So what journey will I be on this year? To what star am I oriented? What draws me?
This is how T.S. Eliot saw it, this journey:
"A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The was deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter." And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we lead all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death."
In quotations, looking back. I am always struck by the idea that the writer is coming to terms with the similarity of Birth and Death. Not simply accepting that they are opposites, but rather possibly intertwined experiences.
And that after a birth, or a death, the world is just not the same any more. There is no longer any "ease here, in the old dispensation" and I find that very apt.
This is what Yeats has to say on the same subject:
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
Somehow I think Yeats is onto something visceral for us Moderns. Unsatisfied as we are by Calvary's turbulence, we return always to the uncontrollable mystery of the stable and the birth. Is it that we seek a do-over? Could we do it better?
I love this time of year. Contemplation of The Magi, Epiphany and the idea that I too get to travel forward toward a star. Visible if I have eyes to see. Guided by some hand, some light. Purpose.
Amazing how the time flies when I'm just focused on the day I'm in ... and squeezing all the goodness out of each waking moment.
It's kind of been like that.
Soaking up the presence of my kids. I have to say that all three girls really seem so settled in to their skins, and at peace with being grown. Its not that they are all "mature" or anything ... ("I got the least" and "Why didn't I get a hoodie?" were heard around the Christmas tree) ... but as to their lives, their plans, their daily, quotidian selves.
So lucky am I. Are we.
Not a single day passed without a profound sense of gratitude invading my awareness.
Now that it's the end of the year, I plan to take the next two days and oscillate between reflecting on the days past and cramming in movies.
Today is Christmas Eve. Fifty one times I have experienced this day ... and for the first time in my memory as an adult I feel perfectly okay with the day. I'm not focused on tomorrow, I'm not focused on the gift-giving, or the family drama-du-jour, I'm not focused on what I haven't done, and I'm not focused on any fear at all.
My family is still pretty much the same, and it occurs to me dimly in the depths, that my ideas that it was "them" that were causing me all my problems may not have been all that insightful or true. Because today they just don't bother me that much. The level of irritation I feel is so small and so lacking in energy, it simply dissipates upon acknowledgment. I find that a minor miracle. It shows me I have some work to do in the new year - some reflection, journalling, meditation on the ideas I held as 'basic truths' and what may replace them. But that is for the new year.
Today is about the waiting. And even though this will be busy with food preparation, last minute this-and-that, watching my grown kids play Wii and will finish off with me trying to stuff too much into the stockings, I feel drawn to the simple act of waiting.
One of my most favorite quotes from TS Eliot comes to mind: "And I said to my soul be still. Wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; Wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; There is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not yet ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."
(from East Coker)
I offer that to any invisible reader. But mostly for myself, a piece to ponder. And maybe to come to know peace.
We have spent a few years making these beautiful lighted balls for our front yard during Christmas. Over the years we have enjoyed putting them up - they are quite beautiful. This year, about two weeks ago we put up eleven of them. All different colors and sizes.
Last night as I was driving home I noticed something very odd - only six were lit.
I pulled my car into the yard and there were five empty cords hanging from the trees.
Some Grinch Bastard(s) stole our LIGHTS! Out of my yard!!
We've been enjoying the most delicious salads every day. And greens cooked into fritatas and soups. Our cabbages are just about ready for some awesome Korean wraps, and our carrots should be just about perfect for the New Year. Our Myer Lemon tree is laden with bright yellow fruits, and we've eaten almost all of our Satsumas.
About a year ago I was interviewed by an author who was working on a book about the science of fear. He was reconciling, or dealing with, the subjective perception by the person as well as the science of the body.
I have no idea what the book actually says, but Jeff was a terrific guy and I enjoyed talking to him. We spent a few hours discussing Panic, Anxiety and ways the non-professional, regular-Joe sort of person deals with Panic and Anxiety and how it affects our life and our bodies.
Some folks may want to take a look. (He tells me in a note that I'm "the star of Chapter 5" - I hope that is a good thing!)
Spending the first week of Advent away at a retreat is a kind of three dimensional experience .... like the kind created in those virtual roller coasters. Yet there is nothing virtual about it. The darkness, the waiting, the sense of something about to happen. It is real. So I'm quite fortunate that I could take a few days this week and go do that - go wait.
Here are some thoughts from my time.
Humility – pulling up to a Monastery and choosing to simplify my life for a few days was scary last year, and yet this year felt like a welcome relief. I have a tendency to pile things on my plate, to add mischief and misery to a life that is pretty well blessed. I work hard, I volunteer, I read, I write, I do art, I decorate for Christmas, I spend a lot of time with my family …and I sometimes get all of it tangled up into a big ball of nonsense.
The humility comes in the recognition that I can simply let it go. I do not have to struggle with the knots and the tangles.
Walking up the wet, brick steps and seeing the potted herbs by the door and the fat black-and-white cats lolling on the porch, I know that “it” is not as complicated as I sometimes believe.
Serenity – there is the sound of cars in the far distance. The way you can hear them hum along a road through the winter air. And yet the trees, standing stark and still in the yard bring me back from humming automobiles to a place of serenity. If I choose to see and hear, I can look at a crimson oak leaf stick to the slate and form a picture perfect outline of a life lived out to its full extent. I can hear a faint plop of an old rain drop fall finally from the eave onto the ground next to the church. I can hear the sound of my own breath, quietly in my mouth. I can stop. Fully. And even though I am hurtling through the atmosphere thousands of miles an hour while spinning at a rapid rate, I feel a stillness that can be felt anywhere. If I just choose.
Again, the humility because I do not have to judge my inability to do this in the hustle of my daily life. I’m just grateful that I can find it anywhere.
Gratitude – I think there is something about serenity and humility that leads me naturally to gratitude. And vice versa. Gratitude brings me to the center of stillness because I cannot be grateful and agitated at the same time. Maybe come can. God bless them. I, however, have to forego the agitation in order to be thankful for what I have and what abundance my life is made of.
Rhythm – natural rhythms are not easy to hear, to feel and to live by. I have set myself up to live by the clock, by mealtimes, by “oh-my-god-its-11-oclock-I-have-to-go-to-sleep” and other fairy tales.
Yet, when I take the time out, and simplify my life, I find that even I – complicated I – can tune into natural rhythms feeling tired and feeling energized, feeling hungry, feeling full in ways that are sustainable and intimate. Taking the time, to set aside the ‘other stuff’ and rest awhile, I find that there is an easy intimacy with myself. There really isn’t a lot of judgment or chaos. I can feel the chill in the air, I can feel a laugh start deep in my abdomen, I can yearn for the touch of my husbands hand on my cheek. And I can recognize these as parts of me. And my rhythm.
Love. Another story. Being written, being told, being born. Not the pink hearts and candy kind. But the stuff of life and death. And its big. Another story.
More Panic Stuff... re-read a journal entry from ten months ago:
"I went to a shrink today – been having a few panic symptoms on the edge of my life. Rather than waiting till (or to see if) it gets all huge and center I decided to go have a talk about it.
It was nice seeing him again – it’s been two years. Life is good and we chatted. With about 15 minutes to go we spoke of the anxiety. He surmised that maybe I’m ready to put myself out there – writing, painting, school, whatever – and that maybe that frightens me. Makes me quake.
So I am thinking about that. It sure seems trite. SURELY I’m not that trite. Surely not!
Hmmmm. So I will write. And dig out the book and the stories that need revision. And open the blinds in the little studio room. And get the blankets off of the easel.
At least I still have a bottle of Xanax if I need it. :)
I think I’ll use this blog for my stories and my fiction. Just to see what it looks like. And write thoughts and rants and journal entries elsewhere.
(This is what I do – organize myself out of creating anything)"
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think today in hard words, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said today. —Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist and poet, Self-Reliance, 1841
I love this quote. Even though I do get some small comfort from consistency myself, I find that it is a foolish comfort most of the time.
This bit from Emerson comes up for me today because there is a person on the periphery of my life who is consistently, and I mean one hundred percent, consistently negative and insulting. It’s amazing.
Hurtful at first. Then, not so much. So consistent are the insults that I can do little more than laugh now. So predictable. So shallow. So small-minded. And he thinks he’s very suave and sophisticated. He fancies himself quite the poet and storyteller and general life-guru. And yet his remarks to me could be computer generated.
I’m amazed that I could be hurt by people so easily when I was younger. When there was a need for them and their approval. It was a tough time, to be so needy, to be so vulnerable.
Life and experience and time seem to have converged to not so much protect me from people who want to hurt, but simply to give me a different plane to experience it on. Something deeper, something that moves quicker, farther, faster. I don’t wallow in or feel the sting. Oh I know there are people who can smash me. But I doubt anyone can simply throw a dart, or hurl an insult, and get the reaction they want (and need?) any more.
Doesn’t stop some from trying – which is, in itself, another story and one I may find worth exploring.
Knees pressing, back stretching, shoulders pulling, hands reaching deeply into the damp earth, she begins the garden early, early in the day. There is a lightening of the sky, but no sun yet. Birds tentatively chirp and chit and cluck as they test their tongues for the task ahead. Dawn will break soon, and the earth will move into a new day.
Turning the soil over in her hands, and watching the clumps dissolve; kneading the dirt like a luscious loaf of bread to be baked, this has become her ritual for gardening. The soil releases a smell of dank, earthy, richness that she can’t remember smelling anywhere else although she has walked this earth nearly 87 years. Only down on her knees, now-gnarled hands working the soil personally, intimately, this is how the special smell releases its aroma.
The garden gets smaller and smaller. She realized that a few years ago. It was unconscious for a long time, leaving off a row here, a section there. Stopping when she got tired, there was a little extra room for scattering sunflower seeds, or putting in a few stones, or just letting the grass reach a few new tendrils. Then around her birthday, what was it? three years? four years ago? She realized she just got tired a lot earlier, and wasn’t making the garden as big. She was shocked at first, that she could have fooled herself for so long. So proud that she was able to garden when so many of her friends were either dead or in wheelchairs.
Ah, the pride that goes before a fall. She is glad to know, now, that her garden diminishes with passing time. Her garden, her gardening, has a natural life and rhythm. She doesn’t have to think about it, or worry about it, or fret. She can simply reach down, and turn the soil. Now and then her thoughts wander and she can see the tiniest of garden patches. Maybe just a few feet. Of turned soil. Where she will rest. For eternity.
Here's my Writing Prompt for this week. I'm going to post my results here.
Planting Seeds, Tending Gardens.
These can be literal, actual seeds and gardens or metaphorical ones planed in our minds, our hearts or our souls. Spend some time thinking about these prompts. Plant them! See what grows!
* Write about being transplanted. * Write about a seed that was planted. * The sending down of roots. * Turning the soil. * Write about scattering seeds. * Everything is green...
(taken from "The Writer's Retreat" by Judy Reeves)
Let's try something new this week. Instead of setting a timer let's write three times. It may be that we write three sentences at three different times. Or we write three paragraphs. Or we may use three different prompts on three different occasions. But sit down three separate times and use one or more prompts. Don't concern yourself with output, with length, and don't apologize!!!
These are your words, and this is your breath and your life!! There is space here - for whatever you write!!
----------------- For Further Writing ---------------
If you'd like to do something else try this (from Elizabeth Ayres' "Writing the Wave"):
Set your timer for five minutes. During that time make a list of all the words you love. No editing, no analyzing, no judging ... you can love the word for its meaning, for its sound, for its context, for any reason at all! Just make a list of as many words as you can think of that you love. You can use Names if you like.
Once you're done - choose four. And on a new sheet of paper make four columns headed by each of these words.
Now, rhyme and nonsense come into the mix! Write down ten words that rhyme with or grow out of rhyming with your words.
Here is an Example:
Zipper
clipper nipper nip purr sir stir flur flurry hurry scurry
When you're done and you have four columns of nonsensical, but related, words ... see if a story line or idea jumps out.
Set your timer for 5 minutes and see if you can jot down a few ideas for a silly story, or a serious one. A short story, or a child's verse, or a conversation in a larger work. Something small, something contained ... something like a seed!
In remembrance for, and solidarity with, young people who feel so alone and so despairing that they use something sharper on their wrists.
In some small way I want someone somewhere to know that the world actually does have a place for them, so I write LOVE on both wrists, wear short sleeves and go out all day doing my life.
Last year I went up into Georgia to a Cistercian Monastery for a week long retreat. They were quiet, I was fairly quiet. It was an incredible week, and I've been back a few times since.
In fact, I'm going up again on November 30. When I'm up there I get to do some writing, talking and general palling around with Fr. James Behrens. He used to be a Parish Priest in New Jersey. Then about 10 years ago he decided to join the monastery. I have no idea why.
Fr. James does many things -- he works in the Bonsai garden, he is a huge part of the Christmas shipping frenzy, he works as in the Retreat House, he takes pictures, and he writes. In addition to his Monkly duties of round-the-clock prayer. He has a great affinity for Bob Dylan and we agree on almost all things political.
Here is an essay he recently wrote and it won an award from the Catholic Press Association. Not hard to see why.
Tinker And Augustine
FATHER JAMES S. BEHRENS, OCSO, Commentary
Published: November 9, 2006
There is a window in this room where I write, and it offers a generous view of the sky. Last week I was here and paused for a moment and looked at the sky. It was beautiful. The sun, which I could not see, was setting in the west, and the sky was a brilliant blaze of orange, brown and red. There were clouds that seemed like huge brushes in that they rose high, spreading colors in vast and marvelous patterns. The cross on our water tower was part of the scene.
I got up and picked up my camera and walked over to the window and took some pictures. They came out quite well, even though I did not adjust the camera to any special settings. I noticed movement in the distance, below me and near the garage. It was Augustine, taking his customary early evening stroll. He was too far away to photograph so I watched him, occasionally looking again at the sky and its beauty far above us both.
Tinky, short for Tinker Bell, is a cat whose usual night residence is the garage. Some days she gets locked out and lounges in front of the garage door. Augustine saw her and reached down and picked her up and cradled her in his right arm. He used his left hand to reach into his pocket for the key to the garage door. It looked as if he lowered his head and talked to Tinky, perhaps chiding her for being locked out again. He opened the door and let Tinky slip out of his arm, shut the door and then proceeded on his way. The scene was surely a simple one, but something about it moved me deeply and made me think about a lot of things.
Cats do not know that they are lost or locked out of a place where they are safe. I suppose that there is some sort of “cat awareness” as to their being out of place and in need of help—a few meows, though, is the best they can manage as far as a language of the lost. It is a good stroke of fortune when a passerby notices the plight of a small and lost creature and lifts it up and gently carries it to safety.
The sky was gorgeous that early evening. Many would rightfully say that such beauty is a gift from God, though others would look at the same sky and marvel at the wonders of nature, leaving God’s palate out of the picture. Either way, the sky offers its beauty to those who appreciate it.
And what about the picking up of a locked-out cat?
As a species, we humans are lost and seemingly locked out of a place that is warm and safe, a place that is secured from violence. Stranded as we are in a dark and strange place, we are prone to strike out violently in ways that seem far from any redemptive solution. Whatever progress there is toward peace seems to be far outpaced by a deeper need to ensure terror. Whatever peace might be, a reading of the activity of any day in any part of the world places peace at a very low realm in human priorities. Its promise is devoured over and over again.
It seems that we are left with taking life one step at a time, walking as we do through a small space in life. In Augustine’s case, he reached down and helped a creature that had no resources to help herself. And so he was kind.
I do not think we have the resources, either, to find that safe place.
But I believe in the kindness of God, who seemingly hides behind the beauty of late summer sky, or perhaps adorns himself in the colors of the setting sun. We will never know for sure—until he comes again and reaches down and picks us up in his arms and carries us to a better place. I believe he will come.
Meanwhile, a monk takes pity and helps one who is lost.
I do not know why the sky is so beautiful—and why it does not last forever. I have a picture, and it will fade in time. But there will always be colors and brilliance.
I like to think that the simple gesture of Augustine is as lasting and as important as the panorama of sky and color. After all, Jesus told us to keep an eye on the simple and seemingly unnoticed. Great things, he said, live as hidden in the simple and the lowly. It is all any of us have to watch for and to attend—till the time that God reaches down and helps us rise.
What or who is God? I do not know of any special settings to find and keep him.
The sky is silent in its beauty. The cross atop our water tower has never uttered a word. If God is far, perhaps his voice is close—like all the light we can ever know, or when a man bends down and picks up a Tinker who is lost.
Father James Stephen Behrens, OCSO, is a monk at the Monastery of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit in Conyers. He is the author of “Grace Is Everywhere: Reflections of an Aspiring Monk,” which is available at the monastery Web store at www.trappist.net.
You can read the article online at: http://www.georgiabulletin.org/local/2006/11/09/augustine/
Looking back from here - I can see a real path to health.
Even though I didn’t always have a name for it, anxiety has always been a part of my personality. I was “the sensitive one,” or I was always being “too thin-skinned.” I grew up in a large, noisy family and while there was a lot of love there was also a lot of violence.
At least it was violence to me.
See, since I’ve grown up and spent years in trying to make sense of my life I realize that people (even people in the same family) have vastly different perspectives on things. I thought I was “just normal” – but it wasn’t until years later, after a lot of pain and suffering, that I realized I was just normal for me!! And that other people had totally different reactions and opinions of how the world works.
I am sensitive. And intuitive. I understand people and I can make a quick read of situations and often sort them out before most people realize things are off track. It’s like I have a set of finely tuned antennae! Well, as a child this led to a pretty anxious life. I was always aware of what was going to get my siblings in trouble, when my dad or mom was angry and how neighborhood rivalries were heating up.
To everyone around me it was just life. To me it was like there was a war looming – all the time. And it was up to me to prevent it.
So I spent a lifetime of taking on responsibilities that weren’t mine. Piling things on my plate, setting goals and tasks that had to be met to avert disaster. And not just disaster for me - but disaster for others, too. I got into the habit of living like this. My body and mind were set on ever-alert. And I adjusted to this as “normal.”
I grew up, had regular ups and downs in life, and graduated from college and got a job. Then I got married and had three kids in three years. And with the birth of my third daughter (when I was 30) my two teenaged step-children came to live with us full time. It was like someone turned the volume up on my anxiety to a LOUD, THROBBING maximum!! All of a sudden I was responsible for five kids, a house to run, a husband, animals, and all the rest of my family as well (parents, sibs,etc). I had to deal with an ex-wife, alcohol, high school, driving and loud rock music as well as babies learning how to walk, potty training and all the intricacies of toddler’s lives.
Oh – and did I mention that when I was pregnant with my third child my husband was diagnosed with cancer? Yep, and we spent 3 months at a hospital 2 ½ hours from home with me driving back and forth every other day. Luckily he recovered.
But one day while driving the three little ones home from some outing I had a full-blown panic attack. Totally "out of the blue." I thought I was dying of a heart attack! I pulled the car over and as more scared than I had ever been in my life. After about 10 minutes it passed. I had no idea what it was. I had never heard of Panic or Anxiety as a disorder – just as something that happened to people in certain situations. This was NOT a stressful situation so something MUST be wrong with me. Terribly, terribly wrong.
I had a Panic Attack about every day for a month and finally went to the doctor. He gave me a battery of tests and said I was fine. Healthy. I went home, not quite believing him. Then I decided I must have diabetes. Went for a whole work up on that. Nope, no diabetes. Brain tumor – that must be it. Went back and got an MRI. No, no brain tumor.
Then one night at dinner I semi-choked on a piece of bread. It scared the crap out of me. I began to obsess that I could not swallow without choking and this led to the most bizarre time period– I only ate in public places, and often at the hospital cafeteria because I was so SURE I was going to choke and I wanted people trained in the Heimlich maneuver to be nearby! Crazy!!!! I thought it was very smart on my part!
Finally, finally my doctor sat me down and explained Panic and Anxiety Disorders. We talked about all the feelings I was having – the hypersensitive mind, the racing thoughts,the irregular heartbeats, the obsession with health, the pain in my chest and head. He explained that Panic and Anxiety Disorders are unique to the person, that they manifest in different ways but that there is nothing physically wrong with me – that I am truly healthy and okay. He prescribed Xanax for when it got out of hand, and suggested that I start therapy. When I look back at me at age 31 I am amazed at what I was dealing with! At the time, I really sincerely believed it was all "normal."
I found a terrific therapist. Over the next 8 years I had two other therapists as well. Things change and I learned that changing therapists is NOT a failure, but a continued advocacy on behalf of my recovery! Each one helped me with a different hurdle – I learned how I had taught myself to be on alert, how I had a learned response to stimuli and how to change my thinking. I learned about meditation and yoga and breathing exercises. I learned about Carl Jung and his approach to dreams and to the psyche – how each of us has our own path of individuation: becoming the individual we are meant to be. How suffering often starts us on the path. My years of studying Jungian psychology, and working with Jungian analysts has been rich, profound and beautiful. But it didn't "cure" me and I found myself with the symptoms of Clinical Depression.
At this point my therapist really recommended I try an anti-depressant. I resisted but eventually, because I trusted him, tried Effexor. Amazingly, it lifted the symptoms of depression and helped me find a sense of hope and possibility.
I also began going to workshops on Jungian topics - and I had the chance to learn about my own creativity. I began painting and drawing. I read books. My world sort of “opened up.” I became a nature person – taking walks, watching birds, growing flowers. I felt connected to the world. I felt a part of things. These are activities that were not looked down on in my home, but it just seemed there was never enough time to encourage anyone to sit still, to watch, to wonder or to create.
After 2 ½ years we decided I should try to wean off the Effexor – I did it super slow and never had a single side effect. I was willing to stay on it if I needed to, but somehow we had put together a program of recovery that allowed me to stay free of Depression.
I added massage therapy and acupuncture and found some great ways to support myself with compassion and care. I take care of my physical needs and recognize them as signals that I need to pay attention. For instance, my massage therapist helped me see that tensing up when I drive, and holding my hands the way I do contributes to the stiff and sore feeling I get in my left chest muscles, And all this time I thought it was my heart. These seeming simple and straightforward actions on my part had a real impact.
It has been YEARS since I’ve had a full blown Panic Attack. Sure, I get some generalized Anxiety and I do have a healthy respect for my fears and obsessions– I know they are there, But I do not feed them. I do not focus on them. Instead I keep my eyes on the possibilities and on the abundance in the world. I know that I can live a full and rich and rewarding life. I take a lot of classes, read a lot of books. I laugh a lot.
It has been a spiritual journey that started out because of crippling physical symptoms. Now I feel like my life is balanced and strong. I have learned about Panic and Anxiety. I understand it’s power and know that I don’t seek to be “cured” as much as I continue to be healed of the symptoms.
Reaching out to others helps me to stay focused on the positive and healing path. I continue to learn how to take care of myself, while also staying connected to others. I am not alone. I do not need to isolate and worry. If I find those things creeping into my day, I log on and share with someone. In my real life I pick up the phone and call someone. I go outside and take a walk. I draw. I paint. I sing. I dance.
This is my one life. I am determined to live it to the fullest.
(spoiler alerts as to the movie, but this is not a movie review)
Went to the movies to see the new Spike Jonze film, and was quite taken with the story adaptation as well as the beautiful costumes and the luscious scenery.If you don’t know the story, young Max is confronted with lots of changes in his life as his sister is growing up and getting new friends, and his mom is overworked and at the same time negotiating the dicey waters of dating while mothering.
Max is a creative and precious looking child, with an active imagination and a wonderfully buoyant lack of inhibitions.He dresses in a wolf suit, creates an igloo in the front yard, makes massive forts in his room and has islands of stacked books to protect himself, and his invited guests, from the lava flows.
But reality intrudes – dinner, adults, school, manners and worries.Max responds with energy and growls.Things escalate and he runs out the front door, through the neighbor’s yards, over a dilapidated fence and scrambles down a hill to the edge of the water.There he finds an abandoned boat and his real adventure begins.
The transition from reality to fantasy is tough on an adult.As I sat in the theater of course I thought of all the dangers that could befall a small boy in a beat-up boat on the water in a scary part of the world – New Jersey.But Max steers the boat, over a broad sea, through the night and a day and a night again to an island.Rough seas, rocky shore, thrashing waves, yet he’s able to steer the boat into shallow enough water that he can hop out and pull it to safety on the sand.
He sees a fire up on a promontory and he climbs up.It’s not an easy climb, and the shifting camera angles show the precariousness of his situation.Again, as an adult I can see the dangers and they would paralyze me, but Max simply stays alert and keeps going.Jonze perfectly captures the special kind of kid-courage that so many people have before age 10.
What Max finds is amazing.Large, powerful creatures with protruding noses, horns, sharp claws and vaguely familiar outlines.Supernaturally strong these creatures, The Wild Things, live in a community that is everything Max ever wanted.They have cleverly built huts or forts as homes, they have fires and they get to do whatever they want.They smash things, and bore holes and they can explore all day anywhere they want to go.And best of all they sleep all together in a real pile.
When Max arrives, there is a problem.It seems that one of their number is mad.I mean really, really mad.And because he’s mad he is smashing everyone’s hut.When a feeling of anger, or is it sadness, sweeps over him the monster smashes another fort.The others stand by and watch.The angry one becomes more and more isolated, and finally says “no one understands and no one cares so I’ll just be by myself” and this strikes a chord with Max.He leaps out of the bushes and joins in the destruction.
Without going into any more details of the movie I’ll just say that Max and Carol (played by James Gandolfini) and the other Wild Things bond, and build a communal fort, and go through some relationship changes that are pretty nuanced for a group of monsters and a small boy.They organize with Max as King and they have a terrific dirt-clod fight.
But in the end, Max decides to go home.And he sails back across the sea.And there are real emotions connected to this, and yet also smooth sailing and the movie comes to a close.And there is a satisfying click or thunk at the end as everything settles back into a place that is recognizable as home, family and “okayness.”
The thing that really struck me, that spurred me to sit down and write about it, is not so much the creativity and talent of Spike Jonze…but rather I know a Max.Really.A young man named Max.And I know that he has felt some of the same tumultuous emotions as the boy in the film.The Max that I know has also had difficulty with relationship and family changes, he has had great difficulty expressing himself and has often lost his temper and roared.I’m sure, although he’s never told me, that he has highly detailed inner worlds, peopled with wild things and these worlds collide and often find their way back with him as he tries to “come home.”
But Max, the Max I know, is not a cute little kid with a creative imagination.He is a 37 year old man with schizophrenia.He also has an older sister, and parents who divorced when he was young.He has a great love for his mother, but about fifteen years ago she could no longer deal with the strains and the pressures of his physicality and his illness.So he came to live with his father.And that’s how I met him.So there they are, two guys, living together doing the best they can.And Max, he has some serious issues with navigating life’s rocky shores.
He has a very wooly beard and long, scraggly hair.He’s not fond of baths or showers.He doesn’t like to clip his nails.He has a fondness for camouflage and other army cast off clothing, with all the pockets bulging.What’s in the pockets?Rocks.Feathers.String.A CD player.A can of Dr. Pepper. Bits of glass.Small books.Max smells bad.His eyes dart around and he doesn’t have a clear idea of all those assumed personal-space boundaries we’re all so fond of.In fact he’ll walk right up to me and stick his hand out and start talking about the last visit he had with his mom in Oregon while pumping my hand vigorously up and down and then immediately launch into a series of rapid-fire questions about the rings of Saturn and the craters of the moon.
I’ve learned to just float along with Max, and nod and smile and poke a word in edgewise every now and then.Abruptly he will turn and move on to someone else, or he’ll fling himself on the ground to look for bugs.
In a 9 year old it’s adorable, cute and charming.In a 37 year old it is awkward and, to many, scary.
I know Max is not dangerous.I know he loves his dad and his mom and in fact, I’m pretty sure he loves me too.He enjoys calling people on his birthday to tell us it is his birthday and give us the chance to wish him many happy returns of the day.I mean, how can you not like that?I don’t have to worry about hurting his feelings because I’ve forgotten his birthday – he decided it is HIS birthday so he calls and lets me know.There is a beautiful kind of personal responsibility in there somewhere.
But at the end of the movie I’m left with a deep sadness.Cute little Max in the movie makes it home, has some soup and a piece of chocolate cake and he probably grows up to be a successful children’s book author.Good story.Good movie.We’re all comfortable.Enjoyed the trip to Where The Wild Things Are.
But the Max I know?There doesn’t seem to be a boat ride “home.”He is a citizen of that world and at the same time he is also a citizen of ours.He cannot work, he has no health care, and he scares the shit out of people that he meets.He is of age and sometimes he just takes off and he will be gone for weeks at a time…living on the streets, eating out of dumpsters, sleeping in dangerous open spaces.His dad worries.His dad’s friends worry.But the world – it is a place of rocks, thrashing waves and strange creatures.
So far, he has found his way back to his dad’s house.Sometimes that’s after a few nights in jail, just for being Max.No charges, no crimes, just a scary dude who roars and is a bit dirty and smelly.He’s a wild thing right here in our midst.And, one thing that Carol says, in James Gandolfini’s inimitable voice, comes back to haunt me as I ponder this:“the island is shrinking … its going from forests to rocks to sand then to dust… I don’t know what comes after dust.”
As Max’s dad gets older, and so does Max, I think to myself the island is shrinking.
The garden is officially thriving! We got the seedlings in the ground about a week ago, and with our current cold snap the little buggers seem to be settling in for a great winter growth-fest.
We have four different lettuces, carrots (both orange and purple) and a variety of herbs including sage, rosemary, marjoram, parsley, mint and lemongrass. I recently discovered Lemon Basil and am hoping to get some of those in as well. In the other area we have Cabbage, Kale, Chard, Collards. I'm not sure when the Broccoli is going in, but soon. Now that we have the basic plots organized and planted, we can fill in with the experiments.
I want some of those little baby fingerling potatoes.
So far the birds seem to love the garden - I imagine there are quite a few bugs and worms that have been turned up with all the tilling and planting. We haven't seen any rabbits or deer yet. I bet they are just waiting for the lettuce to get a little more robust. I have to say it does my heart good to look out the window and see the possibilities of fruits of our labor. Every time I take another Aleve I remind myself of that.
We have a real penchant for Wagner's Ring Cycle. Whenever we can, we find a performance of it somewhere and go there -- spending a week reveling in music, drama, timeless archetypes and rubbing elbows with fellow crazies.
This past summer we took our three daughters to Seattle to partake of The Seattle Opera Company's version of Der Ring des Niebelingen. It was fantastic! I mean, really. Fantastic!
And if you know anything about the Ring you probably know about Die Walkure : or The Valkyrie. Those 9 warrior daughters of Wotan who fly about the skies on winged horses singing Hojotojo and making fabulous music with "their" overture. Imagine our delight when our eldest daughter presented us with these three drawings upon our return home!
Sometimes I wish I could take credit for the creativity and absolute fabulousness of my kids. Other times I just revel in their existence!
I got an email yesterday from a colleague of my husband... who is a lawyer in New York, and quite politically conservative. In fact, I'd have to say that we're about on opposite ends of the spectrum ... although I do think I'm more reasonable than he is, but that's just me.
Anyway, he sent me this link to an article in the Washington Times. I don't know, but I think this is a pretty conservative "paper" ... is it even a real paper? So I looked it up... hmmm, it was started by The Rev. Sun Myung Moon. I remember him! This will probably not turn into one of my trusted sites ... but I gave the article a look anyway.
Turns out it is a discussion about an elderly couple in Texas who were busted by Homeland Security for ... growing orchids. And the man, George Norris, actually served two years in jail for not having proper documentation... for his orchids.
"The outrage. The nerve. How dare they?" These are the kinds of allegations leveled at the Obama Administration through this articles journey around the Internet. "Look at what Obama is doing" that's how the email found it's way to me.
If, however, you actually read the article you find that this arrest and imprisonment took place in 2004. Yeah. 2004. Right smack in the middle of the Administration of George W. Bush. And Dick Cheney.
I continue to be amazed at the irony and the lack of appreciation of said irony in the use of Bush-era tactics and procedures to attack Obama. I mean, there are plenty of things Obama is (not) doing that I can argue with -- FISA, Executive Privilege, Health Care.
I have no interest in hero-worship or some fantasy of perfection in our current President. But I do find it kind of funny (not ha-ha) that the twisted logic of some of these Conservatives I know, seems kind of sinister in that they play right to the ignorance and gullibility of their fellows.
Probably ought to file this in "Whatever" ... but the idea that Homeland Security was (or is?) out there doing this crap is ominous, and creepy. So I think I'll file it under Cheney.
This beautiful, talented young woman died recently ... and our hearts are still broken.
I watched her grow up. Not within the deeply grieving inner circle that is her large and loving family ... but as someone whose child knew her, and we had her over to our house many times, and we shared many hours together at barns and horse shows around the Southeast.
She was always cheerful, one of those people that makes you smile just to look at. She had an infectious sense of humor, and a naturally sunny disposition. This came in handy when dealing with horses - I would watch my daughter bubble over with frustration and anger ... and invariably Lawson would interject something funny, some understanding commiseration and always some encouragement.
The politics of horses flowed over her (and her mother) with ease and so they were friends to everyone, enemy to none.
Her death was a shock ... is a shock ... and we still reel from it when it inevitably crosses our minds and hearts throughout the day.
I recently looked at the page on our local paper and was absolutely DISGUSTED by the comments left .... good god, what a heartless bunch of yahoos that have access to a computer.
I just wanted to include this picture, and to make a space for this incredibly beautiful and sweet young woman to be remembered.
A much misunderstood fruit, especially by me, the persimmon is actually gorgeous and tasty. We have a mature tree growing in our backyard, and now is the time of year where the hard green fruits begin to ripen.
They do so over the course of a few weeks, slowly turning from green to a pale yellowish to a warm lemony yellow and then they begin to blush. That's where they are right now (and I'm afraid my photo does NO justice to them). The blush will increase over the next few weeks until the tree is filled with bright red, sweet and juicy persimmons. The raccoons love them. So do the squirrels and the Baltimore Orioles. And the little 3 year old daughter of our gardener friends.
Me. I keep thinking they will taste bitter. Or weird. And God forbid I should eat anything "weird." (You can insert an eyeroll here)
Today is also the day that my husband is going for a chest x-ray. He smokes 3 packs a day, and these check-ups frighten me.
So we're breaking ground and hauling in more ground. Manure too. We've been moving rocks around and peeling up grass and replanting it. I'm amazed at what one can do to a yard when you have someone around who knows what they're doing.
As opposed to me just digging and yelling and bossing people around. We are putting in lots of lettuce, because it actually grows really well here. And kale, chard, collards and turnips. We're also putting in fennel, garlic, mint and lemongrass. We had to move the world's best rosemary plant - but I'm assured it will survive. Around December we'll put in the roots - carrots and beets and I'm pushing for some of those little potatoes. We'll also have broccoli and cauliflower.
And deer. I imagine we'll have lots and lots of deer. I wouldn't mind rabbits either.
Pretty amazing.... to be able to spend a weekend with your grown kids... celebrating the 21st birthday of your youngest... and to be overwhelmed with gratitude and love.
What a world.
(left to right: Molly (23), Anna (21 for one more month), Susan(just 21)
liminal |ˈlimənl| adjective 1 of or relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process. 2 occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.
Maybe it seems odd to think of one's daily life as a constantly occupying a threshold space, or that it is always transitional. But for me, today, that works.
We are losing a young friend today. Her family has made the decision to discontinue life support (unless there is a miraculous change in status) and as a loving family group all surrounding Lawson in this moment, they will say goodbye. Liminal space.
Those of us outside that inner circle, who have loved this family and this girl at some point in our connected pasts also stand in awe of the tragic loss, and the hope for something else, and the visceral clutch of mortality in our own guts. Liminal space.
Saturday my youngest child turns 21. Our baby. A full grown adult. Parenting job done. Parenting job never done. Liminal space. This is our daughter Susan. Welcome her into the world of adults. Happy Birthday Susan, I couldn't be more proud of you.
I am sitting here in my house in a state of utter disbelief and shock.
A young woman, a friend of my daughter's, was admitted to the hospital yesterday with Meningitis. And now she is gone. Gone. I don't have any details - what good are they anyway? I feel muscles in my heart ripping apart.
This beautiful child was an absolute joy. She was strong. Intelligent. Funny. Gorgeous. Friendly. She rode horses with a strength and vigor that surprised people around the country. She was talented and unique.
I'm simply sobbing. I want to be able to write so much more and to write something that will matter, that will grab bits and pieces of who she was before they are gone ....
I see her standing in my house in the middle of the night at a slumber party, coming up with tricks and games and feeling so totally at home that she made me feel even more at home in my own home....
Yesterday my daughter and I were sitting on our back porch reading. It was about 4:30 pm and the day was one of those fall days that really wants to be a summer day - it was muggy, hot and taking a long time to be over. The sun was bright and out of the edge of my awareness I saw some shadows moving across the ground.
Looking up from our books we noticed a flock of Grackles swooping into the trees at the edge of the woods ... about 500 feet behind our house. The flock kept coming, and coming, and coming. They swarmed into the water oaks and magnolias. They flew right into the pines and sycamores and pecan. They swooped into the bird feeders and down at the pond and onto the bird baths. And they kept coming and coming and coming. They swayed on the flimsy leaves of the bay tree, and perched on the rosemary bush.
(Fortunately, my daughter has never seen Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" so she was enrapt; I was leery.)
I snuck quietly, stealthily into the kitchen to get my camera. The birds didn't seem to interested in my movements. But the ones in the yard did flutter up into some trees. Too bad my camera couldn't really catch the view of these trees simply filled up with large black birds! The whole experience lasted about 45 minutes as they absolutely stripped my feeders of all the seed, and emptied the bird baths of water.
It's funny, I don't normally like Grackles. They're loud and noisy. They are messy. They chase off the other birds. The don't make beautiful songs (at least not at my house) and they've got this rather creepy, intense yellow eye in their dark head that gives me the impression that they not only see me but they also know what I'm thinking. It's very weird. But when they swoop in with such large numbers, and grace me with their presence, well, I feel compelled to like them a little bit.
And it turns out, it's not so hard to do.
(p.s. if you click on the photos they get larger and you can see that eerie yellow eye!)
is it still possible? Honestly, I feel like the only way to keep my head going in a positive direction is to drop out of most contact with other people.
That just can't be right.
But what the heck is going on? Why are people so filled with hate, so angry and so wrong? I mean, I'm not one to make anyone have to agree with me, and I'm pretty tolerant for lots of different views. But to just spew evil and hatred and regurgitate someone else's spew ...what's up with that? What's creative about it? What is the benefit for the one doing it? Do I even want to know?
Saw this on a board today "Why does Obama Hate Poor People?" and it was a rant about putting a tariff on Chinese tires. I googled that phrase and came up with three websites with the same title and same rant. So is it a Borg-like mentality of simply soaking the Internet with the same stuff day after day to make people think it is something like a majority?
Blech.
I've really got to take a time out and just get into my own space, and write and deal with the birds and figure out my southern-winter garden. We're putting in some luscious loamy dirt this week, and planting soon. I'm thinking of renting a beach house I love on the Gulf and maybe doing it for a week every other month til I get some actual words on paper. This is the view from the front porch.
I have a great house myself, and don't necessarily need to "get away" from my home ... but there is no wireless Internet there, and I probably have lost my patience for dial-up so it would be some enforced time away from all the distractions. I've done some writing there before, and it is so peaceful.
I'm going to think positively about this - and see when it's available.
For a sunny, end-of-summer Saturday it's been busy around here. Feeding the birds, taking a long walk, a full hour of morning meditation before the sun came up. And then pizza.
I think pizza fits in nicely when things are so simple and pleasurable and all the senses are engaged and you have an extra 40 minutes to spare before lunch.
I used the pizza dough recipe from "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" which is pretty darn easy, and very tasty.
Today I started out by browning some Vidalia onions in olive oil, and then a cup of a variety of mushrooms (portabello, oyster, white button) and while that was cooling I spread some fresh marinara sauce over the rolled out dough. Then I chopped up some left-over broccoli and spread that around. Sliced some tomatoes from the Farmer's Market and layered them all over. I 'grated' some fresh cheese (made locally) and scattered that. It was a bit soft so they were kind of clumps but ended up being just the right taste.
Put the whole thing in the oven for 20 minutes and then enjoyed one of the best pizzas ever!!
Delicious!
I have been so pissed off by the ridiculous "outrage" about President Obama's school speech that if I'm not careful I can let it ruin my day. Getting my hands on some dough, slicing onions, mushing fresh cheese through a grater all help me get back to the things that are real, that really matter, and that I can actually do something about.
Sitting down at the table with my husband and my youngest kid and enjoying a delicious pizza together .... THAT is really what my life is about.
Oh you know the old saw "People never really change" and all that. Well, I am here to report that there are a few who do. And maybe more than a few.
About 9 months ago my husband and I decided to change the way we eat. We decided to do a few simple things:
1. Eat at home. 2. Eat freshly prepared food. 3. When we're done, write down what we eat.
We had studied some basic food plans and "diets" and weren't too thrilled about prospects, but we did want to go into our later years with a few less pounds and a little more energy.
And so we began. At first I was intimidated. I'm not much of a cook - or so I thought. I don't like cookbooks. I'm very sensitive about the food I make and so I hate it if someone critiques me.
But these things ended up not being such a big deal. I bought some fresh vegetables, some fish, some rice and some whole grain bread. I am a painter and so I decided to just make the most colorful meals I could.
After the first week I was kind of amazed that it was fun. I was getting into it, and getting intrigued. We had actually talked about things, laughed over the meals, and the days somehow felt longer. Go figure.
After the first month we had both lost 8 pounds and we felt great and I felt energized like I was on a mission. Who knew?
Then I picked up a book that I had started in the Fall, but set aside for various reasons. "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A year in the life of food" by Barbara Kingsolver. I read it avidly now ... and felt pulled into her family's attempt to eat consciously.
By this time it was just a subtle shift for me to move from homemade to healthy to local. It happened over the course of the next few months.
(Disclaimer: I've read all of Barbara Kingsolver's novels and loved every one so I already thought she rocked. This book though makes me wish I was related by blood, and I am wondering if I can gerry-rig Geneaology.com to make it happen.)
Fortunately for me Spring was coming to my home, and being in the South that meant fresh fruits and vegetables were plentiful. We are so lucky - we have strawberries, blueberries and peaches in our yard. As well as lettuce until the first days of 90 degree weather. We also have broccoli, snap peas, cucumbers and peppers galore. I can't grow a tomato to save my freaking life.
I wasn't as religious about it as the Kingsolver Hoppe family. And that's okay. I still bought some food at the grocery store, but I felt myself looking at labels and wondering about the packaging and choosing the organics way more often than not.
And then I just trusted the mystery of it all. I didn't try to figure out how to make a switch, or whether or not we could sustain this. Nor did I try to convert my family or preach a new way of life. I just began making some changes. I piled the fresh stuff directly into my canvas bags, and stopped buying bottled water. "We're out of water!" my husband would holler and I'd look at him like he was crazy and fill up a beautiful cobalt blue glass with sparkling water and ice and hand it to him. With a kiss. He doesn't miss the plastic bottles now.
I've found some friends who bake bread and now I'm thinking maybe I could do that. I bought Rikki Carroll's book on making cheese at home. My husband fainted but he revived in about an hour and is very much looking forward to that possibility. I think cheese is his totally favorite food.
I haven't had a diet coke in weeks. And I didn't even realize that til just now.
It is mysterious, this change. I used to eat out about 80 or even 90 % of the time. I always skipped breakfast. I struggled with weight and felt about 10 years older than I am -- and I"m old!! I turned 50 last year!
Now, after nine months of keeping it simple, keeping it real and keeping it full of color I've lost 37 pounds! My husband has lost over 50! We had no idea it could be that easy. I mean, it never felt like we were on a diet! Ever.
I even eat chocolate still!
So, I wonder what other old saws are ready to fall. But never let it be said that people can't change. They can. And I only know this because I did. In an area of my life that I had no idea I could, would or would WANT to change!
Yesterday my friend who gardens came out to the house and she is going to help me set up a mushroom growing contraption. And put in some rows of winter veggies. And she told me about a local dairy. And she has a friend who raises lambs and goats ..... and, well, I see some new horizon dawning.
If The Media told you to jump off a bridge, would you?
Come on and fercrissakes people - if you don't like someone why do you plunk yourself down in front of the TV and immerse yourself in the folderol?
Do you not have anything else to do?
Is there not one bird that can be fed, one dog that can be walked, one child that can be babysat, one old person in a nursing home that can be visited, one hand reached out to a lonely person? Can you not instead sit down and call that aunt, or uncle or mother? Can you not bake a loaf of bread, wash the car, create a painting or clean out a drawer? Are your clothes all laundered? Is your grass all mowed? Have you been to every art festival and neighborhood block party? Is there not one beautiful lake or mountain or stream or field or museum or church or neighborhood or garden or river or beach or meadow or interesting new road that you can walk, bike or drive to?
Can you not teach yourselves guitar? A new language or read a book? Or listen to a course on tape, or watch a new sport, or ask a young person to explain Facebook, or go buy some new walking shoes?
Do you have to watch funeral after funeral of people you hate and then spit your shit into words on a board so that you can take some weird fucking "high road" of indignation? Is that all you've got?
Did your mother ever ask you: "If x told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?" This is the same damn thing. Just because The Media puts someone's funereal celebration all over the airwaves does NOT mean you have to watch it!
Give it a fucking rest. Turn off your TV. Take a deep breath.
August 6 is my birthday. I'll be 51. I am, perhaps, the luckiest person on this planet. I hope that for the rest of my days I can keep that perspective.
In honor of my birthday I am celebrating this poem.
Her Head
Near Ekuvukeni, in Natal, South Africa, a woman carries water on her head. After a year of drought, when one child in three is at risk of death, she returns from a distant well, carrying water on her head.
The pumpkins are gone, the tomatoes withered, yet the woman carries water on her head. The cattle kraals are empty, the goats gaunt- no milk now for children, but she is carrying water on her head.
The engineers have reversed the river: those with power can keep their power, but one woman is carrying water on her head. In the homelands, where the dusty crowds watch the empty roads for water trucks, one woman trusts herself with treasure, and carries water on her head.
The sun does not dissuade her, not the dried earth that blows against her, as she carries the water on her head. In a huge and dirty pail, with an idle handle, resting on a narrow can, this woman is carrying water on her head.
This woman, who girds her neck with safety pins, this one who carries water on her head, trusts her own head to bring to her people what they need now between life and death: She is carrying them water on her head.
~ Joan Murray ~
As I turn on the tap, I want to think of this woman. As I join my children in Seattle - all the way across the country - and enjoy a surfeit of Opera, art, good food and family love, I want to think of this woman. As I grow older and feel the aches and pains as my feet, shoulders and neck creak into the morning activity, I want to think of this woman.
No perhaps about it - I am, indeed, the luckiest person on the planet.
In preparation for seeing "Food, Inc." I listened to a January interview that Bob Edwards did with Michael Pollan. (You can find them in iTunes or on Bob Edwards' site...well worth a look!) It was interesting to hear someone discuss "food" without all the hype and hyperbole that so often accompanies the subject. (I've just recently visited a family member and their dedication to avoid soy was immense!)
During the last six months my husband and I have slowly, but surely, transformed our lifelong eating habits. We sit together for three meals a day. We eat mostly fresh foods. I cook everything here. We eat balanced meals and small portions. Most of the food is organic. (I'm sure way too much is soy-based for some people) And, at least half of every meal is fresh fruit or fresh vegetable.
Not surprisingly, we have lost weight. We feel better. Doing it together makes it easier. It seems to be a new habit.
I say this because I felt glad that I'd already made some of the changes Pollan recommends in his Bob Edwards Interview.
Then I saw the movie. Wow - what a movie!
It's not scary - it's entertaining and well done. It is sad. Sure, I knew the animals suffered, but the people! I was struck by how our food industry is crushing the people: the farmers, the workers and the consumers. It is scandalous that we have allowed our government regulators to be manned (mostly at the top) with industry lobbyists and lawyers. Including a Supreme Court Justice who was a Monsanto Lawyer - and just happened to write the opinion giving Monsanto the right to patent seeds that it genetically modifies.
And people - all the seeds are being genetically modified. "Bigger, better, fatter, cheaper" has definitely replaced "In God We Trust" - the atheists need not worry about words on a coin. It is definitely not our motto.
Go see the movie. And let me know if you finished your popcorn! :) I did. However, I may have been the only one in the theater with a bag!
I'm home. With all that the term conveys -- home, home, home. Yay!
What a great trip. 8,800 miles. My head and my memories are spinning. It will take a while to decompress and really bring some of my time back into focus. For now, here is a list of some things I learned and felt and remember (in no particular order):
1. The Amazon Kindle is simply fantastic. A must have for travel. Someone somewhere said the great thing about it is the Kindle makes you want to read, read, read and they were right. I was resistant to it, but got one for Mother's Day (thank you Family) and LOVE IT!
2. Branson, MO sucks. Trust me on this.
3. It is possible to travel for 5 1/2 weeks and actually lose 1 pound. Amazing! Three meals out every day for 37 days and I end up losing one pound! Just goes to show you what walking and hiking will do for you!!
4. Every where I went over the 8,800 miles I met really nice people. What are the odds?
5. There is no 5.
6. Writing is even harder to do than normal if you don't make at least an hour of quiet time to unwind the images. No matter how gorgeous the scene, how hilarious the overheard conversation, how stimulating the idea -- sitting one's butt in a chair and being quiet is the single most important factor.
7. Kids grow up and are amazingly funny and wonderful. Even when they are adults and don't have to hang out with you.
8. This is a good country to live in, to travel in, and to be part of. I'm proud of our President and I felt pretty patriotic for some reason as I drove around. I was glad to see signs announcing that "This road project is funded by The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act" -- Yes We Can!
9. Tipping someone $5.00 for a $10.00 lunch actually makes a waiter smile. Stimulus can be small and nice.
10. Driving does not cause jet lag. Duh. But I never felt any strange acclimation problem to the various time zones. I know there probably isn't enough fuel in the world for people to drive like we did, and maybe that is really terribly un-green, but I really loved it. FWIW, we did see wind farms in many of the midwestern states.
To anyone who read my travel-blogs - thanks! And this little piggy is so glad to be home!
