This morning, exactly one minute after I woke up, I got such a sweet text from Mike I'd blush right here by myself if I shared it. Later, exactly one minute after I got off the injection table, I got another text from Mike saying he felt what I was feeling, even though I hadn't even had time to text him that it was over. It's uncanny how often this happens. This good man has some kind of extrasensory timing eleven hundred miles away!
My blood pressure had shot way up to 188 over something (I usually have low to normal) and I was sitting in a chair waiting to be dismissed when his text arrived.
"Do you have any idea how rich you are?" he said later, on the phone. "You have the best friends in the world!"
To all of you who have sent texts and calls, to Joy who stayed with me all day and fixed me ice packs, to Pam who went with me to Earl Abel's for chicken fried steak (delicious!) after she'd watered my plants, to all of you who have been so supportive-- YES, I know how rich I am, how rich we all are, to have real friends!
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Stenosis of the Spine
It wasn't so bad, after all--especially having Joy as company and laugh-maker in the process. We all need someone to laugh with us when we're scared.
"Will it hurt?" I asked the doctor.
"Oh yes, it will be terrible," he said with a twinkle in his eye, but I didn't get the joke at the time or see the twinkle. "He's teasing, " Joy had to tell me when she saw the tears in my eyes.
When my baby boy was eight days old, he had to have a spinal tap. "It doesn't hurt," the doctors and nurses tried assuring me--just as they did when they did the other baby boy surgery. I didn't believe them either time. I heard the cry in the neonatal intensive care ward.
Through the years, I've heard that injections in the spine were terribly painful, so it was with a lot of procrastination and trepidation that I agreed to have a needle in the back of my neck.
It wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. The worst part were the little shots to deaden the pain of the big shot, all done with an x-ray to guide Dr. Growney's hand to the right spot.
At the moment, there is no pain at all--and I'm planning on that being permanent!
I'm so relieved--and so grateful for the ease of a day I've dreaded for a long time. Worry is sometimes worse than what we worry about.
Stenosis of the spine is very common, he told me. "What causes it?" I asked.
"Birthdays," he said.
"Will it hurt?" I asked the doctor.
"Oh yes, it will be terrible," he said with a twinkle in his eye, but I didn't get the joke at the time or see the twinkle. "He's teasing, " Joy had to tell me when she saw the tears in my eyes.
When my baby boy was eight days old, he had to have a spinal tap. "It doesn't hurt," the doctors and nurses tried assuring me--just as they did when they did the other baby boy surgery. I didn't believe them either time. I heard the cry in the neonatal intensive care ward.
Through the years, I've heard that injections in the spine were terribly painful, so it was with a lot of procrastination and trepidation that I agreed to have a needle in the back of my neck.
It wasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared. The worst part were the little shots to deaden the pain of the big shot, all done with an x-ray to guide Dr. Growney's hand to the right spot.
At the moment, there is no pain at all--and I'm planning on that being permanent!
I'm so relieved--and so grateful for the ease of a day I've dreaded for a long time. Worry is sometimes worse than what we worry about.
Stenosis of the spine is very common, he told me. "What causes it?" I asked.
"Birthdays," he said.
The Dreamer Self
I had a dream in which I was driving the tiniest Mini Cooper--even smaller than those adorable vintage ones in England. In the dream, I was on my way to pick up Elena after school, but the car kept going the wrong way. Suddenly, it would lurch into reverse, then neutral, then drive. I believe it was a stick shift, not automatic.
Thank you for indulging me in telling my dream! Other people's dreams are among the least interesting conversational topics, I know. But they are made by the Self for the Self's entertainment and/or enlightenment, and this one was easy to interpret.
In a class on dreams led by Marga Speicher, a Jungian therapist in San Antonio, she said, "When a dream comes, always ask 'What gift do you have for me?'"
According to Jung and his followers, every element in the dream represents the Self--so my dream is quite transparent. Even a novice dream-reader can read this car dream.
The dreamer feels she is in a small and unreliable carrier at the moment. She's on her way to pick up a little girl--a younger version of herself. But she can't get there; she's frustrated; other drivers are impatient with her for twirling around in the roadway, not moving forward.
This dream was probably inspired by the nightly reading I'm doing in Hauntings, a Jungian analysis of how the Self can sabotage itself. This is a profound book and I may write about it more later.
For now, however, I'm getting ready to go and get the dreaded shot in my neck, hoping for good results. I am, I admit, very anxious about a needle in my neck and will be glad to have it over with.
In my conscious waking hours, I'm not feeling much anxiety--but the dreams of the last few weeks tell a different story. Dreams tell the truth in coded language, and if we pay attention, we learn something new about ourselves.
Thank you for indulging me in telling my dream! Other people's dreams are among the least interesting conversational topics, I know. But they are made by the Self for the Self's entertainment and/or enlightenment, and this one was easy to interpret.
In a class on dreams led by Marga Speicher, a Jungian therapist in San Antonio, she said, "When a dream comes, always ask 'What gift do you have for me?'"
According to Jung and his followers, every element in the dream represents the Self--so my dream is quite transparent. Even a novice dream-reader can read this car dream.
The dreamer feels she is in a small and unreliable carrier at the moment. She's on her way to pick up a little girl--a younger version of herself. But she can't get there; she's frustrated; other drivers are impatient with her for twirling around in the roadway, not moving forward.
This dream was probably inspired by the nightly reading I'm doing in Hauntings, a Jungian analysis of how the Self can sabotage itself. This is a profound book and I may write about it more later.
For now, however, I'm getting ready to go and get the dreaded shot in my neck, hoping for good results. I am, I admit, very anxious about a needle in my neck and will be glad to have it over with.
In my conscious waking hours, I'm not feeling much anxiety--but the dreams of the last few weeks tell a different story. Dreams tell the truth in coded language, and if we pay attention, we learn something new about ourselves.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
The question before the house...
This morning, GrandeCom took all morning to hook me up--the first time in several years that I've had regular TV. This deal comes with a TIVO box that allows me to record programs, fast forward, and all that--none of which I plan to do., but who knows? Either way, it's going to be a culture shock--turning on the TV and seeing what's on live. I'm remembering the stations I like to watch on motel TVs--CNN, MSNBC, HGTV, PBS--and planning to enjoy my 30 day trial and see what's now playing.
As I was cleaning out drawers today--due to the delivery of a beautiful new piece of furniture--I found, much to my chagrin, a passport that doesn't expire for two years! So in a couple of weeks I will have two valid passports for two years, one of which will last for ten years. I have no memory of updating my passport in 2009--though now that I think of it, that must have been the year I renewed the old one to go to Montreal. I will just chalk it up as a temporary memory lapse--or disorganization.
At Middle Georgia College, a political science professor began every class with these words, "The question before the house is...." He had a deep, serious, Virginia-accented voice and he pronounced house so that it almost rhymed with noose. I don't remember a single question he raised, just his daily opening words. I wonder now if perhaps he fancied himself the Speaker of the House, his students members of Congress.
But I think of those words often when I'm faced with any question. "The question before the house today is...." What's on TV these days besides The Donald and Hillary? (I have to read a whole welcome package booklet to figure out how to use the remote control.)
Good things today: Gerlinde got reassuring news from a medical test--and can now take a trip to Germany! Carlene had a stress test and passed with flying colors!
Good things yesterday: Cindy invited me to join her at her son's house for a delicious dinner; Kate and Charlotte helped me (that is, did it all themselves) move in a new table, extending my kitchen counter space by six feet: and Pam came to say "Ah-Woo!" when my new hutch from the estate sale was delivered. (Carlene always says it's important to have a friend come say that when you get a cool new thing.) And yesterday was Day and Tom's 19th anniversary.
Good thing tomorrow: Joy is driving all the way in from Medina Lake to take me to get a cortisone shot in my neck--which, hopefully, will relieve the pain from a pinched nerve. The good things are the hope that it will work and Joy being with me for as long as it takes!
Good thing right now: The cable guy is gone and I can take a long, long nap....
As I was cleaning out drawers today--due to the delivery of a beautiful new piece of furniture--I found, much to my chagrin, a passport that doesn't expire for two years! So in a couple of weeks I will have two valid passports for two years, one of which will last for ten years. I have no memory of updating my passport in 2009--though now that I think of it, that must have been the year I renewed the old one to go to Montreal. I will just chalk it up as a temporary memory lapse--or disorganization.
At Middle Georgia College, a political science professor began every class with these words, "The question before the house is...." He had a deep, serious, Virginia-accented voice and he pronounced house so that it almost rhymed with noose. I don't remember a single question he raised, just his daily opening words. I wonder now if perhaps he fancied himself the Speaker of the House, his students members of Congress.
But I think of those words often when I'm faced with any question. "The question before the house today is...." What's on TV these days besides The Donald and Hillary? (I have to read a whole welcome package booklet to figure out how to use the remote control.)
Good things today: Gerlinde got reassuring news from a medical test--and can now take a trip to Germany! Carlene had a stress test and passed with flying colors!
Good things yesterday: Cindy invited me to join her at her son's house for a delicious dinner; Kate and Charlotte helped me (that is, did it all themselves) move in a new table, extending my kitchen counter space by six feet: and Pam came to say "Ah-Woo!" when my new hutch from the estate sale was delivered. (Carlene always says it's important to have a friend come say that when you get a cool new thing.) And yesterday was Day and Tom's 19th anniversary.
Good thing tomorrow: Joy is driving all the way in from Medina Lake to take me to get a cortisone shot in my neck--which, hopefully, will relieve the pain from a pinched nerve. The good things are the hope that it will work and Joy being with me for as long as it takes!
Good thing right now: The cable guy is gone and I can take a long, long nap....
Sunday, June 26, 2016
A windfall of clothes!
After Show and Tell, on my way to the library, I stopped by an estate sale in Olmos Park. As always, I assumed that the last owner of the house must have died....(When that is the case, everyone walks around and talks softly, feeling that mix of curiosity and sadness that comes while invading the rooms of dead people.)
But no: a young couple and their two teenaged children had just picked up and moved, leaving all their personal effects and furniture to be sold. I felt better. Knowing they had abandoned their house by choice, I just felt like Goldilocks, the bears out in the forest somewhere.
There were several brand new cameras, at least five sofas, furniture in every room of the house, and closets filled with designer clothes, some with the tags still attached, never worn. Who are these people? I wondered. And why did they not take their clothes and cameras and paintings to their new address?
The sweaters were all $25, one with a $280 price tag. The jackets and blouses were marked $45, the pants $24. And everything I tried on fit!
Because the estate sale clerk and I struck up a conversation, she gave me the 50% discount that's supposed to start tomorrow, so I walked out with four spectacular jackets and blouses and two pair of pants for practically nothing.
I can't stop thinking about the woman whose clothes I will be happily wearing. Will she miss them? Did she ever even wear them? (Her closet was larger than my bedroom.) I don't know one designer from another (never having bought designer clothes) but the woman in the closet trying on clothes with me was duly impressed. Seven evening gowns for $3000 apiece? Even with 50% off, I wasn't remotely tempted.
But no: a young couple and their two teenaged children had just picked up and moved, leaving all their personal effects and furniture to be sold. I felt better. Knowing they had abandoned their house by choice, I just felt like Goldilocks, the bears out in the forest somewhere.
There were several brand new cameras, at least five sofas, furniture in every room of the house, and closets filled with designer clothes, some with the tags still attached, never worn. Who are these people? I wondered. And why did they not take their clothes and cameras and paintings to their new address?
The sweaters were all $25, one with a $280 price tag. The jackets and blouses were marked $45, the pants $24. And everything I tried on fit!
Because the estate sale clerk and I struck up a conversation, she gave me the 50% discount that's supposed to start tomorrow, so I walked out with four spectacular jackets and blouses and two pair of pants for practically nothing.
I can't stop thinking about the woman whose clothes I will be happily wearing. Will she miss them? Did she ever even wear them? (Her closet was larger than my bedroom.) I don't know one designer from another (never having bought designer clothes) but the woman in the closet trying on clothes with me was duly impressed. Seven evening gowns for $3000 apiece? Even with 50% off, I wasn't remotely tempted.
Show and Tell at Lyn's Studio
Once a month, Lyn Belisle hosts a Show and Tell at her studio. A studio-full of women and two men showed up today for conversation and inspiration. It's a wonderful thing!
"Are you soaking up or sharing?" Lyn asked. I was one of the empty-handed soakers.
The first sharer was Vicki who showed a necklace that included a laminated bird she'd colored in a coloring book, some plant holders made with styrofoam wig stands, and beautiful hand-painted sunglasses, the proceeds going to Meals on Wheels.
Then another woman showed her collection of amazing dolls collected throughout decades of world travel.
Lyn passed around little packets of napkins scented with different essential oils. Did you know that a mix of lavender and tea tree oil can increase your energy? For more on this check out her blog: Chemaroma.com
Lyn's husband "Chef" Mike always prepares delicious foods for the Show and Tellers. Today's included guacamole and chips, baked salmon with dill sauce, and a table filled with treats.
I'm so inspired! I'm hoping to be a sharer at the next meeting in August. Except for today (being Sunday) and July (when there will be no meeting), these fun gatherings happen the Last Saturday of every month from 2 to 4. If you live in San Antonio and want some inspiration, or a place to share your work, mark your calendars!
"Are you soaking up or sharing?" Lyn asked. I was one of the empty-handed soakers.
The first sharer was Vicki who showed a necklace that included a laminated bird she'd colored in a coloring book, some plant holders made with styrofoam wig stands, and beautiful hand-painted sunglasses, the proceeds going to Meals on Wheels.
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| necklace with laminated bird |
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| Earrings made of drapery pieces and crushed bottle caps glued to the neck. The way the paint works on the styrofoam, this piece looks like an African sculpture. |
Then another woman showed her collection of amazing dolls collected throughout decades of world travel.
 |
| This is a Spirit Doll made by one of the members of today's group. (I wish I'd gotten the first and last names of all the participants and recorded more of the history of these dolls.) |
Lyn passed around little packets of napkins scented with different essential oils. Did you know that a mix of lavender and tea tree oil can increase your energy? For more on this check out her blog: Chemaroma.com
Lyn's husband "Chef" Mike always prepares delicious foods for the Show and Tellers. Today's included guacamole and chips, baked salmon with dill sauce, and a table filled with treats.
I'm so inspired! I'm hoping to be a sharer at the next meeting in August. Except for today (being Sunday) and July (when there will be no meeting), these fun gatherings happen the Last Saturday of every month from 2 to 4. If you live in San Antonio and want some inspiration, or a place to share your work, mark your calendars!
Air BnB: to do or not to do?
I went back to sleep early this morning reading Hauntings--an excellent book but not a light breezy read. I read and underlined, then had to rest a bit to let it soak in.
When I woke up again, I saw that Gerlinde had sent me a link to this New York Times article about a former Air BnB host near Austin: http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/26/travel/airbnb-host.html?rref=collection%2Fsectioncollection%2Ftravel&action=click&contentCollection=travel®ion=rank&module=package&version=highlights&contentPlacement=6&pgtype=sectionfront&_r=0
It gives me pause. I think for a while I'll just stick with renting my casita to people I already know and like. But maybe soon I'll be ready for strangers, I don't know.
When I woke up again, I saw that Gerlinde had sent me a link to this New York Times article about a former Air BnB host near Austin: http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/26/travel/airbnb-host.html?rref=collection%2Fsectioncollection%2Ftravel&action=click&contentCollection=travel®ion=rank&module=package&version=highlights&contentPlacement=6&pgtype=sectionfront&_r=0
It gives me pause. I think for a while I'll just stick with renting my casita to people I already know and like. But maybe soon I'll be ready for strangers, I don't know.
A firefighter named Woody
For weeks and months after September 11th, I watched the tragedies and rescues through the lens of a mother of a young firefighter. When innocent children were murdered at Sandy Hook, and I imagined them sitting in their desks drawing, writing stories and learning math for a future they wouldn't get to have, I listened with horror as a grandmother of young children. When teenagers were killed in a theater in Colorado, same thing. We all grieve vicariously for those who are our children with different names and faces.
Last night, a brave and big-hearted man name Woody died of leukemia--one year after his stem cell transplant. He was one of two San Antonio firefighters recently diagnosed with a form of leukemia that may be associated with the chemicals used in their work.
I met him one afternoon about a year ago at Helotes Elementary. Will, Elena and I were waiting for Nathan and Woody was waiting for his daughter. Will and Woody had once been students at Helotes Elementary, and both chose careers in the San Antonio Fire Department.
I listened that day as Will and Woody talked about Woody's upcoming treatment plan and hopes for a recovery. I watched as his little girl ran out of the building to meet her daddy. Then Will and Woody shook hands, calling each other "Buddy" as firefighters do.
Ever since I heard the news of his death, I've been thinking about that little girl and how bereft she must be today.
When one of their own is sick, firefighters and their families pack hospital corridors to wait with the sick and comfort their families. When an active firefighter is ill, his "brothers" take over his shifts.
I read hundreds of Facebook postings about Woody this morning, written just a few hours after his death. "God got himself a good man," someone wrote. Others wrote messages to Woody, words of love and respect.
I've never seen the kind of big-family closeness in any profession as what I see in fighters of fire, first responders, and rescuers. Maybe it's because they are prepared at any moment to put their lives on the line together. Maybe it's because they've seen so much suffering and loss that they are united in their love of living and each other.
Last night, a brave and big-hearted man name Woody died of leukemia--one year after his stem cell transplant. He was one of two San Antonio firefighters recently diagnosed with a form of leukemia that may be associated with the chemicals used in their work.
I met him one afternoon about a year ago at Helotes Elementary. Will, Elena and I were waiting for Nathan and Woody was waiting for his daughter. Will and Woody had once been students at Helotes Elementary, and both chose careers in the San Antonio Fire Department.
I listened that day as Will and Woody talked about Woody's upcoming treatment plan and hopes for a recovery. I watched as his little girl ran out of the building to meet her daddy. Then Will and Woody shook hands, calling each other "Buddy" as firefighters do.
Ever since I heard the news of his death, I've been thinking about that little girl and how bereft she must be today.
When one of their own is sick, firefighters and their families pack hospital corridors to wait with the sick and comfort their families. When an active firefighter is ill, his "brothers" take over his shifts.
I read hundreds of Facebook postings about Woody this morning, written just a few hours after his death. "God got himself a good man," someone wrote. Others wrote messages to Woody, words of love and respect.
I've never seen the kind of big-family closeness in any profession as what I see in fighters of fire, first responders, and rescuers. Maybe it's because they are prepared at any moment to put their lives on the line together. Maybe it's because they've seen so much suffering and loss that they are united in their love of living and each other.
Sunday Mornings
Sunday mornings are for Brainpickings and going back to bed with "a cup of coffee"--even if you don't actually drink coffee...
I've posted links to Brainpickings before, but it's a worth a reminder: http://us2.campaign-archive1.com/?u=13eb080d8a315477042e0d5b1&id=0506706136&e=7940cd5ca2
I'm also reading a provocative book by Jungian analyst, James Hollis: Hauntings/ "Dispelling the Ghosts Who Run Our Lives."
"...We are all, much of the time, prisoners of history, haunted by the spectral 'instructions' that float up from the past to inform, color, dictate our choices in this new present."
"Sometimes we repress stories and their presence may only be surmised when they leak into our dreams, our bodies, our children, our anesthetizing addictions ...."
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Black and White
I don't believe I've ever seen a better "Depression gauge" than this one by my good friend Nellie, posted on Facebook yesterday. She said I could share it.
(Actually, I've never actually seen ANY depression gauge--but I think she's done a great job of breaking down some of the nasty couriers of depression.)
And today, cross my fingers, I'm in the white zone again!
I also like the Chinese symbol of Yin and Yang--in which a spot of black is in the white, and vice versa. Even the black has moments of white, even the white has moments of black.
(Actually, I've never actually seen ANY depression gauge--but I think she's done a great job of breaking down some of the nasty couriers of depression.)
And today, cross my fingers, I'm in the white zone again!
I also like the Chinese symbol of Yin and Yang--in which a spot of black is in the white, and vice versa. Even the black has moments of white, even the white has moments of black.
Who Is I?
Who is the "I" in the singular first-person pronoun? What aspects of any person make up one's true self?
It's obvious when we look at younger pictures of ourselves that the "I" changes chronologically. I can say "I was three in that picture" but that "I" looks little like the current self. The former self is fresh-faced, adorable, and doesn't know half of what I know now. But it's also true that in any one moment, I am many selves. In the time it takes to scratch an itch, a relatively sane person can seemingly morph into someone else--still sane, but different.
For the past few months, I've been on a most peculiar trip, without even leaving home. A series of medical bumps in the road, along with a few detours and potholes along the way, has given me a chance to see what it feels like to be This Me--not the Me I like better and like to think is the "real" me. The Nicer and Easier-Going Me is a little moody, for sure, but not all-cap MOODY like I've been for these few months.
It shouldn't come as a surprise when our friends still like us when we're in a period of blue, but this trip has given me a reassuring reminders that they don't go away when out pops a surrogate self. Even when I cocoon myself, the presence and generosity of friends give me surges of hope that this will soon pass.
"I'm losing my mind," I said to Pam when I related my difficulty in remembering the name of Colin Firth as I was watching him play Max Perkins in Genius--to which she replied, "No, you're not! I'll let you know when you do."
For 32 years, after a surgical removal of the biological parts that made my own estrogen, I've taken a little tiny white pill almost every day. When I gave up bottled estrogen in March, and my thinking grew fuzzy, my moods blue, and my sleep erratic, I began to wonder: Who is this person camping out in my body? Who is this person who forgets to send birthday cards and who can escalate from zero to ten on the irritability scale in a snap? Who is this person who has to wait an hour for the name of one of my favorite actors to show up on my memory screen?
A friend related a time when she felt this way. "I just don't feel like myself lately," she told her best friend--to which the eavesdropping little daughter of her friend said, "Then who are you?"
Isn't that the question of a lifetime for us all? Who is the "I" who speaks for all the selves residing in the Russian nesting doll's outer self? Who is the "I" who says "I" saw this movie, or "I" want ice cream or "I" remember....?
It's obvious when we look at younger pictures of ourselves that the "I" changes chronologically. I can say "I was three in that picture" but that "I" looks little like the current self. The former self is fresh-faced, adorable, and doesn't know half of what I know now. But it's also true that in any one moment, I am many selves. In the time it takes to scratch an itch, a relatively sane person can seemingly morph into someone else--still sane, but different.
For the past few months, I've been on a most peculiar trip, without even leaving home. A series of medical bumps in the road, along with a few detours and potholes along the way, has given me a chance to see what it feels like to be This Me--not the Me I like better and like to think is the "real" me. The Nicer and Easier-Going Me is a little moody, for sure, but not all-cap MOODY like I've been for these few months.
It shouldn't come as a surprise when our friends still like us when we're in a period of blue, but this trip has given me a reassuring reminders that they don't go away when out pops a surrogate self. Even when I cocoon myself, the presence and generosity of friends give me surges of hope that this will soon pass.
"I'm losing my mind," I said to Pam when I related my difficulty in remembering the name of Colin Firth as I was watching him play Max Perkins in Genius--to which she replied, "No, you're not! I'll let you know when you do."
For 32 years, after a surgical removal of the biological parts that made my own estrogen, I've taken a little tiny white pill almost every day. When I gave up bottled estrogen in March, and my thinking grew fuzzy, my moods blue, and my sleep erratic, I began to wonder: Who is this person camping out in my body? Who is this person who forgets to send birthday cards and who can escalate from zero to ten on the irritability scale in a snap? Who is this person who has to wait an hour for the name of one of my favorite actors to show up on my memory screen?
A friend related a time when she felt this way. "I just don't feel like myself lately," she told her best friend--to which the eavesdropping little daughter of her friend said, "Then who are you?"
Isn't that the question of a lifetime for us all? Who is the "I" who speaks for all the selves residing in the Russian nesting doll's outer self? Who is the "I" who says "I" saw this movie, or "I" want ice cream or "I" remember....?
Monday, June 20, 2016
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Lesta Frank's Mandala Art Class
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| Tom was our only guy. He seemed to have more fun than anybody. "Take a break? No way! This is too much fun!" |
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| Lesta showing us how to use spray paint she bought at a store for graffiti artists |
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| Cecelia with her mandala painting |
A poem by Pablo Neruda
You start dying slowly ;
if you do not travel,
if you do not read,
If you do not listen to the sounds of life,
If you do not appreciate yourself.
You start dying slowly :
When you kill your self-esteem,
When you do not let others help you.
You start dying slowly
If you become a slave to your habits,
Walking everyday on the same paths…
If you do not change your routine,
If you do not wear different colours
Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.
You start dying slowly
If you avoid feeling passion
And their turbulent emotions;
Those which make your eyes glisten
And your heart beat fast.
You start dying slowly
If you do not change your life when you are not satisfied with your job, or with your love,
If you do not risk what is safe for the uncertain,
If you do not go after a dream,
If you do not allow yourself,
At least once in your lifetime,
To run away from sensible advice.
You start dying slowly....
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Father's Day
My friend Diana shared with me a blog by her friend, Sherry, who lives in Bali and leads writing workshops called "Writing For Self Discovery."
Today Sherry posted this poignant remembrance of her father who died in January: https://writingforselfdiscovery.com/author/writingforselfdiscovery/
My daddy never liked to do jigsaw puzzles, but he liked to sit and watch Carlene and me doing them. When we reached the end, there were always two or three pieces missing. He watched us searching under everything for the missing pieces, a grin on his face, then he'd finally pull them out of his pocket, case solved!
Last week, Carlene did a jigsaw puzzle on her porch. She texted me that she liked it so much she wanted to glue the surface and keep it--EXCEPT that one piece was missing!
Today she found the lost piece under the sofa cushion (after looking there several times already) and wrote me this text:
"He never stuck with a puzzle to the end, but he liked to be in the room with us snitching pieces....I found everything I lost this week--puzzle piece, charm off bracelet, and passport to get my new drivers license--hid from myself so I wouldn't be tempted to leave the country! I know now how it works...Be real still for about 15 minutes and it comes like a clue and then you look there and find it even if you looked there once or more and it wasn't there. I hope he is still somewhere in the house!!"
I'm pretty sure he is....
Today Sherry posted this poignant remembrance of her father who died in January: https://writingforselfdiscovery.com/author/writingforselfdiscovery/
My daddy never liked to do jigsaw puzzles, but he liked to sit and watch Carlene and me doing them. When we reached the end, there were always two or three pieces missing. He watched us searching under everything for the missing pieces, a grin on his face, then he'd finally pull them out of his pocket, case solved!
Last week, Carlene did a jigsaw puzzle on her porch. She texted me that she liked it so much she wanted to glue the surface and keep it--EXCEPT that one piece was missing!
Today she found the lost piece under the sofa cushion (after looking there several times already) and wrote me this text:
"He never stuck with a puzzle to the end, but he liked to be in the room with us snitching pieces....I found everything I lost this week--puzzle piece, charm off bracelet, and passport to get my new drivers license--hid from myself so I wouldn't be tempted to leave the country! I know now how it works...Be real still for about 15 minutes and it comes like a clue and then you look there and find it even if you looked there once or more and it wasn't there. I hope he is still somewhere in the house!!"
I'm pretty sure he is....
Safe Spaces
This week, my yoga teacher asked us to think about safety. Where did we feel safe as children? In the world I grew up in, I rarely felt anything but safe. Our parents protected us from bad news--and there was only one source of news in my hometown, the voice of Walter Kronkite on Channel 13.
Every one of those killed in Orlando was once someone's treasured child or grandchild. They had pets, collections, hobbies, bad days and good days, favorite flavors of ice cream, and dreams for their futures. They learned to paddle kayaks and to ride horses, bicycles, roller coasters. Grandparents cheered for them when they were up to bat, applauded when they danced or performed on stage, and framed photos of them celebrating every milestone. As they grew older, one parent or the other stayed awake nights waiting for the sound of them coming home.
When a tragedy happens, like Orlando, or Columbine, or Sandy Hook, or Charleston, we are horrified and grieved by the stories of those who died or were wounded, people like our people, children like ours.
Most children's drawings feature a safe and friendly world, the sun shining above it all. In this picture by Pam's grandson Ben, a cow with attitude stands on bright green grass under an orange sun, the rays reaching down into a mountain range. This sassy cow fills the frame and all is well.
I want more pictures and stories by children--to counter the fearful facts that inundate us on the news every day. To hear a child's perspective on the power of children's imaginations in a broken world, check out this excellent podcast this week on Ted Radio Hour on Wisdom:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/ted-radio-hour/id523121474?mt=2
 |
| Nathan paddling the kayak all by himself at Boerne Lake |
 |
| Elena at her second rodeo |
 |
| Twin Sisters breakfast |
Every one of those killed in Orlando was once someone's treasured child or grandchild. They had pets, collections, hobbies, bad days and good days, favorite flavors of ice cream, and dreams for their futures. They learned to paddle kayaks and to ride horses, bicycles, roller coasters. Grandparents cheered for them when they were up to bat, applauded when they danced or performed on stage, and framed photos of them celebrating every milestone. As they grew older, one parent or the other stayed awake nights waiting for the sound of them coming home.
When a tragedy happens, like Orlando, or Columbine, or Sandy Hook, or Charleston, we are horrified and grieved by the stories of those who died or were wounded, people like our people, children like ours.
Most children's drawings feature a safe and friendly world, the sun shining above it all. In this picture by Pam's grandson Ben, a cow with attitude stands on bright green grass under an orange sun, the rays reaching down into a mountain range. This sassy cow fills the frame and all is well.
I want more pictures and stories by children--to counter the fearful facts that inundate us on the news every day. To hear a child's perspective on the power of children's imaginations in a broken world, check out this excellent podcast this week on Ted Radio Hour on Wisdom:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/ted-radio-hour/id523121474?mt=2
Monday, June 13, 2016
Kombucha
This stuff is delicious! Following Kate's recipe, my first and second batch are now bottled (the first round nearly gone). I use a combination of black tea and pomegranate, so the color is a beautiful pink/red.
The basic recipe is tea, sugar, and SCOBY--the flavor depends on the kind of tea used. So far, I've not branched out beyond black and pomegranate, but Kate has done peach, orange, and even root beer.
While the tea is cooling, before you add the SCOBY, you can add whatever you like. Pam, following her son-in-law's recipe, has added ginger and jalapeño.
After the kombucha has fermented the second round, in tall air-tight bottles, I keep it in the refrigerator to stop the fermentation process and to keep it cold for drinking. I just discovered that the orangeade I bought at Sprouts (to use their bottles) is a delicious addition to a glass of cold kombucha.
This drink has a surprising side effect: it suppresses the appetite. Kombucha aficionados claim that it also builds a colony of probiotics in the digestive track. I can't vouch for that--but I take them at their word because I enjoy the taste and the effects of it so much.
The internet is a wonderful rabbit hole. Looking for tips on kombucha, I stumbled upon recipes for roasted garlic, which I'll be trying this morning. From there, I explored soups made in the Vitamix. And so it goes....
The basic recipe is tea, sugar, and SCOBY--the flavor depends on the kind of tea used. So far, I've not branched out beyond black and pomegranate, but Kate has done peach, orange, and even root beer.
While the tea is cooling, before you add the SCOBY, you can add whatever you like. Pam, following her son-in-law's recipe, has added ginger and jalapeño.
After the kombucha has fermented the second round, in tall air-tight bottles, I keep it in the refrigerator to stop the fermentation process and to keep it cold for drinking. I just discovered that the orangeade I bought at Sprouts (to use their bottles) is a delicious addition to a glass of cold kombucha.
This drink has a surprising side effect: it suppresses the appetite. Kombucha aficionados claim that it also builds a colony of probiotics in the digestive track. I can't vouch for that--but I take them at their word because I enjoy the taste and the effects of it so much.
The internet is a wonderful rabbit hole. Looking for tips on kombucha, I stumbled upon recipes for roasted garlic, which I'll be trying this morning. From there, I explored soups made in the Vitamix. And so it goes....
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Random--and not-so-random--Acts of Kindness
I've been inspired this morning by two telephone conversations, one with Pam, one with Mike.
Pam shared a story with me about her mother-in-law, a woman with whom she's been close for many years, even after the former husband is no longer in the picture. Every Sunday she writes her emails--and not just short cursory reportage, real letters. In between she sends her postcards and pictures of her grandchildren and visits her.
This morning, the mother-in-law called. She usually talks briefly on the phone "as if she's still being billed for long distance calls," but this morning she talked for twenty minutes, ending with "what she really called to say." Her friends are amazed that she and Pam are still close and that they communicate and visit so often. She wanted to express her gratitude for Pam's friendship.
Years ago, Pam was visiting when the mail came--a stack of junk mail. She resolved that day to be sure that her mother-in-law's mailbox often had real mail--and she's kept that resolution. Pam is like that. She's a real communicator, not a superficial one. She reaches out generously to her people.
Mike, too. He's spending two days helping a friend who had a bad fall due to vertigo. She can barely stand up, much less drive, cook, and clean. He's cleaned her entire house from top to bottom, refreshed the neglected kitty-litter boxes, and made meals for her. "She's in really bad shape," he told me. She can't go out to eat, and she can't stand long enough to wash the dishes. The saddest part is that she moved to Birmingham to be near family--and they are too busy to help her out.
Mike's main claim to happiness is what he can do for other people--whether it's building,repairing, cooking or cleaning. Yesterday he was in a funk himself. Then he got a call from his friend in Birmingham, put Mojo in the car, and drove there to help her get her house in order.
"If I can just help one person for one day, it makes me happy," he said.
Maybe, after all, that's the number one key to happiness for all of us--getting out of our own stuff and reaching out to somebody else.
I know I've often been the recipient of this kind of help and caring from my friends--a bowl of soup when I'm sick, a letter or card in the mail, and countless other acts of kindness. These are the things that, when you feel better, you never forget.
Pam shared a story with me about her mother-in-law, a woman with whom she's been close for many years, even after the former husband is no longer in the picture. Every Sunday she writes her emails--and not just short cursory reportage, real letters. In between she sends her postcards and pictures of her grandchildren and visits her.
This morning, the mother-in-law called. She usually talks briefly on the phone "as if she's still being billed for long distance calls," but this morning she talked for twenty minutes, ending with "what she really called to say." Her friends are amazed that she and Pam are still close and that they communicate and visit so often. She wanted to express her gratitude for Pam's friendship.
Years ago, Pam was visiting when the mail came--a stack of junk mail. She resolved that day to be sure that her mother-in-law's mailbox often had real mail--and she's kept that resolution. Pam is like that. She's a real communicator, not a superficial one. She reaches out generously to her people.
Mike, too. He's spending two days helping a friend who had a bad fall due to vertigo. She can barely stand up, much less drive, cook, and clean. He's cleaned her entire house from top to bottom, refreshed the neglected kitty-litter boxes, and made meals for her. "She's in really bad shape," he told me. She can't go out to eat, and she can't stand long enough to wash the dishes. The saddest part is that she moved to Birmingham to be near family--and they are too busy to help her out.
Mike's main claim to happiness is what he can do for other people--whether it's building,repairing, cooking or cleaning. Yesterday he was in a funk himself. Then he got a call from his friend in Birmingham, put Mojo in the car, and drove there to help her get her house in order.
"If I can just help one person for one day, it makes me happy," he said.
Maybe, after all, that's the number one key to happiness for all of us--getting out of our own stuff and reaching out to somebody else.
I know I've often been the recipient of this kind of help and caring from my friends--a bowl of soup when I'm sick, a letter or card in the mail, and countless other acts of kindness. These are the things that, when you feel better, you never forget.
Letting the Raw Side Drag
If you love words and enjoy knowing the meaning and etymology of phrases, if you're a language and grammar junkie, like me, check out A WAY WITH WORDS on National Public Radio. Martha and Grant are geniuses at tracking down meanings. http://www.waywordradio.org/category/episodes/
My daddy was known for his quips, some original, some borrowed. The ones he coined became part of our family's shared vocabulary. Every family has some of these, sayings that pop up in conversation and mean nothing to anyone who wasn't there. (This reminds me of the Sixties phrase, "You had to be there,"--which meant that whatever happened "there" is beyond verbal description.)
1.
Once, on a fishing trip, Will and my daddy stopped at a cafe where the coffee served was lukewarm.
"Could I have a hot cup? This one is cold," Lloyd said to the waitress.
"What should I do with this cup?" she replied--referencing the coffee she'd just served him.
"I don't care," he said. "Pour it out somewhere."
Occasionally, all these years later, one of us says "Pour it out somewhere," and it seems to mean something like this: "I don't care what you do with it" or "Duh!"
2.
"Let the raw side drag." I took this phrase to be a kind of general permission-giving, as in "Just do what you want, never mind what anyone thinks."
He said it to me once when we were taking a walk. "Linda, you're just letting the raw side drag." Since he said it with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, I took it to be a kind of thumbs up for whatever I happened to be doing at the time.
Maybe I'll call Martha and Grant this morning, see if they know the etymology of "Raw Side Dragging." So far, the closest I've found is "Let the rough side drag" from a song by Jesse Montgomery:
Let the rough side drag
Let the smooth side show
While you pull that load
Everywhere you go...
3.
"Keep the main thing the main thing."
While he didn't make this one up, it was his favorite bit of advice for grandkids. He never actually specified what the "main thing" was--which I liked.
4.
Many American idioms of his generation are agrarian and practical sayings:
"It takes two to pull the wagon."
"He's the black sheep of the family."
"It's not worth a hill of beans."
"Look at her--living so high on the hog!"
My daddy was known for his quips, some original, some borrowed. The ones he coined became part of our family's shared vocabulary. Every family has some of these, sayings that pop up in conversation and mean nothing to anyone who wasn't there. (This reminds me of the Sixties phrase, "You had to be there,"--which meant that whatever happened "there" is beyond verbal description.)
1.
Once, on a fishing trip, Will and my daddy stopped at a cafe where the coffee served was lukewarm.
"Could I have a hot cup? This one is cold," Lloyd said to the waitress.
"What should I do with this cup?" she replied--referencing the coffee she'd just served him.
"I don't care," he said. "Pour it out somewhere."
Occasionally, all these years later, one of us says "Pour it out somewhere," and it seems to mean something like this: "I don't care what you do with it" or "Duh!"
2.
"Let the raw side drag." I took this phrase to be a kind of general permission-giving, as in "Just do what you want, never mind what anyone thinks."
He said it to me once when we were taking a walk. "Linda, you're just letting the raw side drag." Since he said it with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, I took it to be a kind of thumbs up for whatever I happened to be doing at the time.
Maybe I'll call Martha and Grant this morning, see if they know the etymology of "Raw Side Dragging." So far, the closest I've found is "Let the rough side drag" from a song by Jesse Montgomery:
Let the rough side drag
Let the smooth side show
While you pull that load
Everywhere you go...
3.
"Keep the main thing the main thing."
While he didn't make this one up, it was his favorite bit of advice for grandkids. He never actually specified what the "main thing" was--which I liked.
4.
Many American idioms of his generation are agrarian and practical sayings:
"It takes two to pull the wagon."
"He's the black sheep of the family."
"It's not worth a hill of beans."
"Look at her--living so high on the hog!"
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Garage Sales
Suddenly, it's summer--sweltering hot and sticky, too hot to do anything outside after noon. Nevertheless, Kate and I had ourselves a super cool morning garage sale-ing. We came home with bags of Christmas ornaments for the kids, plants, pots, old-fashioned glasses with watermelons on them and a few more red plates to smash--when it gets cooler. This is a dusk project for sure.
Kate got the plum pickings--a tiara from a wonderful African-American woman named Verna who loved Kate. "That woman makes me laugh every time she opens her mouth," she said. At the next stop, we both loved a pair of bright red high heeled shoes, our size, but I don't wear closed-toe shoes, so Kate was the lucky buyer.
We had seafood enchiladas at Lisa's and then I came home and napped, then went grocery shopping. The main topic of conversation in grocery stores (and everywhere else) is the heat--as if we're all surprised when it arrives in its full glory.
Kate got the plum pickings--a tiara from a wonderful African-American woman named Verna who loved Kate. "That woman makes me laugh every time she opens her mouth," she said. At the next stop, we both loved a pair of bright red high heeled shoes, our size, but I don't wear closed-toe shoes, so Kate was the lucky buyer.
We had seafood enchiladas at Lisa's and then I came home and napped, then went grocery shopping. The main topic of conversation in grocery stores (and everywhere else) is the heat--as if we're all surprised when it arrives in its full glory.
Friday, June 10, 2016
Moon Pies and Mosaics
Two days ago, I found a box of six Moon Pies at Big Lots and decided to add one each to the welcome package for each of my grandchildren when they are all here together in August. I don't even like Moon Pies all that much, but somebody in my house of one ate every single Moon Pie, scraping out the marshmallow filling to balance the calorie intake, I'm sure. (Well, five; I gave one to the window woman at Whataburger when she gave me a free coke.)
Today, I went to three or four thrift shops and bought plates in bright colors, came home and whacked the heck out of them with a hammer. They are now in pretty pieces in a container, awaiting the day I will put them all together in a mosaic. Mike bought me a stainless steel piece of an airplane at YeYa's last time he was here and I'm going to turn it into a mosaic totem pole.
After all that whacking, I went--solo--to see Friends and Lovers, a movie that had gotten positive ratings, but which left me sleepy.
Today, I went to three or four thrift shops and bought plates in bright colors, came home and whacked the heck out of them with a hammer. They are now in pretty pieces in a container, awaiting the day I will put them all together in a mosaic. Mike bought me a stainless steel piece of an airplane at YeYa's last time he was here and I'm going to turn it into a mosaic totem pole.
After all that whacking, I went--solo--to see Friends and Lovers, a movie that had gotten positive ratings, but which left me sleepy.
Good things
1.
Yesterday, I got a downpour of good, starting with this note from Marcus' teacher to Day: "I wish you could have seen how Marcus reacted when he read a note of encouragement from Yenna on Monday morning. The way his smile grew bigger and bigger while reading that little note on the couch was priceless. It was the perfect touch to enable him get Passed Advanced on the Reading SOL earlier this week!" (The teacher had solicited notes from family to encourage these little guys on their SOLs--and I'd emailed one that she printed and gave to Marcus.)
Last weekend, as they were traveling to Georgetown for a day together, Day passed the phone around the car so that each person could say "I love you" to me. Marcus was last. He whispered, "Don't tell anybody but I love you more than anyone in this car does."
Love from a grandson can make a Yenna's day!
2.
I've been reminded that it's good to admit to the blues when they hit. We all have them from time to time--like colds, headaches, and allergies. What comes of telling the truth is that you find out people care, in so many different ways....
3.
Like these: a just-right-timed-and-content phone call from a friend, Kate coming over to make sure I'm okay (even if I wasn't at at home), Linda K. treating me to lunch at Zorba's, Mike saying, "Just say the word and I'll come," an email from California Linda including inspiring pages on depression from a new book by Marianne Williamson, and Pam joining me for dinner even though she'd already eaten! What a feast of friendship yesterday was!
4.
And like this: Charlotte called and said, "The rumor around town is you're not in the best place. I'm on your street."
So she came in, hopped on my bed with me, and we talked about melancholy and how it's okay to do nothing. I thought that was super cool--having a friend actually get into my rumpled bed and push back a stack of books, put her head on the pillow, and talk. "Maybe you should paint this room bright pink like the pink in that giraffe," she said, a comment that came out of the blue and made me laugh.
5.
I restrained myself from wading into maudlin sentimentality yesterday and writing that it would have been my 49th wedding anniversary yada yada yada--yay for me!
6.
This morning Gabi told me that in India when people are going through hard times, the whole family moves in for 40 days! If an aunt's husband dies, the whole family shows up.
The good thing about that story is that it illustrates the kindness and closeness of family; the scary thing about that story is that if it happened here, in my small house, where would I put them all and would I have to feed everybody?
7. Once again, Gabi did her magic on my neck and spirits--and I feel really good tonight!
Yesterday, I got a downpour of good, starting with this note from Marcus' teacher to Day: "I wish you could have seen how Marcus reacted when he read a note of encouragement from Yenna on Monday morning. The way his smile grew bigger and bigger while reading that little note on the couch was priceless. It was the perfect touch to enable him get Passed Advanced on the Reading SOL earlier this week!" (The teacher had solicited notes from family to encourage these little guys on their SOLs--and I'd emailed one that she printed and gave to Marcus.)
Last weekend, as they were traveling to Georgetown for a day together, Day passed the phone around the car so that each person could say "I love you" to me. Marcus was last. He whispered, "Don't tell anybody but I love you more than anyone in this car does."
Love from a grandson can make a Yenna's day!
2.
I've been reminded that it's good to admit to the blues when they hit. We all have them from time to time--like colds, headaches, and allergies. What comes of telling the truth is that you find out people care, in so many different ways....
3.
Like these: a just-right-timed-and-content phone call from a friend, Kate coming over to make sure I'm okay (even if I wasn't at at home), Linda K. treating me to lunch at Zorba's, Mike saying, "Just say the word and I'll come," an email from California Linda including inspiring pages on depression from a new book by Marianne Williamson, and Pam joining me for dinner even though she'd already eaten! What a feast of friendship yesterday was!
4.
And like this: Charlotte called and said, "The rumor around town is you're not in the best place. I'm on your street."
So she came in, hopped on my bed with me, and we talked about melancholy and how it's okay to do nothing. I thought that was super cool--having a friend actually get into my rumpled bed and push back a stack of books, put her head on the pillow, and talk. "Maybe you should paint this room bright pink like the pink in that giraffe," she said, a comment that came out of the blue and made me laugh.
5.
I restrained myself from wading into maudlin sentimentality yesterday and writing that it would have been my 49th wedding anniversary yada yada yada--yay for me!
6.
This morning Gabi told me that in India when people are going through hard times, the whole family moves in for 40 days! If an aunt's husband dies, the whole family shows up.
The good thing about that story is that it illustrates the kindness and closeness of family; the scary thing about that story is that if it happened here, in my small house, where would I put them all and would I have to feed everybody?
7. Once again, Gabi did her magic on my neck and spirits--and I feel really good tonight!
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Princesses, Barbies, Alice and Jerry, Dick and Jane
Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein critiques the influence of princess mania on little girls. To most of us who came of age in the 50s and 60s, the word, princess, is not complimentary. The first (of many) times a clerk at Lowe's or HEB called Elena ""Princess," I raised my eyebrows. Now I'm used to it. It has become (in the last fifteen years, according to this book) the normal way strangers address little girls.
This book reminds me of the feminist books we all read when we were rearing little girls. I refused to buy Barbies for Day (though one of her friends' mothers gave her one, probably feeling sorry for my culturally impoverished child.)
Cinderella Ate My Daughter is making me take a look back at the images that shaped me as child. Every child is a white flower, her world-view colored by the water in the vase that is her world. Children are not critical of that water, it's just What Is.
In the formative years of kindergarten and first grade, these illustrations and stories were my water:
This book reminds me of the feminist books we all read when we were rearing little girls. I refused to buy Barbies for Day (though one of her friends' mothers gave her one, probably feeling sorry for my culturally impoverished child.)
Cinderella Ate My Daughter is making me take a look back at the images that shaped me as child. Every child is a white flower, her world-view colored by the water in the vase that is her world. Children are not critical of that water, it's just What Is.
In the formative years of kindergarten and first grade, these illustrations and stories were my water:
We looked over fences;
boys climbed on fences.
Families had meals together.
The mother cooked, the father carved (in his suit, no less!)
Dick was funny, funny; the girls were his audience.
Girls played with dolls, boys played with airplanes.
Girls and mothers dressed up
and looked pretty.
Friday, June 3, 2016
Becoming Wise--by Krista Tippett
What are the questions we are asking on the road to wisdom? With what language do we ask the questions?
Krista Tippett has been interviewing wise people for years. In this book, she shares her insights about wisdom and talks about the kinds of questions that create real conversations:
"If I've learned nothing else, I've learned this: a question is a powerful thing, a mighty use of words. Questions elicit answers in their likeness. Answers mirror the questions they rise, or fall, to meet. So while a simple question may be precisely what's needed to drive the heart of the matter, it's hard to meet a simplistic question with anything but a simplistic answer. It's hard to transcend a combative question. But it's hard to resist a generous question. We all have it in us to formulate questions that invite honesty, dignity and revelation. There is something...life-giving about asking a better question."
Combative questions fill the airwaves in this 24/7 election coverage. Language of anger amps up the combative spirit of us all. The level of the language determines the level of the conversation, and lately, the level has been as low as any public discourse I've ever heard. Name-calling (liar, stupid, disgusting) doesn't allow for real conversation, only defensiveness. Heated political discourse leads to physical fist-fights and violence.
How important is precise and nuanced language? Krista Tippet says:
"Words matter....The words we use shape how we understand ourselves, how we interpret the world, how we treat others. From Genesis to the aboriginal songlines of Australia, human beings have forever perceived that naming brings things into being. The ancient rabbis understood books, texts, the very letters of certain words as living, breathing entities. Words make worlds."
In this heated political climate of 2016, I wonder what kind of world is in the making? When language is dull, flat, insulting and lacking in nuance, we have the linguistic equivalent of a stone wall.
Krista Tippett has been interviewing wise people for years. In this book, she shares her insights about wisdom and talks about the kinds of questions that create real conversations:
"If I've learned nothing else, I've learned this: a question is a powerful thing, a mighty use of words. Questions elicit answers in their likeness. Answers mirror the questions they rise, or fall, to meet. So while a simple question may be precisely what's needed to drive the heart of the matter, it's hard to meet a simplistic question with anything but a simplistic answer. It's hard to transcend a combative question. But it's hard to resist a generous question. We all have it in us to formulate questions that invite honesty, dignity and revelation. There is something...life-giving about asking a better question."
Combative questions fill the airwaves in this 24/7 election coverage. Language of anger amps up the combative spirit of us all. The level of the language determines the level of the conversation, and lately, the level has been as low as any public discourse I've ever heard. Name-calling (liar, stupid, disgusting) doesn't allow for real conversation, only defensiveness. Heated political discourse leads to physical fist-fights and violence.
How important is precise and nuanced language? Krista Tippet says:
"Words matter....The words we use shape how we understand ourselves, how we interpret the world, how we treat others. From Genesis to the aboriginal songlines of Australia, human beings have forever perceived that naming brings things into being. The ancient rabbis understood books, texts, the very letters of certain words as living, breathing entities. Words make worlds."
In this heated political climate of 2016, I wonder what kind of world is in the making? When language is dull, flat, insulting and lacking in nuance, we have the linguistic equivalent of a stone wall.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Thursday, June 1: Monsoon Season in Texas
"We are never never going to see The Jungle Book movie,"
"Nathan and I think farting is hi-LAR-ious!'
"Why?"
"Because Nathan is very scared of it. I don't think Nathan is as brave as me. I'm very brave about Jungle Book."
Later in the day, "Would you like to go to see Jungle Book right now?"
Pause....
"Well, I don't think so because I am actually a little tiny bit scared of it."
 |
| Buying a popsicle maker, one for her, one for Makken-- and a patriotic headband |
 |
| Elena's painting of a roadrunner drawn by Joy |
"Nathan and I think farting is hi-LAR-ious!'
"Really? Do your parents think so too?"
"No, they think it is too much privateness....Do I have to say Excuse Me when I fart at Yenna's house because we don't have too many rules here?"
"I think it's a nice practice for good manners," I reply.
 |
| Look at that head on Kate's delicious peach kombucha! |
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Art and Craft Supplies
Today has been a good day, ending with a relaxing yoga class and Thai food afterward with Cecelia.
I told her she's glowing--looks like she's in love! She said, "Yes, I am. It's the art." She's taken five art classes recently and showed me the results on her iPhone. I was amazed!
I have enough art supplies to last me "til Jesus comes"--to quote my Aunt Audrey (though she was talking about shoes and clothes.)
I'd like to just take out all my paint, rubber stamps, and inks and start making things til I use them all up! When I look in my neatly organized drawers, I realize that supplies shimmer with potential. Without making a thing, there's something magical about the promise of all the things one could make, should one ever just start doing it and stop thinking about someday.
Paint tubes, bottle caps, beads, and metal findings; pretty papers, markers, and fabrics--I'm paralyzed by possibilities. They are, in themselves, beautiful. What if I mess them up? What if I use them and later have a better idea?
If I call it art, I'll be too intimated to make the first stroke, so I'll just call it coloring and playing with stuff and see what happens.
I told her she's glowing--looks like she's in love! She said, "Yes, I am. It's the art." She's taken five art classes recently and showed me the results on her iPhone. I was amazed!
I have enough art supplies to last me "til Jesus comes"--to quote my Aunt Audrey (though she was talking about shoes and clothes.)
I'd like to just take out all my paint, rubber stamps, and inks and start making things til I use them all up! When I look in my neatly organized drawers, I realize that supplies shimmer with potential. Without making a thing, there's something magical about the promise of all the things one could make, should one ever just start doing it and stop thinking about someday.
Paint tubes, bottle caps, beads, and metal findings; pretty papers, markers, and fabrics--I'm paralyzed by possibilities. They are, in themselves, beautiful. What if I mess them up? What if I use them and later have a better idea?
If I call it art, I'll be too intimated to make the first stroke, so I'll just call it coloring and playing with stuff and see what happens.
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