Welcome to the Club

The Finer Things in Life

Cute sister Jaimie giving Izzy Ossetra caviar on a mother of pearl spoon. (caviar, baby puffs and milk in a bottle. aren’t those the big three?)

A few weeks ago, I went with my sisters and my mom to this place in Disneyland called Club 33. It’s a members only thing with the crystal and shiny cutlery that usually accompanies anything that costs more than most people pay in rent. (That last sentence was written in my sarcastic voice. But some of my readers aren’t hearing it. So I’m putting it in here as a note. Read description of crystal and cutlery as funny, not serious. Also….much more than I pay in rent, for sure. Now, go on with your regularly scheduled reading.) I grew up going there.. My dad used the membership for clients, but my family got to reap its exclusive benefits. When I was younger, you rang a bell to get into a small side door in Disney’s New Orleans Square. Once you announced yourself,

“Conley, Party of six.”

you were buzzed into a red velvet room with an iron worked elevator and a woman with a smile. My parents would take the stairs while us kids giggled up the halting elevator. Some of my favorite childhood memories took place at the top of that ascent. (Like the time Priscella Presley ate at the the table next to us. Which only ranked second to the time the waiter brought me seconds of the bacon that came with my lemon chicken.) I always felt like I was in such rarefied air. It was quiet and wood trimmed. The restaurant’s tables had white linen and shining silver and the waiters always brought out fancy shirley temple drinks with extra cherries. It was my first and most formative transformation of space. I spent every lunch hour there marveling that the I world I was in sat just atop another world that bustled and lined and sweated and thrilled. One wasn’t better than the other, it was simply instructive that they could be found on the same little street.

Into my teen years, the wonder didn’t really leave. I loved buzzing new friends into that side door. Talking like grown ups around a table set in a place that still held so much of the color of our childhood.

Nearly everything about Club 33 has changed and in adulthood things like Disneyland have lost much of their charm. But somehow this last time, surrounded by my sisters and our squealing kids, it all felt like it used to years ago. Zuzu was all wide eyes up the new blue staircase and Viola shouted BEYOOOIFUL at the blown glass flower lamps. There was still a white linen table covering and Zuzu held up the spoon to look at her reflection in its shine. Our waiter (a man named Robert that accurately predicted I would enjoy the pork belly wrapped pork loin) kept all the kids drinks well temple’d. My mom sat at the head of the table and while everyone talked and the kids yelled and the parents shushed and laughed, it almost felt like my dad was with us.

We chomped on caviar while the kids ate cheetos out of our purses. (We are nothing if not eclectic in our tastes.) At one point Izzy, my sister’s one year old daughter, reached for her little spoon full of fish eggs. We laughed and decided to see if she liked the taste. She did. All wide eyed and grunting for more, she smacked her hands against one another when she wasn’t give a spoonful of it in a timely mannery. Our waiter came to the table laughing.

“One of the waitresses said you are feeding that baby caviar. I want to see it. Do it again.”

And so my sister did and Izzy cooed and we all laughed at the ridiculousness of a baby that loves something that is $125 an ounce. The rest of the meal was lovely and chaotic and well met with Pirates of the Caribbean upon leaving.

While we walked around the park, I thought about that baby and the caviar. Why was it so ridiculous that she loved that spoonful of bright bursting tastes of the ocean? Should we be shocked when our children love the highly valued or shocked when they do not? And then the question that stopped me just long enough to get nearly run over by one of those moving trash bins…What am I feeding my daughters? (Listen, we’re entering the territory of metaphor here, I’m not talking about exorbitantly expensive foodstuffs. Heaven knows, that most of the time we are more of a beans and rice and “what else can eggs make?” kind of family.) I’m talking about the expectations and means they are served every day. What experiences am I teaching them to savor? Have I presented them with literature on a silver plate? Am I helping to expand their palate so that they can relish life, know that they deserve every rare and valued taste? Will I help them understand that sustenance means more than the processed messages and images and aspirations handed to them from society’s cacophonous table? Is it possible that they will leave my home able to discern between the well seasoned and the undone? Will they have been schooled enough in the process of living to be able to enter the kitchen (so to speak) and create the existence they want and deserve?

Suddenly, Izzy and her reaching mouth didn’t make me laugh anymore. It wasn’t so much funny as it was wondrous. A little thing, only been on Earth for 12 months, loving the taste of something that’s been enjoyed on record since the court of Genghis Khan’s grandson. Perhaps we are sent here ready to seek out the sweet and savor. Perhaps we need to start expecting our children to be ready for some of the things that we consider rare and elevated. We should spoonfeed them Dickinson and Swift and Dante and Shakespeare. We should sprinkle astronomy across their breakfast table and top their desserts with the questions of the ages. Those things all taste just right plated with the pantry staples of childhood like fairy tales and make believe. We should feast and break and join to feast again.

And yes, we should all cut ourselves a little more slack when they sneak the proverbial cheetos out of our purses. Not every moment can be a caviar moment, after all.

That’s nearly as important a lesson as all the rest.


The blue stairs behind the blue door that lead up to Club 33.

I See You


photo by heather mildenstein

I wrote this post a couple of years ago. But the reminder was needed this week. Here’s to being seen. (Hey, I see you.)

It is nearly eleven o’clock at night and Viola’s cries creep out from under her door, tumble across the hall, and bounce in the kitchen from the unwashed pan to the blinds that need dusting out into the living room and onto my lap. Riley tells me to stay put as he goes to see what is wrong. And I do. Because I am tired. And I know she will cry again in a few hours. And right now, I need to pick up everything and place it on my husband’s square shoulders. I need to disappear, just for a moment. So, I brush the sound of her need off my skirt like so many specks of clinging dust and try to think about something else.

It isn’t working.

I have been so worried about my darling girls.

Viola is at that magic age, the one where the only real concern is whether she is eating and sleeping enough. While the answers to those questions change day to day, lately there have been more noes than yeses. Maybe she is teething? A virus? Riley, put your hand on her head, does she feel warm? And then she is up at 2am and 3am and not sleeping past 6:30, because my goodness, where would be the fun in that? But between the too short naps and too long cries, I can pick her up and make her smile. Because I am all she knows and right now, all she knows is enough.

I don’t know that I am enough for Margaret anymore. My goodness, that sounds a bit dramatic. Meg, you say, that is perhaps a premature pronouncement to make about a three year old. But it is true. She has feelings bigger than my capacity to soothe, fears more complicated than she can articulate and an occasional stubbornness that I can only engage if I am willing to stand till the ragged, tantrum filled end. I don’t mind the tantrums. They are fierce but few and I can handle myself just fine, thank you. No, I feel the most helpless when she collapses, when the light leaves her eyes and all that is left is panic without discernible meaning.  The times when I can see the anxiety climb up her arms and into her ears until it all spills out in hiccups and screams and MOMMY’S! It doesn’t happen every day, but sometimes I think the lines that connect one breakdown to another are becoming shorter.  When it does happen, I hold her close and play with her hair and speak quietly, oh honey, everything is alright. And then, because it calms her down I turn on a movie and give her SHINY BLANKIE and walk away until she comes back to me, all big smiles and bouncing questions.

I think the breakdowns come when she is tired. Or when she is hungry. Maybe they happen because she is a creature of routine. Or because she is bored. Perhaps she reacts poorly to processed foods. There is always the chance that she needs more iron…or less.

I am not sure of anything, except for all the things I am unsure of.

Last night after a mixed meeting with her preschool teachers, (She is a very bright girl! Sometimes she is a little upset.) I came home and cried to Riley. I don’t mind that she gets overwhelmed and breaks for a moment. We all do. And at three she doesn’t know that it is more socially acceptable to eat your anxiety away (chocolate, anyone?) rather than scream it away. (Between you and me, I think the screaming might be the healthier coping mechanism of the two.) No, what I hate is that I don’t know how to help her navigate around this obstacle. I want Zuzu and all the people around her to see exactly who she is. I can see her. She is kindness and giving and warmth and humor and intelligence and strength and dance out in the open with her eyes closed. She is whimsy and steel. I don’t want fear or hysteria to cloud her vision. I am her mother. I am supposed to guide her. I don’t want to change her, I just want to help her.  But, I don’t know how to keep my ignorance – how do I help her? What does she need? – from muddying the waters.

I went to bed last night heavy with doubt. Because if I can’t do this now how will I do this when she is 14? And maybe this is because I am not doing my job well enough. If only we read more, painted more, crafted more. A better mother would know what she needed. A better mother would know. Pressed against the wall, a continent away from Riley, he asked if I was alright. I nodded yes, and closed my eyes. The tears squeezed out hot against the cold night and the phrase repeated itself as I fell asleep – A better mother would know.

And then.

Riley and I fought this morning. I am not sure how it began, but I know just when it got going. He said I am too hard on myself more days than not – that I spill so many wasted thoughts on not being a good enough woman, writer, wife, mother. I told him that he had no right to tell me how I should feel. My goodness, I cried, what do you know about inadequacy and guilt? He isn’t in these four walls all day with two people hungry for more than cheerios. He leaves and I stay and try to be the things I want to be, should be, while wiping the crumbs off my clothes.  Can’t he see all the magic I leave out of so many days with the girls I have been given as daughters? Can’t he feel the weight of the stories that go thought and unwritten again and again until they are forgotten? Does he think I want to be the woman that is too tired for dancing when he gets home after a long day of work? How, I asked angry and misunderstood, how am I supposed to get through this part of my life feeling anything but less than what I wish to be? Do you have any idea what you are talking about? Riley slammed out the door to steam it out in the drive way while I stewed in the shower.

When he came back in Margaret was eating cereal on the couch and I had nearly finished my makeup in the bathroom. A small comfort, as I prefer to be presentable when ugly crying. We kissed and he held me, sorry for the things we said and perhaps for a few that we didn’t.

He left for work and we survived the day.

Viola has stopped crying and in the rounded silence I have some clarity. Riley wasn’t telling me how to feel, he wasn’t negating my experience, or saying he could do it better. He was saying he can see me. And the woman he sees can do this. She can wake up with a baby who will not sleep. She can break through the wall built by a three year old’s tears. She can write whatever she damn well pleases. She can be the wife she knows her husband deserves. She can dance even when she is too tired to keep standing.

I don’t always know the woman Riley sees. But every once in a while, when he is looking at me, I see her reflected in his eyes. And right now, that glimpse is just enough to get me through one more day, every day.

The Known

The Known

I’ve felt out of control lately.

Like time and life and decisions and past and present have joined together to make of me what they may while I sit and wonder what new conglomeration of circumstance sits around the next corner. The unknowable has pinned in me into place and made me afraid. It’s been a small feeling, big hurting kind of thing. When I find myself in that darkness (I have before and will again), I always turn to the stars. Sometimes I burn along with them on long lonely car rides, sometimes I write under the direction of their light. Last night, I re-gained an understanding of their nature and the universe they make bright.

Earth is a little new sphere sitting in an big old place. There are billions of stars in our galaxy and as they live, each one holds multiple planets – worlds – with the weight of their immense gravity. When the stars die, new ones are born and new worlds are pulled into place. Our galaxy is just one small part of an ever expanding universe. And our universe is just one tiny piece of a currently unknowable whole. The theory now is that our universe – so big we can’t see or comprehend it beyond 13.8 billion light years – is just one of many. That we are in fact part of a multiverse. That all those stars, moving worlds, galaxies and dark matter are held in a tiny bubble in an “infinite ocean of other universes”, each one encapsulated in a tiny bubble of its own.

I knew all this, but it helped to immerse myself in the known and the unknown outside of myself. Sometimes I think my world – the one I’m building in our four walls with kitchen table dinners and prayer and sweat and laughter and tears – is anchored to something too big to feel the reverberations of my heart. In the moments when my eyes are shut against the stars, I wonder how I can move forward against mechanisms that have turned since before our first parents knew their names.

But then I open my understanding to the light. The relative smallness of everything from sky to sun to cosmos helps me to understand the bigness of my existence. If we are in a bubble bouncing against other bubbles that hold entire universes, then my world in four walls is just as grand and important and large as the earth it is planted on. The successes, heartaches, wars over emotion and reason and triumphs of spirit and peace are just as relatively important as the battles and understandings of spirit that have taken place since man and woman first breathed deeply of the air around them.

The realization strikes and I breathe deeply like it is the first time I’ve tasted the air around me. Our apparent diminutiveness does not accurately measure the largeness of our existence.

I may not always be in control, but my life is important and I am the steward of the world I live in. Somehow, blessedly, that knowledge of smallness upon smallness has given me the courage to venture past the space where the gravity of life and situation would hold me.

And I am able once more to rejoice in the known and unknown.

Set in Stone

Tourists peer over the Grand Canyon's rim in 1947

Tourists looking down into the grand canyon in 1947. We’ve always been fascinated by the places time carved out before us.

It was still cool outside. The kind of spring day that gives you a summer sun wrapped with winter’s last chilled breath. On our way home from California, the radio was low and the girls slept in the backseat. Riley held my hand and I stared ahead. The window framed the Utah desert – a painting that’s faded in the sun. I’ve made that drive a hundred times since I was a little girl. I know the high and low places, the breaks in the road, the emptied gas stations and broken down cafes. I could trace it out for you in the desert sand. Familiarity doesn’t always mean certainty, of course.

There’s a canyon. A few miles long and a few hundred feet tall. It curves and shadows and slows and rolls. I’m always afraid when we drive through there. It is too fast, or too slow. Too twisted or too sloped. Riley always teases while I suck the breath through my teeth and clench my eyes as the car speeds past rock that has stood since before our hopes were born. It isn’t just the speed or the car. I feel small there. Mortal. One of millions that will pass by those stones without asking what they’ve seen. I used to think they felt my silence, but now I’ve begun to think I am the one being ignored. That canyon holds time I’ll never touch and as we curve through it to return to our home and chores and worries, I sometimes wonder what we’ve left behind.

The drive that day wasn’t so different. Going into the canyon felt the same. An intake of air and then fast talking to act like I wasn’t afraid. Riley smiled knowingly and so I put my words away and looked out the window.

A car and then yellow lines and then a tree and a stream and then briefly, so briefly my heart recorded it before my eyes – a father and daughter on the side of the road, looking over the red clay expanse. She held a camera and he held her shoulders. A guide to the art of vision and focus. And for just an instant, amid those sentinels that hold time, I could feel the weight of my father’s hands on my shoulders. His words of encouragement as I chose the focus and filter for my world. The beauty of the moments I had once, the ones that exist somewhere in the places I’ve lived through till they’re worn with the breathing and leaving. I was a girl that still had a dad and a heart that beat without the patchwork of hope and faith and sanctified sorrow. Another moment and then the scene was gone, hidden by our progress and the jutting earth.

The road flattened and the horizon grew. The canyon fell behind us. I cried as it I felt it collapse on the time it held and the person I used to be.

Riley looked over at me, his eyes still knowing and I remembered his hand on mine. I squeezed it once and then wiped away the wetness from my face.

“Ready to get home?”


And we drove on.

September 29, 2014  |  girl in progress  |  , , , , , , , , , ,  |  3 Comments

What’s Cooking


Riley and I had been married for a couple of years when we got into a big fight about cookbooks. It went something like this:

Driving home after a long day, it had been quiet for an hour and then Riley spoke up,

Riley: You are always looking at cookbooks. You know that? Always buying them and reading them. But then you never make anything out of them. Ever. Do you know how annoying that is? It’s such a waste.

Me: What the hell? You are mad that I enjoy reading cookbooks? What kind of person gets upset about that?

Riley: You spend hours looking at those things. And you never do anything about it.

Me: Well. We’re broke. We don’t have enough money for most of the ingredients. And looking at all the recipes is a kind of escape. It calms me down. It makes me happy. I can’t believe you are angry that I have a little hobby that makes me happy.

Riley: Too broke to make ANYTHING? You’re buying ingredients for something every time you go to the grocery store. It’s not like we don’t spend money on food. Why not try all those recipes you’ve been looking at for once? Megan, I am not angry that you look at cookbooks. I am frustrated that you never do anything with what you find inside of them.

Me: Are we still talking about recipes here? Or is there something else going on?

Riley: No, I guess this isn’t really about those cookbooks.

He looked at me once and then re-focused on the road. I got quiet.  He wasn’t actually talking about cooking. He didn’t really care that we ate the same five things ever week. With a fall of my heart, I knew what he was trying to say. For years, I had been talking about maybe writing or maybe this or maybe that. Maybe. Someday. Perhaps. A few days before I had cried because I hadn’t begun to do all the things I always thought I would do. He’d held my hand and told me to get started. Instead, I calmed down and went to sleep. The next morning, I’d forgotten what that ache felt like and moved on. I was skimming through my existence in the same way that I’d been skimming through those cookbooks. Flipping the pages of my own life – looking at the possible ingredients and shutting the book before I’d given anything a chance. I was without direction, without confidence and without courage. I’d forgotten how to become a participant in my own life.

I’d lost the savor.

The next day I pulled just one cookbook down from the shelf and opened it to the beginning. We had dinner from it the next night and the next and the next. I learned the beauty of french peasant food on a budget and the art of deglazing. I burned the hell out of a roast chicken and made the perfect pot de creme. I found myself within the constraints of creation – the measurements and cooking times and chemical reactions.The act of cooking was a gift to myself that also provided sustenance for those I love. And, blessedly, I learned that some nights it was alright to let the kitchen fires stay cooled. There was no shame in a little (or a lot) of domino’s pizza, chicken nuggets or paper wrapped burgers.

As I cooked my way through that book, I applied the lessons I learned in the kitchen to my writing.  I don’t need a lot to create much. Sometimes intended masterpieces come out smelling liked charred trash can. There are constraints to my creation – limited time, limited talent and unlimited family. Those are not obstacles to be gotten over, they are a structure to be built upon. The act of writing is for myself but it has given additional happiness and purpose to our home, sustenance for those I love. And, blessedly, I learned that some nights it is alright to let my fires cool – to collapse in front of the tv or into a book or the sleep that promises to give me the next day.

I still sit in front of piles of cookbooks – flipping from glossy page to page. I still dream of far off spices and those unattainable (for me) perfectly light rolls. I still run my fingers across the possibilities for my life. And sometimes I still get overwhelmed. But now, when I am at my best, I remember to stop perusing and start cooking.

Life tastes just a little better now.

© megan conley 2012

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