Airport Business Cards

By the time you reach gate D3 in the Atlanta airport terminal, chances are you will be tired, hungry and ready for a coffee.

I was. It was 10:00 in the morning on a Sunday and I had left the hotel where a dear friend had celebrated her wedding reception earlier than most of the crowd to catch a plane back to Boston. I saved my coffee purchase until after the security line.

There is something about airports that relaxes me, especially the ones in unfamiliar cities. Out of the hundreds of people around, no one expects anything of you. Nothing is permanent and you are free to float along.

I opted for the Passport Grille, a sit-down restaurant. It was dark and almost empty, and out of the ceiling-high windows you could see the idle planes preparing for take-off. The waiter gave me the seat closest to the cash register. He was young, 35 or so. He immediately apologized for the hold-up, even though there was no hold-up, and continued with the same introduction to every guest that followed. I ordered a coffee and scrambled eggs. All of the beverages were served in Styrofoam cups and the table settings included a plastic knife and a metal fork. From afar I could hear the bartender politely decline a customer’s beer order to comply with state laws. I was at peace and in the midst of people that I would never be in the midst of again.

A couple from Kansas City sat down at the corner table and deliberated over their order with the waiter's counsel (BLT or burger? side salad or fries?). I overheard that in May the two, who were fifty five or so, would go to Baltimore for a friend’s wedding, the waiter’s hometown and my college town. “Small world” the waiter said, and we all agreed. We chatted for a few minutes about the city—the Inner Harbor and Fells Point, crab cakes and good spots for live music. They especially like blues bands, and asked for my favorites. Before I left, they gave me their card, just in case I thought of anything else. Unlike most business cards, this one was for the both of them, and included only first names and a phone number and email.  No title or company or indication of expertise. It was is if they wanted to remind all of the people that they met along the way to keep the line open, just in case.

Christmas circles

It's the day after Christmas and I am sitting at my Dad’s desk. No one else is home. My uncle, who lives in Western Mass, just called. He said that he is sipping coffee out of the mug I gave him while finishing the article in the New Yorker that he’s been reading for the past week. How different reading feels in the morning than right before bed, he says. He tells me to thank my mom for hosting a great Christmas brunch.

He is right: the brunch was great. We had an endless supply of muffins cut into quarters, cookies, late morning cocktails and coffee. Before the meal, we sat in the living room, handing out gifts in no particular order and crumpling the wrapping paper into balls. What I like most about this hour is that it all happens in a circle. We focus our attention toward center, listening to each other and laughing at the same jokes. Everyone holds up their new items so everyone else can imagine that person wearing or reading or drinking out of whatever-it-is in the days and months to come. There are no corners or television or phone calls. It’s just us and what we give and receive; the presents adding to the large web that will keep us together. 

Today, I woke up and continued to read This is the Story of a Happy Marriage by Ann Patchett, which is a collection of the essays she’s written over her career and kept in a Tupperware container since 2011. It’s lovely: a portrait of spending Christmas in the home of her mother’s second marriage; thoughts on writing and appropriate reading materials for first year college students and reasons for opening an independent bookstore during a time of fewer people reading books. I just finished the title essay, which she wrote about her divorce at a very early age, the years that followed, the decade of refusing to get married to the man she loved and the day she chose to dive in. She reminds us that the beauty of relationships is not in permanence or stability, but in the forces that relationships exude that push us sideways and forward and make us let go.

Other event that happened this week: Macey, our thirteen year old Golden Retriever lost her ability to stand up.  My mom called the vet who came over and patted her head and felt her heartbeat. I sat in kitchen eating spoonfuls of oatmeal listening to the conversation which included words like “cremation” and “peaceful” and “down.” They scheduled the time for four or so PM, my mom called my brother and he said he could come home from work early. The vet acknowledged that this was both right and hard. Macey was part of our family, and she was no longer strong enough to live. We spent the day crying and wandering around the house. I went to out to buy ingredients for cookies I promised to bring to a friend’s house for dinner that night and finish Christmas shopping. It was cold and raining and crowded. After I bought what I needed for the cookies, I came home.

Later that night the vet came back to put her down. As I stood in the living room, listening to my sisters say the same things to our dog that they have said since they were five and six—“You are such a good girl”-- and I realized how much older we have become under Macey’s supervision. We can drive, schedule our own doctor’s appointments and buy our own lunch. We drink alcohol and coffee, vote in presidential elections and fold laundry. And after every test, play, lacrosse game, school dance, college semester, failure and success, we've had Macey to come home to. Now, when we open the door of our house, we’ll miss her curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor, lifting up her nose up in the air to say hello.

                                                                           

Thoughts on Ignatian Leadership

It’s Friday. Thanksgiving is over and everyone is waking up feeling guilty or grateful or both. I’m at my parent’s house with my three younger siblings. The morning sounds the same as it always has, with the steady rumbling from the washer and dryer and my mom talking on the phone from the other room. We are figuring out the car situation and sorting out which contact lenses, all stored in the same white-and-green cases and scattered on the bathroom counter, belong to whom.  

I’m starting a new job on Monday at the Jesuit Province of New England in the development department. As I explain to more family members and friends my new position I’m realizing how difficult it is to articulate exactly who the Jesuits are, what they do and why I’m excited to work for them. So for now, I’ll start with a book.

Chris Lowney, best-selling author, managing director at JP Morgan, and former Jesuit seminarian, recently published Why He Leads the Way He Leads: Lessons from the First Jesuit Pope. The book introduces six overarching leadership concepts that emerged from closely following and assessing the new pope’s actions and interviewing those who knew Francis well. These principles can be applied to all leadership situations and challenges, from investment banking to parenting, and begin crack the surface of why the Jesuits have grown into a force of 17,000 serving communities all around the world. Lowney argues that to be strong leaders we must commit ourselves to paradoxes: looking deep inside ourselves while reaching out toward the world, honoring tradition while pushing toward the future and standing in our beliefs while detaching ourselves from outcomes. Strong leaders are those who trust in themselves and in their community's ability to make the world better.  

I was reminded of these principles yesterday when reading about Scott Macaulay, a vacuum repair man from Melrose who hosted his 28^th Thanksgiving dinner in a Baptist Church for anyone who had nowhere else to go. Macaulay began the dinners after his parents went through an ugly divorce and he stayed home on Thanksgiving, by himself, to avoid inflicting greater conflict. It was a horrible feeling, sitting alone in his living room while the rest of the world gathered around tables and fireplaces. He decided that he would never have that experience again. The next Thanksgiving, he ran an advertisement in the local paper offering to cook dinner for up to twelve people. Since then, he’s served up to 89. What’s most appealing and intimating about the story is the lack of magic and frills that pushes Macaulay forward. His belief that no one should be alone and his understanding of what that feels like keeps him going—through the broken ovens, cranky guests and added costs.  I think this is what Saint Ignatius had in mind when he began the Society of Jesus: go to the root of fear and loneliness, make a meal out of it, and invite everyone you know and don’t know to take part. 

An Ode to Pleasant Surprises

It is now the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and I just read the newspaper, un-rushed, in its almost entirety. The weathermen are predicting storms and have warned everyone to get where they need to go early. A young man, who made it his mission to travel public transit systems in different cities across the world, came to Boston and rode the entire MBTA in 8 hours and 16 minutes. I like picturing him bopping around from car to car, chatting up people who are going about their days dressed in suits and sweatpants, towing around yoga mats, briefcases, paper grocery bags and bouquets of flowers. A Harvard coding class is increasing in popularity among all kinds of students, from philosophy majors to pre-med. Nicolas Sparks released a new novel. And Alison Rimm, former SVP for strategic planning and information management at MGH, shared her thoughts on how make a personal strategic plan for happiness.

In this apartment, my roommate is cleaning her bedroom while listening to reruns of This American Life. She sweeps the floor, collects and washes forgotten water glasses and recycles old papers, magazines and used envelopes. Both of us read an article about the productivity habits of successful CEOs and business people and decide, collectively, that we are most productive when our day isn’t sliced up and calculated, but instead when we have space to think, appreciate and be surprised. 

I have a lot to be thankful for this year: I just got a new job after three years of growth, challenge and learning at another job and have these few days before Thanksgiving to do whatever I want. My whole family is home and healthy, including the golden retriever, Macey, now 13 and a half. I also have all of the ingredients needed to make Pecan Pie.

We all have these overarching parts of our lives to be grateful for: family, friends, opportunity, etc., etc., etc. But it’s also through the intentional appreciation of the small things that can give us lots of joy and energy. Like the consistency of the group of older Italian men who gather outside of T & C Convenience on Somerville Ave at 6 AM each morning to chat, smoke cigarettes and sip coffee from paper cups; the cashier at Star Market who gave me two dollars in quarters for my laundry when she herself was running short; the coincidence of just enough postage stamps; and the unique smell and warmth of carrying towels fresh out of the dryer up the stairs.

Thich Nhat Hahn writes: “Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.”  If you let it, the earth will kiss you back.

Routines

It is now Thursday at 9:24 pm and I am sitting on my bedroom floor, my back to the wall, taking a deep breath. I have not written anything on this little blog for a long time. Since my last post, I’ve survived the winter, moved from JP to Somerville, assembled a Target shelf and climbed the thirty-seven flights of stairs at Harvard Stadium. Tonight I told myself that it is not too late to write here again (even if I don't live on Custer Street anymore).

At some point we all need to pack up everything we own and rearrange it in a new space.  So that’s what I've done. My room is small with light blue walls and a doorknob that reaches above my waste (which is unusually high—am I right?). 

I’m a routine girl, gradually establishing one that's new. I love routines, which is why I love learning about the routines of others. What wakes them up in the morning? What mug do they choose? At what moment do they realize they have a chance to start over?

The sequence of events in my morning routine include my horoscope, a few sips of water, exercise, a shower, hair drying via t-shirt, five minutes waiting for the coffee grinds to settle in the French Press and twenty minutes of newspaper reading. If all goes well I walk out the door, prop my sunglasses in front of my eyes, and feel ready.

But maybe readiness is not what brings a good day—it’s worthiness. The sweet, fleeting ownership of the sunlight on the sidewalk, the crossing guard motioning cars to stop and let you go, the crowds of dogs playing in the park.  It’s also feeling worthy of the hard things, from work deadlines to an unexpectedly long wait for a pizza delivery during a company lunch. 

All we need is to realize that we deserve what makes us happy can handle what makes us sad. Let that be what our routines provide: a reminder that we are enough, that the world is big, and that we are it for a reason.

St Patrick’s Day Brunch

There is nothing worse than bringing 16 homemade muffins to a brunch and walking away with 8.

This is what happened today at a St. Patrick’s Day gathering that I attended in South Boston. There was delicious spread: green pancakes, spinach strata, sausage links, bacon strips, yogurt and fancy granola.  Plates of frosted sugar cookies shaped like shamrocks. When it was time to go everyone was stuffed and satisfied. My muffin tin was almost completely full.

I politely packed it up, left half on the table for the hosts, placed the leftovers in a container and stored the container in a brown paper bag. It's not that they were bad, I told myself. There was just a lot of food. 

I headed towards Broadway, nearing the crowds of drunks and parade floats. Then, straight ahead I spotted an old high school acquaintance, James, walking toward me. I called his name. He looked up, smiled, and continued in my direction.

We endured the initial surprise of seeing someone who was once and is no longer ingrained your everyday life. We were years away from the white-tiled school hallways, the metal lockers, spirit weeks and cafeteria lines. And yet, we were together again; exchanging how-are-you’s and what-are-you-doing-here’s as if nothing has changed.

Just before we walked away, he looked at the paper bag dangling at my side and asked, “Hey, what are you carrying?”

“Sweet potato walnut muffins,” I said. I took out the red Tupperware container and pulled off the lid.

“Did you make them yourself?” He asked.

“Yes. Would you like one?”

“I would!” he said. “I really, really would.”

We laughed. He ate the whole thing in two bites and his four friends to tried one as well.

We said goodbye and walked away, my tupperware container nearly empty, as if James was the one I had made them for all along. 

Snow haikus

Snow fell on Boston again this Friday. This time, no one mentioned it.  The kids went to school and everyone else shoveled off their cars and drove to work.

I met a fellow Loyola alum for lunch at Nix’s Mate, a restaurant in the Hilton on Broad Street, where they keep the wine glasses out at lunchtime. He confirmed that the Tuna Tartare Eggy Sandwich was the best sandwich he’s eaten, ever. Spicy tuna; tartare; fried egg; buttered wheat bread, toasted.

I got it. (Wouldn’t you?) It was delicious.  The perfect way to end the week.

Yesterday I went to a class at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education in Harvard Square. We talked about the words we like and the words we hate, and then we strung them together in surprising ways. And I kept looking outside at the people walking on the brick sidewalks, the blue sky and the snow melting into a stream.

At the end of the class, we each wrote a haiku. Here’s mine:

Snow piles on the street

corners. The gleaming product

of storms cleared away.

If you let it, structure can be a gateway to freedom.

Have a wonderful week.