Twelve

Mountain Mama

The Mountains Are Calling Me

And I must go.

--John Muir

I grew up surrounded by Virginia mountains. Rolling, rambling borders around the valley that I called home. Ever-shifting shades of color depending on the time of day or time of year. Purple at twilight, piercing, layered greens on hot summer days, black silhouettes below a blue velvet night sky. My back yard proffered an astounding view of a giant mountain that felt close enough to touch, spotted with peach orchard trees that turned cottony in the spring. "My" mountains mesmerized me and comforted me. Made my world feel smaller while somehow teasing me to explore what lay beyond.

I miss them every day.

While I live in one of the nicest cities I imagine there exists in the world, and there are certainly dozens of lovely parts, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t long for the beauty that surrounded me in my youth. I followed a childhood in Roanoke with a college-hood in Harrisonburg, just up the highway, watching amber and pink sunsets behind the surrounding Blue Ridge. Mountains were just another piece of me. 

Now, when I see them, which is not often enough, they elicit a visceral reaction in me. I suppose it’s because of their immersion into my DNA at a young age. But I guess it could also be that they take me back to a time and place of simplicity and happiness. Plus, they’re just so beautiful. They make me happy.

This weekend, I’ve been surrounded by California mountains. Whereas Virginia mountains remind me of hot summer misty mornings and meandering drives down honeysuckled roads, California mountains simply bring one word to mind: majesty. They are majestic in their beauty, each one different, peppered with trees or grass or even mud, but crisp and ripply underneath. If you haven’t been to Northern California, it’s hard to describe them satisfactorily, to provide the image you need to appreciate their beauty. Just picture majesty. I adore them.

Yesterday, the ride from Carmel to Big Sur, the subsequent hike, and the further subsequent lunch overlooking the Pacific to one side and said mountains to the other summoned that familiar peace.  I mean, after all, it cannot get more majestic than to face one direction and see a whale jumping in the endless waters, and the other to face a crystal-clear stunning mountain of incredible height. We, the seven of us, had to stop our walk under these mountains at one point to let five or six deer cross our paths and bound into the beauty. As the sun set over the Pacific a few hours later, the mountains shifted in shape and color, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off of them.

And for one second today, driving with my college roommate north toward San Francisco and her new home and baby just beyond, I found myself distracted as we talked. We turned and came upon a stretch of mountains in the distance, seemingly linked by bridges and bays. It actually took my breath away for a moment, because the beauty of it was, I don’t know, almost shocking, completely different from that of my youth but just as profound. Something stirred in me again, and I think that something was happiness. I became even more acutely aware of just how important beauty can be in someone’s life, especially if it’s your own definition for your own reasons triggering your own memories. 

For me, this means mountains. It means getting away whenever I can afford to, whether for a few hours to the west in my home state or a few hours away in a plane. Seeking beauty wherever I can find it. And how lucky am I that flat, mountainless Richmond offers enough beauty in my friends to tide me over in between. And being surrounded by old friends and majestic mountains for the past few days has been a gift. 

It has been a beautiful weekend.

Eleven

Alone Isn't Lonely

Yesterday, I walked.

My girlfriend had to head into work for the day, so I had a rare and blissful day to myself. As mommies all over the globe can attest, Alone Time is not exactly the chief perk of motherhood. It typically comes in snippets, in the minivan or walking across a parking lot, for instance. And that’s exactly why I value Alone Time so very much: because it’s rare. It affords silence and the ability to shut off to-do mantras and “listening ears.” Alone Time feels a lot like a snow day. When it happens, and I never seem to know for sure when it may, I relish the shit out of it.

Here’s the hilarious part that will make moms all over the world want to punch me in the mouth: I don’t even work full time. I tutor part of the year, work in University Admissions during the winter, and try to get some freelance things going on in the spring and summer. I know moms who work 40 plus hours a week, come home and run a family, and squeeze five days’ worth of laundry, cleaning, errands, shopping, organizing, family time-spending, counseling, husband-dating, and more into the measley 48 hours they have off on the weekends. Some do it with multiple children and others do it with the additional weight of being single and having no one to share duties with. It boggles my mind.

So I hope it doesn’t come across that I’m bitching about the rarity of my Alone Time. I’m not meaning to, because I know how freakishly lucky I am. I relish it solely because when I am alone, I finally give myself permission to not be doing. To slow down, think about nothing if I feel like it, and just be. This is somewhat new to me, and I’m struggling with the concept a bit. When I am at home, sometimes this not-be-doing attitude leads to what some (like everyone who knows me) may call a lack of productivity. After all, I’d much rather read my book than do a pile of dishes in the sink or shampoo the upstairs carpet. DVRd episode of The Bachelor or put away the pile of clean clothes in my room? Roses, please. Quick 2 or 3 (or 13 or 18) rounds of Trivia Crack? Yes, I can squeeze that in. But even during those times alone, I’m weighted down with my whispering in my own ear that I should really get up now and be productive. Eventually, and reluctantly, I move on to my duties and get some stuff done, like a true grown-up and like gazillions of moms (and dads) everywhere.

But times alone are not the same as true Alone Time, and yesterday, I got plenty of that rare gift. I got up when I wanted (blissful), took my time getting ready (aaah), and meandered out the door to get some coffee at a local cafe (delish). Then I set off for my four-and-a-half hour self-guided walking tour of stunning, vibrant San Francisco. It was a cool, breezy morning, and I started by walking along the Bay, on the Embarcadero. I shopped in the Ferry Building, people-watched my heart out, and listened to three episodes of Serial (a fantastic podcast you should check out). I was a city girl, and I was loving it. I trudged up the impossibly steep hills, toward the marina district, feeling so proud of the workout I was giving my thighs. I watched an inner city Middle School play yard full of uniformed students, while almost run over by a separate P.E. class running their laps on the sidewalks around the school. The kids looked so different from children in our neighborhood schools (most had dark hair and what appeared to be Asian and Hispanic heritage), but they were identical in their giggles and teenage silliness. I walked past bars, pastry shops, laundromats, and row upon row of cool, old houses. Once in the Cow Hollow area, a few hours later, I turned off Serial and went in and out of shops, listening to tourists and neighbors alike. I sat outdoors at a small bakery and had such an amazing ham and cheese croissant that my mouth is watering again just thinking about it. Grandmas pushed babies, friends laughed loudly, a guy in a Giants tee-shirt talked to himself in an alarming way. I skirted the tents of the homeless and smiled at an old lady I helped out of a cab. It was an amazing day.

The one second of the day that I remember most was as I climbed a monstrous hill lined with houses so huge and gorgeous that they appear to be on the verge of teetering over and rolling down into the Bay. The hike was burning my legs, and my lungs were screaming for a little break, so I sat down on the edge of a brick wall at the base of someone’s driveway. Turning off my iPhone so I could hear the world around me, I opened my eyes and looked around. There I was, at the top of the world. The Bay, with its boats, seals, and crumbling Alcatraz were far away in my sight line. Roofs of house after house spilled out below me. Directly above my head drooped tree limbs of a tree not seen in Virginia, green and gorgeously curved and complex. Life was moving and stirring everywhere below me, but it was so, so quiet. Suddenly it hit me that in the expanse of all that lay before me, below me, and around me, I did not see one other human being. I was, for that second, completely alone in one of the largest, most beautiful cities in the world. No one knew where I was. This second was completely mine.

As I trudged up the rest of the hill, I started missing my girls, wishing they had been with me. I began to wonder when my friend was getting off work and what time we were hitting the road to meet our hilarious girlfriends for the weekend. My Alone Time need was quenched in the most exquisite of ways, and I was thankful for the replenishment of spirit it gave me. 

I hailed a cab shortly after and spent the next fifteen minutes getting to know my driver.

Ten:

Dave/Dev

it’s tricky to write late at night. that much I’m learning fo’ sho’. I’m more of an early morning girl, any way you look at it. It’s when I’m most aware, sharp, able to carry on a conversation with other human beings. When I set my alarm for 5:00 and methodically trudge downstairs, I can roll through my routine of making coffee and turning on the news and taking the dog out in the 20-degree weather, no problem. Then I settle down with my warm cuppa joe and write. 

But when life necessitates that I wait until the evening to write, it ain’t so pretty. My brain cells fire at approximately 1/15th of the speed at which they normally function, and my creativity sinks to an unattainable level. That’s on a good day. On a day full of traveling, a long plane ride across the country, and a late night out for dinner with one of my best friends in the world whom I haven’t seen in two years . . . .well, then when I wait ‘til late to write, it’s actually 1:50 a.m. East Coast time; but I’m now on the West Coast and barely know what I’m saying. 

I’m excited to learn these nuances of my writing habits because that means I actually have writing HABITS. For me, a romantic fool who fancies herself one day writing something that means something to someone in the world, that is ginormous. But the fact that I just had to re-write the word “actually” in the first line five times means that I best stick to what I know: writing when my brain works, early in the day. 

So if this post is feeling a little like a waste of your time, I apologize. I simply wanted to make sure I write every day to complete the 360 circle. Traveling across this beautiful, chaotic, diverse country means seeing glimpses of life and culture everywhere, so it’s been a fun day of being aware, eyes open, gratitude deep. Choosing what to write about tonight was tricky, because there has been so much on my radar the past 18 hours, so instead, I’ll just feel a little more grateful for running into Dave, my cab driver, who safely (and quite speedily) maneuvered me from SFO airport to my sweet friend’s apartment.

Dave’s name is actually “Dev,” he spelled out for me, but pronounced like the American counterpart “Dave.” A young, early-twenties-ish dark-haired guy, he and I struck up a conversation as soon as I got in the cab. As my family can tell you, that’s a bonus, and perhaps another time, I’ll address in more detail the beauty of reaching out to strangers, ‘cause it’s a philosophy that is pretty much central to each of my days,, but for now, I’ll just say I was grateful for my brief, 20-minute conversation with Dev, who lives here, far, far away from his family in Nepal, making a life for himself, going to school, experiencing cultures and opportunities and a life so insanely different from the one he knew as a boy. I asked him questions about Nepal, and he asked me questions about Virginia, telling me only after a while that he went to college in West Virginia for a while before transferring to Dallas. Now, living on the West Coast in beautiful California, he hopes to establish residency, so he can soon go to Berkley, where he’s been accepted but cannot yet afford.

I found myself rooting for Dev/Dave more and more as the fare increased. When I wished him well at the end of the trip, I meant it (and was secretly wishing he’d keep in touch and tell me how his future goes). Dev showed me so much more of the world than he knows in that short cab ride. It wasn’t just a commute from the airport to the city; I walked away being able to picture his family (with three older brothers and a younger sister, who will never leave home because she’s too close to her mother), loving each other in tiny Nepalese village. I pictured a boy brave enough to start a life for himself on the other side of the globe, one who has become well-spoken, kind, interested, educated. Fear has always stopped me from making a move so huge, so I am inspired by him in so many ways, as well as humbled by him for even more.

Ahead, the next few days holds a girls’ weekend with friends I met more than 20 years ago. I can’t wait. But I think I’m going to hold that short cab ride pretty close to this sleep-deprived heart for a long, long time. For now, I'm heading to sleep, sweet memories of a simple cab ride zooming in my head.

Nine:

And the Other’s Gold 

There’s something so, I don’t know, comforting about being with people who know you inside and out. Or maybe more than comforting, which implies an action of some kind, it’s comfortable. Comfortable encompasses goes deeper than a surface action. It starts in the face with eyes and lips smiling and spreads inwardly, toward your heart. It’s a state of being, and it’s a rare one at that. Being comfortable with someone means it’s effortless to be you. There are no pretenses, no concerns about positivity and negativity and the dueling roles they play in comments and deeds. You can relax and take something as complex and important as love for granted, because you know it’s just there. 

That’s how it is with old friends, or at least how it should be. With folks who carry memories along with you, so that neither of you feel their weight. There’s a subtle energy in that comfortable feeling. It’s soothing, yes, but it also tickles at your past with the softest of feathers . . . reminding you, for just a little while and so subtly, of where you’ve come from. 

Old friends are the best souvenirs, because they typically don’t take up space in your attic or overcrowded closets but still bring back countless recollections with just a laugh or a hug. So they’ve got that going for them, too: they’re alive, literally and figuratively, accessible any time we slow down enough to call, text, email, have dinner with, or simply remember.

Tonight I was fortunate enough to spend a few hours with a couple of old friends. I “married into” these two beautiful ladies; they were Mike’s friends in college, and for the past twenty or so years, I’ve been able to call them mine, too. They live in the DC area, so I’m two hours too far from running into them in the grocery store or routine get togethers over Thai food, and truthfully, that makes me sad and potentially even a little jealous. I would love to see them on a daily (or weekly) basis, to be a part of the minutia of their lives, gossip about quirky neighbors, vent about kids’ schools, go for a quick walk on a beautiful day. As lucky as I am to have friends like these of my own in Richmond, I’ll occasionally feel such a longing for old friends (be them from high school, college, or since) that it can transform into a bit of melancholia if I don’t keep it in check. Perhaps it’s just the extrovert in me, but I don’t think so. Rather, I believe it’s because connections that last through history strengthen the proverbial “ties that bind” and remind us of what we hold close to our hearts.

For a second tonight, I felt deliriously happy, just sitting between two broads in a hotel restaurant. 

At dinner we laughed. A lot. We jumped from topic to topic without completion and left answers to questions dangling between us, hung up on the energy that kept the conversation moving at an uncatchable pace at first. But then we got into a rhythm, the words flowing as easy as the second glass of wine, and three hours later, I really didn’t want to leave the booth.

However, eventually it was 11:00 p.m., and this Cinderella usually turns into a pumpkin long before that, so we said fun, happy goodbyes, knowing we’ll do it again soon. And we will, because we know that as the kids are getting older, we’re going to need each other in new and different ways. And that’s the thing about old friends: I’m lucky enough to know they’ll be there the next time, in just the same way. THAT I don’t take for granted at all.

Tomorrow I’ll hop on a plane. Well, first I’ll take a xanax, then I’ll say a gazillion prayers, then I’ll hop on a plane. I will head to San Francisco, to see a group of old friends I see a whole lot less than those I saw tonight. Eight of us will spend the weekend together, traveling from East and West Coast cities, and if I had to sum up all the group activities ahead into one word, I suppose it’d have to be laughter. I know we’ll laugh, and just like tonight, I know it’ll be a lot. But I know all the other stuff will come along with it, too, not the least of which is the comfort. Not so tangible, not feel-able, but so awesome to be felt. 

Eight

Wanted: Brain Cells

I like to fancy myself a somewhat intelligent human being. I’m no Einstein, but I watch the news, listen to NPR every so often (when there’s not a good song on elsewhere), and have my “home screen” set to the New York Times (which I will occasionally peruse). Although I avoid political discussions because 1) an intense fear of being/looking/acting ignorant and 2) Mama shies away from conflict, I can hold my own in conversations about the world around me. For the most part. I read my fair share of Entertainment Weekly, true, but I also read real-live books that usually do a pretty good job of exposing me to the world.

So yesterday’s second came as a fascinating, unsettling surprise. 

Last night, Mike reminded me of a conversation we had with our family friend Aashish the other day. Aashish’s family is Indian, and we were talking about where they were from, who’s still living in India, and so on. He mentioned something about Bombay, and then quickly corrected himself: “I mean, Mumbai.” Something clicked inside my head, something either telling me to listen up and learn something or whispering to me, “What? WHAT?” 

You see, that was THE first time in my life I’ve heard that Bombay as a named city no longer exists. I’ve heard of Mumbai, don’t get me wrong, and my husband has even traveled there quite a few times for work. When I first heard of where he was headed, I thought, “Oooh. Never heard of that city! How exotic. Tell me about it.” But that’s about as much as I knew, clearly. The other night, upon inquiring further, my ignorance was exponentially exposed. Calcutta? Nope, not Calcutta any more. And the list goes on, of course, as most intelligent, informed citizens of the world should rightly know.

Mike was somewhat stunned by my ignorance on this particular topic, as well he should be. After all, I play Jeopardy each night with such zeal that I occasionally push family members out of the room, and I take the “Adult On-Line Test” each year, religiously. While Mike was stunned, I was simply . . . disturbed. How did I miss this? This huge, immensely important international evolution of one of the biggest, most intriguing and beautiful countries on the planet? Something tied so tightly to the citizens’ heritage and identity and culture?

I could blame it on information overload--too much going on all around us all the time--but that’s no excuse. After all, it’s been a slow evolution of renaming and respelling, certainly not solely since I began my career as a carpool driver and baby raiser. But I think it’s simply that I cannot keep up with the changing news, world, geography, around me; that worries me a bit. Thank goodness I have my daughters, ten times smarter than I was at their age, to keep me informed. Did you know there’s another OCEAN, for God’s sake? Yup. Found that out not long ago. And they will undoubtedly continue to be my keys to the technology vaults of understanding that surround me, having some sort of innate ability (or is it lack of fear?) that makes them able to solve the most maddening, scream-inducing problem with a simple click or swipe. 

But the fact remains: the other night, I was so embarrassed. I guess I should settle down a bit, not let it upset me. Look at this flub on my part as a reason to remain engaged, involved, and ever-inquisitive, like the person I used to be and still fancy myself as most of the time.  An active citizen of the world, even if the only exploration I do is through online news or the television. 

Actually, maybe more than embarrassed, I was intrigued. We’re surrounded every day by the NEW that makes up our future by altering the past. That’s exciting, dynamic. Keeps us on our toes. It’s intriguing to me when, at the age of almost-forty-five, I learn something I’ve never known before. As I get older and become more and more aware of the beauty, life, suffering, and sadness in the world, I’m compelled to keep trying. After all, it's important. It means something to be informed about the cultures, world, people around us: it means we care.

Better brush up on my World Geography for a start.

Seven

Better than Success

After many anniversaries together, Mike confided in me that when we first married, he had some concerns over my culinary abilities. I picture him weighing the pros and cons of me, and I imagine top of the con list was my general lack of imagination and talent in the kitchen. Sure, I could whip up a mean bowl of Success rice. My salads consisting of only iceburg lettuce and Ranch dressing were legendary. And no one could touch my mastery of the Chef-Boy-Ardee boxed pizza. (I’m not kidding on that last one. Mine were stellar.)

Now, however, I love to cook. I love to be in the kitchen with four burners going, leaving a giant counter mess in my wake. Part of the excitement is the timing, the thrill of planning for three or four pieces to come together in the prep puzzle at the exact moment. Even writing this, it makes me happy. Another part is the creativity it takes. No, it’s not like I’m the next Matisse, nor will my decision of whether to use basil or thyme change the world, but it’s just fun to play with meal ideas in general or ingredients in particular. There’s a momentary surge of delight when something new comes to mind to try, or I stumble on a recipe that I could actually tackle and my family would actually eat.

I also love to play with ideas or experiment. In my repertoire, there exist a few mommy-created dishes that have become family favorites. Mommy’s Mexican Lasagna, Mommy’s BBQ Pot Pie, Mommy’s Quiche. The amount of pride that elicits in me is downright goofy. 

Now, before I invoke images of Julia Child, let me make it clear that I cook on the most user-friendly of levels. I won’t touch a recipe if I don’t recognize words in it. I couldn’t identify chard in a line-up, and I wouldn’t even know which aisle contains truffle oil. Blanching a vegetable is beyond my capabilities, as is using a simple food processor (I prefer to chop). My meat options are primarily limited to chicken and turkey because of my daughter’s recent insensitivity to beef and my family’s dislike of most seafood (a situation I try to remedy from time to time when I feel strong enough to handle the groans that come with serving it). In fact, if you have to categorize my favorite “genre” of  food prep, it’d be more “down home cooking with a healthier flare” than gourmet, for sure. Truthfully, there’s nothing special about my meals or my cooking.

It’s just that I love it. The evolution from culinarily awkward to culinarily cocky came over time, but most notably after our daughters were born. When I was a stay-at-home mom to two babies and then two toddlers, being in the kitchen to make dinner meant being by myself for almost an hour to think, use my brain, not be responsible for anything but my creativity. I fell in love with the execution of it first; the fun of planning and the need for preparation followed. Slowly but surely I learned core “must haves,” items necessary to make up something last-minute or used in the Lynch family dishes often. Through the years, my confidence grew, as did my range of standard creations. I found that cooking was fun.

But more than that, I’m inspired by one thing and one thing alone when I cook: the response of those at the table. My nephew and niece love my cooking, which propels me to try new things for them or make their favorite dish. My brother comes for dinner a couple of times a month, and I feel compelled to provide something delish for this bachelor. For some reason, and I’m not sure what empty void this fills in me, I delight when someone says what I made tastes good. Perhaps it’s the primal urge to provide sustenance for others, or dole out love through a serving of something homemade. For whatever reason, eliciting a chorus of yummmmms makes me feel solidly accomplished, good at something important, even if for just a few minutes. I guess that’s what pride is.

Lest you fancy me a domestic goddess, let me make a couple of things clear: I leave the kitchen a hot mess, which my husband graciously helps me clean. And I am a mom, after all; there are at least two, usually three (and sometimes four, let’s be honest), when I’m too tired or too busy, so it’s leftovers or Chipotle or dollar-taco-night at the nearby Mexican restaurant. Dance carpooling at all hours will occasionally necessitate a Chic-fil-A run, and of course we revel in the “Breakfast for Dinner” plan (which is really just a parent’s ruse for having nothing in the kitchen and no brain power left with which to think). But even two good meals a week makes me happy.

All of this is relatively silly in the grand scheme of the world’s problems and solutions to fix them. Mommy’s French Toast with Caramel Sauce is not going to bring world peace or end global hunger, as much as I wish it could. It’s just that for one second last night, when Mike was cleaning up the dishes and proclaimed, “That was really, really good, hon” and the girls echoed in agreement, I felt that primal, prideful joy. The kind that encourages me to keep trying, keep shopping in crowded grocery stores, spending way too much money on organic foods, keep planning and doing in the kitchen. Keep filling my babies’ bellies for as long as I can.

Six

People in your Neighborhood

For a second today, I got a glimpse of the future. Or so I hope.

After my haircut, I wanted to get something to eat for lunch. In a bustling little corner of Richmond, commonly referred to as Libbie and Grove (the primary streets that cross there), lies a perfect tiny, old-fashioned grocery store called Libbie Market. I like it so much because deep-down I fancy myself as a big-city girl, and when I walk inside Libbie Market I can imagine that I am walking inside a corner grocery in New York City. Libbie Market is bigger than that, but just barely. Packed with yummy pre-made foods, all sorts of sundries (organic and not), and local neighbors, it just feels good in there. 

Part of the reason is that the people are just so gosh-darn nice. Busy, but nice. Both employees and customers, who represent an assortment of the nearby neighborhoods and schools: preppy teens from the nearby girls’ school, sharp looking gents from the boys’ school down the road. A couple of business folks wander in for lunch and out of their small offices that are typically old, converted homes. And pristinely dressed old people. Lots of adorable, friendly old people who look like they’re out on their day’s adventure, with nowhere else to be any time soon. They linger in the aisles and in the small cafe, seated in some of the handful of tables, reading or chatting with neighbors or just sipping their coffee. 

They are my favorite customers to watch while I wait for my sandwich to be made. While I am tempted to check my phone for texts or open my email to be productive in my few minutes before I head back to work, they are not tethered to such devices or obligations. For a moment, I think of times gone by, and it makes me nostalgic for a grown-up life I never led, just observed. My grandparents sitting and talking at their kitchen table or my mom reading and watching soaps for hours on end. What would it be like to be without all of this modern technology that leads my life? To have to stay home if I’m expecting a call? To have to reach out to folks for actual conversation instead of a brief text that disappears into nothingness with a single “delete?” I imagine it would be a little something like walking into the Libbie Market.

As I hustled out, I walked through the tiny cafe area, through a crowd of lunchers. Suddenly I heard singing, and it took me by surprise. I turned to see three or four tiny tables pushed together and a group of older women, perhaps in their late seventies, huddled closely in the crowded room. The eight or so women were singing a soft rendition of “Happy Birthday” to a blushing woman who sat in the middle of the table. She shook her head in embarrassment, which caused girlish giggles from the occupants surrounding her. The ladies were dressed in their birthday-lunch finest, hair perfectly coiffed, smiling broadly. One even clapped in time. 

They were close, you could tell. How much had they been through together? How much had they seen, done, felt, worried about, celebrated, lived? In that moment, I thought of my friends, those who make up my world today--neighbors who bring a little bit of love into every passing in Food Lion or school parking lot or Friday night wine session. It made me happy to hope for future lunches with my silver-haired friends.

I walked through their party and into the rush of cold air outside, feeling a bit warmer.