A home along the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The sign says, "Do not allow Katrina to steal your joy." (Photo by Andrea James | September 2005)

I’ve been meaning to write a post about how every day is a special occasion. But every time I begin, I think, what kind of cliche piece of advice is that? Everyone knows that from reading Hallmark “just because” cards.

And yet, I have to remind myself of that often.

In the past, whenever someone gave me perfume or a sweet smelling lotion, I would save it. By the time I was 23, I had amassed a solid collection of lotions and soaps and bubble bath and bath beads and relaxation oils — you’d think that I was obsessed with indulging myself amid the scent of rose and lavender.

And I think that friends and family must have seen my collection and thought, “Wow, she loves Bath & Body Works,” thus creating a multiplier effect on gift occasions.

Once, while helping me to move, my brother-in-law exclaimed, “You and all your bottles!”

At the time, I couldn’t bear to part with even one bottle. I was storing these away for a special occasion. This went on for years.

Then my wedding day came and went. I think I used one of the lotions. Once.

I gave away my collection shortly after.

This upcoming Sunday marks the five-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.

I wonder if my newfound penchant for giving things away, and not holding onto too many posessions, comes in part from having lived on the Gulf Coast during the storm. (See my recount in the aftermath, here.)

During that time, I volunteered to help families clean out after their homes flooded. Beloved possessions became soggy stinking junk.  Items that may have been saved to honor a special occasion instead became chores — stuff had to be picked up, salvaged or discarded.

It seemed like an enormous and endless task.

I’m eager to read some of the Hurricane Katrina look backs and the where-are-we-now pieces.  Particularly from those who have a connection to the Gulf Coast.

As for how to mark this special-tragic-occasion? I will try to remember that there’s never a better time than now to drink the good wine.

More photos below the jump. Click any photo to enlarge it:

Formerly an apartment complex in Mississippi (Photo by Andrea James | September 2005)

Recently, I was thinking over some of the harshest criticisms I’ve received in my career, and how I’m thankful for them now.

I decided to have some fun with this idea, so I pinged some journalist friends with this challenge: “I want you guys to try to remember things that editors have said to you, that shaped you, and which weren’t very nice.”

So, here is what my friends and I came up with. I’ve changed every female name to “Jennifer” and “Lauren,” every male name to “Bob.” My friends were more comfortable sharing this way, particularly because some of them are now at the top of their fields.

I’ve also obscured the names of the publications.

I hope they give you a good laugh. And if you happen to be new to this field or any other, know that the best professionals got that way in part thanks to tough love.

Please share yours!

—-

“Hey Jennifer, over the weekend, why don’t you read the New York Times and learn how to fucking write.”

—-

“What do you do? Be a fucking reporter, that’s what.” — Editor, after I called up and complained that nothing interesting happened at a Chicago city council housing committee meeting.

—-

The editor walks over and slaps a draft printout of my “tech bits” write-up on my desk.

“You read that first sentence and tell me if it makes you want to read the rest of the story.”

I read my lede. It didn’t.

As he walked away, he said, “Don’t be boring.”

—-

“He hung up on you? Go to his door so he can slam the door in your face instead.” –Editor

—-

“Jennifer, stop bothering Lauren, she’s on deadline. LAUREN WHERE’S YOUR STORY!?” -Editor

—-

“Bob, stop checking your email and get to work.” –Editor

—-

“Sirens in The Loop.” –Editor.  This was the extent of the conversation. I was expected to find out why.

—-

“Call them back. I don’t care if it’s 2 in the morning. Let it ring three times, and if they don’t answer, hang up.” –Editor

—-

“Wanna have a one-arm push-up contest?” –Editor, during an overnight shift. (He did 10, no problem. I did one.)

—-

“There’s no news in the newsroom! Why are there so many fucking reporters in here? Get the fuck out and find what people will care about tomorrow.” — Editor to a room full of reporters on a day with a pretty empty story budget. We all left.  We all found something decent.

—-

“Did you write this lede before or after you went to the meeting? Because it sure as fuck doesn’t tell me anything new.” -Editor

—-

Editor: “I didn’t get past the third word. Too boring. Do it over.”
Me: “The whole story?”
Editor: “If you stuck your best stuff up top, I sure as hell wasn’t going to read any more. Just start a whole new file. I don’t even want to read the filename again.”

—-

Editor: ”I read your story about the sportscaster.”
Me: “And?”
Editor: “I wanted to read the story about the felon instead.”
Me: “It’s the same guy.”
Editor: “I know that. The readers won’t though. Try again.”

—-

Scrawled across a printout of a story: ”NO”

—-

Editor: ”Your story was better last night than it was this morning.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Editor: “I read three fingers into a bottle of whiskey. Write it so it’s good when I’m sober too.”

—-

Me: When do you need this story?
Editor: 10 minutes ago.
Me: I can’t make that deadline.
Editor: SHUT THE FUCK UP AND WRITE!

—-

Managing editor says to me and my immediate editor, all huffy, “What’s going on with this story?”

My immediate editor, throwing her hands up in the air: “Well, Lauren is going to write it but her toe just got grabbed by the criminal and she needs a little bit more time.”

Managing editor: Stares at us in stone-faced silence, as if getting one’s big toe grabbed during an interview is no excuse for being a little late.

—–

“If you think you have a rat’s chance in hell of getting hired as a reporter in New York fresh out of grad school, you are sorely mistaken.” — Journalism mentor, advising on career path options

—-

“I like everything about this story except the fact that the lede couldn’t have happened if you weren’t there. Don’t put yourself in it.” –Editor

Harris quit her reporting job at the Chicago Tribune last year to pursue a simpler life. She gave up the city, the stress and the suits, and now blogs about all that she has gained in return.

At the time, I admired that she admitted in her final Tribune column that she isn’t independently wealthy. Translation: Any of us could shun the material stuff and do what she’s doing.

Part of my fascination with her blog is that she and I went opposite ways — I traded journalism in for high heels, stock analysis and finance.  She left to start a family and grow her own vegetables.

She’s also a good writer, which makes reading her blog a guilty pleasure.

Today, she has posted a guest post from me. It’s an essay I wrote about my irrational love for my car.

Check it out, and leave a comment!

For the first time, I felt homesick for the United States. Having to work on Thanksgiving? Not only that, there were no news stories about busy airports and long lines at the Amtrak station. No Thanksgiving-related food drives for the needy. No children making turkeys out of paper plates and construction paper.

I had a turkey sandwich for lunch, some English afternoon tea and that evening, I set out to have dinner with two American friends, Kris and Mark. It turned out to be a great adventure — starting with a rickshaw ride down Regent Street in London and culminating with wine and the best dinner possible given the lack of American ingredients with which to make it. (They didn’t sell whole turkeys there!) (Story and photos from my blog at that time are at this link.)

The following year, I spent Thanksgiving with families in the Hurricane Katrina zone. I wrote one of the best one-day articles of my career.

Future Thanksgivings were spent with friends in Seattle, or working and eating the office potluck.

This is what life is like for most journalists, and every other type of person whose career takes her far from home. Home becomes a place you create.

This year, I find myself in yet another new city: Minneapolis. Another city that I’d never visited before my job interview. Another city to which I moved not knowing anyone but my employer. Another city that has its own personality and quirks (state fair!) that you just have to visit to understand.

Nearly everyone in my office invited me over for Thanksgiving — they know I am here alone and don’t hesitate to invite a near-stranger over to share the day. How’s that for good will and kindness?

But I do have plans. My friend from Northwestern University hails from here, and she’ll be in town for the holiday and her family has invited me to join in.  For that, I’m thankful.

And I’m also thankful for this American tradition. Londoners remarked to me that they don’t have a similar holiday in which everyone gets together and celebrates, no matter what their religion.

Now that I’ve lived on all American coasts, and in seven cities in 10 years, I can tell you — we’re lucky to have a holiday that transcends religion and politics.

Thanksgiving brings out the best in us, and we can be proud of that.

Happy Thanksgiving.

My dad once told me that his favorite poem is in that book. It’s called, “Comfort.”

It’s been years since I thought of that poem, but the verses just popped into my mind as I read Emily Achenbaum Harris’ musings to wish us all a happy first day of fall.

This sounds cheesy, but the following poem is the only one that I have committed to memory, and can recite with any feeling. I’m willing to embarrass myself a little here by sharing, because maybe you’ll get comfort from the poem too:

Comfort
By Robert Service

Say! You’ve struck a heap of trouble –
Bust in business, lost your wife;
No one cares a cent about you,
You don’t care a cent for life;

Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
Health is failing, wish you’d die –
Why, you’ve still the sunshine left you
And the big, blue sky.

Sky so blue it makes you wonder
If it’s heaven shining through;
Earth so smiling ‘way out yonder,
Sun so bright it dazzles you;

Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging
All their fragrance on the breeze;
Dancing shadows, green, still meadows –
Don’t you mope, you’ve still got these.

These, and none can take them from you;
These, and none can weigh their worth.
What! you’re tired and broke and beaten? –
Why, you’re rich — you’ve got the earth!

Yes, if you’re a tramp in tatters,
While the blue sky bends above
You’ve got nearly all that matters –
You’ve got God, and God is love.

-###-

That’s the big muscle that spans the neck and shoulders, the one that feels soooo good when it gets massaged.

About two years ago, I began getting neck pains so sharp that they brought me tears. The pain would come on pretty rapidly, starting as a dull ache, and within hours, I would not be able to turn my head. I spent my 26th birthday unable to look up, down, left or right. I had to turn my whole body to see the person I was talking to.

The doctor told me that my troubles were the simple result of long hours in front of the computer with poor posture. My trapezius got so tired of having to hold up my head at an angle that the whole muscle would just up and quit. It would seize up, or contract, and not let go for days.

When my HR manager, who doubles as my friend, found out about my pain and its causes, she suggested I file a workman’s comp claim. This felt lame. To me, workman’s comp was reserved for the guy in the hardhat whose foot just got run over by a forklift.

I was a notepad-totin, air-conditioned-office dweller. I was an avid jogger, skiier and hiker. How could a keyboard and mouse get the best of me?

But I filed a claim, and got free physical therapy, (thanks state of Washington!), and learned some things that I will share with you, fellow office dwellers:

• If you don’t sit up straight and use your core muscles — that is, your abdominals and lower back — your bones will change shape to accommodate your bad posture. By the time your hair is gray, you will be permanently hunched over. My physical therapist showed me that I have a lump at the back of my neck because of poor posture and shifting bones, and she said this is common.
• Be conscious of hunching over to read your monitor. Have the monitor raised to eye level.
• My posture was so bad for so long that some of my neck muscles had atrophied. I had to do little neck-ups (like situps with your head) to get those muscles back and working again. Also, my physical therapist massaged some of my neck tendons to stimulate them. I don’t fully understand what she did, but those massages felt like flavor crystals being released into my muscles.
• Yoga is the best way that I have found to undo the damage of long hours of mouse-clicking. I have a prescription for muscle relaxant drugs to get my trapezius to let go after it seizes up. One yoga session works just as well as a muscle relaxant. (This is my Seattle yoga teacher. She’s all about strengthening and getting a fierce workout, yet at the same time, “honoring yourself.” Check her out!)

Two words that first came to mind when I pulled out my notebook last night, in tears, and jotted down my thoughts.

For Lent this year, I’m giving up possessions. Because I’m tired of all the crap and clutter that choke space. Because the Bible says not to be a slave to our possessions. And because it’s my New Year’s resolution to live a simpler life. (We’ll see how it goes.)

Each night I must give up a possession, so that when Lent ends on Easter, I will own 40 fewer “things.”

On Sunday night, I tackled a box of my childhood cards and letters. It was full of brightly colored envelopes, nearly every one of which had resealed after years of hot and cold in my parents’ attic.

I reopened each card, with adult hands. They smelled musty. Most of them came from people who are now dead.

I hurtled back in time — to happy birthdays and dinners at our house and holidays. Again, I was drawing animals alongside Aunt Tessie. Her old hands shook so that she could not draw straight lines. Judging by the pictures, my little hands were even less still.

To fight the tears and the emotions, I scribbled in a reporter notebook. Mascara ran all down my face and burned my eyes and gray tears hit the notepad. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. I am only 26, I thought, and yet most of the people  who surrounded me in childhood now lay in graves.

Birthday after birthday, for every Christmas, Valentine’s day, Halloween and Easter, I have letters signed by people who are gone: “Uncle Walt (Harry),” or “Harry (Uncle Walt)”, “Uncle Howard,” “Aunt Tessie,” “Barbara,” “Sandra,” “Nana,” and, the most painful: “lots of love & kisses, Mommy & Daddy XXXOOO.”

As the birthdays pass, before the 16th one, they each die out.

That I am crying like a child on the livingroom floor of a Seattle condo, remembering these family members, is actually a blessing. I was adopted by parents born in the 1920s. I’m well-adjusted because they poured buckets of warm liquid love into my soul.

So loved. If there was every any doubt that my parents cherished me, the proof is in those cards. I was struck by the number of cards at Easter, which I don’t consider a card holiday today, and by the fact that on some birthdays, my parents gave me two cards.

Care Bears and Rainbow Brite, repeatedly, remind me that I was a “sweet daughter.” (That’s probably a lot less than true, but I grant myself permission to believe it anyway.)

On the cover of one, a kitten on roller skates declares, “It’s fun to be five!”

This is why my wedding has been so hard for me to face. I’ve already left my childhood and most of the people in it long before I was ready.

When I shared these thoughts with Derek, who stood in the kitchen and watched, his eyes turned pink. “Save as much as you want,” he said.

But I threw out most everything: the grade school valentines and thank-you notes from teachers. By the time I regret this, they’ll have already been recycled.

We can’t hang on to the past, just like we can’t hang on to our possessions. Those objects in the box are dead. Their purpose lives in me.

Derek and I both agreed: This box counts for *at least* three nights of Lent.

In a smaller box, I tucked way every card from my parents and key cards from the rest of folks — including all notes from my first birthday and some of the pictures that Aunt Tessie drew.

I will keep them to remind myself that people who die live on in the next generation. And to remind myself to love others as much as I’ve been loved.

Happy Valentine’s Day.