Anatomy of a Helicopter

About Anatomy of a Helicopter

Welcome to the audio version of Stacey Zolt Hara's "Anatomy of Helicopter" Substack. Magical moments of opposing forces that should implode, yet miraculously don't. mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Stacey Zolt Hara

Category

arts · society & culture

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

21 Mar 2025

Latest episode

20 Sept 2025

Latest episodes

12 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   20 Sept 2025

   Tie One On

   If I had to use one word to describe my parenting style it would be “feral.” For when it comes to protecting my children, I am as untamed as they come, my ferocity knowing no boundaries or rules. My motherly powers have shown both in the strength of my pen and my voice, as well as in the kind of miraculous adrenaline-fueled superpowers one might hear about on the news, like the time I literally threw my then-five-year-old son over a fence into the arms of a stranger with decisive force when my family got caught in a dangerous mob at a New Years Eve celebration gone wrong in Dubai. From that horrific day on, I have never doubted my ability to protect my children. Feral indeed. I guess my love language is action. But after leaving an extension of my heartbeat in New York City last month, I’ve delegated much of my job as protector of this human to a thin red ribbon, now tied onto the wire spring beneath my daughter’s dorm room bed. For centuries, neurotic Jewish mothers and grandmothers have tied red ribbons onto babies’ cribs to ward off the evil eye and neutralize negative energy. In my family, the tradition has extended far past the infant years. I descend from a long line of worrier-warriors. Our brand is not that of those who worry in silence or complain endlessly. We are action takers, we are the ones who sweep in, protect and fight. Parenting sweat equity perhaps. Eighteen years ago, while I lay in the hospital bed, oblivious to the delivery trauma that had just launched my child into this world and how very close I had been to death in that moment, my mother scurried to set up the baby’s room at home. Carrying a spool of red ribbon and a pair of long shears, my mom went around the house tying red ribbons in obscured places to keep the demons at bay. Each one was tied at well-considered places of potential danger, like a changing table where the baby could roll off if an exhausted parent lost their focus; or a crib where her tiny body could get caught in the slats or a mysterious illness could come for her in the middle of the nights; or the glider chair where I would nurse her to bring safety to us both. They were tiny threads of love, tucked out of sight but working their magic constantly. Last month, as we packed up the duffels and the suitcases for this now college-aged baby, I kept wondering how we would fit it all in, how all her belongings would fit in a tiny rectangle in a high rise on a minute slice of Manhattan. Where would her hoodies go? Her jackets? How would we fit all the makeup? And the many dresses packed just in case? And where will my love go? Where, in this tiny rectangle in a high rise on a minute slice of Manhattan, will my love fit? Amid packing the space maximizing hangers, the under bed storage, the curated selection of seasonal clothing and just the right amount of toiletries, I worried for days about how to pack just the right thing to leave behind so that my daughter would know I was there with her. Where do you squeeze the love in? Will your advice fit in the tiny going out purse to guide her in that moment when inevitably life changing decisions are made at 1am? Can you pack up a hug? Can you take a photo of unconditional love to hang on the wall? For a time, the college packing to-do list seemed to get longer rather than shorter and then, suddenly, it was, basically, done. How could that be? When I feel so much anxiety, when I so badly need something to do to channel my love, how could it be done? And so I added more things to the list. The list that, when your love language is action, never actually gets completed because that would mean you’ve stopped loving and that would be impossible. Impossible when this being is an extension of my very breath. Eventually it came to me. A red ribbon. Maybe my love can no longer be wild and feral. Maybe my love needs to be confident and slow, intentional when it speaks up. Yes — my love will be a soft-spoken red ribbon, discreet and confident, emanating its protection without demonstration of force. Once I tucked that ribbon and the shears into the duffel’s side pocket, the high-pitched quake of my anxious belly finally quieted. Bizarrely, I felt better, and though the goodbye was indeed teary, I felt I’d done my job and was confident she would be safe, happy – thriving even. But then, after I deplaned home in San Francisco, my inner critic began shouting obscenities at me for ever agreeing to send this child off to school so far away. The ribbon, I told the nagging voice. I did the ribbon! She is fine. Protected. It was that exact moment that I realized that I forgot to tie it to the bed. And now she’s there! No me! No ribbon! Who/what will protect her? A continent away, my feral love resisted the urge to buy a plane ticket and head straight back to New York to tie that ribbon on. I held back and made my way to baggage claim, hoping as my baby sleeps in that tiny rectangle, in a highrise on a minute slice of Manhattan, that she can feel my love. I packed it in those bags. I swear I did. I packed those bags with so much love it should ooze. Later that week, I texted my daughter with gentle but urgent words – she should not know that she is unprotected. I cannot project my worry onto her. “Honey, I need a favor...” Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

2. 

   9 Sept 2025

   Team White Shirt

   She thought she was being so smart, so stylish, packing us for this trip to New York City. It’s a biggie. A change of life, a change of pace, a new normal. A turning point. Big moments and turning points call for voluminous taffeta, silk shirts, layers of statement jewelry and a few sets of shoulder pads for good measure. She is a performer at heart and perhaps having the right costume on will convince her that she’s ready to stomp through the unknown. Can the right costume support this moment of productive discomfort? She seems to think so. And she is dressed to be seen, as they say. But back to us. Our soles are designed for stomping. They look treacherous, but are actually precision-designed German engineering for the sole. Block platforms set perfectly on-center at the toes and the heel, but not aligned like a typical shoe. Our shoe beds teeter atop the two blocks like a Jenga tower gone wrong, and we give her tiny frame nearly five inches without arching the heel like a stiletto. We are made for city clomping by women who mean business. But we are not made for strutting cobblestone streets like the one in front of the New York Stock Exchange. White bellowing silk cape tank elegantly blowing in the breeze of her wake, coffee in hand, she goes traipsing down the street to get to her office. She strikes her foot just slightly off center, hits a cobblestone on its curve, and flies, catching herself on the pavement with her palms – a miracle, really, for someone who can’t feel half of her left hand. The coffee droplets fly into the air, somehow – again, a true miracle – in an upward trajectory away from the silk shirt. The woman security guard encased in the plexiglass box in front of the NYSE glares from the safety of her window. Unflinching, unkind, unaccommodating, her face says it all – “Serves this dumb girl right to wear that outfit and those shoes on this street.” The street is packed with commuters. Not one stops to see if she is ok or if she needs a napkin. The tote on her back had been meticulously planned, like everything else for that week, with tissues to combat the occasional ugly cry. Or coffee disaster, she thinks with just a tad of residual smugness. She reaches back into the bag, carefully keeping the coffee drips on her arm away from the white silk top. Digging, she finds just one, lonely, cheap thin brown napkin. Why? Why? F*****g tissues are never there when I need them, she thinks, carefully bending to shake the coffee off her arm. At this point unscathed, it is Coffee vs White Shirt and the woman is solidly on Team White Shirt. The single ply napkin gets it done. Blots off the coffee and the woman sneaks into a small vestibule to inspect her shirt with her phone. Pure white. A New York miracle. Sloppy, now inelegant, coffee cup tossed in trash. Hair fixed. Lips glossed. Costume intact. Just a bit of eau de coffee aroma as evidence of the near disaster. She marches on. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

3. 

   11 Jul 2025

   Pockets full of sunshine

   When my son was a little boy he loved to put things in his pockets. The smaller the better. Sometimes he would share his treasures. Sometimes he would reveal them with a soft voice and a trusting lean, his big brown eyes widening as he opened his chubby hand to reveal something deep inside his palm. But most of the time, the treasure had long been his secret, tucked away to run his tiny fingers over so this talisman could speak to him, soothe him or ground him. Tiny stones, good luck charms purchased with his allowance at the neighborhood store, a mini knock-off Gumby doll from the dentist office gum ball machine that we nicknamed “Stretchy Betchy,” a half-inch mini Lego head inside a mini Lego suitcase that he carried daily for about six months (that one had us a bit concerned). And then there was that one time he nabbed a red bead from a Montessori school work piece and the teacher was convinced he put it up his nose for safe keeping. Poor Miss Bridget called us frantically. It was in his pocket the whole time. Women’s clothes are notoriously absent of pockets, but I’ve taken to adorning myself with talismans and memories instead. In the mornings when I dress for the day, I layer on my treasures I think about what powers I need to summon. I slip on my mother’s wedding ring, an ornate, chunky lace band in gold that seems to tell me I’m being held by a fiercely super powered safety net, because that was and always will be my mom’s brand. I summon my grandmother’s give-no-f***s attitude when I wear my her stone, a chameleon-like a alexandrite gem as multi-faceted as my grandma (almost). I carry them with me. I silently talk to them as I get dressed, “wait till you see where we are going today,” because in their wildest ceiling-crushing dreams they would not have envisioned this blessed life of mine. My dad carried his papa’s tie in his briefcase to and from work as long as I can remember. Even when his work didn’t require a briefcase per se, that bag went with him everywhere, every day. With all its special things inside— the tie, favorite photos, sentimental letters. In a journey that had proved unpredictable and rocky— as most journeys are – my dad carried his own life preserver in that case. It was a portable time capsule of unconditional love. Since I was a little girl, I loved to collect small pieces of memories. I still have the first necklace a boy ever gave me – a brass Mickey Mouse charm from a kid named Danny who passed it to me on the field of our elementary school in fourth grade when he asked me out. I have the letters my best friend Darcy and I exchanged throughout elementary school when she moved across the country. I have the first journal I ever kept that divulged serious secrets like “Look at this highlighter I got today. Three colors in one!” written in the tri-tip marker with swirls across the page. These days though, I find myself wanting to document my life like it were a movie, and hermetically seal it in a jar, forever preserved and viewable through the glass. I find myself wishing I could catch the little feelings hanging in the air to try on whenever I’m in need – elation, pride, even angst. There’s an emotion I feel often these days for which I’m not even sure there’s a name. It feels like joy in my heart, and pride in my mind, but in my gut, where all the truth lives, it feels like a twisting anxious stir. That is the feeling of living on the cliff of saying goodbye to a child, of loosening the vice grip of the first 18 years and slowly letting your arms out wide to release her into the universe, then holding those arms in place so you're ready to catch her again when she needs you. That feeling has no name that I know of. (But if you do, please, please share.) And though it may sound like pain, I know even now that it is, in fact, wonder. Wonderful wonder. It is something to hold and treasure for this moment too will pass, and it is the surest proof point I’ve lived yet that the journey is a hell of a lot more interesting than the finish line. And so I live these past months in a constant reach for the phone. I don’t want to miss a moment – a photo, a video, a note taken because time is moving too fast. So fast that I feel I can’t even stop to grab the tiny souvenir to put in my pocket, because as soon as I attempt to grab it, it is gone and another moment blindsides me. Emotionally, this life stage is a marathon. If I were to scoop up all the little ingredients of ephemeral moments, heart swells, butterflies within my belly… all the layers upon layers of complexity overwhelming me as my family begins this next chapter, there would not be a steamer trunk big enough to carry it with me along my way. — At dinner tonight, I asked my son if he had the notorious Lego head in the Lego suitcase in his memory box. “No, I look at my memory box every few months and it’s not there,” he said. “It got lost in life’s grains of sand.” I picture myself in the not-too-distant future, when the kids have left home, settled into their lives, my days no longer cluttered from juggling 15-minute billing increments and endless video calls with orthodontist appointments and school supply shopping. I sit cross-legged on a beach looking out at the glistening water, the waves slowly pulsing in and out from the shore. I pick up a handful of sand, and as the grains slip over and between my fingers I let the memories that I never managed to put in that jar wash over my heart. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

4. 

   16 Jun 2025

   Riding the Bus with Grandma

   Stacey Szolthara connects with her Grandma daily during her Singapore bus commute, highlighting their unwavering bond and the grace found in unspoken understanding, despite geographical distance.

5. 

   14 Jun 2025

   The Spot

   The author, MS ZOLTHARA, reflects on the profound connection with her son, tracing the evolution of their bond from infancy to adolescence through the simple act of kissing a birthmark.

6. 

   25 May 2025

   Perimenopause Insta’s Funhouse Mirror Maze

   Author MS ZOLTHARA explores the disorienting experience of targeted advertising on Instagram during perimenopause, highlighting the pressures and contradictions women face in midlife.

7. 

   11 May 2025

   What I hope they will remember

   The women in my family all have the same laugh – or cackle, depending on your point of view, or tolerance for joy. I have an infinite tolerance for joy. It starts like a spark. Catches on like wildfire. One by one, we ignite in a noisy cacophony. When I was a kid, my grandma was usually the one who started it. The laugh would begin in her belly and then explode into to a shriek. It would roll across the dining room table as each of the women in my family would capture a note and build atop it, summoning others from throughout the house to come running to the call of hilarity. By then we would be a multigenerational orchestra of hyenas. Usually, the object of laughter was barely funny at all, but it didn’t matter. The men and the boys didn't always understand what we were laughing about, or how we even contained the notes that escaped from our collective hearts – let alone sung them in such a symphony, but they would shake their heads and love us for it. That love and appreciation was and is genetic too. Our cackle is our calling card. The kind of mouth-agape ugly laugh that is as far removed from a ladylike giggle as possible. Emily Post would not approve. I have few regrets when it comes to raising my children, but one clear one is that they don’t know this sound. They may “remember” it in the way you remember a funny thing that happened to you when you were two because your mother told you the story over and over again. Or the way you vividly recall your 2nd grade school play because of a yellowed picture you’ve seen in an album (mine was something to do with an ostrich, and my mom handmade an epic ostrich costume from feathers sewn into an oversized white hoodie). This sound that I store in my heart, that I can hear bellowing through my soul, that is so integral to who we are as a familial matriarchy. It is like a legend for them that they never knew. There’s many traits I hope to pass on to my kids – both my daughter and my sons – that flowed through the women in our family. * Our habit of convening in hospital waiting rooms, which parenthetically are a fantastic echo chamber for laughter – though not always appreciated by the other families. * Our deeply held opinions on a wide range of minutiae (my Aunt Shirlee knew the exact stain removal technique when your boyfriend, who you’re not actually sure you even like anymore, explodes a pen all over your brand new comforter. She also was the first to tell me it was time to extract said boyfriend btw). * Our collective medical degree. If you are a woman in my family, you are a doctor. No actual medical school classes required. * Our independence. The women in my family work. The notion that I would go to college to get an MRS degree or be someone’s arm candy was just non existent. I was raised to have big dreams without boundaries and told I had everything it took to make it happen. * We are survivors, we are anchors, we are resilient. * We are feral in the way we protect our children. But that laugh. God how I wish I’d recorded it. If I could pass that laugh onto my kids, I would know I’d succeeded as a parent. I wish I’d captured so many things. But how do you bottle up a feeling? How do you grab a sound and all of its context of love and connection and belonging and values? If you even had recorded that sound, would it contain multitudes in this dimension? I hear it. I can summon it from my heart and feel not just the sound but the memories, the connections, the love. Will my kids feel that in some way? Do they know? I’m not sure. Lost in the to-do lists of motherhood and the worries about bandaging the cuts both visible and not, is this — the fact that the salve that heals someone over their life are these things. The bits you can’t package. The bits you can’t wrap up with a bow. The memories they will have when they too are 48 years old and their grandparents have long passed are that salve. What will they remember? What will be in the time capsule of their hearts? Being a mom is being a life curator. If I could only curate that sound, box it up and gift it to my kids every day of their lives. If only… then my job here would be done. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

8. 

   11 May 2025

   Welcome to Anatomy of a Helicopter

   Welcome to Anatomy of a Helicopter. I’m here for the crazy. I’m here for the wild ideas and huge dreams. I’m here for the loud, clunky, complicated things that shouldn’t fly — let alone land — and somehow are our heroes of the day. I’m here for the moments that remind us that the beauty lies in the chaos. Come fly with me. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

9. 

   9 May 2025

   To My Yo-Yo, with gratitude

   I’ve been in the top 1% of Yo-Yo Ma listeners worldwide on Spotify for four years in a row. Like any good Gen Xer, I’ve long lusted for Eddie Vedder. And in my middle age, I developed a deep crush on John Mayer the very moment I heard him croon the first half of Terrapin Station with Dead & Co. But Eddie and John’s melodic sensuality are no match for the aching bend of the cello strings, and Yo-Yo Ma is the only music man I’ve claimed as mine. Unbeknownst to Yo-Yo, the connection between us is so deep, in fact, that “My Yo-Yo” is how I’ve come to refer to this cultural icon, cellist and humanitarian. To understand this man’s prodigal musical prowess, one needs to take in the mastery of his interpretation of Bach’s six solo suites, played in succession without breaks for nearly three hours. Yo-Yo became mine on a clear evening in 2018, when he played alone on the majestic stage of The Greek Theatre in Berkeley, CA. As the venue filled, a single expectant, lonely chair sat on the concrete awaiting his arrival. No accompanying musicians. No opening act. No elaborate backdrop. With the sun setting on the San Francisco Bay behind him, My Yo-Yo humbly walked across the stage. The crowd roared with a raucous but respectful applause appropriate for a classical concert, laced with palpable collective reverence and awe. Without a word, he sat down and began to play that gorgeous first refrain of Bach’s Cello Suites. And, only halfway through, about two hours in, did he get up and stretch, only to sit back down a minute later, without a word spoken and begin again. Yo-Yo played that night for three hours straight. It was one of the most captivating performances I’ve seen in my life. The lights of the stage and the pavilion convened in a single spotlight on this unassuming genius, backlit by the Golden Gate Bridge, the Cal Campanile, the scattering of lights across Berkeley and Oakland – as if they were illuminated just for him and he was in turn illuminated just for us. Just My Yo-Yo in his singular chair with his singular instrument and a microphone anchoring the world from spinning off its orbit. Live music should feel like that. Like at some point in the concert the artist on stage is in conversation only with you. That they see you and you alone. But then, somehow, you are also in community with this sea of people mutually mesmerized by this moment. It is the ultimate act of being together and alone all at once. In the years since, My Yo-Yo’s grounding impact on me has become so hardwired that my reaction to his music is pavlovian. Since acquiring Alexa in my bedroom, every night I cap the day by saying “Alexa, goodnight” and with that she turns off the lights and My Yo-Yo begins his heart-stirring rendition of Bach’s suites. And I’m out cold in five minutes tops. My Yo-Yo is my sleep doula. When I reluctantly tried acupuncture to address some stubborn numbness in my hands, I was petrified. But My Yo-Yo came with me. Laura, my acupuncturist and now all-around wellness guru, assured me I could play my own music to help calm my anxiety. Sure enough, eye pillow on, deep meditative breathing, pressed play and boom – asleep. On long flights crossing multiple time zones, where sleep is hard fought and critical, My Yo-Yo is there for me. I ritually cover myself in my blanket, scarf and eye mask, pop in my AirPods, and press play. Even stuffed into the squishiest of economy class middle seats, I’m out. In fact, upon boarding a flight from Toronto to Casablanca, I took my sleep aids, cozied up, summoned My Yo-Yo and woke up four hours later to my beautiful man telling me it was time to get off the plane. Elated, I thought I’d slept the full flight – only to find out that we never left the ground. My Yo-Yo lured me into such a deep slumber that I missed the entire drama of will-we-or-won’t we-take-off?, the claustrophobia of being trapped on the tarmac with no food or beverage service, and no ability to get off the plane. Not only did My Yo-Yo save me that night, but he saved the passengers around me who would have undoubtedly been treated to a full on panic attack had I been stuck in my seat all that time with about zero control of the outcome. Indeed, as Spotify said, one song helped me get through it all. Each night when I summon My Yo-Yo into our room, it is a re-anchoring. Whatever spun me off my orbit that day, whatever swirl I allowed to enter my monkey brain, it dissolves. This gift he’s given the world of his talent, of his unique ability to conjure this music into magic – I have to believe that even in his genuine humility he understands he has left this unique mark on our culture. But Yo-Yo Ma will likely never know that he has uniquely granted me an incredible gift which I will never be able to repay – the gift of mental rest upon command and, by extension, the gift of sleep. To My Yo-Yo, thank you. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

10. 

    9 May 2025

    An Open Bar

    “I think there should be a cocktail bar in here,” the frazzled woman sitting in the opposite chair in the mammogram waiting room declared as she fiddled with the frayed ties of her thin radiology gown. It was 9:43 a.m. on a Thursday. “I don’t drink,” she quickly tried to assure me. “But there’s a time for everything.” I do drink. Though not like I used to (hello, night sweats!), and typically not at 9:43 a.m. on a Thursday, but I couldn’t agree more. Cocktail bars belong in places where people are making awkward conversation, where the tension is palpable, where a little something to just loosen us up makes sense. Not in the red-plastic-cup-at-a-frat-party sort of way, but in an I'm-forced-to-be-here-at-the-moment-because-this-is-what-adulting looks-like-but-really-can’t-we-just-make-it-a-little-less-horrible kind of way. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

11. 

    23 Apr 2025

    A woman of my stature

    My dear beautiful man once told me that a woman of my stature deserves a coffee maker. I was barely making ends meet. Newly divorced, determined to keep my kids and I in our house, balancing my finances through an ongoing stream of creative math, but somehow making it all land in a place of joy, renewal and love. Optimism couldn’t plug the silver-dollar-sized hole and subsequent leak in my basement, but sheer will and an uncanny ability to compartmentalize chaos from progress was saving me every single day. It all hung by a thread, but it was my thread, and I swung from it like Jane of the Jungle. Regardless, having fresh Nespresso in the house wasn’t top of my priority list. But I did have this lurking suspicion that my overheating Keurig was slowly melting microplastics deep into my organs. “Ok,” I acquiesced. “A woman of my stature deserves a coffee maker.” My stature. That’s an interesting enigma. Is my stature that of a 5-foot-nothing suburban mom? Is it that of the crisis comms wonder woman, swooping in to steady your likely-self-induced corporate existential crisis in a single bound? Is it that of the bulldog protector, who makes the school administrator wince when they see my name in their inbox? Is it that of a quiet bookworm, reading poetry in my hammock? Is it that of a tutu-skirt-aficionado who loves to rock poofy lace on a Monday topped with layers of necklaces? Is it that of a tomboy who can prompt a teamster to blush with a raucous series of meticulously-placed F bombs? A woman of my stature is told time and time again by male co-workers when they first meet in real life that “Wow! You seem so much taller on Zoom.” That microaggression has got to be an HR violation of some sort in today’s context, but I’ve been in the workforce since the mid-90s, so – let’s be real – I've experienced much worse, and a woman of my stature doesn't complain about things like that. A woman of my stature looks at that person with pity, and silently wonders what it is that makes him feel small enough to act so stupid. The evening I signed the papers to buy my ex-husband out of my house, the notary sat by my side at our dining room table, walking me through the legalese page by page. When she got to the section that referred to me as “Stacey Zolt Hara, an unmarried woman,” my jaw dropped. In the eyes of the Golden State, my stature demanded this contractual demarcation: an unmarried woman. Apparently, I’ve since been mansplained, it is critical to call out that the home was purchased by “an unmarried woman” in order to protect said unmarried woman from a man claiming ownership of said asset. This is the law’s way of protecting me – the unmarried woman – from the burden of my stature. Anyone who knows me well will tell you that my stature – in all its forms – is not a burden, and that I don’t need anyone’s protection. But I digress. One of the things I most enjoy about being an unmarried woman is that I get to decide exactly what a woman of my stature deserves. Though, sometimes, having experienced financial scarcity several times in my life, I need a little nudge to see life through a lens of abundance. Like the time my son and I were on a Target shopping adventure and I found the cutest pair of black strappy sneaker-style sandals. They cost $10. I stood there for five minutes staring at them trying to decide whether they were worth the investment. At the time, I billed out to clients at $500/hour or approximately $8.30 a minute. “Mom, buy the shoes,” he wisely nudged. “You’ve already paid for them standing here.” I’ve worn the shoes for four years now, marching them across three continents. A woman of my stature deserved those $10 shoes – even if paying my mortgage was sometimes a stretch. It’s been nearly seven years since I signed those mortgage papers. A woman of my stature could have boxed up her things when the bottom fell out, called this whole dream a failed experiment, bought a house in a much cheaper locale in cash and resigned herself to a life of long land-locked winters trapped in a community that had very limited ideas about the life a woman of my stature was allowed to lead. But a woman of my stature stands very tall when she’s knocked down, because a woman of my stature deserves to bask in the sun and paddle in the Bay in January and smell the jasmine blooming through the whole neighborhood each March. She deserves to fall in love over and over again with her beatific boyfriend/not-husband. She deserves sunbeams coming through the window alighting this magical space she’s built for herself and her family. Sometimes her creative arithmetic makes sense to no one but her, but that’s a privilege a woman of her stature has worked hard to achieve. A woman of my stature will spend $200 a month on yoga and pilates classes and $300 a month on acupuncture and massage, but eat only eggs for lunch and dinner for a week, because, even with Trumpflation, eggs are cheap protein. A woman of my stature buys most of her shoes from DSW and brings a coupon with her cross country to Boston, because she knows that’s the one time she’ll have her daughter’s undivided attention to shop for prom shoes – which we did manage to find for only $25, thank you very much. According to my math: A woman of my stature deserves underwear that is not older than her oldest child. A woman of my stature deserves a non-stick pan that actually doesn’t stick. A woman of my stature deserves the bulk package of 100 soy wax votives for no other reason than it brings her joy to light candles all over the house every single day. Last year, I grappled over whether a woman of my stature deserved new dish towels. Most of the motley crew of tattered and stained dish towels in my kitchen drawer have traveled across homes in three cities over two continents, and many were purchased alongside my wedding registry over 20 years ago. A pile of the most gorgeous white and black striped dish towels flirted with me at a French warehouse sale last summer. Simple, elegant and – even on sale – $20 a pop. Nope. Too rich for me. C’est la vie. But in March, two months into my recent sabbatical, I decided that a woman of my unemployed stature deserved to at least scan Amazon for some viable alternative to the gross pile of rags that seemed to taunt me each time I entered the kitchen. Four hours of shop-scrolling later, I found the perfect grey and white striped cotton dish towels (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BWPNKMDT?ref_=ppx_hzsearch_conn_dt_b_fed_asin_title_1&th=1): $35 for a six pack. When they arrived at my doorstep the next day, I ceremoniously dumped the old pile of rags into the trash and meticulously rolled my new matching set into the drawer. Each time I take one out, I smile. Because sometimes a dish towel isn’t just a dish towel, and a woman of my stature deserves new dish towels. Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

12. 

    21 Mar 2025

    Where my tree was

    There is a rooster weathervane atop the house next door. Its arrow points west, I believe, but I can’t see the letters clearly with my reading glasses on. I never noticed the rooster before, such a cliched trinket atop our otherwise carefully cultivated bubble because the main window in my meditation station, where I write most mornings, looked out onto a plum tree which bloomed delicate white flowers in the spring and the tiny juicy plums in the summer. And now it’s gone, revealing in its place a wrought iron rooster that I seem to be allergic to. The tree was my California life. We don’t grow fruit in our backyards in Chicago – not unless you count the strawberries my mother would rush out to plant in the backyard of my suburban childhood home when Spring’s thaw miraculously gifted itself to her each Mother’s Day. I tried to plant strawberries once in quaint Pinterest-board-worthy containers on our rooftop deck in Lincoln Park. But our million-dollar city townhome with its ridiculous 10 ft movie screen – which seemed appropriate only in a city where one refers to “The Lake Effect” both as the reason you can’t go outside five months out of the year and the reason my house was so expensive – backed up to an alley with rats so big they could scale the brick walls to take a chomp out of the strawberries at the very moment they had finally ripened enough to pick. I would water those f*****s every single day. I think the water to strawberry ratio was 10 gallons of water for one miniature strawberry with a rodent bite. In a world with water shortages, amateur strawberry planting in rat-infested alleys should be illegal. My Berkeley plum tree, though, was the kind of miracle California dreams are made of. In July 2018, 11 months after moving into this home, and seven months after my husband moved out, I looked out the window one day and realized the tree was filled with fruit. I hadn’t watered it once. In 11 months. Most of our garden had died because I couldn’t afford to use the sprinkler system. On that July day when the plums commanded my attention, I hauled a ladder up the 20+ uneven cobblestone death-trap stairs from the garage to the backyard. A big plastic Target bag in hand, I climbed to the top of the A-frame, perched on my toes, hand outstretched to the branch, and selected my very first fruit from this glorious tree. Me. This Chicago girl! I shed my parka and my stilettos and my weekly gel manicure and my made up face and my five-months-a-year trapped indoors and my traditional family life in exchange for day after day without a cloud in the sky, for athleisure worn to work, for glowing sun-kissed skin that stands in for base, for hikes every day and paddling on the Bay in January, for freedom to fill my life with freshness at the purest level: the fruit that grows from the tree outside my meditation station that I pick with my own hands and eat right there on the ladder. The harvesting of the tree soon became an annual event. During Covid’s lockdown months, when the kids had no choice but to hang out with us, they even helped gather the bounty. I invested $11 in an “Amazon’s Choice” fruit picker – basically a broom stick with rake/bucket on top, a spork for farmers like me. We tarped the ground to catch whatever fruit fell off and try to spare ourselves the agony of scraping exploded plums off the pavers. We baked a plum clafoutis. I didn’t know what a clafoutis was before that day – let alone that someone could bake one themselves from fruit in their yard. We attempted jam – a bit tart, and not our best work. For the plums at the tippy top, I removed the screens from my bedroom window and leaned outside, pulling the branches to me, picking the bright purple fruit and taking a bite right there in my meditation station. Seven years later, the tree had rotted, beginning to lean dangerously into the house for support. One gust and it might crash through the window that had served as the frame for my adoration of her. One spark and she could light our home on fire. Her branches were decidedly not “defensible space” in a community that is girding itself for a potential fight against nature, because nature has now decided it's time to fight back against all of us for centuries of abusing her. In the past few weeks, I’ve sat in this space knowing my time with the white blossoms was finite, understanding intellectually that this year and forever more I would not watch those blossoms turn to fruit, ripening a bit more each day with the glorious sun that passes through her branches and through my window, en route to warm my face, before shining onto the dreamcatcher draped on the wall behind me. Nonetheless, as I took my first seat on my meditation cushion after the arborist hauled her away, I gasped in shock when I lifted my gaze to the empty blue sky where once she stood. She had been the breath I always took in before settling into my soul. Instead, there is this rooster. At least today he gazes away. I’m not ready to look him in the eye. Perhaps when he looks to the north one day, we will get to know each other. Thanks for reading Anatomy of a Helicopter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit mszolthara.substack.com (https://mszolthara.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

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Podcast Authority Score: 8 / 100

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2

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Engagement

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