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All You Need Is…

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Love.

All different kinds of it. Copious amounts of it. Sometimes the kind that pulls you in tight, other times, the type that leaves you be. Crazy love, serene love, messy love, clean love.

I teach kindergarten art at my daughter’s school. Every Thursday afternoon we sit down together, fold an origami crane, and then do a project. Recently I showed the kids the Love sculpture by Robert Indiana. I cut the letters L-O-V-E out of cardboard and we traced them onto watercolor paper. Then we slid them down and over, and traced them again to make the letters look three-dimensional. I said to the children, you can choose any colors you want for your L-O-V-E, and for the background, as long as you mix them up for contrast. I showed them how to shade the background evenly, in the same flat way I’d been taught to do renderings in architecture offices. My charges watched me closely, and did their best. And their best was so much better, just brimming with love. Always, always, I am the student in the end.

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Picasso said…

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…”Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.”

Mid 2010, I’m setting my sights on financial health. It’s a constant goal of mine, but I’m upgrading it to the active-consciousness-cat-bird seat.  While unearthing the Easter baskets from the attic this month, I came across a box of my old financial records. When I saw the papers’ dates, I knew that according to Suze Orman, my plaid-jacket-clad money sensei, they could be shredded. But I wanted a more symbolic farewell to my old bank statements and student loan promissory notes. I wanted to send a smoke signal to myself and to the Universe that I’m hereby taking care of my money garden. So I flipped through the files, removed all the paper clips,and tossed the papers into the fireplace. Checks with an older, loopier version of my handwriting tried to hook my sentimentality as I laid them on the andirons. How is it possible that I remember all the payees from eighteen years ago? Even the itinerant tropical plant seller from my first year of graduate school. I tracked her down a month later and demanded a refund when all the mite-infested plants died. The forty dollars I got back was recorded in one of the printouts now turning to ash.

The pile took longer than I thought to light. But I persisted, and it caught. My son woke early from his nap. The fireplace is right by our stairwell and a wisp of smoke wafted upstairs near his room. “Whadilly doing, mom?” he called from his bed. “Spring cleaning,” I said.

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The Before and After Party

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Lakeside

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On most summer days of my youth, I could be found staring at the telephone at around 10 a.m. Running through my head: the numbers of my friends who belonged to Lakeside Swim Club in Louisville. I’d start to call Jenny, but I’d already bugged her about the pool yesterday.  Maybe Stephanie. Nah, she was out of town. I’d lay out my bathing suit on the bed and pack up a bag with a bath towel and an apple in case someone invited me for a swim. The club was a mile and a half away, but I could feel the energy of the place from my bedroom–all the coconut-scented families arriving to spend the day in the water, and all the shrink-wrapped pizza slices about to be microwaved at the concession stand.

Even as an adult, I return to Lakeside regularly in my imagination. A former limestone quarry, the cavernous space was converted into a magnificent series of contiguous pools in the 1920s. The club’s entrance kiosk and the houses that line the street are constructed of stones extracted from the quarry. Buying local at its best.

Membership to Lakeside was, and continues to be, limited to the residents of the club’s street, and the families they sponsor. In the 1970’s, residents were allowed to sponsor only one non-resident family per year. The waiting list was five to seven years long. We didn’t know anyone who lived on Trevilian Way. And a pool membership wasn’t in the cards for us at that time anyway. So a guest ticket was my only option. The holy grail.1491887048_4b60b79a82

When I was in high school or college (oddly, I can’t remember which), my family was able to join Lakeside at last. But by then, my interests–and those of my siblings–had changed. I went a few times, more out of a feeling that I should, now that I finally was able to enter on my own steam. But I didn’t know anyone there anymore. My peers had part-time jobs or were out cruising with their new drivers’ licenses. My parents didn’t renew our membership the following year. It just wasn’t worth the money, given how infrequently we went.

During our trip to Louisville last week, I took my family on a bootleg tour of Lakeside. I strode past the entry kiosk where as a child, my knees would knock as I approached the Brunhilda-like gatekeeper. She was a woman in her sixties, tanned for so many years that she had deep crevaces in her skin.  A couple of times I confronted her, claiming to be one of my member friends. But she knew everyone by face; it was no use.

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Now the Lakeside clubhouse is under renovation. As an architect I quickly surveyed the scene and walked confidently onto the site as if it were my own project. In reality, I was like a high school dropout taking my family on a tour of Harvard. The workers took note of us, but I knew they wouldn’t question our presence. Once we made our way around the construction area, we saw the two-and-a-half acre pool before us, surrounded by forty foot cliffs. It was just as impressive as I remembered it, even in the empty off-season. My young children were ambivalent; it was too difficult for them to imagine the cool, glimmering paradise I’d described. But my husband got it. “It’s amazing,” he said, rocking back on his heels, his arms folded across his chest. He’s heard my Lakeside longings many times over the years. I showed him the club’s lackluster website once. But some things you have to experience from the inside.

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Cafe Coconut Girl: More from the Meal Ticker

Time to eat! The Meal Ticker is a roster of meals made chez Coconut Girl that I post daily on the Coconut Girl’s blog, and to tCG’s Twitter and Facebook pages. Mostly vegetarian, the meals reflect my family’s interest in healthy whole foods and international cuisine. Not to mention our undying passion for chowing down.

Top Row: Left: Homemade pizza (original Silver Palate recipe) with sauteed mushrooms. Salad is from Marcella Hazan: lettuce, roasted beets, shaved Parmesean and fresh Italian flat leaf parsley. A simple vinaigrette of extra virgin olive oil, red wine vinegar, and salt & pepper finishes it off. Center and Right: breakfast fruit smoothies. We vary the fruit based on what we have on hand. Frozen berries add nice texture and color, but need bananas to add sweetness. Fresh grated ginger goes well with  pineapple or pear. To any fruit combination, I add plain yogurt (the best by light years is Seven Stars Farm brand), a bit of ground flax meal or flax seed oil for some Omega 3’s, ice, and a splash of fruit juice. If too sour, add a dollop of honey.

Middle Row: Left: Stir fry with udon noodles (from Asian grocery), garlic, ginger, and vegetables. We add mirin and thick soy sauce for flavor. Center: Soft corn tortilla tacos. Joe learned about these on Martha Stewart’s Everyday food show on PBS. The tortillas are warmed over an open gas flame on the stovetop. We fill them with sauteed portobellos, grated cheddar, sour cream, chopped pepperoncini, sour cream, salsa, and lots of fresh cilantro. Right: Ricotta silver-dollar pancakes sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and served with apple sauce. From the Whole Foods Market Cookbook.

Bottom Row: Left: the best salad I’ve made all year: yellow tomatoes, sliced red onion, cucumbers, fresh mozzerella. Splash of olive oil & sherry vinegar, salt and pepper. Center: burritos with basmati rice, spinach, pinto beans, grated cheddar, salsa & sour cream. We’ve discovered that if we wrap the bottom of the burritos in foil and write our kids’ names on them with a sharpie, they’ll gulp them down. Right: Packing lunch for my daughter, who’s a vegetarian: cream cheese and cucumber sandwich with salt, pepper and dill on whole wheat.

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Golf Star Wars: Darth Tiger vs. Phil Skywalker

I caught bits and pieces of the Masters tournament this past weekend.  My husband’s a good golfer and likes to watch a little coverage of the major tournaments when he can. He dutifully switches to Curious George when it’s time for the kids’ evening video–to his great credit.  Also to his credit: putting up with my golf wisecracks, such as calling the Masters “the Mashers,” or referring to eagles (two shots under par) as “chickenhawks.”

Once the kids were in bed last night, Joe turned on the recorded golf he’d missed while the Man with the Yellow Hat reigned the screen. I sat with Joe on the sofa, half watching, half catching up on email.

Even with my attention divided, it was hard to miss the contrast between Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson as the tournament drew to a close. I didn’t see Woods’ press conference regarding his sordid sex scandal & hiatus from golf, nor the infamous Nike ad with his father. And I don’t know the details of Mickleson’s difficult year with both his wife and mother battling breast cancer.  Still it was all there, hanging in the air around the the two golfers, the gallery, the tournament, and those of us tuning in. The sportscasters wouldn’t let us forget it. With Woods’ recent unpleasantness, the comments were more oblique. The announcers said things like “…it’s fitting that Woods selected the distinguished Masters Tournament for his return to golf…” Mickelson’s PG-13 family crises, on the other hand, were referenced openly, and often. While showing a montage, a voiceover crooned statements like “…an emotional day today for Phil and his wife Amy, who’s been in bed all day recuperating, but made it out to see her husband wear the green jacket once more…”

Dial it down, already, I kept thinking. Aren’t women supposed to be the nostalgic, emotional gender?  It’s not that Mickelson and his family don’t deserve our sympathy and support (and Woods and his family, for that matter). They do. But the marketing of their personal dramas rings so disingenuous.  Mickelson and Woods represent, through the media lens, opposing paternal archetypes. Mickelson, the good husband and dad, and Woods, the evil adulterer. Family values vs. sex-crazed playas: the male equivalent of the virgin/whore extremes women confront.  All for ratings, all for sale.

The roots of this kind of emotional exploitation run deep and wide in the media, I know. It was rampant during the Olympics. But I hadn’t seen it in so blatantly in golf before, an endeavor that to this outsider seems to possess more decorum than other sports. It’s kind of like going to the bank and finding out that it too now sells Cheetos and Coke. You knew it was everywhere, but hadn’t seen it here before.

When my family visits my father-in-law, who golfs daily in the summer, I see how much the sport means to him. It’s not just the game, it’s the social interaction, the mental discipline, and the experience of being in a beautiful, if not controlled, landscape.  When my husband and I first started dating fifteen years ago, he taught me some of the sport’s basic ground rules. Once I averted my eyes from the pastel pants, I found it endearingly ciIvilized how men behave on the golf course. They keep their voices low, treat each other with respect, and are mindful of groups playing ahead and behind them. They wear clean, ironed clothes.  They can connect emotionally on the golf course where they often cannot in the workaday world, or even, sometimes, at home.

By contrast the barrage of “how did you feel…” questions to Woods and Mickelson during the Masters coverage was cloyingly sentimental and uncomfortable to watch. Don’t the announcers know that men tend to serve up their feelings in small, concentrated tapas more than in all-u-can-eat buffets? Woods’ addiction has ruined his home life. Mickelson’s family health crisis imperils his wife. The sportscasters would have been wise to take a cue from the sport they cover by lowering their voices and showing some retraint. If not for the athletes’ benefit, then for the viewers trying to decide if they’ll tune in to watch golf again.

Love it or hate it, golf provides a refuge from society’s insanely contradictory expectation that men be both Wilt Chamberlain and Jimmy Stewart (or Tiger Woods and Phil Mickleson). Popular culture exalts burp-n-scratch masculinity in films like “the Hangover” and in testosterone-charged rock and hip hop lyrics. At the other extreme, men are expected to be perfect husbands and fathers, especially if they want to run for public office or hold onto corporate sponsorships.  Our culture abhors shades of grey, and would much rather frame public figures as strictly good or bad, like Luke Skywalker and Darth Vadar.

Ironically, the highly manicured, artificial landscape of the golf course offers men a place to practice being real. They can be competitive and gracious.  Sensitive and masculine. Yin and yang.  For my part, I’m betting that Woods, for all his shortcomings, really does love his children. And that Mickelson, for all his loyalty, has a secret pile of porn tucked into a shoebox somewhere. As Americans I think we can handle it if they did. Let’s at least try. We’ll call it the Grey Rights Movement.

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Road Trip Home

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Our fast food tweak en route

My family and I just returned from a week in Louisville, my hometown. It had been over three years since I’d been home.  My family members have come to see us in the intervening years, moored as we’ve been with very young children. But I’ve missed physically seeing my old stomping grounds. Louisville’s weird. My kind of weird. On our first day back, my husband noted that the city feels graciously southern, yet has a pleasing midwestern, well, wackness. We’re not the only ones who feel this way. The city has a campaign to “Keep Louisville Weird,” as advertised on bumper stickers and in storefronts.

Now that my children are a little older and can remember new places and people, my longing for home has intensified.  I don’t know if it’s nature or nuture, but my kids share my affinity for things beautiful and absurd. So I knew they’d love Louisville. We did it up, visiting the lovely Cave Hill to feed the ducks, playing at Big Rock & Waterfront Parks, and sauntering for hours along eccentric Bardstown Road. The city’s become much more sophisticated in the twenty-plus years since I left for college.  But it’s still blessedly bizarre. One of my favorite examples is the nicknames Louisvillians have for their grocery stores & malls, like Dirty Kroger (DK) and Skid City Mall (officially Mid City Mall). Ahhhh, home.

When we arrived at my father’s house, my shoes came off as fast as I could swing my legs out of the car. My daughter and I (for a moment more peers than mother and child), sprinted through the cool spring grass. We squealed as our tender winter feet scampered over bumpy aggregate and loose gravel in the road. My girl darted into the neighbors’ yards and plucked bright yellow dandelions–so many we couldn’t hold them all. Into my loafer they went, a “shoequet.”

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And the food. All my childhood Louisville favorites, still being made fresh daily. Like the delicious, neon-green benedictine spread made of cucumbers, cream cheese, onion and…. food coloring. So unique and irresistible, I brought home a tub in the cooler. We found it at Burger’s, my favorite specialty grocery store, located across the street from my high school. My mom taught art at my school for many years, and got to know the whole Burger’s staff. Ten years ago she and my step-dad moved to New England, but when I told her we were going to Louisville, she asked me to say hello to her friends around town. Everyone remembered her, including Mr. Dennis at the Burger’s deli counter. “Her order is turkey on whole wheat with mayonnaise,” he volunteered without missing a beat. I asked to take his picture because I knew it would make Mom’s day. It made mine, too. Everything about Burger’s did–the smiling people, the tethered phone, the homemade country hams, my mother’s archived order, the menu board that hasn’t changed in over twenty years. Bits and pieces of my Louisville life animated in amber.

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A Colic Thank-You

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There are moments in parenthood that are so staggeringly beautiful that I can feel the seams of my heart splitting open. Some I can anticipate, like when my family met our babies for the first time. Others slip into my blind spot and catch me unaware.

Several weeks ago, while giving my husband and me a tour of her work at school, my daughter strung together a pearl necklace of these moments. They alternated between cultured, expected gems, and freshwater treasures we couldn’t have foreseen. She showed us art she’d made, books she could read, and an exercise in fractions that used circle segments to teach halves and quarters. We beamed with pride and gratitude for our growing girl.

Then she brought us a book. “ATALAVMILIFE”: A Tale of My Life. With her teacher’s guidance, she’d written and illustrated her autobiography. In ten pages she chronicled her birth, the arrival of her brother when she was two, and how she learned to walk and talk.

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On page two, she felled me with her pencil. “When I was a baby,” she wrote in her own way, “I cried a lot. My mommy helped me feel better.”

There we were in her picture, she and I.

The colic. What I heard was “thank you for loving me through the colic.”

When our daughter was a newborn, she cried for nine hours every night for three months. We didn’t know if the screaming would ever end, if our daughter would ever smile or be happy, or if we’d make it through another day.

photoRecently I babysat a friend’s infant at our house. My children loved playing with him, but when he got tired and began to wail, it really rattled them. They sat on the floor with their hands over their ears and watched, blank-faced, while I tried to soothe him. My daughter, now six years old, studied how I held the baby close and made gentle swooshing sounds as I walked him slowly around the room.

She saw me do for him what my husband and I had done for her. All the love poured in, all the miles we walked inside our tiny, snow-bound cottage in the country. All the songs, the whispered “it’s all right”s, the “shhh-shhh”s and the “Mommy and Daddy are here”s. She took them all in and gave them back to us in her handwriting. DSC_0046

Posted in Bits of Beauty, Learning from Others, Planet Newborn.

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Sweeping FAIL

Like moths to a flame…

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Multitasking Hangover

hangover-stu-09-6-1I was on my way to the doctor’s office the other day, and I heard a story on NPR about multitasking. Specifically about the toll it takes on short-term memory. Morning Edition’s Renee Montagne was interviewing Douglas Merrill, a former Google executive, about his new book on getting organized.  He talked about grouping similar tasks together so one’s brain doesn’t have to leap from subject to subject and reorient itself all the time. He said it’s much more efficient to string together meetings for one project, for example, rather than jumping willy-nilly from project to project, or from one modality (email) to another (phone calls).

I’m just guessing here, but methinks “Doug, Doug, Dougie Doug Doug” is not a mother.

Here’s the transcript from NPR’s website (my inclusion of NPR’s copyright below enables me to repost here.) I added the bold typeface for the especially funny part.

Copyright © 2010 National Public Radio®.

RENEE MONTAGNE, host:

Okay, so in this era of information overload, you’re feeling stressed, forgetful, overwhelmed – that means your mind is perfectly normal. So says Douglas Merrill in his new book “Getting Organized in the Google Era.” He’s a former Google executive, and he writes that his own struggle with dyslexia forced him to develop techniques for remembering information. His early fascination with the brain led him to earn a PhD in cognitive science.

We spoke to Douglas Merrill about what the brain can and cannot do.

Dr. DOUGLAS MERRILL (Author, “Getting Organized in the Google Era”): Everyone has the same limitations. I have slightly more as a dyslexic, but generally speaking we all have quite poor short-term memories, we’re all quite bad at storing and encoding information for later, and we all get overwhelmed, and when we get overwhelmed we forget things. But, unfortunately, we don’t know that we’ve forgotten them.

MONTAGNE: Well, talk to us about our ability to multitask. You’re just saying that no one is really that good at multitasking?

Dr. MERRILL: Even more than that – no one can, in fact, multitask. Your brain has a short-term memory which it uses to store the things that happen around it in the world, and then it takes from that short-term memory and encodes into long-term memory so you can find it later. That short-term memory can hold between five and nine things and that’s all. And if you’re multitasking, you’re more likely to forget the things that are in that short-term memory.

Everyone feels like they’re tremendous multitaskers. It’s a little bit like Lake Wobegon – everyone thinks they’re better than average, but you’re not. You can’t multitask. When you shift from one context to another, you’re going to drop some things. And what that means is that you’re less effective at the first task and at the second task that you’re trying to do at the same time. It’s much more effective to spend time doing your first task, take a small break, and then do your second task. Managing the context shift is much more effective than pretending to multitask, even though we all think we’re good at it.

MONTAGNE: There’s another aspect of all this that you write about in the book, and that is trying to shift gears.

Dr. MERRILL: If you think about it, changing from one task to another involves you changing context entirely from one slip to another – this is a phone call, that’s an email. They may be related, but probably they’re not. And so when you move from the phone call to that email, your brain has to stop what it’s doing, move everything from short-term memory to long-term memory, and then reload your short-term memory with whatever you’re doing next. That requires work. You don’t perceive it as work but you’re using your brain muscles, if you will, and you’re using them in a relatively inefficient way.

It’s much more efficient to take that phone call and then do the work associated with that phone call and to then take a break and then deal with your email or whatever. So basically, try to minimize the number of context shifts you can have. Tactically, for example, if you looked at my calendar, you would see that I try to clump all meetings related to a particular topic together. So I have, you know, three or four meetings related to a certain project rather than jumping back and forth between contexts and therefore making it harder on myself than it needs to be.

And another sort of facile but important tip is to put context data into your calendar or into your email trials. So instead of having to recall everything from long-term memory, you can simply look at your calendar and say, oh, right, this is an interview related to the book with the following elements. That at least allows you to, as you move into that new context, do so more efficiently.

MONTAGNE: Do you consider yourself, at this point, a very organized person?

Dr. MERRILL: No, I consider myself a disorganized person who’s hanging on with it by tooth and nails an organization system. It’s why I built these systems, because I have to manage my own tendency to be very disorganized. If you walked into my office at home, you would see piles of paper all over my desk and often some on the floor. You’d see yellow stickies on the walls and big pieces of paper that I’ve taped to the walls. You’d see books in various piles all over the place. You’d walk in and you’d say, wow, this guy has no idea what’s going on in his life.

But it’s not just looking organized, it’s being organized that matters. So my piles of information actually have meaning, and once a week I go through and I reorder them and I throw things away and I add things, et cetera. I take time to repeat and understand what’s in my pile. But, no, if you walk into my office, you would not perceive me as the world’s most organized person.

MONTAGNE: Thank you very much.

Dr. MERRILL: Thanks for having me on.

MONTAGNE: Douglas Merrill, for several years, was the chief information officer at Google, and he now, along with James Martin, has written the book “Getting Organized in the Google Era.”

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