What passes for dinner

La-de-da. The First Family has a new chef as of today, a fellow from Chicago who specializes in healthy food and "knows what they like." From what I read, he's going to have to put a dash of something special into every meal. I happened to see an interview last fall of the Obamas in the kitchen. Those sweet girls pooh-poohed their daddy's fancy tuna poupon salad, and smiled, "cheese!" when asked their own favorite food. I'm convinced they'd have a seat at our table anytime.

I can understand that the President is driving a national nutritional agenda. We all drive our own family nutritional agendas, and on those nights it doesn't drive you to the drive-thru, an agenda like that can drive you bonkers. Take my friend Shawn, who decided to take herself off the hook from cooking this week so she wouldn't take her dinner frustrations out on herself for a change! In the spirit of compassion for all moms and dads who want permission to veer off-agenda and have a happy meal or two, let me give you an idea of some of the healthful variety that passes for dinner in our house:

Any noodle or vegetable soup with a sprinkle of cheese.
Pasta with marinara and cheese.
Romaine salad with tomatoes, cucumbers and cheese.
Macaroni and cheese, not homemade.
Cheese pizza.
Cheese quiche.
Cheeseburger hold the burger with extra cheese.
Grilled cheese sandwiches. As long as the crusts are cut off.
Cheese quesadillas.
I'm not hungry can I have some Cheez-Its.
Cheese straws, cheese slices and cheese cubes.
Fruit slices and cheese with more cheese.
Chicken nuggets. Hallelujah! No cheese.
Artichokes. I kid you not.
All of the above with ketchup.
And ranch dressing.

One size fits all

In case you thought my life was any different than this.

I was fuming. I spend a lot of my time fuming. Because of my husband. Know what I mean?

You don't pay attention, I say.

When I fume, he does too and the cause of it, from what I gather, is this:

You pay too much attention, he says.

Neither of us is right, but both of us have our reasons. Reasons are a big problem in this house, but they usually get rinsed out in the wash.

Except lately, I haven't been doing his wash for him. I don't know how or why. I just stopped. He has the most clothes, wearable and unwearable, the most laundry, washed and unwashed, of anyone in the house. I think one has to do with the other.

My reasoning goes like this. Perhaps because he hasn't – oh, in the last 13 years – had a weekly face-to-face with his laundry pile, he unduly cherishes his wardrobe, and unduly dismisses the meticulous task of caring for clothes.

Can I donate this to the rag pile, he says.

Trying to be helpful, he holds up a single pair of old socks.

Just throw them away, I instruct. He doesn't like to give away worn out or outgrown clothes, and you know how I feel about that. He likes to buy new ones. I noticed last week he was sporting a handsome new sweater of a dense weave.

I picked it up while I was at the mall, he says.

I have a judgmental eye for those kinds of things. A judgmental eye for all kinds of things. I see that his old sweaters are stretched out and threadbare, but they are still crowding his drawers and closet. Still filling the hamper with to-dos.

Are you doing your laundry, I say.

He's put a small load in on Sunday before I could start the heavy lifting. A few important things along with the new sweater.

I actually love to do laundry. Rather, I love to finish laundry. The clean, warm, folded, fresh scent of accomplishment. I just wish there was money in it!

Let me put it in the dryer, he says.

He is being responsible, cheery, chastened after one of my harangues. Washer cleared, I start my own load. About 30 minutes later, I open up the dryer to empty out his stuff. One glance at the surviving swatch of sweater and I turn it inside out to read the label he hadn't.

Hand wash cold, it says.

Only some of you know what unexpected encouragement I took in finding those three words. Those three little words. Not because of what they meant about him: that he hadn't paid attention, but because of what they meant to me: to take heart and keep going. To keep washing, drying, rinsing, and writing. To have faith, because I now have a new sweater that fits me perfectly!

It only cost $25, he says.

Priceless.

Found in translation

No thought, no concern, nothing to hinder.
Going well at ease, coming well at ease, left to nature.
Staying at a stream in a deep valley.
Time flows with the Sun and the Moon.

Translation from a friend at Mountain Spirit Center. Better yet, translate it yourself, as I am, all this week.

The Malia chronicles

Dear Malia,
My name is Georgia Miller. I'm 9 and from California. I watched your Inauguration at school today. What is it like at the White House? What I really want to know is if you want to be pen pals. I would love it if we could but it's ok if you don't want to. I hope to get a letter from you!


When my sisters and I were really little, we were lovestruck by our handsome president and wished that we could be his darling princess daughter. Then came the teen throbs of Lynda Bird and Luci to moon over. I understand what we have going on now in our house. I understand it completely.

It's Malia time all the time.

First, she wrote and mailed this letter. Then she decided to name the lead character in the story she's writing "Malia." Then she wrote a one-act play last night after dinner about a girl named Malia, age 9, doing her homework.

Malia: Ugh! More homework! I'm already on my third page!

It's not a pure love, you see, because romantic love never is. It's subtly and insidiously self-serving. "You see," she says bright-eyed, "I think everyone will be writing to President Obama and Malia won't get any letters. Mine might be the first! And if we become pen pals then she might invite me to the White House."

Later on she asked her dad if he might ever run for president. She's scrambling to cover all the routes of admission, you see, since she's heard there are 132 rooms in the building, a movie theater, a bowling alley and the Jonas Brothers.

Last night I tried to coach her (my mistake) through an intense monologue she's doing in her theater class. "Say it with the kind of feeling you have for Malia," I offered, intending to stir up passion and enthusiasm.

"You mean, like I'm jealous?"

***

All that aside, click here to see why I no longer worry how she gets her feet wet.

Meet the parents

Imagine if someone you hardly knew – equipped with only their stubborn insistence, vague navigational skills and a bag of spinach – arrived at your home one morning. What you would make of it?

Make soup, I say.

Denise Andrade and her husband, Carsten Kroon, gave me their prized covered parking space, opened the front door to their comfy haven, and let me keep noisy company with them and new baby Cedar on Monday. I babbled them out of their quiet sanctuary and crowded them out of their kitchen. But they were most kind and accommodating, because they are new parents. And new parents don't get much of a say, do they?

Cedar, if you hadn't guessed, is a fluffy soft, sleepy bundle of tiny (yes, he's still tiny) goodness. He could have cared less for me or anything I brought, because he has this:

To redeem myself, I simmered up a big pot of Italian Wedding Soup to do at least a little good on a January day and to last perhaps a day or so after.

If you need a boost, this could do the trick. If you know any new parents, make a double batch and take some over. We've all been called to serve others. They won't have any choice but to let you in.

Italian Wedding Soup

Mix and brown these meatballs (or use your favorite meatless meatballs):

1 lb extra lean ground beef or turkey
1 large egg
1 minced garlic clove
1 medium onion, minced
1/3 cup breadcrumbs*
A few dashes of Worchestershire sauce
Salt and pepper, to taste

Then combine in a stockpot with this:

12 cups chicken or vegetable stock
6 oz orzo, pastina or other small pasta*
1 lb fresh baby spinach, washed and drained

If you're making meatballs, combine first 7 ingredients in a mixing bowl. Roll 1 tsp portions into balls and brown in a skillet until done. Place meatballs and all other ingredients in soup or stockpot. Simmer until pasta is done, stirring as needed to keep pasta from sticking to bottom of pot. Serve immediately.

Based on an original recipe by Andrea In Blue.

* Modify to gluten-free like I did by substituting 1/3 cup crushed gluten-free Rice Krispies for the breadcrumbs, and use any small gluten-free pasta.

In praise of abandonment

All my life, I have been stitching together a family – Barack

I read a fascinating piece in The New Yorker the other day. It became more fascinating days after I read it, as the implications surfaced in all kinds of other events right before my eyes. It's from an interview more than 10 years ago of the young Obama couple. It's delightfully honest, because you can see the truth and trajectory in what they say long before it was made known to them or to us.

There is a strong possibility that Barack will pursue a political career – Michelle

You can hear the foreboding, see the vulnerability, in her words and her picture. She describes herself as more traditional, more risk-averse, pretty private. She is so much like many of us, with a family background so much more like the rest of us, without ambiguity, and yet we see ourselves so clearly in him. How so?

I trust her completely, but at the same time she is also a complete mystery to me – Barack

Reading this I thought, wow, having a family is like an adventure to him, a journey. Because he didn't have the kind of family that brings with it such an overriding sense of identity, such confining identity, he is free of expectations. He is comfortable with mystery even in those he loves. His arms are wide; his pose is relaxed and natural. On this wide open face, we have projected our hopes and dreams, and he alone can bear them.

Even as you build a life of trust, you retain some sense of surprise or wonder about the other person – Barack

How many of us can say that? Do that? Withstand and pursue that? How many of us can abandon our expectations and free those we love from the prison of being who we think they are? Who we want them to be? This is the recipe for all loving relationships and the point of an article I wrote for the February issue of Shambhala Sun entitled, radically enough, "Parents, Leave Your Home." If you subscribe, you'll get the magazine any day. If you don't, you'll see it at the Whole Foods checkout. Or, you can download it from my website right now by scrolling down the home page to a list of my articles and anthologies.

Thank you, Mr. President, for making me part of your family. You encourage me to do the same with my own. Let them be. Let them be a mystery. Let them be home wherever they roam.

Quietly study this

The deadlines are past, the chance has run out, but you should quietly study this. The dinner is cold, the time has gone, but you should quietly study this. The bills are due, the check is late, but you should quietly study this. The clothes have shrunk, the socks have holes, but you should quietly study this. The market has tanked, the airplane has sunk, the world's come undone, but you should quietly study this. The day is done, the year barely here and yet gone, everything yes everything disappears, but you should quietly study this.

Quietly study this and let go.

What a brilliant sky.

The teaching of the grandmother sycamores in my backyard.

When girls collide

When your daughter's new doll is 18 inches tall, and your new daughter was 16 inches tall, the brief span of Daddy's Girl fits entirely around the length of an American Girl. Are they one or are they two?

(Mommy saved her baby clothes, and her baby didn't save a trace.)

Wanna get away?

Open your eyes.

Open your eyes and see that you are no longer in the dreary landscape you habitually occupy in your head.

This is a head's up and sincere invitation for you to take part in two eye-0pening events coming round the bend.

The first is a Beginner's Mind One Day Meditation Retreat I'll be leading on Sunday, Feb. 15 at Hazy Moon Zen Center in Los Angeles. It's perfect for you, and it's only $25.

The second is the half-day Palo Alto Mothers Symposium at Stanford University on Saturday, March 7. It won't be complete without you, and it's only $20.

Now, before you tell yourself what you always do, "I can't possibly go," stop and open your eyes. Read aloud the next words you see here:

Let's just see how it goes.

Let's just see how it goes. That's what Maezumi Roshi always said to me. It's not just a social courtesy. Not a simplistic cliché. It is a precise instruction on how to live an enlightened life.

Open your eyes.

That brings me around to mentioning something that might seem peculiar about zazen, or Zen meditation. We meditate with our eyes open. Slightly open, but still open. What you probably think of, and maybe even do, is meditate with your eyes closed. But that's not practicing meditation, or awareness. That's daydreaming, or sleeping. Daydreaming is nice, but no one needs to practice it. If you want to meditate with your eyes closed, I suggest you just opt for a deep tissue massage and get total body benefit out of it. That's what I plan to do with the gift certificate I got for Christmas.

Wanna get away?

See how it goes. See that airfares, in some cases, are delightfully low. See that cross-country or even cross-town, is amazingly close. See me smile in total rapture to finally meet you face to face.

This time of year, we might find it easy to make long-range plans and commitments to improve our health, break old habits, lose weight, enhance our productivity and save or make more money. But can we commit even a few moments to transforming our lives and everyone in it? Sure we can.

Open your eyes and see.

For your automotive safety

We have a new motor vehicle law here in California. It is a good law. There are about a billion worthwhile reasons to have it. Along the roadways there are portable lighted signs with the newest prohibition spelled out on them. It's jarring to see, because I am flabbergasted that we actually need a law to inform and correct this behavior. And yet, it doesn't go far enough.

Don't text and drive.
Don't sleep and drive.
Don't read Braille and drive.
Don't needlepoint and drive.
Don't stir fry and drive.
Don't tie shoelaces and drive.
Don't repot plants and drive.
Don't braid hair and drive.
Don't count pennies and drive.
Don't crack nuts and drive.
Don't finger puppet and drive. Don't even think about it.

Just don't.

Speaking my mind

I usually only post when I have something to say. But having something to say can be a rather dangerous proposition.

This, on the other hand, always sums it up nicely.

The next bubble to burst

"Although we can expect small-business failure rates to increase over the coming months, the entrepreneurial spirit is still alive and well."

– Dr. Jeff Cornwall
The Entrepreneurial Mind


Pup Sudz

The ULTAMATE doggie
grooming center!
Make the dog look good!
small dogz: $5
medium dogz: $10
large dogz: $15
*
Jan 4 (only)

We don't take credit cards!!!
_______

Opening/Closing day customer count: One, her own dog, who doesn't count.

"Mommy, no one ever comes to these things, no one ever wants to come to these things, and they don't even care how hard we try!"

–Georgia Miller, age 9, The Entrepreneurial Mine

Lost shoes, found days

Update: Miracles underfoot!

Tomorrow I'm going to have to drop into my reliable local bookstore to buy a 2009 wall calendar. The kind with trite pictures of lotus ponds and such. I always stick one on my kitchen cabinet to track comings and goings in the heart of our home: vacations, school holidays, washer repairs, flea treatments, the important stuff. It's amazing to me that I haven't been given a calendar this year. One or a hundred and one, which heretofore has been the custom. The current lack seems weirdly suited to the state of suspension we're all in, this limbo in-between the end and the beginning of so many unfathomable things. It's not surprising that no one could muster the faith this season to look far forward. No matter, I can find the coming days on my own.

Last night I was at the temple for our traditional New Year's services: chanting and bowing in fusatsu or atonement ceremony, followed by meditation across the midnight hour, then the spectacle, (for us spartans anyway), of revolving the sutras, a kind of blessing ceremony. I was more than once reminded of the power and reach of this anniversary. New Year's Eve is an anniversary in and by itself, of time's eternal beginning, and then a personal anniversary in each of our lives.

It is the anniversary of the night my husband lost his shoes in a crowd of Buddhists, for instance. A loss in which everything unexpected was later found.

It was soon after I began my practice with Maezumi Roshi and I then met my husband-to-be in a restaurant in Florence, Italy; a husband-to-be that lived in Los Angeles, glory be, while I was still a wanderlusting south Texan. It seemed too eerily easy that I should begin an affair with an eligible guy in LA, and the obviousness of it prompted Maezumi to say, "Invite him for tea." So my guy came for the first time to Zen Center of LA to meet Maezumi in the lull of New Year's Eve before a traditional ceremony much like the one I was at again last night.

Impressionable, my boyfriend and I were both mildly terrified by the extreme auspiciousness of the favor: to be Roshi's guests in his home on this night of nights. Once arrived, my boyfriend took off his shoes outside the door.

He never found them again.

There were many people there that night, many people inclined to wear the ubiquitous shoe fashion of the time, black Reeboks. After the services, after the time for putting shoes back on, long after everyone but my husband-to-be had his or her own shoes snuggly back on his or her feet, I went around in the crowd inspecting the shod.

"Are those your shoes?" I would say, pointing at the very shoes on their feet. "Are they really your shoes?"

I didn't find anyone not wearing his or her own shoes. We didn't find any shoes unworn.

My boyfriend left his first encounter with Zen sans footwear. (I've tried to leave everything else since then, but alas, I'm still holding on to a lot of unnecessary freight.) In his socks, he drove me to his apartment late that night, and he was pissed.

It's easy to see the metaphor in this. He and I left behind a familiar road on that night, a well-worn footpath, the way things were. We went on, of course, getting over it, finding our way, uncushioned, unprotected, by a different route, to an altogether unimaginable future. We left behind more than a pair of shoes, but losing your shoes can indeed be an auspicious start to a whole new way.

Wishing you abundant lost shoes and found days, because sometimes it takes one to have the other, and I want you to have it all.