In Praise of Everyday Miracles

One of the things that I've been doing since I've been on this diet is walking. At least 30 minutes. Every day. Rain or shine, hot or cold (Belgium, remember?). I have several routes, depending on whether it's raining or not, how far I want to go, whether I want hilly or flat, or just how I feel.

In Praise of Summer Fruit

It's a little early for most of these, but it's not too early to start looking forward to them. The fruit of summer is one of the joys of living here. We have local fruit starting now, with the early strawberries and right through the summer with cherries, plums, apricots, peaches, nectarines, blackberries, red and black currants. Into the autumn we have apples and pears. Every month there is a new treat. I'm ready.

What's your favorite summer fruit? What do you do with it?

IN PRAISE OF HEROES

Heroes. We all have them.

Whether it's a fireman rushing into a building we know will subsequently collapse or a child suffering bravely from an incurable disease, a parent who sacrifices everything for a child, or someone who does what we had thought was impossible; we have heroes.

Some of them are well known, and some of them are only known to those close to them. They're all heroes. In the human spirit there is both greatness and its opposite. In all of us. We get to choose what we will become―we can be a hero or not. It's up to us.

Some of my heroes work for Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors without borders). They go wherever they're needed to bring medical help to people who can't do it for themselves. They go independently of politics or danger. They go because they're needed. Some of them don't come back. They can have a complete field hospital on a plane and ready to go to anywhere in the world in less than 24 hours. It's what they do. Nobody does it better.

When I hear about disasters like the earthquake in Haiti, I want to do something heroic. I want to go and help people who are in a horrible situation. It could have been me. There's a photo that's haunting me―you probably know the one I mean―of a girl or woman trapped in rubble up to her armpits. She's looking at the camera. She's looking at me. I don't even know how to begin to get someone out of that kind of situation.

But they do--the heroes. They go where they're needed and they do what they need to do to help people who can't help themselves. Heroes.

I can't go to Haiti. But I can support the heroes who do. There are heroes who work for Médecins Sans Frontières, or for the Red Cross or for Oxfam or for Unicef or any number of other charities and aid organizations. You probably have a favorite one yourself.

Do something heroic today. Support the heroes.

IN PRAISE OF BROTHERS

Brothers are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring--quite often the hard way. - Pamela Dugdale

John Michael McNally

January 1950 - November 2009

Rest in peace, Mike. I love you.

This is not the post I wanted to make today. It's not a post that I ever wanted to make. While we were in Nice I received a phone call that my oldest brother had died unexpectedly. I was glad that I was with friends when I heard, but veryvery sad not to be with my family on that day.

Please keep him in your prayers today. My mom too. She never expected to have to do this.

Thank you.



Photo copyright Life Magazine Archives.

IN PRAISE OF FLOWERS

I used to smoke. Back then, everyone did. I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for many years. I quit, I re-started, I tried to cut back, I was hooked. Cigarettes were my best friend: they were always there, any time of the day or night when I needed the comfort they could bring. Cigarettes were my worst enemy: they stole my breath, they make me stink, they damaged my health. I had to quit.

I had my last cigarette on November 5, 1982, at half past noon. It was a Friday, and I decided to see how long I could go without smoking. I spent that Friday evening at the movies, because you can’t smoke there. Eventually the cinema closed, and I had to leave. I couldn’t go home, I knew I’d smoke. So I went to the all-night supermarket and walked up and down the aisles, because I’d never smoked while walking (in the Atlanta of my youth, only women ‘of ill repute’ smoked while walking). The manager of the supermarket eventually asked if I needed help. I explained that I was trying not to smoke, and he completely understood. He gave me a cart full of groceries that had to be re-shelved to give me something to do and to keep from frightening the customers. I loved that guy.

I spent that first weekend doing things I couldn’t smoke while doing. Swimming. Showering. Walking. I saw a lot of movies. I went to the theatre. I went to the symphony. Somehow I made it through that weekend, and by Monday it had been three days since I’d smoked.

I had to change the way I drove to work, because there was this red light where I’d always light up. I couldn’t sit in my favorite chair because I always smoked there. I couldn’t stand to talk on the phone because I smoked then too.

For the longest time I wouldn’t say the word “quit”, I’d only say that I was not smoking right then. I couldn’t even say ‘today’, because I couldn’t imagine a whole day without a cigarette. An hour. A half an hour. Five minutes. Sometimes just this moment NOW. There were no patches back then, no gum. It was just me and my addiction.

I needed to have some kind of reward for myself. Slowly I began to see the good things about not smoking. I went to the dentist and had my teeth cleaned. It was amazing to wake up in the mornings and not feel as if Sherman’s army had camped in my mouth. I began to smell things again. I began to TASTE things again. I enjoyed the freedom of being able to leave the house without having to make sure that I had cigarettes and matches with me.

The best thing I did for myself during that period was to take money I wasn’t spending on cigarettes and and use it to buy flowers. I was spending abut $10 a week on cigarettes, and I knew I wouldn’t notice $ 10 extra a week in my budget. I found a wholesale florist who would sell to me and I went there every Saturday. I bought as many flowers as I could for $10, and I put them all over my house. Every day I looked at them I remembered why they were there. It helped. It helped a lot.

That first May they had roses on sale: 25 roses for $5. To celebrate six months without a cigarette I splurged and bought four bundles. I had 100 roses in my house, in every conceivable kind of container: vases, glasses, ginger jars, bowls. They spilled over my mantlepiece, they trailed across my table, they filled my nightstand. They sat on the side of my bathtub. They made it easier.

After a year I could go for a couple of hours without thinking about smoking. After three years I sometimes went for a whole day. Every day I had flowers to remind me, and to keep me on track. I think they saved my life.

Now, twenty-seven years later, I rarely think about smoking. I can use the word ‘quit’. I can talk on the phone without patting my pockets for matches. But here in Belgium I still have flowers in my house. Almost every week when I go to the market I come home with a bouquet of flowers. Over the years I’ve collected some beautiful vases, and I love to arrange flowers in them. This close to Holland with its miles and miles of fields and greenhouses, we have fresh flowers all year round. They’re cheap. They’re gorgeous. And they still remind me that I don’t smoke.

I get very angry when I hear tobacco companies say that smoking isn’t addictive because people can quit. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. In my whole life. Bar none.

In my dreams I still smoke.

IN PRAISE OF CHEDDAR

I love cheese. Hard cheese, runny cheese, white cheese, yellow cheese, blue cheese, old cheese, young cheese--you name it. You might remember that I live in a cheese - producing region. You’d think that this would make me happy. Content. Not wanting to ask for another thing.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when my friend Danielle brought me this lovely:

It’s farmhouse cheddar, from England by way of the South of France. Danielle and her husband have a house in the Dordogne, near some gorgeous markets. In one of those, Danielle found this cheddar. Oh, my. There’s 500 g of this white gold--just over a pound. It’s crumbly and lovely and nose-tickly.

After I nibbled it a couple of times and gave part of it to my friend Francoise (who loves cheddar as much as I do), I have about 250 g left. What should I do with it? I’d love to hear your ideas.

IN PRAISE OF SUMMER