Easter every day

On Easter mornings, my uncle and his family would stop by our house on their way to our annual Easter picnic. While my uncle and aunt worked with my mom and dad to load their vehicles with the supplies needed, my cousin Ricky and I compared our Easter loot.

I am embarrassed to admit how envious I was. His baskets were BIG and beautifully decorated, without layer after layer of scotch tape from previous years of use. And they were choke full with candy, cool toys, coloring books, and Easter themed trinkets. Did I mention they were filled to the brim?

In the back of our yellow station wagon on our way to the picnic, I felt sorry for myself. The youngest of four kids, I was just getting started when my older siblings were already long over the Easter bunny. Having looked through old photo albums, I was aware that my parents' enthusiasm with regards to Easter baskets hadn't survived my birth! One year my Easter basket pretty much consisted of eggs that I had decorated myself a few weeks before.

No matter how big the pity party I threw for myself was, it would immediately disband upon my opening the car door and setting foot on the Easter picnic grounds. There were games to play, pinatas to break open, kids to chase. But more importantly, there was "cascarone time" to look forward to.

Every kid loved cascarones, hollowed eggs decorated with PAAS, filled with confetti, and sealed with tissue paper. If you're not familar with cascarones, you may be wondering what "cascarone time" would be comprised of. It's pretty straight-forward:

1. Lock onto someone as a target
2. Get close to them somehow (Run and sneak!)
3. Before your target can get away, crack a cascarone on their head

The question "How many eggs does your family eat?!" was inevitable once people noticed how vastly my family's supplies outstripped those of every other kid. In the few weeks before Easter, other kids' parents were able to prepare a few dozen eggs, at most. Somehow my parents managed to arm us, year after year, with big, black, garbage bags full.

Needless to say, I had an absolute blast come "cascarone time"!

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A few years ago, I invited my boyfriend to go home with me and meet my family. Taking in all sorts of details that I had long ago stopped seeing, Christian noticed an empty egg carton on the kitchen window sill while observing my father prepare chorizo. Before he got a chance to ask what it was for, he saw my dad expertly crack a quarter size hole into an egg, dump its contents into the chorizo, rinse the empty shell, and place it, upside down, into the egg carton.

Christian was mesmerized. He quickly surmised that the shells were for cascarones but what he couldn't understand was why my father was starting in December. "It seemed like he was in auto pilot," Christian told me later.

It dawned on me then. Whereas other parents began the tedious process of building their child's eggy arsenal upon seeing signs of spring, my parents had built the extra effort into their every day, all year routine. My parents didn't start in December because, in fact, they had never stopped.

This was their default.

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Even now, there are parts of my parents' day, every day, that are devoted to me. Luckily I now know better than to ever again value anything over that kind of gift.

What toilet are you on?

As luck would have it, the bathroom at the mall we were in had 5 stalls. Given that I was there with my three sisters and mom, and we all "had to go", this couldn't have been more perfect.

When I stepped into my stall, I noticed something funny: the toilet was smaller than usual. I commented on this, and as I proceeded to take my seat, my sisters chimed in from their perches. "Yeah, I noticed that too!", "Ha! That's weird", "I feel like a giant!"

From the last stall, I could hear my mom. "Oh my gosh! This is the smallest toilet I've ever seen." And she kept going. "This is like a baby toilet!", "It's soooo little!", "I can't get over how teeny it is."

The rest of us pitched in our annoyed teenage versions of "Yes, Mom. We get it. We heard you the first time."

I'm sure I rolled my eyes through her continued exclamations. We weren't going on and on about it, why was she?

On my way to the door after washing up, I happened to glance into the stall my mother had just occupied and let out a startled chirp of laughter at the sight that greeted me. The stall my mom had chosen must have been geared for a pre-schooler; the toilet in that stall must have been at most 1/2 the size of the toilets in the other stalls. My mom had been right, the toilet was cartoonishly and ridiculously tiny! I pointed out the difference to my mom and sisters and we had a good laugh about it.

Thinking about it after the fact, I realized I had partially tuned out my mom because I had assumed her experience was exactly the same as mine. I also came to understand that there are all sorts of assumptions I tend to make about other peoples' experiences especially with regard to how they relate to mine.

This bathroom brouhaha turned into a little life lesson: remember that there is no way to know what toilet someone (even yourself) is sitting on.

Sometimes you lead and sometimes you follow

Have you ever watched sand pipers on the shore? They're cute as all heck with their skinny little legs and funny little run. And they don't stop! They run toward the ocean as the tide ebbs and away from the ocean the tide flows. Over and over. Cute and relentless.



Sometimes, I like to imagine that it's not just the sand piper doing all that work to remain consistently close to the ocean. What if, just as the sand piper runs toward the ocean when the tide begins to pull away, the ocean flows toward the sand piper whenever the little beach runner begins to retreat?

I enjoy this image, it reminds me of friendship. It may often be a playful game of chase. But other times, one may follow the other offering support, "Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?" (Perhaps in some of those cases, one may keep near in stealth mode since their companion may actually need some time alone.)

Boisterous or somber, it's a kind of call and response. "Psst, friend, I am here". "Ah, yes. And I am here too".

White Schmite

As a kid, I took in Hallmark holiday specials and department store marketing hook, line, and sinker. This, along with Christmas cards and Christmas songs, led to some pretty serious Christmas anticipation.

The weird thing was that this anticipation didn't dissipate when December 25th finally rolled around. Instead, it gripped me tighter as I found myself waiting for the day to become Christmas.

Sure, I enjoyed the gifts I received. And playing board games with my family was a blast (in my family, the adults and children play together). The food was great, the house was full of laughter, and I was surrounded by people who cared about me.

Despite this, more often than not I crawled into bed Christmas evening feeling defeated. The Christmas I got never matched the Christmas I had looked forward to. It was never white. Since we had no fireplace, stockings were tacked to a wall, not hung on a mantel. The tree stood over only a modest array of typically practical gifts. No one in the family congregated around the piano we didn't have to spontaneously burst into song. The house never had that fuzzy, soft light glamour shot glow. And, if we left anything out for Santa, it would be empanadas!

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As an adult, I have come to believe that marketing works to make folks strive to be something they aren't by convincing them that everybody else is. It came to me gradually, but I finally learned to wipe the idea of what Christmas should be off the lenses through which I view the world in order to see (and appreciate) what Christmas actually is (for me).

So yes, my family's Christmas looks nothing like you would ever see in a Christmas greeting card. Thank goodness I finally have the sense to be grateful for it.

When you're ready

With all respect for Buddha, I think the Buddhist proverb "When the student is ready, the teacher appears" is just a little off. In my opinion, it should go something more like this:

When the student is ready, he sees the teacher.

Unlike another common phenomena where you learn a new word and then start hearing it everywhere or meet a new person and start seeing them everywhere, this isn't so much about noticing. It's about projecting*. Unconsciously.

Let's say you are madly in love with a lice-infested, unemployable, ill-tempered, moose of a man. You wonder whether you should stay together though, in your heart of hearts, you are completely confident in your feelings. Everything you hear on the radio points to yes! If the song is about breaking up, you notice that the guy being broken up with sounds nothing like your catch. If the song is about staying together, you notice that the song is about love and commitment and perhaps the guy in the song who is so worth committing to sounds a little like your lousey love interest.

Now instead, let's say your heart of hearts was actually singing a different tune. A song about breaking up would instead be a message, "You should break up!" A song about staying together will help you realize "this is the kind of relationship you deserve and you don't have a shot at it until you drop the loser you're with!"

The words of the song haven't changed. But what you are able to read out of them has. When you are ready to know something, you will begin to run into people / books / road signs that can teach it to you. However, depending on how coy your subconscious self is (or how inattentive your conscious self can be) you may not notice half the time.

At the Museum of Science in Boston a few years ago, I came across a vase on which an optical illusion was painted. If you looked at it one way you would see dolphins frolicking in the ocean. If you looked at it another way, you could see two lovers embracing. (Click here to see an example of this kind of illusion.) The display description that went with the vase mentioned that most adults could easily see both images. It also made the following assertion, which really captured my attention: an innocent child would not / could not see the embracing couple.

What it is that we cannot yet perceive, and therefore learn from, because we are not yet ready?

A world full of teachers surround us. To those we cannot yet see, please be patient. In one way or another, we are innocent children.


*Unfortunately, perhaps due to self-help jargon abuse, the word "projecting" has a bit of a negative connotation. I believe the negative aspects of "projecting" are a result of the student being ready to learn something that is completely incorrect.

Saving something for the swim back

There is a scene in the movie Gattaca where the protagonist is able to beat his "genetically superior" brother in a challenge to swim the farthest away from shore. He explains how he did it with "... I never saved anything for the swim back."

This scene made a big impression on me when I watched it as a college freshman. By not worrying about what was to come later, the underdog was able to pour everything into the current moment and prevail. I thought this was a great catch-all example for how to approach one's life, with some very obvious exceptions.

Based on a few recent conversations spurred by concerns over the economy and job security, I realize these exceptions may not be as obvious as I thought.

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To be fair, I think the issue is somewhat masked by our ability to (through credit cards and overdraft protection, etc) to go into debt without immediately being aware of it. So, for the following set up, think CASH ONLY.

Harry is hanging out with some friends in town. He knows that a cab ride home will cost $12. Harry has $20.

At some point during the evening, Harry takes a break from dancing with his buddies, sits down at the smoothie bar, and orders a $5 dollar cranberry/orange juice/protein powder shake. While he is enjoying it, a woman he flirted with on the dance floor approaches him and mentions that what he ordered "sounds delicious." Harry remembers that he has $15 left in his wallet. Can he afford to buy her a shake?

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It's my guess that most adults would answer the above question with a "no" since, if Harry buys the cool girl a shake, he will be $2 short on a cab fare home. I think it's also fair to assume that at a cash only restaurant, most folks know to consider more than the price of food shown on the menu when determining what they can afford to order. (They take into account tax and tip.)

But despite this, there are many high-wage earners who, on top of necessities such as food and shelter, spend and spend and spend until there is nothing left of their net income to set aside for an emergency fund or retirement. In other words, they approach finances the way the hero of Gattaca approached overcoming his shortcomings. Any change of plans -- a failing economy or a job loss, for example -- and they are stranded miles away from shore.

My recommendation is to forget you ever saw the movie when it comes to finances. When pondering an expense and asking yourself "can I afford this?" remember the tax and tip, remember that something may come up to force a change of plans, and remember to leave enough left for your "cab fare home".

the opposite of my mother

I once watched a performer in Harvard Square shuffle big, gold coins between his fingers with seemingly little effort. As people walked by unimpressed, he yelled at them angrily.

"This is harder than it looks!" he sputtered. "Jerks! Jerks! I'd like to see you try it!"

Making it look easy

When helping to put away groceries as a kid, it was not uncommon to find a six-pack package of Snickers in one of the brown paper grocery sacks we brought in from the car. Waiting.

Four kids plus two parents meant that six packs were perfect for my family. Somehow (when it came to six packs) the unspoken "one per" honor system policy worked like a charm.

Snickers' six packs were stored in the cupboard above the dishwasher, to the left. When a family member was ready for their snack, they would take their share from the six pack. As the youngest with a voracious sweet tooth, I often found myself clambering onto the counter and reaching for my Snickers within minutes of delivery.

I'm not sure why I would tempt myself this way, but long after I'd devoured my one sixth, I would climb back onto the counter and peek into the cupboard to see how many remained. Sometimes, if I was lucky, there would be one left. This one almost always belonged to my mother.

Inevitably, I would ask my mother if I could have her share. She would say yes and I would run off greedily clutching my SECOND treat.

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Fast forward many years. While sitting in my parents' kitchen ready to enjoy some dessert given to me, my then young nephew walked into the room. Seeing what I had in my hand he innocently asked if he could have it.

I gave it to him. I'm embarrassed to admit I felt torn for a few moments -- part of me wanted to take a bite first or ask him for half or to say no!

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Shortly after he left the room, I happened to glance up at the cupboard above the dishwasher and it hit me. Not the cupboard or the dishwasher, but the fact that my mom also has a sweet tooth. And that she love loves loves Snickers Bars.

It had never occurred to me that she was a sacrificing something she wanted for herself back then. I never sensed any hesitation. There were no visible signs that what she was doing was difficult or annoying.

She made it look so easy.

This one thought was followed by a whole jumble of others.

She had made everything look easy! The one trivial glimpse I had via the experience with my nephew was merely the tip of a gargantuan iceberg! I had been a terrible burden! My poor mother!

As these thoughts swirled around my big-selfish-jerk head, it dawned on me: she couldn't have hidden the difficulties put upon her by the trials of motherhood without concerted effort; it had been done skillfully, and more importantly, with intention. This was her gift to me.

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Looking down the hallway toward my nephew, I realized I had unconsciously done my best to pass my mother's gift on to him. Granted, I'm nowhere near as gracious as my mother -- but to have something like that to even strive to give is a gift within itself.

Parallel threads

The other day, while browsing through stationary at Papyrus, I came across a Chinese proverb that I was immediately drawn to.

With time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown.

Wow, huh? Or, at least, I think so. But why is this so compelling to me?

This quote touches on two parallel but distinct story threads that have been calling to me more and more lately. I think of the first as the "Phoenix thread" and the second as the "Stranger Than Fiction thread".

Stories that belong to the first thread touch on the concept that the death of an old self must come before the new self can rise up. Typically these stories reiterate that you cannot tether yourself to some safe, known base; You have to let go of the bird in the hand for a shot at the two in the bush. Caterpillars transform into butterflies, victims bitten by dracula become vampires themselves, water is able to transport itself across the desert -- but only after a scary and sometimes painful transformation.

Stories that belong to the second thread touch on the concept that we can sometimes indirectly contribute to meaningful and substantial change in the world. These stories exemplify the fact that not everyone has to be in the spotlight to have an impact. Who taught the prince how to slay the dragon? Who forged his sword?

Noticing that this proverb struck a chord with me helped me realize that these two threads are running in the background. There are lessons in each that I am trying to learn, lessons I hope I am better poised to take in and absorb than I may have been during previous phases of my life.

But now I wonder. What other threads are back there? And, if I were to weave them all together, what kind of fabric would they make?

The gift of attention

When I was about 6 or 7, I was sent to a week-long, overnight camp along with my three sisters. Immediately upon our arrival to Camp Jo Jan Van, we were separated into our respective age groups. I'm guessing this was the first time we experienced that type of separation from our parents without our grandparents stepping in as surrogates.

There was a crack-of-dawn flag ceremony activity every morning. At lunch we were "encouraged" to eat at least 3 spoonfuls of everything on our plate. At night, we were told stories that involved creepy little girls and hatchets and we sung songs like "The Second Story Window" and "Shaving Cream".

There was a girl we all kept hearing about that was having a miserable time. It seemed that everyone's misfortune was consoled with a one-upper story about this poor girl. Chigger bite? She was covered in chigger bites AND it turned out she was allergic to them! Bug bite? She got stung by a scorpion! Hay fever? She has asthma and can't breath at night!

At the end of the week I learned this girl was not a story made up to make everyone feel better -- she was one of my sisters.

Many of these camp memories are likely based more on the stories my sisters and I told each other after we got back home than on direct recall, but there is one camp memory that is definitely my own. I had forgotten about it completely -- until something this last week dislodged it from the nook it had been hiding in.

A night or two before we were scheduled to go home, I lay in bed and cried; I just couldn't seem to stop myself. Since I was not the kind of girl that got homesick -- a fact I pointed out to my bunk mates through my non-stop sobs -- I clearly was not crying for that reason. But then why was I crying? The only explanation that made sense to me was that I was crying "for no reason at all". How remarkable! Note: this remarkable revelation didn't stop even a single tear.

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Last Friday, I found myself explaining that I was feeling melancholy "for no reason at all". This happens sometimes -- hormones, sleep deprivation, low blood sugar, etc... can cause a temporary dip in ones mood.

I'd always considered it a strength to have the ability to recognize this type of mood dip and keep oneself from finding unhappy facts to slap these faux feelings onto. Yay me, right? Not really. It turns out that, this time at least, I was actually just being an out-of-touch idiot.

My sister Sonia was in town last week. (She had made a point of coordinating her trip to coincide with my birthday!) A friend she traveled with made deep fried pickles for my birthday dinner appetizer and Sonia made deep fried Oreos for my birthday dinner dessert. She got to meet some of my friends and we got to celebrate together. We hung out and laughed and laughed and talked and laughed. It was absolutely great to spend time with her.

She left Friday afternoon.

How could I have thought I was feeling sad for no reason? I was missing my sister. Clearly, I was homesick.

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Have I been doing this my entire life?

Looking back to my time at camp, I think the possibilities offered did not jive with the image I had of myself. And perhaps what I was experiencing felt different than how I had imagined "homesick" would feel.

To give myself credit, I am often pretty on top of how I am feeling. But sometimes I get it wrong. Sometimes I am too invested in who I think I am to notice who I am today. Sometimes I am too proud to admit I have a petty side to me. Sometimes I am too self-critical to acknowledge I have an admiral side. Sometimes, in other words, I get in the way of my own seeing.

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I'd like to make sure I am not leaving something overlooked out of laziness or worse, out of a fear of what that something would say about me (or how much work accounting for that something would require).

But how?

For one thing, I can drag my river of "unresolved issues" a bit more deeply and without predictions regarding what I will (or will not) find. If something is fished out, I can gently check its fit against my Cinderella foot of a feeling. And, if I come up empty-handed, I can go about my business but check the shore on occasion to see if anything new has come to the surface.

Sounds doable, right? Cross your fingers for me, I'm diving in.