Author Elizabeth Berg wrote: "Most writers, by nature, need a lot of time by themselves. It's important to write alone, at least some of the time, but I think it's important for us to be alone a fair amount of the time, too. Then we can often get rid of a kind of internal scorecard that makes us compare ourselves to others, and that makes us do things according to the way we think others would have us do them. We need the chance to draw from our own unique selves, to act according to our own beliefs, without any interference from others. I believe that solitude, perhaps more than anything, breeds creativity, breeds originality."
It's been hard for my friends to accept that I may just want to be alone, by myself, for a while. Some of them question where I plan to live when I make the move, what I plan to do. "Won't you get bored? Won't you miss working?" they ask me. By "working" they mean wearing a suit and going to an office every day from 9 to 5. When I tell them I plan to write full time, I usually hear an "Oh..." or sometimes, nothing. Some of them refer to my career in sales and exclaim "But you're sooo good at iiiiiit!" with a slight whine the way my daughter gets in the Barbie aisle at the local pharmacy. I thank them with a smile and explain how I've always wanted to write and what better time then now. I think some worry that they may not have known me at all.
The truth is, they do know me but they only know a side of me. Then there are others out there, in cities and continents far far away, who know me very differently, more wholly. (Some of these people have been mulling over the idea of solitude themselves recently.) These are the people with whom I can be alone, myself. And that's a compliment.
"Solitude is a beautiful thing, but you need someone to tell you that solitude is a beautiful thing." -- Honoré de Balzac
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Manhattan Storage Has Its Benefits
Exactly five years ago, just about now, I settled into bed wondering if I would actually get any sleep that night. I had spent the entire day doing laundry, folding an overwhelming amount of onesies, blankets, burp cloths and other baby paraphernalia, in preparation for the birth of my first child. Between sporadic contractions (which I hid from my mother who was visiting), I would urge my husband to dig the car out "just one more time" as the Blizzard of 2003 pummeled our Hudson River-front street in downtown New York.
At 12:35 am on February 18th my eyes burst open with the pain of the first real contraction. That's when I realized I had actually fallen asleep. My daughter was born much later that morning at Mount Sinai Hospital.
Right after her first birthday, this is what I wrote:
"I used to read a book a week. I'm not talking about chick lit, but serious books on the plight of gypsies or women’s lives in the Middle East. I used to take classes after work. Classes in photography, Spanish, ballroom dancing; all in the name of personal growth. I used to watch long-subject documentaries at Lincoln Center and wait in line for hours to snag last minute tickets to the latest Broadway shows; again all in the name of personal growth.
My mind grew over the years. From sharing a converted one bedroom in Manhattan to an alcove studio in Brooklyn and back to Manhattan for married bliss, the space I occupied in this world grew as well. I continued pursuing the pleasures of living in New York, now with a husband, and chased personal growth through wine-tastings on the North Fork, cooking classes at the Institute and pottery nights at Our Name is Mud.
A few short years after I got married my body started growing, so I stopped doing all these things. When my daughter finally arrived during the Blizzard of 2003, my heart was the biggest organ in my body. It ached with its bigness.
The first year of Maya’s life has ultimately been the pivotal learning experience of my thirty years. An entire year dedicated to one project and one project alone. I couldn’t have imagined what a life-altering experience it would be and that I would grow so much."
Finding reflective treasures in stored-away boxes is absolutely the best part of moving. When every square inch you pack has to travel across the Atlantic and cross an entire continent to get to your new house, you make sure what you're bringing with you belongs on the must-have list. You go through every single box thoroughly, even if it means that you will get sucked into letters, diaries, start organizing photos, sifting through saved magazines, newspaper articles. Finding the time to get lost in the past is a luxury I decided I must afford. Friends with whom I haven't kept in touch will suddenly start hearing from me.
Just yesterday, I was able to gift a poem written in 1991 to a friend who just turned 34. It was a poem she had written when she was 17 years old, hidden away in one of my journals from high school. It put a smile on both of our faces, brought gentle tears to our eyes. Being able to recapture youth, a youth well-lived, is divine. Life is beautiful!
At 12:35 am on February 18th my eyes burst open with the pain of the first real contraction. That's when I realized I had actually fallen asleep. My daughter was born much later that morning at Mount Sinai Hospital.
Right after her first birthday, this is what I wrote:
"I used to read a book a week. I'm not talking about chick lit, but serious books on the plight of gypsies or women’s lives in the Middle East. I used to take classes after work. Classes in photography, Spanish, ballroom dancing; all in the name of personal growth. I used to watch long-subject documentaries at Lincoln Center and wait in line for hours to snag last minute tickets to the latest Broadway shows; again all in the name of personal growth.
My mind grew over the years. From sharing a converted one bedroom in Manhattan to an alcove studio in Brooklyn and back to Manhattan for married bliss, the space I occupied in this world grew as well. I continued pursuing the pleasures of living in New York, now with a husband, and chased personal growth through wine-tastings on the North Fork, cooking classes at the Institute and pottery nights at Our Name is Mud.
A few short years after I got married my body started growing, so I stopped doing all these things. When my daughter finally arrived during the Blizzard of 2003, my heart was the biggest organ in my body. It ached with its bigness.
The first year of Maya’s life has ultimately been the pivotal learning experience of my thirty years. An entire year dedicated to one project and one project alone. I couldn’t have imagined what a life-altering experience it would be and that I would grow so much."
Finding reflective treasures in stored-away boxes is absolutely the best part of moving. When every square inch you pack has to travel across the Atlantic and cross an entire continent to get to your new house, you make sure what you're bringing with you belongs on the must-have list. You go through every single box thoroughly, even if it means that you will get sucked into letters, diaries, start organizing photos, sifting through saved magazines, newspaper articles. Finding the time to get lost in the past is a luxury I decided I must afford. Friends with whom I haven't kept in touch will suddenly start hearing from me.
Just yesterday, I was able to gift a poem written in 1991 to a friend who just turned 34. It was a poem she had written when she was 17 years old, hidden away in one of my journals from high school. It put a smile on both of our faces, brought gentle tears to our eyes. Being able to recapture youth, a youth well-lived, is divine. Life is beautiful!
Monday, February 11, 2008
The New Me
The title for the previous post was "Quitting the Rat Race." I wrote it last night, quickly titled and posted before I went to bed. Somehow all day long today, it kept gnawing at me. The title didn't feel right. "Trading Up" kept popping up in my head, a nod to the title of a book I recently had to read for work. The former seemed out of place, somewhat cliche. The latter fit, it was perfect. I vowed to change it as soon as I could, even though I knew I should follow Hearst's widely quoted publishing mantra: "Don't be afraid to make a mistake, your readers might like it."
I'm always looking for perfection and always in secret as I'm somewhat embarassed by the whole obsessive compulsive behavior. Last year I had the privilege of working with a talented business coach. Within a few minutes into our session, I remember blurting "I'm afraid of failing." And when Terry asked me "What would happen if you made a mistake?" I burst into tears. We weren't even talking about my marriage.
Confession #5: I'm morbidly afraid of making mistakes.
About a year ago, when asked "How would you like to be managed?" in a job interview, I answered "I don't like to be embarassed." The assurance I gave, that I would always be over-prepared for every business situation in order to avoid embarassing oversights or mistakes, got me the job.
In fact, I don't think I would be married today, if my darling husband hadn't whispered, "What's the big deal? If it doesn't work out, we'll get a divorce," in order to calm my paralyzing nerves minutes before we walked into the restaurant where we were to get married in front of a close group of friends and family.
Well, that is the old me. The new me would have eloped to Vegas the day he serenaded me with Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling In Love" at a local karaoke bar in Brooklyn shortly after our first kiss.
I know the obsession over the title of a post is not a promising start. Nevertheless, my desire to teach my daughter to take chances and not be afraid to make mistakes trumps any insecurities I might have been carrying around since childhood. She makes me want to be a better woman.
Confession #6: While sorting through old files yesterday, I shredded the one-page divorce decree I've carried around since 1989. I don't think my mother ever knew that I had a copy of it. In it, the judge ordered the dissolution of my parents' marriage, sighting irreconcilable differences. I now know it was more complicated than that.
I'm always looking for perfection and always in secret as I'm somewhat embarassed by the whole obsessive compulsive behavior. Last year I had the privilege of working with a talented business coach. Within a few minutes into our session, I remember blurting "I'm afraid of failing." And when Terry asked me "What would happen if you made a mistake?" I burst into tears. We weren't even talking about my marriage.
Confession #5: I'm morbidly afraid of making mistakes.
About a year ago, when asked "How would you like to be managed?" in a job interview, I answered "I don't like to be embarassed." The assurance I gave, that I would always be over-prepared for every business situation in order to avoid embarassing oversights or mistakes, got me the job.
In fact, I don't think I would be married today, if my darling husband hadn't whispered, "What's the big deal? If it doesn't work out, we'll get a divorce," in order to calm my paralyzing nerves minutes before we walked into the restaurant where we were to get married in front of a close group of friends and family.
Well, that is the old me. The new me would have eloped to Vegas the day he serenaded me with Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling In Love" at a local karaoke bar in Brooklyn shortly after our first kiss.
I know the obsession over the title of a post is not a promising start. Nevertheless, my desire to teach my daughter to take chances and not be afraid to make mistakes trumps any insecurities I might have been carrying around since childhood. She makes me want to be a better woman.
Confession #6: While sorting through old files yesterday, I shredded the one-page divorce decree I've carried around since 1989. I don't think my mother ever knew that I had a copy of it. In it, the judge ordered the dissolution of my parents' marriage, sighting irreconcilable differences. I now know it was more complicated than that.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Trading Up
I baked my first Splendaful banana bread today. All I had to do was replace a cup of sugar with a cup of Splenda. It was that easy -- a smile-inducing solution to my move-ready kitchen's shortcomings. The banana bread itself was another solution to rotting bananas that I didn't want to waste. And rotting bananas the result of a fruit-phobic nanny who conveniently forgets to administer the daily servings as instructed.
The rotting bananas, along with the dustbunnies under the couch and the oil splatters on the stove will soon become my responsibility. I will trade in my business cards for recipe cards, hopefully learning to live a fully-engaged, somewhat green, and a much-needed slow life in the process.
I was still single, almost ten years ago, when I received what I now believe was the best parenting advice. One of my co-workers, who had an 18-month old daughter, was marveling at how long it took to walk to the corner deli with a toddler in tow. She was reminiscing about how they had to stop and look at every crack on the sidewalk, every stain on the walls, every flower sprouted beside a tree. Her daughter would pause and stare at every passerby, chirping a shrill "Hi!" on occasion, only to get distracted by the next crack on the sidewalk or a doorman in uniform. When I asked her if the whole thing didn't drive her crazy, she shrugged with a wide smile and said, "My weekends are so much better now that I live them through her eyes. I'd rather take 20 minutes to walk to the deli than miss out on all this. It's worth the investment!"
The rotting bananas, along with the dustbunnies under the couch and the oil splatters on the stove will soon become my responsibility. I will trade in my business cards for recipe cards, hopefully learning to live a fully-engaged, somewhat green, and a much-needed slow life in the process.
I was still single, almost ten years ago, when I received what I now believe was the best parenting advice. One of my co-workers, who had an 18-month old daughter, was marveling at how long it took to walk to the corner deli with a toddler in tow. She was reminiscing about how they had to stop and look at every crack on the sidewalk, every stain on the walls, every flower sprouted beside a tree. Her daughter would pause and stare at every passerby, chirping a shrill "Hi!" on occasion, only to get distracted by the next crack on the sidewalk or a doorman in uniform. When I asked her if the whole thing didn't drive her crazy, she shrugged with a wide smile and said, "My weekends are so much better now that I live them through her eyes. I'd rather take 20 minutes to walk to the deli than miss out on all this. It's worth the investment!"
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Addicted to Breaking News
I face my computer ninety percent of the time while I'm at work. With three active email accounts to check, two blogs to maintain, countless work-related forms to fill, it's a miracle that I'm still employed as an account director whose main responsibility is to talk to potential customers IN PERSON to prove our's is bigger and better than the other guy's. Most days I can barely do my job because I spend my entire day in front of the computer.
How did this happen? When has spending eight hours or more in front of the computer every day become routine and acceptable? When? Why? Is this how an addict realizes, perhaps in rehab, that at one point she lost control of her life?
In addition to my work email, I sign in and out of Hotmail and Gmail all day long, looking for the latest newsletters, friends' updates, Facebook messages and breaking news alerts. As if that's not enough, I glance at the culled news when I sign in to my Gmail homepage and when I sign out of Hotmail. I shouldn't care if "Stars shone during Fashion Week," or "If Election lives up to hype," but I do and I click and I read. A few paragraphs later I come to and quit Internet Explorer and go back to Outlook. I read emails, archive emails, delete emails, download attachments, forward documents, update my calendar, add a new contact. All day long, this is what I do.
What the hell!
How did this happen? When has spending eight hours or more in front of the computer every day become routine and acceptable? When? Why? Is this how an addict realizes, perhaps in rehab, that at one point she lost control of her life?
In addition to my work email, I sign in and out of Hotmail and Gmail all day long, looking for the latest newsletters, friends' updates, Facebook messages and breaking news alerts. As if that's not enough, I glance at the culled news when I sign in to my Gmail homepage and when I sign out of Hotmail. I shouldn't care if "Stars shone during Fashion Week," or "If Election lives up to hype," but I do and I click and I read. A few paragraphs later I come to and quit Internet Explorer and go back to Outlook. I read emails, archive emails, delete emails, download attachments, forward documents, update my calendar, add a new contact. All day long, this is what I do.
What the hell!
Monday, February 4, 2008
This MVP Floats a Regal Tackle of Another Kind: Books
I briefly attended an impromptu Super Bowl party tonight. Shortly after the game started, the men quickly rallied around the flat-screen with their food and beer, while the women congregated in the kitchen, as always, sniffing the milk carton mid-conversation before filling up the baby's bottle or carelessly puncturing tops of juice boxes with the accompanying straws. Once in a while the women would poke their heads out to peak at the game or referee the latest squabble among the preschoolers abound, trying to prevent the inevitable "It's past my bedtime but I will not go to bed!" meltdown.
I could barely pay attention. All I could think about, as I walked around the apartment with a glass of wine in hand, was how I had to repack the twenty-something boxes of books I had taped up the night before. All because I had a major realization today: I really do want to make a fresh start. And, unfortunately, no dictionary meaning of "fresh start" includes twenty-something Fresh Direct boxes of used books.
What I envision when I make the move, is a clutter-free home that's easy to keep clean and free of adornation that suffocates. Instead, I'd like a clean and practical home that will allow me to travel freely and return to comfort, not dusting; one where you can clearly see yourself and be yourself and not get lost in a swallowing swamp of things. A house that's a simple background to all the love that will decorate it.
Unfortunately the biggest obstacle between me and this imagined haven is printed matter. The amount of books, photos, magazines, notebooks, journals, postcards, letters and binders filled with even more paper I've collected in the past fifteen years is, on one hand, awe-inspiring. I remember where and how I came to own each piece, how much of it I read or used, what it means to me. On the other hand, this haphazard collection feels like an insurmountable mountain of clutter.
I've been going through it for over a month now and today I realized that I got it all wrong. Although I've been able to gift, donate or sell a good chunk of the books and magazines in the past couple of weeks, I wasn't happy with the quantity of boxes I was amassing in my bedroom. Today, with help from an impartial friend, I broke the seal. I had to change the question I was asking from "why do I want to keep this book?" to "will I ever read this book again?" and "if I had to reference anything contained in this book, could I find it online?"
So I chucked my beloved Dictionary of Financial Terms and a couple of cook books with never-cracked spines. Many will-never-be-read-again novels found their way into the donation box, joined by will-never-read books on obscure periods in history. Zen Habits' Leo Babuata says that we often keep books as trophies or mounted animal heads to show how much we've read and how smart we are. I decided that I have too much of just plain old life to tackle ahead of me. I have to let go of a Netflix-like library that stresses me out.
The Giants won while I was sorting. I could care less so I watched the latest episode of The Biggest Loser instead, hoping to multitask some inspiration in order to lose the last twenty pounds of "baby weight" before I make the move.
Confession #3: I haven't been to the gym in six months, minus a fifteen-minute session on my friend's eliptical trainer over Christmas weekend.
Confession #4: Many inscribed books met their maker today as I made my way through what's left of the library. Two of them were given to me by my husband and beautifully signed. Sorry honey, I figured you'd prefer the clutter-free paradise I vow to build when we meet again.
I could barely pay attention. All I could think about, as I walked around the apartment with a glass of wine in hand, was how I had to repack the twenty-something boxes of books I had taped up the night before. All because I had a major realization today: I really do want to make a fresh start. And, unfortunately, no dictionary meaning of "fresh start" includes twenty-something Fresh Direct boxes of used books.
What I envision when I make the move, is a clutter-free home that's easy to keep clean and free of adornation that suffocates. Instead, I'd like a clean and practical home that will allow me to travel freely and return to comfort, not dusting; one where you can clearly see yourself and be yourself and not get lost in a swallowing swamp of things. A house that's a simple background to all the love that will decorate it.
Unfortunately the biggest obstacle between me and this imagined haven is printed matter. The amount of books, photos, magazines, notebooks, journals, postcards, letters and binders filled with even more paper I've collected in the past fifteen years is, on one hand, awe-inspiring. I remember where and how I came to own each piece, how much of it I read or used, what it means to me. On the other hand, this haphazard collection feels like an insurmountable mountain of clutter.
I've been going through it for over a month now and today I realized that I got it all wrong. Although I've been able to gift, donate or sell a good chunk of the books and magazines in the past couple of weeks, I wasn't happy with the quantity of boxes I was amassing in my bedroom. Today, with help from an impartial friend, I broke the seal. I had to change the question I was asking from "why do I want to keep this book?" to "will I ever read this book again?" and "if I had to reference anything contained in this book, could I find it online?"
So I chucked my beloved Dictionary of Financial Terms and a couple of cook books with never-cracked spines. Many will-never-be-read-again novels found their way into the donation box, joined by will-never-read books on obscure periods in history. Zen Habits' Leo Babuata says that we often keep books as trophies or mounted animal heads to show how much we've read and how smart we are. I decided that I have too much of just plain old life to tackle ahead of me. I have to let go of a Netflix-like library that stresses me out.
The Giants won while I was sorting. I could care less so I watched the latest episode of The Biggest Loser instead, hoping to multitask some inspiration in order to lose the last twenty pounds of "baby weight" before I make the move.
Confession #3: I haven't been to the gym in six months, minus a fifteen-minute session on my friend's eliptical trainer over Christmas weekend.
Confession #4: Many inscribed books met their maker today as I made my way through what's left of the library. Two of them were given to me by my husband and beautifully signed. Sorry honey, I figured you'd prefer the clutter-free paradise I vow to build when we meet again.
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