I’ll do it: tomorrow, next week, next month, next year.
But not right now.
I’m too: busy, tired, broke, otherwise committed, ambivalent, not sure it’s going to work out perfectly.
It might be trying for a dream job.
It might be repairing a broken relationship — or starting a tender new one, romantic or platonic.
It might committing to a course of study.
It might mean selling everything you own and/or disappearing for a while (not abandoning your loved ones.)
Whatever it is, I urge you to get on with it.
It’s the worst cliche, but a cancer diagnosis — even one as incredibly hopeful as mine is — will instantly alter how you perceive time and its brevity and its value.
I’ve cut off useless drama. I’ve turned down invitations. I’m avoiding situations I know will stress me further.
But I’m also making and planting gorgeous new wooden planters for our balcony and accepting assignments for later this summer and planning a trip, possibly to Cornwall, in the late fall.
Two dear friends — one in London, one in California — were widowed in the same week. Both were, sadly, expected but still.
Now another friend’s husband is newly diagnosed.
This time last year I was carefree, solo, sunning myself in a tiny, beautiful Croatian town on the Adriatic, Rovinj. I stayed in, and loved, a boutique hotel made up of two buildings from the 18th and 17th century, walking down smooth cobble-stoned streets.
If this had happened last year, I would have lost a ton of money on prepaid flights, tickets and hotels and had to cancel a trip that was absolute heaven.
This year I’m walking down hospital corridors and consulting with six physicians, submitting to seven presurgical tests and procedures — slightly less amusing!
I am so glad I was able, financially and physically, to make that journey as a birthday gift to myself.
To take it for myself.
To give it to myself without reservation or guilt or remorse for that “wasted” time or mis-spent savings.
Whatever brings you joy, get out there and claim it.
Space bear! This little guy was in a vending machine at the movie theater in Ronkonkoma.
By Caitlin Kelly
It’s hard to believe that this lovely bit of the state is only a few hours’ drive east of crowded, crazy New York City, not my favorite place in the hot, humid and smelly summer.
Long Island — lying to the southeast of the city’s five boroughs — on its north shore devolves as you keep moving northeast, away from wealthy suburban enclaves to the endless vineyards of the East End.
We stayed for five days in Islandia, (where my husband Jose was photo editing the U.S. Open nearby), and I went off exploring alone every day from there.
In about an hour’s drive — headed northeast on what’s known as the North Fork, I retreated a few decades to flat green fields, weathered shingled houses and left the suburban chain-store sprawl far behind.
This diner in Cutchogue was perfect!
Built in 1941, its prices were the lowest I’d seen in years. I had blueberry pancakes with sausage on heavy diner china; if you go, it closes at 3pm.
I managed to miss the turnoff to Route 48 and ended up driving instead on 25, which was slower and much prettier, passing white churches and farm stands and fire halls and schools — and two llamas!
I spent a few hours exploring Greenport, which is lovely and filled with elegant shops and restaurants. One sells an astonishing array of hand-painted Italian pottery and Murano glass, and some amazing high-end costume jewelry.
The area is so gorgeous I started looking at real estate prices. Hah! The lowest-priced house was $525,000.
I pushed on to the literal end of the road in Orient, the furthest northeastern tip of the Island, and was so glad I did. The town has 743 residents, settled in the 17th century, making this part of the state one of its oldest.
For $8, I visited Orient State Park and lay on the beach, savoring only the soothing sounds of wind and waves. The place was virtually empty, and the road in is lined with osprey nests and huge signs warning drivers to look out for box turtles.
I came home with a handful of the most beautiful white stones, smooth as eggs, as a souvenir.
These Hamptons estates range from $29.5 million to $35 million. Welcome to 1-percent-world!
I also drove southeast one day to Westhampton, one of the legendary Hamptons on the Island’s South Fork — filled with enormous mansions, some of which rent seasonally for tens of thousands of dollars. Whew! The parking lots were full of Range Rovers, Mercedes and a Maserati, a very moneyed crowd.
A hanging flower basket in Westhampton. Love these colors!
But I had a great day — lunch at the Bakery Cafe, a bit of shopping and people were friendly and welcoming.
I spent another day in the nothern side hamlet of Stony Brook, and drove its tree-shaded Harbor Drive, peeking through the woods at massive mansions facing the water. So beautiful! Had a great lunch at Crazy Beans, twice, in a low, white-shingled shopping center built in 1941 that includes elegant outdoor tables and benches, shady umbrellas and even a waterfall.
The town holds Avalon Park, a large pond that’s home to so many birds! I saw swans, ducks, cormorants, heron.
Near Stony Brook is this amazing bit of history — a general store from 1857 still in operation.
It was a really relaxing break and left me eager to return.
Touch can be soothing or frightening, a source of comfort or terror.
The past few weeks have made clearer — personally and politically — the importance of touch, physical and emotional.
Since telling people about my DCIS diagnosis, Jose and I have been deeply moved and touched by so many people, worldwide, young and old, friends, neighbors and colleagues, who have called and emailed to share their love and concern.
It’s been surprising to us — tough old boots of journalists that we are, working for decades in a fact-based business — to feel such a powerful wave of love and emotion.
We are very grateful.
The business of diagnosing breast cancer, (like other forms, perhaps), also means your body gets touched by many strangers, compressed repeatedly, punctured with needles and having markers inserted and written on your skin. By the time of my surgery, July 6, I will have had seven different medical appointments and five different pre-op tests.
When a medical professional, who does this job every day, is kind and compassionate, communicating it through their gentle touch — the nurse who held my hand through my biopsy, the phlebotomist so skilled I didn’t feel a thing as she took my blood, the radiologist who stroked my other wrist even as he guided the needle — it is deeply moving and so comforting.
As someone who has always really lived in her head — a thinker, not a feeler — and a lifelong athlete who sees (and appreciates!) her body not for its size or shape or putative beauty — but instead for its strength, flexibility and resilience, this is all disorienting in the extreme.
Of course, grateful for a medical team we like, but it is so odd to suddenly be — as of course we all are, every day (even as we may deny it) — so corporeally vulnerable and now so…handled.
The larger political current context — of tiny children being taken from their parents and shut into cages by American officials — is so grotesque it would be a parody, if it were not.
From Arizona Family:
Dr. Colleen Kraft, the head of the American Academy of Pediatrics, said that she visited a small shelter in Texas recently, which she declined to identity. A toddler inside the 60-bed facility caught her eye — she was crying uncontrollably and pounding her little fists on mat.
Staff members tried to console the child, who looked to be about 2 years old, Kraft said. She had been taken from her mother the night before and brought to the shelter.
The staff gave her books and toys — but they weren’t allowed to pick her up, to hold her or hug her to try to calm her. As a rule, staff aren’t allowed to touch the children there, she said. [italics mine]
“The stress is overwhelming,” she said. “The focus needs to be on the welfare of these children, absent of politics.”
From Texas Monthly:
Sometimes mothers—I was talking to one mother, and she said, “Don’t take my child away,” and the child started screaming and vomiting and crying hysterically, and she asked the officers, “Can I at least have five minutes to console her?” They said no. In another case, the father said, “Can I comfort my child? Can I hold him for a few minutes?” The officer said, “You must let them go, and if you don’t let them go, I will write you up for an altercation, which will mean that you are the one that had the additional charges charged against you.” So, threats. So the father just let the child go.
This is a regular column that runs in the Arts section of The New York Times. As author of two works of nationally reported non-fiction — the second of which was nominated for the prestigious Hillman Award and published in China — I thought I’d do this here as well.
When did you first get the idea to write this book?
I worked at a trade publication in New York City as an editor and was friendly with a colleague there. One evening, having dinner at her apartment — where she had a doorman and a very large dog — I asked her (?!) if she owned a gun. She did, a handgun. I was a bit stunned and wrote an essay about this for The Globe and Mail, my former newspaper in Canada. I went on to attend a three day shooting class and wrote about that for the Wall Street Journal. After writing a much longer feature on it, I realized there had not been a book written about American women and gun use, whether they enjoyed it or feared it used against them or their loved ones. It was clear there was a lot of great material to be gathered and many stories to be told. For Blown Away, I spoke to 104 men, women and teens from 29 states. Here’s a link to the book.
For Malled, I was urged from the very start to write about it, but couldn’t see any narrative arc or story line to the menial job of folding, hanging and selling clothing for The North Face. But I worked part-time, at $11/ hour, for 2.5 years — much longer than the average retail sales associate, so I watched the economy plunge into recession (2007 to 2009) from a specific and unusual place. The book is also a story of how the retail industry works, from the inside, so it’s both a memoir and a business book. I was urged to produce the book after a column I wrote in The New York Times prompted a flood of appreciative comments and emails. Here’s a link to the book.
What’s the most surprising thing you learned while writing it?
For Blown Away, the regional differences in how Americans view gun use and gun ownership is huge. People really don’t understand it and underestimate its political strength. It isn’t just the NRA’s powerful influence and deep pockets, but also strong cultural and historical attachment to gun use and gun ownership that’s deeply embedded, for millions of people, in the very idea of what it means to be American. But because those in your local area are likely to share your views on gun use — whether pro or con — you usually end up with confirmation bias, unable to envision or understand this.
For Malled, It was really depressing to hear the words “disposable” used over and over again to describe the hard-working, poorly-paid staff that stand for eight hours in all retail stores. The highly paid executives at corporate headquarters of every major retailer spend millions of dollars buying specialized software — designed to reduce the costs of labor. It was so demoralizing to do a job to the best of our ability and realize that no one (in corporate) cared or would ever compensate us accordingly. My “raise” in 2.5 years? Thirty cents an hour.
In what way is the book you wrote different from the book you set out to write?
They’re both what I wanted them to be — a firsthand and intimate examination of two of the United States’ most intractable political issues: gun ownership and low-wage labor.
Who is a creative person (not a writer) who has influenced you and your work?
My parents and late stepmother. My father is a former documentary film-maker and my mother a journalist and my stepmother wrote television series. All worked freelance in challenging and competitive creative industries. I learned early that your own great ideas, presented and sold well, can earn you a living. That was pretty revolutionary, and certainly inspired my own work as a writer.
Persuade someone to read “Blown Away” or “Malled” in 50 words or less.
Blown Away is the only book of its kind, a nuanced, balanced deep dive into how guns affect women in the United States, whether they use one for sport, work or self-defense, or have been traumatized by the use of one against them or a loved one.
Malled is similarly unique, offering a firsthand examination of low-wage labor in the U.S., and explains in detail what it is like to work for paltry wages in a large and crucial industry and in an economy based on consumer spending.
Do you start most sentences with “I think” or “I feel”?
Having, managing, expressing (or suppressing) feelings is a big deal in my life.
As someone who faced and had to cope alone with mental illness and alcoholism in one parent and frequent work-related absence in another, I learned early that no one had much interest in hearing how I felt about all of this.
So I learned to bottle it up, or to share only with close friends.
Living in boarding school and summer camp ages eight to 13 (school) and eight to 16 (camp) also meant being surrounded by strangers, some of whom became close friends — but some of whom were bullies.
You learned to keep your counsel.
So a recent workshop at a writers’ conference — where the audience was urged to write “I remember” and dredge up some memories — proved both painful and illuminating for me.
Some of us then read our initial sentences to the room, maybe 150 other professional writers; I did, as well.
I was amazed and moved by what I heard.
It made me much more aware of how limited my ability to express some feelings still is — even later in life.
I’m reluctant to show vulnerability.
I very rarely say “I love you” to someone, even when I feel it.
I’m much more comfortable (which tends to unnerve others) expressing dismay, outrage or frustration — less tender and delicate emotions.
Except — thanks to a diagnosis I received since writing this post (tiny/early/contained breast cancer) — my view has shifted radically and I’ve told a number of friends, neighbors and even professional colleagues.
This is not something to face alone.
It’s also exhausting keeping up a brave face when I don’t feel at all brave or badass but feel worried and tired dealing with six (!) doctors, even if all of them are people I like.
The greatest challenge so far has been managing my anxiety, a battle in itself, while absorbing and making lucid decisions about treatment. It’s a lot to manage.
Are you at ease having and expressing your feelings?
In the United States — where all post-secondary education is called “college”, while in Britain, Canada and elsewhere it’s “university” — it’s anathema to suggest the very possibility of not attending college.
By this I mean a four-year degree — (Americans don’t confer three-year bachelor’s degrees) — from a private or public institution whose annual costs can be up to $60,000 a year.
This in an era when many blue-collar/manual labor jobs are begging for employees and, once you’ve finished your apprenticeship, (and usually gained union membership, which protects your wage-earning power), can make up to $100,000 a year — far more than many jobs that require multiple degrees.
In 2014 and 2015, I was an adjunct writing professor at Pratt Institute, a private college in Brooklyn best known for the arts.
I taught freshman students in their four-year-writing program, amused and appalled by their parents’ willingness to cough up more per year — $60,000 — than 99.9% of the students will ever earn in a year of actually selling their words to anyone outside of Hollywood.
My husband attended New Mexico State University at no cost because his father was a Baptist minister in Santa Fe and he was given scholarships. I attended the University of Toronto (Canada’s best) and paid full freight — a fat $660 (yes) per year, also graduating debt-free.
What did I learn at university that has stayed with me?
—– Intellectual confidence
Having to argue my ideas in front of smart fellow students has helped me in a business where I have to do it every day.
— Social confidence
I led a student event in my junior year and that reminded me I do have leadership skills.
— Professional confidence
I wrote so much for the college weekly newspaper in freshman year I was writing for national media before I turned 20, still an undergrad.
— Language skills
I studied French for three years (fluent, thanks to a year spent in Paris) and four years of Spanish, both of which I’ve reported in.
— Dislike of authority
I got virtually no support from my professors or administrators beyond a (much appreciated) shout-out in a freshman English lit class. A year later, when I dared to ask for college credit for being nationally published, the chair of the English department sneered in reply without a word of congratulations or praise.
I’ve never given my alma mater a penny since.
Almost none of these was my course material — not Conrad or Chaucer or Locke or Plato.
The best thing university did for me was to force me to work hard for demanding professors who basically didn’t care if I succeeded or not, competing with smart and determined people around me.
Sounds like the “real world” to me!
Unless you’ve mastered specific technical skills — engineering, architecture, dentistry, law, medicine, business, computer science — I often wonder if college/university is truly the best preparation and the wisest investment of time and money.
What do you think?
What did you study and how has it helped you succeed professionally?
I recently saw a feature film — made by British director Andrew Haigh — called “Lean on Pete”, which is the name of the horse who’s central to the story. It was shot in Portland, Oregon and tells the story of Charley, a young man (played by Charlie Plummer) who’s initially stuck with a deadbeat father, absent mother and MIA aunt.
It’s a powerful and moving story of how a young man somehow manages to walk, drive and run away from a solo life of misery back to a place of safety and comfort.
I won’t give away all the details, but it’s a searing portrait of what it means to be young, broke, desperate and unconnected to anyone who cares for you. It’s also beautifully filmed and Plummer is fantastic.
There are very few films made today about what it’s like to be poor and alone in the United States — the last one I saw (and I admit, I didn’t enjoy it) was The Florida Project, starring Willem Dafoe as the manager of a Florida motel housing a number of women-led families of very young children.
I found it impossible to like or sympathize with its main female character, while Charlie — maybe being a teenager? maybe being someone doing his best? — was someone I could stick with, even as his trajectory becomes so grim.
LOP cost $8 million to make — and has so far only earned back $222,816 — a terrible return.
I’m not surprised. It’s not a funny, cute, perky escape and box-office catnip.
Last summer, traveling alone through Europe with multiple 12-hour train journeys, I dove into another harrowing story, A Little Life, written (!) in 18 months on top of the author’s full-time job at The New York Times.
It won five awards, including being short-listed for the 2015 Man Booker prize.
It, too, is an emotionally tough slog and it’s a doorstop of 814 pages.
The central character is Jude, and his friendships with a small circle of equally educated and accomplished New Yorkers. Jude was abused and injured as a child, and this trauma plays out throughout his life and the novel. (If you’re up on your saints, you know that Jude is the patron saint of desperate and lost causes.)
While it’s a story with much pain, it’s also one with deep and abiding love and sustaining friendships — the kind that those whose families are absent or useless must find if they are to survive this world, let alone thrive in it.
As someone who has turned many times to strangers and friends to replace absent family, these narratives hit a chord in me.
I don’t believe that great art has to make us happy or smile or feel better.
If it touches the deepest part of our heart, it’s done its job.
And movies! Whether in a theater or on Netflix or on television, I usually watch two or three every week — maybe because my father, who’s still alive and healthy at 89, was an award-winning film-maker; here’s his Wikipedia entry.
What were you known for in school?
Being in trouble and winning prizes for best-in-class academically and for writing.
A safari in Kenya when we were left alone in the dark by our guides, who drove off with the vehicles, light and guns — and we were surrounded by wild animals. A recent health issue.
As a reporter and feature writer for the Globe & Mail, Canada’s best national newspaper. It offered great adventures — from covering and meeting Queen Elizabeth to sailing aboard a Tall Ship.
Stuffed animals or dolls or…?
Wayyyy too many stuffed animals, some of whom still share space with us.
Do you have siblings? Are you close to them emotionally?
I have three half-siblings, a brother 10 years younger, one 23 years younger and a half-sister I haven’t met who’s about five years younger. None of us grew up together. It’s complicated.
Are you outdoors-y — or, as humorist Fran Lebowitz wrote, is the outdoors what you step through between the restaurant and the taxi?
Both? I grew up attending summer camps in northern Ontario, ages eight to 16, (three camps), which involved swimming in very cold water, portaging 65-pound wood and canvas canoes while being swarmed by mosquitoes and black flies and knowing how to build a fire. I love camping out, and even have a tent my husband bought me for a recent late-life birthday, but I admit to an equal affection (OK, much deeper) for room service and a dry hotel martini.
Are you married or partnered? If not, do you enjoy being single?
I’ve been with my second husband (both divorced) for 18 years. We’re very different sorts of people — he is very tidy and hyper-organized, not wild about spontaneity and adventure — but we share values and are both devoted career journalists who started our work for national outlets as college undergrads. No kids.
What’s your nickname?
Family nickname, Catti. A friend, with whom I served for years on a volunteer board (where I was willing to say what others were not), Little Thorn.
What would we typically find in your fridge?
Unsalted butter, half and half, lemons, limes, maple syrup, selzer, low-fat yogurt, fresh fruit and vegetables and far too many condiments. Canadian candy bars unavailable in the States.
Do you enjoy entertaining friends and family?
Love it! Maybe my favorite way to spend time at home.
Are you a highly social and outgoing person — or happier alone at home?
Both! I’ve always been gregarious, but enjoy quiet time on my own.
Most beautiful place you’ve visited?
Toss-up between Corsica, Ireland, Ko Phi Phi, (an island in Thailand) and the Grand Canyon.
To write and commercially publish more books. Just found a new agent eager to represent one of my ideas, so fingers crossed. I’d love to win a Canada Council grant — $20,000.
Have you achieved the goal(s) you set for yourself when younger/in university?
If so, what was it/were they?
I wanted to become a journalist and author, and have. I wanted to become a foreign correspondent and, in reporting as a Canadian in the U.S., have done this as well.
If not, are you OK with that?
Do you struggle with/manage a chronic medical condition?
Osteoarthritis. I have a replaced left hip (Feb. 2012) and my right knee is a mess. This now prevents me from running, jumping and other fun activities.
Do you follow a spiritual or religious tradition/faith?
Nominally Anglican/Episcopalian. Not a regular church-goer, but very fond of a good sermon and have many favorite hymns, like All Things Bright and Beautiful.
It’s a natural response — and, in some cases, the right response — to try to hold the line against political reaction, to shame people who espouse shameful ideas. But shame is a politically volatile emotion, and easily turns into toxic resentment. It should not be overused. I don’t know exactly where to draw the line between ideas that deserve a serious response, and those that should be only mocked and scorned. I do know that people on the right benefit immensely when they can cultivate the mystique of the forbidden.
In February, Jordan Peterson, the Canadian psychologist who has garnered a cultlike following, asked, in an interview with Vice, “Can men and women work together in the workplace?” To him, the Me Too movement called into question coed offices, a fundamental fact of modern life, because “things are deteriorating very rapidly at the moment in terms of the relationships between men and women.”
Having to contend with this question fills me with despair. I would like to say: It’s 2018 and women’s place in public life is not up for debate! But to be honest, I think it is. Trump is president. Everywhere you look, the ugliest and most illiberal ideas are gaining purchase. Refusing to take them seriously won’t make them go away. (As it happens, I’m participating in a debate with Peterson next week in Toronto.)
I shy far away, here and on Facebook and usually on Twitter, from so many political subjects — gun use and abortion, being two of them — that will only provoke trolls, bullies and harassers.
I have no time, energy or appetite to get into fights with ghosts over this stuff, no matter how passionately I feel about them, which I do.
It’s become a world of virtue signalling, spittle-flecked (out) rage and worse.
I see some bloggers sticking resolutely close to home with soothing/inspiring images and posts.
I get it.
I wish I dared.
But I don’t.
Are you also holding back on your blog and other social media?