Beauty in the face of violence

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am not doing something new every day this year, and I am not doing things that will make for entertaining blog posts for people to read, but that I am just doing things for ME that hopefully bring me joy. And so that means sometimes it will be the same old thing that brought be joy yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. If I'm lucky!

And of course, I don't want to spend an entire day in pursuit of something just for myself; that would be out of balance. But the more I think about it, I do hope to spend more of my time—whether seeking it or happening upon it—in joy.


And sometimes I have to remind myself that even in the face of tragedy, heartbreak, and violence (the school shooting in Newtown, CT) that it is still OK to seek time for myself, and to seek beauty. In fact, it might be even more important. Because we need to take care of ourselves and each other. And we need to see the beauty in the world. We need that to be good people, and to continue to create art, and to be forces of change for good in the world.

And yet it is difficult to write about the thing I did today, knowing that while I was doing that, people were in the deepest anguish a person can experience. And so I am going to just use an image, and hope that this image will hold out some beauty to people, and that the beauty will inspire us to take a moment to breathe, to give thanks for our lives, and to care for each other and our world.

Self time fail

I didn't do it. For the first time since yom kippur, and I started this project, I did not take time just for myself, seeing joy. I didn't even take time just for myself, unless taking a shower counts, which it probably does because there are some days I don't even get to that. It was a long, full day—not a bad day, just a long full day. Delayed train, lots of meetings, a show opening, last-minute responses, stepping in to help with a pop-up khanike party at work, reception after the show, slow train home, my food menore, and before I knew it it was 12:20 and I wasn't quite in bed yet and I hadn't taken time for myself.

Now, I did find some joy. The show we opened, THE WORLD IS ROUND, by Rachel Dickstein's and her company, Ripe Time, is gorgeous. It was the first time I got to watch it all the way through, and I was transcended. Except when I was texting the people I had hired to run the reception. Or glaring at the person whose cell phone went off even though I had JUST made the turn-off-your-cell-phone announcement. So all for me? No. But joyful? Yes.

I'll do better next time!

Alone at the theater

I went to the theater by myself. I love going to the theater by myself. Live theater or films. I bought a hot apple cider (that they let me take in), settled into my seat, said hi to the people sitting next to me, and got ready to experience a new musical. I didn't know if I'd like it or not (I did not) but I knew I would love the autonomy of being alone in the space. And it's that autonomy that allowed me to get up and leave at at the intermission, with nobody else to be accountable to. And to come home and make my halvah menorah, and to watch .... to watch who on the 12-12-12 concert? Who would it make me happy to watch? Who would I most want to hear? Who makes me dance around the living room? That's right. The Who.

I'm thinking that if I want to find joy this year, I should probably just listen to/watch/go find Pete Townshend every day. You could do worse.

The Outs, again

I sort of failed in taking the time to do something just for myself, unless getting a tetanus, diptheria, and pertussis shot counts (NOT.) And by the end of the day, I felt that shot—not in my arm but all through my exhaustion—and could barely keep my eyes open long enough to light the bagel, lox, and cream cheese menore. But I'm a stickler for public accountability, so I climbed into bed with my laptop, and watched the final episode of The Outs.

That's all. Just me and Mitchell and Oona and Jack and Scruffy and ..... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Free to Be, You and Me

Show me a children's marching band, and I'll give you tears. Show me fanfare before a professional women's sporting event, and I'll give you sniffles. Show me the PS22 Chorus, and I'll be stifling sobs in the back of the theater.

It's the 40th anniversary of Free to Be, You and Me—and we had Marlo Thomas, Alan Alda, Letty Cottin Pogrebin and others on a panel to discuss it at the JCC. Afterwards, we had Ted Sperling at the piano with Laura Osnes and Santino Fontana singing songs from the iconic album and TV show.

Serious star power there, and some of the most creative minds and contributors to the American canon, and yet .... And yet .... And yet I would be lying if I said I was there for anyone other than the PS22 Chorus. I've seen them on the Oscars. I've watched their YouTube clips, but I wanted to see them in person. And they were everything I had hoped for.  I happened to be going up the staircase from the auditorium to the lobby as they were coming down. I was like a salmon swimming against the tide, with a river of Staten Island singers flowing against me. I found myself a nook near the wall and stood as they streamed past, telling them every 10 kids or so that I was looking forward to hearing them sing. I watched their warm-up, with their conductor coaching the soloists on how to back off the mic when they were hitting a power note. And I wept. I wept because a story had just come out in the mainstream media about the horrible high school drop out rate in New York City schools, and because these kids—these poised, confident, guided kids—will probably not get lost. They will probably keep singing, and if singing doesn't turn out to be their thing, they will probably do something else that is their thing. Their early training in a disciplined group with a passionate, caring leader will probably prepare them to lead and to follow. But right now they are in middle school, and they are singing, and they sound great, and they do not have stage fright, and their huge t-shirts on their little bodies are adorable, and I am stifling back sobs.

Just me, Narcissus, and me

My paperwhites are blooming! I woke up and one blossom was just about to pop through its sheath. I wanted to just hang out with it, but I had placed to go and things to do.  What I had to do and where I had to go was to do a quick recipe test and get over to the other side of Prospect Park to join my acquaintance-friend Barbara as a guest on her Park Slope Food Coop cooking show. So exciting! (I found a link to an old version of the show, before Barbara was hosting it, and though it seems quite different from the show we taped, I thought you might want to see. Here it is.)

So in the morning I wanted to just hang out with my blossoming flowers, but I had to get going, but I made a promise to myself that I would hang out with them later in the day. Because aside from balsam, there's really no scent that I love more than narcissus.

So when I got home after cooking borsht and parmesan crisps (and returning Nina's card table and doing the laundry) and before I set to work for the afternoon (and then made a food menore and obsessively watched the live stream of a friend getting gay married in Seattle and then went to a concert in the evening) I took five minutes and communed with my flowers. Their fragrance matches their beauty matches their fragrance matches their beauty. Both slow me down, and refocus me, and allow me to take a deep breath and be very present. I know that sounds incredibly woowoo and potentially trite (stop and smell the flowers) but there are very few things that slow me down and hold my attention like that.

Here. See what you think. Wish again my blog were in scent-o-rama, but you'll just have to force your own bulbs!

The Shvitz

Sometimes, in a rare convergence, Very Special Selfish Personal Joy Time is found while doing something for someone else. In the wake of a long work jag in which she got sick twice and also pulled off an incredibly successful event, my friend Marjorie needed some relaxation. I invited her to the Russian baths, because it's basically impossible NOT to relax there. Your cell phone is locked up, and your options are limited: hot dry sauna, hot wet sauna, steam room, hot tub, cool tub, and a restaurant—all on the same floor. You get to go from one to the other, and hang out on plastic chairs drinking tea or water or juice, or eating pickled fish, potato salad, or pierogis in between extreme heat experiences.

I love the Russian baths because people aren't (for the most part) obsessed with having and showing off thin bodies. People of all shapes and sizes sport bikinis and Speedos, and it's an environment where you're encouraged to eat big plates of food if you want. (I don't usually want big plates of food while at the baths, but I did eat a spectacular bowl of borsht.) I end up feeling comfortable about myself there in a way I rarely do at a summer beach. Again, this is probably helped by the fact that it's a very primal experience. Open pores. Sweat. Cool down. Drink. Open pores. Sweat. Cool down. Drink. And all along, you end up with some of the most intimate talking time you can find in the city.

So yes, this was really for Marjorie. But yes, this was really for me. And I had a fantastic few hours together with her in the heat. And then as a special bonus capper, when we came outside, it was a perfect Portland day. Gray and 50 degrees. A little bit drizzly. And as I walked through my neighborhood (to pick up some food for our first night of khanike Christmas carol singalong) I felt truly at home in NYC for the first time.