Remember Pie?

I watched a movie some time ago--I think it was called Sweet Land--and the scene that I remember most is this:

Two women, speaking different languages, sit down at a table in a farmhouse and eat a whole pie together.  What a delightful concept--especially in these days of gluten and sugar avoidance!

Carlene remembered her mother and grandmother making eating pie when their men were working on the farm--and I love imagining my Mimi and her Cana devouring an entire pie with relish together!

Pie is a wonderful concoction of fruits and creamy chocolates and buttery crusts.  You might as well apply them directly to the hips and be done with it if you choose to partake regularly, I guess, but maybe an inch would be worth the pleasure.  

In Home Ec in high school, we learned to make lemon chiffon pies in graham cracker crusts and that pie is still one of my favorites.  If I had a double-boiler, I might make one right now.

Back in the day when we were young and fervent macrobiotics and sugar-avoiders, I remember my friend Mary Locke saying she wanted to bring out a chocolate pie and I said I wasn't eating sugar.  I have regretted that refusal for 30 plus years because she makes one mean pie, or did back in the day.

I think we should have Pie Day at least once a month and invite a friend over to eat it with us.  And I think we might all be inspired to do that if we watch the movie, Waitress, or the movie, Sweet Land.

When I get back from Chicago, I'm making a pie!

A poem I love-- by Fleur Adcock

Weathering

Literally thin-skinned, I suppose, my face
catches the wind off the snow-line and flushes
with a flush that will never wholly settle. Well:
that was a metropolitan vanity,
wanting to look young for ever, to pass.

I was never a pre-Raphaelite beauty,
nor anything but pretty enough to satisfy
men who need to be seen with passable women.
But now that I am in love with a place
which doesn't care how I look, or if I'm happy,

happy is how I look, and that's all.
My hair will turn grey in any case,
my nails chip and flake, my waist thicken,
and the years work all their usual changes.
If my face is to be weather-beaten as well

that's little enough lost, a fair bargain
for a year among lakes and fells, when simply
to look out of my window at the high pass
makes me indifferent to mirrors and to what
my soul may wear over its new complexion.

A good traveler...

Thanks for this, Nellie!

Hospitality

I've been reading such moving posts on Facebook tonight, people reflecting on the spirit of Maya Angelou and writing about how her presence in the world changed or encouraged them.  One man posted an interview with Anderson Cooper in which she spoke about courage.  At the end, she took the time to thank Anderson Cooper for his "courage, his intellect, and his intelligence."

I've always admired this about Maya Angelou, the woman so many of us felt we knew from listening to her and reading her books: the way she seems so totally present in conversation and always gives a genuine word of affirmation or praise to the person with whom she's talking.

When I first heard Maya Angelou reciting "Phenomenal Woman," I was in search of strong women role models.  I was a young newly married woman in a new city, a college student, shy.  Maya Angelou talked about what had wounded her, ending with:  "And still, I fly." I absorbed her words, knowing that whatever hurtful things might happen in my own life, I would remember Maya Angelou and I'd be able to fly.

We don't forget women who tell the truth.  We don't forget how they make us feel, how they remind us to re-member ourselves, put ourselves back together and fly, break out of cages, and sing no matter what. Maybe because they know what it is to be silenced, even caged, they seem fearless, strsong voices for freedom.

Unlike so many flashier interviewees we see on late night TV, the Mayas of the world are not all-about-me women.  There's a kind of hospitality in the way they open up their houses and allow everyone to come in. What a gift: to be able to make a guest feel at home, not just one more straggler who happened to show up at the door.

Yesterday, my friend Cyndy brought me homemade chicken soup for lunch and stayed to visit.  "I'm not afraid of your germs," she said. So often my friend Jan, who lives next door to my great good fortune, delivers a plate of something delicious she's made for dinner, out of the blue.  I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've delivered food to anyone.  (I'm ashamed to admit it; I'm going to try to do better.)

I'm thinking of so many people who have the gift of hospitality in their own unique ways--and what a great gift that is in the world of busy busy.  It can happen on the phone, in a friend's kitchen, on a porch, on the page, even in the way someone takes the time to listen, return your phone call, or write a personal e-mail. Some people have a way of making a home-cooked dinner feel like a party (I'm thinking of Barbel and Joy) or making you feel like a long-awaited guest, not a bother (I'm thinning of Rone and Brad in California who not only invited me to spend "as much time as you like" but who gave me the names of friends further north: "Call them; they'd love to have you!")

Or Rone's friend "Dr. Linda"--who, when I made an appointment for her to work on my leg--seemed to have as long as I needed to talk, and who followed up with helpful advice all along the way.

"Traveling solo" is such a misnomer!  We always know which porches are open at all hours, who'll take us in, who'll text "Come over" and mean it, right now. We know where we can land.  I'm thinking of a friend who--just in the way she answers the phone--makes me feel that she's so glad I called.

In "The Death of the Hired Man," by Robert Frost, a couple talks about what to do when the hired man shows up at their house:

"Home is where--when you have to go there--they have to take you in," one says.

"I should have called it, something you somehow haven't to deserve," the other says.

In Loving Memory: Dr. Maya Angelou 1928-2014

http://p.ost.im/L5rGcm

Maya Angelou left today--and she left us a lot!

I will never forget the first time I heard Maya Angelou speak at Trinity University.  She was dynamic, a wonderful storyteller, and she lit up that auditorium with her captivating energy.  

Her most famous book, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, tells about being raped in childhood and the muteness that followed that trauma.  

Maya Angelou was a teacher to generations of young women.  In her writing and the echoes of her spoken voice, Maya Angelou inspired courage and compassion.  

 

Doing "Nothing" All Day

I woke up with a sore throat, went to CVS to get some Benadryl, then decided to rent three movies at the Redbox kiosk: Nebraska, Labor Day, and The Invisible Woman.

When the clerk inside the store saw my movies, she said, "Oh, Nebraska!  I just watched it.  It's hilarious!  You will be laughing your head off."

Having watched it, I'm still puzzled about her prediction that I'd laugh, that anybody would. It was a road trip drama, father-son traveling from Montana to Nebraska, filmed in black and white. I liked it a lot, but I didn't laugh, not once.

Then I watched Labor Day.  In one scene Frank (the escaped convict) was making chili for Adelle and I had to have some--so I drove to Wendy's and got a cup of chili and watched the rest of the movie.  Two excellent movies for a day of being off the hook, no laundry,  no cleaning, nothing remotely productive.

Jan popped over with her two grandsons to invite me to dinner, but not yet knowing whether what I have is a cold or allergies, I decided to quarantine myself.  Then another knock at the door.

Carl is a massage therapist, an altogether sweet soul.  He had dropped his card in my mail slot and I opened the door just before he walked away.  We hugged, old friends, and I noticed that he had gotten some grey hair since I'd seen him a few years ago, but his unlined face still looked more like a man of sixty than a man of eighty.  He looked frailer, changed somehow.

"I have something to tell you," he said.  "Evelyn passed."

His wife, like Carl, was one of those people whose age you'd never guess--flawless skin, beautiful smile, bright eyes.  I remember having dinner at their house.  I remember how happy they seemed together, and the way Carl sang a few lines of an old Negro spiritual when he came here to give me and a friend massages.

"When?"

"February.  Cancer."

I remember asking him once, "What's the secret?   You and Evelyn look so young!"

"It's the good dirt of Missouri," he said, laughing.  "We had good dirt in New Ground."

We would have talked longer, but he had a client in the car, a woman visiting from out of state who was unable to walk, so he had to leave.

Carl has a resonant masculine voice, but his manner, demeanor and language have always reminded me of a soulful grandmother.

"Okay, Baby, " he said, walking away.  "Call me, now.  I want to tell you more.  We'll have coffee, lunch, something."

I'm glad I was here, doing nothing, to hear that  knock at the door.

Waiting

I couldn't put down the novel, Waiting, by Ha Jin.

It's a study of character and the human heart; it's about one good and flawed man coming to understand what it means to "love wholeheartedly." 

Here's the first line:

"Every summer Lin Kong returned to Goose Village to divorce his wife, Shuyu."

The  story takes place during and after the Chinese Revolution, and it's based on a true story about a man who tried for eighteen years to divorce his wife.  It's straightforward in language, and the plot is relatively simple, but it's one of the most engaging novels I've read in a long time. 

As the story moves along, every chapter has a little jewel of description of the place--like a tiny poem embedded in the narrative:

"It was getting more overcast, so they turned back to the building. The ground was dusty, as it hadn't rained for weeks. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, blocking out the city's skyline; now and then a flashing fork zigzagged across the heavy nimbuses. As Manna and Lin were approaching the building, a peal of thunder rumbled in the south; then raindrops began pitter-patterning on the roofs and the aspen leaves. I line of waterfowl was drifting in the northwest toward the Songhua River, where sunlight was still visible...."

When I closed the book at six this morning, I felt like I'd been there--and the question of what it means to "love wholeheartedly"  has been echoing in my mind all day. 

Busy

In the fifties, we used to dial up our friends--four digits, no area code--hoping that nobody else was talking on the party line, but listening in if we were snoopy.

If the person we were calling happened to be talking on her own telephone, or had left the phone "off the hook," the operator would tell us that "the line is busy." There were no answering machines--so we just did something else while we waited--that or walked to their house to tell them what we had to say.

Today, all our phones are busy doing all kinds of things that would raise the eyebrows on the faces of those old black rotary phones.  Ordering stuff on the phone? Reading entire books?  Shazam-ing songs? Chatting with salespeople in "real time?"  Traveling anyplace we want to travel with Google? It boggles the mind. Word has it that one of the next big things is that Amazon will go ahead and ship you what they think you might want before you even order it--based on your browsing habits and history.

A different etiquette prevails in this new Smart Phone age: e-mails and phone messages should be responded to in a timely manner--within a few hours.  Sometimes I still say "my phone is off the hook"--an antique expression because a smart phone has no hook.  But if I want to take a nap, I "power off" the phone and put a napping sign on the door.

Like everyone else, I often say, "I've been so busy."  It's like a get-out-of-jail-free card; nobody argues with the bully Busy. But what am I busy doing?

I make lists.  Checking things off a list has a certain appealing clicking sound that makes me feel Important and Good--as Pooh Bear might say.  I usually return phone calls and emails in a timely manner; I get my oil changed and fix broken things;  I arrive on time for appointments and try to remember  birthdays.

But what if I want to take myself off the hook for a whole day and watch movies and enjoy my solitude?  Is that a good enough reason to just say no to the things on The List?  Yes--but I have to remind myself of that every day.

In the days of the black rotary phone, as a child of parents who worked both "inside and outside the home," I rarely heard the word, busy.  On the occasions when the word was used, it struck me as something akin to an emergency; parents were not available for a couple of minutes.

I'm going to ban the word, busy, for a week. Leave the phone powered off for hours and see what other powers may emerge in its place.  Take two days to return a phone call if I feel like it.  Scramble some eggs for dinner instead of going out again for groceries or to "grab" some fast food.  Instead of "killing time" with Solitaire and other offerings on the smart phone, I'm going to slow down time and enjoy the little tiny minutes of "real time"  that live like little butterflies inside my hours.

Five May Birthdays

      My friend, Nellie (here we are when she and her husband Art came to San Antonio a few years ago) turned 66 this May.  We graduated high school together in 1966, and this is the year that our ages match our graduating year.  

      Then Lea had her 80th birthday. I wrote about the Thursday writing group celebrating her 80th and I included  a page from her essay in an earlier post.  (Here she is on the left, with Becky on the right).  She's a luminous presence that makes her a role model to women of all ages.

      When Marcus turned nine on the 17th, he said that the best thing about getting a video game from Jackson was that it meant he could spend more time with his brother on his birthday.  These two are best friends--as you can tell.

      Jackson said, "We better enjoy the time while we can because soon I'll be going off to college."  (Jackson will turn 13 in October--but "soon" means different things when you're 12.)  Marcus replied, "No, I'll be in your pocket."

      Last Sunday, Veronica ran a race on her 36th birthday. (I remember thirty six--it was the last year you could get all the candles on your birthday cake from two boxes). Here's Veronica, my daughter-in-law on her new horse. 

Will and Veronica in high school

At high school graduation,1996.

                               Then they went their separate ways--for 13 years.

   

      When they found each other again, Veronica was the mom of two-year-old Nathan and an assistant principal.  Will, already a firefighter, had gone back to UTSA to complete his degree.
       They celebrated their 3rd wedding anniversary on Wednesday.

Christmas 2013

       On Sunday, May 26th, Will will be 36.  He's a captain in the rescue division of the fire department, a daddy, a husband--and loves his work and his life. Here he is when he was  Elena's age:   

                                               HAPPY BIRTH-MONTH to you all! 

According to Bird Bakery....

Total Absorption in the Process

My seven-year-old grandson Nathan is writing books and illustrating them himself.  His first two are about Star Wars, and the one he's doing now is The Diary of Nathan.

When he woke up yesterday morning, he asked Will if he could "see Yenna"  if he got a "green day." (A green day means he's not done one thing bad at school all day.)

I'm so unaccustomed to (and flattered by)  being someone's Reward that I couldn't resist going out to Helotes to see him after he got home from school, whatever the color of his day.  He fascinates me--this little boy!

After school, Nathan dribbles a ball for a while, then feeds the seven chickens, then takes a handful of straw to the horse, then tosses about fifty rocks into a bucket of water, then works on his book, then we play a game with his Lego helicopter traveling from Russia to France to Texas on some secret Lego mission.  At bedtime, his mother at a concert at her school, we four (Will, Elena, Nathan and I)  get into his bed where he reads us his own books as a bedtime story.

When Nathan writes and draws his day in his diary, he totally gets into the project.  If he makes a mistake, no big deal; he marks right through it with magic marker and proceeds.  Except for proper names, he doesn't ask how to spell words.  If other people are talking, he tunes us out.   I asked if I could take pictures of some of the pages, and he said, "Not yet, wait until it's all finished."

This little guy knows a lot about the creative process: don't share until you're ready; don't worry about what's not important; value your work and read it aloud with pride.

He and his sister, Elena, are the children I'm with most often.  I'd taken Elena to the park to ride the train and we'd gotten off at Kiddie Park to ride the carousel while Nathan was in school.

These two are teaching me a lot about how to be: enjoy the moment one hundred per cent or change what you're doing: don't plan too far ahead;  don't say "yes" if you want to say "no;" and fall asleep whenever you feel like it.

Years ago a famous football player (Rosie Grier) videotaped children in action and tried to imitate their actions for an hour.  Big strong macho football player admitted that he was quickly exhausted from the effort--as I would be in five minutes. Children are up, down, rolling on the floor, laughing at the dogs, and turning into pilots and monsters so fast that, if you're a member of the cast in one of their plays, it's hard to separate the plots and do your part right.

After twelve hours of playing with children, I'm inspired and invigorated, emotionally--but my physical energy barely registers on the energy-measuring-machine as I drive home at nine.

Children don't have to think about taking care of the car, house, yard, or body.  They don't have to buy groceries, watch the clock, or follow through with promises made to be anywhere at a certain time.  They aren't rushing around marking things off a giant to-do list the way their parents and grandparents are.  Whatever they are doing they are completely absorbed in.

When it's time to go to sleep, they are never ready to let go of the day.  "Five more minutes" or "Okay, you can skip your bath tonight"--wow, these are the much-prized rewards that remind big people how full a day can be with just the tiniest stretchers on the end!

Planning the next trip

Next Friday, May 30,  Charlotte and I will be going to Chicago to meet Janet Penley and attend Janet's daughter's wedding.  I'm psyched!  I've never been to Chicago before--unless you count a couple of hours in the airport once upon a time.

Today we three sat down at Janet's and looked at the map of Chicago and made a list of things we want to see and do there.  A novel idea--planning a trip in advance--and quite a contrast to my flying by the seat of my pants.  We'll be walking on the beach, seeing Janet's old neighborhood, and exploring the city.

I'm spending this week getting all the parts together: deciding whether to have my bangs cut or not, buying some new pants, and figuring out how to pack for five days in one suitcase.

A Zen saying has it that "the way you do anything is the way you do everything"--but I'm not too old to learn some new tricks, like getting the lay of the land  in advance.

I'm reminded of the time Nellie and I went to Italy and she had read all the travel books ahead of time; I had only read Under the Tuscan Sun. Approaching Venice on the train, Nellie said we'd need to get a vaporetto for our trip to the Danieli where we were staying; I had no idea what a vaporetto was.  Without Nellie's expert planning, I might still be wandering around beside the canal, lost.

Happy 9th Birthday, Marcus!

This summer, doing a photo bomb!

Lea's 80th Birthday

Tonight the Thursday writing group celebrated Lea Glisson's 80th birthday.

In this picture, she is holding a delicious fruit-covered pavlova--and we are all wearing caftans that Mercedes gave us for Christmas.

         On the occasion of her 80th birthday, Lea wrote a piece that ended with "another way to think about my next ten years"--and I asked her if I could post her list as inspiration:

I will count my blessings I receive from my friends instead of the lines on my face.

I will continue to say "Thank you, Jesus" every time the elevator doors open and I am able to step out.

I will read my journals from years past and be reminded again how few things I worried about actually came to pass.

I will thank the coffee growers for that wonderful bean they turn into coffee so I can have that first hot cup of the day.

I will continue to be grateful for Fred who puts the newspaper in my driveway every day and even double sacks it on rainy days.

I will eat ice cream without guilt and totally dismiss the idea of clogged arteries.

I will spend more time in the front porch swing and less time thinking about my problems.

I will remember the joy of laughter and the freedom that accompanies tears. 

I will take more risks and reap the expected rewards.

I will look up at the blue sky with its soft white cloud and thank the Lord for my life.

I will ignore the dead grass in the yard and make the drought the responsible party.

Now and then I will deliberately hang a towel crooked or turn a jar the wrong way just to prove I am not obsessive compulsive.

I will remember that exercise is important to maintain good health, but if I miss a day it is not the end of the world.

And most important of al, I will remember to tell the people in my life that I love them and they give meaning to me every day.

Having done all that, when I reach my 90th birthday, I will say 80 wasn't all that old!

Two to Eighty-Eight

Elena was two in January; Carlene turned eighty-eight in August.  These are the two people I spend most time with, so I'm reflecting on some aspects of their ages that I find particularly inspiring.

Elena doesn't like to be looked at or watched when she's in the flow of doing what she loves.  When she's being scrutinized, she holds up her hand and says, "Don't look" or "I don't like it."  At two, she's more interested in looking at the world around her than being looked at.  Learning two languages at once, she already has a track in her mind that I wish I had--and it's fascinating to watch her move back and forth with ease between Spanish and English.

Carlene is amazingly youthful for her age--and she doesn't mind one bit when people express surprise to learn that she is eighty-eight!  She walks three miles with a friend every morning at 5:45 and is disciplined about taking care of herself.   One of the things I love most about her version of being 88 is that she's not particularly interested in interpersonal dramas.  She gives wide berth.  Whatever others want to do or believe is not judged.  As she has often said, her life philosophy is "People are different."

Elena is fiercely independent.  If offered help, she usually brushes it away with "I got it!"

Carlene is fiercely independent as well. She rejects infringements on her freedom--just as Elena does, just as I do.

Both express affection wholeheartedly.  Both are lovers of all kinds of people.  Both express appreciation for every little thing and make the giver feel that she's chosen exactly the right gift or word.  They both run on the fuel of enthusiasm and delight.

If Elena falls down, she quickly says, "I'm okay,"--as in "No big deal."
.
This weekend, Elena is getting an actual pony, no barn.
Carlene wouldn't want a real pony, but she always finds the metaphorical pony in the barn.  She lives a life of gratitude and enthusiasm that inspires me every day.

What is a Mom?

Tonight my son, Will,  made delicious salmon and shrimp for dinner, and we had dinner together after I'd spent the afternoon keeping Elena there.  Will had been running around town doing errands--which included buying food for the four people and sixteen animals that live there.  (Eight chickens, a horse, two dogs, two turtles, a kitten, a parakeet, and the pony that is arriving this week.)

At some point, Elena--who has now mastered enough words that she would like to be the center of all conversations--did her "bad" thing that is guaranteed to get her daddy's attention; she threw some food on the floor.

"Do you want to go to time out?" he asked her, trying to look serious and stern.

"No," she said.  "I sorry."

In a few minutes she interrupted again to ask, "Am I a bad girl?"

"No, you're not a bad girl," we all said in unison--her mommy, her daddy, and I.

She knew the answer, she'd just asked the question guaranteed to provoke the answer she was looking for: "You're a good girl."

"But we don't throw food on the floor," Will told her.  "If we do, we have to do time out."

Earlier today, she had reminded me that she had to have time out at the restaurant on Saturday night for throwing a chop stick across the table.  "Why did you have to have time out?" I asked.  I knew.  I was there.  I just wondered if she had connected the dots.

She grinned mischievously.  "I throwed food on the floor," she said.  She likes time out; her daddy goes with her and she gets his full undivided attention.

We talked on about other things and she discovered that she had a black spot on her toe, maybe a splinter from going barefoot all day.  "Come sit on my lap and I'll get it out," I said.

Turned out it was just a black spot and I got it off right away by wetting my thumb.

She looked at her parents and said, by way of explanation:  "She's a mom."

Biscuits as Comfort Food

This morning, Medicare sent me on a round-trip through an MRI machine to see what's going on inside my leg. It was a bizarre experience--what with all the loud fog horn and mechanical duck quacking sounds.

Then, across the hall to mammography, then the sonogram to check out a spot that  always shows up each year, then the radiologist's report that it's no big deal, nothing to worry about.

I felt detached from myself for three hours, being buzzed and prodded and squeezed by strangers.
Three of the four technicians seemed bored, almost as impersonal as the machines. The rooms were freezing.  Eye contact was virtually nonexistent.

Every time I go into these rooms of machines and cold light, I look around and see a roomful of other women waiting, as I am, for a friendly word, a nod, good news, relief. One woman, about my age, looked ravaged by disease or chemotherapy, swollen and jaundiced, with a devastating mask of sadness.

Too often, I take the gift of good health for granted, rarely thinking about people who are gravely ill. Going into those rooms always puts me in touch with my mortality. This could be the day, I think. that my string of good fortune takes a different turn.

Leaving the imaging center, I felt like I've felt after visiting people who are ill in a hospital: I walk out into a sunny day and am shocked that all the time I've been inside, the people outside are going on with their lives, eating out, and buying stuff. Today I felt the lingering chill of the imaging rooms, humbled, deflated, relieved, lonely, and hungry.

For the first time in years, I drove down the road to Los Patios--the place we always used to go for celebratory lunches.  Back in the day, it was a vibrant place with eateries and busy shops, a plant nursery, and a swinging bridge where we'd stand and watch the ducks below. Twenty and thirty years ago, it was one of the best places in town--and my mouth watered at the prospects of those buttery biscuits we used to eat there.

Both the patio and the dining rooms used to be busy every day. Today, the patio and the inside dining rooms at the Gazebo were empty--and I decided to take a table at the patio and eat lunch alone.  Never mind gluten, never mind calories, all I wanted were the Southern Girl's comfort food--flaky little biscuits glazed with butter.

It wasn't quite like going home after a trip to the imaging center--but it was a reminder that (as Betty said to me in an email last week) "Life is not a dress rehearsal."

I'll get back on the wagon tomorrow--but when biscuits help bring me back into my body after passing it, part by part,  through machines, I'm having biscuits!

What do your things say about who you are?

Last night, Julianne and I went to a lecture at the Mind Science Foundation--by Sam Gosling, author of Snoop.  Gosling and his team of researchers study rooms and objects, what spaces and possessions say about their owners.  Are they liberals or conservatives, extroverts or introverts, agreeable people or not so much?  Do they conscientiously complete tasks or do they start one thing before finishing another? Do they tend to be more conformists or more creative?

He didn't talk one bit about Mini Coopers, however--or any other car, but when he signed my book, he said that cars say a lot about their drivers.

I told Julianne that I haven't felt like myself since I've been driving a Honda--even though it has lots of great features.  I feel like I'm wearing someone else's too-big clothes.

I was mulling over that this morning when my friend Mike in Georgia (the only Ex who's still my friend) called.

"I know you must think I've forgotten about you," he said--instead of hello--"But I'm never forgetting about you.  I love you, Darlin' and I always will. I have a ten-foot pole in the back of my mind with your smiling face on it.  Whenever I get down, I go up to the front of my brain and look at it and smile."

"Are you down today, that's why you're calling?" I asked.

"No," he said.  (Mike is never down that I know of--which may mean he doesn't look at that ten-foot pole with my picture on it all that often.) "I just had a feeling you might be."

He told me about the cars he was refurbishing, including a vintage Beetle, baby blue and white. And two couches he's making out of old cars.  And all the things he's repairing for his friends.  "I don't have time to get down," he said.  "As long as I'm making things out in the shop, I live in Paradise."

"But this Beetle--it has your name written all over it," he said. "You better sell that Honda and get back to yourself.  You aren't a Honda girl, that's for sure."

It's almost like being in love: having a friend who knows I'm not a Honda girl!

Writing Blog Entries

Is like putting daily rough drafts on the screen.  Doing this stretches me in a way because it's out of my usual zone to think anyone would want to read my early morning ramblings on random topics.  I remember when I first read Annie Lamott's advice that we should write lots of "shitty first drafts"--excellent advice for writers who are obsessive in revising, like me.

The writer, E.M. Forster, asked: "How do I know what I think until I see what I say?"

Sometimes I re-read a former entry and think, like J. Alfred Prufrock in the T.S. Eliot poem: "That is not what I meant at all."

Even in conversation, I often want to revise what I just said, wishing I could "take something back" or say it better.

I don't like for anyone to see my house when it's messy.  Maybe one day I'll be more enlightened.  Maybe I'll invite people over for a party when the dishes from the night before are soaking in dirty sink water and unfolded laundry is piled all over the sofa, but I'm not there yet.

Writing blog entries is my practice in opening the door.

Art Poles

Marcy, a poet and member of the Saturday group, moved to Asheville, North Carolina--where she and her husband are building a house and garden and enjoying being near their children.  Though packing up a lifetime of furniture and books and household items was daunting, she is so happy in her new space.

While we, her San Antonio friends, didn't want her to leave, we admired the courage it took to make this big change.

This morning, I got a note from her describing a garden project that would inspire me to copy her if I had a garden:

"The garden is beginning to look like someone actually lives here now.

My project for this week is painting at least one garden art pole.  I think I want three to plant as a group. The first one I will make six foot tall, then two smaller. I think the first one will perhaps be a take off on Ananis Nin's words ---and the day came when the pain of staying tight in the bud was greater than the risk it takes to bloom.
  
Then of course I must have one with a dance theme---what do you think of a variation of Robt Brault's words: Know that taking a step backwards after taking a step forward is not a disaster, it is a cha-cha." 

Marcy's email is one of those timely messages I mentioned in an earlier post: the right words at the right time that answer a question rumbling around in my mind.  Blooming takes risk, but it's not as painful as staying tight in the bud. On this May morning, I'm thinking how bigger a life can be if we bloom and dance. 

I was so inspired by this idea that I asked Marcy more about it and she directed me to Stephanie Burgess' blog.  Check it out!

http://www.paintedpeace.com

Dad's in Heaven With Nixon

I just watched a beautiful video on Netflix about a painter who's autistic.

His paintings have sold so successfully in New York galleries that his older brother asks him if he'd like to change his life and paint more and make even more money.  No, he says, he wants to keep living life exactly as he's living it.  He loves his life "just like it is, I really do."

The film-maker--his older brother--dedicates the film to their mother "who never stopped believing."  Instead of institutionalizing her baby (as she was advised to do), she did the only thing she could do: "bombarded him with love."

Prodigal Sons

is an engrossing documentary on Netflix--about a transgendered woman returning to her high school reunion in Montana and her brother's mental illness.

It ends with this song by Orson Welles: "I know what it is to be old...."

Excellent storytelling--I think you'll all enjoy it!

God and Goddesses and Ponies

I've not been writing for two weeks--because I've been totally present in the happy two weeks of having Carlene here.

Just about every day, she went with me to one of my various therapies.  We spent lots of time with Will and family and took Elena to the zoo on Wednesday.  Friends invited us over or stopped by and visited, and we had some great conversations.   Carlene bought me a pretty rug for the porch and gave me a starter check for a project I'm working on.

It seems that life rolls along without any drama for long stretches, then suddenly a few life dramas pop up at once.  Carlene is a friend who's just as happy to go with me to appointments and figure out what do to to fix things as she is to go out to lunch or take a road trip.  I am beyond lucky to have such a mother and friend rolled up in one!

Physical therapy, chiropractic work, doctor's appointments, various pills and supplements--it's all part of the journey.  On Tuesday, I finally went to Emily Oliver--whom I should have gone to at the beginning--and I am starting to notice huge improvements.

I wonder: why is it sometimes that the first choice, the obvious choice, is not where we go first? It may be that we have to go through some detours to get to the solution that works--just as we sometimes have to drive for miles to find out that the treasure we're looking for is right in our own back yard. The driving and searching isn't wasted--it's part of the bigger trip we're on, full of new insights and new friendships, all part of the big picture, all part of the solution we're after.  Every thing I've done, every doctor I've seen, has given me a valuable piece of the puzzle.

Emily is a chiropractor who years ago fixed my frozen shoulder in one treatment.  When these health challenges all started appearing at once, I went the traditional route--one thing leading to another.  Then--frustrated by the fact that nothing was making a lasting difference--I went to see Emily and the next day was able to walk through the zoo without any pain at all and to drive for a whole hour with no leg pain.  I hesitate to say I'm all better--but I feel like I'm so close I can go ahead and  feel giddy about it.

Emily called yesterday to check on me (what doctor does that?) and I made a second appointment for next week--because she believes that she can get me to squatting--"like your beautiful mother" --and I wouldn't put anything past Emily.

The first day after Carlene leaves is always a funky day for both of us.  We both live alone and both enjoy our solitude, but when we're together for two weeks, it takes time to get back to living and eating alone.  I cried all the way home from the airport, then slept the rest of the morning, then woke up and cried some more.  Kate came by because she knew I'd be feeling sad--and that helped so much.

Went to bed early, then woke up and found some just-right emails in my inbox.

While I don't always believe in deities by their traditional names, whatever it is that I do believe in acts exactly like the God I grew up hearing about at home and at church:

Just when you think you've made a terrible mistake, someone says just what you need to hear to assure you that you're still okay, just the way you are, and that most "mistakes" are fixable.  And that even if you did do something awful from one person's point of view, it's usually not intended as such.

Just when you think you're at the end of one rope, you find that it's connected to the right rope.

Just when you put a question out to the universe, a friend stops by and supplies the answer you were seeking, or you get an email, or someone calls--and you say WOW!  Really?  What perfect timing!

And if you have a mother like Carlene, you learn and re-learn that "everything is tuition."  Sometimes you have to spend money or time or energy figuring out what the lesson is, but you go through life knowing that the lesson is in there somewhere.

I think about the story of the two brothers who were led out to the barn on Christmas morning.  One said, "Oh, just as I thought--nothing!" The other said, "But the barn is filled with shit--there must be a pony in here somewhere!"

The world is full of ponies.  Some are right out in the open, some require a little poking around to find.