Posts Tagged ‘women’s issues’
Cindy on August 10th, 2011
Life is the sum of all your choices.” ~Albert Camus
I’m a little envious of friends and neighbors who have summer cottages in northern Michigan, where I’m always considered a tourist (or “fudgie”) no matter how often I visit.
Regardless, the opportunity to collect a few beach stones for my garden in suburban Detroit remains a highlight of my regular escapes to the shores of Lake Michigan. And while summer is quickly drawing to its close, we’ve still got a few precious weeks left to comb our Michigan coasts for treasure.
What to look for
A longtime collector, I’ve learned through experience that morning is the best time to hunt for beautiful beach stones. The water is usually calm, my outlook is refreshed, and, if I’m really lucky, my fellow beachcombers are still asleep. Rising with the sun, I get first pick of the gems that washed ashore.
If you’re planning a visit to northwest Michigan’s shores, I’d advise you to keep an eye out for exceptional Petoskey stones, which seem to be getting rare these days. But don’t overlook the subtle luster of milky quartz or the chance to grab a handful of perfect skipping stones that were tumbled smooth by the waves.
Look closely, and you might find stones imprinted with fossils, some bearing an uncanny resemblance to ancient tablets carved with runes or hieroglyphics. Others are miniature works of art, which you’d swear had been painted by an Asian calligrapher. As many Michigan jewelers have already discovered, some of these beauties are worthy of stringing on a necklace.
During a recent visit to the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, it occurred to me that collecting beach stones is a bit like crafting a life: You have to remain grounded and focused, yet always open to new possibilities.
Choices and more choices
For starters, you need deep pockets to contain your bounty. And you must begin the quest believing you’ll be rewarded with more than you bargained for.
If you focus solely on the obvious (Petoskey stones, for instance) you’ll miss the other jewels of the lake. In my search for something rare or perfect, I’ve nearly overlooked more humble specimens of beauty and character. As every seasoned beachcomber knows, the rippling water teases like a mirage, making it hard to see things as they really are. I’ve rescued many stones that looked tempting under water, but were lackluster when they dried in the sun. Some were merely pieces of beach glass.
The “rules” for collecting beach stones apply to choosing what’s essential in life: good friends, a supportive partner, the right school, a career path, community, and a place (or two) to call home. In other words, it’s wise to make your choices slowly and carefully; to consider what feels right, lasting, and true.
As the cliché goes, it’s also possible to have too much of a good thing — and beach stones are no exception. After a week at the beach, I always end up with too many choices, and have to edit my finds to an exemplary few. Otherwise, I’d need a gravel truck to haul them back to Royal Oak.
I need to practice discernment at home, too. Given my acquisitive nature, I tend to hang on to things longer than I should: outdated clothing, grudges, hairstyles, broken tools, toxic relationships, canned goods, and political opinions — just for starters. And over the years I’ve tolerated too many things I should have protested: mindless television shows, junk food, incivility, unfair wages, sarcastic remarks, and degrading articles in women’s magazines.
Wandering the shore in the afternoon of my own life, I ask myself: How much of what I buy do I really need? Which relationships deserve more (or less) of my attention? How can I make better use of my time and the blessings I’ve been given?
What’s really essential now?
Collecting beach stones, I’m reminded that the second half of life offers the freedom to choose again — to polish, edit, refine, and reconsider. Or, as Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes in her memoir of a summer sabbatical, Gift from the Sea: “One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much.”
It’s a worthy but challenging lesson to bring back to the suburbs.
_______________
– Parts of this essay were excerpted from Writing Home. The book is available on Amazon.com and at the Yellow Door Art Market in Berkley. –
Top photo: Lake Michigan beach at LeBear Resort, Glen Arbor. Bottom photo: Stones from my garden in Royal Oak. Both photos by Cindy La Ferle.
Cindy on March 8th, 2011
Mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacationless class.” – Anne Morrow Lindbergh
My favorite comedy routine is the one in which Steve Martin blanks out in the middle of a monologue, then beams a vacant smile and informs his audience that he’s momentarily “visiting the Bahamas.” Martin redefined the ultimate dream vacation — which seems to be the only type of vacation most women can schedule these days.
Back when I was editor of a travel magazine, I studied the psychological benefits of taking real vacations. At a seminar for innkeepers and hotel managers, I was excited to learn that scads of scientific research had been done to determine what made female guests happy, and what inspired them to return for future holidays. Was it a room with a gorgeous view? Complimentary chocolate truffles? Bellhops who looked like Johnny Depp?
As it turned out, most women listed crisply laundered sheets, spanking-clean bathrooms, and attentive room service as top amenities on the hotel surveys. Or, as a mother of three explained, the best part of her family vacation to Disney World was simply returning every night to the hotel suite and discovering that the cleaning fairies had made all the beds.
So, lately I’ve been thinking: If women love to be pampered, why is it that so few of us book personal vacations when we need them? Why is it so hard for us to hit “pause”?
Despite all the labor-saving devices that modern living affords, we still can’t shake our Puritan work ethic. And we’ve been brainwashed into thinking that free time isn’t for leisure anymore. If we’re not designing our own line of furniture or auditioning for the symphony on our lunch breaks, we feel like slackers. It’s tough to justify a fifteen-minute soak at home in a Crabtree & Evelyn bubble bath, let alone a week at a spa.
Years ago, when I was a younger mom with a preschooler at home, an editor with whom I worked was kind enough to share her well-thumbed copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s inspirational classic, Gift from the Sea. First published in 1955, this little book of reflections was written during the famous author’s solitary retreats to an isolated beach house on Captiva Island.
Using seashells to represent the various stages of a woman’s life, Lindbergh wrote with amazing clarity about issues that still baffle us today — how to find spiritual serenity in suburban chaos; how to manage work and family; how to jazz up a droopy marriage.
Just as Virginia Woolf reminded us that we need a room of our own in which to dream and create, Lindbergh gave busy wives and mothers permission to schedule precious time alone. I desperately needed that permission – and am forever indebted to the editor who loaned me Lindbergh’s book.
“The problem is not merely one of Woman and Career, Woman and the Home, Woman and Independence,” Lindbergh wrote. “It is more basically: how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life.” A deserted beach is the ideal place to hear one’s inner voice, she emphasized. Wandering the shore minus goals, deadlines, or diaper bags, a woman can replenish her depleted soul and reclaim her sanity.
Revisiting Gift from the Sea 20 years later, I realize I still need “a central core to my life” that will enable me to carry out my midlife obligations – caring for my aging mother; being a supportive wife; cheering my son’s independence; putting wings on my own dreams.
I don’t doubt that a solo flight to a cabana in the tropics would help me find that central core. A pina colada with a cute paper umbrella would help, too. But right now, there’s a new list of chores and appointments and deadlines competing for my attention. For now I’ll have to settle for a quick mental escape to a fantasy island. Once I get there, maybe I’ll run into Steve Martin. – Cindy La Ferle
– Top photo: detail from a mixed-media collage, “Primavera,” by Cindy La Ferle. Please click on the image for a larger view. –
Cindy on February 19th, 2011
There was a definite process by which one made people into friends, and it involved talking to them and listening to them for hours at a time.” – Dame Rebecca West
Nothing tops the power of a girl group. Whether you’re swamped with a crisis at work, unruly kids, or too much estrogen, you can always count on the harmony of other women’s voices to lift you higher.
Girl groups rock. And I don’t mean the musical variety, although I’m a fan of those too. But right now I’m applauding the whole idea of women banding together to form their own circles and support groups. Never in the history of womankind have we been so overbooked, so stressed, and so starved for emotional connection as we are today.
Blogging is, of course, a fine way to discover new friends with common interests. But blogging can’t be compared to forging three-dimensional connections in one’s own community. Like the quilting circles of my grandmother’s era, female support groups provide the personal contact that can keep a gal from unraveling at the seams.
But first, some definitions are in order. A support group should never be confused with a clique, which still has the hollow ring of adolescence. Webster’s New World College Dictionary defines a clique as “a small, exclusive circle of people; a snobbish or narrow coterie.” A support group, on the other hand, has a large collective heart. It is typically formed around a positive agenda – to explore complex issues like new motherhood or breast cancer, for example. Individuality is welcomed and encouraged; sage advice is exchanged to aid the group as a whole. And the conversation is always therapeutic.
Over the years I’ve belonged to several women’s clubs, but the “Second Sundays” circle I helped form at my church is the first to spring to mind. Though the group eventually came to its natural end and has since disbanded, I’ll never forget how that incredible family of women coached me through some difficult challenges, from major surgery to my son’s graduation party. Meeting monthly for several years, we rehashed a variety of topics, including healing and forgiveness, letting go of our kids, rebuilding friendships, caring for aging parents, and caring for our stressed-out souls.
It was an uncommon grab bag of gals. Our ages ranged from 44 to 84, and we represented a wide variety of professions from social work to finance. The generational differences enriched the group. The older women offered their wisdom and experience, while the younger members helped the elders view life with fresh perspective.
If you’re inspired to form your own official girl group, here’s what to do.
Decide on a focus for your meetings. Keep the circle small, preferably under twelve women. If it’s much larger, there won’t be time for everyone to get a word in edgewise. Always commit to a regular meeting time at the same location, unless you prefer to rotate your gatherings at various homes. And for everyone’s sanity, keep the refreshments light, as in coffee or tea and store-bought cookies.
Above all, your support group should be about nourishing friendships and feeding the soul. So, forget the gourmet brownies but be sure to bring an open heart. – Cindy La Ferle
– Part of this essay appeared in slightly different form in The Daily Tribune of Royal Oak. The complete original version is reprinted in my book, Writing Home –
Top photo: My beloved soul sisters: Debbie, Norma, and Shirley
Cindy on September 5th, 2010
Midlife is a time to listen deeply to your heart, a period of transition and reappraisal.” — Carl Jung
I have a hunch that fall is arriving early. Maybe it’s the angle of sunlight on the last of the black-eyed Susans in my perennial garden. Or maybe it was the sound of berries and acorns crunching under my bicycle tires on the nature trails yesterday.
Whatever triggered it, I can’t ignore the maternal instinct to shop for back-to-school supplies – even though I don’t have a student to buy them for.
My only child did exactly what all parents hope their kids will do. He grew up. He attended the university of his choice, then started a grown-up’s job just two months after commencement ceremonies. His dad and I helped him pack up the car, headed with him down the expressway, and waved a tearful good-bye in front of a small flat in Chicago after we unloaded the last piece of stereo equipment.
That was two years ago. But sometimes I struggle to get my mind around the fact that I’m officially an empty nester now.
Watching the younger moms in my neighborhood – the ones buying new Crayolas and lunch kits – I recall the exhilarating sense of freedom I’d get when my son started school each year. In those days, it was a blessing to have six quiet hours a day to meet writing deadlines and run errands all by myself. At the time, the calendar on our kitchen wall was scribbled top to bottom with kid-related events and appointments – a perpetual list of band concerts, school conferences, homeroom baking marathons, and carpool schedules. Not to mention all the medical appointments for my pending hip-replacement surgeries.
I still can’t fathom how any mother finds the time to do it all — no matter how many kids she has. In any event, I’m not sure how I kept my own balance on the roller-coaster ride we call “the parenting years.” But I did, and sometimes I really miss those years.
Retiring or redefining?
It took several months to regain equilibrium after my son first left for college in 2004. His bedroom at home looked so eerily clean and empty that I made a habit of keeping the door shut. Until then, I hadn’t fully realized that the career I’d loved most — more than writing or publishing or teaching — was being a mom. It caught me off-guard, like a thunderstorm on the freeway, or the tears that roll unexpectedly when you catch the lyrics of an old song on the radio while you’re driving.
So I had to figure out where to devote my enthusiasm in this uncharted phase of my midlife.
My relationship with my husband was (and always will be) at the top of my priority list. And yes, I’d have more time to devote to writing and long lunches with friends. But I also needed to explore something creative and different. Something just for myself.
The ancient ritual of buying school supplies provided my very first clue — and I’m sharing it with the hope that every empty nester who’s reading this will look for the bread crumbs on the path leading to her own passion.
The inner artist emerges
I was browsing at the office supply store with my son a week before he moved into his freshman dorm. While he wandered the computer aisles in search of an essential gizmo, I was magically drawn to a rainbow display of felt-tipped calligraphy pens, colored pencils, and drawing pads. My inner artist, who’d been hushed and banished to a corner of my psyche after I graduated from college, pushed forward and made herself heard. At the time I wasn’t sure what she’d do with all those pens and markers, but she refused to leave the store without them.
I think John Updike explained it best when he said, “What art offers is space — a certain breathing room for the spirit.” Because that’s exactly what I needed.
A month later, I started shopping for real art supplies at the local craft store, where I also discovered several gorgeous art magazines featuring how-to articles on mixed-media collage and altered books. I couldn’t learn fast enough. And by the end of that year, I found myself clearing space for an art studio upstairs above the garage. My son reveled in his freshman year at the University of Notre Dame while I happily painted, cut, and pasted another path of my own.
So, it’s getting to be that time of year again. Time to get the garden ready for bed. Time to head upstairs to the art studio and see what art will teach me next.
I’ve already started making notes on projects I’d like to begin — a line of greeting cards, a mixed-media collage or two, and a deliciously creepy construction for an upcoming Halloween show. Preparing for the new season, I swept the floor of the studio last week and took stock of what I’ll need to begin again. I can hardly wait to shop for my new supplies. – Cindy La Ferle
– Art studio photos by Cindy La Ferle –
Cindy on November 8th, 2009
Tradition is a guide, not a jailer — W. Somerset Maugham
Over dinner with my husband’s brother and his wife last year, my husband and I broached the delicate subject of … The Holidays. I appreciated the chance to have this discussion with my in-laws. Celebrating the winter holidays, after all, is an emotionally loaded topic even among the most cordial and caring families. People-pleasers, especially, get wigged out at the very thought of trying to appease every relative perched on the family tree.
Regardless, the four of us began sharing a few of our favorite memories and traditions — the mother who stuffed the perfect Martha Stewart turkey, the barrel-chested grandpa who played Santa on Christmas Eve; the cookies we decorated with fistfuls of red and green sugar. We agreed that the nostalgic traditions of childhood are vastly different now. And still changing. They no longer involve the proverbial jaunt “over the river 
and through the woods” to Grandma’s house. Our grandparents all reside in cemeteries now, and our kids are making nests of their own.
Complicating the mix, our extended families keep extending — which makes it impossible to fit everyone around the same dining room table, even with an extra leaf in place.
One solution was to meet in smaller numbers on ordinary evenings, just as we’d done that night. Why wait for a major holiday to be a family? There, at a cozy Italian restaurant in Troy, the four of us were enjoying a rare opportunity to share what was on our minds and in our hearts. No other gifts required.
Not long after, I talked with a grieving friend who lost her mother and is struggling with a different holiday dilemma. As the eldest daughter, she inherited the tradition of hosting a Christmas Eve dinner that typically included up to 30 guests. As my friend explained, her mother was “a generous cook” who’d invite every known relative within reasonable driving distance, plus a few stray neighbors and friends who had no other plans for the evening.
“Having the house crammed with people was my mother’s idea of a perfect holiday,” my friend said. “I feel guilty, but my house is smaller, and I’d much rather have a quiet celebration.” So my friend decided to trim her guest list to a manageable 14. To honor her late mother’s memory, her siblings will bring a favorite family dish to the potluck.
Tradition is a good thing when it keeps us connected to people and places we love. It’s the essential ingredient in our most treasured family recipes. Baking shortbread, for instance, is a comforting ritual that links me to my Scottish ancestors, and it’s the only time I use pounds of real butter without flinching.
But tradition is not a good thing when it’s a futile taskmaster.
“It is my opinion that Norman Rockwell and his ilk have done more to make already anxious people feel guilty than anyone else,” wrote the late Gourmet magazine columnist Laurie Colwin. “The fact is, family is variable, but our stereotypical image of it is not.”
For the record, the family life of Norman Rockwell, “America’s painter,” was colored by three unhappy marriages, including one to a long-suffering alcoholic. All said and done, we can’t possibly replicate our nostalgic past, nor should we feel obligated to remain frozen in someone else’s sugarcoated holiday vision. Ideally, we can combine the best of both worlds — the cherished recipes and rituals we’ve inherited, along with a few newer customs that have meaning to us.
As we mature, we’ll likely have to negotiate some holiday changes with our families. This might require that we welcome a sibling’s new spouse and step kids, or a gay cousin’s partner, to the table. We might have to learn how to bake our mother-in-law’s pumpkin pie from scratch. Or, we might decide to throw in the dishtowel, turn off the oven, and host the whole flock at the local diner. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to relax and count my blessings — which include several festive restaurants within a three-mile radius of home. Here’s to a happy, stress-free holiday season for every woman! — Cindy La Ferle
– This essay originally appeared in Strut magazine–
I’m a little envious of friends and neighbors who have summer cottages in northern Michigan, where I’m always considered a tourist (or “fudgie”) no matter how often I visit.
For starters, you need deep pockets to contain your bounty. And you must begin the quest believing you’ll be rewarded with more than you bargained for.
