br />
I bent over, shovel in hand, and began experimenting with different strategies. Sometimes, I dug the edge of the shovel down as deeply as I could, until I could hear it scrape against the concrete. I’d scoop up medium weighted loads and toss them to where I imagined the edge of our lawn began. Sometimes I chose the <b><i>push</i></b> method, where I would plant the bottom of the shovel against the hard surface and brace myself against the top of the handle, exerting practically all my weight, and drive the shovel forward in a line, pushing the pile of snow in front of me until I could make no more forward progress. I only cleared one shovel width wide of a path along the side of our building figuring it rarely saw traffic, but shoveled the full width of the front sidewalk, mostly, I think, because the neighbor’s did, and made sure the front steps were clean, clean, clean.<br />
<br />
I felt my hair was getting matted up, and I could feel my clothes clinging to my body underneath my quilted coat. The snow had basically stopped falling hours earlier, but I saw occasional flakes fall and I opened up my mouth to catch them. I noticed my hips were a little tight, but my shoulders felt unexpectedly loose. I wasn’t cold at all. I was enjoying myself. <br />
<br />
I declared my job complete at the appointed time, complete enough, and smiled at having finished the job.<br />
<br />
Sometimes in my life, I have prayed for a clear path. It seems only natural to wish someone traveled my route before me to make my steps easier. But then again, I decided that when you can find pleasure in the sensation of sweat dripping from your forehead each time you lift a shovel-full of snow, you can’t help but be grateful that you’ve just been given a shovel. <br />
<br />
Being able to clear your own path is no small thing.<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-82604986897258633482013-02-18T10:52:00.001-08:002013-02-18T10:52:29.516-08:00For Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmRtzB9Lnaf6M5pdTPh72f3FsX-52i5KVfN0V_9n0djHzoYUqs-n5Bo6kOuUEEs-4xTho345tmN2OGLhICHl7SzZjN00sjjMtMmwt0UIi7RvzhPd0k6xmKxM7plKApDRWpcYEWk8tq1w/s1600/carwash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmRtzB9Lnaf6M5pdTPh72f3FsX-52i5KVfN0V_9n0djHzoYUqs-n5Bo6kOuUEEs-4xTho345tmN2OGLhICHl7SzZjN00sjjMtMmwt0UIi7RvzhPd0k6xmKxM7plKApDRWpcYEWk8tq1w/s320/carwash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Last Friday, as I listened to the garage door opener sing its mechanical song and waited for the garage door to tuck itself into the ceiling cavity, I breathed deeply as fresh winter light poured into the space. Then I took a good look at my car. The previous weeks of snow flurries, freezing rain, and residual city traffic exhaust soot left a coating that practically beckoned me to run my fingers across its surface and print P-L-E-A-S-E W-A-S-H M-E.<br />
<br />
Folded into a short list of other errands I needed to run, I drove to the dealership where I bought the car over a year ago to get my FREE CARWASH. As one of the perks of buying my Jetta, Mid-City Volkswagon offered me an unlimited amount of free carwashes – for the <i>life</i> of the car. I know other car dealers offer similar perks.<br />
<br />
What a great feeling it is not to have to line up along a narrow alley until your car can roll through a <i>deluxe</i> car wash where packs of attendants scurry around and through your car with rags and <i>Armor All</i> wiping clean those spots were pressure hoses just can’t reach. And that option is light years ahead of the more common carwash option I used to choose; the $4.95 wash with fill-up at the Mobil Station on Ashland. Timesaving though they might be, I’d end up spending those short pulley operated hauls in a high state of anxiety wondering if I remembered to retract the antenna and praying that the blind metal arms and twirling brushes didn’t leave any scratches.<br />
<br />
Once at Mid-City, I pulled up to the service door, handed my keys to one of service managers and explained that I was in for a wash. I was escorted to a waiting room where I could avail myself to their hospitality counter and choose from coffee or cocoa, cookies or fruit. I could watch a giant screen TV or read magazines from their comfy leather chairs, or check my email from one of their large screened Macs while waiting to hear their PA system announcement that Number 257 was washed and ready to go. <br />
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Of course I love the feeling of pampering, of being able to take a short break to watch the news or read a magazine I would never think of subscribing to. I love the feeling that I am doing something good for my car and for me (helping keep the car’s value up) without having to go through things I don’t like – waiting in lines or worrying about robotics. But I think I really like the idea that I am entitled to this service for <i>the life</i> of the car. How many things can you think of that are free for life?<br />
<br />
I felt compelled to think about this for a while. I know there are products you can buy, like cookware, which comes with a lifetime guarantee, and there are all sorts of extended warranty agreements where you can detail types of services you’d want to receive for five years or longer. But a lifetime guarantee of a product conveys confidence in quality, but does not signal regular experiences of <b><i>care</i></b>. Contracts for preventative maintenance or emergency services are great, but each situation requires analysis. You have to make sure the cost of the agreement is not more than the replacement cost for the product based on a typical life expectancy. Cemeteries offer services to be paid out of endowment funds, but that kind of perpetual care is not for enjoyment. It’s just a way of being responsible for family finances. <br />
<br />
I’d like to think that I’ll have friendships that will last <i>for life</i>, but these types of things are unpredictable. People can change (or often relationships can become less valuable because others don’t change while you do). I think, though, that my love for music, or the deep respect I have for agile thinking and creativity won’t change. What I value at my core is probably mine <b><i>for life</i></b>, and I can renew my connection with these things anytime I go to a concert or lecture, or choose to stop and think, really think. <br />
<br />
What I value may be small things, they may not even be on other people’s radars, but I know that what I love most – music, learning, creativity – can be loved <b><i>for life</i></b>, and that’s no small thing. Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-12793423909614540132013-02-16T06:51:00.002-08:002013-02-16T06:53:56.346-08:00Plays Well With Others<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmHYw0uQ9rkN6rUjqfgQLuMjrPFpzzRlBzEKM5fikrcruPaEqopfv6kIW2XwEC4aoQzhB4ghxieWqWixYNhM3ORVE75Zo2vXs0yC4UJg87NiJg2FEeXgbNfx6cGSfctLfoo22f1Hnu5I/s1600/plays+well+with+others.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmHYw0uQ9rkN6rUjqfgQLuMjrPFpzzRlBzEKM5fikrcruPaEqopfv6kIW2XwEC4aoQzhB4ghxieWqWixYNhM3ORVE75Zo2vXs0yC4UJg87NiJg2FEeXgbNfx6cGSfctLfoo22f1Hnu5I/s320/plays+well+with+others.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
I went into party planning mode about two weeks ago. Fat Tuesday has become MY HOLIDAY. Maybe it’s the sheer playfulness of it, the full-body embrace around the spirit of pure revelry in preparation for real (if you’re a lent observing Catholic) or symbolic (as it is for most of us) renunciation of favorite indulgences. Maybe it’s the time of year. February needs a fun food festival. Am I right? President’s Day just doesn’t cut it. <br />
<br />
This year, I held my third Mardi Gras party. Mardi Gras gatherings chez moi have gotten better each year. I’ve expanded my repertoire of Cajun and Creole specialties and have collected more purple and gold banners and strands of beads from my many shopping excursions to the Dollar Tree. I used to raid my local library’s collection of Basin Street themed CDs and now I simply stream WWOZ, the world’s best loved community radio station beaming their brassy celebratory vibes from their studio near the French Market.<br />
<br />
This year’s party promised to be extra fun. Since John and I moved to Whipple Street, I now have two full floors to decorate, three bathrooms, and a kick-ass kitchen. Ours is a perfect place to throw a party. And, I LOVE TO HOST PARTIES.<br />
<br />
I love to shut off the TV and see people actually talk with each other. I love to feed people, and I really appreciate the art of karma hosting; encouraging guests to bring appetizers or sweets and just see what shows up.<br />
<br />
Two weeks ago, I designed an email invitation with photo of second line bands and clip art images of Mardi Gras beads. Following logistical information, the invitation closed with the rallying cry, <i>Laissez les bon temps rouler</i>. Let the good times roll.<br />
<br />
This year’s annual fete almost doubled in size to include John’s AND my peeps. We geared up to expect up to 25 guests and I ratcheted up my event planning attention. Last weekend, we stocked up on Abita Amber, brewed near Lake Pontchartrain. On Monday, we sent out email blasts to offer tips on parking. Last Friday, I set up a spreadsheet with all my recipes so we could prepare a detailed shopping list. <br />
<br />
For two days, I hung decorations and arranged colorful Mardi Gras doubloons around the house. I listened to Trombone Shorty practically non-stop, sort of like a person might smudge an area to make it a sacred space. <br />
<br />
And it was a GREAT PARTY! But it wasn’t the food, or even WWOZ’s perfect mix of tunes. The PEOPLE MAKE THE PARTY. <br />
<br />
While John and I directed guests to the bedroom where they could stash their coats and attempted to make some level of introductions, we were too preoccupied with things like making sure the jambalaya pot didn’t scorch to make sure everyone was socializing and having a good time. It was so wonderful to scan the scene from time to time and see that mingling and laughter was happening on its own.<br />
<br />
We saw that John’s former babysitter (Yes, he has kept in touch with someone who watched over his munchkin self over fifty years ago) was exchanging recipes with my friend Nick who is a theatrical set designer, and my friends Joanne and Jeff were making martinis for themselves then talking travel with upstairs and downstairs crowds. It was a delight to see Nancy and Jim breaking cornbread with Beth and Josh in the kitchen, two sets of people who come from as different ends of the political and interest spectrum as I could imagine. And my friend Lynne – God bless her – she talked to everyone; our neighbors from across the street, Rob and his wife, who is originally from East Germany, friends from my old book club. Every party should have a person with her attitude and conversation skills. John and I were so thankful that, considering we were mixing people from so many different periods of our respective lives, everyone played really well together.<br />
<br />
When you can trust others to take responsibility for their own good time and enjoy yourself at your own party, it’s no small thing.Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-16367309699088625142013-02-07T08:46:00.001-08:002013-02-07T08:46:41.356-08:00The Breakfast Club<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TLRcTzLYcIlEMWg9EhUy7nsDI2IRNBmAIUpMb2KRPCWuDJr1M54XdqJO6Ycut9zO0t31xt2n-jbbpH7lBLNtJm86GA3zk9TQKR34oSr7aR15869dTwkj-K3FWVEhL48SPSNzq8zHqQA/s1600/tre+kroner+diningroom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TLRcTzLYcIlEMWg9EhUy7nsDI2IRNBmAIUpMb2KRPCWuDJr1M54XdqJO6Ycut9zO0t31xt2n-jbbpH7lBLNtJm86GA3zk9TQKR34oSr7aR15869dTwkj-K3FWVEhL48SPSNzq8zHqQA/s320/tre+kroner+diningroom.JPG" /></a></div>I had never been to Tre Kroner for breakfast before, although the place is legendary in my part of town. They serve up buttery thin pancakes with small sides of lingonberries and authentic Falukorv sausage. The waitresses seem to be recent immigrants from Poland or Serbia, and while not Swedish, their sweet round faces and <i>Old World</i> European politeness only add to the diner’s atmosphere, giving patrons a healthy dose of far away charm close to home.<br />
<br />
We got there later than I would usually eat breakfast, at least for a weekday, just past eleven, but in this magical Swedish eatery kingdom <i>breakfast is served all day</i>. Painted scenes of Dalarna (Swedish countryside) grace the walls and servers greet guests with offers of fresh, hot cinnamon rolls as soon as they’re seated. <br />
<br />
As I perused the menu and tried to narrow my choices, reminding myself that I could try another dish on my next visit, I looked around the small dining room. Almost every table was full. Tre Kroner boasted a loyal and eclectic clientele; students from nearby North Park College, moms with kids in tow, and lanky old Swedish men, retirees from the neighborhood no doubt, happy to get out of the house and discuss the state of the world with old friends. When John and I lifted our heads above our crepes, we had to smile at these two Lincolnesque silhouetted white-haired gentlemen having a conversation over coffee and cinnamon rolls. We dubbed them Sven and Lars.<br />
<br />
Ah breakfast. I knew similar rituals were taking place at Marmalade, Over Easy, and Bakin’ & Eggs. Why should having breakfast out be so much fun? A short walk usually comes along with the decision to have someone else break some eggs for you, and it’s always a treat to eat a meal that’s not confined to ingredients you picked up at the grocery store the day before, but there’s more to it than that.<br />
<br />
Giving conscious thought to doing something with others that you could do alone can make a single hour seem especially precious. The day will become flooded with thoughts and tasks soon enough. Setting aside time to swab a short stack with Canada’s finest maple syrup, read the paper while someone else is refilling your coffee mug, or chat up the hostess demonstrates self-care and civility. For me, these moments are sublime.<br />
<br />
Whether sitting at a table with a friend or unfolding a newspaper alone at a counter stool, the idea of taking time to be with yourself in a room full of <i>others</i> presents a compelling intersection of basic human desires. I’m reminded that there is no shame in others seeing me in the most basic of daily routines. Besides, breakfast is a time when people like to have what everyone else is having while having it done exactly the way <b><i>they</i></b> want. <br />
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Being with your neighbors, enjoying the start of the day with something hearty in your belly, a smile from a waitress, and a background chorus of laughter shared between friends is such a delight. Being a member of the Breakfast Club is no small thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-17455691692365732052013-01-28T07:08:00.001-08:002013-01-28T07:08:52.659-08:00About Face<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibj2xTKPgMsuMFMkRMJpoJm90V633Kc1PIeea9dhzDGZen6AaVf6oDN5AZoNClwhN8oJBEW6wlyQk-1gM0Bz8vAHmkSgjjIAQ76Td50Istprg0ovv3qa-JIZwMQmJgigBZx1JjdfzrRAE/s1600/girl+at+grocery+store.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="255" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibj2xTKPgMsuMFMkRMJpoJm90V633Kc1PIeea9dhzDGZen6AaVf6oDN5AZoNClwhN8oJBEW6wlyQk-1gM0Bz8vAHmkSgjjIAQ76Td50Istprg0ovv3qa-JIZwMQmJgigBZx1JjdfzrRAE/s320/girl+at+grocery+store.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Sometimes I take my friend Susan to the grocery store. She doesn’t have a car, and I don’t like the thought of her trudging around town on the bus with her boxes of chicken broth and bag of apples splitting the sides of her <i>Trader Joe’s</i> handled totes. I have to go grocery shopping anyway, I would explain to her, mostly to make her feel better about the courtesy shopping shuttle. <br />
<br />
Truth is, I might not need to go shopping, but I would want to offer this service anyway. When we do go out for groceries together, I will generally pick up fewer items. I’ll often zoom through the aisles only to find myself on the other side of the check-out waiting for her to evaluate her options and finish up at the register. I know she feels she has to hurry her browsing, but I don’t mind having this time. It’s private AND public time.<br />
<br />
I will often find myself sitting in the sunlight near the cart corral and automatic doors. I’ll let my eyes roll over stacks of local ad papers or bulletin boards where customers give shout-outs or voice complaints. But mostly, I like to sit and <i>people watch</i>. <br />
<br />
The other week, I took Susan to Whole Paycheck. I picked up a couple lemons and some Greek style yogurt, which I had missed on my previous day’s shopping excursion, and was sitting at the front of the store waiting for Susan to make her rounds. I zeroed in on a little girl, maybe around five or six. Her feet were planted along the edge of her mom’s shopping cart while she hung her body over the basket. No doubt, she liked the thrill of using her own weight to keep things in balance and not tip the cart over. Her eyes were laughing and her mouth was open most of the time I watched her.<br />
<br />
She spent a long time in the produce section. She took time to check out all the different colors of apples but was cautious about pulling any out lest she unintentionally level a carefully built display. She walked ahead of her cart, looking for food to sample I think, but made sure her mother was always in sight.<br />
<br />
She had such a sweet face. Not kiddy pageant perfect, but so open. No agenda. No grudges. Her skin was smooth. Her eyes twinkled. Her eyebrows naturally came together over the bridge of her nose when she made an expression. She was so animated, and, as she babbled about her observations, she didn’t seem bothered by whether she had her mom’s full attention or not.<br />
<br />
There is something so wonderful about looking into the face of a child. It doesn’t really matter if they are at a grocery store or in a park, at a baseball game or sitting on a bus. It doesn’t matter if they are wearing shorts and tank tops or if they’re bundled in parkas with only a few inches of their faces exposed. <br />
<br />
If you look at a child’s face, it always seems like they’re having an <i>adventure</i>.<br />
<br />
And I think I like to look at children’s faces just to remember this; that regardless of whether an activity is on a to do list or is simply a happy accident, any undertaking can be done with a spirit of adventure.<br />
<br />
How fortunate for me that the world is full of such faces. The possibilities to have such moments are endless. The child does not have to be my child or even someone I know. All children belong to me. <br />
<br />
Remembering your own sense of adventure through a child’s face is no small thing.<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-53818781945486646832013-01-21T09:45:00.001-08:002013-01-23T08:48:13.771-08:00Good Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyVAmvP4mLi1P3iIdt3pjcVbg1EzXPBHh_5WacVnkQWscvc5yYM5hw2Ekv20triXHhg1VGgf7jqUya894yhH6Dm4Iw3k-7Or7im3iQG3lcXhyphenhyphenGefYYSLFzGoQVad3nPM7X4dzhDXsdiY/s1600/vertical-farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijyVAmvP4mLi1P3iIdt3pjcVbg1EzXPBHh_5WacVnkQWscvc5yYM5hw2Ekv20triXHhg1VGgf7jqUya894yhH6Dm4Iw3k-7Or7im3iQG3lcXhyphenhyphenGefYYSLFzGoQVad3nPM7X4dzhDXsdiY/s320/vertical-farm.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I was very sad to hear of Jerry’s passing. The news came to me via a CaringBridge email notification. I felt a little guilty that I had not stayed in better contact the past few years. He was a remarkable man.<br />
<br />
About five years ago, when work was scarce and I felt the need to do more than just jostle some of my routines, I decided to move to Madison Wisconsin. I knew a few people there, knew that there was a vibrant art and music scene, and thought what the hell – I would only be three hours away from Chicago if I wanted a fix of the familiar.<br />
<br />
New work opportunities turned out to be harder, rather than easier, to find and, unmarried and fifty, creating new social networks turned out to be much more difficult to create, too. I moved back to Chicago within the year, swapping my new <i>America’s Dairyland</i> vehicle plates back for <i>Land of Lincoln</i> tags.<br />
<br />
While I lived in Madison, I did manage to push myself in some new ways. I lost some weight and I took an improv class. I also met some wonderful people. Eager to leverage any possible connection to create a new circle of my kind of people, I almost surprised myself when I acted on my mother’s suggestion to contact a cousin of hers, a woman who, approaching seventy, was neither a peer of my mother’s nor a contemporary of mine. <br />
<br />
Judy changed my experience of Madison in so many ways. A poet and Hebrew scholar, she had an unfailing sense of curiosity (she tried to get me to join her for Qi Qong classes more than once) and compassion. She had a lot of empathy for my situation. She didn’t know what to do with herself when she first came to Madison as the wife of a new university professor decades earlier. <br />
<br />
I learned so much about friendships, parenting and partnerships from Judy and Jerry. They welcomed me to their home for holiday meals and introduced me to their circles of friends. I observed the high regard their friends and neighbors had for them and saw the easy, yet committed way they tried to be of service to others. When Judy was preparing to have heart surgery, Jerry, recognizing that I was only working part time, paid me to drive her on errands and help with household chores. I would have done these things for no pay, but Jerry was always thinking of ways everyone could benefit. After I moved back to Chicago, I got together with them at Shuba’s, a Lakeview area bar, where their son was playing with other musicians from New York. Jerry pulled me aside and, more than as a proud poppa, told me about the new music his son’s group was creating. I couldn’t help but think that other parents would have grimaced at their far from traditional brand of tunes.<br />
<br />
When I read CaringBridge journal entries on Jerry’s last day, Judy and his daughter recounted how he got together with friends from Growing Power shortly before he transitioned. His affiliation with the organization was almost as dear to him as his family, and he requested that if people wanted to make a donation in his honor, Growing Power’s Vertical Farm project would be his preference.<br />
<br />
Of course, now I had to learn more about Growing Power. Its mission, I discovered, is to help communities build sustainable food systems with a special emphasis on making good, healthy food available to lower income city dwellers who might not normally think of having this option. Growing Power’s Vertical Farm project centers around developing a five-story facility in Milwaukee, a very cutting edge design that features greenhouses, aquaponics operations, classrooms and market space. What a great idea! <br />
<br />
The thought of Jerry’s enthusiasm as an urban planner and an educator made me smile, and I felt good that I was guided to honor his life with a donation to Growing Power. Then a thought about my broader network of relationships surfaced. Why is it that so much of my conversations with others revolve around work or gossip about mutual connections? Why have I spent so little time learning about what <b><i>inspires</i> </b>my friends? I reminded myself that I would benefit from exposure to the passion people have for different causes and the possibilities that they may direct me to things I would want to do. Perhaps this realization is one more thing to be grateful to Jerry for.<br />
<br />
Becoming aware of what inspires the good work of a good heart is no small thing.<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-59501709766535279262013-01-15T19:54:00.001-08:002013-01-15T19:56:50.877-08:00Thanks. You're Welcome. Thanks.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZfL6qpb3gZYYSwdTsFsH1i6oAqXuwSMr8iSgJHBr7UNYM_g5OtO6x3R_udfHUSk88nHYrEvY7mtF4KZGN8o5tuX_9ixsIbvcl2JXy5hbliGLybALcY-0hYTqkc3uYpPx57IJBvrKHAg/s1600/Rocco%2527s+plates.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZfL6qpb3gZYYSwdTsFsH1i6oAqXuwSMr8iSgJHBr7UNYM_g5OtO6x3R_udfHUSk88nHYrEvY7mtF4KZGN8o5tuX_9ixsIbvcl2JXy5hbliGLybALcY-0hYTqkc3uYpPx57IJBvrKHAg/s320/Rocco%2527s+plates.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I wasn’t expecting a package. It was after Christmas and long after my birthday. I didn’t remember John or me succumbing to any recent public radio pledge drive that involved receiving coffee mugs or any other kind of premium. I was more than a little surprised when I stepped out our front door to check on the mail and spotted a well-worn brown corrugated box with thinly sketched black arrows pointing upwards and the word FRAGILE marked on two sides. No return label solved the mystery of who sent the package although, from postal stamps, I could see that the box had begun its journey in Sonoma California. <br />
<br />
After getting through layers of scrunched up tissue and some newspaper, bubble wrap and extra pieces of corrugated, I uncovered two slightly curved earth-toned, hand-thrown plates – and a card. It was a gift from Rocco.<br />
<br />
He wanted to thank us for hosting a few dinners and providing some transportation when he visited Chicago last September, and he expressed the wish that any future trip of ours to California would include a visit.<br />
<br />
How sweet and how funny, I thought. Rocco, a neighbor of my friend Lin’s, came to Chicago last September and, after getting an okay from her that he could contact me, ended up spending a good deal of his time here with me and my friends. I love to show off my city and Rocco turned out to be interested in so many things I loved – world music, good wine, travel, baseball. He had already been more than gracious about any hospitality he received from us. He gifted us with two bottles of wine. He brought sweets when we had him over to dinner, and he regaled us with stories of his Chicago adventures (hanging out with a pastor at a south side storefront church) and his other travels.<br />
<br />
The plates were beautiful and, as I surmised, were hand-made by a talented potter. (The talented potter turned out to be his wife.) But the timing made the gift seem unexpected and, in light of his other gestures of thanks, went above and beyond etiquette. <br />
<br />
Maybe, I considered, this is how the chain of giving and receiving is supposed to work. He came to my city to experience a new place. John and I opened up our home. We offered a few meals and took him to a couple concerts. He said <b><i>thanks</i></b> with a couple bottles of wine and his enthusiasm, by sharing with us the fresh way he saw our everyday world. I said “You’re welcome,” I suppose, when I sent him a Christmas card wishing him well and announcing, as one travel enthusiast to another, John and my plans to go to New Orleans for Christmas.<br />
<br />
After unwrapping the ceramic pieces he sent and placing them in a perfect spot in our living room, I realized I wanted to say <i>thanks</i> to Rocco. “John,” I called out. “Can you burn a CD from the one we bought from those street musicians we saw in the Quarter?”<br />
<br />
I was practically giddy when I slipped a crudely labeled disc into a cardboard fortified photo mailer. Rocco will get a kick out of Doreen’s singing and clarinet wailing for sure.<br />
<br />
Saying “You’re welcome” seems to keep the vibrations of genuine thanks resonating. Acknowledging gratitude as a gift itself is no small thing. <br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-67876652290033830942013-01-08T07:45:00.001-08:002013-01-09T11:18:48.568-08:00In Good Company<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOcfEYDxPiJVKQlnCD3_x-LD20fsx_cplDdW1jd1kofJOJnvd_KdpVylYtAooelIUm6C77ancHh211h7-S-dn0oJq_j4P1knf4JqTaMJt5_U6V_IZYSXcPKhyzhB8ZRxBw-BA3-ipbRI/s1600/car+radio1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="188" width="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOcfEYDxPiJVKQlnCD3_x-LD20fsx_cplDdW1jd1kofJOJnvd_KdpVylYtAooelIUm6C77ancHh211h7-S-dn0oJq_j4P1knf4JqTaMJt5_U6V_IZYSXcPKhyzhB8ZRxBw-BA3-ipbRI/s320/car+radio1.jpg" /></a></div>When I was a seven or eight, family road trips to the Wisconsin Dells or to South Haven Michigan usually included different sorts of games to pass the time. I would bend one arm at the elbow like the woman in the <i>We Can Do It</i> World War II propaganda poster then pump my fist up and down until passing truck drivers, who were on to the game, would honk their horns. My mother would lead me and my sister in rounds of <i>Twenty Questions</i> and I would go beyond <i>animal, vegetable or mineral</i> start-up strategies to pull out telling clues. And these pastimes were for relatively short trips.<br />
<br />
For John and my road trip to New Orleans, occupying ourselves for many, MANY hours was a much bigger issue. We left for Memphis on Christmas morning (basically an eight hour trip without stops), then continued to New Orleans the next day, driving another six hours. Coming back, we drove ten hours from the Crescent City to St. Louis, stopping only for gas, coffee and clean restrooms then drove for five more hours before we could pull into our garage. <br />
<br />
Before we left, we thought a good book on tape (CD actually) was in order. In a recent <i><b>Sunday Times</b> Book</i> section, we found some recommendations under the guise of Christmas gift ideas. The Times reviewer practically gushed about the audio book edition of Junot Diaz’s most recent release: <b>This is How You Lose Her</b>. Read by the author, the tales of a young Dominican man growing up in Jersey seemed to have compelling biographical elements making it hard not to wonder where the lines between fiction and real life may have blurred. I fell in love with one of his earlier books, <b>The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao</b>, so Amazon made an easy sale. I checked out the opening lines, posted on Amazon, before I confirmed credit card info.<br />
<br />
“I’M NOT A BAD GUY. I know how that sounds – defensive, unscrupulous – but it’s true. I’m like everybody else: weak, full of mistakes, but basically good.” <br />
<br />
I could tell quickly that there was a character here, a real person coming to me as a fictional hero. I suspected that after a few hours bearing witness to his confidences, I would love his candor and question his judgment. This turned out to be more than true. And the language – once we actually started listening to Yunior’s (the main character’s) narrative - so much rang true. <br />
<br />
We wanted to really understand his experience. What would it be like to be an immigrant child growing up in New Jersey? To live close to an Atlantic Ocean you never got to see let alone swim in? To witness your father exercise his best networking skills just to find a barber that could cut your <i>pelo malo</i>, your <i>bad</i> (kinky) hair? <br />
<br />
The book came in five CDs. We divided our in-car listening time between Diaz’s alter ego, radio stations that weren’t churchy talk shows, and a handful of CDs we brought (Louie Armstrong and Pine Leaf Boys) to psyche us up for our Louisiana holiday. We wanted to savor the stories, the role of confidante, moments of recognition.<br />
<br />
We laughed out loud at the way he described his mother and her prayer group friends (The Four Horsefaces of the Apocalypse) and discussed the chronology of the stories to make sure we understood the real life sequence of events of a possibly real (or largely made up) life. We asked ourselves, “Didn’t he mention that his brother, Rafa, died of cancer in disc one but didn’t talk about his last job at The Yarn Barn until much later?"<br />
<br />
We wanted the stories to go on, and on – even after the narrator brought us back to the beginning, thematically, with a chapter entitled “The Cheater’s Guide to Love.” In all of Yunior’s reflections, perhaps we heard the disparate voices of our own optimism and cynicism, telling us that if we know better we can do better, but somehow not quite believing our ability to change in fundamental ways. <br />
<br />
Yes, we loved hearing the street musicians outside the Café du Monde, reveled in the great dinner we had at Herbsaint, and puffed up with pride at the discovery of an actual farmer’s market in the warehouse district, but spending hours in the car with Junot Diaz was another highlight of the trip.<br />
<br />
Sinking into universal truths through the telling of another’s <i>personal</i> experience is a special gift.<br />
<br />
Having the good company of a great storyteller is no small thing.<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-80317035793359106502013-01-01T20:59:00.000-08:002013-01-03T21:07:56.516-08:00A Lack of Lack<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9poWev_9PUqyBUVmNuvtS1TET3ZfNiegblo4JnfGjdS56ziYYk_iW3Wq5FZPh9_uhO0tKSDID9uE8aafqvBcdU6dPLteDcHdFSyuDYM5AT9Y0P3ghY4Lc54uoGLbWuzwqr1anAmllyWE/s1600/felix%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="173" width="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9poWev_9PUqyBUVmNuvtS1TET3ZfNiegblo4JnfGjdS56ziYYk_iW3Wq5FZPh9_uhO0tKSDID9uE8aafqvBcdU6dPLteDcHdFSyuDYM5AT9Y0P3ghY4Lc54uoGLbWuzwqr1anAmllyWE/s320/felix%2527s.jpg" /></a></div>I love New Orleans. My first trip there was in 1979. A young twenty-something visiting high school friends who were working there, I fell in love with the streetcars that cruised Canal and St. Charles, views of the Mississippi River, and the mountains of powdered sugar that seemed destined to avalanche from the tops of Café du Monde’s freshly fried beignets onto my well-worn jeans. I loved the street musicians and sketch artists that hung around Jackson Square. I even had a portrait done there during one visit.<br />
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I traveled there most recently with a friend in the fall of 2010. I also took my mother there for a long weekend ten years ago. I got her to pop for dinner at The Court of Two Sisters and brunch at Brennan’s. Odd to think about it, but one of my fondest recollections of my mother was her surprise (and spirit of adventure) when I showed her how we could buy gin and tonics, available in GO cups from an assortment of bars, and walk with them down Bourbon Street. <br />
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I was looking forward to this trip as the second installment of what I hope to be a yearly Christmastime adventure with John. I think both of us were eager to show the other our favorite places. He wanted to show me fondly remembered eateries, and I wanted to take him to a photo gallery on Chartres that I tripped upon some years back. They had actual prints by Diane Arbus and Henri Cartier-Bresson. We both wanted to indulge ourselves with freshly shucked OYSTERS. <br />
<br />
It was probably close to three on our second day there when we headed to Acme Oyster House, a time when we both thought the lunch crowd’s plates should have been cleared away. But the line went a half block out the door. We estimated the wait to be close to an hour. They had NO ROOM. Then we went to Felix’s, a long narrow diner with a lot of local history. The chief oyster shucker could spit out colorful gossip as he poured Abita Ambers, but – and this was hard for us to believe – Felix’s had NO OYSTERS. No <i>fresh</i> oysters. <i>Shuck-uh Khan</i>, as the man behind the marble top liked to refer to himself, explained that they were under new management and might get a delivery around five, but he couldn’t guarantee any fresh oysters would arrive that day. During our Christmas vacation of 2012, we heard <b><i>no</i></b> several other times, too. <br />
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We could not get a dinner reservation at famous chef Emeril’s restaurant although we were flexible on times. We could not take a tour of the Gibson guitar factory in Memphis because the production line was down for a holiday break. We could not afford to buy the expensive and kitschy artwork that would have made great souvenirs of the trip.<br />
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In each instance, when we were confronted by the unavailability of something we planned on, we just made another choice. We had a beer at Felix’s then walked to The Royal House and had Bloody Mary’s and a dozen bi-valves. When we couldn’t get a table at Emeril’s on our last night in town, we dined at Pascal’s Manale, a somewhat lower brow yet quintessentially local spot, and enjoyed our meal. While we didn’t send any art home in a shipping box, we bought a wonderful coffee table book featuring Herman Leonard photographs of famous jazzmen and bought a five dollar laminated card of Saint Fiacre from a street artist working Jackson Square. (The whimsical tarot card like rendering of the patron saint of taxi cab drivers and hemorrhoid sufferers was hard to resist).<br />
<br />
We understood ourselves to be lucky; lucky to be able to afford a vacation, lucky to be in a country and a city where being told <b><i>No</i></b> to first choices simply meant saying <b><i>Yes</i></b> to alternatives. We found a lot of joy in this attitude. We could have chosen to be disappointed whenever a plan was not realized, but we chose to use each detour to make new discoveries. There is such a feeling of abundance in simply refusing to focus on what didn’t happen or what you didn’t get.<br />
<br />
Living with a lack of lack is no small thing.<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-82211353093008675762012-12-29T20:50:00.000-08:002013-01-03T20:59:26.919-08:00The H Factor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiidACQlRkfTgl6Q18J_nmRW2CC1-7HRQIE5WyAOzU5bCtyjib7mIg5VQnJ5cRSr8P2oijSCje3AYyRLRV8ZTO6p2kNR5AeljJwPLV6GbSQwpLsZthjJ8tp9iOPCO17ybtXTLRhWeKi2wI/s1600/Beale+Street+Beach+Party.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiidACQlRkfTgl6Q18J_nmRW2CC1-7HRQIE5WyAOzU5bCtyjib7mIg5VQnJ5cRSr8P2oijSCje3AYyRLRV8ZTO6p2kNR5AeljJwPLV6GbSQwpLsZthjJ8tp9iOPCO17ybtXTLRhWeKi2wI/s320/Beale+Street+Beach+Party.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The plan was to leave our home on Christmas morning, hopefully by 10:00. We cleaned most of our Christmas Eve dinner dishes just after our guests left and organized things for packing so we could shower, stow everything in our trunk, and hit the road as early as possible. One of the boons of taking a road trip rather than travel by plane or train is the luxury of packing things at the last minute and not be limited to one suitcase and one carry-on.<br />
<br />
In anticipation of not using our kitchen sink for a while, John did a quick calking job before we slipped out and locked the back door. We had cookies, sandwiches and water in a cooler on the back seat, an assortment of CDs, and a small first aid kit (an unexpected brown elephant gift from a Hanukah party a week earlier). We pulled out of our garage at 9:50 to a very light flurry.<br />
<br />
“What the f___,” John exhaled, more surprised than angry. “I checked the weather report last night and it was not supposed to snow.”<br />
<br />
I sort of liked this paper weight cum sno-globe look for the city, an appropriate parting image for heading south, but I was grateful to be the passenger as we launched our trip. The beauty of freshly falling snow is more easily observed when not driving in it. Fortunately, thirty minutes after we passed the Loop and got on I-57 heading for Memphis, the first stop on our New Orleans 2012 Christmas adventure, the white dust got lighter and lighter, then disappeared altogether. <br />
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New Orleans is just over nine hundred miles from Chicago. We planned to stay the night in Memphis on the way down there and stop in St. Louis on the way back, arriving back on Whipple Street News Year’s Eve day, hours before rookie revelers would take to the streets.<br />
<br />
We got gas somewhere in southern Illinois and I took the wheel for a while frequently turning on the radio for news and weather updates. We quietly chuckled to ourselves at our good fortune. It seemed that much of the country was looking at a <i>white Christmas</i>. As we zigzagged across Illinois, Missouri and parts of Arkansas on the way to Memphis, we seemed to be just ahead of the weather front and we were making good time. <br />
<br />
John took over driving duties again just as dusk crept over the highway. I was happy to relinquish the wheel and smiled even more when Mother Nature started to shower us with a little snow and rain. Somehow John always ended up with driving stints that required more concentration. When we got to downtown Memphis, the streets were deserted. Understandably, Christmas Day was a time most people spent at home with family, but I think the precipitation kept even more people than usual indoors. As a typical southern town, the folks of Memphis freak out in snow. We had a nice meal at a hotel close to ours then returned to our hotel and called it a night.<br />
<br />
The next morning, the streets were still under the cover of snow and very few people were out and about. We decided to walk down Beale Street before getting back on the road. A touristy strip of blues clubs, bail bondsmen’s offices and no-frills grills whose signs boasted <i>world famous</i> Bar-B-Q, it was obvious the snow would be keeping patrons away for most of the day. We snapped a few pictures – in front of pawnshop windows, near the Gibson guitar factory, and around various clubs. Snow definitely did not belong in this street scene, and I appreciated the incongruity. <br />
<br />
Nature is so wonderfully humbling. It’s easy to get obsessed with plans then be reminded that they’re subject to change based on the weather. Everything we do in our lives is subject to change, but it’s easy to react to unplanned situations as wrong instead of simply surprising. <br />
<br />
Being humbled by snow on Beale Street is no small thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-48368475775718651982012-12-23T22:24:00.001-08:002012-12-23T22:24:35.998-08:00New Tradition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQUlTQTVWPnK63PkX5OO5GPEwSzm_vgyGshtMIW7yGxKI5yb4m_qvSVD_lBMScCnitXSRte8kuu2HG6KVkDrqL6ScdgdfRnGaSIaRVqboZ49v4rVXe_hqheSb7_LpURcd1nvD4y3c1c0/s1600/skaters+on+mirror+-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQUlTQTVWPnK63PkX5OO5GPEwSzm_vgyGshtMIW7yGxKI5yb4m_qvSVD_lBMScCnitXSRte8kuu2HG6KVkDrqL6ScdgdfRnGaSIaRVqboZ49v4rVXe_hqheSb7_LpURcd1nvD4y3c1c0/s320/skaters+on+mirror+-2.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I never had a Christmas tree while I was growing up, although I had seen my share; natural and aluminum, decked out with strands of tiny lights and topped with ceramic or straw angels that, truth be told, scared the b’Jesus out of me. My very Jewish mother used to combat the omnipresent images of Christmas tree-ocopia that glowed from bay windows up and down our block by displaying an electric Hanukkah menorah in our front window. She would screw in an orange flame shaped bulb for each of the eight days of the festival. <br />
<br />
The electric menorah turned me off to holiday traditions for years. When my sister Ronna had her first daughter, while not converting to Christianity, she embraced the Martha Stewart potential of the holiday. She began collecting ornaments, developed her own set of favorite Silver Palette cookie baking recipes, and started throwing what she referred to as <i>Gidget Goes Goyish</i> parties the Saturday before Christmas. I felt slightly warmer about these holiday traditions, but still had not bought in to the whole seasonal celebration thing.<br />
<br />
But Ronna’s daughters, Liz and Emma, loved the holidays; baking cookies, collecting ornaments, carefully packing and unpacking them each year and decorating their tree. It practically occupied their entire front room.<br />
<br />
My mother and other sister and her husband started having Christmas Eve dinner at Ronna’s as a yearly tradition. Christmas Eve became our family’s focal point for exchanging gifts of the season, although in deference to the Jewish winter holiday, my mother would wrap her presents for her grandchildren in <i>blue</i> paper. <br />
<br />
After my sister Ronna passed away eleven years ago, my mother or sister Barbara hosted our Christmas Eve dinner. We didn’t have a tree, but we had champagne and we unwrapped presents and indulged in cookies galore.<br />
<br />
This year being the first in my new home, I wanted to host our family’s feast. Staging the meal itself did not faze me. But for this Christmas Eve, I wanted a tree, a <b><i>real</i></b> tree, the kind that fills the house with the scent of pine and splashes the carpet with short green bristles that cling to the floor. I wanted to cover it with very bright strings of lights and plenty of ornaments. And I really wanted my sixteen year-old niece to help decorate. She missed sharing this tradition with her mother. She was only five when Ronna died. <br />
<br />
I counted myself lucky that my boyfriend cum housemate had five strings of multicolor Christmas lights and a box of old ornaments from his mother, which he somehow retained custody of when he and his ex divvied up their household. His collection included a small rectangular mirror and figurines of skaters which his mother cherished as part of her family’s Christmas decorations since she was a child. <br />
<br />
Last Saturday, John and I bought a tree, a Fraser Fir. We tied it to the roof of his Toyota to get it home, carried it to our living room, anchored it in its stand, and made sure it had ample water. On Sunday, we invited Emma over for dinner. I made a <i>roast beast</i> and sweet potatoes. We listened to favorite holiday CDs, Vince Guaraldi (think Schroeder from Peanuts’ Christmas theme) and the Roche sisters. Emma directed John’s electrical work then hung his decades-old shiny glass ball ornaments around the tree as if she had been working with the same collection for years. After making the salad, I came out of the kitchen to observe their handiwork. I was delighted. Later in the week, I made a tree skirt out of some dark green fabric and placed the figurines of the skaters under a low hanging branch. <br />
<br />
I think I’ve started a new tradition. It was a joy to see Emma’s imagination at work as she hung ornaments, and I was happy that we could tell John’s mother Dee that something she treasured long ago had been taken out of the box to cast its charms anew. I think John and I felt very good about creating a feeling of warmth and love in our home in the form of our new tree decorating tradition. <br />
<br />
Starting a new tradition in honor of an old one is no small thing. <br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-13696655821766254112012-12-15T16:22:00.000-08:002012-12-22T16:37:48.751-08:00My Mother's China<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7OpyLviZcj5qKxXDXRPRnPIS-3EpVrsPin3z3leazA6gn8PFHmMMP1PP5ZdPFRDDBdbQakPk0J-FSqzcKJWpS1qeXJOL-uzgIU26jke0GskIr72Z0ezJt-Ic53EOQE-VZkqGeq8V8Fg/s1600/Pearl%2527s+china1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7OpyLviZcj5qKxXDXRPRnPIS-3EpVrsPin3z3leazA6gn8PFHmMMP1PP5ZdPFRDDBdbQakPk0J-FSqzcKJWpS1qeXJOL-uzgIU26jke0GskIr72Z0ezJt-Ic53EOQE-VZkqGeq8V8Fg/s320/Pearl%2527s+china1.JPG" /></a></div>With the holidays coming up fast, over the past few days I started thinking about hosting my family’s Christmas Eve dinner. I found myself becoming obsessed with an unexpected thought, and I added a <b><i>mission</i></b> to my holiday <b><b><i>to do</i></b></b> list.<br />
<br />
I had to get my mother’s china. <br />
<br />
My mother passed away in April of 2011. In October of that year, my sister and I sold her condo. Before we turned over the keys, we sorted through clothes and jewelry that accumulated over nearly ninety years, each of us claiming some pieces and boxing up other things for different charity donations. Since I did not have much storage space in the apartment where I was living, I considered myself lucky to be able to store some boxes in my friend Nancy’s basement. <br />
<br />
My mother’s china was part of her legacy to me. Twelve place settings of Bavarian (Tirschenreuth) china – dinner plates, salad plates, bread plates, dessert plates, soup bowls, fruit bowls, cups with painted rims and delicate curved handles, and serving pieces for an unimaginable feast -- were painstakingly wrapped and boxed by Barb and Tina, my mother’s cleaning lady, and me over a year ago. The set had been sitting in Nancy’s basement in Riverside waiting for me to have a permanent home for them. I moved last May, but I didn’t think much about reclaiming these boxes until now. And now, it felt urgent that I do so.<br />
<br />
I called Nancy. She wasn’t planning on being home, but her boyfriend Jim could let me in. I canceled all other plans for Thursday and drove out to Riverside. I probably spent the first fifteen minutes staring numbly at the few stacked boxes in one corner of her basement. I cut through the packing tape on the top of each box, hoping that a simple peek inside would reassure me that I had found what I was looking for, but only newspaper and other packing materials were visible, and I was not about to unwrap each item. <br />
<br />
My mother’s belongings included glassware, a barely used Cuisinart, and a kitschy bright orange set of espresso cups. Two medium-sized boxes seemed to contain the porcelain crockery I came for. There is no way, I thought, that my mother’s monster set of tableware could be contained in so few boxes; lightweight boxes at that. I called my sister by cell phone from the stairway to Nancy’s cellar. “Do you think you might have some of mom’s china in your basement?” I asked. She looked where she stored her collection of boxes from our mother’s and called me back to say no. She had no boxes of our mother’s china. We asked each other, “Do you think the movers lost any boxes?” <br />
<br />
At this point, there would have been no way to retrieve anything from the moving company. After all, the move took place over a year ago. I finished loading my car and drove home. As I drove home, I found myself entertaining unhappy, but very familiar, thoughts. My mother had not given me the attention and affection I craved. How fitting, I thought, that the one thing I wanted from her collection of possessions was something that I could only have in an incomplete state.<br />
<br />
Once home, I started unwrapping the individual pieces, spreading them out on my dining room table. I couldn’t believe it. How could so much wrapped china have fit into so few boxes? Except for having only eleven dessert plates, a casualty from a cousin’s club gathering most likely, my table ended up holding twelve of every piece plus gravy boats, the sugar bowl and creamer, a soup tureen and lid, and two large serving platters. Everything I could think of was here. <br />
<br />
And this made me think about my middle-aged life, where I am at today. I thought about my hurts and disappointments, my challenges, my burdens and slights -- real or imagined. I turned out all right, didn’t I? My mother may not have given me everything I wanted, but I grew up. I formed relationships. I have contributed to the lives of others. <br />
<br />
What she gave me was complete <i>enough</i>. Like my mind’s focus during my ride home from Riverside, all too often, I have chosen to place my attention on what I thought to be missing.<br />
<br />
Being able to drop expectations of disappointment and see the fullness and completeness of things as they are is no small thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-3573364885040633292012-12-04T09:10:00.001-08:002012-12-04T14:43:03.277-08:00Fog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9M1KFoL6CiusU57my6zUNyG5jwJpjPWND-ubIGsS4d_HuID55txW-MzUfwOxumCXdYTd3yO7VrZEPtxjiCABdPTiAtpYeDm3a2foir3Mnc18egVvePtnrcKITPKmjnp8RuPCFCGuQzc/s1600/fog-chicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig9M1KFoL6CiusU57my6zUNyG5jwJpjPWND-ubIGsS4d_HuID55txW-MzUfwOxumCXdYTd3yO7VrZEPtxjiCABdPTiAtpYeDm3a2foir3Mnc18egVvePtnrcKITPKmjnp8RuPCFCGuQzc/s320/fog-chicago.jpg" /></a></div>It was nearly 70 degrees in Chicago yesterday, not a typical temperature for December, and the unusual reading on the thermometer stirred up a mixed reaction. Part of me felt like hosting an inner rant about global warming, and part of me wanted to take a long walk or bike ride, very mindful that more normal temperatures will return soon and it will be months before I can go outside without wearing a jacket that makes me look like the <i>Michelin Tire Man</i>. <br />
<br />
The strange mixture of warm temperatures with high humidity brings about an inescapable, attention demanding phenomena. Fog. I used to joke about such days, days that were defined by their limited visibility. I called them <i>When dinosaurs roamed the earth</i> days. When I would see the tops of skyscrapers poke through thick layers of condensation, I could envision slow-moving over-sized, long-necked reptiles taking giant steps while keeping their heads above the sulfurous ground, resigned to the painfully slow pace of things.<br />
<br />
If you don’t have to get to anywhere fast, fog can be quite compelling. It is, at the same time, dangerous and harmless. The way it makes the dark and fragile branches of bare trees look like Spanish lace demonstrates its power as a poet’s muse. Yet, it can wreak havoc where it settles. Fog <i>blinds, swallows</i>, and <i>deadens</i> things in its path. It is responsible for canceled flights and bridge accidents. And to think, it’s only water. <br />
<br />
On the subject of fog, Carl Sandberg wrote:<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>The fog comes<br />
on little cat feet.<br />
<br />
It sits looking<br />
over harbor and city<br />
on silent haunches<br />
and then moves on. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
Fog is transitory. It is a readily identifiable condition that we all understand passes. People associate fog with mental states; with confusion, anxiety, frustration, feeling stuck. We don’t always seem to believe these states are temporary, like fog. But they are.<br />
<br />
If I don’t need to get anywhere and have space in my life for reflection, fog is great. It encourages stillness. Foggy days are made for reading in a favorite chair, or for taking walks in familiar places (where navigation is not even an afterthought). <br />
<br />
Yesterday, I used the fog as an invitation for contemplation. I asked myself if there were things in my life that I didn’t want to see or didn’t want to look at. Nothing came up as a situation I was turning a blind eye towards, although I welcomed the prompt.<br />
<br />
Then I looked out from the back window of my house. I spied a few brownish leaves that escaped the rake’s claws. The back of the garage, a barely yellow structure not thirty feet from our back door, seemed to have lost its edges, being secured inside the cloud flowing through our alley. Even though it was warm, it felt like winter had arrived. I decided I wanted to be <i>inside</i> doing <i>inside</i> things. <br />
<br />
I love contrast. I love the way fog makes me aware of contrast. If there are no foggy days, times defined by restricted vision, it’s hard to appreciate those times when you’re operating with acute clarity. I think my first back porch al fresco meal next spring cannot help but be more delightful because of the upcoming months I will spend eating at my dining room table. <br />
<br />
Remembering to appreciate contrast is no small thing.<br />
<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-2498649963262342212012-12-01T06:15:00.000-08:002012-12-02T17:53:11.915-08:00Birthday Wishes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SXU6I4Pk83YUj6iQAVf-JwPfmBpNPwBNGfty0kKiO_Lpd1h8FnNOGq9uUj3epnm2gSBW804qclv73H-4h-uA0kTPyC19ASrgWf-9UcDZKOuRfRJ9Kvp2G4uwiTK_RR_4nt73oku1FGk/s1600/happybirthday2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SXU6I4Pk83YUj6iQAVf-JwPfmBpNPwBNGfty0kKiO_Lpd1h8FnNOGq9uUj3epnm2gSBW804qclv73H-4h-uA0kTPyC19ASrgWf-9UcDZKOuRfRJ9Kvp2G4uwiTK_RR_4nt73oku1FGk/s320/happybirthday2.jpg" /></a></div>I love to make a big deal about my birthday. I was born on my father’s birthday, November 29th, which probably doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, but I like the co-inky-dink. (I also share this birth date with Louisa May Alcott and Mariano Rivera, but I’ll try not to read too much into this.) My birthday is just after Thanksgiving and just a few weeks before Christmas. For me it heralds the start of the holiday season. And this year, I turned 56. I was born in 1956. I think some people call this a <i>golden birthday</i>. <br />
<br />
Birthdays are great because they’re all about YOU. For some people, things are all about them ALL the time, but for most of us, this is a very rare and much craved experience. You get to pick the restaurant where you go out for dinner (and can order dessert too, guilt-free). You can take the day off of work or sleep late, and no one will hassle you for it. <br />
<br />
And you get a lot of mail, a lot of <i>fan</i> mail. There are so many surprises folded into the ritual of people reaching out to you on your birthday. I mean, just when you think you’ve fallen off someone’s radar, you find out that they still remember you – and fondly at that.<br />
<br />
So, on my birthday, I received a text message from my niece and one from my cousin’s girlfriend. My email box contained an assortment of greetings including notifications that <i>facebook</i> birthday wishes had been inserted into my timeline (If I understood how to use <i>facebook </i>better, I would plan to do the same for others). My timeline had short notes from close friends, professional acquaintances, and even from a couple fellahs I used to date. And, much to my delight, I started receiving birthday cards several days before the 29th. My best friend, who lives in California now, sent me a card with an obtuse sort of Ecsher-esque drawing on the front and a thin package of scratch’n sniff <i>Happy Birthday</i> stickers in the crease. (When the actual hoopla around my personal festival has died down, some cold December night, I will probably tear apart the plastic wrapper on the pack of stickers and scratch the one that’s shaped like a cupcake.)<br />
<br />
On my birthday, a good friend joined me for a late-afternoon cocktail at the Tiny Lounge and my sweetheart – ah, my sweetheart lavished me with a large amount of small attentions. He bought me a sweater, and a necklace, and a pair of hand-made mittens with button-eyed monkey faces. (Since I was born in the <i>Year of the Monkey</i> according to the Chinese calendar, this was special to me.) He took me to a restaurant I picked out based on a friend’s recommendation, and he greeted me on my special day with a pink envelope containing a funny card and hand-written note that was perfect.<br />
<br />
When you give the perfect card to someone for a special occasion, it feels good. I know I’ve enjoyed seeing a card I have bought passed around at a friend’s birthday gathering. (It sort of makes the time spent standing over the Papyrus or Avanti display rack feel worthwhile.) It feels good to have “nailed it,” to have captured something truthful or funny or unique in a piece of cardboard and a twenty-six word message. It feels even better to receive a truly personalized sentiment.<br />
<br />
I suppose that over the years, I have learned ways to celebrate myself. I have practiced the art of finding qualities I like about myself and acknowledging them. But gosh darn it, it feels great when the best of what you hope to send out into the world is directed to <i>you</i>. <br />
<br />
Whether sung out loud, shouted after the word “Surprise,” scrawled in a card, or whispered in your ear before a kiss, being acknowledged as a special part of someone’s life is no small thing. <br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-64245037153700104202012-11-27T06:05:00.000-08:002012-12-02T06:11:49.702-08:00Guest House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrsQ5BQil0bIzmfbmF5o8AF0f5KX1boiyXOshQps8qZ0X7nZuI9hyphenhyphenCSxOoBXiD8O0wMbx5lvyeiVLUS2nSGgMw4aaLCXwwDhuPMK7AmN46m-3g-KM38N_p7rNTE-TqXt6CEiDsRoj4lI/s1600/guest+bathroom.+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="246" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrsQ5BQil0bIzmfbmF5o8AF0f5KX1boiyXOshQps8qZ0X7nZuI9hyphenhyphenCSxOoBXiD8O0wMbx5lvyeiVLUS2nSGgMw4aaLCXwwDhuPMK7AmN46m-3g-KM38N_p7rNTE-TqXt6CEiDsRoj4lI/s320/guest+bathroom.+cropped.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My cousin William and his significant other visited my town for Thanksgiving week. His pilgrimage to the Midwest has become a tradition. He has flown to Chicago from New York, where he lives now, to join my family’s fall food festival for more than ten years now. He’s usually stayed as a house guest at my sister’s, or, in the early years, at my mother’s. This year, since I now have an actual home with a guest bedroom, John and I hosted him and Mary Ellen for a couple nights of their visit.<br />
<br />
John and I have had a few house guests since we moved here six months ago. His mother came for a visit last June. My sixteen year-old niece has crashed here when her father was out of town and she had the flu. A friend of John’s stayed here a few months ago when Bruce Springsteen performed at a pair of concerts at Wrigley Field. We know the drill; make sure there are clean sheets on the bed, ample towels in the guest bathroom, and room in the closet to hang any dress slacks that made it into carry-on luggage. <br />
<br />
I’m a pretty casual sort of host. I want people to feel comfortable in my home, and I think that’s best accomplished by establishing a limited amount of rules and getting out of the way. I show people where the coffee is, show them what outlets are best to use for charging cell phones (i.e. not likely to be used for other things), and warn them about the quirky way the ice dispenser in our fridge will spit out half-moon shaped discs of ice for several seconds after the lever is no longer engaged.<br />
<br />
I like having guests because I am proud of my home and like to spend unstructured time with people who are important to me, especially if they don’t live nearby. Besides, having guests always gets me to enjoy my hometown more. Having visitors gives me an incentive to plan special outings. William and Mary Ellen’s visit was no exception.<br />
<br />
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, the night they arrived, my sister and her husband, joined William and Mary Ellen, John and me for a dinner at a good old-fashioned Italian restaurant. Wednesday night we all went out for barbecue and caught a show at Second City, the sketch comedy club where John Belushi and other SNL favorites cut their comedic teeth. Friday, our East Coast visitors moved to our place as home base. I took them for a stroll down Michigan Avenue to observe late afternoon Black Friday hordes shop Chicago style, then John and I took them out for dinner and a play. Saturday, we had a <i>leftovers</i> party. In between planned activities, and more meals than I care to think about, we played <b><i>Trivial Pursuit</i></b>, downed martinis and argued politics. (Thankfully, no blood was shed.)<br />
<br />
On Sunday morning, John and I went to Soldier Field to indulge in our own once a year ritual, a Bears game. When we came home, William and Mary Ellen had already left for the airport. The house was quiet. John went to his music room to play the drums for a while, no longer worried about disturbing anyone. I caught up with email correspondence I had been neglecting, no longer worried about keeping guests pleasantly entertained. <br />
<br />
John picked up a couple steaks, which we grilled and ate with whatever sides we had in the house. We weren’t worried about actually putting together a meal. We veg’ed in front of the TV Sunday night, indulging in some more football, which has become extra interesting to me since I am now aware of John’s Fantasy Team roster. And I felt a strange sort of ease sweep over me. Thoughts about stripping the bed in the guest bedroom or laundering towels in the guest bathroom were dismissed quickly. I unbuttoned the top clasp of my jeans and poured myself a glass of everyday wine.<br />
<br />
I love having house guests. I also love when they go home.<br />
<br />
Having your space to yourself is no small thing.<br />
<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-35042689105726858882012-11-14T05:53:00.000-08:002012-12-02T19:08:41.133-08:00Make Me Laugh<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImAWh-jt1nDsDyBxqszhi2G_BdaTjd8kYrX27m-nVfXzJHyvgvkwh47ha7m5vCOjGIP8b0vvNHXilN5WZWxQzeJAN5F2ezirISImykZhVvj9CydX0gTIWRcTnVesWFGRY7diqyObQ_jo/s1600/van+akroyd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImAWh-jt1nDsDyBxqszhi2G_BdaTjd8kYrX27m-nVfXzJHyvgvkwh47ha7m5vCOjGIP8b0vvNHXilN5WZWxQzeJAN5F2ezirISImykZhVvj9CydX0gTIWRcTnVesWFGRY7diqyObQ_jo/s320/van+akroyd.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My repertoire of walking routes has expanded. As I’ve been taking more and more walks in my neighborhood, it seems I have come up with more and more paths to fit the occasion or my mood. <br />
<br />
I have come to expect certain sights along different routes. When I walk down Leland, I know I will see the house with the exquisite yard and 18 bird houses hanging from a great oak tree. If I walk west, I will see the neighborhood’s housing stock change from mostly single-family homes to two-flats to red or blond brick courtyard buildings. Sometimes though, I’ll encounter the unexpected, and I will just come to a complete standstill simply because I see something I’ve never seen before.<br />
<br />
Last week, I was walking on a dead-end street not three blocks away and saw an oddly detailed maroon van. Parked between other cars as if it was no big deal, I noticed that a large swatch of its side was painted with the image of Dan Aykroyd, Saturday Night Live alumnus and favorite son from Second City and Blues Brothers days. Next to the familiar grinning face, scrawled in yellow paint, as if written by a kindergartener, were the words “Van Aykroyd.”<br />
<br />
I burst into a wide grin. I laughed out loud. <br />
<br />
Then I got a little self-conscious. I started to ask myself questions. Was this van always parked here and I somehow missed it? Can anyone see me? I must look like a real goofball, I thought, standing on the sidewalk, laughing like this. And anyhow, what’s so funny?<br />
<br />
A good question. What makes me laugh? Some people run brain scanning programs continually so they can insert puns into conversations. Puns are a risky sort of humor. Sometimes, I think they’re extremely clever. Sometimes I don’t get the pun right away and I feel stupid. And sometimes, they simply make me groan. You can see one coming seconds before its spewed out of the punster’s mouth. <br />
<br />
I like listening to people telling jokes, but I realize my enjoyment is often less from the shock of the punch line than it is from seeing an unpracticed speaker trying to personalize a funny story while being true to the way he first heard the joke told to him. People can be so vulnerable and charming in their efforts to be entertaining. <br />
<br />
I am not normally one for slapstick comedy or for burlesque. I usually like things that are ironic, clever and use words well. I go gaga over Stephen Colbert and his nightly news show; over the top exaggeration with a scary amount of truth (or should I say truthiness?). <br />
<br />
Of course, I had to Google my Van Aykroyd sighting. I found out that it was done by a famous street artist who also created a similar <i>visage on vehicle</i> piece called Vanny DeVito. But the facts of the encounter mattered less than the laughter. I really yucked it up. Alone. Right there on the sidewalk.<br />
<br />
I love to laugh. I think most people do. I have shelled out cover charges for comedy clubs and learned how to set up DVR recordings of <b><i>30 Rock</i></b> (which, I think airs 4 times a day) because I want to believe I have a little rapid synapse firing Liz Lemon in me. But my Van Aykroyd moment was special. It reminded me that I don’t need script-writers or stand-up specialists to make me laugh. I just need to keep my eyes open to what’s in front of me and keep my mind tuned up to see incongruities in what I come across naturally. <br />
<br />
I can laugh at myself or laugh at my own thinking when I am willing to see contradictions. I can laugh at the world when I see something surprising or when I decide it’s really okay not to take everything heart attack seriously.<br />
<br />
Knowing you can make <i>yourself</i> laugh is no small thing.<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-73203657815305274922012-11-13T16:48:00.000-08:002012-11-16T16:55:48.263-08:00Vote<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-iSG1jw14je0DCxKEJqgYHuYC1FqiqIlTxyw8wgUQlMNTVZzrxP79PoOh0_1acOyfMzkJWmdPoJFx98x4ihQQt4-Us96vYRVaLkzgXHKDgxwtimkIDZ5_Rdj-EatAaOy9YnRdu-j6DU/s1600/vote2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-iSG1jw14je0DCxKEJqgYHuYC1FqiqIlTxyw8wgUQlMNTVZzrxP79PoOh0_1acOyfMzkJWmdPoJFx98x4ihQQt4-Us96vYRVaLkzgXHKDgxwtimkIDZ5_Rdj-EatAaOy9YnRdu-j6DU/s320/vote2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I voted last week. Along with 120 million other Americans, I exercised my right to vote for president and neatly penciled in ballot choices for candidates aiming to fill a variety of lesser offices. At 55, I have gone through this routine before. Somehow it still thrills me.<br />
<br />
Following a move six months ago, I was anxious to see that my name was properly recorded as belonging to my new precinct. I was curious to explore my newly assigned polling place, a small taqueria barely a block from my house. <b><i>Vote Aqui</i></b>; the sign on the door said. <br />
<br />
At 6:30 in the morning, I tumbled through the front doors of the small storefront burrito palace then was pointed to a backroom. Six voting booths were set up and Dunkin’ Donuts flowed freely between the poll watchers and other volunteers. It was a beautiful reminder of why I like to live in a city. Mexican laborers, Korean shop owners and young professionals who want to live near public transportation all converged at the Huaraches Restaurant and formed an orderly line. I was happy I missed early voting opportunities and had to participate in this first Tuesday of November public ritual.<br />
<br />
Yes, the stakes involved in this election felt huge. I was tired of the campaigning and pundit-izing and discouraged that issues like climate change never became a debate topic. I voted early, went on with my day then had a friend join me to watch the results and commentary on TV. <br />
<br />
But I don’t just love to vote on big stakes things; on political candidates or referendums. While I have never dialed in to promote my favorite balladeer on <b><i>American Idol</i></b> or voted on my preferred jive artist on <b><i>Dancing With the Stars</i></b>, I can’t seem to get enough opportunities to make my opinion count.<br />
<br />
I am the youngest in my family. Somehow it seemed that I didn’t get to weigh in with the same authority as my parents or older sisters on just about everything. It seemed like I only had half a vote on restaurants or vacation destinations or car colors. (On those few occasions when we were ready to get a new family car, I would have opted for red every time and dark green or beige usually prevailed.)<br />
<br />
Exercising my choice about anything is almost sacred to me. And that’s what voting is; exercising one’s perogative, voicing a preference, making your choice count.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I can paralyze myself with indecision. I can become afraid of making an incorrect choice. Or, recognizing that my optimal choice is not available, I’ll refuse to weigh in on the choices that are in front of me. That might be like the millions of Americans who didn’t vote in last week’s election because they couldn’t make up their minds, or because they didn’t want to wait in line, or because their favorite candidate never made it to the ballot.<br />
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Then I will remember all the choices that are in front of me, or I will remember my ability to re-choose (should I change my mind later). Moment by moment, I can re-choose how I want to present myself to the world, what I want to give my energy to, who I want to be associated with, what kinds of activities uplift me and fill me with joy. <br />
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We’re always voting. We’re continually creating our lives with our choices. Voting on anything is no small thing.<br />
Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4571325293102437314.post-4504946744536866492012-11-03T16:17:00.000-07:002012-11-18T12:08:16.516-08:00Don't Just Do Something -- Sit There!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgEUV9E4Ve4A9tgMrAzn_fsgmT4rZKdrcYSzpNo8qCatvEXGjrGByeS6IKatSZ6JKYjItuxn3S9iTLfdi0dv4eT7K5cSDGWG1ExlHYV2cfC2Jwvqo41PdKy4ErVBRcIwf5t9jThWPsDI/s1600/th_candle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzgEUV9E4Ve4A9tgMrAzn_fsgmT4rZKdrcYSzpNo8qCatvEXGjrGByeS6IKatSZ6JKYjItuxn3S9iTLfdi0dv4eT7K5cSDGWG1ExlHYV2cfC2Jwvqo41PdKy4ErVBRcIwf5t9jThWPsDI/s320/th_candle2.jpg" /></a></div>A week ago, I attended a meditation intensive. It was held in a cozy hall within a loft space only a couple miles from the tallest building in North America. I did not sit cross-legged in the shadows of a volcano in Costa Rica or next to a shrine in Gujarat. I know that deep meditation doesn’t require a passport or going on a seven-day fast. Oddly enough, it seems that sinking into the space of timelessness only requires TIME. And when you’re a busy 21st century sort of person, this kind of time seems hard to find.<br />
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From eight in the morning until almost six in the evening, I listened to some lectures, saw a video montage of spiritual masters who graced the planet last century, and chanted. I don’t know if I could describe to someone what I did for 10 hours. It probably would seem like I could not have filled 10 hours this way. Mostly, I SAT. I sat and I breathed. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? I could have cleaned my refrigerator or worked on organizing my taxes, or took in that new Phillip Seymour Hoffman movie. Somehow, I thought of the old line, “Don’t just sit there. Do something.” And here I was deliberating avoiding DOING anything except sitting. With my eyes closed, silently repeating a mantra to myself; periodically drawing my attention to the automatic in and out flow of my breath. <br />
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I didn’t have cataclysmic visions while my virtual <i>Do Not Disturb</i> sign hung on my forehead. But I was aware of odd and seemingly random thoughts passing through me. They filled me with emotion even though I could not interpret their meaning with much surety. At one point, I became aware of a thought, like hearing my own voice from some unfathomable place. It declared. “Every time you believe me, I feel my heart rising in my chest.” What was this supposed to mean? When the voice said “you,” was that supposed to mean <b><i>me</i></b>?<br />
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Like dreaming on steroids, thoughts passed through my mind, which I may normally have labeled strange, but under the intention to <i>be with what is</i> simply became metaphors begging interpretation, messages to take action on if I felt compelled to or just notions that were magically able to coexist with very different ideas I was attached to. <br />
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With my eyelids closed, I saw waves, indigo colored shapes, expanding and then retracting on the inner screen of my mind. I wondered if other people experienced the same thing in meditation then I let that thought go too. <br />
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After ten hours spent sitting in the dark, I felt the urge to try to validate how I spent the day. Did the steadiness of my breath or my mantra repetition improve? Did I get better at some important skill? What could I take from the experience that could help me meditate more often on my own? <br />
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In retrospect, I might say that the act of surrendering to whatever is represents a special gift regardless of what happens while in this state. At one level, I may have longed to have visions or hear voices during my daylong meditation intensive, but at some level I understand that prayers need not be answered with a thunderbolt as punctuation the moment they’re formed. <br />
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Simply taking a whole day to be quiet, to be with myself and look inward, to remind myself that I exist within timelessness and have a life beyond my activities – is incredibly meaningful. <br />
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Sitting still, without feeling a need to act, content with your wholeness, is no small thing.<br />
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Deborah Hawkinshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13053177207999534223noreply@blogger.com0