When I was a child, every March 8 dawned fresh and glistening. In our country it was a national holiday, a celebration of being a woman, a mother, a wife, and a colleague. Children at school worked on crafts and wrote letters to their mothers.  Men brought flowers and chocolates for the females in their lives. Mothers sent children to school with bouquets of spring flowers for the female teachers, and after saying, “I kiss your hand,” the obligatory child to female adult greeting, we would give them the flowers.

In our house, my dad prepared the breakfast on this special day. We usually had a simple one of chunks of homemade bread spread with sweet butter and homemade jams, or clover honey, a boiled egg on the side, and mugs filled with hot milk in which a dark chocolate bar would be broken into several pieces and stirred in until all melted. It was a delicious breakfast made even more so by the anticipation of handing our gifts to our mom, wishing her many happy years in our midst.

So, many happy years to all of you, my beautiful, amazing females friends and readers, whether you are young or old, single, married, divorced, or widowed. Let’s live our lives fully and with purpose! We have come a long way, and yet we have so much more to accomplish. Let’s go forth, and make the world a better place!

Love to you all!

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I try all the tricks I know to make myself fall asleep. But nothing works, not even my favorite daydream, which is a surprise. I simply can’t sleep. So here I am in front of the computer, sipping a hot, moroccan mint tea, and staring at the keyboard. I have nothing to write about. Never mind that it’s been almost a month since my half-hearted attempt at sharing my boring life. I’m a bad, bad blogger. I prefer to read what others have to say and comment on that, than to dig something out of the recesses of my brain.

I started this blog with the zealousness of a preacher. I felt that there were truths which had to be addressed, yet were ignored by the people with the power to do something. I smugly thought of myself as the perfect person to address them. But when I reread what I had written, I didn’t like how much of a know-it-all I appeared, and my fervor cooled off.

I honestly don’t know in which direction to take this blog. I censor myself quite a bit because there are readers who feel offended if I leap out of the box they’ve placed me in. Being true to one’s beliefs isn’t the easiest of things. And so, until I figure out which way to go, my posts will be sporadic and random.

By the way, if any of you have any ideas, I’m listening.

*Photo taken from a travel website about Romania

It’s true that I have an inclination for being over-exaggeratedly anxious. I am constantly reminded of it. I have friends who laugh at me because of it. They shake their heads and roll their eyes. They tell me to lighten up. But I can see that I give them something to think about: their narrowed eyes, their pursed lips… So, I don’t mind. As long as they go home and prepare the same for their families, it’s all good.

And then there are the drills. But that’s a whole other post.

So, how about you? How prepared are you for an emergency?

(You all know how much I LOVE making lists. If there is any interest in what to pack and/or how to plan an evacuation, shoot me an email.)

As teens, my sisters and I would roll our eyes whenever my dad or mom would bring forth the subject of their courtship. It seemed such an old fashioned concept, and we were more than slightly embarrassed by it.Normal people’s parents had dated, not courted. According to my dad, mom had quite a few suitors and she couldn’t make up her mind between them. One night she’d meet one of them for a walk down the linden city center streets, stopping somewhere for a beverage or dessert, and the next, together with her girlfriends, she’d run into another at an ice cream parlor.

Apparently these meetings carried on for a while, and dad was losing patience. Christmas was approaching, and he was playing the trombone in a brass band that visited the surrounding village churches. He would be gone for a while every Saturday and Sunday and those were their designated days to walk the promenade, coyly flirting, my mom in her tailored miniskirt and kitten heels and dad in his well-cut suit. On a cold November Sunday he demanded that she choose between them. Who would it be?

I can just imagine my mom looking up at him surprised. What was his hurry, she had probably murmured in her soft voice. My mom is very soft spoken. She couldn’t be rushed, she had most likely added. She was just twenty-one. And so my dad did what every honorable man of his time did. He paid a visit to my grandparents, laden with gifts, and asked for my mom’s hand in marriage.

The only problem was that another of her suitors had beat him to it, and while she hadn’t been promised (as the decision was solely my mom’s), my grandparents were faced with an issue they hadn’t foreseen.Although she does not admit it, claiming she does not remember, I believe mom may have had an inkling of it. What to do? She liked both of them, for different reasons. They were both good men, from good families.She couldn’t make up her mind. Grandmother and grandfather prayed that God would lead her to choose the kindest of the two.

Mom finally decided that she would pick the one she would first encounter, unplanned. She got herself ready, her long dark tresses in a topknot popular in those days and went to meet a girlfriend. And whom should she meet on the way there? My dad, of course. Was it planned, a coincidence perhaps, or was it really a sign from God? No one’s telling. And my grandmother had a saying she loved to repeat over and over whenever I pressed her about it: God speaks clearly and he doesn’t play magic tricks.

A month later my parents were married, and almost two years after that I came along, the first of five children. Now, as they are preparing to celebrate their 42nd anniversary together, on New Year’s Day, I am praying for their long, happy marriage to continue, in good health and in love, side by side.

Happy New Year, to you all, my lovely friends. May the journey through 2012 be a blessed one, filled with joy, love, peace, good health, and prosperity.

The box of fragile ornaments is brought in, as well as a box of baked goodies, and one of oranges recently received from the States. I am given permission to select an orange, which dad then peels and hands to us in slices. The citrus taste, so unexpected and refreshing, overtakes my taste buds. I am in love with this taste! I have never tasted anything this good! Of course I want more. We all do.

But mom counts the oranges, making sure she has enough for the carolers stopping by. She threads the oranges and hangs them on the tree. After the oranges comes the ribboned, golden walnuts, then the foil wrapped home-made chocolate, followed by the Christmas candy in its fancy paper, and finally the jewel-toned glass baubles. Mom does all the work. The rest of us are her audience. The last waxy candle is clipped to the branches and lit, and dad turns off the lights. We stare in silence at the enchanting beauty before us.

My dad starts an ancient carol about the holy mother and golden pears and silver apples. When his voice trails off my mother starts one she’s learned at her grandmother’s knee, about lambs, treasure and holy men. We end the carol singing with “Silent Night, Holy Night.”

The candles are extinguished and the light turned on. Even dimmed in its glory, the tree holds us spellbound. In the other room the table is set. The carolers are on their way.

Nuvrei: Photo courtesy of Elena Wilken Cristurean

This is what I want to be. A confection. Even if I feel like a slice of whole wheat most days, nutritious, necessary, boring, I want to be dessert. And not just any dessert, I want to be a Parisian macaron.

I don’t know when it was that my profession became my identity. Perhaps a long time ago, and I just hadn’t noticed, or perhaps more recent, but all the frivolity and elegance is gone. I am serious and dependable, which can also translate as anxious and exhausted. And for what? My kids are growing. I’m astounded how quickly the years pass. Before I know it they’ll be in college and I’ll be contemplating a face lift. I don’t want to be staring at myself in the mirror wondering where my life went, not recognizing the lined face staring back. Regretting the life I could have had, all the while I was caught up in everybody’s needs but mine, to pursue it.

Can anyone tell me, how do I go about becoming a Parisian macaron? Or at least, how can I find some balance?

(And if you’re in Portland and haven’t stopped by Nuvrei on NW 10th and NW Flanders, what are you waiting for?)

This is my recipe for dressing well and looking good. With the holidays coming and parties galore, I’m often tempted to go shopping for things to wear. However, I do have a smallish problem: I have no fashion sense. Perhaps some of you are like me? Yes? No? Anyway, this is what I’ve learned through the years from my super stylish friends, and from the mistakes I’ve made. I hope this post saves at least one of us, from looking like we belong in the wrong decade, or looking a decade older.

Ingredients:

1.)   Know the weaknesses and strengths of your body and work to emphasize or de-emphasize as needed. Be honest with yourself about this. Have the discipline to say ‘NO’ to the wrong skirt, pant, shirt, sweater, shoe.

2.)   Buy the best shoes and handbag you can afford. If they are made well, they will last for years and years.

3.)   Avoid trends. I read somewhere that trends are like fast food. So true. And if you’re like me and you wear what you have until it goes to pieces, remember this: nothing will date a look faster (or bring attention to a sagging bottom) than the velour sweatpants with ’sexy’ written on the backside.

4.)   Ditto cheap, synthetic fabrics.

5.)   Bulky pants or skirts do not go with bulky tops, unless you’re super tall and super slim.

6.)   Smile. Blind everyone with your pearly whites and they won’t notice what you’re wearing.

7.)   Stand up straight. Look people in the eye. And if you don’t know what to do with your hands, grab a drink, or put them in your pockets where they should stay without clenching and unclenching.

8.)   Be well groomed. Hello…

9.)   Develop your own style: classic, cutting edge, bohemian, glamorous, the list goes on.

10.) Boring=safe. And safe does not equal fashion disaster. So when in doubt, wear black.

Now, if you mix all these together, I promise you, no one will roll their eyes when you pass by. But since this is a recipe which takes kindly to adjustments and the addition of other ingredients, what do you all recommend?

When I was a little girl, I loved sneaking looks into my mom’s or aunts’ purses. Treasures awaited. Every little scribbled note was a mystery, a secret message. The backs of wallet photos were especially important. I was looking for hearts and xo’s and I love you’s. Zippered compartments with their spare change, ticket stubs, receipts, and discarded candy wraps were scrutinized with suspicion. Perhaps I was just looking for candy. Or perhaps I was looking for something more, something deeper. A look inside the hearts of these women so dear to me.

I was remembering all this as I cleaned out my purse today. It was starting to weigh me down, starting to slow my walk. And I got to thinking about the things I carry with me and within me. How much is treasure, and how much is trash? Hoarding wrappers and unacknowledged addictions, receipts and guilt, lists and forgotten dreams, photos and great love, love notes and memories. Getting rid of the junk, and keeping the real.

It was surprisingly easy to let go.

Speculations abound. But I don’t like the words that are said just for the sake of feeding that vicious, hungry rumor mouth. Words about mental illness. And the other ones, that she had wanted to end her life. I don’t like how her memory is sullied with each one. I don’t want these ugly, unfounded accusations to be the last thing her children remember of her. I want these words and the people saying them to stop.

I’m thinking of her children. Of how unmoored and uprooted they must feel. How lost. How alone. There’s a tightness in my chest. A lump in my throat I can’t seem to swallow past. My heart wants to wrap itself around theirs and not let go. I pray that they will always remember her love. Her smile. Her words of wisdom. Her recipes. The songs she sang to them, and the prayers she whispered over their sleeping heads. I pray that they’ll remember her courage. Her kindness. Her faith.

If you have a moment, dear friends, whisper a prayer for the children, and think of them in the days ahead.

Check her out, everyone. She is a marvelous writer, blogger, designer. Wishing everyone a good night. I’ve got a head cold and took a bunch of Nyquil, so I must get to bed. Until next time, love yourselves and one another, and, by all means, have another piece of chocolate.