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“Are you in a pantry?” My Office during COVID Quarantine

This essay was originally published on Medium.com.

Because when we built the house, the room behind the kitchen represented the structure’s fulcrum.

Because I became enamored with the bright layout in a design magazine (or maybe it was Pinterest or Housz) representing a bespoke moment of well-rendered functionality, a desktop that at first glance was no more than a continuation of the kitchen’s long, white, marble counter.

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Because a workspace in the pantry was domestic aspiration, enabling a seamless glide between ideas on my laptop and soup simmering on the stove.

Because it would house the coffee and espresso makers and a cute little appliance that froths milk, drawing in family members through morning ritual, with an inevitable good morning to me.

Because in an empty nest, the hum of a refrigerator and the dog lapping from his water bowl make a comforting soundtrack by which to work.

Because a pantry doesn’t take itself too seriously, messy with shopping lists and unread mail, and old photos of the kids jumping from boats.

Because this would be a summer house where we lived on fresh veggies and seafood, because we ate out with friends, and the pantry shelves were another luxury, haphazardly stocked with tea and candied ginger and nectar for the hummingbird feeder.

But on the vernal equinox, March 21, 2020, this summer place would become our port in the storm and the pantry would become command central.

And the adult children would return to fill more than coffee mugs, looking to me and my pantry for three square, that would make five adult appetites folks, fifteen meals per day plus snacks going on eighteen weeks now.

jeanne-blasberg-office-covid-isolation-workspace-kitchen-pantry-work-from-homeAnd in my daughter’s despair she expressed a desire to adopt a puppy, and I said “okay,” and that it would make the most sense to contain this little creature at my feet, in the pantry.

And before I mastered virtual backgrounds, people I met with on Zoom would ask, “Are you in a pantry? Please mute yourself.”

And I would provision the pantry shelves with military precision, but also guard them. “Don’t use the last of the coconut milk.”

And while some people have library ladders, I installed a ladder in my pantry to reach the upper most shelves. I became a reference librarian, the ins and outs of the pantry’s inventory running through my brain. I woke in the middle of the night, “We have no canned tomatoes.”

And I planned meals like we were shipwrecked. I scheduled food delivery and hunted items on Amazon. Oils, oats, rice, beans.

And we would all grab breakfast and try to smile before heading to work.

And with the two dogs wrestling, I would close the doors to the pantry to keep the little one from escaping and I would coin the pantry “the jungle.”

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Reopening (Our Hearts) After COVID

This post was originally published on Medium.com.

 

My children are my best teachers. Having been in quarantine, in isolation, and cohabitating with them now for what is going on four months, I truly appreciate their perspective and ability to suspend judgment over what has been a very difficult period. My son was quick to evoke “The Parable of the Horse” early on and it has been a good reminder as we have moved forward, doing our best with what life is handing us.

The old Taoist story goes something like this:

An old farmer worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Who knows what is good and what is bad,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed. “Who knows what is good and what is bad,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Who knows what is good and what is bad,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Who knows what is good and what is bad,” said the farmer.

The lesson is that assigning meaning to everything that happens to us just invites suffering. It’s better to suspend judgment until we know (that’s assuming we’ll ever really know) what there really is to be thankful for and what is inconsequential.

Sometime in March, while my sons were abandoning their apartments and offices and my daughter was leaving her college campus, I heard Bill Gates say that he believed there was a spiritual reason in the universe for why things unfold as they do. That made me pause. I wouldn’t have expected a statement like that to come from him…

 

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The Life-Changing Art of Letting Go: A Midlife Reckoning with my Stuff

This essay was originally published on Zibby Owens’ We Found Time.

I once took a class in the art of memoir where the assignment was to write about an object and its meaning. I bristled at the prompt. Objects are only objects, I told myself, and imbuing them with meaning was materialistic and shallow. It was akin to idolatry, which is against my religion, by the way. Besides, I was a mom trying to keep up with the stream of macaroni art, woodshop creations, and paper-maché coming through the door.

Eschewing sentimentality, I had been known to sweep entire table tops of clutter into garbage bags. Oh sure, I’d hang my children’s masterpieces on the refrigerator for the requisite number of weeks, but they’d eventually get sent to the circular file…wink wink.

In hindsight, I’ve realized that curation is a luxury for late middle-age, when the kids are out of the house and the mind is quiet. In my thirties and forties I’d vacillate between two extremes, either going on a rampage of throwing things away or pasting mementos from obvious milestones into albums. Now in my fifties, I fear I memorialized the wrong things and tossed the right ones. What I wouldn’t give for more samples of my kids’ poetry or handwriting. I wish I had recorded the peal of their laughter, their voices in the backseat of the car, the knock-knock jokes, the potty humor.

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COVID-19 Rituals: Getting Grounded in the Morning

This article was originally published on Medium.com as “Time to Adopt a Morning Ritual.”

Disclosure: This page may contain affiliate links, meaning if you decide to make a purchase through one of these links, I may make a small commission (at no additional cost to you), which I will donate to literary organizations in Boston. Thanks!

I am often asked about my writing practice and whether I have a certain routine. The answer is yes, I am, for the most part, a morning writer. What I don’t really talk about, however, are the steps I must take before sitting down at my desk. About six or seven years ago I incorporated morning ritual into my life, intentional actions beyond brushing my teeth and washing my face and getting dressed that have fueled not just my writing but my life.

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Early morning near Fisherman’s Wharf

During this time of self-isolation while anxiety and fear seem to hover like a dark cloud, my morning ritual has become even more sacred. Expressing control over the day’s beginning sets me on the most positive trajectory possible. The quiet of early morning is also very beautiful and taking it for myself is a wonderful act of self-love.

Even under normal circumstances my morning ritual provided a mindful entry into creative work. On days when I have a busy schedule, the ritual brings me back to calm clarity and away from media distractions.

Since many are now working from home, possibly craving a more deliberate delineation between “self” and “work” mode, I’d like to suggest morning ritual as a way to transition. If you have pets or children who make early demands, getting up before them is an option, as is making a deal with a partner to cover for you. The best option will be training your children and your pets to be patient, but that will take time.

There are days when I need to be flexible and do a condensed version, but I set out my complete morning ritual below. You will see that it is meant to not just boot up the mind, but the body and spirit as well.

1. Peaceful Warrior routine on a yoga mat. I learned this from Dan Millman, Author of “The Way of the Peaceful Warrior” in a class he gave on Mastery at Kripalu about 6 years ago. In the video I’ve attached it takes 5 minutes, but I’ve seen Dan do it in 3, or it can be extended to a 15 minute routine.

2. A few more for good measure — I add about 5 more minutes of floor exercises prescribed by a physical therapist to combat some of my chronic sports injuries. Use this time for any additional stretches or movements you like, but do them in a specific order, so that you create a true ritual. All you need to do is focus on your breath.

3. Go upside down — I invert for several minutes on a yogi stool which settles the weight in my shoulders and off my head and neck. The reversal of gravity on my spine and oxygen to my brain are two benefits. I also tuck my knees into my abdomen for a few upside down crunches.

4. Meditation — I go right from the inversion to sitting on a bolster. I rub essential oils into the soles of my feet, light a candle and then begin. Ten minutes is my sweet spot….

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12 Top Boston Spots for the Working Writer

This post was originally published on the Boston Book Blog.

A writer’s day can be a mixed bag. Yes, my ideal is four uninterrupted, morning hours at my desk, but writers can’t always be writing – there are many other activities that go along with the job. Some days I take a class, meet with a writing group, do research, or attempt to solve technical problems. I’m fortunate that the Beacon Hill and Back Bay neighborhoods offer many locales for staying  productive. Come along with me as I take a writerly walk through Boston.

 

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Boston Athenaeum

When I need a change of scenery, writing at the Boston Athenaeum is truly inspiring. To work here, you will need to become a member of this magical private library, but fun fact: dogs are allowed.

 

 

 

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Panificio

My favorite writing haunt on Charles Street is Panificio at number 144. The soups are heavenly and their big windows let in tons of light. It’s also close to my local post office where I often have an errand to run!

 

 

 

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Family Reunion Just Cuz

This essay was originally published on Medium.com.

My earliest memories of family outside the nucleus of my mother and father was my mother’s family: her father, three siblings, and my cousins.  My eldest uncle and his first wife had three children and we were often sandwiched together during the summer, swimming in Lake George, singing in the back seat of the car, and scouring the attic in our grandparent’s home for dress up material for skits we’d put on for the whole clan as they sipped cocktails and pulled dinner together.

The next crop of cousins would appear when I was ten years old, creating a span between we four older cousins and the seven younger ones, but I always remember marveling when they were born and playing with them when they were little.  My aunts and uncles often served as surrogate parents, taking care of me for long stretches of time.

I’m going to do a huge fast forward, but a lot of things would come to pass, not between the cousins but in our parents’ generation: hurt feelings, relocations, distance, divorce, death. The result was a chasm in my relationship with my aunts and uncles.  I even went so far as to walk away from my mother’s side of the family for a period of time after her death, like it was my duty to continue to carry her baggage, with a side order of who needs them anyway.

Three years ago, my cousins invited me to my aunt and uncle’s 50th Anniversary party and I attended. I was so nervous going into the evening, I made my daughter come with me.  I would be seeing the whole crew after a fifteen year separation.  My aunts and uncles were all welcoming and kind, but the best part of the evening would sitting at dinner with my cousins, and  introducing my daughter to women with whom she shared so much in common. It was more than fun – it was incredible.  In adulthood our age differences melted away.

Last year I bumped into one of my cousins in Utah (thanks to Facebook) and after spending time with her, was finally ready to admit to myself I had a yearning for family. Family with a capital F,  as in blood relatives.  My mother had been gone fifteen years and it was remarkable how being in the presence of her DNA was strangely comforting.

Riding a chairlift together in Utah, we hatched the idea of a cousins ski trip.  Originally from the Adirondacks in upstate New York, our parents all shared a true love of the downhill, speed, and risky behavior.  Skiing is not just a sport, but sort of a family value, and one that everyone could get behind.  After requesting preferred dates from a few of the cousins,  I went ahead and reserved the condo, then threw out the details to the group….  people seemed up for it in the springtime, but  I wasn’t sure anyone would show when the time came.  Let’s just say I bought the cancellation insurance. 

Well…. I am happy to report that a week ago, seven of the eleven gathered in Deer valley for a long weekend. I am still glowing!  We laughed and skied and talked on the lifts and over dinner. We compared our varying versions of the family history, what was once vitriol in our parents’ generation seemed like a virus we were anxious to be rid of.  We resemble each other and act like each other and, as the one only child in the group, maybe I felt it the most – but being around others I recognized in myself planted me to the earth in a way I haven’t been for a very long time.

I see my mother in my cousins, I see my children in my cousins and they see me in their parents as well.  Without the cousin’s ski trip, it may have taken a wedding or funeral to get us all together again.  The effort everyone made (in most cases leaving spouses at home to take care of young families) was tremendous.  The commitment  to attend was a demonstration of love for each other and desire to to stay connected. 

Before the weekend I felt a little sheepish and separated, but now I feel like I have six new friends.  I even met one for the first time (as we are almost 20 years apart in age).  The message here is: Don’t wait to get people together.   Even the busiest of people will make the effort if you plan far enough in advance.  Make it a destination to give people an extra incentive, maybe centered around an activity most of the people enjoy.  A weekend is plenty of time to come away feeling connected. Let everybody pitch in with meals, cars, etc.  Then sit back and drink it in.  It’s even possible your grandparents will also be up in heaven, rewarding you with serendipity and and helping to orchestrate the fun.

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Patience: The Ocean as my Teacher

This essay was originally posted on Medium.com.

jeanne-mcwilliams-blasberg-travel-blog-ocean-teaches-patienceJohn and I flew down to the Dominican Republic to spend New Year’s with friends at Casa de Campo. It was the afternoon of our arrival and we were enjoying cold drinks and their view of the sun lowering over the sea when I reached for my phone to take a picture. My head flashed with heat as I realized the phone, credit cards, and drivers license attached were missing. A quick back-track of our steps had us returning to the resort’s security gate where I had been so excited to see our friends pulling in to greet us, that I stupidly left the phone behind. I was extremely grateful to learn it had been found and turned over to resort security.

By the time we arrived in the DR, we were already nearing the end of our holiday and I couldn’t help feeling like this little mishap was a final test of sorts. Getting reunited with my phone became almost a comical exercise in patience — primarily because I was embarrassed and concerned I’d thrown off our hosts’ evening plans more than any mistreatment by the very conscientious resort staff!

jeanne-mcwilliams-blasberg-travel-blog-friends-on-beach-learn-patienceI’ve been given many teachers in this life when it comes to cultivating patience. Some of the most poignant have appeared while traveling. At home, it’s easy to construct a predictable daily structure, everything under my control (haha). When I lose my patience at home, I often brush it off as justified. I think, “how dare xyz not serve my needs as I want when I want?” But travel takes me to places where my ego has to admit I am insignificant and invisible. Travel separates me from my well-curated routine, creating obvious opportunities to practice patience. Travel holds me accountable to family members — who won’t let me get away with anything.

The first half of the holiday break had us traveling to Punta de Mita, Mexico with our three adult children. There, we enjoyed the Pacific Ocean, cooked simple meals in the villa, lit Hanukkah candles, played games, and talked…   Read More

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Pass the Vegan Meatloaf: Navigating Thanksgiving Traditions

This essay was originally published on Medium.com.

Disclosure: This page may contain affiliate links, meaning if you decide to make a purchase through one of these links, I may make a small commission (at no additional cost to you), which I will donate to literary organizations in Boston. Thanks!

jeanne-blasberg-thanksgiving-turkeyIn Jonathan Safran Foer’s recent book, We Are the Weather, he reports that “Ninety-six percent of American families gather for a Thanksgiving meal. That is higher than the percentage of Americans who brush their teeth every day, have read a book in the last year, or have ever left the state in which they were born.  It is almost certainly the broadest collective action… in which Americans partake… forty-six million turkeys are consumed on the third Thursday in November every year.” Although Foer goes on to make a larger point about what makes a movement, I use his findings to emphasize something about the holiday menu: turkey is Thanksgiving. 

Dietary changes in our family mean that a majority of us now adhere to vegetarian or vegan regimens. So, in an effort to provide something for everyone, my husband suggested a vegan option this year.  He asked one son to make the mashed potatoes, one son to make the squash casserole, our daughter to make the Brussel sprouts, he’d stuff and roast the bird, and when it came to my assignment (and I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly) he said  something about a vegan meatloaf.

“What? Read me the recipe,” I said from the couch, where I was steeped in a novel.

Everyone was listening as he put on his reading glasses and listed the ingredients: tofu, lentils, oats, ketchup, mustard, soy sauce….

jeanne-blasberg-family-thanksgiving-traditions-turkey-vegan-meatloafNow let me say, that while my husband was the one to suggest this addition, it seemed I would be the one making it, the one to go down in infamy. (read: Mom always takes blame)  John’s dad had reminded me of this fact only earlier that day. Despite his battling the same heart disease that plagues all the men in his family, that very morning we were making plans for his 92nd birthday party at his favorite Chinese restaurant. 

 “When you call to make the reservation,” he had said to my husband. “Make sure you let them know about Jeannie’s dietary issues.” 

You might think his mentioning “my” dietary issues as a sign of his concern and  thoughtfulness, but in it I heard the reminder that for the past thirty years I’ve been the one imposing all brands of “picky eating” on his poor son.  

As John handed me the instructions for the vegan meatloaf,  I cleared my throat. “No way.”

“What?”

 “I am making the executive decision to nix the vegan meatloaf.”  The reason I gave had something to do with keeping it simple, but there was also something of not wanting to be the spoiler mixed in there too.  What Foer writes about is real – the Thanksgiving meal is like a heavy, warm blanket. Even for vegans, a proper Thanksgiving buffet provides a certain visual that is comforting. I knew vegan meatloaf on the Thanksgiving table would not be like an orange on a the Seder plate – rather it sounded like the punchline to a stupid joke.  

As a mom (and a daughter-in-law entrusted with the meal),  it has become increasingly clear that the greatest thing I can offer my family, what everyone really craves, is stability and tradition. After the schlepp home, weary from the cruel, cruel world, the Thanksgiving menu does more than fill one’s stomach.  The kids look forward to, and indeed get a boost from our adherence to the prescribed menu. Tradition was hard enough to sustain during the years we lived overseas where finding a turkey was near impossible and we had to assign our eldest son with smuggling Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix and ocean spray cranberry sauce through customs on his way home from boarding school.  Certain staples of our menu are tributes to mothers who are no longer with us. Even the squash rolls take on importance. My father-in-law orders them weeks ahead and stands in line to pick them up at a farm stand on the Cape.

jeanne-blasberg-thanksgiving-dinner-traditionReading the figures in Foer’s book suggests we aren’t the only family clinging to tradition.  Even as we Blasbergs are accepting of change and differences in other aspects of our lives, I was surprisingly suspect of letting change creep onto my Thanksgiving table.  I mean it’s not like we weren’t going to have the turkey too… John just suggested adding a dish. You may accuse me of just wanting to read all afternoon (true), or avoiding the additional dishes that would need to be washed (true), but there was certainly something about the aesthetic of a brown log, and the taste (soy sauce??)…  and the feeling like I didn’t want to risk even one little crack in our tradition. Maybe there was also a tinge of that fear that since my children have all left home there might be a time when they don’t return – “she actually made a vegan meatloaf one year.”  

I’m guilty of blowing apart various aspects of my children’s lives, but I’ll draw the line when it comes to Thanksgiving.  Plant-based, low-carb… forget about it or pick around it. God forbid I fall into the category of a family member who once insisted our only stuffing option be gluten-free…  My family has a long memory when it comes to such transgressions and can be pretty unforgiving. No, a vegan meatloaf wasn’t happening on my watch. We vegetarians would survive on side dishes (and a guaranteed late night snack).

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Revisiting: When Book Tour Becomes Time Travel

This essay was originally published on Medium.com.

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A stunning walk in Laguna Beach

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Beyond Admissions: The Campus Novel

This article was originally published on Medium.com.

Disclosure: This page may contain affiliate links, meaning if you decide to make a purchase through one of these links, I may make a small commission (at no additional cost to you), which I will donate to literary organizations in Boston. Thanks!

jeanne-blasberg-boston-book-festival-the-campus-novel-panel

I sat on a panel last weekend at the Boston Book Festival with three incredible authors of recent releases to discuss “The Campus Novel.” Long-held favorites in American literature, campus novels are set in academia with protagonists coming of age among a variety of pressures. Schools, after all, have long provided ripe settings in literature — think THE LORDS OF DISCIPLINE by Patrick Conroy. They are convenient microcosms, mysterious islands unto themselves with specific codes of conduct and traditions. If a writer’s primary objective is to ‘world-build,’ then campuses provide a great head start.

the-nine-campus-novel-by-jeanne-blasbergIn addition to my novel, THE NINE, the Boston Book Festival panel included CJ Farley with his novel AROUND HARVARD SQUARE, Mona Awad and BUNNY, and Elizabeth Ames who wrote THE OTHER’S GOLD. While THE NINE is set on a fictional boarding school campus, AROUND HARVARD SQUARE and THE OTHER’S GOLD are set on college campuses, and BUNNY portrays one young woman’s experience in an MFA program. Our moderator, Lisa Borders, kicked off the discussion with the ways we had each spun this recognizable genre, however, CJ Farley was quick to point out that the four novels, with regard to subject matter at least, were more similar than different.

the-others-gold-campus-novel-by-elizabeth-amesThere was head nodding on the stage. We were, he continued, all dwelling on the theme of exclusivity and groups — whether cliques of friends, societies (secret and otherwise). Our protagonists are disheartened as they meet continuous tests of acceptance inside their respective academic settings. And while our young heroes and heroines may have been conflicted about these groups at first, they ultimately wanted in. Whereas one (a parent for instance) may have assumed gaining admission to the likes of Harvard was success in itself, our characters are disheartened with the continuous tests of acceptance that are set out before them. BUNNY and THE OTHER’S GOLD are interesting in their deep dive into the world of female friendship and the intense bonds (for better or worse) that are created on campuses during early adulthood. After touching on the theme of acceptance, loyalty and betrayal were obvious follow-ups in all of our novels.