Compost Studios

Without understanding, there cannot be true love, and without love there cannot be true understanding.

--Thich Nhat Hanh

In 1972, my sister Louise was planning a big adventure. A 24-year-old secretary, she had saved up a sizable amount of her modest income so that she could travel Europe for a month with her best friend. In the spring, she bought a set of Samsonsite luggage, and it came with a bonus gift, a little sprig of a miniature orange tree.

My sister Louise gave the orange tree to my mother Louise, who had a knack with houseplants. It grew from a six inch stick to several feet in height under my mother’s loving care. Much to our delight, it burst forth with sweet-smelling white flowers followed by oranges the size of walnuts. It seemed a bit magical, this tree, producing baby citrus fruit in our house.

When my parents moved from New York to Virginia, my mother managed to move the orange tree too, and it kept blooming in its new location in my mother Louise’s sunny kitchen. It was ten years old and thriving there in 1982 when my sister Louise died after a long battle with cancer.

It was twenty years old when my mother Louise died of cancer ten years later, in 1992. Still in the kitchen, it was a bittersweet reminder of the two Louises.

My husband, an avid gardener who shared a special bond with my mother, loaded the tree (and most of my mother’s other houseplants) up in his pickup and transported them to our home in Virginia, about 180 miles away. He pruned the little tree, occasionally fertilized it, treated it to a special citrus tree “cocktail” once or twice a year, and treasured the way its blossoms perfumed the air in the winter. When our children came along, they too delighted in the novelty of miniature oranges being produced at their house.

When the time came for us to move to Belgium, we gave away most of our houseplants, but we couldn’t possibly give away the tree that reminded us of the two Louises. The orange tree in its enormous white pot was driven 180 miles to western Virginia and put in the care of my big brother.

It was 2005, and the tree was now 33 years old.

Maybe in a stroke of what Buddhists refer to as “interbeing,” the tree remembered that my sister Louise had only been given 33 years on the planet.

Maybe it missed my mother.

Maybe it missed us.

Whatever the cause, despite my brother’s diligent care, the tree started dropping leaves and losing its vitality after we moved.

E-mails were exchanged between my husband, the master gardener in Belgium, and my brother, keeper of the family tree,  in Virginia. The Virginia Tech extension office was consulted for advice. My husband shared the recipe for the special "cocktail" my mother had fed the tree with. All sorts of actions were taken, and my brother and his wife were more than a little dismayed when they had to tell us that despite all their efforts, the tree had just died.

All that remained...

They moved the dead tree outdoors, under the watchful eyes of the statue of St. Francis, and my brother, who had saved some of the seeds from the last harvest of oranges, planted them in small pots and watched them sprout and grow. It was my family’s way of remembering my sister and my mother, of keeping them alive in our hearts.

The baby orange tree, grown from seed 

Maybe it was that act of faith.

Maybe it was a manifestation of our hope of one day seeing the two Louises again.

Maybe it was further evidence of “interbeing” and mystical connection between ancestors and future generations.

Whatever the cause, my brother and his wife witnessed a miracle on their front porch: the “dead” orange tree, now 36 years old, came back to life.

Somehow, out of all the dry brown wood and a long season of nothingness came new green leaves.

 A bit scraggly, but alive

Today the orange tree is once again under my husband’s TLC.

And the baby orange tree? My kids consider it their own.

See, not all family heirlooms are silver and gold--some are green and leafy and offer lessons in resilience.

I'm keeping faith that the tree, like our family, will bloom again and bear fruit.

May 9, 2008

The heads of the roses begin to droop.

The bee who has been hauling his gold

all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.

In the sky, traces of clouds,

the last few darting birds,

watercolors on the horizon.

The white cat sits facing a wall.

The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.

I light a candle on the wood table.

I take another sip of wine.

I pick up an onion and a knife.

And the past and the future?

Nothing but an only child with two different masks.

--Billy Collins

May 8, 2008

Everyone talks about sustainable design, but my nephew Joe Gebbia and his friend Matt Grigsby are actually doing something about it.

As I mentioned here, Joe is a product and graphic designer and an entrepreneur who launched a company while he was still a student at the Rhode Island School of Design. After graduation, he and Matt  founded an organization  called Ecolect which caters to industrial designers looking for materials to use in "green" design.  Ecolect's mission is "to be the largest freely accessible sustainable materials library in the world."

Ecolect is accessible online via an easy to use Website featuring only materials with sustainable attributes. It includes user reviews and images, case studies, and a blog and helps designers find vendors for sustainable materials to use in their products and projects.

It's a creative concept serving a creative community working toward a better future.  If you or someone you know is using or researching eco-friendly design, send them to Ecolect.

May 7, 2008

The movie sat on my desk for a long time: A Mighty Heart, the story of  Daniel Pearl. Pearl, a journalist for the Wall Street Journal, was writing a story on shoe bomber Richard Reid when he was kidnapped and murdered in Pakistan in 2oo2.

At the time of his kidnapping, I was deeply upset and disturbed. Yes, people were dying the world over, there were tragedies closer to home, but this was one that inexplicably burrowed deep into my heart. Weeks after he disappeared, when a video was released showing him having his throat slit and his head cut off, I wept.

The horror and brutality of his death at the hands of Muslim extremists was tempered by the calm and measured response of his Jewish parents and his Buddhist wife, who was pregnant with Pearl's only child when he was murdered. From the depths of their anger and grief, they managed to stay focused on who Danny was, what he stood for, and his legacy. Their message was not one of vengeance and hate but of peace. Their words not confined to their loss alone or the loss of American lives but to all who lost loved ones to terrorism. 

His French wife, Mariane, is a journalist and dared to tell his story in her memoir of her life with him, A Mighty Heart. His parents published a book of responses they received to his death and what it meant to them, to Danny, and to others to be Jewish. Most notably, they started the Daniel Pearl Foundation, an organization with a mission to "promote cross-cultural understanding through journalism, music, and innovative communications." The foundation sponsors concerts, lectures, panel discussions, and journalism awards and fellowships.

It was a miracle to see so much goodness rise from the ashes of such horror and violence and hatefulness. But this didn't make it any easier for me to watch A Mighty Heart and revisit the events of 2002. I had to wait until I felt strong enough to handle the feelings I knew the film would trigger.

Last night I was stunned by the way Angelina Jolie disappeared into Mariane Pearl. She was almost unrecognizable to me. She delivered a focused, understated performance, free of sentimentality or hysteria or any of the emotional dramatics you'd expect Hollywood to produce with a story line like this one. Indeed, the entire movie stays true to that tone. It is taut, surprisingly objective, almost journalistic as it brings those weeks of Mariane's life to the screen.

The tension is there as Mariane, Daniel's colleagues, diplomats, Pakistanis, security forces, and the FBI work nonstop to unravel the intricate plan to kidnap Pearl and to find him in a city teeming with millions of people, chaos, and unrest. The magnitude of their task, their refusal to give up, their ability to work together all makes for a riveting story. The movie is from Mariane's perspective, and so we don't see Daniel's story, except through her eyes. This was a relief for me because I'm not sure I could have watched if the camera had been on Daniel.

Even knowing how the story would end did not diminish its impact. I'm glad I plugged that DVD in last night and woke up this morning reflecting once again on Daniel Pearl's life and death and the courage of his wife and family who refused to be silenced by terror and preserved and advanced Daniel's ideals and legacy.

May 6, 2008

the prompt: what are you afraid of? really afraid of?

i'm afraid:

i will turn into a shapeless dumpling

of the day i won't be able to go out walking in the woods

the meds won't work

i will never be loved that way again

i will never love that way again

i've fallen off the pedestal he put me on years ago

i will hide behind khakis, loafers, my address, his income

i will be silenced

people will discover i'm not so smart after all

i'll stop sharing the truth of who i am

i'm a fool for sharing the truth of who i am

i'll be forgotten by people i want to remember me

i'll never again be held just for the sake of being held

i'll never be able to support myself

i've lost my faith

i will never see you again

and never get over it

i'll travel to the end of my life still hungry

with no one to hold my hand. 

What are you afraid of?

May 4, 2008

She said something about going home
She said something about needing to spend some time alone
And she wondered out loud what it was she had to find
But she's already made up her mind

All my friends told me she was too young
Well I knew that myself and I tried to run
But the faster I ran the more I fell behind
Because she'd already made up her mind

She's already made up her mind

Now there is nothing so deep as the ocean
And there is nothing so high as the sky
And there is nothing so unwavering as a woman
When she's already made up her mind

So now she's sitting at one end of the kitchen table
And she is staring without an expression
And she is talking to me without moving her eyes
Because she's already made up her mind

She's already made up her mind
She's already made up her mind

And she said something about going home
And she said something about needing to spend some time alone
And she wondered out loud what it was she had to find
But she'd already made up her mind

So my friend carry me down to the water's edge
And then sail with me out to that ocean deep
And let me go easy down over the side
And remember me to her

She's already made up her mind
She's already made up her mind
She's already made up her mind

--Lyle Lovett

Possibly the most hauntingly beautiful video ever. So Southern in its scenes and sensibility. 

See it here-- or here if you're in Europe.

May 2, 2008

The financial planner handed them copies of his report and reviewed the recommendations.

"Based on current models, you can expect to live to 95, and your husband until age 92."

The numbers were in front of her, and at 46 she saw her life spiraling in two directions, one toward death, one toward birth.

Part of her was elated at the thought she might be less than half way through, and for a second her brain teemed with hope that she might have time to satisfy all her unfulfilled desires. But then the vision of a 95-year-old woman crashed her party, and she recoiled from frightening thoughts of a walker and a single bed, days spent alone, eyes glued to a spot on the ceiling.

She stared at her hands--already bony with prominent veins--and imagined them 50 years later, stiffened and covered with paper thin skin, purplish bruises that never heal, and age spots announcing decay.

What could those hands accomplish?

Would anyone hold them?

Would they dispense tenderness or tremble with the futility of having nothing left to hold on to?

Her husband saw his life as a straight journey from cradle to grave, a linear progression of events and milestones. He moved steadily forward and left everything behind.  There was no reason to waste time looking back or fret over what was ahead.  He was programmed to let the days of his life slide back and click behind him in neat rows, like the uniform beads on an abacus that calculates costs in dollars, not sense.

But her life was different. It was a long strand of multicolored beads coiled in the bottom of a deep pocket, the shapes irregular,  the beauty varied, the texture uneven. Each bead was a moment in time and they all touched one  another. The threads connecting them circled and spiraled and threatened to tangle and knot. She carried all her days and all her years with her at once, tucked into her pocket, heavy with meaning.

She could not discard a single bead of experience or failure, or relinquish her dreams and lighten her load. Even the rough and ugly ones mattered, a foil to the ones that shined. While the pearls of her existence were lovely and luminous, the best moments glowed  with energy and clarity, the color of wine and roses.  How many red days would she have? What would the color of her life look like in the end?

The financial planner continues to speak for nearly an hour. She and her husband are side by side, but they don't hold hands. Their legs don't brush each other under the table. Their shoulders don't touch. In theory, they have 42 more years of marriage ahead of them. He sits obediently with his head bent, studying graphs, tables, and pie charts. She is lost in thought, fingering the beads in her pocket, riding the wake of his words.

April 30, 2008