Nemo

It’s wintertime and I am sitting here in a heap of layers holding a mug steaming with chocolate-y goodness hidden under a mountain of marsh mallows. As the snowflakes fall outside, the night is so still I almost forget that I live on an island with more than eight million people.

We were bracing ourselves on Friday night as word spread across the island of another “historic storm.” News anchors provided no comfort as they threw out every adjective they could think of–wintery mix, flusters and blusters, record this and record that, severe, harsh, brutal, and ruthless to describe winter storm Nemo. As we crammed and jammed every non-perishable item we could think of into our pantry, and gathered around a big pot of chicken noodle soup, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit excited for Nemo to arrive. To me, Nemo seemed too cheerful to be a mean blizzard, and what the newscasters failed to mention were all the warm and fuzzy, cozy and snuggly things that take place during a snow storm. Puffy and fluffy, white and bright, snug and warm…these were just some of the adjectives that I was looking forward to this weekend. When Nemo finally arrived, all eight million New Yorkers were bundled up inside their lairs…except for the five of us, who threw on our coats and hats and headed out into the white night.

Folded into a blanket of snow, Central Park was serene. Feeling the soft crunch of fresh snow beneath our feet, we sang, we danced, we laughed, and made snow angels until we could no longer feel our hands and feet. We embraced the quiet, caught snowflakes on our tongues, and huddled together as we made our way home.

New York is in a constant state of hustle and bustle, and I know that in the long run there will be so many amazing things that I will remember about this incredible city–but what will stick with me forever will be the quiet moments that I had on the island with my friends, and this night will be one of them.

This cup is for Nemo

And my four comrades who braved the cold for some winter fun! 

Historic

Four years ago…do you remember it? I can’t remember all the in-betweens in the last four years, but I certainly remember the day itself-- the excitement, the anticipation, the nervous butterflies, the crowds, the lines, the laughter, the tears, and the cold. I was there. I remember it. There is something truly special about being present for a historic event, and the inauguration of President Barack Obama is one that will stick with me forever. Like so many Americans I was over the moon to be in attendance for that cold January day in 2009. I will never forget that beautiful white gown that Michelle wore to the ball and Beyonce serenading the new President and First Lady with At Last by Etta James. And four years later, here we are, back in DC and celebrating four more years. We are taller, stronger, older, wiser, and (for some of us) grayer.

In the last four years we have all faced obstacles, jumped hurdles, felt deep hardships, shared grief, rallied, cried, laughed, celebrated, achieved, and dreamed. Did we accomplish everything on our list? Maybe. Maybe not. Did everything we accomplish get done the way that we wanted? Maybe. Maybe not. Do we (sometimes) wish we could go back in time and do things differently? Sure, sometimes. Are we always perfect? I hope not. Do we settle for just okay? I don’t. You shouldn’t. Is there room to continue to grow and improve? I hope so. Is there still time to learn more, make changes, and be the best that we can be? Yes! This is true for you. This is true for me. This is true for your neighbor, for your neighbor’s neighbor, for your boss, for your mama, and this is true for Obama.

Tomorrow is another historic day–Inauguration day. When you think about it, we all have mini-historic events that occur in our lives everyday, we just don’t deem everything historic, but we should. Did you take a new route to work? Historic. Did you recently try a new food you have never tried before? Historic. Did you finish a book from a genre you have never tried? Historic. Did you get a promotion? Historic. Did you master a new recipe? Historic. Did you have a baby? Historic. Did you get married? Historic. Did you move to a new apartment, neighborhood, state, or country? Historic. Did you start a blog? Historic. Did you buy a new pair of shoes? Historic. Historic is whatever you make it–yesterday, today and tomorrow.

This cup is for our (and my favorite) President and First Lady! Cheers to four more years! 

And to the 49ers who are headed to the Superbowl! 

Rock Out!

I think I found a rhythm. Tonight I was walking down Fifth Ave and felt it. I have never been in a band, but if I were ever in a band I picture countless sessions in a garage, surrounded by lots of clutter, trying to find a rhythm, find a harmony among the crowd, find a step in the beat. In this way, New York is kind of like my garage and the rest of the world is like my band. For the past six months I have been rehearsing–trying to find my beat in the crowd, trying to find a rhythm in the week–stretching my ears searching for the sound, and I think today I found it. But like all rehearsals this was not the finale, this is not the end of the song, this is just the beginning. This is the note I was looking for that will hopefully lead to a long list of notes that will turn into my NYC playlist called life. And just like any rehearsal this band is unpredictable. One day I can hit a high note, where everybody just rocks out and everyone is dancing to the same tune–and then the next day it can fall flat. For now, I hope we all just keep rocking out.

This cup is for everyone in my band. My album would not be made possible without you.

Hello 2013!

During the last three weeks before winter break every corner of NYC smelled like home–like Oregon–a mini forest gathered on every corner. I couldn’t help but reach out and run my gloves through the branches hoping to coat my gloves with enough pine to last me the day. It was a whirlwind of lights, carols, cramming and jamming (be it events in the day or clothes into a suitcase). And then–just like that–I was looking down over my city of twinkling lights as we made landing into PDX. For me, it is never about how much stuff is under the tree or what is cooking in the kitchen. For me it is about who is sitting around my table, who is passing through my door and who is on my calendar. This break was extra special because I got a slice of time with just about everyone. 

Not only that, I ramped up the mileage on all my favorite trails–breathing the cold air and soaking up the oxygen from the trees. It is amazing how easily I was able to fall back into my west coast routine. Long runs before sunrise, big cups of coffee, and leisurely lunches with friends, trips up to the mountain, and friendly chit chat with everyone from my best friends to total strangers on the street. These are the things I love about Portland.

And here we are: Hello 2013

I have to say I am bittersweet about 2013. I miss 2012––2012 was a great year. 2012 was filled with lots of life changes, lots of transitions, lots of hurdles, lots of love, happiness and all around good vibes!

To be honest I wasn’t ready for the ball to drop–I was still riding the wave of 2012. And with 2013 sneaking up on me so fast I have had little time to think of new years resolutions. But lucky for lists, here it goes:

1. Stretch (I never stretch but I hear it does wonders for both mind and body)

2.  Turn it off (be it a light, a phone, a computer, or negative energy)

3. Only eat half the chocolate bar (don’t be tempted to keep nibbling until the whole bar is gone, save the rest for another DAY)

4. Drink less coffee (this is going to be tough because I am addicted, and long hours with little sleep doesn’t help)

5. Lend a hand (be it opening a door for someone else, carrying someone’s groceries, high fiving a friend or stranger, volunteering, reaching out to meet someone new, or pulling someone into a (bear) hug)

Raise a glass!

Raise a mug!

This cup is for 2013! Happy New Year!

Woosh!

Wooosh!

This is not the flying down the mountain on a sled kind of woosh!–but the sound of deadlines flying by and the year coming to an end. This kind of woosh! is the hustle and bustle of everyone trying to cram everything in before the ball drops, or before everyone drops the ball. I am supposed to be working–or standing in line buying presents–or packing to head for home for the holidays. But instead I just made lists of everything I needed to do and then did nothing.

Frankly–I am a little burnt out. Last week I decorated my apartment with twinkle lights–a new strand fresh out of the box. But when I got them all hung up and plugged them in there was one little light that was burnt out. I got grumpy and fed up thinking, how could this be? The box was BRAND NEW! Can’t one thing just go right? Where is the holiday cheer if I can’t even get a strand of new lights to work? But then I realized–that little light was me–the little light that is just too burnt out from all the hubbub.

When I was little I was organized. I had my dolls dressed up and ready for the holidays well before December, I made Christmas cards, I insisted on getting a tree way too early, I cranked up the Christmas music so loud the neighbors next door could hear it, and I had a wish list that included: lip gloss, glitter nail polish, and hair scrunchies. More than a decade has gone by and all I can muster is a half burnt out strand of Christmas lights and a wish list that includes but is not limited to:

Sleep

Trees, Mountains and Ocean

Sleep

Running

Sleep

A good book

Sleep

A big cup of coffee

Family

Friends

Sleep

World Peace

Sleep

Time with my yellow lab

Sleep

…And possibly a strand of lights that actually turn on

This cup is for all the Dads out there hanging up the Christmas lights–mine included

Thankful for all the Hodgepodge

Tis the season

Tis the season for what?

Tis the season for long lines.

Tis the season for rushing, pushing, and shoving.

Tis the season for frantic shopping.

Tis the season for people late to trains, planes, parties and dates.

Tis the season for never enough time and always one more thing to get done.

OR

Tis the season for thanks.

Tis the season for calling a friend you haven’t talked to in a long time.

Tis the season for holding the door open for an elderly person.

Tis the season for taking a long walk through the park.

Tis the season for creativity.

Tis the season for reflection.

Tis the season for gathering together.

I have always believed in gathering together a “hodgepodge” of family and friends for the holidays.  My uncle was great at this. He would stack together card tables that didn’t quite fit, throw on a few different colored table clothes and pull together a mess of chairs to seat all his guests. His friends came from far and wide–from the guy who sat behind him in the office to his neighbor that collected his mail a few times a year. To him–these people were as much his friends as they were his family. I am always amazed how strangers can feel as familiar as the people we have known our whole lives, and sitting around the table together we could practically be related.

It must run in the family because my mom is great at gathering together a hodgepodge of people too. She is famous for big pots of soup that simmer for hours and end up drawing everyone in–from close friends and family, to stray neighbors. I can’t recall a holiday that didn’t include “strays.” In my house, the “strays” are always the honorary guests and as a kid I was always excited to see who would be joining us for the holiday. One year we had a teacher from school, another year we took in law students from Lewis & Clark, and once we even gave up on our “blood” relatives all together, and just got together with friends instead. Every year we have multiple sets of families, stepfamilies, twice removed families, adopted families, friends, and friends of friends squeeze around the table. I used to think we gathered together the hodgepodge because my family was always small, and so we filled the empty chairs with good company from outside the family circle. But as I got older, I realized that size had nothing to do with it–it is the deep sense of community, love and warmth that brings us all together.

Sometimes you don’t even need a table or a warm spot to have an excuse to gather together. This week I was part of an email thread for a new (but old) tradition of meeting in an empty parking lot on Thanksgiving morning to take part in a early morning Turkey run followed by an all day long pot luck (a pre-game to the big Turkey dinner). These friends have turned into my family, and I couldn’t be sadder that I am missing it this year. But my favorite part of the email thread was that someone had loaned us their house to hold the festivities after the run and all of us agreed that this gathering had to take place in the parking lot, in the freezing cold–the traditional way. For us–it didn’t have anything to do with being warm and dry, but it had everything to do with being together, sharing hand warmers, freezing, and feasting.

This year–for the first time ever–I am the “stray.” I have never been the “stray”, but I am so grateful that I will have a seat at the table with my new “adopted” New York “family.”  The more “families” I can be a part of the merrier. And so as you expand your tables, add leafs, add card tables, dust the cobwebs off your extra chairs from down in the basement and the garage, and piece together table clothes, I encourage you to invite a “stray.” You never know when they will just become part of the family. Related or unrelated– it doesn’t matter. Join hands, and be thankful that you have one another–here–there–and everywhere.

Tis the season to eat, drink, and be merry.

This cup is for all the hostesses who do such a good job gathering together all the hodgepodge:

George & Maurice, Chris & Chuck, Barb & Sam, Chris & John, The 49ers, The Supper Club, Mark & Jill, Lissa & Albie, Joanne, John & Alison, and Eli, Sharon, Lanie and Jake.

…For some of the best gatherings I’ve ever been to–Thank you.

And cups & cups of love to all my friends & family–I am thankful for you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Disconnected

An installation in the widow of Fishs Eddy: Messages to Hurricane Sandy

Where do I find the words for the past two weeks? They are hiding in the dark. They are clogged in gutters. They are submerged in murky puddles. They are fractured in broken power lines. The words I am looking for got swept away by a hurricane–hurricane Sandy. Fourteen days ago I evacuated from lower Manhattan. Looking back on it now–it’s all a blur. The long lines of people stocking up on water, granola bars, peanut butter, flashlights and candles–the empty shelves–the panic and uncertainty of what was about to happen filling the air–and then everything went dark.

A few days before Hurricane Sandy blew through I was riding the 4 train, when suddenly everything came to a complete stop–the car went dark and all of us just waited in silence. After about 15 minutes, the lights flickered back on and the announcer told us that it would be another 15-minute wait because of “an incident” up ahead. The sigh of disgruntled passengers filled the car–everyone was late to somewhere–and I remember thinking to myself “if one train can clog up the entire city and make everyone late, imagine how bad it would be if something really catastrophic were to shut down the entire line.” Three days later that catastrophic thing came–hurricane Sandy–and it didn’t just shut down one train–it shut down the entire island.

If I had to pick one word to describe what the last 2 weeks have been like it would be disconnected. Not only was the city completely disconnected from the rest of the world, but I was disconnected from the rest of the island. As I stayed warm and dry on the Upper Westside, my texts and phone calls with friends downtown went silent. The only information I had came from parents that were outside the state that called with comforting words (tinged with a silent worry that loomed between the phone lines). It wasn’t until we turned on the TV that the reality of what was going on began to sink in. Lower Manhattan was under water.

The days following the storm were surreal. The Upper Westside had survived the heavy winds, and by Tuesday, the neighborhood was bustling with a mix of Upper Westsiders and refugees. For those of you that have never been to New York, people who live downtown rarely head uptown, and vice versa. We stick to our neighborhoods, to our small routines, to our local supermarkets, where we know the drill, the fastest ways to get through the line, the quickest way to get the cheese and the apples (even though they are on opposite sides of the store). But when everyone from one neighborhood (downtown) is suddenly displaced to a new neighborhood (uptown) everything suddenly feels foreign. Walking along the streets of the Upper Westside you could identify the natives from the refugees. Natives had dogs, knew their baristas, and gathered in grocery lines and sidewalk corners to chat with neighbors about how many refugees they had taken in during the storm–how many beds they had squeezed into their living rooms, how much extra hair now clogged their shower drain, and how many extra dishes they had to wash by hand thanks to their new long term guests. As a downtown refugee, I made my way through the aisles of Fairway wide eyed and wandering. Wandering and wide-eyed doesn’t work to your advantage in any grocery store in New York–or in any store in New York for that matter. Thankfully I wasn’t the only one, as I shuffled behind other refugees from downtown who I overheard on their phones saying “No I didn’t have time to even grab a change of clothes” or “The air mattress takes up their entire living room” or “Mom–I don’t know when I will be able to move back downtown” or “Where is the orange juice in this place?” As I settled into life on the Upper Westside, I began to pass by the same refugees on the street. We were the ones with messy ponytails, the same clothes and sweater we had lived in for the last 5 days and held the same expressions on our faces. We were all thinking the same thing: What is going to happen? How long will it last? When will downtown have food and water? When will we have electricity? When will the trains be up and running again? What should we do? Where are you staying? Where am I staying? Will I have school? Will I have work? When will the bridges re-open? If I had to get somewhere would I be able to find a cab? What bus takes me to where I need to go? How will I ever find a gift that really shows how thankful I am to my hosts who took me in? Will I ever be able to live in my apartment again? Do I want to even move back downtown? If I didn’t move back downtown where would I go?

To all our amazement–the city miraculously got up and running again. Slowly the waters began to recede and Manhattan began to light up–one building at a time. Unlike so many refugees around the world–I was lucky enough to stay with two amazing people (who gave me a cozy place to stay with amazing food) and eventually I was able to return home. I made it back downtown just in time for a freak snowstorm to arrive, blanketing the city in a freezing cold slush.

As a kid I remember countless drills of duck and cover. I remember climbing under my desk and folding my legs into a crumpled mess for multiple drills. I remember wrapping my arms around the leg of my desk in the event of an earthquake. I remember filing outside as a class and getting the chance to take a break midday for a practice fire drill in the “event that there is ever an emergency.” But never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that all those small–scale practice drills in elementary school would (a decade later) translate to escaping a historic hurricane to the Upper Westside. There is no drill that prepares you for that.

Here is my advice to all those small elementary school kiddos lining up to leave the classroom for a “practice drill”: make sure you have an extra pair of underwear and toothbrush in your pocket, because you never know how long it will be before you can go back to class.

This cup is for Jake and Lanie–Thank you. And for all the refugees out there–on a small scale–I know just how you feel.