Posted by Anne 

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.
-Plato

Do you agree with Plato?  I admit—I struggle with this quote.  As someone who thoroughly enjoys a good gab-fest (preferably accompanied by caffeine), it’s hard to imagine anything as effective as conversation when it comes to connecting with another person.  And yet—this quote has been on my mind lately. 

I heard this little Plato nugget for the first time last week at a large gathering for all the Student Affairs professionals at my university.  (You know, the perky people who work for universities—not as professors—but the “life” educators.)  As a group, we gather about 3 times a year to listen to our Dean or Provost talk about our work, our students, and our goals.  There’s usually coffee.  And discussion.  I like these kinds of meetings.  But this one was different.  After the usual “state of the union” (as I call it) by our Vice Provost, we were divided into 3 different groups, and asked to participate in a series of “healthy” activities aimed at creating more “balance” and “self-care”. This may seem foreign to some of you in the corporate world, but to me?  This actually seemed quite normal.  But there was a hitch.  One of the rotations indicated two different options for some form of play.  That’s right…play.  One was even…juggling.  When I read the schedule, I had three immediate thoughts…

1. Isn’t there some alternative option?  Do I really need to juggle this morning to achieve balance in my life? 
2. If I do participate in the juggling, how on earth am I supposed to hold my coffee?
3. Seriously…there’s got to be some other option.   

As it turns out, there were some alternatives.  One on mindfulness and meditation, and one involving some reflection and quiet contemplation.  They were nice and quiet.  I didn’t have to interact with anyone else.  I was able to hold my coffee.  And you know?  They did nothing for me.  Probably because I already do a boat-load of “reflecting” in my life, these activities actually fell a little flat.  And so I wonder—would I have been better off playing?  And even more distressing…

Am I becoming un-fun?

I’ve been thinking about Plato’s words.  The people I know best in this world are the ones who’ve joined me in side-splitting laughter.  Thought I adore a great conversation with my husband, when was the last time we played a game together?  Why must I always connect with people through my conversation? 

No, I’m not going to take up juggling.  But perhaps there are easier ways to begin?  Just a couple days ago, I opened my email to find (hooray!) an e-vite.  And even better…for a totally random evening of fun.  What’s on the docket?  Games.  I’ll be honest.  I didn’t used to be a big fan of “game” parties.  Why can’t we just sip our wine and chat?  But something has happened.  I’m craving play now.  And so my reaction when I read that evite about the prospect of games and laughter was…utter joy.  A perfect opportunity to begin…to add play back into my oh-so-reflective life. 

Today, my sister (in blogging and real-life) posted a lovely entry about Ash Wednesday, and how she’s adding to her routine rather than giving something up.  I’m going to copy her…Icopied her when we were kids, so why not now?  Her “addition” during Lent is far more noble, but oh well…I will act the part of the younger and less responsible sister today.  Because I’m adding…playtime. It will begin on Friday.  I’m going to change.  I’m going to sacrifice a little reflection, and add a little play.  I’m going to be fun as well as reflective.  And I’ll report back next week…

How often do you “play”?  Is it easier to play when you have kids?  Or are you more of a conversation kind of person?

Posted by Anne

Next to my bed sits a jumble of written words.  Some of them were written by me.  Most of them were not.  This ever-growing stack of volumes on my bedside table is where I keep notebooks, journals, and the 4 or so books I’m reading at any given time.  I love this untidy pile; I love going to sleep with books and words by my side.  But there’s a downside to this pile…I tend to forget what’s at the bottom.  But last weekend, I was reminded of my pile’s contents when I dusted said bedside table.  And this time, I decided to actually take the extra 30 seconds and remove all the items from the surface of the table, instead of lazily snaking my way around picture frames and tubes of chapstick with a cloth.

In my burst of cleanliness, I made a discovery.  Sitting at the bottom of my signature pile was a journal.  There are actually a few journals in my pile, but I’d forgotten I had this one.  I was eager to dive in, curious as to what I’d find in its messy pages.  You see, my journals aren’t really journals.  For as much as I like to write, I’ve never quite latched onto the concept of a diary.  So my journals tend to be highly random, and highly disorganized.  They’re more like receptacles for ideas, thoughts, and beginnings.  In my journals, you’ll find the typical descriptions of events and heartbreak, as well as random quotes I’ve picked up, song lyrics I’ve printed and stuck in-between pages, cards given to me by dear friends, rough character sketches for novels I haven’t written, and journal entries written on the pages of church bulletins and airline magazine pages that I’ve hastily torn out and thrown in between the blank pages.

But this journal I found…it was different.  It was orderly.  It had dates.  Sure, when I opened it, there was the usual cascade of loose paper and cards.  But there was a structure to the entries of this journal.  They began in January of 2000—winter of my sophomore year of college.  Looking now, I see two headings on each page…two little phrases.  The first is “In my prayers…”  For each entry, there is the name of someone I’d been thinking about, or worrying about.  The second heading reads “Grateful for…”  And there I recorded someone I felt particularly grateful for on the day I actually wrote in the journal.  Nice, huh?  Here’s a little sampling…

In My Prayers…
“My sister, as she waits to find out what she’ll be doing post-graduation.  I hope everything turns out as it should.”

Grateful For…
“My parents, and how they never get tired of hearing from me while I’m at school.  I value their friendship so much.”

Reading the entries now, I’m struck by how simple this action was, yet totally heartfelt.  It couldn’t have taken much time—10 minutes tops.  That’s why it saddens me to see how long this routine lasted.  16 entries.  That’s it.  The other pages remain blank.  I’m not shocked—but I’m curious as to why I couldn’t have held on longer. Needless to say, life got in the way of my daily reflection.

These days, I’m no better.  Often, I talk to the people I’m thinking about, or I might say a private prayer when I think of it.  And those thoughts and prayers don’t mean any less than they did when they were carefully recorded in my blue, linen-covered journal.  But sometimes I lose track.  I become preoccupied with myself, my blog, my life.  So looking back on that journal—I believe there was something really beautiful about giving my time (brief though it was) to do nothing but think of someone else, and write it down.  That time was dedicated—special—even if it lasted for a mere 16 days.

I wonder if I could move my little journal to the top of the pile for awhile, and see how long I can take time—just two little phrases and a little bit of time each day—to write something nobody else will read.  To dedicate my time to thoughts of someone else.

Posted by Elizabeth

The lights are on, but nobody’s home!

Actually, I’m “next-door” at my virtual neighbor Kristen’s “house”, who kindly invited me to guest blog as part of the Won’t You Be My Neighbor? series.  Over the course of the next several Fridays, Kristen will be featuring a guest blogger, and we were lucky enough to be selected (Anne will post next Friday)!  Kristen is the author of Motherese, a blog providing “cultural commentary and musings on modern motherhood.”  Like the best mothering blogs, you need not be a mother to enjoy Kristen’s writing.  So c’mon over and read my contribution, It’s Not You, It’s Me…And You, in which I explore the nature of change in relationships.

Posted by Anne

How long before my community becomes a part of me?

Remember what they told you back in college?  During orientation?  If your experience was anything like mine, there was a constant refrain.  If you want to connect with your new school and be a successful little coed, you should get involved.  And if you decided to follow that advice, there were countless systems in place for just that mission—the Fall Involvement Fair.  Sorority Recruitment (or “Rush”, as it was called back then).  At my college, they offered “Freshman Interest Groups”, affectionately called “FIGS”.  And I joined them all.  I joined a FIG.  I joined a sorority.  I joined clubs.  I did NOT want to feel alone. 

Oh, if it were still that easy.  Finding your community at a university (even a large one) is one thing.  Finding your community within a city—and as an adult—is a different story.  If I’m being honest, my current town isn’t even that big.  Mid-sized, I’d call it…some would even call it small.  I moved here with my husband about a year and a half ago, and still find myself wishing it felt more like “my community”.  And while it certainly feels more like home than it did a year ago, I still find myself wanting. 

As an adult, finding your place within a brand-new community is overwhelming at best.  The challenge feels compounded for me, since I work in another town—an hour away.  Without the crutch of “work friends” or “school friends” (as I leaned on for so long), I seem to wade aimlessly through town, looking for kindred souls and the adult version of an “involvement fair”.  My sister calls it “dating for friends.”  She couldn’t be more right.  Perhaps this is why I found myself at an informational meeting last night for my local chapter of the Junior League.  (Fear not, if you’ve read The Help.  Times have changed, I assure you.)  And lo and behold, the highly welcoming and organized membership chairs each shared their own story of joining the Jr League…most of which began with, “I wanted to get involved.”  Nothing like a highly organized group of nice women, community service, and yummy cupcakes.  I was sold. 

And even before my entrée into the Jr League, I did make some progress.  Through our Church here (a challenge in its own right when you live in the Northwest), my husband and I have made some amazingly kind friends.  They are friends we can count on for a supportive conversation, and a cold microbrew.  They are wonderful, quirky, and make all the difference in my ability to feel some semblance of “home” in this region of the country that still feels new—and even a little foreign sometimes. 

But amidst all these adult-involvement efforts, I sometimes wonder why I’m so preoccupied with this need to feel (as Elizabeth captured awhile back) “amongst my people”.  Why does it matter so much? It matters because people (along with a certain cultural vibe) are the backbone of the community I’m seeking.  While I believe in being challenged, I also believe we all need to see our values and beliefs reflected in the eyes of like-minded souls.  And if those people are the ones that live in our community and join us for dinner on Saturday nights?  All the sweeter. 

Is it just me, or was it easier to make friends when we were kids?

And this need for community matters for yet another (perhaps even more profound) reason.  In my psyche, community = stability.  At some point, I must have decided that stability means I no longer have to change.  I no longer have to move.  I no longer have to start over.  I’d like to believe this, and at the same time, I know it’s a false hope.  Deep down, I know that even if you live in the same city that raised you, your experience of that place is constantly changing.  Your social circle morphs, and your sense of community morphs along with adult goals, changing interests, and perhaps even changing ideologies.  And so perhaps the better question is:  How do you find and capture a community that changes right along with you?  I’m still learning. And until I find it, I’ll continue to soldier on, and get involved.    

How long do you think it takes to feel “at home” somewhere?  To find a kindred community?  Anyone found an adult “involvement fair”?

Posted by Elizabeth

Some days I sit down to write a blog post and I know exactly what I’m going to say.  Other days the well is dry.  But on days like today my head is swimming with topics, and I struggle to pick just the right one.  I could write about Jeannette Walls’ Half Broke Horses, which I finished late last night, offering plenty of lessons and wisdom about living a life in pencil.  I could write about my new friend Evelyn and our unusual bilingual relationship.  I could write about our do-it-yourself bathroom remodel project, or Malcolm Gladwells’ Blink, or the fact that life is trying to teach me a lesson about patience these days.  I think all of these would make fine topics – in fact, you might see some of them in the coming weeks – but what’s really tugging at my attention today is this:

Existential crises.

If you know me, you know I talk a lot about existential crises.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I invented the term – I’m sure it came from someone in the existential school of thought — but I don’t recall where I heard it and I use the phrase a great deal, so I’m claiming it as my own for the purposes of this post.  What is an existential crisis, and how does it differ from your run-of-the-mill crisis?  You know you’re in the midst of an existential crisis when you wake up one day and begin asking yourself Life’s Big Questions.  Who am I?  Why am I here?  What is my purpose?  WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? Unlike your everyday crisis, you probably find that your life looks completely fine from the outside looking in.  Whereas most ordinary crises are propelled from external sources – you lose a job, a house, a relationship – existential crises are purely internal; this is what makes them so hard to pinpoint and easy to dismiss.  Everything looks fine, but nothing feels fine.  But trust me when I say that an existential crisis is just as serious as any other kind.

One of my favorite pastimes is to go around and diagnose my friends with an existential crisis.  Because I have faced my fair share of existential crises, I consider myself uniquely qualified to hand out these proclamations.  Just a few weeks ago, my friend, Emily, admitted that she was casting about aimlessly, wondering what life project she should tackle next.  I told her without hesitation that she was clearly in the midst of an existential crisis.  She reported that the diagnosis made her feel better because “it made my slothy blahs sound more intelligent. “  And that’s just the thing:  it’s easy to mistake an existential crisis for a lack of motivation.  And what’s the answer, at least in our culture, to inertia and uncertainty?  We should do something!

It’s then that we get into the sticky wicket of working ourselves through an existential crisis.  Is the answer to do something or to do nothing?  If we choose the former, how do we go about putting the answers to such monumental questions into action?  If we choose the latter, how do we keep the process moving forward without succumbing to a lifetime of sitting in a wingback chair in a velvet smoking jacket, just thinking? Because we are a culture that tends to value tangible results, productivity, and active doing, I think most of us tackle our existential crises by springing to action.  We immediately formulate a plan, something that will provide a quick answer, and then set about accomplishing it.  But if we haven’t taken the proper time and rest to formulate that plan, to let the existential ground lie fallow for a time, we often find ourselves weeks, months, or even years down the road asking the same questions.

There’s a lot of benefit to doing nothing – at least for awhile – because most of us rarely take the time to do so.  It’s difficult and uncomfortable to sit with our existential problems, waiting for answers to emerge, especially if we’re “doers” by nature.  We might feel as if we’re wasting precious time; we might feel lazy; we might wonder if this “doing nothing” is actually accomplishing anything.  Usually it is, but like the existential crisis itself, the forward movement is often imperceptibly small, invisible to the naked eye, and completely internal.  If we can’t see change happening, we might wonder if anything is really changing.  This approach takes a great deal of trust.  And sometimes it’s not always the answer.  Sometimes, in our effort to do nothing, we end up lying down and never getting back up again.

The answer, I think, is to make doing “nothing” an active process.  By its very definition it’s easy to reduce “doing nothing” to sitting on your duff waiting for life to happen and the answers to emerge.  This brand of “doing nothing” rarely works (unless you are “existentially tired”*, in which case sitting on your duff for a good, long while might be just the cure).  Instead, if we approach the act of doing nothing as an exploratory process, in which we are not manically seeking The Next Plan but inspiration, “doing nothing” can quickly feel like we’re “doing something.”  There are all sorts of ways we can actively explore our world without compulsively searching for plans, answers, and concrete action.  For example, Emily sat down to an inspiring dinner with a new friend, who helped stoke her creative fires without hammering out The Next Big Thing.  Why does this work?  Because the aim of this action is exploratory, rather than producing tangible outcomes, and there’s nothing more exciting that exploration at a time like this.

When you find yourself in the midst of an existential crisis, I am a proponent of doing what you have energy for, what excites you, what piques your curiosity, because I truly believe the answers are contained somewhere within those ideas.  It’s a great time to broaden your social circle, to invite new ideas into your life.  If you have the energy to do so, it’s a great time to say “yes” to things; you never know what new opportunities you never could have predicted are waiting on the horizon.

*Existential crises are often related to being “existentially tired” – a term I’m pretty sure I did invent – wherein you are not physically but emotionally exhausted.

Do you fall more into the “do nothing” or “do something” camp when you find yourself at a cross-roads?  What techniques have you found particularly useful when tackling your own existential crises?

Posted by Anne

There are certain experiences that can put a relationship (either romantic or platonic) to the test.  Travel is one of them.  You might know what I’m talking about.  Have you ever traveled with someone you believed to be a kindred spirit, only to discover they have odder quirks and pickier taste in food than you ever realized?  Two days into your week of relaxation and you’re about to slap your friend with a street map.  It happens.  A perfect travel buddy is a rare find.  Like true love, it’s a match that should have been the subject of sonnets or ballads, songs or myths.   

In my experience, there are two fundamental factors that make the difference between “travel-buddy-kismet”, and “travel-buddy-kiss-of-death”.  In my view, they are…

• Propensity for Planning AND
• Money 

The latter is pretty obvious.  Ever been the only one who wants to spring for a nice meal while everyone else is fine with peanut butter?  Ever been the only one who’s fine with the colorful (and cheaper) hostel in lieu of the posh resort?  Awkward.  And potentially difficult to transcend.  Whether you’re a high roller or thrifty traveler, it’s easiest to see new places with someone on a similar budget. 

As for the issue of planning.  You’d think I might be one to prefer a traveling companion who shares my need to book everything in advance and strategize my restaurant visits.  I would have thought so too, until a few years ago.   One summer, deep in the midst of graduate school, I left for a 6-week adventure in Europe with a friend of mine from middle/high school.  We were (and are) incredibly close friends.  But I think we both wondered how well we would travel together.  As it turns out…perfectly.  We were on the same page with budget, so that helped.  But when it came to planning and spending each day, we actually weren’t so identical.   

We spent a LOT of time engaging in this activity...

You see, when I travel, I have an unfortunate tendency to approach new places like an assignment.  Using a guide book as my guide (duh), I take every nugget of advice to heart.  When Fodors or Frommers calls something a “must see”…I’m inclined to believe I MUST see it!  And so my travels can become a little frantic—driven by an eagerness to check off the sights, because who knows when I’ll have the opportunity again.  My friend, on the other hand, took a different approach.  Sure, she understood the necessity of seeing certain sights—she was on board with the Sistine Chapel, for example.  But she taught me something new, as well.  She taught me the beauty of finding a quiet café, tea room, or gelateria, and simply….sitting.  With HER as my guide, our 6-week tour included fewer items to be checked off, and more moments to soak up a culture, indulge in an afternoon scone, and blissfully drown in an endless pot of perfect tea.  We were different, but she converted me.  And I loved it. 

I’m particularly aware of traveling companions these days.  This winter, my husband and I have the opportunity to escape the Northwest drizzle and freezing fog (didn’t know that existed til I moved here, by the way).  Yep, we’re heading south of the equator—to spend two weeks in Chile.  Now, we’ve certainly traveled together before, and I’m happy to report it’s been successful.  But this will be our first time to travel together internationally, and I hope we’re as compatible as I think we are.  I believe we’ll complement each other, since my husband is more on the…spontaneous side.  So while I’m making sure we have a roof over our heads and well-reviewed food in our bellies, I trust he’ll take after that friend of mine, and remind me to savor the random moments of not knowing. 

Do you have a favorite friend or family member to travel with?  And why do they make such a good traveling buddy?

Posted by Elizabeth

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.”

Families change.  No matter how good, bad, or average your own family is, the one thing you can count on is that, over time, family dynamics will shift.  Deaths and births bring families together, and tear them apart.  Marriages and divorces change the players and alter the rules by which our families operate. Perhaps it’s because I just spent 10 days with my family – the one I have by both biology and marriage – but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how my own family has been erased and rewritten by the hands of time.  I’m only 31, but my family – the faces, the routines, the traditions – looks nothing like it did just 10 years ago.  A large branch of my family tree snapped clean off when my mother died, the ragged remains resting limply on the ground for a number of years.  But from those remains grew a tender sapling, the family I married into, and I am grateful to have that appendage back.  Still, living thousands of miles from my relatives – our collective nuclear family is spread over three states and three countries – I rarely participate in family gatherings.  Any of the traditions that defined my growing up years are nonexistent.  And sometimes, especially around the holidays, that feeling is disconcerting.

When I flip through friend’s family photos, especially friends in my peer group, I am often struck by how unchanged their families are.  And I can’t help but feel a little envious when I see such cohesiveness incarnate.  There are rules, established at marriage, regarding where Christmases and Thanksgivings will be spent each year, from here to eternity.  Their family traditions are played upon the same stage year after year:  the cast, the costumes, and the sets largely unaltered.  Everyone memorized their script long ago and has polished their roles; they execute their parts effortlessly.  There are none of the frantic dress rehearsals, forgotten lines, or bouts of stage fright that I feel every year, as I madly dash around learning a new character for a new play, my life a seemingly endless series of limited engagements.  How, I wonder, will I ever learn my part if the script keeps changing?

But that is part of thrill, I suppose, of being a part of a family whose dynamics are not fixed.  There is no type casting because we all play a wide variety of roles from year to year.  If we didn’t like last year’s script then we throw it out and write a new one the next year.  And that script, I’ve learned, isn’t something that’s been written and handed to us; each year, we write the script as we go.  There are a lot of leaps of faith – without a prescribed plot, we often don’t know where the story is going until we get to the end, and that uncertainty from year to year sometimes creates panic, or at least a sense of disequilibrium.  For years I’ve been trying to carefully edit this messy script to create a sense of order.  For years I wanted nothing more than to create a series of rules and traditions that we would agree to adhere to from year to year, allowing each of us the opportunity to hone the roles we were cast in.  But you know what?  This year, I finally understood for the first time that that wouldn’t work for a family like ours.  It’s impossible to create a fixed game plan when the rules keep changing.  And rather than fighting it, I’m making a choice to embrace the uncertainty.  While I may never know a set series of time-honored traditions, I know I’ve been allowed to grow into whatever role I choose.

Which kind of family are you a part of?  Do you enact the same play year after year, or create a new one?  Which do you prefer?

Posted by Elizabeth

I am on a plane back to Albuquerque today, left pondering the events of the past week of my Christmas in Mexico.  But the things that stand out to me aren’t events at all.  They are moments – simple moments, that have been forever etched into my mind.

One night we played poker with my mother-in-law, Cecilia’s, poker buddies, a group of women from all corners of the globe who come together to drink tequila, eat good food, and take one another for a few pesos every Thursday.  Cecilia’s friend, Pilar, told me, “Jueves son sagrados.”  Thursdays are sacred.  I had never played poker, nevertheless a game conducted in Spanish, and I was nervous.  Nervous to be out of my comfort zone.  Nervous to be out of control. But I soon learned the names of the different cards, how to pass, how to call, how to raise, and how to begin having fun. Regardless of barriers of age and language, we were soon a well-oiled machine in sync, collectively ooing when the right combination of cards was placed on the table, and sighing in disappointment when they weren’t.  My dad, who speaks very little Spanish, was soon raking in the chips and sharing telling glances with me to help my game along.  I squealed and clapped my hands when I won my first round, and when we settled our bets at the end of the night I came out money ahead, and wondered what I had been so nervous about in the first place.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember how many rounds I won, but I think I’ll remember a night where everyone had an equally good time.

A few nights later, Cecilia and I took over the kitchen to prepare classic American dishes for a very Mexican Christmas.  Cooking has never been an activity that we’ve shared, and we’d never spent so many hours in the kitchen together.  But we successfully bobbed and weaved our way through her tiny kitchen, finding ourselves clueless in the middle of making marshmallows, furiously spreading the quickly-cooling confection on a greasy cookie sheet, while strings of white sugar spun around us.  Halfway through our cooking extravaganza, when Maikael and my dad went out to run an errand, she paused and took out a bottle of Bailey’s from the pantry.  “You want some?” she asked.  I’d never had Bailey’s, but I found myself quickly accepting.  With the heavy, milky liquid swimming around the ice cubes, we silently clinked our glasses together and shared a quiet moment, pausing just for a moment in the eye of the storm.  Years from now, I’m not sure that I’ll remember what we made that night, but I think I’ll remember the sound the ice cubes made as they swirled around the glass.

Maikael and my dad, Senor Fogonero

On Christmas Eve we made our way over to Pilar’s house, where we were amongst the first guests to arrive.  Someone was trying – unsuccessfully – to get a fire started, and before he knew it, my dad was suckered into keeping the fire going all night.  He hopped up every so often to tend to the fire, poking gingerly at the simmering logs and politely declining the suggestions to use candles and canola oil to keep it going.  By the end of the night, he was officially known as Senor Fogonero, the man who shovels coal into a steam-powered locomotive.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember who was at that party, but I think I’ll remember that, for a brief moment in time, my dad was The King of the Fire.

Later that evening we made our way downstairs to Pilar’s driveway, where a Nativity scene draped in psychedelic flashing lights stood.  The party gathered in a semicircle around the manger, our coats gathered tightly around us, nimbly holding oversized candles.  Pilar’s granddaughters each held a side of a scarf, where baby Jesus was carefully placed between the two corners.  Then, they began gently rocking him as the group started singing Las Posadas. We didn’t know the words, but we peered at the lyrics over someone’s shoulder, humming along, the soft glow of the candlelight illuminating our faces.  Before he was placed in the manger, Pilar passed around the figurine of baby Jesus, and we each kissed him.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember the words to the song, but I think I’ll remember huddling in the cold and, for a fleeting moment, truly experiencing the spirit of the holidays.

Senora Claus

We went upstairs for dinner at 11 pm, a multicourse affair with a steaming terrine of potato leek soup, that famous salted cod dish, pork loin dusted with chile powder, pork loin baked with white wine and dried fruits, and a true buffet of desserts, from rum cake to German stolen.  We laughed and ate and talked, covering topics as diverse as bad jokes and the persistent drug problems that plague Mexico.  Just before dinner was served, Pilar’s granddaughter, Natalia, shimmied her way out of the bedroom in a Santa Claus sleeper.  “Senora Claus is here!” someone shouted, before Natalia ate a piece of grasshopper pie and promptly fell asleep on the couch, her red suit peeking out from underneath the blanket.  Years from now, I’m not sure I’ll remember everything we ate that night, but I think I’ll remember the feeling of being warmly brought into the fold as a foreigner on Christmas Eve.

Life is a series of moments.  And yet, these moments are alarmingly fleeting:  they are so easy to pass by that we often forget them before we even have a chance to remember.  It’s a bit like lucid dreaming, where we must train ourselves to memorize these moments while they’re happening, without trying so hard that we’re pulled out of the moment altogether.  This is a delicate balance, and our difficulty in achieving this balance might explain why we insist on treating life as a series of events, even when we know that it’s the moments that matter most:  the crash and bang of events is simply easier to inscribe on our memories than the whisper of moments.  But it’s those whispers that have the most to teach about better living a life in pencil: lessons about losing control, being quiet, having a small but special place in the world, shifting our focus away from “things,” and being made to feel a part of something.  Although the lessons are quiet, they resound louder than most events ever will.

What small, but special, moments will you hold near and dear to your heart from this holiday season?

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Elizabeth

Old Town, Albuquerque

This past weekend was what I affectionately dubbed “My Crazy Holiday Weekend,” a flurry of activity crammed into the 60 hours between Friday morning and Sunday evening.  There was a Charles Dickens Tea with my friend, Paris, where we munched on Great Expectations Beef Wellington, Tiny Tim’s Stuffed Cherry Tomato, and Little Dorrit’s Sticky Toffee Pudding amid a cozy tearoom bathed in soft light and merry music.  After that was shopping in Old Town, the ancient adobe buildings draped in swags of evergreen and crowed with old-fashioned luminarias, the original New Mexican holiday decoration.  There was dinner with Ignacio and Anna at an old-fashioned hacienda on the outskirts of town, where they serve killer drinks and smoky-hot enchiladas, a final “hurrah” before we leave town for the holidays.  There was a just-because brunch with my friend, Sarah, and the neighborhood holiday party, where we hobnobbed with neighbors we see but once a year.  But amidst all the hustle and bustle, I found a few hours of quiet reflection in the most unlikely of places:  a holiday sing-a-long.

Singing used to be a huge part of the season for me.  For the six years between junior high and high school graduation, the weekends during the month of December were booked solid with a never-ending parade of vocal recitals and Christmas concerts, a multilingual cavalcade of music.  The rhythm of our household danced to the beat of music one month of the year, leaving little time for other holiday revelry.  And that was okay with us.  When I was 12, I remember my first concert with the Seattle Girls’ Choir, our voices filling one of the mammoth downtown churches.  Ask my dad to recall a Christmas memory, and he will tell you about the time my choir sang on the Seattle Waterfront, a string of teenage girls forming a processional into the space, candles casting a soft glow on our faces, as my solo voice rang out acapella over the crowded room…

Veni, veni Emmanuel;
Captivum solve Israel,
Qui gemit in exilio,
Privatus Dei Filio.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
Nascetur pro te, Israel.

He remembers the words to this day.

When I got invited to a holiday sing-a-long at The Jobe’s this Saturday, I was immediately transported back to this time in life when singing was synonymous with the holidays.  I eagerly accepted the invitation, excited to join voices with a group, something I hadn’t done in nearly 13 years.  The house was aglow with twinkly lights, a sweet little Christmas tree, laced with strands of popcorn, perched in the front window.  I stepped into the house, which was filled with the aroma of posole, a Mexican stew studded with giant kernels of hominy and pork that is traditionally served during the holidays.  A felt banner with the 12 Days of Christmas, stitched years ago, lined the mantel, and a Nativity scene, graced with real frankincense, took center stage.  As is always the case at The Jobe’s, I felt as if I had stepped back in time.

LiP Reader ABF and daughter, Madison, nestled together after the sing-a-long.

Mrs. Jobe distributed songbooks, “The Annual Jobe Family Sing-a-Long” scrawled by hand on the front in silvery letters, to our little group, our numbers having dwindled in the hours before the party from 18 to eight, before settling herself at the piano.  For an hour she plunked out familiar songs, and we smiled at one another as we sang Silver Bells and Silent Night. I learned Christmas in Killarney, a Jobe Family favorite that I had never heard before.  When we sang Santa Claus is Coming to Town, I laughed and told the group that I hated the song:   my dad always sang it to me when I was being bad, the lines, “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good” setting me sobbing every time.

At the end, Mr. Jobe called to Mrs. Jobe, “Get me my broom, Mary.”  Recovering from a knee surgery, Mr. Jobe propped himself on the edge of his plush recliner, clutching his weathered broom in one hand, and started to tell a story.

“Back when I was growing up — this is 70 years ago now – I went to a country school.  Every year we had a Christmas party.  We didn’t give much because there wasn’t much to give, but Santa Claus came and all the children got a piece of candy.  There was a Christmas pageant, and at the end, when it was time to go home, a first-grader was selected to give a little speech at the end.  When I was in first grade, I was that boy.  I stood on the stage with a broom, making like a janitor, and said this poem.”

Mr. Jobe recited a poem from memory, “The Janitor’s Ode,” which said, in a nutshell, “the show’s over, get your kids and go on home now.”  And with that, the singing was over and we adjourned to the warmth of the kitchen, where we ladled big bowls of posole and a steaming plate of fresh pinto beans.  Our little party sat around the table, where we caught up, sotto voce, on the last three months since I’d seen them.

As I made my way out to the car as night began to fall, it struck me that the tradition of singing during the holidays wasn’t about the quality of the voices or the repertoire or the music.  It was about coming together for a moment in time, being one united voice, if only for an hour.  It was about a brief respite of solitude cutting through the frenetic energy of the season.  Even though those holidays of my youth, revolving around a busy performance schedule, were action-packed, once we hit the stage, our voices raised in unison, the concerns of the outside world disappeared.  Because when we sing, we can be nowhere other than exactly where we are.

Which holiday activities or rituals transport you to the past while keeping you grounded in the present?  What’s your favorite holiday song?  Does a sing-a-long sound like fun, or your worst nightmare?  Where do you find community this time of year?

In New Mexico, nothing brings a group together quicker than posole, and you won’t find a holiday party without a pot simmering on the stove.  If you’re looking for a taste of New Mexico this December, try my mother-in-law’s recipe, which she makes every year.

Cecilia’s Posole

1 large pork roast, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 espinazo (pork back) – she insists you need the bones to flavor the broth
8 cups water, or enough to keep pork submerged in pot
9 garlic cloves, divided
5 to 10 dried California chiles, washed and deseeded (use gloves!)
1 medium onion, chopped
Pinch of cumin
Salt and pepper to taste
10 to 12 cans of white hominy, drained of any liquid

Add chopped pork roast, espinazo, 5 garlic cloves, water, and salt and pepper to taste in a very large Dutch oven or soup pot.  Simmer until pork is throughly cooked, about an hour.  Meanwhile, simmer chiles with plenty of water, about an hour.  Strain chiles, reserving the cooking water.  Add chiles to blender with onion, a pinch of cumin, 4 garlic cloves, and enough of the reserved cooking water to achieve a proper sauce-like consistency (start small, and add more water as needed — it should be neither too thin or too thick).  Add hominy and chile sauce to the stock, and let it simmer until meat is very tender.  Remove bones from stock.

Serves a LOT.  This is a party stew!

Today we continue our Holiday Season Extravaganza.  Between now and December 25, we will share what it means to celebrate the holidays — Life in Pencil style.

Posted by Anne

The book that launched an afternoon.

One of my favorite holiday decorations has always been…the book.  Each year when my Mom hauled out the usual decorations—candles, nutcrackers, etc—she also pulled her favorite seasonally appropriate books off the shelf.  During the holidays, A Christmas Carol in its leather-bound glory would sit in a place of honor on the coffee table, along with Twas the Night Before Christmas.  But there was one other book…a poem…that Mom set out to read.  It’s called A Cup of Christmas Tea, and my Mom just adored it.  It tells the story of a busy modern woman who must go visit an elderly friend (or was it a relative?) for a “cup of Christmas tea”…hence the title.  And despite the woman’s reluctance, it’s a wonderfully touching tea party.  She finds herself slowing down, and learning something new.  It’s a lovely poem, soaked in estrogen and filled with holiday cheer. 

Now, as I kid, I didn’t find this poem particularly thrilling.  Even though I wanted desperately to attend tea parties (and magically become English), I still preferred that other poem about St. Nick clattering around on someone’s rooftop.  But this old poem of my Mom’s must have rubbed off on me, because this year, in a moment of holiday inspiration, I asked a neighbor of mine over for a cup of tea to celebrate the holidays.  I wouldn’t exactly call her “elderly”, but she’s certainly not a peer, either.  She’s someone who often wants to chat, but in the break-neck speed of my weekly schedule, I rarely allow a word in edge-wise.  This was my chance to redeem myself…my Christmas gift to her.     

So this past Saturday, I gathered together my tea party…determined to make the whole affair decidedly cheerful and elegant.  As it turns out, my neighbor doesn’t like tea (or coffee).  Hmmm, not to worry.  I decided to make cookies and some kind of punch.  As it turns out, she doesn’t eat sugar.  Hmmm….my fantasy tea party was tanking by the minute.  I called my Mom—the expert at feeding and entertaining senior women, and asked her what to do.  “Well, hon, obviously you serve some savory snacks and wine or sparkling water.”  Oh, Mom.  Brilliant that woman.    

My holiday spread.

And so I did just that.  I laid my coffee table with the prettiest water I could find, and arranged cheese straws, crostini, and spreads.  I used platters and pitchers we received for our wedding—the stuff that people always think is too formal for everyday (but shouldn’t be). My guest arrived on time, bearing a gorgeous poinsettia and sugar-free cider.  We sipped the cider, and munched on the snacks.  We covered everything from marriage to travel to real estate.  She told me stories.  I told her stories.  I learned about the origins of the town I’ve called home for over a year now.  We talked, and kept talking…for somewhere in the neighborhood of a couple hours or more.

It was lovely because it was slow.  It was an afternoon “in pencil”.  And for all the chaos of the holidays, it felt so warm…so civilized…and even a little old-fashioned.  I had nowhere else to be, and nothing else to do.  I was present with her—enjoying the company of someone I otherwise never would have taken the time to appreciate.  And ultimately, I was glad I’d done something other than bake her banana bread, and stick it on her porch.  She loved my conversation a great deal more.  (And apparently doesn’t eat sugar).  So as it turns out, my Mom’s poem was spot-on.  I hope you all have the opportunity to take an “afternoon off” this holiday season, and find someone—young or old—with whom you can share a drink, and simply talk. 

Any holiday books that have ever inspired you?  Do you ever find a moment to slow down during the holidays?