Week 8

02.20.10 to 02.21.10

Evening

After being inspired last week at the Wiltern, I re-read Rob Bell’s coffee table art book, Drops like Stars, in thirty minutes flat while sweating on the treadmill taking “art in the agony” to new heights.

Let’s talk about where Bell begins: The Art of Disruption, the pinpoint upon which all best laid plans are disillusioned. Hmmm…. and, “Ah yes.”

But, then again, “No.”

Q: When is The Art of Disruption a good thing?

A: (hesitantly) Always. I think...

Tough theology surrounded by a holy host of white space: Drops Like Stars.

Sabbath fodder.

So I embraced the Art of Disruption, delighted in the fall of Plan A. I whipped up a pot of chicken soup, turned on the Winter Olympics, and enjoyed my family.

Morning

A mild cough is circulating the household, so we slept in this morning. But the rest of the day is a blur of errands—searching for the best deals on art supplies, Trader Joe’s, photocopies, bookstores, and fighting traffic. The city is lonely.

At the gym I dove into Leonard Cohen’s psalm-like Book of Mercy hoping for insight into the madness. “Blessed are you who has given each man a shield of loneliness so that he cannot forget you,” that’ll do.

Evening

Soup and the Olympics with my husband, my daughter, and my three sons: Sabbath.

Shrove Tuesday

I am a teacher. Climbing the face of a wave, I was hoping to make it over before the thing slammed me to the rocks. I made it. By 3:00 I was floating in between sets, enjoying the open sea. All the children were swept off—music lessons and play dates. Suddenly it’s silent.

I hop into the car and head to Whole Foods for a cucumber roll spa moment then wander across the parking lot to Starbucks with my friend Lori for a short Latte. Sufficiently comforted, cup tucked into my right hand, remembering I’m a teacher in the middle of the workweek, I head with my friend back across the parking lot, tracing the last leg of our triangle. Inside Borders, the search is on for supplemental language arts materials. Experienced at dealing with chaos, we find just what we need on disheveled shelves and head back to the car.

On the way home I receive a call from Shirean who is on her way to a church potluck perplexed by the night’s menu, “I hate pancakes,” she confesses confirming what Lori and I had been wondering, actually what we hoped could not be possible… not yet, right? But it’s true, today is Shrove Tuesday.

I have an idea: Mid-week Sabbath is Pancake Tuesday.

I pull out just the right sized bowl from my stack of happy red bowls, pull my copy of The Perfect Recipe down from the shelf, grab some eggs, butter, flour, and buttermilk to whip up a batter. I warm up the griddle, fry up some bacon. Pleased with myself I begin playing with a countertop composition (desperate for a moment of creativity) to photograph, just when I allow myself to realize that I’m having fun standing high on a kitchen stool to get the tricky aerial shot, I realize the air around me is slightly tinted gray… FIRE ALARM!

My family enjoyed pancakes with lemon and sugar and few strips of perfectly cooked bacon in a slightly smoky kitchen. I had pulled the bacon from the pan but forgot to turn off the flame. I reassured them as we sat around the table, “I got my shot and I didn’t burn down the kitchen… happy Shrove Tuesday!”

Week 7

02.13.10 to 02.14.10

Evening

The evening began with the house full (minus one, Liam is away for the weekend) feeling the walls close in, with that squirming sensation that screams, “Get me OUT of here!” In our brainstorming session, ideas to ease the itch ranged from dinner on the town to Disneyland, my suggestion was LAX. We settled for a trip to the movie section at Barnes and Noble and pizza from Steffanos.

When we got in the car, the mood did not change, we simply moved into a new tube of the Habitrail. Even though we had a plan, we weren’t entirely sure it would satisfy the craving, so we brainstormed some more.

“I know, COSTCO pizza and the movie aisle,” chimed a voice from the back seat.

“I’ll get a hot dog.”

“Can I get a churro?”

“Me too?”

Of course, being the voice of reason, I have to be the fun crusher, “It’s 6:37, COSTCO might be closed.” Dead silence.

“Let’s wait and see,” the smallest voice protested.

When we got there, sure enough the store was locked tight, no movie aisle. But, lo and behold, the concessions stand was still serving customers. Yes! We pulled up and just as I jumped out Willie remembered that we needed cash. No cards at COSTCO. The car let out a collective groan. Maybe there is an ATM nearby. From one end of the strip mall to the next we modified Plan A, Barnes and Noble, and a roasted chicken from Bristol Farms. Then, as we were turning onto pavement, green light in sight we saw it, an ATM. After holding our breath for a split second, Hannah became the voice of reason, “Roasted chicken.”

We stopped at Barnes and Noble first. We could still feel the “how do we escape” tension, but wandering through stacks of films, “Remember this one?” oooing, ahhhing and laughing, we began to relax. Sabbath at last.

We chose three films, The Ballet Russes, Persuasion, and It Might Get Loud. Then, just in the nick of time, Hannah discovered, The Unseen Beatles. We made the purchase. In the car earlier, I was trying to figure out a way that I could engage in a family night and work on my writing packet for the MFA, work on copy that needs to be written for our business, and make a dent in the sundry of massive piles closing in… no, I am taking the night off. I had wanted to see It Might Get Loud for quite some time, “We’re spending the evening with friends who will inspire us: “Jimmy Page, The Edge, and Jack White.” Sabbath.

Bristol Farms had several lovely roasted chickens. We picked one up, but then, fired up having escaped the Habitrail at last, decided spontaneously on BLT’s, why not?

We were breathing deep by the time the meal was plated. We decided to begin with It Might Get Loud and fired up the PS3. We were blown away! Our friends Page, Edge, and White reminded us, “Art work is ordinary work, but it takes courage to embrace that work, and wisdom to mediate the interplay of art & fear” (Art and Fear by Bayles and Orlando 117). Oh to have a measure of that courage.

Morning

Valentine’s Day. Expectation is, no doubt, the culprit of last night’s angst, I’m sure of it, another Hallmark conspiracy crushing the true spirit of what marked the occasion the first place:

Legend contends that Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men— his crop of potential soldiers. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine's actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death. Other stories suggest that Valentine may have been killed for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons where they were often beaten and tortured. According to yet another legend, Valentine actually sent the first 'valentine' greeting himself. While in prison, it is believed that Valentine fell in love with a young girl — who may have been his jailor's daughter — who visited him during his confinement. Before his death, it is alleged that he wrote her a letter, which he signed 'From your Valentine,' an expression that is still in use today. Although the truth behind the Valentine legends is murky, the stories certainly emphasize his appeal as a sympathetic, heroic, and, most importantly, romantic figure.

Something of the sacrifice, of the heroism seems to have escaped the day. Hmmm… sounds like breakfast conversation to me: Bacon, waffles, Willie and the children await!

Evening

Stopped everything (yes, even work on my packeat due tomorrow) to enjoy—be inspired by— the Winter Olympics with the family. Glad I did. Let’s sum it up with an image and a quote:

1. Appolo Ohno.

2. "This is where I want to be,'' Ohno said. "I love what I do, I love competition, I love training. The losses, the wins, the struggles -- I love. I'm blessed to be able to use this gift.”

Sabbath Special Delivery

To make up for the incredibly antlimactic trip to Sprinkles:

Sabbath is...

special delivery (long distance).

Enjoy Sara!

Week Six

02.06.10 to 02.07.10

Evening

There was nothing Sabbath about today… or was there?

I remember formulating a plan around 7:15am, ironing an outfit, grabbing my jacket while pushing a vacuum through the living room on the way to the backdoor. I remember piling in the car dripping from the rain, backing out the driveway and stopping at the gas station, annoyed that a woman had not pulled forward at the pump. I remember grabbing bags and umbrellas, the sound of the elevator, the smell of the lobby, and running into a fellow MFA student waiting in line to order our omelets. I don’t remember much of the brunch conversation because it lasted all of 5 minutes. I do remember the pianists dispersing to practice rooms and spending 30 minutes trudging through the building looking for a spot near a plug for my laptop before taking Liam to his first jazz ensemble. I remember the clock striking 12noon and commanding my fingers to fly, only 30 minutes left to be creative! I remember Hannah and Taylor rounding the corner, Emma and I packing up our writing tools, Liam arriving, marching to the elevator, and driving to the 105. I remember heading south to take Emma home, then north to Cloe’s sweet 16, arriving precisely on time at 1:54.

I remember the delightful atmosphere was set with just the right shade of the pink and orange balloons, the faux vintage fabric (I have a stack waiting to be quilted) of the homemade garland of pennants, and a table inviting all to snack on comfortable finger food. I remember snippets of conversation. I remember letting “to do” piles slip somewhere faraway. I remember wishing sweet 16 happened more than once.

I remember Tracey approaching with her camera. I can still feel my face contorting.

I remember a snippet of a conversation with Sara, her asking, “Have you ever choked saying your own name?”

“Yes.”

I tend to be philosophical, true, but that struck me. Why is a there a kindred disconnect when it comes to embracing personal identity of women? Granted, there is a spectrum upon which this disconnect exists, still few will argue in a circle of women that it exists.

The conversation with Sara led me to, during my December Residency, make a pact to explore my “self” in my creative work. Surprisingly I’ve followed through and am discovering… well, much.

So, back to today, I didn’t run from Tracey’s camera, but I did flinch. I sketched and painted a self-portrait this week from a photograph I took of myself. The process of artistic introspection is surprisingly more comfortable than watching someone look at you through their lens.

Today Sabbath is a self-portrait.

Morning

It’s 9:30. I am enjoying writing while the household slumbers.

Taylor has a piano workshop today. I will work on my critical paper. Work. I want to, need to, go the gym. I think I’ll make a Crockpot before I leave so we can have a Sabbath meal. I know there is work tonight… and that makes it difficult to focus, makes the week seem endless already, is frankly, discouraging. But here I go…

*Went to the gym.

The front desk told me they needed to take a photo.

Grin and bear it…

Evening

Tbe best part of the day? The scent of green curry in the Crockpot when I opened the door at 5:05.

Sabbath Chemistry 101 with Sister Sara

A Sabbath Stretch

True or False

Making caramel sauce from scratch is Sabbath.

I suppose answers may vary, but slowing down long enough to learn from Sara how to coax heat to melt sugar to amber bubbles, adding cream at just the right moment for chemical reaction…well, all I can say is, “Viola, Sabbath!”

Sunday at the Beach

Week Five

01.30.10 to 01.31.10

Evening

Today was: “Sabbath is a day at the spa.”

After feasting on skordalia and tyrokavteri and fresh pita, there would be no need to cook tonight! On the way home I purpose to remember as I enter a new week how it felt to breath, to remember that water quenches thirst.

Once home I squirmed, wanting to dig into work, then wanting to spend the nervous energy baking something yummy. Instead Hannah and I twisted Sara’s arm to make a Sprinkles run. Sprinkles Cupcakes are an LA phenomenon.

I like driving at night. I like driving on routes that are not the norm, makes living in the city less like a Habitrail. When we got to Sprinkles our mouths were watering, the doors were locked. Locked at 7:15 on a Saturday night? Really? We drove to Whole Foods and bought oodles of ice cream, went home and topped it with homemade caramel sauce.

I fell asleep not long after that, amazing how tired I felt after taking an entire day off.

Morning

Our household woke up after 11, Sara and Wesley were long on the road.

Hannah spent the afternoon with friends at the happiest place on Earth. Willie and I scooped up the boys and spent a few hours at the beach where I experienced a few more deep cleansing breaths. Willie read aloud from a book on education while the boys took turns burying each other in mounds of sand.

I went to the gym before dark. Working out has never been so great, go and figure light makes all the difference.

Evening

Pizza take out was on the menu. The boys watched Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, while I, you guessed it, got back to work.

Sabbath is...

Growing up in the late ‘70’s I remember being intrigues with the “Love is…” single frame comic strip:

Remember?

My spin: “Sabbath is…

“Sabbath is a day at the spa.”

Nearby my home is an awesome little spa where you can (for a mere $45) spend an entire day soaking in a tub drawn with water and soothing salts by a lovely stranger who will serve you (yes, serve you) a delectable place of assorted fruits, and bring you a plush terry robe for lounging. Outside is deck adorned with plush pseudo shabby chic lounges, baskets of magazines, and lap blankets in case the off shore breeze is too chilly.

Two things I noticed at the spa:

1. Catching my breath with deep cleansing sighs

2. Feeling satisfied when I drank the cool, cucumber infused, water

It is sort of pathetic that I need to pay money to slow down, to notice such things (duh), but that's where I'm at, chasing sabbath in slow motion.