8/29/10 - Road Trips
I know someone who is traveling in the desert right now on a sort of pilgrimage, and then I did a little driving today to meet friends for a movie and to buy groceries, so I was thinking of being on the road. I love that feeling of driving in the car somewhere and it's hot and it's summer and you roll the window down and stick one of your feet into that fast car breeze. And I know that driving and using gas is not terribly ecological, so please translate all this in your head to driving an oxcart or riding a horse, because they're more ecological, if slower, and I'd gladly substitute if I had to. Or translate it to running on my own two feet, yes, I would do the road trip making my own tracks if it meant I got to travel and see the world to the side speeding by my cheeks.
I read Jack Kerouac's book sometime in college, I don't remember if it was before or after my best road trip, but I love the maniacal feeling of going over the road with friends and time and rest be damned--we'll get there as soon as we can. Driving the graveyard shift was my specialty on that great road trip when I was 21--four people in a little Chevette that kept having problems--the muffler almost fell off in PA, and the radiator starting leaking in Arizona, so we had to turn on the heat to keep the engine cool--that's right, we had the heat on in the Arizona desert in June. And it took 3 1/2 days from Boston to LA, and I loved driving overnight, but I also loved when we stopped, piled out and unrolled sleeping bags under the stars.
Road trips, tossing all your necessities into the back seat and letting them toss around like suitcase salad, as you take out stuff you need & put things back at random. Naming the clouds that go by, making friends with the trees, their clumps of leaves nodding in the prairie wind. Putting your hand out the window to feel the passing, of place, of time, of air.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
8/28/10 – Summertime – the Heat
The Heat: One time, I participated in a sweat lodge at a summer gathering. The sweat was lead by a woman who had done sundance for many years, and she had been trained in sweat lodge by a Lakota elder. I remember feeling the heat of the stones and our huddled bodies inside the lodge, as well as the steam condensing and running down my skin as water was ladled onto the stones. I was at first uncomfortable, and then, encouraged by the leader’s and other participants’ meditations and prayers, felt oneness with the hot air, the earth, the elements. As the lodge went on, my feeling of oneness and euphoria actually increased, to the point that I was wishing for more stones, more heat, more steam, more time in the lodge. It seemed there was no discomfort, only a different kind of environment that just took some focus.
(What I have learned, then and more recently, about safety and respect regarding sweat lodge: Money is never exchanged for ceremony in native tradition. Common sense is welcome. Overthinking one’s issues can be counterproductive. It is important to sweat with a trained elder so that the proper prayers can be intoned, and the appropriate spirit helpers and protectors can be called upon. If an improperly trained person leads a sweat, there can be a risk of ill health or unhelpful spirits who might add imbalance. Also, the strength and effectiveness of a ceremony are diluted over time if it is conducted improperly. I don’t know anyone (non-native) doing sweat lodge who does not in their heart admire the native traditions that created it and handed it down over generations. So why not take the extra step to safeguard those traditions and the integrity of the sweat ceremony by searching out a trained native american elder? Your efforts might also support and shore up the beautiful native traditions that have helped keep this continent abundant and balanced for so many generations, and that are surely instrumental in leading us through the current global crises.)
I have carried the teachings of that sweat lodge with me for a long time. A month or so after that sweat, I moved my household in the Boston area. On my moving day, the temperature was between 100-103 degrees in that Boston humidity. The friends I had help me, and the guy with the van that I hired, were extremely uncomfortable, but I remember skipping up and down the front steps, dripping sweat of course, but with unflagging energy, feeling that oneness with the heat. I felt no difference between that summer day and myself.
Heat is purifying, it’s true. I’m part Scandinavian, and some of my ancestry speaks of saunas and steam baths. I’m sure the Scandinavian parts of my ancestry learned the benefits of sweating from the indigenous people whom they met—the Sami (Laplanders) in northern Scandinavia. Sweating is great. Some people call skin the largest organ of the body. Others call skin the largest excretory organ of the body. When I do deeper massage work on people, sometimes they sweat, and sometimes in the sweat, you can smell the toxins that they have been in touch with, such as commercial solvents that get absorbed by the skin if they have done construction work. Sweat contains urea, lactate and trace minerals, including, I’m sure, some minerals/metals that should not be in the body. I keep thinking sweating has to do with clearing out the lymphatic system (so important to overall health, especially in freedom from and treatment of cancer) So I looked it up. The way sweat glands create sweat is by secreting fluid they get from interstitial fluid (that’s lymph!), and secreting that into little ducts around the sweat gland. So sweating, by my reckoning, is essential to good health, by pumping more fluid through the lymph system, allowing it to cleanse itself.
All this background is leading up to my opinion: I really think it’s normal and important to spend the summer sweating. I think that sweating in the summer heat is a natural sauna, a natural way of purifying the body of toxins that it builds up over the other three seasons. But air conditioning in the summer is such a norm in the affluent Western world, that no one questions why we do it. I find air conditioning to be expensive and unnecessary—part of the sense of entitlement of the western world. I’m not trying to justify my stinginess about the electric bill. I really think that sweating through the summer is healthy. Is it a coincidence that the rise of AC use has coincided with a rise in degenerative disease in the US and the West? If we let ourselves sweat a little more in the summer, don’t you think we could slow global warming a little bit by using less energy, and also be healthier? Could we stop complaining about how hot it is, and start accepting it for what it is? A great opportunity to heal.
The Heat: One time, I participated in a sweat lodge at a summer gathering. The sweat was lead by a woman who had done sundance for many years, and she had been trained in sweat lodge by a Lakota elder. I remember feeling the heat of the stones and our huddled bodies inside the lodge, as well as the steam condensing and running down my skin as water was ladled onto the stones. I was at first uncomfortable, and then, encouraged by the leader’s and other participants’ meditations and prayers, felt oneness with the hot air, the earth, the elements. As the lodge went on, my feeling of oneness and euphoria actually increased, to the point that I was wishing for more stones, more heat, more steam, more time in the lodge. It seemed there was no discomfort, only a different kind of environment that just took some focus.
(What I have learned, then and more recently, about safety and respect regarding sweat lodge: Money is never exchanged for ceremony in native tradition. Common sense is welcome. Overthinking one’s issues can be counterproductive. It is important to sweat with a trained elder so that the proper prayers can be intoned, and the appropriate spirit helpers and protectors can be called upon. If an improperly trained person leads a sweat, there can be a risk of ill health or unhelpful spirits who might add imbalance. Also, the strength and effectiveness of a ceremony are diluted over time if it is conducted improperly. I don’t know anyone (non-native) doing sweat lodge who does not in their heart admire the native traditions that created it and handed it down over generations. So why not take the extra step to safeguard those traditions and the integrity of the sweat ceremony by searching out a trained native american elder? Your efforts might also support and shore up the beautiful native traditions that have helped keep this continent abundant and balanced for so many generations, and that are surely instrumental in leading us through the current global crises.)
I have carried the teachings of that sweat lodge with me for a long time. A month or so after that sweat, I moved my household in the Boston area. On my moving day, the temperature was between 100-103 degrees in that Boston humidity. The friends I had help me, and the guy with the van that I hired, were extremely uncomfortable, but I remember skipping up and down the front steps, dripping sweat of course, but with unflagging energy, feeling that oneness with the heat. I felt no difference between that summer day and myself.
Heat is purifying, it’s true. I’m part Scandinavian, and some of my ancestry speaks of saunas and steam baths. I’m sure the Scandinavian parts of my ancestry learned the benefits of sweating from the indigenous people whom they met—the Sami (Laplanders) in northern Scandinavia. Sweating is great. Some people call skin the largest organ of the body. Others call skin the largest excretory organ of the body. When I do deeper massage work on people, sometimes they sweat, and sometimes in the sweat, you can smell the toxins that they have been in touch with, such as commercial solvents that get absorbed by the skin if they have done construction work. Sweat contains urea, lactate and trace minerals, including, I’m sure, some minerals/metals that should not be in the body. I keep thinking sweating has to do with clearing out the lymphatic system (so important to overall health, especially in freedom from and treatment of cancer) So I looked it up. The way sweat glands create sweat is by secreting fluid they get from interstitial fluid (that’s lymph!), and secreting that into little ducts around the sweat gland. So sweating, by my reckoning, is essential to good health, by pumping more fluid through the lymph system, allowing it to cleanse itself.
All this background is leading up to my opinion: I really think it’s normal and important to spend the summer sweating. I think that sweating in the summer heat is a natural sauna, a natural way of purifying the body of toxins that it builds up over the other three seasons. But air conditioning in the summer is such a norm in the affluent Western world, that no one questions why we do it. I find air conditioning to be expensive and unnecessary—part of the sense of entitlement of the western world. I’m not trying to justify my stinginess about the electric bill. I really think that sweating through the summer is healthy. Is it a coincidence that the rise of AC use has coincided with a rise in degenerative disease in the US and the West? If we let ourselves sweat a little more in the summer, don’t you think we could slow global warming a little bit by using less energy, and also be healthier? Could we stop complaining about how hot it is, and start accepting it for what it is? A great opportunity to heal.
Friday, August 27, 2010
post for 8/25/10 - stupid love
The poet Paul Valery once said that "Love is being stupid together," which a lot of people seem to like & gets a lot of hits on a google search. Well, not really, because I can't find the original quote in French, and I'm pretty sure that it's been taken way out of context. These Romance languages have strict parallel structure, and I really think if he meant that love was being stupid together, he would have written, tomber amoureux est d'etre stupides ensemble, which maybe he did, I don't know, I browsed (quickly though) through his complete works in the library, and couldn't find anything that resembles that phrase.
But I think many people are attracted to the idea that falling head over heels for someone makes you forget stuff, lose track of time, trip over your own feet (I hope we're stopping short of the Idiocracy with falling in love). Love, then, is being a fool, a fool for love. Yeah, and I think we're talking about the infatuation stage of love, but wouldn't it be sweet for people who have been together for who knows how long, to have those moments of idiocy, when they lose track of themselves and get all sweet on their beloved. I've seen it every now & then in friends' relationships, and I pray it happens to everyone in the world, in a safe way, to lose track of the world, to lose your bearings sweetly with someone, to dangle by your ankle over a cliff, maybe, because that's the best way to see your beloved eye-to-eye.
Plus, okay, Valery also wrote this: "Mes chaudes mains, baigne-les/Dans les tiennes... Rien ne calm/ Comme d'amour ondules/Les passages d'une palme." in his poem, "La Caresse." Really, could someone who thinks love is stupid have written something like that about the sense of touch between lovers???
The poet Paul Valery once said that "Love is being stupid together," which a lot of people seem to like & gets a lot of hits on a google search. Well, not really, because I can't find the original quote in French, and I'm pretty sure that it's been taken way out of context. These Romance languages have strict parallel structure, and I really think if he meant that love was being stupid together, he would have written, tomber amoureux est d'etre stupides ensemble, which maybe he did, I don't know, I browsed (quickly though) through his complete works in the library, and couldn't find anything that resembles that phrase.
But I think many people are attracted to the idea that falling head over heels for someone makes you forget stuff, lose track of time, trip over your own feet (I hope we're stopping short of the Idiocracy with falling in love). Love, then, is being a fool, a fool for love. Yeah, and I think we're talking about the infatuation stage of love, but wouldn't it be sweet for people who have been together for who knows how long, to have those moments of idiocy, when they lose track of themselves and get all sweet on their beloved. I've seen it every now & then in friends' relationships, and I pray it happens to everyone in the world, in a safe way, to lose track of the world, to lose your bearings sweetly with someone, to dangle by your ankle over a cliff, maybe, because that's the best way to see your beloved eye-to-eye.
Plus, okay, Valery also wrote this: "Mes chaudes mains, baigne-les/Dans les tiennes... Rien ne calm/ Comme d'amour ondules/Les passages d'une palme." in his poem, "La Caresse." Really, could someone who thinks love is stupid have written something like that about the sense of touch between lovers???
08/27/2010 - The wind
…The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
--Emily Dickinson
When my son was a dozy, arm-held chubby thing, I remember taking him out to the porch one spring day, when it was fresh out. He was a midwinter baby, and I guess I hadn’t had him outside too much, or else too well protected from the weather. At the edge of the front porch, checking out the yard, a sudden north wind came through that whipped our jackets and teased our faces a little. Zeke jumped in my arms in surprise, then looked up at me, his expression asking, “what the heck?—“
I’d like to cultivate a similar feeling of newness around the wind, a startle reaction, a surprise, a noticing of that thing that is always present. We are all touched by air, feel the pressure of this constant movement, the constant play of gasses against our skin and clothes, but how often do we really notice it? Does it have to be outrageously wild, or can it be just a normal spring trill? Can I become aware enough to notice the subtle movements of air on a breezeless day? Or what about the wild tempests?
I took out my old anthology of Romantic Poetry & looked up Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind. (where the heck did I put that thing?). And Shelley’s Ode reminds me of a hike I made once with a friend up Mount Katahdin in Maine. We were looking for adventure and found it with straight-line winds on a ridge trail, over a field of boulders lit by lightning strikes.
It’s everywhere. Have I ever been without moving air, wrapping me like a blanket, messing my hair, coaxing the trees to speak, whispering secrets? What is the wind? What is the wind to you?
…The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
--Emily Dickinson
When my son was a dozy, arm-held chubby thing, I remember taking him out to the porch one spring day, when it was fresh out. He was a midwinter baby, and I guess I hadn’t had him outside too much, or else too well protected from the weather. At the edge of the front porch, checking out the yard, a sudden north wind came through that whipped our jackets and teased our faces a little. Zeke jumped in my arms in surprise, then looked up at me, his expression asking, “what the heck?—“
I’d like to cultivate a similar feeling of newness around the wind, a startle reaction, a surprise, a noticing of that thing that is always present. We are all touched by air, feel the pressure of this constant movement, the constant play of gasses against our skin and clothes, but how often do we really notice it? Does it have to be outrageously wild, or can it be just a normal spring trill? Can I become aware enough to notice the subtle movements of air on a breezeless day? Or what about the wild tempests?
I took out my old anthology of Romantic Poetry & looked up Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind. (where the heck did I put that thing?). And Shelley’s Ode reminds me of a hike I made once with a friend up Mount Katahdin in Maine. We were looking for adventure and found it with straight-line winds on a ridge trail, over a field of boulders lit by lightning strikes.
It’s everywhere. Have I ever been without moving air, wrapping me like a blanket, messing my hair, coaxing the trees to speak, whispering secrets? What is the wind? What is the wind to you?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
8/24/10 Telepathy
I’ve taken classes in energy healing, where you learn to trust your intuition, to read people’s energy, to focus those prickly and/or eerie sensations we all have so that you can direct them for someone’s health benefit. One of the ideas espoused by this one healer that I took workshops from, (Barbara Brennan) is that you don’t have to believe something is true, for it to be useful to you. That’s it. Don’t believe in psychic connections? Don’t believe in past lives? Don’t even believe in this energy healing crap? Fine. But if this session is useful to you (relaxing, calming, even caring or friendly), so be it. You don’t have to believe it’s true to derive a benefit. One of the most skeptical people I ever met was this IT computer person who was married to this total new age gal. He kind of repeated the phrases, “I’m not sure about any of this,” and “I really don’t know if I believe it,” as his mantras whenever our meditation group met. He and his gal pal were clearly attuned to each others’ needs, and except for his professed skepticism, this man seemed at home and a positive contributor to every meditation session and he seemed to really enjoy them.
Another skeptic I know has an amazing psychic bond with his daughter, who is a friend of mine. Truly, this pair knows each others’ thoughts and feelings, and can sense good or ill moods and health in each other from 3 hours away. He doesn’t believe in this stuff either.
Even skeptics out there can cite examples where they know who is on the phone before they pick up, or they know exactly what someone is going to say before they open their mouth. We are all so psychic all the time, reading each others’ thoughts and feelings and body language, that it’s a wonder sometimes we even need to speak.
I love when telepathy happens. My favorite kind is having a long conversation with someone I wish I knew, or whose book I’m reading, or even someone I think may not know me too well, or have my best interests at heart. Through having a conversation in my mind (okay, some might call it just an overactive imagination), I feel like I can reach a wiser, deeper place in myself, to learn from these authors or teachers that I don’t know, or to heal and transform issues in friendships that aren’t working well.
I’ve taken classes in energy healing, where you learn to trust your intuition, to read people’s energy, to focus those prickly and/or eerie sensations we all have so that you can direct them for someone’s health benefit. One of the ideas espoused by this one healer that I took workshops from, (Barbara Brennan) is that you don’t have to believe something is true, for it to be useful to you. That’s it. Don’t believe in psychic connections? Don’t believe in past lives? Don’t even believe in this energy healing crap? Fine. But if this session is useful to you (relaxing, calming, even caring or friendly), so be it. You don’t have to believe it’s true to derive a benefit. One of the most skeptical people I ever met was this IT computer person who was married to this total new age gal. He kind of repeated the phrases, “I’m not sure about any of this,” and “I really don’t know if I believe it,” as his mantras whenever our meditation group met. He and his gal pal were clearly attuned to each others’ needs, and except for his professed skepticism, this man seemed at home and a positive contributor to every meditation session and he seemed to really enjoy them.
Another skeptic I know has an amazing psychic bond with his daughter, who is a friend of mine. Truly, this pair knows each others’ thoughts and feelings, and can sense good or ill moods and health in each other from 3 hours away. He doesn’t believe in this stuff either.
Even skeptics out there can cite examples where they know who is on the phone before they pick up, or they know exactly what someone is going to say before they open their mouth. We are all so psychic all the time, reading each others’ thoughts and feelings and body language, that it’s a wonder sometimes we even need to speak.
I love when telepathy happens. My favorite kind is having a long conversation with someone I wish I knew, or whose book I’m reading, or even someone I think may not know me too well, or have my best interests at heart. Through having a conversation in my mind (okay, some might call it just an overactive imagination), I feel like I can reach a wiser, deeper place in myself, to learn from these authors or teachers that I don’t know, or to heal and transform issues in friendships that aren’t working well.
post for 8/23/10 - pain
Yes, the ecstasy for Monday the 23rd is pain. We all need to come to terms with pain, to revel in it, to set aside time for it, to truly enjoy it when it happens. How do we do this? It’s like the yin-yang symbol, how within darkness, there is the seed of light (and within light, the seed of darkness). It’s one of the great paradoxes I think, and it’s partly a matter of disciplining the mind.
I know a few people who are midwives, and I studied for a while myself to be a midwife. Just when I was realizing that attending someone’s labor for days at a time wasn’t a good fit for my family and me, I took a workshop where midwives were talking about hypnobirthing. In the 1990’s it seemed like the best, most workable pain-free childbirth, where women learn to put themselves in a kind of trance in labor, and it allows them to dilate and push with minimal discomfort, theoretically. I’m sure it works for some people, and I think our minds are built for that.
But here are my two examples of pain being an ecstasy, and one of them is childbirth. I won’t go into too many details except to say that I had a hard time at first dealing with the pain of contractions. And because I didn’t want myself or my baby to be groggy, I didn’t want any meds. So I meditated. It was best when my healer arrived and breathed with me. She was completely unafraid and encouraged me to approach the source of the pain. I dropped my awareness to my bottom, and as the baby’s head hit every two minutes, instead of feeling a stabbing pain, as I had been in my fear, I stayed with it, and it ended up feeling like a really hard thud, and not excruciating. As I got the hang of going into the pain, it really got easier, although it took all my focus, to the point of being like, this is really hard, but kind of fun. And then, here’s the next contraction, and let me see how I can disperse this one. And to this day, I still remember the thuds, not pain, with joy.
A few years later, I was taking a walk with a friend along a rocky beach on the North Shore. I was wallowing in self-pity at the time, which took attention away from my footsteps. So I didn’t watch where I was going and fell and got a huge scrape on my thigh. Seriously, the whole outside of the upper part of my leg was raw and bleeding like hamburger. And I felt like an idiot, because I knew what I really wanted was sympathy, but it wasn't the right time or place. So I focused my consciousness on my hamburger-colored scrape, got into it so I could feel the throbbing of blood through the site, and then all I felt was warmth & expansion, not the sharp tenderness I had felt a moment before.
What happens when we bring our focus to staying present with pain, instead of recoiling from it, is that the sensation changes from a tight horrible feeling to the joy of intense focus and accomplishment. Yes, I know, an ecstasy.
A version of this works for emotional pain as well, but that's a topic for another day.
Yes, the ecstasy for Monday the 23rd is pain. We all need to come to terms with pain, to revel in it, to set aside time for it, to truly enjoy it when it happens. How do we do this? It’s like the yin-yang symbol, how within darkness, there is the seed of light (and within light, the seed of darkness). It’s one of the great paradoxes I think, and it’s partly a matter of disciplining the mind.
I know a few people who are midwives, and I studied for a while myself to be a midwife. Just when I was realizing that attending someone’s labor for days at a time wasn’t a good fit for my family and me, I took a workshop where midwives were talking about hypnobirthing. In the 1990’s it seemed like the best, most workable pain-free childbirth, where women learn to put themselves in a kind of trance in labor, and it allows them to dilate and push with minimal discomfort, theoretically. I’m sure it works for some people, and I think our minds are built for that.
But here are my two examples of pain being an ecstasy, and one of them is childbirth. I won’t go into too many details except to say that I had a hard time at first dealing with the pain of contractions. And because I didn’t want myself or my baby to be groggy, I didn’t want any meds. So I meditated. It was best when my healer arrived and breathed with me. She was completely unafraid and encouraged me to approach the source of the pain. I dropped my awareness to my bottom, and as the baby’s head hit every two minutes, instead of feeling a stabbing pain, as I had been in my fear, I stayed with it, and it ended up feeling like a really hard thud, and not excruciating. As I got the hang of going into the pain, it really got easier, although it took all my focus, to the point of being like, this is really hard, but kind of fun. And then, here’s the next contraction, and let me see how I can disperse this one. And to this day, I still remember the thuds, not pain, with joy.
A few years later, I was taking a walk with a friend along a rocky beach on the North Shore. I was wallowing in self-pity at the time, which took attention away from my footsteps. So I didn’t watch where I was going and fell and got a huge scrape on my thigh. Seriously, the whole outside of the upper part of my leg was raw and bleeding like hamburger. And I felt like an idiot, because I knew what I really wanted was sympathy, but it wasn't the right time or place. So I focused my consciousness on my hamburger-colored scrape, got into it so I could feel the throbbing of blood through the site, and then all I felt was warmth & expansion, not the sharp tenderness I had felt a moment before.
What happens when we bring our focus to staying present with pain, instead of recoiling from it, is that the sensation changes from a tight horrible feeling to the joy of intense focus and accomplishment. Yes, I know, an ecstasy.
A version of this works for emotional pain as well, but that's a topic for another day.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Entry for 8/22/10 -- the Madonna of the Post-Apocalypse
I'm ready for doom and gloom to be over, ready to be creating the world anew, and so I am creating a new cult celebrating all the lovely perfect qualities of an archetypal mother for the post-apocalyptic age. That is the ecstasy for today. The renewal of spirituality and the Madonna of the post-apocalypse who embodies everything that we wish her to. (your wishes and ideas here). (see? one of her qualities is adaptability and responsiveness to everyone's needs).
I'm ready for doom and gloom to be over, ready to be creating the world anew, and so I am creating a new cult celebrating all the lovely perfect qualities of an archetypal mother for the post-apocalyptic age. That is the ecstasy for today. The renewal of spirituality and the Madonna of the post-apocalypse who embodies everything that we wish her to. (your wishes and ideas here). (see? one of her qualities is adaptability and responsiveness to everyone's needs).
Mist entry for 8/21/10
Droplets suspended in the air, a vague greyness surrounding the outsides of everything, dew-ing up the skin, condensing in the hair to make curls, making everything damp.
I’ve lived in sea towns before, and having mist in the morning that burns off by noon is a perfect pleasure. Who needs to see anything before midday?
When things are misty, the mist obscures so much that we might start imagining things that exist in it, outside of the familiar…an amazing friend, the gift that you really need, a perfect new game and the people to play it with, the remedy for everything, it’s all there in the mist.
“Misty” is one of my favorite jazz standards, both because the melody is so haunting and the sentiments so all-possessing. It’s about an upwelling of emotion, about having discovered the perfect someone: “I’m too misty, and too much in love.” And being overfull of something is the perfect state to be in, because then you definitely have enough to share. Misty, like maybe the earth is having an upwelling of emotion, a supersaturated feeling of connection.
I just looked up mist on Wikipedia--apparently these supersaturated upwellings need to be called fog if the visibility is a certain level of bad, and merely mist when you can see a little better. I can see my path a little better, which is why I love the mist.
Droplets suspended in the air, a vague greyness surrounding the outsides of everything, dew-ing up the skin, condensing in the hair to make curls, making everything damp.
I’ve lived in sea towns before, and having mist in the morning that burns off by noon is a perfect pleasure. Who needs to see anything before midday?
When things are misty, the mist obscures so much that we might start imagining things that exist in it, outside of the familiar…an amazing friend, the gift that you really need, a perfect new game and the people to play it with, the remedy for everything, it’s all there in the mist.
“Misty” is one of my favorite jazz standards, both because the melody is so haunting and the sentiments so all-possessing. It’s about an upwelling of emotion, about having discovered the perfect someone: “I’m too misty, and too much in love.” And being overfull of something is the perfect state to be in, because then you definitely have enough to share. Misty, like maybe the earth is having an upwelling of emotion, a supersaturated feeling of connection.
I just looked up mist on Wikipedia--apparently these supersaturated upwellings need to be called fog if the visibility is a certain level of bad, and merely mist when you can see a little better. I can see my path a little better, which is why I love the mist.
Friday, August 20, 2010
8/20/10 crickets
So many ecstasies are creatures, maybe I should be calling this blog, “beings I love, and how that love is an ecstasy.” Or “How I want to see the world from the perspective of this critter and how that is an ecstasy.” Or “people I wish I knew now, or regret not knowing better, and how dreaming about the better is an ecstasy.” Or “music that I dream from the inside of someone or something else, and how that is an ecstasy.” Or “the million ways to melt with love over something, and how being alive and feeling things is an ecstasy.” Or “songs I wish I could sing, and that I sing in my dreams in particular at this time of year.” Or “how deep is my respect for these shiny black critters with segmented bodies and washboard knees, and how I wish I could sing like that.” or “songs I write when I am not myself, or when I am.
I don’t go out into the night enough, and I don’t remember what time of year they first start chirping, but once they start it seems as though they’ve been at it all summer, and it just gradually dawns on me, like tonight when I came home from work, there were crickets chirping in the rock garden at the front steps and I knew that had to be the ecstasy of the day. But I also noticed as I stepped inside the door, that two of the rock garden crickets had managed to chirp “shave and a haircut” in perfect cricket rhythm. So then I start thinking about crickets and compositions like that old koan about Shakespeare and a thousand monkeys at typewriters for a thousand years.
It took a few seconds for the crickets at my door to chirp shave and a haircut. And I don’t know if there are baritone crickets or basso profundo crickets or coloratura crickets to make this happen, but how and where would it be possible for crickets to chirp all the amazing compositions of human history. Eroica and the Moonlight Sonata and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and Scarlatti’s sonata in E and the Jitterbug Waltz and chopsticks and everything (to name a few of my personal favorites). You’d need a thousand summers and at least a thousand crickets but you could maybe get that in a few square city blocks in a single night, so numbers would not be a problem.
But then, why would crickets bother with human music, when their own music, and the music of other animals and birds is so much more refreshingly interesting, and maybe our human music is lower on their list. Cricket Q To do: 1. Sight-read at rehearsal with humpback whales; 2. brainstorm with warblers planning an interspecies mash-up; 3. help cicadas find their authentic voice.
I have a friend who is a personal coach--she trained for it and got certified and everything. I think she has a t-shirt for her business and she definitely has cool business cards. I'm going to make up a cool business card for cricket voice and composition coaching:
Cricket music coaching
find your authentic voice and melodies
right here, right here, right here, right here
123-456-7890
So many ecstasies are creatures, maybe I should be calling this blog, “beings I love, and how that love is an ecstasy.” Or “How I want to see the world from the perspective of this critter and how that is an ecstasy.” Or “people I wish I knew now, or regret not knowing better, and how dreaming about the better is an ecstasy.” Or “music that I dream from the inside of someone or something else, and how that is an ecstasy.” Or “the million ways to melt with love over something, and how being alive and feeling things is an ecstasy.” Or “songs I wish I could sing, and that I sing in my dreams in particular at this time of year.” Or “how deep is my respect for these shiny black critters with segmented bodies and washboard knees, and how I wish I could sing like that.” or “songs I write when I am not myself, or when I am.
I don’t go out into the night enough, and I don’t remember what time of year they first start chirping, but once they start it seems as though they’ve been at it all summer, and it just gradually dawns on me, like tonight when I came home from work, there were crickets chirping in the rock garden at the front steps and I knew that had to be the ecstasy of the day. But I also noticed as I stepped inside the door, that two of the rock garden crickets had managed to chirp “shave and a haircut” in perfect cricket rhythm. So then I start thinking about crickets and compositions like that old koan about Shakespeare and a thousand monkeys at typewriters for a thousand years.
It took a few seconds for the crickets at my door to chirp shave and a haircut. And I don’t know if there are baritone crickets or basso profundo crickets or coloratura crickets to make this happen, but how and where would it be possible for crickets to chirp all the amazing compositions of human history. Eroica and the Moonlight Sonata and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and Scarlatti’s sonata in E and the Jitterbug Waltz and chopsticks and everything (to name a few of my personal favorites). You’d need a thousand summers and at least a thousand crickets but you could maybe get that in a few square city blocks in a single night, so numbers would not be a problem.
But then, why would crickets bother with human music, when their own music, and the music of other animals and birds is so much more refreshingly interesting, and maybe our human music is lower on their list. Cricket Q To do: 1. Sight-read at rehearsal with humpback whales; 2. brainstorm with warblers planning an interspecies mash-up; 3. help cicadas find their authentic voice.
I have a friend who is a personal coach--she trained for it and got certified and everything. I think she has a t-shirt for her business and she definitely has cool business cards. I'm going to make up a cool business card for cricket voice and composition coaching:
Cricket music coaching
find your authentic voice and melodies
right here, right here, right here, right here
123-456-7890
8/19/10 The Life and Times of the Star-Nosed Mole
One year, I was taking nature walks every morning to clear my head, at the creek a half-block away. Every now and then, I’d see little dead critters—mice, voles, even small birds-- apparently abandoned by their predators, as if a cat or a hawk had been leaving gifts. One morning, a perfect, dark kidney bean shape, about 4 inches long, appeared by the side of the gravel path. I bent to look at it, saw the bright pink weird nose, and knew at once what it must be.
It was like seeing something of legends, that I never thought I’d see in person—like the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower when I was in France, or if I ever have the luck to see Mount Everest in person, or a sasquatch, even more rare. Had heard about the mole, knew the name, but seeing it in person came as a shock. to see one revealed so unceremoniously, dead with a few talon punctures in its little hide. This thing had a nose that was a little pink starburst! A star nose!
I did what any decent person would do, which was to see that it had a proper burial. I wrapped the creature up in a tissue from my pocket (I think it was actually still a little warm), looked up to whisper a thank-you to my winged benefactor, and took the thing home for a fitting burial. I interred the mole in the woods in back of the house a few minutes later.
Star-nosed moles are amazing though. Their noses have 21 little appendages that are a cross between fingers and tentacles. They are nearly blind, so they use these nose appendages to feel their way around and to locate food. The tentacles have such a high density of sensory cells that they are 6 times more sensitive than human hands. They are in the Guinness book of world records as the world’s fastest forager. Because the mole also spends time in the water, and eats small waterborne insects, it has to be very fast & efficient at sensing a particle, deciding whether or not it’s edible, then scarfing it down. It is also thought that the star-nosed mole can detect faint electrical impulses from its underwater prey by using its nose appendages. If so, it is one of only two known animals in the world that can do that (the other is the platypus). (that is, if you don’t consider people to be animals, and if you are a scientist and haven’t explored intuitive energy work). It is also thought that the star-nosed mole might be a colony-dwelling animal, more so than other moles, but this theory requires more research. This mole is also the farthest-north–dwelling mole in North American. So many unique qualities.
Phenomenal creature, like Gloucester on the moors in Shakespeare’s King Lear: “I see feelingly.” Or like Miranda in The Tempest: “O brave, new world, that has such creatures in it.”
Why ecstasy? The mole’s nose is an amazing functional pink starburst. A supernova sniffer. A very specialized adaptation. Each mole has its own star. A star as its birthright. A star to follow, to use, to touch the world with. What if we were adorned with tentacled stars for each of the things that makes us unique? We’d have stars around our ears, our eyes, our bellies, our hands. We’d be palpating our plate of eggs in the morning, palpating the closet as we get dressed, palpating one another with dozens of pink starbursts as we met one another, palpating our way to work, where we’d palpate stuff all day, including putting all our papers in Braille, then we’d palpate sandwiches during our lunch hours, detect a few electrical impulses, and palpate all the way home again.
To look different but be completely competent, to see feelingly throughout life, to use one’s blindness in one way to develop amazing skills in another area, to be immediately recognized for your appearance, to live in the abundant, squishy earth, to swim so well, to have little nests for your home, to be so sleek and furry, to have such giant, practical, shovel-like forepaws, to be such a standout, so unique, such a star (yet underground and seldom seen), to be such a paradox.
One year, I was taking nature walks every morning to clear my head, at the creek a half-block away. Every now and then, I’d see little dead critters—mice, voles, even small birds-- apparently abandoned by their predators, as if a cat or a hawk had been leaving gifts. One morning, a perfect, dark kidney bean shape, about 4 inches long, appeared by the side of the gravel path. I bent to look at it, saw the bright pink weird nose, and knew at once what it must be.
It was like seeing something of legends, that I never thought I’d see in person—like the first time I saw the Eiffel Tower when I was in France, or if I ever have the luck to see Mount Everest in person, or a sasquatch, even more rare. Had heard about the mole, knew the name, but seeing it in person came as a shock. to see one revealed so unceremoniously, dead with a few talon punctures in its little hide. This thing had a nose that was a little pink starburst! A star nose!
I did what any decent person would do, which was to see that it had a proper burial. I wrapped the creature up in a tissue from my pocket (I think it was actually still a little warm), looked up to whisper a thank-you to my winged benefactor, and took the thing home for a fitting burial. I interred the mole in the woods in back of the house a few minutes later.
Star-nosed moles are amazing though. Their noses have 21 little appendages that are a cross between fingers and tentacles. They are nearly blind, so they use these nose appendages to feel their way around and to locate food. The tentacles have such a high density of sensory cells that they are 6 times more sensitive than human hands. They are in the Guinness book of world records as the world’s fastest forager. Because the mole also spends time in the water, and eats small waterborne insects, it has to be very fast & efficient at sensing a particle, deciding whether or not it’s edible, then scarfing it down. It is also thought that the star-nosed mole can detect faint electrical impulses from its underwater prey by using its nose appendages. If so, it is one of only two known animals in the world that can do that (the other is the platypus). (that is, if you don’t consider people to be animals, and if you are a scientist and haven’t explored intuitive energy work). It is also thought that the star-nosed mole might be a colony-dwelling animal, more so than other moles, but this theory requires more research. This mole is also the farthest-north–dwelling mole in North American. So many unique qualities.
Phenomenal creature, like Gloucester on the moors in Shakespeare’s King Lear: “I see feelingly.” Or like Miranda in The Tempest: “O brave, new world, that has such creatures in it.”
Why ecstasy? The mole’s nose is an amazing functional pink starburst. A supernova sniffer. A very specialized adaptation. Each mole has its own star. A star as its birthright. A star to follow, to use, to touch the world with. What if we were adorned with tentacled stars for each of the things that makes us unique? We’d have stars around our ears, our eyes, our bellies, our hands. We’d be palpating our plate of eggs in the morning, palpating the closet as we get dressed, palpating one another with dozens of pink starbursts as we met one another, palpating our way to work, where we’d palpate stuff all day, including putting all our papers in Braille, then we’d palpate sandwiches during our lunch hours, detect a few electrical impulses, and palpate all the way home again.
To look different but be completely competent, to see feelingly throughout life, to use one’s blindness in one way to develop amazing skills in another area, to be immediately recognized for your appearance, to live in the abundant, squishy earth, to swim so well, to have little nests for your home, to be so sleek and furry, to have such giant, practical, shovel-like forepaws, to be such a standout, so unique, such a star (yet underground and seldom seen), to be such a paradox.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
8/17/10
Flocks of birds: I once rescued this little sparrow-like bird from the cat next door. The cat was luckily still at the clawless, fangless phase of pouncing & batting. The bird was grayish with black & white streaks on its head. I pulled the cat away, and the bird flew about 20 feet, to rest in the grass for a couple minutes, then flew off into the woods of the vacant lot. Next day, there were three little birds with identical markings waiting on my front steps. (which never happens—my front steps are flanked by a gravel patch and the front driveway. Hot & stark) The birds flew up and circled my front steps a few times, then they flew around me about 3 times, kind of like a Disney film only heartfelt, and then flew off. I took it as a thank you for my efforts on behalf of their sister the day before.
One summer when people began arriving to this family camp that we go to, a flock of a dozen or so white pelicans circled the campus, a couple hundred feet overhead. They have a huge wingspan, pelicans, and these critters used it to advantage, seeming to turn around a central axis like a whirligig, or in an s-formation like the division of the yin-yang symbol. White birds, with black trailers on their wingtips. Circling, forming & reforming patterns overhead, which we took as a welcome to camp.
The living cyclone of chimney swift flocks falling into chimneys at dusk, emerging at dawn.
A mass of starlings on the wires, lifting in unison and moving as waves, as one thought, as a giant picture of a bird.
A startle of pigeons, whistling and whirring out from under the overpass, flashing mauve and periwinkle and mother-of-pearl in the afternoon light.
Geese in that iconic delta.
To understand the spaces between wingtips, the spaces between beating hearts. To understand the magnetism in the mind, finding the right place after months, a year, another life. To fly because you have to, and have it be ordinary, not miraculous.
Flocks of birds: I once rescued this little sparrow-like bird from the cat next door. The cat was luckily still at the clawless, fangless phase of pouncing & batting. The bird was grayish with black & white streaks on its head. I pulled the cat away, and the bird flew about 20 feet, to rest in the grass for a couple minutes, then flew off into the woods of the vacant lot. Next day, there were three little birds with identical markings waiting on my front steps. (which never happens—my front steps are flanked by a gravel patch and the front driveway. Hot & stark) The birds flew up and circled my front steps a few times, then they flew around me about 3 times, kind of like a Disney film only heartfelt, and then flew off. I took it as a thank you for my efforts on behalf of their sister the day before.
One summer when people began arriving to this family camp that we go to, a flock of a dozen or so white pelicans circled the campus, a couple hundred feet overhead. They have a huge wingspan, pelicans, and these critters used it to advantage, seeming to turn around a central axis like a whirligig, or in an s-formation like the division of the yin-yang symbol. White birds, with black trailers on their wingtips. Circling, forming & reforming patterns overhead, which we took as a welcome to camp.
The living cyclone of chimney swift flocks falling into chimneys at dusk, emerging at dawn.
A mass of starlings on the wires, lifting in unison and moving as waves, as one thought, as a giant picture of a bird.
A startle of pigeons, whistling and whirring out from under the overpass, flashing mauve and periwinkle and mother-of-pearl in the afternoon light.
Geese in that iconic delta.
To understand the spaces between wingtips, the spaces between beating hearts. To understand the magnetism in the mind, finding the right place after months, a year, another life. To fly because you have to, and have it be ordinary, not miraculous.
Monday, August 16, 2010
8/15/10 (a day late) Waltzing matildas:
When I was in high school, I made friends for a year with this girl where I was new in town & then moved. She and I went to the beaches north of Boston a few times: Ipswich, Newburyport, and Hampton Beach. I think we went by ourselves a few times, or maybe with others. But somehow, she/we started calling the giant waves “Matilda.” It was nonsensical and thrilling. Leslie pointed out to me that every third wave was larger than the others, and we managed to be at the beach on a few windy days when the tide was dropping or climbing steeply. So you could stand knee or waist deep in bone-numbing cold ocean water and have waves come crashing over your head and sweep in to shore, while shouting, “Matilda” at the top of your lungs, and no one could hear you. Matilda, not the voice heard round the world, but the bone-cracking pulse of the icy water. Matilda! You had to stay in the water for at least 20 minutes to get used to it. Then, you knew your legs were numb from the cold, but it didn’t bother you anymore. Matilda! We would wade out and try to scope out which Matilda would be the best and then try to swim to the breaking point. No body surfing, just letting the water crash. It was like being hit with thousands of soft ice cubes all at the same time, and having them break to rubble at your knees, and all around you for miles up and down the beach, and the little pieces of water would try to pull you around, in to shore, out to sea, wherever. Matilda!!!!!!
When I was in high school, I made friends for a year with this girl where I was new in town & then moved. She and I went to the beaches north of Boston a few times: Ipswich, Newburyport, and Hampton Beach. I think we went by ourselves a few times, or maybe with others. But somehow, she/we started calling the giant waves “Matilda.” It was nonsensical and thrilling. Leslie pointed out to me that every third wave was larger than the others, and we managed to be at the beach on a few windy days when the tide was dropping or climbing steeply. So you could stand knee or waist deep in bone-numbing cold ocean water and have waves come crashing over your head and sweep in to shore, while shouting, “Matilda” at the top of your lungs, and no one could hear you. Matilda, not the voice heard round the world, but the bone-cracking pulse of the icy water. Matilda! You had to stay in the water for at least 20 minutes to get used to it. Then, you knew your legs were numb from the cold, but it didn’t bother you anymore. Matilda! We would wade out and try to scope out which Matilda would be the best and then try to swim to the breaking point. No body surfing, just letting the water crash. It was like being hit with thousands of soft ice cubes all at the same time, and having them break to rubble at your knees, and all around you for miles up and down the beach, and the little pieces of water would try to pull you around, in to shore, out to sea, wherever. Matilda!!!!!!
8/16/10 Stone
Help! I have rocks in my head!
I want dive into stone, to be inside that patient, secure, slow-moving mass. Would I feel its heart? The heart of the earth, which they say is made of iron? Lots of iron in the stone around here.
I want to dive into stone, to move my arms around, like I’m choosing the position I will be fossilized in. Not an accident, not Pompeii, not cavewoman fossil Lucy or anyone else, but a dance in stone that will take an eternity, but only when I’m ready.
When I was a kid, we’d borrow a hammer from the junk drawer, and go out side. We’d take gravel from the driveway, and pound each stone to pieces on the pocked sidewalk, experimenting with which type of stone makes the best chalk, the glassiest-inside sharp-edged gem.
What would it be like to be made of stone? Heart of stone, stoned, turned to stone by medusa, by Vesuvius or another means. Born in flame, cooled by water & air. They say that the molecules in stone move—but slowly. Patience, strength, versatility, reliability. What would it be like to crumble from the side of a mountain, to ride on someone’s back & be fitted to the wall of a house, to bake in a fire & then provide heat, steam, sweat, to warm in a little oven oiled & then be set on someone’s back for massage? Would I love being the stone warmer as much as the massagee loves the feeling of warm stone?
When I was in college, some friends and I used to go to this beach that had lots of small, marble & finger-sized, glacially & wave-rounded stones that would bake warm in the sun. We would just pick them up & lay them on our bodies, absorbing the heat & smoothness, long before hot stone massage was a trend.
Help! I have rocks in my head!
I want dive into stone, to be inside that patient, secure, slow-moving mass. Would I feel its heart? The heart of the earth, which they say is made of iron? Lots of iron in the stone around here.
I want to dive into stone, to move my arms around, like I’m choosing the position I will be fossilized in. Not an accident, not Pompeii, not cavewoman fossil Lucy or anyone else, but a dance in stone that will take an eternity, but only when I’m ready.
When I was a kid, we’d borrow a hammer from the junk drawer, and go out side. We’d take gravel from the driveway, and pound each stone to pieces on the pocked sidewalk, experimenting with which type of stone makes the best chalk, the glassiest-inside sharp-edged gem.
What would it be like to be made of stone? Heart of stone, stoned, turned to stone by medusa, by Vesuvius or another means. Born in flame, cooled by water & air. They say that the molecules in stone move—but slowly. Patience, strength, versatility, reliability. What would it be like to crumble from the side of a mountain, to ride on someone’s back & be fitted to the wall of a house, to bake in a fire & then provide heat, steam, sweat, to warm in a little oven oiled & then be set on someone’s back for massage? Would I love being the stone warmer as much as the massagee loves the feeling of warm stone?
When I was in college, some friends and I used to go to this beach that had lots of small, marble & finger-sized, glacially & wave-rounded stones that would bake warm in the sun. We would just pick them up & lay them on our bodies, absorbing the heat & smoothness, long before hot stone massage was a trend.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
8/14/10 Ancestors:
I just read a piece today (a quote from the African shaman and teacher Malidoma Some’) that suggested that failing to honor one’s ancestors can be a cause of mental illness. If that’s so, then many aspects of our society are off their tree. (family tree, that is). The good news is, if you have children, or even nieces and nephews, or if you feel parental or aunt-ish toward another human being, you are already an ancestor. Most of us qualify, and don’t we all want to be honored and respected by those who come after us?
The great news is, that about a bazillion people have striven, sweated, worked, played, gardened, danced, avoided danger, loved, made connections, had parties with their neighbors, helped their villages, communicated effectively, and made love so that you could be here today. My mom, who is a brainiac, in a good way, sometimes points out the arithmetic progression of numbers of people are involved in bringing us here. Go back three generations, and it’s already 8 people, and that’s only if there have been no deaths, divorces or remarriages. Then 16, 32, 64, the whole power of two thing. If you go back 10 generations, (about 200 years) that’s over 1,000 people. 20 generations (about 400 years) is over a million. And that doesn’t even include aunts, uncles and cousins. Go back enough generations, and every person on earth is your ancestor. Yeah, we are all related.
You are the result of thousands of years of a certain kind of success—survival! Give your ancestors credit, cut them a break. They (and you) brought you to this moment . Sit quietly for a moment, and listen to the exultant buzz of your gene pool. The whole lot of them, the good, the bad, the despotic, the angelic, the plain, the gorgeous, the genius, the not-so-smart, the important, the insignificant…They are humming, murmuring in your bloodstream. They are sitting in the sun, swimming in the sea, washing their clothes and bedding one another, to produce you! And this world we have now. We have made it this far, humans.
Thank the ancestors. Acknowledge their efforts. Most of them had it a lot harder than we have. They had to work harder physically, and they had difficult mental and spiritual tasks as well. Thank them, and figure out a way to honor them. Pour a little of your tea on the ground before you drink, as some do in Africa and Ireland. Put out rice or sweets on their shrine (or flowers on the grave) as they do in Japan and around the world. Thank them at the very least for surviving, for giving you life. And vow not to waste this chance, this life and heritage that they’ve given you. We are each and all the culmination of a lineage. It is a joy and an honor to be the result of that much effort. It is an ecstasy.
Friday, August 13, 2010
8/13/10 Thunderstorms
An even black swath advances across the sky like the sash of a grief-stricken protest movement. The curtain clouds run the middle of the swath, evanescent fangs that coil, evaporate, re-form. Behind, as if a terrible earth being gouged out by a harrow, as if a bee’s nest being poked, comes the upset, the storm, the ruin. Warm winds, warm rains of August, and the calm as the ruin approaches, questions forming in everything. Strobe and drubbing water, ice, noise and fury--there once were songs to appease the beast’s rage, some living still sing them.
My feeling heart rises with streaks in the air, throttles these with the wind—twigs, fences, plots, artifices, stolidities. Limbs we scarcely suspected crumble to sawdust, elm crowns twist off like jelly lids, twigs litter the empty places, and someone is still at peace. Across the city a supposed power goes out. But, the real power is this—accepting with grace the assault, bending as if you were born to it, born to its beam, its loops. It’s as if the wind is writing a story in cursive across every street, every park, every stronghold, and like us, it knows how to weep.
An even black swath advances across the sky like the sash of a grief-stricken protest movement. The curtain clouds run the middle of the swath, evanescent fangs that coil, evaporate, re-form. Behind, as if a terrible earth being gouged out by a harrow, as if a bee’s nest being poked, comes the upset, the storm, the ruin. Warm winds, warm rains of August, and the calm as the ruin approaches, questions forming in everything. Strobe and drubbing water, ice, noise and fury--there once were songs to appease the beast’s rage, some living still sing them.
My feeling heart rises with streaks in the air, throttles these with the wind—twigs, fences, plots, artifices, stolidities. Limbs we scarcely suspected crumble to sawdust, elm crowns twist off like jelly lids, twigs litter the empty places, and someone is still at peace. Across the city a supposed power goes out. But, the real power is this—accepting with grace the assault, bending as if you were born to it, born to its beam, its loops. It’s as if the wind is writing a story in cursive across every street, every park, every stronghold, and like us, it knows how to weep.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
8/12/10
Rebellion--the sweet contrary.
Apparently, I felt so enamored of this day’s theme, that I rebelled against the task I had set myself, and am now writing it a day late.
The night before this post, though, I dreamed I was two people: the chaser and the chased, both orbs of light surrounded by limbed (limned?) bodies. We, the chaser and the chased, were in an old fashioned structure, a cross between my grandparents’ old barn, and the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris—huge vaulted ceiling, grey careworn walls, and multiple stories to run back and forth on. As the rebel, the chased, I reveled in the game of escape, the adrenaline of taking chances. I taunted my pursuer by letting her almost catch up, then darting through an impossibly obstacled passage. As the chaser, I was resolute that the whippersnapper must be caught and made to obey, and satisfied that sooner or later I would bring her to her senses, to a stop. Yin and yang of rebellion, an ongoing dance of satisfaction and delight.
Many of us have moments in our lives where we are forced to make decisions that seem like, or actually are, a lose-lose situation, and in order to survive, we need to turn off the fear of the unknown, that attention to social convention, and just strike out, make a move. Some of us make a lifetime habit of it. Some of us (erhem) make such a habit of rebelling that we can barely endure conventional situations. It is to you, to us, that I dedicate this entry.
Love your imagination, your lighted orb, your spark. Love your willingness to survive, to get up and dance when nobody else is brave enough. Love your art, your colors, your friends who understand you, your friends who don’t. Love your brain with its lovely infoldings and crenellations, its sparking ideas, the thresholds it likes to approach. Love your gut, the strength of your feelings, your certainties, your fears. Love your inner structure-lover, as well as your inner structure-hater. After all, even creativity takes a lot of practice, a lot of repetition in your originality. Storm the ramparts of those old castles you’ve made, and be prepared to find another version of yourself inside, ready to bolt.
Rebellion--the sweet contrary.
Apparently, I felt so enamored of this day’s theme, that I rebelled against the task I had set myself, and am now writing it a day late.
The night before this post, though, I dreamed I was two people: the chaser and the chased, both orbs of light surrounded by limbed (limned?) bodies. We, the chaser and the chased, were in an old fashioned structure, a cross between my grandparents’ old barn, and the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris—huge vaulted ceiling, grey careworn walls, and multiple stories to run back and forth on. As the rebel, the chased, I reveled in the game of escape, the adrenaline of taking chances. I taunted my pursuer by letting her almost catch up, then darting through an impossibly obstacled passage. As the chaser, I was resolute that the whippersnapper must be caught and made to obey, and satisfied that sooner or later I would bring her to her senses, to a stop. Yin and yang of rebellion, an ongoing dance of satisfaction and delight.
Many of us have moments in our lives where we are forced to make decisions that seem like, or actually are, a lose-lose situation, and in order to survive, we need to turn off the fear of the unknown, that attention to social convention, and just strike out, make a move. Some of us make a lifetime habit of it. Some of us (erhem) make such a habit of rebelling that we can barely endure conventional situations. It is to you, to us, that I dedicate this entry.
Love your imagination, your lighted orb, your spark. Love your willingness to survive, to get up and dance when nobody else is brave enough. Love your art, your colors, your friends who understand you, your friends who don’t. Love your brain with its lovely infoldings and crenellations, its sparking ideas, the thresholds it likes to approach. Love your gut, the strength of your feelings, your certainties, your fears. Love your inner structure-lover, as well as your inner structure-hater. After all, even creativity takes a lot of practice, a lot of repetition in your originality. Storm the ramparts of those old castles you’ve made, and be prepared to find another version of yourself inside, ready to bolt.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
8/11/10
Ecstasy of the Day: Scratchy line-dried towels
I know not many people will agree with me on this one. Even a gal on the Use Half Now campaign’s clothesline revival for 10.10.2010 thinks that you should use electricity and tumble dry towels to make them softer. (http://killingthebuddha.com/ktblog/clothesline-revival/) I couldn’t disagree more.
Towels are one of the few laundry items you have an opportunity to inhale, smell, drink in the aroma of, which you do as you are drying yourself. And we all know that the smell of outdoor-dried laundry is heavenly—reminds me of just being outdoors, being a kid, flowery, airy, free. And we all agree (probably) that any bottled detergent that claims to have the aroma of outdoor-dried clothing is just lying. Heck, even when I lived in Somerville, Mass and hung my laundry on lines of a tenement-style two-decker in a crowded, smelly neighborhood, the clothes came out smelling wonderful. (ok, and try hanging clothes & sheets on those narrowly spaced clotheslines a few times a week throughout January in Massachusetts because your basement doesn’t have the right outlet for your dryer. Makes sheets and towels smell all the better knowing that you’re totally rugged!).
Here’s the thing. Everyone my age is old enough to remember an old-fashioned grandma. Mine was frugal and strict, but bountiful in her way. She washed all her linens in Ivory Snow or Dreft, and hung everything on the line out on the farm where she lived. Most of her old towels had old-fashioned floral or striped prints from the 1950’s and 1940’s. And I’m sure some of those old towels dated from the 1930’s, so worn out from washings that you could practically see through them. Now imagine that you are 3 or 4 years old, and you don’t know what the heck is going on. You have to take a bath at night because you get filthy climbing into the dog house, and grandma runs about ½ inch of lukewarm water (I said she was frugal) into the heavy old clawfooted tub, in which you are like the proverbial fly in a football stadium. As the water drains, grandma wraps you with this cardboardy, scratchy but delicious-smelling old pink towel, and as she rubs you dry, you get all red and the towel melts fondly around you. Grandma picks you up, it's time for bed, your belly is full, all is well in the world. Everyone should have such an experience--using a scratchy, line-dried towel makes it seem like the great grandma of the universe is reaching down into your tub with her great, velvety, linebacker-strong arms and is picking you up with your squirmy, tiny limbs to redden your skin and wrap you and set you firmly and safely in your place.
And aren’t we supposed to exfoliate? Loofahs and those crinoline scrunchies get mildewy if left in the shower. Not so the scratchy line-dried towel. By its very definition it is already clean and ready to go in your hall closet. This herbalist whose stuff I love recommends exfoliating once or twice a day with a natural boar-bristle brush. Rub all your skin, all over, while it’s dry. It enhances the circulation, the skin's ability to keep the body healthy and discharge toxins (through sweat and oil). (He’s at www.herbdoc.com). If you have a great scratchy towel, you don’t need to buy a boar bristle brush, for upwards of $20.00.
But for more than just environmental reasons, more than health reasons, the scratchy, line-dried towel is a rare and perfect ecstasy. We all love when things melt in our mouths, right? Like gradually oozing dark chocolate, wafer-thin crumbling ginger snaps, hearty graham crackers or smooth ice cream. The scratchy line-dried towel melts like that, only on your outside. Its stiff folds meet my body's curves with just the right amount of give. Don’t we love when something softens and accepts us, just as we are? The towel’s nubs scratch and irritate a little at first, then as they absorb water, the towel softens and enfolds us with the most amazing fragrance. Aahhhh.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
8/10/10 the color green:
-my friend Cass is color blind and so doesn’t see green but only sees shades of grey that kind of blend together (sorry Cass if I’m getting that wrong). I think that she can feel the color green though because she correctly reports objects as green, even when they’re not plants.
-this girl Margie in my psych class in high school wrote in my yearbook, “don’t forget to feel all the colors that you hear.” We were mocking a certain drug-induced psychedelia, but it’s also psychedelightful to think about mashing the senses together.
-from the morning bus—pine and spruce with their whispering prickly green recesses and shadows.
-the light yellowish-green grasses in august longing to give way to tan fiber when the heat goes.
-faded, like the leaves on a lone fruit tree in the scrub of a boulevard turn, the dropped idea of some squirrel or crow.
-imaginary/overbright/neon like the plastic sign of a taco stand, the fiery glow of a traffic signal.
-the florescent green crowns of box elders sentinel along warehouse walls.
-the dark smudgy clumpy green of oaks who have resisted urban renewals between thoroughfares.
-green of factory lawns, undecided as to whether to be lush or neglected.
-Hopeful green of weeds sticking their necks out of sidewalk cracks.
-highway signs that make no pretense toward biology.
-“For Lease,” “metro transit here,” or “NE Pierce St.”
-the looming sky, sometimes, when tornadoes come. The bright feeling of huddling from the weather in an underground room. The songs we sing to greet and soothe the monster storms.
-the robust bluish hue of oceanic algae.
-The layer of algic slime across the surface of the planet, a coating like chocolate over candied fruit.
-the specks of chlorophyll in each of my salad’s leaves, chlorophylling me up.
-more oceanic greens, more oceanic plants, the ideas of plants, the heart chakras of plants and humans and dogs and birds and tarantulas.
-the eyes of someone I once loved.
-the dense, shredded boles that fall from the underside of the lawnmower, the grassy salad stuck to the mower’s wheels.
-the heart chakras of all of humanity. The heart chakras of the gods, of the creator. The heart chakras of myths and monsters and chimeras. The linings of worm holes that I’ve traveled through.
-The northern lights, exchange of electrical impulses, mini shocks from carpets.
-some stars that I’ve known. Desires that I’ve had. Desires that all of humanity has had.
-the strong green that holds up heavy goldenrod heads.
-light, fluorescing green of garden hostas.
-shaggy, yellowing green of day lily fronds
-my heart, how I love in this day. The green of hope, of crying out in joy, of reaching forth into nothingness to create.
-a newspaper box, a stained guardrail, the building’s painted metal trim.
-graffiti green, loving expression sprayed onto the side of a building.
-grape vines, excited and fruity.
-the waxy bluish green of cottonwood leaves
-a verdigris roof, coppery and flaking
-the cold false reflections in skyscraper windows of all of the above. The warm reflections in the eyes of my friends, my family.
-the feeling of vining, of tendrilling, of intertwining, of trailing one’s fingers in the air.
-the smell of cool water next to a lake, over a river, standing in a creek. The feeling of being protected.
-my friend Cass is color blind and so doesn’t see green but only sees shades of grey that kind of blend together (sorry Cass if I’m getting that wrong). I think that she can feel the color green though because she correctly reports objects as green, even when they’re not plants.
-this girl Margie in my psych class in high school wrote in my yearbook, “don’t forget to feel all the colors that you hear.” We were mocking a certain drug-induced psychedelia, but it’s also psychedelightful to think about mashing the senses together.
-from the morning bus—pine and spruce with their whispering prickly green recesses and shadows.
-the light yellowish-green grasses in august longing to give way to tan fiber when the heat goes.
-faded, like the leaves on a lone fruit tree in the scrub of a boulevard turn, the dropped idea of some squirrel or crow.
-imaginary/overbright/neon like the plastic sign of a taco stand, the fiery glow of a traffic signal.
-the florescent green crowns of box elders sentinel along warehouse walls.
-the dark smudgy clumpy green of oaks who have resisted urban renewals between thoroughfares.
-green of factory lawns, undecided as to whether to be lush or neglected.
-Hopeful green of weeds sticking their necks out of sidewalk cracks.
-highway signs that make no pretense toward biology.
-“For Lease,” “metro transit here,” or “NE Pierce St.”
-the looming sky, sometimes, when tornadoes come. The bright feeling of huddling from the weather in an underground room. The songs we sing to greet and soothe the monster storms.
-the robust bluish hue of oceanic algae.
-The layer of algic slime across the surface of the planet, a coating like chocolate over candied fruit.
-the specks of chlorophyll in each of my salad’s leaves, chlorophylling me up.
-more oceanic greens, more oceanic plants, the ideas of plants, the heart chakras of plants and humans and dogs and birds and tarantulas.
-the eyes of someone I once loved.
-the dense, shredded boles that fall from the underside of the lawnmower, the grassy salad stuck to the mower’s wheels.
-the heart chakras of all of humanity. The heart chakras of the gods, of the creator. The heart chakras of myths and monsters and chimeras. The linings of worm holes that I’ve traveled through.
-The northern lights, exchange of electrical impulses, mini shocks from carpets.
-some stars that I’ve known. Desires that I’ve had. Desires that all of humanity has had.
-the strong green that holds up heavy goldenrod heads.
-light, fluorescing green of garden hostas.
-shaggy, yellowing green of day lily fronds
-my heart, how I love in this day. The green of hope, of crying out in joy, of reaching forth into nothingness to create.
-a newspaper box, a stained guardrail, the building’s painted metal trim.
-graffiti green, loving expression sprayed onto the side of a building.
-grape vines, excited and fruity.
-the waxy bluish green of cottonwood leaves
-a verdigris roof, coppery and flaking
-the cold false reflections in skyscraper windows of all of the above. The warm reflections in the eyes of my friends, my family.
-the feeling of vining, of tendrilling, of intertwining, of trailing one’s fingers in the air.
-the smell of cool water next to a lake, over a river, standing in a creek. The feeling of being protected.
I wanted to focus on a theme of ecstasy (the euphoric feeling, not the drug) on a daily basis, as an exercise in being happy. Then it seemed like I should write about it and use this blog as a writing exercise/experiment. Being consistent has not been my strong suit, so don’t look for a daily ecstasy every day. But I will try. Or not. And the other thing is, sometimes a daily ecstasy is not pretty. Like in the book “The Lesbian Body” by Monique Wittig, she talks about puking, shitting, the banished places, the ferocities of love, as well as the shining positive things. Also, (another thought here) on how annoying crap can be funny and great.
8/9/10 list poem about abundance:
-the leaves in full-crowned, mature trees, hanging like fruity grape clusters.
-the branches that disease has lain bare, twigs fanning out like grey, purposeful capillaries.
-The zillion blades of grass, each fingering toward the sky.
-Everyone’s clothes on the bus, washed and fresh.
-Each pinpoint of blue in the sky, joining bodies, coupling with each other pinpoint of blue.
-The overnight rain, quenching all our thirsts.
-the grey vagaries of an office building – cubicles, cameras and carpets
-the worn and tattered magazines in the waiting area, the faces of famous men, their eyes brimming with entitlement.
-the cheap burls in the cubicle canvas, the flattened knots in the worn carpeting.
-the motes of dust.
-Clicks of a computer mouse, bits of information.
-coffee shops, beans, grains of ground coffee, grains of sugar,
-grains of sand in limestone, grains of silt on the murky riverbed.
-Paper that we use, sheets, reams, sheafs of it, boxes of it, bins of it with ink powdering off and fading, shredded straw bags of it with confidentialities whispered in tatters.
-the moments in time I remember, the moments I don’t remember, my wishes around time and remembrance, the wishes I haven’t made, the wishes that no one will ever make.
-grains of sand on the hot pavement at midday, minuscule and burning with something.
-workers passing on the streets, wearing skirts and slacks, their fingers and toes, their eyes, ears, tongues, teeth. The abundance of people who hold things together for all of us who believe that this is what is.
-(getting biblical) the lilies of the field. The hairs on your head. The hairs on everyone’s head, body, housepet, mammal, bird, insect. The spaces between hairs on all of the above.
-atoms of gases that we inhale and then exhale. The number of times these atoms have entered or exited a living being,
-The mathematical formulae that explain all this. The formulae we know, and the ones we don’t yet know.
-the atoms and molecules in space, around stars and explosive events. The beings who dream them. Our desires to visit them.
Abundance, I roll in it, flap my arms in it, make abundance grass cubicle coffee ground angels in it. It is not money, not anything to do with an imaginary system of trade.
8/9/10 list poem about abundance:
-the leaves in full-crowned, mature trees, hanging like fruity grape clusters.
-the branches that disease has lain bare, twigs fanning out like grey, purposeful capillaries.
-The zillion blades of grass, each fingering toward the sky.
-Everyone’s clothes on the bus, washed and fresh.
-Each pinpoint of blue in the sky, joining bodies, coupling with each other pinpoint of blue.
-The overnight rain, quenching all our thirsts.
-the grey vagaries of an office building – cubicles, cameras and carpets
-the worn and tattered magazines in the waiting area, the faces of famous men, their eyes brimming with entitlement.
-the cheap burls in the cubicle canvas, the flattened knots in the worn carpeting.
-the motes of dust.
-Clicks of a computer mouse, bits of information.
-coffee shops, beans, grains of ground coffee, grains of sugar,
-grains of sand in limestone, grains of silt on the murky riverbed.
-Paper that we use, sheets, reams, sheafs of it, boxes of it, bins of it with ink powdering off and fading, shredded straw bags of it with confidentialities whispered in tatters.
-the moments in time I remember, the moments I don’t remember, my wishes around time and remembrance, the wishes I haven’t made, the wishes that no one will ever make.
-grains of sand on the hot pavement at midday, minuscule and burning with something.
-workers passing on the streets, wearing skirts and slacks, their fingers and toes, their eyes, ears, tongues, teeth. The abundance of people who hold things together for all of us who believe that this is what is.
-(getting biblical) the lilies of the field. The hairs on your head. The hairs on everyone’s head, body, housepet, mammal, bird, insect. The spaces between hairs on all of the above.
-atoms of gases that we inhale and then exhale. The number of times these atoms have entered or exited a living being,
-The mathematical formulae that explain all this. The formulae we know, and the ones we don’t yet know.
-the atoms and molecules in space, around stars and explosive events. The beings who dream them. Our desires to visit them.
Abundance, I roll in it, flap my arms in it, make abundance grass cubicle coffee ground angels in it. It is not money, not anything to do with an imaginary system of trade.
8/8/10
Rhythm
-the rapid trill of the cicada, coming at uncertain intervals
-spoke clusters and alternating leaves and branches of weeds in the rock garden
-footfalls on the gravel bed, trudging, stopping, trudging, stopping, the movement of the small stones.
-Lurid beeps of a teenager's video game
-thrumming baritone of air conditioners outside
-the rattle of rubber tires on pavement down the block
-the calls of birds, their meanings to each other
-our daily awakenings and sleeps
-our own language, the buzzing, gymnastic throatiness of it.
-the intervals between trees in the forest, the asynchronous peeling of paint on old furniture
-the stretching of moving muscles and firing nerves, the impulses in my brain.
-the pattern of raindrops spotting the windshield and stippling the puddles. The rhythm of my car's wipers, turn signal, swaying keychain, all on different periods.
-my own tires on the pavement seams, other cars' tires.
-My mind making choices, addressing fears, coming home to ecstasy.
-Losing things, then finding them again, like my courage, my dignity, my second favorite kitchen knife that fell under the dish drain for two months. The game of hide and seek that the universe plays with us.
-the sound of waistbands and hems and zippers hitting the fins in the dryer as it tumbles.
-The whistling tea kettle whose cry rises as an uncertain spiral rather than a steady blast.
-the fact of washing dishes another day. The clatter as dishes drop upon their fellows in the cupboard.
Posted by Evelyn at 5:51 PM 0 comments
Rhythm
-the rapid trill of the cicada, coming at uncertain intervals
-spoke clusters and alternating leaves and branches of weeds in the rock garden
-footfalls on the gravel bed, trudging, stopping, trudging, stopping, the movement of the small stones.
-Lurid beeps of a teenager's video game
-thrumming baritone of air conditioners outside
-the rattle of rubber tires on pavement down the block
-the calls of birds, their meanings to each other
-our daily awakenings and sleeps
-our own language, the buzzing, gymnastic throatiness of it.
-the intervals between trees in the forest, the asynchronous peeling of paint on old furniture
-the stretching of moving muscles and firing nerves, the impulses in my brain.
-the pattern of raindrops spotting the windshield and stippling the puddles. The rhythm of my car's wipers, turn signal, swaying keychain, all on different periods.
-my own tires on the pavement seams, other cars' tires.
-My mind making choices, addressing fears, coming home to ecstasy.
-Losing things, then finding them again, like my courage, my dignity, my second favorite kitchen knife that fell under the dish drain for two months. The game of hide and seek that the universe plays with us.
-the sound of waistbands and hems and zippers hitting the fins in the dryer as it tumbles.
-The whistling tea kettle whose cry rises as an uncertain spiral rather than a steady blast.
-the fact of washing dishes another day. The clatter as dishes drop upon their fellows in the cupboard.
Posted by Evelyn at 5:51 PM 0 comments
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