All Clear

 

 

The Day of And a Few Days Later

“Well, it’s like this all the time in New Delhi!” an older woman said to me last Wednesday, in Midtown Manhattan, waiting at the crosswalk. I had noticed her cane, her stance, and her lean on the mailbox prior to the change of the walk sign at the cross walk, and so I had asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and, in typical NYC fashion, that was the end of our exchange. The light turned green, and we separated.   

This was on the day that NYC was blanketed in sepia, the day the wildfire smoke hit the city. Dazed and masked, people twirled, phones in hand, recording and marveling at the scene. Words like “apocalyptic, smoky, orange,” echoed through the throngs on Fifth Avenue.

Fast forward to three days later. The sky is blue, the air seems fresh, and yes, it appears to be all clear—at least around here.

We are always looking for an all clear. Or, perhaps, in my case, I’m also looking for clarity—and hope I offer the same. Thinking about relationships, work, stories, and trips, I consider that all clear is synonymous with a go ahead, or that we can proceed in a positive way. I'm also equating all clear with clarity. 

The Clarity of Reflection 

I can’t help but remember a student I had at Concordia College, so many years ago. Lorenzo, from Puerto Rico, came to Concordia to play volleyball and, like many on his team, also to learn English.

At that time, I had a habit of asking my students, “Is it clear?” after explaining something in my ESL class. (Wait—maybe I still say that!)

Lorenzo frequently responded, with a grin, “As clear as mud, teacher!”

He chided me, and was often quite the jokester, but sometimes he was on target: my explanations often required a second round. I take that recognition with me, and try—whether talking to family and friends or students and teachers—to be clear. It’s a skill I’m still working on.

But back to last Wednesday, I walked up to the Museum of Modern Art, where I had decided I wanted to revisit Georgia O’Keeffe’s exhibit. I watched as people stopped in front of one work or another, saw them observe, listened to their commentary, accolades, and more.

An older bespectacled gentleman with tanned skin, a white beard, and a straw fedora, came to a full stop in front of “Evening Star.”  He stood, hands behind his back, and gazed, deeply at one painting, and then the others in that series.   

From Georgia O'Keeffe--One of the Many Currently at MOMA 

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking when he looked at them.  Was a meaning clear to him?  What was clear to him?

But he moved on as a young couple with a toddler moved in front. 

As I continued to walk around the museum, my thoughts of clarity continued. I considered how clarity comes in different realms: art, communication, movement, music, and another one of my favorites, flavors.

Recently I found clarity in a dish I made: Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Since it was quite well received,  I decided to explore variations on the theme. A few nights later, I made pork chops with an orange sauce that somewhat emulated the previously-made lemon-infused dish. The result? Another sunny, and tasty citrus-themed plate (served this time with broccoli and wine-caramelized onions, and roast potatoes). 

 Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce

Crispy Pork Chops with a Fresh Orange Sauce

I enjoy clarity of flavor as much as I enjoy clarity of explanations, communication, and more. I find clarity when I run, when I cook, when I dance, when I draw, and when I write. 

Today as I ponder the message of all clear and clarity, I think of the bold, dazzling colors of nature that boast their individuality, yet work and grow together. 

 

Almost Spring's Big Dig

Mom and a Storyboard

“Look at her!” my friend Sus declares as we uncover photos of my mom.

I’ve found the black and white photos of my mother at work. She was one of the first female art directors on the “mad men” scene of Madison Avenue. I heard the story so many times, about how I was almost born at Y&R (Young & Rubicam) but how she just barely made it to Flowers and Fifth Hospital—after a quick stop to pick up a nightgown in Bloomingdale’s—and then on to the hospital to give birth to me. 

I go through photos—there are hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. They date back to the time my mom was little, posing on the Boardwalk in front of her parents’ home in Brighton Beach. Posing…they were always posing.

Words are tangled in my throat as I peruse her sketchbooks, and flash back to the times she sketched at parties, when curious guests couldn’t help but come by and ask what she was doing, look over her shoulder, admire her fluid intake and translation of the scenes around her.

I was not like the guests; her sketching made me uncomfortable.

Now, as I leaf through the dozen or so sketchbooks, I have an uneasiness mixed with pride and regret that I didn’t enjoy her drawing—while she was drawing. Why did her sketching bother me? Why didn’t I accept it more readily? Why wasn’t I proud then? 

Mom's Sketches in Spain 

As some of you may know, now over two years ago, we moved from a house into an apartment. At that big downsizing time, I took a lot of my old photos—okay not only mine, but those from and of my parents (their ex-spouses!), grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents-in-law, siblings, kids…well, you get the picture. Tons of photos! They were packed into large Rubbermaid tubs and put into storage.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to go through, sort, keep or toss: my big dig. And so, it’s begun.

It’s amazing how many blurry photos, how many duplicates, how many “unknowns,” and how many trees and sunsets were captured. And as I sift, I try to identify criteria for saving.

My criteria has yet to be defined. I do know that I’m not going to scan them all; I want to keep the “hard copies.” Not sure what I’ll do with them, but I’m enjoying going through them…remembering so very many moments.

In another box, I’ve found letters. Those I’m loathe to toss…at least some of them. Especially words from people, like my parents, who are no longer on this earth with us. I've put those aside for now. I'll read them all. Eventually.   

This all comes back to my kitchen. As many of you may also know, food is another way I keep people ever-present. Menu planning is something I enjoy daily: I think about who’s going to eat it, what the weather is like, what’s available, and what people might be craving.

I open up a recipe box, and look for one of our Christmas Eve classics: The orange Jell-O mold, complete with shredded carrots and crushed pineapple, which she always made in the shape of a Christmas tree.

I never thought I’d ever make it. Now I pull out the recipe, and look for the pan that it will set in.