Hello London!

I always wanted to travel.   One day I realized that I needed to make it happen.   My assumptions and desire for travel were not resulting in actual travel.    So, in celebration of my birthday month, last August I bought a ticket to London.  London was an easy choice as I have a cousin living in London.


My flight was delayed an hour so we left Dulles International at 11:00 pm.  I enjoyed a lovely meal and glass of wine in the airport. 

The flight was enjoyable after the cabin settled.   But first, the baby onboard had to scream out all her troubles and a hipster would tire of amusing his pal with his loud talking and cursing.   Then the very British flight attendants offered a dinner of pasta or shepherd’s pie.  I sat back and watched a disgruntled older man drink bottle after bottle of wine.  I sighed out a prayer. 

Finally, about 2 hours into the trip, the plane became very quiet.  I didn't think it was possible.  It was quite wonderful.  In due time, we reached London.   I  never did go to sleep  but stared at everyone else while they slept.  I only began to nod off as the plane made its descent into Heathrow Airport. 

My cousin Walden picked me up from the airport.  We were joined by his 11-year old daughter, Morgan, who would keep me entertained.  I knew this when I spotted her at the airport with her pigtails and hot pink sweater.   Walden had a plan to keep me up until at least 8 pm to reset my internal clock.  Full of disbelief, I turned to Morgan and said, “Great, only 7 hours to go!”     

After we dropped my things off at Walden's we got on the tube and went to Harrods. If you need to stay up and want non-pharmaceutical stimulation, go to Harrods (below on right).  Here are a few pictures from my first day in London. 



I was fascinated with the food section. 



I tried something new; cockles in vinegar.  I ate them so I could say (with a British accent), "I once ate cockles in vinegar..."

Mostly, I enjoyed the energy of the streets and the holiday lights. 

 

 

The Pleasant Aroma of Fall’s Decay

Fall is my favorite season. I like everything about the fall - the colors, the coolness, traditions and celebrations. My favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, is in the fall. It is the one holiday where nobody really wants anything from anybody other than their love, friendship and maybe their food.

I enjoy walking in the fall and the crunch of leaves beneath my feet. Sometimes I walk alone and other times with a friend. I have a walking buddy, Arlene. We walk the Arabia Mountain Trail as it winds behind neighborhoods and into woods, alongside streams and wildflowers on granite outcrops. We pause to admire a flower, leaf or tree. We take photos as if visiting for the first time.

There’s a wonderful woodsy smell in the air that shows up in the fall. I expect the alluring sweetness of spring blossoms. Yet, I can’t deny the welcoming and pleasant aroma from fall’s decay.

The chill in the air, short dark days and the smell of fireplaces sends me straight to my kitchen. Soups, chowders and stews are often on the stove or in the slow cooker. I’m inspired to try out new and savory recipes from seniors lingering in the produce section of the grocery store. But if it should rain, I would forget these things and head to my sofa with hot cider, a blanket and a good book.

As a child, my mother would send me to the basement to retrieve fall and winter clothing. She would be in the kitchen taking down the yellow and white curtains. I remember their whimsical movements against the open window. Their replacements were brown, white and joyless. In my own way, I do the same. I move clothes from one closet to another. I place a fall wreath on the front door and just below, two planters full of mums.

Some are sad when the long summer days end, and with it, our summer play. But, there is a time when we must gather together and come inside. We need things to begin. We need things to end. And fall is that reminder.

“Autumn…the year's last, loveliest smile." - William Cullen Bryant

My Father's Papers

Growing up, there were always newspapers in the house. There were usually three newspapers delivered to the house.  These papers arrived daily for my father’s enjoyment.  As kids we poked around with the Sunday paper after my father had gone through it.  I read the Parade and my brothers the comics.  My mother bypassed the news in search of sales.  She mostly used old newspapers to capture the skins of peeled potatoes and shucked corn when cooking.   Sometimes I was able to amuse this deeply religious woman with the daily horoscope, “Ma, today you will find love in unexpected places.”  But it was my father who thoroughly read the newspapers. He would read them at the kitchen table, from his big chair in the den, while sitting on the front porch or by the wood burning stove in the basement. 

The papers lived in various parts of the house which annoyed my mother.   There’s nothing more unruly than a paper once opened.  It can’t be returned to its former pristine state.  It’s easier to leave them opened and disheveled all over the place.  Sometimes my mother expressed her frustration, “I’m so tired of Your Father’s Papers.”   She always said Your Father’s Papers as if to mockingly announce a great novel or play.  But what was she to do?  All things considered, this is just the byproduct of a man that likes to read newspapers.   Still, the papers were just one more thing she had to corral to maintain some semblance of order at home. 

I’ve always been amused that my father involves my mother in the reading of his newspapers.   He doesn’t seem to notice her shoddy rapport with his papers.  Sometimes he would suddenly appear from another part of the house with his paper “Rudell, look at this!  I told you…they going to jail!”  They were usually a political figure that he had been following.   He would monitor their hopeful rise to office all the way to their ruinous end.   Mom would acknowledge his five alarm news with a slight nod or lift of the eyebrow.   He would walk away muttering his convictions into the air and shaking his head, ”Naw, uh-uh…you just can’t do that.”  

I often think of my parents as I try to manage reading and taming the Washington Post I have delivered to my apartment once a week.   I know there is no great mystery or feat in reading a newspaper.  If I were speaking to a therapist, she would look over me closely and say “Mystery…hmmmnnnn….let’s explore this a little more…”   Obviously I don’t rely on this once a week delivery, that I pick through, as my primary source of information.  So, why do I have the subscription? We all do things that tie us to our childhood.  We desire to have a better understanding of it or want to relive a feeling or experience that we know we can’t get back.  Sometimes it’s a conscious choice and other times not.  Maybe that’s why I have them living with me in my small space.

There are still a lot of papers in my parent’s house.  I wasn’t sure which ones so I asked my dad.

“Dad, what papers do you get at the house?”

 “The (Baltimore) Sun and The (Capital) Gazette”

“I thought there was another paper like the Afro American or did it go out of circulation?”

“Oh Yeah, I get the Afro American but that’s just once a week.  They still around.” 

“You read these papers every day!” 

 “Yeah.  Why?” 

“I was just wondering.”

Of course, I wasn’t just wondering.  I was just amazed.

Labor Day Nostalgia & Considerations

Although special to me, I haven’t always understood the purpose of Labor Day.  Yes, I knew that Labor Day had something to do with labor, i.e. work.  I probably learned about it in history class in middle school.   I didn't pay much attention to the history being taught because I often felt detached or excluded from it. Even as a child, I knew that there was history and then there was the retelling of history.  As a result, my response to American holiday fanfare is always accompanied by a slight roll of the eyes. 

By the way, according to the U.S. Department of Labor, the first Labor Day celebration was in the city of New York on September 5^th in 1882.   Labor Day didn't become a national holiday until 1894.  About 28 states had adopted legislation to celebrate the holiday before Congress passed legislation to make it a national holiday that would be celebrated on the first Monday of September.  Labor Day was created out of the American labor movement and is meant to celebrate the American worker and achievements made to our country’s prosperity.   

"Woman's Work is Never Done "-   From My Kitchen

I often feel nostalgic and even whimsical about Labor Day.   Growing up, Labor Day meant the end of summer and going back to school.  In Maryland, we didn't go back to school until after Labor Day.  My mother would take us shopping to get us ready for school.  Of course, as the only girl in the house, this was a much greater production for me than for my two older brothers.  Every year, there was the constant negotiation with my mother in terms of how many new outfits I really needed for school.  I would try to tell her what some of the popular kids would be wearing and Rudell (ma) would say “Karen, those kids aren't going to do anything with their lives.”  But at some point, the negotiations would end when Rudell said, “Karen, you have enough.”  At home, I would model for my mother – as if she hadn't already seen every piece I tried on in the store and again at the register when she paid for them.  I was pleased and she was exhausted. 

I learned that I’m not supposed to where white after Labor Day.  But when I was in college at Spelman, I met a lot of women from California and they were unaware of this fashion rule.   My roommate was from California and she thought that was the funniest thing she had ever heard.  She was still laughing in December as she was putting on her white pants before heading out to class.   I figured this must be an unwritten rule for certain parts of the country.   I still like the idea of putting away light and airy clothing to make way for fall clothing, cooler weather and the smell of sweet potato pies in the oven. 

Beyond the end of summer, going back to school, wardrobes and shopping – Labor Day is a day in which we should pause and reconsider our work.  Many struggle with work life balance.  This isn't to say that we can ever achieve balance.  Most people spend at least 8 hours at work and 2 hours commuting.  This doesn't account for evening, job-related functions and part-time employment.  Still, there should be time in which we work and time in which we don’t work.  We need to leave, get rest and then return more focused.  We should also consider whether or not we like our work.   If the job isn't fulfilling, does it at least help to accomplish some of your life goals at this stage of your life?  No one should stay on a job that is physically and emotionally draining resulting in un-wellness.     While you may not be able to leave immediately, you can plan your great escape.  I've done it a few times and it was worth it.  Either way, it’s up to us to figure it out - how we work and don’t work –perhaps this is the real significance of a holiday that celebrates the American worker.

Morning

My eyes are steadied by the overhead fan.  The dark blades circle in play about the white ceiling.   I curve my body and pull the covers close.  I am cold, but I like the lulling fan.  

The birds are in the tree again and just outside my window.  The tree is inhabited by their melodic shrills and staccato, high-pitched bleats.  I slightly turn my head towards them – unable to resist or to understand.  Their call and response reminds me of a good Sunday morning sermon. 

My airy white room is made brighter still by the sun.  The lightness of the room is grounded by a few pieces of heavy furniture.  The walls are empty except for a gift from years ago.  Behind a dark frame and glass, is the sparse arrangement of curved wood elements.  A woman is praying.  

Lightly, almost magically, it begins to rain.  The rain thumps against the leaves of the big tree.  The birds have quieted.  There is a silence that I adore.

Always, there are things to do.  But, I look to the praying woman across from me and feel the fan above me.  I stretch and curl back up.  I rest again to ease into a new day.

From my morning walk in San Juan, PR - September 2009

Just a Little Faith

Many years ago, at the end of service, the pastor of my church said that he had a gift for each of us.  The ushers then handed out a small, amber-colored glass vial.  It was no more than half an inch in diameter. Inside, there appeared to be a tiny grain.   The pastor then revealed that he wanted to give each of us a mustard seed.

I was amused by my inability to recognize what was in my hand, given the setting and the fact that I’ve spent many years and countless hours in church.    I’ve heard the referenced biblical scripture countless times: “Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, move from here to there, and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you" (Matthew 17:20 NIV).

I’m sure that the pastor said something very wise and metaphorical about the mustard seed that now eludes me.  When I look at it, I’m still surprised at how small and unassuming it is – even fragile.  Maybe it’s because I have big ideas and big dreams so I want the mustard seed to be grandiose in some way.  

But then, I’m reminded that every big thing is made up of many small things.  For the musician, every performance is the result of hours and hours of practice that begins with tuning an instrument and playing scales.  Before the FIFA World Cup, there’s the athlete competing and practicing for years and starting out their workout regimen with a stretch.  Prior to the published book of 80,000 words, there’s the writer living in obscurity (or even absurdity) researching her topic and making little notes in her phone or on paper napkins.  No goal is accomplished and nothing big happens without being committed to small, and seemingly insignificant, things that must be repeated over and over again without applause, without mention and mostly going unnoticed by those around us.

There’s a lot that we can do if we have a little faith.  That’s what that lil mustard seed is saying to me when I look at it from time to time.  Because faith requires action, we have to start somewhere - complete a scale, a stretch or a word.  

This is how we move mountains and realize that nothing will be impossible.

In pursuit of the life we want

The leader of one of the creative groups (The StuckCreative) that I attend, always tells us to do something each day towards our creative work.  I’ve been going to this group for months and have yet to accomplish this.   I’ve concluded that this may be ideal but far from practical.

It would be great if we could devote all of our energy and time in pursuit of a particular goal.  Can you imagine if there was a program like The Biggest Loser where we could check out of our life and pursue our dreams full time? There would be a staff of experts and a coach standing by for support.  At the end of the day, you would fall into your lovely bed exhausted from pursuing this one desire all day long.  When you check in with your loved ones they would provide positive reinforcement and proclaim that your success in achieving this dream is a matter of life and death for you and your family.  There would be many happy tears to follow.

In reality, we are managing (to varying degrees) the life we have right now while working towards the life we hope to create.   And creating something new requires time and practice.  We do this in the midst of work, family and other responsibilities.  Of course there are benign unexpected things that happen that temporarily disrupt our lives like last summer when the air conditioning unit in my house in Atlanta decided to go on strike against the tenant.  There are also non-benign things that happen to us such as illness, or loss of a loved one or loss of a job.   We have no choice but to tend to these things.

To all of this, I say that we should continue on in pursuit of our goals and the life that we want.   Don't feel bad or disappointed if you can’t do this daily or even routinely.  Most often, achieving our goals is a lot like driving to work in traffic.  At some places we can move pretty fast and other times you just have to sit there and wait.    We always manage to get there but sometimes it takes a little longer.