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Mid-Week Mantra Eight: Color My World

2010-11-19T00:27:00Z

Ghostly mushrooms with thin stalks stand sentry on rotting logs as my husband and I dare to disturb the quiet with our footfalls. We hike at this nature preserve, complete with a pond and two waterfalls, frequently. We pass by the translucent white fungi, having not exchanged a word for the past half hour.

Approaching the pond, I scan for beavers. I've only seen a beaver here once, it's head much larger than I would have thought. He parted the waters from the neck up, carrying himself with great dignity, before disappearing into the murk below.

Once again, I'm disappointed; I haven't seen what I am looking for. Fall leaves crunch under our boots, and I shift my gaze from searching for beavers to admiring the mist hovering over the water. A black and white duck bobs on its surface and my mind takes flight. I imagine a world in which all is black and white.

Black waterfalls splashing over white rocks.

White banana slugs leaving a trail of black slime.

White cedars draped with black snow.

But, oh, how much I would miss the subtlety of green. The lime green moss. The hunter green of my husband's coat. And the oh-so-delicate-green of what looks like four-leaf-clovers floating on the pond's surface.

It's then that I notice a whole other reality.

A rend in the green floating on top of the pond reflects the trees and the sky. It's as if a whole forest grows beneath the water. The tree trunks appear to be shooting downwards, perched on top of canopies of green. While my husband turns back to the trail, I pause and reflect. Maybe it's not the sky mirrored in the pond, but the pond mirrored in the sky. We assume that we know which direction is up. How funny if we have it backwards.

These ruminations slip beneath my surface when my husband coughs, signaling me that it is time to return to the black and white earth beneath my feet.

Mid-Week Mantra Eight: I invite new thoughts into my world, eager to see where they take me.

Mid-Week Matra Seven: The Money Magnet

2010-11-08T21:07:00Z

I love garage sales. Over the years, I've found treasures on their way to the trash that I cherish: A set of eight highball glasses etched with a silver-plated "G." A cheerful vase with painted butterflies and ladybugs. A Queen of Hearts pin that I've fixed to my raincoat. When I see these things, it brings me a smile.

Much to my husband's consternation, I gain equal pleasure from holding garage sales. He doesn't understand the joy of waking up super early on a Saturday, stapling balloons and signs to major cross streets, and unpacking boxes of used items to display fetchingly on card tables. He hangs back while I talk to perfect strangers, telling them the story of that particular necklace, punch bowl, or gee-gaw.

My favorite buyers are the senior citizens, who engage at such a deep level, that a part of me just wants to tell them to cart it all for free. I wouldn't want to deprive them, however, of the fish tale they'll tell to their sibling or grown daughter of the one that didn't get away.

At last weekend's sale, an elderly gentleman held up a necklace with palsied hands. A disk of dusky orange carnellion swayed from his gnarled fingers. "How much?"

I knew that I'd paid around fifty dollars for the necklace, but when I saw that he was trying to hide the purchase from his wife, who stood admiring my old dishes, I said, "Five dollars."

"Four?" he asked. When his wife turned towards us, he shoved it into his pocket.

"Sold," I said.

"Honey," he said. "Come on over and meet this nice lady."

When she reached us, he pulled the carnellion necklace from his pocket and held it out to her. She beamed. I pointed out how the orange in the disc picked up the paisley in her blouse. I knew that if his hands could work the clasp, he would drape it around her neck, so I reached for it instead. She stood very still, head held high, while I adjusted it to fall perfectly.

"I know I'll wear it every day," she said.

When they left, I watched his old Buick bounce into the curb, then right itself down my street until they were gone. I dropped his crumpled bills into my cash box and stood considering the mound. There lay the ones I garnered from the lady who bought my daughter's Beanie Babies to give to her church group. They met monthly to pack stuffed animals into overnight bags for children who'd lost their homes. She almost cried when I sold them for only a dollar.

And then there was the quarter from a little boy who was spending his allowance on a doll for his mother.

The clouds gathered and a drop of rain hit my cash box. Time to fold my tent and count my take. I looked at that money and wondered how I would spend it. Usually, a spa treatment would appeal or copious amounts of sushi. But when I saw those old bills and shiny quarters, I knew I couldn't fete myself. Closing the lid, I vowed that I would give it all away--a dollar here, a five there--to new owners, where the true treasure would be the smile on a stranger's face.

Mid-Week Mantra: I am a money magnet and the more I share, the more I attract.

Mid-Week Mantra Six: What's Your Story?

2010-10-26T22:31:00Z

I stood outside one of two stalls in a cramped bathroom on campus, annoyed. My class began in ten minutes, and after the riot act I had read my students, they knew I placed timeliness high in the pantheon of good character traits.

"Come on already." I glanced at the student standing in line behind me to see if I'd actually said that out loud. She seemed lost in the world pounding through her headphones.

Five minutes later, I was wringing my hands to keep them from jiggling the handle. The door in front of me finally swung open, and a young Asian woman emerged.

"Hmph." I knew I'd muttered that out loud to punctuate my annoyance.

That's when I noticed the stump at the end of her wrist. I immediately stopped wringing my two perfectly good hands.

The woman began tapping the walls with her one functional hand, and I realized that in addition to missing part of a limb, she was also blind.

And here I'd been, sending her negative vibes from the other side of the door. What had seemed like selfish, bathroom-hogging behavior to me had probably been rather heroic on her part. It's hard to imagine doing something as simple as making a bathroom stop without a hand or vision. My being on time shriveled in importance before my own eyes.

I waved the student behind me into the open stall as part of my penance. For all I knew, she had been battered by her boyfriend. Or her father had cancer. Or, with that music turned up so loudly, she was partially deaf.

Everyone has their own stories. Why should mine take precedent?

Your mantra for the week is: I respect that everyone has a story, and mine is no more important than anyone else's.

Mid-Week Mantra Five: Neutral is the Devil

2010-10-22T00:20:00Z

I was having lunch with my new friend, Gayle, just over the border in B.C. Though it was only fifty degrees, give or take a degree, she suggested we sit outside on the restaurant's patio. I agreed, not wanting to seem like the wimpy American that I am. Though Gayle sported red fleece, I noted that the other Canadians on the porch looked comfortable in their shorts.

While I surreptitiously shivered over my pastrami sandwich, Gayle told me about a workshop she'd attended over the summer. "We talked about what makes us spiral up or spiral down," she said. She zipped her fleece jacket down in punctuation.

Hearing about spirals, a shape that a Detour Queen such as myself appreciates, reminded me of a conclusion I'd come to a while ago: There is no such thing as neutral. Neutral is an illusion; you are either on your way up or your way down. The best thing you can do about feeling neutral is be aware of it, then catch things before they head south. It's as if you're a pilot in an old war movie, screaming into the microphone, "May Day, May Day," while you wrestle the flaps upwards.

To head north, I suggest you quickly grab a book with an emphasis on the positive and shove as many sentences into your head as possible. Or jump in the car and head for the border, like I did, to spend some time with hearty, happy people such as Canadians. Or you can look to nature to inspire you. Just try and remain neutral when a squadron of geese flap in a V formation over your head, honking their brains out. There's something so loony about their call, that as they swerve south, it sends the corners of your mouth north.

Or, if it's a chilly day in October and your new friend makes you smile, even if your face freezes that way, give thanks for the uplift.

Your mantra for the week is: I notice when I'm neutral and course correct north before I head south.

Mid-Week Mantra Four: Embrace the Cyst

2010-10-13T23:50:00Z

Every Saturday I drag myself out of bed to join my 8:00 am walking group for a six-mile hike. Though my body protests, my soul insists it knows what's good for it. And it's always right.

This past Saturday, as we stood catching our breaths while gazing out at the lake, a little woman I hadn't met before told me, "I used to have what looked like a swollen cyst on the inside of my wrist." She held out her arm, pointing to the smooth flesh where the cyst must have been.

I had no idea why she was telling me this story, but I've learned that when people appear out of the blue, it's usually to deliver a lesson you need to learn. I adjusted my rain hat, preparing to hear what the cyst had to teach me.

"I went to the doctor," she said, "and he examined it. He said it wasn't cancer, or anything like that. So what was it, I asked him?"

The group turned to walk back to the trailhead, the little woman with them. "Wait, what was it?" I called after her.

She looked earnestly over her shoulder at me, "An imperfection. He said sometimes we just have to live with our imperfections."

Our mantra for the week is, "I embrace my imperfections because they are what make me, me."

Mid-Week Mantra Three: Hungry for Enough

2010-10-06T20:20:00Z

Every few months I choose a word to live my life by. As I flipped through the dictionary in my mind, the usual suspects presented themselves: joy, surrender, hope, persevere. None of them really spoke to me from the pages in my imagination. Annoyed with their silence, I sat at the breakfast table gazing at my Tuscan Melon, as if a word might spring forth from its flesh.

And one did: Enough.

I took a bite of melon and chewed over my new byword. What more in life did I need than this moment, this simple meal, and those whom I love and who love me? So much of life we spend striving for more. Like the Hungry Ghosts in Buddhism, we go through life with a terrible emptiness that nothing can truly fill. What if we faced life full?

There's something liberating about putting down the spoon and pushing away from the table before we become bloated and sluggish. And I'm not just talking about food.

So this week, say to yourself, "I have enough; I am enough," and let me know if that was enough.

Mid-Week Mantra Two: Be the Butterfly

2010-09-29T17:07:00Z

You've probably heard of the Butterfly Effect, that the flapping of one butterfly on one side of the world can impact the weather on the other side. What if our thoughts could have the same effect?

So I conducted an experiment from which I'll never know the results. I imagined a woman in Somalia who had just been beaten by an unknown man holding her at gunpoint. She's thin, she's sobbing. Her husband is dead; her children forced to watch the violence against her. I focused on her face, sending her hope from afar. You are not alone. You will have a better life. Be strong.

Did she look up at my imagined words? Is she still alive? All over the world, there are women--and men--who feel hopeless. Certainly we need to "do" something. In addition, I propose that we need to "think" something.

After all, who knows what humanity will understand in two hundred years about the power of our minds to bring about change. Back in 1972, when the physicist Edward Lorenz was stumped for a title to his speech in front of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Philip Merilees provided this title: "Does the Flap of a Butterfly's Wings in Brazil Set off a Tornado in Texas?" Chaos theory and Lorenz would say yes.

If everything is energy, on a subatomic level, how can thoughts be any different than beat of gossamer wings? We all know about the power of small changes. I propose, though I can't prove it, that a few words strung together might create the flap needed to save a life. The world is truly a mysterious place, and that's what gives me hope.

Your Mid-Week Mantra for the week is: "Let me be an instrument of hope for those who are hopeless."~Bliss Goldstein

And if you can imagine a stranger and send her a message on the wings of a butterfly, all the better.

Hello, Beautiful

2010-09-27T18:25:00Z

School started a few days ago. While my students wrote their first memo of the quarter, I slipped away to the restroom. As I trod down a flight of stairs and into the basement, my way lit by fluorescent lights that were sure to emphasize the hollows under my eyes and imperfections in my skin, my heart sank. Perhaps it would be safest to avoid eye contact with my reflection.

When I threw open the sticky door, I caught sight of my harried face in the mirror, then did a double take. Hanging over my head was a yellow stickee that said, "You're beautiful!"

I drew closer. In smaller print, it read, "Smile and the world smiles with you."

Of course, even though I was alone, I smiled.

So thank you to a stranger who spread joy in an unlikely place. I hope to some day soon return the favor. In fact, next time you're in a port-a-potty, if you spy a fluorescent stickee proclaiming, "Joy to the World!" you'll know the bliss bandit has struck.

And who her true identity is.

Mid-Week Mantra One: Open the Door

2010-09-22T18:30:00Z

Are you up for a year-long experiment that could increase your joy with minimal investment? How about a week?

Here's my proposition: Join me in the Mid-Week Mantra Experiment. Every Wednesday over the next year, I will post a short saying with the objective of magnetizing the right people, the right ideas, the right attitude into our world. My plan is twice a day, when waking up and when going to sleep, to say that week's mantra. For those of you resting next to significant others, it's your choice whether you utter your mantra out loud or silently.

And if that pattern doesn't attract you, you have lots of options. You might think about this week's mantra while brushing your teeth, taking a shower, changing the kitty litter, or anywhere else in your life you could make it a habit.

Feel free to draw others into our experiment to make the world a better place from the comfort of our own homes. I would love to hear what "happens" as a result of the Mid-Week Mantra. Does something shift, either internally or externally? Or does life just grind on with the only result being that you feel stupid whispering to yourself in the dark or with a mouthful of toothpaste? I want to know.

So that you know who said this week's mantra, I will post the author's name with the mantra, and ask that if you share, that you keep the attribution with the quote. Though most weeks the mantra will be authored by me, I do want to leave room for guest mantra mutterers.

Are you up for anything happening, including nothing? Then let's go! Your first Mid-Week Mantra is:

"I believe the right doors are opening for me and the key that opens them is showing up." ~ Bliss Goldstein

Hello, My Name Isn't...

2010-09-20T20:32:00Z

Last night I heard two fellows at a dinner party say with hubris, "Oh, I don't remember names." One person had introduced himself twice. The second time, he looked right through me to the bagels on the dining room table. Maybe he would have recalled who I was if I'd told him my middle name was Lox.

Shouldn't the name "Bliss" been enough to stick like schmeer in his brain?

I sat down with my sesame bagel, and after introducing myself, the young man next to me immediately declaimed, "I'm bad with names. I won't remember yours in 10 minutes."

A woman across the table pointed her knife at me and said, "Quick, what's her name?"

"Er, Gliss or Bliss," he said, "I'm hoping it's Gliss."

Great. Not only doesn't he care enough to make the effort to remember me, he's diss'd (gliss'd?) the Bliss.

So here's a shout-out from the woman with no name: When you don't make the effort to remember people and what they like to be called, you seem like a self-centered boor. And when you brag about it, what do you think that makes you?

I'd tell you, but I don't like name calling.

Life Is a Trip, Even When You Trip

2010-09-07T15:28:00Z

One of the best reasons to read travel essays is to visit somewhere without ever leaving home. One of the best reasons to read Judith Fein's new book, "Life Is a Trip: The transformative magic of travel," is to visit your own mind without having to pay a hundred bucks to a shrink. Never before have I read a book that so clearly connects the outer journey as the path to the inner way.

Each of Fein's essays led me away from Washington State into an exotic location, then back into my own brain...which turns out to be the most exotic location of all.

I gained so much insight from this book on how to use travel as a spiritual practice. Instead of focusing on the known tourist attractions, the author proposes that we go on a hunt for life events such as marriages and birth ceremonies. Only then, through sharing major life passages, can we really know a people.

Ms. Fein describes a funeral she attended in Mog Mog Micronesia during which the mourners share not only fond memories of the deceased, but their angers and regrets. She writes, "During a Mog Mog funeral, people are expected to air all of their feelings about the deceased person publicly, so the negative emotions don't fester...The bad feelings are expressed, rather than repressed, and then they are buried along with the body...And it is forbidden to bad-mouth the dead person once he is lying in his final resting place."

The Mog Mog funeral got me thinking: how often do we bury bad feelings and then they come back to haunt us? And, conversely, during those times we actually air our hurts and perceived slights, do we actually let them rest? If we don't, then they can become ghosts rising from the dead to torment us. The satisfaction in life seems directly correlated to how we handle our emotions, in particular, the less pleasant ones. Instead of wash, rinse, repeat, I propose feel, express, release. Then, and only then, can we skip the repeat cycle.

So here I sit in upstate Washington, after finishing Fein's book, having experienced a foot massage next to Communist party members in Vietnam, journaled with a poet living in a Mexican prison, and shaken a healing stick that was a Sorceress's in Mexico. Travel, whether I've left my couch or not, has become a prayer. And my life has become a trip to decorate the room inside my head with not only artifacts--move that pinata a little to the right, no the left--but with the bright lights of new ideas. May I always throw open the windows of my mind, even at my own funeral, and may I leave behind only love.

Well, mostly love. I wouldn't want to deprive my loved ones the opportunity to feel, express, and release, therefore burying any bad feelings alongside me. May that be my last kindness on earth.

Amen.

Whistle a Happy Tune

2010-08-30T20:39:00Z

Years ago, I won first place in the class science fair for talking to plants. Well, more specifically, for tracking the growth rates of two peas. Pea One received harsh treatment. Some days, I ignored her. Others, I let her know in no uncertain terms that her shade of green was oh-so-last-year and garish to boot.

Pea Two garnered only praise and sweet smiles.

By the end of thirty days, Pea Two had a right to preen. The other pea pod hung her head in shame over her brown spots.

I thought of my Tale of Two Peas this morning while examining the zucchini in my garden. I've never grown zucchini before. I stood in front of the pinkie-sized veggies and whispered, "You are beautiful. Thank you for blossoming in my garden." Then I stole a glance at the neighbors. I didn't want them to feel compelled to protect the tender ears of their six-year-old.

Another neighbor spied me, instead, and strolled across the street. "What are you doing?"

Before I could remind myself that it's not socially acceptable behavior to chat with the flora, I blurted out the truth. I braced myself for her ridicule. Instead she looked thoughtful.

"Have you tried singing to them?" she said.

"No."

My very solid neighbor tilted her head. "Doesn't everyone like to be sung to?" She then headed off to make breakfast.

I stood there contemplating whether I'd have the courage to sing out loud, even if it was just for an audience of veggies. And what does one sing at the garden gate? Country music? A trilling aria? Certainly not heavy metal. Perhaps best would be a lullaby, something along the lines of "You Are My Sunshine."

I haven't tried singing to my vegetables, yet, but if I do, I'll let you know if they won first place at the County Fair. At the very least, there's a lot to be said for starting out the day singing a happy tune.

Book Recommendation and a Detoured Explanation

2010-08-10T20:31:00Z

Just finished reading Rapt: Attention and the Focused Life by Winifred Gallagher. It's a fascinating book about the power of our minds to create our reality, or at least our perception of reality. In it, Ms. Gallagher writes about how happy, inventive people "maintain a wide-angle perspective on life that ensures that they will...'be surprised by something every day.'"

I was thinking about this key to happiness on my walk this morning. Instead of taking Jake, my Jack Russell Terrier, the same direction as usual, I opted to stroll him into the woods that border the lake. Together we stood at the water's edge meditating on a flock of geese and the early return of fall. Well, that's what I was thinking. Jake's sniffing the air probably had more to do with visions of chasing birds than mediating on them.

It wasn't until we turned to tramp home a new way, that a thought hit me: I'd just written a book about the importance of taking detours. And what is a detour but a way to surprise yourself?

No wonder I'm basically a happy person. Guess I was doomed to having a name like Bliss.

I Am My Sister's Keeper

2010-07-12T19:52:00Z

You can find a life philosophy anywhere. I found one in line at Trader Joe's behind a well-dressed woman with a bulging shopping cart.

I stood behind her with my one jar of pineapple salsa, looking woebegone. I gazed at my one item, then at her mountain of quasi-gourmet goodies, then at my jar again. She looked oblivious. I thought about saying, "Excuse me, but would you mind if I slipped in front of you? I just have one item and can pay cash."

Well, actually, I thought about saying, "Didn't your momma teach you better?" but that would have not been in the spirit of doing the right thing.

The next day, I'm picking up fresh fish at Haggens. I grocery shop most days, so standing in line I usually have time to ponder the mysteries of the universe, such as, "Is Copper River Salmon for $27.99 a pound truly better, or is it a big marketing hype?"

Yet again, I'm behind a bulging cart with a couple of items in my hand. To distract myself, I consider reading whether the Bachelorette is a good girl or a good-time girl. I almost miss hearing, "Why don't you go ahead of me?" When I slide in front of my beneficent stranger, I share my Trader Joe's experience from the day before. She responds, "I don't understand passing up the opportunity to do a good deed."

"Me, either," I say.

On the way to the parking lot, I spot an elderly woman wrestling her groceries into her car, while trying to hold on to her shopping cart. I grab the cart from her, and she seems startled.

"I can drop it off in the rack," I say, adding to help her keep face, "it's on my way."

She nods her gratitude. While shoving her cart down the designated slot, it gives me a chance to think. How many people would have passed her by, without a second glance? How many people would have seen her challenges and thought, "I'm not my brother's keeper. I'm in a hurry." Would I have been so emboldened, if I hadn't just been on the receiving end of a kind deed?

My prayer is simple. "I hope so." After all, if we aren't here to take care of each other, then what's the point?

I really want to know.

Barbie Bliss

2010-05-24T18:26:00Z

Just heard the amazing Alice Acheson--publicity maven--speak about what authors can do to market their books. Alice suggested that we writers have 12 types of publicity at our disposal, and it would behoove us to go down multiple paths. Now I wish that I could clone myself like Barbie.

"Here's Speaking Bliss, podium and microphone not included. Interview Bliss will talk at the simple pull of the string at her back. And, of course, there's Writing Bliss. Yes, she has dark circles under her eyes and hunched posture from banging on her keyboard, but she's on sale this month! Magic circle eraser available this summer."

Then there's Real Bliss. She's the one trying to figure out why her dog insists on leaving neon "gifts" in her office, how summer always happens before she's ready to expose winter white flesh, and which of her many projects to write next.

The Oprah Meditation

2010-05-18T21:31:00Z

Ask yourself, "What touches me?" and you have the heart of meditation. For some people, that's their children. Others, it's a cat who sleeps on their chest. There are even some known to shed a tear at NASCAR.

For me, it's a certain Oprah Moment.

I'm taken with the fact that I can hear stories of children being forced to sit on the stairs for hours without anything to eat or natural disaster victims and their pets and not well up. Of course, I feel compassion, but that's not what opens me to the moment. Instead, it's the foster parents who give the stair sitters a new home. The foster mother perches on Oprah's couch with crumpled kleenex and describes the moment at church when she whispered to one of her new sons, "Look around this church. No one's been through what you've been through." My eyes fill, not at the sentiment, or with the sight of that one tear sliding down her cheek, but at the basic underlying goodness of everyday people.

These people touch my core. As does the neighbor who keeps the flood victim's dog found floating on top of his doghouse. We viewers know that the owner's dog has drowned. I cry, not for victim or for the dog--though I'm obsessed with my Jack Russell--but for the decency of a simple neighbor doing a simple good deed.

When others rise to the clarion call of angels, I am filled with the sound through their ears and consider myself blessed.

What Our Daughters Can Teach Us

2010-05-04T18:40:00Z

Moms wear a lot of hats: van driver, boo-boo kisser, and grammarian, to name a few. My favorite chapeau is a beaten-up felt number the color of the ant hill my son kicked over at six, just before whipping out his magnifying glass to direct the sun. That lecture about caring for all God's creatures, big and small, had me snugging my teaching hat closer to my head.

So with years of teaching under my belt, both inside and outside the classroom, it came as a bit of a shock to me that our children have something to teach us. Wasn't mothering a one-way street all the way down from Mt. Olympus?

In particular, I've learned to pay close attention to those girls who come behind us. My daughter has taught me a thing or two about how to update my look. If it hadn't been for her, I'd still be wearing my husband's black gym socks--fetchingly pushed down to around my shins--on my date with the treadmill. I hadn't noticed that over the past twenty years styles in sock wear had evolved. Now I sport foot coverings in pinks and reds that hit the sweet spot right above my ankle, not, God forbid, right below it.

But it's not just fashion that our daughters have to teach us; it's bigger than that. A few months ago our daughter's friend, Jenny, was over. She loves my Southern-style macaroni and cheese, and if she plays her cards right, I just might show her how to make it. (I know, I know, there I go teaching again.) Just us girls were sitting around, chatting, and the subject of someone else's bad behavior came up. Jenny sighed and said, "That's just not the decent thing to do."

Decent? Decent? On the blackboard of my life, my daughter's friend had just scrawled a new vocabulary word for me. That wasn't a word we used growing up, and not one I'd particularly pulled out during teachable moments as an adult. Though I had raised my children to do the right thing, be good, etc., etc., it didn't occur to me to use the "D" word.

As the word came out of Jenny's mouth, I liked the old-fashioned sense of it. I rolled it around in my mind, the "D" firm, while the following syllable seemed quieter, blanketing the "D" with kindness. "Do the right thing" could start wars. "Be good" waggles its finger promising punishment if not followed to the letter of the law. "Choose decency" calls out for a basic underlying humanity towards all God's creatures, big and small.

When the school bell of life rings, I look forward to seeing what else I can learn from the young women approaching the front of the room. And, if I should ever have grandchildren, many years from now, and one of them kicks over an ant hill, I'll make sure to tell him or her, "That's just not the decent thing to do."

A Mother's Wedding Dilemma

2010-04-27T22:00:00Z

Check out an essay I had published on the wonderful website Your Life Is a Trip. What's a mother to wear?

http://www.yourlifeisatrip.com/home/dressing-for-a-jerusalem-wedding.html

Everything's a Blessing

2010-03-30T22:53:00Z

My husband and I sat in the fake leather booth, awaiting our server. March was my birthday month and the free birthday buffet beckoned. Would I shovel the stuffed cod onto my plate or the penne pasta? As long as it was white--there were always the mashed potatoes to consider--I didn't care.

A slender young woman in a waitress's uniform headed our way. I smiled, then bent my head over the dessert menu. Best to be prepared for when the time came. Since the dessert was included in the buffet, I wondered if I would be allowed to give my husband a few bites, or if some free buffet alarm would sound and I'd be dragged away to penne prison.

"You have braces," said a surprised voice.

At the same time I said, "Unfortunately," the waitress said, "You're so lucky!"

I looked up from my menu into an unlined face full of yearning. She met my eyes and when her lips parted in a smile, I saw the wreckage in her mouth. The upper row of her front teeth was divided in half. One half stood normally, while the other half pushed back into a row behind where they should have been. The effect was that of sliding doors where one door had slid off its track.

"I won't be able to afford them until I'm like thirty," she said. She looked sad, then brightened. "But at least you get to be like a kid, then, right?"

Her words were hard to understand, probably due to her malformed jaw, but her attitude wasn't. What I had seen as a burden, she had seen as a blessing. How old would I have to be before I really got that everything--and everybody--is our teacher?

In the end, I had the cod and a few spears of penne. It was my birthday month, after all. And of course we left the waitress a big tip, especially when she brought my Paradise Lemon Cake and said with a wink, "It's your birthday and you can share it with whoever you want."

I'm just glad she shared her sweet attitude with me.

Fingernail Polish Revisited or Ten Ways to Express Yourself

2010-03-13T20:16:00Z

You can tell a tree’s age by cutting it down and counting its rings. Counting the rings on a woman won’t tell you as much, but taking a look at old photographs and checking out the length of her nails will. If they exceed half an inch, then most likely she owns nail polish whose color has gone in and out and in and out of style.

In the seventies, I wore my nails short, not because of any sense of fashion, but because I gnawed them off. To compensate for my blunt fingertips, I brushed on the oh-so-popular white metallic polish. The popular girls still snubbed me because they flaunted white metallic lipstick as well, and I wasn’t allowed to wear any.

In the eighties, my nails started to grow, but these were the greed-is-good years and I had something to prove in the male-oriented professions to which I gravitated. No polish. Modest length nails.

In the nineties, my nails grew to match my expanding shoulder pads. A professional woman without long, colorful nails was like a peacock without feathers. As mine wouldn’t grow long enough, I visited the manicurist weekly so she could cement acrylic ones into place. I was constantly popping them off and finding them in the soup pot, under the couch, or on the driveway.

In the oh-oh’s, I returned to nature. The acrylics were a thing of the past. My nails were a good length to teach in a classroom with authority, the polish pale, so as to keep the student’s attention on what I was pointing at on the chalkboard and not the pointer.

Now we’re in the new decade and I just cut my nails, filed them to a sexy half-moon shape and stroked on a deep purple color. I’m glad I’ve found a way to express myself that doesn’t require anything to be pierced or tattooed. And that I feel free from caring what others think about what I do to my body.

My fingers, like lacquered hand puppets, say, “I’m old enough to know what I want and young enough to go for it.”

I’m like a tree in fall, with Passion-in-Paris-Purple leaves.