In Which I was Caddie for a Day

Yesterday I went golfing with Joe.

Wait. Allow me to clarify: yesterday I drove a golf cart while Joe golfed. 

It was actually my idea. My plan was to play caddie, drive the golf cart, and take photos of the fall foliage around the golf course. 

But the weather did not cooperate. 

It was foggy, very damp, and the fogginess and dampness did a number on my hair--FRIZZY out to there (even Joe commented on the state of my hair). It was also chilly (I drove the golf cart wrapped in a blanket) and everything was gray--the sky, clouds, fog, and even my sweater and blanket. No colors, just drabness, so no pretty photos.  

But I rallied and did my best to be a good caddie for Joe. I was very helpful. In my opinion, golf is too complicated and involves too much math and too many clubs. Really, one should only need three clubs: a driver, putter, and 7-iron. That's all I use when I play which, strangely enough, works for me. So in my role as caddie, whenever Joe wasn't driving or putting I helpfully advised him to use a 7-iron. 

I was also ready to look for balls, but Joe is a pretty good player and all his balls landed on the fairway. Well, except one which landed in the lake. I couldn't help him with that one.

Finally, since I was the official scorekeeper, I dutifully recorded pars, bogeys, and birdies. But I also used the little squares on the scorecard to draw smiley faces and hearts. 

After 18 holes, Joe's golf card was pretty.

A Mother, Two Daughters, and Vincent Van Gogh

For my mother's birthday last July I gave her three tickets for the special Vincent Van Gogh fall exhibit at the Columbia Museum of Art. This past weekend we used those tickets. Here is what happened at the an art museum with my mom and my sister ...

1- My dad (reluctantly) gave up his ticket. When I presented the tickets to my mother, I suggested we could use them one of two ways: 1/ for my mom, my dad, and me  OR  2/ for my mom, my sister, and me. My dad immediately said that Laura should go; in fact, he insisted. I'm not sure if money exchanged hands, but Laura said she'd be happy to go and just like that my dad spent the afternoon on his recliner watching television while we went to the art museum. My poor Dad. Don't you feel sorry he missed the Van Gogh exhibit?

2- Wine on Sunday. Before the museum we attended Mass at my sister's church and then had lunch at the Blue Marlin. My mother and I each ordered a glass of white wine, and when I looked around the restaurant we were the ONLY ONES indulging. Everyone else was drinking tea or lemonade. I felt positively decadent having wine with lunch on a Sunday. In my mother's defense ... she's Italian. In my defense ... I just returned from Italy where I had been SPOILED with wine at every single meal. Including Sundays.

3- Poor Van Gogh. As well known as he is today, Van Gogh suffered from rejection his entire life. "You'll agree with me that ... you can do better than this ... art is too important to be treated so cavalierly" wrote Dutch painter Van Rappard to Van Gogh. When Van Gogh wrote another Dutch painter, Matthijs Maris, asking for instruction, Maris replies that it would be better for Van Gogh
"to hang himself." In fact, the experience of failure was as much part of him as any other life experience. 

4- The struggle was real. To be drawn into Van Gogh's art is to recognize the raw mix of pain, beauty, violence, and struggle that, at the same time, manages to convey introspection, beauty, and humanity. He struggled mentally and spiritually, and never has the idea of tortured genius been more exemplified than with his severed ear. 

5- My sister got in trouble. After the VanGogh exhibit we explored the rest of the museum and there, on the second floor, was The Nativity by Sandro Botticelli. The last time we saw works by Botticelli was at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, and here was one of his masterpieces in (of all places) Columbia, SC. Evidently, not only is this the ONLY Botticelli in the entire United States, but it is also the only one exhibited outside of Italy. Well. Laura (who lives in Columbia) was in BIG TROUBLE for not knowing this important fact. Like ... she was in the doghouse. 

6- Introducing levity. You might think all this introspection and analysis was getting heavy, but we  three knew how to liven things up (see #2 above). In the spirit of fun, we took selfies in mirrors and interacted with the displays. 

Saturday Afternoon

Sometimes a rainy Saturday afternoon is perfect for staying home and organizing ...

my kitchen "desk" cabinet 

(where I keep all my stationery, notebooks, and recipe binders)

and 

the pantry

(to make room for holiday supplies).

The Floating Pumpkin (a diy centerpiece)

Boo! 

Here's something scary for you ...

an autumn gourd + one rusty mattress coil = one floating pumpkin

a row of floating pumpkins, some candles, and your decor is done

Deep Breaths

I am a study of contradiction.

Put me in front of a group of people to do a presentation on Italy, share ideas on family Lenten practices or explain Brunelleschi's dome and its influence on architecture, and I am in my element; in fact, I love it.

But, ask me to do a book talk and I am a bundle of nerves. As in, take-deep-breaths-or-I-will-throw-up kind of nerves.

It's a conundrum. The only thing I can figure is that in one scenario I'm teaching, in the other I'm sharing.

Also, I've never done this sort of thing before, so there has been a huge learning curve. Each time I give a book talk I learn something new, which is good, but also creates self-doubt because I'm in a situation involving trial and error. But I now know, for instance, to bring a pen to sign books (at my first book talk I had to borrow one), to ask questions about the venue because it helps knowing ahead of time if there will be a podium or if I will be using a microphone, to speak from my heart and not rely on notes, and to request two easels for poster boards I like to use as a backdrop.

Yesterday I was invited to speak at the local chapter of the Suburban Woman's Club, and when it was time to leave home I was this close to being sick. I needed backup, so I turned to God and called my sister. In that order. With God I was grateful for this opportunity to share my story and humbly asked for a smidgen of courage; with my sister I got to the point.

"Okay. Talk to me. I'm giving a book talk in 30 minutes and I already feel like I'm going to be sick," I said. "Why do I do this? It is so idiotic. I am prepared. I have a really good talk that comes full circle by the end. I am even having a good hair day! So why can't I breathe?"

I'm laughing when I say this, but not really.

"Oh, you do need to breathe," Laura says helpfully. "Breathing is important."

Before I can come up with a witty response, she continues.

"I get the same way when I have to do a presentation at work," she explains. "You need to remember to breathe from your diaphragm, not your upper chest. It helps."

See? I always learn something new. A little later I'm smiling and breathing from my diaphragm while the treasurer of the club introduces me.

Here's another thing I've learned in doing these book talks: After working myself up into such a state, at some point during the presentation I settle down and actually enjoy it. Which is precisely what happened yesterday. I had a lovely lunch with some truly lovely people who liked hearing my story. They laughed, wiped away a tear or two, asked questions, and wanted to know more.

"You are the best speaker we've had in a long time," one woman said afterwards. "You are so personable. Do you have other things you could talk about because I want to hear you again."

I liked the fact that she used the word personable because it allows for a little bit of everything, including nerves.

I smiled at her, and remembered to breathe from my diaphragm.

marianovajosky.com

prayers and birthday cake

from a place of staying

waving to the going

who carries with him

a mother's prayer

and

chiptole chicken

homemade pasta

chicken salad

and 

leftover birthday cake

Lighting a candle at Isola San Giulio

Speak to Me Sunday: A Perspective on Gratitude

On the morning we left Venice, I was delayed at the Air France check-in counter because the computer system had somehow merged my ticket with that of my sister-in-law. In a way, I could understand ... Maria Anna Novajosky and Mary Treacy Novajosky sound and look very, very similar. It was a problem we had encountered earlier in the trip when Mary checked in for our Atlanta-Amersterdam flight and they gave her my boarding pass.

So one at a time, members of my group received their boarding passes while I stood at the counter waiting for Air France to fix the problem. I finally told the group to go through security and that I'd meet them at the gate. My sister, who had her boarding pass, remained with me.

Time passed. The nice Air France attendant typed furiously on her computer. She made three phone calls. Four. Then five. She called her manager. Finally, she had to cancel my ticket and re-issue it, and by the time she handed me the boarding pass our plane was already boarding. Luckily, the attendant had stamped our passes so we could race through security. Honestly, I have never gone through security so quickly--straight to the head of the line, throw our bags on the belt, leave on our shoes, run through the metal detector, and grab everything and go. We made it to the gate just in time.

Now, while all this was going on I had been very calm. I knew the issue would be resolved. I was even happy that, out of everyone in the group, it had happened to me because I could speak Italian (which facilitated things greatly with the ticket agent).

But when I boarded the plane I realized that, in canceling and then reissuing my ticket, my seat assignment had been changed. Prior to our trip I had been so careful with my seat selections; in fact, on that particular flight (Venice to Paris) I had even paid for an upgrade so I could have more leg room. Now, however, I was stuck in the middle, with an elderly American woman on one side and a gentleman of Middle-Eastern descent on the other.

I was mad. And hot after my airport run. Then I thought how my seat assignment on my next flight--the one from Paris to Atlanta--was probably changed too.

So I sat there stewing, with my elbows wedged to my side, typing a text to Joe asking him please (when he woke up) (hopefully before I landed in Paris) to go online and try to get back my original seats. I ignored the lady to my left (who, I was sure, was going to talk my ear off) and the gentleman to my right (who, I was sure, had nothing in common with me).

You know how someone can give off an air that tells people not to mess with them? Well, I gave off that air. Don't look at me, touch me, talk to me. Don't smile at me. Don't be nice to me. Just. Leave. Me. Alone.

I was in a mood.

A little later the pilot announced that there was a clear view of the Alps out the window, so I leaned over to take a look. What a view! Grandiose. Majestic. And it put things into perspective for me. Our plane was so insignificant compared to that majestic mountain range, just as my little ticket problem was insignificant compared to what had been a wonderful and problem-free trip. I thought back to the past 13 days of traveling with 31 women, a trip I had organized, and of the thousand--no, the MILLION--things that could have gone wrong ... and nothing had.

It's so easy to complain that the rose bushes have thorns instead of rejoicing because thorn bushes have roses.

Just then the flight attendant came by offering snacks and drinks. The woman next to me asked the attendant for a gluten-free snack, but they were out so she settled for a cup of hot tea. I took a deep breath and turned to her with a smile.

"As it happens, I have a gluten-free muffin in my purse," I told her. "It's from our hotel breakfast this morning. You are welcome to have it."

And I handed it to her. Then, because I didn't want ignore the gentleman on the other side, I turned to him.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was the only muffin I had."

He smiled and, in broken English, asked where I was headed. And there I was, having a conversation with a gentleman from Egypt who was flying to Paris on business and nervous about everything because he had never been out of his country before.

As we started our descent into Paris, I was awash in gratitude--for our wonderful trip, for the memories and laughter and experiences, for the time with my sister and the visit with my relatives, for smooth flights and good health for everyone, for the view of the Alps and the sight of Mont Blanc. I was grateful for the elderly American woman on my right and the Egyptian gentleman on my left. I was even grateful for my ticket woes and wherever I happened to be seated on the next flight.

There was so, so much for which to be grateful.

Mostly, though, I was grateful that when I was so quick to resort to childishness when something didn't go right, God's grace enabled me to see the roses through the thorns.