For Auld Lang Syne

Friends ~ New Year's Eve is tonight and I know that for many, expectations are huge.  Dedication and rededication. A new turn toward health or romance or employment or address or...whatever it is that keeps you up at night because you "haven't done it right, yet". Emphasis, yours, not mine.

As I write this, I am listening to a particularly lovely jazz version of "What Are You Doing On New Year's Eve?". It's a wonderful standard but the implicit message is: Am I worthy of your attention on this most important of all nights?

When the bells all ring and the horns all blow
And the couples we know are fondly kissing
Will I be with you or will I be among the missing?

Maybe I'm crazy to suppose
I'd ever be the one you chose
Out of a thousand invitations
You received

Oh, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doing New Year's?
New Year's Eve?

The weight that we give this -- let's face it --really meaningless moment is a shame. It's somewhat arbitrary and certainly, it's not the ONLY beginning to a year. Rosh Hashanah, Chinese New Year and Nowruz are fairly familiar but there are new beginnings every month and season of the year. So. So what?

So if we connect with an annual beginning - and really, why not? -- and choose to dedicate ourselves to start something, what's the problem? Here is what I see as the problem: feeling good, certainly feeling better and making improvements is fantastic but it's that issue of worthiness that I worry about.

There is a connection we make between what we accomplish and how we see ourselves, our self-worth. It can be a trap. If you start a new program on January 1 because it's January 1 you "still haven't reached....", what I hear is a start that comes from seeing yourself as less-than, rather than deserving-of. And if you slow down, stop, "fail" at that new program? What then? How will you think about yourself? Still deserving?

You...whoever you are, whatever you have or have not done, you ARE deserving. You are. Period.

On December 31, I always see articles that ask the question: What does Auld Lang Syne mean? (It's the song no one knows!) Actually, lots of us know it, and I say that as someone who is Scottish. Literally, it means "old long since" or more commonly, days gone by.

A year has gone by so it's a great choice to ring in a new one.

The chorus -- translated into English -- is the part the most people know:

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For days gone by, friends. For the year that we've gotten through. We'll take a cup of kindness and while we're at it, let's extend the kindness to ourselves. And that is absolutely my wish, my prayer, for you.

For all: Forgive yourselves. Start with that. Whatever shortcoming you think you have, let it go. Life is too short for self-flagellation. What good does it serve? If you forgive yourself, really, then I believe you will be so much more able to focus on whatever life-adjustments you want to take on.

Since it's New Year's Eve, I won't call this an encore. We can call it our New Beginning. Let's remember that we are worthy...and yes, we CAN look for new jobs and new loves and new homes....and know that as we enter 2019, we do it knowing we fully deserve goodness.

I do and you do.

Peace.

A Seasonal Reminder: Embrace the Imperfect

Friends ~ As I write this, it is the end of the first week of December which in my world means that classes in the university where I work ended yesterday, and today begins the holy seasons of Reading Period and Finals. Students are worn down, strung out, and just basically cranky. In our region of the northeast, we recently experienced one of the wettest autumns on record: day after day of grey, dreary and miserable.

Then: into this mix also comes simultaneous secular and religious holidays. Lights are being lit at night, colors and music pop everywhere, and whether or not we are the ones who usually *love this stuff*, some years, it's just different. Maybe every year, it's difficult -- but you know you're going to be surrounded by it, anyway. So how in holy hell do we keep our heads on?

When I sit to write these pieces, I imagine you -- wherever, whoever you are -- may be feeling how I am.  But sometimes, I don't.  Sometimes it seems as though there are too many possibilities to hold it all...so I don't even try. That's when I just go with my gut. Today, I am going with my gut and what occurs to me is that whatever your age, whatever your employment status, your family structure or any other demographic you can name.... the common denominator this month is: exhaustion. 

When I see someone who looks fried and *tells* me they're fried, I try to give them the best advice I can. In the last week, I have said no fewer than three times:

There's an old Zen Buddhist saying that goes something like this: You should sit in meditation for 20 minutes a day, unless you're too busy. In that case, you should meditate for an hour a day.

This saying is both about time and NOT about time. 

I am not a Buddhist but I offer this up now because when we are exhausted -- physically, emotionally, spiritually -- some of us have the curious habit of expecting more from ourselves. Of course this isn't rational, but it's what we do, so let's take another step. Let's let ourselves be imperfect.

It's scary; I know it is. But think about this for a minute. IF you already know you are only in the first third of a month which -- let's face it - is probably going to be a marathon, don't you want to be as kind to yourself as you can? 

I can't tell you what you need to do to accomplish this -- though I will share with you that I am including this element of meditation in my life. Literally. Yes, I have multiple baskets of laundry that need to be folded -- here I am: my imperfect self -- but I am still spending an hour each night letting myself unwind and just be.  I also knit. Badly. I knit badly. When I was a teenager, someone showed me how to knit, purl, caste on, and caste off but that is my entire body of knowledge. I can't read patterns, can't understand those connected knitting needles, and I don't even try to understand how one knits with three needles at a time. I could take a class and maybe someday I will. But the point is that for me, it's been a kind of meditation. The soft, clicking rhythm of creating something is a mantra that lifts me outside of myself. So many have written about knitting in the last decade that my embrace of it sounds silly, given what others can create. BUT...that's not the point, for me. For me, it's just the doing it -- dropped stitches and all. 

So, friends, wherever you are and whatever your journeys in this darkest time of year in the Northern Hemisphere, I pray that you can let yourselves let yourselves retreat and rest. Let stuff go. The perfect *anything* is a trap. Look in the mirror, embrace the imperfect, then crawl into bed and maybe, just be. 

Peace.

Bring It: The Delights of Potlucks

When I have friends coming over for a meal -- which happens pretty regularly -- I get asked if there is something that they can bring. I often deflect the question. If asked again, I tend to suggest they bring a beverage.  Sometimes, I'll say dessert since, well, let's face it, having bonus desserts is usually a fun idea. More often than not though, I just say: Don't worry about it; I have plenty -- and it's true.

While you might suggest I analyze my thought process about hosting, really, it's not necessary. The truth is that I have been organizing parties of all stripes since I was seven years old. I've been baking yeast breads since I was a teenager and I spend way too much time on Pinterest. You could suggest that I have a harder time receiving than giving and okay, I'll cop to that one, but...that's not what this is about.  Truly, I *love* every aspect of bringing together people.  Meals become opportunities for connection. So, that's why I am going to out myself here by saying it's actually ironic that I don't take up my guests' offers more. That I don't immediately say: YES, please bring me a side dish! Yes: a complicated salad, in fact, the more complicated, the better. You want to spend all day on a mole sauce? Please! Be my guest! Because I already know that I will love what they might bring.

I say "it's ironic" because I adore pot luck suppers and I know how transformative they can be.  The brunches ...and lunches ...whatever meals... can become an opportunity for a group to come together --  in spirit as well as food.

Twice since July, I have been to extraordinary pot lucks which reminded me exactly why I love them.

In September, I went to Richmond, Virginia.   It was my uncle's 90th birthday.  He is a retired UU minister, the emeritus of his congregation, and we had two services which honored him.  After the second service, a glorious lunch of "finger foods", appeared. Provided by members of the church, friends old and new, a beautiful array of fruits, salads, tiny sandwiches, and multiple birthday cakes was laid out on a line of tables. Since I think in terms of how something will look AND taste, I decided that food-on-a-stick would be my offering. I made portable caprese salad on skewers: small mozzarella balls interspersed with multicolored tiny tomatoes and fresh basil. Vinaigrette poured over. It was tasty AND fun.

At the end of July, I went to a wedding in Vermont that included a pot luck reception. It was as I have been describing: the most VERMONT thing ever. We were asked by the couple to bring an item to share and the recipe too. I knew instantly what I would make: my mother's baked beans. I decided on that because 1) I love them 2) they include maple syrup which the family produces 3) all pot lucks should have baked beans, to my mind. The array of food for that reception was glorious. Multiple salads, Indian curries, breads, a gorgeous lemon poppy seed cake with edible flowers AND five kinds of pies. Recipes were collected to be shared with all of us who went.

In both instances, I took my invitation as a chance to contribute to the celebration in a personal way. For both, many of us were involved in the set-up and clean-up. The conversations as we put out crock pots, ladles, cutting boards, and platters ran the gamut of politics and people to recipes and rituals. I left each event feeling like I had made a bunch of new friends.

Now a recognition: cooking isn't for everyone. Small talk can be debilitating for some. I know that. I am by all accounts an extrovert so yes, I find the small talk usually fine. I relish the serendipity of making new connections. Not everyone does. But something I have observed over time is that even my shy-er friends usually do pretty well at pot lucks, as long as the size of the group includes at least a few they know and the crowd isn't enormous. The other thing that is true is that food purchased is *fine* and adds a balance to the meal.

To me, the single delight of a pot luck is that it's all a wonderful surprise.   An unusual taste, a new person. You have the opportunity to experience a slice of life you would not have, otherwise. And the simplicity of it is that it means that many hands come together. No one person carries the burden of the work -- assuming, of course, that several help with the clean-up.

Catering events is fine. At work, I do it all the time. But... when you come together and put something of *yourself* into an occasion? That's not just food; that's community. Not to put too fine a point on it, but honestly, I think the world could use a lot more pot lucks these days. To connect over something different and embrace it? Sounds pretty radical to me.

So your encore? Plan a pot luck. Who knows what you will get.

peace.

In Praise of Cleaning Up Your Act

Okay, I'll say it: clutter is annoying.

I am NOT the first person to make this observation and yes, I am aware that this is a "thing". No, I won't talk about book "The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up," though I have heard lots of people sing its praises. I know I am riding the wave here but as one of my early writing mentors said to my class of angst-y fledglings: Sure, it's all been said before....but it hasn't all been said by you.

 That said, let me now add my recent observations.

First, a confession: I am a pack rat. Big time. I have also become both by choice and situation the family historian and stuff-keeper.  My family on both sides have passed on documents and stuff -- lots of *stuff* -- because they know I will treasure it.

The pack-rattery is evident in my work space, too. I have been in my current position for 14 years and at the University for 25, so there's, again, stuff. Everywhere. Things that are mine and things that were my predecessor's.... and her predecessor's....and even stuff I'd brought from my previous position.  On and on and on.

This spring, it was announced a large donation had been given to us, which meant that the long-discussed renovations to our ancient, weird building would actually happen.  Immediately after next spring's graduation, we will be vacating our offices and relocating for 18 months. I quickly saw my new future and realized what was coming: a total purge of my space, the thing I'd avoided for over a decade.

So I began...small. The financial files, an easy cull. July 1 always means the switchover for fiscal year files. No sweat. Then I went deeper: program files from this year...then the previous few years...then the deeper archeological dive: the shelves of doom.  I call them "The Shelves of Doom" because this is an ugly, metal bookshelf with deep shelves that has housed dusty boxes of mysterious items going back to the 80s. Floppy diskettes with handbooks from the 80s, old letterhead when the office had a different name and location, and cassettes of lectures from faculty members, now deceased. In other words, a treasure trove of disposable and archival items.

At first, I thought I would tear my hair out. The process pushed me to frequent the coffee pot, the water cooler and of course, multiple trips to the bathroom, just to be able to walk *away* from this overwhelming project. WHAT had I started? HOW could I even tackle such dreck? And *why* couldn't any of my predecessors have taken the time to get this nonsense started?!

I filled our shredding box and had to call the service to come and take it to be shredded. Then another and another. By the third fill, I beginning to notice something. My space looked...bigger, brighter. I was beginning to feel something new: liberation.

It was on the third and final week of the project that I found the gift, the thing that brought me to tears.

I'd saved the annoying metal tiered baskets on my desk for the last week of the project. I knew I'd been ignoring them for God-knows how many years. An easy dump at the end, I figured. In the middle shelf, I pulled out a pile of old office calendars (2012-2015, of course) and on top of them was a CD. It was music from Iona Island in Scotland, titled "The Thin Place", still in its original plastic, never opened. And on it was a Post-it note:

             HELLO, DEAR LES!
        
             Just a little souvenir from my sabbatical. See you soon!

             MUCH LOVE,
                    Harry

Harry. My Harry.

If you have been reading my blog or if you have known me for at least a few years, then you know that for the last year and a half, I have mourned the loss of a treasured co-worker, Harry Huff.  If I write more about him now, I'll cry. To say that I was given a gift...a gift from Harry...

Though I am a believer in the occasional miracle, I generally do not expect them for myself. This one caught me off-guard in ways beyond words.

Did it seem like it was my reward for cleaning up my act? No, it actually didn't. When I looked around at my easier-to-manage files and cleaner desk, the satisfaction of accomplishment and feeling unusually ready for new semester, was the real reward.

What will I do for an encore, you ask? Remember all that stuff I have at home, all those family items? Are you imagining that I have them organized and available? Hell, no. They are sitting around in plastic bins, cardboard boxes and reusable grocery bags. That project will be the job of a lifetime; I feel clear about that...and I feel okay with it, too.

I have already accomplished it once, so I know I am ready for the next.

And your encore? Go pick out something to straighten up. People will tell you that you have to either love it or need it. I can't say that you should use that criteria, though I am sure you will figure out your own system. But get started. Who knows what gifts you will be given??

Peace.


                                                                       

On Learning and Privilege

In my professional life, I work at a college. Okay, not just a college, "the" college: Harvard. All implications, assumptions and connotations about prestige aside, for me, it has been the place where I have worked for twenty-five years. And I'm not saying "it's just a job." Though getting up and commuting an hour and a half each way definitely qualifies as a grind, Harvard IS Harvard and I am not going to say otherwise. But that's not my point today.

I work in an environment where every day, I am with others engaged in the business of education. Yet. Yet for me, most of my education was never in a school. I went to college and grad school and as I have documented here before (see previous post from June), I was a terrible student. No, really. Like: when I went to the guidance counselor at high school about applying to colleges, he said that I should only try the state schools, and even then, might need to do some additional work to get in. When I get in to the University of New Hampshire, did I learn my lesson and buckle down? Absolutely not. I was there to live, to experience, to write and to begin to figure out who I was. My grades reflected exactly who I was at that time. Flash forward my application for grad school. The wonderfully kind, former Dean and founder of the Writing Program at Emerson College called me up to say that they would accept me but that I would have to get grades up or I couldn't stay. He saw something in me, I guess, and Goddess bless Jim Randall wherever his final rest took him. I promised him I would. Certainly, it helped that I was doing the work that most held my heart: writing and thinking about writing. I kept my word to Jim and in my first semester accomplished something I had never experienced in my life: straight As.

But this ISN'T about getting good grades; this is me claiming what education means, and why I am so very grateful for what I have learned inside and outside of schools.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me or reads this blog that I am a progressive liberal, and that the current toxic political climate breaks me open every day.   Every day, new attacks are lobbed against the most vulnerable, most marginalized, in the name of an imagined Nationalist hysteria of victimization. Dark history repeats itself -- the one we said "never again" to  -- and still, the insanity continues. And those who care about the value of education...this value of knowing history... cry out: how can this be?

My faith tradition -- Unitarian Universalist -- claims as its first Principle: The inherent worth and dignity of all people. ALL people.  On social media, UU friends struggle. Yes, inherent worth and dignity, no matter what, even in uncivil times. "When they go low, we go high", Michelle Obama said. I remind myself of this.

This morning, I led one of the summer worship services at my church. In the sermon titled: A Wide-Eyed Theology, I put into words what I have been carrying in my heart for months. The challenge I have always understood -- grades notwithstanding -- is that it is my duty to learn more and to take what I have learned to create a better world, however I can.  If you believe in inherent worth, then what you must offer is love and a listening open heart. The Unitarian Universalist Association has been focused on owning what we  -- an organization that has benefited from white supremacy -- must do to change this history and trajectory. All these ideas were brewing as I wrote my sermon. Below is a portion:
-----------------

I think about white privilege a lot. I think about marginalized people a lot. The blessing for me being in the role that I am at Harvard Divinity School is that I meet students constantly who are going through, have lived through, have grown up with, and have been limited by factors that I have not personally experienced. So what I do is listen. I told a friend once that I want to get a shirt someday that says: TELL ME YOUR STORY SO I CAN UNDERSTAND.  

It’s a shirt I want to wear every day, forever, because we DON’T understand. We think we do and we believe we have good intentions. And maybe we do…but it’s not enough.   

Because here’s the thing: part of how “we are” includes a tendency to think that we “GET it.” You know what I mean. I’ve read Ta-Nehisi Coates. I wear rainbow pins. I know the difference between a hijab and a burka and I know there are a bunch of other head things that get worn. So I get it. Got it. Good. 

Do I get it? Do I? HELL no.  

I *want* to, though. I do. I want to arrive at that place of perfect clarity and understanding. Yes, I do but actually? I have no idea what it means to be a person of color today, no idea what it means to be a Native American today, NO idea what it is to be Muslim, a trans person, an undocumented person – an anyone. Anyone, except myself, really.  

It’s a trap and it’s so easy to fall into it. Even for denominations. Because when you think you’re “there”, you stop looking and listening. You stop questioning where your actions come from – whether a place of honest effort – or a place of privilege. Is that what brought things to a head at the UUA last year? I don’t know. I don’t know but I CAN say that we damn well better learn from it. Because there is so much work for us to do. Always. We ARE called to build that beautiful city. ALL of us.  

For me, it’s simple: I plan to spend the rest of my life assuming I don’t – know- anything, that I just need to listen and learn.  For the rest of my life. 

I believe that as a non-person of color, if we aren’t outraged about both our history and our every day in America now, then we are using our privilege and are complicit. Period. 

------------------

And I am grateful. I am grateful that somehow, through my academic bumbling, I was able to spend enough time to make some progress and use the craft of writing to find out what I think and string some sentences together. The bigger gratitude is to life: for putting me in places where I can meet the people and hear the stories. 

This blog post is incomplete: I recognize that. Each sentence branches out but will need to wait for future growth. 

For now, friends, if you have ever told me your story: THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart: keep telling me. 

The encore for the day? Listen. Listen to the people and take the stories to heart. OPEN heart. When you hear and feel it, you will know what to do. Offer the world love. 

Peace. 

On the Joys of High School Reunions. Really.

I went to my high school reunion this past weekend -- my 40th high school reunion. Class of 1978. One thing you should know about my hometown in New Hampshire. Our school has the distinction of having the "oldest, active high school alumni association" in the country. It's a big deal. Every year on the second Saturday in June, there is a parade in the morning with many of the five-year and ten-year classes entering floats that fit that year's theme. There are local bands, civic groups, weird little cars with clowns, Sometimes, mascots for the Sox or Pats come. Other years, it's Clydesdale horses and Miss New Hampshire .Something like fifty units participate in the parade.  Like I said: it's a BIG deal. The riders on the floats throw candy to the kids lining the streets. In the middle of the day, the alumni association has a lunch and business meeting with any alumnus who wants to come, and later throughout the day and night, many of the classes - especially the five and ten-year reunion groups -- gather around town to catch up. They do this every year.

When I was growing up, I lived on the street where the floats lined up before the start of the parade. I always got up early to go check them all out, trying to guess which class would win for best float. I loved it every year,  so of course that also meant that I took it for granted.  In the 60s and 70s, my hometown was a mill town with several industries. It wasn't huge but it was considered a city in rural New Hampshire. There were paper and flock companies, a foundry, all places that were big employers. We had a lively downtown, main street culture. Then it changed. Factories began closing, and businesses left town. By the  late 80s, what had been a thriving community fell on its knees. I had moved out of state for college but each time I went back, I saw rapid changes. 

But back to reunions. When I talk about our this, people are usually amazed, to put it mildly. Actually, what I usually see is a mixture of disbelief and dread. First, there is disbelief that any school or town is so *obsessed* with this tradition and then the deeper, gut-level reaction comes. I see a kind of twitchy, anxious look on their faces, which means they are imagining how it would feel to go back and voluntarily spend time with the kids they went to school with. 

And I am the first person to say: I get it. 

If you are thinking that because my hometown had charming -- and yes, they ARE charming -- annual rituals that this somehow protected us from the crap that being a teenager anywhere, any time brings, then you are dead wrong. BELIEVE me when I tell you that for me, for lots of us, the teenaged, high school years were a special kind of hell. Was I bullied? Absolutely. Was I an "in kid", part of a clique? No. Everyone has their own version of this but mine was along the lines of: awkward, overweight, unmotivated teen who liked to write stories and sing but that was about it. So my grades weren't stellar and for reasons I won't belabor, I wasn't being pushed to try harder. And I didn't. 

The first reunion for my class was the five-year in 1983. I didn't go. Though I had managed to get myself into a state school and graduate, I didn't feel like I could go back because I hadn't done anything. In 1988, it was our ten-year mark. That year, I had just gotten a graduate degree in creative writing and I had lost a lot of weight. So that year, I went.  I went but it was ONLY because I thought that what I had done had made me "good enough" to go. Think about this for a minute.

I went to the gathering, having had a stiff Scotch before I even left the house, but I didn't stay for very long.  At one point, they gave out awards, like: who had come the greatest distance to get there, who had the most kids, etc. I found myself being given the award for being the "most educated" in our class that night, but only because my master's degree was an MFA, a three-year degree, and the others there with a Masters had earned an MA, a two-year degree. It was the perfect irony.

And after that, I just...couldn't get myself to go back. Our 20th, 25th, 30th, 35th... The reunions came and went and though I knew each time,  an eager group was building floats and getting together at night, I couldn't do it. Even after Facebook appeared, which showed it to me, I still felt like since. I wasn't a jock, an honors student, a cool kid -- I wasn't *anything* -- I didn't belong. 

In 2017, the parade theme for 2018 was announced: Broadway. It seemed like a great theme and knowing already that our class has a amazing amount of talent and creativity, I guessed that this would absolutely fire them up. I also decided one year ago that I was going to go; I called and made a room reservation right then. Because 2017 also had brought me my own personal challenges, I had already been rethinking how I saw myself in relationship to everyone. Revisiting my feelings about high school became a natural part of the process.

So, cut to the chase: Alumni Day 2018. Did I go? I did. Was it good? EVEN BETTER than I was hoping.

I got up on Friday and as I was driving into the truck yard where the group was gathering to finish up our float, for one second I thought: WHAT the hell am I doing? These people don't know me. What if no one talks to me? Yes, I was anxious. But I parked. Immediately, I was given a hug by someone who said she'd know me anywhere. From there, it only got better. Yes, there were butterflies all night. Classmates who routinely came to reunions said that this year was the first year where they had a hard time recognizing each other. So we introduced each other. What have you been doing? Where do you live? Do you have kids?

The next morning, our float full of about forty of us sailed through the town. We threw candy and waved, and when it was over, we dismantled it. A group of about a dozen of us went out to lunch and sat out on a patio by the river, making connections about who was where, who wasn't with us, who'd had surgery recently. Guys shared stories about their heart episodes. We discussed the appeal of living in a one-level house to be ready for "later". We shared stories comfortably, making connections and trying to remember who knew what when. Later that night, we had our official class party. It was easy, fun. We wore nametags, to be able to jump into the conversations.

I shared the suite I'd reserved with a classmate who I hadn't seen since graduation, though we'd reconnected on Facebook. It was the perfect opportunity to spend time with her. We both felt like at our age, the *crap* of our youth...just didn't matter anymore. We didn't discount it, and both remembered clearly how hard it was at times. But now, with  perspective, there is also, a letting go. If I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have known this truth.

A couple of other observations struck me. First, the fact that my hometown does this at all is amazing. I had no idea how rare it is. To have an alumni association to dedicated is incredible. The town is on the upswing now and doing better but  with miles to go before it's truly "thriving". That it has this tradition which allows for a timeless, and to me, kind of transcendent joy year after year, is remarkable. I use the word transcendent deliberately. Among my classmates who I talked to over the weekend were people who worked in jobs that ranged from doctors, lawyers, CPAs, nurses, teachers, landscapers ,to shift workers in the local gun factory, retirees, and store clerks. We talked about how we *were* and how happy we were to be together doing this crazy float-building thing. To transcend is to rise above.  Whatever BS we felt when we were 16, we rose above. It doesn't matter anymore. Perhaps it never did, but now, we know it.

And if you are wondering how that float of ours turned out? Well, it just so happens that we took first prize and carried that trophy with us the entire length of the parade.

And what to do for an encore? My soft advice to you is this: Go. Go to the reunion. I say it softly because I know it's hard. Push your heart to get out there and challenge your fearful assumptions. There may be community waiting for you, conversations to have, and new/old friends to make. But you won't know until you try.

The Beatles said it best: All You Need is Love.

Indeed.