pearls before breakfast

For the full story, originally published in the Washington Post, see here.

A man stood in a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.

Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.

Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of an social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?

One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be:
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, on one of the finest instruments in the world - how many other things are we missing?

{this text from here}

Things more exciting than Super Bowl Sunday

1. This exhibit at Meyer Gallery in Park City.
2. Getting to spend a week this summer here, fly fishing (hope I remember how), camping, mountain biking, hiking, canoeing, talking, laughing and catching up with about 120 of my favorite people.
3. Finding this book.
4. Picking up this one again.
5. Annie B, Jeffrey and Baby E are coming to visit!
6. She's getting married.
7. They're having a baby!
8. And so are they!
9. I've been having lots of fun here lately.
10. They bought a new house (and are going to let me help with the inside).
11. She started a shop on etsy, so we can all attempt to be as darling as Naomi.
12. February Art Market
13. Orla Kiely is designing for Target! Maybe I'll finally be able to afford one of her much-adored bags.
14. I love Bon Iver. This song has been on repeat on my playlist daily for over a month now. (I can't find a good video version. If anyone does, let me know).
15. The white hex tiles on Mom's bathroom floor leftover from the Capitol renovation make me happy. That bathroom is part of history now. The credit goes to S. who found them in the first place. I've had several clients use the idea since.
16. The Month of Love.
17. Steph's birfday
18. Starting to work on the inside of this house.

Happy Happy

Sending you balloons (and lots of love) from far away.
Love you, Suz! Happy Birthday to my dear friend.

Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Tyler. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Tyler wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Tyler. Tyler. Tyler. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Tyler. Tyler. Tyler. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Tyler ended up. I was madly in love with Ben by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Ben's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Ben, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Tyler. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.

The Nook

The other night at the new house we sat aside the big long table. That's where we congregate now, the big long table in the room which functions as three: the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Oh, and the baking nook; every one's favorite. The nook alone is the size of our tiny kitchen at the Yellow Brick House. Natural light spills through two windows in the nook alone instead of the one in our whole kitchen at the YBH. We've deemed it Mare's Baking Nook. A spot for her Kitchen-Aid and all things sweet. That turquoise mixer makes the space happy (as if the thought of a baking nook alone wouldn't do the trick).

There's a clock on the wall that chimes on the hour. It's soft enough that unless you stop to take note, you won't hear the chime. There's comfort in the tick-tocking; like he's watching over us, taking note of our comings and goings as the minutes and hours go by.

We're getting used to slipping off our shoes as we step in the entry; used to turning the key extra hard on the old wood door; used to wide-plank wood floors to dance about on. I'm not sure we'll ever get used to being so warm, after a year in a house where we slept with beanies, double-down comforters and the thermostat up up up.

I'm trying desperately to get used to driving up the hill at the end of the night. It's just for now, but even so, it's a feeling I'm not too fond of. I'd much rather cozy up by the fire and fall asleep on my ticking-stripe couch beneath the tick-tock of the clock. While change sometimes isn't so sweet, it just takes time. For now, I've got a key to the front door. I plan to be around for a lot of clock chiming and I'll be happy to taste-test anything baked in the nook.

color of the day

If today were a color, it would be gray. A cheerless, murky gray, trapping the city in dreariness; in a cold lull, waiting for a storm to blow fresh life into this space we call our town. Gray like my laptop, which has occupied my lap for quite some time today. Gray like the feeling I got when I walked inside the nearly-empty YBH to retrieve a few belongings. Gray like thoughts, spoken to no one, floating clouds in my head, thick and ready to burst.

If tonight were a color it would be gray like granite found atop all that's dreary; a gold angel beckoning to come in from the sad world, into somewhere brighter. Enduring. Everlasting. Gray like the shadows cast upon my new book from L, pages waiting to be turned. Gray growing towards white as the night turns on, a new canvas, in preparation for the new day.

i love you more than...

Go here to make your own and participate in spreading the LOVE!

Same. Here.

I've been staying at 1928 for the past few nights while my parents have been out of town. It's always nice to stay at home, however small the stint. There's safety here. Security in knowing the Rs are next door; that Dr. Steve is home, just in case, and that Sentinel Chauncey is on patrol in the event that anyone ferocious need be taken care of. To look through the window on the landing just before bed and see the light on in the kitchen across the way, or to pause before going up the stairs and see a Stevens standing at the command station by the phone in the dimness of the night, sketching out a To Do list or writing a note to a sibling to be tacked up on the white kitchen cabinet. There is such safety in the known; the expected. It fills the senses with contentment, and creates a sanctuary of sameness.

Tonight as I gathered the trash and bundled it up for it's frozen foray out into the wintry night, feet treading the same path of grass between our house and the R's, all felt routine. Duty done, I retraced my path and I found myself locked out at 10:45 on a Saturday night. Wanting to flee the freezing cold, I went back along the path to the R's to get the spare key. Steve greeted me at the door, and sifted through the basket of keys, a ritual all too routine. There is one problem (as if being locked out isn't problem enough) our keys look exactly the same. I took a few look-a-likes in hand. I sensed their sameness and hoped one was the replica of the key resting inside.

Moments later, I was on the phone with little brother (Rich The Rescuer we shall call him) who wouldn't be home for another half hour. I often stand in that spot at the R's, that nook where the phone rests, and look up at the very window I peek out of at my parent's, wondering if they ever do the same. That night, while twisting the phone cord out of habit, I turned to see the light on at the top of the landing in the empty house I was locked out of. I decided to sit for a bit, then took the R's car over to the YBH to retrieve a few things. (I was locked out there, too).
I arrived home just as Liv was pulling in the driveway. I greeted her at the halfway point, directly adjacent to the paths between our two houses. We chatted for a bit and then she pulled in right next to where I had just parked the other car for the night. Strange the adage The more things change, the more they stay the same. How driving that car made me feel like I was babysitting at R's again, that is until O drove up, all beautiful in the driver's seat.

Change spins all around the sphere of sameness; this world of looking through windows and retreiving spare keys. In all this growing up and parting ways, most moments I feel the same. I don't feel grown up. I don't feel like a babysitter, either. Rather I feel I'm at the path inbetween. Grown Up isn't the known. It's not the expected. There isn't a sense of sameness like repeating steps to your favorite spot in the tree house or tying the knot on your gypsie dress up skirt the same way you always do. There isn't a window to look through or a light to switch on. There aren't tracks in the snow between houses. It's you and only you. Man vs. The World. And truthfully, I'm a bit scared of forging the rest of the trail. Of taking that step and shutting the door of The Same. Just in case, I'll be sure I have a spare key.

between four walls

I spent part of my afternoon at 1932 today. Grandma and I spent time going through photos and rearranging art in the dining room. It was much needed; to be in that house, around her, among those things -- pictures of her and the family. Pictures of grandpa, handsome in his navy whites. A picture of the house in Iowa with the attic room long enough for the boys to throw the football indoors and far enough away from the rest of the house for noisy card games on Christmas morning before it was time to unwrap presents.

I spent time running up and down the stairs searching for a few things for our project today. One of my favorite views of Grandma's house is the one from halfway down the stairs, just as your hands hit the banister. The front half of the living room is visible, the mantle, the little desk and chair and the oil painting near Aspen Lane. You can see the alcove where the doorbell chimes hang and the little picture of the sunflowers right beside the latch to the front door. Out the window nearest the fireplace is the side yard where the peonies bloom along the picket fence in the summer, filling the yard with fragrance.

From that fixed point today, I thought, I hope someday to have a home as lovely as this, full of things with meaning and memory. A summation of a life well-lived. A place where children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren can come and sit and stay awhile and listen to stories about Cape Town and Stockholm, Pelham or Brigham. A place to send thank you cards and letters from far away places. A place where wedding pictures gather above bookshelves on the landing upstairs and mementos are tacked up on the bulletin board in the basement bedroom. A home that says hang your hat, rest your head and help yourself to the Snelgroves in the freezer.

Grandma's home is lovely from any angle. I have memories from every nook and cranny in that house. From the green laundry room downstairs to the off-white closet in the room where Mom and Karen used to sleep. I love that house. I love the feeling I get when I walk in the backdoor or drive up the street and see the shutters open or the light on over the sink where the green glass rests on the windowsill. But mostly, I love Grandma. I love who she is, what she has accomplished and the person I want to become after spending together.

Snow Day

New Year, New Nose, right? Well mine's new. At least from the inside. The outside remains the same, thank goodness. I've now joined the ranks of KJS and O, and my Uncle P, who sent a kind card in the post yesterday generously giving up the Least Deviated Septum Award in the family to yours truly. In a family of over 100 noses, that's saying something, no?

My stay at home has been a bit longer than anticipated. It's given me the opportunity to get used to waking up in my old room again, even though the walls aren't peppered with pictures and my big white dresser full of sweaters and scarves is over at the Yellow Brick House. I've missed most of the snow, minus trudging through the parking lot to the doctor's office for my post-op appointment yesterday. However, just as I did for so many years, I've woken these past few mornings with a sense for the fresh storm. That fresh snow glow that I remember from my growing up years streams through the roman shades and has been here to greet me as I put my nose to the window.

What is it about snow that brings silence? The blanket that covers all but the sound of flake falling atop fluffy flake, covering the ground in a powder, like sugar across Mom's French toast on a Saturday morning. Then, like poppers at a New Year's party, the silence is broken. The world is alive with whirling motors from snow blowers. Children's voices peak as they ride on saucers down hills between houses. Like the hill between Robinson's and Stevens'; the hill we thought was so big when we were so small, little Joey shouting "wheee!" all the way down. We build men of snow against backdrops of mountains made of snow; snow so fresh it makes us thirsty enough to cup our hands and scoop up mittenfuls at a time, flakes gathering on our lashes as we take a taste.

After a day full of white, after red flags have been hung in elementary school windows and snowballs have been packed by unassuming little boys and thrown at yellow school busses, as if some silent snowflake master of ceremonies is at command, the sun falls behind now-white mountains. We retreat indoors, hanging up hats and unraveling scarves. We put the soup on and listen for the kettle to steam. The crystals continue their flurry down to earth, sparkling a moment in the moonlight. Silence returns and night takes over, until we rise in the morning to a layer of white atop fence posts and windowsils. The whirlwind of another snow day begins, bright white light streaming through the shades. Children leap from their beds to see how much their Winter Wonderland has been added to since their eyes fell shut; since they began to dream of snow. Shades roll up and eyes ooh and awe as mothers and fathers pull damp mittens from radiators and heating vents. Mom starts the oatmeal. The silence is broken as a neighbor starts up the snowblower and we set out among the snowfalkes.

Les Invalides

Thanks to all who have come to visit The Invalid. Thanks to my little bro for braving episodes of GG and for forgiving me my outburst when I realized the latest House Beautiful issue had been ripped to shreds. To E & O for tea and entertainment (and for providing GG in the first place). To K for the popsicles. To my dearest roommies for the timely visit, the soup, the books, and the cookies. (One is never too sick for cookies.) To Em for making the trek in the snow. And to my dear mother for granting my every wish. I love you all. Oh, also, I think we better take pictures before the swelling goes away completely. We promised N pictures and I'm a girl of my word. Meeks, remember when you stuck that peanut up my nose while we were playing Brain Quest at the family reunion? This is kind of like that, only so much worse!