Mim's Prose

Wearing Red

2012-02-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

I’m wearing red today. Sort of because it’s Valentine’s Day and I suppose I ought to do something to acknowledge that fact.

I am loved, in a hairy kind of way. This morning, Guinness walked over my sleeping form and wedged himself on my right side where he purred his gratitude for my drowsy strokes. Several minutes later, Herbie showed up – walking, like his brother, over my no-longer-sleeping form. When he figured out there was no room on my right side, he snuggled close to my left side. I was pinned by purring felines. There was, literally, no way for me to move without dislodging a cat.

For a while, it was quite pleasant. But the clock’s hands kept moving and my bodily functions began signaling their needs to function. Being a cat sandwich was getting uncomfortable.

I freed an arm and tried to entice movement with one of the cat toys on the bed. They seemed appreciative, but unmoved.

Finally, Guinness stood. And I stood and proceeded to the bathroom. Herbie stayed snuggled on the comforter.

So I wore a red turtleneck for Valentine’s Day but tempered it by also donning a plaid shirt. Everyone knows there is nothing romantic about plaid.

It was the best compromise I could come up. And now both turtleneck and shirt are strewn with cat hair.

Ah well.

One Book - One Cold - One Cure

2012-02-08T20:20:00.000-07:00

Here’s a story about a book.

The book is Possession/ A Romance by A.S. Byatt. It was recommended to me by a good and extremely literate friend. I bought it about six months ago and started reading it – slogging my way through almost half of it before giving up.

Then, last weekend I came down with a classic, and classically debilitating, head cold. Even with a slew of cold remedies, my body demanded rest. But I do not like to rest and do nothing so I picked up Possession again.

I started from the beginning. What slogging? It was fascinating. Complicated, yes. Rich in language and plot, yes. But not slog-ish. Not by any means.

One of the promotional ‘blurbs’ at the front of the book called it “a one-woman variety show of literary styles and types.” No kidding. Each of the main characters, and a few of the minor characters – whether from 1989 or 1859 – writes things (poetry, essays, journals, and amazingly long letters). And all of these writings are woven into the narrative--verbatim.

As a sort of preface, the author quotes Nathaniel Hawthorne’s preface to The House of the Seven Gables: “When a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain latitude … which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume, had he professed to be writing a Novel… The point of view in which this tale comes under the Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the very present …”

‘Latitude’ yes, and in Possession, surely longitude as well. Wow! Once (finally) engaged, I could not stop until I had read the very last word on the very last page (555).

I was now in the fourth day of my head cold and recovering. Thanks, in no small measure, to an extraordinary book. Now that's a happy ending.

Digging Out

2012-02-05T14:51:00.000-07:00

A foot of snow recently fell on my town.

Another time, when we had even more snow, I dug a path through the accumulated mounds in the alley behind my garage in order to drive to Walgreens. As I recall, I didn’t even need anything at Walgreens I just wanted to drive somewhere before cabin fever completely asphyxiated me.

This time, I had a cold – a four-star, grade A cold. The kind that cannot be ignored – or better not be.

This time, it was only a foot of snow. But a foot of snow buttressed against a garage door can be a formidable obstacle. I shoveled a long time, got in, started out – and got stuck. None of my maneuvers un-wedged my little car, brilliant and red in the white-packed alley.

A neighbor, when called, freed my vehicle and I proceeded to my destination, a little disconcerted by the fact that my garage door opener/closer apparently was not working. At Walgreen’s I accumulated $25 worth of remedies and headed home.

The garage door was still open.

I parked, got out the shovel, and removed the snow from in front of the electric eye that dictates the door’s maneuvers. It worked.

Triumphant – or as triumphant as I could be with a first class head cold – I made my way inside and began taking remedies.

There is hope.

CAT TELEVISION

2012-02-02T09:36:00.000-07:00

The birds have finally discovered the feeder I got for my birthday. It hangs outside my dining room window. When the chickadees show up, Guinness sits on the window ledge, eyes boring into birds, mouth quivering as he emits sharp little sounds. This morning he froze, transfixed while Herbie ate both their breakfasts

Actually both cats are enjoying the new bird show. It’s like cat television -- a useful diversion that keeps them amused while I work in the kitchen. Years ago, Sesame Street served the same purpose for my kids.

Competitive Genocide

2012-01-27T15:26:00.000-07:00

Did we need more conflict? Something else to argue about? Did someone, somewhere decide that now would be a good time to increase acrimony?

Perhaps this new wrinkle was meant to distract the world from its economic debacles.

Why else would the French government propose a law fining, and possibly incarcerating, anyone who denied the Armenian genocide by the Ottoman Turks.

In response, the Turkish government accused France of genocide against Algerians in the period of French colonial rule.

Now, it seems, we have competitive genocides.

I do not question the fact that too many Armenians and too many Algerians were killed.

And I do realize that unless atrocities are acknowledged and remembered, they are more apt to be repeated. We have enough atrocities going on right now.

However, I do question punishing people for saying the wrong thing.

I do question escalating vilification.

And I do ask that all of us – individuals, political parties, and national governments – cease unnecessary acrimony and begin, please, to practice civility.

Enough.

A Rose in the Wintertime

2012-01-20T15:52:00.002-07:00

Carolyn McDade wrote a great song, Come Sing a Song With Me, that lifts me with its rhythm and its chorus: “And I’ll bring you hope when hope is hard to find, and I’ll bring a song of love and a rose in the wintertime.”

Roses in wintertime are important -- actually any kind of flower can perk up the bleak midwinter -- and my spirits.

It has long been my tradition to buy a bloom or two (more if I’m having company) once a week beginning in January.

In case you need some perking up, here are some roses for you.

Why Should We Remember?

2012-01-17T18:03:00.002-07:00

Last night, a group of volunteers and one school teacher put on an event honoring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The school superintendent, mayor and city manager took part. Dancers from a local studio performed. A storyteller made the civil rights movement come alive with her personal stories. Kids got prizes for their drawings and essays about ‘hewing from the mountain of despair, a stone of hope’ – from one of Dr. King’s great speeches. And an accomplished composer played and sang an original song.

Why? So we would remember --remember how hard it was to make the progress we have made in race relations – and how far we have to go. Not just in race relations, but in class relations and gender relations [and human relations in general!]. If we don’t create special events, we might forget.

Last year, I had a tiny speaking part in our MLK event:

Great men and women don’t start out either grown up or great. Like everyone else, they start out as kids.

Martin Luther King, Jr.’s life changed when he was six years old. Just before school was to start, he rang his best friend’s doorbell. He wanted to play but his friend’s father said his son couldn’t play with Martin any more. Why? Because Martin was black and his friend was white.

Until that moment, Martin had not realized the huge separation between blacks and whites. In the city where he grew up, black people couldn’t sit at lunch counters with whites, or drink out of the same water fountains. And black children could not go to school – or play – with white children.

Martin’s whole adult life was dedicated to ending that separation. He helped change the world. His dedication began one moment when he was six years old.

There are still many things that need changing. I have two questions for the kids here tonight: When will your moment be? What will you do to change the world?

Looking back, I think that is a question each of us needs to answer.

'Decades Service' message

2012-01-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

My name is Mim Neal. I turned 70 on August 12. It was something I could either mourn or celebrate so I decided to celebrate. I had a great party.

But turning 70 requires more than a party. It is a major wake-up birthday.

Being 70 means I am officially old – well into the natural process of deterioration—most probably closer to death than the other speakers (which, by the way, is okay). Being officially old means that I have more wrinkles and that my body does not work as well.

On the other hand, being old means that I get senior discounts, a pension and Social Security and am (for now at least) covered by Medicare.

Being old does not mean that I am ‘done’ – I have not finished much of anything. And I have less time to waste.

Turning 70 is a time to look at the patterns of my life. There is a security in patterns. We rest in their predictability, secure in symmetry. Patterns in our lives--the routines and learned responses--allow us the illusion of familiar ground. It has always been easy for me to sink so deeply into routine that I no longer see options. The older I get, the stronger my habits get.

But I can be saved from dozing at my steering wheel by a simple comment or a major circumstance. Turning 70 is a major circumstance. It is time to examine patterns – change some, keep others.

One of the patterns I will keep is writing. I am in the process of publishing my memoir. And I am STILL working on a novel. And I will keep posting blogs and writing other stuff – it’s a necessity for me.

And I will maintain the relationships I have with friends and family.

I will also stay open to new relationships – new friends and perhaps even romance (nothing is impossible).

70 is not yet time to hunker down. I resolve to have more adventures – traveling in this country and other amazing places on this amazing planet.

I will strive to relate to the Spirit/ Life Force/ Universal Energy that is in all things, and all people (although less apparent in politicians).

I will continue to draw strength from and find ways to contribute to this incredible community, Namaqua Unitarian Universalist Congregation -- and through Namaqua and on my own, to contribute to the larger community.

In my lifetime, every time I have jumped off a cliff – filing for divorce, traveling alone, moving to Loveland -- I have become a higher dimension of myself. So now, being 70, I will stay alert for cliffs. I will pay attention – look for new ways of being in the world.

Ah! Being! Being is the important thing. Paying attention.

Whatever else I may do, I resolve to remember to
Breathe in the beauty
Savor the moment
And rejoice in the fact that I will not have to do this again for 10 more years.

Exposed

2012-01-09T15:15:00.001-07:00

Our congregation has a traditional "Decades Service" early in January each year. Speakers in their teens, 20s (if available), 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s respond to Mary Oliver's poem, The Summer Day (see below) by revealing their plans for the rest of their lives.

I have always enjoyed learning from service participants -- but never wanted to be one. This year, I was asked. Not only did I have to speak, I had to reveal my age to everyone. I did it. To find out my age -- and what I said, you will have to read my next blog.

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Reprising Connections

2012-01-03T11:32:00.001-07:00

Every year after the Christmas decorations are down and whatever we call normal life returns, I take a few moments to re-read all the Christmas cards I received.

This year the cards were especially important – I needed objects to hold, to admire, to make me smile. Email messages just can’t do that, or at least not as well.

My favorite is of course the one my brother created – a thing of beauty at a time of incalculable loss.

Then the four pieces of paper adorned with colored scribbles and glitter that were folded into ‘cards’ from the daycare kids who helped decorate my tree.

Some were extraordinarily beautiful: silver trees from UNICEF, a photograph of a Marsh Tit (that’s a bird) from my friend in England, and cards from a friend in Australia, and another in Switzerland.

This year, for the first time, I received cards from my sister-in-law’s family. We got to know and appreciate each other because of our shared loss. And my California cousins are closer now because we connected during a summer visit.

A new friend wrote a great tribute. An old friend reminded me of our deep connections. I even got a card from someone who used to work for me. How cool is that?

And I received two cat cards, both depictions of Christmas tree disasters (which, fortunately, did not occur this year) and both funny.

I’ve put most of them back in the basket. I won’t recycle them yet. It is so good to have them to go through again – to hold, to laugh, to smile – to treasure each connection.

I hope this tradition (and the U.S. postal service) never ends.

Two Cats Again

2011-12-30T17:40:00.000-07:00

After five consecutive days of holiday company – including one Welsh Corgi (that’s a dog, sort of) -- my house is once again quiet.

One cat, Herbie, enjoyed everyone, even the dog.

The other cat, Guinness, mostly hid except for those nanoseconds when, made desperate by hunger or other basic needs, he tore through the living room so fast that he was a charcoal blur.

Several of my guests actually saw this. They had to look fast.

This afternoon, now that the house is quiet again, he has emerged. He spent most of the day in my vicinity – or on my shoulder or on my lap.

And when he took a break, Herbie showed up.

It was great to have holiday company. I enjoyed each visitor.

But it is also great to have two cats again.

Long may they purr.

Tribute to a Great Human Spirit

2011-12-26T17:00:00.002-07:00

On Oct. 7, my brother had thyroid surgery. One week later, his wife went into intensive care. She died Oct. 17. While still planning her memorial service, he went in for his post op exam where he learned that the tumor they had removed on the seventh was malignant and they would have to take out his entire thyroid.

Jayne’s memorial service and reception were held on Nov. 19 – hundreds came. She was loved by so many.

After Thanksgiving, he put up his Christmas tree – angels and doves arrayed at its peak.

On Dec. 16, he had his thyroid removed and on Dec. 18, sang in his congregation’s Christmas pageant.

On Dec. 23, he mailed the last of his 60 hand-printed Christmas cards -- the most beautiful he has ever created. I’m going to frame mine – wonderful linoleum block prints of blue birds in a scarlet tree, resplendent azure and crimson on white.

We went to the Christmas Eve service at his church where he, with others, sang five songs. [And I learned that they had removed all the cancer when they removed his thyroid.]

We made it through Christmas Day together - as did his sons and their families. I know each of us had moments of intensely missing Jayne. But we had enough love to share and, who knows? perhaps she was there with us amid the great un-wrapping and the over-abundant food.

If I needed an example of a resilient human spirit, I need look no further than my brother, Bill McClure.

Hallelujah!

Cocoa Connections

2011-12-23T16:50:00.001-07:00

At precisely 10 a.m. a small parade approached my house. The woman in the lead carried a large object encased in a white plastic garbage bag. She was followed by three pint-sized humans, two boys and a girl (Max, J.D. and Olivia) and a man holding the hand of the smallest boy, Parker, who is not yet two. The woman and man – Judy and Eldon – run a small daycare center a few houses down the block.

I had invited them.

They came up the walk and into the house simultaneously shedding padded jackets and handing me their personal versions of Christmas cards and singing snatches of “Jingle Bells.” The one girl, Olivia, actually sang the entire song. Judy removed the plastic protection from a humungous poinsettia –an unexpected present. After the initial chaos, when the coats had been piled in the designated area, Max approached me. Quite solemn, he inquired if I indeed had something for all of them. Cocoa to be precise.

I confirmed the treat but pointed out that before a drop could be consumed, I needed them to finish decorating my tree. They were delighted when they saw the array of ornaments and went to work with glee. There were giggles and questions and occasional "oohs and aahs” as the each ornament found a new home – generally on the bottom half of the tree.

Wandering from wonder to wonder, they discovered Herbie, the world’s friendliest cat, and each gave him a pat, marveling at his softness.

Then Max approached me again. “Is it time yet?”

“Yes,” I responded and directed them to sit around the table where plates and napkins and a plate of cookies awaited. I delivered mugs of cocoa, one by one, to deeply appreciative recipients. They laughed when Herbie sat in my chair but agreed that it would not be good to give him any hot chocolate.

Eventually beverages consumed and cookies devoured, they wandered back to the living room. A Christmas CD was playing and Parker started sort of dancing then J.D. joined in with impressive gyrations.

It was time to leave. Only slightly prompted, the kids said thank you then – spontaneously—wove themselves around me in a group hug.

It was about 11:15 when they left, a parade in the opposite direction as I waved from my front door.

Who needs more Christmas than this?

Not Enough

2011-12-18T17:22:00.001-07:00

My New York Times subscription runs Mondays through Fridays. On the weekends, I get the e-mailed NYT digest. Last Sunday, Dec. 11, there was a 58-word story, here quoted in its entirety:

3 Women Receive Nobel Prize
The 2011 Nobel Peace Prize was presented to three activists and political leaders on Saturday in Oslo for “their nonviolent struggle for the safety of women and for women’s rights”: President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf of Liberia, 73; her compatriot, Leymah Gbowee, 39, a social worker and peace activist; and Tawakkol Karman, 32, a Yemeni journalist and political activist. (NYT)

Perhaps somewhere in the real newspaper and/or on PBS television or even a network or cable news program, the women received a bit more attention.

One would hope.

Admittedly, back in October, there were longer stories. And, apparently serendipitously, PBS broadcast the remarkable series “Women, War and Peace.”

So, I guess they have received ‘enough’ attention. Still, their monumental struggles for the rights and safety for other human beings should have generated a little more about the presentation – what they said, the response of the audience.

Maybe even (since after all they are mere women) what they wore.

Wrapping Things Up

2011-12-09T10:35:00.000-07:00

Like Scrooge, I have reservations about Christmas. It sometimes seems a pointless frenzy of buying, wrapping, mailing, decorating, and cooking.

I do it, but there are days I wonder why.

Yesterday I started to wrap the present I found for my six-year-old grand niece. The face of the cloth doll looks a little like Iris’s face and I could not help but smile.

The doll and I held each other’s eyes for a while and I got it.

All the mess of wrapping paper, tape and ribbon that I was struggling with had a purpose. The package for my brother contained something to evoke an important memory. The packages for my sons in Chicago were mostly intended to help keep them warm. The package for my older niece holds things to acknowledge her as a nascent woman.The gifts for my nephew and his wife are mostly just beautiful and fun. Etc.

All of these things are concrete expressions of the love I feel for their recipients. As wonderful as good conversations and hugs might be, it is important to occasionally present some symbol of that love -- something people can wear or carry around or put on a shelf or wall. When they see it or feel it they can remember, “This was from Mim. She loves me.”

Every card, every present (or almost every card and present) reinforces the connections that hold us together.

So, like Scrooge at the end of The Christmas Carol, I come to celebrate Christmas in my heart. And like Tiny Tim, say “God Bless Us, Every One.”

Comfort and Joy

2011-12-05T10:41:00.002-07:00

It’s interesting to discover what brings me comfort after the loss of my sister-in-law.

Every morning – usually before I intended to wake up – one of my cats (Herbie) finds a way to snuggle as close as possible to at least one of my hands and lies there, purring and warm.

And after breakfast, the other cat (Guinness) and I routinely have a play session as he ‘helps’ me make my bed.

My bed is on the east side of the house so the Colorado sun warms us both. Sunshine always helps.

And cholesterol. Cheese has always been a downfall. Now even more so. And Friday, while doing my regular shopping, I actually bought half a pound of bacon. I had bacon (and a egg) for breakfast on Saturday and Sunday. It felt quite luxurious. And comforting.

Oh and music. I made myself go to a concert Saturday. At one point, I closed my eyes and just absorbed the harmonies. The healing was perceptible.

And in this time of diminishing light I have created a kaleidoscope of supplements: my Christmas tree, the outside lights, the back window lights, the study lights. And every single one of them helps.

Hugs. Of course. There is a member of my congregation whose husband is rapidly deteriorating. She comes to church, she says, as much for the hugs as for the message. Now I do too.

Friends. Friends who reach out with a phone call or an email or a hug or an invitation for lunch or a card. Each of them weaves a strand in the net that holds me up when sorrow threatens to overwhelm.

Beauty. There was hoarfrost Friday morning. Absolutely astounding. And the prisms that dance in my dining room when the morning light catches the crystals in the east window or those that dance when the afternoon light hits those in a west window. The light of a waxing moon on the snow.

All these things (except perhaps the bacon) are components of my life -- in times of loss and in times of celebration.

Perhaps if each of us were to just pay attention, we could find an abundance of things to bring us comfort and joy.

May it be so.

More than a Sister-in-Law

2011-11-24T14:46:00.000-07:00

I’m Bill McClure’s sister, Mim – officially, Jayne McClure’s sister-in-law.

But, really, Jayne’s sister.

Not because we were very much alike.

I wear make up. Sometimes, when she was dressing up, Jayne wore lipstick.

I’m obsessive/compulsive about almost everything.

Jayne was matter-of-fact, casual, straightforward, practical and brilliant.

I’ve wandered down many woo-woo spiritual paths that Jayne pretty much ignored.

I love my cats. She put up with them.

None of these things mattered.

We pretty much always loved each other because we loved the same people.

But after a while, it was clear that we just plain loved each other.

I admired her as a wife, mother, teacher, citizen, and, finally as my sister.

And I saw her wisdom, and courage, and great, great heart.

Even during her last days.

I loved her. I miss her. I will honor her memory forever.

A Memorial Service

2011-11-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, Nov. 19, a memorial service was held for Jayne E. McClure in the Washington Park United Church of Christ church in Denver, Colorado.
At least 200, probably 300 people came. The church had never been so full.
Enlarged photographs of Jayne – as a student teacher, as a bride, as a mother, as a grandmother—were propped up on the circular altar table in the center of the sanctuary. A microphone and music stand were placed next to the piano on the east side of the room. Her immediate family – sons, daughter-in-law, granddaughters and husband sat in the first row on the west side of the room. In other first rows: her sister and her family, her aunt, her great good friends, and her sister-in-law and nephew.
The service began when her husband, Bill, lighted a single candle. Robert Johnson, a wonderful bass, sang “Lord, Listen to Your Children” as a prelude. The senior minister welcomed everyone, and (as he would throughout the service) helped people find places to sit. Then Robert Johnson sang, “Wade in the Water,” an African American spiritual.
Her son Lance read words by Eleanor Roosevelt – one of Jayne’s heroes. Her former minister and great family friend, Rev. Bob West, read words by Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.—another of Jayne’s heroes. Those assembled sang “This Little Light of Mine.”
The host minister reviewed Jayne’s life. People spoke spontaneously. Her daughter-in-law Kelly read something little granddaughter Iris had dictated. Her older granddaughter Emily spoke eloquently. Then great good friends – fellow teacher – her sister in law, her nephew shared memories, stories, tributes – keeping it short, as Jayne would have wished.
Then her other son, Michael, read “To Autumn,” by John Keats. A young guitarist, J.T. Nolan, performed the song “Timshel.”
After a benediction, the church music director, Luke Rackers, played an original composition called “Jayne’s Joy.”
The candle was extinguished.
People stood and mingled, sharing stories and hugs and passing boxes of tissues. Eventually, people left, many driving across the city for the reception at Jayne’s last home. The reception, the stories, the tears and laughter lasted a long, long time.

The memories of Jayne will last significantly longer.

through a long, dark valley

2011-11-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

On October 7, my brother Bill had thyroid surgery. On October 13, his wife Jayne went into the hospital. On October 14, she was moved to intensive care. She died October 17.

Bill had his post op check up Monday, October 31, Halloween. His doctor told him that the tumor they had removed was malignant and that he needed a second operation. Bill told me Friday -- said the operation would be Dec. 16. I couldn't process the information at the time. After he left, I sleepwalked through the afternoon. Saturday, the news sank in. I was devastated.

By Monday, November 7, I had learned that thyroid cancer is the easiest to defeat. Once the thyroid is removed, the cancer is removed.

I felt about six tons lighter. It wasn’t as bad as I had thought.

The universe found a way to drive home the point. I took myself to see a non-mainstream movie in Fort Collins's funky little independent theater. It was a pretty good movie but when I got out, there was a parking ticket on my windshield.

The next morning I opened the parking ticket envelope -- no fine.

Another thing that isn't as bad as I thought it was.

We are going to make it. We’ll make it through Jayne’s memorial service. We’ll make it through Bill’s operation.

This is a long, dark valley but we will emerge. We will be okay.

I insist.

Broken Trees

2011-11-02T17:48:00.000-06:00

Last week, a premature snowstorm maimed trees and downed power lines all along Northern Colorado’s Front Range. Over the weekend, another heavy snow maimed trees and downed power lines from Virginia to Maine.

Why is there no eulogy for the broken trees?

Nine years ago when I was looking for a home to buy, I stopped in front of the house with the magnificent maple in the front yard. Now my study looks out into that maple in all its phases – deep mahogany leaves in early spring, jade green in summer, golden in autumn, and skeletal lace in winter (sometimes accessorized with snow).

Last week, I opened my front door to look at a massive four-foot high briar patch spreading from my porch to the street. It took four people three days to clear the debris and trim the mangled branches.

My maple still stands, covered with an icing of new snow – great hunks of it gone forever.

Why is there no eulogy for my broken tree?

It’s been just over two weeks since my sister-in-law died. There will be eulogies for her during a Nov. 19 memorial service. Jayne helped me find my house, as attracted as I was by my magnificent maple. She loved it too.

It is nice to imagine that, in some other sphere of being, she is saying a eulogy for my broken tree.

Thank you, Jayne.

Still Grieving

2011-10-27T10:26:00.001-06:00

Of course.

When someone very dear to you dies, you don’t just ‘get over’ it. It’s been 10 days. For the most part, I am pretty functional. For the most part.

We had 10 inches of wet snow Tuesday night. It fell on trees that still had all of their leaves so branches and wires were down all over town. When I looked out my front door yesterday morning, I saw the entire yard, sidewalk, front walk – everything -- covered by a four-foot high briar patch of fallen limbs. My huge maple was severely wounded – in part, by a huge branch that had fallen from my neighbor’s walnut tree. The red bud tree in my back yard lost only one 6-foot branch. Dealing with that (finding someone to haul away the enormous pile of debris) entertaining two afternoon visitors, changing litter boxes, and writing letters filled my day. I did pretty well.

Then I awoke about 2:30 a.m. and could not go back to sleep. I was obsessed with a need to find the name of the church where Jayne’s memorial service would be held. [It was not a good time to call anyone.] I knew (or hoped) I had saved a document with the name in one of the largely neglected but incredibly stuffed drawers in a study desk. So at 2:30 in the morning I went through three drawers, amassing a pile of things to be recycled and things to go in the garbage. I found the document and went back to bed about 4:30. I must have slept for a while. The next time I looked at the clock it was 7:30 – time to get up.

This is crazy.

I seem to do crazy things, say crazy things – every once in a while. The rest of the time, I am fine – except for the times waves of grief sweep over me.

So that’s how it is. And it will get better. My beautiful, severely wounded, maple will survive and so will I.

Eventually, my heart will heal.

Grief

2011-10-24T15:47:00.000-06:00

It’s been a week since my sister-in-law died. Grief comes in waves. I function, laugh, take walks, and then wham!

On Saturday, I had bustled around, doing errands and chores. No problem. That night I could not sleep. When I did begin to doze, odd creatures threatened the edges of my consciousness. My legs cramped. I got up and rubbed them with an analgesic lotion. Still no sleep. I found a book but couldn’t read. Finally, I ran a warm bath then tried sleeping on the guest bed. That worked for a while.

But I slept Sunday night. So far today, I’ve only been overwhelmed by sorrow a couple of times. Yard work in the sunshine helped.

It’s interesting to notice what does help. Cheese helps. For five days in a row, I had scrambled eggs with cheese for dinner. [I knew carbohydrates were comforting. Cholesterol is new information.] Going back to church, talking about Jayne’s death to people in my community helped. Crying a little helped.

And cats. Guinness and I play in the morning sunshine as he ‘helps’ me make my bed. And they both cuddle and purr.

Television, even DVD movies don’t help. Perhaps tonight. Oddly, reading helps – perhaps because more focus is required.

And of course friends help. One of them connected me to a sermon by Rev. Dr. Mark Morrison-Reed who had delivered it to Unity Temple, the Unitarian Universalist church in Oak Park, Illinois. The sermon centered on a poem by Elder Olson:

"Nothing is lost; the universe is honest,

Time, like the sea, gives all back in the end,

But only in its own way, on its own conditions:

Empires as grains of sand, forests as coal,

Mountains as pebbles. Be still, be still, I say;

You were never the water, only a wave;

Not substance, but a form substance assumed."

The sermon and the poem reminded me of a phrase by Thich Nhat Hahn that I have read and heard and which inevitably blows me out of my egocentricity: “Enlightenment comes to the wave when it realizes it is part of the ocean.”

Still, the loss is overwhelming – even when part of me knows it is not really a loss.

I miss her.

Jayne's Slippers

2011-10-20T11:08:00.000-06:00

I returned a pair of slippers yesterday. I had bought them online as a Christmas present for my sister in law. Jayne died Monday.

It was, I guess, as good a death as possible. Last Friday, when she went into intensive care, the word went out to her family and friends. And they came. All those who could possibly be there were there. After the initial shock of seeing her on a respirator, they connected, sharing their love, their memories. There was probably as much laughter as there were tears. The stories were wonderful. So were the tears and the laughter.

The hardest part for Jayne was, I think, the fact that she could not talk (because of the breathing tube). Eventually, someone worked up a system. They printed out the alphabet and watched for Jayne’s signals about which letters to choose. Slowly, she was able to share two sentences: "I cry because I am so blessed" and (when someone asked her if she was angry about anything) "I am angry because of the chocolate cake." (Her very good friend Louise had made her famous chocolate sheet cake for Jayne's family ... but Jayne could not eat it.)

For three days they came – her husband, her sons, her sister, her friends, old neighbors who had stayed in touch, teachers who had worked with her, members of the League of Women Voters, and of her church. When her room got crowded, I’d move out. When others left, I came back.

On the fourth day, Monday, she was able to make her instructions clear: remove the tube with her husband and sons in the room and me and friends close by. So that’s what we did. She lived about 40 minutes after tube removal and died at approximately 1:30 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time.

Eventually, her sons and I went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant where her husband joined us. I am not a fan of Mexican food but I ate a huge lunch. After lunch, we parted – some going south, me going north. On the way home I stopped at a Walgreens – to use their ATM, and to buy some Alka Seltzer.

Yesterday, taking the slippers to the UPS store for their return, I was both incredibly sad and a little amused. In listening to all the stories, I had learned that Jayne had very hot feet. Why had I not known that? Slippers would have been a least desired present – although she would have been politely grateful.

I showed them to her at the hospital. She was probably grateful that she would never have to wear them. I’ll bet she enjoyed the irony.

I so enjoyed her.

SOAP

2011-10-17T17:33:00.005-06:00

A recent edition of the New York Times science section was (if we would but pay attention) a cautionary tale for citizens of the United States. The section contained articles about low cost innovations that are reaping profound benefits for thousands with less access to medical advances.

One was a piece of paper, the size of a postage stamp, that can identify an illness from a drop of blood.
In Bangladesh, folded saris used to filter river water reduce the rate of cholera.
Village Health Volunteers in Thailand have significantly reduced childhood deaths.
AIDS patients in Mozambique use relay teams to collect lifesaving medication.
Vitamins you can sprinkle on food now help prevent childhood malnutrition in Mongolia.
Other scientists have found nectar toxic to mosquitoes thus combating malaria.

In contrast, people in this country have now virtually abandoned one of the greatest of the disease-preventing tools – the bar of soap. “Lo, a simple good thing has been tweaked until it is no longer simple. Instead of soap we now have a gigantic selection of luridly colored products augmented with every variety of additional germ killer imaginable. … And no one has managed to prove that any of them controls infection rates in a hospital (or for that matter, in a home) better than universal, assiduous scrubbing with regular, inexpensive, plain old soap.”

Evidently, as the rest of the world moves toward simpler, less expensive solutions, we here in the United States hurtle ourselves toward ever more complicated (and more expensive) remedies.

This is not universally true of course but there’s enough truth in it to warrant some second thoughts. Or third.

An evening out

2011-10-14T13:48:00.003-06:00

It had been a long time since I had ventured out for any kind of entertainment but recently I was tempted to buy a ticket to a guitar performance.

Black curtains hung at the back and the sides of the stage. A low chair in the center was flanked by two microphones and two speakers. That was it. After brief introductory remarks by a spokesman for the organizers, a short man with black curly hair walked out carrying a guitar. He wore a black shirt and pants.

His name: Alfredo Muro.

There were no special effects. No sheet music. Just a man and a guitar in the spotlight.

Dazzling.
Astounding.
Transporting.

No one in the audience coughed. We were all mesmerized.

I don’t know what I had expected. Perhaps a nice, lovely interlude in my routine, some pleasant, harmless strumming. Instead I heard a diversity of sounds beyond anything I could have imagined one guitar could produce. Two hours was barely enough.

Sometimes I make the right decisions.

October Flowers

2011-10-11T15:27:00.004-06:00

My morning glories waited all summer to bloom ---

as did my dahlias.

The weird geraniums persist.

And zinnias defy both frost and gravity.

The beauty of October flowers is enhanced by poignancy.

Colorado Gold Rush

2011-10-08T10:04:00.000-06:00

spot of gold

2011-10-04T10:16:00.000-06:00

Felled by flu, I did almost nothing yesterday.

But as symptoms subsided, I made my way to my front porch where I could sit on my swing and sort through my mail.

My body gratefully absorbed the late afternoon warmth.

My eyes gratefully acknowledged the first spot of gold in the front garden.

And I was substantially restored.

All Cats Are Hunters

2011-09-27T14:10:00.002-06:00

All cats are hunters.

People with ‘outdoor’ cats inevitably receive offerings – dead mice or birds or other small dead things – as tokens of both the cats’ prowess and esteem.

'Indoor' cats can get pretty bored. Feline boredom is not good. It’s not good for cats or furniture or for other cats who may share an abode.

I have two indoor cats, both rescued strays purchased from the local Humane Society. Recognizing their hunting instincts, I have literally littered my home with cat toys. And I try to play with the cats for at least a few minutes every day.

But it's not enough. I tend to get busy, working on the computer, being – in my cats’ eyes – pretty boring.

Therefore it's a really big deal whenever a small flying insect, such as a moth, invades the house. Immediately, my cats’ lives perk up. Their every nerve and muscle focuses on the fluttering prey. Darting impossibly fast, in and out of impossible places, the cats pursue their victims.

Moths traditionally head for light sources – daytime windows or nighttime lamps – with the cats hurtling after. I monitor chases as closely as I can – trying to protect any fragile objects that may get in the way.

At times the drama can last several minutes, involving action on both the first and second floors. Other times, it’s over quickly. But the ending is always the same.

Inevitably, sooner or later, the moth, pawed and dazed, falls and is eaten. The mighty hunter is triumphant. And, inevitably, sooner or later, the mighty hunter throws up.

How ephemeral the pleasures; how enduring the messes.

EQUINOX EQUANIMITY

2011-09-24T20:49:00.000-06:00

On the first day of autumn 2011, I gave myself a day off. I had no agenda other than escape – and time in the mountains. Wildlife would be a bonus. Especially bugling elk. But nothing was required. It was amazingly liberating.

First stop: Estes Park. After finding a good selection at the excellent card shop, I spent an hour or so drinking tea and reading a friend’s manuscript on a sun-drenched patio. I then wandered to a favorite shop but bought nothing. Then ambled to a favorite restaurant for a nice long lunch, reading more of the manuscript.

It was time to go into Rocky Mountain National Park. There was elk drama going on before the entrance station!

Once in the park, I drove to Sprague Lake and, although unable to walk its perimeter, I did manage to, for the first time in my life, take a photograph of trout. I then retired to a picnic table to read more of the manuscript. Once, looking up, I saw a raven eating a tiny trout. I didn’t even know they fished!

Eventually moving on (no agenda means no hurry) I drove to good elk viewing spots. First, Moraine Park, which looked too crowded, then Upper Beaver Meadow. At the end of the road there was one young bull at the very edge of the parking lot. Posing!

Driving further, I stopped next at West Horseshoe Park, attracted by the tailgaters leisurely enjoying snacks as they waited for the elk show. After some pleasant, casual conversations, I moved on – to a spot that seemed to have more ‘action’ at Sheep Lakes. And indeed, I could see the whole saga – the bull protecting his harem with bugling and feinting. Fascinated, I watched until about 6:45 before getting back into my car.

There’s a steakhouse about a mile outside the park that I’ve been meaning to try but its parking lot was overflowing. I found another, more unassuming, restaurant on the east side of Estes and after a nice dinner drove down the canyon and home.

A great day. A perfect way to celebrate the equinox … and restore my equanimity.

Raspberry Lesson

2011-09-19T10:15:00.001-06:00

Today was a big harvest: 25 little raspberries from the bushes in my back yard.

I’ve often told people that had I known about the raspberry bushes, I would have paid more for my house. (Raspberries are my very favorite fruit.)

I also have a magnificent, almost historic, redbud tree in my backyard. Like all trees, it grows slowly. But it does grow. And over the nine years I have lived here, the shade it provides has grown denser and denser.

And my raspberry crop has grown smaller and smaller.

I’ve decided that that’s okay.

Shade is wonderful. The tree is wonderful. And I think I appreciate each scrawny individual raspberry more than if there were an abundance of fat, luscious fruit.

Perhaps.

Actually, it’s a good lesson: to pay attention to small gifts.

And big trees.

Appreciation is the the foundation of joy.

Routine Chore --- Plus Cats

2011-09-14T16:18:00.000-06:00

Recently, Wednesdays have been my change-the-sheets days. A simple process in many households. An entire morning's production here. First, both cats were snuggled on the bed -- Herbie at the foot, Guinness in the middle. I removed the pillows/pillow cases, no problem. Then walking around the bed, discovered cat vomit on the rug. Cleaned it up. Removed the quilt. Discovered cat vomit on the rug on the other side of the bed. Cleaned it up. Started to remove the blanket. Discovered cat vomit on the blanket. Removed the blanket for future transport to the laundry room. Decided to just go with the quilt. It's not that cold. Unfurled the clean bottom sheet over the mattress (and Guinness -- Herbie had left). A button came off the blouse I had retrieved from the back of the closet (a blouse appropriate for the cool, wet weather today). A forgotten pair of underpants flew across the room, evidently inadvertently tucked into the bottom sheet after the last washing. Guinness stayed, escaping only at the last minute when I finished securing the bottom sheet to the bed. But getting back on top, of course. So. I unfurled the top sheet over the bed. Guinness didn't move. Okay. So I hauled the quilt up onto the bed. Guinness didn't move. I put the two cat toys back on the bed. The lump under the quilt/sheet moved. Guinness emerged to play. We played for a bit. Herbie, who had been observing all of this from the hallway, decided to join us. So we all played for a while but, for heaven's sake it was approaching 11 a.m. Enough already. I retrieved the pillows, put their clean cases on and declared an end to the process. Except for carefully taking the vomit-embellished blanket down to the laundry room. And, while downstairs, finding needle and thread with which to re-attach the button.

The button reattached, the bed made, it was time for lunch.

NY TIMES on TIME

2011-09-09T20:50:00.000-06:00

In a recent edition of the New York Times, Edward Rothstein wrote a review of the National Watch and Clock Museum in Columbia, Pennsylvania that contained some (if you will excuse the phrase) eternal questions.

“What exists everywhere in the universe but occupies no space?”

“What can be measured – but not seen, heard, smelled, tasted, nor held in our hands?”

“What can be spent, saved, frittered away or killed – but never destroyed?”

Time of course.

“Where does time go after it passes?

“What are we really measuring when we tell time?”

“In what ways does measuring time end up shaping time? How does shaping time affect how we think and act?”

Rothstein proposes, “The measuring of time may be the defining act of civilization. It makes planning and strategy possible. … It increases awareness of both constancy and change.”

Humans may have first “become aware of time through repetition. Something happens again and again, yet at each recurrence something else has changed: Time has passed. Sunrises, shadows, solstices: the regularities of such phenomena give pattern to experience.”

Rothstein goes on to describe some of the 12,000 timepieces in the museum.

What he fails to consider is the Buddhist belief that time (like separation) is an illusion.

Things to ponder – when you have a moment.

Tenure

2011-09-06T09:00:00.002-06:00

In a lunchtime conversation, a teacher spoke about the freedom he felt after teaching for several decades. No longer worried about his grasp of the subject matter or teaching methods, he begins a school year confident, and eager to share these treasures with a new crop of students. And in staff meetings, he says what needs to be said without fear of censure.

He recounted a recent meeting on a very hot day as teachers and administrative staff gathered. One topic: how to teach the kinds to infer. My friend piped up: “Perhaps we could ask them what they might infer when all the classrooms were un-air-conditioned and sultry and the room in which the staff was meeting was air-conditioned and comfortable.” That is something, he noted he would never have had the courage to say was a beginning teacher. [A friend of his afterward remarked that his comment had enabled him to simultaneously be smart and a smart ass.]

I am not a teacher. But I have recently had a milestone birthday. I too have a kind of tenure. I must remember to enjoy the concomitant freedom – to say and do whatever needs to be said and done.

While the tenure holds.

Blanket Statement

2011-09-03T10:16:00.000-06:00

Last night for the first time in probably three months, I pulled my summer blanket up over my shoulders.

The breeze coming through the bedroom window was more than cool (less than cool?). It was chilly.

And the act of snuggling under a blanket felt euphoric.

Until I fell asleep.

Smiling.

Feline Felicity

2011-08-31T20:40:00.001-06:00

I know there many good reasons to like dogs. In fact, some of my best friends are dogs. However, I feel compelled to testify to some of the ways my two cats give me great pleasure.

-- Companionship. On good days, I spend a lot of time at home – writing and doing chores and writing. Inevitably, one or both cats is (or are) nearby (sometimes in front of the keyboard). In the case of chores, I feel gently supervised. In the case of writing, gently encouraged. In the case of making my bed, I am unquestionably ‘assisted’ by the one cat who pounces on seen and unseen objects as each layer of bedding is applied.

-- Welcoming. I know people tend to anthropomorphize animals' antics and I know cats are not famous for this (and probably have a greater tendency to do so when they are hungry) but it feels really quite nice when they both come trotting to greet me when I return from errands and meetings.

And above all

-- Trust. Complete trust. One of my cats (the same one who helps me make my bed) throws himself across a stair as I am descending. He absolutely trusts that I will not only not step on him but also – once I have reached a step lower than his ‘barrier’ – turn and scratch his tummy and rub his back. The other (less neurotic and more affectionate feline) finds me whenever I am in repose and curls up close placing his head on my hand. Think about it. Would you put your head in the hand of someone ten times as large as?

And finally, you could anticipate this one:

They purr.

Holding Peace in Our Hands

2011-08-28T16:36:00.000-06:00

I never go to a retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh without buying a lot of books (mostly his). This year I found in one of those books a poem that he wrote during the war in Vietnam after the U.S. Air Force bombed an entire town 'to save it from Communism.'

-------------------------------------

I hold my face in my two hands.
No, I am not crying.
I hold my face in my two hands
to keep my loneliness warm --
two hands protecting,
two hands nourishing,
two hands preventing
my soul from leaving me
in anger.

--------------------------------------

When I sent it to a friend, she responded: “This is sort of how I feel every day in our violent, isolationist, emotionally armored culture.”

She is right, there are many reasons to feel anger, fear, despair. Still, if we can but be still; breathe into calmness; hold our faces in our two hands, it may very well be possible to restore peace and compassion at least within our own spheres of influence. And, possibly, let that peace gently ripple out to the very edges of the cosmos.

May it be so.

the Zen of a Torn Meniscus

2011-08-26T10:28:00.000-06:00

It may not have been too bright but even though I was told I had a torn meniscus in my left knee, I went to the mindfulness retreat led by Thich Nhat Hanh and the nuns and monks from his corps of caring followers.

The retreat was held at the Rocky Mountain YMCA outside of Estes Park, Colorado. The Y is in an alpine valley, altitude circa 10,000 feet. Other than the floors of various buildings there are probably no flat walking surfaces.

This is not ideal for someone with a torn meniscus.

I had brought my cane and often would be able to get from place to place with no problems. But occasionally, with no warning, my leg would freeze in excruciating pain.

Whenever that happened, there was someone nearby willing and able to help. For the first few days the pain attacks were relatively minor and I could, with minimal assistance, could begin walking (very slowly) again.

One evening toward the end of the retreat, my leg gave out with more emphasis than before. Although it was a time of community silence, I told the woman standing next to me that I had a problem. She immediately moved to my left side and provided support as I tried to move. It took a while. When at last I could walk again, the walking was very tentative – small steps taken in slow motion.

We moved out of one building toward the path to my dormitory room. My assistant saw a friend coming the other way. The friend immediately grasped the problem and when assured that the two of us could continue on our own, offered to find some ice.

The distance from the meeting hall to my room was close to half a mile. We may have set the world record for the slowest half mile in history. But we made it. Ice bags were created. Both assistants told me the best way to use the ice and elevate the leg.

I listened attentively. It turns out that they were both occupational therapists.

How extraordinary. And how predictable. All those participating in the retreat had coalesced into a vigorous, peaceful community that, literally, emanated healing energy. Even if I had not heard Thich Nhat Hanh’s wisdom, I would have learned the power of compassion.

More Thich Nhat Hanh

2011-08-22T10:10:00.001-06:00

While I am at a retreat listening to Thay (a Vietnamese honorific that means 'teacher') and the monks and nuns who have learned from him, I'm sharing some of the things he has said:

-- "People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar." ~

~ "Enlightenment is always there. Small enlightenment will bring great enlightenment. If you breathe in and are aware that you are alive—that you can touch the miracle of being alive—then that is a kind of enlightenment." ~

~ "Many people are alive but don't touch the miracle of being alive." ~

~ "It is possible to live happily in the here and now. So many conditions of happiness are available—more than enough for you to be happy right now. You don't have to run into the future in order to get more." ~

~ "People suffer because they are caught in their views. As soon as we release those views, we are free and we don't suffer anymore." ~

~ "Mindfulness helps you go home to the present. And every time you go there and recognize a condition of happiness that you have, happiness comes." ~

~ "Life is available only in the present. That is why we should walk in such a way that every step can bring us to the here and the now." ~

~ "When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence. How can you love if you are not there?" ~

~ "To be loved means to be recognized as existing." ~

~ "Every thought you produce, anything you say, any action you do, it bears your signature." ~

Thich Nhat Hanh

2011-08-19T08:30:00.001-06:00

We have to understand in order to be of help.

We all have pain, but we tend to suppress it because

we don't want it to come up to our living room.

The most important thing is that we need to be

understood. We need someone to be able to

listen to us and to understand us.

Then, we will suffer less.

-Thich Nhat Hanh

It’s so simple. Like all of things he writes.

And so true.

And so helpful.

Today, I’m going up to the YMCA of the Rockies to start a five-day retreat with Thich Nhat Hanh and the nuns and monks of his spiritual centers.

I have a lot to learn.

Why Didn't He Cry?

2011-08-15T14:45:00.000-06:00

Remember the last scene in the movie “A Wonderful Life”?

There was a point during the party I threw myself for my milestone (there’s no reason to let you know which one) birthday party when I remembered the cake. I could only find five candles so I jammed them into the cake and lit them.

All of a sudden everyone there was singing ‘happy birthday’. I looked around the room, at the mass of friendly, beautiful faces of people whom I genuinely admire and enjoy. I felt like Jimmy Stewart in the closing scene of “A Wonderful Life".

Except that I felt like crying. I was so overwhelmed by my friends’ affection and so grateful for their apparent appreciation. It seemed as if all those people really wished me well, really cared.

Shit. I had angst-ed about not having accomplished anything in my many, many (unrevealed) years but all of those people seemed to think that I don’t really have to do anything but just be me.

What more does anyone need?

[I’m still going to keep working on my novel.]

tiny, tiny courageous act

2011-08-08T14:45:00.001-06:00

I know it’s not much but still, it was the first time I did such a thing.

And I did it.

The guys doing some routine plumbing work noticed it -- fastened overhead about three feet from the back door.

It was small but busy; wasps teeming over the incipient nest.

“You’d better get rid of that.”

Well, yes. But how? On my garage shelves there was a can of aerosol wasp killer spray. The instructions said to use it either at dawn or dusk, when the wasps were less active.

I’m not a dawn person – even in summer. So, after dinner, I sat at the table watching the clock as I read the paper: 7:30 (perhaps still too early), then, finally 8 p.m.

Taking the stool from the pantry, I left the house. After checking the wind, I decided to stand slightly to the west of the nest. I shook the can, vigorously. I sprayed. White foam enveloped the nest and globs plopped to ground. I could see writhing little creatures. I left, taking the stool, went inside and washed my hands.

I felt like Lady Macbeth.

The next morning, there was a scattering of bodies and other debris. I saw no activity. I felt neither proud nor secure.

So the next evening I repeated the process – just to make sure.

And yesterday morning, after 48 hours of no nest activity, I hauled my ladder outside. With a spatula, I scraped the nest off the overhead beam onto waiting newspaper.

I’m sure that the nest was one of Nature’s wonders—intricate design, amazing texture. I just wanted it gone. I wadded up the paper and deposited in the garbage.

No one applauded. I had not asked for either assistance or audience. Still I had done something I was afraid to do.

And it was done.

Tomato Sandwiches

2011-08-03T10:26:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I had a tomato sandwich. I could have had something else but I was afraid the tomato would spoil. The lunch reminded me of my first tomato sandwich, eaten on a pier in Darwin, Australia, 18 years ago.

I had been in Melbourne on assignment. I had read that Kakadu National Park was a great repository of aboriginal rock art and was determined get there. While still working, I happened to talk to someone who had a friend in Darwin who might possibly guide me into Kakadu. During short breaks, I made the phone calls and reservations to get me from Melbourne to Sydney to Cairns (with a brief stop in Brisbane) to Darwin.

So I made my way to Darwin and to the motel that the possible guide – whose name was John -- had recommended. I was just getting settled when he called, inviting me to join his family for a picnic on one of Darwin’s piers. What could be better?

We sat on the wooden pier, arranged ourselves around the picnic basket, and watched the antics of sea birds, fishermen and bungee jumpers. The picnic basket was opened and each of us was handed a tomato sandwich. I had never heard of tomato sandwiches. I thought tomatoes were what you put on other stuff in sandwiches. It turned out to be one of the great feasts of my life.

John and his family were wonderful hosts and guides. The next day John led me through Litchfield Park, telling the Aboriginal stories for every place and use for every plant. Then he arranged my two-day tour into Kakadu (at half price).

In those two days, I saw more kinds of birds and animals and plants than I had in all my previous years: bower birds, prehistoric trees, termite mounds, crocodiles, spoonbills, herons, ibis, water buffalo, pelicans, rainbow bee eaters, lizards, jabirus, lotus, egrets, storks, corellas, eagles, even odd frogs.

And I saw the amazing, millennia-old rock art. At Nourlangie Rock and Ubirr, I marveled at huge cliffs etched with depictions of history and myth and the right way to cook certain kinds of fish. At Ubirr’s Lookout Point, I looked out over a vista that so many others had seen for thousands of years. Woods and billabongs and vast plains. Some vistas velvet with scrub, others shimmering smooth, green and blue. And in the distance, another mesa, that was almost certainly another ancient Lookout Point.

When I returned to Darwin, I reconnected with John’s family before my long trip home. And I stayed connected with them. Hosting his daughters in Chicago and, years later, his widow when she visited Colorado.

I highly recommend tomato sandwiches.

Sports Story

2011-07-31T15:43:00.000-06:00

Most days, I automatically put the sports section on the recycling pile, unread. But I only take the Monday – Friday editions of the New York Times, so I scan the Saturday and Sunday online versions and today inadvertently read a sports article.
Today, at the back of the sports section – just before I deleted the document -- there was a story about a Ugandan Little League team that had qualified for the Little League World Series (to be played Aug. 18-28 in South Williamsport, PA.).
For the second year in a row.
And for a second year in a row, the United States State Department denied the teams’ visas to travel in this county – because their documentation “contained discrepancies.”
We forget -- and obviously State Department officials forget – that not everyone has a birth certificate. That there are parts of the world where the paperwork that we take for granted – the paperwork that enables us to vote, drive, drink alcohol and travel to other countries – simply does not exist. Or if it does exist, does so only erratically.
Because of this, the Rev. John Foundation Little League team, which was to play its first Little League World Series game against Canada on Aug. 19, will stay home. The boys qualified by winning the Middle East-Africa regional tournament last month against Saudi Arabia.
They qualified by working hard, following a dream. Most live in poverty. Their parents, if they have them, “are often illiterate, making it difficult to verify birth certificate data.”
Little League baseball was introduced to Uganda eight years ago by Richard Stanley of Staten Island. Stanley pointed out that Ugandan kids may not even know their own birthdays. “They don’t have cake and ice cream parties in Kampala.”

Poetic Resonance -- Ulysses and Mim

2011-07-28T11:26:00.000-06:00

Years and years ago I first read the poem, Ulysses, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. One line lodged forever in my brain/psyche/soul:

“I am part of all that I have met;”

There are more lines of course. The poem is a dramatic monologue and pretty macho. The narrator does not want to sit around and rule his little kingdom; he wants to set off with his buddies on perpetual adventures until he is enfolded in the ‘eternal silence.’

I can identify with the last stanza:

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Oh yes, ‘that which I am, I am’ – not as young, not as strong – but still striving, still searching, still trying to contribute whatever I am to whomever or whatever might need me.

But, for me, that one line needs expanding. Yes, “I am part of all that I have met” but, more accurately, all that I have met is part of me – all the people, all the places -- the entire rainbow of human cultures and the abundant and infinitely variegated planet. The beauty that pervades existence.

I am grateful to Tennyson. Poets plant thoughts that grow into our souls and, lo! become a part of us.

cool cat

2011-07-25T20:57:00.000-06:00

When it's hot, everyone must find a way to cope --

as Herbie has.

accidental beauty

2011-07-21T10:22:00.000-06:00

My garage is on an alley.

When I moved into my home I was impressed by the fact that other garages on the alley were fringed with flowers -- iris, sunflowers, hollyhocks.

As I worked to establish my gardens, I planted 'leftovers' by my garage door.

This summer, they have come into their own. Splendid, however unintentional.

Some Shade for a Summer Day

2011-07-16T18:08:00.000-06:00

It's hot here -- and probably hot wherever you are. So here's some shade and cool waters -- from Muir Woods again.

More Muir Woods

2011-07-13T21:22:00.000-06:00

Muir Woods is home to Old Growth Redwoods -- many trees

(the tallest in the world)

one thousand years old.

A place to wander and wonder

and ponder the beauty of things

left alone.

CATS ARE PERVERSE

2011-07-09T16:05:00.000-06:00

--- Perhaps you knew that. Mine tend to prove their perversity daily.

Take Herbie, for example. On days when temperatures approach or exceed 90, he will often curl up inside the upstairs bathroom sink. Presumably because it is cool.

Today is about 90. Earlier this afternoon, he was there, surprising me as I prepared to wash my hands.

Later, I was preparing something in the kitchen when the dryer buzzer rang. Herbie trotted into the kitchen and out to the laundry room. I opened the dryer door and Herbie jumped in. [In this house, black slacks have no chance of pristine-ness.] I pulled all but one item from the dryer, sorting and folding. Halfway through this process my other cat, Guinness, jumped up on the warm, dry clothes. [Did I mention that in this house, black slacks have no chance of pristine-ness?] I left Herbie and the one item in the dryer – with the door open. And Guinness atop the warm, dry clothes.

I did mention that the temperature is about 90?

There is no explanation for cat behavior – except perversity. Bless them both [and my black, furry slacks.]

Muir Woods -- Beyond Words

2011-07-04T12:16:00.000-06:00

Antelope Spotting

2011-06-29T10:31:00.000-06:00

You can learn a lot at rest stops. While waiting for my traveling companions, I struck up a conversation with a gentleman awaiting his passengers. Looking at the vast Wyoming landscape, I believe I muttered something to the effect, “this is truly magnificent in its own way.” The gentleman agreed, noting with some regret that his granddaughters spent most of their time in the back seat playing with their hand-held games. And his daughter sat in the passenger seat reading her book. I was about to tell him what I did to enjoy the ride when our respective parties reassembled and we left in separate vehicles.

All the way across Wyoming, I practiced antelope spotting. [Well, I thought the mammals in question were pronghorn antelopes but according to Wikipedia, they’re not antelopes at all so it is best to refer to them simply as pronghorns.] At any rate, sitting in the backseat with three suitcases piled to my left and a window to my right, I had a grand time trying to spot these graceful creatures. It takes concentration but is really quite rewarding. Often I’d see one wandering alone. One shared a spacious pasture with a scattering of cattle. One doe stood with her two fawns as if posing for a portrait. Once in a great while, a buck.

As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, many seemed to settle down for the night, facing west. The only exceptions to the mammalian landscape of cattle and pronghorn were an occasional herd of horses and two mule deer. All of these creatures kept me delighted until dusk after the overcast sky was graced with rainbows that segued into sunsets before dissolving into rain.

And it was magnificent.

Late Bloomers

2011-06-25T14:45:00.000-06:00

Around here, the catalpa trees are in abundant bloom

-- actually spectacular.

Unlike the fruit trees and dogwood

which detonate color into the spring landscape,

catalpas bloom in mid-summer

-- after crocus, tulip, daffodil, and iris

have come and gone

and all the trees are so lush with green

that I suspect many people do not even notice.

It's a little sad.

It should not matter

when a tree (or person) blossoms.

Beauty is beauty, whenever and however it happens.

And appreciation is always appropriate.

So, thank you.

This is not a squirrel

2011-06-22T18:28:00.000-06:00

I know. It looks like a squirrel. It's almost as big as a squirrel. But it's a prairie dog. It lives, with hundreds of others, at a rest stop on I80 east of Park City, Utah. It, and hundreds of others, have learned to scamper close to the sidewalk looking cute. They peer out of the undergrowth and pose when people pass. And people feed them -- which is why they are as big as squirrels.

It's probably not evil. But it doesn't do the prairie dogs much good. I wonder if they can fit into their burrows.

Just a passing thought on a long drive home

it really IS grand

2011-06-21T18:00:00.001-06:00

Americana

2011-06-18T18:00:00.001-06:00

How's this for a classic photo? It was taken in Monument Valley, Utah. The cowboy in the red shirt is a Navajo who sits behind a little wooden shelter topped by a sign -- "Photos $2.00." When a tour jeep pulls up, he rides his horse out to the mesa while dozens of people take the same picture.

[I was with the North American Cultural Tour, which paid for the photo.]

Monument Valley became synonymous with the American West because the proprietors of the local trading post sent photographs to Hollywood producers encouraging them to make Westerns in this spectacular landscape. So they did. Especially John Ford (in movies starring John Wayne).

This testament to American entrepreneurial spirit, lives on --- in the cowboy in the red shirt

Whatever Works (part two)

2011-06-15T18:00:00.001-06:00

This (one of several) statues of a Navajo Code Talker. This one stands in front of the Gallup, New Mexico, Cultural Center.

As most of us have finally acknowledged, the Navajo used their language (adapted for American military terms) to bamboozle the Japanese during World War II -- thus saving many hundreds of American lives.

To me, this not only demonstrates the courage and patriotism of the Navajo but also underlines the importance of all peoples retaining their languages and cultures. [It's okay if they learn English too.]

Whatever Works

2011-06-12T18:05:00.000-06:00

This is a (mediocre) photograph of dogs herding sheep (without the assistance of a human being) on the Navajo reservation in Arizona.

While on the Native American Cultural Tour, I learned that the Navajo also use llamas to herd sheep. The llamas use their sharp hooves to protect their charges.
There is no word for 'llama' in the Navajo language so they call them, goats uncles.

Canyon Connection

2011-06-07T10:30:00.000-06:00

For some 5,000 years, people have lived in, and worshiped in, Canyon de Chelly. When I went there as part of the Native American Cultural Tour, I rode in a 'group jeep' that drove deep into the canyon (and then back out). It stopped a couple of times, at places with portable outhouses and vendors. At one of those stops, I walked past a pickup, noticing that two little girls were sitting in the cab. One of them seemed quite anxious to connect with me. She climbed over to the driver’s side window and rolled it down, waving her box of Minute Maid apple juice (inadvertently sprinkling me). I talked to her briefly then, when she opened the back cab window and climbed through, met her at the back of the truck. She began playing with two little carved turtles. Everything else on the truck bed display seemed pretty feminine but when I asked her if one of the turtles might make a nice gift for my son, she smiled. So I bought it and her grandmother put it on a cord. I asked the girl’s mother if I could take her picture and she said yes (you can see the mom’s arms in the photo).

Connections are possible everywhere.

Canyon de Chelly

2011-06-03T17:43:00.000-06:00

Canyon de Chelly from the rim looking down

Canyon de Chelly from the floor looking up

People have lived and worked and hidden

in this canyon for some 5,000 years.

Statistical 'Cheer'

2011-05-30T13:59:00.000-06:00

Most of the time, I am quite content. My expectations of being whisked away by a gallant gentleman on a white horse have long been low – even nonexistent. I had no problem with that but a recent news item made it clear that there never was much hope.
According to an Associated Press article printed last Friday in my local paper, there’s been a major reduction in the “women’s population advantage, primarily in the 65-plus age group.” [That happens to be my age group.]
“Over the past decade,” the article continued, “the number of men in the U.S. increased by 9.9 percent, faster than the 9.5 percent growth rate for women. As a result, women outnumbered men by just 5.18 million, [my italics] compared with 2000, when there were 5.3 million more women than men.”
Why am I not thrilled?
I never wanted women to have the ‘population advantage.’
The odds have never been in my favor anyway. Older single women are not considered prime dating material. So, even if there are merely 5.18 million more women than men, the chances of my getting a date are hardly astronomical. Or even measurable.
Ah well. Thanks Associated Press for keeping it real.

Copy of April 10 article published by UK's GUARDIAN

2011-05-27T21:05:00.000-06:00

Bolivia enshrines natural world's rights with equal status for Mother Earth
Law of Mother Earth expected to prompt radical new conservation and social measures in South American nation
Sunday, April 10 -- [John Vidal reports from La Paz]
Bolivia is set to pass the world's first laws granting all nature equal rights to humans. The Law of Mother Earth, now agreed by politicians and grassroots social groups, redefines the country's rich mineral deposits as "blessings" and is expected to lead to radical new conservation and social measures to reduce pollution and control industry.
The country, which has been pilloried by the US and Britain in the UN climate talks for demanding steep carbon emission cuts, will establish 11 new rights for nature. They include: the right to life and to exist; the right to continue vital cycles and processes free from human alteration; the right to pure water and clean air; the right to balance; the right not to be polluted; and the right to not have cellular structure modified or genetically altered.
Controversially, it will also enshrine the right of nature "to not be affected by mega-infrastructure and development projects that affect the balance of ecosystems and the local inhabitant communities".
"It makes world history. Earth is the mother of all", said Vice-President Alvaro García Linera. "It establishes a new relationship between man and nature, the harmony of which must be preserved as a guarantee of its regeneration."
The law, which is part of a complete restructuring of the Bolivian legal system following a change of constitution in 2009, has been heavily influenced by a resurgent indigenous Andean spiritual world view which places the environment and the earth deity known as the Pachamama at the centre of all life. Humans are considered equal to all other entities.
But the abstract new laws are not expected to stop industry in its tracks. While it is not clear yet what actual protection the new rights will give in court to bugs, insects and ecosystems, the government is expected to establish a ministry of mother earth and to appoint an ombudsman. It is also committed to giving communities new legal powers to monitor and control polluting industries.
Bolivia has long suffered from serious environmental problems from the mining of tin, silver, gold and other raw materials. "Existing laws are not strong enough," said Undarico Pinto, leader of the 3.5m-strong Confederación Sindical Única de Trabajadores Campesinos de Bolivia, the biggest social movement, who helped draft the law. "It will make industry more transparent. It will allow people to regulate industry at national, regional and local levels."
Foreign Minister David Choquehuanca said Bolivia's traditional indigenous respect for the Pachamama was vital to prevent climate change. "Our grandparents taught us that we belong to a big family of plants and animals. We believe that everything in the planet forms part of a big family. We indigenous people can contribute to solving the energy, climate, food and financial crises with our values," he said.
Little opposition is expected to the law being passed because President Evo Morales's ruling party, the Movement Towards Socialism, enjoys a comfortable majority in both houses of parliament.
However, the government must tread a fine line between increased regulation of companies and giving way to the powerful social movements who have pressed for the law. Bolivia earns $500m (£305m) a year from mining companies which provides nearly one third of the country's foreign currency.
In the indigenous philosophy, the Pachamama is a living being.
The draft of the new law states: "She is sacred, fertile and the source of life that feeds and cares for all living beings in her womb. She is in permanent balance, harmony and communication with the cosmos. She is comprised of all ecosystems and living beings, and their self-organisation."
Ecuador, which also has powerful indigenous groups, has changed its constitution to give nature "the right to exist, persist, maintain and regenerate its vital cycles, structure, functions and its processes in evolution". However, the abstract rights have not led to new laws or stopped oil companies from destroying some of the most biologically rich areas of the Amazon.
Bolivia is struggling to cope with rising temperatures, melting glaciers and more extreme weather events including more frequent floods, droughts, frosts and mudslides.
Research by glaciologist Edson Ramirez of San Andres University in the capital city, La Paz, suggests temperatures have been rising steadily for 60 years and started to accelerate in 1979. They are now on course to rise a further 3.5-4C over the next 100 years. This would turn much of Bolivia into a desert.
Most glaciers below 5,000m are expected to disappear completely within 20 years, leaving Bolivia with a much smaller ice cap. Scientists say this will lead to a crisis in farming and water shortages in cities such as La Paz and El Alto.
Evo Morales, Latin America's first indigenous president, has become an outspoken critic in the UN of industrialised countries which are not prepared to hold temperatures to a 1C rise.

Navajo (Dine) Capital

2011-05-24T20:09:00.000-06:00

Window Rock

and

Code Talker statue

in Window Rock, Arizona, capital of the Navajo (Dine) nation.

Never Assume

2011-05-19T09:00:00.004-06:00

One of my father’s favorite pronouncements was: “never assume.”

Throughout my childhood, my teen years, my college years and, yes, even later, he reminded me of the folly of assuming something would be one way just because it had been that way before … or a person was one type just because he or she was tall or short or black or white.

Yet still, just yesterday, I assumed.

When I came downstairs for breakfast, I noticed two books on the living room floor. And a gap in the shelf under the living room window.

I have two cats: one charcoal gray (Guinness) and one cream with pale orange accents (Herbie). Herbie is the mellow one, the snuggler, the one who sleeps most of the time, the one who loves everyone. Guinness is the neurotic one, the mischief-maker, the one who steals cat toys and Herbie’s food and who runs away whenever a stranger enters the house.

Naturally, I assumed that Guinness had knocked the books off the shelf.

I muttered a general reprimand and proceeded to make breakfast. Afterward, when I was cleaning up the kitchen, I heard a sound that I could not identify. It seemed to come from the living room. I dried my hands and walked in the direction of the sound.

Another book had fallen on the floor. And deep in the shadows of the bookcase a pale, cream-colored face peered out, wide-eyed and innocent.

Herbie did it.

Dad was right (damn it). Never assume.

Champion Red Bud

2011-05-15T09:00:00.004-06:00

A giant redbud rises three stories high in my back yard. The other morning, a stranger knocked on my front door and asked if he could see my tree. Of course! I often make people come look at my tree. The stranger said he used to run Colorado's champion tree program. He'd never seen a redbud so big. My tree has a multiple trunk. If it did not, if it had one solitary trunk, the stranger said it would be a champion.

It's a champion to me (and to the chickadees nesting in a hole in its trunk (estimated to be more than 90 years old). Enjoy.

Power of Art

2011-05-08T16:48:00.000-06:00

The Thursday, May 5, New York Times Arts section included three stories that, to me, illustrated the power and essential-ness of art.

Headline: Mozart Leaps Perilous Hurdles To Reach an Audience in Gaza
Daniel Barenboim, conductor, “led an orchestra of two dozen elite musicians – volunteers from the Berlin Philharmonic, the Berlin Staatskapelle, the Orchestra of La Scala in Milan, the Vienna Philharmonic and the Orchestre de Paris – into Gaza on Tuesday.” Barenboim was quoted: “This (concert) is meant to demonstrate European solidarity with Gazan civil society.” The concert required careful maneuvering by the United Nations and others and was taken as sign of possible easing of Gaza’s isolation. One Gazan businessman interpreted the concert saying: “it means people still believe in us. You start with music and end up with acceptance.”

[Mr. Barenboim used to conduct the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. On those wondrous occasions when I could attend a concert, I was stunned by the fact that he did not use a written score – it was all in his head!]

Headline: 12 Heads Do the Talking for a Silenced Artist
The artist: Ai Weiwei, now in his second month of detention in China. The 12 heads: the Circle of Animals/Zodiac Heads now on display at a fountain in front of New York’s Plaza Hotel. Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg cited New York as a city that “fiercely defends the right of all people to express themselves,” and called Ai “one of the most talent, respected and masterful artists of our time.’

[Had I been there, I too would have held a sign: "Free Weiwei"]

Headline: Bargain Plane’s Priceless Heritage
A young California couple, Matthew and Tina Quy, bought a vintage Stearman biplane on eBay in 2005. They restored it, then discovered it was a piece of American history “one of the few surviving planes used to train the Tuskegee Airmen, the pioneering, all-black corps that served in the Army during World War II.” The Quys are going to give the plane to the Smithsonian Institution’s new National Museum of African American History and Culture. When the Quys (who are white) discovered the plane’s heritage, they named it Spirit of Tuskegee and have flown it to air shows to teach people about the airmen. “For three years the couple has been raising money through the sale of … T-shirts to pay travel expenses for airmen who join them to speak about their wartime experiences." Those experiences included the racial hatred (and sometimes violence) that pervaded this country in the 1940s.

These three stories demonstrate how art can transcend barriers – political, international, and racial – with beauty and courage. How can we not honor art and art teachers?

one tulip in May

2011-05-07T18:27:00.000-06:00

My Cat Has Balls

2011-05-04T14:34:00.000-06:00

My cat, Guinness, has balls. Not the two he was born with (I adopted him from the local Humane Society) but the ping-pong-ball-sized bits of fluff adorned with sparkly metallic threads created for American consumers who have-love-dote upon their cats.

They often come in packages of four. I buy them, hide three in the cupboard above the laundry room sink and toss the fourth for Guinness to chase and return.

Then they disappear. First the one I tossed, then (if he has not already extricated them from the cupboard) the other three.

There are (of course) other toys, so we do without for a while. Then, the next time I buy litter and cat food, I buy another package.

On March 11, I posted a blog recounting such a purchase. [When I returned home, both my cats were at the door but I thought I had managed to sneak the toys in, unobserved. When everything was put away, and when I was sure the both cats were off in another part of the house, I opened the cellophane package, extracted one ball and quickly slipped the package into a kitchen drawer. When Guinness wandered into the kitchen, I threw the extracted ball into the living room and laughed as he scooted after it, sliding slightly on the wood floor. He brought it back. I threw it again, etc. The next morning, I noticed a silver sparkly ball on the upstairs landing. And a red sparkly ball by the front door and a blue sparkly ball on the living room rug and a purple sparkly ball in the dining room. What was going on? I opened my (not so) clever hiding place. There in the corner was the cellophane bag – empty. And there at my feet was Guinness. I swear he was grinning.]

But soon all balls disappeared.

Until I had the loveseat cleaned. When the loveseat was moved, there was a whole trove of balls. I put a cluster of them in a plastic bag that I hid in the laundry room cupboard and placed three around the house for Guinness to find.

He found them. And the cluster in the cupboard.

Within days, all of them had disappeared.

Today, an intensive search was conducted. With an assistant, I looked in every known and suspected hiding place.

We found 20 cat balls.

Where should I hide them this time?

No Cure But Sympathy

2011-05-01T09:18:00.000-06:00

My last blog was true at the time. For a while, my malady seemed a respite --- a break from the seemingly perpetual round of things to do. I had gone to the doctor feeling ill – had that illness confirmed – had medication prescribed. It was an odd sort of validation.

I stayed home, rested, read. Luxuriated in torpor.

As of yesterday, my malady was old. I wanted to be able to do something. I tried; venturing to a store only to have to admit that I didn’t feel well enough to be there. Not well enough to shop! That’s practically un-American.

Later, my nephew called to relay some family news. I tried to tell him I still did not feel well. He dismissed my malady in a most matter-of-fact manner. Noting the worst was undoubtedly over, he said something to the effect that now it’s just a cold.

Well yes, I guess so. But I haven’t been with other people for almost a week. Laryngitis precluded phone calls. And cats don’t quite compensate.

Being alone had lost its charm.

I just felt deprived. Abandoned. It would have been nice if he had asked if there was anything he could do. (There is, but he lives too far away to do it.) But what I really wanted was some tiny little indication that he gave a damn. Just a: “Sorry, Aunt Mim, I hope you feel better soon.”

Sometimes that’s all it takes to make someone’s day a little brighter: a warm smile, a casual compliment, a modicum of sympathy.

People need to be acknowledged.

I’m going to try to go to church today. I’ll try to remember that, try to practice the smiles, the compliments, the sympathetic phrases. Who knows? Maybe it will be reciprocal. But whether it is or not, I’ll bet it makes me feel better.

Side Benefits

2011-04-28T16:19:00.000-06:00

There are side benefits to being sick.

I have the croup but now that the cough and pain are medicated, I am not really suffering. The medicine makes me drowsy so I can’t drive. But I can take an afternoon nap. And do a lot of reading.

I’m contagious so I can’t go to any kind of gathering. But I can stay in touch via email -- (not telephone until my voice recovers).

And my cats are apparently taking turns checking in and cuddling so I have a modicum of affection.

This is my second day of required bed (and couch and chair) rest. I’ll put up with it one more day then, assuming restored health, I’ll venture out into the world again.

But, for now, it’s a nice respite.

Except for the fact that this happens to be the most beautifully perfect spring day ever and I am inside.

Still. I have windows – five of which are open to admit gentle breezes. And all of which afford views of nascent leaves and rainbows of flowers. I can hear the delighted bird song and watch an addled squirrel’s acrobatics among the branches of the tree outside my window.

It’s not so bad.

Health will be better. I wish it for all of us.

Remember Japan

2011-04-23T09:00:00.001-06:00

Relegated to small items on the back pages of newspapers, Japan’s story has not ended.

None of the people I know personally have been killed or threatened by the tsunami, aftershocks or nuclear radiation.

Still. So many lost so much – more than I can imagine losing. On this day before Easter, I can only wish that their lives would be resurrected.

About 10 days ago, I tore out an NY Times article about several former residents of Minamisoma, Japan who came back to say good-bye. It was one month after the initial devastation.

“Those who came out last week despite the [radiation] warnings seem to share the spirit of quiet defiance shown by many people in northern Japan, who have borne with stoicism and dignity the sorrows of nearly 30,000 people dead or missing. They said they wanted to get on with the process of healing, despite the risks.”

One woman left a letter for two of her young students who died.

“She placed the letter on the concrete foundation, pinning it with a piece of broken cinderblock against the wind. She and her husband…pressed their palms together in silent prayer.

“Suddenly, a bird’s chirping broke the hush of the barren landscape.

“It’s strange how the seasons continue, as if none of this ever happened,’ Toshie Nagasawa said, ‘Spring comes back but these little lives never will.”

But she will remember. And we need to remember her and all the others moving through debris and sorrow into whatever remains.

Happy Easter.

Memory: Corner Office

2011-04-20T09:00:00.001-06:00

Memories can be triggered by the oddest things.

Glancing through the newspaper I noticed an ad for something entitled “Corner Office.” I believe it was the title of a game or a course (I did not read it closely) that would determine or abet a person’s leadership skills. It implied that if you had sufficient leadership skills, you would work in a coveted corner office.

I remember corner offices. I even had one once. The manager’s spot in the department where I worked had become vacant. My predecessor urged me to apply. I applied. And I waited. It took several weeks for all the applicants to be interviewed. Several weeks of waiting, working and trying not to look anxious.

One morning I walked onto my department’s floor. Rounding a corner, I saw that a very large stuffed animal (a teddy bear, I think) was propped up in the chair behind the desk in the vacant corner office. I approached, puzzled. The rest of the staff laughed and showered me with congratulations.

I was it.

The organization's cost saving strategies moved me out of the corner to another nice office. (The corner office became the throne for the division manager.)

And later, cubicles replaced offices. Rank or status was indicated by cubicles next to windows instead of the cubicles in the Escher-warren-interiors.

That’s when I quit.

I don’t know what happened to the stuffed animal.

Language of Doom?

2011-04-17T17:00:00.000-06:00

In the course of one week-- even today, I have confronted, been confronted by and contemplated language.

A speaker this morning proposed that language – our ability to form and share symbols --is not only what makes us human but also what generates religions. He called it our bi-level reality: one level is the everyday stuff we stumble through and the ‘other reality,’ the sense that there is something beyond – perhaps above – that has significance and value.

And this afternoon, I heard two dozen people read their poetry. Some were high school students, some septuagenarians, maybe octogenarians. And the subjects were as wide ranging as their experiences, perceptions and attentions.

And earlier this week, on the left side of the New York Times’ front page, an article reported on the claim of a New Zealand biologist, Dr. Quentin D. Atkinson, that human language is at least 50,000 – perhaps 100,000 years old.

I’m going to keep studying that article and pondering its implications. What particularly blew my mind was the ending of the article in which it refers to theories of a biologist in England. That particular professor, Dr. Mark Pagel “sees language as central to human expansion across the globe.”

“Language was our secret weapon, and as soon as we got language we became a really dangerous species,” he said.

Last paragraph of the article, verbatim:

In the wake of modern human expansion, archaic human species like the Neanderthals were wiped out and large species of game, fossil evidence shows, fell into extinction on every continent shortly after the arrival of modern humans.

Read that over a couple times. Then remember, now we are everywhere. And everywhere accelerating extinctions.

Perhaps even our own.

an apology

2011-04-13T20:56:00.000-06:00

No excuse

Once again, I’ve let too much time slip by without posting new blog entries. It’s amazing how tiny particles of pollen, drifting unseen in Colorado’s golden air can clobber all but the absolutely necessary activities.

Even wincing, I have been able to admire all the color popping back into the landscape: the tulips, hyacinths, daffodils and the occasional forsythia exploding on just-beginning-to-green lawns. My own redbud tree is beginning to blossom.

And I know that I should not begrudge the floral dander that has created my one long-term practically perpetual sinus headache.

And I don’t. But I haven’t been functioning very well.

No excuse. I now have irrigating devices, nose sprays, pills, herbal teas, tinctures and (today) an acupuncture treatment.

I will be back in action soon. Abetted, at last, by that rarest of all Colorado commodities: rain!

Hallelujah!

Radiating Truth

2011-04-04T11:20:00.000-06:00

I subscribe to Netflix and often, following their suggestions based on my ratings of movies I’ve seen, wind up watching extraordinary films that would never have made it to an small town in northern Colorado. None has been so eerily timely and foreboding as the one I watched this weekend.

It was Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams, made in 1990. Comprised of eight vignettes, all surreal to a greater or lesser degree, the film accumulates into a powerful message about our relationship with earth and our fellow inhabitants.

The sixth and seventh segments were particularly spooky. The first, Mount Fuji in Red, depicted the effects of exploding nuclear plants. Then Weeping Demon depicted the mutations of plants and people caused by radiation.

I once had a work assignment in Hiroshima. I visited the Peace Park where I saw depictions of the effects of the bomb and memorials to all those killed. And I saw the thousands of origami cranes (sent from all over the world) piled at the foot of the statue to Sadako Sasaki, the little girl who died from radiation poisoning – like so many others. Her death made the legend of the paper cranes an international symbol of peace.

Now much of Japan – and the rest of the planet – is again dealing with radiation.

It would have been too hard to watch the film if it had not been so beautiful and had not ended with the final dream: The Village of the Watermills. In ultimately lovely surroundings – clear water streams, flowers, trees – an old man tells a traveler of village life, deliberately kept simple … and clean. Never, he says, did they succumb to the allure of convenience. His warning: too much is destroyed, too much is lost when people insist on choosing the easiest way to do things, to communicate.

I suppose that that’s not the answer to all the challenges now facing this planet and its predator people but it was certainly something to contemplate. And I’m glad it wound up on my television set in a small town in northern Colorado.

Unavoidable Connections

2011-04-01T10:00:00.001-06:00

There was a headline in the March 31 New York Times that bothered me:

“Can We Do Without the Mideast?”

It was the title for the lead article in a special section on energy and the topic was, of course, oil.

And we should ... do without the Mideast’s oil. No question.

But we should not, and indeed cannot, do without the Mideast. The Mideast is where what we call civilization began. It is where our species developed agriculture and alphabets, to say nothing of zeros (without which it would not be possible to calculate the national debt).

We can’t do without Asia or Europe or Latin America either. Every tribe and nation contributes to who we are. Especially us, the United States, the most polyglot of countries. There is an interdependent web of culture (and Facebook) that ties each to each, informs our fashions and music, poetry and politics.

It is not possible for any of us to be insular, no matter how much we (or the New York Times) might think it desirable.

Just an idle comment on an early spring day.

Cheers.

Talking to Cats

2011-03-29T18:05:00.000-06:00

I have lived with two cats since November 2002. When I first adopted them from the Larimer County Humane Society, they were personable but quiet. They purred when caressed and occasionally meowed (Guinness the brunet more than Herbie the blond).

Just as cats are supposed to do.

No one else lives with us, so I talked to them. I let them know when I was about to fix a meal (they really picked up on that one) when I was going to go upstairs (to work at the computer) when I was going to make the bed (Guinness especially likes to help [play] with that) when I’m going to read or lie down (Herbie loves to come cuddle) and when they had done something wrong (like eat flowers or knock over glassware – actually that was more like yelling). And so forth.

As time went on, they began to respond. Even Herbie (although he ‘talks’ so rarely that it still makes me jump). Increasingly.

Now in the morning, when I look into the study to tell Guinness I’m going to make breakfast, he responds. It doesn’t feel as though expletives are involved. Nothing like ‘Well it’s about time!’ It’s more like ‘Good morning, I’m looking forward to it.’ Very civilized.

I always feed them before I fix my meals. I’m not stupid.

When I’m fixing my dinner, Guinness often will bring a toy into the kitchen and meow. I’m supposed to throw it. I do. He brings it back. I throw it again. If he brings it back and I don’t see it, he meows again (‘please pay attention, lady’).

So far so good. Or at least acceptable.

But it seems to be getting worse. Now sometimes Guinness will be in an entirely different part of the house – meowing. I have no idea what that’s about. I don’t know if he’s crying, complaining or just philosophizing. It’s actually sort of annoying.

But it’s my fault. If I hadn’t started talking to them, they would most probably not have become so vocal.

For the most part it’s harmless – a gentle experiment in inter-species communication.

You can certainly try this at home. But be warned. The more you talk, the more they will ‘talk’ and it may be a slow decline into cacophony.

Now you know.

Names

2011-03-24T21:28:00.000-06:00

There’s a labyrinth on the grounds of Ojo Caliente Resort in New Mexico.

I returned from Ojo Wednesday night. My two companions were going for a simple, fun spring break. That was something I wanted as well but I also knew that I must heal some emotional wounds. I enjoyed and savored soaking in the springs and eating the wonderful food and the massages. But neither the waters nor the entrees nor the rubbing seemed to touch the wounds.

One morning, taking a walk with no purpose other than to walk, I wound up at the entrance of the labyrinth across the road from Ojo’s historic circular barn.

I’ve walked labyrinths before. They are powerful meditative tools. The circular path is clear; you cannot get lost. You walk deep into the center, pause, then circle back out.

I entered. With every step, I focused on the word/verb/prayer ‘heal’. At first, only that single word. Later, names coupled with the verb. I named my sons, my brother, his wife, my friends, my parents, other ancestors. I took them all with me to the center, then circled back out.

The next day was cold but, again, I was drawn to the labyrinth. And again my steps focused on the people I loved. Early morning moisture caused the sandy surface to record the pattern of my soles. I saw my footprints move toward the center, then overlap as I moved out, occasionally creating odd sort of butterfly patterns.

In the spa, there was a sauna that my friend compared to a sweat lodge. And it drew me. As I sat amid the steam, I again silently named the people I loved, wishing them/ praying them healing and well-being.

And I was lighter.

And I was reminded of the power of names, of thoughts, of prayer.

And I was grateful.

Celebrate the Soft Season

2011-03-20T16:31:00.002-06:00

In 2011, I am struck by the fact that Spring is soft.

Think about it. The ground softens. Incipient leaves soften trees’ profiles and the horizon is muted by hints of green.

In response, as I wander the aisles at the drugstore, I am tempted by plush toys: soft bunnies in various pastel shades and of course baby chicks – pale yellow and fuzzy.

Everything comes in softer hues: coats and clothes and facial expressions.

Our local newspaper noted that March 20 (and/or the spring equinox) is celebrated by many religions: Purim (Jewish), Ostara (Wicca/Pagan Northern Hemisphere), Mabon (Wicca/Pagan Southern Hemisphere), Holi (Hindu), Hola Mohalla (Sikh) and on March 21, Norouz/New Year (Persian/Zoroastrian) and Naw Ruz/New Year (Baha’i).

Evidently it is hard not to celebrate Spring. I’m not going fight it. Today – the 2011 Vernal Equinox -- I am escaping all my responsibilities including my cats and taking three and a half days off to have fun (and thaw out my moods and spirit).

Please, go and do likewise.

Seven Billion!

2011-03-16T21:53:00.000-06:00

I’ve never enjoyed being in the midst of crowds. Sometimes sitting in a baseball stadium full of people rooting for my team is okay. Otherwise, I prefer being where one or two or, at most, a few hundred are gathered.

I’m in trouble.

The January 2011 National Geographic reports that this is the year the earth’s population reaches 7 billion.

According to the Population Reference Bureau and the United Nations, world population has gone from 200 million in AD1 to 1 billion in 1800 to 3 billion in 1960 to 7 billion in 2011. World population will reach 8 billion by 2024 and 9 billion by 2045.

Yipe!

Fully modern humans—the ancestors of every person alive today—evolved in Africa about 200,000 years ago. We left Africa in shifts and by 60,000 years ago, H. sapiens had dispersed to nearly all corners of the planet. By 10,500 years ago, people had domesticated other animals and developed agriculture. Reliable food sources supported enormous human colonies, providing some individuals with the time to dream, imagine, and build civilizations.

And have more kids.

And now there are 7 billion of us.

What have we done so far – in addition to creating reality shows and Ipods?

We’ve reduced the variety of grains we eat. Now its mostly wheat, rice and corn.

We caused (directly or indirectly) the mass extinction of species.

We’re warming the planet, perhaps dangerously.

We have created pollution, caused climate change, ocean acidification, thrust aerosols into the air, depleted the ozone, disrupted nitrogen and phosphorus cycles, and swallowed freshwater resources and open land.

We’re in trouble.

We need to acknowledge what we have done and work to ameliorate our impact. We need to reduce our consumption of resources and defend those that remain.

And above all, we need to work together, as a species.

We are, after all, rooting for the same team.

Embrace of Friends

2011-03-13T15:00:00.001-06:00

They are, I believe, in every room in my house.

The painting in my study, the print in my bedroom, the porcelain sponge holder in the kitchen, the green glass decanter on the windowsill in the dining room.

All from friends.

A single plaster hand lies at the center of my altar. Jane gave it to me to remind me that it took both of us to do the work that was needed at the 1999 Parliament of World Religions in Cape Town.

I have a cloisonné necklace with a brilliant butterfly on a black background. Every time I wear it, I think of Betty – the friend who gave it to me.

And a rainbow scarf that inevitably generates compliments --compliments that really belong to Melinda who gave it me – along with her teachings that helped connect me to Spirit.

And funny socks – from Beverly and Jenn --that dependably elicit approving smiles.

Even cat toys given to me by those who know how much I love my cats.

A set of cobalt blue glasses from Rosemary.

The photographs and a nightlight from Shelly.

And so many of my books.

I believe I could go from room to room acknowledging, not just the things but also, more importantly, the people they represent and the wisdom that each of them has shared with me.

I live within the embrace of my friends.

Perhaps we all do.

Crazy Cat Story

2011-03-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

[I’m back – with apologies for the hiatus. I promise to blog on more frequently.]

They (the anonymous exploiters of American consumers) make sparkly balls – about the size of ping-pong balls -- that are, without question, the plaything most favored by Guinness (one of my two cats).

Last Saturday, while at the pet store getting both food and litter, I bought a package of four sparkly balls – one red, one silver, one blue, and one purple.

My intent was to ration them, delight him with the purple and hide the rest.

Both cats were at the door to welcome me home but I thought I managed to sneak the toys in, unobserved. When everything was put away, and when I was sure the both cats were off in another part of the house, I opened the cellophane package, extracted the purple specimen and quickly slipped the package into a kitchen drawer.

When Guinness wandered into the kitchen (dinnertime was approaching), I showed him the purple sparkly ball, threw it into the living room and laughed as he scooted after it, sliding slightly on the wood floor. He brought it back, I threw it again, he chased it again and we played this quasi-fetch game for a good five minutes before he remembered it was dinnertime.

The next morning, I noticed a silver sparkly ball on the upstairs landing. And a red sparkly ball by the front door. The blue sparkly ball was on the living room rug and the purple sparkly ball was in the dining room.

What was going on?

I opened my (not so) clever hiding place. There in the corner was the cellophane bag – empty. And there at my feet was Guinness. I swear he was grinning.

Riddle

2011-03-06T15:13:00.000-07:00

This is both an explanation and riddle.

Guess what this is Prologue to:

PROLOGUE

It was winter so no one heard her screams.

She screamed at jars that wouldn’t open.

At phone calls from toll free numbers.

At meowing cats.

None of these was cause for screaming.

Fathoms deep in her psyche, unidentified pain tore out from her throat.

Avoided too long, it had metacicized.

Numb, she wandered her house – every room distinct, pleasing, filled with aspects of her life, her character, her taste. Travel souvenirs, photographs, paintings.

None of these was cause for screaming.

In the guest room: family photographs, her grandmother’s desk, a braid of buttons.

She stood, tears threatening.

“Help me,” she whispered, “please, please help me.”

My Tribute to Gene Sharp

2011-02-24T18:24:00.000-07:00

No. I had never heard of him either. I read about him in the New York Times (the quoted phrases are from that paper) and I am awed.

He writes things. One work, “From Dictatorship to Democracy,” is a 93-page guide to toppling autocrats (available for download in 24 languages) that has “inspired dissidents around the world, including those in Burma/Myanmar, Bosnia, Estonia, Zimbabwe and … Tunisia and Egypt.”

His “198 Methods of Nonviolent Action” was one of the papers distributed to Egyptians several years ago. And apparently demonstrate that ‘ideas have power.’

When Gene Sharp learned that Hosni Mubarak was ousted, he said, “The people of Egypt did that – not me.”

He lives in a modest house in East Boston that “doubles as the headquarters of the Albert Einstein Institution, an organization Mr. Sharp founded in 1983 while running seminars at Harvard and teaching political science at the University of Massachusetts at Dartmouth. It consists of him; his assistant … and a part-time office manager/ Golden Retriever mix named Sally.”

He rarely works ‘in the field’ but in the early 1990s, “he snuck into a Myanmar rebel camp” at the invitation of an opposition advisor who remembers, “Here we were in the jungle, reading Gene Sharp’s work by candlelight…. This guy has tremendous insight into society and the dynamics of social power.”

Mr. Sharp is 83, “stoop-shouldered and white-haired. His voice trembles and his blue eyes grow watery when he is tired …” He has yet to master the Internet.

But he has not stopped working. A new book, “Sharp’s Dictionary of Power and Struggle: Terminology of Civil Resistance in Conflicts” will be published this fall. He did not select the title; he says, “It’s a little immodest.” And he’s working on another manuscript about Einstein (who wrote the foreword to Mr. Sharp’s first book, about Gandhi.)

Watching events unfold in Egypt, “he was struck by the Egyptian protestors’ discipline in remaining peaceful, and especially by their lack of fear. “That is straight out of Gandhi,” Mr. Sharp said. “If people are not afraid of the dictatorship, that dictatorship is in big trouble.”

And ideas, expressed clearly and well, can change the world.

I am a Princess

2011-02-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

Actually, I am not a princess but, at the moment, my bed looks like an illustration for “The Princess and the Pea.”

For months, I have become increasingly aware that my old mattress was sagging. Very aware. And very stiff and sore on waking.

Before doing anything about it, I felt I needed to contact my friend who was with me when I purchased the mattress. When I finally did, I did indeed confirm that the mattress in question was supposed last longer than the average mattress … not shorter.

So I contacted the company, sent the requested the photographs and was told that all would be well if I were to buy a new pad … for $1,000.

Not likely.

So I consulted friends, checked Consumer Reports, and armed with a list of acceptable candidates, went shopping. I compared, I tested, I compared again. I made what I thought was an informed decision, whipped out my VISA card and went home pleased with the thought that within days, I would once again have solid, and comfortable, support.

The truck pulled up this morning. Two men entered my house and extracted the dilapidated item. They brought in the new springs. They brought in the new mattress.

The top of my bed is now four feet off the floor.

The company will exchange it. I’ll have more shallow springs by Friday. I’ll come down a notch or two.

In the meantime, I am a princess. Sweet dreams.

The Order of the Bifurcated Needle

2011-02-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

I was most fortunate – back when I was working for Rotary International (RI) – to meet many members of the “Order of the Bifurcated Needle”. The ‘order’ was created to honor the international health experts who were (if you’ll pardon the expression) instrumental in eradicating smallpox in 1977. The two-pronged or bifurcated needle was what was used to administer the vaccine.

When I joined the RI staff (in 1979) the organization had just decided to support a global effort to help eradicate polio. The organization was going to raise the money and enlist its incredible network of volunteers to wipe out a major crippler and sometimes killer of children. It was to be its gift to the world for new millennium. It was supposed to be complete in time for Rotary’s centennial, 2005. It wasn’t. It isn’t. And the debate about whether or not it can be done continues.

The man who created the “Order of the Bifurcated Needle” – Dr. D.A. Henderson -- recently declared that the polio eradication effort could not succeed but, more recently, agreed that it could. Other members of the ‘order’ – Dr. Ciro de Quadros and Dr. William H. Foege – helped change his mind. That and the unstinting financial support of the Gates Foundation.

I met all these men as part of my job with RI. I was in the auditorium of the Pan American Health Organization’s Washington, D.C. headquarters on the day an international commission announced that polio had been wiped out of the Western Hemisphere.

And I met the Rotary volunteers in Guatemala and Mexico and the Philippines and Turkey and Peru and India who were part of the massive efforts in their respective countries.

They are still working. They are still dedicated to eradicating the disease that people in this country barely remember.

I know the nature of the people involved. It will happen. Polio will be wiped out.

Dr. Ciro de Quadros led the fight against smallpox in Ethiopia. Dr. Henderson remembered: "I watched him perform in Ethiopia. … The obstacles were unbelievable - the emperor assassinated, two revolutionary groups fighting, nine of his own teams kidnapped, even a helicopter captured and held for ransom. He kept the teams in the field - and that helicopter pilot went out and vaccinated all the rebels."

It will happen again. Polio will be wiped out.

February Sunshine

2011-02-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

In one of his books, Tom Robbins described February as lard on white bread. [I’d go even further… it’s like lard on white Wonderbread – a product my mom used to buy only to wad up into the balls she used to clean the keys on our piano. She thought that that particular brand was the absolute nadir of all breads.] Actually I think February is the absolute nadir of all months. Even with only 28 days it’s too long. You have to wait until it’s over before you can even think about spring. And Valentines Day – especially if you have no true (or untrue) love – doesn’t help at all. You can see what it has done to me. I haven’t posted a blog (is that the technologically correct phrase?) since Feb. 5. Now it’s the 11th! I’ll be thrown out of the blog kingdom. Actually, there’s no real excuse to succumb to February doldrums in a state that has so much sunshine. [Believe me, it’s more understandable in places like Youngstown, Ohio or Detroit, Michigan or even Chicago, Illinois. I’ve spent Februarys in each of those cities – none of which had half as much sunshine as Loveland, Colorado.] But it’s still cold, for Pete’s sake.

Current events seem to accent the negative – Republicans zooming in on abortion rights, campaigns against women in Iran and the Congo.

No wait – I read good news about the Congo. What I hadn’t known was that, according to the NY Times, “For years, diplomats, aid workers, academics and government officials have been vexed almost to the point of paralysis about how to attack [the country’s] staggering problem of sexual violence, in which hundreds of thousands of women have been raped, many quite sadistically, by the various armed groups who haunt the hills of eastern Congo.” So the American woman who wrote “The Vagina Monologues”, Eve Ensler was in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo, this week to open “City of Joy” – a compound of homes, classrooms, courtyards and verandas where small groups of Congolese women will be groomed to become ‘an army of women’ – community leaders trained in self defense, computers, and trades and farming who, after graduation, will return to their communities to empower others. NY Times again: "The center, built partly by the hands of the women themselves, cost around $1 million. UNICEF contributed a substantial amount, and the rest was raised from foundations and private donors by Ms. Ensler’s advocacy group, V-Day. Google is donating a computer center."

WOW. Go Eve Ensler! Go Congolese women!

Okay, okay … the sun IS shining and Spring may show up after all.

Idle Thoughts in Winter

2011-02-05T18:21:00.000-07:00

"Of many Arts, one surpasses all. For the maiden seated at her work flashes the smooth balls and thousand threads into the circle, ... and from this, her amusement, makes as much profit as a man earns by the sweat of his brow, and no maiden ever complains, at even, of the length of the day. The issue is a fine web, which feeds the pride of the whole globe; which surrounds with its fine border cloaks and tuckers, and shows grandly round the throats and hands of Kings." - Jacob Van Eyck, 1651.

Jacob was writing about lace-making. I was inspired to Google-investigate lace by looking at deciduous trees in winter. Their intricate tracery – the complexities within complexities that in summer are hidden beneath shades of shimmering jade – is wondrous.

If trees did not lose their leaves in winter, would lace have been created?

Well, probably. Recall spider webs and the skeletons of autumn leaves, frost on windows or even the pale blue patterns of veins on human hands.

The patterns, when you look for them, are everywhere.

But why lace? It is not a necessary thing. Our ancient, ancient ancestors had no need for such foppery.

Still, from the first emergings from Africa’s primordial valleys, we have sought embellishment for the garments that protect us from heat and cold. Even Neanderthals decorated their animal skin clothing.

Perhaps lace and embroidery and much of art is both an echo and a tribute to the patterns within patterns within patterns of the entire web of life.

Idle thoughts on a winter afternoon. Or, appreciations.

A Taste of Chicago

2011-02-02T08:00:00.002-07:00

Please don’t blame me. Just because I waxed lyrical about the recent balmy temperatures does not mean that I jinxed the entire northern Colorado region now suffering sub-zero temperatures. Really, it’s not my fault.

Fortunately, having lived many years in Chicago, I have the means to survive this kind of weather. One is my Michelin Man coat in which I look rather like a walking padded cell. But it works.

Then I have these fuzzy lined boots that barely fit over feet clad in both tights and Smart Wool socks. [I wish I got kickbacks for product placement.]

A couple of years ago, my nephew & his family gave me monstrously padded gloves in which my hands resemble black and white lobster claws. They work too although I have to put on normal winter gloves for anything requiring a modicum of dexterity.

I also have a knitted hat that keeps my head warm because it’s too damned cold to worry about coiffures.

Underneath all this are layers of warm things.

I wrap up so well that I can’t really get my seatbelt fastened. [Maybe I could if I took off my gloves and really tried but it’s too ….]

And typically, the temperature will be back to normal, more acceptable temperatures tomorrow.

And I still love Colorado.

JANUARY 29, 2011

2011-01-30T08:00:00.002-07:00

January 29, 2011
Loveland, Colorado

Along the banks,
logs and stones in shades of pewter
differentiated only by texture.
River water, temporarily free,
cascading over concrete impediment.
Subtle gold in dormant grass and slanted sunlight.
The pleasure of breathing air chilled by melting snow.
It is, I know, mere recess.
Soon enough, the regulation season will resume.
But, sheltered from the returning wind
my cheek blossoms in delicate sunshine,
well pleased.

a thank you note

2011-01-27T17:43:00.000-07:00

It’s January 27. I watered my trees today.

I moved to Colorado from Chicago. Watering trees in late January is not something that we did. The end of January through the end of February was, as I recall, the coldest time of the year. We would not have seen any natural occurring plant life – or even a dead lawn -- for months. Snow would have accumulated around everything in the city ... and around our spirits.

Here, the sun shines ninety percent of the time. In Chicago’s winters, I would have settled for nine percent of the time. In fact, I think I did.

Oh, I know. Colorado gets most of its snow in March … when Chicago is beginning to thaw out around the edges. But March snow does not last as long a January snow – it has something to do with the length of the days. And Spring for pete’s sake.

Yesterday someone at my bank cautioned me. “Don’t tell people what it’s like. Everyone will move out here.”

So I won’t. Not many people read this blog. It won’t do any real harm to express appreciation for a few warm days in the middle of winter. I didn’t mind compensating my trees for the lack of snow. It felt wonderful to be outside hauling the hose around.

In fact, consider this a thank you note – to Colorado.

Reading Lines

2011-01-24T18:01:00.000-07:00

It has occurred to me that front-page photographs of long lines of people are rare but important.

Recently, there were photos of Sudanese people voting on whether or not to separate the south from the north of that east African nation. Before that, I remember the lines of South Africans voting in the presidential election that brought former prisoner Nelson Mandela to office. And in the late '80s, there were photos of lines of voters in what was then Czechoslovakia. On each of those occasions, the act of voting was seen as an enormous privilege, the harbinger or confirmation of huge changes in the lives of the people standing in those lines. None of those elections guaranteed 'happy ever after' but each of them was a milestone in the history of our species.

More recently, and infinitely sadder, we saw the long lines of people waiting to attend the memorial service for the Tucson shooting victims.

And, in contrast, every year we see the lines of shoppers on 'Black Friday'.

Waiting in line often shows a degree of civility, of mutual respect, and appreciation for a common goal. In other parts of the world, the lines have historic significance. Sometimes, in our country, it's just waiting to buy more stuff.

This is just an observation. I'm not sure I have a conclusion. Do you?

It's Over

2011-01-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

Today is the Day After Martin Luther King Day. I'm exhausted. The local celebration required monthly meetings beginning in September, several thousand (or hundred) emails trying to coordinate program elements, visits to the studio providing the dances, visits to stores to put up flyers, picking up programs, folding programs, etc. etc.

Then, last night, arriving early, discovering the things that still needed to be done, recruiting last-minute volunteers, and folding more programs.

All of a sudden it was 6:45. Both the dancers and the singer/piano player had done their run-throughs. The doors to the auditorium opened, the prelude slide show started. Local officials lined up back stage. Then, at 7, the school superintendent welcomed the crowd. The mayor, the city manager, and a local artist spoke, placing Dr. King's legacy into their perspectives. Then a great dance by a young corps and a great song by a young composer.

Then me. Originally, I thought I'd be part of the invocation, speaking alongside local officials. But I didn't really belong in that group. I'm just a retired woman, writing stuff in her upstairs study. Still, I thought something was missing from the program. I thought the kids in the audience (winners of the art and essay contests run by local schools) needed to be reminded of something important.

Great men and women don't start out either grown up or great. Like everyone else, they start out as kids.

Martin Luther King Jr.'s life changed when he was six years old. Just before school was to start, he rang his best friend's doorbell. He want to play but his friend's father said his son couldn't play with Martin any more. Why? Because Martin was black and his friend was white.

Until that moment, Martin had not realized the huge separation between blacks and whites. In the city where he grew up, black people couldn't sit at the lunch counters with whites, or drink out of the same water fountains. And black children could not go to school -- or play -- with white children.

Martin's who life was dedicated to ending that separation. He helped change the world. His dedication began one moment when he was six years old.

There are still many things that need changing. I have two questions for the kids here tonight: When will your moment be? What will you do to change the world?

The evening went on. Awards were given for the winners of the essay and art contests. Another great dance number and the requisite 'thank-you's'. People stayed around afterward, enjoying refreshments and learning about local non-profit organizations. They were still there when I left, a little after 8:30.

It had turned out to be a great evening. Most people were unaware of the glitches. And, I hope, the kids and grownups alike remembered some of the many things Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. taught us: things can be changed through non-violent means and any of us can change the world we live in.

Truly Vintage

2011-01-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

I had to look for it, but I found the blog I posted on June 27. It was a rambling commentary on a New York Times article about a 5,500-year-old shoe found in an Armenian cave.

Earlier this week, that same cave was in the news again.

It turns out that that Armenian cave is a perfect time capsule in which prehistoric artifacts have been preserved under layers of sheep dung and a white crust on the cave's limestone walls. Not terribly enticing, except for the fact that these un-glamorous coverings have conserved items that provide a window into life thousands of years before Ipods.

This time archeologists found a complete winemaking operation, estimated to be 6,100 years old. It includes a vat for fermenting, a press, storage jars, a clay bowl and a drinking cup made from an animal horn. They also found grape seeds, dried pressed grapes, stems, shriveled grapevines and residue which, when analyzed, indicates that the early peoples were producing red wine (which I prefer).

The wine press is shallow -- a thick-rimmed 3 by 3 1/2 foot clay basin where people stomped grapes. The basin is positioned so juice would tip into a 2-foot-deep vat.

The elaborate facility would have been used only once a year, when grapes were harvested. Wine must have been important (even then). Some theorize that it was used for ritual purposes, drunk to honor or appease the dead or even sprinkled on graves.

The huge cave with several chambers also contained jars filled with dried fruit -- grapes, prunes, apricots -- and nuts -- walnuts and almonds. In another area, the people had some kind of metallurgical operation where copper was smelted.

These were my kind of people: enjoying red wine, dried apricots and almonds, perhaps wearing some copper jewelry. Actually, they were our kind of people ... not the hulking, grunting primitives we have long thought so inferior. Instead, nice people, and probably excellent hosts.

Joy is a stick with feathers

2011-01-09T18:43:00.001-07:00

Joy is a black plastic wand with bright green feathers on one end. Currently, this particular cat toy is somewhere in my bed.

On this snowy Sunday, I had nothing I really needed to do other than go to church and to watch Masterpiece Theater. It was a perfect day to catch up on household chores, including changing my sheets and doing laundry.

My cat Guinness loves nothing more than helping me change the sheets on my bed. There are layers and layers of delight. First, the old must be removed. That requires pulling off the quilt, the comforter, the top sheet and the bottom sheet. Each layer becomes a hiding place, a surface from which a cat toy can tantalize before he pounces. When he is at the top of his game, he pounces and somersaults. [He is the most somersaulting cat I have ever met.] Then, when the bedclothes are gathered into pillowcases, Guinness waits at the top of the stairs for me to toss them to the lower landing. [I have no idea why he likes this process. I would have thought it to be slightly threatening.] We descend, proceeding to the laundry room for the boring part. But his excitement mounts as I remove clean linens from the closet and climb up the stairs to the second floor, led by a speeding cat.

Sheet changing is so much more fun than just bed making. It's the feline equivalent of a double feature ... or a double whammy. First, he is covered by the bottom sheet (sometimes I have to lift up an escape route if he stays until it is all tucked in). Then, by the top sheet, then the comforter. Here we pause for him to chase the cat toy (or toys). Finally, the quilt soars over the enterprise, and the cat. Replacing the pillows with their fresh cases signals the end of the game.

The bed looks fairly respectable -- with only one layer slightly askew. It's only as I smooth the surface that I notice that one toy, the black plastic want with bright green feathers on one end, is missing.

Ah well, it is somewhere in the bedclothes. I'm sure we'll find it later, after Masterpiece Theater, when we 'retire' for the night.

Cats can teach you a lot about joy.

AN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

2011-01-05T14:46:00.000-07:00

It’s all put away now. Every bauble, bangle and bead. Every sparkling ornament. The tree and its skirt. The wreaths and their holders. The last of it was packed yesterday, under the intense supervision of my two cats.

Their eyes never wavered but they never interfered. Well, at the last, when I was wrapping the iridescent beads in tissue paper, Guinness could stand it no longer. He leapt onto the strand but abandoned the chase as I placed the package into the storage box.

I did have to wait until they tucked themselves onto the TV room couch before taking the red feather trees from the mantle. One cannot ask creatures to violate the laws of their own species.

The first year I had a tree and cats, the cats knocked the tree over twice. Thereafter, I wired successive trees to the wall and sprayed the plastic branches with a harmless but effective deterrent.

But the cats seem to have matured and/or aged. Sprayed but unwired, the tree remained unscathed through the entire 2010 holiday season.

One ornament bit the dust – a silly bear made out of musk ox hair that I bought when on assignment in Anchorage, Alaska. Guinness may have knocked it off or it may have fallen on its own. But when I found it on the floor the second time, I left it there. Fair game for either feline or gravity.

So with nothing broken, nothing even damaged, I must acknowledge the great forbearance of both Herbie and Guinness, great and greatly self-disciplined cats.
Thanks, guys.

The Ninth Day of Christmas

2011-01-02T13:54:00.001-07:00

If I have counted correctly, today is the ninth day of Christmas -- if you happen to follow the tradition that there are 12 days of Christmas, culminating in Epiphany (which is, I guess, the 5th of January, which will be Wednesday of next week).

This year I seem to be celebrating every single day, ending (perhaps) this evening when I will have dinner with my genius nephew.

Google is amazing. (You knew that.) Not being a genius, I used it to look up “The Twelve Days of Christmas” -- to find out what was given by ‘my true love’ on the ninth day. It turns out that the gift could have been one of two things – either nine ladies dancing or nine drummers drumming. (The order of the last four gifts may vary depending on where on this planet people are singing.)

Google also states that the most authoritative version is published in The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, as follows:
The twelfth day of Christmas, | My true love sent to me | Twelve lords a-leaping, | Eleven ladies dancing, | Ten pipers piping, | Nine drummers drumming, | Eight maids a-milking, | Seven swans a-swimming, | Six geese a-laying, | Five gold rings, | Four colly birds, | Three French hens, | Two turtle doves, and | A partridge in a pear tree.

Look at it. Do you know what “colly” birds are? They are not a Brooklyn-accent version of calling. Google says colly is another name for a blackbird. And, according to Google, the fifth day's gift of gold rings refers not to jewelry but to ring-necked birds such as the ring-necked pheasant. OR the original phrase might have been “five goldspinks" - a goldspink being an old name for a Goldfinch.

Who knew?

Whatever version of the old song you prefer, today is the ninth day of Christmas and tomorrow I return (along with many others) to my ‘real world’ full of routines and obligations.

I don’t think I have the stamina to celebrate all twelve days – with or without the gifts. I am (this time) grateful for Monday and for routine (except for putting away all the decorations which are still up so my nephew can see them). And I am also grateful for the marathon of celebrations, giving me focused time with terrific people.

Actually, this part of the celebration does not have to end. What if, whenever we were with other people, we gave them our focused attention – really listened to what they said and tried to understand the circumstances of their lives at that particular moment? How cool. I’m willing to bet it would make it a happier new year for a lot of us.

Speaking of which, I wish for one and all, a splendid 2011 – all 363 days remaining.

Grinch-less

2010-12-27T19:57:00.000-07:00

What was best? The houses bedecked and be-lighted. Singing the old carols at the Christmas Eve service. The oohs and ahs and smiles on the faces I love as their presents were revealed. The food (and coffee, thank heavens) throughout the day. Watching my grand nieces’ delight over every package. And their rapt attention as I opened the presents they had chosen for me. Then the pleasure of working with my nephew to prepare a triumphant Christmas dinner.

I loved my presents – every one. Especially the sacred carving by my brother. And the clutch of DVDs from my son that actually arrived before Christmas – fully (and imaginatively) wrapped. And the sweater and the candle and the wildflower seeds and the hand blown glass humming bird feeder and magic glass box and butterfly ring and … and … and ….

But most of all, an entire day in the company of my wonderful family.

It’s not over. Tomorrow and Wednesday I’ll have some one-on-one time with my nephew and an entire day with his 14-year-old daughter. And Thursday my dear friend and her doofus dog will arrive and stay until 2011. And other friends will join us for dinner. Then on Sunday, my other nephew will spend the day with me.

My heart is warmed. I am cocooned in layers of love and joy, ready to begin a new year.

So it was worth it – the hours decorating the house and tree, all the cards and purchases, wrapping and mailing, cooking and cleaning.

Most of the year, love is assumed or expressed in passing. But this particular grand slam holiday allows us to celebrate each other, honor each other, and shower tokens of our love on each other.

It’s a good thing. I am grateful.

Happy Ending

2010-12-24T08:00:00.003-07:00

The over-sized toy clown fish (see Dec. 21 post) has found a home.

When I shared my dilemma (custody of a large/plush/stuffed orange and white fish that was too scary to be a present for my grand niece) a friend came by to see for herself. She wasn't scared at all. She thought the thing was rather cute. Plus, she thought she knew someone who might like the thing.

Her daughter was waiting in the car. When her mom returned bearing the large/plus/stuffed orange and white fish, it was love at first sight.

The young woman happened to be a Nemo fan. She is also a girl/adult who has endured much. Ricocheted from family to family, never quite sure where she belonged, she is still not sure . . . about where she belongs or who she is. But at that moment, she knew one thing with certainty. The fish was hers and its name was Howard.

She sleeps with it. They comfort each other.

And the over-sized clown fish that was way too big and scary for my grand niece is just the right size for my friend's daughter.

I love happy endings.

Ominous Dilemma

2010-12-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

I give money to several wildlife protecting organizations because I believe that in protecting our wildlife we protect our sanity and ourselves. Many such organizations encourage you to 'adopt' an animal [donate money] and in return send you a plush/stuffed version of that animal. I adopted a polar bear mom and her two cubs and a clown fish (like Nemo) intending to give the toys to my five-year-old grand niece, Iris.

I have a problem. The polar bear group is small and cute -- fitting easily in my outstretched hands. The clown fish is as big as one of my cats (both of whom weigh about 13 pounds). It looks like the fish could eat the bears. It's scary.

I know (or assume) that my niece wouldn't care ... or think of the environmental implications. Still. The polar bears' habitat is melting and seas are warming. Might it be possible that, in adapting to changing conditions, polar bears could become increasingly smaller and clown fish grow to giant proportions?

Is this plush anomaly a foreshadowing of doom?

Well, of course not. I'm just tired, a little overwhelmed by all the holiday hullabaloo. There's no need to read portents of disaster in these fluffy creatures.

Still. I don't think I'll give both species to Iris. Just one -- the little polar bears. I've got other things for her. It will be enough.

I have no idea what to do with the giant clown fish. Is anyone out there interested?