Resolution Reject

It's a new year. I get caught somewhere between elated and absolutely horrified when people ask me what my resolution(s) is(are). The promise of self improvement that resolutions afford is alluring. Everyone surely has something they can tweak. Is that not why we are here; to do a little better for ourselves and for our world? But what to resolve?

The week of Christmas I had two unpleasant conversations with women I previously looked to for guidance and support. In a place I had felt safe, I was stripped of that security and felt something like inadequacy and/or shame. I kid you not, one told me I was a fart in the wind and lack a backbone. Yes, "fart in the wind" is a direct quote. What must I smell like, I thought. After I reemerged from the rubble of my mind, I dusted my shoulders off, grabbed my lady pants and decided to make a change for better or worse. I welcomed the concrete ending of the year and approached resolution making with the same perfectionism that while well intentioned has been a detriment in my past and continues to challenge my serenity today. At first it was euphoric. I thought really deeply about what has been working and what hasn't. I made lists. I sought resources and found outlets for the best resolution themes. I identified 20 goals if not more. My goals had goals. Media and industry flooded me at every touch point. And I picked on every part of me in response to these conflicting stimuli.

Get a partner.   Dump your partner.    Leave your job.    Find a friend.     Sign up for that cleanse.     Did someone say online dating? Kabbalah.    Try crossfit.    Travel. Meditate !!!    Give up bread. Um yeah, no. 

My theme for the upcoming year is "nourish and flourish." What is yours? But don't be afraid if you do not yet have one. Even resolution rejects find their way. 

I was going to learn every skill I ever endeavored to learn and scrapbook all the keepsakes I have saved since as long as I can remember. I would make it to church each Sunday, on time,  ten pounds lighter. Bye bye student loans. Hell, I would meal prep.

Then I started to get anxious, afraid even. Afraid I could not even get a resolution right. What if I was a resolution reject? Ruminating set in as it always does. Gosh I need this in my life but where to start and will I ever have time to commit to this formidable goal?  I scoured the internet for options.

PSA: Never scour the internet for options.   

• Personal budgeting software. 
• Gym membership.
• Time management tools.
• Weight watchers, of course.  
• Thirty day guide to happy, healthy, nasty, wonderful, wicked, everything YOU.

The self help groups have brought their "A" games I thought.  I need to read all of these books. All of them. The e-course on courage. The Zumba trial. Oh the cleanses. The entities I will call the resolution committee churned out paragraph after paragraph of ways to be our best selves. I felt defeated before I even began.

By the end of my brief, frantic journey to identify my resolution, I was tired. Am I really that in need of repair, I thought. Did nothing work last year that I should be compelled to do everything a different way? If I don't achieve these identified outcomes, then what? THEN WHAT?

The painful advice I received in a way was an invitation, an invitation to evolve, but in trying to do so I hit the gas and spun out, tire treads burned into the driveway. I dialed it back and identified some overarching themes. Wellness, mindfulness, and the fostering of creative opportunities. Realistically there is and always will be room for growth. That's part of the whole miracle of being human. Someone told me living life is like preparing a meal, a perfect analogy for this hungry overthinker. In her gentle, calm voice she said that some days you will cultivate the parts of the meal that warrant the most care. This pot or that pan may go on the back burner, to regain attention down the road. But the process is unending. The most critical element of this picture that she painted is just that: continuity.

You cannot force an awakening and my resolutions, if they can even be called that, will not change me overnight. A soft shove in the right direction will do for today. 

Jack and me

He sat alone, a crinkly paper in his hands. His pants were pressed, shoes shined, a brightly colored cap that read USMC atop his head. The barista rattled off the names of fancy overpriced beverages in rapid succession. He looked up each time someone came close enough to glance his way, to see him- really see him.

A large majority of hip youngsters were glued to their devices, clutching for dear life, scrolling feverishly to feel connected. They hadn't noticed the gentle invitation that rested in his green eyes. I accepted because I can sometimes be the person obsessively checking, comparing, feeding on distractions desperate for affirmation. I met his gaze, my husband a Marine serving as the perfect pretense to engage him. I had work to do but I pushed my computer aside; it could wait. 

He served in peacetime as a pilot, having decided to join the ranks of the United States Marines because he loved the sharp green color of the uniforms. Stationed in San Diego, life felt like a grand vacation he confessed. His days consisted of studious practice, taking off and landing on a narrow air strip three days a week. After four years he retired a Captain and went on to excel in the world of business. He and his wife had nine children, six of them physicians, one sweet youngster, Jimmy, gone too soon at just six years old to Leukemia. I am certain a tear flirted with his green eyes, pain of this loss as raw as if it was yesterday not some forty years prior. My eyes welled up too. 

A massive heart attack cut his career as a CEO short as he welcomed retirement at 55 years old. Later in life he would also survive breast cancer. Although his compensation package would carry him through the rest of his days, retirement felt like a slow death. Morning mass, breakfast, the Price is Right, Repeat. To the sick and elderly he brought communion. I knew he was Catholic and likely Irish with nine kids. But those were not the reasons for his considerable tribe. He and his wife had wanted each and every child. From his wallet a tattered photo folded in thirds. His children, their spouses, and twenty-four grandchildren surrounded Jack and his wife on their 50th wedding anniversary. They were beaming. How some can be so abundantly surrounded by love and others never feeling its warm embrace I will never fully understand. But within each of us lies the opportunity to welcome someone in. Jack welcomed me in, a stranger in a suburban Starbucks of all places. His tall delicate frame wandered off. I closed my eyes and saw a vibrant young pilot boarding a plane in Marine green. 

Happy Veterans Day to the men, women and canines who have served and are currently serving. To the families that support them, to the civilians that are indebted to them, to those who will serve, and to the world that is so fractured- let's be nice to one another. 

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Two words. Well, proper nouns: Sarah Kieffer. Over time I have become transfixed by Sarah's words and her confections. I am simply delighted to have in my possession her first book. Each page teems with love, and light. An affinity for pumpkin and chocolate, I am sharing her pumpkin pound cake below. Make it, buy her book, read her words. 

To Prepare Sarah's Pumpkin Pound Cake with Chocolate
 

• 3 cups all purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 3/4 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/2 teaspoons grated nutmeg
• 4 large eggs
• 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
• 1 1/2 cups packed brown sugar
• 3/4 cup canola oil
• one 15 ounce can of pumpkin
• 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
• 8 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate
• confectioners' sugar for dusting

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a Bundt pan. Whisk together flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg.

In a stand mixer, fitted with paddle, beat the eggs until pale yellow and doubled in volume, 4 to 5 minutes. And the granulated and brown sugars and mix on medium until combined. Add oil, pumpkin, and vanilla and mix on medium until completely combined. 

Add the flour mixture and mix on medium until smooth. Stir in chocolate. 

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake 45-60 minutes until a wooden skewer or toothpick comes out clean. Let cool on a wire rack for 20 minutes and then invert the cake onto rack for cooling. Dust with confectioners' sugar before slicing. 

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A Call to Action on Veterans Day

Lastly, if you know of any individual serving in the military who could use a greeting card and care package during the holidays, please complete the form below. I am partnering with a local organization in my town to gather names for their upcoming mailing. If you rather send something on your own to commemorate Veteran's Day, visit Operation Gratitude. 

#Blessed

I'll be the first to say I read too deeply into things. I over analyze with the very best of them. I painstakingly try to even out the dissonance in my brain, to account for unspoken intentions and hidden truths. Within the confines of a concrete way of looking at situations, there is little room for overlap, for the gray. Angry feelings percolate in my belly, anxiety creeps up my spine and I make a sweeping conclusion. But these polarizing opinions are provocative, and well nothing considerable was ever accomplished from being too neutral… So let's delve into being #blessed.

What we share with the world.

What really goes on...

Social media likely originated with the purpose of connecting people. By that connectedness meaningful dialogue might be born, relationships nurtured, and useful information shared. That or some really bright people were just bored and wanted to stir up the social fabric of our society as we know it. Since then though social media has deviated from this once noble path. It's become a playground for airing what is wonderful and discarding what is fallible. We carefully curate a version of ourselves that is deemed acceptable for others to witness, and we discard or conceal the elements that make us most human. Affirmation is sought from people we may not even know mindlessly scrolling and tapping, scrolling and tapping.  

Enter the blessings and the squad goals. This concept of being #blessed is tossed around, and a set of criteria exists to alert the general population when you have been inducted into this desirable club. Some conditions for admission include a house in the Hamptons, a healthy, beautiful child, a prestigious career, a storybook romance. Do not misunderstand me, these are swell things to have and likely many people covet them. I do in one way or another, but not even because I want to. I feel like I should, because it is desirable in the social sphere's collective eye. I admire from afar the little family that appears to have it all together. I tell others who have what seems to be a fruitful, happy life that they are so blessed. When my own family is gathered around the table, and things are going right, then I feel like we are blessed.  I might even envy others who make it look easy. I post manicured images of food such that people might find them beautiful and think me capable, and talented. Dear world, tell me I am worthwhile, confirm for me that I am #blessed. I promise I will work diligently to maintain the illusion of togetherness. 

But it is all nonsense, plain and simple. Straight bullshit. 

(from atop my soapbox)

Is not our mere existence a blessing? Is the child in the inner city who struggles to learn and lacks any familial support not blessed?  How about the individual who cannot verbalize his or her preferences? The refugee, the single parent, the victim of abuse or bullying. The person who conceals his or her innermost self so as not to alienate loved ones. The child with visible differences who is not represented in mainstream media. The rejected, the cast aside, those whose bodies have betrayed them, riddled with illness. 

We yearn to be deserving of the status of being blessed, of being the chosen ones. In a book I read recently this entire line of reasoning was debunked in that from the moment we are conceived of we are already enough, without ever having to prove anything. With this in mind can we collectively find the courage to share what is not likable, or pretty? Can we acknowledge that the suffering that marks our human condition is itself a blessing albeit wrought with struggle and pain? What will it take to cast feelings of resentment and inadequacy aside?

Here is where the seas part. Some of you will say  what is this chick even talking about? She should just scroll and like yet another picture like the rest of us, and then cast judgment the next moment, or start dieting, or talk behind that girl's back. 

The others among you might acknowledge that deep down you feel something like what I feel. Not necessarily the exact same sentiment because I take introspection to a devastating level. Or maybe this vulnerability is more common than I envision but it's the world's best kept secret. People are hesitant to share what is realistic about their lives unless it is to garner attention or pity as the spectrum in the social sphere spans between narcissism and self loathing.  If gloating serves to erect a fortress around this exclusive club that not everyone can join, then pity is not helpful either. Progress and connectedness happen somewhere in the middle. To me that would be a place void of overt #blessings and #goals. 

If I have offended you, I encourage you to get back to a routine that is comfortable. I would not want to disrupt anything you have grown accustomed to. This discussion is not meant to shame or judge either although I admit this reasoning gets close to feeling like a judgment. We are all susceptible to the desire to be perceived as noble, or somehow enlightened it seems. 

But if somewhere in the pit of your stomach you feel the same way, I hope you might know that you are as blessed as the next person. I promise to do my part by thinking twice before concealing my burnt scones and dirty dishes. I will try to encourage and empower others. I will use discomfort as an opportunity for personal growth. I will try not to judge for fear of being judged equally harshly. 

#blessed

Salt and Light

It is commonplace for me to draw attention at meal time.  One such time I can vividly remember, I was eating a dish of pasta with much fervor. Subtle groaning sounds, chewing, and the slur of adjectives like beautiful and gorgeous left my lips. It wasn't a beautiful creature in front of me that illicited such a reaction. It was simply carbonara, crusty bread, a glass of wine. My fork clanked on the table. I longed for the plate to replenish itself. Some sort of miracle to negate the calories, conjure more. I wanted to begin again. I felt gawking eyes. They were wondering what the big deal was I suppose. They had no idea the pity I felt for them. That they might not know the joy of being infatuated with meal time, or realizing the true gift it is to have and relish in food that nurtures, that sustains. 

Elevate dessert presentation by offering up a label that matches your guests' personalities. All you need are labels, a sharpie and a little twine.

We liken ourselves to food so frequently.  Stop for a moment and think about it. If you disregard context, it's difficult to determine if we are talking about a dish of pasta or a human being. She is saucy, him sour, her quite bland. But that one. That's one tough cookie. You should stop being such a couch potato. She has an apple shape. I'm more of a pear. What a lemon. It's easy as pie. Gosh her zest for life is contagious. You are the salt of the Earth. 

I don't think this is a coincidence. I think the food we eat captures where we come from and who we are. It encompasses our struggles, our weaknesses, and our motivation. It is as essential as the air we breathe. Food is a life source and tells a story- a colorful, vibrant story. It highlights conversations, gathers us in to be with one another, and the lack thereof can bring us to our knees. We strive to be as hearty, as robust, as reliable as the stew our Grandmother made.

“You are the salt of the Earth. You are the light of the world.”

— Matthew 5:13-16

While many foods have rich meaning, salt carries with it immense symbolism in historical and religious context. It waged wars, preserved civilizations, and continues to flavor our daily lives. To be the salt of the Earth connotes an enviable quality, to be unpretentious but certainly valuable. To be common perhaps but ever worth while. I love topping sweet treats with salt. I found a recipe for chewy salted chocolate chip cookies via Cooking Light and made just a few changes. They are well, gorgeous.  

Ingredients 

• 1 cup packed dark brown sugar
• 6 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 6 tablespoons butter, softened
• 2 tablespoons honey
• 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1 large egg
• 1 cup all purpose flour
• 1 cup whole wheat flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 3/8 teaspoon salt
• 3/4 cup semisweet chocolate, chopped
• 1/4 cup shredded coconut
• 1/4 cup chopped walnuts
• 1/2 teaspoon coarse sea salt

To Prepare

1. Preheat oven to 375°

2. Place dark brown sugar, oil, and butter in a large bowl and beat with a mixer at medium speed until well blended. Add honey, vanilla, and egg; beat until well combined.

3. Spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Combine flour, baking soda, and salt, stirring with a whisk. Add flour mixture to sugar mixture and beat at low speed until almost combined.

4. Add chocolate, walnuts and coconut; beat at low speed just until combined.

5. Drop dough using a melon baller onto a parchment lined cookie sheet or use a non-stick mat. Sprinkle course sea salt over each cookie and press down gently. 

6. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until edges are barely browned.  

7. Cool cookies on pan for 3 minutes; place on a wire rack to cool.

It's been so long since last we met

Struggling into Union Station with heavy bags on each arm, circulation ceasing in my wrists, I tiredly said "dinner for just one." I said it as if I was apologizing, or maybe I was saddened that my company from the weekend prior would not be joining me. But to my great surprise the maitre d' smiled warmly and said , "Not just one. One is as significant as one hundred." That resonated with me. I proudly ate quietly, alone. One is just as significant as one hundred. 

"It's been so long since last we met..." That was the beginning of our Fight Song as students at Georgetown and after attending my five year reunion, I realize now it will be my fight song indefinitely. Once a Hoya, always a Hoya. Groups of older individuals gathered excitedly, impeccably dressed in Lilly Pulitzer or Vineyard Vines (some things never change) , and they chuckled, posed for selfies in front of the John Carroll statue, and explored all the ways in which the Georgetown they had once attended changed, yet remained the same. 

I was anxious to attend the reunion. I hadn't been back for any Homecoming, for whatever reason. Perhaps I feared social comparison. There was an air of competition and social climbing in the business school, I won't deny that, so I wondered how I would measure up to my peers. How would they perceive me? Do I look ok? Gosh, how vain but these were the recurring themes. I felt until recently a level of resentment towards higher learning because the world I had envisioned as a senior in college, a world of promise and opportunity, was not the world I experienced as a young professional. I realize now my blame was poorly conceived but at that point in time I felt quite lost. My professors said the world needed my gifts, they said I could make an impact, they said I could help others... I've come to a place now where I am able to do those things in a very tangible way working in the human services sector. For other young idealists entering the workforce I would say to be patient and gentle with yourself, set realistic expectations, and bring your ministry wherever you are whether it be filing paper, getting coffee, serving in the Peace Corps or presenting in the Board Room.

At the class party some insecurities bubbled to the surface despite convincing myself that I would not be affected by the same pulls of my undergraduate self. But I reconnected with my dear friend Maria who shares may values and moderate neurosis, and we navigated the space together. She helped me to blossom a little more fully that night and to embrace the experience. So did the whiskey sour. From there I saw and embraced one after another of my old acquaintances, some I had stayed in touch with and others sadly I had not. But the fervor was the same and we picked up as if no time had passed. A beautiful tradition at Georgetown is that the 50 year reunion class sponsors the 5 year reunion class party and they attend it alongside the younger people.  With their generosity we were able to attend a glorious affair in the sprawling Andrew Mellon Auditorium, an opportunity not all of us could have afforded at this time in our early careers. It was a testament to the camaraderie that Georgetown has engendered  and the sense of belonging a Hoya feels whether they are 25 or 65 years old. I was grateful to share compelling discussion with others, and some giddy dialogue about food, relationships, and the consistent theme of still trying to figure it all out. A few people shared wonderful words of encouragement about my writing, and commented on my spirit and energy as an undergraduate. They said I had not changed. My hair cut and smile have remained. While self esteem should come from within, these moments did make my heart feel warm. To know you have been able to make an impact, even a small one, is a beautiful gift.

I sat in on a lecture called "The Problem of God Revisited". As freshmen at a Jesuit institution religion classes are a requirement. My first class five years back being none other than "The Problem of God" was a class unlike what you would envision a religion course to be in a Catholic school. It investigated many faiths and invited the discourse of thinkers in other faith and non-faith based traditions. Classes like these have, I believe, helped to inspire tolerance and understanding while still enforcing the importance of understanding thyself and figuring out how and if faith serves personal needs. For me, my reliance on faith was reaffirmed by these words. "Mercy is the willingness to become involved in the chaos of another person." The presentor, Father Steck said this a few times for emphasis. Everyone can show mercy, regardless of your creed. The world needs mercy, desperately.

“Mercy is the willingness to become involved in the chaos of another person.”

What stands out in my mind as a benefit to having received a Jesuit education is the underlying tradition to act for the Greater Glory of God, Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam. The invitation if not mandate to to be merciful. To find the fractured parts of the world and identify the individuals on the periphery so that we can dedicate our passion and our energy to make their burdens less. 

There was a lot of love that weekend. I was pleasantly surprised to feel the same pull and enthusiasm at the Healy Gates as when I first began school. Even though my time as a student has passed, my duty as a Hoya has not. It was also comforting to know I still had a home on the Hilltop. I stayed with dear friends in Virginia and we ate at Filomena's together, the place where I met my husband. It has been years since I ate there and all of my friends greeted me with the same warmth as when I was a hostess in my cummerbund and clunky black clogs. And the food, gosh the food is still magnificent. There is love poured into every gnocco, and that is apparent. Chocolate Caramel Turtle Cheesecake. Yes.

I brunched with pals from the business school and we laughed like we hadn't in years. I wandered and ate with my darling friend who recruited me to join Best Buddies my freshman year. She has since been in my wedding and will undeniably be in my life forever more. I met a remarkable Hoya, Theresa, who was celebrating her 35th reunion. She didn't look a day over thirty but that is neither here nor there. She sat with me at a social as I was all alone and in true Hoya fashion, our worlds aligned. She works in financial planning for families of children with special needs. Her sons happen to have autism and we shared ideas about our roles, she as a mother and financial planner, me as an advocate and non-profit professional. The hilltop brought us together and I know we will share ideas and hopes for a more inclusive world in years to come. 

There was shopping on M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, blistered feet and purchase of new shoes, ice cream from Thomas Sweets,  quiche and chai from Baked and Wired followed by a glorious cupcake from Baked and Wired, obviously. Then I ate all alone in Union Station, but one is as significant as one hundred.

Hoya Saxa, until next time Georgetown.