I think I must be turning into a writer or something. I think this because long after I posted my last post, it kept scratching at my brain. Not the whole thing really, just one word, The last word. It kept popping into my head like a skinny little meerkat popping up out of its hole to check for invaders.
Before to long I realized I had used a bad word. No, not a cuss word, but a bad word. No, not inherently bad, not a word that started fighting in grade school, robbing in high school and killing in college and is now doing a life sentence in San Quentin, no, not a bad seed word. Just a bad choice of the last -stepping- off -into- the- void word. Meaning not the best word to end the post with. The last word echoes in the readers brain, and is the last impression fused to the readers tender mind.
I did not go back immediately and change the word, I was kind of busy and I still hadn't decided what to change the word to. There were so many choices. A bevy of words presented themselves to my brain and said " will I do?". Most were rejected after a quick look, some made it to a first then second audition.
I still hadn't decided what the new star of the last line of my last post would be when I made a huge mistake. I picked up the new Dean Koontz novel. I settled into the couch and started reading and the horror overtook me within moments. Dean is a master of the good word. No, I don't mean the Bible, I mean the bestest word for the moment in any narrative. He is an artist, painting grand swaths of color, texture and feeling into each sentence. His descriptions are indescribable. You don't have to read the whole book to be entertained, although it would be a mistake not to. You really just have to start reading the book and you will find each sentence a joy, a masterpiece, an example of perfect word choice.
I went to bed after Odd Thomas and the girl sprinted themselves out of harms way for the first time. I say the first time because being a Dean Koontz fan I know that this is just the first brush with- well, I can't tell you who, and just the first of many times in the story that our hero, Odd, will sprint out of danger. Now the girl is with , well I can't say who she is with while Odd is, oh I can't tell you that either.
Even as I slept the word came back to taunt me. Bad word, bad word, bad choice of word. I saw 3 story brick letters in my dreams, lined up to spell out the many good words available to fill the ending word spot in my post. I was not disturbed by this dream, just fascinated with all the words I could choose. Upon awaking I went directly to the computer, right to this blog and inserted my new word into the starring role in my last post, the ending word.
Now my mind is resting easier, good word in place. I must be turning into a writer or something.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Cup O’ Joe
I woke this morning thinking, as most mornings I do, of a cup ‘o Joe.
Wait-Why do they call it a cup of Joe? And who is they?
Well, I found a few theories on the origin of the popular moniker for coffee.
In 1914 the secretary of the US Navy admiral Josephus Joe Daniels abolished the officers wine mess, from that time on the strongest and apparently therefore the drink of choice was coffee. It was dubbed a cup of Joe. By 1931 the slang was popular enough to be included in the reserve officer’s manual.
Some people think that the slang is derived from the fact that coffee was a common man’s drink, and Joe was the name for the common man. I also found this interesting suggestion and wondered if it could be true - The old 16th century Scottish word joe, which translates to joy, is the explanation behind this name for coffee.
And, since we are learning about slang for coffee- here’s another popular one: Java became a popular name for coffee in the 19th century because the island of Java was at that time the major source of the world’s coffee.
Personally, every time I hear coffee termed Joe my mind envisions a tall, cool gumshoe straight from the 40’s. His face reflects his weariness; his posture is slightly slumped as if he is bone tired. His clothes are wrinkled, suit with a skinny tie anchored to the ground by a scuffed pair of shoes caked with dust. Even the black Fedora on his head looks like it could use a rest as he pulls it off and gives it a shake, dust filtering up into the pink cast of early morning light. He sets the hat on the counter. His chiseled face is covered with a days stubble because he’s been hunting clues not sleeping, eating or shaving. Even in his weariness there is a strength that could be trusted. He was definitely a man who could get the job done. He leans over the counter in a dim greasy spoon, motioning with a hand for the waitress to bring him a cup o’ joe as he lights his cigarette with a strike anywhere match.
Now back to the story-
I was waking from the nothingness of my solid sleep. As my eyes opened, there was a vision of my favorite cup filled to the brim with steaming coffee floating in front of my eyes, like the proverbial oasis in the desert, so real I could almost reach out and grab the mug from the sky.
That type of vision can motivate me to hop from under the cozy covers, even on a cold day. I’m picky about my Joe, like most people I have my own personal recipe for making the perfect cup. It involves a French press coffee maker, a coffee grinder, some really dark oily beans and half and half not milk- thank you, but honestly, the beans are definitely the key to a good cup of coffee.
Coffee belongs to the botanical family Rubiaceae, which has some 500 genera and over 6,000 species. Most are tropical trees and shrubs which grow in the lower storey of forests. Other members of the family include the gardenias and plants which yield quinine and other useful substances, but Coffea is by far the most important member of the family economically.
According to legend, human cultivation of coffee began after goats in Ethiopia were seen becoming frisky after eating the leaves and fruits of the coffee tree.
The first written record of coffee, made from roasted coffee beans, comes from Arabian scholars who wrote that it was useful in prolonging their working hours. The Arab innovation of making a brew from roasted beans, spread first among the Egyptians and Turks and later on found its way around the world.
Coffea Arabica is the one I like. It is indigenous to Ethiopia and Yemen. It is believed to be the first species of coffee to be cultivated, being grown in southwest Arabia for well over 1,000 years. Coffea Arabica is considered to produce better coffee than the other major commercially grown coffee species -- Coffea canephora (robusta).
Robusta is a species of coffee which has its origins in western Africa. It once was grown mostly in Africa and Brazil. In recent years Vietnam, has become the world's single largest exporter. Approximately one third of the coffee produced in the world is Robusta.
Robusta is easier to care for than the other major species of coffee, Arabica , and because of this it is cheaper to produce. Since Arabica beans are considered superior, Robusta is usually limited to lower grade coffee blends.
C8H10N4O2. That is the formula for caffeine. I just love chemistry, don’t you?
Caffeine is a bitter white crystalline xanthine alkaloid that acts as a psychoactive stimulant drug and a mild diuretic (speeds up urine production) in humans and other animals. Caffeine was discovered by a German chemist, Friedrich Ferdinand Runge, in 1819. Caffeine is also called guaranine when found in guarana, mateine when found in mate, and theine when found in tea; all of these names are synonyms for the same chemical compound.
Robusta, at 1.7-4.0% caffeine, has about twice as much caffeine as Arabica with 0.8-1.4%.
Does that surprise you? I just said my favorite coffee has less caffeine, and, because I like the really dark roast, it has even less caffeine. Recall that age old adage – the greener the bean the more the caffeine? No? Well that is how it goes and the fact is you can practically roast the caffeine right out of the beans. My French roast has less caffeine than a cup of Folger’s.
You are probably thinking “Good God Almighty! Why would she like coffee with less caffeine?”
Because it’s not about the buzz. It’s about the flavor, the warmth, the smell. It’s about my favorite mug snug in my hands and taking a few minutes to let myself wake up before I fling myself into the day. Honestly folks, why would I need a bunch of caffeine after I just slept all night? Now, ask me about my one cup in the afternoon, and that might be about caffeine, but the morning, the morning is about flavor, savor and time.
The gumshoe surveys his surroundings. Nothing to make him nervous, just a few people waking in the early morning light of the diner. He eyes each one as if to find the meaning of their lives hidden in the wrinkles of their faces. He sees no malice, no suspicion, no flickering glances that might reflect someone looking for him. The waitress returns with his cup o’ joe and he settles his mind into contemplating the events of the last few nights and his expectations for the day. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would find the key to unlocking this puzzle, somewhere in his mind he had yet to access. Now, at this moment, the puzzle pieces still lay jumbled. Mismatched notches, colors colliding, outside edges missing. It didn’t make sense, and that he finds disturbing.
His long arms reach with strangely graceful hands for the creamer in a little pot on a bed of ice in a bowl not two feet away. He pours a small trickle of white, it disappears into the night black of his cup o’ joe, turning it into the dark brown color of sand on some exotic beach half a world away. With a glance around the room again he lifts his spoon and, feeling comfortable with his surroundings, he puts his full attention on the stirring of the coffee, mixing the cream in slowly, contemplatively, round and round. As he does, like a kaleidoscope, the pieces of the puzzle move round and round in his mind.
I found this interesting: The average Arabica plant is a large bush with dark-green oval leaves. It is genetically different from other coffee species, having four sets of chromosomes rather than two. C. arabica is a tetraploid (44 chromosomes) and is self-pollinating.C. canephora ( robusta) is diploid and self-sterile, producing many different forms and varieties in the wild.
It takes seven to nine pounds of cherry to make one pound of roasted coffee. Thus 100 pounds of cherry will yield about 12 pounds of roasted coffee.
The first sip from the heavy white mug warms his body as if a campfire had been lit on the counter in front of him. He savors the warmth, his mind starts to defrost as he awakens the lingering memory of his night spent crouching in the bushes outside the bleak apartment building. The next sip follows, gliding smoothly into his body as his mind recalls every shadow, every sound. The palm fronds crossing the walk, shadows in the moonlight, the hushed roar of the nearby beach, the scent of gardenias and salt. The sound of footsteps echoing to his hiding place, his brief sight of shoes, first the red patent leather high heels of the dame and later, much later the well heeled boots of a heavy man transversing the same route.
He sips again and recalls the urgent knocking on the door of the second floor apartment. His line of sight was obscured, but the timing was right and no other steps had fallen on his ears in the meantime. The boots must have stood for a while, searching? Remembering? His mind replays the muffled thump, the strangled gasp, recalls the sight of the blood.
Many social aspects of coffee can be seen in the modern-day lifestyle. The United States is the largest market for coffee, followed by Germany and Japan. The Nordic countries consume the most coffee per capita, with Finland typically occupying the top spot with a per-capita consumption in excess of 10 kg per year, closely followed by Norway, Sweden and Denmark.
A woman's late-night invitation to a man for a cup of coffee (typically after a date) has become code for an invitation to sex. This convention has become the subject of a great deal of comedy, and the treatments given to it in Seinfeld (in the words of George Costanza: "'Coffee' doesn't mean coffee! 'Coffee' means sex!")
The light in the diner changes as the sun begins to rise. The gumshoe continues to contemplate the meaning of the recalled clues as he savors the warm cup o’ Joe. The taste of the brew seems to strengthen his resolve. The kaleidoscope of fragmented puzzle pieces swirls around and the disjointed parts begin to fall into place. He feels himself snap to attention, like a bird dog pointing, as the final clue fits and the picture is visible. He picks up the cup and swallows the last drops of warm, bitter nectar as his mind swallows the truth.
He reaches with long fingers into his pants pocket and extracts a dollar. Laying it on the counter he picks up his hat and swings himself off the stool. As he turns he again takes in every face around him, still searching for a glint of recognition. None comes. He knows where the trail points; he knows where he has to go. He walks across the diner as if led by an invisible thread, out the heavy door, bells jangling, out to the sidewalk already warm from the morning sun. It was going to be another hot day, sweat breaking under his collar as he turns east with confident steps, heading toward the answer.
Wait-Why do they call it a cup of Joe? And who is they?
Well, I found a few theories on the origin of the popular moniker for coffee.
In 1914 the secretary of the US Navy admiral Josephus Joe Daniels abolished the officers wine mess, from that time on the strongest and apparently therefore the drink of choice was coffee. It was dubbed a cup of Joe. By 1931 the slang was popular enough to be included in the reserve officer’s manual.
Some people think that the slang is derived from the fact that coffee was a common man’s drink, and Joe was the name for the common man. I also found this interesting suggestion and wondered if it could be true - The old 16th century Scottish word joe, which translates to joy, is the explanation behind this name for coffee.
And, since we are learning about slang for coffee- here’s another popular one: Java became a popular name for coffee in the 19th century because the island of Java was at that time the major source of the world’s coffee.
Personally, every time I hear coffee termed Joe my mind envisions a tall, cool gumshoe straight from the 40’s. His face reflects his weariness; his posture is slightly slumped as if he is bone tired. His clothes are wrinkled, suit with a skinny tie anchored to the ground by a scuffed pair of shoes caked with dust. Even the black Fedora on his head looks like it could use a rest as he pulls it off and gives it a shake, dust filtering up into the pink cast of early morning light. He sets the hat on the counter. His chiseled face is covered with a days stubble because he’s been hunting clues not sleeping, eating or shaving. Even in his weariness there is a strength that could be trusted. He was definitely a man who could get the job done. He leans over the counter in a dim greasy spoon, motioning with a hand for the waitress to bring him a cup o’ joe as he lights his cigarette with a strike anywhere match.
Now back to the story-
I was waking from the nothingness of my solid sleep. As my eyes opened, there was a vision of my favorite cup filled to the brim with steaming coffee floating in front of my eyes, like the proverbial oasis in the desert, so real I could almost reach out and grab the mug from the sky.
That type of vision can motivate me to hop from under the cozy covers, even on a cold day. I’m picky about my Joe, like most people I have my own personal recipe for making the perfect cup. It involves a French press coffee maker, a coffee grinder, some really dark oily beans and half and half not milk- thank you, but honestly, the beans are definitely the key to a good cup of coffee.
Coffee belongs to the botanical family Rubiaceae, which has some 500 genera and over 6,000 species. Most are tropical trees and shrubs which grow in the lower storey of forests. Other members of the family include the gardenias and plants which yield quinine and other useful substances, but Coffea is by far the most important member of the family economically.
According to legend, human cultivation of coffee began after goats in Ethiopia were seen becoming frisky after eating the leaves and fruits of the coffee tree.
The first written record of coffee, made from roasted coffee beans, comes from Arabian scholars who wrote that it was useful in prolonging their working hours. The Arab innovation of making a brew from roasted beans, spread first among the Egyptians and Turks and later on found its way around the world.
Coffea Arabica is the one I like. It is indigenous to Ethiopia and Yemen. It is believed to be the first species of coffee to be cultivated, being grown in southwest Arabia for well over 1,000 years. Coffea Arabica is considered to produce better coffee than the other major commercially grown coffee species -- Coffea canephora (robusta).
Robusta is a species of coffee which has its origins in western Africa. It once was grown mostly in Africa and Brazil. In recent years Vietnam, has become the world's single largest exporter. Approximately one third of the coffee produced in the world is Robusta.
Robusta is easier to care for than the other major species of coffee, Arabica , and because of this it is cheaper to produce. Since Arabica beans are considered superior, Robusta is usually limited to lower grade coffee blends.
C8H10N4O2. That is the formula for caffeine. I just love chemistry, don’t you?
Caffeine is a bitter white crystalline xanthine alkaloid that acts as a psychoactive stimulant drug and a mild diuretic (speeds up urine production) in humans and other animals. Caffeine was discovered by a German chemist, Friedrich Ferdinand Runge, in 1819. Caffeine is also called guaranine when found in guarana, mateine when found in mate, and theine when found in tea; all of these names are synonyms for the same chemical compound.
Robusta, at 1.7-4.0% caffeine, has about twice as much caffeine as Arabica with 0.8-1.4%.
Does that surprise you? I just said my favorite coffee has less caffeine, and, because I like the really dark roast, it has even less caffeine. Recall that age old adage – the greener the bean the more the caffeine? No? Well that is how it goes and the fact is you can practically roast the caffeine right out of the beans. My French roast has less caffeine than a cup of Folger’s.
You are probably thinking “Good God Almighty! Why would she like coffee with less caffeine?”
Because it’s not about the buzz. It’s about the flavor, the warmth, the smell. It’s about my favorite mug snug in my hands and taking a few minutes to let myself wake up before I fling myself into the day. Honestly folks, why would I need a bunch of caffeine after I just slept all night? Now, ask me about my one cup in the afternoon, and that might be about caffeine, but the morning, the morning is about flavor, savor and time.
The gumshoe surveys his surroundings. Nothing to make him nervous, just a few people waking in the early morning light of the diner. He eyes each one as if to find the meaning of their lives hidden in the wrinkles of their faces. He sees no malice, no suspicion, no flickering glances that might reflect someone looking for him. The waitress returns with his cup o’ joe and he settles his mind into contemplating the events of the last few nights and his expectations for the day. Somewhere in his mind he knew he would find the key to unlocking this puzzle, somewhere in his mind he had yet to access. Now, at this moment, the puzzle pieces still lay jumbled. Mismatched notches, colors colliding, outside edges missing. It didn’t make sense, and that he finds disturbing.
His long arms reach with strangely graceful hands for the creamer in a little pot on a bed of ice in a bowl not two feet away. He pours a small trickle of white, it disappears into the night black of his cup o’ joe, turning it into the dark brown color of sand on some exotic beach half a world away. With a glance around the room again he lifts his spoon and, feeling comfortable with his surroundings, he puts his full attention on the stirring of the coffee, mixing the cream in slowly, contemplatively, round and round. As he does, like a kaleidoscope, the pieces of the puzzle move round and round in his mind.
I found this interesting: The average Arabica plant is a large bush with dark-green oval leaves. It is genetically different from other coffee species, having four sets of chromosomes rather than two. C. arabica is a tetraploid (44 chromosomes) and is self-pollinating.C. canephora ( robusta) is diploid and self-sterile, producing many different forms and varieties in the wild.
It takes seven to nine pounds of cherry to make one pound of roasted coffee. Thus 100 pounds of cherry will yield about 12 pounds of roasted coffee.
The first sip from the heavy white mug warms his body as if a campfire had been lit on the counter in front of him. He savors the warmth, his mind starts to defrost as he awakens the lingering memory of his night spent crouching in the bushes outside the bleak apartment building. The next sip follows, gliding smoothly into his body as his mind recalls every shadow, every sound. The palm fronds crossing the walk, shadows in the moonlight, the hushed roar of the nearby beach, the scent of gardenias and salt. The sound of footsteps echoing to his hiding place, his brief sight of shoes, first the red patent leather high heels of the dame and later, much later the well heeled boots of a heavy man transversing the same route.
He sips again and recalls the urgent knocking on the door of the second floor apartment. His line of sight was obscured, but the timing was right and no other steps had fallen on his ears in the meantime. The boots must have stood for a while, searching? Remembering? His mind replays the muffled thump, the strangled gasp, recalls the sight of the blood.
Many social aspects of coffee can be seen in the modern-day lifestyle. The United States is the largest market for coffee, followed by Germany and Japan. The Nordic countries consume the most coffee per capita, with Finland typically occupying the top spot with a per-capita consumption in excess of 10 kg per year, closely followed by Norway, Sweden and Denmark.
A woman's late-night invitation to a man for a cup of coffee (typically after a date) has become code for an invitation to sex. This convention has become the subject of a great deal of comedy, and the treatments given to it in Seinfeld (in the words of George Costanza: "'Coffee' doesn't mean coffee! 'Coffee' means sex!")
The light in the diner changes as the sun begins to rise. The gumshoe continues to contemplate the meaning of the recalled clues as he savors the warm cup o’ Joe. The taste of the brew seems to strengthen his resolve. The kaleidoscope of fragmented puzzle pieces swirls around and the disjointed parts begin to fall into place. He feels himself snap to attention, like a bird dog pointing, as the final clue fits and the picture is visible. He picks up the cup and swallows the last drops of warm, bitter nectar as his mind swallows the truth.
He reaches with long fingers into his pants pocket and extracts a dollar. Laying it on the counter he picks up his hat and swings himself off the stool. As he turns he again takes in every face around him, still searching for a glint of recognition. None comes. He knows where the trail points; he knows where he has to go. He walks across the diner as if led by an invisible thread, out the heavy door, bells jangling, out to the sidewalk already warm from the morning sun. It was going to be another hot day, sweat breaking under his collar as he turns east with confident steps, heading toward the answer.
Monday, May 26, 2008
It's grown into a Octopus!
I'm working on the next post, which I thought would be a simple article, relatively easy to spit out. However, it's grown into a octopus, tentacles wrapped around me. I'm splashing and flaying around, trying to calm the beast and slip out of it's suction cup arms, but I just have not yet found firm ground for my feet or the proper leverage to wiggle free of the beast.
It started with a simple idea, then grew into pages of meanderings, researched facts and dubious legends. Like any noteworthy monster, it's bigger than life. I'm struggling to keep my head above water as I whack the beast down to a reasonable article size.
Check back in a few days and ( I hope) you will find me triumphantly standing with the beasts head on a platter.
It started with a simple idea, then grew into pages of meanderings, researched facts and dubious legends. Like any noteworthy monster, it's bigger than life. I'm struggling to keep my head above water as I whack the beast down to a reasonable article size.
Check back in a few days and ( I hope) you will find me triumphantly standing with the beasts head on a platter.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I Don't Have The Answer.
Did you ever feel like you were having trouble staying focused? I mean on life?
Being the highly educated type person that I am, I remember being at say, year six, of my continuing education process and walking into class asking where am I? What quarter is this and which class am I in now? What book am I supposed to be reading and when the heck is that lab midterm test?
What? It was yesterday morning? Yesterday? The day I skipped class to have breakfast with my friend Laura because it was her birthday and she had no one to go with because everyone else was in the lab class? Oh God! And I never did get along with the lab instructor, do you think if I cry and make up a story about "female problems" he will fall for it? (he did).
Did you ever feel that way about life? Sometimes I find myself just tooling along doing a comfortable cruising speed, thinking I'm seeing all the signs, following the mapped out route, taking the planned turns, not missing my exits and everything is kosher and wham! Out of no where a cruiser is on my tail with lights flashing. Maybe I wasn't focused enough.
How the heck are we supposed to navigate this life with so much going on? You almost have to ignore a large part of it just to tend to the basics - work, pay the bills, do laundry often enough to have a good supply of clean underwear and all that. Add a few moments of personal time here and there and you are about maxed out. How can we stay focused on the necessities and still have the attention to notice the flowers blooming, the beautiful sunset, the bird nesting in the tree right above our head?
I don't have the answer, it's just a question.
As a writer sometimes I must focus on the tools of my craft, get serious and edit. It's so much easier to let the words spill out than it is to clean up the overflow. Yesterday morning, however, I did just that. I got focused and looked at my last article with an editor's eye. I knew it could be better, flow smoother and sound more balanced. I chipped away a little here, added a little there. I tweaked a bit, exchanging one word for another. It's hardly noticeable when you re-read the finished product, but it does make a big difference.
Now if I could just edit my life, chip away a little of the "not so important" stuff to make room for a little of the "more important" stuff. If I could tweak it a bit, keeping the main structure and meaning, but leave it more balanced and flowing smoother. If I could just focus a little more on the underlying story, the main point, and shed some of the trappings that come from living in a world where we are so influenced by society that is constantly moving faster and wanting more, would I find a richer story of my life?
I don't have the answer, it's just a question.
Being the highly educated type person that I am, I remember being at say, year six, of my continuing education process and walking into class asking where am I? What quarter is this and which class am I in now? What book am I supposed to be reading and when the heck is that lab midterm test?
What? It was yesterday morning? Yesterday? The day I skipped class to have breakfast with my friend Laura because it was her birthday and she had no one to go with because everyone else was in the lab class? Oh God! And I never did get along with the lab instructor, do you think if I cry and make up a story about "female problems" he will fall for it? (he did).
Did you ever feel that way about life? Sometimes I find myself just tooling along doing a comfortable cruising speed, thinking I'm seeing all the signs, following the mapped out route, taking the planned turns, not missing my exits and everything is kosher and wham! Out of no where a cruiser is on my tail with lights flashing. Maybe I wasn't focused enough.
How the heck are we supposed to navigate this life with so much going on? You almost have to ignore a large part of it just to tend to the basics - work, pay the bills, do laundry often enough to have a good supply of clean underwear and all that. Add a few moments of personal time here and there and you are about maxed out. How can we stay focused on the necessities and still have the attention to notice the flowers blooming, the beautiful sunset, the bird nesting in the tree right above our head?
I don't have the answer, it's just a question.
As a writer sometimes I must focus on the tools of my craft, get serious and edit. It's so much easier to let the words spill out than it is to clean up the overflow. Yesterday morning, however, I did just that. I got focused and looked at my last article with an editor's eye. I knew it could be better, flow smoother and sound more balanced. I chipped away a little here, added a little there. I tweaked a bit, exchanging one word for another. It's hardly noticeable when you re-read the finished product, but it does make a big difference.
Now if I could just edit my life, chip away a little of the "not so important" stuff to make room for a little of the "more important" stuff. If I could tweak it a bit, keeping the main structure and meaning, but leave it more balanced and flowing smoother. If I could just focus a little more on the underlying story, the main point, and shed some of the trappings that come from living in a world where we are so influenced by society that is constantly moving faster and wanting more, would I find a richer story of my life?
I don't have the answer, it's just a question.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Stars Dancing on Water
Today I spent some time cleaning out a closet. I am planning the biggest yard sale in the universe and I figured that closet held about a gazillion things that would make some yard shopper really happy and make me a bunch of loot to boot!
While I was rummaging around in that closet looking for discardable treasure I happened upon a box of papers. There were newspaper clippings of interest-
Berlin Wall Falls! (now that is exciting!)
White Buffalo Born! (Praise the Great Spirit)
Visit The Real Hotel California! (It’s in Todos Santos and Don Henley was part owner).
Retired Nomads Parked in Paradise! (Bisbee Arizona’s own time warp- a campground where you can stay in the retro luxury of a 1950’s travel trailer decorated in vintage fabulous style! How Cute is that?!).
I also found all kinds of cards sent to me from a whole bunch of you, from as far back as 1979, I found photos also, but don’t worry, I won’t post them.
When I dug a little farther I came up with some writing I did many years ago. I found this one piece that I think is rather nice, so I’m going to share it with you. I remember the day well, I took a break from Atlanta,the big city I was going to school in, and drove a few hours north to the mountains to sit by a lake. Being the serious, dedicated student that I was, I also took my books. I sat by the lake, books cracked, sun warm, sky blue above and pine trees on the breeze. I watched the sunshine reflecting off the ripples created by the breeze across the lake. Then I got all creative and wrote this:
The stars fell right out of the sky, and landed in the lake. They are hiding from the sun, but I can see them, like a huge swarm of fire flies dancing. They gather around my toes on the wake of the water. They fall from my fingertips, white light dropping back into the lake. They stick to my hair until I shake my head and they are flung away, now shooting stars. Stars riding, like tiny bright surfers, disappearing into the crest of the wave as it meets shore. They are dancing now, dancing just for me and I watch, mesmerized by their beauty, their light, their easy motion on the water.
My brain starts to melt into deep relaxation and my eye lids become heavy. My body becomes light, and the wind blows through me. I float like a feather on the wind. I float up, into a cloudless sky to a place where everything I dream is real, where my thoughts are heard and my feelings known. My hand touches my heart and it touches me back. The trees sing to me and I know where I come from, where I am and where I belong.
As the day lengthens, the sunlight softens and the stars in the lake flash with a different rhythm. I am awakened from my aware slumber, changed forever.
While I was rummaging around in that closet looking for discardable treasure I happened upon a box of papers. There were newspaper clippings of interest-
Berlin Wall Falls! (now that is exciting!)
White Buffalo Born! (Praise the Great Spirit)
Visit The Real Hotel California! (It’s in Todos Santos and Don Henley was part owner).
Retired Nomads Parked in Paradise! (Bisbee Arizona’s own time warp- a campground where you can stay in the retro luxury of a 1950’s travel trailer decorated in vintage fabulous style! How Cute is that?!).
I also found all kinds of cards sent to me from a whole bunch of you, from as far back as 1979, I found photos also, but don’t worry, I won’t post them.
When I dug a little farther I came up with some writing I did many years ago. I found this one piece that I think is rather nice, so I’m going to share it with you. I remember the day well, I took a break from Atlanta,the big city I was going to school in, and drove a few hours north to the mountains to sit by a lake. Being the serious, dedicated student that I was, I also took my books. I sat by the lake, books cracked, sun warm, sky blue above and pine trees on the breeze. I watched the sunshine reflecting off the ripples created by the breeze across the lake. Then I got all creative and wrote this:
The stars fell right out of the sky, and landed in the lake. They are hiding from the sun, but I can see them, like a huge swarm of fire flies dancing. They gather around my toes on the wake of the water. They fall from my fingertips, white light dropping back into the lake. They stick to my hair until I shake my head and they are flung away, now shooting stars. Stars riding, like tiny bright surfers, disappearing into the crest of the wave as it meets shore. They are dancing now, dancing just for me and I watch, mesmerized by their beauty, their light, their easy motion on the water.
My brain starts to melt into deep relaxation and my eye lids become heavy. My body becomes light, and the wind blows through me. I float like a feather on the wind. I float up, into a cloudless sky to a place where everything I dream is real, where my thoughts are heard and my feelings known. My hand touches my heart and it touches me back. The trees sing to me and I know where I come from, where I am and where I belong.
As the day lengthens, the sunlight softens and the stars in the lake flash with a different rhythm. I am awakened from my aware slumber, changed forever.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Your Comments Count!
I just love getting comments from ya'll, each comment is like a small gift especially for me, that I can share with all my friends. Thank You for taking the time and effort to read and write to me, I know it's a busy life out there.
Special thanks to JC in SC who guessed correctly that the mystery photo was taken at the Grand Canyon. She may have had a slight advantage, as she is my sister and knows how much I love the Grand Canyon! I have no problem with the winner having a slight advantage, after all, she's my sister and I'm queen of the blog!
Special thanks to JC in SC who guessed correctly that the mystery photo was taken at the Grand Canyon. She may have had a slight advantage, as she is my sister and knows how much I love the Grand Canyon! I have no problem with the winner having a slight advantage, after all, she's my sister and I'm queen of the blog!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Elephant Tamer
I’m comfortable in the ring, intent on just being there, relaxed. With a thundering run that shakes the ground the lumbering beast appears. The whole floor shakes as the beast comes close, with a leap he lands right next to me in the ring. He circles, circles, circles about. I turn and twist, keeping the beast in front of me. I remember all the times I have seen the elephant tamer gently nudging the great beast into submission.
There is no way to rush a beast of this nature, you must await the beasts’ own time. And time it takes, as the beast circles and sniffs and hops about. He comes close and sniffs at my ear, barely missing landing his great paw on my face. He comes around the other side, leans in and places a slimy tongue across my face and my lips are covered with his saliva. He enjoys this and I twist about, trying to protect life and limb as I wipe his spit away with the back of my hand. The beast sniffs about and circles more, stepping over me as if I’m a crack on the sidewalk.
Whip you ask, why don’t I use a whip? Well, you wouldn’t know that with a beast of this nature, a whip does no good. No, a short stick works best. I can tap at the beast and slowly, gently direct him to the place I want him, a tap on the leg, a tap on his side, a tap on his rear. One tap at a time. I wait until he is close to the position I want him in. It takes some time as he has to plod about, sniffing my hair and clothes. He stretches a few times, great tail in the air, big body arched, long legs splayed in front and behind. At one point he drops like a rock, and rolls onto his back, huge paws flailing about in the air. He rolls, side to side for a few minutes and rights himself. This I know to be a sign that the beast is about to settle down.
I carefully give him a nudge on a back leg, moving him along to a position closer to where I want him. The trainer in me is on full alert as I know, one nudge to soon, to hard or in the wrong place will send the beast into another frenzied dance in circles and we would have to start all over again. I nudge, nudge, nudge the beast slowly in a circle and then a tap behind the leg and he starts to lower him self to the ground. A tap on the other leg brings him a bit closer and a tap on his side and he rolls over, onto his side, his great head just an inch from mine. He is not quite settled in as he must stretch his great paws and grab my hair, tousling it into a rats nest of tangles, this I have learned is a sure sign of affection from the beast.
He seems calm and just wiggles about for a few more minutes, actually wedging himself against my shoulder, his nose just inches from my ear. For a moment there is silence, then a great rumble erupts from the throat of the beast as he starts to serenade me with a purr.
Only an elephant tamer knows. Knows how to settle a great beast, one who can not be intimidated, nor threatened. One who cannot be beat into submission. An elephant tamer works with the natural instinct of the beast, and a lot of patience, as they gently nudge the elephant to do as they wish. The use a stick, and tap a signal on the elephant to indicate what they wish the elephant to do, a tap on the leg they wish the elephant to raise, a tap on the shoulder when they wish the elephant to kneel down, a tap on the side they wish the elephant to turn to. Only the elephant can decide if the wish will come true.
There is no way to rush a beast of this nature, you must await the beasts’ own time. And time it takes, as the beast circles and sniffs and hops about. He comes close and sniffs at my ear, barely missing landing his great paw on my face. He comes around the other side, leans in and places a slimy tongue across my face and my lips are covered with his saliva. He enjoys this and I twist about, trying to protect life and limb as I wipe his spit away with the back of my hand. The beast sniffs about and circles more, stepping over me as if I’m a crack on the sidewalk.
Whip you ask, why don’t I use a whip? Well, you wouldn’t know that with a beast of this nature, a whip does no good. No, a short stick works best. I can tap at the beast and slowly, gently direct him to the place I want him, a tap on the leg, a tap on his side, a tap on his rear. One tap at a time. I wait until he is close to the position I want him in. It takes some time as he has to plod about, sniffing my hair and clothes. He stretches a few times, great tail in the air, big body arched, long legs splayed in front and behind. At one point he drops like a rock, and rolls onto his back, huge paws flailing about in the air. He rolls, side to side for a few minutes and rights himself. This I know to be a sign that the beast is about to settle down.
I carefully give him a nudge on a back leg, moving him along to a position closer to where I want him. The trainer in me is on full alert as I know, one nudge to soon, to hard or in the wrong place will send the beast into another frenzied dance in circles and we would have to start all over again. I nudge, nudge, nudge the beast slowly in a circle and then a tap behind the leg and he starts to lower him self to the ground. A tap on the other leg brings him a bit closer and a tap on his side and he rolls over, onto his side, his great head just an inch from mine. He is not quite settled in as he must stretch his great paws and grab my hair, tousling it into a rats nest of tangles, this I have learned is a sure sign of affection from the beast.
He seems calm and just wiggles about for a few more minutes, actually wedging himself against my shoulder, his nose just inches from my ear. For a moment there is silence, then a great rumble erupts from the throat of the beast as he starts to serenade me with a purr.
Only an elephant tamer knows. Knows how to settle a great beast, one who can not be intimidated, nor threatened. One who cannot be beat into submission. An elephant tamer works with the natural instinct of the beast, and a lot of patience, as they gently nudge the elephant to do as they wish. The use a stick, and tap a signal on the elephant to indicate what they wish the elephant to do, a tap on the leg they wish the elephant to raise, a tap on the shoulder when they wish the elephant to kneel down, a tap on the side they wish the elephant to turn to. Only the elephant can decide if the wish will come true.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
What's in a Profile? #2
I finally did it folks, I wrote my brief but revealing profile.
I figured if people are reading my posts, they already know quite a bit about me, so I didn't want to go overboard. I still think it's not about me, it's about the stories. I do understand though, I mean, I always read the author profiles on the back flap of the dustcover of every book I read. I never know what interesting fact I may find or what I may have in common with the author. Sometimes there is a clue as to where the story comes from. Sometimes there is a little known very personal fact, like a nickname.
I figured if people are reading my posts, they already know quite a bit about me, so I didn't want to go overboard. I still think it's not about me, it's about the stories. I do understand though, I mean, I always read the author profiles on the back flap of the dustcover of every book I read. I never know what interesting fact I may find or what I may have in common with the author. Sometimes there is a clue as to where the story comes from. Sometimes there is a little known very personal fact, like a nickname.
Ghost Readers
Hello all you wild eyed adoring fans.
Every one of you. Literally.
Really, I'm beginning to think nobody is reading my blog. Or maybe no one has any idea where and what that photo is. Maybe no one has the time for such nonsense in a world that moves at the speed of cell phone and internet transactions.
Maybe I did not offer enough incentive to entice you to guess the location of the object in that photo. I'm gonna leave it for a few more days before I tell you the truth about that photo, which, hint hint, was taken somewhere that everyone in the USofA should have gone at one time or another. So far I have received nada in the way of speculation from my adoring fans. Maybe you will be the first?
Every one of you. Literally.
Really, I'm beginning to think nobody is reading my blog. Or maybe no one has any idea where and what that photo is. Maybe no one has the time for such nonsense in a world that moves at the speed of cell phone and internet transactions.
Maybe I did not offer enough incentive to entice you to guess the location of the object in that photo. I'm gonna leave it for a few more days before I tell you the truth about that photo, which, hint hint, was taken somewhere that everyone in the USofA should have gone at one time or another. So far I have received nada in the way of speculation from my adoring fans. Maybe you will be the first?
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Contest
I have to tell you I just have not had time to clatter away at the keys this week. My sister, bless her little heart, fell off her bike and broke her ankle a week ago and I'm spending as much time as I can keeping her company because she is not feeling to well and can't get around much.
We have started a Uno championship tournament and it's not looking good for yours truly. My sister is the luckiest card player in the known universe. I've takin' to calling her sharkie. I think as soon as her leg is healed and she can walk, I'm packing us both off for a trip to Vegas. I'm sure she would strip every bit of gold off that glittering city of sin. She would need no help from me, I would just go along to help her tote her moneybags through the airport when she returns.
Our games usually start pretty friendly, but end up with me flinging curses around while she does the happy dance again.
You have to admire her style, it's not easy to do the happy dance with a 14 pound cast covering 8 pounds of screws and metal plates hanging around your ankle.
This weekend ( I'm writing this on Wednesday and using the new blogger feature to post into the future, you will see it Saturday! Cool!) we plan on playing another 3227 rounds of Uno, as well as watching a couple of long, dramatic, engaging films. My sister gets sucked right into a good drama, so I figure to take her mind off her wheelchair deformed butt by screening a few of my favorite dramatic movies that she has never viewed. I picked "Out of Africa" and "Legends of the Fall". Both are sweeping sagas with lots of drama, a few tears, some adventure and a couple cute guys. I also picked up "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", in case we need some comic relief after watching Brad Pitt morph into a crazed pirate. (please, Hollywood, we don't ever want to see Brad with a beard again!)
Meanwhile, I wanted to give you something fun to do for a few days 'till I can get back to posting more often. I have this wonderful photo of- I can't tell you where- and I thought wouldn't it be fun to have a contest?
So here is the photo:
Now, who can tell me what and where this is? I will give you a hint- it's not some isolated outpost in the middle of no where.
The first comment posted with the correct answer will get...a....um...lots of praise?
Your name in lights? Officially recognized? A round of applause?
Keep in mind I have to moderate the comments and post them so it might be a few days before you see your name in lights. Thanks for playing! This is gonna be fun! Talk soon, Meandering
We have started a Uno championship tournament and it's not looking good for yours truly. My sister is the luckiest card player in the known universe. I've takin' to calling her sharkie. I think as soon as her leg is healed and she can walk, I'm packing us both off for a trip to Vegas. I'm sure she would strip every bit of gold off that glittering city of sin. She would need no help from me, I would just go along to help her tote her moneybags through the airport when she returns.
Our games usually start pretty friendly, but end up with me flinging curses around while she does the happy dance again.
You have to admire her style, it's not easy to do the happy dance with a 14 pound cast covering 8 pounds of screws and metal plates hanging around your ankle.
This weekend ( I'm writing this on Wednesday and using the new blogger feature to post into the future, you will see it Saturday! Cool!) we plan on playing another 3227 rounds of Uno, as well as watching a couple of long, dramatic, engaging films. My sister gets sucked right into a good drama, so I figure to take her mind off her wheelchair deformed butt by screening a few of my favorite dramatic movies that she has never viewed. I picked "Out of Africa" and "Legends of the Fall". Both are sweeping sagas with lots of drama, a few tears, some adventure and a couple cute guys. I also picked up "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", in case we need some comic relief after watching Brad Pitt morph into a crazed pirate. (please, Hollywood, we don't ever want to see Brad with a beard again!)
Meanwhile, I wanted to give you something fun to do for a few days 'till I can get back to posting more often. I have this wonderful photo of- I can't tell you where- and I thought wouldn't it be fun to have a contest?
So here is the photo:
Now, who can tell me what and where this is? I will give you a hint- it's not some isolated outpost in the middle of no where.
The first comment posted with the correct answer will get...a....um...lots of praise?
Your name in lights? Officially recognized? A round of applause?
Keep in mind I have to moderate the comments and post them so it might be a few days before you see your name in lights. Thanks for playing! This is gonna be fun! Talk soon, Meandering
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
The t-shirt would be a little lame, right? I mean, the back would say this:
Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
“Blessing the US!”
Washington, DC
New York, NY
Not much of a tour, only two stops, but I guess that is what made it so special. I was thrilled to have gotten a ticket to a historic religious event like this. And I’m not even Catholic. As I told you in an earlier post, I was riding shotgun for my devout catholic friend who wanted a companion for the long trip. I owed her, and I’ll admit, in this instance I was glad I owed her and happy to pay up.
I could give you a blow by blow of the whole event, the drive to New York, the kindness of the Church group who allowed us to enter their parish lottery for tickets and then took us into their hearts and onto their bus. The drive down the Hudson, with the steely grey skies and a cold wind blowing us along.
My discomfort with seeing New York City again, I know that many people consider it a tourist destination, a thrilling fun place to visit and apparently a lot of people consider it a great place to live and work, but I have to admit I don’t care for NYC. I hadn’t been there in about 15 years and I could have spent the rest of my life with out going again. I don’t know, it’s just to grey, to dirty, to cement and steel, to crowded, to noisy and yes, I know about central park but besides that, I don’t see enough nature to keep a June bug alive. It’s just too manmade for me. I don’t like that caged in feeling I get when there are buildings towering all around me. I want to see the sky above, the horizon in the distance and the earth under my feet, so NYC and me, we just don’t fit.
I could go on and on about the amazing choreography of the support staff who parked 800 buses and got 57,000 people through security in the blink of an eye. I was having trouble telling the FBI guys in their conservative suits from the Catholic guys dressed for Mass with the Pope. The NYC cops were short. Yes, I said short. I’ve never seen so many short cops in my life. Maybe it’s a process of evolution; these homeboys growing up in crowded city conditions are naturally starting to grow smaller.
They were all very nice, just small. I was especially happy with the one who promised not to remove us from the event if we crashed the men’s room because honestly, the ladies room line was around the stadium. I saw one of the shorty cops in our section of the stadium, who had never taken his eyes off the crowd during the whole event, pull his crucifix out of his shirt and cross himself as the Pope concluded Mass. I suspect he was thrilled to be making overtime protecting the head of his Church, I just wish he could have participated in the Mass as well.
I could also go on and on about the number of people, the amazing diversity of ages and nationality, the large group of novice priests in baseball caps (so cute!), the occasional Nun in habit surrounded by little girls with starry eyes asking questions, ( that’s cute too!). The Monks in robes, the Knights of Columbus in full regalia (Stunning!), all the Bishops and Cardinals in tall hats and flowing robes, the elderly dressed in their Sunday best, the families of faithful, the crowds of security people, the reporters and cameras and all of our NYC hosts, the staff at the stadium.
I could go on about the pre- Pope show with Harry Connick Jr. which was a real treat and by then the cold winds were letting up and the clouds were beginning to slide away so the whole event was becoming much more comfortable. My hands were thawing out.
Finally the time for mass arrived and the bells called the faithful to service. The ritual of the Catholic Mass is a beautiful thing to see and even more so when attended by a horde of Bishops and Cardinals and 57,000 people. The Pope made his way around the stadium in the “pope-mobile” and the teenager behind me told his grandma he wanted to get a truck just like that to tour around town in.
When the Pope finally stepped onto the stage and the cameras focused on him, his image filled the big screens and I got a warm fuzzy feeling. I can’t explain it, I just did. Like I was looking at my best friends favorite Grandpa. I raised my white scarf ( handed to me at the gate courtesy of the church) and waved like crazy, welcoming the Pope. It didn’t take long for the crowd to become still, after all, I imagine a large number of people in the crowd had gone to Catholic schools, had been disciplined by the Nuns and knew when it was time to settle down.
The Mass started and I kept half an eye on my devout Catholic friend because I knew that the mass progressed in a predictable fashion and there were times to stand and times to sit and times to bow your head. I was taking my cues from my friend and wondering if God was keeping score, how many missed masses could I make up by attending one mass with the Pope? I figured conservatively that if I were catholic, I would have missed 2600 masses so far in my life. Could I trade, say, half of those in by attending this one?
I was contemplating this question, observing the crowd at their mass when suddenly it came to the part in the mass where the priest calls out and the congregation answers back and 57,000 voices rose together like a flock of doves above the stadium and as one voice answered the call of their faith. I was stunned with the beauty of it. It was enormous.
It was like the entire stadium full of people became one being and the rise and fall of the mass was the heartbeat and breath of this giant. The call of the Priest became the foghorn and the mass the lighthouse in the fog. The huge crowd moved as one being, eyes closed, just listening and responding as it was guided home. Every move of the mass was echoed by 57,000 beings moving as one being sewn together from 57,000 threads, stand up, sit down, bow head. It was the same, always, in every church everywhere and everyone moved with certainty. The consistency a solid rock foundation, they were held comfortably in the arms of the ritual they knew without doubt.
I stood aside as 57,000 people were given the sacrament by hundreds of priests. I looked around and saw 57,000 people in blissful contemplation of the most holy of their rituals. The “vibe” was almost visible and I think, just maybe, that the stadium seen from outside would have had a sheen to it. As the mass ended I took up my white scarf again, and with everyone else bid Pope Benedict XVI goodbye.
It was incredible to see, I mean, who would have thought 57,000 people anywhere, anytime, for any reason, could move in perfect synchronicity? But it did happen, I saw it. I heard it. I felt a sudden renewal in my faith in faith.
I think for most people, faith is like a red line on a thermometer, moving up and down in the seasons of their life. If we look at faith as the thread that sews the garment of our life together, we realize the consistency of the stitches to be what makes the garment stronger. As we learn to sew with faith and our stitches become more uniform, no longer tiny and tight in some places, long and loose in others, but consistently even, always in faith, sewn with care, the garment of our life becomes stronger. No longer is our garment easily torn apart by the hands of fate.
For me, that is the message of the Mass, always the same, everywhere, through time, never changing, consistently calling to the faithful to remain so.
Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
“Blessing the US!”
Washington, DC
New York, NY
Not much of a tour, only two stops, but I guess that is what made it so special. I was thrilled to have gotten a ticket to a historic religious event like this. And I’m not even Catholic. As I told you in an earlier post, I was riding shotgun for my devout catholic friend who wanted a companion for the long trip. I owed her, and I’ll admit, in this instance I was glad I owed her and happy to pay up.
I could give you a blow by blow of the whole event, the drive to New York, the kindness of the Church group who allowed us to enter their parish lottery for tickets and then took us into their hearts and onto their bus. The drive down the Hudson, with the steely grey skies and a cold wind blowing us along.
My discomfort with seeing New York City again, I know that many people consider it a tourist destination, a thrilling fun place to visit and apparently a lot of people consider it a great place to live and work, but I have to admit I don’t care for NYC. I hadn’t been there in about 15 years and I could have spent the rest of my life with out going again. I don’t know, it’s just to grey, to dirty, to cement and steel, to crowded, to noisy and yes, I know about central park but besides that, I don’t see enough nature to keep a June bug alive. It’s just too manmade for me. I don’t like that caged in feeling I get when there are buildings towering all around me. I want to see the sky above, the horizon in the distance and the earth under my feet, so NYC and me, we just don’t fit.
I could go on and on about the amazing choreography of the support staff who parked 800 buses and got 57,000 people through security in the blink of an eye. I was having trouble telling the FBI guys in their conservative suits from the Catholic guys dressed for Mass with the Pope. The NYC cops were short. Yes, I said short. I’ve never seen so many short cops in my life. Maybe it’s a process of evolution; these homeboys growing up in crowded city conditions are naturally starting to grow smaller.
They were all very nice, just small. I was especially happy with the one who promised not to remove us from the event if we crashed the men’s room because honestly, the ladies room line was around the stadium. I saw one of the shorty cops in our section of the stadium, who had never taken his eyes off the crowd during the whole event, pull his crucifix out of his shirt and cross himself as the Pope concluded Mass. I suspect he was thrilled to be making overtime protecting the head of his Church, I just wish he could have participated in the Mass as well.
I could also go on and on about the number of people, the amazing diversity of ages and nationality, the large group of novice priests in baseball caps (so cute!), the occasional Nun in habit surrounded by little girls with starry eyes asking questions, ( that’s cute too!). The Monks in robes, the Knights of Columbus in full regalia (Stunning!), all the Bishops and Cardinals in tall hats and flowing robes, the elderly dressed in their Sunday best, the families of faithful, the crowds of security people, the reporters and cameras and all of our NYC hosts, the staff at the stadium.
I could go on about the pre- Pope show with Harry Connick Jr. which was a real treat and by then the cold winds were letting up and the clouds were beginning to slide away so the whole event was becoming much more comfortable. My hands were thawing out.
Finally the time for mass arrived and the bells called the faithful to service. The ritual of the Catholic Mass is a beautiful thing to see and even more so when attended by a horde of Bishops and Cardinals and 57,000 people. The Pope made his way around the stadium in the “pope-mobile” and the teenager behind me told his grandma he wanted to get a truck just like that to tour around town in.
When the Pope finally stepped onto the stage and the cameras focused on him, his image filled the big screens and I got a warm fuzzy feeling. I can’t explain it, I just did. Like I was looking at my best friends favorite Grandpa. I raised my white scarf ( handed to me at the gate courtesy of the church) and waved like crazy, welcoming the Pope. It didn’t take long for the crowd to become still, after all, I imagine a large number of people in the crowd had gone to Catholic schools, had been disciplined by the Nuns and knew when it was time to settle down.
The Mass started and I kept half an eye on my devout Catholic friend because I knew that the mass progressed in a predictable fashion and there were times to stand and times to sit and times to bow your head. I was taking my cues from my friend and wondering if God was keeping score, how many missed masses could I make up by attending one mass with the Pope? I figured conservatively that if I were catholic, I would have missed 2600 masses so far in my life. Could I trade, say, half of those in by attending this one?
I was contemplating this question, observing the crowd at their mass when suddenly it came to the part in the mass where the priest calls out and the congregation answers back and 57,000 voices rose together like a flock of doves above the stadium and as one voice answered the call of their faith. I was stunned with the beauty of it. It was enormous.
It was like the entire stadium full of people became one being and the rise and fall of the mass was the heartbeat and breath of this giant. The call of the Priest became the foghorn and the mass the lighthouse in the fog. The huge crowd moved as one being, eyes closed, just listening and responding as it was guided home. Every move of the mass was echoed by 57,000 beings moving as one being sewn together from 57,000 threads, stand up, sit down, bow head. It was the same, always, in every church everywhere and everyone moved with certainty. The consistency a solid rock foundation, they were held comfortably in the arms of the ritual they knew without doubt.
I stood aside as 57,000 people were given the sacrament by hundreds of priests. I looked around and saw 57,000 people in blissful contemplation of the most holy of their rituals. The “vibe” was almost visible and I think, just maybe, that the stadium seen from outside would have had a sheen to it. As the mass ended I took up my white scarf again, and with everyone else bid Pope Benedict XVI goodbye.
It was incredible to see, I mean, who would have thought 57,000 people anywhere, anytime, for any reason, could move in perfect synchronicity? But it did happen, I saw it. I heard it. I felt a sudden renewal in my faith in faith.
I think for most people, faith is like a red line on a thermometer, moving up and down in the seasons of their life. If we look at faith as the thread that sews the garment of our life together, we realize the consistency of the stitches to be what makes the garment stronger. As we learn to sew with faith and our stitches become more uniform, no longer tiny and tight in some places, long and loose in others, but consistently even, always in faith, sewn with care, the garment of our life becomes stronger. No longer is our garment easily torn apart by the hands of fate.
For me, that is the message of the Mass, always the same, everywhere, through time, never changing, consistently calling to the faithful to remain so.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Signs of Spring
I saw the first signs of spring yesterday. They were all over town, on every corner, signs that said yard sale and garage sale and estate sale. Signs that appeared to have grown and bloomed overnight in profusion. Big signs and little signs, hand made signs and store bought signs, in a rainbow of colors.
Yes, it’s definitely spring and time to shake out the closets and unclog the garage and rid your self of all that winter gain. I’m jumping on the bandwagon and planning my own yard sale.
I don’t know how all this stuff gets in my house, it seems to grow of its own accord and spread like some all climate ivy. One day my closets are empty and the next they are overgrown. When I moved into my 1900 square foot house it was so empty, with my 600 square foot apartment furnishings. Now it looks like I have lived here for 300 years and developed some obsessive packratting skills.
I’m going to start with the clothes closet. One of my friends said to me one time “ You have a lot of clothes, you know?” Really? I do? Doesn’t everyone use one entire spare bedroom for a closet? Doesn’t everyone have 3 dressers, 2 wardrobes, 5 closets (2 just for coats), dozens of shoe boxes and a shelf unit designed specifically for purses? Doesn’t everyone get calls from major motion picture studios asking to borrow when they are out fitting 3000 extras?
I’m determined to trim down, remove the excess and get all Zen with my wardrobe. I’m tossing anything that is not a perfect fit, does not wash easily, and isn’t museum quality vintage. I’m tossing all artificial fabrics and anything made in china, even if I did buy it secondhand. By the way, if you buy vintage or consignment, most of your choices have nothing to do with China.
When I’m done with the clothes closets I’m moving onto the Christmas decorations. I’m culling it to the ones that fit on the tree, and again, vintage. Last year I tried to save trees by buying vintage Christmas cards at an antique fair. Watch the envelope size if you try this, one style I bought was such a cute but odd size I had to put them in new envelopes to get them past the post office inspectors. I’m going to go natural with my holiday decorations from now on and stick to pine cones, pop corn strings, cranberries, greenery and hot house poinsettias. None of which will be sitting in my attic come July.
Then on to the book shelves, which, over the years and numerous moves are already less crowded then in my past. I still think I can do away with some of the books I’ve collected since my last move, like the one on making candles (to complicated, messy and time consuming) or the one on quilting (already used it once and remember how), or the pile of novels that I bought for next to nothing and already enjoyed ( I seldom read a novel twice). I have very few books that would be hard or impossible to find again if I really wanted to re-read them.
Next I will delve into the linen closet because I’ve finally come to understand the universal truth that the curtains from one home never fit the windows of the next home. Hopefully this realization is fully rooted and has grown to the point that when I move again I will be smart enough to leave the 3 tons of curtains from my current abode right where they belong- hanging in the windows. I’ve also come to realize that no matter how cold it is outside, nobody really needs 14 blankets, three sleeping bags and 2 comforters.
I think I’m gonna have the grand daddy of all yard sales!
Now I come to the perilous part of the unloading- the kitchen. I admit I’m an addict. I can’t pass a cute vintage dish or kitchen utensil with out cooing to it. My cupboards are so full they are pulling away from the walls. I have enough place settings to supply the Waldorf Astoria during wedding season. It’s funny really, because my table only seats 4. I have dishes from the 1800’s to the 1960’s. I have every color of the rainbow and some. I could open a vintage dish store to rival patterns.com. I have enough vintage covered casserole dishes to supply an Amish barn raising party. And I seldom cook. I have no defense, just a newly conceived offense- if it’s replaceable, get rid of it. I’m sure someone else would love to attend a potluck with one of those vintage casseroles, and I hope they stop to shop at my humongous yard sale.
After I recover from skinning my kitchen I’m heading with gusto onto the big ticket items. Every yard sale has to have big ticket items to attract a crowd. Last time I had a sale I dragged half my furniture out to the yard and put “sold” signs on every piece just to attract attention. This time, if I drag it out, it really is for sale. I’m thinking things like my bar stools, which have been floundering around since my last move because this house has no bar, and my telescope that has not left it’s box in a few years. I have more chairs than asses in my house so I think a few of those could go. Things like that, handy when you need them, but honestly, how often do you need them?
So, my battle plan is drawn, a date circled on the calendar and numerous prayers for good weather already offered. I hope this helps cure my compulsion to fill my space with stuff. After all, it’s a lot of work to carry all that stuff out to the yard, set up a nice looking sale and sit in a yard chair all day making small talk and change. In this area, yard sales start at the crack of dawn and traditionally last just one day- after all, Sunday is for church, not shopping. When the last sale is done, and the crowds have dispersed, I’m committed to loading every last item off the yard directly into the car for a short ride to the local thrift store. Then I’m gonna count the loot and breath in my new found wide open spaces.
Yes, it’s definitely spring and time to shake out the closets and unclog the garage and rid your self of all that winter gain. I’m jumping on the bandwagon and planning my own yard sale.
I don’t know how all this stuff gets in my house, it seems to grow of its own accord and spread like some all climate ivy. One day my closets are empty and the next they are overgrown. When I moved into my 1900 square foot house it was so empty, with my 600 square foot apartment furnishings. Now it looks like I have lived here for 300 years and developed some obsessive packratting skills.
I’m going to start with the clothes closet. One of my friends said to me one time “ You have a lot of clothes, you know?” Really? I do? Doesn’t everyone use one entire spare bedroom for a closet? Doesn’t everyone have 3 dressers, 2 wardrobes, 5 closets (2 just for coats), dozens of shoe boxes and a shelf unit designed specifically for purses? Doesn’t everyone get calls from major motion picture studios asking to borrow when they are out fitting 3000 extras?
I’m determined to trim down, remove the excess and get all Zen with my wardrobe. I’m tossing anything that is not a perfect fit, does not wash easily, and isn’t museum quality vintage. I’m tossing all artificial fabrics and anything made in china, even if I did buy it secondhand. By the way, if you buy vintage or consignment, most of your choices have nothing to do with China.
When I’m done with the clothes closets I’m moving onto the Christmas decorations. I’m culling it to the ones that fit on the tree, and again, vintage. Last year I tried to save trees by buying vintage Christmas cards at an antique fair. Watch the envelope size if you try this, one style I bought was such a cute but odd size I had to put them in new envelopes to get them past the post office inspectors. I’m going to go natural with my holiday decorations from now on and stick to pine cones, pop corn strings, cranberries, greenery and hot house poinsettias. None of which will be sitting in my attic come July.
Then on to the book shelves, which, over the years and numerous moves are already less crowded then in my past. I still think I can do away with some of the books I’ve collected since my last move, like the one on making candles (to complicated, messy and time consuming) or the one on quilting (already used it once and remember how), or the pile of novels that I bought for next to nothing and already enjoyed ( I seldom read a novel twice). I have very few books that would be hard or impossible to find again if I really wanted to re-read them.
Next I will delve into the linen closet because I’ve finally come to understand the universal truth that the curtains from one home never fit the windows of the next home. Hopefully this realization is fully rooted and has grown to the point that when I move again I will be smart enough to leave the 3 tons of curtains from my current abode right where they belong- hanging in the windows. I’ve also come to realize that no matter how cold it is outside, nobody really needs 14 blankets, three sleeping bags and 2 comforters.
I think I’m gonna have the grand daddy of all yard sales!
Now I come to the perilous part of the unloading- the kitchen. I admit I’m an addict. I can’t pass a cute vintage dish or kitchen utensil with out cooing to it. My cupboards are so full they are pulling away from the walls. I have enough place settings to supply the Waldorf Astoria during wedding season. It’s funny really, because my table only seats 4. I have dishes from the 1800’s to the 1960’s. I have every color of the rainbow and some. I could open a vintage dish store to rival patterns.com. I have enough vintage covered casserole dishes to supply an Amish barn raising party. And I seldom cook. I have no defense, just a newly conceived offense- if it’s replaceable, get rid of it. I’m sure someone else would love to attend a potluck with one of those vintage casseroles, and I hope they stop to shop at my humongous yard sale.
After I recover from skinning my kitchen I’m heading with gusto onto the big ticket items. Every yard sale has to have big ticket items to attract a crowd. Last time I had a sale I dragged half my furniture out to the yard and put “sold” signs on every piece just to attract attention. This time, if I drag it out, it really is for sale. I’m thinking things like my bar stools, which have been floundering around since my last move because this house has no bar, and my telescope that has not left it’s box in a few years. I have more chairs than asses in my house so I think a few of those could go. Things like that, handy when you need them, but honestly, how often do you need them?
So, my battle plan is drawn, a date circled on the calendar and numerous prayers for good weather already offered. I hope this helps cure my compulsion to fill my space with stuff. After all, it’s a lot of work to carry all that stuff out to the yard, set up a nice looking sale and sit in a yard chair all day making small talk and change. In this area, yard sales start at the crack of dawn and traditionally last just one day- after all, Sunday is for church, not shopping. When the last sale is done, and the crowds have dispersed, I’m committed to loading every last item off the yard directly into the car for a short ride to the local thrift store. Then I’m gonna count the loot and breath in my new found wide open spaces.
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