Putting away childish things...

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. St. Paul,  I Corinthians 13:11

In many places one of the biggest holiday events, particularly for charitable foundations, is the "Festival of Trees". At these gatherings donated Christmas trees are auctioned off to help raise money for new cancer wings to a hospital, an addition to the animal shelter or to help a terminally ill's child's 'wish' come true. Each tree has a theme. I've seen "The Nutcracker Suite", with mice, ballerinas, snowflakes, flowers and a Nutcracker tree topper. I've adored the "Baker's Dozen"..a tree completely decorated with miniature baking implements; roller pins, tins, tiny tubs of flour aprons and recipe books. I thought, given that I live at the ocean, the always stunning "Beach Lovers Delight", embellished with shells in every shape and size, was magical. Each tree had another unique, carefully planned symphony. When I got home from attending these beautiful parties, I'd look over at my funny, goofy, random tree and see a cacophony of mismatched ornaments and cringe.

As tempting as it was for me to chuck my ridiculous, mismatched collection of Christmas decorations, I could never seem to part with them. I have a few stunning crystal ornaments that catch the light and reflect it throughout the room. I have the little gold colored church bauble, that my husband and I gave to our wedding attendants, as party favors. Mixed are the reminders of our children's births, a cable car from San Francisco, a Saguaro cactus from Arizona, a glass blown Eiffel tower, little hockey skates, tiny skis, ballet shoes and trains. We have a Darth Vader that, when plugged into a Christmas light bulb, says, in that raspy James Earl Jones voice, "The Force is with you young Skywalker, but you are not a Jedi yet". That expression has greeted me each time I've turned the tree on for the past 15 years...because my oldest was a Star Wars fanatic when he was very young. There is the elegant Tiffany engraved ornament hanging next to my schlocky German Shepherd angel. A carefully glittered snowflake shimmers like diamonds, just above the incredibly tacky snowman bell. 

If I were to continue to peruse my tree, mixed in with all of these tokens of my married life are the ornaments of my childhood. When I first got married, and moved to Germany, my mother gave me the box of these ornaments as a way to bring my past along with me. Knowing I wouldn't be home for the first Christmas of my life, she wanted me to have "home" wherever I was. So our moves to Wildflecken and  Idar-Obersten, Germany, Lawton, OK and then back to Camden, Maine, all brought my treasures along for the ride. None of these are valuable in the monetary sense. But each one reminds me of being a little girl. I have bells with my parents and my names on them. and somewhat tasteless 70's ideas for Three Kings crowns. I have some 'once adorable' mementos of buying my 'yearly ornament' at Gervasoni's on State Street in Santa Barbara, following our annual trek to go see "The Nutcracker Suite". Going to Gervasoni's was a tradition my best friends, our mothers and I had. Figuring out which ornament to pick was nearly impossible, as the usual flower shop was transformed into a winter wonderland. And yet, each year we managed to find the perfect one. And I still have all of them hanging on my tree.

The most raggedy of all of ornaments (and that's saying something) is a half bald, woe begotten duck, made out of puff balls and wearing a ski hat. This is the oldest ornament I have, and it made the long journey of my childhood from San Francisco to New York to Santa Barbara and then on to Maine. It wouldn't even suffice as a decent dog toy. Still, it's my favorite. For reasons I can't fathom, when I was tiny I named him "The Chickie" and the Chickie he's remained to this day. I still pull him out from the boxes each year and greet him as I would an old friend who has been on this long journey with me. He's seen it all: the year I turned 5 and had chicken pox and ended up lying in bed wearing my new ice skates and trying to hug my sled. He was present in the afterglow of my seeing my first Broadway show, my becoming a horse crazy tween, my cousins and I sleeping under the tree to "catch Santa", my falling in and out of crushes, and my first true heartbreak. When my then new husband was away for months at a time, and I'd get the ornaments out by myself, the Chickie would remind me that I could connect my Christmases of years past with my present. 

Today I'll begin the process of de-Christmasing my house. I'll bring out the boxes in which to place the garland, fold up my burgundy tablecloth and remove the holiday paraphernalia. I will begin to take the ornaments off my tree, one by one. I will carefully look over each piece and decide if it's time has come to meet the rubbish bin. It's not an easy call. Some do actually break. With two exuberant, immense dogs, for whom the tree is nothing more than a fun object into which to crash, I've lost my share of glass balls. Others just looked worn and tired. I know that it's time for them to go...and in doing so, to make room for new pieces of new memories. Yet, it's tough to say goodbye even to the worst of the lot. By saying to them, "You look just awful. I can't have you on my tree any longer", it's as if I'm losing a part of my own Christmas memories. I'm the furthest thing from a pack rat. If anything, I tend to purge our house prematurely. When it comes to Christmas ornaments I've had for 40 years, however, I'm a hopeless nostalgia keeper.

I've resolved to let go of many of these ratty bits of fabric. The plaid covered bell, with places that are so bald Styrofoam can seen underneath is going to the trash. The assortment of Santa looking ornaments, that have always seemed a creepy to my daughter, will be donated, since they're in good repair. The snowman that I myself think looks a little demonic can bite the dust. The others, who resemble nothing in particular but just seem boring, dated and devoid of sentimentality, are out of here. Harder to release are the dodgy ones that evoke childhood memories. I know it's time. I know they don't add any character to our tree. But I think of my late father, whom I adored, when I put up the now shabby lobster boat. I remember my Grandma when I see the falling apart little doll she once sewed for me. And then there is The Chickie. My friend. My amigo. My traveling companion. I realize that I'm an adult and, to paraphrase St. Paul, it is time to put away childish things. 

I'm just not quite ready yet.

A House to Die For

“The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.” ~ Oscar Wilde

Growing up in the 1970's feels as if my generation was the last one to have a truly nostalgic sense of time and place. The innocence of the 1950's may have been lost. The changing times of the 1960's had passed. An era of 'new and improved' was upon us. It was a generation that fell in love with Hostess Fruit Pies, Pet Rocks, Big Wheels and waking up on Saturday mornings to watch "Super friends' in the Hall of Justice on color TV. Our mothers wore long, wildly printed Maxi-dresses with platform heels. Our fathers eschewed ties and wore open neck shirts. Evil Knievel attempted to jump to Snake River Canyon. Nadia Comaneci was cheered on for Olympic Gold in gymnastics. But, most of all, I remember an enormous treat that happened every weekend: the NBC Friday Night Mystery. It was a huge thrill to stay up way past my bedtime and get to watch MacCloud, MacMillian & Wife and the other thriller series that would take turns airing each weekend. These one hour programs would always reveal an underlying plot, solved bravely by our heroes, who were really just 'regular folks' trying to do the right thing. TV shows today don't have the same innocent, but multi-layered, approach to mystery. We are now told, in graphic detail, by forensic specialists, what happened. The only question remaining today is: "What techniques will they use in the lab?".

In the great spirit of well told stories, underlying character traits, hidden agendas and the need to dig for clues on a personal level, comes "A House to Die For" by Vicki Doudera. Doudera has authored several excellent non-fiction books, worked as a freelance magazine writer, has owned and run a successful Inn, and has worked in selling luxury real estate. Her varied life experience has brought a wonderful amount of charm, perspective, humor and knowledge to her first mystery novel. In many ways, Doudera's book, "A House to Die For", reminds me of those Friday Night mysteries that I grew up watching...or even a Nancy Drew for grown ups. This book is deeply compelling, sensual, entertaining and amusing. But, its style hearkens back to a time that didn't overwhelm the reader (or viewer) with horrific 'too much information' about the wounds on the victims. The protagonist, Darby Farr, solves the mysteries the old fashioned way: good old sleuthing. She asks questions, she digs deeper into all possibilities and rather than relying on crime scene lab, she goes to people's homes and asks questions. Is she a criminologist, working for a secret government agency? Nope. Darby Farr is a realtor...and just like Nancy Drew, just can't help but solve the mystery of the deadly, historic Victorian house on the point.

Comparisons to Nancy Drew aside, "A House to Die For" is *not* a children's book. It's a well written, imaginative grown up novel. However, the style and prose reminded me so strongly of the mysteries I grew up loving, I couldn't help but make the connection. It's a read for a rainy day, with a cup of tea, and a roaring fire. It's a novel to immerse yourself in, on a beach on vacation. It's a step back, nostalgically, because it's not an onslaught to the senses. It manages to be thrilling, and takes unexpected twists along the way. But, "A House to Die For" is not brutal in the way that a Lee Child or Robert Crais novel might be.

Mysteries are compelling for most of us. We all love unsolved puzzles and we admire the intelligent truth seekers who can ferret out the truth. Above all, we love being privy to the process surrounding the "whodonit". Since very few people will actually pursue investigation as a career, it's spectacularly entertaining to tag along, on a literature journey, with a character who does uncover dastardly plots. In the tradition of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, Darby Farr is mystery solver for the 'rest of us'...for those who have a nostalgic spirit and love a well told pot boiler...without the graphic violence that besieges far too much in modern novels and movies. We can safely try to solve the crime, along with Darby. In doing so, we can imagine ourselves to be 8 years old again...curled up on the floor, watching television on the 1975 RCA with built in cabinet that had the remote control that actually was "a clicker".

Just make sure to make some Jiffy Pop for a snack while you read...you will want it!

Lessons in Writing and Living

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations. ~ Anaïs Nin

Twenty five years ago, I was a student at Wheaton College, and sitting in a creative writing class with Professor Lichtenstein. Professor Lichtenstein was one of my favorite teachers. She was beautiful, smart, intuitive and had an enthusiasm for her subject unsurpassed by other instructors. She taught us about life beyond the traditional New England campus, and encouraged us to find our life's purposes, regardless if they had anything to do with her class. Professor Lichtenstein told us that there were three vital elements to a meaningful paper, as well as to a meaningful life:

1. Always be aware of your voice. Hear your voice in your work, in your conversations and your passions. Listen carefully if your voice becomes a parrot for someone else's opinions, thoughts or ideals. These augmenting meditations are helpful in forming a complete picture of our own reflections but should not overshadow them. Our thoughts should be intrinsically our own.
2. Always be aware of the present moment. Understand that the past is over and the future is yet to be. Heed being aware of your surroundings, how you feel and what your experience is as it happens. It's far more elusive to try to recapture moments after they're gone, especially when our minds were elsewhere. There is nothing more vital that paying attention, with rapt absorption, to the life you're living now. Once those feelings are gone, it's impossible to reclaim them. If you never had ownership to begin with, you cannot recreate a sentiment that never existed.
3. Always keep childlike enthusiasm and spirit alive in your heart. When we're young, we feel things with a depth of emotion that we lose later on in life. When we hear the ice cream truck's sing-song music, our youthful hearts skip a beat and we want to run outside, quarter in hand, to buy a Good Humor Strawberry Eclair bar. The lightness of being a child gets squashed down by loss, by hurt, by failure, by fear, by anxiety. The more you can rekindle that spark of tender fervor, the more likely you are to appreciate the little things in both life and writing.

I have to admit that, at the time of these lectures (of which I've paraphrased a year's worth here), I was already struggling with all three of these areas in my life. At 19, I didn't have a clue as to what my voice was. I was daydreaming of a young marriage, a Volvo wagon and three children before I was 30. I would shift gears and think I'd want to be a career woman, living in the city in a fabulous apartment. My thoughts would change again, and I'd picture myself as a world traveler, never resting one place for long. I didn't know my political leanings, my personal style or even my favorite foods. I tended to like whatever was in front of me at the moment. I wasn't trying to be irresolute. I simply couldn't 'hear' my voice yet because the opinions all around me seemed to carry far more weight. As I matured and discovered that I did have tastes that were exclusively my own, I began to understand Professor Lichtenstein's motive in this comment; it's languid to change opinions based on what's going on around you. It's a simple thing to be easily led. It takes character to know who you are, and to express that in words, both on paper and in speech. It also means that you will have a greater sense of self-awareness.

Living in the present moment was also a tough area for me to work on. I've always had my head in the clouds. I could never wait for the next weekend, the next chapter in a book, the sequel to a movie. I spent years wasting time just to get to the next stage of life, in which I'd waste more time. And yet, during my Yoga Instructor training, this was one of the most powerful areas to explore. In setting the tone for my classes, I've had to learn to suspend time outside the door, not only for myself, but also for my students. During the 75 minutes of our class time, our focus is exclusively on where we are physically, emotionally and spiritually at the present moment. There is no wiggle room for daydreaming and mental list making. As my Yoga style and skills have developed over the past decade, I've discovered that I've been able to translate this to the rest of my life. It's had a profound effect on my writing, as well as on my enjoyment of each moment that I'm given in this life. What a sad existence it would be if we arrived to the conclusion of our lives never having truly felt the twinkling junctures that punctuate our journey. The trip is far richer if you take notice of it.

The third area, as Dorothy said upon leaving Oz, is the one I'll miss the most. Childhood's captivating magic is far more elusive than the first two points of Dr. Lichtenstein's lectures. In a way, I've discovered that it actually combines the first two principles. When you're a child, you know who you are. You may know, without hesitation that you live in a white house on a street that's lined with trees, and that your best friend lives around the corner.You know that you love your Grandma but aren't too crazy about the mean neighbor that refuses to let you Christmas carol at his house. You love pizza with your own favorite toppings and like having sleepovers. Within each defining characteristic, that makes you understand yourself with full awareness, is the enjoyment of time passing around you but not touching you. I can recall whole days spent at the beach with my friends, or riding my horse in the Santa Barbara foothills or biking around the harbor in summer time Maine with exceptional clarity. I wasn't thinking about what I'd do next. I did not consult a day planner or check my voice mail. I was simply living the splendor of life, as it presented itself to me, without wondering about the next step. That alchemical process of letting life unfold around you, rather than forcing it to happen in particular way, is an area of childhood I miss deeply. As a writer, it's important to consider a predetermined outline, form, structure and style. But, if I leave out that conjuring metamorphosis of allowing the words to 'will themselves to be told', my work will be shallow and lacking in passion. I need to find the balance to create a structurally sound, and still emotionally evocative, piece of work. I also need to feel the same balance in my everyday life; paying my bills on time, being a responsible community member and showing sound judgement, while still finding freedom to just allow unplanned experiences wash over me, charming me and inspiring me to continue to grow.

I have no idea where Professor Lichtenstein is today. I know that she's no longer at Wheaton, but I don't remember her first name to Google her. The lessons she taught me, however, have stayed with me ever since. I believe that I'm a better writer, and a far better human being, because of talks we'd have. She inspired me to continue writing, and although I'm not a bestselling author as she'd once predicted, I can't imagine experiencing my life without using the words she encouraged me to find. So, Professor Lichtenstein, wherever you are, thank you....thank you from the silly, preppy girl who wore an awful lot of pink, far too much Laura Ashley and carried a floral tote instead of a backpack. Thank you for teaching me to be my own person, living in and appreciating today's gifts. I am a stronger, kinder, and more intelligent person because of you.