Read my new blog: January 1, 2013

Blogger Under Construction

I am taking a break from blog posting.  Please visit the blog in 2013. 

Those of you who are readers,  realize that I am "going through" a tunnel;  I want to concentrate on getting to the light on the otherside.  Thank you for letting me share;  understand that now I need to stop and make sense for me.  Here is my disclaimer:  There are no veiled messages; no direction of a message to another meaning; and no pointing to anyone.  These blogs were composed for me as I attempted to sort hopes, ideas all with the intention of achieving joy.  I am not there yet, but I intend to be.  Sadness is easy for me; joy will take more work.  

Not to quote Arnold (but I guess I am : ):  "I'll be back."  I pray that I return with more dignity and integrity than Mr. Schwarzenegger.

Thank you Bay City!

Thank you to the staff and patrons of the Bay County Library System for inviting me to present at Friday’s “Booked for Lunch” event held at the beautiful Alice & Jack Wirt Public Library.  What a wonderful afternoon I had laughing and sharing with the attentive and interesting audience.  There are a lot of great folks in Bay City and I had the pleasure of meeting quite a few of you on Friday.

"You Will Go Far"

Yesterday I took a trip to the west side of Michigan to climb the dunes in Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore.  (This is also the second time that I used my lifetime Senior National Park Pass – an awesome value at $10.00.) The major benefit to climbing the dunes in October is the cool weather and the absence of the million other visitors that come to Sleeping Bear Dunes each year.  (Hikers have increased in numbers since the National Geographic book, categorized this park under “The 10 Best of Everything National Parks”). 

Upon reaching the summit, I could not help but say:  Thank you Teddy Roosevelt (our conservation president).   His vision and love of the land has made an impact on our country that I do appreciate.  Regardless of how one evaluates his methods:  “Speak softly and carry a big stick". He did something while in office that directly impacts the quality of my life over a hundred years later.  I am sure without his foresight (or ego); the view before me from the top of the dune, a seemingly endless shoreline framed in blue water and the cascading colors of a Michigan Fall, would be a condo resort. 

After the day of hiking,  I watched the vice-president debates and could not help but wonder if any of what Biden or Ryan were saying would mark history in a positive light.  I did watch to the end (even though Joe Biden’s laughing and smirking was riling me.  No communicator should be so rude).  Following the debate, I had to turn the television off … I do not need nor want a panel of people to tell me what the candidates said.  I want to scream at them:  Hey, I was listening!  (A side note:  Two days later the news channels are still tellling me what I saw.)

On the night of the debate, after shutting off the noise, I walked out on the porch.  With no street lights the evening was dark; I could hear the power of the great lake smashing against the break wall.  I considered the political discussion I had viewed.  What will these politicians do for me, for my life?  I doubt if there will be a legacy as simple as Roosevelt’s. On this day, I found a Petoskey stone; I had a stunning climb, I was taken aback by the force of the water.  There was no need for a panel of experts to tell me this.  I got it.  I believe I have found my own big stick.

100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall

My insurance agent has season tickets to the Detroit Symphony Orchestra POP series performed at the Max Fisher Music Center in Detroit.  Sunday her husband under estimated a project leaving a ticket – voila, for me!

After parking the car, we walked across the parking lot with the roar of Tiger fans cheering the home team in Comerica Park in the background making downtown seem alive and bright.  Only Woodward Avenue separated the fans of both the DSO and the Tigers.  And, if truth be told, I would have loved to have the chance to take part in both experiences.  Baseball has the benefit of hot dogs, popcorn and beer and the DSO, well, just the beer.  Both venues manage to cheerfully overcharge.  Ah, culture : )

There is always anticipation for me when attending a live event.  After walking through the glass doors, I whispered “Go Tigers”, to my friend and we headed to our seats.  This particular concert featured not only the orchestra but acrobats from Cirque du Soleil making it a mix of sport and culture.   This was going to be fun.

Music Center is small enough to feel intimate and our seats were excellent.  A clear pitch sounded twice … a warning that the show would begin.  At first I closed my eyes taking in the vibrating tones of various instruments that harmonized together moving “Festive Overture, Op 96 “into a crescendo that developed to a full uproar.  I heard that at that moment of the musical climax our Tigers came from behind making the final score 4 to 3.  I learned this piece of information from the woman squeezing past me to reach her seat before the next composition began.  I love that she had to wait in the lobby, she had to know … like me she had wanted to attend both.

Now the orchestra could have my full attention.  And they would, because accompanying Camile Saint-Saens “Danse macabre, Op 40” was an amazing female acrobat who executed a dance mixed with contortion and acrobatics that wowed the crowd and me. 

As a young girl, I remember being thrilled while on a school field trip to the DSO.  And  music still does that to me as an adult, all of my senses titillated by the sounds, the body moves of the acrobats, the showmanship of the kettle drummer (rump a pum pum) and the conductor, Jeff Tyzik, who was an enthusiastic vision of how to have fun while working.   

Ah, the healing timbre permeated the acoustic hall and touched my heart.  I have had a personally difficult month.  But, there is still music.  And, there are people, like me, seated in this venue just wanting to believe that our troubles can be set aside. 

The music would have been enough but we (I view the entire audience as one organism) were on our feet by Bizet’s “Les Toreadors” a finale complete with the mastery of two male acrobats who moved as one in perfect balance and strength.  I know you Classic lovers; what I have relayed is not pure symphony.  But from my point of view it was; yes indeed, a work of art, a masterpiece,  the music, the controlled bodies, me and of course, my $4.00 bottle of beer.   

Opening a Sealed Chest

As I shared a few days back, I am reading a book by Alice Miller.  I want to post a paragraph from her work The Body Never Lies. (149)

"But I believe in time there will be more and more of them (referring to positive healing in adults), as we realize that we owe no gratitude, and certainly no sacrifices, to parents who abused us when we were small.  These sacrifices are made for the sake of phantoms, idealized parents who have never existed.  Why do we go on sacrificing ourselves for the sake of phantoms?  Why do we remain the captives of relationships that remind us of the torments we went through when we were young?  Because we hope that someday this will change, if we can find the magic word, assume the right attitude, achieve the right kind of understanding.  But that would mean contorting ourselves in the same way as we did in our childhoods in attempt to obtain love.  Today, as adults, we know that our efforts were exploited, that this was not love in the true sense of the word.  So why do we ultimately expect love from people who, for whatever reason, were unable to love us when we were small? 
If we succeed in abandoning that hope, those expectations will fall away, taking with them the self-deception that has been a constant factor in our lives.  We no longer believe that we are not worth loving; we no longer believe we must prove that we are worthy of love after all.  We are not to blame. It is the fault of the situation our parents found themselves in, what they made of the childhood traumas they themselves went through, the progress they made (or failed to make) in coming to terms with those traumas.  There is nothing we can do to change all that.  All we can do is live our own lives and change our attitudes accordingly."

"Memoirs of A Girlhood Among Ghosts" (Maxine Hong Kingston)

In a six month writer’s workshop that I attended taught by author Maxine Hong Kingston (The Woman Warrior), I wrote many short stories.  In my final evaluation, Maxine wrote that until I could understand why I visited death (cemeteries) with my work, I would struggle.  She said I needed a huge canvas for the words she felt I wanted to share. She is correct.  I realize that I have lived in a box. 

These are questions I am pondering today:

What is unconditional love?  Have I ever experienced this phenomenon?  If I have not, how can I with an open heart extend this emotion?   Am I capable of finding true creative freedom? 

"The Body Never Lies"

Today I am reading "The Body Never Lies" by Alice Miller.  Toward the end of the introduction she makes an interesting statement:  “They preach forgiveness as a path to recovery and appear not to know that this path is a trap by which they themselves are caught."   This sentence intrigues me. 

The book I just finished was on forgiveness and I have had disagreements with some of the philosophy.  I have wondered about the abused child.  Certainly, a child has no power over their abuser.  Miller addresses that condition.  Well, I am only on page 25 so there is more to glean but, the first time in all my reading that I have come across an author with bravery to speak to this concern.

"Rolling on the River"

I am examining what is important to me because I have been making decisions that are unsatisfactory.  Life experiences are difficult to bear and I have found myself emotionally unprepared.  The fairy tale idea that a person is going to snatch me from what is real (and painful) and make the life lived to date go away is ridiculous (although appealing in a novel).  To run away from authenticity is impractical  to me and my innate ability (and to the person I am running to).   I have had many moments in which I know that “this is my life” but then turn away to jump on the treadmill marked “flee”.  The only intellectual and affective growth I have  ever gained is when I had the courage to turn and face my situation without self-pity and with an open heart to learn.

There Is A Season

During the early evening yesterday, I walked two miles along side a small lake.   The greens are beginning to blush with the insistence of fall presenting an opulent palate of purple, reds, oranges and yellows. The lowering sun cast a Monet reflection of the tree lined path onto the shallow water’s edge.  I knew that what I was experiencing would last only a short time in comparison to the offering of the rest of the year.  The glorious colors will soon drop from the limbs and drift to the ground becoming dried crunch.  

With the Exception ...

In regard to my last post "The Great Pretender", here is where I take exception to some of what I am learning from C. Terry Warner's book.  Forgiving is one step but more work needs to be done.  People who have been abused are traumatized; their DNA code is altered.  Often they revisit a destructive relationship to figure out what does not work.  Until the adult ego can develop, choices can be harmful. 

When I find myself experiencing the same negative results over and over within a relationship, a red light should flash:  Stop; caution!  Walk away.

Yes, I’m the Great Pretender

What I’ve become rests on my shoulders.  I can have all the facts correct but that does not justify going against my gut of what is right for me.   Being gentle, kindhearted and loving are characteristics that I aspire in order to be true to the deep longings of my heart.  I have failed in this area, and what I have gleaned is fear and resentment.

I vow to yield to the quiet, peace that nature demonstrates in the midst of seemingly avenging storms.  The day still opens fresh; life continues.  Why fight this natural need to be open, generous and welcoming to those I walk in this life with?

Fifteen Tons and What Do You Get?

What is truth?  I weigh this question often, considering experiences I have had.  At different times, I have believed that the truth of a situation is defined.  I no longer accept that erroneous premise.  Truth of a situation, when people are involved, is like looking at the surface of a glimmering mineral through a magnifying glass.  There are many facets.  What I perceive is based on my experience, my knowledge base …  AND this is the same for each person involved (their life experience).   I do not know what I do not know.  In interactions with people, I have to see through their voice, their vocal and body signals to recognize where we are the same:  our humanness.

I have hurt those I love because I am focused on how I feel … I justify my position (and often feel righteous in doing so).  I have thought that I am angry or defensive because of their action.

No, I make myself miserable.  This is like handing them power over me (a magic wand).   Today I want to understand without defending myself.  Perhaps in doing so with an open heart, I will know truth.

Self Betrayal

In The Devils by Dostoyevsky a character, Stavrogin expresses:
"All my life I have been lying.  Even when I told the truth.  For I never told the truth for its own sake, but only for my sake."

The Lies are not Straight but Crooked by Design

I am reading a book by C. Terry Warner: Bonds That Make Us Free Healing Our Relationships, Coming to Ourselves.   What I personally perceive as insights from the reading will be shared with you.  What I have discovered is that I participate in situations that are not good for me.  I have blamed circumstances; I have blamed other people’s treatment of me all without taking personally responsibility.  I have created stories in my head to justify my behavior even though these rationalizations go against an internal truth.  I am going to do the work with faith that I can evoke a change of heart.  This is different than “fixing” how I behave.  If reading my blog helps your journey, please take what you can.

Leo Tolstoy’s quote speaks to me:  “there exist false arguments, according to which there would appear to be exceptional circumstances, rendering the sins not only excusable, but even necessary.  These false justifications may be called ‘snares’”.

I have been caught in my own trap.  I am going to complete the self work to change this; I plan to untangle the web that has tightened a noose around my heart.

unraveling

I have a dream catcher made from spun wool.  Each long tassel can be pulled apart without any effort destroying the beautiful design.  This symbol of hope, representative to me of a longing for creativity and love can be a mess in a few careless minutes.

There is no such thing as: Empty Space

I will be going away for a few days.  There are a couple of issues I want to consider without the confusion of regular life.  Is separating myself from those I love running away from or running toward truth? 

Wednesday is a Fishing Day

I am waiting for my grandson to wake up.  We are going fishing.  I will not be day-dreaming on hearts formed by vapor; I will be focusing on how happy and energetic this 8 year old is in the presence of fish. 

"I really don't know Clouds ... "

I rarely write in the evening ...  I do not believe that I am clear sighted.  Tonight I am making an entry in an effort to begin again a daily habit of posting.  For a few hours this afternoon, while I was waiting for my car to be fixed, I observed clouds wafting across the expanse of sky.  I named the shapes, a man blowing bubbles, a fish, a bird, a heart.  The heart stretched out of shape and burst into fragments.  I watched, wondering if the strands would gather again; I wanted to see the heart whole.  For several minutes, I lingered, longing for an experience that did not materialize.

What Does it Take to be Forgiven?

There is not much I can do when a person I love is angry with me.  I can say I am sorry but that does not erase deeds done.  I can rationalize my perspective but that does not offer any insight into the mind of the other person.  There is no guide to the path, their reasons, for feeling the way they do against me.  I pray for wisdom … I hold my tongue, when I try too hard to “fix” a relationship; I fail and often make matters worse.

"There is Responsibility."

"You get towards the end of life-no, not life itself, but of something else:  the end of any likelihood of change in that life.  You are allowed a long moment of pause, time enought to ask the question:  what else have I done wrong?"  (163 Julian Barnes The Sense of an Ending)

Rain in Michigan

This morning I woke to the raucous of chirping birds - seemingly delighted with yesterdays evening of rainfall.  I wonder if these tiny feathered species of natural life have an awareness of the delight they share with me?  The male cardinal seemed to be considering my presence as I stepped outside over the door hearth with coffee in hand.  Walking to a chair close to the birdfeeder, my bare feet delight in the moist grass.  Southern Michigan has been suffering a dry spell … how alive the wet result of the previous night mizzle has made my spirit. 

The cardinal immediately diverted his attention when the duller colored female alit on the branch next to him. Off they flew in a chase through the thicket of wet leaves.  Do they know each other?  Was she “his” female?  Lower to the ground, a Ruby-Throated hummingbird spiraled back and forth performing the U pattern mating dance for a female I could not see.  His wings buzzing a sound like the whirring of an electric motor.  Is she “his” female or will any female do?  Does his dance have to contain a certain specialness for her to respond? 

They are busy with propagation of their species.  Secretly, I question if there is a moment in their life when this work is done?  Am I alone a member of a life form that is gifted with years to reflect … time that does not include creating life?

Wine and Love

"Love lies in the soul alone,
     Not in the body, and like wine
Should stimulate our better self
    To welcome gifts of Love Divne." 
                                (Kahlil Gibran)

Island Musing

Last week, instead of racing around completing tasks, I was sitting at the picnic table aside some enormous pine trees,  fixed, stationary icons, a vision to me of calm strength, and a slow force next to my speeding but often ineffective energy. There was a breeze rustling the oak leaves, mixed amongst the pines and red cedars, into a muffled clapping.  As thousands of leaves crescendo in the wind, I imagine the leaves are signaling approval for my thoughts. Sun rays streak through the branches sheltering my summer property forming patterns of shadow and light on the ground cover of pine needles strewn with cones and knee high fern. The real beauty for me is the various hues of green displayed in the leaves and needles overhead as the light touches each surface.

The cottage is a bare bones operation … and I like that. As I packed for the trip, I evaluated and questioned myself; do I really need this or can I do without it?  I realize that this reflection on my daily needs is something that I do not consider, as I should, at my home in Howell, Michigan.  Living on the island makes me a better consumer - I consider the necessity of what I am taking with me. Everything has to come over on boat or by airplane, and as inconvenient as this may sound, I love how organized and resourceful I've become. I make a grocery list before calling Glen’s Market in Cheboygan, carefully reviewing what we will need, who will be visiting, and what amount of space I have to store. If I stay longer, Glen’s Market in Cheboygan will shop for me for $10.00 and deliver the groceries packed in banana boxes to Plaunt Transportation for the ferry. This is a joy; I have never enjoyed shopping, and to receive this service is a treat. I find that not going in to the store (even with the extra cost of transporting) cuts my summer grocery bill.

Throughout my stay in Pointe Aux Pins, I find that I pay better attention to the trash that I accumulate. Recently I spent the afternoon cutting milk cartons down, folding cardboard boxes, and actually determining if I could have another use for a jar or plastic container in the future rather than tossing the item in refuse. I know that many of you are way ahead of me and may be thinking, Where has this woman been? Of course, we recycle, but upon reflection, I admit that my life off the island is sometimes recklessly busy without taking the time to consider how much waste I personally create. A few weeks on the island and I feel challenged to observe and ask the questions, Should this item really exist in my life; Do I really need this? This information is empowering for me, and I am ashamed that I am so late in learning.

 Clothing is another topic for analysis. I have learned the joy of not worrying about what I look like or if my colors match. I have a pair of jeans that can serve quite nicely over a period. (At home, they would be in the wash daily.) I have come to understand what Henry David Thoreau meant about slipping into a pair of slacks that already hold the shape of my bending knees. I would not have been cognizant of how relaxing wearing the same pair of jeans for a week can be without my island experience. I find myself wondering, Do I really need to pull out another pair of shorts or will these serve another day?

Cleaning the cabin takes me all of thirty minutes; I have discovered that I can open the front door and sweep the dust out onto the pine needles if I choose. I have spent hours reading Sarah Susanka’s books (Not So Big House, for one) to help me make this little space not only functional but beautiful. I have learned the benefit of pine needles; they keep the dust down, there is no lawn to cut, and they are beautiful to look at as well as soft to walk on. I made the mistake of raking them up the first summer I owned my cottage and learned, after tracking in black, sandy soil on the cottage floor, the positive services that pine needles furnish. For me, this is peace; I do not want a lawn to mow. Friends who live in Lower Michigan often ask me what I do all summer. It is true there are no shopping malls, no movies, and no crazy highways to take me places to spend money. But … there is everything else, a campfire every night, dark skies filled with stars, a moon that can shines a clear path across Lake Huron to Cheboygan, outstanding wild flowers to observe, birds exhibiting their native tongue to listen to, boating, fishing, and swimming.

The forests are amazing, filled with moss, mushrooms, dragon flies, eagles, pileated woodpeckers and other wildlife.  I have put hours of travel on my Polaris Ranger exploring the island.  These explorations are not crazy, the speed limit is 25 on the island, and on the trails I go much slower than that. There are isolated beaches where I take my supplies for the day, and simply enjoy Huron in all of its ravishing blues.  Last week, picnicking on an isolated beach, there was not another human sound, only the breeze clattering the oak and maple leaves mixed amongst the pines. 

For the past nine years, I have spent considerable time living on the island, and I believe this communing with nature has changed me.   Remembering my quiet, secluded time on Bois Blanc Island has energized me to finish the work down state.  I will work hard so that I can soon hear the sounds of water, an echoing fog horn, and syncopated calls of natural life.  

Kahlil Gibran (The Prophet)

"Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.  For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts."
I have agreed to officiate a wedding ceremony.  The readings selected by the couple are taken from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet.  This hopeful commitment of two people in front of their family and friends is an event that I am looking forward to.

Coloring My Mental Walls

Our new place does not have internet as yet making posting include taking the time away from house remodeling projects and maintaining relationships to take a 20 minute trip to the free access point of McDonalds.  I have a lifetime of experience of purposely avoiding fast food and now I am looking forward to the time there.  The problem is that I like to start work after breakfast (painting is the task that I have the most experience with) and after a day of work, I am not functioning at optimum brain power. Without my morning ritual of reading and reflection, I notice a negative difference in my daily interactions.  The best I can do is to associate each stroke of the brush to thoughts of my father.  Painting was the trade that put food on the table for us before he died. (He was thirty-five at death and I was only six years-old.)  So little I know about him but I understand the work he did.  Although I cannot say that I enjoy painting, it is one method of making a connection with the first man I loved. 

Roll Outs or Climb Up .... That is the Question.

This entry is an update:  Poison Ivy is under control.  House remodeling has begun ... two days ago a crowbar, hammer and sawsall were put to use in bringing down (literally SMASH)  a closet and a wall.  I was on the clean-up crew - the skill that I could contribute..  My observation on home remodeling is that whatever we do, we cannot expect a real estate return.  Labor and cost of materials has not gone down.  Crazy that we are in a recession ... house prices have plummetted but the cost to remodel has not.  At some point, we have to evaluate where to draw the line in the sand on spending.  Under the counter LED lights were immediately cut.  I question if I really need every shelf in the cabinetry to roll out - an upgrade.  What about the "pots and pan" drawer?  It cost more ... why?  I have been told that I will "love" it.  Can I really be reduced to loving a pots and pan drawer?  Well, you get my drift ... I look forward to commenting on the beauty of the woods that surrounds the house.  Could we be happier if we built a tree fort instead?  There would be no room for granite or swing out cabinet inserts; these luxuries would be replaced by the sound of birds, the splash of morning sunlight, and a display of stars at night.  Well, we would need mosquito netting, internet access, AND ... ah, I am lucky to have so many choices and I know this.

The Princess and the Ivy

Finally, went to the doctor after another sleepless night of itchy poison ivy.  I have tried hydrochloride cream, calamine lotion (pretty pink) and benadryl ... notta, the bright red dots persist to ITCH.  So, I cannot not pee in a cup at any athletic event cuz the cure for poison ivy according to my doctor is to take steroids, two pills over the next four days.  Darn, I was going to run a full marathon event this weekend; I'll have to postpone my athletic endeavor.  (Kidding of course; about the marathon not this Ivy.) 

There was a fairy tale I enjoyed as a little girl entitled "The Princess and the Pea".  Legend says that a girl was accused of not being royal but she proved her bloodline because her delicate royal blood birthed her with skin so sensitive that she could feel a pea under several layers of mattress'.  She could not sleep because of a tiny pea.
So hey, maybe I'm of royal blood? 
What? 
Poison Ivy doesn't count? 
Are you telling me that I suffer the aliment of the massess????   Drats, that is just not right.

Have Patience With Me : )

I have moved to a beautiful piece of property BUT the house needs a lot of remodeling.  Reflecting on Spain has been postponed.  (Writing about the trip will happen; there is so much that I learned . )The sweet memory of Spain has been clouded for a short period  by dirt under my finger nails, wallpaper removal, paint in my hair and recently a nasty case of poison ivy from pulling weeds.  I have turned all of my creative juices to this project ... a home with a soul that reflects my partner and me.  Hopefully, you will feel calm and inspired if you happen to drop by.  Oh, by the way, we are using lawn chairs for furniture so please bring a chair.  : )

Magic Carpet Ride ... Anyone?

I have recently had the most exotic shopping experience in Morocco at the open-air market place called souq or souk in Tangier.  I was mentally prepared that I would have to bargain but the intense energy (both emotionally and intellectually) of bartering was not what I expected.  This event was more of a wooing, a tempting really, expertly orchestrated by the seller to lure me into a sale. 

Desire is the defining word … for my part; I wanted to own a tajine (also called tagine) which is the name of Berber dishes prepared in a special type of cookware. (The Berber people are the native Moroccans who settled before Arabs and Islam came to Northern Africa.)  Moroccan merchants are the best in the world at recognizing yearning and the man I encountered was no exception.  
  

http://www.theworldinlight.com/

My traveling partner had past experience haggling over price in Morocco and discussed market strategy with me before we headed to the bustling souk area, ultimately advising me to establish a mental price before entering into dialogue. This was sage advice because, as it turned out, the vendor was a marketing genius.  Upon lingering at a colorful display of tagines, a smiling face approached, complimenting me on my choice. It is at this point that my ownership of the conical shaped clay pot became his entire point of being.   He began by appealing to my vanity.  I’ll bet you did not know that I am a special woman?  If you took the time (as he did) to study the lines in my palm you would know this.  Shamefully, this ploy did work … how astute of him to notice … my inner self inflated.  Negotiations began … he was nonstop verbally with a humming of words that laced around me and the pot. 

The price he offered was too high; I humbly lowered my eyes and expressed embarrassment with my inability to pay that amount although I did acknowledge that I was sure the exquisite yet functional piece was worth every dirham he requested.   

No, no, no Miss.  All prices will be considered.  What will you pay? 

Respectfully, I countered with another very low price.   It was then that I realized:  separating me from owning the unique piece of pottery was a highly trained professional enticer.  His job is to close the gap between the product and price so that I do not walk out of the booth empty handed.   The brilliant, psychological dance continued for several minutes.  Did you know that I have an amazing inner soul?  That he knew the minute I walked up to this pile of pots that I was different?   Well, it is true, I thought as I purchased two pots (instead of one).  Getting ready to leave (oh silly me), he implored me to enjoy a "free" panoramic look at the city.  Why upstairs in his shop there is a rooftop where I could take a picture of Tangier … absolutely a stunning view.  I paused … big mistake:)  Why not take a minute to go upstairs and see?  By this time, my friend was laughing at me but graciously followed me upstairs.  Leading the way, my merchant continued to wrap me in flattery as I climbed each step. 

Surprise! On the way to the photogenic vista there just happened to be three floors (or more? … we never saw the rooftop) stacked to the ceiling with hand-woven carpets.  My head was spinning with the glow of how perceptive I am - almost paranormal - this compliment offered in between presentation after presentation of carpet and color.  Rug after rug were unrolled before my adoring eyes.  Forget the mental price; this is Morocco!

Did you know that a carpet can be folded neatly, compressed tightly with twine compacting it to a tidy carry-on fit for plane travel?  Well, this is true.    After an hour of being treated like a princess, and spending like one too, I have a couple of magic carpets I can show you.  Oh yes, and the tajines, I think they were simply part of a carefully set tapestry snare.  I've learned a lot.  By the way, stop by and I'll cook you a delicious meal of lamb and prunes and afterward, you can go upstairs and take a picture of my backyard view.  You said you needed a carpet, didn't you?

Drinking in Spain

For much of the past month in Spain, we have rented apartments.   I would forget about the inconvenience of not being able to simply order tap water in a restaurant. The days and evenings have been busy with sight seeing ... and often by night, I would be exhausted ... a little bottle of water not on my mind at all.  Truly, I did not give it a thought until the next time we went out to eat.  Last night, I was dinning out in Madrid and noticed that the family next to me had a carafe of water and this vessel was refilled upon request.This morning, my final day in Spain, I took the time to clarify that I should have been asking for agua del grifo.  Without that amplification, ¿Puedo tomar un vaso de agua del grifo, I was asking for a sealed glass bottle and adding a couple of Euros to our bill. 

Another small inconvenience has been coffee ... if in a cafe, I would ask for black coffee - cafe solo, and I received a demi-cup of espresso.  Again, in the rentals coffee pots were provided so, most often, I happily had my leisurely western fare of caffeine.  If I would have requested café Americano, my order would have produced a full sized mug of coffee - much weaker than the espresso - but more like what I am used to. 

There has been no language barrier in asking for vino.  Although, I have not figured out how to order a half of bottle (nor have I taken the time to learn).   What is that saying?  Man cannot live on wine alone ... so sometimes I need water and coffee.  Oops, I guess I misspoke,  the noun is bread, isn't it?  Let me quote Henry David Thoreau instead:  " A man may acquire a taste for wine and so lose his love of water."  I will miss Spain.  (Thank you Robert.)

http://www.theworldinlight.com/

Welcome (But, Please Take Your Shoes Off First)

I received a letter from a past friend, the final line read:  you will never be happy.  After reading, deflated, hurt, defensive … all of these emotions clamored for attention within me.  Believing that friends will understand or at the very least, listen to my reasoning, I am surprised when declarations such as this example are bestowed to me.  I have not asked for approval; I answer questions asked knowing that others have an opinion.  Still, when wounding comments are made, I am taken by surprise.

I consider my friend; does she really accept that she knows the journey to happiness?  When entering a home, often there is a mat for wiping off the debris collected on the bottom of a visitor’s footwear.  Inviting understanding is not a request for advice. I sincerely shared with faith that my truth would be paid attention to.  I had opened a personal door, trusting that I could reveal authentic ideas, philosophy … values.  She made a judgment. 

I know that in the past, I have not always been a focused listener … I will do better in this regard.  Thoughtless remarks can be harmful.  This edict declaring my inability to be fulfilled soiled the beautiful welcome mat that I am weaving.   I did not respond to the letter.  A door within me has closed; I will intertwine colorful threads to restore the damage because I have the conviction that I am creating an honest tapestry - strands of experience that are worthy.   For now, I am rolling this mat up.

‘All the World is a Stage’ but I am no longer a Marionette

www.theworldinlight.com

Since childhood, I have been apprehensive when exposed to different cultures.  Traveling in Europe (currently in Spain) has pulled the curtain; I am no longer afraid of the mystery.  I acknowledge that it was fear … fear of diversity.  I was born in the 1950’s; my education was completed in white rural America.   I can recall discussions of bomb threats (we had water and food supplies in our underground well house), fright of the Soviet Union was a constant, throbbing message perpetuated in geography classes and at home.  Vietnam was a fight to stop the evil communist from taking over the world.  The maps used in the classroom were spatially incorrect – the United States was huge.  There was no other America – South America did not count and Canada was a stranger to the north.  Europe was a distant and small speck far across the Atlantic next to the monster Soviet Block.  Nothing was taught in the 50’s about the Middle East, people starving in Africa really did not matter, and China was a nothing space of land surrounded by a great wall.  I was naïve and badly informed.    Couple the embedded societal threats with a home life that was also insecure and it was easy for me to become a marionette on the American Nationalism stage.   I was taught that my large, isolated country held the superior rank in the eyes of the world. 

Well, I am now traveling in the 'speck' called Spain - the home country to Columbus who discovered and then obliterated a people to the west.  We "Americans" later managed to kill off most of the rest - or you can visit a reservation to visit the survivors.  

What  I am learning is that contemporary Europeans seem to be more open to language difference.  They can travel freely between each other and listen to other tongues.    In America, I can travel (sometimes within a distance of 20 minutes) and hear street talk, a twang, a drawl, a jersey inflection but within these accents are words that I understand.  I can communicate; and when I can exchange words, I feel safe.  There are segregated populations in Michigan (my home state) that speak other tongues, examples include Dearborn, Mexican Village, Chinatown area in Detroit – from my upbringing, I believed these were areas of less economic desirability.  In the 60’s, whites moved out of the city … the suburbs flourished.  Innocence and ignorant intellectual spaces were puffed up with prejudice and might makes right propaganda, I also was brought up in a conservative church (we were the only religion going to heaven), both experiences making me the fattened calf of rural American life, ripe for the harvest of patriotism.  Part of what  I lacked was missing the richness of developing skills in another language.  There is a respect, a commonality that can be bridged between people when we can share with each other. 

This brings me to this morning’s observation.  My traveling companion can speak Spanish – I am trying.   There is a joy (perhaps respect) that is evident as we stumble through trying-out our Spanish.  This delight is felt.  There are moments when I miss what is comfortable, I do miss family but for the most part, I am learning what I have failed to know much about people from other cultures.  What I detect is a similarity within our daily life, our family needs are comparable with the exception that I have too much of everything … more than I need.   Instead of spreading fear, I believe that if Americans had an embedded cultural exchange and had to learn the language of the people we intend to war with, we ‘the people’ would  be less willing to perpetuate the hate, commit the atrocities of war that ‘my country right or wrong’ propels us to participate in.  I am reminded of the child tale of the duped emperor who paraded the streets to show off his invisible clothes.  It was a small child who said, ‘He doesn’t have anything on!’  Travel allows me to see that the average people within a country are much like me, they have less, but they have a broader perspective of people.  They are not afraid of language … they are not afraid to smile at me and offer  camaraderie in acknowledgement of my effort.  I am cutting strings; I am designing my own stage … I am thinking thoughts that do not belong to the state.

www.theworldinlight.com

Prestidigitation (Now you see it; Now you don't.)

I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the Atocha train station Madrid, Spain while waiting for departure to Toledo.  As I admired the cleanliness of the station, a gentleman walked by and quickly snatched a half of sandwich left for scrap on the table next to me.  The leftover was gulped without chewing; vanishing at an amazing pace.  ‘Did he take that?’   He turned without making eye contact and moved toward a bank of ticket machines.  At first glance, he seemed well-groomed, he wore dark trousers and a beige ivy cap – quite dapper from a distance but upon closer examination, I noticed that the sleeves to his outer jacket were soiled.  He pulled a small suitcase blending in as a traveler as he strolled to the bay of automatic ticket machines.  At sleight of hand speed, he swiftly slipped his right hand into each coin return, careful to be looking out at the hub bub of people while letting his fingers do the seeing.  I read once that advanced sleight of hand requires months (sometimes years) of practice before it can be performed expertly in front of an audience.  This man mastered the technique and also was adept in not drawing spectators to observe.   An elderly magician … sad commentary on the economic state of the world, but for the moment, I bow to his resourcefulness.

My glass is half full ... his is half empty but there is an entire bottle on the table.

How do you ask for a half bottle of wine in Spanish?  'Media botella de vino por favor.'  Well, the media was lost in translation ... sign language did not work.  But, the entire 'botella' was delicious.  Tomorrow, we are on to Toledo, Spain. 

Play Practice

Sun rays filtered through the window of a small café creating patches of light that partnered with a watch crystal to dance across the vivid eggplant hues covering each table.  With each wrist movement, a beam would flicker to the ceiling and then return with feathery lightness to the textured cloth.  Neither woman took notice of the illumination as they chatted.

“I love these tablecloths,” Jill observed to her friend. “I wonder where she purchased the material.”

“How do you know the owner is a she?” Melanie smiled over her menu. 

Jill could not see her friend’s eyes because the reflected sunlight caused an alien sheen on the lenses.

Melanie turned her head, “Let’s ask the waitress to lower the blind.”

“Ok.  When she comes over to the table, I’m going to ask about the tablecloths,” Jill commented. 

The two women had remained in contact since high school.  From time to time (often years shading this chronology before they would next intertwine) they would meet.  But, after a period, life demands would pull them in different directions and the dearth between them would settle in.  On this morning, like actors from an old play (an art form that they had participated in as teens), they met, the café their set, both of them furtively wondering …why.  Why did they continually feel compelled to settle something between them?  

Jill turned transferring the shaft of light to the wall just as the waitress simultaneously walked toward them from stage right (kitchen) with tablet in hand to take their order. 

“Hi.  How are you both today?” 

Dutiful smiles exchanged between them.  The glimmer flitted back to the rich purple covering.   After closing the blind, the server returned.

“I was wondering,” Jill commented, “Did the owner make the table cloths?”

“I’m not sure; I’ll go ask her,” the young woman was gone as quickly as she had materialized.

Jill could not resist, “Sometimes I simply sense things,” she stated as if confirmation was needed.

“Really?”  Melanie’s tone slid up at the question mark.

Was she teasing?  Jill studied the menu.

Scooting her chair back from the table, hoping to feel more comfortable, Melanie noticed the pies in a display case.   “Did you see their baked goods?  They look yummy,” She pulled at her sweater that had inched up over her stomach as she studied the presentation.

Jill paused, and glanced away from the selections offered in print to scrutinize the glass enclosed offerings.  She closed her menu as their server returned.

“Yes, she made the tablecloths.”

“They are beautiful; unique,” Jill said.  “Thank you for asking.” 

“May I get you both a coffee?”

“Definitely.”   Ceramic mugs appeared balanced on matching saucers.

“How is the baked oatmeal? I have always wanted to try it,” Melanie asked.

“We are known for it … baked with cream and brown sugar.  Quite delicious.”

Both women shifted back slightly, as the server poured hot liquid into the cups.  A whiff of dark roasted coffee beans steamed from the rims to mix with baked goods and the distinct aroma of bacon grilling in the kitchen.  Setting the carafe on the table the waitress continued, “Yes, she made the tablecloths.  The fabric came from a local store.”

“I love the color,” Jill commented letting her fingers admire the texture of the weave.  “Nice feel to the material.”

After placing their orders, the two women let the silence sit between them.  Jill noticed that only a few customers inhabited the place, perhaps only ten tables in the entire restaurant.  Their late morning start was good; they would be able to stay and visit without feeling rushed by other customers waiting to be seated.  Jill’s preference would be to sit outside on a day like this one but the cozy atmosphere was right filling her with a pleasant feeling.

“Are you going to the class reunion?”  She asked.

“I don’t know; I don’t think so.”

“I want to go,” Jill continued, “but, since they had me on the missing list, I just received my invitation.  I’m going to have to rearrange a couple of things; I was supposed to be at the cottage this next weekend.  I’m having some repairs done and I have waited all summer for the carpenter to be available.  Seeing my name on the list of missing classmates was weird.  I am assuming that you let Melinda know my address?”

“No, it wasn’t me.”

She leaned toward her friend, “There were fifteen people on the deceased list…Chrissie Bauman,  Janice Murrel, Tom Tillman.  I don’t even know what happened to them.  Chrissie and I kept in contact through Christmas cards but lost touch over the last few years.  Last year, I sent her a card and it came back.  I meant to follow up but didn’t do it.  Seeing her name stopped me cold; I feel sad.  Who were these people and did they achieve what they fantasized about in high school?”

“Who does?  What about your aspirations?”  Melanie’s voice was soft, her gaze steady now that the brightness was dimmed by the window blind.

“I have issues,” Jill picked up her cup for a sip. “I have rewritten my horse story in every voice – the female protagonist, the male voice, third person … I am writing in a circle and I am sick of it.  I don’t even care about the characters anymore; a creative door seems to be locked.”

“Do you know that we always end up talking about writing?  Perhaps, we could encourage each other?”

“I would love to do that; my most productive writing happened ten years ago when you, Tim and I met in our writer’s group.”

“I don’t want Tim; he brings a dimension to the discussion that is stifling for me,” Melanie’s tone firm.  She stirred in her seat before adding, “And, do you know that you are different when he is around?”

Jill paused.  What … different? Inside she felt hurt but hid this in her response,

“You know, I have difficulty being relaxed with men.”

“Connie is the same; when men are in the room another light turns on and the tone of the conversation changes.  Maybe it is me that has the problem.”

“I am sure that it is not all you, Melanie.  I had a deep need for approval; I think I am passed that now… I certainly hope I am.  I’d like people to be around me because they are interested in my thoughts and because I am a listener of theirs. I have to admit though that I wanted to attend our reunion as a published author … that certainly has not happened.”

“I don’t want to go to the reunion because I have gained so much weight.”

A portion of baked oatmeal was placed in front of Melanie along with a small white bowl of brown sugar and a petite cream pitcher.

“Does that matter now?  We are old Melanie.  We have all changed.”

Noises, familiar to a restaurant took over as they ate … clanging of pans, the sizzling of the griddle each sound melding with the murmur of spoken words. 

After spooning in the last mouthful of breakfast, Melanie swallowed before saying,

”I think some people thought you were a slut in high school …that whole “Betty Beaver” nickname didn’t help.” 

Jill internally winced – fifty eight years old and she still felt the embarrassment.  As teens, during play practice, they had been fooling around on stage and a folding chair flipped over.  Her already too short skirt went over her head in the process and the boys could not help but make the observation.  She recalled that the redness of her cheeks canceled out the pain of landing in a heap on the hard wood.  “Betty Beaver” was not one of her proudest moments. She took a breath before responding.

“I hope that by using the term “people” you are not including yourself,” The sun had slipped behind a cloud making the café momentarily darken.  “Despite what may have been said about me, I was a virgin when I graduated.” 

“You were?” 

Again, Jill could not help but be surprised at this question.

“My first intimate relationship was when I was eighteen.  In fact, I felt great guilt, the church had imprinted the idea that if I had sex, I had to marry the person or god would sweep down and damn me to hell for eternity.”

“For me too,” Melanie reflected.  “Tim was my first and the thought that I may have crossed some cosmic line of damnation, kept me with him.  When I look back at pictures of myself, I did not know that I was cute.  I always saw a dumpy, shy girl.”

Coffee was offered again.

Jill took a sip and wanting to be kind said, “You really opened up in your senior year.”

“I didn’t see myself that way.  I heard that I was only a few votes from making the homecoming court.”

Jill paused; was that a hurt directed at her?  She had not thought about high school in years … for goodness sake, Melanie was actually talking about the homecoming court? 

She answered carefully, “You are probably right; perhaps, I only made queen’s court by a small margin.” She noted that Melanie did not correct her; she did not say, “Oh no.  I don’t mean you.”

“No calorie watch today,” Melanie commented looking again toward the confection display.   

The oatmeal was hearty, delicious, comforting but Melanie decided that when she left she would purchase one of the frosted cinnamon rolls to go.

Turning back to Jill she asked, “Did your stepfather?” her eyebrows raised with the question.

“No.  He was a jerk but no,” Jill countered.  The question surprised her.

“I always wondered,” Melanie said.

The silence that ensued seemed as real to Jill as if another person sat with her.  The conversation turned mundane as they finished what was to be their last breakfast meeting.  Jill had a distinct knowing that she did not want to work on her writing with her friend ... with Melanie.  Oatmeal bowls were cleared.  Empty ceramic mugs were pushed aside. 

Outside the coffee shop (exit stage left), an invisible shell had crackled, shattering to nothing.  With this awareness came a thought, I can write.  It had been Tim that had encouraged her when the three of them had worked together.  Melanie had always found fault with her work.

“What about getting together again to discuss our writing,” Melanie asked. 

“Well, I will try,” Jill said. “Good bye Melanie.”  

The hug was sincere from Jill … this would be goodbye.

She would write for herself.  And, she would write without the help of Melanie. 

Walking across the parking lot, Jill was aware that she no longer wanted to try to be nice.  Inside her car, the crystal on her wrist reflected a sunlit ray causing a faceted burst of color to shimmer over the taupe roof liner.  How exquisite, she noted. 

Virginia Woolf Quote

"The politician says that a writer is the product of the society in which he lives, as the screw is the product of a screw machine; the artist, that a writer is a heavenly apparition that slides across the sky, grazes the earth, and vanishes."  (From her essay: 'The Leaning Tower'.)

High School Shooting

it is Morning
I am late
you had to change
again

anger and frustration
causes an exchange
words
fire back and forth
a struggle 
now inane

inside our driving cocoon
silence ...
only interupted by the
electricity of sullen moods

upon arrival
you are quick
the stifled quiet accented
by the slaming of your door

at work
half-filled mug
in hand and
heart talking loud

I admit I’m tired
over-worked
and less than appreciated
life has become a rush …

a hurry
a busy
inflected with
forced smiles
along with complicated decisions
and often verbal wrestling
the world of me and you

the vibration of my cell
interrupts this morning muse
the LCD panel flashes
the unexpected word
School

racing from the office
rib cage echoing
thuds
the car drives itself
 there is no place left to park

the only sound remembered
is the slamming of my door

I am here to wait
with the many other wait - ers
too

the insignificance of early morning
has now
embraced my soul
only sounds of gunshot
reverberate

and i realize
this truth ...
if only i could once more
hear
the slamming of your door

To Be or Not To Be

I am learning Spanish.  After two short months, I have an understanding of how complex and demanding the process of absorbing the nuances of an additional language is for a person fluent in another tongue (in this case ME).  Yesterday, I studied the verb “to be” with my friend who happens “to be” at least three years ahead of me with his Spanish language development.  After our lesson, I mastered the phrase:  Dime otra vez por favor (Tell me again please).

For a moment, reflect with me about the subject and verb:  I am (estoy).  In Spanish, if I always am, then I should use “soy”.  But, if I will be, I use “estaré” unless I always will be then the choice is “sere”.  If I used to be,  I would say “estaba” unless I always “used to be” then “era” is the proper selection.  These verb tenses complícate further if I am talking about my friend (tu), then I should change “estoy” to “estás”.  But, if I am addressing you (the readers of my blog) the choice is the plural “estais”.   This “is” a minimal presentation that a fluent six year-old could verbally demonstrate for you (vosotros). 

Following the above mentioned study session, I have decided that the next time I "am" annoyed when I call a customer service representative with a technical question (typically from another country and probably bi-lingual in a few languages) instead, I “will be” in awe.

Mai Zetterling: The Uncompromiser

"I want very strongly to do things I believe in.  I can't do jobs for the money, I just can't do it.  I can only do things in my own way and and my own terms."   (Zetterling)

"It takes a lot of strength to break up a life you've been pursuing and start something else from scratch ... Also, I had come to a point in my life where I said no more compromise, thank you, and this makes you feel very strong as well."  (Zetterling)

A Marked Trail

There are not very many of us who can ‘be’ in a moment without dragging the trappings of our past experiences with us.  Often, I am not conscious that there is a story running in my head; beliefs, embedded cultural teachings, childhood, schooling, adult struggles – all occurrences that trace a course to me at any point in time.   

A good visual is the geological phenomenon of moving rocks taking place in Death Valley, California.  Behind the igneous forms are wakes grooved into the clay that map the various routes.  Individual positions have been documented and then after several years, recalculated giving proof of movement tens to hundreds of feet long.  No one has seen the rocks move and furthermore, the energy that caused the trail of motion is still the subject of research.    

Living has altered what I accept as true, there is a history clearly marking my path but the influence or the pressure of each experience even now, is the focus of exploration.