An Open Letter to Chipotle

Just two of my kids enjoying your fine cuisine.  These two aren't even the messiest.

Dear Chipotle,

First of all, I need to thank you.  Eight years ago, after completing my first half marathon, I sunk my teeth into my first burrito and it was love at first bite.  You became my very favorite post-race beast feast spot.  With my running days on temporary hiatus I’ve pared down to a burrito bowl, but still nothing beats your cilantro lime rice.  And you, dear Chipotle, are the only fast food establishment that my husband and I can agree on.  This is no small feat.  You’ve saved our marriage (or at least money on therapy- all problems can be solved over your chips and guac).

Now that I have kids I’m even more indebted to you Chipotle.  There are very few places I can go with the kind of quality food you provide.  Nothing fried, or chock full of preservatives and crap.  And my kids LOVE you.  Because of you Chipotle my daughter asks for rice and beans whenever and wherever we eat out.  Even at restaurants that do not carry rice and beans.  They are always up for Chipotle, just like their mom.

Which brings me to my real reason for writing, dear Chipotle.  I feel as though it’s time for me to address the one sided, almost abusive, nature of our relationship.  I’ve been a taker with you, Chipotle.  You give and give and give and I do nothing but take.  And it’s time for me to apologize. 

I can see the look of fear in the eyes of your wonderful employees when my brood and I come through your doors.  Three small children are no one’s favorite customers.  But for you, Chipotle, those rice and beans we love so much are the very bane of your existence I’m sure.  I know you know what’s coming when I stroll through the line asking for two kid’s quesadilla meals and extra sides of rice and beans.  I can see the resignation on your face and the knowledge that 75% of those tiny grains of rice and sauce covered beans will end up on your floor.  I’m sorry.  I feel the deflation when you size up the eight-month-old in my arms and realize that extra order of rice and beans is for her.  I’m so very sorry.  And yet despite the food explosion that we both know is coming, your employees are nothing but kind, helpful and upbeat.  It's a miracle really.

Please know that I try my hardest to clean up after the animals have feasted.  As you can see by the bean sauce that covers my eight-month-old’s hair, ears, eyes and hands, she is not exactly a neat eater.  Rice is stuck on every inch of her body and somehow made its way into her socks.  I wish the mess was contained to her being but alas it is not.  Bean sauce covers every surface within her reach and even, inexplicably, the table next to ours.  I use eleventy million wet wipes to wipe down these surfaces and give her a bath in your bathroom sink.  I wipe off the piles of rice and beans scattered on the chairs of my other two children.  But it’s the floor that defeats me.  The floor, so covered with rice and beans, now looks as though my children’s meals actually exploded at some point.   I only purchased three orders of rice and beans, but like rabbits that wonderful combination of carbs and protein appears to have multiplied.  At least eight orders worth are now covering your floor.  I’m not sure my kids consumed the food as much as smeared it on their faces and clothing before brushing it onto the ground.

I’ve thought about asking if I could borrow your broom, but you are so dear Chipotle that I know that you would never let me do it myself.  I’ve even thought about smuggling in my own dust buster and trying to remove all evidence of our dinner explosion before we leave.   But it’s hard enough to get all three of my kids through the door, much less a smuggled cleaning utensil.  And so instead I avoid eye contact as I pack up my three howling children, so ashamed am I to leave behind such a catastrophe in my beloved restaurant.  As we shuffle out with our heads down I turn and leave your fine employees one last apologetic, chagrined look, my eyes pleading with them to understand the depths of my remorse for the mess I’ve left behind and the deep need to be allowed back again.  I need you Chipotle, please don’t kick me out.  I’m sorry for the ways I take and abuse.  I promise it won’t always be this way.  Someday these urchins will learn to eat neatly.  I hope.

Sincerely,

An indebted customer

MLK

We sat in the (ugh) minivan waiting for the light at the end of our block.  Monster was chatting about all sorts of things and I was only half listening.  Until I heard him say,  “Mommy, Dr. Martin Lunar King looked like a man, but he was a hero.  He went in peas.  Some kids couldn’t go to school because only white kids could go to school and he didn’t like that so he gave a lot of speeches.  Dr. Martin Lunar King was a hero and also a king.  But not a king with a castle.  I like Dr. Martin Lunar King a lot.”

I resisted the urge to ask more questions, pull more out of him, because I’ve learned it’s best in situations like these to let him just talk.  I always get more from him this way.  Just like with his dad.  I had a million questions of course: what else did you learn?  Did he go in peas or peace?  What do you think about the fact that some kids couldn’t go to school?  What else, what else, what else?

He kept repeating the facts he’d learned that day in school about Dr. King, filtered through his 4-year-old understanding (there will be time to correct Luther and Lunar, peace and peas).  My heart burst as I began to understand the knowledge of one of history’s greatest that Monster had retained.  I loved that he was interested in Dr. King’s story and reveled in the conversation we were having, one I’d long imagined having with my kids.

I share this story on this Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. day because it gives me hope.  My four year old knows his story.  Knows that he was a hero and that he fought for justice.  When I get frustrated and disillusioned with how far we still have left to go with regard to civil rights and race relations in our county my four-year-old gives me hope.  He knows about a hero.  A real one.

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. 

Why I Won't Be Watching the Academy Awards This Year

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In 1994 Anna Paquin won the Best Supporting Actress Academy Award for her role in The Piano.  She was eleven.  She wore this bright blueish/purple dress with a matching hat and when she got up there she just sort of stood there giggling nervously in shock.  I think this moment may have begun my love affair with the Oscars.

A year later Martin Landau won Best Supporting Actor for Ed Wood and some kid in my TAG pullout group went on and on the next day about how Martin Landau was his great-uncle.  I was so insanely jealous.

A long time ago I dreamed of being a big actress and of course those daydreams included a trip up those stairs to accept my award.  I’m not ashamed to admit it (ok, maybe a little embarrassed) but I definitely practiced my speech in the mirror.  And in a total Meta moment I remember saying (in my practice speech) how I used to practice this moment in the mirror as a kid but the real thing is so much better.

I was kind of a weird kid.

At any rate for the better part of twenty years I have LOVED the Academy Awards.  I’ve paid attention to the predictions, listened to the talk radio circuit in the weeks leading up to it and watched the entire coverage from the red carpet to Oprah’s interviews the next day.  I’ve DVR’d it and watched pieced together versions on YouTube.  I’ve rushed to Walgreens the next day to buy the People Magazine coverage and scoured the best and worst dress lists.  It’s my Super Bowl and March Madness and Stanley Cup all rolled into one and I love it.

Except this year I won’t be watching it.

On Thursday morning they announced the nominations.  While I haven’t seen any of the movies in the running this year (because, well, three kids means I ain’t watching anything I can’t see from the comfort of my couch.  And half those movies have only been out in limited release until this weekend) I’ve read reviews and listened to interviews with many of the directors or critics about the movies.  I’m not completely uninformed on this topic and I had my own predictions on who would be up for the awards.

The radio blared as I made the kids breakfast Thursday morning and I perked up a little as they began to announce nominees.  There were a few I was fairly sure were “safe bets” as far as nominees go.  When I didn’t hear David Oyelowe’s name for Selma I thought maybe I’d missed it amid the clamor that is my kids and breakfast time.  And then I didn’t hear Selma director Ava DuVernay’s name either and my heart sunk a little. 

I wasn’t the only one who noticed the glaring omission of any real diversity in the nominees this year.  People took to twitter pretty immediately to express their disappointment, creating the trending hash tag #whiteoscars.  In all four acting categories not one person of color received a nomination.  This hasn’t happened in seventeen years.  And Ava DuVernay was expected to be the first African American woman to receive a director’s nom.

Except she won’t be.

This is certainly not unprecedented.  For years the Academy has been criticized for its lack of diversity.  Part of the problem lies in the Academy voters, 94% of whose population is Caucasian, 77% male.  Read that again.  94% of the people who are voting for the nominations and subsequent winners are white. (source)

That’s a problem.

The Academy Awards have a strong influence on what movies people will go see.  And the money those movies make determine the kinds of movies that will be made the next year.  And so on and so on.

I have a hard time believing there were no compelling performances by people of color in the past year.  But even if there weren’t, if movies starring strong characters of color aren’t being made at all, that’s a big problem too!  There is an unjust system at play that we keep perpetuating by ignoring the reality of it.

I know this is not a new problem.  Every year the list of nominees if pretty white washed.  But this year it really bothers me.  In part it’s because of the events of Ferguson and the lack of charges in Eric Garner’s death.  And because of the deaths of Tamir Rice and John Crawford, Ezell Ford, Dante Parker and countless others.  It seems that racial tensions are at an all time high right now.  I’m increasingly aware that there are major systems of injustice at play in our world today and I can’t keep taking part in them blindly.

I know that my refusal to watch the Academy Awards in February won’t likely change much.  No one at the Academy will find out that they’ve lost one life-long fan this year.  The advertisers will still pay lots of dollars to air commercials during the show and the same thing will probably happen next year.  And I don't fault anyone who will participate in all the Oscar to dos.  But I’m realizing more and more that my choices in how I spend my time and money are casting votes for something whether I’m intentional about it or not.  I can choose to vote to maintain systems of injustice and oppression or I can vote for something better.  For a new way of doing business.  For a bigger, more diverse table.  And maybe if we all start voting this way the people making the decisions will start listening.

So that’s why I won’t be watching the Academy Awards on February 22.  It’s why I won’t go out and buy People magazine the next day or spend lots of time reading all the recaps online the next day.  That time is a vote and I can’t keep voting to maintain an unjust system. 

Dublin Dreaming

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During my junior year of college I studied abroad in Ireland.  Dublin to be exact.  I am the daughter of a man who traveled to Ireland at least a hundred times.  I’m not really exaggerating here either.  My father would go there every chance he got, and as an United Airlines employee who enjoyed free airfare, he got a lot of chances. 

All of my friends were planning on studying abroad so in the fall of our junior year we started mapping our adventures.  Sarah would be studying in Nottingham, Whit in Paris.  Shan and Mal went to Barcelona, Afeld to Madrid.  I waffled between Italy and Dublin ultimately choosing my Irish roots because I didn’t want to have to deal with learning a foreign language.  And because Guinness.  Then I found out I could study acting for a semester even though it wasn’t my major and I was sold.  For four whole months I could pretend to be the theater major I always dreamed of.  And I could do it in Ireland with cute Irish boys with cute Irish accents.  Really, what more did I need?

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I’ve found myself thinking a lot about this semester abroad recently.  Our friends Mary and Niall came over for dinner one night last fall.  Niall is Irish, born and raised outside of Dublin.  Naturally the semester abroad photo album had to be busted out.  We flipped through the pages, Niall knowing just about every spot with very few clues in the details of the picture.  It had been a while since I perused the pages of this scrapbook.

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 I can’t think about Dublin without remembering the buskers, street musicians that played up and down Grafton street, and the very distinct child buskers who sang in whiny, high pitched voices all sounding the same.  They must have been trained somewhere together.  I can’t think about Dublin without remembering the huge stack of books I read while I was there.  After coming off a tremendously busy season before study abroad, having the time to read and read and read felt amazing.

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I remember the feeling of living in a city, the ways it rejuvenated me every morning, stirring something deep in my bones.  I remember dark pubs that turned into weird nightclubs after a certain hour and an Irish boy named Tommy who tried to kiss me in one.  I panicked and put my hand in front of his mouth.  I’m not known for my smooth moves.

I can picture the pubs and coffee shops where I studied and read.  The department store I bought the one pair of black stretchy pants I would wear daily for the next four months having not known to pack black “movement” clothes for theater classes.  I can hear the Irish music radiating from Oliver St. John Goagarty’s and smell the cigarette smoke that thickly filled that pub on that last day before the no cigarette ban went into effect at midnight.  My mind wanders down the path to the Tesco where we bought our groceries, mine an assortment of peanut butter, rice cakes, green peppers and nutella.  Always nutella.

There are so many smells and sounds and images that Ireland conjures up.  Beyond that, the greatest thing it invokes is a feeling.  It’s a feeling of excitement and happiness, energy and endless possibility.  Studying abroad was four months of endless possibility.  Paris for the weekend?  Sure!  Guinness for breakfast?  Absolutely!  Every week held a new adventure and when studying is done in a century old pub off of Grafton Street, even studying is an awesome endeavor.

It is sometimes frustrating, in this season of small kids, and cheerios and endless monotony, how far from my study abroad experience life has taken me.  I wish I could go back and do it again.  They don’t tell you, when you’re in it, how once-in-a-lifetime this experience is.  Or maybe they do and you’re just too young and foolish to understand.

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I know I’ll be back.  It’s top of my bucket list to run the Dublin marathon and show Tommy (my husband, not the poor Irish lad I rejected) the place that holds a piece of my heart.  And my siblings and I hope to some day take a portion of my father’s remains there, certain he would want a piece of him to reside in his favorite place on earth.  In the meantime I’ll just stare longingly at the pictures in the InstaIreland instagram feed and remind myself that there’s still time.  And maybe Monster or Toots or Red will choose to study there in twenty years.  In which case I better start saving now for the airfare to visit them…

Pictures courtesy of the InstaIreland instagram feed, my newest obsession.  Check it out.

On November and Being Filled

On the morning of the first of November I woke up early and began to prepare brunch for fourteen adults and three and a half kids.   The bacon sizzled filling the whole house with its glorious smell.    I made blueberry crisp with Greek yogurt, goat cheese scrambled eggs and three pots of coffee.  Sarah J brought pumpkin bread and Sarah R a crust less quiche.  There were mimosas and bloody marys, coffee cake and oranges.  We used every one in my eclectic collection of mugs, which gave me a profound sense of happiness. 

Most of the morning was spent in my kitchen, around my island and then my kitchen table.  We laughed and sipped coffee and I realized that brunch may just be my favorite type of gathering to host.  As our friends began gathering their things and saying their good-byes Marty commented that this whole morning was “good for his soul.”  All I ever want is for my home to be good for the soul.

*******

We sang happy birthday and Tommy blew out candles on an icing-less birthday cake a few days later.  A simple birthday dinner with his parents and sisters was one of his nicest.  My mom and sister joined us for dessert and I watched from the doorway between the dining room and kitchen as all the different conversations happened before me.   I watched my husband in his element, surrounded by the people who know him best, thankful for this place for everyone to land.  

*******

A few days after that a different, larger group gathered for my brother’s thirtieth birthday.  His birthday was still a few weeks away, but he, along with many other relatives, were in town for my dad’s memorial service and it seemed as good a time as any to celebrate him and this milestone birthday.   With everyone around I wanted to gather us as much as possible.  I’d planned to keep it simple that night.  I knew it would be a hard weekend as we approached the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.  I ordered beef sandwiches and chopped salads from Portillo’s and let everyone else bring appetizers and booze.    That night I was in our bedroom nursing Red when everyone seemed to arrive at once.  I came into my kitchen to a whirlwind of plates, food, greetings and fullness.  Full kitchen, full home, full heart. 

We sat in my living/dining room in a large circle for hours that night laughing full belly laughs.  Long running inside jokes wove in and out of the conversations.  Some of our oldest and closest family friends, the Dunns, stayed last telling story after story of our shared past, reliving them new as adults. 

Something special happened that night.  Something got put back together a little bit in my living room and for the first time in a long time I had hope for my family.  Maybe we weren’t broken completely.

*******

The next weekend my living room turned into a filming set as my house church/small group/supper club contributed to a promotional video for a book we’d been reading.  Once the interviews had been conducted and the “B-Roll film” shot the cameraman left and I found myself eating chili-mac around my table with the people who have in many ways carried me through this past year.  After dinner we continued our conversations utilizing the open layout of my living/dining room combo while some sat on the couch and others stayed at the table, everyone fully engaged in one long conversation.

And again I marveled at how important it is for me to fill my home with my people.  When we first looked at this house with our real estate agent I stood in my dining room and looked across the expanse of this great room and imagined my people in it.  I could see it.  Could see the very scene that now lay before me in real life.  This home was meant for my people.

*******

Our single greatest endeavor in the art of opening our home came at the end of the month when we welcomed 25 people in for Thanksgiving dinner.  There were a million reasons this last party should have been a disaster.  I’d never actually cooked a turkey or any of the traditional thanksgiving foods for that matter.  Tommy and I decided to invite whoever was around from each of our extended families, which meant that our large gathering consisted of quite a few people who don’t really know each other.   And on top of all of it I wasn’t quite sure how my immediate family would be feeling that day; the holidays, Thanksgiving being the first of a long six weeks or so of merriment, have a way of heightening grief I’ve learned. 

On the morning of Thanksgiving I found myself in a state of panic, worried I’d mess up the turkey, worried no one would interact naturally with one another and it would be 25 people crammed into my house in varying states of awkwardness with only my over-done turkey to keep them occupied.  In this moment I needed my dad.  I needed my buffer of a father who could connect anyone and make everyone feel comfortable.  I needed my dad.  And so I threw up the same desperate prayer I’ve been praying for weeks.  Redeem this Lord.  Redeem even this.  Please.

We pulled out the leaf again on my dining room table and set our large card table next to it.   I put on the new table clothes and used my most colorful cloth napkins trying to create a lovely space that would make people feel comfortable without going too crazy because table settings aren’t really my forte.  I set my timer every thirty minutes to baste the turkey and prepared everything I could ahead of time, all while pleading with Jesus to do his redemption thing.

And miraculously he did.  People arrived, strangers forged connections, laughter reigned.  For weeks afterwards people let us know what a nice time it was at our house on Thanksgiving.

*******

I don’t share this to regale you with tales of my hostess-ing prowess.  I’m actually not naturally a very good hostess.  I constantly forget to offer people drinks or take their coats and I can never seem to remember people’s dietary need and preferences.  I’ve made meat for vegetarians and pizza for gluten-frees.   I tell you this because November was supposed to be the worst.  November was supposed to be a dark month filled with dark days and dark memories of what had happened a year before. 

Instead November was a whirlwind of opening my home to pretty much every cross section of my people.  It was a steady cycle of laying out glasses and table settings, piling coats on the coat rack, serving meals, loading the dishwasher, lather, rinse, repeat. And something happens to me when I do this simple act of welcoming my people into my home.  It fills me up in the simplest way.  It floods the darkest parts with light.  I can’t explain why, or how, but having a home filled with people is good for the deepest parts of me.  November was supposed to suck.  But it didn’t.  I didn’t plan on filling my November with all these gatherings; it wasn’t until mid month that I really looked at the calendar and saw what had happened.  But I don’t think it was coincidental at all.  It wasn’t an accident that during the month I needed it most I was already set up to do the thing that makes me whole.

I want to encourage you to do whatever it is that puts you back together.  For me it’s filling my home with my people.  Maybe for you it’s painting furniture or creating jewelry, writing, or going to movies alone.  Maybe it’s dancing or dinner with your most favorite person or holing away and reading alone for hours.  Whatever it is, do it with reckless abandon.  Let these acts put you back together when you’re finding yourself at the end of yourself.  Do the thing that fills your inner darkness with light and don’t apologize for it.  We need to do the things that make us whole, even when, especially when, we don’t think we have time for it.

November was supposed to suck.  And it didn’t.

Red: Seven Months

Sweet Red is seven (almost eight!) months old!  I know there are lots of people who will wax on nostalgically at how magical infancy is and how fast it goes, particularly with a third.  People who will bemoan this speeding of time, wishing fervently for it to slow down. 

I am not one of those people.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a baby person.  The older my kids get the more I realize that babies are not my jam.  And I’m ok with that, because really this stage doesn’t last too long.  And by the time you’re on your third- it flies.

What can I say about Red at seven months?  The first thing people notice about her is her hair.  All of my kids were blessed with full heads of hair from birth, all different shades.  Red is my only ginger and it’s a lovely shade at that.  Obviously I treasure it doubly as it reminds me of my dad.

She’s going to be an extrovert I think.  Her whole face lights up when someone looks her way and she does a full body shake.  She loves people.  I’ve never been greeted by such a happy kid first thing in the morning when I release her from her crib.  She loves us, her family.  Big smiles for everyone.

Perhaps because she’s got two older siblings, but all she wants in the world is to be in the mix.  And don’t you dare try to leave her alone in a room.  This used to make her holler and scream.  Now that she can army crawl she just determinedly follows us around wherever we go.  (Of course army crawling is a slow and laborious task and as soon as Red catches up to us we’re off to another room.  I have a feeling this kid will be one happy camper once she learns to walk.)

I'm not sure if I can blame the red hair, but she definitely has more of a temper at this age than my other two.  Until Red I’ve never really seen a baby get mad.  Sad, upset, discontent yes.  But full on angry, temper tantrum style.  Not so much.  I kind of love this feisty fire, though.  That, combined with her determined spirit will serve her well.

The thing I’m learning, perhaps my favorite truth of parenting, is that it just keeps getting better.  I keep loving my kids deeper and harder and madder each year.  Their personalities develop and emerge more and more each passing day.  The stuff they are into, the things they are able to do, it just gets better with time.  And so now that I know this truth I can’t wait.  I can’t wait to see Red grow, to understand who she’s been created to be, to watch her live into that self.  It’s so much fun isn’t it?

I have different prayers for each of my kids, prayers that started when they were growing in my belly, prayers that I’ve echoed in the days since.  My prayer for Red has centered on redemption.  I pray that Red will be sensitive to the work of God’s redemption, in her own life and the lives of others.  I pray she will be a warrior of this work, partnering with God to pull people out of the wells they’ve imprisoned themselves in and helping them redeem their stories.  It’s good work if you can get it.

 Sweet Red.  She fits so beautifully into our family.  Monster made us parents, Toots made us a family and Red- Red committed us to the work of being family.  There's no way around it now.  With three kids we're in the thick of it.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

These beautiful photos are courtesy of my good friend Mary, who offered to take photos of Red, both as a newborn and again at six months.  And really, how could I possibly say no to such beautiful shots!  This kid is going to be my most and best photographed one!  Thanks Mary!

Book Draft

Book Club met for our annual book draft last night.  You know how I feel about my book club.  They are awesome.  Last year we started doing a January book draft in the same vein as a fantasy football draft (sort of).  We all gather with our book recommendations and set about plotting out what we will read for the next year.  After too many months of not reading the book because we couldn't get it from the library in time or finally managed to decide on a book about a week and a half before our next meeting it was really great to have the next eleven books mapped out.  This year the ante was upped when Sarah (our resident elementary school teacher) brought home her chart paper and markers, color coordinating our book suggestions.

I love a good book list and I'm super excited about the books we picked for this year.  I'm not sure anyone will care about what we've settled on, but in case some of you made a resolution to read more in the New Year thought I'd share the results of the 2015 book draft.  Without further ado, here's what I'll be reading this year.

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr- This one was on a number of people's lists and I'm excited to start off with some fiction.  For some reason I find myself gravitating towards fiction less and less, which bums me out because I love a good story.

Small Victories by Anne Lamott-  I've got a couple of Anne Lamott books on my nightstand right now.  Whit said Small Victories was a "love letter to your soul" and really, who can argue with that.

Unbroken by Lauren Hillenbrand- Obviously there's a lot of buzz with this one with the movie coming out recently.  We decided to try a "couples" book club with Unbroken and include our husbands, fiances and boyfriends in on the action. (By the way Tommy, you have to read this book and come to a special book club in April.  I mean, only if you want to.)

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler- This recommendation came with the rule NOT TO READ ANYTHING ABOUT THE BOOK BEFORE YOU READ IT.  So we're doing that.  All I know is it's a thinker with a strange premise.

Yes Please by Amy Pohler-  I love Amy Pohler. I loved Tina Fey's memoir "Bossy Pants,"  I can't wait to read this one.

The Art of Stillness by Pico Iyer- This is a short book that came out of Ted Talk by Pico Iyer.  It seems mindfulness, stillness and being present is the mantra of 2015 and I'm pumped.  I need more of it.

Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi-  Yes my book club is reading a cookbook.  Cause the thing we love more than books?  Is food.  I'm actually really excited for this one.  Our plan is to spend the month trying out recipes and coming together to make a huge meal with the best recipes.  Sign me up.

The Memory Garden by Mary Rickert-  This was one book that until last night I'd heard nothing about, but it sounds like an interesting story with secrets, friendship, history and a garden.  And again, yea fiction!

The Secret Place by Tana French-  Tana French spins a great tale and her's take place in Dublin (my favorite).  This one also involves a boarding school which is a fascinating back drop for this life long public schooler.

The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd-  I'm hoping to read Kidd's non-fiction book this year as I heard I might connect well with it's spiritual journey themes.  This novel takes place in nineteenth century Charleston and chronicles the thirty-five year friendship between a young white girl and the little girl who is meant to be her handmaid.  It sounded fascinating and beautiful.

Where'd You Go Bernadette by Maria Semple- I've actually already read this one.  It's a really funny and thoughtful tale of a family trying to find its way back together.  I love the way Semple tells the story- through letters and emails and faxes and receipts and the occasional narration of the young teenaged daughter.



Last year we coined the phrase "Books to ROO" (Read On your Own) for books that looked great but didn't quite make the cut.  I have a few that I plan to ROO this year as well.

Columbine by Dave Cullen- Unbroken beat out this one, but I'm interested in reading it anyway.  I was 16 when Columbine happened and I think it would be fascinating to read about it now, as an adult.

I am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes- This one was deemed a little too long for our monthly gatherings but it generated a lot of excitement when it was suggested.

The Dinner by Herman Koch- I wanted to read this one because I love books that give you different perspectives on the same event.  I always think it's so fascinating how two or more people can see the same thing completely differently, in this case a dinner party.


So there you have it.  This is what I'm reading this year (among other things).  What are you excited to read in 2015?

Work and Play

It’s 2015. 

Photo of the kiddos on New Year's Eve.  This may well be my all time favorite picture of them (subcategory: hilarious) AND a terrifying picture of what I hope is not to come for my party girl Toots.  

I don’t know if I’ve ever in my life felt such a strong sense of movement towards a new season that so perfectly aligned with the New Year.  And like years past I’m finding a word or phrase rising to the surface above the jumble that bumps around my head.  If I’m being truthful there are actually a few separate words that are shaping me in some profound and deeply lasting ways.  I’m sifting through those, quietly in my heart first, then aloud with my people and hopefully finally on the page.  But that’s another post for another day.

Right now, as I set about the pages of new calendars and plans/goals/intentions for this New Year I find myself thinking about work and play.  These two words are setting my prayers for this year.

I spent 2014 working through a lot of shit, for lack of a better word.  When my dad died it felt like everything I knew blew up and I got thrown into the deep end of a turbulent ocean, left with the work of sorting out what was what in the middle of a storm.  It was the kind of work that felt like treading water in choppy seas.  I didn’t have a choice in the work.  It was survival work.  It was keeping my head above water, trying not to drown work.  It was exhausting, day-by-day, hour-by-hour work.  And then when the seas calmed and the sun started to peek through clouds and I had a minute to catch my breath and look around it appeared that after all that work I was still in the exact same place as I had started.

But, as I head into this New Year, I’ve realized that I’m stronger than I was before.  All that treading strengthened muscles I didn’t know existed and the survival of it all left me a little surer of myself than before.  And now I’m ready to swim.  I’m ready to do the work instead of just survive it.  It’s a different kind of work this year, one that I feel more responsible for rather than responsive to.  There are some projects I want to finish, some directions I want to head in, and some things I want to say out loud.  And this year, more than ever before, I want to put my head down and swim.  I want to use all these muscles I’ve developed and add some discipline.  There is some big work to be done this year and I think I’m ready to do it.

But, I also want to play.  Because 2014 was a heavy year.  Of course it was.  And I need 2015 to feel a little more playful.  There were moments this past year when I wondered if I’d ever feel truly happy again.  The loss of my dad touched everything and I didn’t think I’d feel pure joy without a twinge of sadness again.  I may not.  I may carry a sliver of this giant loss with me always.  But more than ever before I’m ready to fight for joy and laughter.  I’m ready to play.

I want to play laser tag with all my friends for my 32^nd birthday.  And I want to go roller-skating with Tommy on date night.  I want to laugh until I cry and drink just a little too much wine with my girlfriends.  I want to wrestle with my kids and do things just because they are playful and fun.  I want to make silly faces in photos and practice spontaneity.  For all the work to be done this year I want there to be an equal amount of play.  I need to play.

And so these are the words that I pray shape 2015.  Work and Play.  Both and.  I have high hopes and deep trust in this year.  Something has shifted in me and I’m ready.

Work and Play.