jen lemen - Home

I’m not sure why, but I wanted to offer you this little snapshot of my creation being born out of chaos. It’s the kind of big creative mess that delights me at first and then sends me into minor episodes of panic later. I love the unruliness of color and the possibilities of decisions not yet made. Bringing the ideas into order is more of a challenge. I have to close my eyes and imagine the feeling I’m longing for and then follow my heart all the way to the finish. Sometimes it’s exciting. Other times it scary as hell.

Some days (like today) it feels impossible to know that feeling or that finish my heart is reaching for. I am just in the middle of the chaos hoping something great is being born out of my questions and more importantly–my fears. For these moments there’s Rilke, thank heavens, and the kindness of one lit candle beside a freshly drawn bath.

I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. —from the letters of Ranier Maria Rilke

Blessings to you all this winter night. I send you every wish for sweet dreams and all the patience you need to love your own questions yet to be answered. Sleep tight.

Yesterday’s winter wonderland gave way to today’s total meltdown. The snow mother and her baby have disappeared before our eyes, leaving big puddles of slush in the front yard. The snow fort is more of a snow speed bump now, marking the line between front yards and back. There was no snow day today–just a two hour delay. With any luck, winter might be over. One can only hope.

I trudge next door through puddles of slush to Mark and Meryl’s house. Meryl wants Mark to sing me this old Hawaiian song about a girl in a grass skirt. He sings a few bars, knowing it will make me so happy to hear his voice while Meryl puts on the CD. “All day yesterday, I listened to this while the snow was coming down,” Meryl says, yesterday’s bliss still shining in her eyes. “I told Mark in a year and a half when The Boy goes to college, we’ll go to Hawaii and everyday I’ll take a hula lesson in a grass skirt. Only, of course,” she says, turning to me in her funniest version of mock-serious, “I’ll need to wear a shirt on top with long sleeves.”

Even though Meryl is endlessly adorable, she insists after certain ages, certain body parts no longer need be displayed in daylight. “You have no idea what can happen to your arms. Or your neck!” She shudders a little at the thought. I listen, like every good girl should when the Wisdom and Experience speaks. “Anything I should be wearing now before it’s too late?” I ask now and then, not wanting to miss my passing fashion opportunities. “Those cute little shirts with cap sleeves,” Meryl answers, matter of fact. “They look fabulous on you.”

Mark laughs when we get like this–oh the girl talk!–and can’t get over the thought of Meryl dancing the hula wearing a grass skirt and a long sleeve shirt. The whole idea makes us all crack up. “Something about those two just doesn’t go together for me,” he says, shaking his head completely entertained.

“But it could be one of those nice sheer lightweight linen shirts from J. Jill that’s kind of see-through and costs $150!” I offer. Meryl and I are always finding solutions to things that could cost $150! Just for fun. “You could wear the top made out of coconuts underneath. Of course. I bet you would look great.”

Meryl’s all for it, eyes shining with mischief.

“I don’t mind the coconuts, really,” she says like this is my best idea yet. “It’s just–you know–the arm thing.” Having recently noticed the backs of my legs for the first time in say 5 years, I am starting to understand completely. Things happen. And God knows the coconuts surely must cover a multitude of imperfections. How could they not be the perfect solution??

These are the silly things we talk about sometimes–Mark, Meryl and me–until we settle down at the table for the real stories of the day. I love everything about this–the companionship, the kindness, the utter absurdity of it all.

Tonight at the table I tell Mark I am trying something new, a little something to nourish my spirit. He brightens like sages do and asks what it is.

“I can tell you,” I say. “But it has to be a secret.”

He leans in and I whisper. He nods and then whispers a question back. I answer, a little quieter this time.

“You can tell Meryl,” I say, feeling shy. “I just can’t say it outloud.” Mark whispers to Meryl who turns to me with kind eyes. She comes around the table and kisses me on the forehead. Her love travels from the top of my head to my small, fragile heart and then on to my still lovely arms. I want to hug them both.

There’s no ending to this story, and that makes me so happy. Tomorrow I will trudge across our yards back to that same table and my heart will be so glad–mostly for the chance to see and be seen by two dear souls I love so well. To 2008 and Hawaii, Meryl! I’ll have the coconuts and capped sleeves ready, while there’s still time.

What? More snow? We didn’t even see it coming. Let’s just hope that all this wintery goodness doesn’t mean another week of snow days. Just the thought totally overwhelmed me lying in bed this morning.

Thankfully, the girl-who-loves-to-play overcame the-stressed-out-mother in me, so I left my worries inside and went outside to enjoy the winter magic with Berna & company, Nick and Jess and the lovely Madeleine. The snow was heavy and wet–just right for packing.

Perfect snow for a snowman. Or a snow mama and her sweet little baby. This is how you know which children on the block have been attachment parented. Just look for their attachment parent snowmen. I mean snowmothers. Way to go Mad.

Here’s my sweet Jess…

And the trio–Fatih, Osman and Berna.

Here’s Nick basking in the glory of the snow.

All that fun in the snow and after awhile all we could think about was yummy stuff to eat. Berna went inside to make hot chocolate, Jess pulled kid-duty and Nick and I got a get-out-of-jail-free card to walk to Whole Foods and bring back everything we needed for homemade macaroni and cheese. Put me or Nick in a grocery store like this and our impulsive shopper tendencies kick into overdrive. “Look! Organic Buckwheat Flour! We could make pancakes!” “Over here–chocolate with crystallized ginger!” “We should get the organic cheese made on the farms of Australia!”

We shopped so long the only reasonable thing to do was wander over to Adega and get a glass of wine. But why get a glass when you could just buy a bottle? Especially when they’ll uncork it for you and re-cork it when you’re ready to trudge through the snow back home. I heart Adega.

Back at Nick’s place, Madeleine and Jess were curled under a blanket watching kid TV. Carter and Dave were next door at our house playing Star Wars Legos. I took that as a sign that I should tiptoe past the Jedi Knights and take a nice hot bath (cold feet! freezing hands!) while listening to the mesmerizing Camille.

Here’s a picture of our family winter dinner hours later–just about ready for the fine feasters–Dave, Carter, Madeleine, Nick, Jess and me. Berna and crew took their portion in a to-go casserole. Everything was simple but amazing.

Happy, happy Sunday. I hope the weather wherever you are today filled your soul the way this snow renewed mine.

Today Berna took (all) the kids to her house so I could run pick up more zines from the printer. On Monday, she returns to the salon after a month long standoff with her boss/brother-in-law. That means Osman (8) and Fatih (4) are back at my house full-time–only this time Berna will be able to pick them up at 6:30 instead of 8 or sometimes 9. Getting to this arrangement took the kind of guts and willpower that I usually only see in birthing suites, but Berna did it. All this week we’ve been standing in each other’s doorways hoping things will be better this time–that she will get the space and time she needs to be with her kids, that setting down the law a little will cultivate the kind of respect she needs to keep going at her job. I watch her life unfold and I want to take notes. There is a kind of scrappy courage inside of her that I don’t know for myself, at least not quite yet.

I come back from my errand and knock on her sliding glass door. Through the window I see Mami, her head covered, sitting on the edge of a chair the way she probably sat somewhere in her village in Turkey so many years ago. She motions for me to come in, and I do.

Sit, drink, she says in Turkish. But first we kiss. One cheek, then the other, then the first one more time. I suspect she could kiss me like this for an hour. You’re so cold! she says, rubbing circles around my shoulders and then my chest (!) which makes me laugh, but she doesn’t care. You’re cold all over. I have to warm you up!

Berna has heard tales about the way Mami and I understand each other, but she’s had few chances to experience it. She nods, impressed and starts to make coffee. “Turkish style,” she says, smiling. How else?

Mami lines up two chairs in the dining room. One for me, one for her. We sit side by side like school children, watching Berna make the coffee like she’s TV or something. This makes Berna laugh harder. “What are you two doing?? Go–” she says, motioning to the living room. “Sit down, get comfortable.”

We move to the living room and Berna brings us the coffee. Two tiny china cups filled with a syrupy coffee reminiscent of cafe cubano from my Miami days. This and a lovely little plate filled with orange peanut butter crackers–the kind you get out of a vending machine.

We sip hot, hot coffee, Mami and me, and Berna starts to talk. Mami is too fat, she says, she needs to leave the house. Her heart is not good. She needs to exercise. Mami looks at me and smiles with a shrug. I cannot imagine her one pound lighter, and the thought makes me so sad, even though Berna is right. Mami should walk. It would be good for her.

We watch Turkish TV in silence. Three adorable women scantily clad make traditional Turkish dishes. Mami shakes her head and says whatever the Turkish equivalent of “Hay Dios Mio!” is. Berna nods. “You know how she is,” she says, amused by Mami’s drama. “Conservative.”

We sit like that for a long time, sipping coffee, crunching those neon orange crackers. Mami loves me so much I can feel it. With Berna here, she can finally tell me so many things. How her father died when she was a teenager, how she and her sisters had to marry right away, how the only thing she knew about her husband before they married was the way he looked in one picture. She tells me she had 12 babies and how 5 died. That was sad, she says, but my husband was so nice. “Did you love him?” I ask, and this makes her laugh outloud and slap my knees. “Yes! Of course!” She whispers to Berna that her husband cooked even, but please don’t tell Jen that. Only it’s too late.

“Don’t worry, Mami.” I reassure her, “My husband cooks, too.”

I finish my coffee as best I can, and Berna takes my cup. She places the little saucer over the cup like a lid and carefully turns it over. “When it cools, ” she says. “I will look inside and tell you your future.”

Mami turns her cup over, too, and turns to me. “When mine cools,” she says, “You will tell me mine. Whether I stay here or go back to Turkey.” Then she laughs and her whole belly shakes, and I can’t help but laugh, too.

“I already know, Mami.” I tell her. “I don’t even have to look. You stay here with me after Berna goes back and you sit on my couch in my living room, and we drink coffee just like this. Everyday.” She smiles. “I will make the house so warm for you and you will be so happy. I promise.”

Berna looks at me, eyes brimming. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “You, my friend, are going back.” She nods and looks down at her hands.

“My mother needs me,” she says. And I know it is true. She is the only child of her family and her father has passed. She has found her way in this maze called America, but her heart is at home. She is living in this house with this old woman and her son, working harder than she could have imagined to make it all work. She is tired, I am sure, but she is also kind and brave. Even when her energy is spent.

We sit like that for a long time quiet until it is time for me to go. Mami kisses me again, and says the only phrase in Turkish I recognize for real–”Thank you. Thank you so much.” Berna and I hug, the way only sisters do.

“Bye honey,” she says, smiling. In her eyes, I can see the strength of her wide open heart, full of hope and longing and more perseverance than you or I can begin to imagine.

Yesterday I woke to a phone call from my sister asking me if I was going to come to Richmond for a lunch at the Friends Association.

“Absolutely,” I answered. “It’s tomorrow–right?”

“No, Jen. It’s today.” Oh shit. Someday I really must write these things down.

I threw on clothes, splashed water on my face, sent a couple emails and made instant arrangements for (all) my children and hopped in the car. Two hours alone in the car! What bliss! With every mile I felt my soul recharge a little bit. I didn’t even listen to the radio, the sound of silence was so completely soothing.

I arrived at Patience’s house just in time to jump in her car and make our way across town to the luncheon. I really had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that Patience had been riveted by the stories about Friends told by her friend Jenna, and Jenna’s friend Julie. It’s my favorite way to hear good news–whisper down the lane–and then Julie kept sending great people my way, even though we had never met–another good sign that we might be kindred spirits. So when she invited us to the lunch, I instinctively wanted to go–even though usually I get all cynical and nervous when it comes to presentations about nonprofits.

I wish I had a video to just show you what that lunch was like for me. I’ve had this experience before–it kind of goes like this.

Jen has total radar on for any sign of Fake, Phony or the Contrived. One person (usually someone who is ancient, non-English speaking, poor or all of the above) speaks authentically from the heart. Jen stops listening and gets this wobbly feeling inside as she enters The Zone since radar is no longer needed. Person mentions something along the lines of Dream, Hope or Possibility. Jen tries to decide if she should just start heaving sobbing or bite her lip and try to decide if the organization made a good decision on choice of carpet. Jen mentally plans how she will sell all her worldly possessions so this person can have All Their Dreams Come True in the spirit of rich white housewives everywhere.

As soon as lunch was over, I dashed across the room to talk to John Purnell–the Executive Director of Friends. He is an elegant gentleman with looks that remind you of a chilled out Bill Cosby. I wanted to know what his dream for this organization was. Why doesn’t Oprah know about this?! Why aren’t you on the cover of magazines? Why is this little organization the best kept secret in Richmond? And why in heaven’s name, was there no ask at this lunch? You had me at hello.

He smiled at me the way people do whose souls are deeply intact–with kindness and patience. I took his hesitation to mean he probably needed me to pepper him with MORE questions and then he laughed–”Give me a second to answer that!” Then he took a deep breath and started to talk about what success means to him, and I realized that more money, more programs, fame or recognition really wasn’t the most pressing thing on his mind. He didn’t need to be on Oprah, he just needed to know that the children and families who live in the most hellish neighborhoods in Richmond will continue to have a chance to become productive, happy citizens. He needed to know that the people who give their lives away to help those families wouldn’t always be underpaid and overworked to fulfill their dream of transforming communities. He needed to know that the children in those programs would continue to have a chance at achieving their dreams when they were beyond his organization’s scope of influence and care. He needed to know that individual people like me will support Friends after he moves on.

Talking to that man, I could feel years of commitment, years of kindness and a certain heaviness familiar only to those passing the mantle to a new generation of leaders. There’s something about that transition that stirs up something deep for me. At that moment, the weight of your life’s work hangs in the balance. Time compresses, and you hold in your mind’s eye all the fragments of your best effort, trusting that this will be enough, that it will carry on without you, and that the undone work is best finished now by your successors.

Or so I imagine.

I have more stories to tell about Friends, the amazing Julie and that Lucy who inspires her so. But for today, the story that grips my heart is that of John Purnell–protector, advocate and friend of the thirty-six years of little children who have flourished under his kindness and care. May every hope you have for Friends come to fruition, Mr. Purnell. And may you know deep in your heart that the seeds you’ve planted can only continue to grow and flourish.

The house is completely and totally quiet after days of little children sliding face first down the stairs, collapsing at the bottom in hysterical bliss. Outside one solitary mockingbird sings a song tempting me to hope that all this ice and snow will melt away, forming tiny rivers along my street. Little rivers that remind the dull gray sky that sun will be needed for crocuses and forget-me-nots waiting to be reborn.

Inside I let my heart fill up on the near silence. How my soul has been craving this quiet! How near madness I have come with so many kids in the house for so many days on end!

This morning I remember the beauty of only two children (not four! not six! not seven!)–both mine–shining faces reflecting back my own roaming joy and wonder. We sit at the table, recalling last night’s dreams, while Dave whips up a yummy breakfast. I listen to their voices rising and falling in happy cadence, their delight a sweet salve to my soul. Madeleine is making Carter laugh which is just one mark of her genius–knowing what silly thing to say to rescue him from the crabbiness he wakes with most mornings. Her success has made her bold! She eyes Dave who has joined us with more bacon and hot pancakes. With sweet confidence in her eyes, the questioning begins.

the Inquisitor or Madeleine the Bold

Madeleine: Dad. Do you believe in fairies?
Dave (with the conviction only the rational, science-y, secularist parent can garner): No, I do not believe in fairies.
Madeleine (with grade school playground cootie voice): Oooooohhhh! (pointing) I can’t believe you just killed a fairy!
Dave (amused but ever logical): Did I kill it by saying I don’t believe in fairies or by thinking I don’t believe in fairies, because I’m always thinking I don’t believe in fairies.
Madeleine: There you did it again! You just killed two more! (pause, smiling, self-assured) I believe in fairies!
Carter: Me, too!
Madeleine (proud, welcoming): Now two more fairies have been born.

Dave cheerfully interjects a witty argument that I couldn’t possibly recall or recount about would happen logically if the (purported non-existent) fairy population were determined by infinite belief or unbelief in fairies. Of course, this ends in total fairy annihilation. In the name of tolerance, I cheerfully point out how one doubter now must suffer an inquisition at the hands of fairy-lovers at this very table when he was just trying to offer an opposing point of view.

Madeleine (unphased by logic or compassion at this point): I canNOT believe you have already killed at least SEVEN fairies in this conversation! SEVEN!

She smiles like the Fairy Godmother of Fun while Carter pushes one giant syrup-laden pancake around his plate.

Me: Carter, do you need someone to cut up your pancake? Because I am the Pancake Cutting Fairy. You don’t even have to say a word and I just know you need help cutting your pancakes, and then I come along and do it.

Carter nods, beaming.

Madeleine and Dave go back and forth in good humor until it’s time to dash off to find socks and shoes. We pack up everything for the Valentine’s Day that never ends, since this is the first day the kids have been to school since the 13th. I call to Dave upstairs, “I hope the Presentation Fairies help you with your big meeting today!” and run out the door with both kids in tow.

Carter looks like a wild man with his crazy hair and ice cold cheeks. We walk the magical Madeleine up the hill to school and then walk back to our yard where the same child who told me I was gorgeous at bedtime last night asks to take off his gloves so he can make a snowball. Yes, of course, you can do anything you want. I run in the house for one last thing, leaving the door open behind me (so it isn’t always the kids doing that! Huh!) and return to find Dave (still here!) laughing outloud this time, delighted with his boy in the snow.

“Carter’s using Pascal’s Wager on me about fairies!” Dave looks handsome in his work clothes, blue eyes shining, apparently flourishing without the help of fairies, faith or magic. Doing so, he embodies all mystery in this house where clearly fairies are essential for life and godliness. How then should we live without them??

Carter (with kindness): I said, I think Dad should say he believes in fairies. Just in case.

I agree. And then the Fairy-Who-Helps-Push-Your-Car-Out-of-the-Snow kissed me on the cheek with a twinkle in his eye before sending us on our way.

a delightful snowday purchase from millymollymandy on etsy

We just had our third snow day, people. The first day was blissful, but yesterday when my house was filled with the children of burnt out mothers everywhere? Not so much. I coped by remaining in my pajamas, eating chocolate and finishing the last half of this book. Add Elizabeth Gilbert to my list of people to meet before I die. I was only interrupted twenty-seven times to water, feed and separate the natives when they were getting too reckless. Not too bad!

It might have to do with losing work time or being stuck in the SRG, but these days I’ve been too listless to do one creative thing. Too many days of this in a row and it occurs to me that the only solution might be to move to New York City and start waiting tables. Watching RENT on repeat late at night probably does a little here and there to feed this fantasy. What do you think?

I woke up this morning stuck (again) on one of my favorite topics–getting unstuck–and was reminded of how integral self-care and tidying up are to freeing up the creative mind. A walk in the wintery wonderland is in order along with taking care of some simple things–doing dishes, sending off zines, paying bills, sweeping away the crumb extravaganza from the living room floor.

That’s all I’ve got so far this Saturday morning, but maybe you’ve got more. What helps you get back in the flow when you’re feeling stuck and uninspired?

Not really. But tonight my sister (not the one who had the baby, not the Holly Golightly sister of youth and beauty, but the other sister) is having a Valentine’s Day feast full of foods her family loves. Jorgie said it’s Valentine’s Day–right? Why not? At last phone report, they were having Goya ham croquetas, pizza, corn on the cob and other kid/family faves that make nutritionists weep. I love the whole idea immensely.

Growing up, my mother prepared for Valentine’s Day under the philosophy more is more. More candy, more chocolate, more yummy red foods, more creativity in the menu than you can imagine–heart shaped meatloaf, pink macaroni, rosy-red jello salad in heart shaped molds. I only realized that Valentine’s Day was some occasion for romance after I got married and took my new husband home to my mother’s house for our annual Valentine’s Day celebration. “Honey, are you sure you don’t want to do something just the two of you?” my mother said gently. After years of family Valentine’s Day extravaganza, the thought never crossed my mind that Valentine’s Day was for lovers.

Over the years, I’ve been glad for this–there are endless holidays that I torture Dave over, analyzing the meaaaning of our relationship, weighing the quality of our attachment–but Valentine’s Day is not one of them. Deep down–Hallmark be damned–I believe this is the day to be with the people you love, drawing attention to the fact that we are all lovers deep down–capable of connection, of celebration and great longing. Even a sad Valentine’s Day is proof that we were meant to see and be seen. Why else would our hearts ache so?

In the spirit of my sister and the ham croquetas, here’s my list of things I love this Valentine’s Day:

the sound of ridiculous, happy laughter coming from upstairs
the way these pink and red gerbera daisies sit on my dining room table waiting to be worshipped
my bravo pens
the way Fatih (4) asks my opinion about his outfit before going to the school program
fresh blueberries in winter
the sound of my tiny tea kettle whistling in the kitchen
brown paper packages tied up with string (or more realistically, priority mail on my front doorstep)
seeing Aja eat raspberries for the first time
Broadway musical soundtracks
love stories
brave, risky wild art
simple line drawings
the sound of someone picking out a song on the piano
finding my children asleep snuggled in the same bed
icicles
my husband in jeans and layered t-shirt and button-up shirt
deep chocolately browns
Jackie’s
Fatou sitting at my kitchen table, painting
any phone call from any one of my three sisters
cozy chenille blankets
eating dinner every night with neighbors
making up communes without all the silly rules
the wisdom and good sense of Lourdes
bowls full of buttercups
Meryl’s tea and Mark’s smile
Carter’s resilience and Madeleine’s compassion
hand-addressed envelopes

Happy heart day (now one day too late!) Here’s hoping all the things you love are fresh in your mind this Thursday. I think I’ll send this link here, one more thing I love.

I am sitting in my living room, watching snow fall, freezing temperatures rendering my street a sheet of ice. Zinni, the black lab I temporarily inherited in the birth, sits by my feet, ever so hopeful that someone will say “outside” “ball” or “play.” Coming to my house where no one quite comprehends the dog/master power dynamics must feel like winning a trip to Vegas. I routinely find this huge animal lounging on my beige-ish couch or tucked nicely under 400 thread count sheets and down comforter. He follows my children around like they are go-go dancers, and indeed they are. Who can tell when there will be a casting call for “big black lab” for their next show or musical? Madeleine applies a nice coat of glitter nailpolish to Zinni’s long “toes” just in case. My sister is breathless when I tell her these things, but I hardly can blame the dog when he has such proficient accomplices. Some things are unavoidable under certain circumstances.

Like excessive cooking before a snow storm. Or purchasing too much beer and wine just in case we’re snowed in and have to drink for warmth. We take turns calling each other, sending instant messages, comparing quantities, recipes and other requirements for snow survival. I wonder if I should brave the weather one last time to buy freshly made marshmallows at Whole Foods. This is the exact moment you know you have lost your mind.

I watch the neighbors across the street for signs of responsible things I should be doing. Hmmm…. Bob is clearing his car now, before the storm hits full swing. Someone else is putting down salt. I watch these behaviors and try to mimic them, having no internal gauge for such things. All I can think is we need more candles for atmosphere if the power goes out and that I should have bought more butter. With butter we could make chocolate chip cookies–a worthy source of sustenance should we be snowed in. With butter we could sautee up the entire contents of our crisper drawer and be as happy as kings.

Next door, Jess succumbs to the weather blog addiction Nick’s been nursing and informs me the magic number is 28. Colder than 28 degrees and the salt isn’t worth a damn. We’ll have to stay home for the duration–cooking, lounging, chasing dogs out of people beds, watching kids’ made-up musicals, drinking, making art, playing cards.

One can only hope.

photo by kris

Baby Nathan, 8 lbs. 8 oz. 21 inches long. My sister now joins the ranks of those women who can claim giving birth as a personal superpower. Total time in active labor–less than 2 hours. Her intuition and deep breathing worked like magic–the entrepreneur in me kept wishing for a video camera so we could market her birth video as a textbook illustration of hypnobirthing in motion.

When I told my sister people were going to hate her now for having such a short labor, she said, “That’s okay. After the last one, I’ll take a turn.” Having had my own issues of trauma at that birth in particular, I couldn’t agree more.

Congratulations, K! I love your guts, sense of humor, and deep confidence that you know what you know. I only wish you’d gone first in the baby department, so I would have known it was possible to be that strong. Sweet blessings on these first few days–you are finding your way with honesty and grace, I know it.