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2015 Theater List

I saw a wonderful play today at the American Reperatory Theater and It inspired me to list all the shows I saw this year. Despite not having my steady date, I managed to have a good time. I enjoyed all of these performances, but what really made the year special was seeing star performers - Many Pantinkin, Taylor Mac, Courtney Love and Meow Meow. Shout out to puppets in Pirate Princess and Shock Headed Peter. So proud of my daughter and the cast of the Giver. Looking forward to more in the coming year!

The Last Two People on Earth - American Rep
Shock Headed Peter - Company One
An Audience with Meow Meow - Cutler Majestic
Kansas City Choir Boy - ART at Oberon
Who Would Be King - Liars & Believers at Oberon
The Trumpet of the Swan - Wheelock
The Giver - Brookline High School
The Pirate Princess - American Rep

The show that I didn't see that changed my life: HAMILTON!

To sleep, perchance to dream

I slept enough to dream last night. I've been averaging 6 hours, but instead of watching another Jessica Jones I went to bed with Ancillary Mercy. I had a wonderful dream about going to a club and hearing a jazz cello and piano piece by two luminous young musicians. It was one of those magical dreams where you feel as though you visited a real place. Very restful.

I seem to have survived another trip home without the weeklong spiraling sadness that knocked me out in October. Having my partner with me really helped, although I think it threw him for a loop. Next visit is Dec. 24, which is always hard because it's so confusing for my mother. We will tone it way down this year in terms of presents and chaos. Speaking of presents and chaos, I need to finish up my chanukah shopping. It's nice to have it early in the month so I don't have the Xmas panic.

Honey's in tech week for her play. Next week is the performance. She's done an amazing job managing the stress and workload. Tomorrow Violet is leading the Torah service so we have to be up early after staying up late watching TV.

My new winter hobby will be coming up with cocktails other than martinis to drink. I love them, but it's like taking a hammer to the head  and it's over so soon and then you want wine and then HANGOVER.


April 15 in Boston

We have a new event to be held in commemoration of the Marathon bombings: One Boston Day. We are supposed to be kind to one another and there will be a moment of silence followed by church bells. The preparations for the Marathon next week are well underway. The finish line and stands are going up, barricades being brought in. Today banners were put up at the site of the bombings. Flowers were left, speeches given. Copley Square is once again crowded with cops, news trucks, black SUVs and trailers. It all makes me very nervous. I do not claim to have PTSD but it does trigger the alarm bells in my head. I knew there was an event on Boylston today to commemorate the bombing and I was steeling myself to come up the stairs from the subway into the middle of it. As I reached the street, the panic rose but I heard a voice singing "Hey Jude". It was a homeless man sitting outside the library, asking for donations. Tears came to my eyes but I felt comforted and the panic subsided. I gave him a dollar and said thank you, looking into his eyes (well-trained by Amanda). "You really helped me feel better today", I said. He said thank you and that it meant a lot to him to hear me say that. He gave me the strength to walk through the cops and barricades to my office.

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders
For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder


The kids got their first passports today. We need them for our trip to Canada. I didn't get my passport until my mid-20's when I went to Belgium and France. How different their lives are from mine. Travel milestones for me were going to my first foreign country, Canada, when I was in 8th grade. I saw the ocean for the first time when I was 17. New York City when I was 18. I didn't fly in a plane until I was 22. My kids haven't been to another country yet, but they visited the ocean in their first months of life. They flew when they were babies and have been going to New York City their whole lives. The world is smaller now and more porous. It's ironic that we need passports for Canada. Adam and I biked there from Vermont years ago. The guards waved us in and waved us out. The world is smaller and we are more afraid.


Requiem for Quin the Eskimo

My uncle Quin died today. Born in Mississippi, he traveled the world as a geologist. To Cuba, before Castro. To Alaska, before it became a state. To Algeria and all over the Middle East. Once, in the 1930's he traveled to the wilds of Upstate New York, where he met and married my aunt. Visits from Uncle Quin & Aunt Billie were momentous occasions in my life. They came with suitcases loaded with presents from their travels. Dolls, textiles, treasures, music, food, stories. Once they brought King Crabs from Alaska that were so large we didn't have a pot to fit them. Those magical nights when the family would gather at my grandparents' house for their arrival were like a troubador visiting a remote medieval village. Out of those voluminous suitcases, out of this jet-lagged, laconic man with the rich Southern accent, came the world. When he awoke in the morning, I would beg him to take me fishing in the Susquehanna, just down the hill from our house. With his pipe and fishing tackle, we would descend through the weedy cow pasture to the river. I don't remember anyone else taking me fishing, just the man who had just flown into Albany from Oman. Always busy, even on "vacation",  he built me a sandbox and taught me about gardening. He was so grounded, yet they moved constantly. To England, when my Aunt was weary of the Middle East. To Texas, when his field work came to an end. Penultimately, to Florida, where he had a whole swamp in his backyard to turn into a garden, despite the snakes and alligators. Finally, they returned home to Alaska, where they had raised their children, survived the earthquake of 1964 and found a community to hold their restless spirits. It's a place that looms large in my imagination, although I have never been. I'm sorry that I never got to visit him there. Thank you, Uncle Quin. You made my world a much richer, bigger place and I hope to pass that on to my children. Maybe I will take them fishing in Alaska one day.

Postscript: Here is his obituary. I forgot to mention that he was a pilot in WWII in the South Pacific. He was also "human computer" and quant who wrote a book called "The Solution of Equations in a Field".


Boston Confession

I'm not Boston Strong. I found out a few weeks ago, on March 26, when a fire engulfed a building on Beacon Street, killing two fire fighters. I stood in the kitchen of my office, looking out the big windows and wondered why there was fog on Boylston Street on a sunny, windy day. Could it be smoke? A jolt of fear went through me. A fire, I found out. A really big one. My anxiety started to rise. I needed to get home. I had no meetings so I left as soon as I could. Pushing open the front door, I froze when I smelled the smoke That's when the real panic hit. Fighting the wind up the stinking, smoke-filled street, I got to the subway as fast as I could, desperate to get out of there. My body pumping adrenaline into my blood saying - this is a dangerous place, remember?

I was out at a farm in the suburbs looking at baby goats when I heard the news on April 15, 2013. The buzz spread through the parents in the barn and I went outside to check twitter & field anxious messages from family. We stayed at the farm as long as we could, then drove back in to the city.

My office on Boylston Street, was closed the following day, since it was inside of the crime scene perimeter. Wednesday it opened and I went in, full of trepidation, making sure to hug & kiss my kids goodbye. I thought of walking all the way but decided to get on the train and see how I felt. The other passengers were silent. Dour, anxious, suspicious. Too afraid to pass through the closed train station at Copley, my stop, I got off at Hynes, gulping for air as I ran upstairs. Newbury looked oddly normal as I walked the first block. Except for the police and soldiers on patrol. Except for the quiet. The closed stores. No traffic. On the first cross street it hit me like a cannonball in the stomach. The blocked off street was filled with trash, the things dropped when ten thousand people fled for their lives. Water bottles, hats, mylar blankets, bags, signs, jackets, bottles - all guarded by police officers in vests & helmets. As I walked up the street the scene grew more surreal. Media trucks, posters of encouragement, FBI trailers, more police, more trash. I made it up to where I could cross to my building, where a memorial was being created with bundles of flowers and shoes and stricken, sad people staring down the closed street with TV cameras and security everywhere. I ducked into the calm of my building, which seemed like a sanctuary except for the fact that our windows face west and look right out on Copley Square.

The closed street haunted us. It remained a crime scene for weeks as the area and all the trash was all searched by dogs, cops and people in white suits. Otherwise, it was silent and empty. Just mylar blankets blowing in the wind. I'd get a cup of coffee and stare out at the post-apocalyptic scene outside our windows.


It got to me. The horror of that day sunk in deep, even though I was not in any danger. I was thoroughly terrified. Terrorized. The second day, I dared to ride the train all the way home, holding my breath, my heart pounding, as we passed through the dark, closed train station. Nothing happened to me. I was a victim of my imagination more than the Tsarnaev brothers, but it persists. As I found out the day of the fire, the memory of danger is powerful.

I am in awe of the people who are going back. The runners, the medical staff, the families and volunteers who are returning to the marathon. One of my colleagues is going to run. Her courage is inspiring but I can't begin to match it.  I'm not ready for tomorrow. I'll take the kids up to see the start of the marathon as it passes through our town, then we'll drive out to the country to find some goats.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I have a very vivid memory of the first time I read "One Hundred Years of Solitude". I was home from college, It was probably 1987 and I went to the lake. Lying on the beach, I read the last third of the book. I was totally engrossed in it. When I reached the end, where one realizes that they are reading the book that is written in the book, I felt dizzy. I sat up, extremely disoriented, to find myself on a beach in upstate New York. The spell of his words was profound. Having been transported, I couldn't bear to be outside of that world and I turned back to the first page.

This book was my first exposure to what is called "magic realism" but which is now, at least in my library, called a good story.

A great light has gone out of the world, but it has ignited a creative forest fire.


I took my daughter skating yesterday for this first time this winter. I make it a priority, because there are so few days we can do it. We like to skate outside and there are only 8 weekends left when the rink is open. Sometimes it's raining or just too cold or we have obligations. I'm acutely aware of how precious those days and times are. Having spent the morning at a funeral, I was even more determined to get out on the ice yesterday and we had a wonderful time. I reflected that for people who love to ski and skate, winter in New England is too short. We only have about 10 weekends when conditions might be good. For people who don't do winter sports, the season is too long. They sit inside and wait for spring, looking forward to the precious few summer weekends. I relish those too. In fact, I'm working on enjoying ALL of it.

On New Year's Eve, I saw a Dan Zanes concert and he led us in singing "Turn, Turn, Turn" with lyrics for kids, written by Toshi Seeger's wife, instead of the text of Ecclesiastes.

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

The tune is resonating with me this year. I hope I learn to appreciate the time I have, to take advantage of opportunities and not feel anxious about things that have passed by or are still on the horizon. Turn, turn, turn.



On the long drive to my home town for my high school reunion, I reflected on my classmates. I thought about their careers and life choices. How curious, I thought, that none of them are writers. My stomach did a backflip and I felt a tingling sensation rush through my veins. "It was supposed to be you", said the voice in my head. I'm not sure what to do with this. I'll just leave it here.

Oh, those summer nights

I took the girls out to Larz Anderson park after dinner. It was one of those "Top Ten" summer days, pleasantly warm, dry and sunny that you dream of in February. We walked around the pond, smelled the fresh cut grass and watched for bunnies (2) and mermaids (0). One thing that age has given me a is an understanding of how precious these moments are. Time appears to move faster when you get older. Summer flies by. I took off my shoes and walked in the grass, then lay down and watched the magnificent clouds. It was a welcome break from the stress of the bat mitzvah planning. Looking at the sky and feeling the earth at my back helps me remember what is real.