Ten Dollar Thoughts

I am from three shelves of family photo albums whose pages have grown brittle and yellow with time, a set of brass and wrought iron fireplace tools that were handed down and are worn from use, and a red and green leather bound set of the complete works of Charles Dickens.

I am from a single story ranch style home with two fireplaces, a broad deck, and an extra bedroom with blue carpet where my mother watched us in the back yard as she ironed, learning to parallel park between coffee cans on the riding lawnmower, and the sounds of the high school marching band floating through my open windows in early September.

I am from zinnias and marigolds and phlox, giant elm trees that split down the middle during the biggest ice storm of my childhood, and azaleas that flush hot pink for a fraction of a moment each spring.

I am from family vacations filled with silly putty, mint flavored Chapstick, endless games of travel bingo, and stops at every historical marker, Sunday dinners of roast chicken and mashed potatoes and “at least one green vegetable”, and unflappable precision in the matters of grammar and usage.

I am from a cultural polyglot, from operas and rodeos, minor league baseball and Broadway musicals, roadside motels and historic B&B’s.

I am from casseroles and whole wheat bread and after school snacks, bedtimes and phone curfews, and weekly chores for your weekly allowance. 

I am from the belief that life is a banquet table from which I may choose, that you address your friends’ parents as Mr. and Mrs. unless they tell you otherwise, that you don’t have to like it but you have to try it, and that maintaining relationships with family over distance is always hard and always worth it. 

I am from a childhood on horseback, fitted breeches and tall dress boots and banded collars, fringed leather chaps and size 6 7/8 hats, the number 477 pinned to my back and ribbons pinned to my bedroom wall, strong legs and a graceful torso, and greater confidence astride a mare than on solid ground.

I am from Sunday school and the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed, a large steel cross that loomed over my head in the sanctuary and whose replica sits on my nightstand, red choir robes with white stoles, and silver trays that were passed down the pews on Communion Sunday.

I am from weekend outings to tiny rural towns, chicken fried steak and cherry cobbler from rusty diners with linoleum tile floors, and the news from Lake Wobegon.

I am from a Catholic prep school with magnificently pitched roofs and a three-story tower with a spiral staircase, pep rallies for Friday night football games, unparalleled teachers, and unreasonable levels of peer competition.

I am from a small private college where everyone knows your hometown and your major, chatty sorority chapter meetings and raucous fraternity parties, and professors who were known to call your dorm room if you overslept for a final.

I am from Bob and Rosemary and Jack and Frances and Jeff and Jan, from hand-stitched quilts and homemade pie pastry, from handwritten letters, hugs and I love yous. 

I am from a family that is not perfect but whom I love, the need to carry them in my heart, and the willingness to try things my own way.

With my entire family arriving shortly for the holiday weekend, I have thoughts of heritage on the brain.  In that vein this post was inspired, with permission, by Lindsey’s poem at A Design So Vast.  As a related aside, I will be taking Friday and Monday off from blogging to spend time with my family, and I will see you back here next Wednesday.  I hope you all have a lovely holiday.

In honor of Eat, Pray, Love having come out this past weekend, and because this kind of content is right up the alley of those of us who have a passion for writing, today I am offering up Liz Gilbert’s TED talk from 2009.  I first saw it sometime last year, but it sprang to mind again in the wake of all the movie publicity. 

Gilbert speaks so eloquently herself that I won’t elaborate further (besides, my grey matter is still a bit mushy from all the discussion on Friday) except to say that whatever your creative process is, embrace it.  It is no weirder than any of the other artists’ processes that she cites.  Nor is it more banal than Gilbert’s own work-a-day process.  It is yours, so own it and use it. 

PS - Sorry I wasn’t able to embed the video.  Apparently I don’t have the correct WordPress plugin.  Will have to look into that.  You should be able to reach the video from the link above without any trouble.

What do you value more in your life: Experiences or belongings?  Adventures or routine?  New and different or known quantities? 

When we’re speaking abstractly it’s easy to say that we care more about having great experiences in life; that we aren’t attached to our belongings; and that we are always up for something new.  It’s quite another thing to live out those statements for seven years on a sailboat with your family. 

That’s right.  I said seven years on a sailboat with your family. 

The Crafton family, whom I find simultaneously inspiring and full-throttle bonkers did just that, and apparently they’d do it again.  The nuts and bolts of their story go something like this:

• Family of five decides to ditch everything (literally – homes, careers, property, cars, etc), buy a boat, and sail the world.
• Two of the kids had speech delays which were better addressed without typical peer pressure.
• Everyone got along better without the distractions of material belongings and adolescent angst.
• They stayed on the water for seven years and only returned when it was time for one of the kids to start college.
• They don’t regret a moment of it.

As I read the article about their experience a strong sense of ambivalence hovered over me.  I love the idea of giving it all up in favor of a life un-tethered by convention.  Yet in the same moment I felt intensely protective of those same conventions.  However would I survive without Bobbi Brown face wash, or my KitchenAid mixer, or my king size bed?  How would I incorporate some of my favorite things into a life on the open sea?  Could I get satellite internet service?  How many books would I need to pack?  How would I manage to log four workouts per week? 

Then I kicked myself.  I realized that the purpose of a decision like this is absolutely NOT to create a portable version of your existing life.  The purpose of a decision like this is to turn away from your existing life and take on a life that looks entirely different.  And doing that means giving up things that may mean a great deal to you.  Fresh herbs, air conditioning, a social life, and countless creature comforts would be left behind on purpose.  (Also little things like scalloped tomatoes, television reruns, and flirty nightgowns.) 

And that scares the bejeezus out of me.

By why?  Why do I cling to these things so fiercely?  What do I think will happen to me in their absence?  Will I become unhappy?  Do I measure myself in some way against these benchmarks of convention?  Would I completely lose sight of myself and my priorities in the absence of typical guideposts?  And most importantly, if any of these things is true, what on earth does that say about me? 

I know that I am more than my home, car, wardrobe, and hobbies.  But if that is true, then shouldn’t I be willing to let any of them go?  I don’t necessarily think so, but I can’t place my finger on why. 

PS – As a completely unrelated aside, this is my one hundredth post.  I can hardly believe that after just seven months of blogging I’ve reached an actual milestone.  Thanks for reading and commenting and being a part of these little mental exercises of mine.

So far this week I’ve regaled you with my affections for scalloped tomatoes (yes, I made my fourth batch in two weeks on Wednesday night) and TV reruns.  I’ve also discovered that these two things are made even better when enjoyed at the same time – you really should try it.  Perhaps tonight while GAP is out at a business dinner I will really gild the lily and add this third component to the mix for a moment of perfect Gale bliss.

The nightgown.  I hadn’t worn one since I was at least eight years old.  In my mind they were either stuffy, puritan affairs or tiny and tawdry.  For years, unaware that there was any kind of middle ground, I opted for two-piece pajamas.  Some of them were darling matched sets.  But many others were shameful combinations of old t-shirts and boxer shorts.  Not so pretty.

Further, as a matter of practicality, I frequently got into fights with my pajama bottoms in the middle of the night.  I would roll.  They would twist.  I would right them.  They would twist again.  It was an ongoing, maddening battle that I resented for interrupting my precious REM cycles (or something, I really don’t know anything about sleep biology).    

So, recently I decided it was time for a bit of overhaul in the sleepwear department.  Time to bring the words beauty sleep to life.  Time to end the day wearing something that would see me through to morning without incident. 

Enter: the nightgown.  (Actually, nightgowns. Plural.)

They are flirty and feminine without being racy or raunchy.  Sweet but not twee.  Delicate but not dainty.  They make me feel like a lady, which is a lovely way to feel, especially at the end of a long day.  They make me brush my hair one last time before getting into bed.  I’ve even reintroduced two long-forsaken skincare steps (toner and eye cream) back into my nightly toilette. 

And nightgowns are comfortable – oh so comfortable.  They don’t spiral around me and wake me up.  The cotton is soft and breezy.  They are cool on warm summer nights.  Perhaps it is psychosomatic, but I sleep so much better in nightgowns than pajamas.  If sleep like this means mental trickery, sign me up.  I’m game.   

A good night’s sleep really isn’t such a little thing.  It should be.  It should be easy.  Sleep is delicious, and healthy, and free.  We should be tired when we go to bed and rested when we wake in the morning.  Sleep should be the easiest decision we make all day, yet so many of us get so little of it. 

Nightgowns, like all of the little things I’ve written about this week, add up to something bigger.  A perfect simple supper is comforting and nourishing and whole.  Our favorite reruns on television bring a combination of pleasant surprise and predictable calm.  And a nightgown helps us log the eight or nine hours of uninterrupted sleep that help us feel (if not actually become) really on top of things.

These little things are small on their own.  But they extrapolate out to much greater levels of meaning.  This is why the idea of “the little things” is such a cliché.  There is truth in it that we can’t afford to overlook.

PS – As I contemplated my posts this week there were several other little things that I considered: good pens, text messaging, going to movies alone, Zappos.com, and countless others.  Our lives are full of little things that we neglect to consider very often.

On Friday I posted a little list of things we can do (actually do) to improve ourselves and the world around us.  It felt good to dedicate a post to small tangible things, after focusing for more than six months on abstract and sometimes complicated thoughts.  Over the weekend I thought (ironic, I realize) more about some of the small and simple things in life and this week I’m dedicating my posts to the topic of little things that make a big difference. 

We didn’t have plans for Friday night.  It had been a long and draining week for me and I wasn’t really up for cooking dinner.  GAP and I had the pizza vs. leftovers debate and opted for leftovers.  This was really a decision that we backed into; he’d eaten a big lunch and wasn’t very hungry and I wasn’t especially in the mood for pizza.  It turned out to be the best accidental decision of my week. 

Recently my favorite food blogger (Deb at Smitten Kitchen) posted this recipe for scalloped tomatoes.  It’s the kind of dish I would have reluctantly choked down at my mother’s insistence as a child.  But as an adult it is some kind of magic to me.  The way the tomatoes break down in the pan.  The way they sweeten and caramelize with heat.  The way the crusty bread soaks up their juices and becomes something completely new.  And the way the whole affair becomes the ideal platform for a poached egg, as Deb suggests.    

Lately I’ve been making about a batch of this delicious mess each week.  I portion it out into plastic containers and take it to work for lunch.  Or, as was the case on Friday, I spoon it into a bowl and curl up on the couch with it.  It is not pretty, but for me it is perfect.  In this world of garnishes and flair and finishing touches (both culinary and otherwise) I love this meal which doesn’t try to be anything it’s not.  It doesn’t call for a sprig of fresh basil on each serving.  Nor does it request to be baked in individual dishes for a lovelier presentation (transferring giant scoops from baking dish to plate or bowl does nothing for the aesthetics of this dish).  It is cheap and easy to make – not the kind of thing you’d serve to company, to be sure.  If it were served to you in a restaurant you might send it back on looks alone.  But when the fork hits your mouth you sort of hunker down in your seat and hunch protectively over your food.

Simply put, this dish makes me happy.  Really, really happy.  And on Friday night I actually identified with it in some way.  I sat at home when many adults were out.  My makeup was smudged and my energy flagged.  I felt crumpled and bruised.  Yet when I looked down at my simple supper I was comforted.  Perhaps this is a big metaphor to ask of a leftover bowl of scalloped tomatoes.  But I liked knowing that something so utterly lacking in pretense could pack such a delicious punch.  I will not start this week with smudged makeup or mussed up hair.  Nevertheless, it’s comforting to think that even if I did that might still be okay.

I’m always looking for ways to improve myself and here in the world of blogging it’s easy to get lost in our heads.  We think lofty thoughts.  We analyze and distill the world around us.  We mull and ruminate and ponder and probe.  But the blogosphere doesn’t always offer opportunities for us to act on all of the thoughts we think and words we write.  So today I’m skipping the Ten Dollar Thoughts and offering ten one-dollar ideas for things we can do that might help us end the day a bit better than we began it. 

1. Open the door.  Chances are that at least once a day (and with only mild inconvenience) you have the opportunity to open or hold the door for someone else.  Do it, it might make their day.
2. Drink a smoothie.  Most of us don’t come close to eating as many servings of fruits and vegetables as we should each day.  The following recipe contains three full servings of fruit as well as lean protein and calcium.  Put into your blender: 1 sliced banana, ½ cup plain nonfat yogurt, ½ cup plain soy milk, heaping ½ cup frozen blueberries, heaping ½ cup frozen strawberries.  Blend until smooth.
3. Pick up some trash.  Whether it’s a water bottle or a candy bar wrapper, when you see a piece of trash on the ground pick it up and put it in the nearest garbage can.  You can leave the world a little better than you found it.
4. Word of the day.  Dictionary.com allows you to register for their Word of the Day.  Expand your vocabulary one day at a time. 
5. Take a walk.  Most decent television shows are in reruns right now.  This evening instead of curling up on the couch take 30 minutes and walk around your neighborhood.  You’ll burn some calories, stretch your legs, and maybe have an interesting conversation with a neighbor.
6. Floss.  There are all kinds of health benefits to flossing.  See for yourself.  Besides, flossing is easy and it only takes a minute.
7. Go to bed early.  We are getting less sleep than we used to, and there are some important benefits of sleep.  So get some extra Z’s and thank yourself for it.
8. Pay a compliment.  We all feel better when someone says something nice about us.  Say something nice about someone else and know that they’re probably happier than they were before you opened your mouth.
9. Five Dollars.  Chances are you’ll pass someone today who has fallen on hard times.  If you can swing it give them a $5 bill.  It’s more than most people give and could buy them the first hot meal they’ve had in days.
10. Be the new kid.  Visit a blog you’ve never read and leave a comment.  You will be an unexpected perk in someone’s day.   

After a 10-day break from blogging I am rested, but I’m also struggling to hit my literary stride again.  My mind has been busy with much reading, but I have found that being on the receiving end of mental stimulation is much easier than producing it.  I suppose this shouldn’t surprise me, but to some extent it does.  I didn’t expect my time off – filled with books, magazines, and conversation – to slow the spinning of my mental wheels as much as it did.  But as I struggle today to organize and articulate my thoughts I can only help but feel that I’ve been quite lazy over the past couple of weeks.  This feels like my first trip to the gym after two weeks on the couch. 

As I’ve thought about this little phenomenon I remembered a chapter I read earlier this summer in Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers.  He discusses the process of lying fallow – leaving land unplanted between crops – and the ways in which it can augment or detract from agricultural yield depending on the crop.

Here in the United States we grow crops that can drain the soil of its nutrients if the same crop is planted on the same land year over year.  Eventually the soil will be so depleted that the yield will suffer and possibly fail altogether.  Farmers have long worked around this problem with crop rotation and fallow periods.  Letting a field lie fallow allows the soil’s nutrients to replenish, making the next season’s planting more productive. 

Early Americans applied this practice more broadly than agriculture, though.  As the school year was designed there was a period of lying fallow built in for children.  Today we know this period as summer vacation.  Kids are allowed to rest their minds, relax, play, and take a break from all that thinking.  As is the case in farming, the idea behind this was that the rest would prime them for more efficient learning during the school year.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the Chinese also applied their agricultural practices to their beliefs about education.  What makes this parallel fascinating, though, is that because they grow rice their educational system looks very different from our own.  Rice, unlike wheat or corn, benefits from more planting.  The more batches of crop that can be planted each growing season, the better the yield.  Lying fallow would be detrimental to the productivity of the land.    

In chapters eight and nine of Outliers Gladwell addresses the well known mathematical superiority of Asian students over Americans.  The details he identifies are compelling and I won’t attempt to recreate them here because I’m no Gladwell and if you haven’t already done so you should read the book yourself.  But the net conclusion is that the American agricultural premise doesn’t hold up when applied to education.  That is, our minds become better with use, not rest.  Rice farming is labor intensive on a scale that dumbfounds me.  As the old Chinese maxim goes, “No one who can rise before dawn three hundred sixty days a year fails to make his family rich.”  That attitude applied to education created Asian school years that range from 220 to 243 days long (as compared to 180 days in the U.S.).  And students who are in school up to 35% more days per year than Americans have lots of smarts to show for it.

So I sit here, feeling rested but not particularly sharp.  My grey matter is a bit mushier than normal today and my quick wits have slowed.  I am inspired by the idea of constant learning, but a bit overwhelmed at the same time.  You see, I liked my break.  And, mental laziness aside, I think it was good for me.  Because if I am completely enervated I’ll have nothing left to give to my little mental escapades here.  I doubt I’ll ever go on a three month hiatus from reading and thinking and learning.  But I still contend that a week here and there do more good than harm.  Besides, it’s July which means that it’s hot and humid and utterly miserable outside.  I liken a mental break to a big glass of ice water – delicious and refreshing, but also essential for survival.

Last night LeBron James revealed, to much fanfare, that he would join the Miami Heat come next season.  And while his professional endeavors were the focus of the one-hour announcement event, it was his philanthropic endeavors that spoke most loudly to me.

Highly paid athletes and celebrities have used their public platforms for innumerable reasons over time.  Getting into exclusive clubs.  Getting lighter prison sentences.  Getting astronomical endorsement deals.  Selling newborn photos of their children to gossip magazines.  You name it.  But in the lead-up to last night LeBron identified an opportunity and seized it.  Knowing full well that he would have America’s undivided attention he requested that sponsorship of the announcement be sold, and that the proceeds should go to the Boys and Girls Clubs of America.

When we discussed this decision over dinner with friends the other night GAP was quick to dismiss the significance of this charitable maneuver.  He didn’t think it was that big a deal.  Collectively we countered.  The line of questioning went something like this:  “What if more celebrities did things like this?  What if it became a trend?  What could this do for charity if celebs across the board started using moments like this to benefit others who really need it, instead of just themselves?”  GAP eventually crossed over to our side, but given his lack of celebrity I need our powers of persuasion to reach a bit further. 

There is a growing trend among the super-rich of pledging to donate half of their net worth to charity.  (Warren Buffet has famously pledged 99% of his wealth.)  Odd corporate sponsorship proceeds here and there may not tally into the billions as these private pledges do, but it’s more than a drop in the bucket. 

I say kudos to LeBron James for harnessing the media for the benefit of someone else.  Would that other celebs would follow in his footsteps.

Today’s post is the second in a two-part series in which I’m exploring some of the best advice I’ve received from my two best female role models – my mother and my mother-in-law.  You can find the first installment here.

My mother-in-law, E, gives advice freely.  However, her advice is as likely to be nonsensical as serious.  Her most repeated refrain in life is, “That’s what you get for marrying a man.”  This statement is almost always offered as a response to my frustrations at GAP having done something stereotypically male, such as forgetting that we already made plans for this weekend, or not brushing IEP’s teeth before bed.  “If we’d all married women our lives would be so much easier.  I warned my daughters but they married men anyway.  You’ll have to do a better job if you have daughters.”

So there you have it:  E’s words to live by blazing a path to worldwide lesbianism.  Clearly, she has a sense of humor.  But there is so much more to this woman whose words deal predominantly with fun, but whose actions address a full menu of more substantive qualities.  And so it has been by the power of her example that I have come to learn a lot about life from E. 

My favorite thing about E is not her boundless energy.  It is not her insatiable thirst for her grandkids.  It is not even her willingness to sacrifice her formal living room to a big screen television and a Wii.  It is her confidence.  E is a woman who exudes confidence in a way that I’ve never quite seen in anyone else.  She does it without apology, but also without arrogance.

At least in my experience confidence is often coupled with some undesirable bedfellows: cockiness, abrasiveness, unchecked ego, and a lack of regard for other people.  E, on the other hand, somehow manages extreme confidence in herself without looking down her nose at anyone else.  She doesn’t care a nit what anyone thinks about her, but this never influences how she treats others.  I am accustomed to people without the insecurities of perception using their confidence to barrel through life with a “take no prisoners” attitude.  They are unconcerned with the collateral damage they cause because the effects to their reputation are irrelevant to them.  But E has shown me (unwittingly, I suspect) how to free myself from the weight of worry about other people’s opinions while still conducting my life with empathy and humanity. 

The result of this kinder, gentler brand of confidence is a happiness and lightheartedness I’ve known in few other people.  Because she feels no need to prove herself E is not defensive.  Because she doesn’t concern herself with other people’s judgment she approaches everyone with equality and magnanimity.  Because she is free from the burdens of insecurity she finds the best in nearly everyone she meets.

Women are so prone to insecurity.  We are so inclined to worry whose career is more prestigious, whose skin is more flawless, whose jeans are a size smaller, and whose children are more perfect.  I am particularly susceptible to those burdensome (and shallow) concerns myself.  But in the eleven years I’ve known my mother-in-law I’ve come to see that there is another way.  And bit by bit I’m adopting that way in my own life. 

PS – Happy Fourth of July!

The idea for this little duet of posts first came to my mind several months ago.  If I’d had my thinking cap on I would have posted them in conjunction with Mother’s Day.  Alas, I did not.  So here they are now, awkwardly located between Father’s Day and the 4^th of July.  Such is life.

I am among the fortunate.  I have two invaluable role models in my life; two women, whose imprint on me is indelible, and whose guidance and influence are among my most treasured possessions.  They are my mother and my mother-in-law.  Over the years the lessons they have imparted have become guideposts for my life, and I find it only fair that the rest of humanity should be equally blessed by their wisdom.  And so here, in two parts, I will share with you some of the most important things they’ve shared with me.

“Listen to your elders.”  I don’t know that she’s ever said it in those words exactly, but that is one of my mother’s marquis mantras.  During our teen years (and beyond) this lesson became a point of teasing and was (is) just as likely to be phrased as “Mom loves old people,” as opposed to the more quotable version above.  Nevertheless, both versions are true. 

The American culture (unlike say, Asian cultures) is not one that values age.  We spend gozillions of dollars trying to halt the aging process.  Hair color, Botox, sports cars, Viagra, face lifts, and the like serve the master of youth.  And in our quest for eternal youth we tend to forget that those who have traveled further down life’s path may have learned a thing or two along the way.  My mother, on the other hand, has never lost sight of that.

Because she likes tangible projects, and because she is a talented seamstress, my mother has participated for years in her church’s Project Day.  Lest its somewhat generic name confuse you, Project Day is a sewing circle of sorts, wherein women from the church gather to create clothes and blankets for needy people – usually babies.  They piece and tie quilts.  They sew little cotton shirts for African children.  They hem receiving blankets and burp cloths.  And the soundtrack to all of this stitching is the telling of their life stories. 

My mother (who was about my age when I was born – I’ll let you do the math) is by far the youngest member of the group.  Most of the women are well into their 70s, and some into their 80s.  Many are widows.  Some have lost children.  Collectively they’ve faced cancer, betrayal, divorce, and children moving away.  They’ve also been blessed by family, health, grandchildren, and community.  They’ve witnessed and experienced all of the good and all of the bad that life doles out.  As my mother aptly put it once, “There’s nothing these women haven’t been through.”

When Mom was in the throes of wedding planning for her daughters, they’d been there.  When a friend was diagnosed with brain tumors, they’d been there.  When her children moved away, they’d been there.  When her first grandchild was born, they’d been there.  And with each rite of passage they handed down their wisdom and perspective as my mother was christened into another of life’s little clubs.

In today’s world of “newer, faster, cheaper” we are inclined to believe that these things always add up to “better.”  But I’ve learned from my mother that this isn’t always the case.  What holds true for cell phones does not bear out when applied to people.  We are complex creatures.  Our elders may not know how to program a DVR.  They may not know how to record an outgoing voice mail message.  They may not understand the humor on 30 Rock.  But they know what to do when your child falls ill.  They know what to say when your cancer goes into remission.  They know what to do when your husband loses his job.  And they know what to do when your garden produces way too many zucchini.

It is with time that we accumulate experiences, and with experiences that we accumulate wisdom.  And it is because of my mother that I both understand and appreciate the rounded edges of an old person’s wisdom every bit as much as the sharp corners of a young person’s wit.