son rehearsing for his role as Max in Where The Wild Things Are

Every single time that I do something dubious, I wonder if I’ve finally lost my mind.  But then I’m reminded of a line I read once in a book, and I’m inclined to believe that the author is right.  Sane people always question their sanity, insane people never do.  Right or not, time will tell.  In the meantime, we’ll do the best we can following the decisions I’ve made.

As many of my closest family and friends know, I’ve been the biggest supporter of public schools because I believe that good education is a basic right, and every child is entitled to it.  My son, now in fourth grade, attends one of the best public schools within our city, and I am disappointed.  In a classroom of thirty students there is a teacher plus two assistants, and while the ladies talk up front amongst each other, the kids are given pages to color, or seated in front of a TV, watching the latest release on DVD.

This being the third week of school, I’m expecting serious homework, and instead there’s a page of writing and another of third grade math.  And that is per week, not per day.  I am fuming.  In fact, my right eye has been twitching for the last two weeks now.  My son comes home bored and unchallenged, and I’m beginning to fear that laziness will take hold and become part of his character.

So I’ve resorted to the one thing that I promised myself I wouldn’t resort to: I am going to homeschool him.  I’m going to immerse him in history, literature, science, math, and a foreign language.  My job from here on out will be to challenge him, entertain him, and give him a profound love of learning.  I wish for him to see learning as a pleasure, not a chore.  I’ve spent all of last week researching methods that best work for him, and I’ve settled on Rudolf Steiner’s Waldorf education system which considers each stage of a child’s development.

Because I know he’ll need interaction with other kids his age, I’m enrolling him in performing arts and sports, where he could be as silly as his little heart wants.  In fact, this daily separation from other kids has me a bit worried.  I am horrified when I see children who do not know how to behave in public, and I aim to make sure it doesn’t happen to my boy.  So, everyone please keep me in your thoughts and feel free to offer whatever suggestions you think might benefit us both.

hubby and daughter

My dad had given us an enchanted childhood.  Because he had a sweet tooth and was at heart one of us, he believed in making our birthdays and holidays magical; he was, and still is, a wonderful cook and fantastic storyteller.  Imaginative, playful, a prankster.  Dad was a weaver of words, and those he spun around us at bedtime, until we fell asleep and dreamt of floating castles and impish fairies.  I have very vivid memories of family trips to the sea, the mountains and the countryside, where he took us on walks through fields of blood red poppies or ancient forests, and bought us the sweets we craved without much prodding.

I suppose that’s what attracted me to my hubby right from the beginning.  He had that great sense of adventure, that love of life, that playfulness, and that attentiveness that I’ve associated with great dads.  And he turned out to be just as I thought he would.  He’s patient, kind, gentle, loving.  But most of all, he makes each day magical with his stories, his observations, his ideas, and his creations.  I love that he’s a stickler for rituals and traditions, for family time and family meals, for walks in the woods and on the beach, for building sandcastles and flying kites, for kicking the ball and patiently teaching to kick the ball, for watching birds and watching people, and for believing in the potential in all of us.  Daddies are precious!

not a page out of my journal

Last night I came across a list of things I had written as a sweet, innocent sixteen year old to my future grown-up self.  Some serve as a reminder to have fun and are painfully naive, others are a plea for future enlightenment and I am shocked at my younger self’s subconscious awareness of them. My Tanti Marie had a saying that loosely translated says, the soul always knows what it yearns for.  Was she ever right!

There are about eighty points on there, and to be honest, some are just too embarrassing to share, but a handful of them wouldn’t hurt.  Here it goes and I’ll start with the silly ones first.

1.   Visit the North and South Poles.  This was one of the silliest things on there, and I cannot imagine why I had written it other than that it was obviously summer when I wrote the list, and the A.C. must not have been working.

2.   Take up painting.  I tried that, and while I believed myself to be the next Picasso no else shared in that belief.  Who likes to be unappreciated at one’s art?  Not me.

3.   Take a course in computers.  Huh??  Oh, I see, it was written 21 years ago!

4.   Learn about period furniture.  This is an obvious one since I have loved design as long as I remember, yet sadly I still can’t tell my Louis’ apart.

5.   Learn to tango.  I married a dancer.  Not really, but he’s forever waltzing me around the house, and it does take two to tango.  Enjoying the pun a little too much.  Time to move on.

6.   Explore the coral reefs.  Hello!  I must first learn to swim!

7.   Be less selfish.  I am working on it every day.

8.   Learn to manage my money.  I have had a tendency to live large.  Living within my means is a relatively new implementation in my daily life, which really focuses on what’s important ( traveling, dinners with my family, jeans, books, eclairs, cappuccinos, splurging on a few purses and shoes, throwing a dinner party once in a while), and does away with the unimportant (eating out just because I’m too lazy to cook, trendy clothes that I won’t wear more than a couple of months, a big gas guzzler to just get to work and back, Starbucks - I apologize to all who love it, but in my arrogant opinion Starbucks coffee isn’t real coffee, and unless I have a splitting headache from a lack of caffeine in my system, I will not give in to it).

9.   Take an accounting course.  This would have been a smart choice twenty years ago.  I should have written this in big block letters and taped it to the fridge.

10.  Accept the fact that I am getting older.  Now, I ask you, what sixteen year old even thinks about that?

Dawn’s about to break, and the warmth of the bed is calling.  If any of you, dear readers, have written reminders to your future selves I’d like to hear what they were.  Have a wonderful weekend!

My love affair with purses started the summer before first grade.  Upon one of our Sunday afternoon outings in the city center, I was struck dumb by one of the most beautiful sights my young eyes had seen thus far: a red patent leather purse.  Round in shape (this was the seventies) and with an outside pocket containing a little doll, I just had to have one exactly like it.  For the following weeks, I was an obsessed child imploring my parents nicely, and sometimes not so nicely, about my need to get one.

Eventually my wish came true, and with my red patent leather purse I also received a pair of red patent leather Mary Janes.  Imagine my joy!  I wanted to wear the shoes and the purse everywhere.  I suppose that was the origination of my showing off, although it’s hard to tell as I’ve been a show off as long as I remember.  Yet my mom wouldn’t allow it.  They were only for church and visits to friends and family, where they could be properly appreciated.  And because we lived in a communist country and things were difficult to come by, her reasoning made sense.

Over the years I’ve accumulated a variety of purses that have been objects of intense love at one time or another, but which have lately been gathering dust on the shelves.  Yet, I can’t bear to part with them.  The memories they hold are many and precious.  Girlhood, womanhood, motherhood.  Specific moments and specific contents within, are ingrained in my mind.

I suppose there’s plenty of psychological explanations for my love and need of a beautiful purse, yet who cares about all that?  I’m too busy enjoying and loving.

For this, my second giveaway, the PRIZE is this:

my french life

This gorgeously illustrated tome is partly coffee table book, partly memoir.  It is the fascinating tale of Vicki Archer’s personal journey from her native Australia to France where, together with her husband and three children, they bought a seventeenth century farmhouse surrounded by abandoned apple and pear orchards.

Alongside of bringing the orchards back to life, she planted an olive grove of over two thousand trees and restored the house from it’s decay, making it a lovely, cozy home for their family.  Through it all, she made friends with the locals, delighted in the delicious food, and fell in love with her France.

You can read more of her beautiful life in France here: #mce_temp_url#! Contest’s over October 7th!

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. (Henry David Thoreau)

Monday morning dawned cold and clear, a streak of pink across the sky.  I lay in bed a few extra minutes, loving the warmth of the sheets, hubby’s arm around me, and my youngest darling who had snuck in our bed sometime during the dark night.  It had been a restless night, characterized by much tossing and turning and checking of the time. As we were preparing the kids for bed we had received horrible news.  A close family friend had died after almost a year of fighting for his life.  He had been young, younger than me, and had left behind a wife, siblings, and aging parents.

And he had worked so hard, a most diligent student of life. First at his studies, then at his job, then at his marriage, and finally at what was slowly killing him. We were expecting this call to come sometime in the future. He had been doing so well lately, and the spark of loving life hadn’t left his eye. The news left us speechless, our thoughts meandering over the years of our lives.

How many of those we had lived carelessly and ungrateful for the miracle life is? We had hurt the ones who love us in our indifference and selfishness. We had worried about ridiculous things. We had overlooked nurturing relationships in favor of making money. And shouldn’t it be the other way? Why is it that the suicide rate had increased during the present economic situation? For that reason alone: a genuine lack of spiritual and human connection. When what one places one’s hopes in disappears, what is there to turn to?

As I am preparing to say my last goodbyes to our friend, I am making a promise to myself. I will tend to my relationships; I will be more thankful; I will forgive more quickly and apologize to the people I have hurt; I will love unconditionally; I will kiss and hug my loved ones even more; I will measure my words; I will act with compassion; I will stop worrying about transient things and instead focus on the eternal; I will live with a sense of gratitude and not one of entitlement; I will seize every opportunity to see the beauty around me and revel in God’s gift of life. And finally, I will live.  I will live passionately.

I will seek elegance rather than luxury, refinement rather than fashion.  I will seek to be worthy more than respectable, wealthy and not rich.  I will study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly. (William Ellery Channing)

On this, the eve of another birthday, I have come to the realization that my life is so marvelous and filled with love and blessings that I do not mind getting old. For many years I have dreaded birthdays because I dreaded getting old and wrinkly. It seemed so unfair and humiliating. Throughout my teens and twenties, I had worshipped the sun’s rays, not so much because I liked their feel on my skin, but rather because of the glow they gave me. Once I reached my thirties it seemed so silly and pointless; nonetheless, I was addicted.

I remember a summer, a few years back, when I went tanning every single day. It was fashionable. Being tanned, that is. And I wanted to be fashionable. Still do. Just so you know, I adore fashion more than I let on. I cannot imagine being separated from my magazines and fashion blogs for more than a few days. Even if I don’t buy or wear a quarter of the stuff they recommend, I do my part to oblige as much as I can. I have been successfully brainwashed to believe in the importance of fitting in.

However, lately I have been craving a certain kind of look. A refined one, classy and sophisticated and altogether ladylike. Just as mini skirts past a certain age look trashy, so do trends. Unless I’m feeling absolutely wild about something, and confident I can pull it off, I will forfeit it. I aim to be elegant, in manner, speech, and appearance (hopefully though I will retain some wildness, just so I won’t bore everyone around me to tears). And in the spirit of that wish to be elegant, I have given up tanning. Wouldn’t you know it, but my skin is all the better for it.  The love I have for myself has matured from an obsessive, all-consuming love into a forgiving, accepting one.

I feel worthy of this love.  I have made my peace with aging.  I am fully invested in the lives of my darlings, and I cannot imagine a time before them. It’s funny, but it seems that they have always been with me. I am wealthy in the memories created, the happy and sometimes not so happy days (because let’s be honest, such is life), and in our journey together. On the eve of my eightieth birthday, I will look into the mirror in amazement at the laugh lines added on to my face, tracing them lovingly, remembering. I have lived and I have loved. And I won’t regret a single one.

6 large garden tomatoes, halved lengthwise

half cube butter

4 large cloves garlic

1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh rosemary or 1 tsp. dried

1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh thyme or 1 tsp. dried

sprinkle of dried crushed red pepper

2 cups chicken stock

½ cup heavy cream

4 tablespoons chopped fresh basil

lots of baguette slices

olive oil

Heat the butter in large pot over medium-high heat. Add garlic and sauté until fragrant. Add the tomatoes and let the butter and garlic blend with it until it becomes almost a sauce.  Stir in the rosemary, thyme and dried crushed red pepper. Add chicken stock and bring it to boil. Reduce heat and add the half-cup of heavy cream. Simmer uncovered until soup thickens slightly, about 20 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in basil. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Preheat broiler. Brush baguette slices with some olive oil. Transfer to large baking sheet. Broil until golden. Serve alongside soup.

Now, I am really not a cook which is a shame, for I sure love to eat.  And more than anything else, I gravitate to those foods that take time and patience.  I’ve read and heard some amazing women say that the trick is having a few fabulous recipes up one’s sleeve to whip up at a moment’s notice. A few for every season, I suppose is best.  Enjoy!

A few days ago while speeding on the freeway to make it to an appointment for which I was already very late, frustrated and annoyed at the drivers I felt were responsible for my lateness, I got to thinking about the sort of things that we trick ourselves into believing make us happy.  Things like vacations, financial freedom, getting a certain client or certain contract, having the kids get into the ‘right’ schools, losing ten lbs., and so on and so forth.

Yet the more I thought about it, the more I realized that while these things do bring about a certain feeling of satisfaction, it is nothing compared to the joy bursting out of our hearts when we want what we already have.  A child’s smile, a lover’s hand, a fragrant rose, a mother’s touch, a good book, that first cup of coffee, that moment upon waking when we appreciate another chance, and offer up a prayer of gratitude for yet another day in the company of our loved ones.

Living for me is wanting what I have, rather than having what I want.  What is it for you?

While at my mom’s this morning, I watched a little of the Kathie Lee and Hoda show (that may not be what the show’s called, but I’m sure it’s not far from that).  For a half minute they were talking about what constitutes a great friendship, and one of them, don’t remember who, said that a great friend is someone who is happy for you and cheering you on even when you are successful at what you do, or when things go well.  I got to thinking about it, because so often we, or at least I, have been under the impression that a real friend is the person who is loaning you the shoulder to cry on.  You know that whole, ‘friend in need, friend indeed,’ bit.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this woman was on to something.  Thinking back on not such pleasant circumstances in my life, girlfriends popped out of the woodwork, so to speak, whenever something unpleasant occurred, offering words of sympathy and kindnesses unheard of until then.  And I remember wondering then if they just needed fodder for gossip, secretly glad at what had befallen me.  Did my personal tragedies make them feel any more superior?  Did they pretend to be strong, because in reality, they were weak?

I can say in all honesty that when I myself have acted in such a way, it gave me a definite sense of power, and it made me feel privileged that the mean reality of the other person’s life, was not mine.  But to be truly happy (and I don’t mean half heartedly), for someone’s good fortune and blessings, now that is altogether different.  It implies a pure heart, free of envy, jealousy, or spite.  Love and encouragement in bad times as in good.  That is a true friendship.

I am so curious what you readers, think about this.