lines by Mary Oliver

Wingspread

San Antonio from Above

Leaving San Antonio in a light rain,
the wing of my Southwestern bird taking
off against a canvas of white fog

My smart phone tells me that this shot is taken over
Rayne, Louisiana

My bird coming in for a landing over
Atlanta

Landing

Things That Matter

Watching Ken Burns' documentary on the Vietnam war,  I'm struck by how often the presidents and generals said one thing to each other behind closed doors and another to the American people and journalists.

It was a time of carnage and confusion.  Idealistic and patriotic young men of the Sixties were killed and terribly wounded in that war, yet those who came home didn't get the warm welcome that their fathers' generation had gotten after World War II.  When the goal of a war is clear, the fighters are treated as heroes, but in the Vietnam War the country had little idea of why we were there and what we were fighting for--and the soldiers were maligned for a war they didn't create.

Now that we are hearing talk of nuclear war again, as we did in the Fifties and Sixties, the causes of potential war are more visible.  North Korea is picking a fight and Forty Five is treating it like a playground bully treats another bully, puffing up his chest, name-calling, and making frightening threats that will impact the entire world if carried out.

While he's at it, he's is picking fights with the NFL players he considers un-patriotic; with celebrities, the media and anyone who doesn't "like" him; with members of his own party who don't vote the party line on health care.  He's so unskilled at diplomacy that he goes for the only line of defense he knows--threatening to blow North Korea off the map with "fire and fury like the world has never known," calling their leader Rocket Man, and provoking them with a show of force by flying American planes near the DMZ.

Wars start at the top.  Young soldiers are all too often pawns enacting fights they had no part in starting.  While the leaders rant among themselves, appear smiling and suited up at PR events, and conceal what's going on for political gain, the soldiers in the trenches and deserts and jungles are  called "boots on the ground"--as if reduced from whole humans to their military footwear.

With a pugnacious president at the helm, America is as divided as it was during the Civil War--though this time ideologically instead of geographically.  Trump's rhetoric is bringing racists and White Supremacists out of the shadows. Battles between Americans are breaking out all over the country.

Is it patriotic that a man with the language of a playground bully recklessly endangers his own country and other countries?

The Celebrity in Chief is enraging the National Football League, the mainstream media, and anyone who dares to disagree with him.

It's easy to tweet out half-baked opinions and threats from a golf course, an airplane, or a tower somewhere.  It's easy to stir the proverbial hornet's nest  instead of working to create peace.

The peacemakers of the world, like Martin Luther King, don't live in towers, ivory or otherwise.  They speak out clearly against prejudice and injustice.  They go into harm's way if they have to and write letters from jail--as King did from Birmingham.  Their words are beacons of inspiration for their followers and posterity. Their messages are not about themselves but about the principles that unite all people.

Trump has successfully done one thing: he's flattened language and thought to the lowest common denominator.  His words and sentences are simplistic, confusing, contradictory, and mean-spirited.   He insults disabled people, women, minorities, and other nationalities---while bragging about his "big, beautiful" apartment in New York to audiences of his base in Alabama and elsewhere.

No one is exempt from his insults--not even those whom a day or two before were praised as "the best."  Size matters a lot to this guy, and he seems particularly fond of calling journalists and heads of states "little." Little Katy.  Little George.

I feel like we're living inside a video game.  If somebody doesn't soon take the game controls away, Trump's inept hands could create a war that will topple his prized real estate along with countless human beings, rich and poor, in America and elsewhere.

Patriotism is more than putting hand on heart or standing for the National Anthem.  Patriotism is about speaking up about what matters.

I used to get a lump in my throat when I heard the National Anthem, but now I'm wishing we'd change the words to something about "purple mountains' majesty and amber waves of grain" rather than "bombs bursting in air." Taking a knee expresses love of freedom and equality as much as words in an anthem. If we curtail freedom to resist and speak truth, if we undermine the media, we risk losing the freedom we aspire to and fight for.

Kurt and Sura

This morning, I finally had to say good-bye to the cast of characters I've been following all week--the villains and virtuous people who wound up in Istanbul.  Once I started, I couldn't let them go until the final scene.  I've been thinking all day about Kurt and Sura and Mervet and all the mamas and uncles and soldiers....

I was sure I knew where it was going to end, but was I right?

Stories, even imperfectly written, can captivate us if we care about characters.  Yes, there are some holes in the plot.  There are some questions never quite answered or conflicts never resolved.  But oh there are some beautiful scenes and lovely relationships!

So often in stories, as in life, we watchers say, "Just tell her!" or "Just reveal the secret!" or "Just give up your pride and go tell him you were lying!" Here, give me a pen and let me write a scene that fixes what looks unfixable!

It's been a worthy trip.  I wish we had a Season Two.  But then again, I'd never get packed or get my house cleaned or see my friends!

The Lloyd Harris Trail dedication

Photographs today by Jocelyn Harris--of Carlene and my brother, Bob:

Bob told me today that one of the features of this park is what they call Little Stone Mountain.  There's also a beautiful lake surrounded by a walking trail that is named after Lloyd Harris.  He would love having a walking trail in a beautiful natural park named for him!

The Blues

My favorite colors are blues--evocative of water and sky, my children's eyes, my daddy's eyes, Jackson's and Marcus' eyes.  When my brown-eyed mother was thirteen, she spied her sweetheart, a sixteen-year-old boy who walked from the back of the church to the front (where she was sitting, no accident) to turn down the lights.  One look at that blue-eyed handsome man and she was a goner, she says.

It was wartime.  He went to the Navy, she went to college, but seventy-two years ago this month, September 16th, they eloped.  She was twenty; her Navy man was back and ready to go to the University of Georgia.

His favorite color was blue, too.  Twenty years ago, they bought me a white house that was, frankly, ugly, a squatty little concrete block house, no stucco.  Inside, the walls were painted badly, colors from the walls bleeding into the ceilings, an avocado and orange kitchen, and ratty old carpets. It was exactly the house I wanted, in a safe old neighborhood.  I'd love for him to see it now, wrapped inside and out in blues and turquoise.

I wanted a project, and this one has given me many over the years.  Thanks to a surprise check this spring (with a letter signed Lloyd and Carlene), this latest iteration has been an ongoing and full-time project since May.  I'm so happy in my blues!

Wabi-Sabi

"Wabi-sabi is the beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete."

"It is a beauty of things modest and humble."

"It is a beauty of things unconventional."

These three sentences open the book, Wabi Sabi for Artists, Designers, Poets and Philosophers by Leonard Koren.

I was reminded of this concept when I saw the work of Chuck Ramirez at the McNay.  I hope you'll all get a chance to see this show before it leaves; it's provocative in the vein of what little I know about wabi-sabi.

His subject matter features enlarged photographs of pocket books filled with clues to the women who carry them--lipstick, keys, phones, tickets, souvenirs, baby toys, medicine, breath mints, make up, etc.  There are also photographs of bouquets in the process of dying, food left on plates at the end of a meal, a make-up artist's bag, a suitcase with a portable Buddha altar, used paint cans and jars, and already-broken pinatas.

These photographs make you notice the beauty of ordinary things all around you:

appetizers and mixed drinks at a restaurant

plastic bags

a ragged broom

make up artist's bag

Linda's purse

What stories the contents of our bags could tell! 

a paint can

These objects aren't restored to look new; they are what they are after time and bites and everyday use have changed them.  Nothing has been added or subtracted from the contents of the containers.  An empty paint can with the residue of paint evokes story much more than a brand new paint can.  A table-top filled with plates of half-eaten food, ashtrays, and messy napkins, less perfect than the newly set table, is aesthetically intriguing in its own wabi-sabi way.

Wouldn't it be nice if the maker of people issued instruction manuals with each newly born human?

This model, it might say, needs to ingest lots of grapes in its lifetime along with daily chocolate. Another model might need purple grapes, potato chips and Pinot Grigio.  If and when those change, updates would be mailed.

We'd know which hazards to avoid--just like the ones that come on boxed pizza (remove the box and plastic before cooking--duh!).  We'd know in what places these bodies would flourish--and what sort of friends and movies and books to pick for maximum joy.

In the deluxe manual, it might even tell us step by step what to do when things go wrong.  What to say when other people hurt our feelings or how to avoid hurting theirs.  How to survive political tsunamis, along with answers regarding various existential questions--so we wouldn't have to search so long and hard for answers of our own.

Nice, but boring--right?

Here on this Planet Earth, we spend a lot of years trying to figure out our own answers, and maybe that's the point of living, learning this stuff.

Having eliminated certain foods and beverages from my diet for the past two weeks, I can now get up without my feet hurting.  I have lost ten plus pounds.  My joints don't creak when I get up from sitting at a restaurant.  I can walk up and down stairs one foot on each step again!  There are no body aches, no fibro days.  My fingers sometimes still get puffy but not the raging red puffiness that had them looking like fat little sausages three weeks ago.

I'm also eating lots of fruit, making smoothies, drinking kefir and kombucha again.  Taking high doses of fish oil.  Drinking more mineral water.  The results so far--knock on wood--are amazing.

I never was one to read manuals anyway.  I have never read the car manuals unless something goes wrong.  I mean to, I always plan to, but I never get around to it with all the literature I prefer to read instead.

Pain and puffiness are motivators.  I'm studying The Inflammation Syndrome, doing mostly what it says, and voila--I think I have found what works for this 68- year-old body.

I have had several days of the blues.  Experts (i.e. friends) say that this could be part of detox.  Yesterday's massage and this morning's yoga seem to have helped that a lot.

Kurt Seyit & Sura

Three episodes in to this beautiful Russian series, I'm mesmerized by the photography, the faces, the music and dancing, the romance.  It's a visually stunning, reminiscent of Dr. Zhivago.

Gerlinde, my travel guide in the world of films, has introduced me to the series I've been watching, ,  these universal stories set in distant places and times, stories of love and war, deceit and truth, family and friendship.

This one begins in 1915 in Russia, in wartime, in snow....

Watching movies in the middle of the night

The Time In Between was such an extraordinary series that I tracked down the beautiful Spanish actor Adriana Ugarte and watched another one in which she is part of the cast--Palm Trees in Snow.  

The series, The Time In Between, is long enough to lose yourself in the beauty of Morocco for hours!  Palm Trees in Snow is a single movie--so beautiful in every detail.   I almost feel I've been there.

I'm eating homemade soup for lunch and planning to make cornbread to go with leftovers after my nap.

I learned something last night.  Recently I was introduced to a healthy version of Reeses--Justin's dark chocolate peanut butter cups.  They are the best!  But don't eat them at bedtime unless you want to binge watch movies all night.  The caffeine in a single one kept me wide awake until four in the morning.

An Art Day in San Antonio

Today I went to Victoria's house and studio which is always magical.  I love her work!

She makes these amazing trees loaded with flowers she makes out of recycled plastic:

Then she paints portraits of the trees:

Anyone collecting art should meet Victoria Suescum and her work!  In fact, this afternoon, Cecelia and I are off to see one of her exhibits downtown and another art show at the San Antonio Art League on King William Street.

Leaving Victoria's,  I had to capture this sign outside a beautiful church on Brees:

Sixty two hours in Colombia

With tears in my eyes, I've finally reached the end of La Esclava Blanca.  Thanks to Gerlinde, it was a perfect way to spend 62 hours, my first telenovela.

The story involves a group of Black slaves in a Columbian village and hacienda, spanning twenty-plus years in the 1800s as they seek freedom from the harsh landowners, and find sympathizers and helpers in their struggle among some of the more enlightened and compassionate people of Santa Marta.

It may not be for everybody, but it was just what the doctor ordered for me--a journey into a different world while happily grounded in my own.  The characters are colorful and the landscape beautiful, but the punishments of the slaves are hard to watch.

As a literary critic, I might note that there were some logical holes in the plot and that the acting at times wasn't entirely believable, but those factors mattered less than the beauty of good people seeking freedom.  When there were horrible scenes of landowners doing inhumane things to the slaves, I did have to look away and tell myself, "This is just a play, these are just actors, nobody is getting hurt."

But how can a story be told without the reality of the injustice and cruelty of slavery, prejudice, and control of one people by another?

The protagonists, Victoria and Miguel; Mother Lorenzo and Tomas;  the slaves and landowners;  the honorable and the despicable--all the major characters of the story became the people I'll remember.

The story is timeless--as there is still slavery in so many parts of the world including child and sex slavery right here in America.  This series is, in my opinion, well worth the 62 hours it takes to see it through to the end.

Dinosaur Eggs

Today was a wonderful Yenna day. At the grandparents' breakfast at Helotes Elementary, Elena said she wanted to come over after school, and I said yes, of course.

In the meanwhile, a friend came over and brought Elena six dinosaur eggs like the ones she made for her grandson for his birthday--and were they a hit!  She plants plastic dinosaurs inside a shell made of baking soda.  When you put them in vinegar, they fizz for a bit and with a little help, they hatch!

Elena brought Conway, the good dog, and the three of us played until just now while her parents went out to dinner.

I even got Elena to watch an episode of my telenovela to see if she could understand the Spanish.  She loved it!  I had to fast-forward through a few scenes, but she really got into the story.

Having eliminated gluten and sugar and Diet Cokes, I'm feeling like a new person!  

Nathan and Elena this morning--
a kindergartner and a 5th grader

Where is your creative place?

Your house?  Your art studio?  A garden?  The ocean?

Here is a poem by William Stafford--and a picture--I snagged from today's Improvised Life:

The Inflammation Syndrome

This book is so interesting I decided to postpone my nutritional appointment until I've assimilated what's here--and go to yoga instead.

I'm taking notes and studying this carefully, but I did make a mistake in relating one fact in my previous post which Joy brought to my attention: I was surprised to read that the author suggested corn fed beef not grass fed ?  Did I read that correctly?  Cows are allergic to corn and every thing I've read is pro grass fed.

She's right, and I'm glad she  pointed out that error!

Most of the changes advocated in the book are things we already know--avoid sugar and other toxins, avoid bread and pasta in favor of fresh fruits and vegetables--but for me it's not always "not knowing"  but not "doing" or acting on what I already know.  Reading this book explains the biochemistry behind the principles of anti-inflammatory eating and I like knowing the reasons why certain foods are pro-inflammatory and others are anti-inflammatory.

I've been eating according to what I'm reading--and my body and brain feel better already.

Putting Out the Fire--with a correction, thanks to Joy

According to this book, The Inflammation Syndrome, most diseases start with inflammation.  We all have different triggers--pollens, foods, injuries, infections, etc.

The good news is that once we identify our triggers, we can reverse some if not all of the inflammation.  While there's no one dietary recommendation that fits for everyone, the author suggests drinking lots of water and green tea, eating five servings of fruit a day,  cold water wild salmon rather than farmed salmon,  grass-fed instead of grain-fed meats.  I'm on it!

We also have to avoid neurotoxins--sugar for most people, artificial sweeteners, gluten for some.  Natural Grocery has a person on staff who's giving me a one-on-one nutritional consult in the morning and I'm working at the moment on cultivating a taste for kefir with blueberries and almonds, resolving to break the Diet Coke habit.

Pain is a wake-up call.   For all who haven't hit the chronic inflammation stage, it's never too early to start taking preventative measures to put out the fire before it manifests in aches and pains.

Outlaw Kitchen

When I returned Pam's suitcase for his trip to Colorado, Alison came in and told us that tonight was the soft opening of the Outlaw Kitchen, Magnolia and Flores Street.

The chef has worked all over the world and his wife remodels old houses--so this place is a blending of their talents and dreams.  We decided to drive the few blocks from Pam's house and get take-out, and it was delicious.  The vegetables and herbs come from their backyard garden.

They serve one meal each night they are open, no choices, and there's limited space for seating in the half of their house they have turned into Outlaw Kitchen.  You might want to check online or call ahead to find out what nights they are open, but I think it may be Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

You can also buy frozen meals and homemade condiments.  I brought home a jar of chow-chow.

Happy Labor Day, Everybody!

For the past three days, Jan and I both have had big flares of whatever we have.  "Maybe we should move to Connecticut!" she suggested this morning.

Mine is CREST--an autoimmune disorder I often call Fibro for shortcut.  My fingers swell and turn red and I ache all over.  It's hard to make plans because I never know when it's going to flare.  So I went to Natural Grocery this morning and bought a book called The Inflammation Syndrome and am turning off the phone and going into study mode for the rest of the day.

After the summer school project of decorating--which has been its own kind of school with my work partner Edward--I'm turning now to fitness school. Fortunately, mine is not every day, but after three days of pain, I'm ready to do whatever it takes to claim more pain-free days.

A story by Day Leary

Day--her first teaching day this year.

Juan is an eighteen year old boy with cerebral palsy.  He rides in a wheelchair, sometimes with his hands held still by velcro straps.  He turns his head sharply to the left when he speaks, and as he prepares his ideas, he jerks and unintentionally “dances” as though at a punk rock club.  They told me at the beginning of the year that I may never see him smile, that he is mentally incredibly ON while every second his body betrays him.

But when he is still, and when you take the time to sit receptively as he passes through the jaws of constant and exhausting movement, you see his eyes.  They are deep brown, full of light.

I met Juan just one week ago on the first day of school.  I am high school English teacher who also gets to teach public speaking.  Juan is a member of that class.  Today, I called on him to do Table Topics, a type of speech where students speak extemporaneously as they answer a question posed to them.  I already knew Juan loves the DC and Marvel multiverses, so I asked him, “Juan, are you ready to try a speech?”  

“Yes,” he answered with a spark in his eye.

“Who is your favorite superhero?”

The class is a true mix: a few superstar athletes, a few academic high-achievers, some English language learners, a few kids with special physical and intellectual needs.  Some of the students are shy, but incredibly brave, others loud and incredibly eager.  Our school is a unique place, a hidden gem of compassion in a world where it sometimes feel like people have forgotten the word even exists.  Ours is a place where our physically and intellectually challenged students play an active role in classes and in school events.  Last year our prom king and queen, elected by the student body, both had special needs.  So, as Juan was pushed to the front of the room, the rest of the class waited, genuinely interested in hearing the answer to his question.

Here is his speech:

“My favorite superhero is Superman.”  We all leaned forward to hear him better.  Juan drew his legs in and out, pounding on his wheelchair, a loud clanging filling the room.  “I like him because he is an alien who comes from another planet…” Another pause as Juan’s neck jerked his head so he was facing the ceiling.  We all waited with quiet attention.  “He came here only to help people.”  Another long pause, Juan’s face contorting and tongue freezing up for countable seconds.   “He is a good man, but some people think he is a monster.”  A shorter pause this time.  “I can relate.”

There was an audible intake of breath from the class and then they erupted into applause, one of the varsity athletes even yelling, “Way to go, Juan!”  

And for the first time, the boy they told me may never ever smile in class did.

Day Leary

Teacher

English Department Chairperson

“Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.”

--Theodore Roosevelt

Colombia in San Antonio

I spent my first day back with the totally engaging telenovela, La Esclava Blanca.  It's so long I'm still not even halfway through.  The colors, photography, houses, and wardrobes are so vivid I'd compare it more to a stage production than a realistic rendering of the times and people of 19th century Colombia.  Scene after scene is like a painting, some of my favorites being the ones in which people are shopping in the market place, the slave women gorgeous in their multi-colored turbans and dresses.

The pacing is slow--which I've enjoyed.  Sometimes there are illogical issues--like how did the lawyers transport an entire legal library to the town when they only traveled in a small carriage? like how do these slaves look so beautiful in their attire after working all day in the fields?--but the story isn't marred by those details when you appreciate the genre for what it is.  It's a series I'm hooked on.  Thanks, Gerlinde!

Contemplative in Connecticut

Jan and I just returned from a birthday-for-Jan trip to Connecticut to visit friends.  The weather and meals and hospitality were wonderful, as were clear skies, birds, boats, and conversation.  Here I am on the boat in the Long Island Sound soaking up salty air and a vista that included a blurry distant skyline of Manhattan in the distance.  We loved it!

We did NIA outside--a first for me:

From the sky, from the water, and on the land, New England is always one of my favorite places to visit, and this trip was beautifully memorable.

FLYING INTO NEW YORK