I don't remember who suggested this book or when, don't even remember downloading the entire book. (Usually I download samples, then look for the book in the library.)
But here it is, complete, on my Kindle app this Sunday morning like an unexpected present: What Her Body Thought.
Here is a description of the book I found on her author page:
For three years, philosopher and feminist theorist Susan Griffin was afflicted with Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS). Hobbled by constant pain, weakness, insomnia, and diminished thinking, she was forced to rely upon friends just to get through each day. In this book, similar in spirit to her earlier A Chorus of Stones, Griffin examines both the experiences of her own body and the body politic. Using the story of Marie Duplessis, a nineteenth-century courtesan who died of tuberculosis at the age of 23, the author is able to explore the links between illness, poverty, sin, isolation, and shame.
The topics she addresses are difficult ones, but her descriptions of pain and poverty are hauntingly written. I'm intrigued by her comparisons between the physical body and the larger cultural body, and I'm having a hard time putting the book (as it were) down.
I prefer books on paper, in general, as I can underline passages in pen--but am reading this book on my iPad and highlighting a phrase or a passage on nearly every page.
Susan Griffin feels real, like a new friend, vulnerable, brilliant, and self-revealing. While her experiences and mine are very different, her writing challenges me to be more emotionally honest.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Micro-bliss
When I went to yoga on Tuesday night, I felt like a fat Garfield in the midst of sleek cats. I left after an hour, too discouraged to stay for Savasana. Apparently, after a too-long absence, I'd chosen the wrong class--as most of the students were standing on their hands.
Today I returned--but this time to gentle yoga--a class of women my age. I could do all the easy poses.
After yoga, Janet P and I had lunch at YaYa's next door--good healthy Thai food.
Janet introduced me to a new word--micro-agression: those little tiny gestures and words that seem to convey anger or ill-will. The recipient of these stings may not be sure if they are intentional or not.
Janet suggested finding micro-bliss moments--little moments of bliss to spice up our days. Even a relatively bad day can be leavened with small sips and bites of delicious.
I think my daily runs to get a fountain Diet Coke (with two bites of chocolate) count for micro-bliss moments. Waking up from a nap is micro-bliss.
And so, having indulged in the first two already, I'm ready to nap!
Today I returned--but this time to gentle yoga--a class of women my age. I could do all the easy poses.
After yoga, Janet P and I had lunch at YaYa's next door--good healthy Thai food.
Janet introduced me to a new word--micro-agression: those little tiny gestures and words that seem to convey anger or ill-will. The recipient of these stings may not be sure if they are intentional or not.
Janet suggested finding micro-bliss moments--little moments of bliss to spice up our days. Even a relatively bad day can be leavened with small sips and bites of delicious.
I think my daily runs to get a fountain Diet Coke (with two bites of chocolate) count for micro-bliss moments. Waking up from a nap is micro-bliss.
And so, having indulged in the first two already, I'm ready to nap!
Friday, May 29, 2015
A good day all around!
As I've returned to healthy eating and moderate exercise, I expected to feel instantly better, more energetic. Alas, it's taken several days. Finally, this afternoon, I began to feel like myself again--with enough energy to mow the front yard and almost complete this totally absorbing project of My Playhouse.
Will and Elena delivered an armoire I'd bought and took my desk home, which inspired me to clean out all the kitchen drawers and organize towels and sheets. I cleaned the back yard and managed, after a nice lunch with Will and Elena at YaYa's to skip my nap and enjoy an afternoon visit with Sandy.
Sandy is leading a retreat in Sedona in August and we had a fun talk about her new ventures and mine. The question she asks her clients and group participants is this: "What brings you to life?" As a long-time therapist and writer, my friend Sandy continues to seek changes and new ventures that bring her to life, and it's always so much fun to hear about her work.
As for me, I'm continuing leading writing groups--which I love--and am making a playhouse, which I plan at some point to advertise on Air BnB. I'm so proud of the work Mike did--the Murphy bed, the barn-wood walls and little roof over the bed, the sheetrock repair and paint, the air conditioning, and countless other details that have made it the red and green and old-wood place that is is.
Sandy said that the casita contains all the stories and energies of all the women who have written in there--and that was exactly what I had been feeling. A building absorbs the personalities and honesty of the people who bring their diverse talents to it.
Without disturbing the original writing group circle of chairs, I've added the bed and storage for overnight guests, and it is even better than I imagined. How lucky I am to have an extra house in the back yard!
I'm ending this productive day watching episode 4 of "The Roosevelts"--a Ken Burns series.
Will and Elena delivered an armoire I'd bought and took my desk home, which inspired me to clean out all the kitchen drawers and organize towels and sheets. I cleaned the back yard and managed, after a nice lunch with Will and Elena at YaYa's to skip my nap and enjoy an afternoon visit with Sandy.
Sandy is leading a retreat in Sedona in August and we had a fun talk about her new ventures and mine. The question she asks her clients and group participants is this: "What brings you to life?" As a long-time therapist and writer, my friend Sandy continues to seek changes and new ventures that bring her to life, and it's always so much fun to hear about her work.
As for me, I'm continuing leading writing groups--which I love--and am making a playhouse, which I plan at some point to advertise on Air BnB. I'm so proud of the work Mike did--the Murphy bed, the barn-wood walls and little roof over the bed, the sheetrock repair and paint, the air conditioning, and countless other details that have made it the red and green and old-wood place that is is.
Sandy said that the casita contains all the stories and energies of all the women who have written in there--and that was exactly what I had been feeling. A building absorbs the personalities and honesty of the people who bring their diverse talents to it.
Without disturbing the original writing group circle of chairs, I've added the bed and storage for overnight guests, and it is even better than I imagined. How lucky I am to have an extra house in the back yard!
I'm ending this productive day watching episode 4 of "The Roosevelts"--a Ken Burns series.
Squares
A "square"--back in the days when I was a pre-teen--was a pejorative term: it meant that you didn't kiss the boys who wanted you to kiss them. Boys called girls "square"--I suppose, to encourage them to round up? Or grow rounder? Or get our of their box and play?
I'd like to research to origin of the word in that context some day.
Charming towns are often built on squares--stores, cafes, coffee shops, and salons around the courthouse. Sitting down on any point of a town square, I love to observe the people shopping and looking and visiting. Within large cities, like Florence and Venice, market squares are usually the places we choose to stop and sit, listen to live music, and have a leisurely snack while watching the waves of walking people.
I love the fabric squares that make up patchwork quilts, the squares of certain rooms, even the black and white tiles on my bathroom floor. I like the blank squares on a fresh page of a calendar not yet filled in.
Photographs are usually rectangular. I've spent hours this week turning 4 x 6 photographs into squares. With the help of computer editing tools, you can erase extraneous details and zoom in on faces or eyes or hands, whatever is most compelling about the photograph. Landscapes don't often lend themselves to squares; you're after a wide angle of land and sky. But people photographs, particularly pictures of children, become more interesting when you crop them into square formats and get closer than you could have gotten when you snapped the picture.
The snapping of the original photograph captures a bigger scene--including big patches of brick or sky. Editing shows you more (and less) than you noticed at first snap.
Instagram has made us all aware of the charm of square pictures. I'm planning to create a wall-grid of square pictures.
If you go to Prinstagram, and other sites online, you can create huge poster collages using square prints.
I'd like to research to origin of the word in that context some day.
Charming towns are often built on squares--stores, cafes, coffee shops, and salons around the courthouse. Sitting down on any point of a town square, I love to observe the people shopping and looking and visiting. Within large cities, like Florence and Venice, market squares are usually the places we choose to stop and sit, listen to live music, and have a leisurely snack while watching the waves of walking people.
I love the fabric squares that make up patchwork quilts, the squares of certain rooms, even the black and white tiles on my bathroom floor. I like the blank squares on a fresh page of a calendar not yet filled in.
Photographs are usually rectangular. I've spent hours this week turning 4 x 6 photographs into squares. With the help of computer editing tools, you can erase extraneous details and zoom in on faces or eyes or hands, whatever is most compelling about the photograph. Landscapes don't often lend themselves to squares; you're after a wide angle of land and sky. But people photographs, particularly pictures of children, become more interesting when you crop them into square formats and get closer than you could have gotten when you snapped the picture.
The snapping of the original photograph captures a bigger scene--including big patches of brick or sky. Editing shows you more (and less) than you noticed at first snap.
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| Nathan often has a pensive look on his face when holding animals. |
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| Marcus painting |
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| Marcus is always a good subject for portraits-- with his tremendous blue eyes and his love of hats. |
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| Elena's golden eyes |
Instagram has made us all aware of the charm of square pictures. I'm planning to create a wall-grid of square pictures.
If you go to Prinstagram, and other sites online, you can create huge poster collages using square prints.
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| See the love in Nathan's face when he met Skippy for the first time? |
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| And the excitement on Jackson's face in a waterfall? |
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Joy
Today Joy came to visit with Elena and me. She brought me a beautiful bouquet (including edible Nasturtiums) and brought Elena a stuffed sock donkey. Elena loves her donkey, but so does Clyde, so we taught her to keep that donkey up high.
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| These two look like they are related. I've always said that Elena must look like Joy did when she was little! |
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| Then we played birthday party. You put candles in the cups, light them, and sing Happy Birthday (to Elena, to me, to Clyde) over and over, then blow them out and clap. |
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| Everybody is five at our birthday party! |
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Suddenly....
Elena is not a baby anymore.
Suddenly, she seems like a Big Girl. She walked Clyde all the way to Olmos Park today, in the hot sun, holding his leash with confidence. She looked for water for him and talked gently to him: "It's okay, Buddy. We're almost there."
She struts, she talks easily with strangers.
At the playground later this afternoon, after the Cambridge kids left school for the day, she found one possible friend in a seven-year-old named Susanna, and she began asking her questions:
"What's your name? What's your mommy's name? Where is your daddy? Do you have a dog? Do you want to pet Clyde? He's really nice."
Susanna then began asking Elena questions: "Do you have any siblings?"
"Of course not!" Elena said--having no clue what siblings meant.
When Bonnie gave her a beautiful bracelet, she said, "Thank you, Bonnie!" and later said, "It was good to see Bonnie again. She has the same name as my mommy--that's crazy!"
"Did she think I was her girl?" she asked me.
"No, she's a grandmother like I am and she knows you're my girl," I said. "She just likes you."
At the end of the long hike, she took a longer bath. This girl loves baths. Looking at herself in the mirror, she asked me, "Do you think I look like a baby?"
Suddenly, she seems like a Big Girl. She walked Clyde all the way to Olmos Park today, in the hot sun, holding his leash with confidence. She looked for water for him and talked gently to him: "It's okay, Buddy. We're almost there."
She struts, she talks easily with strangers.
At the playground later this afternoon, after the Cambridge kids left school for the day, she found one possible friend in a seven-year-old named Susanna, and she began asking her questions:
"What's your name? What's your mommy's name? Where is your daddy? Do you have a dog? Do you want to pet Clyde? He's really nice."
Susanna then began asking Elena questions: "Do you have any siblings?"
"Of course not!" Elena said--having no clue what siblings meant.
When Bonnie gave her a beautiful bracelet, she said, "Thank you, Bonnie!" and later said, "It was good to see Bonnie again. She has the same name as my mommy--that's crazy!"
"Did she think I was her girl?" she asked me.
"No, she's a grandmother like I am and she knows you're my girl," I said. "She just likes you."
At the end of the long hike, she took a longer bath. This girl loves baths. Looking at herself in the mirror, she asked me, "Do you think I look like a baby?"
A Morning With Elena--and Bonnie and Clyde
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| Bonnie and Clyde kissing |
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| Bonnie and Clyde |
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| How to Improvise a Cake Recipe 1. Play with flour and say, "My parents don't let me play with their cooking stuff" and I say, "Grandmothers do." |
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| 2. Mix the flour for about thirty minutes |
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| 3. "Let's put other things in it. Eggs!" |
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| 4. "Its okay if we be messy because we are artists." |
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
In case I forgot....
My favorite site on the internet is www.brainpickings.org
The writer of this blog reviews books for children and adults--those of you who are readers will find lots to love there!
The writer of this blog reviews books for children and adults--those of you who are readers will find lots to love there!
Words
My seventh grade teacher used to say, "I love words!"
I thought that strange at the time, but now I get it. I wake up to words, go to sleep to words--and swim in them throughout the day.
Elena's last baby word may be "Littamade"--for lemonade. Last night, she arranged her tea set with cups and delivered them to us like a waitress. "Everybody gets littamade," she said.
I was reading my Kindle samples of two books last night, savoring the ways writers choose and arrange words to dive beneath the surfaces of things. Then I read a blog post from Sherry, a friend of my friend Diana. She lives in Bali and gives writing classes there:
I thought that strange at the time, but now I get it. I wake up to words, go to sleep to words--and swim in them throughout the day.
Elena's last baby word may be "Littamade"--for lemonade. Last night, she arranged her tea set with cups and delivered them to us like a waitress. "Everybody gets littamade," she said.
I was reading my Kindle samples of two books last night, savoring the ways writers choose and arrange words to dive beneath the surfaces of things. Then I read a blog post from Sherry, a friend of my friend Diana. She lives in Bali and gives writing classes there:
*
Memoir is subversive literature.
Just so we’re all on the same page with the definition of subversive, here goes:
Subversive: tending or intending to subvert or overthrow, destroy, or undermine an established or existing system, especially a legally constituted government or a set of beliefs.
I didn’t know that about memoir when I started writing mine. I had stories to tell, an unusual life to share with anyone who cared to read about it. I wasn’t in the business of overthrowing or undermining anything. Had you told me that’s what I’d be doing I’d have laughed you out of the room.
So I began and the stories rolled off my fingers like old friends. Sort of. At least the first one did, the story of my mother’s illness when I was five. I’ve rehearsed it many times over the years and it’s part of my belief system. It’s become a reason, an excuse, a foundational principal on which to hang dysfunction and irresponsible choices throughout my life. I didn’t know that until I wrote it down. When committed to paper it became blatantly obvious, and I cringed under that painful awareness.
It wasn’t an auspicious start, but I continued. I’d describe an event, render it alive again by the power of words, then sit there as it stared back at me in black and white. Is that what really happened? Is that how I felt? It’s the story I’ve always told myself so it must be true, mustn’t it?
Whether by virtue of the kindness of time, or a different perspective, or maturity, when I took a close look at my particular rendering of personal history I was dumbstruck. They were stories, some even compelling, but the act of writing them down demanded a certain adherence to fact, and memory tended to give me impressions, nuances of remembered emotion, but nothing concrete. When I dug them up, the aura around old enemies was softer, pastels instead of intense reds. The ones I’d blamed seemed less culpable than I was myself.
Disturbing. Yes, in a word it was disturbing to realize that my existing system of beliefs was nothing more than a network of interwoven stories, many of which were no longer true. Often during the writing of my life I’d stop and scratch my head, Really? and attempt to put myself back into the scene for a replay.
What happened as a result was the biggest surprise of all. Clarity. I gained clarity about who I was then and how that person is different from who I am now. I saw the forces that were driving me, some good, some not, and took note. Are those same forces still at work? And my belief system was shot full of holes. I couldn’t believe my own stories and that called into question…everything!
The other big word was opportunity. Memoir gave me the opportunity to rewrite the script, literally and figuratively. I have huge compassion for the woman who lived that life. There were reasons she remembered things as she did. And where it seems fitting, I’ve told the stories her way. But for me, now, the revelations gained through that process have reminded me of a basic truth: life is made up of the stories we tell ourselves. At any point we can decide to frame it differently and the power of that can transform our present reality.
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Monday, May 25, 2015
Welcome to the family, Clyde
Will, Bonnie, Elena and Nathan came over for dinner--which, I must admit, was my best culinary effort in years. Jan and Kate served it last night next door and gave me the recipe (see link below) and--surprise, surprise, it was excellent!
When they arrived, Will was holding a tiny Yorkie that a guy at the station had given him. Clyde is two years old and adorable. I've never seen a dog jump so high and play so well with children. He's definitely a keeper!
http://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/soba-noodle-salad-with-salmon-and-asparagus
When they arrived, Will was holding a tiny Yorkie that a guy at the station had given him. Clyde is two years old and adorable. I've never seen a dog jump so high and play so well with children. He's definitely a keeper!
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| Veronica was 37 on the 18th; their fourth anniversary was the 21st; and Will's 37th is tomorrow |
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| Elena and Clyde playing Ring Around the Rosie |
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| Clyde--the newest member of the family |
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| "We get to keep him???" |
Memorial Day
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| My daddy is the youngest of three brothers, all of whom served in World War II |
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| Here he is, Lloyd Harris, in the Navy. No wonder my mother fell in love with him! |
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| Here they are on their wedding day, Lloyd and Carlene, 1945, who were married for 57 years |
As a mother to a son who's a firefighter, who felt an earthquake in my heart when I heard that an Oklahoma firefighter perished this weekend in a flood rescue, I can think of all the mothers of that era who waited for word from their sons who were far away and unreachable by texts or e-mails or phone.
The men of that war were not warriors by nature--they were patriotic, practical and hopeful men who'd been through the poverty of the Depression. War came their way just as floods and fires do, and they did what they had to do. My hero is the man who was always available to us. ("You can call me any time, day or night.") He was funny and wise and sweet. He was forever memorable to those of us who love him.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Kitchens, Underwear, Gospel Music, and Jesus
A good friend of mine--who loves old gospel music--is having a kitchen remodel filled with glitches: the measurements are wrong, the installation done badly, and she's having all the starts and stops that go with changes that rely on outside expertise, which often isn't expert at all.
In an email this morning, she told me about her frustration, one thing leading bumpily to the other. To cheer herself up, she decided to shop for underwear, and the store didn't have her size.
"Then I tried Target but while I was driving there, a gospel tune came on sung by Isaac Freeman...a gorgeous baritone voice. So I sat in the Target parking lot for about 20 minutes listening to KSYM on the radio getting very teary about Jesus and everything else. I just ordered 'Beautiful Stars' from Amazon. I'll let you know when it arrives!"
What makes this such a great story is that my friend, teary about Jesus, (who prefers to remain nameless) is Jewish!
In an email this morning, she told me about her frustration, one thing leading bumpily to the other. To cheer herself up, she decided to shop for underwear, and the store didn't have her size.
"Then I tried Target but while I was driving there, a gospel tune came on sung by Isaac Freeman...a gorgeous baritone voice. So I sat in the Target parking lot for about 20 minutes listening to KSYM on the radio getting very teary about Jesus and everything else. I just ordered 'Beautiful Stars' from Amazon. I'll let you know when it arrives!"
What makes this such a great story is that my friend, teary about Jesus, (who prefers to remain nameless) is Jewish!
"What story are you telling yourself about that?"
Within the last couple of weeks, I've heard the question three or four times: "What story are you telling yourself about that?" It's an excellent question--especially for one like me who is, as Annie Dillard called herself, "a narrative addict."
When things happen (or even seem to happen) that don't align with my beliefs about another person, I can make up a story in my mind that makes (or seems to make) sense. I don't like to admit this--as this has recently caused me distress. If I think the Other Person has wronged me, I can draw on past experiences to confirm my initial reading of the current situation: "Oh this is story 422 again!" I might say to myself.
If I tell my story, I want the listener to say, "Oh yes, So-And-So is a jerk!" or I want her to offer some words of indignation on my behalf!
I don't want her to say, "There must be more to it than that!" I don't want her to doubt my knee-jerk first impressions or to ask me, "What story are you telling yourself about that?"
A first draft of any story takes imagination, by Golly, and the teller needs support! Let me wallow and blame. Let me exercise my taste for melodrama! Be on my side.
Someone commented on my break-up post (two weeks ago, now deleted) that I made it "such a story." She wondered how I'd made it a story so fast.
It could be that pain makes a person want some plot, first off, that makes sense. Putting it into words allows a certain distance from what happened (or seemed to happen): this doesn't just hurt me, it's like a whole string of other stories. Writing about it as story puts it outside the screaming psyche for a bit and puts it inside the neater realm of narrative.
Probably I should wait next time to write such a story on my blog! I should get more information, wait for a pattern to emerge before leaping to conclusions and casting blame. A real story takes several drafts.
I read recently: "The King died and at the queen died" is not a story. "The King died and the queen died of grief"--that's a story.
Sometimes all the difference lies in a prepositional phrase or a broader point of view.
When the story I'm telling myself hurts, I appreciate all words of comfort and insight! But what moves me out of the pit can be as simple as the question, "What story are you telling yourself?" or "Couldn't there possibly be another explanation?"
When things happen (or even seem to happen) that don't align with my beliefs about another person, I can make up a story in my mind that makes (or seems to make) sense. I don't like to admit this--as this has recently caused me distress. If I think the Other Person has wronged me, I can draw on past experiences to confirm my initial reading of the current situation: "Oh this is story 422 again!" I might say to myself.
If I tell my story, I want the listener to say, "Oh yes, So-And-So is a jerk!" or I want her to offer some words of indignation on my behalf!
I don't want her to say, "There must be more to it than that!" I don't want her to doubt my knee-jerk first impressions or to ask me, "What story are you telling yourself about that?"
A first draft of any story takes imagination, by Golly, and the teller needs support! Let me wallow and blame. Let me exercise my taste for melodrama! Be on my side.
Someone commented on my break-up post (two weeks ago, now deleted) that I made it "such a story." She wondered how I'd made it a story so fast.
It could be that pain makes a person want some plot, first off, that makes sense. Putting it into words allows a certain distance from what happened (or seemed to happen): this doesn't just hurt me, it's like a whole string of other stories. Writing about it as story puts it outside the screaming psyche for a bit and puts it inside the neater realm of narrative.
Probably I should wait next time to write such a story on my blog! I should get more information, wait for a pattern to emerge before leaping to conclusions and casting blame. A real story takes several drafts.
I read recently: "The King died and at the queen died" is not a story. "The King died and the queen died of grief"--that's a story.
Sometimes all the difference lies in a prepositional phrase or a broader point of view.
When the story I'm telling myself hurts, I appreciate all words of comfort and insight! But what moves me out of the pit can be as simple as the question, "What story are you telling yourself?" or "Couldn't there possibly be another explanation?"
Returning to the mat
I promised myself I'd go back to yoga today (after over two months) and I did--though I tried all kinds of diversions first, including a trip to Boerne this morning to pick up one more thing for my new playhouse. While there, I discovered a beautiful shop called 259 that has great clothes, though I didn't buy any today.
It was good to be back and stretch my hamstrings and twist a little on the mat. I'd just watched FAT, SICK AND NEARLY DEAD part 2 on Netflix last night which inspired me to return to fresh juices, so I popped into Urth Juice Bar and got a delicious concoction of kale and parsley and other green things for lunch.
After watching the Joe Cross film, I saw Jamie Oliver (Ted Talks) discuss the importance of good fresh plant-based foods for children and adults. I'm ready to turn over a new leaf or two, and today is the first day of returning to gluten-free foods and more greens.
Yoga isn't rock and roll or weight lifting, but it was a good way to remember what it can feel like to be less of a fat cat if I keep it up.
I've enjoyed my sojourn into no rules--eating donuts, bread, and other fat and sugary things. But I think I've about enjoyed as much of that as my joints and clothes can allow. As soon as I lose the first ten pounds of the twenty I need to lose, I'm going back to 259 and buy something slinky and glamorous to wear.
It was good to be back and stretch my hamstrings and twist a little on the mat. I'd just watched FAT, SICK AND NEARLY DEAD part 2 on Netflix last night which inspired me to return to fresh juices, so I popped into Urth Juice Bar and got a delicious concoction of kale and parsley and other green things for lunch.
After watching the Joe Cross film, I saw Jamie Oliver (Ted Talks) discuss the importance of good fresh plant-based foods for children and adults. I'm ready to turn over a new leaf or two, and today is the first day of returning to gluten-free foods and more greens.
Yoga isn't rock and roll or weight lifting, but it was a good way to remember what it can feel like to be less of a fat cat if I keep it up.
I've enjoyed my sojourn into no rules--eating donuts, bread, and other fat and sugary things. But I think I've about enjoyed as much of that as my joints and clothes can allow. As soon as I lose the first ten pounds of the twenty I need to lose, I'm going back to 259 and buy something slinky and glamorous to wear.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
The Mercado
Living in San Antonio, I often forget what a great place it is--the Mexican Market. After Will brought Elena over and saw his cousin for a bit, after Lucy nipped at Elena and scratched her nose, we three girls decided to go for a taste of San Antonio before she drove toward Ruidoso.
Mary Elizabeth bought paper flowers; Elena bought a marionette of an ostrich, purple, of course. Mostly, we just looked a beautiful colorful things together and took pictures.
As Lucy and Mary Elizabeth were leaving, Elena--unfazed by the earlier growl and scratch by Lucy--asked, "Is she nice again yet?" and Mary Elizabeth assured her she was.
Mary Elizabeth bought paper flowers; Elena bought a marionette of an ostrich, purple, of course. Mostly, we just looked a beautiful colorful things together and took pictures.
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| Learning how to make Olive the Ostrich dance |
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| New friends |
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| At Mi Tierra |
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| Elena, Will and Mary Elizabeth |
As Lucy and Mary Elizabeth were leaving, Elena--unfazed by the earlier growl and scratch by Lucy--asked, "Is she nice again yet?" and Mary Elizabeth assured her she was.
Mike and Mary Elizabeth
Mike had to leave yesterday afternoon--after going with me to the doctors' appointment and sonogram after that; after completing the apartment project in every detail; after enjoying the company of Lucy and Mary Elizabeth with me. He had to be back in Georgia on Friday and drove all night.
I miss him. And I'll miss Mary Elizabeth. These two are both uniquely who they are--and it's been so good to have them here at the same time. We've had some great porch conversations.
Mary Elizabeth liked my wallet, so we stopped and bought her a matching one--so that we'll get to be US together even when we're far apart. Mike bought Wizard of Oz journal for her, so we had a little belated 30th birthday lunch of BLTs yesterday before he left.
Elena is on her way over for a spend-the-day. Before M.E. heads out for Colorado, we three are going to the mercado this morning to take pictures and look at colorful Mexican imports.
This is Will and Bonnie's fourth anniversary and they both have 37th birthdays this week. Lots to celebrate here at the end of May!
I miss him. And I'll miss Mary Elizabeth. These two are both uniquely who they are--and it's been so good to have them here at the same time. We've had some great porch conversations.
Mary Elizabeth liked my wallet, so we stopped and bought her a matching one--so that we'll get to be US together even when we're far apart. Mike bought Wizard of Oz journal for her, so we had a little belated 30th birthday lunch of BLTs yesterday before he left.
Elena is on her way over for a spend-the-day. Before M.E. heads out for Colorado, we three are going to the mercado this morning to take pictures and look at colorful Mexican imports.
This is Will and Bonnie's fourth anniversary and they both have 37th birthdays this week. Lots to celebrate here at the end of May!
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Relief!
The lump wasn't a bad one--said the sonogram--just probably a result of drinking too much caffeine. Last time this happened, my friend Janet P went with me. This time Mike went. Both were so comforting. Both said, "It's not going to be anything."
But when these things come up, it's hard not to know that for countless women every year it is something. I'd already imagined biopsies and bad news, and now I'm just breathing a deep deep sigh of relief that my name wasn't on the list this year!
But when these things come up, it's hard not to know that for countless women every year it is something. I'd already imagined biopsies and bad news, and now I'm just breathing a deep deep sigh of relief that my name wasn't on the list this year!
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Mary Elizabeth and Lucy
Today, Mary Elizabeth and I had lunch at Adalantes, then Mike, Mary Elizabeth and I had dinner at E-Zs.
Here's Lucy and Mary Elizabeth on the porch. What a happy day in San Antonio!
Here's Lucy and Mary Elizabeth on the porch. What a happy day in San Antonio!
First Guests in the Casita
My niece, Mary Elizabeth, and her dog Lucy arrived tonight about 10. They'd driven all the way from Mobile in one day.
We made a steak dinner, then Mike, Mary Elizabeth, and I stayed up talking until after midnight.
"You're more like me than I am," I told her when we folded up for the night.
"I think so, too," she said, "You've had longer being us than I have."
I'm hoping she will stay all week so we can be US together for as long as possible. When she leaves here, she'll drive to Denver to work with her brother for the summer--then who knows? She's having an adventure.
We made a steak dinner, then Mike, Mary Elizabeth, and I stayed up talking until after midnight.
"You're more like me than I am," I told her when we folded up for the night.
"I think so, too," she said, "You've had longer being us than I have."
I'm hoping she will stay all week so we can be US together for as long as possible. When she leaves here, she'll drive to Denver to work with her brother for the summer--then who knows? She's having an adventure.
Monday, May 18, 2015
I'm a cowgirl now!
"I can't wear boots," I always said when Mike has offered to buy me real Western boots. "My calves are too fat."
Which they are--for tall boots.
But he insisted. We found a Western Wear shop across from the Mercado and went back again today--where we found exactly the right boots and the owner of the shop stretched the calves just a tad to fit. I felt so cool walking through market square wearing real cowgirl boots, Mike in his new hat.
If we ever do break up again, I'm going to need a moving van to send back all his presents! I think breaking up is too much trouble. Besides, I want to keep the man in the hat and the boots.
Everyone has been complaining about the sound on my phone. We went to Apple and they opened up the phone and cleaned it up and fixed the crack on the screen, and it's good as new. FYI: when you store your phone in your pocket book, it picks up lint and dirt and stuff and it goes into the speaker hole.
Just talked to ten-year-old Marcus who loved the earphones I sent for his birthday. "Plus I got a LOT of money!" he said. "A lot, a lot, a lot."
"Like how much?" I asked.
$155!" he said.
Now I'm a cowgirl with a working phone, and I have a very wealthy ten-year-old grandson. It's been a great day!
Which they are--for tall boots.
But he insisted. We found a Western Wear shop across from the Mercado and went back again today--where we found exactly the right boots and the owner of the shop stretched the calves just a tad to fit. I felt so cool walking through market square wearing real cowgirl boots, Mike in his new hat.
If we ever do break up again, I'm going to need a moving van to send back all his presents! I think breaking up is too much trouble. Besides, I want to keep the man in the hat and the boots.
Everyone has been complaining about the sound on my phone. We went to Apple and they opened up the phone and cleaned it up and fixed the crack on the screen, and it's good as new. FYI: when you store your phone in your pocket book, it picks up lint and dirt and stuff and it goes into the speaker hole.
Just talked to ten-year-old Marcus who loved the earphones I sent for his birthday. "Plus I got a LOT of money!" he said. "A lot, a lot, a lot."
"Like how much?" I asked.
$155!" he said.
Now I'm a cowgirl with a working phone, and I have a very wealthy ten-year-old grandson. It's been a great day!
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Marcus is ten!
My second grandson, Marcus Paul Leary, is ten years old today.
This little guy is a true original--who loves to dance, swim, dive, play basketball, and make movies. Here he is today, celebrating his birthday:
I have countless happy memories of Marcus these last ten years. One is making a "Book Nook" in the apartment and his dictating a book on Spiderman for me to write--before he could write himself. When he was just two, he knew the names of all the superheroes in a big thick book of superheroes.
This little guy is my superhero!
This little guy is a true original--who loves to dance, swim, dive, play basketball, and make movies. Here he is today, celebrating his birthday:
I have countless happy memories of Marcus these last ten years. One is making a "Book Nook" in the apartment and his dictating a book on Spiderman for me to write--before he could write himself. When he was just two, he knew the names of all the superheroes in a big thick book of superheroes.
This little guy is my superhero!
Solitaire
I like the game of solitaire on my phone. It's close to mindless, but each click of a card gives a sense of temporary rightness.
When I miss a possible move, I'm reminded of missed opportunities in a day. Or when I pay attention to the big moves and ignore the little 2s and 3s, it makes me wonder how often I do that in life, too--keeping my mind on one big thing, I forget to notice that everything can change when I move something small. I like the way the phone cheers and applauds when I get it right.
Working on the apartment has been an opportunity to move familiar things into new places and feel that same "click" when an old thing finds a more favorable place.
Moving the smallest thing can open up a space for something new--like the antique pine piece Mike bought me yesterday. It's marked up with insect holes and scratches and has ten large drawers inside for much-needed storage. The grain of the wood, the dovetailed joints, the patina that only age can give--it all adds a soulfulness to "Nana's room." (Elena calls that room "Nana's house.")
But the difference is that now I'm not moving everything solo. "I'll do it," Mike says, moving in a heavy piece of furniture. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." Or he hangs something and it's not quite right and he hangs it somewhere else. And when I have an idea, he says, 'That's perfect!"
He pays attention to the large and small details, trimming out over flaws, perfecting the sheetrock and paint. (I've gotten so used to flaws I've been unable to repair that I barely see them anymore.) But when they are fixed, everything looks just right, and I can hear cheers and applause.
When I miss a possible move, I'm reminded of missed opportunities in a day. Or when I pay attention to the big moves and ignore the little 2s and 3s, it makes me wonder how often I do that in life, too--keeping my mind on one big thing, I forget to notice that everything can change when I move something small. I like the way the phone cheers and applauds when I get it right.
Working on the apartment has been an opportunity to move familiar things into new places and feel that same "click" when an old thing finds a more favorable place.
Moving the smallest thing can open up a space for something new--like the antique pine piece Mike bought me yesterday. It's marked up with insect holes and scratches and has ten large drawers inside for much-needed storage. The grain of the wood, the dovetailed joints, the patina that only age can give--it all adds a soulfulness to "Nana's room." (Elena calls that room "Nana's house.")
But the difference is that now I'm not moving everything solo. "I'll do it," Mike says, moving in a heavy piece of furniture. "I don't want you to hurt yourself." Or he hangs something and it's not quite right and he hangs it somewhere else. And when I have an idea, he says, 'That's perfect!"
He pays attention to the large and small details, trimming out over flaws, perfecting the sheetrock and paint. (I've gotten so used to flaws I've been unable to repair that I barely see them anymore.) But when they are fixed, everything looks just right, and I can hear cheers and applause.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Shopping with Mike
Saturday morning is a good time to find treasures. Mike and I poked around a couple of great garage sales and the Habitat Store. He found a granite sink for $35 for the casita bathroom and will cut it to fit, a piece we needed for kitchen appliances, and a beautiful old Texas pine cabinet for $125.
Shopping with Mike is like shopping with a male version of me. He looks for old things with possibilities and has the skill (unlike me) to bring out their potential. He loves color, as I do. He built his three-story barn out of recycled materials and that's primarily what we've used for this refurbishing project.
He came back on Tuesday for a short visit to complete the apartment--which we hope to have done in time for tomorrow's writing group.
We've had another great week of working together!
Shopping with Mike is like shopping with a male version of me. He looks for old things with possibilities and has the skill (unlike me) to bring out their potential. He loves color, as I do. He built his three-story barn out of recycled materials and that's primarily what we've used for this refurbishing project.
He came back on Tuesday for a short visit to complete the apartment--which we hope to have done in time for tomorrow's writing group.
We've had another great week of working together!
Losses and Friendship
Last night, Freda hosted a potluck dinner party for Barbel--just back from Germany and her mother's funeral. Her San Antonio friends gathered to see her for this short Texas visit before she goes back to Albuquerque. We sat on Freda's porch (until a yellow jacket landed on my hand for a nibble) and talked about loss and grief.
This morning, I got this from Freda:
Here is another quote from a very good memoir I just finished called "H is for Hawk" by Helen MacDonald. She is a historian who lives in England and trains hawks and falcons. She wrote her book after the sudden death of her father.
"There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realize that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realize, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are."
Barbel's mother was 96. They knew at their last visit that it would probably be the last, and Barbel's mother sang to her.
I noticed--as I have many times before--the care that friends give to each other in hard times, reflecting on their own losses and telling how they got through them.
I also noticed in a group of women sixty-something to eighty-something how authentic and beautiful women can grow as they age. We may not be as vivacious as we were at forty, but there's something rich in the quiet softness that comes with age and losses.
This morning, I got this from Freda:
Here is another quote from a very good memoir I just finished called "H is for Hawk" by Helen MacDonald. She is a historian who lives in England and trains hawks and falcons. She wrote her book after the sudden death of her father.
"There is a time in life when you expect the world to be always full of new things. And then comes a day when you realize that is not how it will be at all. You see that life will become a thing made of holes. Absences. Losses. Things that were there and are no longer. And you realize, too, that you have to grow around and between the gaps, though you can put your hand out to where things were and feel that tense, shining dullness of the space where the memories are."
Barbel's mother was 96. They knew at their last visit that it would probably be the last, and Barbel's mother sang to her.
I noticed--as I have many times before--the care that friends give to each other in hard times, reflecting on their own losses and telling how they got through them.
I also noticed in a group of women sixty-something to eighty-something how authentic and beautiful women can grow as they age. We may not be as vivacious as we were at forty, but there's something rich in the quiet softness that comes with age and losses.
Friday, May 15, 2015
B.B. King dies
My first music outing with Mike was BB King's club on Beale Street in Memphis, September 2007.
Growing up on Beale Street, Mike said he saw him perform at least fifty times and he listens to him probably every day.
King died after having had diabetes for many years--at the age of 89. Without knowing how to read music, he was the king of soul, performing almost up to his death. He was born on a Mississippi plantation in 1925 and began his career before he was twenty.
"Was he ever married?" I asked Mike.
"He had a love affair with his guitar," he said. "He wanted to be buried with Lucille [his guitar]"
From NPR:
You can't mention names without talking about his guitar, Lucille. It was actually more than one. The story goes that the first was a $30 acoustic he was playing at a dance in Arkansas when two men got in a fight, kicked over a stove and started a fire. When King was safe outside, he realized he'd left the guitar inside. He ran back into the burning dance hall to save it. After he learned the fight had been over a woman named Lucille, he decided to name his guitar for her to remind himself never to get into a fight over a woman. And since then, every one of his trademark Gibson ES-355s has been named Lucille.
The sound he got out of her was what set him apart. Playing high up on the neck, he'd push a string as he picked it, bending the note to make it cry. He didn't burn a lot of fast licks, but you could feel each note he played.
Growing up on Beale Street, Mike said he saw him perform at least fifty times and he listens to him probably every day.
King died after having had diabetes for many years--at the age of 89. Without knowing how to read music, he was the king of soul, performing almost up to his death. He was born on a Mississippi plantation in 1925 and began his career before he was twenty.
"Was he ever married?" I asked Mike.
"He had a love affair with his guitar," he said. "He wanted to be buried with Lucille [his guitar]"
From NPR:
You can't mention names without talking about his guitar, Lucille. It was actually more than one. The story goes that the first was a $30 acoustic he was playing at a dance in Arkansas when two men got in a fight, kicked over a stove and started a fire. When King was safe outside, he realized he'd left the guitar inside. He ran back into the burning dance hall to save it. After he learned the fight had been over a woman named Lucille, he decided to name his guitar for her to remind himself never to get into a fight over a woman. And since then, every one of his trademark Gibson ES-355s has been named Lucille.
The sound he got out of her was what set him apart. Playing high up on the neck, he'd push a string as he picked it, bending the note to make it cry. He didn't burn a lot of fast licks, but you could feel each note he played.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
What a three-year-old remembers
"I used to look at that when I was a baby," Elena said yesterday. "Because it's so beautiful."
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Later, she told her daddy, "There's no house anymore in Yenna's country. A man died and they broke his house all down."
The last time I saw Allen in his hospice bed, I took Elena with me. She took one look at him and her eyes filled with tears. She was less than a year old. "Oh yes, I remember him," she said.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Silly Linda
Well, Folks, we called it off. After I'd packed up all his presents, boxed them up to return, after I'd taken down the pictures, after I'd reported Us as Over, we called the Break Up off.
When I heard the real story that had sent me down the Rabbit Hole, it was just another life lesson of how I can make up a story out of threads!
I should be a fiction writer.
Elena, on another matter, said yesterday, "Silly Linda." I didn't know she knew my first name--and it sounded so cute coming from her.
When I heard the real story that had sent me down the Rabbit Hole, it was just another life lesson of how I can make up a story out of threads!
I should be a fiction writer.
Elena, on another matter, said yesterday, "Silly Linda." I didn't know she knew my first name--and it sounded so cute coming from her.
Monday, May 11, 2015
That solitary house
In the earlier post, I showed a picture of a house in a field of flowers.
I got this note from my brother today after he read my blog:
I know that house. I see it 2-3 times a week. It is on Hwy 29 outside of Winder --even has a rusty barn roof out back. I went in it once, though it is eerily empty now.
This is why: I was pastor of the church in that rural community and knew practically every country house. The lady who lived there was down in her back and when I visited her the last thing she said before I left was "Preacher. Promise me one thing. Promise me you will do my funeral."
"Sure," I promised. Six months later we were living in Columbia. Now 30 YEARS later I still "see" her in her ragged chair by the oil heater with a face full of relief that the matter was settled. And I also still remember one more of my broken promises, and wonder if anyone breaks as many promises as us "preachers."
I love that reflection. I love the coincidence--that I took a picture of the very house that reminds Bob of a promise he couldn't keep.
Speaking of Houses
A huge yellow cartoon dinosaur is demolishing Allen and Hudson's house across the street. I'm riveted. The claws reach down and rip off the roof in big strips of metal. A stone wall and fireplace go down in less than a minute. I watch as the garage goes--along with it the house number 610. It is, as Will said (my son who's a firefighter) like a funeral, watching a house go down. The mirrors on my walls are shaking.
Door frames and windows and walls are being heaped into a pile and the house, after two hours of work with the Big Cat, is now gone. A hundred-year-old house, the lives it used to shelter, gone.
A house like a life takes so long to build. All our knowledge and experience can be gone in one fell swoop. Do I sound morbid? I won't overworkf the metaphor.
Door frames and windows and walls are being heaped into a pile and the house, after two hours of work with the Big Cat, is now gone. A hundred-year-old house, the lives it used to shelter, gone.
A house like a life takes so long to build. All our knowledge and experience can be gone in one fell swoop. Do I sound morbid? I won't overworkf the metaphor.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Spirituality 101 on an airplane
Some people think all writers are after "the Great American Novel." But I know many writers, and they are each doing their own things, as I am--from poetry to comedy, from short stories to nonfiction.
One thing all writers have in common is a love of looking and listening, finding in strangers pieces of people we know, or people we are, or people a little bit like people we used to be. When we find a juicy character in a stranger we sit beside on a plane, we consider turning her into a story--as she is a mirror for characters we've encountered in real life.
Actually, I sat in the seat in front of my most recent find; I couldn't even see her face. Listening to her for two hours on the flight from Greenville to Houston, I got enough material for a novel, but I lack the intellectual fortitude, skill, or patience to stay with her for more than a page.
Let's call her Stardust. She spoke loudly and confidently to her seat mate for my two hour flight yesterday, and her voice carried clearly for three or four rows. Frequently, she laughed--a loud, resonant, annoying laugh. It wasn't a mirthful laugh; it was more a practiced, all-knowing Guru-laugh, the kind she might have picked up from an encounter with an Enlightened Being.
Stardust's seat mate (let's call her Lucy) was too soft-spoken for me to make out most of her words, so I focused on the speech of the woman I came to know was a "spiritual healer"--a pastiche of New Age clichés.
"I can tell you are a giver," she said. "You give give give give give give give!" [seven gives!] So how are you at receiving?"
I waited as Lucy responded, then I heard Stardust say, "You have to feel it to heal it....If you were my client, I would invite you to start journaling. See what comes up around that. You have to feel your feelings. Do not run away from them. Feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel!" [seven feels!]
Lucy talked some more and I strained, unsuccessfully, to hear what she said.
"Oh dear! You have been a caretaker all of your life!" Stardust replied. "Bless your heart! Now you are on a beautiful path of self-transformation. Today you are sitting here with me for a reason. You are going to take back your life and attend to your lonely little inner child."
Lucy told her more, but I could only make out a few words: mother-in-law, husband, children.
"In those moments, give it over to God, to your angels, and to your ancestors. There's a whole team up there waiting to support you....I talk to God, my angels, and my ancestors all the time."
Soon, they were talking about butter. Stardust had recently attended an herb conference: "Cutting edge as far as going back to the earth," she said. "It's a conference of ancient medicine women. Here's the skinny on what you need to do. It's all about butter."
In certain circles, "It" is often all about One Thing. But butter?
Lucy was advised to buy raw organic butter and start eating it regularly. "It's the best source of high quality fatty acids and it will change your life....If you are lucky, you may find it at Trader Joe's or Whole Foods, but since the really good butter is illegal to sell, you have to ask around at farmer's markets."
After half an hour on butter, during which I dozed a bit, they moved to past incarnations. "I believe in past lives," Stardust told Lucy. "I have had many past lives and in every one of them I have been a mother to many children, a wife, a caretaker like you. But I've always had a pain in my heart--that I couldn't do what I was meant to do. This lifetime has been a long time coming. This lifetime is for me, just me."
Lucy complimented Stardust on her skin. "Well, you have pretty skin, too," Stardust said to Lucy. "Mine is a reward of eating only the highest quality foods, grown locally, no meat, no sugar. Mostly grains, fresh vegetables, and butter." Then there was a little pocket of silence--as Stardust "needed a moment" to "go inside herself."
When the conversation resumed, I could hear Stardust asking Lucy, "May I tell you a little bit about my life?" to which Lucy said, enthusiastically, "Oh yes! I'm sorry! This has been all about me, hasn't it?"
Stardust's narrative sounded well-rehearsed: "I was a child of divorce. Both my father and my step-father were good people, just filled up with demons and anger and rage. My mother, though she was wonderful, was weak and unavailable. As a result, I learned to be invisible, not to cause anyone any trouble. 'Don't bother about me!'--that was my mantra."
"This all worked for me until I was about 28. I had a lover who was handsome, funny, smart, and successful. But the pain in my heart was constant. When I went back to school and studied spiritual healing, I realized that he just wasn't available for the spiritual life, so we went our separate ways. I still love him and his way of being in the world, but I just had to accept that we were together for a season, not for life."
When the plane was gearing down for landing, Stardust said, "I need a moment now. When a plane ascends or descends, it is important to concentrate on that energy and refrain from talking."
As we stood to de-plane, I finally got to take a look at the pair behind me. Lucy was a grandmother, as I'd imagined her to be; Stardust was maybe thirty, tall, curly haired, beautiful. She had flawless buttery skin.
Lucy was showing a picture of a grandchild on her phone. Stardust's voice was a reverential audible whisper. "She is a truly exquisite being, a beautiful soul. I feel that I have known her on another plane. I could have been her mother or something."
"I'm going to get me some of that butter," Lucy promised as they parted.
"And always remember, you are on a beautiful path. Just learn to receive all that the Universe has in store for you. Take care of your inner child. She needs your care."
One thing all writers have in common is a love of looking and listening, finding in strangers pieces of people we know, or people we are, or people a little bit like people we used to be. When we find a juicy character in a stranger we sit beside on a plane, we consider turning her into a story--as she is a mirror for characters we've encountered in real life.
Actually, I sat in the seat in front of my most recent find; I couldn't even see her face. Listening to her for two hours on the flight from Greenville to Houston, I got enough material for a novel, but I lack the intellectual fortitude, skill, or patience to stay with her for more than a page.
Let's call her Stardust. She spoke loudly and confidently to her seat mate for my two hour flight yesterday, and her voice carried clearly for three or four rows. Frequently, she laughed--a loud, resonant, annoying laugh. It wasn't a mirthful laugh; it was more a practiced, all-knowing Guru-laugh, the kind she might have picked up from an encounter with an Enlightened Being.
Stardust's seat mate (let's call her Lucy) was too soft-spoken for me to make out most of her words, so I focused on the speech of the woman I came to know was a "spiritual healer"--a pastiche of New Age clichés.
"I can tell you are a giver," she said. "You give give give give give give give!" [seven gives!] So how are you at receiving?"
I waited as Lucy responded, then I heard Stardust say, "You have to feel it to heal it....If you were my client, I would invite you to start journaling. See what comes up around that. You have to feel your feelings. Do not run away from them. Feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel, feel!" [seven feels!]
Lucy talked some more and I strained, unsuccessfully, to hear what she said.
"Oh dear! You have been a caretaker all of your life!" Stardust replied. "Bless your heart! Now you are on a beautiful path of self-transformation. Today you are sitting here with me for a reason. You are going to take back your life and attend to your lonely little inner child."
Lucy told her more, but I could only make out a few words: mother-in-law, husband, children.
"In those moments, give it over to God, to your angels, and to your ancestors. There's a whole team up there waiting to support you....I talk to God, my angels, and my ancestors all the time."
Soon, they were talking about butter. Stardust had recently attended an herb conference: "Cutting edge as far as going back to the earth," she said. "It's a conference of ancient medicine women. Here's the skinny on what you need to do. It's all about butter."
In certain circles, "It" is often all about One Thing. But butter?
Lucy was advised to buy raw organic butter and start eating it regularly. "It's the best source of high quality fatty acids and it will change your life....If you are lucky, you may find it at Trader Joe's or Whole Foods, but since the really good butter is illegal to sell, you have to ask around at farmer's markets."
After half an hour on butter, during which I dozed a bit, they moved to past incarnations. "I believe in past lives," Stardust told Lucy. "I have had many past lives and in every one of them I have been a mother to many children, a wife, a caretaker like you. But I've always had a pain in my heart--that I couldn't do what I was meant to do. This lifetime has been a long time coming. This lifetime is for me, just me."
Lucy complimented Stardust on her skin. "Well, you have pretty skin, too," Stardust said to Lucy. "Mine is a reward of eating only the highest quality foods, grown locally, no meat, no sugar. Mostly grains, fresh vegetables, and butter." Then there was a little pocket of silence--as Stardust "needed a moment" to "go inside herself."
When the conversation resumed, I could hear Stardust asking Lucy, "May I tell you a little bit about my life?" to which Lucy said, enthusiastically, "Oh yes! I'm sorry! This has been all about me, hasn't it?"
Stardust's narrative sounded well-rehearsed: "I was a child of divorce. Both my father and my step-father were good people, just filled up with demons and anger and rage. My mother, though she was wonderful, was weak and unavailable. As a result, I learned to be invisible, not to cause anyone any trouble. 'Don't bother about me!'--that was my mantra."
"This all worked for me until I was about 28. I had a lover who was handsome, funny, smart, and successful. But the pain in my heart was constant. When I went back to school and studied spiritual healing, I realized that he just wasn't available for the spiritual life, so we went our separate ways. I still love him and his way of being in the world, but I just had to accept that we were together for a season, not for life."
When the plane was gearing down for landing, Stardust said, "I need a moment now. When a plane ascends or descends, it is important to concentrate on that energy and refrain from talking."
As we stood to de-plane, I finally got to take a look at the pair behind me. Lucy was a grandmother, as I'd imagined her to be; Stardust was maybe thirty, tall, curly haired, beautiful. She had flawless buttery skin.
Lucy was showing a picture of a grandchild on her phone. Stardust's voice was a reverential audible whisper. "She is a truly exquisite being, a beautiful soul. I feel that I have known her on another plane. I could have been her mother or something."
"I'm going to get me some of that butter," Lucy promised as they parted.
"And always remember, you are on a beautiful path. Just learn to receive all that the Universe has in store for you. Take care of your inner child. She needs your care."
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Inspirations From Nellie
Nellie always inspires me to make things--and this short visit was no exception.
She was in Lawrenceville for our high school reunion on Saturday and we got to visit all too briefly on Carlene's back porch. I opted out of the reunion, not knowing for sure I was going to be there, but I got to see Nellie, my favorite friend from Central Gwinnett High School.
Judy (Carlene's walking partner and the mayor on her third term) dropped by. "I won't stay long; I know you're reminiscing about old times," she said.
"Actually, we're not," Nellie said. "We're talking about art and the things we want to make in the future."
We parted with a list of blog sites she recommended, and I got to see some of her art and art-in-progress--as well as snagging some pictures from her phone. I always love getting glimpses of her journals. She told me about the Midori Travel Journal and I signed up for Jane LaFazio's blog on making things out of cloth, paint, and paper.
http://janeville.blogspot.com/2012/03/stitch-ritual.html
One of Nellie's projects she calls "Five Alive." Every single morning, she emails five women who are living alone, sends them a quote or a tip or a photograph--then if she doesn't hear from each one by noon, she goes to their houses to check up on them and "make sure they are still alive."
She was in Lawrenceville for our high school reunion on Saturday and we got to visit all too briefly on Carlene's back porch. I opted out of the reunion, not knowing for sure I was going to be there, but I got to see Nellie, my favorite friend from Central Gwinnett High School.
Judy (Carlene's walking partner and the mayor on her third term) dropped by. "I won't stay long; I know you're reminiscing about old times," she said.
"Actually, we're not," Nellie said. "We're talking about art and the things we want to make in the future."
We parted with a list of blog sites she recommended, and I got to see some of her art and art-in-progress--as well as snagging some pictures from her phone. I always love getting glimpses of her journals. She told me about the Midori Travel Journal and I signed up for Jane LaFazio's blog on making things out of cloth, paint, and paper.
http://janeville.blogspot.com/2012/03/stitch-ritual.html
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| Nellie's dolls |
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| A self-portrait by one of Nellie's friends |
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| Nellie and her friend in Florida |
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