Flights of reality

"It is at once humbling and stirring to imagine just how expansive reality may be."
--Brian Greene in The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos

A few things happened in the past week to expand my own personal reality as well as cause me to appreciate the heck out of the reality we all inhabit. The first event was the occasion of my 37th birthday. The second was starting Greene's book, which is a straight-up scientific explanation of the cosmos in general and parallel universes in particular.

Now, Greene is no scientist-come-lately. He is a physicist at Columbia and a leading light of string theory. He is also a ridiculously lucid writer who opens up dense cosmology to even the most math-challenged audience. Not that you can dash through his prose, but his elegant sentences are a pleasure to parse, much like wonderful poetry or literature. I admire the care he takes with each word and analogy, so that there's hardly anything to unravel. General relatively, inflation theory and the concept of the cosmic horizon settle on the brain, then sink in deeper with every paragraph.

The result is startling. It's often hard to know where quantum mechanics leave off and philosophy (or religion) begins, as the above quote shows (though Greene would quibble mightily with the religion part). The nature of reality on a cosmic scale is so awe-inspiring and huge it challenges the very concept of what counts as real. Or, rather, what doesn't count as real. Because, as Greene points out, in an infinite universe, pretty much everything we can possible fathom is, in fact, happening somewhere. Everything is reality if you go out there far enough.

Which brings us to parallel universes, the subject of the book and a very favorite science fiction plot device of mine. There is something so viscerally compelling about reality itself being fluid and infinite. We make so many decisions every moment--most seem ordinary in the extreme, but are they? Books, movies and TV shows have explored the dramatic possibilities of turning left instead of right, saying yes instead of no. The whole plot of the parallel-universe movie Sliding Doors hinges on the merest seconds between Gwyneth Paltrow missing (or catching) a subway train. To think that these realms actually exist, that you are alive in an infinite variety of somewheres is unbearably cool. Greene provides the scientific explanation, starting with the nature of the universe (or multiverse) itself and going from there. Right now, I'm reading about the total insanity of the Big Bang and how the space for everything we know and can see with our eyes and telescopes (a fairly pedestrian definition of reality) came into being in about a millionth of a blink of an eye. Which makes the seconds between one decision and the next seem like a lifetime, to say nothing of all the years of an actual life.

Which brings us to birthdays. Now, the actual day itself was not an occasion for deep contemplation. I went to a nice dinner with colleagues and friends, drank prosecco, ate organic carrot manicotti and laughed a lot. But getting older in general (the days leading up to my birthday, with the number 40 coming up in conversation with noticeable frequency) has made the idea of parallel universes more intriguing, as well as leading to a greater appreciation of this reality. Because, when all is said and done, I would love to meet my other selves, but I wouldn't exchange this reality for a new one. At year 37, this is a good place to be.

When I do think of parallel universes, actually, I think of places where the lucky chances and spirit-filled moments in my life didn't happen--not a place where other, better ones did. This might be my own lack of imagination, but I'd like to think, for all my fangirl tendencies, I actually have a solid relationship with reality. The moment I come to most frequently is meeting my first editor at a church youth event in the summer of 1990. I almost didn't go to that meeting. I was exhausted and nearly slept through it. My life would be utterly different today. Many wonderful things that happened would not have happened. At the same time, several painful events would have been avoided. I wouldn't have it any other way, as interesting as it is to think of what would have come instead. Different joys. Different angst. Although the best of all possible worlds must also exist, the ups and downs of life are surely a universal constant. It's hard to willingly trade one for the other. (I hope I still feel the same way at 47, 57 and 97!)

One aspect of parallel universes that Greene probably won't explore is the concept of internal parallel universes, the ones we carry around in our heads. This is a delightful variation on the theme, as long as these alternative "realities" are celebratory rather than regretful. I'm thinking especially of a friend and former colleague, who once described his favorite parallel universe to me. Well, he didn't quite put it like that. Instead, he talked about the life he would be leading if he hadn't dedicated every molecule of his being to urban education and, instead, moved to New York City and became a designer. Now, there is nothing else this friend could be doing in this reality than urban ed. And at the same time, his other self was alive in a part of his mind. He described in minute detail the color scheme of this other self's Manhattan apartment, the philosophy of his design style, his fabulous social life. It was clear to me (and still brings a smile years later) that this other self was real in a meaningful way. At the same time, my friend was completely at peace with the decisions that relegated this sophisticated trend setter to the alternate reality of his imagination. The universe is full of infinite realities, yet we also keep our own universes with us. They keep us grounded or hopeful or entertained--and they are no less real (no more real?) than the vast expanse of space beyond the cosmic horizon.

The angst of Aquarius

I'm really glad they got that horoscope thing all cleared up a few weeks ago. As you may have done, I read the reports (or rather the rabid reactions to the reports, which first appeared in the Minneapolis Star Tribune) that the astrological signs we're used to are wrong. According to the alternative zodiac, I would not be an Aquarius, but a Capricorn, a sign as foreign to me as ancient Sanskrit and a lot less appealing. This is no disrespect to the Capricorns out there. But one becomes oddly attached to one's sign over the years, even if one doesn't give much credence to them, and you have to admit, Aquarius is a good one to have.

If I weren't an Aquarius, then I could no longer have Aquarius moments. This is the only way I can think of to describe (mostly in retrospect--I just thought about it this week) moments in my life when the most Aquarius parts of my personality collide with the big world out there. The result is often raised hackles (on my part) and abject bewilderment (on others' part) that far exceeds what would be reasonable for the given situation.

In almost any descriptor of Aquarii, the words idealistic, independent and intense pop up with some frequency, usually accompanied by phrases like strong convictions, place a high value on truth, and given to abstract intellectualizing. As overly general as they are, these phrases have a certain resonance that vibrates somewhere between 'pretty much accurate' and 'dead on' when applied to me, especially this week during my mid-year review at work.

This Aquarius moment can be put firmly in the category of "don't f#* with what's real." (Or places a high value on truth accompanied by both independent and intense). The long and short of it is this: I have yet to transfer my California credential to Texas. As a result, I received a substandard score on my review under the heading of "content knowledge."

Picture me in indignant tears, and my very wonderful assistant principal/supervisor absolutely flummoxed as she hastened to explain that it was a mere technicality and necessary according to the review rubric set out by the school. And though I heard what she was saying, the Aquarius in me was furious and hurt and tried to articulate that it wasn't the rating (who cares about the number), and it wasn't that I hadn't started the hoop-jumping to get my credential transferred (legit), but how dare they put it under the category of content knowledge? How dare they imply that I did not know my business, the very heart of what I do every day, which I love (and another part of the review rightly and gently reminded me to adopt perhaps a slightly less subject-specific focus whenever a schoolwide mindset would be apropos). Put it in any other category, but not that one. Never that one. And my AP, at a loss, because of all the reviews, mine was probably not the one she expected to be the very most dramatic, explained, yet again, and trying to be comforting, that no one actually thought I was "approaching expectations" in something I have already given three professional development sessions on this school year. She very much wanted me to 1) stop crying and 2) shrug and say, "Oh, I know. I don't doubt you or me for a second--and I will definitely get on that credential thing." Which I eventually did because that is the only way to deal with an Aquarius moment in polite company. But what I wanted to say was, "This is bigger than a number on a paper. You are f$#-ing with what's real. If we start letting technicalities mess with reality, who knows what will happen!" But to explain that I was upset because of my philosophical (and perhaps astrological) relationship with the truth--and not because it was a 2, would have been too hard and, let's face it, weird. So, I took my Aquarius self to yoga instead. Then had some ice cream.

I don't know if other signs have the equivalent of Aquarius moments, but I know that almost everyone is deeply attached to the truths that are in them, whatever they may be. Trying to figure out how to go forward with one's own when they knock up against the truths (or technicalities) of others is a big deal. People in power do this poorly, as a rule. Witness the current Congress. The thing is, it's important to keep thinking about how to do this well--and that's not just my Aquarius talking. (OK, it is my Aquarius talking, but it doesn't mean it's wrong!) When colliding truths affect others is when ALL the problems start, at every level of interaction, which is ultimately why I went to sweat for 90 minutes in a hot yoga room rather than march down to my principal's office. The truth in my review matters not at all in the grand scheme of things. The truth, though, of--just for example--the importance of writing instruction in the curriculum or (in a related matter) the academic wasteland that are standardized tests or whether or not anyone is going to stop talking about making public education better and start doing something other than slashing money for schools throughout the country--those are other questions entirely.

During my review, I was embarrassed, actually, because I've been thinking a lot about healthy ways of dealing with difference, especially since reading that article on moving closer to difficult experiences rather than stepping away--as is our instinct. (See the "Get a Little Closer" post from Nov. 21 for the link to the article.) I've been looking forward to tiptoeing near issues that scare/intimidate/challenge me and seeing how close I can get, imagining myself as an intrepid explorer and the issues as rare wild beasts. So much for my fantasies of zen tolerance. But I'll keep trying because the Aquarius in me knows that is surely must be possible. Someday. With enough practice. Right? Check the box marked idealistic and call it a day...

The bonus adult train

My 35th birthday was a bitch. Even nearly two years after that milestone, I still feel grateful to be free of the angst of that time. For me and perhaps for you, 35 marked the end of being young, meaning that I was no longer building the foundation of my adult life. The foundation, like it or not, was set--and I mostly liked mine. But the fact that I was not a mother and didn't want to be one was a point of profound uncertainty. What would I build on the foundation I had laid in my 20s and early 30s if I was not a parent? Would it be a worthy structure, would it "count," if it did not involve a crib and a car seat? Was I selfish? Would my life mean anything if I didn't contribute a few new members to the next generation?

It was in the midst of this turmoil that I remembered the words, years distant, of a friend and mentor of mine. I was probably 19 or 20, fresh out of the closet, and she was probably in her late 40s. I asked if she and her longtime partner (who was in her 30s) were planning to have kids. This was sometime in the mid-1990s when lesbians were first having babies all over the place. My friend said no. Then she said something that would change my life 15 years later. (Isn't it amazing? We never know when this will happen!) She said, "No, I don't think so. We are going to keep ourselves available. You know, in case we're needed." She then went on to speak of her various nieces and nephews, all young children at the time. The implication was that if any of those kids needed a home, hers would be open to them, just in case.

As I sat in my apartment in Abu Dhabi two years ago, mourning the loss of my youth, these words somehow combined with a few articles I had read concerning the evolutionary reasons for homosexuality. Turns out gayness is a big conundrum, now that everyone has stopped believing it's a pathology. Cause if it's not (and let me emphasize that it most certainly is not. I mean, really...), then it has to have stayed in the gene pool for a good scientific reason. This reason, many believe, concerns the need (apparently true for all species, not just homo sapiens) for bonus adults, adults that do not reproduce but still contribute to the society in meaningful ways.

I latched onto this in the depths of my drama, and the rightness of it gave me strength. I was not selfish or devoid of meaning. I was fulfilling my evolutionary destiny! (Cue the soaring trumpets!) But then I got to thinking about life in the 21st century and how being childless no longer has anything to do with one's sexual orientation. Nor has it historically, if you think about it for a few more seconds. (Plenty of closeted people throughout the ages have had kids.) The point is bonus adults are needed, regardless of who they are or who they sleep with. Evolutionarily it makes sense--and always has--to have non-reproducing adults in the system. They are needed to make things run smoother and also, I would argue, to perform vital tasks that parents are unable to do in great numbers.

Take the religious institutions of the Middle Ages. Those monks and nuns did a lot to keep knowledge alive and communities stable through those tumultuous centuries. They were all of them bonus adults. At that time, whether you were a lord or a serf, you needed to work very hard to provide for your offspring. You didn't have time to copy manuscripts and hide them from the Vikings, among other things. I wouldn't go so far as to say the whole of Western Civilization as we know it rests on the backs of the bonus adults of the Dark Ages, but they kept the flame alive in a meaningful way. This trend continued in religious life and other key institutions (for a long time scholars and college professors were expected to be celibate--or at least unmarried). Interestingly, the man who laid the foundations for modern genetics, Gregor Mendel was himself a Augustinian monk and childless.

Now, the last thing I want to imply is that parents are incapable of great things. This is NOT what I'm saying. For every bonus adult of note, there are countless greats who did have kids. But both things can be true at once: bonus adults can be needed and necessary AND parents can also contribute to the society beyond just parenthood. Clearly.

Yet only one half of this equation is widely recognized. The value of parenthood is universally and appropriately respected. As well it should be! But the role of bonus adults is not celebrated in the same way, despite the contributions these folks have made throughout history. There is no acknowledgment of how much we, as a society, need bonus adults whether they be gay or straight. And no corresponding obligation that being childless should involve more than being a SINK or a DINK (single/double income-no kids). Giving legitimate props to bonus adults, rather than urging them to become parents themselves or wondering why they don't, will encourage more involvement, a greater sense of belonging and, likely, fewer dirty looks on airplanes and in restaurants.

I don't mind explaining why I don't feel called to have kids. But I'd rather not have to. I'd rather be able to say, "Actually, I'm a bonus adult" and have people understand what that means. I'd rather not have people compliment me by saying I'd make a good mother, and rather have them compliment me on my decision to help educate the next generation in a manner that is difficult (though certainly not impossible) for a parent to do. I'd rather have everyone acknowledge the role bonus adults have played in their lives and in our common life through the ages.

We might be a long way from that. But, in the meantime, I have embraced being a bonus adult as part of my identity. As my 37th birthday fast approaches, I feel a great sense of peace about growing older and into my not-young adultness as a fully contributing member of a society that needs me not to have kids as much as it needs people who do.

If you know any bonus adults, give them some love today. If they are struggling with their bonus adultness, let them know how much they are needed. Take the advice of our national bonus adult, Oprah, who works tirelessly on behalf of children and families in a way she might not be able to do as a parent. She says, "The whole point of being alive is to evolve into the complete person you are intended to be." Words to live by for everyone, parents and bonus adults both.

PS: I never give dirty looks in restaurants or on airplanes.

Abide with me

Much of my first year teaching lives in my memory as a barely coherent mass of feelings (mostly terror and inadequacy). So it seems hardly credible that I can remember the seating charts for all three of my classes. Yet when I close my eyes, I can still conjure up the light-filled classroom off Third Street in San Francisco, the sound of construction of the not-yet-built Third Street light rail humming in the background. I see the green rug, bookshelves in their nook and the rows of hand-me-down, flip-top desks. I know the name of each child sitting in those molded plastic chairs, and, if I squint, can make out each 10-year-old face. Any teacher's first class of students is special. Mine perhaps more so because the students in the amber stillness of my memory aren't just my first class. They were the first class of students at a brand-new school in a then-brand-new network of charter schools founded on the radical notion that children from low-income, poorly served neighborhoods can go to the college. If only they have more time to learn, and teachers who expect their best and won't give up until they get it.

Fast-forward eight years. That brand-new charter system now has 99 schools, not a scattered handful, and is on the lips of every politician, superintendent and documentary filmmaker as a byword for school reform. That brand-new school is going strong and has graduated four classes of students. And those 10-year-old faces are seniors in high school, young men and women, many of whom are about to become the first in their families to attend college.

I saw some of them this past weekend at an alumni reunion. It is impossible for me to speak with any sort of dispassionate distance about these children--I mean, practically grown people. The same holds true for my fellow teachers. The nature of the work of all five years spent at the school, but especially that first year, has lodged pieces of my former students and colleagues into every corner of my being, so that they feel a part of who I am. A popular metaphor in our charter network frames the journey toward college as a climb up a mountain. Some days felt like scaling Everest in a blinding snowstorm, or clinging to a rock ledge above a 1,000-foot drop. Or dangling from a cliff face in a howling wind. Or...you get the idea. Try going through that and not developing a sense like the one I had in the school gym on Saturday, that we were still somehow all roped together, even after all these years.

I had never been to a reunion before. In fact, I hadn't been back to the school at all until this past summer (and then just to be in the building. No kids were there at the time). I had no illusion that living across the world for two years would sever the ties that bound me to the place, but I needed the distance of space as well as time to lessen the pull.

When I came back to see the students, I was expecting the hugs, smiles, delightfully long lists of colleges, high school updates and fond memories. And all of that occurred in so many wonderful ways. My eyes drank in the sight of them. It had been a very long time. Yet in between all of the faces that were there, I also saw the empty spaces of those who weren't. I wasn't expecting that, but it was a good reminder of the reality that bound us all together in the first place.

Climbing the mountain isn't just a cute metaphor, and my allusions to battling the elements earlier wasn't just hyperbole. Today in America, being the first person to go to college in your family truly is a struggle of Himalayan proportions. Don't doubt it, even for a minute. The students who made it to the gym on Saturday, literally and figuratively, fought through more than the typical storms of middle school, and are fighting, still to negotiate college application fee waivers and scholarships and the daily struggle of going to high school in a state that already spends a criminal $4,500 per student and is slashing even that. There were very few parents at the reunion. Most kids came alone or in groups, on public transportation, just as they came to school as students, just as they continue their climb now. This is not to say they aren't supported at home. But blazing a trail by its very definition means setting out on your own.

There are more people on the rope now. The charter network is working hard to set up base camps up the mountain with college counseling, campus visits and constant reminders. And naturally each kid has developed their own support team, as all of us do. Three of my former students (ALL taller than me now!) are already planning to go together to the same college and continue to support each other, as they are doing now at the local public high school. Another girl, also in 10th grade, is already applying for scholarships. A draft of her latest essay reads, "Many people in my neighborhood only attend high school, hang on the streets, and get involved in the wrong crowds, due to the lack of higher education. This is not who I want to be. By going beyond high school, I will be different."

Eight years ago, we set out to be different. We had no idea if any of it would work. At that point, no one did. But we started by doing what every school in our network still does to this day. We told the kids what year they would "climb the mountain to college" and referenced it so many times they could rattle it off without thinking twice. Now 2011 is here, and it may be the last milestone we walk together, or it may be the beginning of another journey, another mountain. If it makes any sense at all, I have a feeling the rope will hold.

Irish enthusiasms

Traveling to Northern Ireland this Christmas was totally delightful. Maybe it was because I spent time with my nephew, who sort of pulses with barely contained joy, as only a three year old can. His newest thing (copied from adults in the spirit of the season) was to exclaim in his adorable Irish accent, "I love this! It is just want I wanted!" Even if it wasn't, as in the case of the delicious (but decidedly exotic) shrimp burritos my Boston brother-in-law whipped up one night. Even if Adam didn't try a single bite, you couldn't fault his enthusiasm.

I felt the same way many times during the vacation. In the moment, however, it was rarely appropriate to gush. (Culturally, Northern Ireland is perhaps less stiff-upper-lip than England, but it definitely lacks the emotional, Danny-boy vibe of the republic to the south.) So I'm going to gush now.

More cool things about (Northern) Ireland:

Singing priests! Maybe you have heard them on the radio--three priests from the Belfast area who have taken the international classical music charts by storm. Turns out, one of them is the parish priest at the Catholic church where my Irish brother-in-law sometimes attends. So our family rolled into midnight mass on Christmas Eve and were treated to a service sung by the church-music equivalent of Bono. He did have a wonderful voice. My mom was beside herself, having heard them on the classical music station in San Francisco all through December. We found out later that the singing priests were the top-selling artists on the US Billboard Traditional Classical chart in 2010, though are keeping it real in the diocese. The midnight mass we attended was filled with local parishioners, not autograph seekers. (In fact, my mom may have been the only groupie there...) The priest on the right is the one we saw.

Festive Christmas tea! Nothing beats a traditional English tea: little sandwiches, scones and clotted cream, dainty desserts. Unless that tea also comes accompanied by a glass of prosecco. My Irish sister, mom and I went to tea at the Merchant Hotel in Belfast, and you should, too, if you ever find yourself in town. The domed lobby doubles as a tea room, complete with comfy chairs covered in chintz and red velvet, all beneath an elaborate Victorian chandelier. The tea things come on those layered trays, and everyone gets her own teapot full of loose-leaf tea. At Christmas, the whole thing comes with the aforementioned glass of prosecco, the main selling point in my book. English teas are done to death for tourists, I realize. Sort of like eating clam chowder at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco or a hot dog on the streets of Manhattan. But I can safely report that we were the only American accents I could hear in the place. The tables next to us were filled with real British people (or at least real British tourists) enjoying their traditional meal with an extra-elegant twist.

Peat! They sell peat in the grocery store! Real peat that presumably real Irish people still use to heat their homes. Why is this so cool? Because peat is such an ancient fuel and makes me think of skeletons, thousands of years old, recovered fully preserved in peat bogs with all their belongings intact, as if they had just stepped out of their hut the day before. The fact that people still burn peat connects us to that time somehow. These days it comes in pressed bricks which sell for about 3 euro each.

Jacksons' pies! Here in the States, we don't really do meat pies, unless you count frozen potpies, anemic and distant cousins of the robust and delectable meat pies of the British Isles. And the most delectable of all come from Jacksons Butchers in Ballynure, Northern Ireland. My Irish sister lives literally around the corner from this nirvana of meat. Years before it was trendy, Jacksons was buying local, grass-fed, organic meat, butchering it with the greatest of skill and selling it at reasonable prices. In fact, they apologized profusely to my sister, who ordered a turkey (out of season over there) to celebrate American Thanksgiving this November. The man was bereft because the bird came from 20 miles away. My sister didn't have the heart to tell him that most American Thanksgiving turkeys travel hundreds if not thousands of miles to get to the dinner table.

Jacksons' pies (beef and onion or chicken and mushroom), peat for sale, fancy tea and singing priests are enough to bring out the three year old in anyone. Or at least in me. I loved them all--they were just what I wanted.

Yes for the new year

Tis the season for New Years resolutions, a tradition I firmly support but feel a bit flummoxed by this year. Maybe it's because the timing is off. As a teacher, my new year started in August and was duly accompanied by a flurry of heartfelt goal-setting in the January 1 vein, such as exercising regularly, eating right and not working all the damn time. And, now that it's the official new year, I can look back on said resolutions with a sense of accomplishment. I'm doing Bikram yoga 4-5 times a week every week I'm in town, have been eating reasonably well (excellently, if you don't count the frozen burritos for lunch almost every day) and have arrived at a work-life balance that might strike non-teachers as pitiful, but has me throwing myself a metaphorical party every time I think about it. Not that my life isn't in constant need of the kind of renewal things like resolutions inspire, but I'm humming along fairly well with the ones I have.

This is new for me. This year is definitely the first time in my life I've worked on my resolutions well into the equivalent of May (since I set my goals in August rather than January). Something major has shifted since returning from the desert, and being able to fulfill personal objectives is only one of the benefits. I was thinking about this today while Facebooking with a friend, a teacher at another charter school in our network. This friend, let's call her Superstar, spent last semester working on her masters thesis, TAing a graduate class and teaching full time. Her TA job has ended, but she was bemoaning the fact that the time ("time") she now has was already being filled with other commitments at her school. "There always seems to be something, and it's so hard to say no," she reported grimly--and I heard an echo of my own voice across the years. I knew Superstar was right: there will always be something. When your job involves serving others in an environment of scarcity and great need (ie: urban education), there will always be demands--and not just any demands: worthy, necessary, pressing demands. Demands that keep you awake at 2 a.m. and cause you not so much to say yes alot as to become a living, breathing yes to all comers. Which actually works for awhile and makes a lot of worthy, wonderful people happy. Until it becomes all you are. Then you're more like a not-breathing, living-dead yes zombie. Not surprisingly, that's when the problems start.

I realized as I read Superstar's message that I knew one of the ways out of this trap. You might know, too. You might be sitting at your computer, talking to the screen, as people do while watching horror movies. But instead of, "Don't walk into the dark, creepy room, you dumbass!" you might instead be saying, "Are you serious? Just tell those people no already!" The comparison to a horror movie is apt, given what can happen to a person who turns into a living-dead yes zombie, but--just like in the movies--it's not that simple. I could have told Superstar to buck up, say no, put your foot down, etc. But I suspected that wouldn't work. It didn't work on me in the slightest. I thought saying no was for people who didn't care enough to say yes.

So instead of telling Superstar to say no, I told her what worked for me (finally...it only took a year on anti-depressants and two years on the other side of the world). It's the same thing that's helped me keep my New (school) Years resolutions. She shouldn't start saying no; she should keep saying yes. Saying no is like standing still--the vacuum of unoccupied free time (as small as it is) remains, and nature abhors a vacuum. Saying yes always fills the vacuum. But Superstar shouldn't say yes to more demands on her time. Instead, she should say yes to ways that will help her feel more like herself and less like a living-dead yes zombie. That's what Bikram yoga did for me. My New Years resolutions were the right kind of yeses. At last. And once you start saying yes, as we all know, it's hard to stop.

When you think about it, that's what having a work-life balance is all about. It's not about having "time for me" cause, really, what does that mean? It's about achieving a balance between yeses to others and yeses to myself.

This is hardly breaking news. The self-help section at Borders is surely full of books that all say the same thing. But the emphasis on yes rather than no made a huge difference in making my new year happy, and it might for you, too. Here's to saying the right kind of yes in 2011!

Odds on Christmas

Q. How do you know it's officially a White Christmas?

A. Ask an Irish bookie.

Here on the frigid Emerald Isle, where the green rolling hills have been buried under several feet of unseasonable snow, whether or not it will be a White Christmas is not determined by the icicles dangling from every tree, but rather by the booking office. It states, in no uncertain terms that it will be White Christmas only if it snows on the actual day, regardless of the fact that the country is experiencing the lowest temperatures in 70 years. The odds currently stand at 4/1 of a single snowflake falling from the skies over Dublin on Christmas Eve (one assumes within the direct line of sight of a booking agent). The odds extend to 5/1 for Christmas Day itself.

The odds of my making it from Austin, Texas to Belfast, Northern Ireland felt considerably higher as I started off early Monday morning. I shudder to think what bookies would have made of my attempt to land at both Heathrow and Belfast City, as my itinerary boldly stated, when the latter was closed outright, and the former was operating at about 30% when I started out. By the time I got to Newark, the flights to London both before and after had been cancelled, but mine was still on the board, flashing "on time."

It was there that I met my Boston sister and brother-in-law (also making their way to Ireland for the family Christmas, though flying direct to Dublin) who got me into the Continental Presidents Club thanks to their status as people who fly a ridiculous amount and only on Continental. Have you ever been in one of these special club rooms in airports? I was amazed. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't the parallel-universe airport I experienced upon entering the unassuming sliding doors right off Gate 120. Here I was, thinking I was a sophisticated world traveler and had no idea that if you had enough money and/or traveled enough on the same airline, you could bypass the long line at Starbucks and the drafty chill of the terminal and instead settle into a comfy chair in a well-heated lounge, surf the Internet (free), while sipping on wine (free) and nibbling cheese, crackers, fruit and chips (free, and I hear some club rooms have a much more interesting spread). Maybe I should have cynically expected as much. But until Monday night at Newark Airport, I was a total innocent in the ways of elite airline travel.

The glass of wine surely did wonders for the flight across the Atlantic. We landed in the eerie dark of a northern European morning. (Seriously...it's weird when it's full dark and 8 a.m. Weird in a primal, visceral sense that makes me empathize with pagan sun rituals.) Heathrow was not the bustling crush of humanity it so often is. In fact, as I made my way to Terminal 1, more and more of my fellow travelers veered off until I was literally the only one winding through the security line switchbacks to get to the guy who takes your in-transit picture and checks on the infrared camera to make sure you don't have a raging fever.

• Him: Where are you going, then?
• Me: Belfast
• Him: Good luck with that.

The odds were steadily climbing as I rolled my bag to the other side of the barrier and joined a short line of other Terminal 1 hopefuls. The lady at the desk took one look at my ticket and waved me through. Two steps later, a guy asked my destination and sent me back. "Belfast City is closed." Sighing, I rolled back, only to be sent on by the lady again. "bmi 84 is going--and it's Belfast International that's closed, not City. Not yet." I tried not to feel the envious eyes of the other people in line as I, and I alone, wheeled my way into the terminal.

Heathrow Terminal 1 is a place I have spent some time. United flies out of there along with all flights to the British Isles and Ireland. So, between visits to family and and my two years in the Middle East, I have become somewhat familiar with Terminal 1, especially the Pret a Manger and the Giraffe Cafe. Let me tell you, on Tuesday morning, Dec. 22, it was a mere shell of its former self. A few pitiful forms stretched out on chairs (who knows how long they'd been waiting?) Some dads and kids browsed in the shops. There was no line at the Pret a Manger (a miracle in and of itself) and the departures board had a long list of red "cancelled" notices with just a sprinkling of "on times" or "delayed" in Christmas green.

bmi 84 was most definitely going out, a fact I hardly counted on until I was actually walking down the jetway. I had a window seat and a prime view of the few planes landing (mostly big 777s from faraway places) and even fewer taking off. So I was hardly surprised when the pilot came over the intercom and announced that, right as he was about to start the plane, he was told that Belfast City had closed (this was shortly after an announcement that we would be taking off, but he wasn't sure if we'd be able to land once we got there. None of us knew if this was a joke or not, though he assured us we had plenty of fuel...) The whole plane groaned in unison, but no one suggested we de-plane. bmi 84 was most definitely going. How long we had to sit on the runway was another question entirely.

Turned out to be only about 45 minutes--the best 45 minutes I've ever spent grounded. There's nothing like the prospect of spending multiple days in the confines of Terminal 1 to put a delay in perspective. Belfast City re-opened; we took off amid merry cheers, and landed into a startling red sunset over an arctic Ireland buried under at least two feet of snow. There were TV cameras waiting for us in the arrivals area, and a lot of families, like mine, relief warring with disbelief on their happy, holiday faces. I got interviewed by a radio reporter who asked me if I minded the delay.

• Me: Mind?! I feel like I've won the lottery!
• Reporter (somewhat taken aback): Oh? And why is that?

Because, dour British person, that's how it feels when you beat the odds, thread a very narrow needle of international air travel and slip into a country on the only plane that's landed in three days. Driving back to my sister's house in the suburb of Ballynure, the fat full moon looked especially stunning rising over the snow-blanketed hillside. I don't care what the bookies say, it looks like a White Christmas to me.