pancakes at midnight

knock. knock. knock.

it was pitch black in the room. curled up in a comfy ball under polka dot covers, i groaned and rolled over.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“hey cel, your mom’s home! wake up and give her a kiss goodnight.”

bleary-eyed, still half asleep, i flung my legs over the side of the bed and let my toes slide slowly into the yellow pile carpet. the feeling was oddly comforting despite my resistance to standing upright.

i shuffled slowly toward the door. in the dim light, i could see her white lab coat and the stethoscope slung loosely around her neck. she leaned over gently to kiss my brother on the cheek. then it was my turn.

“goodnight. love you.”

and that was it. a goodnight—in the middle of the night—from my mom who had just gotten home from making rounds at the hospital.

i was in first grade.

____________________________________

knock. knock. knock.

“UGH.” my voice was muffled under the purple pastel comforter.

“get dressed!”

i reached out clumsily, in search of the red swatch watch i had set on my nightstand hours earlier.

tuesday night time check: just before midnight. on a school night.

i hunkered down under the covers and put a pillow over my head.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“put some clothes on. we’re going for pancakes!”

and that’s exactly what we did.

home late again from the hospital, she was fried, missed us, and had a hankering for fluffy pancakes from country kitchen.

so the four of us piled her burgundy toronado and bonded over breakfast at the 24-hour diner down the street.

believe it or not, these late night rendezvous weren’t one-off occurrences, but rather a common paradox of growing up in my house. my mom didn’t stay home like other moms, bake cookies or plan play dates. she spoke with an accent, was a stickler for studying, and seemed uncomfortable with public displays of affection. but growing up with her was sprinkled with spontaneous rituals, routine surprises… and some of my fondest memories of family time.

driving to janet’s house after eating a full christmas dinner and opening presents at midnight, to eat late-night pizza. chewing on salty watermelon seeds in the wee hours (i didn’t even like them) with her and my aunts, just to hear all the family gossip. and so many more random things.

these times were weird and wonderful…probably far too embarrassing in my preteen mind to share with my fifth grade classmates who ate dinner at 6 o’clock sharp, followed by board games and bedtime rituals (whatever that meant to kids in “normal” families unlike my own).

but now i see those times—and her—in a different light. she was literally doing her best for us, every single day. when she wasn’t there, she wanted to be. and when she was there—at whatever time of day or night—she was present, and we knew we were loved.

you get the best characteristics from those you love, and whether consciously or through osmosis, they sink into your being, become a way of living or seeing the world. today, with my own kids, we bond over "brinner" (breakfast for dinner) and on vacation eat pie in bed.  i drag them out of dead sleep to watch the sunrise and teach them to search for sea glass in the sand.

i’ve often written about my mom's work ethic and drive, but today, i am thankful for that wonderful sense of spontaneity that she passed on to me. we all have different circumstances, strengths and struggles. and there is no perfect way to parent. we’ll falter and sometimes even fail… but loving your kids with all you’ve got and doing the best you can for them—in your own way, in your own time, on your own schedule—they’ll remember those times. not just the big milestones, but the nothing little moments that end up meaning everything… and they will know that they were loved. 

that moment

it must have been divine intervention. how could you not think so… as your eyes gaze upward, a glimpse of heaven spreading out before you. on that ceiling, the sacred stories upon which entire religions were born, all told here in radiant pastel perfection.

yet he was a man. i wondered if he appreciated the magnitude in that moment—as he rubbed his strained neck and mopped his weary brow—of what his work would ultimately become. lying on his back, painting by candlelight, reveling in periods of progress and working through setbacks on a scaffolding high above. the end result: a masterpiece. the pinnacle. his ultimate vision fully realized after literally years in the making.

tucked away in a corner of the vast vatican museum hallways, amid miles and miles of tromp l’oeil ceilings and gleaming gilded frames, is a fragment, a sketch, of a man standing, head turned upward, brush in hand.

the man was michelangelo, and the graphic replicated from a letter he had written to a friend while painting the ceiling of the sistine chapel.

a few simple strokes of black along with words penned to a friend revealed volumes about the man, behind the masterpiece.

during the creation he vacillated between utter clarity and self-doubt, pressure to fulfill others’ demands and resolve to stay true to himself.  in his own words:

“every gesture i make is blind and aimless…my painting is dead…
i am not in the right place—i am not a painter.”

one of the greatest artists who ever lived, questioning, throwing punches in dark, with only his heart and the vision in his head to guide him. this beauty he created is now a beacon, yet the end product we all admire was the result of courage, endurance, guts and grit, behind the scenes. he encountered supporters and skeptics along the way, but in the end he had only one choice. to drown out the noise, all other voices—and stay true to the one inside himself.

ever since i was young, i’ve always been fascinated by biographies—barbara walters, behind the music—the story behind the story, of people who’ve reached success and fame, the so-called status of “having it all.” yet 9 times out of 10, a glimpse behind the curtain reveals that it wasn’t just their god-given brilliance or amazing talent or fate shining down upon them with good fortune, but rather their resolve: to overcome fear, failure, rejection, redemption, heartache or loss. finding their way meant walking, pushing, stumbling forward, despite not knowing what lay ahead.

when you’re in the weeds, in the thick of it, grinding it out just to get through each day, it’s nearly impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel, to know whether the final product will be what you envisioned.

yet despite the uncertainty, you have a choice: to stay safe... or forge ahead through the darkness. rely on what you’ve learned. trust your gut. stay true to your instincts and your truth. lean on those closest when you feel you can’t go on. have faith that everything will work out—perhaps not as you planned, but always always as they should be.

every line, every brushstroke, every blemish or mistake, acknowledged then let go of – all contribute to the masterpiece that is your life. it’s not just a passive exercise of watching things unfold. it’s acting, in little and big ways, with intention.

the act of creation—be it a tiny project or grand plan, a work of art or simply a day lived without regret—may be touched, ever so briefly, by glimpses of grace. but in the end, if it’s meant to be, it’s up to you. 

a lasting impression

instagram is today’s impressionism.

i know this statement is going to make my friend jeremy—the purist, resident “artiste,” designer, painter, guardian of the craft—go ballistic.

he’ll call BS. accuse me of blasphemy. and probably send me a single-spaced tirade about the sanctity of art with a capital “A.”

and he may be right…

maybe i’m just trying to justify my insta-addiction. but just hear me out and then you can be the judge.

capturing a moment

my office is literally a stone’s throw away from the art institute of chicago. the museum houses one of the most renowned impressionist collections in the world. from monet to manet, degas to seurat, the halls are lined with gorgeous paintings that capture moments, “impressions.” far from realistic, they express the light, the mood, the feeling, of an instant in time.

there’s no denying that these masters were genius in their application of color to canvas. and i wouldn’t dream of implying that a canned set of filters can fill that chasm. but in the end, moments captured and shared are what instagram is all about.

some go #hashtag hogwild in the quest for social likes—and surely this fuels the argument for why insta can never be high art. point taken…but to me, it’s not a numbers game.

measuring what matters

in our digital world, technology has given us endless tools to measure ourselves, add up our value in the form of numbers: likes, followers, tweets, retweets, fuel points, klout scores, calories consumed and burned, and on and on.

the trend is called the “quantified self,” and the theory goes that by giving us the data against which to benchmark ourselves, we can track and continually improve our health, fitness, and even self-esteem. thanks to facebook, we can all queue up sally field at the oscars: “you like me. you really like me!”

here’s the thing: i’ve never been a numbers person. yep, even though i was in honors calculus, i’m that girl, who pawns off the check to anyone at the table just so i don’t have to calculate the tip. for me, and i think most of my friends who are passionate about it, instagram is not about quantity at all—but rather the totality of your perspective.

the big picture

consider seurat’s “sunday afternoon on la grande jatte.” in the impressionist wing, the massive canvas pulls you in to one of the most famous scenes painted during the period. seurat pioneered pointillism, the technique in which dots replace brushstrokes, and are meticulously assembled to reveal the larger image.

each point on the canvas is finite, yet essential to the entire composition. i don’t care how many dots there are, but i see what he sees. i feel what he is feeling…in the moment. and i gain a glimpse—from this single impression—into his perspective on the bigger picture.

moments that make up a life

instagram is similar. it’s about capturing the mood, the feeling, your impression of a moment in time. but what really matters is those impressions over time. instead of focusing on the number of shots (and yes i have thousands) or likes or shares, one of my favorite things to do is zoom out. look at the broad mosaic of images—monumental and mundane—that make up a life. it’s not about the quantity, but the quality of those moments, and the satisfaction of knowing that i was present in them. 

that, to me, is art. the art of living.

the lost art of focus

in our fast-paced, 24/7 world, multitasking is a highly coveted skill. on resumes, we proudly boast of our ability to juggle multiple tasks at once. in daily life, we marvel at our mastery in manuevering across multiple devices. we congratulate ourselves for being multitasking machines--able to do more stuff in less time. faster. better. more...but at what price?

there is no doubt that moving quickly, working efficiently and juggling the endless demands put upon us are essential survival skills in this day and age. but i fear that what we gain in productivity, we are losing in appreciation for the experiences we have. what we achieve in terms of quantity, we suffer in lost quality. when you flit from one thing to the next, spinning plate after plate in endless succession, are you even there, when you're there? are you present in the moment?

for all its benefits, multitasking can also be a curse. we're scattered, distracted, and rarely maintain focus long enough to remember or even care what we did days, hours or even minutes before. on to the next, and so on and so on.

the epiphany hit me on vacation as i watched my son devour a slice of watermelon. it was a hot summer day, save for a slight warm breeze blowing through the trees. he had spent the day doing a little multitasking of his own: dipping his toes in the water, playing in the sand, throwing rocks, and buzzing around like a busy, if more than a little distracted, toddler.

but when we busted out the watermelon, he was a little man on a mission. his chubby fingers grabbed the juicy wedge of heaven and off he went, all by himself, to a cozy spot on the deck. he bit in with reckless abandon, pink juice dripping down his mouth and rolling onto his chest and bare little toes. no napkin. heck, no shirt. no rules. no problem. every now and then, he'd pause to spit out a seed, and then he'd go back to bitefuls of bliss. 

he was fervent. focused. and completely immersed in the moment.

when he finally chewed his way down to the bright, white rind, he flashed a huge chicklet smile and squealed "more!"

people often use the expression "you should look at life through the eyes of a child." i wholeheartedly agree with the sentiment...but it feels just a bit too passive. "sink your teeth into it." that's more like it. when the rare opportunity presents itself, don't just skim the surface. stop everything. focus. single-task. savor it.

those are the moments you'll remember. the sweetest ones. the ones that last. the ones that count. the ones that matter most.

unforgettable

i could feel the beads of sweat taking shape. starting at the temples and rolling gently down the sides of my flushed cheeks. the usually pin-straight dorothy hamill bob looked more like a shaggy helmet, with a faint halo of frizz around the edges.

at eight years old, this was my first taste of southern-style heat. several hours in the baking georgia sun transformed my crisp white terry cloth romper into a dingy sweat mop, clinging to my skin like a piece of bologna on warm bread.

over the years, our family vacations covered most of the requisite tourist attractions: disney, D.C., new york…but this trip broke the mold. we were in atlanta visiting cousins who had moved down south.

our grand tour started with a stop at the peachtree hotel. “COOL!!” we shrieked as we giddily glided to the top floor of the tower. the next stop, however, wasn’t nearly as lofty. piled into a wood-paneled station wagon seventies-style, we were stuffed like sardines, no sign of seatbelts and non-existent AC. we rolled down the windows but there was no relief. the hot air rushed in and swirled around like a convection oven, ensuring even roasting on all sides.

three grueling hours later, we arrived at our destination: plains, georgia. a tiny podunk town that proudly boasts its status as the hometown of jimmy carter, his infamous brother billy, and their family peanut plantation. not exactly my idea of tweener paradise...and i could feel my head starting to throb.

we spent what felt like an eternity browsing kitschy peanut paraphernalia lining the gift shop shelves. finally, my dad, who was inexplicably tickled by the idea of “billy beer,” grabbed a 6-pack and we headed toward the car.

head hurting, sweat dripping, car dreading, i was not looking forward to enduring another three-hour haul back to atlanta. i looked at my mom, who was smashed next to me in the middle row.

“mom, i’m so hot. i really don’t feel well.”

she had a peanut brochure in her hand and was waving it back and forth like a fan to cool off, but when i spoke to her, she stopped. and looked back at me.

she grew up in the school of tough love. she lost her mom early in life and showed love by being strong, working hard, pushing through…but certainly not emoting. i fully expected her to hand me a napkin to mop up the sweat and leave it at that.

but she didn’t. instead she moved her big purse off to the side and pulled me closer. she didn’t say a word. but she laid my head in her lap and stroked my hair gently the entire way home, stopping only occasionally to fan me with the flyer.

i vividly remember feeling shocked…then serene…then utterly safe. 

it was a moment—in the midst of peaches and peanuts, sweltering heat and strange circumstances—that i will never forget. despite the millions of memories i have of my mom, this is one that still stands out. the day i knew that i was loved. and safe. and that she would always be there. 

there are moments in life that define the totality of an experience or paint the complete picture of a relationship between two people. when all the trivial things fall away, the peaks and valleys level off, and all that is left is what’s true.

the things you remember may not always be the obvious ones. as i look back, sometimes it’s the little things—felt most deeply—that linger longest.

selling crazy

being a blog about inspiration, sea glass focuses on stories and anecdotes from my life that i hope people can relate to. the juggling act. beauty. moments of epiphany. but recently i got a comment of a different flavor from a friend that inspired this post:

“what pisses you off?”

it made me smile when the note came through. if you’ve read a few posts, you might be tempted to believe that it’s all rainbows and unicorns for me. that i flit about sniffing flowers and shooting photos of fluffy puppies while, in many ways, the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

it reminded me of this classic clip from the jack nicholson movie, “as good as it gets”:

i wonder sometimes if i am like the woman, knocking on the door with some trite saying like "it was meant to be" or "the world is such a wonderful place"…

though i do generally believe that the glass is half full, let's be clear. i’m far from an idealist. there’s a lot that is busted in the world. i started to rattle off the rants in my head: greedy bastards effing up our economy, psycho tea baggers spewing hate, assholes rising to the top while hard-working people struggle to get through…”

as i was running through the list, i had a strange feeling of déjà vu. i dove back into the sea glass archives and looked at my very first post. here’s what it said:

2009 was a rough year. from january thru december, i felt inundated by bad news. at the macro level, i was disgusted by the modern day robber barons pillaging our economy. hearing about how virtually every industry—from banking to healthcare to our food system—was rife with corruption, mismanagement, corporate greed and public deception. on the personal front, diagnoses of cancer for family members and close friends, job losses, financial woes, construction problems with our home, and the loss of a twin that i carried for 27 weeks, were the flavors du jour. the morbid headlines and personal tragedies left me with an overwhelming feeling: futility.

not exactly butterflies and lollipops…and here we are more than a year later and many of the warts persist…and always will. greed, illness, unfair BS that doesn’t make sense.

we don’t live in a technicolor, stepford world where things are perfect and good prevails.

but i still believe that what we do have is moments and people that remind us that it’s not all bad. that we can be better. as jack's character proves, even the most jaded of cynics can see the light.

so it’s full circle back to that original post: there's a lot that is ugly, but far more, in everyday life is beautiful. inspired even. you just have to open your eyes to it.

gratitude

a few weeks ago, i went to dinner with my very dear friend. though she’s about ninety pounds soaking wet, she’d take on a linebacker if she thought they crossed her friends in any way. she’s loyal to the core, scrappy, and utterly hilarious. oh and did i mention she does a mean robot dance?

though we were nearly inseparable when we worked together, that was years ago, and since then, it’s been a juggling act of work, family and life obligations that have made it a challenge to get together. when we finally do connect,  it is as it always is: laughing, knee slapping and just enjoying each other’s company.

several days after we met up, i got a text.

“we were in a cab last night driving on the highway. a car cut us off. we spun around and hit the median. the back windshield shattered…”

my heart stopped. chills ran up my spine.

“i can’t believe we walked away without a scratch. we were so lucky.”

lucky.

we toss around the word in everyday conversation with little regard for its depth of meaning. but then something like this happens, and you’re shocked into submission—submitting to the reality that life is truly fragile. that one minute, you can be completely fine, going about your business, and then all of a sudden, it could be over.

were you present for the moments that mattered? did you appreciate what you had?

many years ago, i read a book called “simple abundance.” it was all about how gratitude for simple things can change your whole perspective on life. as a way of putting theory into practice, the author issued a challenge:

write down 5 things you are thankful for everyday.

and so began the gratitude journal. every night before bed, i’d jot down a list. the entries ranged from major (a raise, a birthday spent with loved ones) to mundane (a delicious meal, something that made me laugh, no traffic on the way to work, a perfectly starry night).

after i ran out of pages, i didn’t go out and buy another journal. why? i didn’t need to.  thinking about things i’m grateful for—big and small—things that i’m truly “lucky” to be blessed with, became a lens with which i looked at the world. and as i think about it, now i’m not putting pen to paper, but rather, fingers to keyboard. same message, different medium.

even during the most horrible of days, i never had a blank page. not once. sometimes we need only look around and those simple, elemental things—that we often take for granted—are right under our nose.

fresh green grass to twinkle your toes in.

cotton clouds that inspire dreams.

pure white snow that blankets tree branches.

bleeding sunsets that light up the sky.

little things that can be blindingly beautiful.

that doesn’t mean we ever stop striving, evolving, reaching for more….but on the way, remember the gifts are there. you just have to see and appreciate them.

water under the bridge

have you ever had a friend let you down? a time when you needed them, and they bailed? a moment when things just blew up? when the angst took on a life of its own? an epiphany that made you say enough is enough. i’m done.

when you’re in the midst of drama, it’s vivid. it’s raging. and all you can see is red… and black and white. you think of how you were wronged. how they had the audacity to treat you that way. how you were right and they were clueless. how shades of grey were only reserved for met home layouts—not your life.

in circumstances like that, it’s easy to walk away. friendships are so hard to maintain as it is. who has the time or energy to deal with someone who’s not going to give you the respect you deserve? someone who you can’t count on when things get rough.

…and then time or facebook or a reunion or a wedding brings them back into your life. what do you do?

whether it’s been a few months or many years, memories come flooding back. relationships that weren’t meant to be. grudges that played out long ago in another life. friends that simply fell off the face of the earth due to changes that sent you in opposite directions.

when you look back, it’s amazing how the colors fade and edges soften. you realize how much you’ve changed. you wonder what all the fuss was about. you laugh about old times and experiences that you had back in the day. you amazingly pick up right where you left off.

and if it was a really good friend, you dig a little deeper, only to find that the day they let you down, they were down too. that when you had a problem, they were dealing with their own. that maybe, just maybe, it was timing or circumstances that conspired against you both.

as i’ve gotten older, i’ve come  to embrace the idea of forgiveness—of others and yourself. understanding that it’s sometimes complicated. accepting the past and moving on. truly valuing all the experiences you’ve had, places you’ve gone, people you’ve met, situations you’ve learned from. because it’s the bits and pieces of the past that shape you…and it’s never too late to add to the mosaic.

unleashing the prisoner

new year. new promises. it’s that time of year again, when we take stock of our lives: reflect on the blessings and isolate the areas for improvement. we resolve to exercise more. eat healthier.  save money. give time—to friends, family or whatever it is you neglected over the course of the previous year.

for most of us, the annual period of self-reflection is not about reinventing oneself, but rather, just striving to be better. it’s not about perfection, but perspective. perseverance. perpetual discovery. not an end goal, but a process.

in reflecting on it, my mind immediately went to florence. go figure: new year, rebirth, the renaissance. but what specifically came to mind were the figures above: “i prigioni” (the prisoners), amazing unfinished sculptures by michelangelo. they sit, unassumingly, in a long hallway of the galleria dell'academia that ultimately leads to the iconic masterpiece, david.

while thousands of people each year stampede forward, striving to experience the perfection that is david, many overlook the beauty of a different kind. beauty that stands in contrast to the gorgeous, idealized statues that adorn every other inch of the hall.

the prisoners are rough. slabs of carrara marble with human forms struggling to break free. in fact, it was michelangelo’s belief that he didn’t sculpt figures into marble at all: he liberated them out of it. chipping away slowly and artfully to expose the being within.

they’re moving. in flux. unresolved, yet full of potential. unfinished works of art.

much like us. perfection is an ideal. a goal to strive for. a source of inspiration. but it’s not real life—with its bumps, hard edges, blemishes and barriers. it’s not about the end game, but the process. each year, each day, both successes and failures help us to chip away, to unearth, to unleash what is captive within us.

hopefully it’s a little bit stronger. a little bit wiser. a little bit better you.

life's too short

writing a blog is a strange thing. in a sense it’s purely for me: a form of expression, catharsis, a means (to try) to figure things out. to be inspired by life’s beauty…and to deal with its absurdity. but the flipside is that it’s completely public and it’s also a way for me to feel connected. to share my experiences. to honor people who have impacted my life. to reassure friends (and strangers) that their not alone.

i must admit that sometimes i wonder if i’m too schmaltzy. if all my navel-gazing and pondering is too syrupy or sentimental. when i hit publish, i sometimes cringe, crossing my fingers that i don’t offend (or make people gag) with my often emotional musings. but then a friend or coworker or family member comments. “thanks for the words. i needed that.” and i’m glad i set my doubts aside.

with age comes wisdom, and though i’m far from having all the answers, i at least have a point of view. and believe in it. through the process of working and writing and living, i’ve learned to step over the edge. trust my instincts. throw it all out there. risk being laughed at. risk being affirmed.

the photo above is of this kitschy outpost in the middle of a random industrial block on elston and division in chicago. it looks like a dilapidated shack on the river, but i believe it may even be an actual restaurant. though i’ve never stepped foot inside, it served its purpose.

whenever we pass by, en route to run errands, grocery shopping, racing to work, rattling off to-do lists in my head, i see it…and it makes me smile.

the campy hamburger wearing a top hat. his sidekick, the wiener. the life preservers with cutout legs hanging from them. the bright colors and cheesy nautical motif. they all scream out to the crazed city dwellers: “don’t take yourself so seriously!”

life’s too short. to worry about what people think. to chase after perfection that will always elude you. to wait (and keep waiting “for the right time”). to not spend time with your kids. to not prioritize your friends. to not share moments with your loved ones.

life’s too short. to vacillate. to question. to doubt. to not act. to not carve out a space of your own. to not pursue what you’re passionate about.

my sister-in-law leslie once went to a make-your-own-pottery place, and she brought along a quote that she transcribed onto her little work of art. i think it perfectly captures the sentiment of this post:

live as if this is all there is.