What is it about the holidays that makes you reminisce?  Every where I look/read/see/hear, I am reminded of a bygone era.

Any Christmas tree inevitably takes me back to arguing with my brothers over who got to put what ornament on the tree.  Board games transport me to uncountable Christmas eves debating who deserved how many points in which round.  And the movie a Christmas Story … well … it just speaks for itself. I hear “You’ll shoot your eye out!”, and am instantly curled up on the couch breathlessly waiting to see whether or not Ralph will get his coveted gun.

In fact, watching a Christmas Story transports me to a time that  I never even knew.  It recalls milk shakes, records and radio programs rather than frappuccinos, ipods and youtube.  The retro home decor I search for in vain at the antique mall were commonplace during a Christmas Story.

I haven’t quite put my finger on why just yet, but there’s something comforting about witnessing that every day slice of classic Americana.

Although we can never have mid-20th century America back, it’s nice to think about and/or watch from time to time.  Try it out for yourself.  If you need any help, rent a Christmas Story. Or just flip through the channels like I did … i think you’ll find it!

Brrr!  I am happy to report that temps here in C.T. have taken quite the nose dive in recent days.  Although many lament the cold temperatures of winter months, I love love love them.  Do you know why?  Because I adore nothing more than being warm.  A contradiction in terms, you say?  Please allow me to elaborate:

While I wholeheartedly recognize the carefree bliss of summer months (sun dresses, flip flops, ice cream trips and freezing-cold rosé wine … ), I much prefer adding layers to peeling them.  My sneaking suspicion is that this inclination goes back to my adopted French roots.  Ever since I wrapped my first scarf à la française during a semester abroad in college, I haven’t been able to resist adding that extra layer of warmth any time the temperatures drops below 60 degrees.  During my two-year Richmond Hiccup, I would get so frustrated with central-Virginia’s attempts at chilly temperatures.  They obstinately hover between 40 and 60 degrees with a handful of half-hearted attempts at dips below freezing.  Combined with a smattering of unproductive mornings of wintery mixes that invariably give up and turn to rain, it leaves much to be desired.  Two long weekends in Chicago (December and February) during the Hiccup convinced me that cold was the way to go.  I loved rushing from the metro to the restaurant to the store to the wherever.  It reminded me of my cozy and gray Paris of winter months…

I didn’t think that weather between Richmond and C.T. could be all that different (what difference can four hours north really make?), but I was very pleasantly surprised this past weekend.  When I unlocked the girls’ dorm Saturday morning (a duty weekend), I could not believe my eyes.  In just a half hour’s time a yucky, wintery mix had miraculously morphed into a beautiful, silent, intense snowfall.  Enormous flakes careened from the sky in a headlong rush to make contact with the cold and crunchy grass.

Before I knew it, the entire campus was covered with a several inch thick blanket of perfectly pure whiteness. Now, rushing from the metro to the restaurant to the store to the wherever proved to be a far cry from rushing from the dorm to the cafeteria to the short bus to the classroom, but it held its own allure, too.  The snow was of course much prettier to observe in my current unspoiled landscape as compared to a noisy, loud and crowded city.  And I didn’t feel the pressure to actually rush.  In fact, I actually stopped and admired it a bit.

While inside my cozy little apartment, I swear my coffee tasted just a little warmer and Christmas music sounded  just a little Christmas-ier.  Although the snow was pretty much gone by the next day, it was a nice kick-off to the winter months and gave me hope that we’ll get a real one before it’s all over.  And by the way, I checked.  Richmond did, indeed, have a yucky, wintery mix on Saturday.  C.T. wins.

It’s funny how once you decide things are a certain way, they really are that way.  What I mean is, you find meaning where you would like and run with it.  Several books, in combination with my own experiences, have completely convinced of me this hypothesis’s utter truth.

Book 1: The secret

The book that taught me I am my thoughts

I don’t mean to hit you with a product endorsement, but I really do think that everyone should read The secret.  Yes, I know it’s an international success and that many people turn their collective noses up at it for just this reason.  But the truth is, The secret makes COMPLETE and TOTAL sense.  If you haven’t read it and think you’re above it, don’t.

In a nutshell, it tells you that you are your thoughts.  So if you think negatively, then well, you’re destined to a life of gloom and despair.  However, if you think positively, many amazing things await.  Even if it’s not always easy to remain positive and upbeat, it’s such the better way to live.  I used to love complaining and gnashing my teeth and worrying everything to death.  I am fighting off vivid images of my friends and family collectively falling to the floor in laughter at the insinuation that I no longer do these things.  But honestly, despite allowing myself to get swept away by my daily stresses and student problems, I have managed to cultivate an “It is what it is” attitude.  As one of my wise brother says “control the controllables.”  So even though I may complain about Student X that did such and such, it’s really more for entertainment’s sake than for real and true losing of sleep over the issue.

Book 2: I really wish I could remember the title, if you are interested enough to leave a comment, I will find it for you
The secret was the first book that sparked that “you are what you think” addiction in me.  So I began to think of myself as a writer even though I wasn’t…persay…writing…anything.  As the compulsion to write got worse and worse, “poof!” just like magic, the next book I needed fell, quite literally, into my lap.  As a bon voyage gift last spring in Paris, my wonderful former boss (Hi, Simone!) gave me a fascinating  book about Jungian philosophy and the power we exercise over the “story of our lives.”  An especially intriguing concept for a budding, would-be writer.  Basically, it explains how there is no true coincidence.  We choose to find coincidence when and where we would like. And we choose to ignore the coincidences that do not fit into the story we choose to make of our lives.  Which leads me to…

Book 3: The sacred path of the warrior

The book gently reminding me to slow down

Right now, I am really pushing to maintain a more true and authentic sense of calm as I navigate my way through an extremely dense forest of teaching and advising and editing and listening and…you get my point.

So late one night this week, I found meaning in this book about an ancient Eastern philosophy that actually informed Tibetan Buddhism.  I saw it as an eerie coincidence I happened to pick up the book at the exact moment in time I’ve have been trying to slow myself down.  But was it really a coincidence?  According to Book 2, no.  I chose to read the book.  I made a conscious decision to try and lead my life as gratefully as possible.  Form your own opinion, but before doing so, oblige me and read my favorite excerpt thus far:

“Discovering real goodness comes from appreciating very simple experiences.  We are not talking about how good it feels to make a million dollars or finally graduate from college or buy a new house, but we are speaking here of the basic goodness of being alive-which does not depend on our accomplishments or fulfilling our desires.  We experience glimpses of goodness all the time but we fail to acknowledge them.  When we see a bright color, we are witnessing our own inherent goodness.  When we hear a beautiful sound we are hearing our own basic goodness.  When we step out of the shower, we feel fresh and clean, and when we walk out of a stuffy room, we appreciate the sudden whiff of fresh air.  These events may take a fraction of a second but they are real experiences of goodness.”

And that, my reader friend, is when things came full circle for me.  Author Chogyam Trungpa managed to articulate much more eloquently than I the premise of artsdevivre.  Happiness can’t come from outside circumstances.  It comes from finding contentment with the circumstances you currently have.

I pictured myself languidly waking up at 10.00 a.m., mosying into the kitchen, brewing the perfect cup of coffee and writing my heart out.  I pictured myself writing about the beauty of vacation, the perfectly clipped recipes I’d found and the comforting purr of my mom’s newest kitten, Lucy.  I pictured Lucy obediently seated on my lap while sentences flowed from my finger tips through to my well-worn keyboard.  A sweet fantasy, but alas, a fantasy.  

Webster’s defines vacation as “a respite or a time of respite from something : INTERMISSION.”  In this literal sense of the word, I am very definitively on “vacation.”  I am not at school and am working on not working.  

In spite of my hopes to the contrary, I am still dutifully waking up at 6.45 a.m. on the dot every morning.  Each day, I scrunch my eyes shut in an effort to coax myself back to sleep.  To no avail.  I am, however, successfully mosying into the kitchen to make coffee, albeit earlier than I had hoped.  And Lucy.  Well, she’s cute and all but not exactly the type of animal that allows much cuddle time.  As for the writing, you guessed it.  Writing/blogging tends to fall to the bottom of my list each day since it’s my extra.  I was sure that over vacation I’d find the time.  Between late nights with friends, catching up with family, and searching for the perfect recipe, writing once again fell to the bottom of my list.

Seeing as tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I decided this morning that the as-yet-to-occur recipe-clipping needed to take place.  It actually has morphed into recipe-surfing. My mother has a severe addiction to clipping any and everything from magazines.  Her pile of publications grows, taking on a life of its own and seemingly defying the laws of physics as the stack gets taller, refusing to fall. Before she can throw them into the recycling bin with good conscience, she dutifully flips every, single, last page and clips the recipes, articles or quotes that interest her or spark her fancy.  Clipped articles are then inserted into a very scientific filing system: random ziploc bags.  I think that this may be (subconsciously…or maybe not so) why when I started to think about my contribution to tomorrow’s meal (true to fashion at the last minute), I avoided actual paper and scissors.  I opted for some good old-fashioned food blog surfing.   

And while I still have not found what I need in terms of food ideas, I did happen on a post that spoke to me.  True to artsdevivre form, it seemed to be just what I needed, when I needed it. I think you should read it, too.  But in case you don’t, here’s the skinny:  

In the post, food writer Luisa Weiss describes her own journey to writing a book, and wonders where it “all began”, her love affair with writing.  Although her path seems to make more sense than my own (she wanted to be a writer, got a job in publishing, started a blog and is about to embark on publishing a book about her life), reading her story made me want to continue to create my own.  And most importantly, to listen to my own heart, follow my own dreams and not be afraid to take risks. Whatever those risks may be. I did it a year ago when I moved back to Paris. Ironically enough, artsdevivre has been a bigger risk than moving back to Paris ever was…Paris was home, comfortable.  Writing was something I always proclaimed to want to do, but didn’t actually do.  And I certainly didn’t let anyone read it when I did.  

Now that I do write, I feel more connected to my own life somehow.  Maybe it’s because each part of my day is done with more intention, and attention.  I examine the parts of the whole, wondering if they are interesting enough to write about.  

Of course I dream of being published one day.  But you never know what is going to happen or why or how or where. My vacation visions  are the cold hard proof.  If Luisa Weiss hadn’t experienced the many things she has, maybe she would not have had the material or reflectiveness to write her very own book.  Mine is in there somewhere, too.  Hopefully, artsdevivre is helping to coax it out.  And for now, it’s good enough that someone actually said to me recently “You’re a writer.  You know what I mean.”

I made this list in a period of my life lacking inspiration, so I had to create my own… The past year and a couple months have been nothing but inspiration from all sides, so I haven’t really felt the need to look at it or dream of far-away lands and exotic experiences.  For some reason, I felt compelled to open the document this morning.  Although my current job is inspiration-ful, re-reading it managed to inject even more inspiration into my much-needed daily dose.  

So, without further ado, here is my list, in it’s totality:

1. Do Tai Chi in a park in China

2. Attend a wedding, in India

3. Become fluent in a third foreign language, preferably Arabic

4. Ride a camel in Egypt

5. Take a cooking class in Tuscany

6. Publish a book

7. Own a Vespa (lavender) 

8. Visit the Temple of Baalbek

9. Ride a gondola in Venice

10. Set foot on all the continents, Antarctica pending….

11. Go on an African safari

12. Sail the Greek isles

13. Eat sashimi in Japan

14. Get my nose re-pierced

15. Own a Kelly bag

16. Write for a travel publication

17. Ice skate at Rockefeller Center during Christmas

18. Visit the Grand Canyon

19. Go scuba diving

20. Live in another foreign country (other than la belle France) for an extended period of time…

21. Go to a World Series baseball game

22. Go to a World Cup football match

23. Make a mean espresso, and the perfectly frothed milk to match

24. Host regularly fabulous dinner parties

25. Read the classics, Western and Eastern

26. Read the French classics, in French

27. Finish my d@$n scrapbooks

28. Go hang gliding in Switzerland

29. Celebrate Christmas in Scandinavia

30. Go to the Christmas fairs in Strasbourg and Nuremburg

31. Eat lots more Spanish frozen yogurt

32. Adopt a Bernese Mountain dog and Westie Terrier.  Name them Penny and Lenny

33. Go ice skating at Christmastime in front of the Hôtel de Ville.  Remember to wear a cute hat

34. Learn to make strawberry rhubarb pie

35. Go on an Alaskan cruise

36. Visit Haiti

37. Finish painting my room at my mom’s house

38. Go to a premiere of some sort

39. Do the Peace Corps, or another service program

40. Become adept at Yoga and Pilates

41. Witness the Northern Lights 

42. Catch a fish

43. Visit the Egyptian pyramids

44. Ride on a dog sled

45. Spectate at the British Open 

46. Go to an haute couture show, preferably Christian Lacroix* 

*Sadly, since I first wrote this list in the fall of 2006, Christian Lacroix has stopped making haute couture.  But just because something you had wished for can’t come to pass in exactly the way you had hoped, it doesn’t mean another, even more interesting experience can’t replace it.  Usually it ends up even better.

If you don’t already have one, create your own list!  It’s fun!  And if nothing else, a great way to spend a couple minutes with your head in the clouds.  A worthy activity at any time.  

P.S.: Any readers that have good ideas about how to accomplish some of the more difficult experiences on my list, please contact me … !

Today I finished my first trimester of teaching.  With some spare time on my hands, I lapsed into my exhausted habits developed over the past couple weeks:  an unsuccessful nap and mindless t.v.  I felt bored so read back over some artsdevivre entries.  I noticed that the most recurring theme in my writing was stress.  Stress from work.  Stress from technology.  Stress from students.  In the frenzy of my first weeks of teaching, artsdevivre morphed from a blog about the beauty-filled life into a blog about the bright spots in an another wise bleak day.

Most things I wrote about since school started were positive, but certainly did not add up to life’s simple pleasures.  I obsessively seek meaning, I’ve always been that way.  But sometimes you just  have to take things as they are.  And appreciate the truly simple things that brighten your day:

Like a yummy brand of cereal discovered.  Check.  Or apples and peanut butter.  Check.  Or an unexpected hug when you need it most.  Check.  Or a much needed vacation.  Check.  Or a funny almost-still-kitten that likes to watch her reflection in the t.v. screen.  Check.

The past months have been unexpected and overwhelming.  A self-professed control freak, I spent the majority of my time trying to figure out how to best organize my multitude of tasks in order to feel competent.  That can’t be done in three months.  Maybe three years.  Maybe.

So from this day forth, I promise to my readers (if they’re out there) and maybe even more importantly to myself, to slow down, observe and appreciate.  Who knows?  It could even help out my my pesky compulsion to figure out my new career.

I don’t know about you, but I certainly identify more with living to eat than eating to live.

Surely my love affair with food is another reason I am such a Francophile.  The only problem is I am an on-again, off-again pescetarian.  Not to insult any reader’s intelligence, but just in case, pescetarian means the only meats I consume are fish and seafood.  Sometimes I get a blank stare when I use that word, hence the explanation.

Anyways.  Food!  Love it!  I also love cooking and baking but it’s definitely one of those things I cannot do when I am already hungry.  If I find myself ravenous upon entering a kitchen, generally I consume half a box of crackers, or all of the leftovers in my fridge whilst standing up.  It’s kind of a scary sight.  BUT if I manage to get into a kitchen with a teeny appetite or none at all, then I can cook for hours.  And be set on meals for a week.  It’s great.  Today I did just that.

I recently finished My life in France, Julia Child’s memoirs of the years she and her husband Paul spent abroad.

 

Cover of Julia Child's wonderful memoir of living, cooking and eating in France

 

Like everything she did/touched/cooked, My life in France is a gem.  Although I must admit that at times, the book gave me a tummy ache.  Aversion to meat notwithstanding, it just became a little exhausting to read description after description after description after description after description…you get my point…of rich meals.  After a bit of time-distance between finishing the book and wanting to cook, I wandered into my kitchen last night.  I can’t drive anywhere right now (long story) so I had to make do with what I had:

Beans for making soup.  A can of tomato soup.  Almond milk.  Eggs.  Tofu hot-dogs.  Don’t judge me on that last one.

Lacking inspiration, I absentmindedly flipped over the bag of beans and studied the recipe for “Ham-hock and bean soup.”  Ick.  I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be snobby but the word “hock” just sounds gross.  In addition to the beans and the hock of ham, it called for water, canned or stewed tomatos, fresh garlic, chili powder and lemon juice.  Never one to admit defeat or waste, I decided to substitute my can of tomato soup in for the stewed tomatoes and hope for the best.  In between watching “The prince and me” movies (Again.  Please don’t judge.  I love a good princess story.), I poured the beans  out of the bag, threw out the “ham flavoring” package with disgust, ran water over the yummy legumes, realized my pot wasn’t nearly large enough and divvied up the beans and proceeded to soak the little guys over night.  Following a yummy brunch of blueberry pancakes (ahh, the joy of boarding school living), I set to simmering the beans for two and a half hours.  Then I added in my tomato soup, a little bit of rice (I read somewhere you can’t get the benefit of beans’ protein without consuming them with a carbohydrate) extra chili powder, garlic and a sprinkling of red pepper flakes.

While I have nothing on Julia (I am sure she wouldn’t have touched canned tomato soup with a ten-foot pole), the soup actually turned out much yummier than I anticipated.  I was worried the complete difference in liquidity between stewed tomatoes and tomato soup concentrate would really throw it off.  A tad bit of extra water seemed to do the trick during the last bit of simmering time.  I already enjoyed a bowl for dinner and certainly have my dinners taken care of for the rest of the week…and beyond.  If anyone I work with or know in the vicinity happens to be reading this, by all means ask me for some soup.  I would love nothing more than to share my creation with you.

Bon appetit.

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”  I currently find myself between a rocher and a hard place because, well, life is not exactly giving me lemons.  Just gallons upon gallons of perfectly sweetened lemonade.  In case I am extending the metaphor too far, what I mean is, the content of each hour in my day is filled with often-touching, always-unexpected interactions, usually with young people who really need them.

A quick illustration: Following a 20-minute haranguing from 6 irate French 2 students this morning (they did not understand every single word in a reading comprehension exercise on their quiz), Student X shuffled into my classroom, as though Wes Anderson had just barked “Action!” from the room across the hall.  Ironically enough, this kid wants to work in film.

“Miss H. Do you have a minute?”

In my head:  Obviously I don’t have a minute.  I can barely breathe right now.  I have 34 students left to deal with today, 4 sets of quizzes and 8 essays to grade, 2 lesson plans to complete and a research paper to proof for the 5th time.  I swallowed the rising lump in my throat, fought back that pesky pricking feeling behind my eyes and took a deep breath.

Outloud:  “Of course.  What’s up?”

“Do you ever feel like you can’t do anything right?”

In that one moment, any feelings of inadequacy, frustration and anger melted away.  You know why?  Because I took the focus off me and put it on my student.  (Which, by the way, is where it belongs.) I laughed out loud and thanked him.

“Every day?” I replied honestly.

Student X and I proceeded to discuss forgetfulness, time-management and some family issues.  He thanked me and told me he felt better.  So did I.  Student X might not be conjugating his verbs perfectly just yet, but he did share me with the fact that he couldn’t believe he was “actually interested in French again.”  I’ll take it.

Wow.  One quick 20-minute exchange magically made my day go from rock-bottom to actually pretty good.

Inspiration?  Check.  Every-day beauty?  Check. Just what I craved, searched for and found.  Now if only I felt like I had the faintest clue of how to teach reading comprehension…

Comme d’habitude, lesson plans, as yet created tests and troubled students keep me from writing as much as I’d like.

Luckily, encountering other people’s art makes you want to produce your own unique creation.  Twice in the past week, this has happened to me.

1. The first moment was when I listened to the Monsters of Folk album last Friday.  I cannot stop playing it every night while I attempt to unwind/plan/test-create all at the same time.  I really had almost finished my Spanish 3 test for tomorrow, but “Temazcal” made me stop and breathe.  The combination of lyrics, harmony and artistic collaboration fused to create a sense of peace.  Preterit verb endings and camping vocabulary had no place in the equation.

If you haven’t heard the song for yourself yet, listen up:

2. My other artful encounter was last weekend, when I went to see Where the wild things are. Take a peek:

Spike Jonze succeeds in re-creating the angst-filled childhood experience in this film.  Watching Max on screen as he struggles to express his emotions and find his niche is so moving.  Despite working with young people every day, I often lose sight of the fact that they are not yet commander of emotion manifestation.  Max serves as a sweet reminder that kids struggle to process those pesky feelings and then express them. Besides the poignant expression of childhood development and emotion, the set, costumes, music and acting combine to create a unique film (in my mind) worthy of watching again and again.

So, this maybe eloquent thank you note  serves as my own feeble attempt to throw something into that artistic pool of expression.  Thank you Monsters of folk.  Thank you Maurice Sendak.  And thanks Max.

I  lament on an (almost) hourly basis my severe disdain for technology, but every once and a while he (why did I just decide techonology is a boy and not a girl?) can be really great.  Although I recognize the inextricable couple that a blog and technology form, this does not mean that I foster an equally healthy relationship with:

My school’s “proxy server” (Whatever that means.  I just know it gives me problems.)

The copy machine closest to my classroom

The copy machine in the teacher’s lounge

The copy machine in the adminstration building.

Hmm…

Technology can be pervasive, and at times nail-bitingly, hair-pullingly, gnashing-of-teeth (ly?…doesn’t have the same ring there) frustrating, but at times I just LOVE it.   Read these couple vignettes and you’ll find out why.

I am sure you suffer the same problem as I: missing friends that no longer live in the vicinity.  My friends from college are some of the closest in the world, yet five years later we rarely find ourselves in the same location.  We all grow older and more disparate in a geographic sense, but this does not make it any less sad.  Imagine my amazement the day one of my dearest friends told me to enable the video on my G-chat and, presto!  I saw this friend’s face that I have not  been able to see in person for over two years.  What a treat that in spite of the sometimes oceans and always interstates separating us, we can still chat live and face to face when we so choose.

Another recent technology appreciation moment tickled me pink.  The day before yesterday, I had sent my mother some pretty pictures of fall.  She reciprocated later that day with some pretty images she had found online.  This is my favorite:

My old stomping ground

To you, this may be a nondescript street in any old European city.  (You’ll notice right away this is not at all a photo of Americana.  The street is too narrow.  The sidewalk poles don’t resemble ours.)  If you have read any other artsdevivre entries, I am sure you have surmised by now that this is an image of my home #2, Paris.  What tickles me so much is not that this is Paris, but that this is my teeny street.  Just one year ago, I was hurrying up and down this exact stretch of pavement, the sweet little Rue de picardie.  And Mom found this randomly in an image search online.  There’s a certain je ne sais quoi about being able to just happen on an image that speaks so clearly to your personal experience.   It enhances the sensation of somehow fitting into this crazy puzzle we are all a part of.

So no.  I do not always get along with technology.  I kind of look at in the same way I viewed my relationship with my two big brothers growing up: I undertand that I have to live with it, so I might as well appreciate what it has to offer.  And every once in a while, it’ll really surprise you and do something thoughtful.