The image of the open palm is universal. It has different meanings across pretty much every culture: Buddhism has about six different mudras (hand positions) that use the gesture of the open hand, and each has a slightly different meaning. Catholics use the gesture when recieving the Euchrist to signify an openness to the glory of the body of Christ and a sense of wanting. The list could go on and on, but if we were to draw a common thread across the cultures, the open palm is a symbol of a sense of willingness to accept what is given.
My grandmother had a saying: "You can hold sand in the palm of your hand forever, but as soon as you close your fist and try to hold on tight, it will all fall through."
Lately, I've been attempting to practice the art of an open palm. In my yoga class, my instructor often asks us to focus on acceptance of the moment and things within our power to control. Does your leg hurt? Move it to the left. Are you cranky? Maybe you're hungry, eat something and drink some water. Are you tired? Take a nap.
If only all of life's questions were that easy, right? But I think, to some extent, maybe there is something to it. I think maybe when we get frustrated, we're not asking ourselves the right questions. We're frustrated because we're asking ourselves questions we cannot answer. What do I want to do with my life? Why am I here? What am I doing in this job that I hate? When is he going to marry me?
My friend Bridget says that the best way to talk to kids is by asking them questions they can answer. They'll never learn to behave if you start off by asking them why they did something wrong. They have no clue. You have to ask them things that they know: Are you hungry? Are you tired? Are you thirsty? Do you have to go to the bathroom? Now, I am, by no means and expert on parenting, but I feel like most of the time, the source of the problem is probably somewhere within reach after a few rounds of those sorts of questions.
I feel like we (adults) are probably about the same way. I think it's about asking the right questions of ourselves at the right magnitude. We cannot arrange world peace, end world hunger or make someone love us. But we can do things to change and affect the way that we participate in the world.
To me, acceptance, or allowing the sand to lay in our palms, does not mean complacency. It does not mean blindly ignoring the world and allowing it to trample us. Practicing an open palm, to me, means knowing when action is needed and when it isn't.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
into the bin
I moved this past Saturday. Unlike all the moves I've done before, to and from college, this move was particularly special. I moved into my own place. A place that I pay for with my own money, without help from anyone else. This is a big deal for a number of reasons. For me, it means insurmountable increases in independence that had be lost since moving home after graduation. It means learning about unclogging toilets, hammering nails, painting walls and calling Pepco when our power is out. And it means that never again in my life is my parents' home "my home." I will, in all likelihood, never again live with my parents for longer than a week.
And that, in so many ways, is incredibly bittersweet.
I could go into all the sappiness about how I feel about being left to my own accord with rent payments and such, but that's not really what this post is about. What it's about is all the stuff that I found when I started packing up the bedroom I've occupied since I was 8 years old.
We moved to the house we live in now the summer after I was in fourth grade. I think this is significant because I feel like the age of 8 is sort of when, developmentally, you start to have things that are significant to you on a new level. Sure when you're little you have your pacifier, or your special blankie, or pilly if you're my cousin Melanie, but I think after about fourth grade, you start to have things that you collect that are significant because of things that happened to you.
Now, I'm not a scrap-booker. I never have been, and I sort of never want to be. But I do save things. Most of them end up on bulletin boards or in boxes. My anti-scrapbooking mentality has nothing to do with any lack of creativity, it has more to do with a lack of time and a desire to allow the objects and things that I save to speak for themselves. I've always felt like I was a photo/memory minimalist. Let it stand for itself. No frills, lace or goofy catch-phrases needed.
Now, let me clarify. I am, by no means, a hoarder, a pack-rat or anything else along those lines. Things that I save are things that would normally go into a scrapbook, like a Charlie card from a visit to Boston. A button from a march in DC. A drawing a friend gave me in seventh grade. Random things that hold value and importance to me.
So this past week, as I was packing up, I started uncovering the stuff. The bits and pieces of my life that I'd saved for who knows what reason. The cool thing is that most of the stuff, I could tell you right away where it came from.
But then came the hard part: I had to get rid of it. It couldn't come with me to my little apartment, and at some point, my mom would want "my room" back to use for something else. It'll all have to go eventually.
I had to physically throw away the odds and ends, trinkets and stubs, of my childhood and adolescence. And the weirdest part of it all was that for the most part, I was OK with it. There were some things I kept, just because they were very, very significant. But most things ended up in the trash bin with the old pair of flip flops, the broken picture frame and the other refuse that had been collecting dust in my room since the 1990s.
I'm sure there are somethings I'll never be OK with tossing, and I think that's normal.
And that, in so many ways, is incredibly bittersweet.
I could go into all the sappiness about how I feel about being left to my own accord with rent payments and such, but that's not really what this post is about. What it's about is all the stuff that I found when I started packing up the bedroom I've occupied since I was 8 years old.
We moved to the house we live in now the summer after I was in fourth grade. I think this is significant because I feel like the age of 8 is sort of when, developmentally, you start to have things that are significant to you on a new level. Sure when you're little you have your pacifier, or your special blankie, or pilly if you're my cousin Melanie, but I think after about fourth grade, you start to have things that you collect that are significant because of things that happened to you.
Now, I'm not a scrap-booker. I never have been, and I sort of never want to be. But I do save things. Most of them end up on bulletin boards or in boxes. My anti-scrapbooking mentality has nothing to do with any lack of creativity, it has more to do with a lack of time and a desire to allow the objects and things that I save to speak for themselves. I've always felt like I was a photo/memory minimalist. Let it stand for itself. No frills, lace or goofy catch-phrases needed.
Now, let me clarify. I am, by no means, a hoarder, a pack-rat or anything else along those lines. Things that I save are things that would normally go into a scrapbook, like a Charlie card from a visit to Boston. A button from a march in DC. A drawing a friend gave me in seventh grade. Random things that hold value and importance to me.
So this past week, as I was packing up, I started uncovering the stuff. The bits and pieces of my life that I'd saved for who knows what reason. The cool thing is that most of the stuff, I could tell you right away where it came from.
But then came the hard part: I had to get rid of it. It couldn't come with me to my little apartment, and at some point, my mom would want "my room" back to use for something else. It'll all have to go eventually.
I had to physically throw away the odds and ends, trinkets and stubs, of my childhood and adolescence. And the weirdest part of it all was that for the most part, I was OK with it. There were some things I kept, just because they were very, very significant. But most things ended up in the trash bin with the old pair of flip flops, the broken picture frame and the other refuse that had been collecting dust in my room since the 1990s.
I'm sure there are somethings I'll never be OK with tossing, and I think that's normal.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
inspirational words.
We have what we seek, it is there all the time, and if we give it time, it will make itself known to us. -- Thomas Merton
Thursday, July 23, 2009
a penchant for feel-good
I like movies that make you feel good. So sue me. I've seen both of these movies (below) within the last few weeks, and I would highly recommend them. Not only do they make you feel good, but they have great messages of acceptance, love, life, personal growth and understanding. They also have killer soundtracks, wonderful casts and are interesting takes on the standard "summer" movie. Neither of these are blockbusters, which is probably why I love them.
Of the two here, this is my particular favorite for a number of reasons. The sound rack is to die for, including a song by Wolfmother that I have a special fondness for. The story is really sweet, and I think everyone can relate to an unrequited love story on some level. It's funny without being corny, and indie without being emo. All around wonderful film.
The Answer Man
Managed to catch this by accident on a movie channel we get (one of our 700 channels...) and it was really great. Lauren Graham is quirky, as always -- she's pretty much Loralai Gilmore but as a chiropractor, and Jeff Daniels is equally sweet, weird and fabulous as the famous writer, Arlen Faber. It was an entertaining film, both my mom and I got sucked into it.
Usually I'm not a film critic, but I felt like I needed to share these -- they're just so enjoyable and in times like these, who doesn't want to sit and just be entertained for an hour.
Of the two here, this is my particular favorite for a number of reasons. The sound rack is to die for, including a song by Wolfmother that I have a special fondness for. The story is really sweet, and I think everyone can relate to an unrequited love story on some level. It's funny without being corny, and indie without being emo. All around wonderful film.
The Answer Man
Managed to catch this by accident on a movie channel we get (one of our 700 channels...) and it was really great. Lauren Graham is quirky, as always -- she's pretty much Loralai Gilmore but as a chiropractor, and Jeff Daniels is equally sweet, weird and fabulous as the famous writer, Arlen Faber. It was an entertaining film, both my mom and I got sucked into it.
Usually I'm not a film critic, but I felt like I needed to share these -- they're just so enjoyable and in times like these, who doesn't want to sit and just be entertained for an hour.
Monday, July 20, 2009
connectivity.
I'm becoming more and more convinced as I get older that everything is connected, that there will be things in your life that never seem to leave or disappear all the way.
My mom and our family friend Karen and I went to the 50th Anniversary Barbie convention the weekend before last. Yeah, I know ... but my aunt makes reproduction historically accurate gowns for the dolls (her work is some of the best there, if you ask me) and the convention was in D.C., so we went. It was an experience, to say the least, but the best part was the memories it evoked. More than once Karen or my mom would burst with joy at the sight of a doll they'd forgotten they had, or would begin to tell a story about a pair of shoes, a wig set or cutting Barbie's hair.
I was astonished by how few of my Barbies they had. In fact, they didn't have any of the ones I had -- perhaps they're not old enough yet. My Aladdin and Jasmin dolls, my skater Midge and Barbie, my Kelly dolls -- they're just not "vintage" enough yet. As I walked through the tables, I wanted some sort of a jolt of recognition, something from my childhood that I'd forgotten, something that I'd loved and then given up along with the American Girl dolls, Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies. But it didn't come, at least not until the very end.
And then, on a table, there it was, my Barbie poodle. Yes. I had a poodle. He was white (I'm assuming it's a "he" even though there were no anatomical indicators) with legs that bent at the shoulder and hip joints. Matted white "fur" with floppy white ears and white, hard plastic feet and face. He was my dog! I had him! And I had completely forgotten about him. He's sitting in an enormous plastic container in my parents' basement. I'd loved him.
Moments like that one are so bizarre, and they remind us of how strange memory is. How we can be such good friends with someone and then five years later we can still remember the name of their cat, but their name escapes us. We can find our way to their house, or remember their phone number, but their birthday is gone. We can be so invested and yet something happens and the dustbuster in our brains turns on and starts to make space, eliminating somethings and keeping the others, forging hair-thin links between that stuff and other stuff so we can someday access that bit of information in our seemingly infinite rolodex.
I'm thinking about all of this because I've realized that these links don't actually matter unless we pay attention to them. Like anything else, if you ignore it, it might as well just not be there. As I was updating some contact information today for one of IPM's donors, I had a moment's flash of recognition with the organization she works for: The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.
It was one of those moments that's similar to trying to remember the movie a favorite quote comes from. Or the lyric to a song where you can only remember the tune -- why did I know this organization!? I've been working with organizations with names like that since I started at IPM. I've even seen that name before, so why was it sparking something now? I don't suppose I'll ever know. But then I realized it -- I know them because of the Corcoran. I worked with them last summer.
The Global Fund partnered with Magnum Photography last summer to produce an exhibition called "Access to Life" that would originate at the Corcoran. I wrote the press release for the show. I stuffed hundreds of press folders for the show. I met people from the Global Fund at the show. Light bulb!
So, I don't really know what it all means or if there really is any significance that it's all connected. But I find it really bizarre how one thing has taken me to the next. How everything seems to be related, whether or not it really is, I guess that remains to be seen. But still, it's these little flashes or recognition, these moments of connectivity, that really surprise and startle me into questioning how many of these moments we miss.
My mom and our family friend Karen and I went to the 50th Anniversary Barbie convention the weekend before last. Yeah, I know ... but my aunt makes reproduction historically accurate gowns for the dolls (her work is some of the best there, if you ask me) and the convention was in D.C., so we went. It was an experience, to say the least, but the best part was the memories it evoked. More than once Karen or my mom would burst with joy at the sight of a doll they'd forgotten they had, or would begin to tell a story about a pair of shoes, a wig set or cutting Barbie's hair.
I was astonished by how few of my Barbies they had. In fact, they didn't have any of the ones I had -- perhaps they're not old enough yet. My Aladdin and Jasmin dolls, my skater Midge and Barbie, my Kelly dolls -- they're just not "vintage" enough yet. As I walked through the tables, I wanted some sort of a jolt of recognition, something from my childhood that I'd forgotten, something that I'd loved and then given up along with the American Girl dolls, Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies. But it didn't come, at least not until the very end.
And then, on a table, there it was, my Barbie poodle. Yes. I had a poodle. He was white (I'm assuming it's a "he" even though there were no anatomical indicators) with legs that bent at the shoulder and hip joints. Matted white "fur" with floppy white ears and white, hard plastic feet and face. He was my dog! I had him! And I had completely forgotten about him. He's sitting in an enormous plastic container in my parents' basement. I'd loved him.
Moments like that one are so bizarre, and they remind us of how strange memory is. How we can be such good friends with someone and then five years later we can still remember the name of their cat, but their name escapes us. We can find our way to their house, or remember their phone number, but their birthday is gone. We can be so invested and yet something happens and the dustbuster in our brains turns on and starts to make space, eliminating somethings and keeping the others, forging hair-thin links between that stuff and other stuff so we can someday access that bit of information in our seemingly infinite rolodex.
I'm thinking about all of this because I've realized that these links don't actually matter unless we pay attention to them. Like anything else, if you ignore it, it might as well just not be there. As I was updating some contact information today for one of IPM's donors, I had a moment's flash of recognition with the organization she works for: The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.
It was one of those moments that's similar to trying to remember the movie a favorite quote comes from. Or the lyric to a song where you can only remember the tune -- why did I know this organization!? I've been working with organizations with names like that since I started at IPM. I've even seen that name before, so why was it sparking something now? I don't suppose I'll ever know. But then I realized it -- I know them because of the Corcoran. I worked with them last summer.
The Global Fund partnered with Magnum Photography last summer to produce an exhibition called "Access to Life" that would originate at the Corcoran. I wrote the press release for the show. I stuffed hundreds of press folders for the show. I met people from the Global Fund at the show. Light bulb!
So, I don't really know what it all means or if there really is any significance that it's all connected. But I find it really bizarre how one thing has taken me to the next. How everything seems to be related, whether or not it really is, I guess that remains to be seen. But still, it's these little flashes or recognition, these moments of connectivity, that really surprise and startle me into questioning how many of these moments we miss.
Friday, July 17, 2009
we get up
When I was in London, the girls I lived with and I began taking what we called "bridge jumping photos." The premise was fairly simple, any time we would cross a bridge, we would take a photo of the group jumping. Everyone's body had to be airborne and we had to yell "1, 2, 3, jump!" because let's be honest, it's pretty funny (in a morbid sort of way) to hear a group of girls yelling "jump" while on a bridge.
The album that resulted from this little activity spans nearly a dozen different countries. Each of us had vowed to take a jumping picture any time we crossed a new bridge.
Until I stumbled randomly upon a blog, "Jump. Because.", I hadn't thought about these photos in a very long time. Run by a few people in Richmond, Va., the blog asks for submissions of jumping photos and then asks the photo's creator to finish the sentence, "I jump because ..."
As I scrolled through, I became more and more nostalgic for the jumping I've recorded over the years with my friends, and I wanted to share a few with you. We're going to share a few with that blog, but I figured I'd include a bunch here also.
Why do I jump? There are so many reasons that I can't even begin to explain, but the biggest: I jump because I can.
(I'll add more as I find them...)
Olivia and I in Prague, CZ
The album that resulted from this little activity spans nearly a dozen different countries. Each of us had vowed to take a jumping picture any time we crossed a new bridge.
Until I stumbled randomly upon a blog, "Jump. Because.", I hadn't thought about these photos in a very long time. Run by a few people in Richmond, Va., the blog asks for submissions of jumping photos and then asks the photo's creator to finish the sentence, "I jump because ..."
As I scrolled through, I became more and more nostalgic for the jumping I've recorded over the years with my friends, and I wanted to share a few with you. We're going to share a few with that blog, but I figured I'd include a bunch here also.
Why do I jump? There are so many reasons that I can't even begin to explain, but the biggest: I jump because I can.
(I'll add more as I find them...)
Olivia and I in Prague, CZ
Olivia and I on Millenium Bridge, London, UK
Mandy and I on a bridge near the Vatican, Italy
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
cubed in silence
Since starting my job about a week ago, I've learned, among many important lessons, how to sit in silence for extended periods of time. This is an impressive feat for me -- I like to talk. A lot.
Let me clarify, I have absolutely no problems with periods of quiet. Like the silence you get when you're on a car ride and everyone's listening to the radio or watching the cars and scenery fly by. I like the quiet you get when you eat with someone and you're so hungry, three words of any sort just get in the way of the fork. I like being so comfortable with someone you can sit in silence next to each other and read a book. That silence isn't really silence to me. It's active quiet -- usually there's some sort of background noise, or some sort of shared appreciation of the void. You aren't partitioned by the silence.
This is the reason why I can't study in libraries, why I write best in cacophanous newsrooms, and why unless there's someone who absolutely needs quiet, quiet it shouldn't be. I actually think better when I have to tune things out. When it's already tuned out, when I'm surrounded by silence, that's when my mind starts to wander, my thoughts start to drift and ten minutes later I realize that I've lost track completely.
I'm currently working the most silent office I've ever been in. The floor is carpeted, the space too large and too spread out, and everyone is cubed.
I've been cubed in silence.
I'm learning to make do. I'm learning ways to be productive like everyone else while surrounded by two walls and no sound. I can't even hear the click of somone else's keyboard.
Then something strange happened yesterday, I looked to the bottom right corner of my screen and realized three hours had gone by. I was so busy, so focused despite the silence, that time had flown and the day was progressing.
Perhaps I was just focusing on the wrong thing?
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