I hear so many good things about meditation. So! Many! And let's face it, I need all the help I can get. There is enough stress in my life that I've gained fifty pounds in a year and can hardly turn my neck for all the tension I hold there. I have been trying to meditate somewhat regularly (i.e. a couple times a week, except for when it's a couple times a month, or three days in a row).
I found an awesome website called calm.com that offers free guided meditation in 2, 5, 10, and 20 minute intervals. I can get the kids to sit with me for the 2 minute one, and on good days they will ask if we can do a 5 minute one. It is easier to meditate when you are calm than when you are stressed. (Is that irony? Ever since people started mocking Alanis Morissette I've been nervous about using that term in public.) A five minute meditation session usually consists of about 4 minutes of my thoughts racing all over the place and one minute of dozing off. I've also read that going to sleep during meditation is a sign that you are hiding from the work you need to do. I suspect it's more that I'm tired, but there's no reason why it couldn't be both.
But it still feels good. It makes me feel like I'm doing something to take care of myself, what Beth Woolsey calls "radical acts of self care." That alone is worth the price. (Which is free. I'm sorry, I can't tell if I'm being funny or just incomprehensible.)
How have you taken care of yourself lately?
Monday, November 17, 2014
Friday, November 14, 2014
Acting Like My Father
Years ago I saw a sitcom where one woman is accused of acting like her father. "Oh my God," she gasps. "I've been trying so hard to not become my mother--I never saw THAT coming!" I laughed with recognition.
My words, my moods, my mannerisms--all my mom's. Even the ways I'm not like her are defined by her. "Mom would never let her kitchen get this messy." And yet, my dad seeps through in odd moments. My family sits down to eat dinner; I pop back up to turn out the lights in other rooms, and remember my dad doing the same. I walk along slick pavement, and despite the cold, pull my hands out of my pockets "in case I fall," responding to a lifetime of warnings. As a parent, I finally understand why sucking on the last bit of drink through my straw, or sniffing repeatedly without ever going to get a kleenex both drove him nuts.
My dad gave me many gifts. My love of mountains. An appreciation for late afternoon's "sweet light." Wanderlust. He was a great model for how to maintain friendships and how to enjoy life's simple pleasure. When I turned 18 he told me, "Vote for any party you want, but always support schools, parks, and libraries." His quirks and talents and lessons are woven into my life.
As I started to learn about the concept of white privilege during the past few years, I've come to realize that I already was aware that it existed, because my suburban, middle-class white dad pointed it out to me throughout my life. I knew his friend Nick didn't like to come visit us because in our neighborhood, he was likely to get pulled over for Driving While Black. I knew that one of the only times my dad ventured from photography into writing was when his friend Max was mistaken for "a Jap" in a small Idaho town where they were covering a mining disaster, and was told to be out of town by sundown or be found face-down in a river. (This was a good 15 years after WWII ended, and Max is actually Hispanic.) My dad was outraged, and wanted to shine as much publicity on the event as possible. He told me about attending high school in the late 1940s, and how the black kids came in the back door. At the time, he figured everyone went in the doorway closer to their own neighborhood, but a few years out of high school, with a few years in the city newsroom under his belt, he wised up, and was ashamed of his complacent naivety.
"You know," I told him a few years ago, "some people think we don't have any more racism, because we elected Obama."
He sputtered for a moment. "People are idiots!" he finally got out. "Just because it's not a problem for THEM, they think it's not a problem." Which is probably the most succinct definition of privilege there is.
Another time he sighed, "If I hate bigots, does that make me a bigot?"
He was a product of his time and place, as we all are. He had his prejudices and blind spots, as we all do. He strove to see people clearly, to value others as they are, and to not mistake his own experience for universal experience. When he died last February, he left behind literally thousands of top notch photographs. His more important legacy is what he taught his girls about being human.
This has been a "Finish the Sentence Friday" post. The prompt was "The best advice my dad ever gave me..." Link up here!
My words, my moods, my mannerisms--all my mom's. Even the ways I'm not like her are defined by her. "Mom would never let her kitchen get this messy." And yet, my dad seeps through in odd moments. My family sits down to eat dinner; I pop back up to turn out the lights in other rooms, and remember my dad doing the same. I walk along slick pavement, and despite the cold, pull my hands out of my pockets "in case I fall," responding to a lifetime of warnings. As a parent, I finally understand why sucking on the last bit of drink through my straw, or sniffing repeatedly without ever going to get a kleenex both drove him nuts.
My dad gave me many gifts. My love of mountains. An appreciation for late afternoon's "sweet light." Wanderlust. He was a great model for how to maintain friendships and how to enjoy life's simple pleasure. When I turned 18 he told me, "Vote for any party you want, but always support schools, parks, and libraries." His quirks and talents and lessons are woven into my life.
As I started to learn about the concept of white privilege during the past few years, I've come to realize that I already was aware that it existed, because my suburban, middle-class white dad pointed it out to me throughout my life. I knew his friend Nick didn't like to come visit us because in our neighborhood, he was likely to get pulled over for Driving While Black. I knew that one of the only times my dad ventured from photography into writing was when his friend Max was mistaken for "a Jap" in a small Idaho town where they were covering a mining disaster, and was told to be out of town by sundown or be found face-down in a river. (This was a good 15 years after WWII ended, and Max is actually Hispanic.) My dad was outraged, and wanted to shine as much publicity on the event as possible. He told me about attending high school in the late 1940s, and how the black kids came in the back door. At the time, he figured everyone went in the doorway closer to their own neighborhood, but a few years out of high school, with a few years in the city newsroom under his belt, he wised up, and was ashamed of his complacent naivety.
"You know," I told him a few years ago, "some people think we don't have any more racism, because we elected Obama."
He sputtered for a moment. "People are idiots!" he finally got out. "Just because it's not a problem for THEM, they think it's not a problem." Which is probably the most succinct definition of privilege there is.
Another time he sighed, "If I hate bigots, does that make me a bigot?"
He was a product of his time and place, as we all are. He had his prejudices and blind spots, as we all do. He strove to see people clearly, to value others as they are, and to not mistake his own experience for universal experience. When he died last February, he left behind literally thousands of top notch photographs. His more important legacy is what he taught his girls about being human.
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| With all four daughters at his 80th birthday 2012 |
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| Dancing with my mom at a friend's wedding ca. 2002 |
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| On a mountain climb ca: 1950 |
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| At an artist's reception 2012 |
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| Supervising my niece ca 1995 |
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| On a photography outing 2011 |
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| Us on top of Mt. Hood 1984 |
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| Dancing together at my friend's wedding 1990 |
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Sunday, November 9, 2014
My Very Favorite Books
I spent much of this rainy Sunday scrolling through Goodreads, when I should have been doing housework, grading, or possibly even interacting with my children. I was checking out the "best books ever" list and trying to make my top 100 choices. I was consciously trying to include different types of favorites--classics, beloved children's books, the best book in my favorite mystery series, books that made me think, etc. One thing I noticed is that some of the titles I chose recalled specific people and places for me--my best friend and I read Accidental Tourist aloud to each other as we sunbathed one summer in high school, I read The Book of Laughter and Forgetting sitting in a Danish windowsill during my college semester abroad, I listened to a recording of The Hero and the Crown lying on my bed for a few days in August while I recovered from a minor bike accident. Much like the way a wine you drink when you are having a delightful experience at a winery tastes better than a wine you pick up at the grocery store, some books are memorable for more than the story itself, but also for what the story represents in my personal history.
There is, of course, no agreed upon list of 100 best books, and no way to even choose which books are my 100 favorite. The top 50 or so would probably make the list on any day, but the others could be pushed off if I were in a different mood. Still, if I had to commit to only reading from the list I developed today, I could live with that.
My top 10:
1. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
I thought I hated Steinbeck, and indeed, most mid-century male American writers. The year I spent living in Riga, I got membership at a small English language library. Pickings were slim, and I read a number of books I wouldn't have otherwise. Two pages in, and I was eating crow. This book is magnificent.
2. The River Why by David James Duncan
While I've only read The Grapes of Wrath once, this book I've read easily a dozen times. It was definitely a case of the right book at the right time--I read it as a young adult, and it is a fantastic coming of age novel. It starts out humorous and moves into philosophy without leaving any readers behind. It's also set in familiar places. I have loaned this book out repeatedly, and my beloved 25 year old copy shows how many times its been read. I haven't actually re-read it in the past ten years or so--I'm almost afraid to. The Brothers K, by the same author, also rocked my world.
4. Tess of the D'urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
There is, of course, no agreed upon list of 100 best books, and no way to even choose which books are my 100 favorite. The top 50 or so would probably make the list on any day, but the others could be pushed off if I were in a different mood. Still, if I had to commit to only reading from the list I developed today, I could live with that.
My top 10:
1. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
I thought I hated Steinbeck, and indeed, most mid-century male American writers. The year I spent living in Riga, I got membership at a small English language library. Pickings were slim, and I read a number of books I wouldn't have otherwise. Two pages in, and I was eating crow. This book is magnificent.
2. The River Why by David James Duncan
While I've only read The Grapes of Wrath once, this book I've read easily a dozen times. It was definitely a case of the right book at the right time--I read it as a young adult, and it is a fantastic coming of age novel. It starts out humorous and moves into philosophy without leaving any readers behind. It's also set in familiar places. I have loaned this book out repeatedly, and my beloved 25 year old copy shows how many times its been read. I haven't actually re-read it in the past ten years or so--I'm almost afraid to. The Brothers K, by the same author, also rocked my world.
You know why I love this book. My favorite story about it is a friend of mine whose daughter read it in 7th grade, 10th grade, and then again in college. "I've always loved this book," she told her mom, "but I wish they'd let us read the full version in middle and high school instead of the abridged version." Her mom explained that she had actually read the full version all three times, but was bringing so much more to the story now that it seemed richer to her.
Oh, Tess. This was one of my first classics. Far From the Madding Crowd has a happier ending, but sometimes heartbreak is the way to go. It is, of course, frustrating to read this as a modern woman, but if you accept that people do things differently in the past, it has that sense of tragic inevitability.
And again I go for the local author. Le Guin has written so many books that I love, but the audacity of imagining a world in which gender fluctuates at each "time of the month" makes this one brilliant. Plus, it's ends up being swooningly romantic, as two tough and private people let down the walls between them.
I can't believe more people don't know this book, and it's sunnier prequel, The Good Master. War, anti-Semitism, courage, growing up--plus gorgeous illustrations and a look at life on the Hungarian plains. Kate and Jansci learn more than children should have to, but luckily have wise and loving parents to help them process the horrors of WWI.
So, Dickens is not particularly subtle, and this is probably not his greatest work from an artistic standpoint--or maybe it is, how the hell would I know? But after being introduced to Oliver Twist around age 10, this was the next Dickens I encountered, the summer after my freshman year at high school. We had studied the French Revolution, and here was this incredible novel about--get this!--the French Revolution! I am a complete sucker for learning history from novels, and the book just blew me away.
Sci Fi about a woman in a dystopian society who falls in love with a golem. In other words, I can't actually explain this book, but I loved it. Incredibly moving and fierce.
More feminist sci fi, yay! It's occurring to me that many of these books I read between the ages of 18-25. I guess I was old enough to really GET serious literature, and young enough to be BLOWN AWAY by encountering it.
Okay, so my 10th spot was a complete toss-up between One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Anne of Green Gables, Far From the Madding Crowd, Angle of Repose, Snow Falling on Cedars, Martian Chronicles, City of Thieves, Blueberries for Sal, The Monkey Wrench Gang, etc. etc. But this book contains a scene where the protagonist is learning about the atrocities that caused another character to flee Nicaragua in the 1980's. She says something like, "I wouldn't want to live in a world where those things happen," and he replies "But you already do." It gave me chills then, and it gives me chills now. Just because it's not happening TO ME doesn't mean it's not my problem.
If you like the list, let me know--I can do top 10s in categories too...
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