Never Done: I made basil, oregano, thyme, tarragon, sage pesto
Right before the hurricane, my co-worker came to an early morning staff meeting and announced she had a present for everyone. She had picked all the herbs from her garden, wrapped them in wet paper towel, put them in plastic bags, and brought them for us. She was afraid her garden would wash out in the storm -- and she decided to share her bounty.
I loved that she did this. I felt that in making these little herby goodie bags, she really showed herself to us in a way that I am not yet showing myself at work. I'm starting to -- I've now told a couple people about my Never Done year, and someone suggested that I teach a Never Done workshop, which is a great idea. I show myself when I make programming suggestions, or join some co-workers at a lunchtime spin class. But I don't think people really have a sense yet of my brand of rural secular cultural yiddishkayt and Judaism. It'll be good for me to show it, in good time.
But this was my coworker sharing herbs from her garden. I took them home and thought I'd make something with them right away, but right away was some anesthesia, and then a hunkering down hurricane day, and then back to work -- and I just don't cook as much as I used to now that I am a commuter. But I felt determined to do something lovely with her lovely gift, so when I got home from work, I took out the herbs, stripped them off their stems, washed them, and let them sit to dry while I contemplated what I could do with them. They would have been perfect in my mom's roasted tomato sauce, but I didn't have tomatoes. I thought about making a pasta salad and tossing them, fresh, with olive oil and garlic. But I wouldn't have been able to eat it fresh, and that seemed like a waste. But it gave rise to another idea -- something I'd never tried before -- to make pesto with a mixture of herbs. Not just basil pesto with a pinch of something else, but truly a pesto of mixed herbs.
And so I practiced Decisiveness: Once you make a decision, act without hesitation, and I tossed the herbs in the Cuisinart along with some pine nuts, garlic, parmesan, olive oil, and salt -- and went to town. The result was a lovely, tangy, almost lemony pesto -- one that I have the feeling will ripen with age. It made three jars, and I put one in my bag to bring in to my coworker. Just a little gift to show myself a little bit.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
I went to the Moth, or we applaud the storyteller; we applaud the story
Never Done: I went to the Moth, or we applaud the storyteller; we applaud the story
Faithful readers know that a couple weeks ago Heath and I waited for over an hour -- in the rain -- to get into The Moth: True Stories Told Live storytelling salon, but were foiled by the recent innovation of pre-sales. I was determined to get in before the end of my Never Done year, but time is running out (between their schedule, my upcoming travel, and the coming of yom kippur.) I wasn't able to leave work as early as I wanted to to guarantee a spot, but I got in line by 6 for a 7:30 show (same as last time, but closer to the front this time.)
I'd be lying if I said the time moved quickly -- it didn't -- but at least I was productive. I talked on the phone, I did some work email, I read some in my book (A Visit from the Goon Squad) and I talked with the young people in line behind me, who had a friend on the Moth inside who promised them great seats, which reassured me that I would get in, since I was in front of them.
They also handed out little pieces of paper with a question -- What's a time in your life when you were fiercely motivated? -- and asked us to fill that in, so that we could participate in the evening even if we didn't want to get up to tell a story. The idea was that the host would read them in between stories, as little interstitial moments. I couldn't think if what to write. I have been fiercely motivated so many times that, frankly, I got overwhelmed. Breaking my own badminton birdie bouncing records? Learning Yiddish? Lying my way out of humiliating moments? What to pick? Eventually I put it away and went back to my book, and decided to jot something down at the last minute if it came to me. It did. Just as I approached the door, I wrote: I waited in line three (changed to two) times to get into the Moth. This is my first time getting in. I wanted to say three because I knew it was funnier and more impressive and made a better story. But it wasn't true, so I wrote over it and turned it into two, which was the truth. But later, when the host did in fact pick my slip and read it aloud, my poor handwriting messed him up anyhow, and he ended up reading, I waited in line one time to get into the Moth. This is my first time getting in. And then he made fun of it because it didn't make any sense, and said I'd probably leave at the half. This got me thinking about how true -- and how exaggerated -- the stories were that people were telling.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I got inside, the place was already packed, and it looked like there was standing room only. But I found a table with one empty seat, and asked the people there if I could join them, and they said yes. It turns out that all the tables were full because, of course, the people who pay extra to not have to stand in line, get to come in early and take all the seats. I mean, it did work out for me, but I might have been the last line waiter to rest my tush -- and I had been outside for 90 minutes. (I am putting on my arts presenter hat now, and thinking about ethical considerations for audiences. I do think it's ethical to have different levels of ticket pricing, but I don't think it's ethical to set the levels such that the people who pay more literally get to take most of the available seating -- or whatever is comparable in other venues.) But I did stand in line, and I did get a seat, and eventually the show got going.
It was hosted by Brad Lawrence, a storyteller, burlesque performer, and man of many other writing credits. It was an open slam -- which is to say that people could put their names in a hat, whether or not anyone knew if they were any good, and if their name was drawn, they got to be one of ten performers for the evening. The judges were three teams of people who were selected from the audience. The stories would be judged on three criteria. 1) were they true? 2) did they have a beginning, a middle, and an end? and 3) did they stick to 5 minutes? Also, 4) did they stick to the theme, which this night, was Drive.
Drive can be explored through just so many lenses. Ambition, golfing, sex drive, driving a car. I expected a lot of esoteric interpretations of Drive, but all the stories had to do with cars.
1) Lana went to a Jewish speed dating event and ended up going to sing karaoke with a man, only to find that he had also invited another woman. She assumed the other woman was a tagalong, and so Lana took the front seat of the car, but when when she saw the way the guy looked at the other woman when she was singing, she knew it was the other way around
2) Bridgette's mother always demanded that she call when she got somewhere, so her mom would know she had not landed in a ditch. One day Bridgette literally landed her car in a ditch.
3) When Jefferson's dad gave him a Chevette, he also gave him three rules: Don't drink and drive, don't smoke in the car, and never let anyone else drive the car. He let a girl drive it, and it ended up going through a wall, into an apartment. And it's not the only thing he's ruined in the name of love.
4) Max used to drive around and shoplift all the time. (OK, this one -- while not as well constructed, actually was about a drive to steal.)
5) Jim wanted to fit in in his working class neighborhood in the Bronx. But when he finally got the chance (by asking some shady characters to helpf his car troubles disappear) he realized he was really still a kid from Westchester.
6) Johanna's dad owned a car dealership. She thought they were well off. But when the time came to move and the moving van was almost hijacked by black sedans, she learned the family was actually 6 months behind on the rent.
7) Julianne threw her wedding ring out at Exit 7 of the New Jersey Thruway.
8) Molly was a rule follower, to the letter. When her high school friends want to ditch a party to go to the beach, she calls her mom to ask permission, and quashes the whole adventure.
9) Joshua was driving his family to Chelsea Piers, but left his wallet on the top of the car and lost it on FDR Drive. Over the next days, he makes his wife get out and gather his credit cards that have been strewn along the side of the road.
10) While Camille is in England for work, she learns many words that are different in British English from American English. When a perverted cabbie asks her if she wants to see his scar, she can't resist finding out what it really means.
I enjoyed the stories. I enjoyed people's confidence. I enjoyed that three of the story tellers (Lana, Max, Julianne) were doing it for the first time. I thought about what I would tell. I thought about the significance of telling a rehearsed story in front of a live audience. Brad would tell little stories about Drive in between the big stories, and he would read aloud the slips of papers that we filled out while waiting in line -- and he would deconstruct them. Often word by word, often imbuing meaning where it was clearly not meant. Brad is a good performer -- with a quick wit and focused mind. But he's a mocking comic -- his humor comes from making fun of people, which while skilled and impressive, rarely gets a laugh out of me. But you know who didn't he mock? The ten storytellers who got up on stage. He treated them with respect and I would say professionalism, frequently reminding the audience that, "We applaud the storyteller; we applaud the story."
And that is a lesson to take away.
Faithful readers know that a couple weeks ago Heath and I waited for over an hour -- in the rain -- to get into The Moth: True Stories Told Live storytelling salon, but were foiled by the recent innovation of pre-sales. I was determined to get in before the end of my Never Done year, but time is running out (between their schedule, my upcoming travel, and the coming of yom kippur.) I wasn't able to leave work as early as I wanted to to guarantee a spot, but I got in line by 6 for a 7:30 show (same as last time, but closer to the front this time.)
I'd be lying if I said the time moved quickly -- it didn't -- but at least I was productive. I talked on the phone, I did some work email, I read some in my book (A Visit from the Goon Squad) and I talked with the young people in line behind me, who had a friend on the Moth inside who promised them great seats, which reassured me that I would get in, since I was in front of them.
They also handed out little pieces of paper with a question -- What's a time in your life when you were fiercely motivated? -- and asked us to fill that in, so that we could participate in the evening even if we didn't want to get up to tell a story. The idea was that the host would read them in between stories, as little interstitial moments. I couldn't think if what to write. I have been fiercely motivated so many times that, frankly, I got overwhelmed. Breaking my own badminton birdie bouncing records? Learning Yiddish? Lying my way out of humiliating moments? What to pick? Eventually I put it away and went back to my book, and decided to jot something down at the last minute if it came to me. It did. Just as I approached the door, I wrote: I waited in line three (changed to two) times to get into the Moth. This is my first time getting in. I wanted to say three because I knew it was funnier and more impressive and made a better story. But it wasn't true, so I wrote over it and turned it into two, which was the truth. But later, when the host did in fact pick my slip and read it aloud, my poor handwriting messed him up anyhow, and he ended up reading, I waited in line one time to get into the Moth. This is my first time getting in. And then he made fun of it because it didn't make any sense, and said I'd probably leave at the half. This got me thinking about how true -- and how exaggerated -- the stories were that people were telling.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I got inside, the place was already packed, and it looked like there was standing room only. But I found a table with one empty seat, and asked the people there if I could join them, and they said yes. It turns out that all the tables were full because, of course, the people who pay extra to not have to stand in line, get to come in early and take all the seats. I mean, it did work out for me, but I might have been the last line waiter to rest my tush -- and I had been outside for 90 minutes. (I am putting on my arts presenter hat now, and thinking about ethical considerations for audiences. I do think it's ethical to have different levels of ticket pricing, but I don't think it's ethical to set the levels such that the people who pay more literally get to take most of the available seating -- or whatever is comparable in other venues.) But I did stand in line, and I did get a seat, and eventually the show got going.
It was hosted by Brad Lawrence, a storyteller, burlesque performer, and man of many other writing credits. It was an open slam -- which is to say that people could put their names in a hat, whether or not anyone knew if they were any good, and if their name was drawn, they got to be one of ten performers for the evening. The judges were three teams of people who were selected from the audience. The stories would be judged on three criteria. 1) were they true? 2) did they have a beginning, a middle, and an end? and 3) did they stick to 5 minutes? Also, 4) did they stick to the theme, which this night, was Drive.
Drive can be explored through just so many lenses. Ambition, golfing, sex drive, driving a car. I expected a lot of esoteric interpretations of Drive, but all the stories had to do with cars.
1) Lana went to a Jewish speed dating event and ended up going to sing karaoke with a man, only to find that he had also invited another woman. She assumed the other woman was a tagalong, and so Lana took the front seat of the car, but when when she saw the way the guy looked at the other woman when she was singing, she knew it was the other way around
2) Bridgette's mother always demanded that she call when she got somewhere, so her mom would know she had not landed in a ditch. One day Bridgette literally landed her car in a ditch.
3) When Jefferson's dad gave him a Chevette, he also gave him three rules: Don't drink and drive, don't smoke in the car, and never let anyone else drive the car. He let a girl drive it, and it ended up going through a wall, into an apartment. And it's not the only thing he's ruined in the name of love.
4) Max used to drive around and shoplift all the time. (OK, this one -- while not as well constructed, actually was about a drive to steal.)
5) Jim wanted to fit in in his working class neighborhood in the Bronx. But when he finally got the chance (by asking some shady characters to helpf his car troubles disappear) he realized he was really still a kid from Westchester.
6) Johanna's dad owned a car dealership. She thought they were well off. But when the time came to move and the moving van was almost hijacked by black sedans, she learned the family was actually 6 months behind on the rent.
7) Julianne threw her wedding ring out at Exit 7 of the New Jersey Thruway.
8) Molly was a rule follower, to the letter. When her high school friends want to ditch a party to go to the beach, she calls her mom to ask permission, and quashes the whole adventure.
9) Joshua was driving his family to Chelsea Piers, but left his wallet on the top of the car and lost it on FDR Drive. Over the next days, he makes his wife get out and gather his credit cards that have been strewn along the side of the road.
10) While Camille is in England for work, she learns many words that are different in British English from American English. When a perverted cabbie asks her if she wants to see his scar, she can't resist finding out what it really means.
I enjoyed the stories. I enjoyed people's confidence. I enjoyed that three of the story tellers (Lana, Max, Julianne) were doing it for the first time. I thought about what I would tell. I thought about the significance of telling a rehearsed story in front of a live audience. Brad would tell little stories about Drive in between the big stories, and he would read aloud the slips of papers that we filled out while waiting in line -- and he would deconstruct them. Often word by word, often imbuing meaning where it was clearly not meant. Brad is a good performer -- with a quick wit and focused mind. But he's a mocking comic -- his humor comes from making fun of people, which while skilled and impressive, rarely gets a laugh out of me. But you know who didn't he mock? The ten storytellers who got up on stage. He treated them with respect and I would say professionalism, frequently reminding the audience that, "We applaud the storyteller; we applaud the story."
And that is a lesson to take away.
Monday, August 29, 2011
I volunteered at an emergency evacuatation center
Never Done: I volunteered at an emergency evacuatation center
When I woke up on Sunday and realized that there was no flooding in the basement of the house where we live, and that no trees came down on any part of our house or car -- although there were plenty down just 1/2 block away -- so it could have happened) and that there was really no chance of any flooding whatsoever in my neighborhood (I live in one of the highest points in Brooklyn) ... once I realized all that, I knew I had an entire day ahead of me, to do as I wished. One thing I wished was to watch episodes of Friday Night Lights, my new TV rerun obsession. I also wanted to get out and explore my neighborhood in the wake of Irene. But I also -- partly because I had just written about thinking about others during the storm -- wanted to spend some time actively thinking about others, and so I went to the Armory YMCA, which is my wonderful gym, to see if they needed non-Red Cross volunteers.
They did. Sort of. Not really. Josh and I walked over together. First, there were police and National Guard stationed outside, keeping people from getting in and people from getting out. I realized immediately how hard it would be to be in one of these centers. We asked if they needed anything, and the cops did that body positioning thing, where they block you without saying they are blocking you -- without saying anything actually -- until the shelter coordinator came over and said they wouldn't turn away any volunteers. It was an ambiguous answer to the question of whether they needed volunteers, and we soon found out why. But first, we went in to a table set up on the running track, and signed in. We were then sent to talk with the operations coordinator -- a nice woman from Borough Park who had just arrived that morning. Her message to us was that there was really nothing to do. This shelter was for people with medical and developmental disabilities, and so most of the help needed was medical. Nobody was allowed to give out food unless they were medically trained (in case someone was diabetic or had other medical food needs/issues) and they had tons of National Guard guys there for the heavy lifting, so she was not sure what to do with us. But while we stood there talking with her, a Red Cross volunteer came over and asked if any of spoke Russian, because there was a 92 year-old woman in the shelter who barely spoke English, and couldn't fully describe where she lives. The Red Cross volunteer got a degree in Russian 10 years ago, and spoke passably but not fluently. Josh speaks some Russian, but figured it would not be as much as Red Cross woman, so we apologized and declined.
As we were on the way out, it occurred to Josh that maybe the woman spoke Yiddish. We went back over, and were brought over to the woman, and Red asked, but no -- she was not Jewish. But once over there, we discovered that there was a question about the woman's ability to know where she lives -- and maybe not so much a language barrier. We went out again, and Josh again had an idea -- we have plenty of friends who are fluent in Russian, so we called one of them, and reached P while she was at Yidish Vokh (Yiddish Week.) Again we went inside, and again we went to the woman -- and this time explained that we had someone on the phone. This is when the most amazing thing happened. While she was waiting to talk with P, this woman gestured to her cot and to the little plastic container of pudding and apple sauce that the shelter had brought her -- to offer us a place to sit, and something to eat. The gesture was full of grace, and reminded me what it means to be human -- fully human -- to offer something when you have little, potentially not even your complete faculties.
As it turned out, P and the woman spoke, and they got a little than anyone else did -- they got her street corners, but not a house number or apartment number or whether it's a nursing home or a private home. I could tell that it gave a great level of relief and peace of mind to the woman to speak with someone who understood her -- her whole face changed; she felt cared for. When they got off the phone, she thanked us, and once again we left -- for the final time. In the end, this might have been the most important thing we could have done -- to bring comfort, communication, and peace of mind to an elderly woman who was far from home and disconnected from her people. If I ever find myself in such a situation, I hope there are people who can do that for me.
When I woke up on Sunday and realized that there was no flooding in the basement of the house where we live, and that no trees came down on any part of our house or car -- although there were plenty down just 1/2 block away -- so it could have happened) and that there was really no chance of any flooding whatsoever in my neighborhood (I live in one of the highest points in Brooklyn) ... once I realized all that, I knew I had an entire day ahead of me, to do as I wished. One thing I wished was to watch episodes of Friday Night Lights, my new TV rerun obsession. I also wanted to get out and explore my neighborhood in the wake of Irene. But I also -- partly because I had just written about thinking about others during the storm -- wanted to spend some time actively thinking about others, and so I went to the Armory YMCA, which is my wonderful gym, to see if they needed non-Red Cross volunteers.
They did. Sort of. Not really. Josh and I walked over together. First, there were police and National Guard stationed outside, keeping people from getting in and people from getting out. I realized immediately how hard it would be to be in one of these centers. We asked if they needed anything, and the cops did that body positioning thing, where they block you without saying they are blocking you -- without saying anything actually -- until the shelter coordinator came over and said they wouldn't turn away any volunteers. It was an ambiguous answer to the question of whether they needed volunteers, and we soon found out why. But first, we went in to a table set up on the running track, and signed in. We were then sent to talk with the operations coordinator -- a nice woman from Borough Park who had just arrived that morning. Her message to us was that there was really nothing to do. This shelter was for people with medical and developmental disabilities, and so most of the help needed was medical. Nobody was allowed to give out food unless they were medically trained (in case someone was diabetic or had other medical food needs/issues) and they had tons of National Guard guys there for the heavy lifting, so she was not sure what to do with us. But while we stood there talking with her, a Red Cross volunteer came over and asked if any of spoke Russian, because there was a 92 year-old woman in the shelter who barely spoke English, and couldn't fully describe where she lives. The Red Cross volunteer got a degree in Russian 10 years ago, and spoke passably but not fluently. Josh speaks some Russian, but figured it would not be as much as Red Cross woman, so we apologized and declined.
As we were on the way out, it occurred to Josh that maybe the woman spoke Yiddish. We went back over, and were brought over to the woman, and Red asked, but no -- she was not Jewish. But once over there, we discovered that there was a question about the woman's ability to know where she lives -- and maybe not so much a language barrier. We went out again, and Josh again had an idea -- we have plenty of friends who are fluent in Russian, so we called one of them, and reached P while she was at Yidish Vokh (Yiddish Week.) Again we went inside, and again we went to the woman -- and this time explained that we had someone on the phone. This is when the most amazing thing happened. While she was waiting to talk with P, this woman gestured to her cot and to the little plastic container of pudding and apple sauce that the shelter had brought her -- to offer us a place to sit, and something to eat. The gesture was full of grace, and reminded me what it means to be human -- fully human -- to offer something when you have little, potentially not even your complete faculties.
As it turned out, P and the woman spoke, and they got a little than anyone else did -- they got her street corners, but not a house number or apartment number or whether it's a nursing home or a private home. I could tell that it gave a great level of relief and peace of mind to the woman to speak with someone who understood her -- her whole face changed; she felt cared for. When they got off the phone, she thanked us, and once again we left -- for the final time. In the end, this might have been the most important thing we could have done -- to bring comfort, communication, and peace of mind to an elderly woman who was far from home and disconnected from her people. If I ever find myself in such a situation, I hope there are people who can do that for me.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
I made a disaster preparedness kit
Never Done: I made a disaster preparedness kit
As I wrote yesterday, I didn't get to get ready for the storm while I actually felt agitated about it. Instead I had to wait until I felt rational and calm about it, and after I had a better sense of its true magnitude. It looks like it's going to be a Category 1 storm, which is not nothing, but it's not the Big One people were predicting. True, 5 people have already died in North Carolina, and 900,000 people are out of power (as of this writing, which is Saturday evening, even though it's going to post on Sunday morning, because I don't want to assume there will be power in Brooklyn on Sunday morning) -- as I was saying, true, it's causing damage in North Carolina and about to hit Washington D.C., but it's not supposed to cause flooding in my neighborhood, and it's predicted to be 60-70 mph winds instead of 90-100 mph.
Still, I read Zeitoun, and I know how bad an urban hurricane disaster could get, so I decided not to take the storm lightly, and to make a disaster preparedness kit, according to FEMA's recommendations. I know, I know ... FEMA. But I already had most of the items on the list, and it doesn't hurt to have some latex gloves around. I know, I know ... I'm not likely to be flooded in or out of my apartment, but it doesn't hurt to have some extra peanut butter and 9-volt batteries.
It's interesting to pack a Go Bag without feeling like a paranoid jerk. To make a copy of your license and insurance card and to put it into a baggie and into a backpack. It feels so self-centered. But at the same time, it's actually an act of lessening your burden on society -- and getting things ready to share with other people. If it would turn into an actual disaster, and I would not be at all prepared, I would require more resources and services to get through it. Also, by stocking up on saint candles and tuna fish, I can offer light and food to others if they need it. Also, by spending the day paying my bills and cleaning up piles of papers, I make a nicer living environment for me and anyone who joins me here while the storm shuts us in.
This is just one of the ways we can be thinking about others during a storm/ event. There are people without homes across the Eastern seaboard, who hopefully have access to shelter(s.) There are people incarcerated at Riker's Island without an evacuation plan because Bloomberg decided not to make one. There are people getting evacuated to centers -- two are very near my house (because my neighborhood is pretty high and not at all likely to flood) -- who don't get to stay home and pay bills. I don't actually know if we can volunteer there, or if we need prior training and certification with the Red Cross. (My sister does Red Cross certified disaster work.) We can think about if our actions put anyone else -- including rescue workers -- at risk. Every time there's a big storm/event, someone goes out and does something (goes surfing, goes canoeing) that requires someone to risk their life in order to rescue them. I myself was one of those people during Hurricane Gloria, which I chose, with some college friends, as the perfect time to trip on mushrooms. We took them, went out, and had a completely gorgeous day running around campus in the storm. It was glorious, but it was a terrible decision that could have gone just so terribly wrong.
And yet sometimes it's a delicate negotiation to figure out how to balance our decisions against other people's decisions. I asked my landlords to move the patio furniture, which is essentially outside my bedroom, but they don't think the wind will be strong enough to blow it around. Now, it's true that I have no idea if it's going to be strong enough to blow it around, but I also know that it's possible that it will be, and I don't want a rocking chair smashing into my bedroom window. I could go out and move it myself, but where to? There is no room inside my apartment. I could insist that they move it for my sense of safety, but that's a lot of work (although I offered to do it with them) for them to alleviate my fears and meet my standards of hurricane preparedness. Or I could do what I'm going to do, and spend an uneasy night, knowing that it could go either way, but that I would have preferred to err on the side of caution. I think the guiding mide (middah) here is Patience: Don't aggravate a situation with wasted grief. It might be bad, and it might not, but I can only be as prepared as I can be, and there's only so much it makes sense to worry about.
In the end, I live on high ground and I have a lot of peanut butter. Enough to share. Let me know if you need some.
As I wrote yesterday, I didn't get to get ready for the storm while I actually felt agitated about it. Instead I had to wait until I felt rational and calm about it, and after I had a better sense of its true magnitude. It looks like it's going to be a Category 1 storm, which is not nothing, but it's not the Big One people were predicting. True, 5 people have already died in North Carolina, and 900,000 people are out of power (as of this writing, which is Saturday evening, even though it's going to post on Sunday morning, because I don't want to assume there will be power in Brooklyn on Sunday morning) -- as I was saying, true, it's causing damage in North Carolina and about to hit Washington D.C., but it's not supposed to cause flooding in my neighborhood, and it's predicted to be 60-70 mph winds instead of 90-100 mph.
Still, I read Zeitoun, and I know how bad an urban hurricane disaster could get, so I decided not to take the storm lightly, and to make a disaster preparedness kit, according to FEMA's recommendations. I know, I know ... FEMA. But I already had most of the items on the list, and it doesn't hurt to have some latex gloves around. I know, I know ... I'm not likely to be flooded in or out of my apartment, but it doesn't hurt to have some extra peanut butter and 9-volt batteries.
It's interesting to pack a Go Bag without feeling like a paranoid jerk. To make a copy of your license and insurance card and to put it into a baggie and into a backpack. It feels so self-centered. But at the same time, it's actually an act of lessening your burden on society -- and getting things ready to share with other people. If it would turn into an actual disaster, and I would not be at all prepared, I would require more resources and services to get through it. Also, by stocking up on saint candles and tuna fish, I can offer light and food to others if they need it. Also, by spending the day paying my bills and cleaning up piles of papers, I make a nicer living environment for me and anyone who joins me here while the storm shuts us in.
This is just one of the ways we can be thinking about others during a storm/ event. There are people without homes across the Eastern seaboard, who hopefully have access to shelter(s.) There are people incarcerated at Riker's Island without an evacuation plan because Bloomberg decided not to make one. There are people getting evacuated to centers -- two are very near my house (because my neighborhood is pretty high and not at all likely to flood) -- who don't get to stay home and pay bills. I don't actually know if we can volunteer there, or if we need prior training and certification with the Red Cross. (My sister does Red Cross certified disaster work.) We can think about if our actions put anyone else -- including rescue workers -- at risk. Every time there's a big storm/event, someone goes out and does something (goes surfing, goes canoeing) that requires someone to risk their life in order to rescue them. I myself was one of those people during Hurricane Gloria, which I chose, with some college friends, as the perfect time to trip on mushrooms. We took them, went out, and had a completely gorgeous day running around campus in the storm. It was glorious, but it was a terrible decision that could have gone just so terribly wrong.
And yet sometimes it's a delicate negotiation to figure out how to balance our decisions against other people's decisions. I asked my landlords to move the patio furniture, which is essentially outside my bedroom, but they don't think the wind will be strong enough to blow it around. Now, it's true that I have no idea if it's going to be strong enough to blow it around, but I also know that it's possible that it will be, and I don't want a rocking chair smashing into my bedroom window. I could go out and move it myself, but where to? There is no room inside my apartment. I could insist that they move it for my sense of safety, but that's a lot of work (although I offered to do it with them) for them to alleviate my fears and meet my standards of hurricane preparedness. Or I could do what I'm going to do, and spend an uneasy night, knowing that it could go either way, but that I would have preferred to err on the side of caution. I think the guiding mide (middah) here is Patience: Don't aggravate a situation with wasted grief. It might be bad, and it might not, but I can only be as prepared as I can be, and there's only so much it makes sense to worry about.
In the end, I live on high ground and I have a lot of peanut butter. Enough to share. Let me know if you need some.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
I tried to make a disaster preparedness kit but got an endoscopy instead
Never Done: I tried to make a disaster preparedness kit but got an endoscopy instead
As you probably recall, on Tuesday I was at the doctor during the earthquake. On Friday I went back to have an endoscopy -- just as everyone around me was anxiously preparing for Hurricane Irene. It was a crazy time to be doing this -- the doctor's office was backed up 90 minutes, and so all of us very hungry people (procedure requires fasting) were waiting in the waiting room instead of out doing what we really wanted to do: buying batteries and peanut butter cups.
It's a good thing the doctor I see is a mentsh (SUCH a mentsh -- if you need a recommendation for an excellent GI doctor, hit me up) because I wouldn't have wanted to go into a situation where I was going to go under anesthesia with resentment to a doctor. Instead, he came into the room when we first saw each other, and just threw his arms open and apologized for the wait, and told me that everything had been crazy -- that people hadn't prepped right, that he'd found tons of polyps, that people were insane because of the storm, that he had plenty of time for me and he was completely rested and he was going to do a thorough and careful job. None of this was cavalier -- just real and engaged and actually reassuring.
But here's the thing. I'd been experiencing a pretty high level of anxiety about the hurricane all day long. I would rather be pretty much anywhere but New York City for an emergency-type event -- probably because I have dealt with dozens of power outages in the country, but have never had to deal with them in the city. Also, I feel trapped in New York, because it is, in fact, an island. Whereas the places I would like to go to for this storm are surrounded by fields and orchards instead of rivers and oceans. But I felt that the anxiety I was feeling went beyond the impending storm -- and it wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room for way longer than I should have that I realized that it wasn't only the storm that had me feeling anxious. It was that I was about to go under anesthesia right before a storm -- the ultimate helplessness -- and didn't know when I would be done, and how I would feel, and if I would be able to go buy batteries afterwards, or if I would need to be home asleep, and in fact how it would be go get home, and if I would have a bad reaction to the anesthesia (sometimes I do and sometimes I don't) and really irrationally, what if the hurricane came while I was under? -- which there was no way it was going to do, but the earthquake had struck while I was in the same doctor's office, so it sort of made sense that I was afraid of that -- and also, I sort of wanted to drive away from the city Friday night to avoid the storm entirely, but they warn you not to drive for 24 hours after anesthesia, and -- well, of course I was feeling a little bit of helplessness. Of course.
Once I figured that out, I realized I had to just chill out, let go, and trust Dr. Mentsh would take good care of me. Also, that I could buy batteries and Band-Aids on Saturday morning. He did take good care of me, and although I was quite loopy when I came to, I eventually got unlooped enough to go home, and even to go out looking for batteries. And guess what? There were none. Anywhere. (Well there were plenty of AA and AAA, but I already have a ton of those. I was looking for C and D batteries. Flashlight batteries. Also, flashlights because ours are ... you guessed it ... mostly in storage. Also, my dear Ellen reminded me that after the flooding in Hoboken a few years ago she sent me a disaster preparedness kit -- with candles and a hand-crank flashlight. And where is that? Agh, in storage!) But the interesting this is that I didn't feel all anxious about this. I felt frustrated and a little concerned, but not anxious, which validated my theory that my anxiety of the impending storm was partially displaced.
And so I watched some episodes of The Big C (now she's a swim coach!) and hit the sack early, with plans to find light in the morning.
As you probably recall, on Tuesday I was at the doctor during the earthquake. On Friday I went back to have an endoscopy -- just as everyone around me was anxiously preparing for Hurricane Irene. It was a crazy time to be doing this -- the doctor's office was backed up 90 minutes, and so all of us very hungry people (procedure requires fasting) were waiting in the waiting room instead of out doing what we really wanted to do: buying batteries and peanut butter cups.
It's a good thing the doctor I see is a mentsh (SUCH a mentsh -- if you need a recommendation for an excellent GI doctor, hit me up) because I wouldn't have wanted to go into a situation where I was going to go under anesthesia with resentment to a doctor. Instead, he came into the room when we first saw each other, and just threw his arms open and apologized for the wait, and told me that everything had been crazy -- that people hadn't prepped right, that he'd found tons of polyps, that people were insane because of the storm, that he had plenty of time for me and he was completely rested and he was going to do a thorough and careful job. None of this was cavalier -- just real and engaged and actually reassuring.
But here's the thing. I'd been experiencing a pretty high level of anxiety about the hurricane all day long. I would rather be pretty much anywhere but New York City for an emergency-type event -- probably because I have dealt with dozens of power outages in the country, but have never had to deal with them in the city. Also, I feel trapped in New York, because it is, in fact, an island. Whereas the places I would like to go to for this storm are surrounded by fields and orchards instead of rivers and oceans. But I felt that the anxiety I was feeling went beyond the impending storm -- and it wasn't until I was sitting in the waiting room for way longer than I should have that I realized that it wasn't only the storm that had me feeling anxious. It was that I was about to go under anesthesia right before a storm -- the ultimate helplessness -- and didn't know when I would be done, and how I would feel, and if I would be able to go buy batteries afterwards, or if I would need to be home asleep, and in fact how it would be go get home, and if I would have a bad reaction to the anesthesia (sometimes I do and sometimes I don't) and really irrationally, what if the hurricane came while I was under? -- which there was no way it was going to do, but the earthquake had struck while I was in the same doctor's office, so it sort of made sense that I was afraid of that -- and also, I sort of wanted to drive away from the city Friday night to avoid the storm entirely, but they warn you not to drive for 24 hours after anesthesia, and -- well, of course I was feeling a little bit of helplessness. Of course.
Once I figured that out, I realized I had to just chill out, let go, and trust Dr. Mentsh would take good care of me. Also, that I could buy batteries and Band-Aids on Saturday morning. He did take good care of me, and although I was quite loopy when I came to, I eventually got unlooped enough to go home, and even to go out looking for batteries. And guess what? There were none. Anywhere. (Well there were plenty of AA and AAA, but I already have a ton of those. I was looking for C and D batteries. Flashlight batteries. Also, flashlights because ours are ... you guessed it ... mostly in storage. Also, my dear Ellen reminded me that after the flooding in Hoboken a few years ago she sent me a disaster preparedness kit -- with candles and a hand-crank flashlight. And where is that? Agh, in storage!) But the interesting this is that I didn't feel all anxious about this. I felt frustrated and a little concerned, but not anxious, which validated my theory that my anxiety of the impending storm was partially displaced.
And so I watched some episodes of The Big C (now she's a swim coach!) and hit the sack early, with plans to find light in the morning.
Friday, August 26, 2011
I accidentally saw an opera
Never Done: I accidentally saw an opera
Sometimes I need to be alone to think. I work in a big, open work area -- cubicles with walls that come up to my chest. At its best, this fosters collaboration and creates a warm, collegial atmosphere. At its more frustrating, it makes it hard to get writing and deep thinking done. I needed to do just that -- writing and deep thinking -- and so I decided, rather than try to do it at home, to stay late and work in the vast emptiness.
I remember this feeling. I've often worked late in my old workplaces, and there is something incredibly comforting about it. I think it's related to making the place mine, and actually, as I write about it, I think it goes back further back than workplaces, all the way to being in middle school at night, for a Fireman's supper, or a school play. That feeling of walking down the floors that Mr. Foss and PJ had swept and mopped, lights out in the classrooms, hallways echoing with the absence of voices. It was a little transgressive, and also incredibly comforting all at once. If you're in a place at a time that you aren't usually, you own it. You make it yours. You belong.
So in fact, this isn't a new thing for me. It's just a thing I've never before done at the JCC, and it's actually my way of crossing a threshold into a deeper sense of comfort and ownership of my job and my place in this community. The truly beautiful thing that happened is that because I was thinking about staying late in my high school for plays, I decided to poke my head into the auditorium on my way out -- just to make it feel like my own as well. It's a good thing I went in quietly, because it turned out there was an opera rental in there that hadn't showed up on our website (because it's not really part of my own programming.) A beautiful small production of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin, by Opera Slavica. As it turns out, I have never seen Eugene Onegin, and I stepped in just as two men were about to have a duel over the love of a woman. I heard the beautiful aria that one of the men sings before the other shows up, and then a comic introduction to the duel. What world to I work in that this is possible? If I go down 3 flights, I can go swimming. If I go down 4, I can run on a treadmill or take a yoga class. If I go down 10, I can see an opera. If I go all the way down to the lowest level, I could take a class and learn how to sew shoes. (I work in a vertical community. I could probably embark on an entire new Never Done year, and never leave this building -- especially if I stay late more often.)
I'm at a loss as to how to end this post. I want to write about all the ways we can make spaces our own, or how the shift from day to night shifts our ownership of space, but truly, I think I am just enamored with the fact that I opened a door, and inside I found an opera.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
I went inside the Courtelyou Branch Library
Never Done: I went inside the Courtelyou Branch Library (in Ditmas Park)
I love libraries. I still have a card from my growing up library, from my college library, from the Portland public library, from the New York public library, from my grad school library, from the Hoboken public library, and of course, from the Brooklyn public library. Among these, I love the public libraries more than I love the private libraries. I love that you can go in to read, get out of the rain or the heat, pee, or use a computer (if there's not a line.) One day last summer, when I was doing a lot of driving around Massachusetts and upstate New York to see if there was a place I didn't know already where I might like to live, I went into a public library to ask the research librarian in Northhampton for help finding a good swimming hole. She had a folder on local swimming holes. (I love that librarian. I did not love Northhampton.)
A while back, I was contacted by Shannon who wanted to interview me her radio journalism blog, The BK Buzz. She had read about my Never Done project in a Brooklyn Based about Madhu Kaza, and asked if she could do a podcast interview about my Never Done year. (I am currently torn between writing about the interview in detail, and waiting to write about it for when it posts. I think I am going to wait, and stick with the library post right now.) Shannon and I went back and forth several times on dates, and once we found a good date, we needed a location.
Since I've produced so many things -- especially film shoots -- I am accustomed to looking for locations that are good for sound recordings, but since I started my new job at the JCC I just don't have time to put in to things that aren't mine. (Which is, in and of itself, interesting to look at. I've struggled for years with being saddled with/taking on too much responsibility and how it relates to being a freelancer -- when the expectation is that my flexibility allows me to do stuff that other people can't do, which is actually true, but it's also hard to be a successful freelancer if one is doing all sorts of stuff that's not the freelance job. Now that I am working an hour's commute from my home, without access to my home email, I am physically and logistically more limited than I've ever been, and it physically and logistically inhibits me from over-volunteering for responsibility.) (That was a very long parenthetical.) Shannon asked me to come up with ideas of where to meet, but I didn't have the time or attention to do a scout for a location with good sound for a radio interview. I wanted to help, but I didn't have any great ideas, and didn't have the time to find out what her sounds needs are. She eventually made a great suggestion for a location, and we were all set. Except that we then had to change the date, and had to start this process over. She asked me for a location; I suggested she find something; she didn't know the area well (we were meeting somewhere different because I was going to a birthday party after work); I felt pulled to solve it; I didn't have time to solve it; and then, all of a sudden, I had the perfect idea: the Courtelyou branch of the Brooklyn Public Library.
It was an interesting private moment. The producer side of myself was delighted that I had solved the problem. The neurotic part of myself almost wanted to pretend I hadn't, in order to prove to myself that I wasn't taking on too much responsibility. The producer side of myself didn't know the hours the library was open. The Mussar side of myself noticed that I thought I didn't have time to solve it, but that I had solved it in an instant -- and that this related in some ways to the mides (middot) of Patience, Humility, Equanimity, Decisiveness, Diligence, and Silence. I sat for a moment with all of this swirling inside myself, and then just dashed an email to Shannon suggesting that she check the hours of the library. She did this immediately, and then wrote back to say it was a great idea. Perfect.
I hope you've noticed that this was an entirely internal process -- that all this internal swirl came up when Shannon merely asked me for suggestions, close to where I would be, for a good place to meet. Totally normal, understandable, and good-producer behavior on her part. Exactly what I would have done. Exactly what I have done hundreds of times.
By the time I walked down Courtelyou Road and saw a young woman in a bright green shirt standing outside the library, all these logistics were behind me, and I was reviewing my year, thinking about the important things to talk about on the interview. But as soon as we entered the library, I realized I'd never actually been inside that branch, and I voiced a silent Shehekhianu, thankful that these spaces are still available -- and filled with books -- for public use.
I love libraries. I still have a card from my growing up library, from my college library, from the Portland public library, from the New York public library, from my grad school library, from the Hoboken public library, and of course, from the Brooklyn public library. Among these, I love the public libraries more than I love the private libraries. I love that you can go in to read, get out of the rain or the heat, pee, or use a computer (if there's not a line.) One day last summer, when I was doing a lot of driving around Massachusetts and upstate New York to see if there was a place I didn't know already where I might like to live, I went into a public library to ask the research librarian in Northhampton for help finding a good swimming hole. She had a folder on local swimming holes. (I love that librarian. I did not love Northhampton.)
A while back, I was contacted by Shannon who wanted to interview me her radio journalism blog, The BK Buzz. She had read about my Never Done project in a Brooklyn Based about Madhu Kaza, and asked if she could do a podcast interview about my Never Done year. (I am currently torn between writing about the interview in detail, and waiting to write about it for when it posts. I think I am going to wait, and stick with the library post right now.) Shannon and I went back and forth several times on dates, and once we found a good date, we needed a location.
Since I've produced so many things -- especially film shoots -- I am accustomed to looking for locations that are good for sound recordings, but since I started my new job at the JCC I just don't have time to put in to things that aren't mine. (Which is, in and of itself, interesting to look at. I've struggled for years with being saddled with/taking on too much responsibility and how it relates to being a freelancer -- when the expectation is that my flexibility allows me to do stuff that other people can't do, which is actually true, but it's also hard to be a successful freelancer if one is doing all sorts of stuff that's not the freelance job. Now that I am working an hour's commute from my home, without access to my home email, I am physically and logistically more limited than I've ever been, and it physically and logistically inhibits me from over-volunteering for responsibility.) (That was a very long parenthetical.) Shannon asked me to come up with ideas of where to meet, but I didn't have the time or attention to do a scout for a location with good sound for a radio interview. I wanted to help, but I didn't have any great ideas, and didn't have the time to find out what her sounds needs are. She eventually made a great suggestion for a location, and we were all set. Except that we then had to change the date, and had to start this process over. She asked me for a location; I suggested she find something; she didn't know the area well (we were meeting somewhere different because I was going to a birthday party after work); I felt pulled to solve it; I didn't have time to solve it; and then, all of a sudden, I had the perfect idea: the Courtelyou branch of the Brooklyn Public Library.
It was an interesting private moment. The producer side of myself was delighted that I had solved the problem. The neurotic part of myself almost wanted to pretend I hadn't, in order to prove to myself that I wasn't taking on too much responsibility. The producer side of myself didn't know the hours the library was open. The Mussar side of myself noticed that I thought I didn't have time to solve it, but that I had solved it in an instant -- and that this related in some ways to the mides (middot) of Patience, Humility, Equanimity, Decisiveness, Diligence, and Silence. I sat for a moment with all of this swirling inside myself, and then just dashed an email to Shannon suggesting that she check the hours of the library. She did this immediately, and then wrote back to say it was a great idea. Perfect.
I hope you've noticed that this was an entirely internal process -- that all this internal swirl came up when Shannon merely asked me for suggestions, close to where I would be, for a good place to meet. Totally normal, understandable, and good-producer behavior on her part. Exactly what I would have done. Exactly what I have done hundreds of times.
By the time I walked down Courtelyou Road and saw a young woman in a bright green shirt standing outside the library, all these logistics were behind me, and I was reviewing my year, thinking about the important things to talk about on the interview. But as soon as we entered the library, I realized I'd never actually been inside that branch, and I voiced a silent Shehekhianu, thankful that these spaces are still available -- and filled with books -- for public use.
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