...and then there was one.

“twins!”

we stared intently, squinting to make sense out of the black and white blobs assembled on the screen.

“can you see them?”

“umm… i think?”— half-hoping that if i couldn’t, then they wouldn’t…be a thing. we were there for #2. but nowhere in my plans was there ever any inkling, an iota of thought, about a third.

my eyes were glued to the monitor as she clicked away, the cursor plotting points from end to end across two tiny, bean-shaped eggs.

for 26 weeks, i watched them grow—slowly transforming from tiny blobs into…life. hearts beating, arms waving, legs kicking. what was at first terrifying became both weird and wonderful. a crazy twist of fate that we came to not only accept, but embrace.

i looked forward to my weekly ultrasound visits as a chance to peek into this big, round belly and see the twins spinning, twirling, playing, a surreal glimpse into what was soon to be a very real part of our lives.

week 27. i got to the doctor’s office for a routine check-up, a day like any other day.

“let’s see how we’re doing!”

she slid the smooth ultrasound device across my belly, clicking away to capture the images.

not much small talk. strange…

baby A. click. click. click.

baby B. click. click. click.

back to baby A.

still no words.

in the room, usually filled with banter about how the rascals were moving so much that she couldn’t get a good view, the silence was deafening. i started to feel a sense of panic wash over me. my heart began to race. i tried to divert the attention, focusing on the muzac piping in through the office stereo. breathe in. breathe out. eyes welling up though nothing was confirmed.

after 10 minutes of staring at the ceiling, at the sink, at the floor—anything but the screen—the doctor entered the room.

“i’m sorry. one of the babies just stopped growing.”

and just like that, there was one.

“inexplicable.” “horribly sad, yet somehow meant to be.” all the things that people say (and you say to yourself) to deal with such a tragic loss.

when he stopped growing, there was a void, a hole, an emptiness, that with each day grew smaller and smaller thanks to the radiant bundle of energy and love and light that is my logan.

he was there. he was ours. he was part of our family. and then he was gone.

his name was luke.

flash forward to now. four years later, time has healed. i count my blessings every single day for the amazing family that fills me up, holds me up, and gives me meaning in this mad world.

but every time i hear that name, there is still a tinge, that feeling, the memory of someone that was a part of me, yet i never got to meet.

one day, my brother came over. he lives for horses. works so he can ride. it’s his sanity, clarity, grounding for his sometime frenetic tendencies. he lost his first horse suddenly to a freakish equine virus.

he too had a void to fill.

he spent every free minute scouring websites, viewing hundreds of videos of horses spread out across the tri-state area. after months of searching, he finally zeroed in on two. sirage was a regal fresian with an athletic build and an elegant gait. he was convinced that this was the one.

he put money down for the pre-purchase, arranged for the vet check, and planned the terms of the negotiation. in his mind, it was a done deal. dot the I’s, cross the T’s, and he would have his horse.

but in the days leading up to the purchase, things began to sour. the horse was slightly smaller than the standard. the seller became defensive, aloof, and refused to negotiate. what seemed so right felt now, in his gut, just wrong.

there were two choices…and just like that, there was one.

big brown eyes, the gentlest soul, a stunning yet serene presence.

“you can train a horse to ride, but you can’t teach him how to love. this one…he’s a lover,” said his previous owner, welling up as she stroked his soft, velvety nose.

this was it. the one. a new member of our family. and his name was luke.

was it a sign? a karmic signal from above? maybe. or was it merely a crazy, uncanny coincidence that brought him to us? probably.

all i know is that now, when i hear the name: “luke.” the tinge is replaced by comfort—a sense that maybe, after all this time, maybe it was “meant to be.”

shit happens

it was a carrie bradshaw moment. one of those days when everything just seemed to flow—to fall into place like a set of dominos tipping in perfect succession, one to the next, with seamless precision.

good hair day. great shoe day. bright green dress. and an even brighter mood. my to-do list was chock full but remarkably checked off by the end of the day. and i had just spent a couple of days enjoying quality time with remote coworkers who were in town for some much needed team bonding. the icing: a decadent swirlz cupcake surprise to celebrate a friend’s birthday, and leftovers to take home to my kids.

i left the office with hands full and heart happy. despite my heavy load—laptop in backpack, vince camuto hobo on one arm and giant box of cupcakes in the other, my spirit was light.

the sun was beaming on michigan avenue, casting its light on the already blingy storefront facades. i walked down the street, peering into windows and admiring the architecture, feeling a genuine sense that all was right with the world.

i got to the bus stop and assessed the situation. no sign of #66. the glass bus shelter was packed with people so i found a perch outside and squeezed in between the crowd of commuters.

the cupcakes were getting more cumbersome by the minute, but picturing my boys’ faces when i walked in the door eased the increasing annoyance.

i pulled out my phone to check the time. 5:35. “ok, should be any minute now.”

i slipped the phone awkwardly into the front pocket of my purse, trying to avoid bumping into the crusty contingent of commuters.

after a few minutes, the bus came into view. “thank god.”

as soon as it pulled up, the mass of humanity pushed forward. i’ve perfected the art of squeezing myself onto crowded trains and buses, so i used the jumbo box to block and tackle until i found a spot in the aisle, smashed between some shall we say unsavory neighbors. in defiance of my cardinal CTA rule, skin-on-skin contact was unavoidable.

without a free hand to stabilize myself by holding onto a pole or chair, i “surfed” in the aisle for ten minutes straight, bags strapped to my body, cupcakes in my arms, stilettos in full force. i was quite pleased that i managed to make it this far without biting the dust.

finally a seat opened up. relief. i made my way toward the back of the bus and sat down.

“aahhhhhh.” backpack off. cupcakes on lap. arms stretched. feet rested. now to settle in for some quality time with my phone.

i reached into the front pocket of my purse.

no phone.

somewhere, sometime, in the 20 minutes i spent waiting for and riding the bus, someone stole my phone. my brand new, 5-inch display, super HD, 13 megapixel camera, 2-week-old phone.

i looked around in a panic. checked. double-checked. triple-checked my purse. scoured all the stone faces searching for any signs of guilt. nothing.

“and all i wanted to do was bring cupcakes home to surprise my boys!?!”

i was devastated. livid. in utter disbelief.

when i finally got home, the icing: …yeah the icing was, well…

sad. damaged. melted. like my faith in humanity at that moment.

 “eat up!” said life, mocking my optimism and most likely my admitted food obsession too.

the moral of the story? (sh)it happens.

how’s that for uplifting?

but in all seriousness, as positive as i am about life and people, i was reminded of the sad truth: sometimes there is simply NOTHING you can do to avoid the shaft—the “why do i deserve this?” moments that beat you down. the karmic slap in the face or puddle splash on your white tutu and michael stars tank top.

you just have to get back up. as i tell my kids when they fall down, “brush it off. it’s ok to feel sad or mad, but sometimes bad things happen. you just have to accept it and move on.” 

whether skinned knees or stolen phones, pick yourself up. dust yourself off. keep fighting the good fight…and maybe throw in some phone insurance for good measure!

there may not be a silver lining in the moment. but there’s always another day.

a clean slate

it’s been 3 years, 4 months and 21 days since my first post. sounds like an AA introduction, doesn’t it? i guess in a strange way, this blog has kind of been like therapy for me. i started writing as a way to deal with challenges in my life—some extremely personal and others so massive and pervasive that they were simply out of my control.

“2009 was a rough year. from january thru december, i felt inundated by bad news. at the macro level, i was disgusted by the modern day robber barons pillaging our economy. hearing about how virtually every industry—from banking to healthcare to our food system—was rife with corruption, mismanagement, corporate greed and public deception. on the personal front, diagnoses of cancer for family members and close friends, job losses, financial woes, construction problems with our home, and the loss of a twin that i carried for 27 weeks, were the flavors du jour. the morbid headlines and personal tragedies left me with an overwhelming feeling: futility.”

i discovered that the process of writing was a way to cope, catharsis, maybe not always with a tangible solution at the end, but always with a sense of comfort, a flutter of optimism, or simply the vaguest reassurance that “everything’s gonna be alright.” with each post, i’ve reminded myself that even in the worst of times, you can always find the good, something to be grateful for, light amidst the darkness. and sometimes you just have to accept the bad and simply move on.

but a strange thing happened while i was on this journey. you—friends, family and even people i’d never met—joined me along the way. i came to realize that struggling to figure out how to make sense of the madness, how to be present, how to make moments count when we can barely keep our heads above water—is universal.

we all struggle with not having enough: time, energy, motivation, direction. we’ve all experienced loss, illness, sadness, loneliness. we all need reminders that the little things matter as much, if not more, than the big ones. we all know people who inspire us, expand our perspective, show us a different way of seeing the world. we all need to wipe the slate clean and as my friend joseph likes to say, “forgive ourselves” for all the stuff we want to do but haven’t, all the ways we perceive we’ve fallen short.

truth be told, i’ve been feeling guilty and stressed about how few posts i’ve written. it’s infrequent, sporadic, a classic case of what not to do when creating a relationship with readers. my only consolation: i suppose i’ve been trying to practice what i preach: being present in moments with family and friends, during travels and quiet times…trying to live versus just writing about it.

but over the past few months i decided it was time to invest in making the blog what i’ve always hoped it would be. i spent time reading through every single post (120 to be exact). i realized that though i have far from figured it all out, i do have a voice and perspective. “sea glass” is a way to share my lens for looking at the world. but now it’s much easier to search, seek, find and share, explore in ways that weren’t possible in the previous format.

the good news is that somehow i managed to eek out enough random hours, help desk emails, late evenings and early mornings to finally launch an upgrade. new look and feel. new facebook page (like the page for post updates). new twitter, instagram and pinterest links. and a renewed commitment to keep it going: more writing. more photos. more portraits. and hopefully a little more inspiration.

thanks for all your words of encouragement and support. knowing i’ve made a connection or struck a chord keeps me inspired…i hope i can do the same for you!

in the details

“don’t sweat the small stuff.” you remember the book, filled with tips on how to keep from letting the little things in life drive you crazy. no doubt, it served its purpose. for those of us stressed with the harried pace of life, the moral was clear: keep your perspective and don’t get consumed by trivial distractions that prevent you from cherishing the things that matter. 

but lately i’ve found that those big “things that matter” can also take their toll.  in a perfect world, we’d all spend our time languishing on nobler pursuits, like finding our passion, being good parents, spending quality time with loved ones, or even just pausing to self-reflect. they’re lovely ideals, but when we fall short, we bear the weight of those big things. they’re heavy. they can burden us. they threaten to make our weary legs buckle. we feel even more frustrated because we can’t seem to hold it all up.

that’s when i fall back on the little things. i’ve come to accept that in life, there will always be a certain ebb and flow to our productivity, our inspiration, our feelings of fulfillment or lack thereof. yet the little things remind us that all is not lost.

lately i’ve found a sliver of meaning in the least likely place: my daily commute. it’s minutes really, a half hour sliver that follows the frenzied morning scramble and precedes a deluge of emails and meetings, and tasks and to-dos.

for a brief moment each morning, it’s solitude. my time. and something strange happens when i step on the train. in a sea of commuters, i am calm. in my head, yet totally soaking in all that surrounds me. sometimes i get off at the right stop. and sometimes i don’t.

off the beaten path, sure i see the vistas, the sparkling expanse of city that lies before me. but my eye is also drawn to the corners, to shadows, to colors and textures—the oft overlooked details of the city as daylight breaks.

“god is in the details,” so mies van de rohe said. i think he’s right. i know it’s not much. in the scheme of things—of all i want to do or be—it’s not nearly enough. but it’s something.

steal moments just for you. trust me, it's hard, but as a friend recently reminded me: force yourself. in the car. on the train. take the long way. get lost. get found…a little goes a long way.

who carries you?

i’ve been thinking a lot about change lately. no matter how successful you are, how much you’ve achieved, how many things you have, as human beings, we’re all riddled with self-doubt. we watch, we compare, we follow others…and consequently we wonder…what am I doing? is it worth it? is there something more around the corner?

what pushes us over the edge? from doubt to determination. to stepping away from safety. to running toward risk. so much to lose. so much to gain. vacillation. inspiration. 

with change comes confusion. we whip out the pros and cons, weigh the benefits. for our most personal decisions, we often look solely within. we hole up. we retrench. we’re strong. independent. stoic soliders marching toward an uncertain fate. we linger, doubt, debate. we analyze and paralyze…and often fall back on the familiar. 

but if we’re lucky, we also discover an amazing gift. those who know us best can see it clearly. while we question, they believe. while we’re confused, they are confident. while we want to run, they stand firm. while we want to hide, they hold us up.

who carries you? who was there from the beginning? who will be there at the end? who believes in you as much—or more—than you believe in yourself? a spouse. a sibling. a parent. a mentor. a friend. just as we look to others to compare, don’t forget to share.

soul-searching means not only listening to the voices in your head and acting on the emotions in your gut…but also leaning on others to help you through. there's safety in numbers. security in knowing someone's got your back.

sure, “we are the ones we’ve been waiting for. we are the change that we seek.” it’s up to us to shape our destiny. and when a door opens, a few may simply plow through without hesitation. but for most, perhaps, a little more is needed. sometimes it’s a little nudge. sometimes it’s a lightening bolt. always it’s a catalyst for carrying you a step—or maybe even a leap—forward.

pushing through

portrait of my mom

when you’re struggling, dealing with a rough patch, it’s natural to feel lost, despondent, cynical of the so-called “grand plan.” you wonder how you’ll push through…but then you do. and one day, things take a turn. or maybe it’s not a single day, but a series of moments, strung together over a period of time, that help you realize you’ve healed, slowly. you’re wiser, and perhaps are stronger than you ever knew you were.

where does “it” come from—that drive to push forward when you just want to fold? in varying degrees, we all have inner strength. we get up every morning, put on our clothes, step out into the big, messy world, and get on with it. but going through the motions is not necessarily moving forward. bootstrapping it, carrying that burden on your own back, only takes you so far.

though you may not realize it, maybe “it” comes from somewhere else, somewhere deeper within.  from people who have touched your life: parents, grandparents, close friends, mentors. people who taught you how to be strong, by instruction or better yet, by example. 

when they’re gone, the lessons they taught stay with you. become a part of you. 

growing up, i always longed for the mother-daughter relationships i’d seen on TV. much to my chagrin, my mom was no florence henderson. we didn’t go shopping together, talk about boyfriends or crushes, share hopes and fears, discuss feelings.

but i knew what she was feeling. every day when i’d watch her roll up the sleeves of her white lab coat. when i thought of her, the youngest of 12 from a poor family in the philippines pursuing medicine when other women were busy perfecting their casseroles. when she’d spend as much time diagnosing patients as holding their hands for an extra minute or two. feeding them a bite of mashed potatoes and greyish green beans when they were too weak to do it themselves. bringing homemade noodles to the nurse’s station when the other doctors treated them like hired help. rolling in at midnight on a school night, waking us from a dead slumber and telling us to get dressed so we could grab pancakes at country kitchen, just so we could be together. taking phone calls and pages at all hours of the night—because that was what she did. who she was.

she was there to help. to heal. to lift people up. to prove, sometimes by sheer stubbornness and force of will, that somehow you can push through anything.

she did. and i do, because of her.

my mother.

sometimes the strength we have within is not just our own. but from those who came before us. those whose impact has become a part of us.

it always crushes me to think my kids will never know her…but maybe they will. through me.

looking through old photos today, my little one confirmed the suspicion.

“hey mommy, there’s you.”

i can only hope he’s right.

if you weren't afraid

"what would you do if you weren't afraid?" run a marathon? get a new job? lose weight? move to another city, or perhaps even another country? take up a new hobby? share a passion you’ve been keeping all to yourself?

every day, amidst the minutiae that clutters up our facebook feed, i see friends getting over the hump. going out on a limb. challenging themselves.

but what takes us over the edge? pushes us beyond the comfort zone?

i recently came across an interview in which oprah was talking to sheryl sandberg, the COO of facebook, about fear. what could the most powerful woman in the world, who makes a gazillion dollars, owns sprawling estates and hobnobs with the uber-elite celebs and leaders of the world, possibly be afraid of?

despite her astronomical success, she was entering into new territory: launching her own cable network, OWN. yet there she was, waking up in the middle of the night, terrified. whether this new venture would be a success or failure, she came to the realization that she had to be true to herself.

“all of us have that space where we are willing to get still because the world will try to tell you everything about yourself and we have so many voices in our heads and in our facebook pages telling us everything, but to know really what to do and how to be guided in your life, you have to go to that space [inside] where the bigger you, the greater you, resides.”

she referenced a question that sandberg had posed in a commencement speech at barnard college last year: “what would you do if you weren’t afraid?”

i think back to my life and experiences. every time i go to write a post, there is a little voice in the back of my mind saying: “who would actually care?” but i’ve learned to write—for me … and it’s liberating. if i allowed that fear or insecurity to overcome me, i’d have no voice. and that is simply not an option.

the process of creating—a post, a work of art, a career, a life—is about tapping into what’s true. to you.

it reminds me of my old agency. there i worked with an incredibly talented group of designers. whenever we had a design review, i’d watch with a mixture of sympathy and awe as they would tape their comps to the wall one by one, and the team (the creative director, the strategist, the writer and the techies) would huddle around the work and meticulously critique every execution. we’d spout off about how the imagery was off, the font was too boxy, the color palette needed tweaking, and the logo just didn’t “feel” right. and after the pile on was over, they’d scribble a couple random notes in a tattered moleskin, gather the marked up papers taped to the walls, and get back to it…only to repeat the process in a day or two as the deadline for the client presentation loomed.

one day, after a particularly brutal session, i bumped into a designer at the coffee machine.

“hey pretty rough meeting, huh?”

he shrugged his shoulders and stared glumly down at his black chuck taylors. “yeah.”

“i don’t know how you guys do it. sometimes it’s like you’re putting yourself out there only to get ripped to shreds.” i could relate since 9 times out of 10 it was my copy that was plastered up on that wall along with the pretty pictures.

“you know, sometimes it’s rough…but it’s all part of the process. the feedback really helps me resolve questions and explore possibilities—stuff i would never get to on my own.”

he was right. putting yourself out there means pushing yourself forward. it's the difference between good and great. settling versus striving. it’s risky. sometimes uncomfortable. it may take time and stumbles. and work and rework. but you might get to a place you never knew existed. you might find a voice you never knew you had.

there's a great quote by author marianne williamson: “our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”

what would you do if you weren’t afraid? whether you're motivated by honoring someone you’ve lost or filling a void or facing your fears or simply finding your way, tap into that fire within. and shine on.

a new day

i’ve been weeping all morning. the memorial coverage of the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks has been gut-wrenching. we can all remember exactly where we were, what we were doing, and who we were with when the gleaming twin towers were struck. the sheer terror and unprecedented trauma in our collective hearts lingered for months after, as the footage was replayed over and over and over again.

eventually the coverage turned from tragedy to triumph in the battle of good versus evil, us against osama bin laden. for those of us who weren’t in NYC during the time of the attacks, the image of those dreaded planes hitting, the smoldering fires and the mushroom clouds of smoke, ash, debris and human bodies crashing to the ground, was seared into our minds. yet the brutal reality—the devastating impact on human lives—years after the event, seemed to fade.

for many, the impact of 9/11 on our lives has been reduced to enduring the litany of political chest-thumping on TV, longer time spent in airport security lines, taking off shoes and submitting to body scans and the occasional pat down in the name of safety.

but today’s memorial coverage reminds us that, while the motive for the attacks was political, the impact from that fateful day was on people. from the unimaginable horror came honor. from every day human beings emerged true heroes and genuine acts of courage. that the very worst of times brought out the very best in each other. i was reminded, then and now—10 years later—that we are resilient.

the stories of 9/11 teach us that more than a country, a race, a religion, we are people. who need each other. who help each other. who show us goodness in the face of so much bad.

light in the darkest hour. last night we sat riveted to the TV screen watching a special on TLC entitled “9/11: Heroes of the 88th Floor.” the show recounts the utter selflessness and bravery of two “ordinary” men who risked their lives to save over 75 people when flight 11 hit the north tower, before dying on their way to save more.

better and stronger together, than alone. a heartbreaking, utterly inspiring account of the “9/11 babies 10 years later," who lost their fathers, but have discovered the deepest of bonds with the other kids who now call themselves “BFFWAD": Best Friends Forever Without a Dad.

lucky beyond measure. countless survivors shared stories of the devastating, eerie, war-torn scene surrounding the collapsed buildings. amidst suffocating smoke and debris, artifacts of daily life were strewn across the ground, papers floating in the air, schedules being trampled underfoot as people raced to get away from the carnage. the sense of powerlessness over your own life, your fate, was visceral…and yet, with that utter lack of control, there were examples of light. and hope.  the story of “stairwell B” recounts how a group of firemen went up into the burning north tower to rescue an injured woman on the 73rd floor, only to find themselves directly in the midst of the building’s collapse. miraculously, huddled together in a section of stairwell B, with the walls disintegrating around them and trapped under debris for 3 hours, they survived.

everyday heroes. “The photograph of the little girl in a red velvet dress with her late mother's NYPD Medal of Honor hanging around her neck and dangling past her knees tugged at heartstrings across the world. Patricia Smith was 2 years old then, when she walked across the stage at Carnegie Hall to accept the honor for her mother, Moira Smith, a New York City police officer who was killed in the Sept. 11 terror attacks that felled the twin towers in lower Manhattan. Smith, 38, was the department's only female police officer to be killed on 9/11. After helping people escape the burning buildings, she went back again and died when the south tower collapsed.” (abc news). now she is 12. her biggest wish for her mother to be a part of:  not her graduation, wedding or other major milestone. no, something much simpler: “to be part of a family dinner.”

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in my household, dinner time is often far from idyllic. food on faces and on floors. scowls about stir fry instead of mac and cheese. but i wouldn’t trade the chaos for anything in the world. 9/11 reminds us: life is about simple things. goodness. gratitude. little moments—perfect in their imperfection. cherish them.

food for thought

"almost everything--all external expectations, all pride, all fear of  embarrassment or failure--these things just fall away in the face of  death, leaving only what is truly important. remembering that you are  going to die is the best way i know to avoid the trap of thinking you  have something to lose. you are already naked. there is no reason not to  follow your heart." - steve jobs

this weekend marks the year anniverary of when i was hospitalized for viral meningitis. a year later, i am strong, healthy, blessed. it seems morbid to reflect on such a difficult time, but what a great reminder of gifts, often over looked. of dreams yet to be realized.

we have control over a certain sphere of our lives, and in the uncertain space beyond, there is room to leap. to fall. to risk. to live--and to leave--with no regrets.

in vino veritas

“in wine there is the truth.” it’s a latin phrase that refers to the remarkable ability of wine to bring out people’s true feelings. we’ve all been there before: several glasses in, feeling a warm glow, inhibitions wiped away…and the truth comes out—sometimes for the good, other times…well…you might just hope that the truth serum comes with a memory-eraser so you don’t have to relive the silly, embarrassing or awkward moments of truth spurred on by the multiple glasses of liquid courage you just consumed.

i’m sure about now you’re anxiously awaiting the sordid details of a wine-induced night filled with squirmy truthful confrontations or swinging from chandeliers…but alas, i must disappoint. 

this time i’m taking the high road, telling a wine tale of a different kind: about the “noble grape” and the truth it can teach us about ourselves.

several years ago, we went on a trip to napa valley. if you’ve never been there, it’s time to add it to your bucket list. it’s mind-blowingly beautiful with acre after acre of lush vineyards, the freshest, most vibrant produce you’ll ever eat, and rich napa stories of the people behind each unique winery.

we had been there several times so rather than the casual meandering of our previous trips, this time we had an actual agenda. the wine spectator ratings were logged, the route was mapped out, and our mission was to check out some of the best california cabernet wineries in the region.

for such a little valley (30 miles long), there are more than 45,000 acres planted to grapes in napa. we wanted to find out what made these wines some of the very best—not only in california, but the world.

we started out at rudd, a jawdropping estate in oakville. it was regal and elegant, with amazing gardens, a tuscan style tasting room and an intriguing ivy-covered hobbit hole that served as the entrance to their wine cave. past the massive sunflowers beckoning you in through the doorway, it was what you’d expect: beauty, refinement, a perfectly manicured epicurean experience.

next we hopped down the road to groth, where it was much more about education than elegance. though the property was pretty, it was here that we received a much deeper glimpse into the art and science of winemaking: the winemaker’s philosophy, the process, and the vast array of factors that go into making world-class wines. we took a tour and got up close and personal with a critical component of the winemaking process: the soil. mason jars filled with gravely dirt samples lined the shelves of one room. and when we walked through the dusty vineyard, the ground felt not lush and fertile as we had expected, but dry and in some places, rock solid.

we came to find out that over 2 million years ago, “the beautiful and serene napa valley was one of the most violent places on earth” from a geological perspective. “the ground on which we were standing was created by exploding volcanoes and fiery flows of molten rock, shattering earthquakes, upthrust chunks of primeval sea bottom and massive floods”—yielding some of the most mineral-rich soil for grape-growing.

in the oakville appellation, the 1.5 mile stretch where these two wineries sit, the poor, nutrient-deficient top layer of soil causes the vines’ roots to strike deeply into the earth in search of nutrition. at these depths, they are able to find enough moisture to sustain themselves.

making the twisty, twenty-minute trek up to pride mountain, a similar theme emerged. 2000+ feet up, the winemakers talked of rocky, volcanic soil, excellent for drainage and creating the perfect conditions to “stress the vines.” the dry soil forces the vines to push deeper to find sustenance.  the end result is smaller, more compact grapes with higher skin to juice ratio—ultimately developing the complex and concentrated richness of these wines. from gentle stress comes succulent flavors of black cherry, currant, blackberry, cassis, licorice, cocoa and even vanilla.

i loved the idea of such richness coming from rough circumstances. the tumultuous story of the soil yielding some of the most coveted treasures in the wine world. too much of a good thing (in this case water) leads to big, full grapes that lack depth and dimension. too little means poor grapes that fail to grow. the delicate balance of stress and diligent care yields the very best results.  

the truths i found, in winemaking as in life: out of stress, comes character and complexity. out of hardship, resilience. out of the need to survive, you can actually thrive.

back in the day, it took vision to see the potential in such rocky terrain. many of the people who came to napa had the optimism, passion and appreciation for what this heavenly stretch of land could hold. today the inspiration still rings true. these tough little grapes remind us that to truly enjoy the sweetness of life we must also ensure some struggle:

“walk with dreamers, the believers, the courageous, the cheerful, the planners, the doers, the successful people with their heads in the clouds and their feet on the ground. let their spirit ignite a fire within you and leave this world better than when you found it.” - wilfred peterson (from the “rudd story”)