What to Pack: A Capsule Jewelry Wardrobe (an article for Get Your Pretty On)

A few weeks ago Get Your Pretty On contacted me about writing an article on the idea of a capsule jewelry wardrobe. You can read the article below, or go here to see it on the GYPO site.*

In Italy there is a saying, e` dolce far niente, which translated loosely means how sweet it is to do nothing. The saying has absolutely nothing to do with idleness; rather, it’s about pausing to live life to the fullest and appreciating the moment you are in, without conscious thought of yesterday or tomorrow.

It’s also about simplicity, an ongoing theme in my life. Whether it’s cooking a meal for my family which includes simple, yet wholesome ingredients, purging my closet of too much or packing only a carry-on for a recent trip to Italy, it’s all about simplifying and not allowing stuff to get in the way.

Sorrento, on the Amalfi Coast, Italy

This is why I love the ongoing trend of the capsule wardrobe as it celebrates the concept that less is more. I plan a capsule wardrobe when transitioning to a new season, and I pack a capsule wardrobe in my ongoing goal to only use a carry-on when traveling. But just when I thought I had this capsule wardrobe thing down, it took a trip to Italy last year to help me realize I needed to apply the same concept of the capsule wardrobe to my jewelry.

You see, the night before we left for our 10-day trip to southern Italy, I realized I had packed a ridiculous amount of jewelry. Because I knew I would be mixing and matching outfits, I was bringing different pieces of jewelry for each separate outfit. That was a LOT of jewelry which was not only bulky, but also heavy. So it got me thinking: Why pack a fancy jewelry organizer with too much when a small pouch of just enough would do?

In other words, if I could mix and match my outfits, why couldn’t I do the same with my jewelry?

I could, and I did. Now, for every trip I take I use my 2x2x2 formula when packing. Starting with a watch (my jewelry of choice) and after considering the type of trip (sight-seeing in NYC or hiking at Lake Tahoe) I pack the following:

Two watches, two bracelets, two rings.

The 2x2x2 formula: two watches, two bracelets, two rings

I know you’re thinking, “Whaaaat? That’s it?” But consider this: just like a capsule wardrobe, capsule jewelry can give you plenty of options. For example, one day you can wear only the watch, the next you can wear the watch with the bracelet, or that evening you can wear all three together.

You can also bring two watches that coordinate with each other such as an all gold one and one with a brown strap. This way, their coordinating rings and bracelets can be mixed and matched; in other words, you can use the bracelet and ring (or both) which you brought for Watch #1 and pair them with Watch #2.

Now are you starting to see the possibilities?

It’s very liberating to travel with just what you need, whether it’s with clothing or jewelry.

Sightseeing

Of course, the 2x2x2 formula can be customized to your personal style. For example, I choose not to include a necklace since I prefer to wear scarves, and I don’t bring earrings because I don’t like to wear earrings and sunglasses together, but you could choose to incorporate both in your formula.

But wait, here’s the absolute (hand’s down) best thing about using the formula: you can always supplement by purchasing jewelry as a souvenir! Oh, yes. And since you didn’t bring too much jewelry to begin with, you won’t feel guilty for buying that artisan cameo ring you found at a Naples market, or the watch from the island of Capri, or the leather wrap bracelet engraved with the “Our Father” in Italian which you found in Rome.

Two of my favorite jewelry souvenirs: my watch from Capri,
and from Rome my leather wrap bracelet engraved with the Our Father in Italian.

Ultimately, in the hurricane of our busy lives, e` dolce far niente is about finding the eye of the storm and letting the world go on without us. It’s about lingering over a morning cappuccino, driving in the country and going wherever the road leads, and yes, even wearing a black maxi and accessorizing with a simple, elegant watch.

La dolce vita – the sweet life, the SIMPLE life is ours for the taking. You have to be willing to let go, but in the end you will discover that you have more than you’ll ever need.

Maria Novajosky is a wife to an engineering husband, a mother to three sons, a freelance writer, and a lover of all things Italian. Her life is a blend of frothy cappuccinos, Italian Renaissance art, light sabers, Sunday dinners with i Nonni, and every Christmas 700 homemade tortellini. The summer of 2014 she stood in front of a Caravaggio painting and decided to sponsor and organize a Girls’ Trip to Italy, and exactly one year later 23 women traveled with her to Rome and the Amalfi Coast. You can visit her blog here. She recently published her first book: An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses. 

*originally published 2016

The Women of Augusta Can Arrange it All

The Women of Augusta Can Arrange it All
by Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist


*published in the Columbia County News-Times/Augusta Chronicle
Sunday, March 15, 2015

Are you looking for someone to clean up the local government? Purge Washington politics? Organize our new health care system?

Well, just hire any woman from Augusta who, in preparing her home to rent during Masters Week, has turned spring cleaning into an art form. But let’s clarify: there’s spring cleaning, which is the obligatory airing out of any vestiges of winter, and then there’s Masters Spring Cleaning which is a complete overhaul of everything from attic to basement, and front porch to back patio.

This is the time of year when the words I can’t, I’m cleaning for Masters are the perfectly understandable excuse for bowing out of any social obligation, and in the weeks leading up to The Great Exodus the aisles of Bed, Bath & Beyond are a meeting place for friends and neighbors who are likewise pushing shopping carts piled high with pillows, sheets, and bathroom rugs.

In January we make lists, February we gather supplies, and by March we get down to the nitty-gritty. We purge closets, drawers, and cabinets; we sort clothes and toys; and we wipe and dust baseboards, ceiling fans, walls, stair risers, and door frames.

We attack dust bunnies with a vengeance and wage a war against yellow pollen. We turn Swiffer into an action verb, wash the washing machine, vacuum the curtains, and are on a first name basis with Mr. Clean and his Magic Erasers. And just to make sure husbands and children don’t un-do what we have just done, we lock doors as we go so that by the last night the kids are camped out in the rec room and everyone is sharing one bathroom.

Even childbirth can’t stop us.

One January I informed the Texas group who always rents our home that, because our third son was due just before Masters Week, we would have to opt out that year. Our son was just seven days old when a representative from the group called and begged us to reconsider.

His soft-spoken southern accent lulled me into a semi-hypnotic state reminding me of what I am capable. I forgot about my sleep deprivation, my infant who was nursing around the clock, the baby paraphernalia scattered everywhere, a husband who was out of town on business, and the fact that I would have only one week to prepare.

I can do this! I thought. And I did.

Super Women. That’s what we are.

Sometimes an exasperated husband or a smart aleck teen will ask if all this work really matters; that if we honestly believed that anyone who comes to Augusta to attend the golf tournament will judge us if there is dust on the baseboards or if the flatware drawer is in shambles.

Well, of course we do. What a silly question.

There is something about having people come stay in our home which brings out the southern hospitality in all of us. Just because we don’t see our guests doesn’t mean we don’t treat them as guests. After all, they are staying in our home and we want them – the strangers from Texas, Michigan, and even Japan – to think well of us!

To feel welcomed!

So we put flowers on nightstands and amenity baskets in the bathrooms.

We direct husbands to pressure wash driveways and children to spread pine straw.

We place neatly stacked towels in the linen closet and a luggage rack in each bedroom. Then we hang a spring wreath on the front door and put out a new welcome mat.

Arrange, categorize, purge, orchestrate, manage, conduct, administrate, and mobilize. The women of Augusta do all this and more.

Anything else is a walk in the park.

Maria Novajosky is a freelance writer and works for Catholic Stewardship Consultants. She can be reached at novajo@bellsouth.net.

            

The Story Behind a Book

Once upon a time, my high school Spanish club held a fund raiser which required each member to sell boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. This was so out of my comfort zone. We had only recently moved to Georgia and I was struggling – to fit in, to be less shy, to be happy when I just wanted my old life back in Italy. So the thought of going door-to-door selling doughnuts to strangers filled me with anxiety. In the end, I sold two boxes to an elderly couple who lived behind us and a few boxes to our neighbors across the street. I used my babysitting money to buy the rest. 

Why am I telling you this story?

This week I formally announced that my book, An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Fullof Kisses, was officially released and available for purchase. Truthfully, I could have made the announcement a week earlier, but I delayed because I wanted to do it in a way that didn’t make me feel as if I were selling those boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

And yet, if there is one thing I learned from writing this book is that I’m not that same person anymore. During those first years when I was trying to figure it all out, it was the written word—in all its forms—which gave me comfort. I read voraciously (my first job as a teenager was working in a library), I kept a journal, and I wrote stories. But mostly, it was the weekly letters from Nonna, my Italian grandmother, that gave me what I needed to keep trying. Nonna’s words (and her love) grounded me in ways nothing else could.

Eventually, I did find my way. Things became good, then better, and then even great.

It wasn’t until many years later when my mother and I were going through Nonna’s letters—years and years of letters—that I realized the true power of the written word. Just seeing Nonna’s handwriting helped me remember her hands, large and strong and thick-veined. Just reading her letters made me remember her passion, her laughter, and even what her voice sounded like. Her written words evoked memories, feelings, and more than a little nostalgia, and I recognized how so much of what she wrote and who she was could be woven into the fabric of my life—of who I was, am, and always will be.

The very next day I began writing An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two CountriesFull of Kisses.

So last week, while contemplating how to announce my book in a way that was meaningful, the image of the Spanish Club fundraiser and those pesky boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts popped into my mind. But you know what? The memory made me smile. I am not selling doughnuts anymore; in fact, I am so beyond those doughnuts.

I’m telling a story.

Because that’s who I am.

It’s that simple.

To purchase 

An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses 

visit any of the links below. 

(Incidentally, books last longer than doughnuts;-)

Amazon

https://www.marianovajosky.com/

(click on the "to purchase" button in the upper right hand corner)

Barnes & Noble

Life Lately: Italy news, book news, what boys eat, airport birthday, grocery lists

Where, oh where have I been? That's a really good question. It's one I've been asking myself and one for which I do not have an answer.

I've been here, just not here ... on the blog.

But allow me catch you up with what's been happening lately ...

~1~ Italy News

I haven't shared any news lately about the 2019 Girls' Trip to Italy, but that's only because we are full. We have 32 booked on the tour, we are working on plane tickets, and the trip is quickly becoming a reality. We have travelers from Georgia, South Carolina, New York City, Chicago, Arizona, and Florida.

2019 Girls' Trip to Italy

~2~ Book News

I did a book talk at the Italian-American Club last month, and yesterday I found out that the Morris Museum of Art will sell my book in the museum gift shop. Also ... book reviews are the best and last week I received the nicest note. (The note is in Italian, but I promise you ... it is unbelievably nice.)

An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses

~3~ Where does he put all that food?

Our little guy is on the high school JV soccer team and he eats ALL. THE. TIME. Yesterday I picked him up from practice and here is a list of everything he ate from the time he walked in the door at 4:45 p.m. until bedtime:

one huge bowl of leftover pasta
one pack of peanut butter crackers
yogurt
two grilled chicken breasts
two helpings of couscous
one helping of corn
two popsicles
one pack of peanut butter crackers

And here's a question: can I still call him our little guy even though he's a freshman in high school AND is taller than me?

~4~ Weekend Travel

On Friday I'm flying to Little Rock, Arkansas to spend a few days with Nicholas. I fly back Tuesday, which just happens to be my birthday. But it got me wondering: if I mention to the nice Delta gate agents that it's my birthday will they upgrade me to first class?

~5~ Grocery Lists

Who knew grocery lists could be elevated to works of art? I clearly need to work on this. Taking notes from Leonardo da Vinci ...

An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses

Through her heritage Maria found a bridge between la dolce vita and life in Georgia.

I’m very excited to announce that my book, An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses, is now available for purchase (links below). I am emotional just typing those words. Taking excerpts from letters my Italian Nonna wrote through the years, the book explores how the hyphen between the words Italian and American became a bridge connecting espresso and peach cobbler, red wine and pit barbecue, the Amalfi Coast and Hilton Head Island, and La Dolce Vita with life in the Deep South.

To Order:

Amazon

marianovajosky.com

Barnes & Noble

Lulu publishers

"This book is a complete joy for anyone with even a remote connection to an Italian heritage! It captures the heart of a "Nonna," an Italian grandmother, and how her love for family transcends distance and time. Narrated by a beloved granddaughter, the chapters revolve around excerpts from letters written by Nonna to her family in America. I laughed and cried throughout the read and was left with a renewed pride in my Italian heritage."

~Amazon Review

Truly, a lovely read. Captivating novel about the profound love shared between a family across an ocean. How intentional, encouraging, and selfless love shown by a beloved Nonna. The immense impact of tradition, integrating into a new environment, and how it all encompasses the steadfast love a Nonna has for her loved ones near and far. The author emulates this prophetic love in her novel.

~Amazon Review

It's All About Giving Thanks

 

It's All About Giving Thanks
by Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist


*published in the Columbia County News-Times, November 23, 2015

(delivered with Sunday's Augusta Chronicle)

            It doesn’t take much more than a holiday and a meal for our Italian-American family to gather in celebration, and Thanksgiving is no exception. People often ask if our Thanksgiving meal in any way reflects our Italian background, and while the immediate answer is yes (for with an Italian mother anything involving food reflects our Italian heritage), the answer is also no because Thanksgiving is the one holiday my mother uses to celebrate all things American, an opportunity to pay homage to a land which welcomed her with open arms.

            My mother came to this country as a young bride on the arm of my father, a soldier in the U.S. military; she was only 20 years old and determined to embrace this new life. She took language classes, became fluent in English, learned to drive, and volunteered for the American Red Cross. When my parents lived in Washington D.C. during the racial unrest of the sixties, my mother studied American history to understand what was happening.

            When she was 32 years old she stood before a judge in Savannah, GA and was sworn in as an American citizen. She had her picture taken under the American flag, and her nationality would henceforth be hyphenated, a bridge between the words Italian and American, between the country she was from and the country in which she now lived.

            Those two words also meant my sister, brother, and I got the best of both worlds. We spoke Italian with our Nonna and English at home; we ate gelato in Venice and an ice cream cone in Disney World; we explored the hills of Tuscany and the streets of Manhattan; and while holidays in our family were a beautiful blend of both cultures, there were some things quintessentially American that my mother embraced – and the traditional Thanksgiving meal was one of them.

            She had a lot to learn, however, and it took years of trial and effort to get it right. In one of her earliest letters to her mother, she described this strange, white cooking stuff that came in a blue can (Crisco shortening); she had never eaten turkey, much less cooked one; she had never heard of sweet potatoes (why, in America even the potatoes are sweet!); and she definitely didn’t know what to think about cranberry sauce or Jell-O (all that jiggling red stuff didn't look like food at all).

            It took years of trial and effort, of studying Betty Crocker and cutting out recipes from Good Housekeeping, but today my mother has perfected the art of the Thanksgiving meal. The moist turkey, the perfect balance of brown sugar and marshmallows in the sweet potato casserole and, yes, the dish of jiggling cranberry sauce are all displayed with a sense of pride on how far she has come. Two ceramic pilgrims decorate the dining room table, and in the afternoon everyone heads outside for a family game of backyard football or softball.

            Of course, there are small concessions to our Italian heritage: we sip espressos with our pumpkin pie and have a small glass of limoncello as an after dinner digestivo. But it is an American meal celebrating an American holiday, and with a rousing Buon Appetito! three generations of our family gather at Thanksgiving to honor the American half of our Italian-American heritage.

Speak to Me Sunday: A Quote

"So week after week, and year after year, she folded love into sheets of paper, stuffed hugs and kisses into an envelope, and with prayers and an airmail stamp sent everything from Verona, Italy all the way to America."

~Maria Novajosky, 2018

An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses

A Website by Any Other Name

So ... I have a little announcement.

When I started this blog over 10 years ago it took me a while to come up with the perfect title. I needed something that reflected my Italian heritage and my American heritage, and I needed it to show I was a mother to three boys. So, I covered all the bases with La Dolce Vita (written in Italian), the Sweet Life (written in English), and with Three Sons (denoting motherhood); furthermore, I felt having a title written in both languages mirrored the words Italian-American. At the time, little did I realize what a LONG title it was. I mean, La Dolce Vita the Sweet Life with Three Sons is a mouthful AND it takes forever to type.

But I love my blog, despite too many words in the title. This is where I hang out. This is me. This is where I invite you in for a cappuccino and tell you all that is funny, stupid, introspective, sad, crazy, creative, and whimsical that is my life.

HOWEVER, now that I have a book coming out I needed something more professional, with a shorter title, and linked to me by my name. So, without further ado ... introducing my NEW WEBSITE.

www.marianovajosky.com

It's shorter, yes, but not necessarily easier to write. Oh well. (On a side note, isn't it amazing that I didn't have ANY PROBLEM acquiring a Maria Novajosky domain? Huh. Go figure.)

Nothing will change. When you want that cappuccino, visit me here at La Dolce Vita.  If you want more information (bio, published articles, contact info, and book news) hop over to my website.

www.marianovajosky.com

Who am I (two years later)

Two years ago we experienced a presidential primary the likes of which we will always remember. On one side there were two qualified candidates who you either liked, or didn't. On the other side there were a dozen qualified candidates who you either liked, or didn't, but also one candidate who created division everywhere. At the time, I wrote an op-ed for the Augusta Chronicle on the one candidate thinking that, with all the other worthy candidates, how could he possibly win the primary? But he did. And then the presidency. The piece wasn't about Republican or Democrat, but about choosing a worthy candidate. That's all. Someone to look up to. Is that too much to ask?


Who am I? (One key question can help us recognize our role in the political arena)

By: Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist
*published in The Augusta Chronicle (Sunday, March 6, 2016)


In the world of politics, who am I?

I vote, but I don’t campaign; I have opinions, but I don’t force them on anyone; I listen to talk radio while driving, but I don’t use bumper stickers to promote a candidate; I watch political debates, but I don’t enter into one.

In the world of politics, I am not particularly well-versed, or savvy, or even influential because, after all, in the vast political arena I am but a grain of sand.

So who, then, am I?

I am an ordinary person whose vocation in life is to be a wife to a wonderful husband and a mother to three sons, two in college and one in middle school. I work both at home and from home – doing all the things that moms everywhere do while also working as a freelance writer. My world is uncomplicated. You might even call it simple.

And yet, it is from my world of carpools, basketball practices, spelling words, college applications, school uniforms and writing deadlines that I can look at someone like Donald Trump, listen to his speeches and watch his debates and, from my simple, uncomplicated world, see him for what he is.

I look at Trump, and I recognize the playground bully who pushes, ridicules, belittles, and thinks that he is smarter, faster, and better looking than anyone else; who, like a child, pokes fun at people’s appearances – their big ears, or propensity for sweating, or way of talking; who resorts to pettiness by name calling and labeling and hurling clever insults which incite others to be just like him; and who, with a bully’s ruthlessness, will do anything – threaten, sweet talk, fight – to make sure his reign on the playground is unchallenged.

I watch Trump and see a spoiled child who pitches a fit when he doesn’t get his way; who says I want and, incredibly, people rush to do his bidding; who, when caught with his hand in the cookie jar, blames everyone and everything else; and who never, ever says I’m sorry which, in my simple world, shows lack of conscience because if you believe you are always right and can do no wrong, then  apologies are not only weak, but unnecessary, and  . . . well, do you see how dangerous this can be?

I hear the things he says about women, how he justifies his rudeness, trash talk, and total lack of respect by saying that, man or woman, it doesn’t matter. He'll go after anyone. But in my world, men don’t talk to women like that and get away with it because every woman is someone's mother, sister, grandmother or auntie and no man in his right mind wants anyone to speak to his mother, sister, grandmother or auntie like that. In my world, how a man treats a woman is the litmus test of his character.

I listen to him planning to build a wall to keep out immigrants and close borders to keep out Muslims and I go back to history and read of those who thought similarly and who, after wars and unspeakable atrocities, are today vilified for their actions.

I see how this non-politician is perhaps the most political one of all. He takes people’s frustrations and anger and –very cleverly, I’ll give him that – uses them as mortar to build a platform on which to stand. He gives people what they want and says what they want to hear, and so they come to civic centers, auditoriums, and school gyms where he is speaking to be swept up in a wave that says it’s okay to think, say, and believe as he does no matter how outrageous or offensive; he panders to ideas which, under normal circumstances, you would never tolerate because conscience, morality and all that is decent and good would have prevented you from going there in the first place.

And in Trump I recognize someone who sees life as one big business deal in which the bottom line for everything is money. Every move is a negotiation; every handshake is a financial transaction. People are numbers on spread sheets, and success is measured in dollar bills. He is a businessman to the core, and for the life of me I can’t imagine how he can serve as our president and not make decisions that wouldn’t somehow line his own pockets.

Alas, no candidate is perfect. They all have flaws because they are all human. But from the ordinariness of my life, I recognize in Trump a man in whom I don’t want my sons to emulate simply because we have raised them to be better than he is. And in an election year, in which two of our sons will be voting for the first time, they call us with their political insights and text their political commentaries and we have wonderful, mature discussions which reassure me they will never place their loyalty at the feet of someone who would just as soon step on them. They get it.

In the end, where do I fit into the grand scheme of things? Because in the political arena of candidates, pundits and pollsters, in this time of speeches, rallies, caucuses and primaries, on the political map of which I am but a speck, who am I, really?

Well, if this election has taught me anything, who I am is more important now than ever. I am a wife, a mother, a writer. I drive for field trips, bandage skinned knees, and prepare dinner for my family. But I am so much more.

Who I am is a voice.

And from the extraordinary ordinariness of my life, I choose not to be silent.

Letting go never easy on the parents

Since so many of you are experiencing the college drop-off day for the first time,
here is an article from last year.


Letting go never easy on the parents
by: Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist

*published in today's Columbia County News-Times (Wednesday, August 12, 2015)

           Two years ago my husband and I experienced our first college move-in day when our eldest son began his freshman year at Clemson University.

            The date was circled on our calendar for months, and as we added to the ever-growing college stockpile in our dining room, in truth we never thought past that date. Everything we did was leading up to it – purchasing the bed lines, dorm supplies, and textbooks – but we couldn’t envision anything beyond. Sure, we talked about him going away to college in the fall, but all the preparation seemed more like we were planning a trip.

            The night before the official move-in day, we sat down for a special farewell dinner – the last home cooked meal for our son before he had to live off the university meal plan. We watched home videos, laughed, gave advice; we knew he would be leaving tomorrow, but we couldn’t imagine that our family of five would soon be a family of four. I mean, how could we? It was all we had ever known.

            Driving to Clemson that morning we were quiet, and with each passing mile I realized we were driving away from everything we knew and heading into unchartered territory. Our son may have been a freshman, but in many ways my husband and I were, too. When we arrived we were caught up in a whirlwind of orange: the giant paw prints announcing that This Was Tiger Country, the banners, signs and flags welcoming us to campus, and the eight upperclassmen wearing t-shirts the color of construction cones descending on our van to help us carry everything to our son’s room.

            For the next several hours as we helped him unpack, clean, and make his bed, as we met other parents and visited the dining hall, and as we poked around the dorm it was almost fun. Exciting, even.  But there came the moment – somehow we all sensed it at the same time – that the circled date on our calendar was NOW. As we walked out of his room I placed a package on his bed for him to open later – a box filled with notes from his brothers, funny drawings, reminders from Dad, and a stack of blog posts I had written on our family that I printed out and stapled together. Inside was also a bag of dum-dum lollipops because there was something funny about giving a college student something that was dumb.

            When our son walked us to the parking lot there was a moment of awkward silence. How do you take 18 years and reduce them to a single goodbye hug? I looked up at my son and reality crashed down in the form of tears and a lump in my throat that prevented me from saying goodbye, or I love you. I couldn't even say the words.

            And I’ll never, ever forget driving away and feeling as if I left a part of me behind.

            Today, I can still remember that day like it was yesterday. But with the gift of hindsight I can also see how the pain of letting go is much like ripping off a band aid – there is a moment of searing pain, but it passes and then there is room for healing and growth and newness.  These two years we have watched our son turn into a mature engineering student who has already completed two engineering internships and who is headed for a career he truly loves. So I can see how letting go was not only necessary, but good. And yet . . .

            And yet this year we have another date circled on our calendar as next week our middle son starts college. Again, there is a dorm stockpile in the dining room with piles of towels, books, and cleaning supplies stacked between a dorm refrigerator, a nightstand, and a giant, foam mattress pad. The more we add to the piles, the closer the date looms.  

            Will it be easier this time around?

            We may have been through this once before, but no, letting go is never easy. Our family of five down to four and then three; one son at college here, the other son over there, and our home somewhere in the middle. The good news is we still have our third son who, since he is only in the sixth grade, will be with us a while longer.

            Thankfully we don’t have to let him go just yet.

Who am I? (One key question can help us recognize our role in the political arena)

By: Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist
*published in The Augusta Chronicle (Sunday, March 6, 2016)


In the world of politics, who am I?

I vote, but I don’t campaign; I have opinions, but I don’t force them on anyone; I listen to talk radio while driving, but I don’t use bumper stickers to promote a candidate; I watch political debates, but I don’t enter into one.

In the world of politics, I am not particularly well-versed, or savvy, or even influential because, after all, in the vast political arena I am but a grain of sand.

So who, then, am I?

I am an ordinary person whose vocation in life is to be a wife to a wonderful husband and a mother to three sons, two in college and one in middle school. I work both at home and from home – doing all the things that moms everywhere do while also working as a freelance writer. My world is uncomplicated. You might even call it simple.

And yet, it is from my world of carpools, basketball practices, spelling words, college applications, school uniforms and writing deadlines that I can look at someone like Donald Trump, listen to his speeches and watch his debates and, from my simple, uncomplicated world, see him for what he is.

I look at Trump, and I recognize the playground bully who pushes, ridicules, belittles, and thinks that he is smarter, faster, and better looking than anyone else; who, like a child, pokes fun at people’s appearances – their big ears, or propensity for sweating, or way of talking; who resorts to pettiness by name calling and labeling and hurling clever insults which incite others to be just like him; and who, with a bully’s ruthlessness, will do anything – threaten, sweet talk, fight – to make sure his reign on the playground is unchallenged.

I watch Trump and see a spoiled child who pitches a fit when he doesn’t get his way; who says I want and, incredibly, people rush to do his bidding; who, when caught with his hand in the cookie jar, blames everyone and everything else; and who never, ever says I’m sorry which, in my simple world, shows lack of conscience because if you believe you are always right and can do no wrong, then  apologies are not only weak, but unnecessary, and  . . . well, do you see how dangerous this can be?

I hear the things he says about women, how he justifies his rudeness, trash talk, and total lack of respect by saying that, man or woman, it doesn’t matter. He'll go after anyone. But in my world, men don’t talk to women like that and get away with it because every woman is someone's mother, sister, grandmother or auntie and no man in his right mind wants anyone to speak to his mother, sister, grandmother or auntie like that. In my world, how a man treats a woman is the litmus test of his character.

I listen to him planning to build a wall to keep out immigrants and close borders to keep out Muslims and I go back to history and read of those who thought similarly and who, after wars and unspeakable atrocities, are today vilified for their actions.

I see how this non-politician is perhaps the most political one of all. He takes people’s frustrations and anger and –very cleverly, I’ll give him that – uses them as mortar to build a platform on which to stand. He gives people what they want and says what they want to hear, and so they come to civic centers, auditoriums, and school gyms where he is speaking to be swept up in a wave that says it’s okay to think, say, and believe as he does no matter how outrageous or offensive; he panders to ideas which, under normal circumstances, you would never tolerate because conscience, morality and all that is decent and good would have prevented you from going there in the first place.

And in Trump I recognize someone who sees life as one big business deal in which the bottom line for everything is money. Every move is a negotiation; every handshake is a financial transaction. People are numbers on spread sheets, and success is measured in dollar bills. He is a businessman to the core, and for the life of me I can’t imagine how he can serve as our president and not make decisions that wouldn’t somehow line his own pockets.

Alas, no candidate is perfect. They all have flaws because they are all human. But from the ordinariness of my life, I recognize in Trump a man in whom I don’t want my sons to emulate simply because we have raised them to be better than he is. And in an election year, in which two of our sons will be voting for the first time, they call us with their political insights and text their political commentaries and we have wonderful, mature discussions which reassure me they will never place their loyalty at the feet of someone who would just as soon step on them. They get it.

In the end, where do I fit into the grand scheme of things? Because in the political arena of candidates, pundits and pollsters, in this time of speeches, rallies, caucuses and primaries, on the political map of which I am but a speck, who am I, really?

Well, if this election has taught me anything, who I am is more important now than ever. I am a wife, a mother, a writer. I drive for field trips, bandage skinned knees, and prepare dinner for my family. But I am so much more.

Who I am is a voice.

And from the extraordinary ordinariness of my life, I choose not to be silent.

Sometimes, Maybe is Good Enough

By: Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist
*published in the Columbia County News-Times (October 14, 2015)


"Please, Miss, can we have some money for food?"

I had just come out of Hobby Lobby and was walking to my car when I was approached by a little girl pushing a battered umbrella stroller. With her was an elderly woman carrying a tiny infant and another younger woman; they all looked tired, poor and unkempt.

"Where do you want to eat?" I asked.

 "Anywhere," said the girl.

I was hungry, too. It was almost 1:30 and I was in a hurry to get home. I even knew exactly what I was going to have for lunch:  homemade bread, tomatoes, cheese, and a cold glass of water with a slice of lemon. Not only did I have the luxury of having fresh, healthy food available, but I had the luxury of choice. All I had to do was get in my car and in fifteen minutes I would be home. There were no worries on my part – it was all there waiting for me. 

But this little girl was worried enough to ask a stranger for help.
               

Food. Water. Shelter. Safety. Such basics in life, and yet there are many people locally who don't have these things. As we live and work in our nice city, driving home at the end of the day to relax in our homes or enjoy dinner on the back deck, it is tempting to ignore the man on the side of I-20 with a Will Work for Food sign, or a bag lady pushing a shopping cart filled with junk, or a hungry girl in a parking lot because, after all, we aren't in Africa, Indonesia, Haiti, Calcutta, or Syria.

               

To further complicate matters, life is messy. In our ongoing quest to find the perfect job, have the perfect marriage, raise perfect children, and develop perfect bodies we do not like to be reminded that, in fact, we are living in an imperfect world. We don't want to be in the position to need help, or to complicate our lives by becoming involved, or to face moral decisions of what is the right thing to do.
               

Because we aren't faced with situations like these on a daily basis, it is easy to become suspicious, fearful, and even judgmental. It’s easy to place blame at the feet of those needing help. And it’s all too easy to lose sight of the fact that everyone is so much more than what we see; that beneath the dirt, grime, hunger, mental illness, and poverty is a person with a story.
               

I didn't know that little girl's story; I didn’t know her name, her age, or where she went to school. All I knew was that she was hungry enough to ask a stranger for food. And so I gave them what they needed.
               

Was I conned?

               

Maybe I was but, then again, maybe I wasn't. The fact is I don’t know.

               

But in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? I had something that maybe they needed, and maybe was good enough for me.

Columbia County News-Times (October, 14, 2015)

Part of Something Bigger

By Maria Novajosky Guest Columnist

*published in the Columbia County News-Times (January 21, 2015)

• Photos

File photo by Associated Press

We were living in Vicenza, Italy, when I participated in a ceremony commemorating the 10th anniversary of the death of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The event was held at the American school on the military base, and part of the celebration involved students from the two sixth-grade classes reciting portions of Dr. King’s historic I Have a Dream speech.


All the students were terribly excited. Not only would we be part of an important event, but the American television station would be filming the ceremony and then broadcasting it on the evening news. Teachers began assigning lines, and every student raised his hand hoping to get a part. One by one lines were assigned, one by one hands went down as one student and then another was selected, and there I was, still sitting there with my hand raised.


Finally, much to my surprise, my name was called and I discovered I would be delivering the very last line of the speech, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”


“Can you do this?” my teacher asked me quietly on the day of the ceremony. “These are important words; when you say them, you are sending them into tomorrow.”


I didn’t really understand what he was telling me, but I thought he meant that I should speak the words loudly.


That night we gathered around the television to watch the evening news, and at the end of the program the story faded out with the camera focusing on me reciting those 14 words.


Thirty years later, my husband and I took our three sons to visit the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. National Historic Site in Atlanta, and there, standing next to the eternal flame across from his tomb, I told this story to my family.


They had never heard it before.


“Why were you picked to recite the very last line?” asked my son. “I mean, that’s one of the most memorable lines from the speech.”


Believe me, I have often wondered the same thing; after all, wouldn’t it have been more fitting to have had one of the black students recite the line – someone like Chris, who was tall and had a booming voice? Maybe I was picked because my teacher sensed my desperation, or he felt sorry for me (I was a mousy, timid thing), or maybe, in his wisdom, he knew that those words transcended race, gender, religion, and even time; that those words would always be hurled to the future as we strive to live them today; that the speech was bigger, truer, and more far reaching than any person who delivered it.


Of course, I didn’t understand the scope of his speech as I delivered those lines with all the passion of a timid, sixth-grader; in fact, it wasn’t until I was exploring the museum with our boys, standing in the pulpit where Dr. King used to preach, seeing his Nobel Peace Prize, and walking across the bridge alongside the life-sized statues depicting the march from Selma to Montgomery, Ala., that the memory even surfaced.


But I’m glad it did.


In my own small way I had been able to participate in something bigger, truer, and more far reaching than I could have possibly understood at the time, and standing with my family next to that eternal flame across from Dr. King’s tomb, we talked about how we are all part of something bigger, truer, and more far reaching.


And it isn’t until we recognize our role and embrace this fundamental truth that we can be truly “free at last.”

Maria Novajosky is a freelance writer and works for Catholic Stewardship Consultants. She can be reached at novajo@bellsouth.net.

I Never Knew

The following was published in the March 2013 issue of Shalom Tidings. In celebration of the Feast Day of St. Joseph, here it is ...

       

I Never Knew

A Reflection of Saint Joseph
by Maria A. Novajosky

 

            Having spent part of my childhood in Italy, I grew up surrounded by saints. I saw them painted in the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, nestled in grottos scattered in the mountains, and sculpted in tiny alcoves and chapels of churches found in every piazza in every town. With every saint came a story, one which was meant to help us on our own spiritual journey. And yet, as a little girl kneeling in church next to her Nonna and surrounded by centuries of saints, it was Saint Joseph who had a special place in my heart. I never knew why, but there it was.

 

            Perhaps one reason for my devotion was that I was intrigued with the fact that of all the saints, it seems we know the least about Saint Joseph. The last time he is mentioned in Sacred Scripture is when he and Mary returned to the Temple in Jerusalem looking for Jesus. After that, nothing. When did he die? Why was he no longer mentioned? Why don’t we know more? Too many unanswered questions, but dwelling on what is unknown can distract us from what is fundamentally true … that the silence of Saint Joseph is there for a reason, and it speaks volumes.

 

            When my husband and I had our three sons, I turned to Saint Joseph more and more often. Parenthood is not easy; while I prayed to Mary when I needed guidance in my roles as wife and mother, during the moments in which I felt the most inadequate I looked to Saint Joseph. I took comfort in the fact that he was a man – fully human – and yet he lived in the presence of the Son of God. Doesn’t God ask the same of all of us? That we work, live our lives, raise our children, and do the best we can all while living in His presence? Time and time again Saint Joseph showed me how to find blessings in the ordinariness of daily life.

 

            Obedience, forgiveness, trust, faith … there are so many lessons to be learned from the saints. They, who have already walked this earth before us, want to help us on our own journey. Saints are a gift from our Heavenly Father so that we don’t have to make that journey alone, and it’s a gift I encourage our sons to appreciate. We pray the rosary as a family, we talk about the saints, and every March we combine our Catholic faith and my Italian heritage to celebrate the Feast Day of St. Joseph, much like it’s celebrated in southern Italy. It’s a wonderful tradition of combining faith, food and family, and it affirms the role the saints have in our lives.

 

            And Saint Joseph has definitely had a role in our family. Perhaps the biggest lesson he has taught me was that not only should we turn to the saints for their intercession and guidance, but that they want us to come to them. One year I decided not to host our annual Saint Joseph celebration; a few days later a woman in my Bible Study encouraged each of us to pull a saint's name out of a basket and allow that saint to work in our life for a period of twelve months. The underlying concept was this: although you physically drew the saint's name, the saint actually chose you. There were fifty women in that Bible study that day who took turns drawing a saint. St. Catherine, St. Anne, St. Paul, St. Benedict, St. Mark – there were hundredsof saints in that basket – and Saint Joseph chose me. That year we had our biggest Saint Joseph celebration ever.

            Pope Benedict XVI once wrote about the silence of Saint Joseph and how that silence is steeped in the contemplation of the mystery of God. In a world which is noisy and distracts us all too easily from God’s word, it is the steadfastness and quiet strength of Saint Joseph who exemplifies prayer, devotion, and adoration of God’s will. We may not know everything about Saint Joseph, but we know everything that is important. And just when I am getting comfortable with his silence, he offers more.

 

            A few months ago I was going through my Nonna's letters –a transatlantic exchange of news spanning over 30 years – and came across something she wrote shortly after I was born: Ho sentito che avete battezzato Maria proprio il giorno 19, il giorno di S. Giuseppe (I heard that you baptized Maria on March 19,the Feast Day of St. Joseph). Amazingly, I never knew this. These words from my Nonna were a heavenly gift, a revelation from Saint Joseph assuring he is always there (even when I didn’t realize it) wanting to show me how to live a holy life, one that is lived in God’s presence. In his silence he speaks, and I am learning to listen.

 

Maria A. Novajosky is a writer for Catholic Stewardship Consultants and blogs about her Catholic faith, her Italian heritage, and the joys of being a wife and mother to three sons at www.ladolcevitathesweetlifewiththreesons.blogspot.com.