At Least...Lessons From Buddha, Martha, Snoopy, and Barry

"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful." – Buddha

Typically, the words "at least" annoy me because who wants to settle for the least? It's not selfish to want more of something, right? Who wouldn't want more friends and family around them, more time to enjoy life, more health, and hey, a little more money couldn't hurt either. It's Thanksgiving, so we're all thankful for these blessings, but perhaps we should give notice to the little things that, on the surface, might not seem like much, but honestly do make an impact.

So here are some less than huge parts of this past year that have me giving thanks — the "small plates" version of a big turkey dinner.

My Snoopy blanket. Sure, it's a regular fleece blanket that's soft and warm and does what it's supposed to, big whoop. No, it's not a mink coat, but then again, no tiny cute animals had to die to make it, so there's that. Also, Snoopy. How can you not smile, at least a little, when you are kept warm by a smiling little dog dressed like a World War I pilot, flying around on a dog house? Snoopy makes my gratitude list this year, especially since he's coming back to the Macy's parade on Thanksgiving Day.

Martha Chicken and Sparkle Buddha: No, really, I haven't started in on the eggnog, these are real items. Martha Chicken is a ridiculous little metal hen that sits on my desk. I found her in a thrift store, sitting on a shelf and, well, she came home with me. I've forgotten how she got her name, but there she is, quietly watching over me. She is Sparkle Buddha's companion as well; he's right next to her. Sparkle Buddha is porcelain, has glitter on his big belly, wears eye make-up, and several children are climbing on him. He was a yard sale find, and, like Martha, watches over me. I spend a lot of time at my desk, so having my two little friends right here makes me happy. Every now and then, I say, "So Martha, what do you think about…" or "Hey, Sparkle Buddha, what's happening?" but they never answer. Still, I'm thankful for both of them, even if it does make me sound like a huge dork.

Barry's Irish Tea: No, I didn't steal tea from some guy named Barry. It's an Irish company that makes the best tea ever. The bags don't have annoying little strings on them, with trite sayings, which is a big part of why I am grateful for them. I don't need my drink giving me life advice; it just needs to go in a cup with a little sugar. Coffee is great to wake up with; there's no reasoning with me until I've had my morning crack, but tea is for calming down. Tea signals a small break, where I put aside the work, find a cookie or other nibble, and zone out for a few minutes. The blend is just perfect, no herbs, no sticks, and twigs, just a nice cuppa. 

Naturally, there is more than a blanket, a tea bag, and some knick-knacks that I'm thankful for this year, but sometimes these small items get overlooked. At least? Well, there is nothing lesser about Snoopy, Martha, Sparkle Buddha, or Barry, especially not to me. Often, we are so caught up in the big parts of life that we can forget the smaller pieces, but honestly, on some days, it's the seemingly insignificant items that are keeping us together. Look around your table this year, and when you're done being thankful for the food, friends, and family, maybe give a little gratitude for something that makes you happy when you remember to notice it. Happy Thanksgiving from my gang and me!

Love,

Snoopy, Martha, Sparkle Buddha, and some guy named Barry

Hey Beautiful!

“If you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror.”

----Kendall Jenner

OK, I never imagined this space would have a quote from a tween model, but Kardashian antics aside, she has a point. Sure, it’s easy for someone who makes a gajillion dollars a minute getting her picture taken to say, “Oh everyone is gorgeous” but still if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, why are we so critical of ourselves when we look in the mirror, or at pictures of ourselves?

Recently, a friend of mine, who is an artist, asked me (and several other friends) to be in some pictures wearing her art. Yes, that’s right, wearable art. Typically, for me, wearable art is that smudge of color on every white shirt I own, usually from dropping a pen or spilling coffee. Michelle Jones Brown, a local artist and founder of Shipyard Art, has created a line of clothing with images from her work. She wanted to showcase all kinds of women, for a post about her leggings. The ones she chose for me to wear are called Blue Ivy, and they are amazing. Literally, waves of color, blues, greens, and yellows are all over the fabric. The other women had bright colors too, because, if you’re wearing a work of art, it should stand out, right?

Being in front of a camera is never comfortable for me. For one thing, I am no Kendall Jenner. In many ways, that is a good thing, but still, no matter how hard I try, I can’t smile without looking stoned or in pain. I have a big Irish potato face; it’s genetic somehow that I’m so pale, I almost glow in the dark. While I love my red hair and green eyes, Michelle can’t really shoot me from the nose up if she wants to show off the leggings. I was hoping maybe she had one of those magic cameras that could make me look something other than my real shape and size. Isn’t there an app for that on the iPhone? Well, whatever, photoshoot day arrived, and there we all were, in her backyard, looking fabulous.

In addition to being an artist, Michelle knows how to make someone comfortable. It’s called “wine and snacks,” and it was a great help. I hadn’t met any of the other models, but when five women of varying ages and sizes are all about to go in front of a camera, you bond pretty fast. Sure, some women can be catty or petty, but not these ladies. That’s the thing about really great women. They don’t tear each other down; they help each other up. Each of them was also an artist or engaged in other creative work, much of it focused on wellness and community — no divas in this bunch.

The pictures have since been selected and made into a promotional video for the clothes. As always, while I loved how everyone else looked, I still winced at my photos. Technically, they were superb, but we are all our own worst critics.  Guess what? There is no magic camera and no app that’s going to make me look like the cover of Vogue. It’s just not going to happen, and that’s OK with me. Sure, it would be nice if my smile didn’t sometimes look like I was chewing on gravel, but hey, what you see is what you get, at least in photos of me, so there you go. Big loud Irish chick, face to match. Does that make me “beautiful?” Not even; it makes me real.

There are constant reminders all around us of the arbitrary and always changing standards of beauty. Is it being six feet tall, 110 pounds, and strutting down a runway in the latest designer fashions? Perhaps, for some. However, it takes a real artist to not only make beautiful work but turn that work into wearable beauty. It doesn’t matter how old you are or what size you are; what matters is that you put something out into the world that is gorgeous and vibrant and makes people happy. It can be a painting, a sculpture, a book, a child, or anything else. Perhaps Kendall is right; there is always something beautiful to see, we just have to look harder or through another lens. Thanks, Michelle, and the rest of you legging ladies for a fun shoot on a bright sunny day. Oh, and if you want some local beauty? Check out Shipyardart.com and treat yo’self!!

Carry Your Childhood With You

“If you carry your childhood with you, you never become old.”

---Tom Stoppard

People say that “old” is a relative term. I’m not sure about that. Just this morning, I was rooting through my fridge to get some leftovers to bring for lunch. A couple of days ago, there was a nice chicken leg in a covered dish, with some garlic broccoli rabe, and it would make an excellent lunch, right? Not so much. When I took the cover off, all that remained was a fossilized piece of congealed meat with something that looked like it might have once been a vegetable. Or a lab experiment. Clearly, I need to start putting labels on the leftovers, because there was no doubt that this food was old. Super old, like give-you-food-poisoning old. It’s a good thing that people don’t age the way leftovers do, cold and alone, slowly becoming unrecognizable. Wait...omg...that actually happens sometimes. OK, I'll work on that next

 I’m 55 as of last week. Somehow between running around in my yard as a kid, skipping through high school summers on my beach, going to college, getting a job, and having kids of my own, more than half a century has passed. Does that mean I’m old? Who knows? I remember a woman I worked for in my first “grown-up” job. I was an investigator for the Department of Labor, working on cases of racketeering, embezzlement, fraud. At one point, I was the youngest person in my job in the country. Joan, who became a dear friend and mentor, celebrated her “speed limit” birthday one year at an office lunch party. I remember thinking how amazing she was. Her career was legendary among the rest of us new agents; there wasn’t anything she either didn’t know or couldn’t find out. Now I’m the same age Joan was then, but why do I still feel like a kid? Maybe it’s immaturity, and I just need to grow up?

Nah. It’s not that. Joan used to say all the time that it’s not the number of years you’ve been around; it’s what you do with them. One thing that hasn’t happened for me is giving up certain pieces of my childhood. Who would do that? On my bed sits a very worn-out stuffed dog. His name is Quincy because I got him at a toy store in Quincy Market when I was ten. I don’t go to sleep without him. Quincy was standing by when I had my kids, when I had my hip replaced, and when I had cancer. He’s been through it all with me. Talk about looking your age? That poor pup is showing his age. An overzealous pug got at him once, and I had to stitch him back up. The pug was banished to her crate, and Quincy recovered. He no longer has eyes, and his fur isn’t white anymore, it’s a faded dingy dishwater color, but he’s still here.

Maybe it’s silly to be so attached to a piece of cloth, but I don’t care, and it’s not just me. Asking around among my friends, it turns out that many of them have a “woobie.” Seriously, almost everyone has something stashed away from childhood. A favorite blanket, a stuffed animal, a doll, or that last Matchbox car they can’t throw away. Considering how crazy our world is getting, is it so wrong to hold on to something meaningful from a time when our biggest worry was getting the good swing at recess?

There are days when it’s so tempting to tuck Quincy under my arm and bring him everywhere. I can’t be the only one who could use a little furry friend during a stressful meeting or a challenging day, right? When I see toddlers in the supermarket, wearing footy pajamas and carrying a teddy bear, I am downright envious. I want to high five them and say, “You are living your best life, you go!” Jammies and Quincy might not go over well at a staff meeting or an interview, though, and people probably would stare at me and think, “She’s off her head for sure, she’s carrying around a stuffed dog.” Also, I have a terrible habit of losing things, so if Quincy ever got misplaced or, God forbid, left behind, I’d be devastated.

We should never have to put away anything that brings back good memories and provides comfort. Yes, I’m 55, and I have a stuffed animal I can’t sleep without, so what? You can have my Quincy dog when you pry it from my cold, dead hand. Until then, he’s with me.