“I want to move to the country, Mommy.”

Eliana, cuddled up in my bed, as we watch Hannah Montana transform into Miley Cyrus back at her grandma’s house in Tennessee. The twang deepens. The grass shines with vibrant green. A horse gallops along the most open meadow, no end in sight.

I used to want to move to the country. In fact, at 24 I wrote a poem about how if I could rent a U-haul, I’d move my life here. Here was Staunton, Virginia, and I was on the porch with a steaming cup of coffee at Peg’s house, looking up at the mountain lift from the valley of her property.

My grad school prof read the poem and cocked his head. “You CAN rent a U-haul – for $19.99. What’s that about?”

I stayed in the city, thinking that I yearned for the country. I was young with no ties to anywhere and I could’ve moved there if I’d wanted to. Now I’m older, with three children, an ex-husband, a business, and family all over the metro area. All these things like weights tying me to where I am.

I could move to the country but then I’d have to drive a half-hour or more each day to take my kids to their wonderful school, Norup International. What do I really know about living in open fields, with animals and woods all around?

What is it about the country that pulls us? The open spaces? The absolute quiet? The supreme beauty all around? The chance to start anew and not get caught up in the busy-ness of the city?

I used to say that being an Orthodox Jew stopped me from living where I wanted to go. But I’ve removed that impediment. Now I say, when the kids are grown, or maybe when they’re ready for high school, that’s when I’ll go. And the destination gets further and further away.

I used to have a swing in my backyard from which I’d watch the nature preserve and the kids playing until snow fell. Last winter, the squirrels ate through the fabric and so I had to take it apart, limb by limb, and leave it at the curb on garbage day.

This season, no store is selling plush swings and so I have nowhere to perch.

Every so often, the memories of Peg’s farm on weekends when I lived in Washington come rolling back. We’d drink wine in glasses and sit on the carpet with our pens and notebooks in front of us. We’d read poems just-written and my grad school friends, who’d come from Pennsylvania and West Virginia and New York, would close their eyes and just listen to the way I read the words, the way they rolled off my tongue and up from my heart to put my raw emotions out for all the world to see.

That’s poetry.

Or maybe the poetry was in being there, those weekends, in taking photos at the river in Goshen and eating pancake at midnight at the Waffle House with Peg’s teenage son and his angst-filled friends.

Now her kids are parents themselves and I haven’t been there in a decade. Or longer.

A man I knew from them came calling again and then disappeared into the ether. The person I was then has returned stronger, in fullness, without the anxieties of youth and without the trappings of a decade of orthodoxy. Is it ironic that I’m dating someone who grew up in Virginia?

Eliana and I are going to the beach on Tuesday and I am ready for the moments to tumble forward, heel over toe, sand over salty water, buckets of crabs and late nights with margaritas on the porch.

Recording the moments. Living a life.

It’s always on a Saturday morning, with the window open and an owl I can’t see but can only hear cooing his hello, that I find the time to write.

Is it that the week turns into a maelstrom of to-dos and tasks? Or that, in the euphoria of the kids returning after a week with their father, I can’t even think about putting words into eternity?

Of course it is. I used to cringe when someone said there are writers and there are doers – what do you mean? Can’t I write AND do?

Of course I can. And I do. But when I am so full in the life is happening right now moments, I don’t want to break away to record it for posterity. I want to BE in the here and now.

Which is the approach I take to business, too.

We can no more bemoan the past than belabor the future. Neither exist, silly. It is only the here and now, the what’s in front of my face that matters.

Yesterday, my children came back to me after a week with their dad. I missed them crazily and when they returned to my embrace, I was reminded of all that is good and wonderful in this world.

These are the moments that make meaning. We talk so philosophically, my children and I, that we infuse our very being-together with meaning and purpose and perspective. And they’re still only 4, 6 and 8.

In every moment, there are so many gifts, my friends. We have to see them otherwise we are fearlessly arrogant, wasting time worrying, complaining, lamenting.

Life is what we make of it. Business, too. It’s all the same. Approach each moment with love, passion and purpose and you will never go wrong.

Every day, we’re starting over, though most of us believe there is a thread of continuity between yesterday-that-is-finished and today-that-has-just-begun. I believe that every moment is new, uncharted, yet to be discovered.

This blog post, for me, is like the very first one. A couple months ago, my blog was hacked, giving readers a warning message and scaring many away. I don’t know the root of this trespass, but I know it took great lengths to fix it and make my blog safe to read and to visit again.

And then the past is gone and the hack a distant memory.

The blog is safe again. I can tell my stories.

I’ve written this blog for several years now, begun as a way to motivate myself to write regularly and turned into a haven for thoughts, feelings and experiences. It’s a strange thing, a blog – a private journal for the world to see.

This blog, named for my dream of opening a cafe that would bring people together, has chronicled my own new starts again and again, which is why I am convinced of the truth in my first statement: that every day, we start anew. Truly.

And so today…I have the gift of teaching poetry to patients of Children’s Hospital of Michigan this afternoon and before that, meetings with clients so wonderful and interesting, it is a joy to do this work. The house is quiet – the children gone to their dad for the week – and the meals are simple.

They will return Friday for a Sabbath dinner I have yet to imagine and a reconnection I can taste. And then a calm weekend of the four of us in synergy, as always, my little sweet angels, the best gifts of this life.

Over the weekend, I discovered places I’d never known and ingested the movie, The Kids Are All Right. Did they mean the kids are fine, or the kids are correct? I love double entendre. The movie, it held enough meaning and questions and things to ponder to render it a success in my book.

And so. It is a quiet Tuesday morning with only a few birds calling out my office window. The sun is rising in layers. It will grow hot of course and the grass will yearn for water. It’s almost the dog days of summer.

But we are lucky, you know, as the world keeps spinning and the opportunities arise from ashes. Make it a good day, my friends, and please, keep reading.

It’s amazing how the senses can take you back.

This morning, I placed my nose close to the hot cup of Elite coffee, swirling from the spoon and lightened by milk, and suddenly, I was back in Jerusalem in 1996, spending Shabbat at Heritage House.

It was a time when I didn’t mind sleeping on a bunk bed and carrying my belongings in a backpack. I allowed myself to be compelled by the crowd of girls in long skirts, flowing down the stone steps of the Old City toward the Western Wall Saturday morning, thrust forward into the sunlit day by the enthusiasm of a millennia-old observance of this single day of rest.

I lit candles on Friday night with the girls in the hostel and listened to their rhetoric about the sanctity of the day.

I ignored the gender separation and fully tasted the thick, chewy, sweet Yerushalmi Kugel late morning in the top-floor apartment of a rabbi in a fur hat who spoke only Hebrew and Yiddish. Sitting with the girls and women, in skirts and long sleeves on an 80-degree day, I watched as they marveled at the fact that it was the rabbi himself who made this noodle pudding every week and invited strangers to hear his Torah discourse from the privacy of his home.

I was there. All from inhaling the scent of a cup of coffee in my summer-cool kitchen, where the windows were open and the only sounds came from the birds and insects outside.

And I was there when the slight pull of my window shade startled a tall, smooth deer to leap over the fence and out of my yard this past Friday morning. I knew suddenly the source of the death of my garden vegetables, I knew who had been snipping down the green beans before they could grow to full height.

And suddenly I didn’t mind.

The deer was so beautiful, so innocent, so lean, how could I mind that he is the reason I will not harvest green beans this fall? So what! I have so many other options for produce and for nutrition; he does not.

Some say that if you don’t love everything, you don’t love anything, and I’m beginning to see this as true. We are at our best moments when we strive to love something or someone who has given us trouble, made our lives difficult.

But you know, it’s not hard anymore. I almost love those individuals or instances more than the ones that are easy to love.

It is easy to love my little boy in his soccer-ball pajamas, his knees bent into the soft covers at night, his pudgy hands lacing around my neck in a hug. It is easy to love my beautiful, sweet daughter, and my earnest, book-engrossed older son.

It is easy to love my sweet father this father’s day, with his ham radio and his infinite knowledge of history and science and the way the world works, and it is easy to love my mother, whose enthusiasm is as innocent as the morning dew and who cherishes her family so much.

I won’t enumerate here the ones it’s not easy for me to love. But I will say this: I am learning to love one and all, learning to see the beauty in the dog’s defacation on my sidewalk and the turncoat former friend. For compassion reigns supreme, and everyone is fragile in some way.

For now, I will return to the sensory identification with moments from this life and hopefully today, find new ones that will bring me back to this single instant in time.

The air was heavy through the open windows, held in the caress of the coming rain.

It had been a perfect night, a night of quiet, a night of rapture in a book, of not being able to put it down, of not wanting to turn out the light. And when she did, she lay awake under mounds of blankets, the fresh air a single repetitive kiss on the top of her nose, the only part she dared to bare to the wind.

And then she slept.

It was a long, comfortable sleep and one which arched into morning, as the sun rose gray in the rainy shadows and she hit the snooze button not once, but three times until finally climbing into the day.

And then it was a new day.

There is always a new day, she thinks. The house is quiet in the dawn, the kind of quiet she can inhabit.

Could this day be like a seamless stream, one project drawing her to the next, one meeting subtly turning over into another? She was tired from driving from distant points, across a town dotted with construction barrels and slow-moving cars.

She realized, in the hopeful dawn, that hers was a life of proposals and promises, of projects and starting-overs, constantly, every day. A to-do list that would never be completed, for she kept adding, gratefully so, to its expectations.

A filling life. A satisfying life. A life of gratitude and of service and of opportunity and of gift.

And in those first moments, before she began to cross off items, before she began to accomplish and satisfy, she reflected on the way the river tumbles through the dam, and down the steppes. How it buckles over itself and makes that fast sound, the sound of being in a hurry to get to the next place.

But of course, the water is not in a hurry. It can’t be. It is, rather, forced into its fast pace but a series of tightenings and then, eventually, it always spreads out into a meander.

She liked that analogy. She inhabited it, turning to the window to look at the sky.

The clouds seemed to move as fast as she remembered that river. But the story always intensifies in memory.

(more…)

I’ve tried everything. Chicken wire stapled into the wood frame. Marigolds planted at either end. Last year, I sprayed hot pepper spray and fox urine incessantly. And still, the rabbits find their way in and nip off the green beans, the carrot stalks, the cucumbers until they can no longer grow.

And while I know it’s only a garden, I feel violated for all the effort I’ve expended trying to create nourishment right here at home.

Yesterday, Shaya said, “The rabbits are mean because they’re eating people food in our garden.”

And while I melted at the earnestness of his sweet little voice, I shook my head and said, “No, honey, the rabbits don’t know any better. They’re not smart like people to understand that we planted the garden for us – they think it’s for them.”

It’s raining today, as it’s been raining for weeks now, and teh sky is gray-green and full of clouds. Apparently a sudden cold snap – after two weeks of near-90 days – has thwarted Michigan’s spring crops.

The asparagus we ate last night, and the broccoli omelets, fresh and green from the Sunday farmer’s market, sure tasted rich and full. Why worry about what’s to come when the abundant stroll we took among the farm tables early Sunday morning – in the rain, no less – had so much to offer?

Herbs and weirdly shaped eggplants and squash, already harvested by local hands.

You know, in these parts, the question of can we survive or will the economy turn, doesn’t really matter anymore. Worry is wasted emotion. There are businesses growing and businesses starting and people innovating so that the economy is a new one and one rich with intention.

Still. The morning is so dark I almost think it’s still time to sleep.

And so, with another day before me, and a day midway through a fast-moving week, fast as the river current which had risen to swallow the picnic table beyond the farmer’s market, I abandon any idea of worry and simply do what is right before me, under my nose, what is actually growing, rather than exert the effort to be concerned about what has been snipped along its path.

(more…)

There was the parade marshall, waving to the people lining both sides of Third Street. The Coneheads danced by, and the dogs with their foil-tipped ears, meant to look like aliens. The women with the UFOs around their mid-sections – real and imagined.

Welcome to the annual UFO Festival held every May in McMinnville, Oregon, to honor the famous Trent UFO photographs, taken by a local farmer and his wife in 1950 to possibly show an alien spacecraft.

I tip my hat to the owners of McMenamins Hotel in that town, which created the UFO Festival out of memory. The parade at 1 p.m. the Saturday of the two-day celebration, where everyone comes from all the nearby towns and some drive from further reaches because they’ve heard about it.

The stores that turn their displays alien – clothing mannequins adorned with foil ears and purple or green disks around their middles. Signs bearing “on the parade route!” – indicating the stores ideal for browsing before and after the festivities.

A brilliant marketing ploy. Possibly the most brilliant one I’ve ever encountered.

McMinnville is a sleepy town in the wine country outside Portland, Oregon. It’s charming, with a few good restaurants and boutiques. Trees overhang the downtown streets and it’s not far from sprawling vineyards in the lazy sun.

But every May, McMinnville is packed. Surrounding inns see a burst of guest activity. The restaurants, the wineries, the shops all get a boost. And under the tent outside McMenamins, the locals and those from far away buy sweatshirts, T-shirts, dog snuggies and headbands with floppy antennae for way too much money – all emblazoned with the town name they aren’t likely to forget.

What a way to drum up business for a town that most people would’ve simply forgotten.

Anyone can do this. It’s just that most people don’t. Create a holiday for your business, your line of work, your city, your street – and see what type of attention you can generate. Of course, it all comes down to the marketing.

There are thousands of views of UFO-McMinnville postings on YouTube. UFO Magazine and Google have a million options when you type in those two words. That doesn’t happen like magic. It’s the spin doctors, like me, that make it so.

Go to it. Make a difference. And let everyone know you’re here.

(more…)

“You can grow up with literally nothing and you don’t suffer if you know you’re loved and valued.” — Esperanza Spalding, The New Yorker, 3/15/10

In WebsiteMagazine.com’s May 2010 issue, Tim Ash writes about “creating influence and trust in a place of uncertainty.” If I were to listen to my father, a seasoned, successful businessman who never gets ruffled by the wild actions of others, I would say that such a goal is not even possible.

I can hear his voice as I type: “Lynnie, in business, you have no friends.”

Sounds harsh, I know, but I think he may be entirely right.

Last night, as I drove along the darkened road with my friend Roz beside me, after a riveting talk by Vedanta scholar Gautam Jain, we talked about how relationships are about duty – and pondered the purpose of friendships. We came up blank.

They may be enjoyable, they may enhance our lives, they may offer support and wisdom and community. But seriously – what is the role of friendship?

If our goal in the world is to find internal peace by renouncing ego and minimizing (or eliminating) attachments, then what is the role of friendship?

And then tell me, please, what the role of “FRIENDSHIP” is in business? Isn’t that an oxymoron?

Dr. Robert Cialdini’s principles of universal persuasion:

1. Reciprocation: People return favors. Give to get. (I agree with the idea of having an attitude of GIVING – but not for the purpose of receiving.)

2. Scarcity: If I can’t have it, I want it. Perceived scarcity creates demand.

3. Authority: People tend to believe and obey “authority” figures. Create an “expert” persona.

4. Consensus: People look for “social proof” (i.e. follow the crowd).

5. Liking: People are easily persuaded by people they like and are attracted to.

There’s a sixth one, consistency, but I didn’t find a compelling example or argument to convince me to share it here. Sure, we want a consistency in our lives, but of what? And how does that apply to creating influence and trust?

So the argument in Ash’s article is that these principles are super-important on the Internet, which he describes as “a sweeping, ever-changing communications network that creates uncertainty in its wake.”

But I have to ask – doesn’t that definition describe the entire world? If we fool ourselves into believing that the world stays routine, that nothing changes, then our perceptions are flawed. The world is ever changing, ever moving, and it is simply our inability to flow with constant change that holds us back.

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It’s as if I haven’t wanted to put it into words, so I haven’t wanted to blog. But I must.

Yoga Shelter Life Training, which I completed April 15-19, was incredible. Transformative. Inspiring. So worth it. And so challenging.

I took away so much meaning and inspiration for my everyday life. It looks something like this: Do the work for work’s sake. Have gratitude for everything and everyone. Approach everything you do with an attitude of Apres Vous, “After You.” The whole point of a relationship is to be OF SERVICE. Eliminate the selfishness. Be of service.

The day before Training, I was at Christ Church Cranbrook, listening to the pastor speak of the history of this beautiful place of worship, and hearing about stories of faith and community from a whole range of interfaith participants.

And here’s the message I took from that gathering: Your faith is your SIGHT. What you choose to see.

Faith is love and respect for all living beings. It’s not the book; it’s the voice.

And finally, my children and I have strolled through The Story Of US exhibit at Cranbrook Institute of Science twice now. Each time, I am moved by the amazing truth and clarity it took to compile an exhibit about humanity, illustrating our similarities, and emphasizing that differences are all figments of imagination. Barriers to connection. Fodder for war.

sub * sis * tence – a source or means of obtaining the necessities of life.

The range of our interactions is virtually limitless.

Relationships are the fabric of our humanity. re * la * tion * ships – the connections that bind people and communities together.

Creating bonds. Realizing you are really part of a team.

The relative inadequacy of our eyes as a lens for receiving truth. Perception is everything.

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It was in the 50s and breezy, rain splattering down like spitting from the sky. The kids and I drove through a web of highways and burnt houses, concrete columns and vast factories, and ended up in a neighborhood of houses that once stood majestic. Detroit.

We were the oldest and the youngest in a crowd of eager twentysomethings, there to green the city, to plant trees. And despite the rain, we wore our gardening gloves and rubber boots and grasped the shovels and the rakes and the big plastic buckets as if our lives depended on it.

Of course, my daughter whined and cried from the cold. It wasn’t really that cold, but inertia can render one unpleasant. While we listened and watched, heard stories of the groups that brought us there and learned how to properply plant a tree wrapped in a burlap bag, she hovered at my leg, unhappy.

We traipsed then down the street to a white X on the grass and a tree lain on its side. We dug in with the point of the spade and hefted clumps of sod out of the planted earth.

A man came with an ax and hacked away the dead roots within. The kids handled fat pulsing worms with their fingers, in awe. And once the hole was deep enough, they eagerly stomped the dirt flat, preparing it to receive the tree.

We were given a ginkgo and the task of bringing it to life tall and steady in the wet earth. By then, our cold had vanished and our blood pulsed. There had been tears, of course, for one sibling pushing the other out of the way, and impulsive threats from me, the mother, in a lame attempt to keep harmony.

But all in all, we were dedicated to expanding life.

After, we ate so much food at Zeff’s in Eastern Market, a place where my family has roots from a century ago.

And much later, around the dinner table, when I asked my usual question, “Tell me something great about your day!”, it was my daughter, the tear-streaked miserable one this morning, who said, “Planting the tree.”

What is like poison in the beginning, becomes nectar in the end. Always.

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