Being thankful

I woke up early this morning in the silence of the house, and the first thing that popped into my head was all of us sitting around the table at the Farm on Thanksgiving day, plates heaping with food, each of us saying what we are thankful for, my response almost always, 'the mash potatoes', something that started off as earnest, then cliche over the years. As the senses became more aware, I remembered the smell of Thanksgiving day: 

My dad in his workout clothes, sweaty, gathering up a gang to play a game of touch football; body odor mixed with beer (now weirdly not unpleasant) off my brothers and cousins from the night before, the Sobilo California smell mixed with the East coast; Sharon and Grammy Owl don't have their own smells this day - they are the turkey, the gravy, the food; Lindsey taking on the smells of wherever she lingers, and yet, as she gets older, there is her own smell, reminds me of strawberry lip gloss. In the background of it all, the turkey mixed with mud from someone somewhere coming in from the outside world (maybe even to walk the many dogs roaming around the place). That familiarity, my family, smells of warm chaos.

Since Monday, I have been trying to write this blog on being thankful, and up until now, I haven't been able to settle my mind enough on the topic to actually do it justice. Sitting here now in the quiet, I am processing the very 'fullness' of my life, moving at a pace that is fast, but directed, shifting, but focused, exhausting and wonderful.

Amelia and I have been talking about what it means to be thankful. Down to the very core of me, I am thankful for her presence, her spirit that is a true mingling of the very best of the widest net of family that I have ever seen. She is one of those rare persons who lights up every room that she walks into, makes every person who meets her feel happy, and with me, she nestles in and recharges. That more than anything else will be my role as her mother - to be like a power cord.

Yesterday on the way into work, there was a bad crash. Watching the ambulance race to and from the scene, this wave of vulnerability rolled through me, feeling a sadness for that family's Thanksgiving, and this very strong desire to do something physical. Despite the delayed start, I went for a run, short, fast, around Mountain View, the quiet of the early morning. Anyone who runs knows that feeling of sprinting in cold weather; that painful feeling in the lungs that is strangely pleasant. I am thankful for the joy of running, something that has been with me for so long, keeping me strangely grounded and free at the same time. 

The days in work are fast, very, and I know I am making progress, even if just baby steps, as I find myself renegotiating the priorities of the work. Vinny arrived on Monday, and we have had lots of talks about the change, himself curious about the differences between the old and the new. And it has been reaffirming, the comparison, of the choice that I made. The people in both places are similar, smart, easy, the culture mostly void of airs and graces, and they work hard. But the pace of work is different, one being like a roller coaster with peaks and troughs, the other a high-speed train, the trick being to get off at the right stop each day. I am grateful for this new opportunity; the train suits me better than the roller coaster.

Padhraic has been pushing towards a tough deadline these past couple of months. He is very good about making time for Amelia each and every day, but there isn't much time outside of that. He is at the top of the roller coaster, stuck at the part going 'click, click, click'. Soon he is going to come crashing down, then things will level out, and we will have a chance to spend some time together, doing what we love best, the normal stuff, going for a walk with Amelia, maybe to the park, making a nice dinner, watching a movie on the couch. I am grateful for a partner who works as hard as me; for a marriage that is based on the beauty of the best parts of normal life.

It is 9AM and everyone is still asleep, but it can't be for long and I genuinely need to get cooking. I am hopeful for a day full of friends, food, new smells, a run, and those little moments of Amelia snuggling in for a quick boost of energy, Padhraic sitting on the couch with a cold beer, feet up and without his phone, me doing what I love best, taking in the energy of the world that surrounds me and processing it into memories for the years to come. 

Much love to family, friends, and co-workers (old and new).

All Hallow's Eve

This morning Amelia woke up very early, very excited, talking of monsters and pumpkins. Her eyes lit up when she saw the huge bowl of candy sitting on the table. She asked for a piece, calmly, and didn't seem to mind when we explained to her that it was for tonight, later, when the tricker treaters came to the house in their costumes.

We had a group hug and I headed out for the early bus. As I walked, I tried to think of a good opening for this week's blog. Originally, I had planned to write about how I wasn't superwoman, how this weekend I made a decision not to run the Healdsburg half-marathon, how I spent the weekend catching up on sleep and much needed family time instead.

And then a memory that use to be very painful came back to me, filling me with this amazing sense of calm. A long time ago. I was back east for Christmas and could only make a short dinner visit. On the drive over, I pulled over to throw-up. By the time I got to the house, I was sweating, and aching all over.

She took my temperature - it was 101 and climbing. I tried to brush it of, I would be fine, it was just a cold, I could only stay for a short time, and then I had to meet my other obligations. She insisted that I stay, lay down on her lap, and rest for awhile. After an hour of absolute comfort, I got up to go and the tears streamed down my face (the fever was high). I really did not want to leave.

She picked up the phone and rang my dad's house and I could hear her say that though I was stubborn and heading for the door, she was not going to let me go. My fever was over 102 now, and I had been vomiting. I needed to rest. Her voice was strong, authoritative. She was insisting that she knew what was best for me, that someone had to look out for me, because I was always looking out for everyone else.

That night, she put me to bed, the green room. She sang me to sleep like she did so many times when I was a child. In the morning, she made me pancakes. This is my last living memory of her. But every year, around this time, she and Pop-pop are with all of us. They are the spirit of Halloween. My sister and I talk about it sometimes, their overwhelming presence at this time.

When I go back to that space, the memories are crystal clear. I know this because I experience them with all my senses. I remember a line of kids that wrapped around the corner, waiting to meet the Doc and get their candy. We would run in and out of the door, taking in their building excitement, knowing how their eyes would light up. The air always smelled like cold chocolate outside and warm licorice inside.

That low table in the living room covered in small wicker baskets, each one packed high with full-sized candy bars, full packs of gum, and a basket of special treats that Pop-pop kept close at hand for the little ones with magic in their eyes. She would make a big-fuss, and he would wink and the parents as he gave the little one exactly what they imagined would be at the end of waiting.

We would eat candy, as much as we could possibly consume, no dinner, just candy. We would stay up late with our friends laughing so hard with sugar-highs, that a couple of times, one of us actually peed our pants.


I often wish there was some way to share the magic of Park Place with Amelia, that absolute feeling of happy-tired after a full day at the beach, swallowing so much sea water that your breath is short and shallow, that lazy Saturday morning cartoons and the biggest buttermilk pancakes that you have ever laid your eyes on, Stephen's Day (the day after Christmas), stealing a sip of champagne, cucumbers and Russian dressing, and a room full of toys and clothes and sweets. 


All Hallow's Eve, cold, crisp night, when the whole town knows just what it means to be a part of that magical Park Place. That night when we were famous because we didn't have to wait in that line around the block - we could come and go as we pleased, having access to spaces that no one else could enter, but everyone assumed was full of even more magic...


And they were right.  

The adventures of Nemo

All week I have felt like this small, little determined fish in the great big sea.

Monday I left the safety of the reef and made my own way down to orientation. I gave myself plenty of time assuming traffic would be bad. It was much worse than expected, so instead of arriving thirty minutes early, I was right on time and desperately needing to pee. I asked if I could sneak out before everything started and they told me to wait... and wait... and wait. Twenty minutes into it, a very nice woman said that I could go ahead, it was taking longer than expected to start up the intake process.

The first day kind of reminds me of that part in Nemo where Marlin is swimming around trying to figure out where to go. Come to think of it, there are lots of parts of the week when I am swimming around trying to figure out where to go. It's a big ocean. There was the usual orientation for contractors. Pretty straight-forward, get your stuff and get ready to move, fast. I made my way to my new building and met a co-worker who brought me to all the important stops in the building, fast, no chat, just here is this and here is that. Deadlines and annual review time. And she knew that we were going to lunch, which would be when we could relax a little.

The ocean is that way. There are designated times and spaces where it is OK to relax a bit and let your guard down.

The team went to lunch in one of the many cafes and then it was back to the desk to try and absorb all that is new around me. I had some green-behind-the-ears moments on the first day. Couldn't get into the wifi and couldn't find any outlets around my desk. Went to tech stop to sort out wifi - they couldn't figure it out. Raised a ticket to get a socket and connection point for an ethernet cable. On the start of my second day, realized that my backpack was blocking the outlets for my desk - and despite looking everywhere, it never occurred to me to move my bag. Also, in accessing wifi, I was entering the wrong security codes - it was my own human error. So I added a comment apologizing in a self-deprecating way. Something tells me that doesn't happen too often in the ticket tracking system.

Day two, facing one security wall after another, my manager, a warm woman with lots of experience, reached out to a friend to see if he could help. He suggested I come find him in the fish bowl. Having seen random fish around the place, I was looking for an actual fish bowl. Turns out it was just the nickname of the room where he and a group of writers work (these guys are amazing, seriously). He introduced me to this very cool woman. I hesitate to call her Dory, as she is incredibly smart. But she is Dory in the way that she is kind and so very open to helping you get to where you need to go. I left work on day two still feeling like a small fish in the big sea, but not so alone anymore.

Day three, an opportunity to do real work, a chance to show that I am pretty good at this writing stuff. I decided to bring myself to the giant blue fish upstairs (I am not speaking metaphorically here). I spent a few hours working away in the body of a big blue fish with a big red bed. The work felt good. And there is something about my experience that is very different to the world here that might add a tiny bit of unexpected value. It is still early and I am humble. But I see a glimmer of hope. I am a pretty good writer.

Day four was a somber day. Steve passed away and there are lots of people around me who are genuinely sad. You cannot help but feel it, the loss of someone so great who has touched so many lives. That very sacredness of striving for excellence no matter what - a complete denial of the politics that normally dictates the pace of the corporate world, a true creator... I continued to make baby-steps towards real productivity. And I started to get a feel for the varying people on the teams that I will be working with. It is going to be very important for me to show people what it is that I am good at, but I need to do it in a way that is subtle, non-invasive. It will happen. One day soon. But I can't push too hard. It doesn't feel right. I need to make some significant strides on my own, kind of like Nemo swimming up the filter. At the end of day four, I got an email from 'Dory' - she sent it to all the new writers - a chance to earn my first tee shirt. I ran out of the office over to one of the cafes, participated in an experiment, and went home chuffed about my new shirt.

Each morning and night, I have been joking with the bus drivers - nice guys who have helped me out. And I couldn't help but notice that people don't talk to the bus drivers and not many people actually talk to each other, even just a polite smile and hi is a rarity. Then last night its like all my preconceptions came tumbling down. I turned to the person I was sitting next to and asked him a unix question and wound up talking the rest of the way home about his mad job (he spent the weekend in promotions with a famous enough rock band). As I got off the bus and said my usual good night to the bus driver,  all the other people getting off said good night to the driver too. I realized that even though I am a little fish, I am making an impact.

This morning, I decided to wear my running gear on the bus, thinking I might be able to sneak in a run before the morning started. And I started to notice around me that lots and lots of people were wearing work-out clothes. As I got off the bus, I waved to the bus driver, and he beeped and smiled. I dropped off my bag at my desk and headed off for a run on this glorious Fall morning in sunny California. So many people running and waving and smiling. Friday is like a different ocean all together here. Heading up to my desk afterwards, there was a coffee station set up with fresh blueberry cake and decent music playing.

I grabbed my Odwalla and headed up to my desk feeling pretty darn Googley.

Stream of consciousness farewell

After 11 years, I am leaving my first real job, and I can't help but reflect on the amazing ride that it has been. I genuinely believe in the importance of capturing these reflections in writing so that some day when I am much older and the memory isn't as good as it use to be, I can revisit that younger self. But I also want to make sure that I am abiding by the blogging code of honor for these types of topics. So I have decided to attempt to write my farewell using one of my favorite writing techniques - stream-of-consciousness. Most of you won't have a clue what I am talking about, some of you might recognize bits and pieces, and a small handful of you will know it all, as we shared this time together.

Raining. Presenting my papers for the first time - excited to see him at the gate. Joking with the immigration guard-- 'Why would you ever want to move here, ah, for love, except for love.' Everything I own in bags and boxes strewn across the airport floor, trying to find his number written on one of the many pieces of paper in the folder with all that other important stuff. I need to get more organized. I have no change, so I am going to have to dial collect. But I haven't a clue how to dial collect here. The phone is ringing but no one answers. The taxi driver isn't very pleased with all my bags. He drives me to the address, and I get in the gate and tell him to leave me at the door to the apartment building. And I ring the bell. Over and over again. Finally he comes down, hung-over, half-awake. He forgot to pick me up. He forgot I was moving to Ireland.

First day in the office. The business park is under construction. The building is cold. No one is here except the guy in ICT. He is laying cables and he shows me a desk where I can sit. There is no phone, no computer, no people. Printed documents for me to read, a few screen-shots printed out in black-and-white. I am the first one to work in the new office block. The phone comes first, then a machine, the network, and slowly more people start to populate the desks. The team arrives, only they aren't going to be my team. I am being moved off the marketing team, heading upstairs to engineering. And I take a seat next to my boss. He is most people's boss. There are lots and lots of people around all the time. 

The first job is to write a suite of user guides. I am the first person to press every button, link to every page, try and complete every single business process all within a short period of time. I have lots of questions, I am gaining confidence, raising bugs, wanting to do more and more. I am driving him nuts, in a good way, I hope. Most nights I go home lonely though, to a wet, cold, dirty Dublin flat. After weeks of watching them get off the bus and go for pints, arriving in the next day with hang-overs, I finally get the courage to ask if I can join them. And so life in Ireland begins. I become the editor of the company newsletter. I know everyone and everyone knows me. I know what is going on, and people come to me for knowledge, gossip, support.

The company reaches out to NYC in their time of need. I am writing about unimaginable things. We believe in something. And we start to work long hours. All of us. A make-shift golf-course is built behind my desk. For weeks, he tried to get a ball in the hole and failed - I could not contain myself, knowing that they put magnets in his ball. Finally he catches on to my bright red face. 

I am no longer alone. I have a peer who is with me for the long haul. The team continues to grow. I have a mortgage. I make lists and I check off every item on every one of them. I am torn between the two worlds of wanting to know how stuff works and wanting the team to be successful, to represent something that is more than just the words we put to paper. For the most part, we are successful, but we do have a hard release that teaches us some very important lessons, like never stay in the office all-night. Sneak out even if it is just for a short-while, long enough to take a shower, change clothes, brush the teeth. I am running all the time, fast, far. The head is clear as I face the next adventure.

I am married now and we are trying to buy a house, which isn't easy. I am trying to embrace the notion of raising a family here while never truly being Irish. Friends move on, far away, peers are dispersed, and I take on a new job, working with the best team that may ever cross my path. We challenge each other, we respect each other, we get stuff done fast and to a high standard. We are all friends. This is our life. We don't want much else beyond the work and the occasional night of free beer. 

I am asked to leave the team that I love and rebuild. It is hard to leave that which is all I ever wanted in a career. But I do. I want to share this with the peers that got lost in translation. I am studying, I am pregnant, I am sick, I am a mom, I am finished the dissertation and back to work. Things have changed in my absence. No one writes the newsletter anymore. Childcare isn't great and it is incredibly hard to leave her each day. But I am determined to make it work, to get my mojo back. We are trying to decide whether or not to move to California. 

We move to Noe Valley, so different than we remember it - all of us are grown now, lots of kids and dogs. It takes just over a month, but we start to settle in, a new house, a great daycare, old friendships renewed, and new ones on the horizon. The sun is shining and it looks like things just might settle into a rhythm. The job changes. And I am trying to embrace the freedoms that less responsibility affords me. But it isn't in me. My daughter is thriving, and I want to be that mom who is comfortable in my skin, which means I need to find that spark again. 

I think I know how to get it back, and I begin to work hard to make it happen. Someone whom I admire takes me under his wing and gives me something to get stuck into. I am studying, negotiating, running, working out solutions from as many angles as possible, never closing any door that might just be the right one. A new door opens a little bit, and I decide to stick my foot in it. I am nervous about leaving that familiar space for something so completely unknown, but I like the way it makes me feel, to be new among a settled group, to know nothing among some of the cleverest peers.

This week is quiet-- a few quiet emails from people wishing me the best of luck, some harder ones from those who are like family. I have teared up a couple of times, and felt unsure as to whether or not that is OK, to be sad saying goodbye, and yet completely incapable of separating the personal from the professional in so many instances of the past 11 years. I am nervous about the unfamiliar. Will I be as known as I have been; will I be as able? Will there be a clearer line between work and home, or will those lines become blurred again as I will love what I do so much that I will need to merge the two together? Will I have a golf-course behind my desk?

I'm bringing sexy back...

On Sunday, I ran for 60-minutes, which I havent' done in a very long time. And at some point along the run, with the sun shining over the bay, thousands of people noticing each other and their surroundings on the day that was in it, I started thinking about this week's blog, and I how I wanted very much to write something that wasn't heavy - I wanted to have fun with it.

And I remembered back in the day, being editor of the engineering newsletter, every Friday chasing up team leads for the weekly news, interviewing one or two people offsite, working on customer projects. There was something very comforting in liasing across groups, doing my utmost to convince the least interested that they could get something out of partcipating in this space. Each week, I would write an intro and most weeks I would find something funny, a picture, a story, something I wrote myself. My style back then was as I am when you meet me - babbling, warm, sometimes surprising people with a darker side of humor.

In direct contrast to my writing style as newsletter editor, most of my blog entries (if not all of them) are heavy going. One of the things that keeps me writing each week is that the blog allows me to work out the bits and pieces swimming in my head so that I am freerer and more relaxed in my daily life. Looking back across the lifespace of the blog, I have to admit to myself that if I read my blog, I am not sure I would want to meet me. I'd seem far too serious about life. As the blog evolves, I want my readers to know that side of self that is much lighter.

Running towards the Golden Gate, determined to touch the bridge before I turned back, I thought about how very much I wanted to shed the extra weight that I am carrying, both physically and metaphorically. As I touched the red iron and made my decent back towards Chrissy Fields, Timberlakes, "I'm bringing sexy back" started playing. My stride seemed to take on this little wiggle that could only be a disturbing sight for the hundreds of tourists around me...

But I couldn't help it, things are in motion now, change is happening, and I am seeing things in a brighter shade of grey.

On collaboration

This is the first time that I have decided to blog about politics. I have friends and family who fall on all sides of the political spectrum, from tea party goers (my step-grandparents), to independents (my mother), true Democrats (my sister), true Republicans (child friend, Tara), to the farthest left that is possible (my father).

When I listen to my friends and family talk about their positions, I see logic from all sides. And I immediately want to bridge the gaps between the differing viewpoints that I am experiencing.

What I am struggling with right now is that we seem to have reached an impasse in our society where we are no longer able to hear each other - we are no longer willing to embrace the very grey nature of humanness, that there isn't one right or one wrong, but that true Democracy is born out of checks and balances.

Yes, I am naturally a liberal at heart, but that hasn't had a negative effect on my relationship with any of the friends and family who fall on different sides of the political spectrum. We can openly engage with each other, and though sometimes I am angry and find myself feeling as if the ability to bridge our ideas is hopeless, we eventually get there.

There is a reason for this - when I talk to family and friends, we are interested in collaborating with each other - we care and respect each other. We want to find a common ground despite our different viewpoints. And when we do, in our conversations, in our lifestyle choices, it is the best mix of all worlds.

I truly believe that the key to fixing the stalemate that we seem to have reached in our society is for each and every one of us to embrace the principles of collaboration. Before I start listing these, I want to persuade my critics. There are lots of people out there who see the concept of 'collaboration' as wishy-washy, as a fizzled attempt to real action. 

Recently, there has been a debate in the technology sphere about the importance of fostering a 'decider' driven culture (Apple) versus a 'collaborative' culture (Google)-- thanks, Gina, for giving us bloggers a forum for this conversation (http://smarterware.org/8484/design-by-visionary-vs-crowd). Though I am collaborator at heart, I can still see the very real benefit of having people in positions of power capable of making important decisions and seeing them through. 

If we are to take the technology stage as a potential metaphor for society, then it is very easy to see that both Apple and Google make amazing products and are very successful in their industries, and they are achieving this success taking different approaches to innovation and implementation.

Let us imagine for a brief moment that Apple and Google decided to merge together, and create some very important product(s) that would solve some very important problems. What would happen in this endeavor? Would there be a stalemate, much like there is in this government? Or, perhaps, would the two companies be able to create something amazing?

I would like to believe in my heart that the best of Apple (including Steve for as much as he is able) and the best of Google would be able to sit in a room with the biggest white board of all time and start hashing out some very real solutions to those very real problems. And at the end of that mythical meeting, there would be a list of actions that could be targeted, along with the ones that were pie-in-the-sky, and the ones that were going to take too long to be worth the investment, but might be worth considering once the seriousness of the problem was downgraded. 

Last night Padhraic and I watched the Inside Story and we both went to bed feeling this very icky yucky feeling - and I haven't been able to let go of this feeling inside myself that it is time for the country to stop bowing down to the financial industry and start looking toward companies that make real products. While I can respect lots and lots of people who would say that corporations like Apple and Google are big and have their faults, no one can say that providing real product is the same thing as the mythical institutions that have become our banking and political systems.

Returning to the topic of this blog, I did a very quick 'Google' search on the 'principles of collaboration' and found a NASA document on the 'principles and best practices' of collaboration (http://ldp.nasa.gov/collab_handbook.pdf) that is fairly straightforward. In my own circle of family and friends, here is the very basic list of ingredients that have been fundamental to collaboration:

• Listen to what other people have to say and if you don't understand, ask for a simple analogy. 
• In turn, when you talk about your own viewpoint, give analogies that match others who are listening.
• Be strong in your convictions, but warm in your demeanor. The best way to do this is self-deprecation - admit mistakes and what these have taught you along the way.
• Appreciate the success or common sense of differing viewpoints.
• Never lose your sense of humor.
• Walk into collaboration with an acceptance of compromise.
• Finally, be aware of non-collaborative situations and politely disengage

I want to talk a little bit about the last bullet. I have reached this point a couple of times in my life, and it really and truly sucks. But I can also say that with time, when you choose to politely disengage (rather than fist it out), eventually, the environment becomes collaborative again, because it is what it is - we are social beings. The worst thing we can do when things are at a standstill is force the issue.

Are we truly at this point, where collaboration is not possible? Would it be better to disengage for a bit, and see what happens? Can we regroup? What does this mean on a global scale?  I'm nervous about this, and think it might be a better idea to get the tech execs in a room with a whiteboard to try and solve the political problems with technological solutions rather than completely disengage.

A sign of aging

For most generations, there has been a technology cut-off point at which time a person decides they are no longer interested or willing to take on the latest and greatest; simply put - they are happier with what they know than having to approach the learning curve and replace existing machinery. For example, my mom does not send emails. My parents-in-law have never used their DVD player.

There are always exceptions - people who are happier to learn new things rather than hold on to the comfort of what they know and are familiar with. I had always assumed that I was one of these people - I would happily adapt to life as it came at me, exploring all the great new things that are invented over the years.

There have been a few instances over the past few years in which I have not bought into the hype of certain technological advancements. For example, I never liked Facebook. I felt like it represented all the worst parts of junior high. I reluctantly used it when my husband set up an account for our daughter, and posted all our pictures there. And while I can appreciate the significance of the social networking revolution, I still believe that 'making friends' is sacred.

At Christmas, I was given a Kindle, and I started off buying all sorts of books, reading in bed with the very cool little light attached to the green cover. But for some reason or another, I have yet to finish any single book that I have purchased on the Kindle. I have managed to finish one textbook on the Kindle app on my desktop, but something about me reading in bed with that little mechanism hasn't quite caught on. I need to turn the page with my fingers. I like to fold the pages back and write all sorts of notes to myself in the margin. Reading in my private space is sacred.

Before I moved to Ireland, I use to get the Sunday paper delivered to my house and I would read it start to cover. In Ireland, I had to resort to the digital version of the New York Times, and I always swore it wasn't the same. Now that I am back living in the States, I get the Sunday paper delivered. There has been more than one Sunday when the paper has remained in its plastic cover for days, only to be placed in the recycling bin. I have discovered that I don't really like trying to read an article over multiple pages, having to fold back the cumbersome paper, searching everywhere for something I want to read (or finishing reading). Over the years, I have gotten use to reading the news online and I prefer it.

For the longest time, I didn't want a mobile phone as I didn't like being contactable at all times and locations. When technology made it possible for me to get email on my phone, I started to use it regularly. I still don't answer all my calls all the time, but I like being able to read and respond to mail, have access to the internet, and be able to figure out where I am going. While I love my iPod, I am not in love with the iPad. Both my husband and my daughter use it all the time. Whenever I use it, I feel like I am being silenced, as there isn't a proper keyboard to communicate what I want to say quickly and in a seamless fashion. Yes, I know, I could carry around a keyboard and attach it to the device, but is that using it the way it should be used? Surely this is a sign of aging since most techies I know love their tablets.

Last but not least, the game of Scrabble. Over vacation with a group of friends, there were many games going on among varying groups on multiple iPads. For those of you who haven't played the Scrabble application - the default rules are not the same as the 'traditional' rules. For starters, you can use a dictionary to look up words. You can also do a quick check for two-letter possibilities. The game won't let you put down a word that isn't real and you can happily remove it and replace it without being challenged by a different player. And the craziest option yet - you can ask the game to give you the best word (there is a little icon which tells the other players that you have done this).

For days I tried to argue that the Scrabble application has turned the game into one more about luck than skill. But then Julie said to me that this new way of playing is a great way to learn new words, much better than relying on the knowledge of other players using the traditional game board. And she is right - a few days playing the game, I have a much wider vocabulary and a better arsenal to work with. I am still feeling ambivalent about this - the reliance on a dictionary and a machine to do the 'thinking' for you still doesn't feel right to me.

Someday I will live up to the dream of being a 'cool-granny' (imagining myself with spiked hair, blue jeans, and a very hip vintage tee-shirt). I won't be the slighted bit nervous to own a flying vehicle, head off into outer-space, or live in the depths of the ocean. But I have a feeling when it comes to gadgets, there will be a fine line between letting go of the sacred and embracing the latest trend.

Sandy sheets

My husband is an incredibly conscientious person. He has always lived his life in this way - that as you take on new responsibilities, you must make sure that the existing ones are met first, and only after careful consideration can you let go of one responsibility in order to fill a more important one. I have always admired this about him and have tried to emulate his way of life. But what I am starting to realize is that this way of life is incredibly difficult to lead in families where both parents are passionate about their work.

In my husband's family, his father went to work for the civil service, had lots of vacation time, a long lunch every day, and came home at 5 each day. His mother had to give up her career as soon as she was married. She spent her life raising five children (all of whom have turned out to be great people). Each night when Paddy came home, he would take the children so that Nora could make the dinner in peace. After dinner, he would do the dishes with the children, while Nora could do something else on her own, like listening to the news and ironing the clothes. There was a balance to this life, a security that meant that everything would get done at a certain pace in a very predictable manner.

The women in my family have always worked. They have also raised the children mostly on their own. I am not by any means like these women. I have a supportive husband who gives all that he can to me and Amelia. But still, there is something tricky about juggling the two passions of home and career that seem to be capable of 'bumping' into each other at any given moment. And lately I have been trying to uncover that magical equation that enabled the women in my family to juggle so much more than seemingly possible.

Yesterday morning, waking up with my daughter asleep on my head, I had this flashback to my grandmother's house, that sensation of climbing into any given bed at any given time (we often rotated depending on who was living and/or visiting the house), and that strange sensation of rolling sand as your feet made their way down to the bottom of the covers. Sandy sheets. My grandmother rarely, if ever, changed the sheets in the various bedrooms. All through the summer, the sheets were covered in sand. The memories are so vivid, the smell of ivory soap mixed with ocean, sand, and the many heads that laid on that same pillow in any given summer month.

In the modern family, we try and keep everything ticking along by formulating some sort of 'priority' system - almost like our own in-house bug tracking system. Critical bugs are taken care-of immediately, like a sick child or a family crisis. High bugs get sorted in service packs (almost seasonal) - like work deadlines, school transitions. Maintenance tasks that we take on at the end of the day, washing the dishes, taking out the trash, and cleaning the sheets. I have often found great satisfaction in those things labeled as 'maintenance' - the assurance that no matter what else was left undone, I could successfully clean the kitchen. But when things seem to get squished, it is the maintenance tasks that annoy me the most. And there is something comforting in observing the cracks in the domestic space of the women in my life - their ability to push against a priority system in their worlds that did not match the way they wanted to (or perhaps were able to) live their own lives.

Brute force approach

This morning I put on my running clothes, as the probability of me heading out for a run greatly increases when I am already dressed for it. And after three hours of coding, interrupted by every sort of family member calling on a Sunday, I decided it was time to throw myself out the door.

The first few steps into the run, I started thinking about how my ability to code has gotten a lot better in the last couple of days. I like decomposition - it suits me. My brain likes to break things up into smaller parts and see the relationships between things.

In the next stage of the run, I thought about the irony, that as I seemed to be getting the hang of this coding thing, I seemed to be applying the 'brute force' approach to many other aspects of my life. And in the true spirit of stream-of-consciousness, I wondered if there was some way to logically decompose the other aspects in my life so that I could accomplish more tasks with less work.

Another half-mile, and I realized that there was something fundamentally difficult about this challenge - I couldn't seem to assign a priority to any one task over the other, or find a natural way to use one task to move another along - they all seem to meld into one 'big ball of mud'.

On the last half mile towards home, I let myself take a deep breath and appreciate the beauty of 'brute force'. While it might not be the most elegant approach, it has meant that I am still keeping things ticking along. My house is a mess, my family are feeling a little neglected, my runs are more like a slog than a jog, I haven't cooked a healthy, homemade dinner in a long while, and I could really use a make-over.

But we are fed, we are sleeping (perhaps less than we would like), we are welcoming and sending off visitors who all seem to be flocking to San Francisco at the same time as the rest of life is converging to a point, and I feel strong in what I am trying to do, even if I fall flat on my face.

Coming into the homestretch, the Indigo Girls', Galileo came on, and I felt a sense of warmth about sometime in the future, when Amelia is trying to juggle lots of things in her life, and she asks me for advice on which approach to take, I can smile and tell her that in certain times in our life, there is nothing wrong with taking the 'brute force' approach.

Authenticity

Amelia came into the bed at 3 AM and I could not for the life of me get back to sleep, so I figured I would get up and do something productive. This isn't like me, to have thoughts swimming in my head that keep me awake at night. Most of the time I am so busy doing, that any thought process I have is directly related to the very thing before me that I must try and tackle.

But I understand why I am feeling this way, as I have had this type of occurrence before, and I have a pretty strong sense of what it means. Though it is fairly difficult to capture it quickly in words, I am going to try and do so, as writing has always been the way in which I am able to process complexity and be able to happily get on with my day without that weighted feeling.

In 2006, my husband and I got married in the town where I grew up for most of my childhood-- Ocean City, NJ. And for the week before the wedding, we decided to be somewhat traditional and stay in separate houses, both of us living with our parents for the week before the big day.

Each morning, suffering from bridal nerves, and from jet lag, I woke up very early and would head out to the boardwalk for a long run. The first couple of days, the runs were amazing - I felt this jolt of excitement being in such a magical place, that represented the best parts of my childhood (the beach, the ocean, the boardwalk).

One morning, about the third day in, I headed out for the run, and about half way into it, coming up to Park Place, the street where my grandparent's house use to be and the street on which my husband's family were staying, I experienced this intense wave of emotion, something so unexpected, a sense of grief for the loss of a life that was gone, a memory of pain that I felt many years ago when the innocence of this place and this life slipped through the cracks.

I kept running through the tears, true to self, pushing through hard emotions through positive action. And I went through the day as any almost-bride would do, but there was something different under the layers, something surreal, this sense of self that once was many years ago as a child, and this sense of self now, as a person about to get married and start her own family, coming together in such an authentic way, that it felt almost like a collision.

Yesterday, something very similar happened. I went to the UC Berkeley campus for the first time in many years on my own. I have been to the campus with friends and family many times since graduation, but this was the first time I went on my own. And like the wedding many years ago, the journey started off very exciting, driving up University Ave, passing one of my favorite coffee shops, trying to take a picture from the car with my phone.

I smiled as I drove up the streets, knowing their ins and outs, all the short-cuts, as if I had never left. Walking up Telegraph Ave, towards Sproul Hall, seeing all the new students coming in with their parents, orientation, early arrivals, and I found myself wanting to reach out to them, to talk to them, share with them so many great memories about such an amazing part of my life.

And I went to the student cafe, bought a coffee, and sat down at a table in a back corner, remembering that the person that was me many years of go would have always sat at the front table, hoping to see someone I knew pass by and we could start up a conversation about our most-recent endeavors, be they intellectual, social, or just the normal stuff that happens to us as kids starting to become adults.

Almost like a scene in a JK Rowling book, this process of remembering while experiencing the physical sensations of that memory, allowed me to tap into that emotion that I felt so strongly, many years ago, to re-experience what was a lifetime back then in a brief 1-hour coffee break. It shook me, honestly, so I got up and decided to go and purchase a sweatshirt, which I have been meaning to do for awhile now.

In the shop, a young girl asked me to help her pick out a sweatshirt-- I was thinking that it could be her first one,  her first year, that nervousness, she reaching out to me, knowing I had come through it. And I recommended that the smaller size fit her better - in the long run, it would be the one she would treasure for the years to come - not the over-sized version that hid her young curves.

Walking to the car, in this contemplative state, driving back to the city in traffic, the tears finally came down my cheeks, that collision again of self, in the truest, most authentic sense. Each day I wake up and do what is in front of me, and as the years go by, the memories shift, even disappear, and there is an invisible veil between all the layers of activity going on around me in my current life, and the foundation that sits beneath it all.

That time of becoming an adult, of moving from the space of innocence into that space of reality, is still very much a part of the way in which I act each and every day, the way I treat my friends, my family, my daughter, the way I work, the way I think, the way I engage with the world. All those failed attempts at being a better self, until I eventually started to get the hang of it, started to find my voice, as a writer, started to realize the importance of balancing two sides of self - that relentless me that needs to get it done, with that gentler, kinder me, who is empathetic to the difficulties that all of us face sometimes when we are trying to do more than we did the day before, even if that is just putting one foot in front of the other in very tiny baby steps.

As I lay there in bed, with Amelia beside me, I wondered if there are people in this world who never experience this sense of colliding selves, as each and every memory is cherished, positive, shining, in an array of a happy life. I try and imagine my daughter Amelia as an adult looking across her life with nothing but fond memories, no struggles, no complex, grey moments in which she wasn't really sure how to match what she was feeling on the inside with what the norms were telling her to feel on the outside.

And here I am now, having spent a good bit of time writing, in a private space, closely examining the authentic self, and I feel a sense of contentment, that somehow all the bends and curves in life are much more interesting, beautiful like a spider web than any kind of Truman Show image that might replace it. I want this for my daughter, maybe a softer version than my own. But I want her to know what it means to be authentic, to experience life in all shades of color, including grey.

Our newest family member

For a couple of months, Amelia has been talking about 'Bably'. As my husband travels a bit, I had thought that Bably was an affectionate name for 'dad', that is, until this weekend.

On Saturday, we went to a picnic at my daughter's daycare. While changing her diaper in a small bathroom, we had a very interesting conversation that goes something like this:

Amelia: "Mammy, Bably is here."

Me: "And what is Bably saying."

Amelia: "Grrrrr (while making monster face)."

Me: "Is Bably a tiger?"

Amelia: "Yes."

Me: "Is Bably a friendly tiger?"

Amelia: "Bably is a doggie."

Me: "Was Bably pretending to be a tiger?"

Amelia: "Yes (with accompanying giggles)."

Very quickly, Bably has become an active participant in the Kearney family. Yesterday afternoon, Bably pushed Amelia down, and she was sad. We had a talk, the three of us, about not hurting people, after which, we had a group hug. Last night, Bably was in the kitchen (of the restaurant where we were eating). He was helping the cooks get Amelia's dinner ready as quickly as possible (she was hungry). This morning Amelia told me that Bably had an ouchy and he needed ice. I asked if it was OK to give Bably imaginary ice, and she said yes, as she held out her hand. I put the 'ice' into it, and she responded - it's cold.

Padhraic asked me if it was normal for kids to have imaginary friends, or if it was a sign of something wrong. I assured him it was a wonderful thing - that her imagination could be so alive, as to create a creature who can interact with us on a daily basis and help us work out what is going on in the world. And I can't help but feel that little bit of pride well up inside me, as I see a side of self that I have always embraced, the ability to imagine the world as she wants to see it, rather than feeling weighed down by a perceived reality.

If you could sit down with superwoman and have an honest chat...

If you asked superwoman how her day went or how she was feeling, how do you suppose she would respond?

Let's say for instance that she nearly lost a child falling out of an airplane while she reached to rescue three other adults. As a consequence of trying to juggle the four people, one of the adults broke his foot in the fall.

And instead of hearing all sorts of praise and thank-yous for a job well done, she spent the evening in the hospital apologizing to the family for nearly dropping the child who is now traumatized and visiting the guy whose foot is painfully dangling from a swing, and he is crying out for more morphine.

Then suppose superwoman headed home, late enough, no groceries in the fridge, so she decided to get take-out. Only she lost her wallet in the fall, so she has no money on her. Hungry and tired, she decides to go to sleep, and her next door neighbor is having a huge house party, so she is up most of the night.

Would superwoman tell you about all of this, go into all the details of the last 24-hours?

She might tell you about nearly losing the child, about the man in the hospital with the broken leg and how her heart went out to him. But most likely she wouldn't burden you with the fact that she had no sleep, that she was starving because she lost her wallet - for sure, she wouldn't want to make you feel like you needed to feed her. She might also be a little hesitant to tell you about the rescue, as if it came off as boasting or else even worse, complaining about something that is the very privilege of being 'super' - able to fly and all that.

What if she did tell you that she hasn't slept and is hungry, and that she wishes every once in awhile people would recognize the work that she does, say thank-you, and appreciate that they are still alive, even if a little shook and a bone or two out of place?

Would you still consider her 'super'? I am guessing that you would still consider her 'super' if you weren't directly related to any of the above incidents, and if you were her friend and were genuinely out for her best interest.

Here's an interesting twist - what if we had the ability to observe a conversation between superwoman and her husband, superman. Suppose he too was out saving the world all day, and instead of going to the hospital after saving all those people in the train crash, he took some time to humbly accept their praise. One of the thankful train riders found his wallet. Another one invited him to dinner with the family. Say superman got home a little tipsy from a few pints and with a full belly - this meant that he slept fine through the neighbor's party. 

What sort of conversation do you suppose would be a healthy honest chat between two superheroes?

Big love to nurses and medical assistants!

I realize this is my third blog this week and you guys are probably sick of me by now, but right now I feel compelled to send some big love to nurses and medical assistants who help people in need.

Wednesday afternoon, I went with Suzana to Mt. Zion and met this very cool medical assistant who was wearing some bright purple shoes, which he shared with us he bought for 20 bucks nearly 5 years ago, and they are still hanging in there. And I left that place hoping that when Amelia gets to be a young adult, she will meet someone like that medical assistant - the kind of person who wears bright purple shoes in solemn spaces, and makes the air feel a lot lighter than one would think naturally possible.

Thursday Amelia caught a very bad vomiting bug. Yesterday (Saturday), my mom called to check-in on our week, and she listened patiently to me talk out the tiredness and worry. My mom is a hospice nurse - it is her job to be kind and handle tired people dealing with stressful illness. She reaffirmed that all I had been doing was great, and then asked me about myself, my own week, got me to talk out some of my own thoughts and feelings totally removed from the mom stuff.

This morning I gave Amelia a half a cup of soy milk, worried that it wasn't right, but wanting her to be happy (she really really wanted her soy milk). It didn't stay down and the poor pet was violently ill. So I range the emergency hotline for Amelia's doctor and left a message checking to see if the doc thought we should bring her in.

Then I rang Sharon, my step-mom, a nurse practitioner, pediatrics, who happened to be going up a ski-lift in New Hampshire when her phone rang. She asked me important questions, had me talk through all the details, and gave me very practical advice about being a mom with a sick kid. And part of her advice was to still keep on living, just to make sure to be careful, to keep Amelia comfortable, hydrated, and safe.

Shortly after talking to Sharon, a nurse-on-call rang me back and reaffirmed all that Sharon had said. She shared with me her own experiences as a mom, and made me feel so normal in my own skin. I did all the wise women advised, and Amelia fell fast asleep on the couch.

Just wanted to take a short moment to recognize the importance of caring people all around us - people who spend their lives giving good advice and kind words in a way that is effortless.

What a difference a day makes...

Last night, Amelia finally started to hold down food and we all got some much needed sleep. This morning, up bright and early, I finished a small project in work, looked outside the window, the warm sun shining on the lemon tree, and realized just how lucky I am.

While it is good to contemplate those moments of grey (like in my last blog on 'fairness'), I felt compelled this morning to embrace this moment of abundance, this feeling of good for goodness sake. 

I love the way we can feel so tired, so worn out in one moment, and then something as simple as sleep and sunshine can completely change our point-of-view, helping us to see the beauty all around us, pushing those 'grey' thoughts aside as if they never existed.

There is a balance here, one that is based on time, patience, and a bit of luck.

On fairness

Sitting across from a dear friend in the late afternoon drinking a pint in the Valley Tavern, we found ourselves in one of our many existentialist conversations about life. A little background - we don't normally go for afternoon pints, but it seemed fitting after finding out that there would be another surgery.

She said so many things that afternoon that stuck with me, but the one that I feel compelled to write about today in this blog is on the topic of fairness. In her mind, 'fair' is a word like 'guilt' - it is one of those feelings that no matter which angle you look at it, there isn't hope for a positive result.

And as the week continued, and moments of 'fair' crept into my head, I thought about ways in which I could embrace 'fair'. I tried thinking about fairness from the perspective of the classic Native American saying, "Don't judge a man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins"-- that maybe there is a way to see things as truly fair, so long as you are thoughtful about the other person whose 'fairness' you are evaluating.

But as I tried to do this, I realized there are so many variables to consider in interpreting fairness from the multi-faceted perspective. If we were writing an algorithm, it would look a lot like the Big O notation - too many options to possible reach any sort of rational measurement for fairness.

And so I thought about relativity - that perhaps fairness can be measured from one perspective in isolation of another. In any given context, a 'fairness' value can be derived.

But what does it actually mean to feel that something isn't fair? How does one justify this feeling when there are so many other people in circumstances far worse than our own? At what point is life truly unfair for one person over another? And what the heck does this mean? What good is it to come to that conclusion?

So I think she is right, my friend - fairness is like guilt - there is nothing productive in holding on to it.

But then I remember back to those days as a child, when my father worked very hard to teach me the value of 'being fair'. It still holds very true in my heart that I need to treat people with a sense of 'fairness'. That I need to have balance in the way I approach others. 

Can I let go of the expectation that others need to be fair to me, and even more importantly, the disappointment that I feel when they are not? Is it possible to be fair outward while denying oneself the same measurement on the receiving line?

The very meaning of 'fairness' depends on equilibrium, or does it?

The 3 faces of me

Gina Trapani, a fellow tech writer/blogger (and so much more), created a venn diagram much like the one below and suggested others try and do the same. With my annual review coming up soon, this seemed like a perfect way to capture what it is that I do, what excites me, and what shapes the visions I have for the future.

On a side note, I started following Gina back in August last year - was completely hooked after listening to her interview on The Great Work Blog.

(Image a little fuzzy below, so here's a link to image in Google docs.)

I need another spray-painting-a-tarp-moment

Many years ago I had an opportunity to be a summer camp counselor at the best camp in the Bay Area (I am biased) - Camp Kee Tov in Berkeley. In my second year, I convinced the director, Steve Chabon (a legend), to let me bring back the science and nature specialty in Mapilim.

Mapilim is for fifth and sixth graders, and the program highlights are to teach kids a specialty. Most kids coming into Mapilim already know the specialty they want - dance, drama, sports, or arts and crafts. There was an attempt in the past to include a science and nature specialty, but it didn't seem to have enough umph to get kids excited.

I made my case with Steve - science and nature wasn't going to be about taking walks in the woods, building baking soda volcanoes, and hugging trees - it was going to be science versus nature. I had devised an entire role-fantasy game with a science fiction story that starts many years after a nuclear meltdown. Scientists who had gone into hiding resurface generations later once the air quality is safe to find that the planet has changed quite a bit - a lot more water and a lot scarcer land and resources.

The scientists also resurface to discovery that civilization didn't completely die out. There are small colonies of people who live off the land, relying on nature (rather than demolished technology) to survive.The basic premise of the game is that the scientists need resources, the nature people are under the thumb of the scientists who have way more advanced weapons, technology, etc. Each child had to pick which side they would be on, and define their character over a course of four weeks.

Steve, a sucker for story-telling, let me go for it. And realizing that it wasn't going to be easy to convince kids to think about something different, I spent a great deal of time preparing for the 'sell'. The sell is a day on which all the kids have to try all the specialties and pick the one they want. I spent at least a good week preparing my notes for the story, and coming up with illustrated, detailed examples of characters, including my own - the wizard, on the side of nature.

The last item to prepare for the 'sell' was the game board - a large piece of plastic tarp that could fit at least six kids on either side, on which I drew the planet earth and spray painted the land according to the story - lots more water than green. Because of my mad work schedule (I had three jobs), I couldn't start the spray painting until 9 at night.

I had the idea well thought out, the earth stencil prepared ahead of time, so I figured it would take me two hours at the most to spray paint the tarp. Two hours later, a perfect representation of earth before me, I was ready for a cold beer. Just as I was securing the sides so that the tarp could dry, a gust of Berkeley wind blew the tarp across the ground, the earth destroyed, and paint everywhere.

Though I felt the weight of tired on my shoulders, tears welling up in my eyes, something so strong inside myself believed in what I was trying to do and was excited about the possibility of seeing this vision come to life.

I washed over the tarp with a strong hose, cleaned up the paint from all around, and hand-dried the tarp. I started over, redrawing the earth, re-spraying paint, and being a lot more clever about weighting the tarp. 3 AM, I finished the project, exhausted, but feeling good about myself for not giving up.

On the day of the sell, almost every single kid put down nature and science as their first-choice specialty. I had a wait-list. For the entire summer, I put everything I had into making this story come to life, into keeping the children's imaginations alive. It was amazing, exhausting, but amazing.

The following year, I returned as the wizard, and the game, now a legend, continued, wait-listed a second year in a row, but in a much more sensible way. And though I still had to put a lot of time and effort into keeping the game going, I had experience, I knew what I was doing - I could have even more fun with it, having worked out the kinks with some of the more tedious aspects of the specialty.

This week I have been thinking about that game in a metaphoric sense and how much I need another spray-painting-a-tarp moment. I need to feel excited about something that challenges me, something that I know if I put the work in, and persevere through the gusty-wind surprises, willing to start over if needs be, and getting smarter the second time around, I will feel this sense of satisfaction that comes with seeing a vision through to reality.

On becoming a mom (and for Fiona)

Last night Amelia settled herself to sleep in her big girl bed for the first time. It took a couple of 'super-nanny' carries back to the bed, but her brave self cuddled up with her blankets and dog while I sat very quietly in the corner to help her feel safe.

Until four in the morning, our new neighbors were moving in, walking up and down the side of our house moving all sorts of crazy stuff-- neither Padhraic nor myself slept very much. Amelia was woken up a couple of times and in true big-girl fashion, she snuggled herself back to sleep until 6 AM, when she walked out of the door herself into our room for a snuggle.

We all fell back to sleep for an hour and woke up to a ringing phone - Somhairle in Brisbane. The baby was born - Elise. It was a tough labor, 17 hours, with 7 hours of full-on pitosine (any mom who has had it for any period of time knows how much this hurts). And for the record, 7 hours is a lot longer than I could stand the pain.

Fiona pushed her heart out, refusing to give in to the pain, but the docs finally told her it was a no-go and Miss Elise entered the world via a section. I know Fiona and she is processing this one - wanting so much to be up, to be going, to be participating in the space of motherhood, thinking that her immobility is slowing her down.

And this is very much what motherhood is about - we are constantly working so hard to be the best that we can for our children, and even as we push ourselves more than we ever have, trying to find that perfect balance, we feel tired, down on ourselves most often for things that we cannot control, like what happens in childbirth, like what happens when we try and breastfeed, like what happens when we try and get our body shape back, like what happens when we try and enforce boundaries, but we don't want to be too harsh, because we want to build confidence, and be a loving, kind mom. This is a never-ending list.

Fiona, you may never get a chance to read this one because of the craziness to come over the next month, so I will be sure to tell you in person in a couple of months time. It gets easier. We get more confident. Sometimes we shine and can feel how we have done something right, how are children are growing, and moving, and smiling, and laughing, and talking, and starting to take the world in for themselves, that bit stronger because we are there, always trying our best, and questioning if we could do it better, even in those moments of subtle perfection.

Love you, mama.

Just keep swimming... just keep swimming... just keep swimming

Having watched Finding Nemo with Amelia the weekend before last, I am grateful to Dory, the fish, for helping me push past one of the strangest feelings I have had in a long time.

I can only describe this feeling as projected post-traumatic stress syndrome. On Saturday, I watched Amelia fall from the top of the stairs to our garage backwards head first and for a very short period of time, I felt that I had lost the entire universe, replaced by this split-second void that felt as if it would never ever go away not ever, until I saw her body move, heard her cry, watched tears stream down her face, and felt her warm body moving freely, safely in my arms.

I don't remember how I got to the bottom of the steps - my first memory is that I wasn't getting oxygen to my brain and I had to sit down. As the day progressed, I felt myself unable to stop holding my daughter, of wanting to hear her breathe, feel her little hands and feet, touch her soft curls. Physically my own body felt as if it had been in an accident. My whole body ached in a strange way.

Yesterday, the day after, was a celebration of life, sunshine, Amelia. And then today, it is as if I cannot concentrate. Padhraic has left for Canada and Amelia is in daycare. My brain has been fuzzy the entire day, and all the things that motivate me in life, my work, my writing, my running, even food which never ceases to be a passion, seem to feel far away, fuzzy.

I know when I pick up Amelia in less than an hour, my world will return to normal, but I want to recognize this moment, somehow capture the essence of what it is and feel it in all that it represents. I went out for a run, forced myself to do something, and I passed this nice couple walking down the street. The woman was wearing a baseball cap with a shamrock on it and she said - just keep going. And I remembered Dory, and her words, just keep swimming.

My heart goes out truly to people in this world who have experienced real and tangible loss, of which I only experienced a split second of and it has turned my body, brain, and essence of self into mush in the first opportunity I have had alone to process it.

Hugs to you all and sharing the only wisdom that seems to make sense of what I am feeling, and that coming from a blue fish who has the privilege of short-term memory loss.

Learning to be emotionally strong when pushing oneself

Today marks the end of a major deadline in work (a two-year release cycle). This deadline is quite different to others I have experienced in the past. It is the first time I have pushed towards a major release while being a mom. With my husband travelling three out of the last four weeks, I had to juggle being a single-parent while working long, intense hours.

Something happened on the way towards the deadline, something that I have often hoped for, but never quite was able to achieve. I stayed calm, I stayed focus, and I stayed positive, even with lots of variables pushing me in lots of directions.

Other times in my life, I would have experienced a sense of frustration towards the end, participating in the politics that other tired people are engaging in, or else arguing with my husband over trivial things that just don't matter in the bigger scheme of life. This time I felt it very important to stay positive, to be emotionally strong for my daughter. I did not want my work to negatively affect her life.

I felt this tremendous desire to prove to myself that I could be good at my job, successfully participate in an intense delivery period, and still sit down and play house, serving many, many stuffed animals cups of tea. What I discovered during this release is that it takes a lot less energy to stay positive and you get this tremendous boost of mental and physical strength, making it possible to do so much more than you would normally be capable of, simply because you are emotionally stable to the core.

I have pushed myself so many times before, physically, mentally, but I can honestly say this is the first time that I asked myself to stay emotionally sound, to be spiritually present while I was asking my mind and body to do way more than is natural in a 24-hour time period.

It is by far the biggest achievement for me in this release. I don't feel as if I need to rebuild my life - I never stopped living.

Thanks, Suzana, for helping me to realize the value of being present, here and now.

Unifying themes in the novel

I mentioned awhile back that I am working on a novel. I haven't said a lot about this novel, but interestingly enough, it is the one thing I haven't totally dropped the ball on during major deadlines in work.

I have reached a point in the writing process where I have 35 scenes lined up, some real characters, and some real themes developing. I know the next step is to work on the narrative, bringing the scenes, characters, and themes together in a plot. But I was struggling a little bit on the overall message, something at the tip of my tongue, but not quite out yet... until today.

Let me start by talking about three themes that I have been pursuing.

The first theme has been there since the beginning. I call it the tie-theme. There are three primary types of personalities that I am interested in pursuing: the person who wears the tie they are meant to wear, the person who wears the cool tie without even trying (the one you want to emulate), and the person who wears the wrong tie (let's say the awkward, eclectic type). Right now I have three characters, each one aligning with one of these personalities, but how that plays out internally and externally is somewhat 'grey'.

The 'grey' theme is based on the notion that we all have moments when we realize the world isn't black and white (I have been exploring this theme in the blog). We have to find a way to accept this. And if we are truly be happy, we have to find a way to embrace this. This is playing out through one of the main characters whom I have based on my perceptions of my young daugher's personality, and how she will begin to grow up in this world. As a young child, she and her mom have a moment at the end of each day (which I am planning on doing with my daugher) where we talk about five good things that happened and five not so good things that happened in the day. There is a point in the narrative (which may be very close to the start of the novel) where this young girl starts to genuinely struggle with the process of dividing the good and the bad. Things just don't seem to fall into these categories any more. And she feels a crumbling, a genuine struggle.

The third theme, the hardest of all, is the one that I knew I had to get right in order to be able to bring to the novel a message, an idea, something that I intrinsically feel to be true, and that I want to bring to my daughter's life as she gets older. I have known for awhile now, that I wanted to push against Virginia Woolf and her intense desire to seek the internal in her narrative, to move away from the external as the reflection of self, and see self as something far deeper than the surroundings. Virginia was, of course, pushing against writers like Henry James, who used surroundings to capture the internal essence of their characters.

You must know that I feel a serious connection to Woolf, one that is developing so much more as I transform into a writer of fiction. (For those of you wondering, I did get the Woolf tattoo which I will share with you in a separate account.) And I have been trying to come to terms with why I want to push against this writer that I feel such admiration for. But every part of me knows that it isn't liberating to be stuck in a room of one's own, alone with our thoughts for hours on end. It isn't empowering to be stuck in one's head, and particuarly dangerous to remove one's thoughts from the intensity of environment.

Perhaps it has come to me today, this beautiful thing, precisely because I have spent the last few weeks with my head deep in concentration, in a study in the back of my house, away from life, working intensely toward deadlines in work. And today, on this most glorious California spring day, I said feck this - I am going running, I am going to feel the sun, I am going to be outside of my head, I am going to experience the senses of the world around me.... Shebang!

The main character in her struggle to make sense out of the grey has these moments of being stuck in her head, and no matter how hard she tries to make life explainable in the binary sense, the more she is unable to do so. The more she tries to curb her senses, to try and think her way, to reason her way around the external spaces, the more she will be removed from self.

There will be moments when she is able to experience the world, when her memory and her ability to reason with herself will seem to make sense, literally, her physical and her mental will start to feel a sense of harmony with each other. And I can see something similar playing out for all three characters (just in a different way based on their personalities).

This is where it gets very technical. I wrote a paper awhile back on memory and the connection with fiction - the same part of the brain that is responsible for writing fiction is aligned with that part of the brain that is responsible for memory. The neurological memory theory is that the more senses one can attach to a memory, the more likely that memory is to be true... I will very much use this as my push against Virginia.

That in becoming self, this young woman will have this moment when she is feeling so much around her, when all her senses are heightened, and she realizes why she was able to make those lists as a child, and why she cannot seem to do it now - that as a child, what her senses perceived were absolutely aligned with the way she analyzed the world. But as she got older, there seemed to grow this disconnect, that sometimes she could feel good sensually about something, but not so good mentally. And yet, in this awesome moment of sensory perception of self (we have all had these amazing moments in our lives), she once again reconciles that which is inside with that which is out.

I am ready to name this character. She is Gracie.

Dad, how amazing is that?!

On feminism (please don't let the title put you off)

I have thought about writing an entry on feminism for awhile now, and I had all these sophisticated ideas on how to cover the subject, but couldn't narrow down my focus, or get enough time to express simply some of the ideas spinning in my head. But today it is a subject I feel compelled to write about, even if I do not have the time or focus to do it justice.

Two friends close to my heart are experiencing fundamental moments in their lives: one is in full labor as I write, induced with a pitocin drip; the other had her bandages taken off after her double-mastectomy. A third friend sent a long email about her pregnancy, the nervousness coming into the last trimester, and the almost comical preparations that we go through leading up to the big moment. On top of this, I am in still deadlines, my husband is traveling, and I have been coming to terms with the fact that I can't seem to get my head stuck back into work tonight.

I just got off the phone with my husband. He said that he was going to clear his plate after presentations on Wednesday so that I could have some much needed time to do the work that I need to do. I did not ask for this - he offered it. And there is something essential in this moment. Many people would read this and think that of course he should give me time on Thursday and Friday to do what I need to do. And since he will have finished his major presentations, he should not feel pressure to do so.

But there is something subtle at play here. Sometimes I know that he feels life would be easier if one of us was less determined in our profession, and that one of us could happily take a step back if it was feasible in our lives financially. He grapples with the fact that I had to make sauce for Nicki and Morgan tonight, in the same breadth I was pushing on work deadlines, in the same breadth he is traveling and our daughter needs to come first before all the other bits and pieces. He sees the tired in me, the lack of ability to get out for runs, to do my own writing, the novel, this blog, and all those other things that are quintessential me.

Tonight though, he processed what it is for me to be the person that I am, the one who is good at her job, who is good at being a mom, who wants so much to be a devoted wife, who is a loving friend, but who is also a person in and around all these things that make up the daily schedule. He recognized the meaning of feminism in my life - the need to be driven in all aspects of self at all times, rather than zoning in on one particular aspect, and making it of singular importance in a specific moment in time.

Feminism has changed so much that I almost think we need a new word for it. It is about pursuing excellence in all aspects of self, be it the physical aspects of woman in child bearing, child rearing, in exercising and having a body that isn't totally frumpy (which mine seems to be these days), the emotional aspects of supporting the ones we love when they need us the most, the social aspects of engaging with the community through a blog, volunteering, the mental aspects of problem solving, and communicating it in the simplest, clearest, effective way possible, and most of all, the spiritual aspects of self - being able to take a deep breath and be present with ourselves and our own passions with our partners and our family - taking time not just to experience life, but to embrace it. I am exhausted typing this, just as many women are exhausted living this.

For me, feminism is like a finely cut diamond, all the edges coming together in as perfectly a symmetrical way as possible. So I googled 'adjectives to describe diamonds' hoping that a term would emerge that better describes feminism, and I found 'dispersion', defined as 'the degree to which white light is split into its spectral colors within the stone' (thank-you wikipedia). Perhaps modern day feminism is better phrased as 'dispersionism'.

Grace

I want to talk about the spectrum of people's ability to cope with problems, myself included. I am coming to terms with something very interesting about myself - that I am very good at complaining, moaning, mostly about the small things (I tend not to moan as much about the big stuff). I complain about the increased workload in release mode, I complain about politics, I complain about the lack of sleep in my life, about missed exercise, not being able to go skiing last Sunday.

I have had this motto in my life for a long time - that it is better to complain and get things done than to never complain and never get things done. And this motto has worked for me... until recently.

I have been spending time with a friend who's had a lot of big stuff on her plate all at once. I am not going to list all of these things. She jokes and says that if she wrote a book, it would never get published because people would not believe it is the truth - it would be far to out of touch with the realistic. I joke that I wish Oprah was still around, as we might be able to dedicate a whole show to her life.

With all that she is going through, the most important thing to her is to fix it, to find normalcy. She often talks about other people's lives, dreams about how things could be better, asks me about my own life. And in discussion about her own situation, there are jokes, moments of frustration, sheer exhaustion, but never that moany-groany-complaining sense of life isn't fair.

What I have noticed in all this is that I want to be around her, I am not dragged down by her suffering. And I have realized that I could learn from this, that I could tone down my own moaning. My life is seriously good. There are so many blessings around me, I can't even count them. And yes, I do get tired, but that doesn't mean that I need to moan about it. If I can find a way in myself to push through it, to embrace that full life that I have rather than seeing the tired as a burden, it will not only make me happier, but also all those around me.

I am never going to be as strong as my friend. My husband who rarely comments on people says that she is the strongest person he has ever met which says a lot more than me saying it. But I for sure feel that I can embrace the grace with which she lives her life.

On love

This is a very quick, but complex blog on love which came to me running in the rain at lunchtime today. It is Valentine's Day, so naturally my mind was thinking about love, and what exactly that means to me in my life.

And I thought about something very bizarre, but that seemed to make sense out of it all. I thought about the story in the bible about Jesus' 40 days and nights in the desert, on how the devil tempted him. I wondered if this is meant to be a metaphor for something quintessentially human about Jesus - what if in order to be able to feel true empathy, to be capable of real forgiveness, it is necessary to make bad choices, to face darker stuff in one's life?

This I believe is the essence of love - that in order to truly know and love ourselves, we need to make mistakes, to face difficult decisions, to wonder if we did the right thing, or even better, to know that we did not. And these very same principles are what define love between people, friends, marriages, etc. - that in order to truly love our partners, our friends, our children, we need to experience with them those vulnerable moments.

I've been working on the novel, steadily, and am coming to learn about and love a character whom I thought would be the most difficult for me to understand and/or feel towards, as I am not like her nor am I the opposite of her. The key to seeing her, to truly knowing her, has been watching her make mistakes, struggle, change, come to terms with those aspects of herself that are not perfect and are not part of her comfort zone.

At the same time, I have been reading Virginia Woolf's diaries, and I am feeling the sense of sadness coming over me - that she is so very hard on herself, so truly unforgiving, lacking all empathy towards her own self, her own work. I wish I could have met her, talked with her, made her see how very essential these aspects of self are part of the greatness that defines her work. I can't help but wonder if this inability to embrace those dark parts of herself is why she chose to end her life as she did.

And this is becoming an incredibly important part of my novel - this wrenching discovery of self that is followed by a level of comfort that one can never experience without falling apart.

I want to write about Egypt

When I was 18, I went on my first adventure out of the US: an antiquity tour of Italy and Egypt, 5 days in both countries. It was a student tour, but run by a school that was not my own. I knew a couple of students on the trip, but they weren't close friends, so I felt mostly on my own, not isolated, but with a sense of freedom that one can only experience when free from the constructs of familiarity. We traveled both countries on guided tour buses. I don't remember the Italian tours - I spent most of my time trying to get away from the group.

In Egypt, we had the same tour guide, a young woman, highly educated, beautiful in that way I imagined myself becoming in life as I learned more about the world. My relationship with this woman started off like an admiring pupil asking her teacher questions that made her think I was smart, well-read. Very quickly that relationship changed into something much more elegant, simple, a sharing of cultures that shaped how I approach women of different cultures going forward.

One of our tours was of the Citadel of Cairo. I had carefully planned my outfit for the day, a simple dress with a long cotton skirt, wooden sandals, and a head scarf large enough to cover all of my hair. I felt a reverence, putting on the cover, taking off my shoes, and walking into the Mosque of Muhammad Ali Pasha. When we got inside, I became very aware of the fact that the only women around me were tourists - there were no local women who had come to pray. Perhaps I was naive, but I wanted to feel prayer in this moment, I wanted to experience what God felt like in such an ancient place.

After the tour, I took my usual seat next to the tour guide, and I was quiet, something that is unusual for me. The tour guide asked me what I was thinking, how come I wasn't  talking a million miles a minute about the experience. And so I asked her if it bothered her that she was not welcome to worship in the main hall of this spiritual place. She laughed, full-heartedly, and her words still remain very clear to me nearly twenty years later. She asked me when I am in deep prayer, when I want to connect with God and feel that presence, am I able to do this surrounded by groups of men chanting, with my face to the floor? She said that for her, it seemed so much more natural, free, to experience God in a communal group of women, mothers, daughters, sisters, smiling, heads up, bodies swaying, a sense of warm and of kind.

She told me about her faith, what it meant to her, this belief in God, and how she had come to understand that power of women in community, that they were much freer to feel happiness in the face of God, rather than what the men were meant to experience - reverence. Typing this now, I can feel her faith and I can feel that presence of God that we shared - the same God I experienced, not watching a priest chanting up at the alter, but in celebrations with my family, with close friends, people with whom I could trust to be my most vulnerable self.

Later that same evening, the sun was setting over the city, pink hued, smells that can only be experienced first-hand, and I heard the evening prayer, walked out on the balcony, and realized how truly amazing it was to be in a country where people stopped to center themselves at key moments in the day. This was so very different from the Sunday Mass, something that had begun to feel empty of meaning, that sense of going through the steps, but not really understanding what those steps were meant to mean in the living out of one's life, in those moments of conflict, and grey. Strange, reverent in itself, this moment on the balcony was also the first time I heard the Nirvana song, Memoria - my roommate was playing for me in the background, and there was this simple merging of the two worlds, both sounds still resounding in my ears this many years later.

Fast forward many years, approaching a topic for my dissertation on post-colonial literature, and I knew I wanted to examine that sense of community that I had felt so many years ago. I wanted to understand what this meant in a world that seemed to be changing quickly. The first paragraph of my dissertation included an excerpt from Barack Obama's speech in Cairo. Although I knew it at the time, that this was rhetoric, it still felt so fundamentally different to the Western speeches on freedom and individuality that had preceded it for so many years under the Bush regime.

And I truly believed that there was a revolution stirring - that the young people in that audience felt something powerful, far more than the presence of a less ideological US president. There was a pride that day in the University of Cairo auditorium, a pride that was a merging of simple ideals, those of the family, the community, that had shaped each person's faith, and supported a people for thousands of years, and those of human freedoms, to be creative, innovative, honest, and capable of changing the world for the better through the power of each individual voice coming together.

Over two years later, watching the people gather in Tahrir Square, large groups of men chanting, families, children asleep on mother's shoulders, women in solidarity, tears sometimes streaming down the faces of men and women, and I feel I am truly watching history. This is not a revolution about taking down a dictator regime; this is not a 'facebook' revolution. This is very much about the meeting point between two very important beliefs that mean so much to all of us - that of the power of community, a sense of belonging, and that power of freedom to make change, to shape our own lives and the lives of our children. It is a cross-roads in the global world - a meeting of the best of Western and non-Western ideals.

I have felt an excitement the past couple of weeks, and a profound disappointment in the elders (Egyptian and US leaders) to be unable to see just how important this change is for the future of society. When I expressed some of my thoughts to my husband, he brushed it off - saying it was just another news reel, something to hype, people watching from the outside in, the media almost hoping for things to fall apart, and the rest of the world waiting for things to go back to the way they have always been.

So I decided to test the waters - I posted a comment in response to the New York Times' columnist, Nicholas Kristof's blog, http://kristof.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/02/10/the-pharaoh-refuses-to-go/. The comment I posted:

"For Egyptians reading this,

There are many people like me who very much support you in your efforts to take back control of your own country, to have the power to define what it is you feel is best for your people, and to be a voice of positive change across the world."

From very early on in my posting, the comment topped the list of readers' recommendations. As I am writing this blog, it is still at the top of the list. What this tells me is that we are witnessing something very different than the typical news real. Unlike most scenarios in the non-Western world that make it into a prolonged news real - we are not secretly watching to see innocent people's lives ruined and destroyed by corruption. We are genuinely hoping that this community of people can succeed in their endeavors. We are watching with hope.

The poet and the woolf

As I sit here trying to write this week's blog, I feel the butterflies churning in my stomach and this strange tingling sensation inside my arm pits, both of which are making it difficult for me to concentrate and to physically type the words. For a long time, I have found comfort in the knowledge that the lead up to a hard day is much more difficult than the actual day itself. And so I know that these feelings are fleeting, that tomorrow when the hard day is in process, I won't experience anything like this build up.

I am reminded of the days when I use to race, the night before, feeling these same emotions, going through the thoughts of the pain that I will feel when I am pushing myself to run much faster than I would on an enjoyable run. I am not afraid of losing, or having a poor finish. It is always the pain, that feeling of being unable to catch my breath, the lungs stinging, the legs cramping, and the mind taking over the body, convincing the body to continue against what is feels is unnatural.

I felt it so important to sit down and write tonight even if the words are gibberish and do not in any way reach out to my listeners and help them understand something about themselves through my own valuations. There is something to writing in this space that makes me want to say a prayer to Virginia Woolf, to ask her to help me find that room of my own, where I can unleash that which is the essence of me in a moment when I am flittering and fluttering, swimming in the voices of projection about events that haven't happened yet. A space so very different from writing about the past, or a mythical present that I can create, free from the intense, physical attachment.

So I combed the web, looking for inspiration from Virginia (her books are packed up in boxes in the attic in our Ranelagh house). And the ones that are there are not about these moments, because the ones she wrote about this aren't the fun stuff to read, the inspiring, quick fix lyrics that for some reason or another seem to flood the internet, with the far more meaningful ones left by the wayside.

But I can see her, walking along the water's edge, that space where she chose to remain forever. And I feel comfort in the knowledge that my space has been and always will be the sky. So I have spent a good bit of time tonight, sitting outside, looking up, no moon, but I am still comforted by the dim light of the stars. 

I missed an opportunity today to bear my chest to the Pacific ocean and feel the cold air and water on my skin. And I try and imagine what it would have felt had I have made it to the beach this afternoon and had howled at the elements, unleashing that feminine side of me that needs to be free. A friend of mine created for me a picture of a wolf and I have not yet gotten that wolf tattooed on my skin, though I feel I may need that physical act in order to truly unleash the woolf spirit that is me.