Kickin' It Old School

When Sicily was little, every summer on or around the last day of school, we would sit down and make a list titled "What To Do Instead Of Watching TV." The summer TV rule was no TV while the sun was up, an occasionally unendurable stretch of time with an only child and a limited budget. So we made a list, and when things got rough, we would consult the list and randomly select something.

Starting tomorrow and running at least through January, we may need to make a similar list. Every Sunday Sicily and I are going on a media blackout. In fact, if you are reading this on Sunday, it is only through the magic of Hootsuite because from waking to sleeping we will not be texting, Facebooking, Instagramming, Tweeting, Tumblr-ing, or any of those other -ings that have nothing to do with living.

Even as we decided to give it a go I felt a flash of panic, a clear indication that this is an absolutely necessary experiment. The average American child sits in front of a screen of some kind (TV, computer, or video) for seven and a half hours a day; the average adult in the U.S. watches five and a half hours of TV daily. For kids, that's 114 days of screen time annually. For adults, it's 80 days lost to TV (other screens are not included because measuring work screen time is difficult, but suffice it to say that it would up the total significantly).

In layman's terms, that's a shitload of television and computer time.

I will speak only for myself and say that when I complain about not having much time to do anything, all I need to do is look to the number of times I check my Facebook or email, or dip into Instagram, Twitter, or Tumblr. I believe we go online in part to feel connected to the world and the people around us, but then the exact opposite thing happens. We disconnect from what's around us to check in with people we don't know or who are four time zones away and sleeping. Or pretty boring, if we are being honest (which I always try to be).

As Sicily gets older (and more teenage-ier), it is more important to me that she knows that the most important thing that is happening is the thing that is happening right now, right where she is. There is nothing before that moment, and there may be nothing after that moment. The interwebs have this funny way of distorting time so that it speeds by, and I want her to lift up her head and look around. Technology is an amazing thing, and we won't be going Amish any time soon, but I want us to both get an important weekly break from the virtual world to step back into reality.

On Sundays we will go out into the city and explore, make some art at home, write freehand (which used to be my preferred method of work, a freehand first draft), read, visit friends in person, and anything else that doesn't involve electronics.

The rules:

• No texting or social media. No exceptions.


• Music on phones is okay, but no surfing. Throw it on shuffle and listen to what plays.


• Exceptions will be made for Sunday Seahawks games. Fortunately, the first playoff game is on a Saturday, but after that, the rule will be relaxed for football only.


• If you need to talk to us, call. We will answer.

Pretty simple. Kickin' it old school. See you on Monday...

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Should You Bother With A Backup Plan?

This week Sicily and I managed to get ourselves out of the house after dark THREE TIMES. This is huge. Even though darkness comes obscenely early these days, once The Child is home and dinner is done, all I want to do is curl up on the couch and go to sleep.

However, I bought a Living Social deal for a restaurant in Fell's Point back in August, and it was about to expire, plus The Child had a painting in an art exhibit at UMBC, so we went to dinner before the show and then to UMBC.

The Child's piece of art (photographed poorly by me, see above) was based on the work of Tom Scott, and the curator of the Tom Scott exhibit spoke to the assembled group to talk a little about Scott and to give some life advice. Namely, that artists shouldn't plan on making a living from their art and that they need to have a Plan B, and "probably a Plan C."

As he spoke, I got more irritated.

He talked about how it's not possible to live simply these days, but it was easier to live simply back in the 50s and 60s, so artists didn't need as much money to survive. He said that art can be a profitable hobby, and parents should support their kids and let them go to art school if they want to but to make sure that they are prepared to do something else and leave art to the weekends and evenings.

I will concede: very few artists of any stripe will achieve international fame and exorbitant monetary success. An artist who subsists off the proceeds from his or her art (and here I mean painting, writing, music, etc) will generally not live in a mansion and drive a fancy car.

And to this I ask: so what?

So what if you don't have a mansion? So what if your car isn't fancy?

This obsession with gadgetry and new everything and what things look like on the outside (brand-name clothing, etc) are cyanide to anyone with artistic inclinations. The message being delivered by the curator and people of his ilk is this: you have to choose between eating and art. Which is patently untrue.

One of my favorite quotes that I will butcher here and not attribute to anyone because I cannot remember who wrote it (but it's not plagiarism if you make sure to say you didn't write it, yes?): Don't be so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.

If you are an artist, ART. Paint. Write. Make music. Sing your song. Having a Plan B, or god help you, a Plan C, makes it too easy to fall back on that plan. If you are hungry and you are working on it you will succeed. How you measure success is up to you. If you measure it by the size of your house, then perhaps art isn't the right place for you. Maybe you like the IDEA of being an artist, the trappings, more than the act of art.

But if you measure it in terms of granting yourself the freedom to find your voice and express it, or by dedicating yourself to getting better at your art and doing it every day, then toss out the Plan B, and just ART.

This panic over money and the Plan B cushion is why I didn't become a writer when that's what I wanted to be from a very young age. I drank the middle-class Kool-Aid that said I had to have a career and go to college, so I did, and I became a teacher, which I loved, but in the back of my mind was this idea of writing. I am 100% sure that the reason my school got off the ground at all is because a donor backed out at the last minute and I had no money to work with. I had to make it successful because for a time, that was all the money we had coming in. So I put in the work and ended up with a fully accredited, non-profit private school that I built myself from nothing. Had I fallen back on the cushion that a donor would have provided, I am not sure that I would have worked as hard. If I am being honest (which I always try to be).

When Dane died I decided that life is too uncertain to put off doing what I wanted to do. As much as I loved the school, and even though it was beginning to turn a profit in the sense that I could actually give myself a paycheck, it was time to put that work into something for me. Teaching and education is my heart, but writing is my soul. Or vice versa, depending on the day.

There is definitely a certain level of anxiety surrounding the money I am bringing in (or not). But if I am being honest, which I always try to be, there has always been a certain level of anxiety surrounding money for me. So much so that I can remember coming up with a mantra in my mid-twenties self-help period that clearly reflected this anxiety: I have everything I need.

So if I am going to be anxious about money, why not be anxious while doing something I love? Why not finally throw myself into learning more about who I am as a writer? Why not prioritize time over money?

Thankfully, The Child was just as irritated as I was by the curator's speech. She felt like he was saying that art was good, but be okay with spreading yourself thin with a day job. Some would argue that I am handicapping her by encouraging her to throw herself into what she does with no thought of the practical, but to that I will simply say this: she built a house and has given two TEDTalks. She can certainly be as unmotivated as any adolescent, but when she is determined, she is persistent. Persistence is a better Plan B than any day job, and she is working hard to cultivate that (with some "motivational help" from me, I'll warrant).

Final thought is this: if you are prepared to throw yourself into learning and doing and creating, if you are determined and persistent, if you have focused on what's important to you and not followed the sheeple who preach material goods and the almighty dollar, if you have a path that you believe in an are willing to do what it takes to make it work, then a backup plan is unnecessary. Go out and ART.

What do you think? Should you have a backup plan?

Edited to add: I should also say that, after reading this blog again, some might interpret this post as being judgmental of those who take day jobs. This couldn't be farther from the truth; I was one of those people, too. We do what we have to do based on where we are and what we think we can do. There is no shame in providing for yourself and your family. I just hated to hear this guy telling a group of enthusiastic students that they can't be artists as a job. He was killing the dream before they could even dream it. The point is to think differently about what really matters in this life and act on that.

Where Do You Place Your Faith?

Yesterday was science Friday, so today it seems like a discussion of faith is in order.

But not really in a traditional sense.

Last night at yoga teacher training (YTT), before we started a two-hour asana practice that seemed both endless and lightning-fast at the same time, the teacher asked us three questions:

What is the solid foundation upon which you rest yourself?

Where do you place your faith?

What do you come home to?

I suppose for those raised in a church the answer is easy: God. Allah. Yahweh. Pick one. Whomever the deity is. The Godhead.

For others, such as myself, this question has plagued me for awhile, not in a seeking-religion or walking-in-the-desert-for-40-years-searching kind of way. People raised in church have it easy. In my experience (which I am sure has its opposite), the faithful are generally raised not to question. Faith is believing in something you cannot prove exists, and that's what happens. In the face of any evidence or any trial to the contrary, the religiously faithful still believe.

This is comforting in the face of tragedy, certainly. Unless you are on the receiving end of platitudes like "He's in a better place," when your husband has just died in a car accident. Then I wonder for whom faith is comforting. Certainly not me. But so happy the faithful feel good.

But I digress.

I thought about those three questions as we practiced (when I wasn't struggling to stay upright or "hug my muscles to my bones," which is still a very mysterious instruction to me), which I suppose was the point, and maybe there was a right answer. I suppose the right answer is supposed to be "the breath," but I am still young in my yoga practice and breathing, although reflexive, is very, very difficult. The breath is life, yes? A symbol that no matter what happens (unless death), we are still breathing, it is still constant, it is still there.

That's not enough for me. Alive isn't living. Alive isn't awake. Breath isn't enough. I don't care to place my faith in a reflexive action.

I have been seeking my home for a long time, and the archive of this blog will show evidence of that, including blog titles like "Running Away To Return" and "Home" and "Home Is..." and "Heading Home," plus others. Dane felt like home in a way that I hadn't ever known and hadn't ever appreciated until he died, but "home" can't be people. If you put your faith in people or build a foundation of them, that is problematic for super-obvious reasons, like death and disappointment and expectation and all of the other things that sentient beings are plagued with.

So I don't know what my answer is, but I am certain that it has something to do with something inside, and this feels very New-Age-y to me, which will run right up against my cynical side throughout this training, I suppose, but will ultimately make me a better teacher because so many people are already shaking their heads at the very IDEA of having faith in anything other than a vaporous god.

What are your answers? What do you place your faith in? What is home? Upon what have you built the foundation of your life?

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Letting Go

Sicily is riding the city bus home from school today. Alone.

I had initially told her she had to ride with a friend first. With good reason. This is the same kid who had no idea where we were when we walked the dogs in a  larger rectangle than usual one evening. She is not known for paying excellent attention to her surroundings.

This is partially due to the fact that she is a teenager, and everyone knows that the world revolves around them. They shouldn't have to actually pay attention to the movements and actions of others, they are so sure that they are the center of attention.

But I have been thinking.

Sicily has started pulling away in the way that adolescents do. She no longer shares her school work with me (unless I ask, which I do, but I never get details, and it's never so I can help her). It takes more effort on my part to get her to share the details of her life, even though she isn't sullen or moody much. She is just becoming more private.

Hard doesn't come close to what this is.

For the past five years, I have been Sicily's teacher and mother. We have spent most of our waking hours together, and I have been in charge of her education and the organizer and coordinator of her household and personal life.

I have lost my husband, and now it is time for her to go away, too.

This is how it feels. Maybe a little less desolate because I know that she is here and will need me in other ways. But still. The hours that I spent on her are now available to me, but I am still finding my way back to life and could spend hours just staring out the window.

This is a feeling that non-parents will not be able to understand. It's not like you can raise a dog that is suddenly self-aware and able to function by him/herself and wants to move into the backyard two doors down. When Sicily was born I had to figure out who I was again. When Dane died, I had to figure out who I was again.

And now Sicily is becoming her own fabulous, independent person and it's time to explore myself. AGAIN. It's getting a little tiresome, if I am being honest. Sometimes I would like to just be the one person and get it over with.

And for you naysayers who are out there thinking you are always the same no matter what, well, to you I say: just wait.

So today, I will wait for the text that says she is on the bus. Then wait again for the one that says she is off the bus, then walk with the dog to collect her. Most likely, it will be a non-event. She will not want to do it every day because weather and sleepy and hassle. Or maybe she will. I am trying to think of it as giving both of us a little more freedom, but today this letting go makes me just a little sad.

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Food Blogs: How's This Gonna Work?

So every now and then this blog will shift its focus.

This goes against all traditional recommendations about building blog traffic and gaining followers and blahblahblahblah. Apparently once you decide to write about life after the sudden death of your husband, you are locked into that for life (no pun intended).

Good thing it's not part of any income stream and that it's my blog and I can do what I want with it.

This is a courtesy notice to those of you who couldn't care less about food blogs. That's totally cool. I'm not offended.

So when you see the tag "Food" you can just keep movin' on if you'd like.

Although you might miss something. Something delicious.

I can tell you right now that you probably won't be missing any gorgeous food photography. I know that you can take delicious photos with iPhones, and I can haz one of those, but every picture I take turns into a food photography fail. They are too yellow, or the shadows are weird or the styling is dumb or something else. So as I learn how to do that better, pictures will be present but minimal. I hesitate to add them at all right now because even seeing the thumbnail might make you want to scroll on by.

But.

This is a learning experience for me, so hopefully things will get better. And every now and then I do accidentally snap a scrumptious photo, so there's that to look forward to.

I can also tell you that I make some crazy good food. And if you are local you might be getting some of it. And if you are gluten-free, then this is the place for you.

In fact, starting tomorrow, I have an experimental gluten-free all-purpose flour mix and chocolate chip cookies.

Might as well go ahead and prepare yourself for bad pictures of delicious cookies.

(The above image is not mine. So don't get used to it.)

The Green Bean Truck

We drove down two-lane back roads into Delaware early Saturday morning. Corn was turning yellow in endless fields on either side of the road, and there was a stillness to our travel unbroken by wind or birds or other cars.

Our first view of the Chesapeake Bay in a long time. Flat calm and structural steel on a bridge that is the purest memory of my childhood.

Two hours later, we pulled into our driveway...

...and greeted the newest edition to the tiny house family.

(he was dispatched, along with several of his kinfolk, many of whom had decided that a tiny house was just the right size, although other than each other the pickings were slim.)

There was work to be done, but not for the dog. He got comfy on the porch and watched the world go by. The world, in this case, consisted of a car, some birds, and innumerable bugs. There was a lot of sleeping.

Later, this. A doughnut and a dog and a beach chair. A slash of light from the setting sun.

And later still, coming home from a walk. Blurry, yes, but exactly what we saw through the trees.

In the morning, sleepy babies in the loft...

...a walk to the beach...

...and a critter, trying desperately to make it to the other side of the road.

(Most of his wooly bear friends didn't make it to the other side, so it was hard to use them to predict the winter. We also found a very dead but wholly intact frog, stretched to his full length, a large pile of glass, and more mosquitoes. No snakes, thus far.)

We followed the green bean truck most of the way home.

You Can Take The Man Out Of Prison...

On occasion and against my better judgement, I will get sucked into a television show or series. Usually they deal with cooking or apocalyptic survival, and this time is no different. I have found Utopia, a show that put 15 people on five acres and ordered them to build a new society and live there for a year. They are calling it a "social experiment," which seems to be the way to gain viewership these days, at least if they are trying to gain my viewership because I also got sucked into Love at First Sight, the one where two people are "matched by experts" and get married on the day they first clap eyes on each other (the "experts" did pretty well. Two of the three couples stayed married at the end of the experiment, but the one that did not went up in a fireball of mutual disgust and dislike bordering on hatred. But I digress).

Back to Utopia.

There's a dude on the show named Dave (well, not anymore, but that's neither here nor there.). He is a 32-year-old ex-con who was homeless prior to the show, and he began to throw tantrums nearly from the moment he arrived at the Utopia compound (eventually, he and a toothless dude from Kentucky founded the Utopian State of Freedom, a splinter group whose rules apparently include no rules except eat your weight in Oreos, chips, and ramen, and then sit around all day while everyone else gets the electricity and plumbing in order, you know, like adolescent boys. But again, I digress.).

So in the midst of all of his ramblings, Dave has brief periods of clarity where he says some very profound things (which makes me think he's a plant, but that's neither here nor there). He was talking about prison, this time in the context of an argument about food. Make no mistake - Dave may be billed as an "ex-con," but as of the limited slice of his life I witnessed (edited for content to keep the most titillating bits), there is no "ex" about this con. He has fully embraced the prison mentality and is trying to apply it to life outside, with predictable results (see comment above about Dave no longer being allowed in Utopia). In this conversation about food, Dave said that prison food (rice, beans, noodles) is the way to go. He said that he prefers prison because the rules are very clear.

And then goes on to insist the rules don't apply to him. Perhaps why he landed in prison to begin with? But I digress.

I was thinking about the prison rules we set for ourselves, the unbreakable, immovable walls we erect to structure our lives. These become a type of prison, functioning in the same way that prevented Dave from leaving prison even after he left prison. Almost like you can take the man out of prison, but you cannot take the prison out of a man.

I was thinking about how this becomes true as we get older, and wondering why we allow that to happen. When we are little, our parents insist we try new things (food, surroundings, sports, etc), even if we don't finish it we have to try. As adults, we stop trying things for the sake of trying them. With few exceptions, we find what we like, and THAT'S WHAT WE LIKE. We set these rules (This is how I am, this is what I do, this is what I am like...) and there is no deviation. And after awhile we begin to believe that all things should be this way, our way, and that's how crotchety old people are made (Get off my lawn, you kids!).

This is horribly limiting, living in prisons of our own creation. It is also horribly difficult, leaving the prison yard.

I think you just have to be determined to leave. I think you just have to scale the wall, let the concertina slash open your palms and arms if it must, and leap over to the other side. Even if it's only for a conjugal visit with the world outside the wall, every now and then it's important to be uncomfortable and challenged and new.

Which is hard if you are tired and just want things to be easy every now and again. But if you are tired from the way things are, maybe it's time to leap the fence. Maybe you are tired of the rules you set for yourself and an adventure would be just the thing.

Thoughts?

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I Get Around

With the exception of the big yellow school bus that picked me up at the bottom of the hill every morning and one brief east-west bus ride in New York, I had not ridden a bus in my life until I moved into Seattle, sold my ailing Accord and became a full-time, car-free bus rider for three years. A move south of the city and a pregnancy put me back in a car, and I haven't ridden a city bus since except for once with Sicily when she was five.

Until Saturday.

We planned a two-festival day, taking the car to the first one in Hampden. When we returned home for a break before heading to the next festival in Canton, we decided to park the car and Uber down to the waterfront, where parking would be scarce, hotly contested, and a serious PITA. This was our first time Uber-ing, and it was worth the $13.91 fare (which is about ten bucks cheaper than a cab). We figured we would Uber home and everything would be awesome.

Until we decided to Uber on a Saturday night at peak time when fares go up times three. So our affordable ride down turned into a $36 quote for a ride home.

Enter the city bus.

In nearly no time, and with minimal fuss, Yogi and I were installed in the comfortable back seats of a city bus, a one-bus, 30-minute ride home, pockets just $3.20 lighter (total). We got to watch the Baltimore go by and let the city worry about their shocks and struts. We found a mobile site that listed all routes and times and also found a thing that texts you when the next bus is coming to your location.

SOLD.

Now we are bus riders. Maybe not everywhere, but certainly to downtown. Maybe not all the time, but definitely when we can slow down and don't have to be any particular place.

It is pretty liberating to be able to navigate the city by bus. It is hard to explain, but somehow I feel more confident every time I do something simple like this.

I am 43 years old, and I rode the bus, and it makes me feel good.

Some will read that and think about the sheltered life I have lead, and they are to some extent absolutely correct. It's like I have been in hiding for awhile. Within the confines of everyday life I have become comfortable and that has made me unadventurous.

When Sicily was little she desperately wanted to ride the bus. So I planned an excursion to the International Farmer's Market in Dekalb county. This is about 25 miles as the crow flies, but in a car it's about an hour and 15 minutes, and by bus GOOD LORD it's a forever kind of time period that is based on late arrivals and full buses and transferring then walking and who knows what else.

We rode the bus for a couple hours, walked around the farmer's market for 15 minutes, then got back on the bus to go home. Sicily loved every minute of it.

That's kind of how I felt when we rode the bus home. I get around now, and I don't need a car. And that's liberating.