you're doing pretty well, he said ....

We know when we've reached the end of our own capacities. When just a little more is too much. When the need to stretch again becomes the pending snap.

I had already reached the end of the possible within the admittedly not-sufficiently capacious me, when I learned that I would be heading out of town for a one-day business trip. I was to be on a plane by 7 AM and in a new city by 9:30, ready to go, to take notes, to consult, to be a grown-up. Wise. Calm. Helpful. The named day (yesterday) dawned dark and cold.

I hadn't slept.

By 4:45 AM, I was scraping recalcitrant ice from the car; it wouldn't budge; my vision would be periscoped. By 5:00, I was at the gas station, my hands glued to the pump by ice crystals. The gas pump clunked and rattled. No gas flowed. At another icy pump, I began again.

By the time I reached the airport, I found myself in the company of a surprising number of early risers. By the time I got through security, I had to run—all the way through the airport and down to the shuttle bus, which would take me to the F terminal, from which my little plane was scheduled to ascend. I made it in time. I sat down in a slump. I could not find my keys.

You know that rising panic. That dump-everything-out-of-your-bags-and-your-pockets panic. That thing you do in which you mentally retrace every step and begin to imagine terrible things. That was me. The rising panic in the woman who was already gone. The woman who was supposed to be collected, calm, and strong.

I made the calls, I talked to security, I did what could be done. And then I paced up and down the terminal, for the little plane was late. It was then that I saw my friend Julie Diana, a principal dancer of the Pennsylvania Ballet, in an airport display, and just seeing her, just remembering her beauty and her grace, was the thing that calmed me down.

When the tiny plane showed up and we boarded, a kid in a knitted cap sat beside me. An architecture student from Harvard, headed home, he said. We began to talk as the plane filled. I began to move things around. And from who knows which pocket, which hidden place, which silent-during-the-panic cove, those lost keys rained down.

I looked at the student and made some kind of wooting sound. He looked at me and smiled. "I bet you think you're sitting next to a crazy woman," I said.

"You're doing pretty well," he said, "for someone who thought she lost her keys."

Read more...

Handling the Truth: The Shelf Awareness Review (oh!)

Last night, as I sat waiting for the curtains to rise on the 50th season of Pennsylvania Ballet—as I sat waiting, especially, for the gorgeous (inside and out) Julie Diana and her wonderful husband, Zachary Hench, to dance "Diamonds," a piece I had watched them rehearse a week or so before—I thought, Stop, Beth. Live this moment. Don't let it rush by.

I sat on the edge of my seat. I sat watching through streaming tears. This ballerina and her husband and that corps. The exhilarating precision and grace and humanity of it all. When art finds you, let yourself be found. Stop hurrying. Be.

Oh, how they danced. How exquisite Julie is. How other-worldly talented is her Zak. How right they are together.

This morning, too, I am stopping. I am putting aside the hurry of corporate work for just this hour and allowing myself to feel grateful for the journey I have lately been on. So many of you have been so kind to me, and have I thanked you enough? I have met such interesting people along the Handling the Truth way. Just this week I talked to the great Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, and now I look ahead to weekend conversations with Liz Rosenberg (at Big Blue Marble Bookstore, in Mount Airy) and fellow memoir summitters (at Rosemont College). I look ahead to a fantastic, multi-tiered event at Bank Street in New York City, created by the Ambassador of Children's Books (my title for her), Jennifer M. Brown, and to a conversation with Dani Shapiro as part of the First Person Arts Festival. I look toward a conversation at Kelly Writers House (and a radio recording) and a conversation on behalf of Kelly Writers House (off Rittenhouse Square), and to more workshops, and to my upcoming road trip with the fabulous A.S. King, as we join the Pennsylvania Library Association (and others of our writing friends) in western Pennsylvania.

In any life, this would be a lot. In my life, it is huge. And again: Have I thanked all of you enough?

My gratitude is here. My gratitude is huge. And I am giving this particular hour over to my gratitude (not a big enough word) to Jennifer M. Brown, who has just now posted this beautiful review of Handling the Truth in today's Shelf Awareness. Jenny and I, we just love books. We can't help ourselves. And I adore Jenny. That's just how it is and will be.

My cup runneth over.

Read more...

Going Behind the Scenes at PA Ballet, and thoughts on my journey at the Philadelphia Inquirer

It's been some eighteen months since dear Avery Rome first opened the door to me and so many other talented writer friends at the Philadelphia Inquirer. We were invited to write about the things we loved, the things we saw, the things that we thought mattered. It was a gift. We seized upon it.

Later, under the direction of friend and editor Kevin Ferris, the stories continued. I wrote (for Avery and Kevin) about place—about Eastern State Penitentiary and The Woodlands, Chanticleer garden and Stone Harbor, the Wissahickon and the Schuylkill, the hip hop kids of West Philly and the legacies of Locust Walk, the avant garde artists of East Kensington and metalworkers in Port Richmond, the slant of light in Philadelphia and the chimes above my mother's grave at Valley Forge Park, the Devon Horse Show. I wrote about the city that is my enduring home. I cherished these opportunities.

Last Friday I had the opportunity to go behind the scenes as Pennsylvania Ballet rehearsed for the opening of its fiftieth season. I was there because fate had brought me there—because I had met Julie Diana, principal ballerina, at a University of Pennsylvania Association of Alumnae event (Julie is the president) and because our conversation carried forward.

The story I wrote and photographed is the story that appears in this Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer (in stores now). I held my breath all week long, praying that—in the wake of abrupt changes at the Inquirer—the piece would still be valued. I write these stories in celebration of those who have revived the city, those who live in the city, those who lift and transcend the city. I wanted—very much—to celebrate Julie Diana, her husband, Zachary Hench, and Pennsylvania Ballet.

I am enormously grateful to Kevin Ferris and his team for seeing this story through during a challenging week. I will forever be indebted to Julie, Zachary, Marissa, and the Ballet for a certain Friday afternoon.

The curtains are almost rising at Pennsylvania Ballet. Go. Be swept away.

The link to the story is now live.

Read more...

if you are in need of love today: Julie Diana and Zachary Hench Dance

Tomorrow I will have the great privilege of watching these two artists and others from the corps of the Pennsylvania Ballet prepare for the opening of the company's Fiftieth Season.

A deepest honor.

Read more...

On Meeting Julie Diana, Principal Ballerina, at Penn

I was still stuck in the maw of the unfinished business of my novel when I set out late yesterday for the University of Pennsylvania in that gloaming hour (a term that will always belong to my friend Alice Elliott Dark). I was to speak to the Alumnae Association. I had planned to share insights on my students, a few words from Handling the Truth, a glimpse into this novel that I'm writing.

I had planned. I was ready.

What I was not ready for was Julie Diana, who does not just lead the Alumnae Association, but dances as a principal ballerina for the Pennsylvania Ballet. And is a mother. And is a beautiful writer. And graduated from my university with highest honors.

No one had said, "Your hostess will be gorgeous." No one had said, "You will be meeting a star." They had all simply said, "Come and speak."

Sometimes, after journeying far—into the world, into yourself—the only thing that can save you is a good, whole soul. Julie Diana is a good, whole soul. For the invitation to speak, for our conversation last night, for being reminded (again) that fame doesn't necessarily have to be bound up with overt pride, that important people can be listeners, too, that dance is both a silencing and an opening—for all of that, I am grateful to Julie Diana and to the wonderful women of Penn, carrying on their legacies.

I am eager to see Julie dance on her own stage when the season opens.

Read more...

The week ahead

I'm headed into the Big Apple today (though not by way of clydesdales, sadly) to talk about the power of the Kelly Writers House program at Penn, to read with Kimberly Eisler, one of my truly talented students, and to witness the indomitable Al Filreis teach a poem (that should be something; hope he doesn't call on me).  Two days later, I'll head back down into Philadelphia to see my first Penn student, Moira Moody, say I do to the man she loves.  I'm banking on Dr. Filreis showing off some highly ecclesiastical moves at Moira's wedding. I'll take hip hop, too. Or even the cha cha.

By mid-week next week, I'll be spending the day at Chanticleer (the site of Ghosts in the Garden and Nothing but Ghosts)—teaching memoir to the aspiring writers of Agnes Irwin, thanks to the invitation of Julie Diana, who is not just the head librarian at Agnes Irwin, but the wife of the fabulous writer, Jay Kirk.  Thursday and Friday, back in New York, I'll spend some time with editor Laura Geringer and the glorious Egmont team; the book bloggers I have come to love; Amanda King, Gussie Lewis, and Jennifer Laughran, booksellers extraordinaires; and maybe even grab a few moments with Amy Rennert, my west-coast based agent with whom I often speak but whom I rarely see.

I am not, by nature, a sustainably social person, and so, when I return home next Friday evening, I'll be grateful that one of my very favorite events of the entire year—the Devon Horse Show—will have rolled into town.  We moved here in large part because the fairgrounds are just down the road, because these horses do trot by just after dawn, because I like few things more than walking through the shadows of stables, fitting my hand to a sweet mare's nose.  I like the sound of clop and whinny, the tinny music that accompanies balloon dart games and Ferris wheels.

Read more...