Reading | Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs | Walter Isaacson

Edwin Land, Polaroid inventor

Bob Dylan, songwriter

Walt Disney, storyteller

George Orwell, author

Timothy Leary, advocate of psychedelic drugs

No list of 20th century geniuses is complete without the incomparable Steve Jobs. From his early days growing up under the watchful eyes of his doting parents, his barefoot and body-odor years working in an apple orchard and studying Buddhism, building the first Apple computers in his parents' garage (yes, he really did) to his roller-coaster ride in building and sustaining his place at the center of tech revolution, Jobs' life is documented honestly, compassionately, exhaustively in this biography. Isaacson thoughtfully spins out the dualism of Jobs' both tender-hearted and ruthlessly critical personality. The author also informs readers that Jobs loved to have critical conversations while walking around his Cupertino neighborhood, ate at cheap vegetarian restaurants, and obsessed over mind-blowingly minute details in every product he ever launched. 

What Steve Jobs wanted, far more than money or fame, was to create a gloriously elegant product. His designs were intuitive, minimalist, serene. In order to maximize customer experience, he insisted upon end-to-end control over his devices; every moment from opening the box to adding apps to transferring data between devices flowed as effortlessly and pleasingly as possible. And please, no on or off switches; Jobs' devices simply fell asleep and woke back up at the user's touch. 

Sadly, Steve Jobs' life was cut down by pancreatic cancer but not before his name was added to any worthwhile list of 20th century geniuses. 

Steve Jobs, social revolutionary

(Now go read the book, and find out how Land, Dylan, Disney, Orwell, and Leary all played significant roles as heroes in Jobs' life.) 

* * * * * 

One way to remember who you are is to remember who your heroes are.

What a joy it was to have been alive as Steve Jobs was building Apple. I remember every product launch, each surge and countersurge in the technological throw down with arch nemesis Microsoft, every refinement of Jobs' ever-evolving hair styles. His light shown bright during my young adulthood, and I saw him as a rough and ready tech cowboy who was always up to something exciting and new. 

The way we're running the company, the product design, the advertising, it all comes down to this. Let's make it simple. Really simple. 

But there was always a hint of tarnish on Jobs' shiny Silicon Valley sheriff's badge. Reports out of Cupertino were that Jobs had a mean streak, a red hot temper, a sharp tongue. Prone to tantrums. Outrageously demanding. And nowhere near deserving of the pedestal upon which I had placed him. 

Several years after his death, I still carried ambiguous thoughts about the man. Hero or villain? I could never be sure.

But then, one day, a friend of mine told me this story.

Otherwise, as Dylan says, if you're not busy being born, you're busy dying.

She was visiting her parents who lived in the Bay area, and her infant was struggling to nap. So mom settled the poor fussy lamb into a stroller, and headed out the door, hoping that the fresh air, California sunshine, and rhythm of the rolling wheels would settle them both. 

As she walked along the neighborhood streets, she saw up ahead on the sidewalk, heading her way, a dad and his four- or five-year-old daughter, who was clearly learning to ride, in wobbly fashion, her two-wheel bicycle. My friend realized that one party would have to yield the sidewalk to the other, and with a frustrated sigh, recognized that the simplest solution would be for her to tilt the stroller down to the curb and pray that her baby would not be rattled awake. 

But before my friend could angle the stroller off the sidewalk, the man also sized up the situation and quickly, calmly, helped his budding cyclist ease down the curb into the street. In no time at all, they zipped past my friend and her still-sleeping babe. As they passed, the father looked at my friend, met her eyes, and smiled, wordlessly acknowledging that he understood all about crying babies who need to be walked with as little jostling as possible. And then, in a flash, he was gone. 

Only much later did my friend recognize this father. It was Steve Jobs. 

And ever since the day I heard that story, I have forgiven him his faults. 

Eating Crow

"If you have to eat crow, eat it while it's young and tender." -Thomas Jefferson

I could have shown you a pic of the dead crow. But trust me, this little bunny is way cuter. 

 "Good dog, Gracie. Heel!"

Yesterday, as we prepared to cross the last street of our daily walk, my dog obediently sat. I looked down at her, and my blood suddenly ran cold. 

My dog had a certain look in her eye. Her body was tensed up yet perfectly still. I could feel her quivering energy. I knew without a doubt that her hunting instincts were on overdrive and she was awash with whatever chemicals surge through her brain when they kick in. As there were no rabbits in sight, I wondered what was providing her such interest. 

Then I looked closer and drew back in horror.

Gracie was holding a dried out and very dead crow in her mouth.

Well. Most of a crow. Not all of a crow.

Now, Gracie has had such moments before with squirrel carcasses. And she's responded well to my commands. So I really let her have it.

"Gracie, DROP IT!"

And to my great satisfaction, she did. The dried out crow hit the sidewalk at her feet with a gentle plop, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But then, horror of horrors, my dog immediately scooped the dead crow back up into her mouth.

And here's where the story takes a real turn. 

She began to chomp.

I watched in sickened fascination as my dog's sweet furry jaws worked up and down on the dead crow, smashing its skull and whatever else was left to crunch inside the partially-feathered and fully flattened bird.

And then I smelled it.

If I took the most disgusting smells I have ever smelled in my life - rotten eggs, rancid fish, steaming heaps of cow manure - added them all together and multiplied by 10, I might get close to what I smelled in that moment, permeating from my dog's lips.

I'm not ashamed to say that I kinda lost it. 

At this point, we were halfway across the street but I stopped dead in my tracks and shouted at her.

Ok. I screamed at her. I was past frantic and quickly headed toward berserk.

"GRACIE!!! DRRRRROP IT!!!!"

But you know what? Gracie had already dropped that foul crow once and she was apparently not about to drop it again. It was her treasure. She looked me in the eye, held fast to the dead bird, and continued chomping. 

Now I nearly lost my mind. I dragged her forward to the opposite curb, making indeterminate sounds of utter disgust. Then I grabbed my dog by her skinny red neck and shook her silly, keeping my hands as far as possible from the crow-induced drool that was now dripping off her lips. Yes, the same lips that she rests so delicately on my pillow every morning. My life was flashing before my eyes.

Finally, my dog came to her instinct-addled senses and read the panic in my ever-escalating tone of voice.

She dropped the dead crow.

In a flash, the stench still filling my nose and making my head spin, I was hauling her on a tight leash  toward home. 

The next hour was a blur. Overcome by our revolting ordeal, I deputized my husband to feed Gracie her evening meal, coax her to drink copious amounts of water, and provide her with two breath-cleansing treats. I also asked him to towel off every inch of her muzzle. I kept my distance.

By the next morning, I was back under the spell of my dog's tender gazes, willing to forgive and forget. But I wondered and worried what we might find when we set off on our walk.

Sure enough, the dead crow carcass was more or less where we left it.

And Gracie was drawn to it like a starving vagrant to a heavenly buffet. 

But I was ready for her, and quickly dragged her off onto our usual adventure.

* * * * *

Later in the walk, as we came across several bunnies grazing in a green lawn dotted with tiny daisies as the sunlight angled low through the trees, I was purely delighted to let my dog gaze as long as she wanted, her body stone still as the rabbit-hunting instincts flooded her brain. 

Because staring at rabbits sure beats eating crow.  

Mexico City: Malaysia And America In Mexico

 My friend: Would you like me to cook Malaysian food for you?

Me: Of course.

My friend: What would you like?

Me: ...

My friend: How about nasi lemak?

Me: Perfect.

And so began my third day in Mexico City. Somehow I felt like the globe had spun and I found myself not in Mexico at all but 10,333 miles away in Malaysia: wobbly, hot, and a bit unsure of which world was under my feet.

* * * * *

Sunday, June 9

Breakfast at Juwe's house.

You'll have to forgive me for the lack of photos but when I walked into my friends' airy and spacious Polanco apartment, filled with the spicy fresh smells of our delicious breakfast spread on the table, I lost my head. Forget the photos of this beautiful bounty; all I wanted to do was eat. 

Nasi lemak is the traditional breakfast of Malaysia.

Hardboiled egg

Sliced cucumber

Fried chicken

Spicy steamed coconut rice

And for those who enjoy crunchy little fish, anchovies.

Accompanied by a platter of fresh fruit and a pitcher of cool juice, this was not only a meal made in heaven but a powerful memory of my days in Malaysia. I fondly remembered many a delicious breakfast in Kuala Lumpur, but with the warm sun streaming in the windows and the mellow rhythms of my friends chattering away in Bahasa Melayu, I felt truly transported to Malaysia.

* * * * *

^ I only caught one photo at the flea but it's a good one. I wish I would have bought a few of these pieces of art but at least I took a moment to admire the seller's beautiful display

La Lagunilla Flea Market

Well. To be fair, it was my idea to go to a Sunday flea. But holy moly, I was not prepared for what unfolded. 

See, I was thinking of a US flea market. Balmy weather, cooling breezes, lots of room for vendors to spread out and showcase their wares, plenty of fresh air and sunshine for all.

But - and it's my own fault that I didn't anticipate this - a Mexico City flea is a horse of a different color. 

First of all, let's talk tarps. Lots of them - white and blue - forming rooftops and hallways and sides between the stalls. And while the outdoor temperature was hovering around a reasonable 80 degrees F, the overall effect overwhelmed me. I felt surrounded by hot, stuffy air and trapped in a maze of tarps. People packed in closer and tighter as the morning moved on, and I found myself, when I wasn't looking for escape routes, pondering where exactly I had encountered a similar and equally stifling experience before.

Oh right.

The pasar malam - or night market - in Malaysia bears a remarkably similar vibe. Other than the fact that it was daylight instead of dark, I once again - for the second time in a morning - felt the strange sensation that I'd been suddenly transported to Malaysia.

* * * * *

^ I want to bake this hamburger an apple pie and then take it out to the ballgame. 

That's how delightfully American it tasted. 

Lunch at Butcher & Sons

When I find myself wandering the world, I like to eat whatever the locals eat. But every now and then, I want to try an American-inspired meal, just to see how those same locals interpret the food of my culture. It's a fun experiment.

So after my disorienting morning, when my daughter suggested burgers for lunch, I was ready. She picked a place close to our hotel, and it was a winner. Other than the spicy catsup-like options, the burger held close to a typical American classic, and as I enjoyed every bite, I felt quite at home. 

* * * * *

^ I love this beyond words. 

Afternoon In Polanco

In our neighborhood for the week, we wandered through charming side streets and around a lush green park. Restaurants abounded, most with gorgeous tropical plants providing leafy shade in front for outdoor diners. Apartments looked exactly as I'd hoped they would - modular, organic architecture adorned with yet more monsteras and schefeleras spilled from their balconies. What a dream.

On a mission to pick up a Mexican version of The Little Prince for my collection - yes, I have one in Spanish but Mexican Spanish is different that Spanish Spanish, right? - we tracked one down a neighborhood bookstore. Cafebreria El Pendulo Polanco is one of the hybrid cafe/bookstore models very much in vogue in Mexico City these days. It cutely reminds me of a now-wildly-out-of-date U.S. Barnes and Noble from the 1990s but I'm not going to ruin anyone's fun. 

^ I will be making the alambre at home. So easy. So good. 

^ My daughter and I shared this piece but honestly, I think we should have gotten two.

Dinner at La Casa Del Pastor

After our American-inspired lunch, we wanted some solid tacos for dinner. Recommended to us by my friend, La Casa Del Pastor is a pretty straightforward upscale taco joint. But once we were seated and scouring the menu, our waiter encouraged us to forgo the simple taco and try the alambre. Sure, why not.

What we learned is that the alambre is serving dish of taco innards, all swirled and swooshed together, ready for loading into the waiting tortillas and consumed just as one would eat a taco. Convenient, efficient, and delightfully delicious. A torrential rain poured down as we ate every bite. Licking our fingers, we felt grounded once again in our Mexican adventure. 

Trusting our new friend with our dessert option, we ordered his favorite, a guava cheesecake. Money. 

A perfect ending to a delightfully confusing Malaysia and America in Mexico kind of day. 

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico

Mexico City: Together And Apart

 Winter and Spring 2024

Weeks and months flew by; with plane tickets and hotel reservations sorted, my second-born (who was traveling with me) and I turned our attention to compiling a list of must-see Mexico City sights. 

Until one day, when our itinerary plans took a sharp left turn.

THUMP.

Into my DMs landed a link to a dense and detailed document. 

"Here's my agenda for Fizza and Irah. You can join us for whatever you like, or do your own thing.

And so it was that I learned my Malaysian hosts in Mexico City would be catering to two groups in visitors - their first guests in 3.5 years - during the exact same week.

Thus began an intricate series of Google doc swaps in which our separate agendas wove in and out of each other's plans. The end result was a lovely balance of time spent together in our combined group and apart for outings with just my daughter and me. Our first full day in the city was a lovely example of just that. 

* * * * *

Saturday, June 8

Breakfast at Niddo Cafe

A sweet way to begin our day, we took our morning meal at the charming coffee shop in the ground floor of our hotel. Sitting in the leafy shade, we enjoyed overnight oats and fresh fruit with yogurt and the company of many locals and their dogs. The first of many quiet Niddo Cafe mornings my daughter and I enjoyed together this week, before blasting off into our busy day of adventures. 

* * * * * 

^ Step through the dark, cool entryway of Casa Gilardi; and find yourself surrounded in the light of the stairwell.

^ Now open the door beyond the sphere and behold. A long hallway through a blaze of yellow light, and the lure of blue calling from the far end. Let's explore. 

^ The golden glow is achieved by light pouring in from a central courtyard through a series of yellow paned windows. The effect is magical. 

^ The cerulean blue we spied from afar is a wall surrounding an indoor swimming pool. The effect is nearly an optical illusion; the water is about two feet deep and creates the shadow at the lower part of these blue and white walls, as well as the red beam that stands in the middle of the pool. There are steps down into the water at my left and no boundaries between the floor of the room and the open water. I found the effect of all this to be electrifying and a bit provocative. 

^ We continue through the pool room and out into the central courtyard. A soaring jacaranda tree sits at the center of this scene and backlit by the radiantly pink wall, provides a final, triumphant resting place for the eye. Bravo, Senor Barragan.

^ Barragan displays a passion for irregularly shaped terra cota jugs, and I am here for it. 

Casa Gilardi Tour

After much advance work online to track down two highly coveted tickets to this architectural tour, my daughter and I set off on our own for our morning adventure. 

During the mid-1900s, Luis Barragan was a Mexican architect par excellence and a world-class innovator of what it is to make a home. After he had retired, wanting nothing more than to rest and relax in the gorgeous home he had built for himself (which we will tour later in the week), his friends, the Gilardis, convinced him to make one last home for them. The family still lives there to this day - his son, who is now an archtect himself, led our tour while his mother was napping upstairs. 

The house is an eye-popping combination of bright and bold open spaces, often used for parties and public events during the Gilardis' heyday. Barragan uses color and light to make my heart race. In the quieter, more family-driven rooms of the house, the palette leans into calming tones and natural materials that reflect the more intimate use of these spaces. Interestingly , I found myself uncomfortable taking photos of the family spaces; my camera preferred the expansive energy of the public rooms instead. 

This tour - and the other tour we will take later in the week - opened my mind and heart to the passion of Mexican artists. Luis Barragan was a genius and I am so thankful I could experience his work.

* * * * *

Floating Gardens of Xochimilco

After lunch, our group met up for our afternoon adventure. The traffic was fierce, the car was hot, the baby cried miserably. We were all a bit done in. But then we bought strawberry ice creams and all was sunny again as we finally got started on our boat trip. 

Back in, oh, maybe sixth grade, when we were learning about the great civilizations of the Americas, I was intrigued to learn that the Aztecs built their capital, Tenochtitlan, on islands. As the city needed more land for food, I was even more fascinated to hear that these clever problem-solvers simply built floating islands - chinampas - to grow crops. That idea completely captured my imagination and I spent considerable time in that class imagining myself floating in and among the manmade islands.

So imagine my pure delight when I realized I could - and would! - actually visit the floating islands of my dreams. Thankfully, I did a bit of Googling beforehand to see what this modern day experience might hold for me, because it was a far cry from my Aztec fantasies. 

Big, colorful, festive boats.

Mexican folk tunes blasting from oversize speakers.

Mariachi hopping from boat to boat.

Bars, run-down restaurants, and countless dogs along the shore. 

Traffic jams along the canals. 

But I smiled as we wound our way through the hectic scene, the three children in our party contributing their own enthusiasm and merriment with a passionate game of flipping a half-full water bottle to see if they could get it to land upright. A mid-afternoon cloudburst brought another layer of unexpected chaos and a moderate amount of water around my ankles to the experience. 

All the distractions in the world could not mar this day for me. I was sailing on the waterways between the Aztecs' legendary floating islands, and never in my sixth grade imagination did I ever believe this dream would come true. 

* * * * *

Together and apart. Apart and together. 

Our first full day was a lovely mix of two different energies, and all those hours of planning were starting to pay off. 

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico

Mexico City: I've Finally Arrived

 Fall 2020

“We're moving to Mexico City!” my friends from Malaysia told me. “Will you come visit us?’

Omg, YES. I said. I'd love to!

“But when?” they asked.

I'll start working on a plan, I replied.

2021 - 2023

I did absolutely nothing to work on a plan.

January 2024

“When are you coming?” they asked. 

“Soon,” I said. “Very soon.

Well, we're moving back to Malaysia at the end of June,” they said.

And so I bought some tickets. 

* * * * *

^ Thanks to a very generous exchange rate with the Mexican peso, this lovely boutique hotel was only a moderate splurge for my US dollars. A heavenly aesthetic and a wonderful place to call my Mexico City home. 

Check out the official Casa Ofelia website for a host of glorious shots. 

^ Polanco is an upscale neighborhood of Mexico City quite literally overrun with glamorous and trendy restaurants. El Arrimon is neither trendy nor glamorous but a simple down-to-earth eatery featuring authentic Mexican seafood dishes. Love. 

^ After dinner, along with the amiable crowds, we strolled the cool streets of Polanco and happened upon El Moro, a legendary churro shop. "Stop!" my host proclaimed, "You simply must try them." And so we did. Delicious. 

For glorious money shots of these humble churros, check out the El Moro website. 

Friday, June 7

Bolt out of bed before the break of dawn.

Toss in the toothbrush and zip up the suitcase.

Dash down I-5 to the airport.

Hop a plane due south to Mexico City.

 

Emerge hours later to the deep shadowy canyon of curbside pickup.

Watch the towering palm trees toss their fronds in the sultry breeze.

Endure Friday rush hour as the half hour drive to the hotel turns into a 90 minute NASCAR fiasco.

Arrive at our hotel and sink into the dreamy vibes of Casa Ofelia.

 

Step out into the plant-filled street, and find my friend Juwe waiting for me.

Walk through the warm evening streets of Polanco.

Meet the others at El Arrimon for a seafood dinner.

Exhale.

 

I’ve finally arrived.

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico

At Peace

"Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one." 

-Vladimir Nabokov

My sweet friend, Grace, died last month.

It hurts me to say this, but it must be said. She took her own life.

Grace was a beautiful, powerful soul: 

Deeply compassionate.

Wise far beyond her 26 years.

Tender-hearted and kind. 

Passionate about sunsets, cookies, giggling with her girlfriends, loving her God.

Those of us who knew and loved her imagined that Grace had everything to live for. And so today at her memorial, the question that hung suspended in the air, misty and vaporous, swirling droplets of wondering that floated between and amongst us, her mourners, was, Why.

Why was she in so much pain?

Why didn't we see her anguish?

Why wasn't her faith, so strong and pure, enough to save her?

Why didn't she ask for help?

Why didn't she tell us that something was horribly, horribly wrong?

And while I won't pretend to know the particulars of Grace's situation, I think that deep in our hearts, we know the answer to our Whys:

Because sometimes, this life is just too much.

Sometimes people simply can't bear it up any more. 

Not because they are weak. No, no. 

Maybe because they are sensitive to life's challenges in ways that the rest of us are not. 

Maybe because their hearts are more fragile, more vulnerable, more prone to exhaustion.. 

Maybe because God is calling them home. 

What I know for sure, as I endure yet another suicide of a person I love, is that I won't torture myself with the Whys. 

What I know for sure is that sweet Grace is safe in God's loving arms.

I know that whatever her earthly struggles, she is finally at peace.

And so, then, am I.

* * * * * 

Grace was a poet. And this is one of her poems. It speaks to her beautiful, powerful soul and gives me peace.

* * * * * 

A Prayer for This Small Vapor (that is my life).

May I be transparent so that Light may shine through.

May I choose vulnerability even in the face of fear or humiliation,

To give courage and a voice to others.

To embrace my humanity and find it in others continually.

To be fully present and engaged, especially when I feel like running away.

To be consistently emptied in order to be a vessel

of goodness and truth and hope.

To always be a vine of my Belonging, to abide.

To live from abundance and my created order that is Enough.

To live in urgency of necessity, never frivolity*, manifested by an ever-present awareness

of this small and temporary state.

-

*My definition of frivolity: Worldly matters such as work, busyness and/or hurry, and money matters; people-pleasing; irrelevancy of my true purpose and belonging; illogical or impossible standards; perfectionism. In essence, things that don't matter. 

The Perfect Mom

^ Being a mom of littles is plenty full of challenges. But I won't kid ya. 

Parenting adults is not always a picnic either. All we can do is keep trying. 

Mamas, I want to talk with you. 

About something that I'm pretty sure I know about you. About me. About every single one of us. 

There are times - probably more than we'd like to admit - when as mothers,

we feel inadequate,

we feel like we've messed up, dropped the mothering ball, been less than our kids deserve,

we feel bad about ourselves. 

Right?

Me too. 

But when I find myself once again sinking deep down in that mire of self-condemnation, there's a voice that comes to me begging to differ. "You don't need to be a perfect mom. There's no such thing. Just do your best."

And that voice of wisdom and compassion and love encourages me to pick myself up, dust myself off, and go back to being the best mom I know how to be.

Not a perfect mom.

But the best mom I know how to be. 

And I remember this story. 

Dear mama, when you find yourself stuck in those moments of feeling like a horribly imperfect mom, I hope you will remember it too.

* * * * *

Her name was Shannon.

She lived across the street from me when our kids were young; her two boys the same ages as my two younger girls. Her husband was a good man who made his living on the Bering Sea, living that Deadliest Catch lifestyle for ten or eleven months of every year. During all those long, lonely times they were apart, Shannon was raising her sons as a single parent. 

And her little Vikings truly put her to the test. 

Shannon was gentle and kind: soft-spoken, tender-hearted, thoughtful and generous. 

Her boys were adorable wild things, perpetual motion machines who rough-housed and ran, sacked and plundered through every minute of the day. All boy, as the saying goes. 

And while she loved them dearly, Shannon's boys wore her out. 

She worried like she was not up to the task of raising them. 

She felt that she didn't understand how to be their mom. 

She wondered if she was the wrong mom for her sons. 

We talked about this often, Shannon and I. When we neighborhood moms gathered on the sidewalks or in a family room to chat while our kids played, Shannon and I often paired off, talking quietly together or walking home slowly to savor a few last moments of confidential conversation. And one day, Shannon told me this story.

She'd been on the phone with her mom, sharing her feelings of inadequacy, when her mom brought her up short. 

Shannon, these are your sons. God gave them to you and he doesn't make mistakes. So please, stop doubting yourself and just trust yourself to be their mother. You're not a perfect mom, but you're the right mom for them. 

To be honest, I think Shannon was a little shocked that her mother spoke to her so sharply. But when I asked her what she thought about the wisdom of her mom's words, Shannon simply said, "She's right."

I wish this story had a happier ending. 

Shannon soon began to ease the weight of her loneliness by drinking, and her life spiraled down into alcohol addiction, divorce, and losing custody of her boys. And just when it finally seemed that maybe she was turning a corner into lasting sobriety, she was cut down in a car crash and died instantly.

I still grieve for Shannon. I think of her often and I miss her dearly.

But I trust that she has watched from heaven as her boys have grown into gentle and kind men, soft-spoken and tender-hearted, thoughtful and generous. I figure that Shannon now truly believes that all along, she was indeed the right mom for her boys.

Not the perfect mom. But the right one all along.