Have you ever been “on” for a job, project, or event, and while engaging with your audience (of one or many) realize you are on fire? I don’t mean the accidental, literal, “oh shit my shirt caught on fire! Help! I’m going to die!” kind of realization, but the sort that invites you to recognize, in delightful albeit brief, fleeting moments of pure presence, there is a sort of combustion going on, of magnificent, sparking energy between your mind (your knowledge), your body (the way you move and interact) and the other participants. And although you were perhaps a bit worried (in some other chemically unpleasant place different from the fabulous fire site) while waiting to go on/in/up, you now notice you are on some mind-blowing auto-pilot, where all your bullet points and plans simply vanish into the thin air, as the magic takes over and you hear yourself think: I got this. I love this. Shit, I’m on fire!
The other night as I was speaking at an annual film festival at a local college, this happened to me, and it was almost, dear I say, an out of body experience. These are clearly other chemicals at work now (yay, yummy ones: endorphins!) than the pre-show worry ones, and the lingering feeling of euphoria for hours later is truly something to behold. It’s the same high that happens when I teach a really good class. I realize that the precious present (the now and thegift) of that dynamite moment is all about connecting with others, and what a marvelous experience it is when you know you’ve managed to connect. The associations of bright light, heat, and smoke that the state of being on fire necessarily brings are of course not actually real, but in their own right practically palpable. When your inner world successfully connects with the outer world around you, there’s all that. Schwing.
My elixir might be just this. All the reading, research, thinking and planning I do on topics that interest me is my alchemy, where I am the practitioner of a kind of transformation of matter – but theoretical matter, to convert it into a magical potion. And when I am able to share this offering, in all its fully present enthusiasm, life and work makes a lot of sense, because it feels right.
The greatest challenge for a writer can be just getting her rear in the chair. And staying there. Without letting herself be distracted by all sorts of easy, at the fingertips fun stuff, like Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or even emails. Anything else but hunkering down and getting to work on the current project at hand, or worse yet, the new project.
Heck, I’ll even joyfully empty the dishwasher, fold laundry or pay bills rather than get my butt in the chair, unplug, and simply write. It’s a common malady.
Today I woke up and decided to begin – again – to take my vocation more seriously. I love Mondays for this reason, they make me feel like the whole world is in on helping me rally to get a new start. The saying “onward and forward!” has more oomph to it on a Monday morning. Somehow.
After a shower, a healthy breakfast, I resolve to get my yoga mat from my car to do some stretches during the day when I need a break. Not open Facebook, not begin the emailing craze; the emails certainly don’t go anywhere. I light the tea light nestled in my favorite small Gustav Klimt glass holder and place it on my desk next to my computer. I think of my writer friend in Paris who with the same candle flickering next to her, urges me on: “Write!” she tells me, “write all those stories you have inside you!”
On my way to the bathroom to dry my hair I gather up weeks worth of NYTimes Book Reviews, and decide to stop reading about books, and instead read more books, and write more stories.
And then, finally, I sit down and think, “Here I am. Let the faucet open” as my fingers run over the keyboard.
Happiness is serious business. Last week in Norway, eating fermented trout and tasting various micro-brewed organic beers with good friends; definitely high happy factor here. This week in the US, dealing with my teen’s suspended driver’s license, and the debacle of practical and emotional issues surrounding this lovely event; not very happy, no.
The International Day of Happiness, established by the United Nations General Assembly (why so serious?) in 2012, is a day celebrated annually on March 20th (I say mark your calendar!). This got me thinking about how many people generally are not happy, since the world needs ONE specific day to remind us to that “the pursuit of happiness is a fundamental human goal.” Also, I think of all the people who have “grouchy” as their modus operandi – as their habit –or who just tend to focus on the bad around them and in them, instead of the good. How much I dislike meeting folks like that.
Then I realize that sometimes, just some of the time, when I momentarily have a lapse, that’s me. Argh…
What is happiness? What does it mean to feel happy? According to the website This Emotional Life, happiness is “thought of as the good life, freedom from suffering, flourishing, well-being, joy, prosperity, and pleasure.” Oh boy, do I have abundant happiness in my life. And good reasons to be happy.
Realizing how many sad souls around the world have few reasons to be happy on a daily basis, yet find it in themselves, I hear myself sigh. I see them sing, smile and dance in the various videos posted from around the world on International Happiness Day.
Happiness is serious business. I say, make it yours.
Create your own happiness by making someone else happy. But don’t wait until next year!
Here I am, sitting by the gate about to board the plane to Oslo from New York, enjoying a Godiva chocolate, making some last minute phone calls and feeling good about traveling light.
Next to me is a mother giving her small son an infusion – it appears from his baldness he may have cancer or a significant medical condition- and it knocks the breath out of me. Keeping her hands busy with tubes and clips, she smiles, chats with who might be her husband, and the little boy starts to sing. He plays with his truck.
I swallow the sweetness of the luxurious chocolate. Think of my three healthy teenage sons, whose early childhoods knew only typical growing pains and the occasional run to the ER for a stitch or three.
A deep surge of gratitude and humility makes me feel strangely present in my body, anchored in a material reality of the seat by the gate, but also in the gift of this suspended moment in time.
The rows of my seat are called to board, and I fish out the little card from my wallet with the Jewish traditional travel prayer. I whisper it to myself. That the boy, his family, and I should reach our destination in life, joy and peace.
When was the last time you considered a galosh? Well, I have a good one for you. I’ll never again dismiss this strange looking rubbery thingy one might think was solely created for dandies who can’t take on a puddle or some mud like a man. Oh no, not me. I recently had a chance encounter with a glorious galosh.
What a fabulous way to start a day: with a robust hour walk in my neighborhood park on a crisp, cool winter morning, the sky’s blue and I’m feelin’ good. Until the entire sole of my left Nike hiking boot just peels all the way back and disengages from my boot, leaving me limping and cursing and wondering how on earth I was going to make the mile walk home.
My initial reaction was to prompt myself to act like a survivalist, thinking: “I can handle this, be creative! Tie up the boot sole with some..(looking around the park surroundings) — vine, or, or,…snow?” as I frantically searched my pockets for that pice of string or elastic I always seem to find floating around when I don’t need it.
Nothing.
Instead, I started pathetically limping and inching my way toward the main entrance of the park, scheming what I’d do when I made it to the Pond House Café, the park jewel, about 200 yards in, where I would ask for some duct tape or string.
And there, in the snow bank, like manna from heaven, I noticed something black and rubbery, whose shape I vaguely recognized as that of a good old fashioned galosh. I looked at it in disbelief. I had to restrain myself from not looking heavenward. A nifty, waterproof, shoe-covering device, available, just for me!? Just now? Really? And the amazing thing was, it fit, although it was the wrong foot. This is no small feat (read feet if you must) as I also go by the endearing, lady like name of Bigfoot (thanks dad).
I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I gingerly, sort of, clunked my way home with my broken hiking boot safely nestled into the glorious galosh. Later that night over dinner, telling my sons about the importance of never underestimating the value of the chance encounters life presents you with – even with inanimate objects – my youngest son blurts out: “Wait, where did you find the galosh? I put it there the other day when I was sledding with my friends. I saw something black sticking up in the snow, and I pulled it out, and left it on the top of the snow pile in case somebody was looking for it.”
Indeed, somebody was looking for it; or perhaps it was looking for somebody. And it turned out to be me, this time. The lost object my son randomly had found one week before me, touched and thought about, became the glorious galosh that saved my walk, and made me smile. Twice.
It takes a good friend to tell you the truth, even if she knows it might sting. One morning Anne said to me “I love your blog and reading your stories, but the problem is I often open them and begin to read, only to realize I don’t have time to finish. They are a little long.” She has a full life – kids, job, dogs, home, pet rats – you know, the usual.
So, because I don’t just write to humor myself, I decided to take the challenge: write shorter posts (some of the time) so that readers dealing with lives interrupted (like most of us do…) might read them too.
I am happy to announce the opening of The Viking Jewess “Express Window” – a place to stop by for a quicker read; curiosities from an ex-pat’s observations in life with the same wit, edge and insight you enjoy in the longer stories, but here they’re short and sweet.
Those who know me, appreciate how revolutionary it will be for me to execute the less is more dictum; it may breed some renegade and subversive writing, which could be an adventure onto itself.
Hemingway’s Four Famous Tips on Writing will come in handy here:
1. Use short sentences. (Ha ha!!!)
2. Use short first paragraphs. (Check.)
3. Use vigorous English. (A work in progress, eternally…)
4. Be positive, not negative. (Shit, really!?)
In 1934, he also confided to F. Scott Fitzgerald: “I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit,…I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”
Just keeping things in perspective here.
So, next time you’re online, stop by the Express Window for 300 words or less.
Miracles do happen. Every day. Some big, some small, and some matter more to us than others. Last night it was announced that my town’s only family owned kosher market, The Crown, will be saved by the valiant efforts of local investors with a heart. This means that my friend who’s moving back north from Florida will be able to have her much craved for famous Crown tuna salad again, my boys can still have their yummy bagels, and I can still kibbetz (chat) with some of my all-time favorite store folks. Phew.
Once I got over the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) – which all happened within a turbulent period of a couple of days – I was exhausted, but I had a feeling something good was going to come of this. It was too good of a place, too meaningful of a thing, to just vanish into thin air.
As they used to say in France when they still had monarchy:
“The king is dead. Long live the king!”
We’ll just replace king with The Crown. Totally works.
So, now that this roller coaster ride is over, or at least that part of it, let’s board the radio-car ride, because it’s time for the ideas to be bounced around to find the best operating solution for the Crown to move forward in good, robust health.
I raise my cup of tea with honey to The Crown’s future health!
L’chaim l’Crown! – To the Crown’s life!
On this lovely occasion, some might get nostalgic with this one: “If only you believe in miracles, like I believe, we’d get by…”
Over the weekend I busted my vocal cords from hollering and yelling so much at my son’s wrestling tournament, I lost my voice. While I’m slightly aware this is just one of those subtle messages from I don’t know where telling me to shut up, talk less and instead sit my butt down and write more, I’m feeling sick – and therefore de facto homesick. So, before I go to take a nap, what does any self respecting Norwegian ex-pat do but rummage the fridge and pantry for some Norwegian food, any Norwegian food. And here’s what I found:
My childhood favorite: Mill’s Kaviar. When schmeared on some crackers, or, ideally, on the crispy Wasa bread, paired with a crisp, full-bodied glass of…milk, it hits the spot. This caviar is basically a mix of smoked cod roe with mayo that you squeeze out of a tube, and about as glamorous in Norwegian culture as the PB&J is in the US.
It was fun when the kids were young and at play dates would request a sandwich with “some caviar, please!” for lunch, to the baffled look and raised eyebrows of the host mom. That’s right, serve my kid up some CAVIAR! Or not. The quickly learned the difference of what to ask for away and what they might find at home.
Now, when they come home from a bad day and need some comfort food, they ask if we can have risengrynsgrøt (hot rice porridge) for dinner. As the obliging Viking mamma that I am, I make sure the pantry is well stocked, but these days it’s their turn to do the cooking.
Haven’t you also had that uncanny experience when all the red lights turn red, as you drive through town from point A to point B, and you can’t help but wonder, “is this for real? Why is it that I am getting ALL the red lights on this brief, innocent journey of mine?” Of course, this usually will happen if you are short on time and that annoyingly predictable and rhythmic wave of green-orange-red tries to patronizingly remind you if its importance and social standing (much higher than yours, and with the law in its back), while you might feel your heart rate accelerate inversely proportionate to your car decelerating, and you hear yourself quietly mumble obscenities under your breath. Or perhaps that’s just me.
This morning, however, I had a delightful red light experience. I’m out driving at the ungodly hour of 6:20am, taking my youngest son and his car pool to their high school to catch the team bus for their all day State’s wrestling tournament. This is the kind of serfdom parents of high school athletes are reduced to, but ok, it was a beautiful morning…and I love my son, and I have even come to be fond of his teammates too. A lovely bunch, really. The roads are peaceful and almost empty of cars, and as the sun is just rising in the east, peeking up through the buildings of downtown Hartford spreading a soft pink light in our direction to the west, the boys silently greet each other while settling in the back seat as they are sleepily recovering from last night’s first round at the tourney, anxious about the day’s next round of eliminations, but already dreaming of the end of the season when they can again resume what teenage boys do best: sleep past noon, eat junk and have time to chase girls.
A quick drive ahead is expected, once all the four boys are collected. While we stop on the way at the local bagel shop where they want to stock up on snacks for the day, I put my head back on the headrest and reach for the radio dial and turn on NPR, the public radio station. I am happy to discover that the Irish author Roddy Doyle is being interviewed about his latest novel The Guts, which I had just bought a couple of weeks ago, and had already giddily made my way into the first couple of chapters. The reason I had ordered the book in the first place, was because when I recently heard it reviewed on the same radio station, the critic had been quite impressed by Doyle’s knack at writing dynamic dialogue, and this is something I am curious learning more about. So I thought, why not learn from a current champ. I didn’t care that the youthful wrestlers took their good old time getting their chow orders filled inside, because I was in no rush and more than happy to quietly sit like this, seat warmers up and running, my ears being graced by the charming Irish accent of Mr. Doyle elaborating on his artistic choices, character development and authorship.
To the boys’ dismay I am not willing to switch to their iPhone music once they re-enter the vehicle in order to listen to their choice of hip and pulsating EDM (Electronic Dance Music), because I don’t want to miss any of the literary goodies. After all, a driving serf has to stand up for her rights, for this job has no union. Boys safely deposited at the school grounds, I pull back out onto Main Street, and begin what is normally a quick cruise home. I’m guessing about 8-10 lights between the end of the school driveway and my house, and when things go smoothly, when the stars are aligned, it’s a trip completed lickedy-split. But not this morning: oh, no. Every single light at each intersection turned red as I approached. By the third or fourth light, I began to notice; by the sixth or seventh, I was smiling incredulously; and by the ninth or tenth I had a sense of divine intervention, or a beshert or something meant to be. Because this delicious early morning string of delays, which under normal circumstances would have made me antsy and cynical, was instead creating a space where I could unhurriedly enjoy the treat of listening to the fascinating radio program.
The wave of turning lights was like a symphony played under the direction of the most ingenious maestro; or a film sequence where the carefully directed domino effect of a beautiful action scene is shown in slow motion, perfectly timed, and filmed with an eye for the poetic evocative powers of cinema well done; it was like reeds bending and rolling in the wind reminding man about the importance of flexibility and movement in a life where if we remain static and rigid we might break. Absent were the normal distractions of other cars, buses, pedestrians, and noises of your typical busy day, and with just myself, the red lights and the radio it was as if I existed in a tunnel of delight; my own private universe somehow created just for my enjoyment and my noticing at this particular point in time. I relished the realization that I probably would not reach home before the program came to an end, and sure enough, just as I turned onto my street, Bob Edwards wrapped up his interview, while the sun, now shedding a more golden warm light a bit higher over the horizon than it did half an hour ago when this morning’s journey had begun, seemed to remind me that with each new day comes new possibilities: perhaps the option of seeing the sometimes inevitable wave of green-orange-red in a new light.
I am not liking the news I’m reading on Facebook and in the newspaper, and hoping it’s a bad dream. Please don’t tell me The Crown Market – our one and only old time family owned kosher grocery store – has decided to close the doors for good without reaching out to the community, without going with a fanfare; with the same gusto, love and attention to our community and the long relationships we have build over generations…
Please tell me that all that – all our history and the meaningfulness and importance of it – was not just an illusion? We all know it’s been difficult for the Crown these past few years, with the increasingly tough and heartless competition from corporate America creeping closer and closer for each year; I admit I personally loathe the chirpiness of those in our community who were excitedly running to the Wal-Mart “Neighborhood Market” (what a farce!) to buy “cheaper kosher cheese and meat” – yeah! to your blind support of corporate America at the cost of supporting our local treasures. Morons.
But dear Crown: don’t forget all the hundreds of families who have stubbornly stood by our favorite market, even if we knew it might mean we paid a few cents or dollars extra for this or for that. It was our pleasure. And we would continue to do it. Because you have been our hands down favorite grocer, and your professional, wonderful, caring, warm and endearing Market staff, from the bottom and all the way up the ladder, feels like an extended family, no wait a minute, part of MY REAL community. “How are the boys, Nina?” “How’s your dad, doing?” “When is your mom coming for a visit next?” My Norwegian parents loved to come along for a shop at the Crown, becasue this was what they knew the old time America was supposed to be like. Charming, friendly, service minded. Try taking them to Wal-Mart for that experience. Bevakasha – you’re welcome. Yuck.
It seems we all – the long time Crown employees, as well as all the Crown’s faithful customers – deserve to be able to say thank you and good bye to each other in a dignified and positive manner. Would it not be a great thing to be able to reminisce about a memorable and worthy closing event? Even though the recent heads up has felt shocking to most people who are not insiders at the Crown (unfortunately, I’ve heard that even for some employees, this is a surprise), if it’s not an outright surprise, it IS very, very sad. All day yesterday I felt as if I heard the news somebody I loved and cared for was dying. But for real. And what’s up with that? I drank wine again in the middle of week, even though I haven’t for a long time, in a concerted effort to lose weight and be healthier. But last night, I felt the unstoppable urge of a looming depression. Sadness and powerlessness over an impending cloud of inevitable loss.
The Crown leadership, and we, should seize AND create an opportunity for a community outpouring, and if there really is no way to SAVE THE CROWN (see Colin McEnroe’s clever idea here: How to Save the Crown) they all deserve a chance for kind farewells from all the people for whom the Crown has been a meeting point of our daily lives, shared stories, from the casual or hurried “how are yous,” to those sometimes unavoidable longer lingerings in the isles or over the meat counter, where one could hear, perhaps, the whispered secrets of a neighbor’s relationship advice, or reminders of the critical ingredient in that unforgettable chicken soup you had last month at the Feinbergs. And sometimes even of tears of joy or of sadness.
I try to imagine getting ready for Shabbat, this coming Shabbat, and the one after, and for the rest of my life in West Hartford, without a run to the Crown. It will be like re-training my muscle memory, much like it was so difficult to change my habits of thinking and planning and caring when my dogs died after 14 years of life together, or after I got divorced, after 22 years. I imagine empty nesters go through the same emotional re-training. New thinking patterns, new habits. It will take time to not have the Crown “right there” in the frontal lobe. I try to imagine not seeing the employees anymore that I enjoy running into and bantering with. I shiver at the idea of having to one day see the Crown store as an empty, cavernous space, as the inventory is plucked away and the eventual “refurbishing” begins…
In the meantime, I’m going to make every effort to do some squatting there in the days to come, so that I can say thank you for your service, for your smiles, for caring if my eggs are broken or if you have gotten the specific brand of sauce I requested. Thank you for being a store that reinforced my feeling of being Jewish, by being closed when all the other stores refuse to set boundaries between that which is sanctified and that which is not. 24-7, come on. Who needs it. I hope everyone will join me in the opportunity to gratefully and gracefully be part of, in a way, the closing of the Crown, so dignified as it is in its long and memorable existence in and service to our community. Here in MY Jewish American life.
Let’s create our own “sanctified space” in the next few precious days or weeks that the Crown’s doors remain open, to be thankful, show our appreciation in any way we can, and celebrate the future; because we must keep believing in good things and in a process of change, and in the eventual need of moving on when the time has come.
The Viking Jewess: a curiosity blog 