CROCK: An earthenware pot, or container. CROCKpot: a slow cooker. C-ROCKind: Me. A body of delicous ideas, intense thought and passionate feeling all simmering, slow cooking, marinating in Life's humor, romance, pain and joy. This Blog: The Meal. Food for thought....
A good name for the blog?
Sunday, December 27, 2009
What's in a Name?
Tom and Gisele Brady waited 11 Days to name their baby. 11. While I'm sure we'll see the affect of such lack in identity 20 years from now on the pages of US Weekly, or the National Enquirer, for those 11 days, did it matter to the baby? He was fed and burped and loved.
What about this blog? Without a permanent name and a clear focus, I've let it wither to near nothingness. I haven't fed it with clever wit, or nurtured it with continuous sweet thought. No, I've let it shrivel into the endless of abyss long-forgotten empty blogs... It's like my plant at work: I remember to water it only when the leaves have faded to a crispy brown and the sad stems droop onto my desk.
I WANT to remember my plant, just like I WANT to remember this blog. And I do remember, it, but at the most inconvenient times... like when I'm half-asleep with thoughts rumbling through my head like a freight-train that I pretend not to hear and don't want to write down for fear that I'll never fall back asleep! Or when I'm driving and think of the most brilliant bit only to forget it by the time I am able to open my computer.
What this blog needs is a PURPOSE. It needs a reason to exist. And then I will remember to post. Like the book Julie and Julia - she didn't just write about her egomanical narcissistic thoughts. She cooked and wrote. Cooked and wrote. Every day.
And so, I go in search of my blog's purpose. And in the meantime, I will just write drivel when I think of it... au revoir!
What about this blog? Without a permanent name and a clear focus, I've let it wither to near nothingness. I haven't fed it with clever wit, or nurtured it with continuous sweet thought. No, I've let it shrivel into the endless of abyss long-forgotten empty blogs... It's like my plant at work: I remember to water it only when the leaves have faded to a crispy brown and the sad stems droop onto my desk.
I WANT to remember my plant, just like I WANT to remember this blog. And I do remember, it, but at the most inconvenient times... like when I'm half-asleep with thoughts rumbling through my head like a freight-train that I pretend not to hear and don't want to write down for fear that I'll never fall back asleep! Or when I'm driving and think of the most brilliant bit only to forget it by the time I am able to open my computer.
What this blog needs is a PURPOSE. It needs a reason to exist. And then I will remember to post. Like the book Julie and Julia - she didn't just write about her egomanical narcissistic thoughts. She cooked and wrote. Cooked and wrote. Every day.
And so, I go in search of my blog's purpose. And in the meantime, I will just write drivel when I think of it... au revoir!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Dying of a Broken Heart
I found out yesterday that someone I loved passed away. That's the second death in weeks and since they say it happens in "3s", I'm waiting...
Unfortunately, I don't think my heart can endure more loss - it is still so tender from losing Lillian, ripped open fresh yesterday from losing Phil, and still raw from losing my relationship 6 weeks ago.
I haven't talked about my break-up on this blog, or really anywhere in public. Either to defend the innocent, or to save myself from shame, I just haven't wanted to admit another relationship failure. I also haven't wanted to admit that I miss him... But I do. And in the midst of all this loss, I miss him more. The truth is that I'm dying for a hug. Even a strong, independent woman sometimes needs to be wrapped up and told that everything's going to be okay...
Unfortunately, I don't think my heart can endure more loss - it is still so tender from losing Lillian, ripped open fresh yesterday from losing Phil, and still raw from losing my relationship 6 weeks ago.
I haven't talked about my break-up on this blog, or really anywhere in public. Either to defend the innocent, or to save myself from shame, I just haven't wanted to admit another relationship failure. I also haven't wanted to admit that I miss him... But I do. And in the midst of all this loss, I miss him more. The truth is that I'm dying for a hug. Even a strong, independent woman sometimes needs to be wrapped up and told that everything's going to be okay...
Friday, November 20, 2009
Lillian E. Lippman, May she dance and sing in Heaven...
I heard the news on Monday, and it still has not sunk in. I expect Lillian to knock on my door at any time. "Are you back from vacation?" She would ask. "Did that Baby Boy have a good time?" Her ragged head peaking into my apartment.
"Anne told me you died," I'd say.
She'd roll her eyes and shake her head, "What do you listen to her for?"
It is with deep sadness that I announce that Lillian E. Lippman, my dear friend and Henry's beloved caretaker, died on Sunday, November 15. She was 85. Formal Cause of death: a heart attack. Informal: heartache... Life had finally just worn her down. Without children or sane close family, no one is writing an obituary for her. No one is arranging a funeral. Lillian will leave earth as if she was never on it and I can't let that happen. Her imprint on my heart, and in our lives is just too big. So here is your tribute, Auntie Lillian:
Lillian grew up in Brooklyn, a vivacious, flirty and wicked-smart girl. A youngest child until she was 15, Lillian used her sass and guts to sing her way onto the big stage. Performing with Big Bands, she met her first husband and they had a glorious time dancing and singing at Manhattan parties until she lost him unexpectedly. She married again, wanting to start a family, and moved with her new husband to Martha's Vineyard before realizing that he did not want kids. "I never would have married the bastard," she recently told me.
She moved to Cleveland more than 40 years ago to care for her ill mother. When her mom passed, Lillian remained in Cleveland to care for her younger sister, Anne, a schizophrenic whose husband left her and whose daughter never calls. Ever. Day in and day out, Lillian would listen to Anne's wild delusions, bearing the brunt of her psychotic accusations, ensuring that they had milk, and soup and a roof over their heads.
Lillian hated Cleveland. Of course, eventually, she hated everything. And she distrusted everyone. After the turn of events in her life, who can blame her? She would cuss at neighbors, garage attendants, our postman, and scream at anyone who got in her way. Few people knew the classy, spunky and creative woman inside. But I did, and I loved her. At first, I thought she was just the crazy old lady upstairs. She would hobble to the door on her cane, cursing at whoever just walked by. I tried to stay out of her way. One day, she knocked on my door to tell me that Henry cried every day while I was at work, and from then on, she became his caretaker. Within a few months with Henry, Lillian was walking without a cane, and within the first year, neighbors were thanking me, as she became more pleasant to them.
As the years passed, we became friends. Most days, our conversations were the same, "Carin, I don't know where you got that Baby Boy, but he is the cutest, the smartest. I don't know what you're going to do with him!" She would report on his poops and pee-pees, and sometimes, she would talk about her life... her days in New York, her nights on stage, her great loves. She wanted to show me the progress she was making in cleaning her house, and show off a treasure she would find at the nearby Goodwill store. And nearly every day, she would tell me how lovely I was, how I was the daughter she never had.
A year ago, Lillian lost her oldest sister, Madeleine. Lillian became more easily agitated, angry and sharply bitter. She was sure that workers were stealing from her, racists were trying to kill her, and people were wronging her. Three weeks ago, she fell, and I knew that we were nearing the end. Her smooth latte-colored skin turned a pale leathery yellow, her gait slowed, and she stopped brushing her hair. Every day, I asked her if I could please take her to the doctor, to which she would respond, "Maybe tomorrow."
Henry and I left on vacation last week, and as the plane landed back in Cleveland last Sunday, Lillian passed away. Given the spring in her step the last day I saw her, it is nearly impossible to believe now that she's gone. She had come to my door early, layered in her puffy purple coat and thick wool scarf, her wiry silver hair running wild from beneath her beige beret. "Come on MisterMister, time to go!"I looked into her eyes, those deep black pools to her soul, and smiled. I was sure we would have another tomorrow.
To our "Auntie Lillian", we miss you dearly. You are forever in our hearts, you are part of our souls. You are our family. We love you. May you sing and dance again, in peace, in Heaven.
All our love,
Carin and Henry
"Anne told me you died," I'd say.
She'd roll her eyes and shake her head, "What do you listen to her for?"
It is with deep sadness that I announce that Lillian E. Lippman, my dear friend and Henry's beloved caretaker, died on Sunday, November 15. She was 85. Formal Cause of death: a heart attack. Informal: heartache... Life had finally just worn her down. Without children or sane close family, no one is writing an obituary for her. No one is arranging a funeral. Lillian will leave earth as if she was never on it and I can't let that happen. Her imprint on my heart, and in our lives is just too big. So here is your tribute, Auntie Lillian:
Lillian grew up in Brooklyn, a vivacious, flirty and wicked-smart girl. A youngest child until she was 15, Lillian used her sass and guts to sing her way onto the big stage. Performing with Big Bands, she met her first husband and they had a glorious time dancing and singing at Manhattan parties until she lost him unexpectedly. She married again, wanting to start a family, and moved with her new husband to Martha's Vineyard before realizing that he did not want kids. "I never would have married the bastard," she recently told me.
She moved to Cleveland more than 40 years ago to care for her ill mother. When her mom passed, Lillian remained in Cleveland to care for her younger sister, Anne, a schizophrenic whose husband left her and whose daughter never calls. Ever. Day in and day out, Lillian would listen to Anne's wild delusions, bearing the brunt of her psychotic accusations, ensuring that they had milk, and soup and a roof over their heads.
Lillian hated Cleveland. Of course, eventually, she hated everything. And she distrusted everyone. After the turn of events in her life, who can blame her? She would cuss at neighbors, garage attendants, our postman, and scream at anyone who got in her way. Few people knew the classy, spunky and creative woman inside. But I did, and I loved her. At first, I thought she was just the crazy old lady upstairs. She would hobble to the door on her cane, cursing at whoever just walked by. I tried to stay out of her way. One day, she knocked on my door to tell me that Henry cried every day while I was at work, and from then on, she became his caretaker. Within a few months with Henry, Lillian was walking without a cane, and within the first year, neighbors were thanking me, as she became more pleasant to them.
As the years passed, we became friends. Most days, our conversations were the same, "Carin, I don't know where you got that Baby Boy, but he is the cutest, the smartest. I don't know what you're going to do with him!" She would report on his poops and pee-pees, and sometimes, she would talk about her life... her days in New York, her nights on stage, her great loves. She wanted to show me the progress she was making in cleaning her house, and show off a treasure she would find at the nearby Goodwill store. And nearly every day, she would tell me how lovely I was, how I was the daughter she never had.
A year ago, Lillian lost her oldest sister, Madeleine. Lillian became more easily agitated, angry and sharply bitter. She was sure that workers were stealing from her, racists were trying to kill her, and people were wronging her. Three weeks ago, she fell, and I knew that we were nearing the end. Her smooth latte-colored skin turned a pale leathery yellow, her gait slowed, and she stopped brushing her hair. Every day, I asked her if I could please take her to the doctor, to which she would respond, "Maybe tomorrow."
Henry and I left on vacation last week, and as the plane landed back in Cleveland last Sunday, Lillian passed away. Given the spring in her step the last day I saw her, it is nearly impossible to believe now that she's gone. She had come to my door early, layered in her puffy purple coat and thick wool scarf, her wiry silver hair running wild from beneath her beige beret. "Come on MisterMister, time to go!"I looked into her eyes, those deep black pools to her soul, and smiled. I was sure we would have another tomorrow.
To our "Auntie Lillian", we miss you dearly. You are forever in our hearts, you are part of our souls. You are our family. We love you. May you sing and dance again, in peace, in Heaven.
All our love,
Carin and Henry
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Getting Back on the "Horse" Again
It's time to get back on the proverbial writing-horse again. I fell off, and when I did, I hit my head so hard that I ended up in paralysis for the last 6 weeks.
But it's time to get back on. Fear has been holding me back, and let's face it, Fear Sucks. When we were kids, we'd fall off the bike and we'd be told to get back on. Get back on and your feet will remember how to peddle! Well when our confidence is shaken, it isn't our feet that is holding us back!
That fear of falling off again, that fear of crashing, that fear that we can't do it...this holds us back, and that is the story of me and writing. Writing is the craft I've always loved most, and yet it is the one thing I have always been terrified of pursuing. Put me in any corporate board room, with any Fortune 500 CEO, and I have no fear. Ask me to submit a small paragraph to a local community newsletter and I freeze. I lose my words. I lose my voice.
And as a writer, that's all I have.
To write this blog, I racked my brain to remember what tragic event instilled this deep paralyzing fear... In the second grade, I won prizes for my wallpaper-covered short story books. In high school, I won a college scholarship for an essay I wrote about Israeli-Arab relations. In college, I got an A on every paper I wrote, and accolades in my poetry and creative writing classes...and then I applied to write a column for the Michigan Daily, and they rejected me. They crushed my heart, and that was it - the pain was too grave, the scar too deep... I decided I was meant to write for business, not as my business.
13 years into my career, I still long to be a writer. And so, as my birthday gift to myself, I began this blog. And as those of you who have been loyal readers know, I was keeping it up pretty well. Then, on Rosh Hashanah, just hours after I boldly claimed on this blog that this year, I was going to take control of my life and conquer my dreams, one of my cousins said at dinner, "All bloggers are narcissists." While I tried to keep my head upright, and my confidence strong, I ran to the bathroom and cried. It was 10 minutes before I came out. And now 6 weeks since posting my last blog entry.
Well shame on me. I can't let one paper or one person's rejection hold me back. Yes, it's personal, and yes, it's deep, but no - they can't hold me back. I can't hold myself back.
I share all of this with you because maybe you have fears that are holding you back. Maybe you've been told that you shouldn't pursue your dreams, or that there's something wrong with you for having them in the first place. Maybe you've been paralyzed too and need some encouragement to get back on your horse. It's time for you too. I'm not a narcissist for writing this blog, and there is nothing wrong with you, or your vision for your life. Your dreams are your gift from G-d, your unique purspose that only you can fulfill.
The question is, what are we going to do with this gift? Will we hide from it in fear, shuffling through our days like zombies, clocking in at 9, and out at 5, sucked dry of our creative energy? Or will we face that fear head-on, and get back on that horse whenever rejection knocks us off? We must. We must get back on. For when we don't, our vision still haunts us. In our dreams, in our waking hours, in the faces of our children.
In a live recording about her book, "The Artist's Way" Julia Cameron discusses a conversation she had with a 40+ year old who wants to learn to play the piano. She says to Julia, "Do you know how old I'll be when I finish my lessons?" Julia says, "The same age you'll be if you never take them."
And so, I'm back on this horse. I'm 35, not 25, and one day (G-d willing), I'll be 45. And hopefully then, I can say that when I fell off the horse, I got back on again. And again. And again. And kept riding toward those dreams... I hope you will too.
But it's time to get back on. Fear has been holding me back, and let's face it, Fear Sucks. When we were kids, we'd fall off the bike and we'd be told to get back on. Get back on and your feet will remember how to peddle! Well when our confidence is shaken, it isn't our feet that is holding us back!
That fear of falling off again, that fear of crashing, that fear that we can't do it...this holds us back, and that is the story of me and writing. Writing is the craft I've always loved most, and yet it is the one thing I have always been terrified of pursuing. Put me in any corporate board room, with any Fortune 500 CEO, and I have no fear. Ask me to submit a small paragraph to a local community newsletter and I freeze. I lose my words. I lose my voice.
And as a writer, that's all I have.
To write this blog, I racked my brain to remember what tragic event instilled this deep paralyzing fear... In the second grade, I won prizes for my wallpaper-covered short story books. In high school, I won a college scholarship for an essay I wrote about Israeli-Arab relations. In college, I got an A on every paper I wrote, and accolades in my poetry and creative writing classes...and then I applied to write a column for the Michigan Daily, and they rejected me. They crushed my heart, and that was it - the pain was too grave, the scar too deep... I decided I was meant to write for business, not as my business.
13 years into my career, I still long to be a writer. And so, as my birthday gift to myself, I began this blog. And as those of you who have been loyal readers know, I was keeping it up pretty well. Then, on Rosh Hashanah, just hours after I boldly claimed on this blog that this year, I was going to take control of my life and conquer my dreams, one of my cousins said at dinner, "All bloggers are narcissists." While I tried to keep my head upright, and my confidence strong, I ran to the bathroom and cried. It was 10 minutes before I came out. And now 6 weeks since posting my last blog entry.
Well shame on me. I can't let one paper or one person's rejection hold me back. Yes, it's personal, and yes, it's deep, but no - they can't hold me back. I can't hold myself back.
I share all of this with you because maybe you have fears that are holding you back. Maybe you've been told that you shouldn't pursue your dreams, or that there's something wrong with you for having them in the first place. Maybe you've been paralyzed too and need some encouragement to get back on your horse. It's time for you too. I'm not a narcissist for writing this blog, and there is nothing wrong with you, or your vision for your life. Your dreams are your gift from G-d, your unique purspose that only you can fulfill.
The question is, what are we going to do with this gift? Will we hide from it in fear, shuffling through our days like zombies, clocking in at 9, and out at 5, sucked dry of our creative energy? Or will we face that fear head-on, and get back on that horse whenever rejection knocks us off? We must. We must get back on. For when we don't, our vision still haunts us. In our dreams, in our waking hours, in the faces of our children.
In a live recording about her book, "The Artist's Way" Julia Cameron discusses a conversation she had with a 40+ year old who wants to learn to play the piano. She says to Julia, "Do you know how old I'll be when I finish my lessons?" Julia says, "The same age you'll be if you never take them."
And so, I'm back on this horse. I'm 35, not 25, and one day (G-d willing), I'll be 45. And hopefully then, I can say that when I fell off the horse, I got back on again. And again. And again. And kept riding toward those dreams... I hope you will too.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
New Jobs NOW
With so much talk of casinos and the Cleveland Medical Mart, is there a “Silver Bullet” to creating new jobs NOW in Cleveland Plus?
Last week, Jay Miller of Crain’s Cleveland Business wrote an article called “Coming Attractions” about Team NEO’s work. It is our job at Team NEO to attract new jobs to Northeast Ohio. This year alone, we’ve brought 749 new jobs to the region in the 5 new companies we attracted with our regional partners. In fact, since Team NEO began this work in January 2007, we’ve brought 3,000 new jobs in total. That’s $95 million in new annual payroll and $175 million in annual regional economic impact - createing incremental tax benefits and personal opportunities for families across the 16 counties of Northeast Ohio - just when we need it most.
Our work isn’t “sexy,” and you won’t find it on a ballot in November. We don’t run big billboard or glitzy television ads – frankly, we can’t afford it. The 3000 new jobs we’ve helped create were all accomplished with a modest $3 million annual budget. In case you’re counting – that’s a 20:1 Annual Return on Investment for the community. These efforts aren’t “Silver Bullet” activities. Rather, they are the combined, day-in and day-out efforts of Team NEO’s 15 hard-working staff people, our 6 chamber/economic development partners, 16 counties, our amazing funders, and the hundreds of communities that are tirelessly working to create new jobs every day.
We’re proud of our organization’s “results”. But more importantly, we’re honored to serve this great region of our 4 million neighbors by helping Northeast Ohio workers and families find long-term sustainable jobs NOW - and in the future
Last week, Jay Miller of Crain’s Cleveland Business wrote an article called “Coming Attractions” about Team NEO’s work. It is our job at Team NEO to attract new jobs to Northeast Ohio. This year alone, we’ve brought 749 new jobs to the region in the 5 new companies we attracted with our regional partners. In fact, since Team NEO began this work in January 2007, we’ve brought 3,000 new jobs in total. That’s $95 million in new annual payroll and $175 million in annual regional economic impact - createing incremental tax benefits and personal opportunities for families across the 16 counties of Northeast Ohio - just when we need it most.
Our work isn’t “sexy,” and you won’t find it on a ballot in November. We don’t run big billboard or glitzy television ads – frankly, we can’t afford it. The 3000 new jobs we’ve helped create were all accomplished with a modest $3 million annual budget. In case you’re counting – that’s a 20:1 Annual Return on Investment for the community. These efforts aren’t “Silver Bullet” activities. Rather, they are the combined, day-in and day-out efforts of Team NEO’s 15 hard-working staff people, our 6 chamber/economic development partners, 16 counties, our amazing funders, and the hundreds of communities that are tirelessly working to create new jobs every day.
We’re proud of our organization’s “results”. But more importantly, we’re honored to serve this great region of our 4 million neighbors by helping Northeast Ohio workers and families find long-term sustainable jobs NOW - and in the future
Friday, September 18, 2009
New Year: Renewed Spirit
After my last post, a few of you seemed a bit concerned that I was becoming depressed about my 35-year-old life. No worries. I actually feel pretty amazing. Yes, I have fears and regrets and doubts, but I also have a deep appreciation for all that is Good - including my fears, for I'm allowing them to motivate me. I realize so fully now that time is short - and therefore, we must pursue our dreams NOW.
Isn't that the mantra of a new year? New resolutions, new promises, renewed spirit? The beauty of growing older is that we come to know and love ourselves more completely. We become more comfortable in our own skin and more peaceful in our hearts. And yet, we also realize that we have less time to enjoy this new found peace.
And so I enter this new Jewish Year, 5770, with this wonderful awareness and with clear intention. I enter it with the realization that I am in charge of my own happiness. I enter it knowing that with a little help from G-d, I can make my dreams true. I enter it with an open heart and open mind and prayers for peace. I enter it so appreciative of the Love around me - of family, and friends, and colleagues. I enter the year grateful for this blog, that is allowing me to pursue my passion, and share my innermost thoughts, and I am even more appreciative of all of you readers, for sharing with me in return. I am so blessed.
Have a Rockin' new year! L'shana tova.
Carin
Isn't that the mantra of a new year? New resolutions, new promises, renewed spirit? The beauty of growing older is that we come to know and love ourselves more completely. We become more comfortable in our own skin and more peaceful in our hearts. And yet, we also realize that we have less time to enjoy this new found peace.
And so I enter this new Jewish Year, 5770, with this wonderful awareness and with clear intention. I enter it with the realization that I am in charge of my own happiness. I enter it knowing that with a little help from G-d, I can make my dreams true. I enter it with an open heart and open mind and prayers for peace. I enter it so appreciative of the Love around me - of family, and friends, and colleagues. I enter the year grateful for this blog, that is allowing me to pursue my passion, and share my innermost thoughts, and I am even more appreciative of all of you readers, for sharing with me in return. I am so blessed.
Have a Rockin' new year! L'shana tova.
Carin
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