How was your day?

A couple days ago I saw a woman and a child walking hand in hand. They were basking in the warmer weather, taking it nice and slow, and enjoying their evening. I was also close enough to overhear a little of their conversation.

Child: "How was your day?"

Woman: "Long and boring. How was yours?"

Child: "Just the right amount of time and so so much fun!"

The child then went on to talk about her amazing day in great detail, practically bouncing up and down with excitement, pausing once to say, "I'm sorry your day was so boring."

* Image by pixgood.com

I laughed a little to myself, and then felt a bit sad. At what point did that woman's days become long and boring? Were they long and boring when she was a child? Is it possible to recapture the amazing experiences of a day with that childlike wonder? Moreover, what story is inadvertently told to that little girl through that conversation? I hope she doesn't think that once she grows up her days will cease to be so much fun and will instead be long and boring. Yet, will they?

I'm working right now to build in a sense of childlike wonder into each and every one of my days. It sounds really cheesy and it's definitely not easy. I would say that watching my cat chase his everything including his own tail is a definite inspiration some days.

This is Felix, playing with his new homemade mouse toy (thanks Ben and Lindsay). I'm fully aware that inserting my kitten into multiple blog posts just solidifies my cat-lady self, and I'm okay with that.

Sometimes L and I dance around the apartment. Sometimes I splash in rain puddles. Sometimes I re-read one of my favorite children's books. Sometimes I try to lose myself in daydreams. Then I catch myself trying to write something down on my to-do list. Then I start all over again.

So what if we lived in a world where you both worked hard AND had fun? A world in which there there was more playing, laughing, dancing and exploring? 

I would love to live in a world where our days alternate between "fun" or "so much fun" - a world where we would all bounce along on our way home, bursting to tell other people our amazing stories about our days.

The Story of 'Ol Doll

I've always loved my grandma's stories. Ever since I can remember, she's been telling and retelling stories from her childhood, stories from my mom's childhood, stories of her adventures, and stories of our adventures, in a way that I could have never even imagined they could happen. For my grandma, the mark of a good story is that it is never told exactly the same way twice. When she tells stories, she's in her element. She usually starts giggling way before the punchline. It's infectious.

When L and I visited her in Ruston, Louisiana over the weekend, she told us the following story about growing up on a farm in Missouri, the youngest of ten children:

"We had a horse named 'Ol Doll, and we had been teaching her how to kneel. So one day, I guess we had nothing better to do, we decided it would be a good idea to just take Ol' Doll up the stairs. I'm not sure why we did that. Cocky and I were always up to something. You know why your Uncle Cocky was called that, right? Well, he was always very proud of himself, always looking sharp and dapper. One time, his teacher at school caught him fooling around at school. She asked him what he had to say for himself, and he just grinned. ‘Well, aren’t you cocky!’ she said. And from that moment on, we just called him Cocky. Well, where was I, Ol’ Doll, right? Just like you, I’ve always loved horses, and Ol’ Doll was our oldest horse. So one time, we decided to take Ol’ Doll into Pop’s study. Taking a horse up three flights of steps is even harder than it sounds, but it helped that she could kneel. So we dragged Ol’ Doll up there, and just waited in the doorway of Pop’s study to see what would happen. Well, bless Pop’s soul, he didn’t hear very well. He was just working away at his desk. We must have been there for a full five minutes before he turned around. He nodded to us, just like any other old day, and then turned around to go back to his paper. But then he did the biggest double-take I had ever seen. His eyes got all wide - and this is one of the only times I heard Pop swear. Well, we sure got Ol’ Doll down the stairs a lot faster than we had gotten her up!"

If I hadn't heard that story so many times, I would have sworn it wasn't true. Who could ever conceive of taking a horse up the stairs? Now, I could hear that story over and over and over. To me, that story fits my grandma to a T. Always up to something mischievous, always laughing, and occasionally, always exaggerating. 

Gaining the courage to tell my story

Lately I've been attending First Person Arts Story Slams. I love the mission of this organization; to connect people through stories. The concept of a Story Slam is pure genius: if you so desire, you put your name in a bucket, and ten names get chosen at random. If picked, you tell a true story that happened to you, that relates to the theme, and that's five minutes or less (without notes) up in front of a very supportive audience. Each time before last night, I haven't put my name in the bucket. I kept thinking I wasn't ready to share a story.

(Image created by First Person Arts).

Last night's theme was "shock". I was looking forward to the stories as usual, and also didn't think that I even had a story in which I was all that shocked, at least not Story Slam level worthy shock. My friend even asked me what my shock story would be, and I said I didn't know. I happily settled in for another night of storytelling without the added pressure of wondering whether my name would be called next.

(Image by pixshark.com).

Yet as soon as the second person started telling their story, I immediately remembered that I had a great shock story. My first year of teaching in a Philly public school, I was mooned by a student during an after-school club. If that's not shocking, I'm not sure what is! Yet my story wasn't just about that moment in which an 8th grader pulled his pants down (yikes!) and I wasn't sure how to respond. It was about how much I was a fish out of water my first year teaching, and how now looking back on it, it's so much fun to laugh at the vast difference between what I expected and the reality. It was about how certain mentors took me under their wing and helped me navigate a situation that was so much more complex than the actual teaching. It was about these crazy little things that happen can really shape a person.

(I cannot find who created this image - if someone can, please let me know!).

Now, during the Story Slam, you can put your name in the bucket at the beginning of the night, or at intermission (after five people share their story). So there I was, listening to incredible stories and feeling like I just had to tell my own. I've never felt so much of a need to tell a story. I also knew that if I didn't put my name in that darn bucket I might never get up the courage to do it again. So, I hastily jotted down some notes (even though I lived the story, I had to think about how I was going to tell it), gathered every bit of courage and put my name in the bucket. Even if I wasn't called, I reasoned, I would be proud of myself for entering.

Of course, my name was the first to be called after the intermission, and my body went into shock. I'm not even sure how I moved from my chair to the stage, but somehow I got up there and started telling my story. It was truly an out of body experience. I was amazed that on one level I could be literally shaking and on another level I could be actively telling my story (let's not forget, I couldn't use notes), seeking connection with the audience, poking fun at my situation, making the audience laugh (who knew I could be funny? :), and having an amazing time. I don't remember exactly what I said (I'm waiting for the video to be posted to find out exactly how I did), but I remember how I felt. Up on stage, I felt this incredible rush that I could share a story honestly with people and receive such support.

On a side note, my students always used to make fun of me for talking with my hands. I now see what they meant :)!

I'm still on a high from sharing my story. If you have any forum to share a story (even a silly story like a kid mooning you) in public, up in front of people, I highly recommend it.

Have any of you gotten up the courage to share a story? How was it? Tell us about it in the comments below.

"You've passed the hardest part!" "No, now I'm at the hardest part!"

Yesterday, I went rock climbing with friends (in an indoor gym in case you were wondering - it's COLD in Philly right now). We took turns climbing, encouraging each other as we scrambled or in my case hoisted quite ungracefully up the walls.

When you're watching someone climb from the ground, it suddenly becomes very clear what move they should make next. You have the vision to see where the easy footholds and handholds are. If you've climbed the same course beforehand, you know exactly what sequence would be best for them to get to the top without tiring out. You're the expert. Or so you think.

When you're climbing, however, it's a whole different story. Your body is fatigued, you are right up against the wall so it's difficult to see where the rocks are, and you're trying not to look down, lest you see how far you've come and how far it would be to drop to the floor. The course that from the ground seemed so straightforward can take a completely different turn with each person that climbs it.

At one point, when I was frantically searching for my next handhold, my friend shouted up from the ground, "You've passed the hardest part! You've got this!" Out of breath, I laughingly shouted back, "No, now I'm at the hardest part!" 

Afterwards, my arms shaking as I gave my friends a high-five, I realized that half of my motivation to get up that wall (or 3/4 of the way up that wall if we're being honest) was my friends' encouragement. Having them point out a foothold that I wouldn't have seen otherwise was a huge help. I couldn't see it, because I was too close to my own story. 

There's a balance needed of course, as there is so often in life. We think we see exactly where someone else should go next, especially if we've been in a similar situation. We think since our story turned out this way, the next person's story should as well. It comes from a place of such support, yet each person's story is so unique. The hardest part to you may be only the calm before the hardest part of the storm to someone else. 

I'm so lucky I have friends to let me know where my next foothold is should I want to pursue it, and that I also have the ability to figure out my next move in my own story myself.

The Tale of Oscar and Felix

A brief account of the tale of Oscar and Felix, in slightly poetic form:

'Twas a wintry day in early February in ye old city of Philly;
Julie and her paramour L were desiring feline companionship (it had gotten quite chilly).

So they traveled to PAWS, a place that housed animals, a brief yet harrowing feat.

And swore to the shopkeeper they would be amazing caretakers (making sure the cats had enough to eat.)

"Very well," said the shopkeeper, "We have a large selection, and all of them have their knees." (?)

Said Julie and L, "Excellent, we want two of them if you please."

The shopkeeper hesitated before saying...

"We have quite an unusual case. Two cats were found together, and they are a pair...but they are quite an odd pair...an odd couple just like that movie that at one time was playing."

"They were found together, Oscar and Felix, outside in the bitter cold."

"Felix is just short of 6 months and at 6 years Oscar is well...a bit old." 

"An odd couple?" Julie and L exclaimed. "Well this is quite unexpected! Are they father and son?" The shopkeeper could not say. 

"They must stay together, that's all that I know, can you make a decision today?"

Oscar climbed into Julie's lap, curled up, started purring and emitted some drool.

At that point Julie was a done deal, when it came to Oscar, she was a fool!

Felix was scared, but blinked a few times, which the shopkeeper said was a good sign.

"He's been on the streets his entire life," said the shopkeeper, "Just give him a bit of time."

L and Julie said, "We would love to give these cats a home!"

The shopkeeper said, "Let us know of their progress by phone!"

Only a week has past yet it seems like Oscar and Felix have lived with Julie and L for much longer.

Oscar feels pretty much at home....

While the bond between Felix and his human companions (and DaBird) with each day grows a wee bit stronger.

Oscar spends most of his days waiting for food, while Felix plays hard to get.

While Julie and L haven't quite become those people who are super obsessed with their cats.....at least, not yet.

The End

The Story Of The Pork Loin: Some Stories Are More Important To The Grown Ups

Every year, a group of friends and I get together to celebrate my friends' adorable daughter, who is now 6 years old. Our traditional birthday dinner for this little girl is pork loin. Yes, you read that correctly. Why? I'll explain. I know you're dying to find out.

One night in January, 6 years ago, we were gathered at another couple's house in Mt. Airy for a semi-regular dinner, and my friend served pork loin. We ate, told our respective teaching horror stories, and played with my friend's son who was only about a year old at that point. The soon to be mother of this now 6-year old was spending a lot of time in the restroom, but of course we weren't going to call attention to it. Finally, she came down the stairs and declared she had to go to the hospital. We were worried, since her baby was due in March.

I lived (and still live) quite close to their hospital, so they hastily said they would drop me off. This story has been fine-tuned over the years. Like my grandma always says, the mark of a good story is one that is never told the exact same way. So the original story is that they dropped me off nearby my house, stopping the car quickly so I could hop out. They had no time for extended goodbyes. When told for dramatic effect, my exit from the car looks something like this.

Anyways, I safely got home, went to bed, and woke up in the morning, expecting to hear an update about how my friend was fine, and maybe sick from eating so much pork. Instead, my friend's husband texted me, "Do you have a camera? I need you to bring it to the hospital. We had the baby." I was about to say this was the age before camera cell phones, but in reality this friend will never get a cell phone with a proper camera. That's another story for another time. I made my way over to the hospital, where my friend was mummified up in hospital white, and gave him the camera. This little girl had come two months early.

Well, they all lived happily ever after. It was rough at first, but the baby show came early is now a charming, funny and smart little six year old with an adorable younger brother who did in fact wait until his due date. Still, every year we celebrate with a pork loin. My friends' joke that the pork loin started the premature labor.

This year, I tried to tell the momentous story to this little girl as she struggled to get out of her daddy's lap, anxious to stop talking to the grown ups and play with her little brother. The grown ups at the table laughed, sighed and got a little misty-eyed at the story. It was a huge moment for our group of friends. My friends' child on the other hand, waited impatiently until I was done, and then wriggled out of the lap and started bouncing on the sofa on top of her brother. She's clearly not too invested in her story just yet. As far as she's concerned, none of his ever happened.

We joke that as she gets older, she'll ask, in an exasperated tone, "Why do we always have to have pork on my birthday?"

Who chooses which stories are the most important?

As I begin writing, I'm keenly aware that I am not as up to date with news stories as I desire. I'm tempted to write all sorts of disclaimers, but I'm just going to take a deep breath, plunge ahead and attempt to write about something that really affected me today.

I've been following the coverage of the killing of the 12 journalists in France on January 7th. What happened was just terrible. I was so moved by the Unity March in Paris last weekend, and I love how the slogan "Je suis Charlie" has spread so quickly. Even a few celebrities at the Golden Globes mentioned the attack and wore pins with the slogan. It's amazing how the world seems to be rallying around France in support, including world leaders.

I was alerted to another horrific news story today. Over 2000 people were killed in Nigeria in an attack that started on January 3rd. Additionally, over 30,000 people were displaced from their homes.

My boyfriend L, who I completely trust as someone who is truly well-informed when it comes to the news, informed me that Nigeria's massacre received minimal news coverage. In contrast, the massacre in France has been covered consistently.

The stories that news outlets choose to share tell a story of their own. The story that ends up coming across seems to be crystal clear: Some lives are more "news-worthy" than others.

Like I said in the beginning, I am trying to become more well-informed myself. However, news outlets have the responsibility to inform the world of what's going on everywhere, not just what's going on in countries that someone may deem more important.

Every story matters.

The Storyologist

Welcome to The Storyologist. It's lovely to have you here.

I'm excited to continue my original blog in a slightly different form. I loved my journey with the theme of No Other Day The Same. This forum allowed me to look at every day through the lens of trying to discover what would make it stand out from the rest. I truly enjoyed chronicling my journey. The only snag was that after a while, I got to the point where I would almost stage those moments and they weren't truly genuine. The writing felt stale, and it had to change. 

Ergo, I'm ushering in a new concept in hopes that my writing will feel more aligned. You see, the part I loved the most about No Other Day The Same was getting to share my little stories with you everyday. I've been thinking a lot about stories lately.

Stories have always been transformative for me, granting me the gift of experiencing different viewpoints, ways of life, characters, places and more. I love reading, watching and listening to those stories that take me to other worlds. As Meg Ryan's character in You've Got Mail says, "When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does." I know Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney has formed my identity. Those childhood stories and stories I've read since continue to shape me as a person.

There's another type of story, and that's the stories we hear about people that prevent us from really understanding the truth; the stereotypes, the propaganda, and the biases. I love Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's The Danger of a Single Story because she cautions us against assuming one story can really get to the heart of the matter. Especially in this day and age when it's so easy to accept one story very easily as fact, I believe it's important to seek the deeper story.

There are the stories of who we are, and how we got to where we are today. I love listening to other people's stories. Ever since I can remember I've been listening to stories - stories of incredible courage, joy and greatness. One of my favorite stories is how my grandma snuck her horse named Ol' Doll up a flight of stairs and almost scared my great-grandfather half to death. I love putting the pieces together from stories and thinking about how each story truly is a tiny slice of a whole person. 

Then there are the stories that we tell ourselves that prevent us from taking risks or chances. There's the story that we are running out of time. There's the story that we can't get that job. There's the story that we can't ask for what we want. Those stories are not easily untold. There are some stories that we don't tell at all. The story of the secret desire that we wish for but don't utter aloud for fear of seeming silly or unrealistic. The story of something embarrassing or painful that we want to forget about entirely. Those stories are equally important and sacred. 

So, what's a storyologist exactly? You can't find the term in a dictionary. However, "-ologist" means "a branch of learning" or "a branch of knowledge" or "an expert". I'm skeptical of those who claim to be experts on any subject, however, I'm going to proclaim myself a storyologist simply because I'm a scholar of stories.

I can't wait to see where my new ventures take me as The Storyologist. 

Being a duck

Happy New Year, readers! I hope you are doing well, and that you had a wonderful holiday. Mine was full of cute babies, good food, long walks, family, friends and lots of movie watching and cat cuddling. It's been a good vacation. Here's my parents' cat, Ella, claiming her gift territory.

Today I woke up and had the urge to write. I didn't feel like I should write; I actually wanted to write. I've had this urge several times over the past year, yet most of the time I've stopped myself with thoughts like "I haven't written in so long - I can't start now" and "Do I have to go back and write all the blog entries I said I would write before I write this one? Slacker!" and "Meh - maybe I'll just watch Gilmore Girls instead". Don't judge on that last one. You've all been there.

Yet today I embraced the idea that I wanted to write without judgment. It's something I've decided to leave behind in my new year. Judgement is SO 2014. How liberating!

I've always had varied interests. I've tried blogging, marathon running, painting, salsa dancing, novel writing, Buddhist meditation, yoga and more. I'm still working on embracing my dabbling, since I've always wanted to have one or two areas of expertise. I've always wanted to be able to say - I'm an expert at ____. One website that I love, The Dabblist, is all about a woman striving to remove society's taboo around dabbling. She publishes tons of great resources to experiment with making things with your hands, which is so much fun. Some might consider dabbling flighty or lacking commitment. I prefer to think of it as continually having new mini adventures.

When I looked up images of dabbling, I came up with photos like this:

This surprised me at first. I re-checked my search to figure out why I had gotten images of ducks. Then I looked up the definition of dabbling from Merriam-Webster and came up with two: "to work or involve oneself superficially or intermittently especially in a secondary activity" and "interest to paddle, splash, or play in or as if in water". Upon further research, the image above actually linked to an article called Don't Be a Duck. Stop Dabbling. I read it, and promptly resolved to do the opposite.

I've been trying out new things/dabbling and judging myself, and I'm ready to break my pattern. Here's what happens: I'll find something I really like to do, I'll have a couple of moments where I truly enjoy it, and then I'll put so many rules and regulations on myself that it feels like another obligation and I stop it entirely. For example, I took this amazing Zumba class a couple of months ago. I danced like no one was watching and loved it. Yet shortly thereafter I implemented a schedule for myself, put all the dates in my calendar, and fell off the wagon the next week. Where's the fun in dabbling and trying new things when there's so much pressure to become an expert at every new activity?

So, on this rainy day in Philly, I've decided to think about the New Year a bit differently this time. Remember last year, when I proudly proclaimed all of my blogging New Year's Resolutions? Even just reading that list sends me into a panic now. It was too much, which is why I stopped blogging altogether and felt guilty about it for the rest of the year. I then created my writing website, and immediately started feeling bad for having no clients. I thought it had to be all or nothing, and couldn't see any in-between.

This year, instead of resolutions, I'm all about core desired feelings. Danielle LaPorte has created a really amazing way to think about goals that might seem at first like you're doing it backwards, The Desire Map. She says that in actuality, we are all chasing feelings rather than goals and to-do lists. For me, I've found that to be true. So here's what I desire to feel in 2015:

I desire to live my life in a way to feel these feelings, rather than making a gym schedule for myself. Looking back on the two definitions of dabbling, I'm really loving this one; "interest to paddle, splash, or play in or as if in water". That's what 2015 will be all about for me: paddling, splashing and playing, doing and saying what makes me feel true to myself (starting with this blog post) immersing myself in beauty, having adventures, connecting with people I love, and continually finding my courage. It's not all or nothing. I'm going to live in the in-between. Who knows what this year will bring? I'm excited to find out. What are you excited for in 2015?

There's nothing wrong with being a duck.

Why re-watching Gilmore Girls is the greatest thing in the world right now

I'm already on Season 4 out of 7 of Gilmore Girls and it's been released on Netflix for about two weeks. Can't. Stop. Watching. Why is Gilmore Girls so addicting? For me, it feels like returning to simpler times. Sure, Lorelai might break up with someone or Rory might miss a test, but everything usually works out for the best in the end. And who wouldn't want to live in Stars Hollow where everyone knows your name and festivals happen on almost a daily basis? The food in Sookie's kitchen always makes me desperately hungry and I am continually in awe of Emily and Richard's zingers. I also kind of feel smarter watching the show. It must be all the literary references and fast talking. Sure, Netflix keeps judging me by displaying the message "Are you still watching Gilmore Girls", but I refuse to feel ashamed. Judge away, Netflix. Judge away, world. Gilmore Girls is just as effective as my Grandma's potato bacon soup in this miserable weather. I'm not stopping until Luke and Lorelai finally get together (spoiler alert!).

Back to School

Labor Day marks the true annual landmark of school starting. I've been going back to school for a long time. Even as an adult, I managed to go back to school for quite a while as a teacher. In June I always felt huge relief and accomplishment at finishing the school year, and in September I always felt absolute terror and dread at the idea of the first day of school. By the way, I've been told by several teachers who have been teaching for twenty years and more that this first day of school feeling never completely goes away.

So my past two Labor Days have been a bit odd. My organization still works in schools, so I definitely pay attention to the school calendar. Yet I work year round. So I am left with a mixture of feelings come Labor Day. I wonder where the summer has gone, since part of me still feels it's not a summer when I haven't spent it in Maine and Louisiana. I'm happy I don't feel the impending pressure of a school year, yet it's also an adrenaline rush that I sort of miss. In this game of life, my year simply keeps going. Summer and spring break don't mean much anymore, and part of me does wish I was going back to school in some fashion.

For those of you this applies to, good luck in school, ladies and gentleman!

Why I'm so upset that my hairdresser moved to Texas

In my early 20's, this was how I usually looked after getting my hair cut. This was back when I went to places with names like California Cuts where I paid $8 a pop.

Occasionally, I would even try to cut my hair myself.

I've never considered myself to be a high-maintenance kind of hair girl. My basic routine was to wash my hair, let it air dry, comb through it, and hope for the best.

Then, I actually found my own hairdresser. For once, my hair didn't look like Ramona Quimby, age 8. 

My hairdresser convinced me to buy a hairdryer, use some product in my hair, and get my eyebrows waxed. And come back regularly. Before long, I was hooked. Getting my hair cut was actually fun. I didn't cry after I left. This lady and I started to become, well, close. We talked through our relationships. I was getting my hair cut when the news came out that Michael Jackson died, and we mourned together. We exchanged movie and TV recommendations. I followed her when she moved hair salons, and then when she moved hair salons again. When she became a real estate agent and only worked one day a week, I booked my appointments months in advance so I could get in. I was pretty committed. So you can imagine my dismay when I found out she was moving to Texas. 

How will I tell someone new how to cut my hair? How do I start all over? What will I do now?? Do I go back to the Hair Cuttery?

"I think that the most important thing a woman can have - next to talent, of course - is her hairdresser." - Joan Crawford 

The Piano Man Himself

I was ten years old when I first heard "Piano Man" by Billy Joel. My camp friend and I spent half of our summer coordinating a synchronized swimming routine to that very tune. Who knows why or if we actually chose that song or if it was appropriate for ten year olds to sing about businessmen slowly getting stoned at the top of their lungs, but something clicked in my head and heart and I became a Billy Joel fan that summer.

After performing our routine, we never went back to synchronized swimming again. Perhaps it was due to the fact that we did not look anything like the image below.

Nevertheless, Billy Joel has always inspired me and has always popped up again and again in my life. I had a solo in "And So It Goes" in high school. I tried to memorize (in vain) the lyrics of "We Didn't Start The Fire" in college. "River of Dreams" kept my energy up on many a road trip. So last night when I had a last minute opportunity to attend one of his concerts, the decision was a no-brainer. I was well aware that I would not be seeing this Billy Joel:

Instead, I would be seeing this one:

When an artist has been performing for over 50 years, usually it's understood that the music won't be quite the same as it was in a musician's prime. I saw Bob Dylan a few years ago and was sorely disappointed. Yet Billy Joel showed astounding talent - at sixty-eight years old nonetheless. In fact, if I closed my eyes and didn't look too closely at the big screen, his voice sounded exactly the same as I remembered it from my ten year old days. Moreover, his hands dominated that keyboard, as he played not only his songs but the "Rocky" theme to appease the Philadelphia crowd. He was witty, humble, and genuinely seemed like he was having fun. He saved "Piano Man" for almost the very end and once when he heard someone cry out for that song, he joked that he didn't have to do anything - expect pay taxes.

The crowd, as you might expect, was completely random. It's amazing how ten year olds and sixty year olds could both relate to the music that was rocking out Citizens Bank Park. He played a wide variety of songs, and even though I feel like I know many of them, again and again I found myself exclaiming, "That one's Billy Joel, too?" His range is so wide. He had us swaying, dancing and singing until our voices were completely hoarse. At one point, he brought the Philadelphia born Boyz II Men group onstage and they did an a capella version of "For The Longest Time". Amazing. The best moment of the night, though, was when he completely stopped singing and the musicians stopped playing during "Piano Man". The crowd carried it away, wailing, "Sing us the song, you're the piano man. Sing us the song tonight. Well we're all in the mood for a melody. And you've got us feeling alright."

I wondered how he had such confidence that the crowd would continue to sing, and that there wouldn't just be silence. How could he trust that so many people would know just what to do? Obviously, he's a seasoned performer and this wasn't his first rodeo. Yet it says a lot when a performer trusts that he can lift a crowd up and in return the crowd will do the same. I'm honored to have seen the Piano Man himself perform.

Everything's going to the cats!

The proper saying actually, is "Everything's going to the dogs", a saying meant to convey that everything's going downhill. That's not what I mean to connote with the title of this blog post.

I'm taking care of my friend's fabulous, cranky, amazing, judgmental, cute cat for the summer, and she's managed to take over my pillow each night, push books/computers/meals/anything out of the way for a chance to get in a lap, and have her humans on a tight schedule to feed her several small meals per day.

Today I tried to meditate and do yoga in the morning. The cat of course took over. Observe below.

In short, everything literally has gone to the cats - and I love it!

Headspace

Lately I'm on the online challenge kick - 100 happy days, Money Love Course, Simple Green Smoothie Challenge, etc. It seems like every wellness guru has crafted a special limited edition trial, which is perfect for someone like me who tends to get immersed in one area and then move onto another. My latest? Headspace. Yeah, I've tried meditating before, with limited success. Okay, if we're being honest, no success. I swear each meditation course made my heart beat even faster rather than creating this sense of calm. So I'm giving it a go. Who feels like they have a great method for getting some headspace?

Time

When I was younger, time seemed to stretch on, endlessly. Well, that's not entirely true. Camp summers would simultaneously contain unlimited time and would end in the blink of an eye. Nowadays, my time is scheduled.

 

My calendar is continuously filled, and I still don't have enough time to see everyone I want to see and to do everything I want to do and to just have unstructured time. My head looks like this:

How do I create more time? My dear readers, if you are still with me (and I wouldn't blame you if you are not), please write in the comments below and let me know how you deal with time.

Getting older

Age is so relative, isn't it? Earlier this week, at the movies, I sat next to a pair of older ladies who seemed to be having a wonderful night out on the town. Granted afterwards one said loudly to the other, "I couldn't understand half of that movie" and they had some difficulty getting out of their seats, however on the whole, they made getting older not look half bad.

Life is like a bramble of raspberries

My mom taught me how to pick blueberries, raspberries and blackberries in the woods of Maine at a very early age. She taught me how to tell how a berry was ripe to pick, how to pick cleanly, and how to navigate the brambles to avoid getting too scratched. Today, I picked berries to sell at a market, and I used those same techniques. As I was picking, I started thinking about the phrase, "Life is like a box of chocolates". Although I have always loved that phrase (because I love chocolate), I started thinking that life may be more like a bramble of raspberries. At times, you have to be patient. When a raspberry isn't ready to be picked, you might end up with a bunch of thorns instead. Other times, you unexpectedly stumble upon a whole bunch of beautiful berries just waiting to be picked. It's peaceful picking berries, until a bird yells at you for taking what she might feel is rightfully hers. All in all, it's always an adventure. Today I discovered black raspberries, which may just be my new favorite, got utterly scratched by the thorns, and let countless children try raspberries right off the bush. 

"Make the world a better place, because you are in it."

I should be writing about Maya Angelou today. Most people are writing about, talking about and remembering this incredible woman. I feel her loss to the world deeply as well. But I'm not going to write about Maya Angelou. I'm going to write about Louise Henderson instead, a woman who passed away on Saturday, who has had a profound impact on my life and so many others throughout her 80 years.

I've been struggling for the past couple of days, wondering how I could write about or even if I could write about Louise.  Louise wasn't famous. She was the co-director of Camp Arcadia, a summer camp I attended for years and cannot even fully articulate how important this place remains in my life to this day.

I learned of her death and immediately felt like whatever I would write might seem inadequate. The thing is that she was a larger than life type of person. Yet for some reason, the death of someone as inspiring to me as Maya Angelou unlocked something in me today, and I feel compelled to write.

Maya Angelou and Louise Henderson were born only 6 years apart. Yes, they were born into completely different circumstances and lead completely different lives, yet they did share some similarities. They were both incredibly brave and courageous women who stood up for what they believed in, they both wanted to make a difference in the world, and they both inspired so many people.

I've known Louise since I was ten years old. I was incredibly shy and pretty scared to be at a sleepover camp in Maine for seven weeks without my parents. Within the first few days, Louise singled me out and called me over, demanding to know how I was doing. I was a bit intimidated at first. Yet Louise soon pulled me down on her lap with her cackling laugh, and I felt reassured and at home.

Over the years, camp became my home away from home and Louise in turn became a sort of summer aunt. I always felt as if she was watching over me with pride (as well as making sure, in her omniscient way, that none of us got out of line). Whenever I would receive levels at campfires, I always felt a special twinkle in her eye. I'm sure most of the girls at that camp felt the same way, which is such a testament to the way Louise showed she cared for everyone.

During the winter months, Louise was a college counselor. When my age group reached the summer before we would start applying to colleges, she called us in and talked us through what to expect. I will always remember her telling us that camp had given us so many vital skills that would help us in the world. She told us that she knew we would excel in whatever direction we were headed.

At the end of every summer, Louise would give a packing speech to the entire camp. She would give us very specific instructions, cautioning us about putting wet clothes in our trunk without putting them in a plastic bag first. She always told this story of this one girl (we were never sure whether this girl was real or made up) who put their wet bathing suit in with their clothes. That girl's trunk was lost, and when she got it back months later, all of the clothes were mildewed. Whether that story was real or made up, I always make sure to bag any wet clothes before packing!

Perhaps the greatest gift Louise gave was the call to action. Every Sunday at the Sunday meeting, she would read a story to the camp about someone who had made a difference in the world. The story I always loved the most was Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney. When I was younger, I thought the story was called The Lupine Lady and that Louise had made it up. I remember being so excited when I actually found the book in a bookstore. I will never forget the way Louise read that story and paused at the end, adding her own advice, "Make the world a better place, because you are in it." I hear her voice saying those words constantly.

She has guided me throughout every phase of my life, from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. Just last summer, I was in Maine with my family and I stopped over at Arcadia for a day to say hello. I told Louise I was changing career paths, and she said to me, "Julie, that sounds like such an exciting opportunity." She told me to say hello to my parents, that I always had a home at Camp Arcadia, and that she was so happy I stopped by.

I know that camp will never be the same without Louise there. Yet her spirit will forever be a part of this magical place that I and countless other girls call home, a place that encourages us to be our very best and do whatever we can to make our mark on the world.

No Other Angle The Same: Halloweaster

Philadelphia, PA
Saturday, May 17th
1:00 pm

You gotta love South Philly, a magical land where decorations reign supreme at all times of year. In May, this house apparently celebrates Halloweaster....