Lenten reflections

40 days and 40 nights. While I wasn’t in a desert, I tried, really tried, to recalibrate my relationship with technology and devices. The sound of my husband’s “Did you hear what I said,” repeating in my psyche. I moved my body almost every day, thanks to my accountability partner, Rosie. I ate all things still but only had carb loaded faves like pizza on Fridays. A small victory of caloric sorts. As is my gift or potentially my curse, I tried to glean some learning from the practice…

Easter goodies ready for their close-up. All recipes via cookingwithnonna.com

During my personal social media hiatus ( granted I still used the tools for work) I identified a few things. Social media bombards the senses of sight and hearing. (This statement is not meant to exclude individuals with sensory impairments by any means so hear me out…) Social media platforms are highly suggestive in that they completely collapse all time and context and flood your eyes and ears with suggestions. Suggestions about how you should be, what you should wear, who you should strive to emulate, what song you have to listen to, why you should have already had a baby. The list is unending. Collective sourcing of suggestions can be very helpful and rewarding. At the very least it is quick. But in our consumption of these visual and auditory suggestions, we underutilize the senses that allow more personal agency: smell, taste and touch. These sensory experiences are accessible to more people and to me feel more egalitarian in nature. What’s that smell? Decide for yourself. How does it taste? Decide for yourself. How does this feel to you? Decide for yourself. Watch this if you ever forget out how wondrous the wind feels. Just try as best is possible to decide for yourself in a culture that is all too comfortable deciding for you at every juncture.

This is no assault on social media. I love it, and use it, and need it to some extent but I wanted to take a bird’s eye view of something that does occupy a lot of my time. Awareness is important even if we end up in the same place after our Lenten experiment of sorts. But, I’m going to put the phone aside, sit in the yard, smell some morning dew and drink a coffee while the cardinals visit as often as possible.

Quiet is so underrated. So is boredom. I have an urgent need to fill every moment of every day for fear of what my mind may come up with if I am not occupied. What will percolate in my brain when idol? But I learned I should be more fearful of what won’t manifest if I never give myself the space to just be. 

I consumed books and podcast content that the mainstream masses are trying to remove or silence. Now this can be a polarizing take on the matter, but consider it if you will. I am intelligent and self aware enough to read something and discern for myself if it is potentially dangerous to my mind or the world as I know it. I need not be coddled by Amazon or the influencer virtue signaling warriors deciding what I should or should not have access to. The free exchange of ideas and open discourse is a tenet of a liberal society and I fear the day when all discourse will be moderated by forces that don't represent the common person.

I went to confession for the first time in 15 years or so. It’s healing to pour out your fears and innermost plague of worry. Find a safe place to bear your wounds and let them shine in the light of day. Didn’t your parents ever tell you that bandaids aren’t good for your bruised elbow in perpetuity? Air that shit out.

Sometimes when you do get what you ask for it can feel overwhelming. Or you try paint it negatively because you feel as if you don’t deserve what you have. Eckhart Tolle says it’s the ego. I dipped my toes into new waters and am quieting the voice that says “well do you really belong here.” I had some really fun opportunities styling food with two ladies I admire very much: Rossella Rago and Hadley Hauser. I had met both of them earlier in my career if we can call fumbling through life a career, and the cyclical nature of these friendships and how they have evolved is just really swell.

Hadley at work! I got to assist her on two shoots! She is also newly married!

I spent more time fortifying connections IRL and having uncomfortable conversations. First impressions are fine and all, but report back after months of peeling back a new friend’s layers. Highly recommend.

Life goes on even if you don’t document it. But documenting it is fun too. Dare I say moderation in all things.

Lastly, there is never enough time; goodbye is but temporary thankfully. Rest in eternal peace Jack Pricken and Karen Wyant. You will live on in those who love you.

The Gospel of Self Help

These days there is nothing but time, much of it idle. I go through phases of extreme busy-ness followed by stretches of introspection. I guess I’m searching for my own brand of homeostasis. Prone to anxiety and ever an explorer of the self, I have been revisiting all the lessons I’ve accumulated from years of compulsive self help book reading, reassurance seeking, therapy, and being in the world.

There are consistent themes that I keep stumbling on across all the disciplines I dip into for comfort and understanding. Resources collated range from the religious to the entirely secular, from rational to purely emotional. Some of the sources are highly educated professionals in their respective fields and others are just wise in the ways of living and life. Exposure and Response Prevention, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Rational Emotive Therapy, I’ve practiced them all. I’ve relinquished my fears to God, said my prayers, read every word of Brené Brown’s, and studied Dr. David Burns. I have each version of Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff by the late, great Richard Carlson, every piece by Henri Nouwen, and all the OCD workbooks. I get enough sleep. While there is no complete cure for anxiety or that which plagues us, love, forgiveness, and acceptance will get us close.

A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson was gifted to me by my dear friend years ago, and I’ve read it so many times it’s tattered and worn. I dropped it in the tub once so it’s mighty wrinkled. My faith has always taught lessons of love and mercy, but this book highlights the battle between fear and love in a way that is readily understood and actionable. Only love is real, Marianne deduced from her deep study of A Course in Miracles. We are either living in fear, or living in love and love, of course love is the aim.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote of a radical love experiment. You must make a conscious effort to love every ounce of your being. The scary and unsavory parts. The parts you imagine are not lovable. She goes on to reveal that in unconditional love of the self, you can learn to love others without condition and the world heals in the wake of this massive return to love. She also asserts that our only purpose in the world is to be loved. Nothing you will ever achieve will mar this true mandate.

Albert Ellis’ attributes any and all turmoil in our lives to flawed perception. His tactics implore looking at each and every situation with rationality and adopting unconditional acceptance of the self, unconditional acceptance of others, and unconditional acceptance of the world. Replace the shoulds of our lives with would be nice ifs and we are released from the prison of “musturbation.” His term, not mine.

It is what, it is. No words more true. Acceptance, unconditional at that, of what is, will never steer us into murky water. My husband tells me this all the time, and to be truthful, he is very rarely in emotional turmoil and has a very healthy grasp on living through all things with moderation. We are masterful at complicating what is.

A therapist of mine always said What you resist, persists. You can diffuse a situation, be it of mind or body, by the simple act of resignation. I’m not arguing for complacency in any sense but when you are spinning relentlessly, sometimes the only thing to do is to pump the brakes and just be. Accept the things you like least about yourself (others, the world) and then the resistance to healing, therapeutic resistance I believe they call it, lessens and we can heal. Then we can more formidably act towards a better self and world; the acceptance clears the runway for takeoff.

The constant focus on what is not working in our lives keeps it top of mind. This is where forgiveness comes in. Forgive yourself for overreacting, forgive your neighbor for playing the music too loudly, forgive your dog for shitting on the carpet, forgive your sister for hurting your feelings, forgive your husband for not letting you pick what to watch on tv, and forgive anyone who hasn’t been able to forgive you. Speak to yourself like you would to a person you love, be it a friend or a family member. For whatever reason, we are more likely to speak kindly to others about their wrongs than we are to forgive ourselves for our perceived shortcomings. Warped, I know, but here we are.

Things are not readily fixed. Love the cracks, and the wrinkles and the misspoken words. Accept that much of life isn’t fair but is still beautiful to behold. Forgive the anger in your heart and the malice in others. Love. Forgive. Accept. Surely easier said than done; I know from experience.

This is 30

You've been carrying around your fear like an appendage for a long while now. For 30 years. Making excuses for its validity and accommodations for its glaring intrusion in your life. You have been compromising each day, shaving away pieces of yourself to fulfill the perceived wishes of others because acceptance is neat and safe. Wearing a big smile, offering a hand, and carrying a plate of cookies so that everyone will let you in, approve of you. You have been afraid to stand, take up space, and demand what you want for your life.

You’re desperate to contain your emotions because their expression feels unruly. A shiny orb you aspire to. You feel good making other people happy. You hunger praise but the effects are fleeting, its incidence only fueling a need for more. You derive your worth from helping others, from saving. And in that endless pursuit, your truth is the last considered. You are relieved when others say you’re allowed to feel how you feel and it's ok to want what you want. You spend endless, valuable minutes, hours, even days in your head instead of in the world. In this, your 30th year, it’s time to actually consider precious girl, what you want your next years to hold.

What you want is to step boldly into a future that you decide and do not compromise on. And even if that future’s unbeknownst to you at the moment,  you’re committed to making room for the inquiry. You’re asking the questions, flexing those mental muscles, navigating conflict, embracing discomfort. Because the truth of the matter is you spent 30 years playing by the rules, when you could have been writing your own.

I’m not unique in the least. Human beings are riddled with fear, some can just conceal it far better than I can. Few like to talk much about fear; it’s not cute or Instagram worthy. What might set me apart is a willingness to stare at it, study it, befriend it, knowing it has been one of my greatest teachers. Fear has shielded me from the pains of disapproval, and of risk and longing. But 30 finally feels like the time that the benefits of aligning with my fear are not nearly as great as those of fear’s refusal.

I’ve been waiting for someone else to decide for me. My doting family, my husband, bosses, colleagues, books, therapists, podcasts, the list continues... I’m an open book, a sponge, all the platitudes to describe someone who is a little too honest, too feeling, and too pliable. I’ve always been looking outward for direction and I can see clearly now that it’s a woman I have been waiting for and her name is Francesca.

That was then, and this is 30.

What I learned in 2017

Another year has gone by. I am actually listening to Celine Dion's song by the same title from circa 1998 to get me in the mood for recalling all that was 2017. I've been concluding the year with these reflections for a few years now and it brings me a feeling of peace despite the fact that I really don't like New Year's all that much. While I am hopeful for the promise and opportunity of another year, I always war with a subtle melancholy for the conclusion of the Christmas season. 

This past year I began a new job in Manhattan, one that has exposed me to a multitude of experiences for which I am so very grateful. I learned a valuable lesson in persistence. I applied to work at Bullfrog+Baum as a senior at Georgetown and received no reply back. I applied again a year later, and again received no reply. I committed to writing more, learning to compose a compelling image, and sharing creative projects here in this digital corner of mine. Upon applying to Bullfrog some 5 years after my initial infatuation with the firm, I got a call, 3 interviews, a job, a slew of new connections, a belly full of meals, and some new sisters. Brothers too! I see you Aik Wye and Alex. Oh and a promotion! 

I felt the pride of seeing my name in the Wall Street Journal.

I learned that relationships don't always endure change, but they serve their purposes for a moment in time. You can still be thankful for the impressions and wisdom left behind. Speaking of relationships - they can begin on rocky footing. There can be conflict, dissonance, and even harsh judgment. But all is not lost. People evolve and under the right circumstances the unlikeliest of people can become allies and advocates.

I learned you can make peace with popovers, win over a hardened heart with the freshly-baked, and heal someone who is suffering with 12 minutes on the phone. 

I have seen that the afflicted are prone to flock to helping professions. I believe this is a constructive way to cope with feelings of pain, fear, shame and inadequacy. I also learned we do not have to perpetually be on trial. We can be forgiven. 

I have learned to love more completely, and that sometimes love is uncomfortable and that you can love and not quite like someone momentarily. Life does not have to be blissful and without adversity to be pure magic. I have learned that when I am angry, or he is angry we make more progress confronting matters head on than when we dance around a fragile topic. 

Wine and Cheese Class at Italienne 

I have learned to navigate the NYC subway! Learned about some wines, many cheeses, and a spirit or two at Italienne. I baked oh so many batches of Rossella Rago's Italian Knot Cookies as I have for years at Christmas. We became friends too and to hold her book in my hands and call her a companion is wildly gratifying. I made Gail Simmons' Banoffee Pie and I am never looking back. I ate at restaurants I could likely never afford, at least not for a very long time.  

Rossella Rago's Knot Cookies 

Chocolate Banoffee Pie

I learned to shoot in manual mode. Thank you lynda.com and Melissa Cohn. I learned some ways to make an Instagram story perdy, and how to navigate the freaking billing section on Facebook Ads Manager. 

I learned of the joy in train travel. I learned oh so much about Hoboken from frequently missing said trains, and made new friends at the diner I get milkshakes at when I miss said trains.

I learned about press language, media outlets, and how to multi-task like a beast.

I had hot pot, my first ever martini, and ate pizza multiple times in Brooklyn.  

I learned how to maintain composure when dealing with obnoxiously drunk patrons while working the door at a bar. I also learned how gratifying it is to work with different demographics in capacities that use different parts of your brains.  

No two couples are alike. Comparison, as has always been said, is literally the thief of joy.  

Books fed my soul this past year, and period television was mildly addictive.  The Tudors and The Borgias kept me company on the treadmill... That is when I made it to the treadmill. I walked far and wide in the city to avoid the subway although as I said, the scared Jersey girl learned to navigate it. 

I learned that I can thrive outside of my comfort zone and that I’ve merely scratched the surface of all I would like to see and try.  

I’m still learning to be gentle with myself but I’m closer than I was and I’m hopeful for what lies ahead.   

Dear D.C.

My bottom was sore from sitting on the floor of Secaucus station, my hand burning from scrolling through my phone while it charged rather than just letting it charge. My Mega Bus which I will forever more call Mega Bust was three going on four hours delayed but I had a donut and a cold brew to appease me. The last seats remaining on the beyond delayed bus were in the way back and each time we hit a bump I flew into the air. For the first time in a long time I felt light. I met two kind souls and we talked for most of the ride which made the time accelerate. They gave me moral support as I fought for my $26 dollars back from the bus ticket. It might not be a lot of money to a corporation, but after that egregious delay and a missed opportunity to wander Georgetown at night, I wanted it back. I booked an Amtrak home and extended my stay through Sunday afternoon, hell with how much it cost. Experiences have value too.

Copley Hall at Georgetown University was my home sophomore year. 

Gooey cookies and subs from Wisemiller's, or Wisey's, were a favorite indulgence as a student. 

Although the delay was a nuisance, a departure from my normal routine still felt momentous. Train stations and airports hold much significance for me because the stories unfolding there are so palpable. Soon to be companions meeting for the first time while they share a bench and bake in the heat waiting for their bus, loners running away, a soldier coming home. My bus buddy was from Baltimore, around my mother's age, and had been in Boston for a week with a special "friend". Her children hadn't wanted her to take the trip because she is terminally ill, but she refused to compromise her plan. She only told me she hoped her friend would not fall in love with her because she didn't know how long she had. Her courage astounded me, but being prone to seizures and fainting, I could see why her children would be concerned. When we passed into Philadelphia she dozed off to sleep and I leaned over to check that she was breathing. A slight scar shown on the upper part of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled.

Colored and cozy on 36th street in Georgetown. 

Loaves at Baked and Wired. Georgetown Cupcake pales in comparison to this spot. 

Just around 1am I tumbled into bed, freshly bathed in hotel body wash, at the Key Bridge Marriott, where my parents and grandparents stayed whenever they visited me at Georgetown. I rose early the next morning and walked over the Key Bridge gazing out at the row boats on the Potomac and landmarks in the distance. I caught up with two dear friends, celebrated the pending nuptials of two other beloved friends, and found my way back to Georgetown for Thomas Sweet Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream and rainbow sprinkles. Not to be confused with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, this ice cream literally tastes like cookie batter and is unlike any other ice cream I have ever had. 

The same menu at Filomena. 

On Sunday I visited the restaurant that gave me the life I now know, Filomena. One of the managers, Anton, greeted me as if no time passed. He only asked if James and I had children yet. Not yet I said. The cast of characters at Filomena remains the same although the hostess, like me back then, looked like a student. The menu hasn't changed, the decor hasn't changed, nor the music. The restaurant continues to do 400 covers a night effortlessly; why change a thing?  I embraced a few old friends and settled in to dip crusty bread in an Olive Oil confection complete with olives and herbs. For lunch I chose the Smoked Chicken and Mozzarella Ravioli with a thick rustic tomato sauce. I didn't take a photo of it although taking photos of food is one of my great joys. The food at Filomena is not made for Instagram. It is made to be savored. 

I leaned back in my seat with a full stomach to make room for my favorite Turtle Cheesecake and reflected on my brief five months of employment. In that short time I got a taste of the hospitality industry, made friends, practiced my Italian, ate too much dessert, and found the man I would marry. Fast forward to our long distance relationship, James, then an Executive Sous Chef, would call me to confirm the spelling of Italian words for the day's specials. I would send text messages back, privately wishing that I was there for one more "family" meal. I followed him back to D.C., he followed me to NJ and now we have family meals of a different kind.

I depart for the train. The bustle and magic of Union Station feels like my own Platform 9 3/4 only I have no years left at Hogwarts. This chapter isn't all that bad though.