other observations

one more advent muse and a bunch of miscellaneous ones...

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at advent we wait in hope for the arrival of god's gift to us, the christ child. our president elect admonishes us to "be the hope we've been waiting for."

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the country wanted change so badly, it voted in a president with a very meagre record; that is change.

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barbara walters voted sarah palin one of her most interesting persons of the year and interviewed tina fey as a result.

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labor unions want to vote in a " card check" measure that requires all workers to disclose what they vote for; this is sure to produce discord.

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to honor president-elect obama, washington d.c, will keep its bars open until 5 a.m. during inauguration week. now, that's change i don't think we need.

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housing in d.c. during inauguration week is sold-out. keeping the bars open might help those without lodging attend the inauguration. but will they remember it?

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recent taxpayer funded bailouts of companies that are "too big to fail" leave taxpayers feeling they are too small to succeed.

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the same economists who lament that consumer spending is down counsel consumers to pay off their debt.

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the presidential candidate who positioned his opponent as representing "bush's third term" has now appointed two members of bush's team to his own cabinet. obama: bush's third term?

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martha stewart, the media mogul who served time for insider trading, suggests that citizens "suck it up" when it comes to paying taxes. what a great country.

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people say the iraq war is too expensive; whereas world world II pulled our country out of depression.

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the first-lady elect receives kudos from the public for wearing j-crew, but fasion designers love her because she wears clothing from the runway.

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to protest the killing of a teenager by police, greeks are rioting in the streets, wrecking at least 21 vehicles, several store front windows and a building. fighting fire with fire?

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hillary clinton, newly minted secretary of state and jeb bush, former governor of florida and possible 2010 senate candidate, could face it off in 2016 in a general election. might the clinton and bush years not yet be over?

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being a u.s. senator is the only job in america that gives employees a leave of absence in order to try to land a better job and still get paid 6 figures doing it.

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those who signed bad loans and are now in home foreclosure may get sweet, new deals on their loans, while renters who didn't get into bad loans get nothing. how much might self-respect buy them?

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people never seem to have free time, but they do have lots of free minutes.

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fast food mongers lament that $.99 burgers now cost about $1.09, while the true price of hamburger is about $2.49/lb.

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americans obsess over inhaling chemicals from the environment, all the while eating food that is grown with chemicals.

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gas has not been this cheap for about 6 years, but the economy hasn't been this bad in about 30.

*the washington state and the university of washington football teams have a combined record of 1 win and 23 losses. they do know that the point is to win, right?

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it used to be that the romans battled the barbarians in the coliseum; now the humanitarians host a bowl game in the boise state stadium (no one dies, except maybe careers).

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bose and ipod headphones help drown out environmental noise, but what about the noise inside our own heads?

the most publicized coffee break in the world

So, I'm sure you've all heard--or felt--that Starbucks closed early on Tuesday for "retraining." Okay, just looking back at that first sentence makes me want to get all comic bookish on you: Egads! Zoiks! Blam! Starbucks closed early? Whatever are we going to do? Maybe it's the cynic, or the slightly jaded ex-"partner" in me, that wonders what the angle was for such a move. Has quality declined that much or so sharply that such a move was needed? Will the drinks really be that much better on Wednesday morning? Hmm. So I got to poking around into this little mystery and here are some ramblings that came out of my search.

To start, I heard about "the story" on today's morning news, the day after the fact. That alone should give pause to several people I know who think I go ape over Starbucks (and who thus give me Starbucks stuff in my stocking). No, it's not that I hate them or their coffee --I've been known to grab a cup while cruising around Target or to meet friends at one of the three stores in my town--but I seem to have a reputation for a being a devotee when I'm really not. I think the Mac Donald's factor comes in to play here: you don't like it that much but it's familiar and the farther you are from home the more comforting the brand--and the clean bathrooms--are. I've spent a considerable amount of time away from home--in places with truly crappy coffee--so I've frequented Starbucks in several countries and states. But I digress: my point is that I never would have noticed that Starbucks closed early unless someone writing the morning "news" shows thought it was newsworthy.

So although I'm not a daily Starbucks pilgrim (if I can help it), I did find it interesting that the company closed its 7,100 U.S. stores for 3.5 hours in order to "retrain." Maybe it's because a long time ago I gave up the lattes, the extra shots, the soy--everything that piles on top of your drink to make it $4--and settled for the short drip coffee with room for cream, or on a splurge day, a tall with room americano. Both drinks are under $2, which would still seem highway robbery to my grandma, but which by today's standards is a bargain. And both drinks are super hard to mess up, the first being coffee perked into a pot and the second being an automated shot poured into a cup with hot tap water added. So, I must have been out of touch with Starbucks' sudden need to retrain 135,00 baristas in basic drink-making, which Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz cites as the reason for the company's Tuesday evening coffee break. Schultz, who just regained control of the company in January in order to win back some of the 40% profit loss the company incurred in 2007, put it a little more dramatically: "Your drink should be perfect...We have to get back what made this company great, and that is to have the courage and curiosity and commitment to do things that have not been done before."

Like what, put, a petting zoo by the condiment bar? Or a merry-go-round by the drink case? They've automated nearly every machine in every store, have drink making down to a science if not really an art, and bring in mass-produced baked goods to every outlet. Plus, they're hawking cds on their own label and promoting kitschy major motion pictures like Akeelah and the Bee. Pardon the cynicism, but what's next, spa treatments and wheat grass drinks? (Oh wait, they do sell those from the dairy case). Well, worry not. We won't have to speculate long. Schultz plans to roll out a new save-their-retirement plan at the March shareholders meeting, complete with "five bold innovations." Saddle up the ponies.

In the meantime, we can only wonder (hope?): could it be possible that "bold innovations" or not, the sun might be setting on the coffee giant's empire? Gone are the days when everyone looked to Starbucks alone to set the cool tone--and high prices--for coffee. New (and not-so-new) kids are in town: Peets, Carabou, Tullys (not to mention the thousands of coffee shops that have been around for years in cities like San Francisco and Berkeley). Peets and others who bother to do branding seem to work their brand very similarly but possibly better (be the "third place" for your customers by providing cool atmosphere, comfy chairs, beaming baristas, at least not crappy music, etc). I know, I know, naive me thinking that maybe Starbucks will just fade away, or at least become even more mediocre, playing even more Paul McCartney albums. In a free market economy there is always a way to rebrand, to recast your image and make your customers forget you sucked last year. But it was not so long ago--the 90s really--that the bohemian coffee shop down by the Pike Place Market went from a local hole in the wall to a national conglomerate--starting with airports, moving on to major metropolitan areas and vacations spots. Not long after that it became an international brand, hitting Canada, Great Britain, then Japan and, you get the picture. Back in those good old days the expandability of the brand seemed endless (think selling expensive coffee to tea drinkers in Tokyo). But honestly, where to from here? Ceylon? The company stands to shut down 100 U.S. stores this year and lay off 200 corporate workers. Do I see clouds forming near Starbucks' blue skies?

Who really knows. But what the heck, my prediction: Starbucks will circle the wagons by ditching the stores that suck the most and will focus on international expansion, which by some stroke of luck or genius is already working. Case in point, in 2000, when I briefly worked at the flagship store in Seattle, I attended a barista training session with new managers who were being trained to start up stores in their respective countries/cities: London, Barcelona, and Vienna. When I met those people I thought, this company must really be bullet proof, that, or these people have drunk the Starbucks' version of the red kool aid and really believe that they can sell American mass-produced coffee in cities that were brewing and selling coffee long before Boston hosted its famous tea party.

Apparently, Starbucks' kool aid is pretty good (maybe it looks and tastes like a vanilla latte?) because the company's international profits are up around 8%, with the company slated to open stores this year in India, Israel, Istanbul...the moon, the end of the yellow brick road, the worm hole that the characters from Lost went through when they crashed their jet. So while I don't go out of my way to frequent Starbucks here in my own town, the next time I'm in Ankara I'll make sure to dash in, use the bathroom and order my short drip coffee with room for cream. Or maybe I'll splurge and order my tall with room americano. I will be using their toilet paper, after all.

a tale of two italies, part 2

I'm feeling inspired to return to Italy. A favorite local wineshop is planning an agritourism trip to Tuscany this fall and I've been wracking my brain trying to figure out what I could sell to scrape cash together to go along. Since that's not realistically going to happen, I'll have to settle for a vicarious trip to the land shaped like a boot, contemplating author Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love: A Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia.

Whereas the other book on Italy I reviewed earlier this month (Italian Days) began with no insights as to the the author's intent, with the opening chapter dropping the reader into Milan, it's worthy to note that Gilbert's book differs quite a bit. The introduction informs us that the book we are about to read is an account of the author's year of "self-inquiry" which took place in Italy, India and Indonesia (2). She further clarifies that the book we are holding is a "sincere spiritual investigation" and an effort to "find balance." Her inquiry, "as all quests for truth," is "methodological," not a "spazzy-free-for-all" (1-2).

This of course, begs several questions, such as: what method did the author use? What method could help her find "everything across Italy, indonesia, and India") (emphasis mine)? And, while we're at it, why these three countries specifically (save the fact that they make for good alliteration)? The answers, I believe, both help manage our expectations about what the book will actually accomplish and also give insights into the author's bias, her preconceived ideas about how she will accomplish her goal. The book is structured like a string of Hindu or Buddhist prayer beads, with each of the three sections (countries) containing 36 stories--36 being 1/3 of the total number of beads strung on a prayer necklace. The book as a whole is Gilbert's own 109th bead, representing the spiritual insights she gained from her year of spiritual exploration. So right off we learn that from the author's point of view what we are about to read is more than a memoir or travelogue; it's a spiritual search. We also realize that the stated method of this search is particularly Eastern, specifically Buddhist or Hindu.

Still we haven't learned why the author chose the three "I countries", especially Italy. It's been a while since I visited Italy, but the last time I hung out in Florence I didn't see too many prayer beads, ashrams or gurus! The simple answer (woven throughout chapter one, "Italy: Say It Like You Eat It or 36 Tales of Pleasure") is: Gilbert has an affinity to all three places, and during a year of crisis (horrible divorce, personal emotional breakdowns galore), found herself dreaming of these places (she took Italian classes to feel sexy again) and even visiting them for work (a writing assignment in Bali). So the concept was born: spend an entire year living off a publisher's advance, writing about her spiritual (and not-so-spiritual) experiences in those three countries.

It should be said at this point that Gilbert is an immensely talented and lauded writer, which explains why a book like Eat, Pray, Love is a best-seller (New York Times #1) and has been received in Oprah-esque style ("...fun and inspiring. You will laugh, cry, and love with a more open heart." ~Rocky Mountain News). The book's off-beat concept along with the author's witty, self-deprecating style come off as diary excerpts from your zany but likable friend's recent trip around the world.

That said, I wasn't into the first chapter but 10 pages before I started arguing with this book. Maybe it's because I am so Italy-crazy that I took umbrage with a book that positions Italy as a sort of non-stop pleasure dome ("36 Tales of Pleasure.") I mean, just because the author's divorce starved her of 20 pounds, along with her taste for food and a sense of pleasure in life, and just because in Italy she found those 20 pounds, ate gelato at all hours of the day and was tempted to kiss (etc) handsome Italian men during her stay, does this mean that Italy represents pleasure? Or I should say, is it ONLY about pleasure? This was never a question for Gilbert since she openly admits she went to Italy searching for pleasure (60), and thus the "36 beads" on Italy are all about pleasure (and learning more Italian and going on-then-off Zoloft, and eating a ton of pizza, and weaning herself off her toxic relationship with her New York lover, and trying to avoid having sex for four months and...).

By the end of her Italy excursion, Gilbert notes that she's ready to move on. Well, boy that makes two of us. She ends her stay with a quick trip to Sicily, since it is "the most third-world section of Italy" and thus good preparation for her next stop: India (60). She also adds, seemingly an afterthought, that Sicily was a good visit since, quoting Goethe, "without seeing Sicily one cannot get a clear idea of what Italy is" (?). By this point I have reconciled myself to the fact that Gilbert's Italy is very little like Frommer's Italy or my Italy for that matter. That is okay (it's Gilbert's book!), but I'll admit it is more than a little strange to read a chapter on Italy that mentions relatively few landmarks, vistas, historical references, museums, philosophers, artists, Catholic figures (Mary? Christ??). It's not that Gilbert mentions nothing or no one, it's that well, she mentions herself more. A lot more. In fact, the chapter, as the book, is really one personal discovery after another. Her search for pleasure resulted in her discovering how to love herself (and gelato).

While self-discovery should, I think, be a goal of every traveler, it feels very decadent and well, silly, to position it as one's first priority (didn't E.M. Forrester's A Room with a View teach us that?). Reading Gilbert's Italy made me want to find the author at one of her cafe haunts in Rome, give her a big hug and then take her to the Coliseum where hundreds (thousands?) of Christians were thrown to the lions. Then we'd hop on a vespa and go to St. Peter's Church to gaze at the frescoes of the stanza della segnatura, which depict a 16th C Italian take on the interplay between philosophy, faith and beauty and which provoke us today to think about how we regard the interplay of these three topics.

In the end, I would say read this book for its humor and honesty. But expect to look on at a lot of navel gazing and to avoid seeing much about Italy itself. Do expect to find precisely what the author went to Italy looking for: a sense of joie de vivre or as Gilbert says, pleasure, which as we already know is easily found in a country that outfits officers in Armani, celebrates wine like it is holy water and produces the best ice cream in the entire world. If you would like to find in it--as I did--rich cultural and spiritual connections, don't bother reading the chapter on Italy. Go right to the chapters on India and Indonesia, where gurus and ashrams abound.

the raw (real) deal

So I did something yesterday that before about three months ago I never dreamed of: I bought raw milk. What is "raw milk," you say? It's milk that's well, milk. It goes directly from the cow to the container to your glass--just like Bessy the Cow (and God) intended. Real milk (let's just agree to call it what it is from here on out) is non-pasteurized and non-homogenized. That is, it is not heated to 145 degrees for 30 minutes ("gentle pasteurization"). It is not heated to 161 degrees for 15 seconds ("standard pasteurization"). It is not heated to 280 degrees for two seconds ("ultra pasteurization"), and it is certainly not heated to 280 degrees and then stored in aseptic boxes that have been sterilized with hydrogen peroxide ("ultra high pasteurization" or UHT). As a result, real milk lasts about a week in the fridge, while other types of milk last longer ( two or three weeks for "standard," eight weeks for "ultra," and (yikes!) up to ten months for UHT.) Heating the milk to these high temperatures is meant to safeguard the quality of the milk, to boil away bacteria that can cause food borne illness. Most of our milk travels a far distance from farm to grocery in large tanks. Along the way it undergoes some level of this process.

Homogenization, which here in the US of A followed on the heals of pasteurization, is a process that blends the fats in the milk (the cream that rises to the top) with the rest of it. By quickly straining the milk through a fine mesh, homogenization marries the two parts. This is apparently a plus for us milk consumers; we just don't want to see that thick yellow stuff gathered at the top of the jug or (sigh!) and it's an inconvenience to shake the jug and mix it all together before we pour a glass. The downside of homogenization, besides the fact that it's not really necessary anymore (it used to be that milk was portioned out from big containers, giving some customers an unfair amount of fat from the milk, while skimping others) is that the yellowness of the cream in milk is a barometer of its quality; the yellower the milk the better the quality. I wonder if we saw our industrial milk (and butter before it's dyed) for what it is--white with very little yellow hue--if we'd think it was pure due to its whiteness, or if we'd recognize its low quality ?

One thing is becoming increasingly clear to many people: real milk tastes wonderful and offers many health benefits. Any form of pasteurization depletes many of the vitamins, available calcium (the kind that your body can use), proteins and omega-3s in milk. This is why most milk (even the pasteurized/homogenized "organic" gallon in my fridge I bought last week) is fortified with vitamins D and A. It's not that Bessy didn't pump out some good milk with good vitamins, fats and proteins (especially if she dined on grass and not corn mash!) it's that they were destroyed in the fire. You see, real milk contains heat-sensitive folic acid, vitamins and essential fatty acids (those little entities that unlock the calcium, aid vitamin absorption, etc). Real milk also contains good bacteria that pasteurization, by design, destroys. If you've ever known anyone to take acidophilus pills, their system needed those good bacteria from foods like real milk. Real milk, it turns out, benefits human health in several, formerly unknown ways; it combats cataracts, arthritis, even some forms of cancer (thanks to Nina Planck, Real Food for these stats).

If real milk is so great, why aren't more of us drinking it? The reasons are complex and manifold. One reason is concern for public health. Along the industrialized food producing-buying-consuming chain, which, let's be honest, is where most milk these days comes from, milk tends to spoil before it reaches our glasses. Milk is rather delicate, not liking long roadtrips in big stainless steal vats. As well, apparently sanitation on large dairy farms can be, ahem, a soft science, with Bessy standing in muck past her hooves, eating corn products that make her sick (so she needs antibiotics,) and with milkers not being as sanitary as necessary with their work (it would be easier to use good hygiene when milk is going to your neighbor rather than to a faceless, nameless consumer far, far down the highway). As a result industrial milk is an easily tainted product--one often in desperate need of a hot anti-bacterial bath. Another reason is accessibility: many of us live far, far, from Bessy's home and so can't just run out to our barn, or anyone's barn for that matter, and pick up a jug of the good stuff. Historically speaking, at the lowest point of Big Dairy's past, dairies near big cities ran amuck (literally), with cows called upon to munch on whiskey mash that was left over from the distillery down the road, and where, as a result, the milk produced was far from anything we might recognize as coming from a cow (and that which we wouldn't dare pour on our wheaties).

Reforms have happened in the 100+ years since Dairygate, yet pasteurization--a direct result of the tainted milk and poisoned milk drinkers from that period--remains. Industrialized production churns on, I believe, not primarily for health concerns, but instead because of convenience and easier profit.

So that's some of the info I have gleaned on the topic of late. Now I challenge you to educate yourself on this issue. The culmination of my study found me standing in front of the cold case at my local food co-op (it turns out I am just a little too far from Bessy's barn for a quick milk run to the farm). There I stood gazing through the glass at a half gallon that looked like all the others, save this: "our family has been producing fine dairy products for three generations and this non-pasteurized, non-homogenized milk is a product of a small herd of dairy cattle managed in a traditional, sustainable manner under I watchful care." I was frozen there for a second; it may have appeared from my stare down with the dairy case that I had happened upon a road-side bomb or trip wire. But years of indoctrination about the social and nutritional responsibilities of pasteurized milk gave me pause.

The good news is I got over my mental block. Today I woke up and decided to make myself a latte from my good ground beans which I ran through my stovetop espresso pot and, you guessed it, warmed (not boiled!) real milk in a pan. I'm sure my family was amused (or irritated) at hearing how delicious that latte was, but I just couldn't stop oohing and aahing. Had I never drunk milk before, or what?

Above I said that I live just far enough away from Bessy and Pleasant Valley Dairy (Bessy's milkers) to prohibit a trip to the farm, to the source of all this bovine goodness I'm describing. As Joel Salatin, Michael Pollan, Nina Planck, et al suggest, however, I'm going to make at trip to the farm as soon as I can. That way, I'll see how things are run and, more importantly, shake the hands of the people behind this nectar of the gods. And maybe that's one of the larger points behind all of this: go to the source, do a little poking around and see how real the food (in this case, the milk) is that I consume and serve to my family and friends (this may take effort, but isn't it much more straight forward than trusting a USDA inspector or a factory somewhere in Dairyland with my health?) Oh, and before I leave for the farm, I won't forget to pack a cooler to stock up on all those good dairy products.

For any of you interested in finding a real (raw) milk farm or source near you: go to: http://www.realmilk.com/where.html

Just because I know Kate and I experience mind meld on this (and many!) topics, here's the connection for Miami:

Miami Beach: South Beach Wild Oats Market, 11th and Alton Road, Miami Beach 33139 (305) 532 8286 Ask for Dan. Regularly stocking and displaying Golden Fleece Raw milk in the dairy case. Delivery day has been Fridays. They are also taking special orders for other Raw milk products from Golden Fleece Farms.

Ciao Fellow Cow Lovers,

Kelli

of time, grief, and joy

I never meant not to write here for a whole year. It just happened. The reasons are manifold, but really can be distilled into one: grief. Last February 18, in the late hours of a dark winter night, my father died. Our family had just enjoyed a great celebration of my mom's birthday and my parents' wedding anniversary, some of us had gone dancing, and then we all went to bed. And as soon as I knew it, my mom was shaking me to get up, get up, get up. He's not breathing. But it was too late, my dad was gone as was the celebratory glow of good food, good wine and great conversation we'd experienced just hours before.

After almost a year of feeling like someone hit me in the face, of wanting to go to the mall and scream at strangers, of wanting not to get out of bed (or not get into bed in the first place), I've re-entered the land of the living. I just called a friend--a good friend--after several months of avoiding her calls. I got a second, much needed, job. I am making plans for the future. I'm doing life now, not just wading through it.

People say death changes you--profoundly, indelibly. I hope so. I don't want to be the same person I was before. I want to be stronger, wiser, kinder, happier, closer to God. I don't want to be one who delights in pain and loss--like a sadist or masochist--but I'm not operating under avoidance rules anymore, or at least not as much.

The way I see it, it's only a matter of time until sadness and loss, with their friend, grief, come knocking. So instead of waiting for our own sadness and loss to break down the door, why not prepare--think, discuss, pray--together? In my experience, the only way to get to the joy in the morning is to make it through the long, dark night. And the best way to make it through the night is to wait with friends.

time, trip, trust

Here's what's on my mind today: time, specifically how an immaterial aspect of reality, a "non-thing," can infuence a person so powerfully. Or maybe it's just something I'm going through. I just had an experience that led me to contemplate time, money and, of all things, trusting God. Here's what happened.

I just returned from a delightful trip to Miami, where I had a satisfying visit with friends I had not seen in a long time. I had anticipated the trip for a long time, so when at the start of the trip I experienced a significant flight delay that could have completely derailed my plans, well, you can imagine my great frustration. My original plans were to head out to Miami on a Thursday and back on the following Tuesday; an excursion that was slated to be just the perfect time for my current schedule; longer than a weekend but shorter than a bona fide vacation. It didn't take long for my perfect plans to fizzle, however. Due to techinical problems with my flight I found myself eagerly--and helplessly--awaiting the next available departure. For 10 hours and 25 minutes.

About 45 minutes into the wait, when all the re-routing, reticketing and re-scanning of carry-on bags and potentially hazardous shampoo bottles had occured and I was, again, safe and secure beyond the x-ray machines, dobermans, and uniformed anti-terrorist agents, I considered how I was going to spend both my time and my extravagant $10 consolation prize (meal voucher). The voucher was supposed to cover a meal, but not one that has a name. Due to its having to satiate me for the duration of my 10+ hours stay at the airport, let's call it "blinner." Or "dunchfast." Anyway, if you have ever spent any time at all in the SEATAC mall, uh airport, you know that there are at least 2,486 ways to spend ten bucks because the place caters to people who are in a spending mood. For various reasons they have suspended their usual spending blockers. They're on vacation, on business, or just plain busy, tired, hungry, bored and in need of retail therapy. This is especially true of a person who has unexpectedly found herself stranded between life and Miami, work and vacation.

So spend I did. I found a very soft pullover fleece at a travel store that boasted long-wearing, moisture wicking underwear ("one pair. Sixteen countries. Six weeks." Whaaat?). I decided I needed the sweater because the temp in the airport was sub-zero(ish). Never mind that I was on my way to tropical Miami. It was cold in that airport, darn it! Or, maybe it was my gloomy mood that just made it feel like I had landed at a peace summit in Reykjavik? At any rate, after I had secured needed apparel, I set out to provide sustenance for myself. As I wandered up to a chic seafood bar that offered both lounge seating and snack bar take-out, I knew one thing for sure. The last thing I was going to do was grab a bag of fish and chips and hastily inhale my them while sitting on a hard plastic chair, feet guarding belongings. At this point the pullover purchase had broken the spending barrier; I was feeling generous toward myself and not a little self-pitying. I thoroughly enjoyed my blackened fish tacos and lingered over a couple of cold beverages. By meal's end I had spent my meal voucher about three times over, had spilled salsa on, but had not read one complete page of my book, had talked my cell phone battery down to an anti-surge. The problem was I had only worn down one hour and 30 minutes off the clock.

My stomache now full, I set my mind to making the most of my wait. I was seriously going to get some work done now. I decided to read at least one chapter of Nathaniel Hawthorne's, The Scarlett Letter, the book I was currently researching for my master's thesis, and which I had brought along with the intent of reading by trip's end. I looked around for a place to sit that was as far away as possible from jumbo TV coverage editorializing on gay ex-NBA atheletes, Democratic candidates, or Anna Nicole Smith's deadly drug overdose. Now, normally love to read, so finding a place to sit down with a book would be no ordeal. But since at this point in the day I was supposed to be well into my Miami vacation at this point, was carb-loaded from the meal, and since the book relates to my thesis and symbolizes "work" rather than "vacation" I found myself internally resisting the idea of opening it. So when I passed by a bright, shiny magazine shop with tabloid mags practically yelling my name, I was easily lured.

After 20 minutes I had explored the fascinating depths of Cameron Diaz's jealousy, Nicole Richey's eating disorder(s) and Anna Nicole's penchant for methadone and slim fast shakes. Feeling about 20 IQ points down, I peeled myself away from the magazine shop and decided that sitting at the departure gate would be more conducive to serious reading. Wrong. In avoiding the big-screen media, crying babies and loud speakers, I had chosen the business section. Which is to say, the really-busy-people-talking-loudly-and-making-very-important-deals section. Sitting amid two men and a woman, all three talking loudly on phones to people who-knows-where, while simultanously fiddling with hand-held devices, I felt commerce stress wash over me. Needing consolation, I looked around for a crying baby.

With 6 hours 35 minutes left to go, I was starting to feel circumspect (reading gossip mags and listening to uber-stressed business people will do that I guess). I was experiencing some strange feelings: buyer's remorse over buying a fleece on my way to the tropics, guilt over seeking out the most expensive restaurant in the airport, and disgust that as even while alone in a croud, I could not discipline myself to get to work. Then it hit me. I'm not at work. Sure, I'm still 2,986 aeronautical miles from Miami and stranded in my own personal no-fly zone at gate A9, but like it or not this is my down-time, my mini-vacation. Just because I'm not sipping a cuban coffee, doesn't mean my holiday has not started. Why don't I chill out, stop stressing, and start actively enjoying myself. Could that be what I'm "supposed" to do right now? I wasn't really sure, but that's what I set out to do. I found--of all bizarro and wonderful places--a wine and hors d'oevres bar that sold affordable (sorta) small plates of tasty foods paired with wines. For one hour and 20 minutes I was transported, not by the food or wine, mind you but by the whole experience. If you know me at all, you know that sitting down at a table with loved ones over good food and a glass of wine is my idea of God's earthly blessing. As I sat nibbling and sipping, I talked to a man who loves his job and playing golf in the winter and a woman who travels for business but eagerly checks on her young son as much as possible when she's away. I overheard a table of people--former strangers themselves, it appeared--talking and enjoying themselves. I forgot that I was not where I wanted (with friends in Miami) or at least doing what I was "supposed" to be doing (work), and enjoyed being right there where I was, with acquaintances at the SEATAC Vino Volo. My copy of Hawthorne was on the table--reading material of all kinds being the solo diner's standing date-- but I didn't really read it. And I didn't feel guilty at all.

Later, on my return trip (which was also delayed, but that's a story for another time), I learned that downtime, rest, relaxation, cessation from labor, whatever you call it, has become a rare commodity, at least for Americans. In between Hawthorne chapters--yes, I finally started to read my book!--I skimmed a humorous article in my in-flight magazie about the so-called working vacation (apparently unless you are crazy or masochistic those develop into bona fide vacations). And then I read a business column that contrasted the work/vacation patterns of Europeans and Americans (the latter work way more, make a lot more $, take less vacations, but are less productive on an hourly basis). The column debated the value of a workforce comprised of richer workers over and against rested ones. It made me want to book the next flight to Paris or Milan. Or at least return to Vino Volo for an hour.

I realize that my story may not touch the details of yours. I'm writing this mainly to our youth group, and after all, you are teenagers, and Americans at that, so you probably don't hang out at wine bars in airports (!), or travel alone to Miami to see friends. But I think the relationship I'm describing between work and rest, trust and guilt, is universal. I imagine you can understand that nagging sense that you should be working all of the time--prepping for SATs, studying for AP classes, practicing sports, serving church or community, making money at your job, cleaning your room, etc. I bet you feel guilty when you rest, stop, play, chill, hang. Or if you DON'T feel guilt, there are people in your life who would want to guilt you. That's because our culture drifts us all that way. And if we don't actively resist, we all end up incessantly working, never resting, and forgetting what it's all for in the first place.

What I learned, or at least remembered, by being confronted with delay and disappointment, is that I'm not the CEO of the universe, mine or anyone's. That's terrifying, but okay. Sometimes things are out of control--MY control--and sometimes I feel out of control, too (why did I buy a sweater and eat expensive food? Well, I felt more in control, better about things). Without justifying myself or my motives, I boarded my rescheduled flight with a positive lesson in toe. When it's time to work, work. When it's time to play (even in the neighborhood of gate A9), it's time to play. Sometimes the hardest work is to rest. But when we do and look around, we see good things happen, meet interesting people, and learn about ourselves because it starts to dawn on us: we are not in control and Someone else is. That's terrifying sometimes, but more than okay.