Laguna Dispatch

Music Saves the Day

2012-01-01T17:49:00.000-08:00

Ah, the blahs of new year's day. Ornaments come off the tree to be carefully wrapped and stored for another year. The tree is dragged first to the backyard and ultimately to the Xmas tree graveyard, thankfully, as this is CA, to a site where it becomes home to tiny birds and at last compost.

Blankets, muddled by daughters and dogs, are washed and dried and neatly folded away. Floors swept. A few gifts remaining to be returned for credits. Final holiday wishes e-mailed and a few phone calls to those most dear.

Bills paid and the rent check ready to deposit. A last glance at last year's budget and this year's prepared for future reference. A few final invoices. A new diary ready for scribbling [I still keep one in my purse for personal items but the calendar is at Google!]

A new book opened for the first of the year's reading. An old book closed with a review ready for posting. The Sunday NY Times read cover to cover with its intermittently bleak review of the future. A good laugh at Bill Maher's, a delight in Pico Iyer's point of view. A Facebook posting, a tweet for good measure.

The daughters are back in their world, friends busy with their own. New Year's Day can be a lonely day, filled with chores and reparations. I am less present than I should be, more in readiness mode, but that is what this day is for me, among others.

The savior: music. I dig out a few of my favorite CD's - yes, I still prefer to listen to albums in their entirety as their creators meant for them to be heard. Joni Mitchell honored by others, an old favorite soundtrack, a bit of the blues, gospel, the boisterous notes of Adele. It is the music that saves the day, as it so often has through my lifetime, as I find myself swaying to the rhythm even as I box up ornaments and sift through bills. I sing aloud, I wonder once again at the enormity of the human spirit in sound.

Tasks accomplished, the future looks brighter because no matter what happens, there is always the music. Even beyond the traditions, beyond books and words, friends and family, there is always the music.

In praise of a great first novel

2011-12-16T17:44:00.000-08:00

Plot yourself on your couch and enjoy a fantastical magical journey in The Night Circus. Oh these fabulous first novels... Read the review
Happy reading.

Living the Balance

2011-12-15T08:10:00.001-08:00

Another year comes to a close. And it came so fast, again.

One after another, and they add up. We reflect, we learn, and we move on.

I don't do much in the way of resolutions but I recall that last year I promised myself to stay true to my goals of good health, to make just enough money to live comfortably, to live more in the moment and finish my novel. Unbelievably, even to me, always goal oriented, they have indeed been fulfilled.

So I suppose we can say this was a very good year. It was, Mostly. I walk almost every day, I read every day, I speak or see friends often. My daughters are healthy and following their paths with satisfaction and success. That alone makes for a very good year.

I have good clients and meaningful work. I don't charge too much because greed is not good. I did only one volunteer gig this year, need to do more. I support the charities I can.

I finished a serious draft of the novel I wanted to write and it turned out well. Okay, better than I hoped. Where it goes, that remains to be seen in the 2013 year.

I wrote book reviews all year [always wanted to do that] and a new column and of course newsletters and annual reports and grants, all to the best of my ability.

I traveled to Turkey, spent just one weekend in the wine country and not enough time but good time in New York and Connecticut, days filled with the best of friends, plus art and theater and the many joys of the Big Apple.

Most of my friends are healthy and doing well, for this I am most grateful. However this was the year I lost the man who became my brother. Not a good year for dear David and his family and friends. it would be easy to let this great loss wipe out all the other gifts of the year, but this is life. Every year - the balance of blessings and sorrow. The balance of wins and losses.

Perhaps a good year is merely the balance. Thus, it's been a good year.

A time for change

2011-10-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

Change is in the air - the very essence of fall, and, to a large extent, the essence of those of us who have reached the autumn of our lives. I embrace change. I often long for it. For so many others, change is feared. I've never understood why, but it is ubiquitous.

Many of my favorite moments have to do with change. That day every year our family stepped out of a dark frigid February, through the clouds and into the heavy heat of a Caribbeanisland vacation. The first chill of Autumn, colored by falling leaves, or the first days of Spring, backlit by hyacinths on the hill and forsythia along the side of the road.

The smell and feel of a new car. The rush of new furnishings and new shoes. Freshly painted walls. The first settling under the fluffy quilt that replaces the flat cotton blanket.

I am reminded often of Peggy Lee's "Is that all there is?" Her sultry voice whispers often in my ears. I cannot imagine the sameness of days, the permanence of place or work, the constancy of the same people, however much I find myself, now and then, admiring those who have that.

And now, I face a life ahead without my anchor. My dear friend is gone. Only memories to make me smile. This is the change, unwelcome and jarring, that defines aging. Loss, and its sister, longing, diminish the pleasure of change, unless we can accept, fully and peacefully, that losses define us as much as the memories and more than the promise of what will be.

I believe every day that the best is yet to be. A personal mantra. Although, of late, I might be happier to stay put in what is good, without losing anyone or anything - willing to trade intransigence for loss.

Then again, tomorrow I may change my mind.

The Werewolf Within

2011-09-07T10:52:00.000-07:00

This blog for the most part has to do with change - within and without. Or, in contrast, the rut one easily falls into without sufficient change, even the littlest bit, day to day. Even reading the same sort of material, which I generally do, preferring literary contemporary fiction with an interesting story, can become its own rut. Thus, when presented by a knowledgable friend with a new novel that has to do with a werewolf, my first reaction was, no way.

And that is the AHA moment - why not try something that seems otherwise out of my range of interest? After all, it's just a book - not a paradigm shift. Following are the results. Once again, change is good.

This is not a book I would have read. Yes, the reviews were excellent. And yes, it is published by Knopf, one of the best fiction publishers in the world. Still, I don't read about werewolves. As a rule. But every rule has its exception and much to my surprise, I can wholeheartedly recommend THE LAST WEREWOLF by Glen Duncan. It is one helluva read. [And many thanks to Robyn at Laguna Beach Books for the heads up.]

Smart. Exciting. Philosophical. Jason Bourne crossed with Sherlock Holmes and Frankenstein. Erotic. Violent. Gruesome in parts, oh yes. Touching, yes that too, much as that seems unlikely. You will absolutely fall in love with the Jake – the last werewolf on earth after the systematic destruction of all others by an occult group bent on vengeance. But, as every action has a reaction, there are the others who want to keep him alive [I won't say more, too easy to spoil the fun]. Of course there are the moonlit victims. The lovers. The advocates. Quite a line-up of characters, all well drawn.

In the end, like all good fiction, the writing makes the book worth reading. The descriptive prose and existential angst reads like literary fiction. The voice of a lonely creature, not so different from all the lonely creatures who have wandered the planet for hundreds of years. "Humans are moving into a new phase, one based on the knowledge that talking about their feelings has never got them anywhere. The Demonstrative Age… I shan't be around to see it. That, since I asked the question myself, is how I feel, surer than ever that my clock's been right all along, that I've had enough, that it's time to go, that I really can't stand it any more, the living and the killing and the wandering the world without love."

I tend to see all good literature as metaphor, so I spent the better part of the book, while entranced with the complex plotting and captivating characters, wondering what it is that the author wants us to understand. Or, perhaps, this novel is merely a grittier sexier Harry Potter for grown-ups [although not so many wizards to keep track of]. I’ll leave that to you to decide for yourself, but consider this:

"Monsters die out when the collective imagination no longer needs them. Species death like this is nothing more than a shift in the aggregate psychic agenda. In ages past the beast in man was hidden in the dark, disavowed. The transparency of modern history makes that impossible: we've seen ourselves in the concentration camps, the gulags, the jungles, the killing fields, we've read ourselves in the annals of True Crime. Technology turned up the lights and now there's no getting away from the fact: the beast is redundant. It's been us all along."

Now you want to read it too, don't you? So, take a break from the classics or the mysteries or whatever reading rut you are in, and enjoy something as intelligent as it is improbable. Or is it?

And doesn't he just look like a werewolf???

Bravo to Glen Duncan.
Author of The Last Werewolf.
A great read.

Worth reading

2011-08-24T10:09:00.001-07:00

"Love of my Youth" by Mary Gordon. See book review at
http://www.ocinsite.com/index.php/blog/comments/love_of_my_youth

Summer Reading

2011-06-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

Not that I've had a free moment lately nor has the weather been optimum to sit on the beach [by the time I like to go, at day's end, it's been a bit too cool even with a sweathshirt] but I am reading a lot and always happy to share. You might know that I am the OCBookBlogger for a regional website and I've posted recently one book I especially like plus a summer reading list for grown-ups. Go to www.ocinsite.com/index.php/blog and scroll to me.

As for what's on my pile [or my Kindle] The Borrower, the new Mary Gordon, Silver Sparrow, War and Peace [never got to that one last summer] and the latest Lionel Shriver, plus another look at the Pulitzer Winner by Jennifer Egan.

Speaking of which, I am seriously miffed that The Warmth of Other Suns lost out on the Pulitzer and I still consider this book the achievement of the last year.

Happy summer reading.

Turkey Part II: Istanbul

2011-05-13T16:22:00.000-07:00

Istanbul. Once Constantinople. Not exactly beautiful, but elegant, vibrant. Ancient and eclectic. The skyline is a cross between Hong Kong and San Francisco. The great Bosphorous, the river that spans the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, is the gateway not only for ships large and small, but the dividing line between Europe and Asia. The only city in the world that spans two continents, and that’s only the first distinction of this fascinating place.

Turkey is bordered by six countries and four great bodies of water, central to almost every major historical culture, is it no wonder that it has been the target of conquerors forever. Now, 97% Muslim, moderate and modern, Istanbul, while not the official capital [that's Ankora] is the heart of the country.

I am awakened at dawn first by the call to prayer and then by seagulls and foghorns. At night, one hardly realizes that the lights sparkling on the hillside beyond rise above the Golden Horn, the harbor, the right arm of the Bosphorous that marks the European side of the city. Above the streets, the noise dims, but the traffic flow Friday night around the city is like nothing I’ve seen before. Despite its 8500 year lifespan, the city is not at all ready for modernity. But it is trying.

Muslim women are hardly in evidence, not here, nor anywhere we travel. They are invisible or hidden under scarves and heavy garb. It is tradition here. Men on the other hand seem to own the streets, the shops, the very essence of Turkish life. They are the waiters, the shopkeepers, the hoteliers, the hawkers in the incredible spice market and Grand Bazaar. They gather at sidewalk cafes for tiny cups of strong Turkish coffee, they hold meetings on street corners, and some, what they call the commission agents, hound tourists and single women to nudge them into their pottery or carpet shops. They are not threatening, but tenacious. They think I’m French [must be the scarf] and speak to me in that language. I have been advised not to engage so I don’t, although I so much want to chat with the locals. At last, at a late lunch in a small café, I chat with a waiter who is a former Russian skier who learned English while training in Colorado. Small world. Limping and seemingly unflappable, he brings me lentil soup with a wedge of lemon [delicious] a diet Pepsi [rare in the world of Coca Cola] and then offers me apple tea, on the house he says, which I discover is quite often the case here and a lovely gesture. He kisses my hand when I leave, as if I am royalty. Nice touch.

Throngs of tourists here, largely European, surprising number of Russians, lots of Germans, and the rest. Everywhere there is tile, tile and more tile, especially in the remarkable Hagia Sofia church and the Blue Mosque, but also the tiny mosaic museum tucked off a winding cobblestone street in old Sultanahmet, near an elegant bazaar and a pudding shop, and off the side streets where the old Ottoman wooden houses are badly in need of repair. Stores filled with many forms of “Turkish Delight” [colorful squares that look like marshmallow] which is too gushy for me, as well as Baklava and Halvah. The tea is so dark they provide urns of hot water to dilute. No lemon or milk allowed, but always cubes of sugar, thankfully. I am reminded how much I love cubes of sugar, which Splenda has yet to recreate.

An ancient cistern that provided water to the basilica, now darkly lit and graceful, holds evening concerts on a small stage resting on the water. Along the perimeter of mosques are basins for washing – one must wash both hands and feet before prayer – which, among the observant, is five times a day. Every hotel room has both spare pillow and prayer rug. The call to prayer is always the same, except the first, which adds something to the effect that it is more meaningful to pray than to sleep. The Friday mid-day prayer is the most holy.

I confess, I find this prayer cycle, which follows the cycle of the sun, to be inspiring. Just to think that Muslims all over the world are stopping at similar times in their day to pay homage and to consider their blessings. These moderate Muslims in Turkey are reverent people. They show respect for one another and for their traditions. They do not condone violence. They respect all Abrahamic religions and have special reverence for Jesus, a prophet, like Mohammed. He is mentioned 100 times in the Qur’an. Beyond the spirituality of the prayer ritual is the beauty of the music of the Imam calling from minarets everywhere. Like steeples ringing their bells.

We take the tram to a funicular, up a steep hill to Taksim Square, sort of Times Square without the theaters, considered the center of modern Istanbul, and wander down the main drag – Istiklai Caddesi – to the Galata Tower and then down to the harbor. Sunday afternoon. Istanbullas and their families walk, eat and shop – sound familiar? On this side of the harbor is also the amazing Dolmabache Palace, their own Versailles, built in homage to the monarchy but ending with the founder of the Republic, Ataturk, living and dying there, not very long ago. A gift from Queen Victoria – a 4 ton cut glass chandelier, is amazingly beautiful. Two polar bear rugs were gifts from the Czar Nicholas. Stunning large carpets[double knotted in the Turkish tradition.] For me, massive carved painted ceilings are the highlight, just gorgeous. The “Harem” meaning the private quarters, separate from the work center, have many bedrooms for royal wives and many guestrooms. A short walk from the palace takes you back to the Galata Bridge, ont he way to the spice market. Lower level of the bridge are fish restaurants and coffee houses. Along the quay, fishermen sell not only fish from their boats, but freshly grilled fish sandwiches, wrapped in flat breads with tomatoes, peppers, olives.

The spice market is just that and more - nuts, spices, seeds of every variety, and the smells are simply amazing.

The Topkapi Palace is so besieged by tourists that I don’t go in, but instead, wander the lovely park surrounding the palace and discover the archeological museum, filled to the brim with artifacts and sarcophagi. Great find.

The old mansions along the river are largely used as summer homes, many boarded up. Orhan Pamuk wrote so beautifully of these in “Istanbul” which I’m so glad I read before traveling. They seem a reminder, perhaps an admonishment, of the European tradition.

I also visit the Istanbul Modern Museum, housed in an old warehouse on the river, a lovely display of Turkish art spanning all the same movements as other European countries, just a bit later. Turkish impressionists, Turkish realists, etc. Great open space, very hip, framed by river views. The café is filled with Europeans, with drinks and prices to match. And the obligatory techno music! In the distance, ferries and cruise ships. Minarets and curved mosques watch over the proceedings with pride.

On the Asian side, which we see only as the overnight train passes through on the way to Ankora, the homes are larger and more modern, suburban. There is real affluence here.

On the last day of my visit, an extended day I took to have more time in Istanbul, which I’m so glad I did, I have dinner with my lovely new friends from Victoria, British Columbia, at a small neighborhood fish restaurant [Sultanahmet Fish House] run by a family, the best meal of the trip for me, with fine Turkish white wine. A perfect end.

There is much more to see in Istanbul and I can imagine returning some day, but not until many other places have been seen. Where next is the only question. And when?

This was another great trip organized by Gap Adventures: www.gapadventures.com

Turkey Part I: Overview

2011-05-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

16 days from big city to villages, mountains to sea, ancient to modern.

Captivating country. Diverse and visually arresting. Ancient and holy. Bounded by four major seas and six countries. A crossroads of cultures, races and religions over centuries, now a secular Republic, 97% Muslim. Five times a day the call to prayer hauntingly reminds you of where you are. Muslims here are reserved, kind, good humored. Patriarchal. Still largely agrarian although the number one source of revenue is now tourism. Turkey has been found!

Our tour leader also serves as a guide, a wonderful young Turk with a degree in tourism, knowledgeable and reverent. Perfect host. 15 people, largely Canadian and US, lovely group.

I begin in Istanbul – 15 million+ population – busy, sprawling, but also surprisingly intimate. A place that has been through so many iterations and is perhaps unprepared but charging into modernity. Crawling with visitors. The Bosphorous River, between the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea, is wide and elegant. Istanbul is the only place on earth that spans two continents - Europe sits on one side of a bridge and Asia on the other. The Golden Horn, the harbor, connects the two European sides of the city, where the major sites are spread out. The Blue Mosque shares a plaza with the elegant Hagia Sophia church – a metaphor for the city and the country, from Christian to Roman, Byzantine to Islam…

On an overnight train, we head to Ankora, the capital, and business capital, which is merely a station to connect with ground transport to the Cappadocia Region where remarkable rock formations create vast networks of “buildings” and caves line the hillsides. Underground cities have been excavated for visiting. Brown and arrid, we hike and explore the remarkable landscape. Hot air balloons take off every morning at dawn for an hour or so to float over the stunning topography. From below, the formations seem like stalagmites, from above stalactites [or is it the other way around?} The summation: more than 10 million years ago, three volcanoes erupted, dropping lava, mud and ash. Over time, they cooled to compress into a soft porous rock, which eroded and carved out structures that seem like giant trolls. They call them fairy houses. It is said the wind also contributed to the molding into tall cones and pillars. Indescribable so view good photos at http://www.google.com/search?q=cappadocia+turkey&hl=en&rlz=1G1ACAW_ENUS328&prmd=ivnsm&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=fzvITcmpCqbx0gGE7f2iCA&ved=0CD4QsAQ&biw=1172&bih=436

Goreme is a charming, old-West sort of city. Avanos, the pottery center, spreads out along a river with tree-lined paths. The Turkish Baths is quite the communal experience [shared the sauna with a lively group of Russians!] A performance of Whirling Dervishes presents the trance-like homage to Allah. We enjoy a home-cooked meal at the home of a family with adorable boys.

Konya, center of the conservative Muslim community, is a way station on the way to the Mediterranean. Also home to gypsies living in encampments on the edge of the city. Rumi Museum honors his poetry and spirituality.

On the way… rooftop solar panels on almost all the apartment buildings to heat water. Cost: $800. Lasts roughly 12 years. Visually an odd rippled affect. Also limestone and marble quarries, big industry in southern region. Whole hillsides carved out as if antiquity, but instead the signs of rapid population growth. Government builds standard issue apartment buildings for moderate income families and sells as condominiums. Not much variance in the modern architecture.

Note: Men stare at me, neither threatening nor admiring, rather as if I am odd in some way. I discover that a fellow traveler, also gray-haired, has the same reaction. Women dye their hair or cover their heads with scarves, so silver hair is indeed an oddity.

Antalya is Turkey’s version of Miami Beach – tall buildings line boulevards along the sea. In contrast, the old city, flanked by stone pillars and cobblestone streets, surrounds the marina. A walking path above the sea parallels the tram line, which leads to a lovely museum filled with iconography, excavated statues and ornately carved sarcophagi. We have a glass of wine at sunset on the hotel patio overlooking a cove – snow capped mountains are visible in the distance. Feels like the Cote D’Azur – in Turkey, the Turquoise Coast.

Kas, I could have stayed there a week – charming coastal seaside village. As if in Greece. We spend a lovely day on a boat owned by a local couple. He navigates, she cooks lunch. Warm people. Gorgeous day. The Med is cold for swimming but the sun is high. We travel close to the coastline to see a 4th century sunken city [kayakers get an even closer view] and an island disconnected from the mainland by a 10th c. earthquake. Simena, a tiny village built into the hills of an island, all wooden structures, mostly café’s and pensyons, is accessible only by boat.

Note: Buttercups, tulips and daffodils. Red poppies grow wild. Rows and rows of greenhouses [they look like salt flats from a distance] filled with tomatoes, cukes, corn and pumpkin. On hillsides, olive, peach and fig trees. Interspersed with tall pines along the mountains.

Turkish carpets are double-knotted, thus considered superior to Persian. Huge industry – 50,000 people involved. Men run the business, women do the weaving. Working conditions have improved so that some women can work from home. Natural dyes. Wool. cotton, blends and also silk – Turkey is third largest producer of silk. I succumb and negotiate well a lovely small cotton carpet in gorgeous shades of blue.

On the Aegean Sea. Fetiye. Lovely city, more upscale, sophisticated. Brits have summer homes here. Temples carved into rock. Seaside path with café’s. Lovely Bazaar. Some of the group visit the mud baths. Lunch in a tree covered courtyard downtown – mezes [tapas] largely eggplant and tomato based, also fava and lima beans, hearty and healthy, always with big chunks of baguette or flat breads. We also sit at tables by a dirt road where women cook filled pancakes [spinach, potato, eggplant] on a flat stone in the fire. Food is otherwise hard for me here – so much meat and cheese. Kebabs are good, also casseroles cooked in clay pots. Lemons squeezed into lentil soup, delicious. I rediscover halivah and also the pleasure of Greek tea – very dark. Apple tea an afternoon favorite, served in small tulip shaped glasses, the shape of the Arabic letters that spell Allah. [I bring a few home, will be perfect for afternoon tea.] At the fish market one night, we choose a fish, pay for it, then one of the restaurants within the market cooks to taste, served with rice and salad. Lovely meal.

Denizli, unusually modern city, home to textile factories and coal mines. Nicer looking new buildings. We lunch here at a hilltop café, en route to Pamukkale – circa 7,000 BC, built by Greeks. Mineral waters here crystallize over time into white cliffs. The remaining pools are pale aqua in color and varied in temperature. Geo-thermal engineering captures underground waters for irrigation. We explore the ruins of Hierapolis, an ancient holy city, a teaser to Ephesus which comes next.

Ephesus, 6th – 3rd century BC. Maybe as many as half a million lived here. 24,000 can sit in the theater. Once perched along a u-shaped harbor, which no longer exists. Greeks, Romans, Ottamons, they all lived here. Every sort of column is represented – Doric, Ionic, Corinthian. Once the center of “Asia Minor.” Founded by Amazon Goddesses. It is said that Mother Mary spent her last days in a stone house near here, under the protection of the Epostle John who spread his gospel from Turkey. Sophisticated infrastructure. Clay water pipes. Toilet houses with deep troughs flushed by flowing waters below. Fabulous library, which even empty feels like a library. Pagans and Jews here at one time as well - a mazuzah carved into a footstone near bibliotec. Only 15% of the site has been excavated – it is against the law to do more until the technology improves, so as not to destroy antiquity. We visit Sirince, an old Greek village in the steep hills above Selcuk, where Greeks resided until population exchange at close of WWI. Half a million Turks living in Greece were sent back to Turkey and over a million Greeks deported. Low pitched roofs, white stone walls, brown trimmed windows, all seem like Greece still. Narrow streets filled with vendors like a bazaar. Lush hills grow olives turned into oil and soap.

We enjoy a wonderful dinner at a cozy restaurant in Selcuk before departing for return to Istanbul. This city needs its own blog. To be continued…

Photos at: https://picasaweb.google.com/maple57/Turkey#

What's great about working freelance...

2011-02-09T09:12:00.000-08:00

Take a typical day for example - ah, there's the answer - there is no typical day, and that's what makes working on one's own so great. Often, I walk first thing in the morning, a great way to energize the day. Sometimes I walk at the end of day, the sunset walk, to soothe the savage [born most often of difficult clients] or simply to stretch the spine that sat too still at the computer for too long. Sometimes, like today, I manage the email, read the headline news, listen to NPR, and even have time to watch a few fabulous TED talks, before I head to Zumba or Pilates class. Sometimes I stop mid-day for a class. In between, after showers and between meals, I work. I write. I interview. I council or conference with clients. If I feel like it, and sometimes I do, I take an extended lunch with a friend or colleague, or I read, the guiltiest pleasure of this freelancer. Late in the day, when the work that must be done is done, I might take my audio Spanish class or meet a friend for a bit of vino. Make no mistake - I work hard, I make my deadlines, I satisfy clients. The work is always top of mind but not all. I learned long ago that working smart is better than working hard - one has to stay focused, outcome-based, with a working calendar that lays out week by week what needs to be done and when. It's the in-betweens that make life delicious, perhaps there is a true metaphor here. This is the time once taken by superfluous meetings or wasteful chatter, the trappings of the office life. Even commuters can read or listen to a book and that must ease their pain. [Woe to those who listen to talk radio!] Sure, sometimes I miss the collegial environment, but much less so in my advanced age. Solitude and silence have become good companions, and facilitate productivity. I'm blessed with marketable skills and the discipline to work for myself. And savings that cushion my cash flow. I've also vigilantly reduced expenses in recent years, although this largely to pay for the wanderlust that grows more demanding over time. Still, I manage. I don't need much and that's a comfort. I hope I have seen my last "desk job" but one never knows - perhaps some fabulous post will come to my attention and I'll go back inside, it's happened before. But, in truth, I am spoiled and sated by this life, and most grateful for it. And for the clients that sustain me.

San Miguel de Allende

2010-12-15T12:08:00.000-08:00

I first heard about San Miguel a dozen years ago when a customer at the bookstore came looking for literature related to colonial Mexico. He had just returned from a Spanish immersion class there and raved about the city. Soon after, I discovered a beautiful little book, The Doors of San Miguel, which captures the essence of this small city that resides largely behind wide ornamental doors along cobblestone streets and narrow alleys. BTW, I met the author there on this trip, promoting his third book about his adopted home.

He is among an estimated 15 thousand ex-pats who have relocated to San Miguel, many after a study holiday there, as there are several Spanish schools, also art schools, as the area is home to many artists. Once a center of silver mining and craftsmanship, most of the mines have been closed, but the city feels, still, like an overgrown pueblo, trapped happily in history. While there is sufficient infrasture to maintain a modern lifestyle, gentrification is slow and constrained in some measure by residents, Anglos and Mexicanos, who wish to sustain the old-world charm.

The pace is slow, an easy ebb and flow like the steady rhythm of breathing, as locals, expats and visitors meander through town. There is hardly a traffic light or stop sign: instead, at every corner, cars slow down to permit pedestrians to pass or to politely allow another car to turn. The pattern is facilitated by stone speed bumps every half a block or so that keep the pace intact. I never heard a car horn blare, neither a siren nor a harsh word.

Behind the many colorful doors are courtyards overflowing with bougainvillea and punctuated of course by water fountains. Winter is a lot like the desert climate it is - cold mornings and nights, very warm sunny days - the spread was roughly 30 degrees each day. Winter lasts barely three months, so few homes have heat, and even our lovely 2-BR flat, upgraded and with modern comfortable furnishings, had one space heater in the wall that barely touched the surface. We slept comfortably under many blankets, but morning showers were a chilly affair, all the better to conserve water. Waste not want not might be the Mexican motto - I was told that few locals have refrigerators, as they prepare fresh foods daily and only what they need, the few scraps saved for their animals, who wander the streets quietly in search of an extra morsel. Mexicans believe that keeping animals indoors in not hygienic. Nor do they believe much in baths, strictly showers, and they wash clothes in old-fastioned scrubbers or at the lavanderia [laundromat.]

Along the wider sidewalks [most are quite narrow] local farmers bring in fresh fruits and vegetables every day and sell them to passers by in plastic containers or bags, cut up on the spot and fresh for feasting [reminded me of Thailand.] Large open air markets cater to the locals and there is a huge daily artisans market where people work and sell lovely wares. Ton't think that the food or handicrafts are unsophisticated - quite the contrary. Dana and I had wonderful meals and some restaurants as elegant as one might find in Europe, and we bought beautiful jewelry and a few crafts. There is also a very elegant design center housed in an old factory, as impressive as anything you might find in a trendy city in the US.

San Miguel feels small, we walked most of it in our travels, centered by El Jardin, which is less a garden than a plaza with the obligatory and beautiful churches. Provincial in the best sense of the word, but you don't feel it when you're up on a rooftop terrace gazing at colorful hillsides and steeples. Many galleries are tucked along downtown streets, there are several local theater groups, late-night bars, some interesting nouveau cocktails [talk to Dana] many yoga and wellness centers. [Dana connected day-one with the local naturopathic community, which includes organic markets and cafe's, and many state-of-the-art practioners - the best of which seems to be LifePath, utterly gorgeous place and filled with the highest level practitioners and programs.]

I see why so many have settled there, and many are retirement folks, so there is a real sense of a mid-life community. The locals at worst tolerate Anglo's, at best appreciate that they bring money and business to their community. We discovered several cafe's and restaurants owned by Americans, as well as galleries, but they employ locals to keep the peace. Small ghetto-like areas have sprouted where many American/Canadians live, others choose to integrate, and we encountered more than a few Europeans as well.

Besides my daily 4-hour study and homework [by week's end I thought my head would explode, but I learned a lot] we wandered, took a guided historic walk, went on the famous Sunday house-tour which benefits the Biblioteca, enjoyed a staged radio-style theatre production of "It's a Wonderful Life" and a couple of group dinners with fellow students and our ex-New Yorker neighbor. We listened to a flamenco guitar, conversed with many waiters and restauranteurs, made friends with the owner of a new wine bar, and I attended a Hannukah party sponsored by the local Jewish group, which included a half-dozen Mexican families who are converting.

We ate lots of avocadoes and fruit, drank local wines, and enjoyed the quiet sounds of city life beyond our gorgeous wrap-around patio above a busy but not noisy street, as well as fireworks in honor of the Fiesta of Guadalupe. We spent a day in beautiful Guanajuato, the capital of the state, an hour's comfortable bus-ride away, where there is a large university, museums, the Cervantes theater, and an elegant central plaza as anchor; a city constructed above ancient tunnels once meant for water and now used to circulate traffic in and around the city. Beautiful place, few Anglo's there, much more developed and sophisticated, but we preferred the simplicity and spirit of San Miguel.

Although we had access to the internet, we had no television and no phones and instead mostly walked in the evenings or relaxed after full days and warm sun. I think that if you visit this city for a day or two as a tourist, you might find it lovely, but its true charms are in staying put a while and getting the feel of it, which is perhaps why so many settle there. It's a long journey, but worth being there, and I plan to return some time soon - the Writer's Conference is in February and seems to be calling to me!

Enjoy photos at: http://picasaweb.google.com/maple57/SanMigueldeAllende#

Mea Culpa

2010-10-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I posted a blog and will likely be a very long while until I post another. My writing life is very full these days with newsletters, annual reports, public relations material [the day job] and I am also writing a book review blog for a new site, which I'm trying to do every week, so this requires reading as well as the writing. http://www.ocinsite.com/index.php/blog/comments/the_warmth_of_other_suns.

And, I am immersed in writing another novel, which seems to be writing itself, but requires a lot of attention. I've been devoting roughly 2 - 3 hours a day to this story of several characters whose lives intersect although more often metaphorically than in reality, and I am pleased to say I am in the zone. Most of you know I've done this twice before, and each time the writing had a different feeling and a different pace. This time, after many years away from fiction, it is a bit more like jazz - several characters in different decades being written simultandously - more amorphous and in many ways more creative than anything I've done before. I'm loving it. So forgive me this break from the Dispatch - I will return now and then when the spirit moves me - but for now, my "pen" is committed elsewhere. Stay tuned! Cheers.

Book blogger

2010-09-11T09:39:00.000-07:00

I'll be posting less often in the near future because I am writing a book blog for a new website. Check it out: www.ocinsite.com. Look for blogs, look for me. Will be fun to write book reviews. Sadly, few newspapers include book reviews any more and it's hard for great books to find their audience. Maybe this will help.

I'm learning to live 2-weeks at a time now, that's the time between refitting my Invalign braces, the latest adventure of mid-life. Teeth too far gone, too much trouble, they need to be corrected. Will take a year. I'm on day 4. It's wierd but not awful. They say it will take roughly 10 months, which means 20 molds. So I'm thinking of my next year in 2-week increments. Not exactly the Zen day-to-day, but close enough. The only upside is that it makes me feel a little like a teenager - does this mean I also get to be perpetually testy, moody and generally obnoxious? Nah, been there.

Cheers, xx

Change happens

2010-08-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

I started this blog on the subject of change, personal change, life changes, the changes that alter and mostly improve one woman's journey. It's a broad concept that incorporates lots of thoughts and thus works well for a blogger.

But today I write, and with a heavy-heart, of things that simply don't change. Let's take the human race for starters. Despite all the technological advances and toys at our disposal, we still use very little of our brains, tend to be tribal and barbaric, and we don't embrace change, we pretend. I heard on NPR yesterday that an estimated 60 million men are considered to be descendents of Ghenkis Khan [why only men are tracked is an interesting question] and this might explain some of our natures, were it not that this represents barely 3% of that race.

I read this morning that 1/5th of Americans believe our President is a Muslim, despite a clearly Christian heritage and lifestyle. And that's more than believed before. Has to do with his contention of religious freedom and the rights of private enterprise, related to the Mosque planned for lower NYC. This comes right back to the cradle of civilization, the tower of Babel - human beings clinging to the familiar, from faces and skin color to ideology.

That's almost as bad as the 1/4th of Americans who continued to believe that Bush was doing a good job, right down to the bitter end. On the one hand, we employ a high level of selective memory, and on the other, we project extremists to the norm. Inconsistency is predictable.

I believe in change. I believe in Obama, but he is one man, only a man, not a Messiah, and he needs his people, all his people, to buy into the future if we are ever going to be able to carve out a new way of life. I, usually an optimist, find myself despairing. Human beings, like fellow animals, follow the scent they know, and when in crisis, are reduced to the basist of human emotions. This is not a pretty time.

The bell curve principle applies, but if so, then change by design cannot happen because the curve is always rising to a mid-point, and that mid-point is static unless the whole curve shifts. Thus the principle of status quo remains supreme.

90 years ago yesterday American women got the right to vote. 40 years ago the modern women's movement launched women into a new paradigm. We've come a long way, but those in the know know that we've not come nearly as far as we would like, as just as bad as being shephered into lifeboats with children first, we would be catapulted into stormy waters at the first sign of trouble - evidenced by recent rhetoric that perhaps high unemployment has as much to do with so many women in the workplace. A little like Jews this way, always the scapegoats. And so many other minorities. I am pained over the continued struggles of black women. Lesbian women. They've got miles to go before they rest. All women are not created equal. Even if we were, men are always at the door of the cave.

Change it seems wears blinders when it comes to equality.

Foot in Mouth

2010-08-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

This morning was one of those moments... moments we are reminded of our own hubris, or lack of, depending on the circumstance. Just yesterday, I was impressing a neighbor with my very high-minded sense of the world, constructed carefully by watching only PBS news or listening to NPR. [I didn't mention the New York Times as that would have been beyond arrogant to a blue-collar Californian.] He had actually asked me what news I listened to, as he passed my house the other night and, with the shutters on the window at the front-door open to capture the evening breeze, he heard the British accent of the newscaster. Just wondered he asked, perhaps a little embarrased to have eavesdropped. I didn't mention that I hear his baseball games regularly. BBC I answered, and I am fairly certain I raised my chin a bit as I spoke. And then, not satisfied to have simply answered the question, which was sufficient, I went on to tell him that PBS and NPR are my favored news sources because I believe these are the only media that present the case with only a bias towards fully educating the public. I actually said to the neighbor that I prefer these sources as I would never hear about the nasty low-class lives of people who in my view are not news-worthy and, by example, said that I would not expect to hear these two words on NPR: Lindsay Lohan.

Ah, the vicissitudes of life. The lessons the universe hands down to us when we get smug. This morning, I lifted my head, aimed my cable remote at my little TV in the bedroom, through which I am able to listen to several NPR news stations, among other things, otherwise blocked by this crazy hilly SoCal terrain, and nestled back into the pillows to listen for a bit, and then jumped up, truly, as I heard, at the tail end of the lead-in to the morning edition, that Lindsay Lohan will move back to NYC when she completes her rehab!

OMG. Just hours after I pronounced the near impossibility of such a thing, there it is. My trusted high-minded news source succumbs to the gossip of the day. What is this world coming to? More to the point, what was I thinking posturing in this way? Clearly, the message was meant for me - one must be careful before climbing on too high a horse. Humility, that's the ticket.

I turned down NPR and picked up my guide to Buddhism - clearly I need a reset.

Another Birthday

2010-08-09T19:32:00.000-07:00

A friend of a friend heard the following line from her shrink: What makes you think that every day has to be extraordinary? [This is neither a joke nor a hypothetical.]

My immediate reaction is that we [as in middle-class American baby boomers] are basically brats, and good enough is never good enough for us. However on second thought I realize that we have every right to believe that every day and every life should be extraordinary, but the word itself requires reconsideration.

This year I woke up in New York City at the quintessentially upper west side apartment of my deaf friend Carol. I awoke up in my comfy bed, turned on the tap and hot water came rushing out so that I might take a brisk shower and emerge clean and fresh. I opened a double-door refrigerator that protects our food and grabbed a handful of fresh blueberries... while Carol walking the dog, got me a hot fresh bagel, the real deal.

For much of humanity, any of these things are extraordinary.

My children are healthy and forging solid meaningful lives that will benefit others and bring them a lot of satisfaction. I talk to my friends on a regular basis, and see them when I can, and thankfully most are healthy and living mostly fulfilling lives. I earn just enough money doing work that is mostly satisfying and makes use of my [considerable] skills. My wireless internet connection at the moment is "excellent” so I can receive birthday greetings, ditto on the cell phone, which rings enough times this day to make me feel lovable.

Because of where I have chosen to live, I am rarely cold. When needed, I enjoy the warmth of my fireplace or heat running through pipes in the walls.

I make choices for myself. I do not fear for my life. I am occasionally hungry but never starve. I take long walks. I listen to great music. I read great literature. Some or all of these things every single day - is this not extraordinary?!

I read a good newspaper, including a hard-copy of the Sunday NYTimes, the New Yorker, Atlantic and Newsweek, more than enough to digest each week, as well as several on-line news sources that are well-written. And lots of books, books always in piles awaiting my attention. I have had the benefit of a good education so that I can think with some clarity about the world and sometimes hold lofty conversations with other smart folk.

I survive sadness and loss as we all do, and most of our losses are less than most others around the globe. I try not to think too often about refugees, victims of floods and earthquakes and the Taliban, or the plight of the poor and the incredible number of those unemployed, but I think about them enough to serve as witness. I consider this to be important – we need to bear witness and pay attention to what happens to others of our human race. My dear immigrant mother who had such high hopes and ultimately so little would look at my life as extraordinary. The little girl from the Bronx who has traveled and lived in beautiful places, and has the most wonderful friends. Not to mention two master's degrees and a lifetime of interesting work experiences. And the option of working less, from home, and hopefully traveling more, including more time in places like New York/CT and London where the people I love most reside.

I have health insurance, which I pay for, but I can afford to, and if I get sick, I have options. If needed, I can buy pain killers, although I have a personal naturopath, even better. And before too long, I will have access to that great public option: Medicare. One of the blessings of age.

I am learning to speak Spanish, slowly, painfully, as the synapses don’t quite connect as rapidly as they have, but I am learning to do this, and learning is the most natural of highs. Learning, and spending my birthday in the big apple.

We all seek higher levels of self-fulfillment and there is no reason not to aspire to more but, in truth, we all live extraordinary lives. Simple, satisfying, opportunistically extraordinary lives. Every single day. Happy birthday to me. xx

Battle of the BookWorld

2010-08-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

Hot news in the business press this morning - Barnes & Noble is for sale. Stockholders are disenchanted with the giant retailer's performance. Over the past three years, B&N's annual profits have slid from $135.8 million to $75.9 million to $36.7 million. They blame the e-book, even though their own Nook sold 600,000 last year. Still, Amazon is cleaning their clock. According to the Wall Street Journal, in 2001, Barnes & Noble was worth $2.2 billion and Amazon $3.6 billion. Now Amazon has a market capitalization of $55 billion and B&N barely $950 million. The times they are a changin.

Here's the good news. In the battle between the behemoths - And one must include apple in this mix, versus Barnes & Noble - new bookselling independents are opening their doors and many [of those left after the last decade's bloodbath] are holding their own, providing what the giants cannot: a truly personal experience, which is what readers crave and thrive on. What is more personal than reading? One of the last truly intimate experiences besides sex, and sometimes, almost as good.

Those of us who love the printed word are happiest when we are reading, talking about books, recommending books, surrounded by books, but in a way that feels like the good old fashioned cozy bookstore, not the giant bookseller. Even Costco, with its vast distribution channel and insane prices, cannot capture a serious reader. And even Kindle, which I confess has many wonderful qualities and will surely become more integral to the reading experience as time goes by, will never capture the minds and hearts of those of us who love to feel the page between our fingers and the indescribable pleasure of holding that bound package in our hands.

My prediction: In a very short time, we will all move from our desktop or laptop computers to some sort of Ipad experience, which will include reading books and magazines and newspapers, and possibly obviate Kindle [I always put my money on Apple] and perhaps move us beyond reading emails and other stuff on tiny phone screens. Giant bookstores will have no place - like libraries, they will become repositories of many forms of media, including opportunities to perhaps sample a book in printed form before downloading to the appliance of choice - but they won't be selling music much bc iTunes has already captured that market quite nicely. The worst news is for malls who may potentially lose that important anchor retailer, but good news for independents on Main Streets throughout the country who will continue to be an important gatekeeper for the literary world, but only if they provide true added value even beyond being the "great good place" we all need to meet and greet when we lift our eyes from the internet or get out of our cars to stretch both legs and intellect.

Someone will buy B&N, of course, believing they will create the new paradigm, and that may be so, but in the interim, perhaps, dare I hope, that as a country we might just be coming closer to the truth that bigger is not better.

Photo compliments of Laguna Beach Books, a thriving community bookstore!

Friends: Then and Now, Here and There

2010-07-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

My old friend Jane has broken her foot. Once, long ago, our lives were seamless; now we visit rarely on Facebook or email, face to face in summer. There is great affection there that distance does not end. I want to show up at her door, prepare her dinner, sit by her side, but she has others and I am visiting for just a short time. Still, my heart reaches out to her, I want to bring her comfort. This is what old friends do in time of need.

Other friends are dealing with less tangible hurts. The woes of children, unemployment, transitional futures. I listen. I sympathize. I proffer a few words of comfort or commiseration. This is all I can do. I am a long-distance friend now. I made a move across country, thusa different sort of friend now. Neither good weather nor bad weather friendship, merely occasional, in the truest sense of the word. We share big birthdays, weddings, seasonal holidays. On summer visits we walk at the beach, dine, sit by a pool, or take a day in the city, a trip to the theater. Good times, albeit few and far between. In between, emails and phone calls and comfort provided long-distance when possible.

My friend Ginger would say that I have exiled myself, and perhaps there is some truth to this. Those of us who make a move suffer the distance, despite the joys of creating a new life. Nothing is perfect, these are the trade-offs of a late-life change. The very essence of change, for better and not.

When I make my way East, I try to see all those most dear, and I am grateful to have so many to visit. I make the effort to visit regularly mostly for me, but also to ensure that they know there is someone who loves them still, despite distance. We pick up conversations as if sentences still hanging from a recent conversation, and for many this is true, as email and Skype and cell phones keep us close. I often wonder what it was like for pioneers who ventured across oceans and vast landscapes without any contact, loved ones left permanently behind. Refugees and holocaust victims who never again enjoy the sound of voices that warm their hearts or see the smiles that sustain their lives. Imagine the wait for letters that never arrive?

Visiting CT, where for 26 years I built home and career, is like walking backward in my own footsteps, and, as if stepping into old shoes, there is great familiarity and comfort. Although, as one might expect, footsteps don’t conform quite as perfectly to my prints these days; perhaps age, perhaps the effect of sandals and flip-flops worn more often now, my arches fallen a bit, my toes spread closer to the ground.

Time together now is what we once called quality time. Quantity is no longer possible. Quantity without quality is acquaintance, not friendship, while quality keeps a friend forever. I miss the spontaneity of a trip to town, a quick cup of tea and conversation, the days and nights of friendship that cement bonds over time. Still, the time we spend together has meaning, and each year we reconvene, picking up where we left off. We raised our children together. We struggled through job losses, kids’ heartaches and missteps, divorces, depression, loss of our parents, illness, joy, and all the joys of the good lives we've had. In our old age we elevate good times in our minds and hearts, and forget those that are best left forgotten. We share values and have shared experience, irreplaceable and unforgettable, and these keep us bonded.

My women friends are my sisters, replacing those I never had, and their husbands my anchors and adopted brothers. These are the people who ground me, the link between childhood and age, east coast and west. If I belong to anyone, I belong to them, although I am the one who left home, returning each summer like a college girl to recharge before returning to my adopted life. Most of them remain in place, cemented to community and family. Many in the same jobs, the same houses. I admire their steadfastness, their connection to community. I slide myself in for a while like a thief and slip away again to another life. So far, it works, but not without the tug on my heart, always.

I have found lovely new friends. Common ground in a sense of place, late life choices, life in transition, shared pastimes. In the current vernacular, we are present. New friends are made largely through work, paid or volunteer, or neighborhood connections. We are friendly companions. Fellow wanderers. True friendship takes time. It is an evolution. Cemented each time we laughed and each tear shed and thus as deeply constructed as bricks with slowly dried mortar, bonds that last forever, no matter the frequency of contact. I suspect I will never have friends in California that match my friends in CT and NYC. But, different is not necessarily less worthy, and lucky the woman like me who has both.

Facing the Face of Age

2010-06-19T20:10:00.000-07:00

When I was 25 years old, a young boy, son of a friend, told me I was middle-aged. I smiled of course, concealing the outrage, and without asking he explained. “If people live to be 72, and life is split up between young, middle aged and old, then 24 – 48 is middle-aged.” Apparently the kid was a math genius. One could not argue the logic, I suppose.

Now that boy would surely find me to be quite old. 62 next month, only a decade from my demise, according to his logic. And while I certainly don’t look or feel 25 or even middle-aged, I am surely not old, and I don’t feel much older than, perhaps, 45. Statistically, all Americans feel themselves to be younger than they are, all except new parents, who feel older. Understood. Been there as well. In truth, I feel quite young most of the time. Oh yes, I look in the mirror and see a woman who looks close to my real age. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself. But my energy levels are quite high. I can walk miles without breaking a sweat, and continue to walk almost every day. I was even able to keep up with my older daughter’s pace while we were wandering Scotland recently, the London girl who walks like her New Yorker mother [something about the apple and the tree.] At Pilates class I keep up with my much younger cohorts. I sleep through the night, most of the time, and sleep well, which is terribly important to me as I get really grouchy when I don’t get enough sleep, which those of you who know me well will attest to. I rarely have bags under my eyes and even the wrinkles, and there are plenty, aren’t too deep. My teeth are moving around and my bite is off but orthodonture will fix that, and would have fixed that when I was a girl if my parents could have afforded that. So I'll compensate for the sins of my youth.

I try not to look back [a sure sign of age] and almost always look forward. I still have a desire for adventure, in fact more so than ever before, and continually scour the Internet for affordable travel. Even a visit back to the east coast is cause for celebration; homecoming, albeit less exhilarating, is as satisfying as distant shores.

I do continue to play the geographical destiny game, that existential dilemma that plagues so many people my age [an expression that I’ve already grown to despise] in which we’re not sure where we truly belong. I ran into an associate the other day who has lived in Laguna Beach 20 years and loved it, but while he longs for a more citified environs, not sure where he will go. I came home from Scotland thinking I want to live in an Edinburgh in a temperate climate, preferably by the Pacific, but not sure such a place exists. What are we willing to give up at this stage of life [another abhorrent expression] and what are acceptable compromises? How do we balance the need for change with the need for permanence and security in the midst of old age? Yes, old age. Ouch.

Still learning...

2010-06-13T20:41:00.000-07:00

My grandfather, dear Poppy, told me long ago that if we aren't learning something new all the time we aren't growing. I took that to heart. But never more so than this last week when I learned to put together a newspaper. Yes, I've written hundreds of articles over the years. I was an education reporter for a year, business reporter for another year, city beat editor for two years, editorial writer on and off for many years. All local, the best journalism training grounds on earth. Learned a lot as magazine contributor as well, but that's another story. I know not to bury the lead, check quotes and pack a punch.

But this week I learned a whole new set of lessons.

An on-line newspaper is another thing entirely. A hybrid between a newspaper and a newsletter: features are brief, more space is devoted to event announcements and a lot of time is spent summarizing press releases that are way too long and terribly written. In three days I wrote roughly 10 short articles and re-wrote another 10 notices, as well as a sports recap, police blotter and recap from the district attorney's office. In between that I researched a few controversial subjects, hunting down comments from people hard to reach. I made sure there was adequate art to accompany key pieces and tried to obtain original photos to distinguish the newspaper from its print competitors. I directed the layout editor on what to delete, how to sequence stories and what headline to use in the email alert. There's a lot to being a one-woman show.

Exhausting. Exhilarating. Fun. Frustrating. Most importantly, I learned some important lessons that will surely serve me well in the increasingly cyberspace- oriented land of journalism.

I'm glad I only have to do this for a month or so. This is not the way I imagined my semi-retirement. Still, I am grateful once again for the opportunity to reach beyond my own boundaries and perhaps contribute something in the process.

And, once again, my adopted home has presented me with an opportunity to make another mark and extend myself just a bit further into the lovely land called Laguna Beach. This place that has afforded me so much, and reminds me daily to always expect the unexpected. A lovely way to move forward into senior citizenship. Who knows what's next!

Check it out at www.stunewslaguna.com.

Blue

2010-06-04T15:31:00.000-07:00

Blue has always been a favorite color for me, and especially its purplish variants, although of late I am drawn more to acqua. My parents’ eyes were blue, as were Rusty’s, and my daughters. [Mine, though often thought to be blue, are actually green, but they take on a blue tinge from my frequent wearing of blue clothes.] I have always found blue to be both soothing and startling, not unlike the contrast here in California of lighter blue skies with deep blue waters.

Blue is both simple and complex. It falls on the color line. However, there are multiple meanings and multiple uses.

Bluestockings. Bluenotes. The blueline in hockey. The blueplate special. A blueprint. Blue ribbon…

Blue is the color of twilight and midnight. Blue often symbolizes the Virgin Mary in art. The ancient Egyptians used lapis lazuli to represent heaven. A pure blue is the color of inspiration, sincerity and spirituality. It is also the color of royalty.Blue is now the color of democratic states [an accident of the media, or is it?] Dark blue is the color of truth and moderation. [Note the use by companies like Dow Chemical and American Express, and of course the ubiquitous Microsoft blue screen.] Wednesday's color is blue [also the day I was born.] Blue gemstones that equate to calm are blue sapphire and blue topaz. Lapis lazuli and azurite are said to heighten psychic power. Turquoise is the symbol of youth, both the color and the gemstone. Aqua is the color of high ideals [perhaps this is a message to me to maintain these in the land of leisure.]

Pier One, where I enjoy shopping now and then, is always high on acqua, which I suspect has more to do with its easy compatibility than idealogy. No accident that my everyday dishes are marine blue, my couch an aqua-tan stripe, my soft throw blanket seafoam… Blue is said to symbolize trust, loyalty, wisdom, confidence, intelligence, faith, truth, and heaven. A lovely color scheme.

It is said that blue provides a feeling of distance – artists use it to show perspective – although I suspect Picasso had more on his mind during his Blue period. Psychics say that the color blue has a distinct energy that allows us to look beyond and increase our perspective outward. And that it contains a cool vibration that is helpful to communication. In the range of spectral colors, blues sit between purples and green, on the darker ends of the scale. This might explain why the blues became associated with melancholy, although supposedly there was a blue tinge to the eyes of those who suffer depression, when first described eons ago. There is also an association with blue devils, as in hallucinations. Seems so odd to me that a word that means everything from heavenly to high ideals can also come to be associated with sadness. And the music, which derives from the emphasis on “blue notes” is perhaps the definitive description of bittersweet.

There is the equivalent of an entire column of meanings for blue and related words in my Thesaurus [I did not take the time to count the number of synonyms, but there must be hundreds.] There seems to me in Southern California a preponderance of blue flowers, including the purples. Do the UV rays sink in more deeply in some way, or bathe plantings in a brighter light? Or is it the soil, as the hydrangea here tend to be more blue than pink.

I have lots of blue/purple flowers blooming in my yard. My house continues to be dominated by blue accents. Shades of blue, has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Thus, whether I sit at my computer or walk on a path on the cliffs above the Pacific, I am warmly embraced by blue. It has become for me the color of warm. So that I am rarely blue.

Photo compliments of L. Byron Cann.

Technology Travels

2010-05-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

Just a few weeks ago, packing for holiday in Scotland, I discover there is more to the to-do list than in the past. Not only the right clothes, essential toiletries and guidebook, but now I have to be sure to charge and carefully pack all necessary technology. I laugh out loud at the lineup of gadgets charging for the trip: Camera, check. Ipod, check. Phone, not usable most of the trip, but ready for the return. And now, added to the technology pile: Kindle, check.

I have gone to the dark side. My daughters presented me with a Kindle for Mother's Day, a thoughtful and generous gift, but I nearly faint when I open the Amazon box, recoiling for the moment at the very idea of this. I who cherish every printed page, love the feel of paper between my fingers and the heft of a well-bound book, read on a machine? But my daughters have sent me a gift of reading, my favorite pasttime, and I cannot refuse. In moments I learn all there is to know to use this remarkable little gadget. 10 ounces that might at some point hold 1500 books! It slips easily into the side pocket of my purse, even the smaller purse I use to travel because is presses tightly to my body and every one of several pockets zips or tucks away, neatly protected from the casual thief. The side pocket usually holds whatever book I might be reading, now it holds them all.

In another few moments I download The Imperfectionists, a new novel recently featured on the cover of the New York Times and thus temporarily out-of-print [which I thought was over-rated.] I hardly ever buy hardcover books, too expensive, but this downloads in seconds for $9.99. A collection of short stories well reviewed, always good to have on a long journey. Another of essays by David Sedaris, as if traveling with a dear friend. Sufficient reading for a week for sure. But at LAX, waiting to board, I am reminded by a friend that I should have read one of those great Scottish mysteries, to set the tone, so I log up, search through the huge selection, and in seconds download a mystery that will be read on the journey across the pond. Remarkable!

I am truly grateful to have such a lightweight reader and will use it surely when I travel and likely when I go out to lunch, which I enjoy now and then, so much easier to sit at the bar without having to prop up a book or turn pages. I am also pleased that I can in fact highlight passages I want to save and shift them to a separate file, and now and again, the built-in dictionary is simply fab. But when I return home, the first thing I do is grab the next book off the pile and savor the feeling of it. [Chang Rae-Lee's The Surrendered, beautiful and powerful.] Every Friday afternoon throughout my childhood, my mother and I went to the library to choose our books. I was allowed only three, as a way of sharing well with others, and because my mother said even I would not read more than three books in a week, true, and this made the choosing both challenge and delight. To this day, I always have at least three books by my bedside waiting to be read [and usually many more] and always feel that flutter of excitement when choosing the next one. What Kindle also allows you to do is drift a bit. I grew weary of the novel so switched to a story, without having to dig another book out of a bag. Transportable and immediate. [New story collection highly recommended: If I Loved You I Would Tell You This.]

In my last days in corporate marketing many moons ago, I established a strategy for new products at Mott's USA that would fit what I defined in 1985 as the three most important trends in the food and beverage category: portability, snackability, fruitability. The result was wonderful products like Mott's Snack Packs and ultimately Jello pudding packs. Trends tend to migrate across categories and surely portability is the hallmark of this generaation and into the future. From cell phones to iPod, we take it all with us - our connections, our to-do lists, our music, now our readings. Resist as many do, I'm afraid I agree with Jeff Besos, CEO of Amazon that the literary technology train has left the station and while I will always favor printed paper, I am glad to have a Kindle as yet another option. When I spend my summer holiday on the east coast, I won't have to trek or mail a pile of books and always have something to read at the ready. The only drawback truthfully is that it means I will have to wait at least two years before I can justify purchase of an iPad!

On the Road Again: Scotland

2010-05-23T16:59:00.000-07:00

I am blessed once again with a week with my daughter in a foreign place. Not that Scotland is as foreign as SouthEast Asia, but there are sufficient differences: Toto, we are not in Kansas any more. Language trips off the tongue with a lilt and an occasional unfathomable sound. People do not smile as they approach, but exude a friendliness that is just under the surface. Ask a question, you get a story. I had expected a sort of small London, not at all, nothing like it. Elegant is the word that keeps coming to mind. A native tells me that Edinburgh is not really a city, rather a large village. That’s it.

Restaurants are small, intimate and the food surprisingly sophisticated. We especially enjoy vegetarian and organic café’s and wonderful seafood, beyond the obligatory fish and chips.

Not much traffic except in spots leading to the city’s outskirts where rows of charming houses prevail. Many buses go in all directions, easy to get around, but we prefer to travel on foot, exploring streets wide and narrow, streets leading suddenly to broad vistas of the harbor down below, or to the castle that looms above like the beacon it was meant to be. The residential sections were designed, after forfeiting independence to join the union as the united kingdom, in a way meant to please the King. Street after street of row houses in some sort of limestone, flat facades with very little molding or finish, but tall elegant windows, and doors, often painted in contrasting colors like blue or purple. Repetitive but not at all boring, these rows of small buildings stand like old trees, elegant and proud. However most streets have no trees, not even urns or buckets of foliage, thus rather stark, with wide unobstructed sidewalks, but every few blocks or so, there is a crescent or small park, or one of the several large parks that punctuate the city, with tall leafy trees that bring the green of a very green country to the city.

Because of the generally low roof lines, church spires and monuments and the castle peek to their full height as in punctuation. Beautiful sights. We delight in the botanic garden, the many tiny streets off the Royal Mile that lead you to a stunning city garden or an old school or some other surprise, a 2-mile river walk that leads to the port town of Leith, and in the winding streets leading to Stockbridge, a trendy neighborhood near our flat which is bright and drafty, exactly as you would expect in an old row house in New Town.

There is history here, quiet and regal, unpretentious. I’m told it is a business center for the country and huge Royal Bank of Scotland buildings are in every district. Only a few taller more modern buildings occupy a business area in town, and a few large but recessed urban shopping centers. We stop one rainy day at a huge incredibly comfy movie theater to see Robin Hood, seems right to watch in a place facing similar power struggles way back in the 12th century. California in contrast seems like a psychedelic poster to me from here, 2-dimensional and surreal, and New York too frenetic and closed in.

We spend one full day in Glasgow, just a 45 minute train ride through incredibly green rolling hillsides. Glasgow is much bigger, taller buildings, more eclectic and also marred by poor attempts at development years ago as well as prolonged urban blight. It seems a younger city, Dana feels a stronger vibe here. The university area is gorgeous, the botanic gardens bigger and even more beautiful. Dana is delighted by the herbs growing there and we wander through an orchid show as well. It is a sunny Saturday afternoon and families linger on the lawn, children run around and play or ride their bikes and there is a lovely relaxed ambiance. The Scots seem to know how to enjoy themselves without much fuss.

On the way back to the US, I am delayed in London by black ash. Nothing to do about it, and frankly I don’t mind another day away. I wish I had taken a bit more time to explore. Perhaps I’ve become spoiled, one week on holiday used to be the norm and now it is not enough. Air New Zealand, a wonderful friendly airline with comfy planes and lovely free wine, puts me up at a 4-start hotel near Heathrow and after I check emails for the first time in a week, I read, enjoy a lovely buffet dinner at their hip restaurant bar, watch a bit of TV, try to sleep, prepare for the long ride home, which turns out to be easy. I watch the entire first season of Glee which makes me laugh, a lot.

So, I check Edinburgh off the long list of places I wish to see, now a fond memory of a place that, if it were not for the general gray and often cold rainy weather, one would be happy to live. Someday I might like to go back to the fabulous art, music and theater festivals that happen throughout the summer, must be great, although likely a different vibe. I think I’ll keep the memory of this elegant place just as it was. Now I’ve got my sights set on Turkey. Next year.

Pics at http://picasaweb.google.com/maple57/Scotland#

The New Fiction in Film

2010-05-09T13:35:00.000-07:00

They will release this week yet another film about Robin Hood. According to the New York Times, my definitive source, this film is a "prequel" which goes back into the history of this captivating character. However this so-called history lingers through his marriage to "Maid" Marion, which in this script is no maid, and beyond to the return of the King. So I am forced to wonder, where is the true story and how is it Ridley Scott et al can make whatever they like of Robin Hood, and this is much on my mind given films of late that borrow the title of a known work of fiction, and manipulate the story to another end entirely.

Let us begin with Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, certainly not true to the original, rather a hodge-podge of the title story, Through the Looking Glass, the Jabberworky and a bit of Joan of Arc and Avatar, among other things, and thus in my view not at all Alice in Wonderland and not worthy of the title. Then there was the film of Sherlock Holmes, originally a captivating OCD genius sleuth created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in a series of stories of which many are masterpieces of mystery, turned into an adventure hero with an equally infamous lover and a strained relationship with the no-longer so affable Dr. Watson as played by Jude Law. I am second to none in my admiration and affection for Robert Downey Jr., but please, what makes it all right to compromise such a carefully crafted character? In both cases, I would have minded a lot less if they had given the film another title: Alice would have sufficed, sufficient allusion to the character without bastardizing the source, and maybe Sherlock would have worked to the same end. Not Holmes, that's too representative.

And now we have a new Robin Hood, again no name change, although I discover in my research that Robin Hood is more folklore than original fiction, so perhaps more maleable. In the interest of creativity, I pose this question: it's one thing to contaminate the truth, but what makes fiction sacrosanct? David Shields in his remarkable work "Reality Hunger" poses the possibility that there are no divides between so-called truth and fiction, as the moment something is said or done it's subject to context and memory, thus making it fiction from that moment forward. He's got a point there. So, if the truth is open to revision, fiction surely must be vulnerable to further fiction. I suppose. One never owns words or thoughts or even characters [unless licensed to Mattel] as there is no copyright for intellectual property, but if not illegal, it's still wrong, or at the very least, inappropriate, to appropriate other people's stories, even lore. Revisionism always has an agenda, if only box office receipts. I feel the same way every time a novelist takes a character from another book and writes the prequel, the sequel or the what if? What happened to pride of originality?

For me, Robin Hood is Errol Flynn, and that character might have been drawn even less to the lore, but he's Robin of Loxley in my mind, and the divine Basil Rathbone, as the Sheriff of Nottingham, also my favorite Sherlock Holmes on film. Surely Russell Crowe may bring something entirely new, and perhaps wonderful, to the character, he often does, but couldn't he just be somebody else? Some other fighter for the rights and freedoms of ordinary mortals - surely we need such characters in our world. What is to be lost by fabricating a fabulous new persona? On the other hand, perhaps we can no longer call something fiction at all - perhaps stories cannot be considered proprietary. But we might have to call it original fiction, like original screenplay, fine, but please, let's make it original.

Another First Day

2010-04-25T14:23:00.000-07:00

This is my last week at Friendship Shelter. Possibly my last week as an employee anywhere, which technically I haven’t been for a while [read: contractor] but operated as such – to the office almost every day with a full load of responsibilities and expectations, and a boss. And although I made this decision months ago, it comes now as a bit of a surprise. Here I go again: that first day of the rest of my life.

At nearly 62, one might say I’ve had over 22 thousand first days. Although, in truth, some of those days were decidedly last days and many were in-the-thick-of-it days. Still, thousands and thousands of opportunities to begin again. I’ve always gone in and out of the work-for-someone-else world. Plenty of full-time jobs, and an equal number of part-time jobs [which I have found to be simply full-time jobs squeezed into fewer hours, but one makes a choice.]

There are great pleasures to be found in the workplace – the pleasure of the collegial environment, the sense of shared purpose, support staff, resources. Then there are the obligations – showing up at the same time no matter what your bio-rhythms, the repetition, endless meetings. the frustration of inefficiencies, the occasional watching of the clock… anyone who has worked all their lives, as I have, knows this well. I’ve taken my share of risks over the years. I’ve been able to finagle flexible schedules or cultivated clients in order to live the freelance life, which is what I will do going forward, although not with the same energy or aggression as in the past – I no longer need or wish to work that hard nor do I, thankfully, need to make so much money. The girls are grown and flown. Good investments permit me a pension of sorts [contingent of course on the markets] and social security is within my grasp [thank you Rusty.]

Thankfully as well, I have a lifetime of skill and experience, and four years into my CA life, a network. Thus, a new client in Laguna Beach. The CT client more committed to marketing $ this year. A little bit of writing at very little pay, but this will satisfy the journalism itch. I begin the new life with roughly 15 – 20 hours a week of work to do and money coming in. Nearly perfect, for now.

Of course I will miss my colleagues. I will miss the comforts of regularity. I will find myself at some point before long hustling again for the next project. I will watch my checkbook a little too closely and worry about whether I can support my travel and entertainment habits. I will frustrate my financial advisor with pestering about how I might live this semi-retired life comfortably and die broke – the kids don’t need my money and I don’t wish to have to make more than I absolutely need to. Been there, done that. Still, a delicate balancing act.

And then there’s the question of how I will structure my days. There will be many where I will awaken, shower, dress and go to work, albeit at the kitchen table. However, I might choose to walk before I work. Or read. Now and then I will watch an old movie before I dress, the guiltiest of pleasures. The last time I was freelance, I read five pages of Proust every morning, and this is more than enough to stimulate creative juices. Enough to write a book, which I will. One more. Maybe two. Perhaps teach another class? Ah, the pleasures of starting over. An endless stream of possibilities, if one only looks forward. Yes, each day is a chance to begin again. And every time I do, I see the opportunities ahead. Mostly. A gamble worth taking.

A Life History

2010-04-11T14:32:00.000-07:00

Google Maps I am writing a highly abbreviated life history. Not a memoir, nor an autobio, and definitely not a psycho-analytic revelation. Rather the hightlights of my life. I am writing this for my daughters. Sometimes they ask. Someday they will want to know more. As my parents are long gone, no siblings, no husband, and only a couple of friends who have travelled a long but still partial way on this journey, I thought it would be a gift to my girls to know more about me than they know now.

My mother, who had a heightened sense of her mortality for 14 long years, ntil the cancer claimed her, left me just a few pages of her thoughts. I wish she had written much more. I treasure those few fading pages, not only for the message, but for the oppotunity to remember her, in her words and her handwriting, as I have so little memory now. And when I visit my 94 year old Aunt, I pound her with questions, which she answers with remarkable long-term memory, happy to be asked, as we all wish to be known, and over time, whatever witnesses we have, lose memory or voice.

15 pages later I am just graduating college. I will of course go back and edit. But the joy of this is in the recollection. I am remembering the stories of my own life that have been long forgotten. Dancing in a sudden summer storm at Jones Beach with my cousins while my delighted grandfather watched from the cover of a beach umbrella. The first and only dog. The first kiss. The pleasures of a lead role in camp musical. And the jobs, the many jobs that informed a working life.

The first real job [babysitting didn't count] at just 14, administrative work for a small travel agency owned by Polish immigrant neighbors with wanderlust. Two afternoons after school and all day Saturday, I sat at a small desk in the back, the only light the glare of an old green glass desk lamp, and carefully clipped together matching travel agendas and billings and typed invoices in triplicate [remember those days?] that were then mailed or filed carefully as stipulated by my lovely employers. Ah, the sublime sense of order, I learned that lesson well.

Perhaps my favorite, albeit intensely unsatisfying job, as stock transfer typist in Wall Street - the 5PM to midnight shift. A second job in my early twenties. If you got there by 4:45PM you got free dinner in the cafeteria, but then only two 15 minute breaks during the night, and no conversation, just the drone of electric typwriters and the collective tapping as we typed the names of people on to stock certificates to be held in the vault for the next transfer. Obviously pre-cyberspace. The best part: the long bus ride uptown, through the quiet streets of the Bowery and lower east side up to my apartment on 1st Avenue and 21st Street. I liked the quiet of that part of the city late at night, and the utter silence of my tiny studio at that hour where I had a snack, played the old piano that nearly filled the space and read for a while until the morning city sounds invaded slumber. Only 6 or 8 months of that work, until enough saved to pay for something, not sure what that was, but a means to an end. Another lesson learned - nothing lasts forever, nor does it need to, but satisfying in the accomplishment, however menial.

Of course even my own memory is in question, but, as it is my story, my memory of it will have to suffice. There is great pleasure in looking back, in this way - neither regret, remorse, retribution or healing, but for the remembering of one's own life, the only life we've got. And the pleasure of writing only for yourself and the two people that matter most, the very best part of a life history.

Once Upon a Time with Television

2010-03-14T19:26:00.000-07:00

The morning after the Oscars is a unique event, akin to the Superbowl. Everyone is buzzing. The “office cooler” conversation is alive, albeit largely electronic these days: the internet is humming with the scoop and many are a-twitter. Well, those who actually watched rather than taped. Watch or not, pretty hard to escape the headlines and highlights, which may be enough.

Still, I am stunned when people tell me they didn’t watch because they've taped it instead, as this annual event has been a tradition for me as long as I can remember, truly, when at a very young age my mother permitted me to stay up and watch, although in those early years [and occasionally when my own children were young] I fell asleep too soon. My mother and my aunt Sophie, my cousins and I, curled up together in front of our tiny box and enjoyed the pageantry. I did the same during the Olympics, which I used to watch with my children. Presidential debates. The season finale of Mash and Dallas. Other momentous moments on television, like Obama’s victory, which may be the last television event shared by millions in the moment.

What happened to the shared collective consciousness of our television culture? Remember Thursday night farewells to John Boy? Sunday nights watching for the Archie Bunker mania? How many Friday nights of my young adult life did I stay home to watch Mary Tyler Moore, with excuses of hair washing or laundry, or now, as I recall, I was doing the laundry, as the basement facility in my NYC apartment building was empty on Friday nights while my fellow twenty somethings were out partying. {Yes, I was a geek, then as now] Speaking of twenty-somethings, that show was another must-see, breakthrough television that exposed every neurosis we now take for granted on TV. Speaking of which, remember must-see-TV?, NBC’s Thursday night line-up of Friends and followers, which my daughters hated to miss, despite the no-television on school nights rule [we made exceptions now and then.] Remember Roots?

For seven years I made sure to get to work a bit early on Thursday mornings for a passionate play-by-play with my buddy Michael on the previous night’s West Wing episode. Those characters became as close as friends, our representatives of ideal government and a longed for inegrity, missed terribly during off-season [remember off-season?] Now I get to watch them all over again on DVD but still long for those in-depth discussions the day after.

Not that I enjoy the fact that television has been for so long the centerpiece of American culture and the core of a national community. Nevertheless, the power of the medium is in the bringing together of huge numbers of disparate individuals to learn or enjoy or ponder or cheer or wonder about those things that seem to matter, and to provide the platform for discussion and perhaps enlightenment with friends, colleagues and our children. Now, we forego the discussion in favor of respecting the rights of tapers: we don’t want to spoil the ending do we?

I appreciate the convenience of a DVR. I get it. There are times I cannot enjoy an episode of one of the very few television shows I watch anymore and yes, as they are more and more available via internet, I can catch up on-line. I get it. People no longer wish to be tied to anything, much less a television show. We have reached the apotheosis of instant gratification. But what about that little bit of discipline that goes with making sure to finish homework or get off the phone [or the internet]in favor of the triumph of exquisite figure skating? The joy of watching the winner earn the win. The delight of weekly connection with interesting characters or the enlightenment of 60 Minutes. The extreme pleasure of the morning-after conversation. The joy of watching as a family in the company of all the other families.

Perhaps this is one reason why reality television is so popular – no one wants to miss who gets the axe or who scores the biggest loss. There are some things apparently we cannot wait for, still, but not much. Everything else is always within our reach, in our own time and space. Leaving us all just a bit further apart. And here I thought technology might bring us closer together. Foretells a future where we are all so much in our own space we share little or nothing. A little like reading blogs instead of the newspaper. Oops.

2010-02-22T20:34:00.000-08:00

Watching extraordinary young people on snowboards, gliding high up into the air and twisting their bodies in mind-bending spectacular poses before they land. Sometimes they seem to float, defying gravity. A friend suggests that have different DNA than mere mortals; perhaps this is so. They are more than magicians, their exuberance lights their path.

Watching them lights up my world as well. I exalt in their prowess.

Earlier this evening, I listened to one of my all time favorite writers, TC Boyle, tell Tavis Smiley that he was blessed by no one ever saying no to him. You see, he said, my mother loved me, and she never said no – I wore what I wanted, I did what I wanted. Tavis connected the dots: that uninhibited ability to decide for himself, the freedom to create his own persona, to pursue his own path, had resulted in an often outrageous creative streak, and a willingness, rather a perpetual intent, to write whatever he wanted, however he wanted. Taking risks that satisfied his unwillingness to say no to himself. He answers only to himself and bestows upon himself his own rewards.

For those of us who have an inner voice that more often says no, this is a mantra of sorts.

I have a good friend in CT who cries whenever anyone wins an award – gold medals, Oscars, anything where there is a personal best. She cries because deep down she feels denied the option to take risks and answer only to herself. Her personal path was censored, as so many are, especially those of us of the boomer generation. The battle for most of us is not to challenge our personal best but to do the best we can with what we’ve got.

I often share her tears. I envy those unencumbered by that inhibiting inner voice.

So it comes back to risk. Risk, more often defined as what we have to lose, rather than what we have to gain. The older I get the more willing I am to take the risk, to reach out for not so much a personal best, not in the sense of the champion, but to move beyond the limitations imposed, integrated, deeply ingrained over the years, and thus self-imposed in the end. To break out, be a little bit outrageous [that’s about all I can muster] and not be afraid to fall. So much more to gain than to lose.

They say that one doesn't get older, one gets more so, but this does not have to be so. Colette said we are never too old to become the person we want to be. Although, there is something to be said for aging gracefully.

The Olympics is much more than a bi-annual sporting event. It is a bi-annual challenge to reset our own barre. That incredible spirit of youth that defies risk, that laughs in the face of risk and says ‘come and get me.’ Wow. I am in awe of them, and grateful for the reminder that we only live once. Really, what is there to lose? Always more to gain.

In Praise of the Music

2010-02-01T20:06:00.000-08:00

OMG. The Grammy's. A 3-hour mind blowing concert. Some of the most remarkable talent, big productions [occasionally over the top, of course] the style, the outrageous, the sheer joy of the jubilance of young musicians and the pleasure of the rock. I am transported back to my youth, bouncing around the house to the music, watching every move Beyonce makes, and that wild Lady Gaga, with dear Sir Elton by her side, what a trip. Honestly, I felt like a teenager again. Wild and unencumbered. And reminded once more the power of music, whatever your taste, and even at this exalted age, I just love that rock and roll. All versions of it. I was enthralled with it. And I carried the jubilance with me into a night of sweet dreams and to another day of a slightly quicker step and that sense of possibilities that only the music divines. Wow. Pay attention Oscars and other award shows - it's about the magic, the entertainment. Awards, not so much. Simply the conduit, the conveyer of the art. I continue to be astonished by the sheer imagination of this generation, beyond even what I felt that joyful day in the early sixties when I discovered those boys from Liverpool. In this crazy world of manic politics, angry terrorists, homelessness and loneliness, it is only the music that brings us back to a Nirvana that comes in three minute takes that last all day, and night. I feel it still. Especially this year, the year of the women with incredible pipes and gorgeous bods. Gaga is indeed gaga, with the talent to match, the extraordinary Pink, the stunningly beautiful Beyonce, and the wonderful Fergie and Black Eyed Peas, the amazing friends of Michael Jackson, Carrie Underwood of special note, dear Dave Matthews... and all the rest. You made my day, and then some. And to itunes, my new friend, thank you for the instantaneous gratification.

It's a wonderful world as long as there is the music. Makes everything else possible.

On Demand

2010-01-20T11:17:00.000-08:00

I have migrated to the land of iPod. I was reluctant, not a fan of earplugs, and uncertain why I would want to shutter my mind while walking when I might daydream or ponder the meaning of the universe, much as I love music, or why I might forego the pleasure of total immersion in a book while on a plane.

However, I have discovered the joys of the podcast and the return to my audio Spanish lessons, which, in 30 minute increments, are exactly the time I spend on the treadmill and thus extremely efficient use of time. And I have discovered the joys of podcasting. The opportunity to catch up on programs that I’ve missed while I’m working or simply because radio frequencies are often obstructed by hillsides is truly change I can believe in. Now, I can access my favorite shows whenever I want, via computer or iPod, and I’m hooked.

Although… I’ve been resistant in principle to the on-demand world. The natural outgrowth of my boomer generation’s determination for instant gratification, we now seem to have everything available to us whenever and wherever we want. I don’t DVR and although I have taken one step closer to this personal control of media, I still enjoy the idea, now and then, that I must get home to watch a special show. Remember the many Friday nights we went out late so we could first watch Mary Tyler Moore? I look forward to [some] award shows or Olympics or tennis tournaments and part of the pleasure is the anticipation, which has been neutralized in favor of the I-can-watch-it-later via the recording. Every show or event just another item on the playlist. The very idea of heading home to curl up with something wonderful or stay put to listen just a little longer, is already long gone. Ah, how my mother and I looked forward to Saturday operas broadcast live from the Met. Now we might get to it on Thursday. And I still enjoy the idea that it’s Tuesday night and tonight, when my eyes will no longer focus on a book, I can watch The Good Wife, one of the few decent dramas on TV, although, truth be known, I know own the complete West Wing on DVD [thank you Dana] so I can watch that brilliance whenever I want, and this is awfully nice to know. I confess that I am considering dismantling the television entirely in favor of Netflix and the few television shows worth watching on-line. Ah, the ambivalence.

My boss, a devoted football enthusiast, consoled herself recently with the inability to watch her favorite team in the playoffs because of a Board event, knowing she might watch when she got home, and still enjoy as long as no one snitched the outcome. I suppose it’s wonderful to know that what you want is always within reach, but what’s the trade-off? Certainly we are able to better manage our time because of constant access, but what do we, or more to the point our children, who are acculturated in this technology, lose in personal discipline. The ability to structure our lives and meet the demands as they come, not always as we plan them, is so important to their ability to navigate the world successfully. At least, the world as I see it, which may be the disconnect here.

We no longer have to manage our time beyond the daily work or school clock – what we want to watch or hear is always available, if we’re late we send a text, we can find directions on our phone so why even study the map ahead of time [another guilty pleasure of mine] and we can take classes at our leisure on-line, no worries about rushing to class on time. Will this younger generation fail to learn the fine art of time management and the meaning of being in the right place at the right time? If all or even most of our lives are constructed to our own choosing, how will we navigate through the construct of a larger world, increasingly beyond our control?

Perhaps it is simply that I am rapidly becoming obsolete, approaching life in a context that no longer exists. Which is odd because I am such a fan of technology and delight in its prowess… I’ll ponder this on my next walk. Then again, I’ve got a date with my Spanish teacher in my ear.

Next: The Joys and Woes of the Shuffle.

Plucking the Poetry

2010-01-15T13:14:00.000-08:00

Ah the joys of a great book. I’ve read, and reread portions of The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker, an ostensibly simple but fantastically complex and profound study of a modern-day poet-procrastinator-socially inept-loner struggling to write an introduction to an anthology of poetry and doing everything else but. It’s of course a love letter to poetry and to the life of the great poets, but also the study of the human psyche, which in the end is all about poetry.

My dear friend Diane of Diane’s Books sent me the advanced copy and it is now filled with margin notes and folded pages and underlined quotes to be revisited now and then. It’s that sort of book. What you cannot do as well with a Kindle or a Sony electronic reader, nor the amazing Google Books that I’ve recently discovered, where great literature is digitalized so when you’re bored at work you can read a few pages of Jane Austen! I myself have been re-reading Dorian Gray two pages at a time at this gigantic cyberspace library. As fun as that is, there is no thrill of scratching your thoughts in the margins for posterity or circling the tiny number on the bottom of a page to remind you that a passage there is utterly divine.

But this is about the book – a study of life in poetry or poetry in life: Every moment of uncertainty, the challenge of change, the despair of creativity, the pain of loneliness, the jubilation of getting it right and the sheer importance of living in the moment. Lots of little stories within this story, and while it seems on the surface like the stream of conscious reportage of a few months in the life of a writer, it is oh so much more. You will laugh aloud and delight in the telling of tales of great poets’ lives. And you will find yourself nodding in commiseration with his thoughs and with the paralysis we have all felt when something important needs to be done and we just can't do it.

When at last he brings it all together you will rejoice, as we do when we read a truly great poem. This is a book filled with segment after segment, as if stanza’s, that alone are worth the read. Consider this moment as he speaks to a master class, when asked how he achieves the presence of mind to initiate the writing of a poem. “Well, I’ll tell you how. I ask a simple question. I ask myself: ‘What was the very best moment of your day?’ The wonder of it was, I told them, that this one question could lift out from my life exactly what I will want to write a poem about. Something that I hadn’t known was important will leap up and hover there in front of me, saying I am – I am the best moment of the day. It’s a moment when you’re waiting for someone, or you’re driving somewhere, or maybe you’re just walking diagonally across a parking lot and you’re admiring the oil stains and the dribbled tar patterns. One time it was when I was driving past a certain house that was screaming with sunlitness on its white clapboards, and then I plunged through tree shadows that splashed and splayed over the windshield and though, Ah, of course – I’d forgotten. You, windshield shadows, you are the best moment of the day.”

Of course, reading this passage was the best moment of that day.

Well, that was after this moment, this passage, which I must also share: ...“Horace didn’t say that. ‘Carpe diem’ doesn’t mean seize the day – it means something gentler and more sensible. ‘Carpe diem’ means pluck the day. Carpe, pluck. Seize the day would be ‘cape diem’ if my school Latin services. Very different piece of advice What Horace had in mind was that you should gently pull on the day’s stem, as if it were, say, a wildflower or an olive, holding it with all the practiced care of your thumb and the side of your finger, which knows how to not crush easily crushed things… Pluck the cranberry or blueberry of the day tenderly free without damaging it is what Horace meant – pick the day, harvest the day, reap the day, mow the day, forage the day. Don’t freaking grab the day in your fist like a burger at a fairground and take a big chomping bite out of it…”

What more can I possibly say? Pluck the day. At the very least, bite into a juicy plum and relish the juice on your chin. That too is poetry, in its way. One of those lovely small moments that make the day.

Times Go By

2009-12-29T18:20:00.000-08:00

This will be the last neurotic-nostalgic-year-end blog, promise. I'm under the influence of shorter darker days. Colder air. That time of year. I apologize. I don’t do much in the way of resolutions, and try not to become too terribly immersed in soul-searching, but the spirit of Scrooge has come over me like a shroud.

Another year. Another decade. How did this happen? Time evaporates, more rapidly each year. As if everything we do, every activity, every emotion, were sucked into an invisible vortex, jammed together with all the other years, all the other people and all the emotions that go with all that. An emotional black hole.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that we celebrated the arrival of the new millennium while expecting the demon of Y2K to wreak havoc on our now nearly obsolete technology? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I sat in my CT home-office fighting back tears, clutching the phone to discover the whereabouts of my husband and friends in downtown Manhattan. Wasn’t it just the other day that my daughters graduated college [2000 and 2003] and now they have completed graduate school – Dana in practice and Julie on her way. Can it really be five years ago that we lost Rusty and four years since I resettled in Laguna Beach? I know it’s a cliché, but where has the time gone?

Time, unlike nature, moves beyond any vacuum in our lives, unobstructed, constantly plowing forward like a high speed train. And, like those trains, speeds also seem to accelerate each year. Something about age that makes the time pass all the faster, we all speak about it, marvel at it, complain of it. No stopping the clock, not in this linear space-time continuum. The only respite is the length of the day and here is where time tricks us. Just as the year winds down and the days have become almost unbearably short, winter solstice kicks in and the process reverses. So in the midst of darkness the light returns. Just a little bit at a time, nearly imperceptible, but there if you pay attention. The days grow longer, as if adding time to our lives, even as we watch the calendar pages turn and memories take on greater prominence than the moment.

The passing of time yet another reason, as my daughters remind me often, to be conscious of each moment, which so quickly slips away. More of our lives devoted to yesterday than tomorrow. I suppose this is why I find myself of late resenting the proximity to senior status. Before long, I will be old. More and more of my life is past and less in the future. I don’t fear dying, not at all, I only wish to live as well as possible as long as possible. If I don’t appreciate each moment as it comes, it will too soon be gone. As so many are. The first decade of the new millennium merely memory now. Fodder for nostalgia. In the blink of an eye, we will find ourselves celebrating the quarter century – OMG!

Happy new year.

It's Complicated

2009-12-28T18:57:00.000-08:00

As soon as the presents were opened, breakfast complete, Julie and I honored the Xmas holiday by going to a movie; before Noon, the theater was packed. No wonder distributors make such a fuss over films opening Christmas Day. Clearly a tradition enjoyed by not just the Jews, but those who favor an outing or simply a less traditional day.

We saw “It’s Complicated.” Always happy to watch Meryl Streep work her magic. Lighter weight films are preferable on a holiday, no need to be immersed in existential struggles or conflicts.

To my surprise, the story is as existential as they come. What does it mean to be married? To be in a loving partnership that never lives up to its promise. To be left behind. To make choices that impact so severely and forever those we love most. That’s what this so-called comedy was about and it hit me hard. Hard for me to hold back tears at several scenes and, once out of sight of my daughter, the faucet blew. I loved my husband dearly from the first moment I met him, sometimes unexpectedly and often irrationally, but love him I did, and he loved me, although our relationship was often tenuous and painful. Not so much opposites attract, as our values were on the same page, but two people who approach life differently and seek different outcomes. What we had in common was our children, our community, our mutual respect and a lovely group of friends. It should have been enough.

His loss was devastating to me. I have found it exceedingly hard to transfer affection and thus have been denied [or denied myself] romance for most of a decade. [Although present me with an architect with the humor of Steve Martin and I'm there.] I still find myself reaching for the phone to call him after I’ve spoken to one of the girls as he was, despite his frequent absences, a co-parent. No one loved our children more nor shared the same concerns as we. I often complained that I was a single parent, and then the reality set in. He’s not here.

Unlike the characters of the film, there is no possibility of communication. No chance for reconciliation. No apologies. No connection whatsoever. I find myself mourning as fully now as I did five years ago, August, when Rusty died and closed the door behind our lives so tightly and so fiercely, as if a vault. Only the memories remain and these grow dim with age.

Sometimes it is so terribly hard to live in the present when we long so profoundly for those of the past. I indulge myself in these moments of sadness infrequently and without remorse, because to live in the hearts of those left behind is to live forever. A psalm. The words imprinted on my mother’s headstone. Gone 33 years and even now, now and then, I wish I might chat with her as well.

Sometimes I so deeply wish I might go back into my past and start again. Impossible of course. The stuff only of movies and fantasy fiction. And then I think: what exactly would I go back to? And would I want to live through these losses all over again? Better to keep moving forward. Stopping only occasionally to remember, to weep, to mourn, to reflect, and to smile in gratitude for the time we had.

That’s all there is. That's all there ever was.

Harbor House Cafe

2009-12-13T12:15:00.000-08:00

I frequently walk down to Harbor House Café for Sunday breakfast. Armed with my favorite sections of the NY Times I enjoy a lazy morning and an indulgence: pancakes, a short stack of course. Harbor House is a large place, with classic counter and booth seating, with an adjoining glassed in patio with patio style glass-topped tables and plastic chairs. I favor that space as the light there is better suited for reading. Open 24 hours, this café, originally called a coffee shop, is equivalent to an East Coast diner. Reminds me of long ago late night dates with the gigantic menu of cheap eats and the slightly grungy ambiance that fits poor students and large families.

Down a dark hallway to the ladies room there is a large framed photo of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke that always makes me smile. This is but one of hundreds of film-related photos and posters that line every inch of wall, and I mean every inch. These are not signed photo’s as at Sardi’s. Nor are they reserved to celebrities who might have lived in SoCal. No rhyme or reason. I once asked a waitress the significance of the film memorabilia and she had no idea. I asked at the counter, a shrug. I can only conjecture that the owner has a passion for film. Perhaps a family member has a Hollywood photo business. Or some poster store shut down just as the café was opening: instant décor.

A clue to the mystery is found on the website: Harbor House was founded in 1939, an exceptional year for film. Gone with the Wind. Gunga Din. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Wizard of Oz. Destry Rides Again. And the year before [one has to look] Holiday and Jezebel, two of my favorites. So I understand the passion for film at that time. Makes sense. Why Harbor House Café? The right of ownership.

The photos, while lots of fun and recalling many of my own favorite movies and actors, creates a real disconnect in this place more frequented by bikers and blue color workers than stars. I need metaphors and I can’t find one here. We are 70 miles from Hollywood. The photo montage covers nearly a century of film icons, well before the café was founded. As far as I can tell, even the wait staff has nothing to do with film production. Now and then I look up to see James Dean or Audrey Hepburn smiling at me and while a pleasant distraction, makes no sense. Of course, a patron with the New York Times in her face makes no sense either [LA Times and OC Register sold in machines just outside the door] so I am just as much a contradiction in this place as the photos. Perhaps that’s the connection in the end – we come from everywhere and end up here.

Whatever. Paul Newman always makes me smile.

Generosity

2009-11-24T18:06:00.000-08:00

Ah, the spirit of generosity. Tis the season. I am always grateful for the abundance of our rich culture and also, especially this time of year, anxious – will the funds come to meet our operating budget? Every day, I see the generosity of good people unfold. I know my donor base fairly well now, after two years Friendship Shelter, but people invariably surprise me, stepping up to give more because they know the need is great. Or, apologizing because they cannot give more but wish they could. I know how they feel.
I understand the delicate balance between the need and the response, much like the balance in nature in all things, and certainly in humanity. I truly believe that most people, even in America, strive to do their best and live by some sort of personal code. I believe more people are misguided and misinformed than unkind and I don’t much believe in evil, only the degradation of the human spirit. I avoid the fear mongering and just plain nasty media, which is most of it these days, in favor of NPR and PBS. These are the only sane media choices, balanced and observant, and endlessly interesting, well beyond the “news.” Still, stories are often so bleak. 25% of homeowners in danger of losing their homes. 40 million without health care and not all of them will be covered, despite so-called reform. Boys and girls dying every day in Afghanistan et al. Pro-life fanatics using health care to further their ends. Democrats and Republicans posturing and politicizing the most basic of human needs. Locally, social service providers jockeying for position, defending turf and pointing fingers instead of seeking meaningful solutions. Children dying daily because of abuse or drunk drivers, or languishing from neglect. Middle school kids beating up on peers because they have red hair. Elderly more concerned about death panels than quality of life.
I could go on and on. I won’t.
Instead, I retreat, as I often do, into the world of fiction. No picnic there, of course, but one has the benefit of that willing suspension of disbelief that serves as a buffer: the land of pretense that makes even the most realistic of stories fiction. Richard Powers, a favorite of mine, has just published a stunningly intelligent and engaging story about a woman who is endlessly happy: “Generosity.” His protagonist, a refugee of unspeakable horrors, is so caring and forgiving that she is unfathomable to those around her. They must study her. Investigate her true nature. Reveal her Achilles heel. The psychologist proposes a bi-polar mania. {Powers responds that of course this must be the case as the whole of society is now bi-polar – certainly Wall Street would bear that out.] The writing instructor is intimidated by her ability to transcend the usual maudlin quality of poetry and entrance all readers. The geneticist seeks the answer in her DNA. The media sensationalizes her story, turning her into the modern day equivalent of the bearded woman. The blogosphere seeks her identity and the lonely seek her blessings. Perhaps there is a Christ-like figure in this beautiful embodiment of the generosity of spirit, although this author rarely explores the spiritual – a realist and humanist, he prefers to peel back the layers of nature versus nurture. In “Echo Maker” he examined the power of memory. In “In the time of Our Singing” the essence of race relations. In “Gain” the conflict between big business and personal freedom. I love this writer. He makes me think, he makes me laugh, and sometimes cry, but never manipulates my emotions. No escapist fiction, rather an intelligent exploration of human potential, and failure, ever so much more meaningful than the harsh reality of harsh reality.
So, at this time of Thanksgiving, I am grateful not only for my health, my divine daughters and their good health and good lives, my wonderful friends, important work, fresh air, sunshine and blue waters always on my horizon, a sense of personal safety and the simple pleasures of music and the arts, I am grateful for a way of rising above what ails us every single day and remaining steadfastly devoted to the half-full glass. The generosity of giving, and a giving heart, has the potential to heal all wounds.
Generosity is a true blessing.
Post Script: Words to think about from "Generosity" by Richard Powers:
If a reasonably alert person wants to be exhilarated, she just has to read a little evolution. Think of it: a Jupiter flyby, emerging out of nothing. A few slavish chemicals producing damn near omnipotent brains... That discover is better than any drug, any luxury commodity, or any religion. Science should be enough to make any person endlessly well. Why do we need happiness when we can have knowing?

Asia Journey The Finale: Vietnam

2009-11-21T12:49:00.000-08:00

We depart lovely Laos for Vietnam, flying on Laos time which means an hour late, and arrive in bustling noisy Hanoi. A long ride from the airport traverses streets lined with factories and then with a series of 4-5 story narrow buildings, many separated by empty lots, like NY brownstones but even narrower. The reason: taxes paid based on frontage, so lots of narrow lots in and around the city.
At first I think I won’t like Hanoi. Almost impossible to process the mélange of images, sights, sounds, smells, a real assault on the senses. Wide boulevards intersected by so many narrow roads, packed with walkers, mopeds, and stuff, lots and lots of stuff. Shopping streets are defined, and often named, specifically by their wares – silks, shoes, blouses, ties, lanterns – rows and rows of stalls of similar wares and again, as in other markets in SE Asia, just so much stuff its mindboggling.
As I am running late, I rush to meet Byron and Gerry at the poolside bar at the Metropole, an old world posh hotel like something out of a Somerset Maugham novel. They look so relaxed and welcome me with open arms – what a thrill it is to meet up with dear friends in a foreign place. Gerry takes us to a French-Vietnamese fusion restaurant [Le Vertical] run by a French chef that occupies a whole building. On the entry level is a spice shop, filled with hundreds perhaps thousands of little jars of spices specially mixed, and the air deeply scented. On the second and third level are the dining rooms so that you feel as if you are dining in a private home. The food is rich and beautifully presented, and for a couple of hours I feel as if we are in Paris.
Traffic in Hanoi: I repeat, like NYC or Hong Kong on crack. Makes Rome look like a village. Only a decade ago, everyone was on bikes, now they drive mopeds, some cars, taxis of course and buses. Most motor-bikers where masks, made of colorful fabrics, nearly to the edge of their eyes, making them seem all the more mysterious. Children are frequently wedged between parents, some wearing tiny helmets. Many of the many roads are the equivalent of 4-5 lanes, if there were lanes, and almost no traffic lights. While there are cross walks, pedestrians do not have right of way – this is not California, no one stops. So the good counsel of our tour leader, which I take seriously, is to step off the curb and walk at a steady pace – no sudden stops, no speeding up – so that the traffic can continue around you, which it does. This is not the place for country bumpkins, nor the feint of heart.
I leave the boys to have a day together and enjoy my last day with the tour, although it is a free day and I take off on my own to visit the Temple of Literature, an homage to Confucius, where PhD students where pale blue full length aprons and serve as guides. Down the street I take my life in my hands to cross a crowded boulevard to visit the Museum of Fine Arts, where I am one of only two visitors, as this place is not on the tourist highlights list which favors the prison or Ho Chi Minh’s palace. A quiet place in a large colonial style mansion, most of the collection is interesting but not exciting, until I walk into a room of Buddha porcelain statues painted in the 18th century, so humanistic that I am moved nearly as powerfully as only last year by the Pieta. One particular, whose expression of sadness, likely for the state of the world, even then, is palpable, and I find myself in tears.
I head over to a café for lunch that our tour leader has recommended – one of three run as a non-profit to train street teens in the food trade. Young men and women are dressed in their starched white jackets, proudly preparing food in the open kitchen, while others manage or take orders. The food is excellent and while I there I chat with a woman from Chicago who teaches science at the American school in Jakarta, and previously in other foreign cities, and often takes a long week-end somewhere else, a wonderful way to devote herself to her profession while seeing the world.
People belch loudly and often, likely the sign of a satisfying meal. They crowd the sidewalks at lunch time with their small plastic tables, stored between meals. They can also be seen crouching to pee or eliminate on the sidewalk or in alleys. Vietnam, like the other countries I’ve traveled on this trip, has not had the pleasure of evolving slowly over time, despite their ancient histories. They have been catapulted from primitive to emerging to a modern world. Culture is still tribal but guided by television and Internet and cell phones. Like a toddler who leaps to high school. Will we ever understand a culture in the throes of warp-speed rapid advance.
Our last group activity is the water puppets, a charming operatic performance, and then the farewell dinner at the top of a building overlooking the lake and the lights all around that mark the center of the old city. I have always excused myself after dinner while the younguns of the tour head to the bars, but tonight they insist that I join them and we head to the Funky Buddha, a bar with strobe lighting and DJ and funky cocktails and have a great time together one last time.
Byron and I leave in the morning for Halong Bay where we board our three layer boat to explore the Bay of Tonken for a day and a half. The berths are of higher quality than most of the guest rooms I’ve stayed in, and the meals a feast. In a bedside basket, there are scrolls filled with hand-written bedtime stories. We enjoy the company of a delightful French couple, and also an interesting Australian my age traveling with her two grown children. The boat nearly drifts through this amazing bay of 3,000 islands, glacier formed, once the site of severe military action with the Chinese and now utterly serene. I kayak through caves into lagoons with water the color of jade. A cave is climbed. Some swim off the boat in the late afternoon while I relax on the upper deck with a book. We drop anchor for a totally quiet rest and peer at a sky filled with stars. At last I drink some good wine. The perfect conclusion to this long and amazing journey.
On our last night together back in Hanoi, we walked along the lake, lit so beautifully and surrounded by charming stone sculptures. Groups even at 9:30 PM are doing aerobics or yoga, rollerblading with children, or simply staring at the few stars that penetrate the haze. The markets are active late into the night, hoping for yet another tourist to purchase something, anything, that one purchase that will likely support a family for at least a day.
The next morning I leave at 5 AM to make my flight. Hanoi at day break is a city of shadows, the calm before the everyday storm. The city is still dark, the streets just coming to life. A few motor-bikers have precariously attached to them large plastic bags filled with the wares they will sell that day. At the early morning markets, strings of pin lights point to stalls and they are already crowded. Women are already cooking the traditional morning meal over petro-stoves: noodles in broth topped with a poached egg, although my taxi driver munches on a baguette filled with what looks like ham and cheese. I find myself torn – happy to be heading to the comfort of home, sorry to leave these fascinating lands. The very essence of travel.
For those of you reading, thanks for joining the journey with me.

Asia Journey Part III: Laos - 2/Ventiane

2009-11-15T18:32:00.001-08:00

Ventiane. The capital of Laos. Pronounced wen-chen. 200,000 population. Feels so much larger than the villages we’ve visited on the way, but also small, a small city. Right out of Graham Greene. Provincial, colonial. Lots of temples, of course, the oldest of which, 3rd century, is a compound of beautiful small buildings. Wonderfully serene. Another, c. 15th century, all gold leaf. My travel mates call it the bling temple.
Again, lots of mopeds here, also cars. Traffic is slow but steady. And again, little extraneous noise. A mini-de triomphe, installed by the French during their occupation, has the added flourish of dragons on the upper cornices.
I forgot to mention the morning walk of the monks in Luang Prabang. 5:30 AM they make their pilgrimage to the hillside temple and people line the walk to offer them alms. It has sadly been polluted by swarms of tourists who are only interested in taking photo’s and thus disrespect the monks as they go, who ignore them. I arrive early on a side street and have the good fortune to see them pass, without interaction, and before I see the circus it has become, but I’m told it’s better some mornings than others. Photo above.
This is the most sophisticated Lao city I’ve seen, by a long shot. Shops with wares different from other places, the kind of shops that might be fun to work in. Elegant. The café’s offer more for a more sophisticated palette, and environs more suited to travelers, with large bars and outdoor seating areas. Much more Western in style. I sit one morning in a bakery café with dark wood tables and chairs, beautiful pastries in the glass case, pizza, quiche and artisan breads on the menu. Around me mostly Brits, Germans, some Americans. Feels more European here. Latte’s on the tables. Students immersed in their laptops.
Last night we had an especially enjoyable, festive dinner on the upper terrace of a café that served Lao, Thai and Indian food, plus burgers and pizza for good measure. I’ve noticed that my comrades now and then seem to need a fix of western food, especially pizza, but I find comfort in the indigenous menu’s, prepared to order. Lao food is less spicy than Thai, but servers always offer an option: “you want spicey?” Chili peppers and oil always on the table just in case. Koni [short of Konrad, our Swiss tour leader] offers to share a half bottle of wine with me. I haven’t had wine at all on this trip as this is not the land of wine, mostly beer. In fact the group has been crazy excited about Lao beer which I taste and even I, who has no taste for beer, finds smooth, almost buttery. I see the appeal. However we’re told it doesn’t travel well, so drinking in the country is best, like most micro-brews. We split a carafe of Merlot, nothing of note but fun to have a wine glass in my hand. Everyone was in especially good spirits, enjoying hot water showers and higher level civilization, but also the relaxed pleasure of this city.
I take a long walk around the neighborhood and dawdle in a bookstore – the first real bookstore I’ve enjoyed, others merely stalls of used paperbacks likely left behind by tourists – lots of Grisham and such. This store, Monarch Books, has sections in English, French, German, Thai and of course Lao. I feel very much at home here as I always do in bookstores. However the national library, which I enter with great enthusiasm, turns out to be more manuscripts and political documents than books.
Lao women all wear long skirts [ankle length] and often with a striped border at the hem. Always with crisply pressed blouses with sleeves usually to the elbow. Display of shoulders, chest or knees is forbidden. Even little girls on their bikes are in long skirts and school children always in uniform. Modesty is a virtue for women, men are suitably conservative, while monks once again in golden orange robes off one shoulder. I must remember to research the origin of this uniform. Women to are also expected to wear closed shoes, no sandals, but children wear flip flops. Their hair is usually shot, no longer than shoulder length, or pulled back with lovely barrettes. All conform to codes of conduct, so I’m told.
A river borders the city, once again, and there is little development on the river, but I see several signs signaling preparations for new buildings and centers, coming into the new millennium. I hope they don’t ruin the view.
Food is delivered as prepared [did I mention this before?] Always fresh and hot. So that a party of ten, which we often are, might have some of us half finished before the other half begins eating. One learns to eat slowly to try to maintain the balance. I’ve not liked being served first, but better than last.
I would have liked more time in this city. We will leave Laos for Vietnam too soon. I’m not quite ready for a big bustling city, which I’ve been warned Hanoi is. And I’ve come to appreciate the general tranquility of Lao culture. I find myself wondering what it would be like to live here for a while, teach English. I could see myself here as well as in European cities. And they definitely are in need of English tutoring.
On a prop jet from Ventiane to Hanoi, the sound of the motor brings tears to my eyes. One of the sounds of my childhood, on those rare occasions when we flew to Virginia for summer holiday, rather than drive. So much closer to the ground, above squares of green conjoined to slivers of road, rivers, lakes. We fly so near the clouds one might reach out and touch them. This is flying as it once was, exhilarating like driving a stick shift car, a throwback to another time. As is Laos.

Asia Journey Part III: Laos - 1

2009-11-14T13:54:00.001-08:00

Total population of Laos is roughly 7 million, fairly equally spread across this tiny land-locked country. Compare this to 9 million in Hong Kong. 80 million in Thailand. 100 million in Vietnam. A country still largely agrarian. The most bombed country during the VN war because the Viet Cong hid there. Laos never in its entire history went to war, despite numerous occupations. A peaceful people. Reserved. Kind. I fell in love with Laos, almost from the first moment I looked across the bank of the Mekong River from Thailand to the misty hillsides there. A small boat carries us across from Thailand to Laos, a distance less than the expanse of the Brooklyn Bridge. Visas are issued. Currency exchanged. In Lao Kip I am suddenly a millionaire, in cash!
We remove our shoes when we step onto the barge that will take us down the river, as this boat is the home of a family, who will escort and feed us on our journey. Floating down the river for a day and a half, there is surprisingly little traffic. Fishermen in coves, an occasional motor boat speeding those in a hurry to get to a city. Tiny primitive villages perched on the hills. Natural terraces of limestone, caves carved into tall rock. The captain of our long wooden vessel navigates with great familiarity around every one of the many rock outcroppings, avoiding too shallow waters. He sits tall in his seat, his prowess clear, the family watching proudly when they are not in the back preparing a feast. Sisters, roughly 3 and 4 play with each other all day, inventing games, laughing loudly, silent only when they fall into their nap on their mother or grandmother’s lap. Tiny beautiful children, the elder is playful with our tour leader who permits himself to be chased him around the boat to squeals of delight. These children have no guile. They have no toys I can see except a couple of skimpy dolls. No television or video games, not here on the boat where they spend so much time. They invent play. They enjoy each other and others. They are a reminder of another time when the imagination was sufficient.
Miles and miles of river pass with hardly a town or village seen, no development. Trees, hills, tiny natural beaches. An occasional oxen. The area is remote and largely pristine. Rock formations are lined with the striations of sediment, perhaps volcanic, as if the ancient wrinkles of a civilization. Large billowy clouds soften an increasingly hot sun. A small statue of Buddha is perched just to the right of the navigator, keeping us on course and in the moment. This journey is like an extended meditation. I can’t imagine a river in the US that hasn’t been marked by industry; then again, I never floated down the Mississippi. One of my comrades remarks that in the western world, at least one spa resort would have been built here by now.
This trip is a good respite from the active sightseeing we’ve completed in Thailand, and all the more soothing for the gentle waves lapping in our wake. Lunch, a six course meal each day, is hot and hearty and largely vegetarian. On the second day, we slow down near the shore to purchase a fresh fish hooked on a rope in the water off a family row-boat. While we cannot understand what they say, it is clear they are negotiating, and the women take the lead on this. They prepare the fish in the back of the boat, in tiny quarters, and serve it freshly fried with ginger and garlic to accompany vegetable soups, noodle and vegetable stir fry’s and of course, the obligatory bowl of rice. None of the family eats until we have completed our meal and they hope that we eat most of what we are served [which is nearly impossible] so as to be assured they have done well.
First, we overnight in Pak Beng, a village of no more than 1/3 miles, with a charming guest house on a hill. The town consists of one single street flanked by stalls, restaurants, a few guest houses and an organic market replete with buffalo hooves. At a family owned restaurant, where the owner proudly tells me that his English teacher is from LA [and he is one of the few Lao I will meet who speaks decent English] we drink shots of Lao-Lao, a rice whiskey. The tradition requires an expression of gratitude with each gulp. Our tour guide expressed thanks for fresh water. A fellow traveler for a safe journey. I express thanks for good health.
In the very early morning, a cacophony of music marks the nearly rising sun – roosters, birds, geckoes and barking dogs. There is no electricity in the village, only generators, so the lights come on at dusk and stay on only until 10 pm, and then again early mornings for the little bit of hot water and such. Food is cooked largely over wood fired grills, and large kettles of water are always boiling to steam rice. We visit a small monastery where two monks are in residence plus three novices. They walk down the street from one end to the other twice a day – at 6 AM and again at 6PM - calling residents to prayer. Houses along the street are largely one story shacks, with one large room divided in part by tatami mats. And even in these primitive surroundings, as darkness falls, families gather together and sit on the floor to watch TV [from Thailand.] However, our local guide, Wan, takes great pride in Lao culture as differentiated from Thai – these countries so often intertwined over centuries at last apart. Thailand is a democracy, Laos socialist {PDR]. We stop once to climb into a cave filled with thousands of small Buddhas and once to visit a remote hilltop village where the families living there have not yet been visited by westerners and they watch us carefully, without fear or hesitation but with definite curiosity, especially the beautiful teenage girls who are giggly over Rob our young stud on the trip. One of the village dogs has given birth to puppies that scamper over our feet, among pigs, cats and chickens, and the essential rooster who surely will announce the day. I’m told the children take boats to a school down river, and that the girls marry very young.
We land in Luang Prabang, a charming small city bounded by two rivers, and surrounded by rural areas. The French influence here is still evident, although not as much as in the capital Ventiane, which will be our last stop in this lovely country.In Luang Prabang,as in many places throughout SE Asia, they believe the spirits of the past reside in the earth. Thus, no one individual may own the land outright and one must always acknowledge those who came before when they settle. They build a spirit house, like an ornate mailbox or birdhouse on a post, so that the spirits have a place to live and keep the peace. They are beautiful sculptures [you’ll see a few in the photos] and I find them enchanting. Someone should do a book about this [Byron please take note] as each is different and all beautiful. During festival seasons or on special occasions, they place flowers on the spirit house and on the one morning it rained while here, someone had perched an umbrella on top for protection from the elements. Note – The Photo above is a spirit house store in Thailand.
This city has a warm and bright aura. At the night market, no one hawks their wares or asserts themselves more than slightly at passers by – they perch at the back of their mats, covered with colorful goods, and smile, hoping for your attention. Farmers sell their produce off the back of small trucks, piled high with potatoes, onions, dragonfruit and such. Curfew is midnight here. As there is no word for no, the word “bo” pronounced with emphasis means not, and is recommended for use to say no to drugs, which of course exist everywhere.
We travel to a gorgeous waterfall where natural swimming pools are formed at several levels, pale aqua in color and not too cold. This place is a lesson in peace – people of all colors and faces line up to jump on the rope hanging off a high branch and into the deepest of the pools. They cheer each other on. Lao’s do not wear bathing suits – they swim in t-shirts and shorts – and women must always cover shoulders and knees. Many western visitors are unaware [or disregard] this cultural modesty and wear bikinis, but there seems no offense. Everyone is young, enjoying a Sunday in a magical spot.
City sounds here are largely motors, like the soundtrack to an old film. A few cars, motorized Tuk-tuk’s, motor bikes/mopeds, small trucks turned into taxi’s,
all old-fashioned hand-cranked sort of motors. Rarely do you hear loud music or loud voices. It is the quiet of restraint. Through the night, silence, until the rooster crows. What I imagine small towns across America once sounded like. Perhaps some still do.
In what is my favorite guest house on the trip, a fully equipped western bathroom
with a toilet that produces a sort of sonic boom every time I flush, as if an airplane is taking off! One day, walking the perimeter, I find myself terribly overheated. I can not make it to a restaurant, so stop at a nearby market for nuts and juice and more water, and OMG, a cup of ice-cream in a freezer there. Maybe the best ice-cream I’ve every had!
Flowers are constant. Everywhere, large clusters of flowers. Trumpet vines, frangipani, hibiscus, orchids. Lantana grows wild along the road. Many unusual blooms in odd shapes. Lots of purple, although I haven’t seen any hummingbirds.
We travel in a van across the mountain to Veng Vieng, a village with dirt roads that has become a way station for backpackers. Like an old American western town, lined with storefront grocers and bars. People are poor here, likely uneducated, although there is a-big new school at the end of the town. However, when I purchase some water and whip out my canvas tote to carry back with me, the clerk smiles broadly and says “Very Good – plastic bad.” They are educated enough to be kind to the earth. Perhaps one of the positives of a tourist based economy, learning the new norms of a larger world.
However, nowhere in SE Asia have I seen recycling bins. Thousands, likely millions of plastic water bottles and soda cans fill garbage bags to overflowing and who knows where they go. Hateful to think of garbage dumps or landfills in these otherwise pristine surrounds, yet cities, even this small way-station attract more and more visitors. Seems to me recycling companies could provide a small local incentive to locals to save plastics and tins for pick-up, employ locals to make those pick-ups and establish recycling centers, selling the by-product for the many other uses these days. A new industry that might help the economy and the earth.
Sometimes it’s hard to make sense of this place and even harder to place in perspective of my own western life. How do we reconcile poverty here with the riches of our lives? How will these people come into a more modern world, beyond internet café’s and CNN? Seems to me, South East Asia is encapsulated to a sleepy elder world while its more aggressive neighbors, China and Korea, take the lead.
At dinner at Mama Lao’s cafe we have the most amazing sticky rice pudding with mango – cooked in coconut milk and cream, it is divine. I have the recipe.
On to Ventiane in a separate blog. SE Asia makes me more loquacious than usual!
Note: If you haven't yet enjoyed the photos from the trip, see the link in previous blog entries. Enjoy.

Asia Journey Part II: Thailand

2009-11-07T15:24:00.000-08:00

Bangkok. More throngs. More traffic. Different faces. The Thai are said to be kind, to wish to please. Saving face is of huge importance, I’m told, which, just in the knowing, seems to diminish any possibility of anger or confrontation in favor of conciliation. This is evidenced on arrival at the Royal Hotel, a gloomy shadow of what must have been a glorious past, where I’m expected to share a room although I’ve booked my own. There is a genuinely pained expression on the face of the front desk clerk, even as she remains steadfast that I am committed. Mediation by the tour leader is required, although frankly I was more interested in the process than the outcome, as I knew it would be resolved at some point. The Thai never say no, they only divert. Natural public relations professionals.
We dine at a dive off an alley, a place I would never have ventured had it not been for the calm authority of our Swiss tour leader, and the food, fresh and hearty, is excellent and incredibly cheap. We are a group of just ten and start to get to know each other.
BBC news on the TV at night, the only English speaking show I find, is too sobering, and I resolve not to watch [a resolve I keep most of the time.]
Food stalls crowd sidewalks with everything from voluptuous fresh fruits to deep fried foods on sticks. In between stalls, between scents of ginger and peppers, is the unsettling odor of rotted vegetable skins and trash. People plop tiny plastic tables, the size used for kids, everywhere and anywhere on the sidewalks to eat, creating an obstacle course for walkers.
We stay mostly in the old city, where temples and the national palace share space with parks, 7/11 shops and ATM’s. We walk to a pier where we board a couple of canoe shaped motor boats for a canal tour. On the way, I discover an encampment of homeless families, laying under a bridge on makeshift mattresses. When I inquire, I’m told it is rare, as families take care of their own. The guide tells me that sometimes, family ties are broken, and people come to Bangkok looking for work. Sounds familiar.
On the canal, filled with intersecting pathways, wooden houses sit above rotting caissons, next door to temples and elegant homes. Pots filled to overflowing with beautiful flowers are everywhere, even in front of the dingiest shack – frangipani, hibiscus, bougainvillea, others unknown. Lush, colorful, abundant, they dress up somewhat squalid conditions. Dogs resting on rocks or decks watch us go by. A man slides plastic bags of light white bread [like challah] to tourists in boats to rip into chunks to feed the catfish who are huge and rush to the food like sharks to their pray. These, known as bottom feeders in other places, are protected, forbidden to fish, only to feed.
At the temple of the reclining Buddha, large sumptuous buildings are decorated in mother of pearl and gold leaf. Incense burns everywhere. Shoes are piled high outside the many temples and when sitting inside, before the Buddha, one must sit lotus style or in a child’s pose, toes must never point in the Buddha’s direction, an insult. Good to know.
Monks dressed in orange robes [which will be true in all three countries, the same robes] are always given a wide berth, as to be touched, even the slightest brush by a woman, is a sin, punished by 3 days of isolation and prayer. I always step aside, and often a monk smiles at me in thanks, a sage semi-smile, and while part of me in indignant to be considered in this way, I respect tradition and I respect Buddhists.
There are also nuns, but they serve the monks. Surprise.
Throughout Bangkok, large boulevards are capped by statues and fountains, while side streets are filled with narrow alleys leading to restaurants, shops, massage parlors. I’m told of the seedy side of downtown, which I’ve read about, and avoid.
We take an overnight train to Chiang Mai. I’ve traveled in this way only once, as a small girl with my mother to visit my aunts in Pittsburgh. The story goes that my mother saved every penny to buy us a sleeping berth, but I sat up all night too excited to sleep. On this trip in Thailand, I sleep well, the steady motion of the train a tonic. Sheets are stiff from starch and the pillow small, but I fit comfortably and I negotiate with one of my comrades for the lower berth so I have the window, where I watch the sun rise over farms and fields and then steadily observe the increase in houses, temples, buildings as we enter Chiang Mai, like watching urban development unfold on fast forward. I realized on the train that I had embarked on a very different kind of journey and was totally high – close to the ground, no frills, an opportunity to experience the culture.
Chiang Mai. Byron calls it a cross between Tijuana and Laguna, but I find it more interesting. A smaller city, largely devoted to tourism, a mix of old and new. The old city entry points are marked by large elegantly carved gates, one each at the 4 points on the compass, and bounded by the river. Our guest house is old-world with simple modern amenities – a teak platform bed, lattice dividers between spaces, and on the TV is CSI Miami!
On a morning walk in the old town, I stumble into a seminary where one of the monks speaks to me in halted but literate English. There I find a sign engraved in wood that says “We are never too old to mend.” I know this well. In the evening, we attend a grand hillside temple, 250 steps to the top, and there I am blessed with holy water by a monk with a big smile who wants to know my name. His assistant ties a rope to my wrist for good luck, and I am told to let it fall off on its own. It remains there still. On the large wrap-around terrace, 12 huge brass bells, all slightly different shapes and sizes, are lined up and if you make a wish and bang on the bell, we’re told that the sound will take your wish to heaven. I wish for just one place, somewhere on earth, to be truly at peace.
People do not smile much, nor do they go out of their way to engage foreigners, unless they want to sell you something, and then quite aggressive. But while they are not interested in engagement, neither are they threatening or arrogant in any way.
I stop for a foot massage at one of the many massage place, like nail shops here, plentiful, and the women there are so pleasant, although again, very little English.
The night market is huge and also bounded by roughly 10 square blocks of stalls. So much merchandise, much higher quality than expected. I remain amazed by the sheer volume of stuff always for sale and the throngs of people always browsing, locals as much as tourists.
Animals are revered – images of dogs, elephants, dragons of course. I watch 2 dogs follow a monk, on alert, awaiting his commands, and when he signals to them without looking at them, just a nod of his head and a movement of his hand, they follow. The dog whisperer monk.
At the elephant conservation center, these animals look you in the eye as if they know you. Gentle but commanding, a tribute to their Zen environs. A hospital here treats sick elephants at no charge. A Mahout training course prepares guides/protectors, each assigned to one elephant for their stay. The rides are fun, but the best part is bathing hour, where elephants and their mahouts, and volunteers who have paid for the privilege, splash around playfully. Two elephants paint on canvas, carefully taking the brush in their trunk and dipping into the paint – one paints an image of elephant, one a vase of flowers, and it is inexplicable, even though I’ve seen it on 60 Minutes.
Just before we leave Chiang Mai, I lunch at a little restaurant, The Cottage, at the end of an alley near the guest house, that serves organic farm grown foods. I order a veggie burger, which arrives with a selection of fabulous chutneys, followed by a complimentary plate of mango chunks and fruit tea. Women cook and serve with an obvious desire to please. As I leave, I press my hands to my heart to thank them and they seem gratified that they have served me well. I leave a big tip. Total price: $3.
Chiang Khon. We ride a van 4 hours to this little river village, important only as the embarkation for Laos. Along the way we stop to photograph a gorgeous temple, in the middle of nowhere, carved out of glass and stone by an artist in the 15th century. We also stop at a market with 25 types of cashew nuts.
Here in the northern hills, early in the morning, the sun peeks through a deep mist, reflecting a swatch of light across the water. On the opposite bank: Laos.
Technology is a frequent subject of conversation among my fellow travelers, who are all under 35 except one 42 year-old from Texas who is a gourmet cook who wants to try every food and spice possible, he’s fun to watch when he scours the menu. We are from England, Wales, Ireland, Australia, India, Canada, Switzerland. All English speaking thankfully, all better traveled than I despite their youth, and two have just begun their year around the world. They travel simply but they are of the modern age. They have phones with sim cards for each country. They compare apps, discuss phonebook options from itunes to Google, the cost of text messages, the price of new iphones. Cameras are an endless source of interest. They call family far away without hesitation. We are never alone. They stop at internet cafes often. I am enjoying the disconnect and will only check in every few days to email the girls. Not that my friends aren’t on my mind – I want to share every experience – but my journal is close at hand.
My last morning in Thailand, I have learned to take cold showers without shuddering, and aim the hose at myself so as not to totally blanket the bathroom with water, as there is no shower stall, only the hose on the wall and a drain in the floor. Gekkos climbing the walls of the bathroom don’t bother me, in fact it is a prize to have one in your room as they eat other bugs. The sounds of this very foreign language are becoming more familiar. I keep toilet paper with me at all times and have learned to squat low and not mind leaving used paper in covered bins rather than clog their narrow pipes. In the end, it is of little consequence against the backdrop of this world. One has to respect their ways, and letting go of western creature comforts is wonderfully liberating. Like a weight off your shoulders.
So while we move around a lot, and I rise with the light every morning ready for the day, I feel great, and I send an email to Dana thanking her for urging me to get out of my comfort zone.
All photo's at http://picasaweb.google.com/maple57/Asia2009#
Please note: These are all my pictures, plus Byron's shots of Hanoi, which are easily identified as the better photo's!
Stay tuned for Laos and Vietnam. xx

Impressions of Hong Kong

2009-11-04T19:20:00.000-08:00

Women with parasols in pastel colors. Laundry hanging to dry outside windows throughout the city, strung precariously on extended hangers as high as the eye can see. They hang totally still, like sculptures, as little wind penetrates the narrow gulf between buildings.
Skyscrapers all, hardly any low roofs to break the sight line, clumped together like giant vertical lego's, all shades of gray.
A glimpse of green hillside in the distance. A mountainous screen saver.
Whole portions of the city created out of landfill, and more of the harbor soon to be sacrificed. One might expect at some point that only a small channel will remain for boats, ferries perhaps obsolete to bridges.
Kowloon, where Byron and Gerry live, once dirt and slum, now an elegant choice to city center, with apartment complexes offering resort-like amenities and amazing views of what we think of when we think of Hong Kong. [Photo above taken from their terrace.]
High overhead walkways between newer buildings at business centers, connecting work stations with malls of high-end shops and restaurants. All neatly constructed, as if blueprints sprung to life.
High tea at the Peninsula Hotel downtown, a remnant of colonial rule and old-world European charm There is little left here. Beautiful abundant food, one of the few vestiges of British rule.
Junk boats fill sections of the harbor, awaiting duty – almost all the color of rusted metal, with only the occasional red or blue speed boat mixed in, a splash of color on an otherwise dreary canvas. Water, sky, buildings are all gray, blending into each other. Haze and pollution blanket the scene.
Street markets overflowing with goods of all kinds, piled high into small stalls.
Streets teeming with people at all times, people of every Asian variety from Chinese to Vietnamese. Asians all but the contrasts in facial characteristics clearly delineate the differences, and they all know their own. The lower classes – Philippines, Indonesians – are employed largely as house workers, diminished and tightly controlled, and often subject to stern scolding on the streets over any perceived or invented disrespect.
Sundays at Causeway Bay, a highly commercialized beach area, where house workers on their one day off congregate together with pot luck lunches, always clustered with their own, chattering like birds on migration, a few hours liberated from their near-slavish lives. Byron and Gerry take better care of their “maid” who is as much companion now to Byron as housekeeper, a fantastically good natured soul with little to look forward to.
Poppy, their beautiful golden retriever, frequently frightens people on the street or in the elevator only because she is a dog.
Fishmonger storefronts downtown with giant bottles of shark fins floating in murky water, lined up in windows like a poster display.
Warm smiles of working people but only when you smile first.
A taxi driver laughing loudly at our accented directions.
Trucks, buses, taxi’s all bombarding up against each other on narrow streets, fighting for every inch of road.
Buildings mostly flat facades. Institutional, utilitarian. Little molding, trim or shutters. A sea of windows between which are often seen the stains of heavy rains. Roofs adorned only with cisterns.
Rarely a tree-lined street. Parks few, largely hidden.
Constant 10-hour days of construction, with the requisite drone of saws and drills and engines whirring. The ubiquitous crain. The only sound to penetrate the din of a busy city is the occasional trill of a bird singing alto voce as if determined to compete. “Listen to me” it pleas and that might be said of the 9 million or so making their way through Hong Kong every day.
The Hotel Intercontinental in Kowloon, opposite HK island, a gorgeous glass enclosed bar just above the harbor provides a stunning view of boats and the skyline, which lights up like Disney at 8:00 PM, each building in sequence. Light scatters across buildings and across the water. A most western style place, gorgeous food and service, one might be anywhere, except for the view.
There are 60,000 Americans living in HK, as many and more other expats. They congregate in western style places, bars high above the skyline, living well in this fantastically expensive city. An apartment has just been sold for $50 million. I imagine HK competes with Shanghai and Dubai, perhaps Seoul, for the most modern over-the-top cities of the world. HK is Tokyo on crack. Tokyo is New York on crack. New York seems small, even quiet; then again, it is my home.
People of HK are a people of purpose. Completely focused, immersed in what they do, from shopping to work. By day, they seem serious souls, although after hours, or occasionally caught off guard, Byron tells me they are easily amused and good-hearted.
If in fact Hong Kong is the jewel in the Chinese crown, the model for all other cities to come, they are on warp speed to modernity. Old buildings are demolished for new, no restoration or renovation, only temples are sacred. I have seen only swarms of shoppers, workers, passers-by. I’m told there are shanties of sorts under bridges and in selected corners, but I’ve not seen them. They likely are not meant to be seen.
Even on a Sunday afternoon, forging through the many open markets, they are intent on fulfilling their mission, on the search for just the right item. Frequently dressed in black, they rarely make eye contact, at least not with me. Is it no wonder they will dominate the world?

More photo's at http://picasaweb.google.com/maple57/Asia2009#
Please note: These are all my pictures, plus Byron's shots of Hanoi, which are easily identified as the better photo's!
Stay tuned for Thailand, Laos and Vietnam. xx

Autumnal Blessings

2009-10-04T13:15:00.000-07:00

Fall is in the air, even in Southern California. There is a definite drop, albeit slight, in ambient temperature and sea breezes are just that much more present, evidenced by the song of my wind chimes. Nothing of course like the halcyon days of early Autumn on the east coast, but a slight shift nonetheless. Summer is over.

In Sacramento last week, the first leaves were on the ground. In Davis, definitely the cutest college town I've seen, a slight bit of orange tinted tall trees lining the downtown as the first days of cooler weather had finally arrived. In Sonoma County, so gorgeous at harvest, days remained hot while nights cool enough to shutter windows, a 30 degree or more drop, perfect for the last days of the grapes, which were hanging off the vine nearly begging to be picked. So beautiful there, as close to France as we have in this country, replete with hills of lavender scenting the air.

October is the best month almost everywhere in this country, and in many parts beyond, although I hear it's already snowing in Utah, pleasing perhaps to skiers. We are still in fire season here so less welcome for some. Soon, colder winds will blanket much of the US and rains will come to Southern California, that moment when hillsides of brown turn to green and whales begin their migration. Not so bad.

I love the warm and the first days of summer are always a thrill - in part because of my east coast heritage and in part, still, that feeling of release that summer brings to school kids and parents, our living calendar. But some natural changes are essential to fulfill the rhythms of our lives, no matter how subtle. Days are growing short. I have already laid on an extra blanket. Heavier sweaters will soon come out of their plastic hibernation. Change, once again, is a blessing and one can rely on the cycles of the season to renew the landscape and the soul. Easy for me to say, the sun is almost always shining here, and that makes all things possible.

Summer will return soon enough. Enjoy the pleasures of the season, wherever you are.

MeetUp

2009-09-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

Another brilliant evolution of the internet, what has become the meeting place of the millennium, as much or more than the information highway it was promoted to be. For better and for worse: All the maniacs of the world can find each other on-line, build bombs, organize terror, perpetuate the politics of fear. Old friends and new also find each other, tearful reunions, loving connections, matches.

Enter the MeetUp group called ex-east-coasters, Orange County branch. More than 300 transplants to southern California, who still hanker for the accent and eccentricity of fellow east coast types. MeetUp makes that possible. These ducks out of east coast waters [largely New Yorkers] gather together frequently for everything from a casual dinner to a Labor Day barbecue, Monday night football kick-off or a glass of wine before a volunteer gig. A message to all members in memory of 911 surely cemented the bond.

Sunday evening I joined in my first “meeting” – dinner at a Laguna Beach restaurant offering a $20 three-course meal as part of the annual OC Restaurant Week. Only eight of us, all former New Yorkers, or at least tri-state, and most who knew each other, but of course, as New Yorkers, they welcomed me into the fold with open arms. Seven women, roughly 50+ and one man, an Italian hairdresser with an accent so redolent of the lower east side he might have gone to the Bob DeNiro school of language. Forgedaboudit.

And therein lies the surreality of the evening. We sat on an upper level patio, west coast evening sea breezes blowing softly, candlelight flickering through hurricane lamps, a peek-a-boo view of the Pacific on our radar and tans on our faces… a summer portrait of the good life in the OC, contrasted sharply with accents so thick one might cut with the proverbial knife, 16 hands moving simultaneously to punctuate multiple conversations, lots of hair, eastern European faces, crosses and stars of David hanging from elegant chains, loud voices and lots of laughter, and the requisite angst over the menu and the subsequent special requests, and, in the end, vociferous complaints over dinner served too slowly so food wasn’t hot and a shortage of items on the menu, even so early in the evening, so much so that the organizer called the manager to the table, complained not bitterly but forcefully, and the whole meal was comped! Only in New York. Or rather, New York in the OC.

I sat struck by the contrasts. And when Leo, our resident male, remarked that he’d been in California thirty years [neither sun nor surf had marred one bit of his downtown persona] and had the best of both worlds because he fraternized largely with “like kind” I understood exactly what he was saying. Something so familiar, so comfortable, as if a family reunion at that table, even among strangers. Peas in a pod, if you get my drift.

Bravo to meetup.org for making such things possible. It is a comfort knowing that one can get a New York fix just down the road, now and then, although surely not the real thing. Nothing like the big apple, but, when needed, a delightful bite.

Woodstock

2009-08-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

I saw the new Ang Lee film "Taking Woodstock" last night. Hard to believe it is 40 years, then again, everything these days seems so far in the past and hard to believe.

I wasn't there. I had moved to California [the first time] in June of that year so I watched with fascination as the phenomenon took on a life of its own. For those too young to remember, that was also the summer of the Mets and also the summer of the moon walk, a remarkable year 1969. The film does a good job capturing that moment. Peace love and music for three days. Seems so foreign a possibility now, but no less remarkable then I suppose.

I confess, I wouldn't have gone if I had been still in New York. I was, and likely remain, too uptight for that sort of happening. I never liked crowds. I never liked drugs nor being around druggies. And yet, looking back, like the protagonist of the film, I might have come out of a life-long shell if I had gone. I might have had a truly transformative experience, which otherwise took me years to achieve and is thus hardly transformative - I never morphed, I evolved.

Still, as my older daughter likes to remind me, we need to get out of our comfort zones now and then. Change, I've always believed, has to be facilitated - it doesn't happen to us. We have to make change in order to achieve change. That's what Laguna Beach was about for me, a decision I have never once regretted for a moment, despite still longing for the near and dear.

We need change - each of us needs change now and then, and the world we inhabit, that is seriously in need of change, but I echo our leader. Another reason today to be thinking about Ted Kennedy who devoted his life to change for those he believed most in need of a voice for change. A complex man of many flaws and who, I believed, suffered severely for the stresses placed upon him from the get-go, he found change in himself over time and surely made change his priority - a priority served as much by persistence as passion.

Sometimes persistence is everything. Sometimes simply an attitude adjustment. Usually both. The lessons of Woodstock and Kennedy, among others. I would like to see on my headstone [metaphorically speaking as I intend to be cremated] merely this: She always tried to do better. To do better requires change. We do need to shake off the familiar at times and take on the new. What might we find as we turn that corner?

Yet, on a sultry summer day like today, I would rather sit on the back patio immersed in the gorgeous book I am reading, the third of the divine Italian writer Erri de Luca. Change will have to wait at least another day.

Sundays

2009-08-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

A journalist needs a hook but blogs are different and are meant to be spontaneous. I prefer theme and metaphor but not sure what I will say today, an ordinary Sunday. I saw Time Traveler's Wife last night. I had a hard time with the book, overly complex and circular, but I appreciated the sentiment and the focus on the wife's journey, a life-long love affair without tether. Truly day to day. The movie is more linear in presentation, and the focus seems to me to be more the traveler, his lonely journey, with only the connection to his wife to tether him to himself. Interesting concept. How many men see themselves as part of the whole of their marriage? How many see themselves through their wives' eyes? The film lacked the punch of the book, a common refrain, but pleasant and frankly Eric Bana in the buff is reason enough.

Last week I read the soon to be published "Homer and Langley" by E. L. Doctorow, one of the best, which fictionalized the lives of the Colyer brothers of New York City who lived increasingly reclusive and ultimately paranoid lives, sadly exiling themselves from even the few people who populated their worlds and withdrew into a private lonely world from which they never emerged. So sad, exquisitely told.

Today I drift. A frequent phenomena of Sundays. Yes, I start Sundays with a walk or Pilates class, and a reading of the New York Times, ritual more than schedule. I often clean. I do laundry if it hasn't been done on Saturday, which it was this week. I check email. I join a new MeetUp group [ex-east Coasters, mostly New Yorkers, what a fun idea.] I finish up last week's New Yorker, making me almost caught up [the stories remain folded down for late nights.] I will soon start reading a new novel, always a special moment. Ah, what to choose.

The sun is shining brightly today. I should set my face in that direction for a while, get a bit of color. I look a little pale these days, not sure why. I have spoken with a few East Coast friends, another week-end ritual. They are well, busy, productive, thoughtful. My daughters are busy and well, perhaps Dana and I will find time for a phone chat today. Later this afternoon, I will attend a wine tasting/art show benefit for Breast Cancer Angels, who helped, among many others, my friend/artist Sue Thompson pay her bills and navigate her way through treatment, and thankfully, she is well past it all and painting her best work.

I will return to bury myself in a book or perhaps a DVD, a makeshift dinner and an hour with 60 Minutes. And when I chronicle the meanderings of an ordinary Sunday, I see it is filled with connections - friends and family, passions and pastimes. I am not so much flaneur as tethered to the comforts of a life largely filled, even in these quiet moments, with good things and good people, albeit often from a distance.

And therein lies the theme - we enjoy the pleasures of connection, to each other, to our passions and longings, and to the sheer delight and privelege of a lazy Sunday. Cheers...

And now a brief pause for politics

2009-08-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

I began writing, and remain committed to, a blog that chronicles personal change, but I must deviate this morning to vent my rage, and concern, over the extremists that threaten our world. Read at your own emotional peril.

I awakened Saturday morning early to take a long walk, longer than usual because that is what makes week-end mornings wonderful, and drove to Crystal Cove, a ruggedly beautiful spot between Laguna and Newport, for a roughly 5-mile walk above the beach that always soothes. A little more than an hour later I returned to an iced tea and light breakfast and the pleasure of a new novel, yet to be published, by the divine E. L. Doctorow, and even in those few first pages I can report that it is, in fact, divine, so far. Feeling righteous and rested, I stopped at Trader Joe's for the requisite fruits and vegetables that fill my fridge, and always enjoy the pleasant ambiance there, only to emerge to be verbally assaulted by two young men who asked me this: Do you want to help us stop Obama, the new Hitler?

No, I said, but even in my rage, I refused to engage them, as I know there is no talking to people with fanatical misguided viewpoints, although I suppose I reneged on my obligation as a citizen to try to alter their view. I couldn't do it. Shaken so suddenly and painfully from my morning reverie, I was too angry to speak, and have learned over the years to withhold comment when angry, preferring to wait until a calmer more balanced commentary might unfold. Instead, I drove away and called a sympathetic friend to vent.

Ironic, in the worst way, that they invoke the monster that used the politics of fear to manipulate the masses to his end... seems to me, these otherwise ordinary well-dressed politico's are the Nazi's. I know, when I am rational, that extremists get attention, especially in our 24-7 news world. I know they are misinformed and misguided more than evil, or so I want to believe. I know that perhaps deep down they are terrified of what they do not understand or what they have been led to believe, or merely terrified by the deeply held beliefs indoctrinated in them likely much of their lives by those infused with hate. I know they do not represent the majority, but I also see a country increasingly misled by deliberate misinformation and dictated by fear and thus, I too am frightened by the potential sabotage of our future beyond what we have already lost in the years lost to the conservative core.

I am a moderate. I am not the liberal many believe me to be because I vote Democrat and work for the disenfranchised. I believe in taking responsibility for one's life but also for the lives of those less fortunate. I believe in help rather than scorn and encouragement rather than abandonment. I believe in the common good beyond any individual, but in the preservation of individual rights. I believe that only if we nurture and protect the children, all the children, do we have any chance of a better world, but as children follow what they see, there will always be extremists, of all types, and they will always color the debate and inhibit change. Thus, after the vent, I cry, as I often do, when inhumanity invades my space with its ugly face.

Is it possible to request political asylum in France?

Oceans

2009-08-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

A 16-year old girl, niece of a colleague, arrived for a week’s vacation with an equally adorable South Dakota friend in tow, and when I asked if they had ever been to California they replied no, they’ve never even seen an ocean.

I cannot imagine a landlocked life. Growing up in NYC, the Atlantic Ocean was never far. Although I had to take long hot subway train rides to Coney Island or Jones Beach in Brooklyn, or occasionally the family drove to Orchard Beach in the south Bronx, the Atlantic Ocean always beckoned. Summer was beach season. We never had access to a pool and when, as an older child, I spent summers at a camp upstate, I discovered the pleasures of boating and swimming on a lake, but the ocean remained my touchpoint for summer living. The only other water source in summer was a hydrant unplugged, a city kids version of waves.

We visited my aunt every summer in Virginia or we met half-way in Rehoboth Beach, Maryland. And when I grew up and moved to Connecticut, I picked a town on the Long Island Sound, an extension of the Atlantic as deep and profound as the ocean itself, but with gentler waves, and began regular sojourns to Cape Cod or the Rhode Island and Jersey shores, as the Atlantic held its sway up and down the coast and always welcomed visitors longing for the soothing steady rush of waves rolling to shore.

I cannot imagine life without the ocean, although I rarely go into the water these days. The Pacific is always colder and the riptide [which a friend recently explained is different from the undertow we were warned to watch for by our ever-protective parents] is often at a powerful pitch and I no longer feel quite so brave as when I was a girl, jumping giant waves and waiting with great expectation to crash within and come up gasping for air, a water-logged roller coaster.

But wait. What if one grew up with giant trees and forest terrain bordered by creeks or rivers, or flat lands punctuated by lakes or ponds suitable for swimming? Perhaps the ocean might seem too vast, monotone and oppressive. Waves unsettling. Is the ocean uniformly embraced by virtue of its majesty?

Apparently so. The mid-western girls flung themselves into rolling churning froth and loved every minute of it. As if the ocean is home to us all, home to the amoeba’s that gave birth to us and thus a collective womb.

Swimming in the ocean is only one of its pleasures. I regularly walk along the beach and dig my toes into the moist sand at water’s edge. I sit in a striped beach chair and read, distracted pleasantly by children and dogs and families enjoying Oceanside life. On a sunset walk early in my life in Laguna Beach, I stood at the edge of one of the many streets that end at the beach, watching surfers catch the swell, when all of a sudden they all stopped and sat on the boards facing the sun as if sculptures of themselves, and I thought it might be some sort of homage to the end of day, when a school of Dolphins passed by and I realized the surfers were giving them right of way. One of the many wonderful moments only found at the ocean.

When friends remind me that I could live ever so much more cheaply inland, I am reminded that the ocean is my ballast and today, I am also reminded of how blessed I have been to be so close all the days of my life, a blessing never to be taken for granted, and always top of mind in this place where the Pacific is southwestern wallpaper, always there for the taking for anyone and everyone, including teenagers from South Dakota on a holiday they will likely never forget.

A note from Wikipedia. The Pacific Ocean is the largest of the Earth's oceanic divisions. Its name is derived from the Latin name Mare Pacificum, "peaceful sea", bestowed upon it by the Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan. It extends from the Arctic in the north to Antarctica in the south, bounded by Asia and Australia in the west, and the Americas in the east. At 169.2 million square kilometres (65.3 million square miles) in area, this largest division of the World Ocean – and, in turn, the hydrosphere – covers about 46% of the Earth's water surface and about 32% of its total surface area, making it larger than all of the Earth's land area combined.[1] The equator subdivides it into the North Pacific Ocean and South Pacific Ocean, with two exceptions: the Galápagos and Gilbert Islands are deemed wholly within the South Pacific.[2] The Mariana Trench in the western North Pacific is the deepest point in the Pacific and in the world, reaching a depth of 10,911 metres (35,798 ft).[3]

The best moments

2009-08-01T14:56:00.000-07:00

Think about the moments you were most happy. An event, a period of time, a phase of your life. These moments mark our passages. Markers on the continuum of our own lives. They define us.

I think back to my fifth birthday, which I do not remember at all, but I have an old film of it, and I see happiness on my face. I have been perched on a chair at the head of a kitchen table, surrounded by my extended family, my chubby tan little body capped by sun bleached hair, even a few curls there, rarely seen again, where I preside over the lighting of birthday candles and the opening of presents. There is glee in my eyes, the one and only feature of my face that remains largely the same. My mother is especially beautiful that day, tanned and freckled skin exposed by a sundress, and healthy - perhaps the last time in my life as she was diagnosed soon after with the disease that would define and ultimately rob her life.

I leap forward not to my wedding day, which was marked more by nerves and uncertainty than joy, but to a belated scuba diving honeymoon where we finally relaxed into matrimony and where my first daughter was conceived, and subsequently the utter joy of that pregnancy, filled with the delight of possibilities, an effort, the first really of my life, to be truly healthy, and the rewards of thicker hair and brighter skin and a joyful outlook, only now and then marred by the anxiety that would come to plague the early years of motherhood. Fast forward to the birth of the second daughter, and the happiness, not only to have another healthy child, but to begin to be a better mother, always easier the second time.

The first publication of written words. The completion of a degree and then another, although these were more relief and satisfaction perhaps than happiness. Moments on the beach, at family gatherings, with friends. Rare but heavenly moments where my husband and I were in sync and taking such pleasure in love.

Maple Avenue. At last, having released the ballast of the big house in the back country, Rusty’s dream house, we move to the 150 year-old Greek revival on the busy in-town street, with wonderfully tall ceilings and chestnut floorboards and five carved mantles over working fireplaces, and the sheer treasure of owning and inhabiting a house filled with history. I drove down to Maple Avenue the morning before we closed, 5:00 AM, a rare quiet time in town, and stared at the house from across the street, knowing in the deepest part of me that the house and I were meant to be. My house, my home, the address of which remains with me as my internet moniker, where holiday parties became tradition and church bells chimed the passing of each day and the first novels were written in the front parlor, while children grew and flew and, sadly, romance was lost, but a self discovered.

Meandering through bookstores, especially the great ones, these are always happy moments. Working at bookstores. Discovering new places. Time with children, with the dearest of friends. A great play or film. A great book. Long afternoons on the beach. These moments of happiness, constant but fleeting, punctuate a life.

The first moments in Laguna Beach, the neon sign marking a new life. The move. The first year of discovery, the year of making friends. The early blogs so filled with delight at everything from views to foliage to the familiar detritus of a walk to town.

I look back at my life and see what made me happy and seek more of that going forward. The best part of life, the looking forward, is now largely past – love, marriage, children, career, personal development – but the pleasure of all that stays with me. None of it has to do with work or money or status. Only moments of joy and contentment. That’s all there is and that perhaps is the essence of happiness, if one is so lucky as I to have had so many moments.

Love and the Lonely Traveler

2009-07-26T12:47:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with a place. And like all love affairs, reality sets in over time and one is faced with the choice: to stay in love, to leave, or to determine if in fact being in love, even if not true love, is good enough. I like to believe that good enough is good enough in many things – parenting for example – but when it comes to affairs of the heart, good enough may be settling for less when something else awaits. Ah, but the risks of the search grow weary over time.

There are those who suggest that being in love is infatuation. It is the thrall. The romance. Even the honeymoon. It is not the essence of love. Loving is infinite. Loving is tumultuous. Loving is commitment beyond the magic. Intimacy beyond the surge.

Love is what keeps us in place, more than what draws us. Love is often saying you are sorry and meaning it. Love is day to day, moment to moment. It is beyond any one need, beyond ourselves. It is not the all encompassing passion but the all encompassing emotion.

I speak of love of all forms. The enormous and profound love for children. The love of parents, beyond their flaws and beyond mortality. The love of spouse or partner, which sputters and spits on a continuum that too often ends too soon. The love of a pet which is easier than perhaps any other love and is thus powerful beyond explanation. The love, sometimes begrudgingly I observe, between siblings, with which I have not been blessed. The love for friends which, for me, has been as powerful or more so than others because my dear friends are my family. I have created my own set of siblings, brothers and sisters, with whom I suffer and spar and delight in their company as much, perhaps more so, than if they were born to me.

The love between people that extends over time becomes the page upon which our history is imprinted. We are witness to our loved one’s lives and in so being we perpetuate and accentuate their sense of self. Those of us with small or no families to serve as witness rely on friends and it is this distance, from those who know us best, that threaten our identity. Who are we, in effect, without those we love? Who are we without love. If you stumble into the forest without your nearest and dearest, are you really there?

I fell in love with a place. Makes no sense, but in the absence of lovers and the distance from grown children, a place opened its arms to me. A place filled with warmth, hillsides and vistas, and the ever-present power of the sun and sea. A place can welcome you home at night, but only in spirit. A place does not warm your bed. Neither does it challenge you to be your best or applaud your achievements. Rather than reflect your identity, and in so doing enhance the best in you, a place absorbs you into itself. A place has always been and will always be and you simply stumble into it and stay, or go. Depends, like all things, on the nature of love.

Morning Reading

2009-07-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

Early morning. I sit at Dana Point harbor, following a long walk along the pier, among tourists or friends meeting post-yoga or breakfast meetings, and enjoy an iced-tea while I read. I prefer fiction to start the day. Others prefer the newspaper. I have never been one to devour the news first thing in the morning. Too dour. Too much fodder for introspection. Although, in the interest of full-disclosure, my mornings begin with NPR, which is a kinder gentler voice of news and often delivered as story.

I prefer stories. Enlightenment well beyond newsprint. I do keep an eye on breaking news via the internet, although prefer the fuller version via NPR or PBS. And I remain devoted to the hard copy of the Sunday New York Times, perhaps more tradition, or habit, providing context to my week – the opening moments of the day of rest which will close with 60 Minutes, another great storyteller. Every page is another story.

I read today a novel by an unknown but accomplished writer who tends too much to looking inward rather than description. What writing teachers decry as “show don’t tell.” What booksellers fondly refer to as “navel-gazing.” This particular writer, Charlotte Bacon, tells a great deal, but what she has to say is worth reading. Still, I find myself often longing for story. This look-at-me and listen-to-me style is a by-product of the Gen Next generation more than boomers, who observe the world only through their own lens. The writing is strong, many opportunities for notes in the margins or underlining, which I still do as a way of remembering what is otherwise lost moments after the reading. I have never been good at holding on to the words, only the essence. Fiction is the purview of essence.

Voyeurism seems to me pervasive these days, but not the sort of witness that gives rise to great literature. Rather the Facebook world where we share our lives moment by moment, thought by thought, as a way of defining ourselves. Look-at-me is slipping into fiction as well, a natural evolution of the late 20th century obsession with memoir and the new millennium madness for reality television. Everything laid bare. No nuance. No metaphor. Essence eclipsed by mirrors reflecting stark action and reaction. Feature writing dismissed to blurbs. Stories to Twitter. Personal essay to blogs.

And here I am, captive to blogging now as a means of self-expression. I write only for myself, expecting a mere handful of friends to join the journey, and these are already familiar with my own navel-gazing. Have all the best stories been told? Biblical, mythical, classical literature having examined every theme, so that all that remains is derivative? Jane Austen would have been a great blogger, but what might we have lost if she’d had the choice? Then again, it’s ever so much easier to be published these days, at least for a nano-second.

Shoeprints

2009-06-07T07:13:00.000-07:00

I am traveling west to east across the country to the place I still think of as home, and the time spent in airports facilitates the transition. Even before I am beyond the borders of Orange County, differences are apparent. I am reminded of the magnificent mix of peoples in America, not only in the obvious facial structure and skin color but the nuances that define our many geographical cultures. Different accents, different body types, different ways of dressing [picture the college girl with pink cheeks matched by pink sweatshirt, pink purse and pink rubber sandals, surely not a California girl.] But of all the clues to our inner landscape, shoes, albeit captive to trends and fashions, gives much of our identity away.

When I was a girl in the fifties, traveling to Manhattan on the subway with my mother and aunt and cousins, on our way to the cultural activity of the week-end, whatever was free and most interesting to my culture-obsessed mother, we played a game they devised to keep the children occupied during the long ride. We had to guess the occupation or pastime of the people around us based solely on their shoes. This was simpler then as there were only so many shoes and these restricted primarily to season or stature.

White of course was never worn after Labor Day, unless you were a nurse, so that was a dead giveaway. Laced rubber-soled shoes were a work shoe, reserved largely for those who spent time on their feet, meaning service or medical professionals, or retailers. Wingtips, a dressier leather shoe men wore to impress, likely meant a lawyer or businessman. Soft-soled shoes for men were rarely in evidence then and perhaps the dominion of physicians. Women had even fewer choices, largely some variation of a pump or, in summer, sandals, and these generally heeled for a dressier occasion. Sneakers were worn only by children or a serious athlete. Boots were the providence of construction workers, women having given up the Victorian lace-up before I was born. High heels were rarely seen on the subway, other than in the evening hours on the way home from a night on the town. Of course, we never knew if we had guessed correctly and thus enjoyed the private satisfaction of the clever who are never tested.

Today in the airport there are sneakers of all types and worn by all ages and rarely referred to as sneakers. The laced up formal shoe remains reserved for business types. Flip flops are iconic among southern Californians and I smile in recognition. It is summer, thus many versions of sandals, although few “hippie” types anymore like Birkenstocks, I imagine those are more in evidence in northern California still. Sandals now are rubberized or plasticized or Pradaized. People tend to travel in comfort these days, so serious shoes like Jimmy Choo’s are nowhere to be found, not on a summer Saturday in the OC, nor even in Dallas where I switch planes and see yet another round of shoes, more sneakers, more plain sandals, a few fashion icons here and there. Target and Wal-Mart shoppers are distinct from Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s, the quality of the shoe, and, frankly, the quality of the clothes, a give-away, and yes, while not a fashionista myself, I know the good goods when I see them. However, the playing field has been leveled since I was a girl, in all ways, and the man in shorts and flip flops sitting next to me on the plane pulls out his Wall Street Journal and might be worth millions.

All I know for sure is that we are a melange of travelers, a complicated mosaic of life stories, which are less obvious than they might once have been. I, by the way, am wearing a low-heeled slide, my toes peeking out from the half-moon slit, and only because it was easier to pack my favorites flats then wear them, even though I wear an ancient pair of yoga pants and a linen shirt that anyone in the know will recognize immediately as J. Jill. This makes me a prototypical middle class middle aged female of indeterminate geography because I shop at a national chain. Thus, I am in some way indecipherable beyond my clothes, as most of us are in the end. Who might someone imagine me to be? Will they hypothesize that I am a bi-coastal woman who grew up poor and isn’t anymore, but lives a simple life and looks forward to a bit of time back in New York City where I will ride the subway and invariably find my eyes glancing downwards, wondering about the path each pair of shoes has taken, and what prints have been left behind.

Photo compliments of the Andy Warhol collection.

Bird Songs

2009-05-25T19:14:00.001-07:00

Birds chirp almost incessantly outside my new home. Day and night. I have never been a fan, thus cannot identify them by their song, but I suspect the late night warbler, who begins almost on cue when I retire to bed, is perhaps a nightingale, and as such, to be treasured. The internet advises me there are many different types of warblers around here. Also mockingbirds, who I am told have a plethora of sounds. Mockingbirds are territorial and this, the spring, is their mating season, their nightly music their mating call. Their music is not only loud but powerful. Persuasive I imagine to those in wait. I lay in bed and try to decipher the code. What are the repetitions? Is there a coda? What makes them stop, and start again? I try to experience the music in what is otherwise merely sound that pierces the silence of night.

I never knew that birds were nocturnal. Not until I moved to California. A similar night bird serenaded me the first weeks, perhaps months I resided at my first Laguna Beach home, as if a reminder that I was no longer in Connecticut. I did not need a reminder then, nor do I need it now, and I imagine their east coast cousins also sing in mating season and beyond, however I hadn’t paid much attention. I was always more attuned to city street sounds. My new home is surrounded by interesting foliage and it is a quieter environ, equally as pleasant to birds who long to be heard. Is it warmer temperatures that encourage their musicality? Perhaps they are in effect celebrating the pleasures of life here.

If I am to sleep, I must make friends with bird songs. I try to think of it as music because music is a lovely lullaby. Mind over matter. I imagine the bird as philharmonic musician, replete with starched white collar and cummerbund. The image makes me laugh, not conducive to sleep. Now I try to imagine the bird as a street musician, which in fact it is, a tiny hat perched precariously on a neighboring branch to capture loose change. This is equally ludicrous, and makes me concentrate on the music, rather than relegate the bird to background. I harken back to the sound of the elevated subway that paced infrequently but regularly through the night only a few blocks away from my childhood home in the Bronx, New York. I rarely awakened to the sound. I took comfort in its constancy. This is the approach that might work – relegate the sound to white noise. Like sea breezes or the chatter of neighbors on a nearby porch. However these birds wants to be heard. I must find a way to honor that. Like any other voice. Perhaps the only way to make friends with the sound is to listen harder. Listen more actively. Active listening, the lesson taught at PTA’s so that we might truly hear our children, hear what they mean as much as what they say. The lesson of good communication. Listen well. A Buddhist parable.

Who would have thought that annoying loud little birds would convey such a profound message. I am listening little birds. I am listening very hard to what needs to be heard.

Photo of Mockingbird in Long Beach by Monte Taylor.

Tomorrow is Another Day

2009-04-29T20:44:00.000-07:00

A stout woman with dark skin and hair, clothed in a housekeeping uniform, wipes down aglass paneled door, first outside, then inside, on the first of two floors of La Case del Camino, a historic hotel of plastered walls and classically Spanish tile sloping roofs that is just outside my office window. In the distance, a thick haze hugs the shore, inching to the lower rooftops and almost completely obliterating the ocean. On the expansive flat rootop, surrounded by a protective glass railing, tables and chairs sit idle, some folded against each other, while several broad white umbrellas, that will later shade guests from the sun that inevitably breaks through the haze, are so tightly closed and wrapped as to seem like a torpedo ready for launch into the sky. By sunset this rooftop will be bustling with locals and tourists who enjoy this perfect view of sunset, and enjoy being seen, but for now, the morning view is obscured and the stillness a respite from the nightlife of southern California.

I have never been much of a morning person and would have been more in tune with my body clock if I could have risen a bit later than most and worked from eleven to seven. However, life’s timepiece requires an early rise for school, work, children, and we tend to rush through our mornings as the conduit to the day’s obligations and activities. Few take the time or have the time to treasure the delights of morning, something I do more often on California time, as if an accommodation to my New York inner clock. I never need an alarm, I waken to the sunlight, ready for the day. Mornings, marked by the light, are measured by sound and scent more than action. The scent of freshly washed cobblestones on the Bronx street where I grew up, and the concomitant scent of eggs and bacon sizzling together in an iron fry pan on the stove. These delicious aromas co-mingled with the toxic odor of diesel fumes from delivery trucks and the ubiquitous thump of the loading ramp when opened from the back of the truck to start the slide of boxes of produce and bakery goods and hardware supplies to local merchants. It is a distinct and powerful sound – the opening bell of daily commerce, the energy of early morning, the powerful ring of daily momentum.

All these years later, so far from those early morning street sounds, I awaken now and then in the midst of the night to hear waves tossing their ocean froth to shore. This steady, rhythmic boom, muffled during the day by street noise, is a sweet reminder of my own journey. The power of personal momentum.

Objects or concepts moving forward are said to have momentum. Surely one’s life experience can be characterized as having momentum. Or, alternatively, stagnation. A third option: contentment. What a new friend calls harmony. Surely the goal, especially at this stage of life.

I move this week-end from the lovely ocean-view cottage I have happily called home for three years to a little house on an in-town street aptly named La Serena. One town south, just beyond the border of Laguna Beach, although I will retain my Laguna persona. After all, that’s why I’m here. No hillside or water views in my next environs. No sound of the surf. Rather the contented chatter of humming birds nesting on the hibiscus trellis atop a quiet patio garden. These will likely be my first morning sounds. Followed by the voices of NPR who accompany my every morning. They move with me wherever I go. Voices of reason. The echo of the city girl who never strays too far from her humble beginnings. A whole life reverberating through the air from a radio station.

It is these alternating sounds of morning that ground me to myself. Thus, one finds contentment within momentum. In defiance of metaphysical gravity. Or, as Scarlett reminded us, tomorrow is another day. Always another day. Therein lies the joy of morning.

In Between

2009-04-14T22:11:00.000-07:00

Home on the mind again. Only in part because I am preparing to move. More so because I encountered an old acquaintance residing indefinitely in the in-between. That place that can be so disorienting to most of us, leaving the comfort of the known home and moving on to the lesser known, albeit just down the road.

He stood at the buffet piling his small plate especially high, as if the one meal of the day. When he turned, he smiled broadly. “I remember you,” he said, extending his hand. “Michael. We met at the bookstore, the signing for Faye.” “I remember,” I said, shaking his hand. He had introduced himself to me that night as a celebrity photographer, a Hollywood party-crasher. “Are you crashing this party as well?” I asked. “Not really,” he replied and shoveled a fork-full of pasta into his mouth. “Good eats,” he said.

We were at an opening at [seven-degrees] for a Laguna Beach artist, a friend of mine. Carefully hung on three long walls were richly colored depictions of local scenes. Zinc at lunchtime. Class at Laguna Culinary Arts. The view from the library. “Are you still writing for the newspaper?” Michael asked. “No, not for some time. I’m with Friendship Shelter now.” “Really? Wonderful. I’m proud of you,” he said. An odd response from a casual acquaintance, but I saw in his eyes a true sense of pride. “And you?” I asked. “What are you working on?” “I’m in between things. In fact, I don’t have a home myself these days.” He told me he was sleeping on the beach. He was freshly shaven, his pants and jacket clean and unwrinkled. One might never have imagined his circumstance. He explained that he cleans up at hotels and public restrooms. “Just in between,” he repeated.

I introduced him to the artist, Sue Thompson. He admired her work and we chatted about the richness of the Laguna Beach palette. “Proud of you,” he said as Sue turned to greet another admirer. He excused himself for a moment to seek a second plate of food. Another well-known local artist stopped to ask him what kind of wine he would prefer. “I don’t need any,” Michael responded, but the friend said, “Just $3 a glass – merlot or cabernet?” Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Merlot I guess.” The three of us chatted about politics and recessions. Good conversation, but I was conscious of the fact that I would shortly return to my digs and Michael to the darkness.

When I bid good-bye, Michael pressed my hand warmly. “Take care of yourself, Michael,” I said. “You bet,” he answered and nodded with appreciation. “You too. Proud of you.”

I wondered that night as I opened the door to my sea view cottage, what it might be like to sleep on the beach night after night. Not as an adventure or for the delight of a starry night, but because there was no alternative. One cannot escape such imaginings when working with the homeless. It is always top of mind. Michael is yet another reminder that these are not throngs of unknowns, these are more often the talented, the thoughtful, the dignified remains of human beings trapped in a very difficult place. In between the before and the unknown.

Note: Check out more wonderful paintings like the above at www.suethompsonart.com

Blessings of the Season

2009-03-26T20:37:00.000-07:00

Self-determination. Among the many blessings one might achieve in life, self-determination should be up there, way up there, on the hierarchy of those most precious. Unhappy people are those whose lives are defined for them, dictated by others or by obligation. The best literature and the best drama is largely about the conflict between one’s self and opposing forces. Self-determination versus destiny, although surely these might constructively co-exist.

How blessed am I to be able to make choices. To have the brains and talent and skills, and damn good luck, to secure work when needed, and a history of judicious spending and saving to be able to take-off periodically when the opportunity presents.

More to the point, I am blessed with the support of good people and the light of the universe. Truly, that light shines on me even more often than I acknowledge. Today for example, when I thought oil was leaking from my car, so took it to my honest mechanic in town, only to discover that it was more serious than that, power steering fluid and a broken seal, which would have cost me over $500, except for the fact that is covered by the warranty. And no charge for the assessment. The same warranty that expires on SATURDAY! Off to Mazda dealership, and although a crimp in my schedule [not complaining entirely over the hour+ sitting in an empty waiting room reading, always a book at hand] and voila: fixed, washed, and absolutely no cost to me.

And then, my almost new landlord, confirms that I am indeed her choice for tenant, and that she accepts my offer for the lovely little house in Dana Point that I will, as of May 1st, call home. What a gift! A completely adorable house, clean and bright and with a wonderful English-style garden, close to downtown and the harbor and the beach and in an eclectic neighborhood that I have dubbed South-South Laguna, as it is only a mile or so south of the town I will forever think of as my adopted home.

And, icing on the proverbial cake, once settled in the new digs, I get to spend some time with my dear ones in NY-CT. Another gift. What were those lovely words of Oscar Hammerstein? “Perhaps I had a wicked childhood, perhaps I had a miserable youth, but somewhere in this wicked miserable life, there must have been a moment of truth.”

Just in time for Passover – renewal! How blessed am I!

What's Good About Recession

2009-02-22T22:13:00.001-08:00

In the midst of gloom and a growing sense of despair, there are, as always, silver linings, albeit small, if one pays close attention. For those of who have jobs and perhaps a bit of money in the bank, this recession offers considerable opportunities to soothe the anxiety within while also making a contribution to the collective good. There is some good in recession… consider these.

Friday night, 6:30 PM, a table at Cheesecake Factory can be had without waiting. That’s likely true at many favorite places, but it’s especially astonishing at this usually bustling bistro.
And, they have introduced a “Small Plates and Snacks” menu from which, because this chain doesn’t understand truly small plates, a lovely meal can be had at a very modest price.

In fact, at least a half a dozen fine restaurants in Laguna Beach, and I’m certain elsewhere, have either adopted [Sorrento Grille, Tabu Grille] or expanded [the always wonderful K’ya] their own small plates menu, or some version of that, as well as local’s night where one might dine at a considerable discount, and longer “Happy Hours” with extended appetizer menu’s. Creative marketing should be rewarded, and, while you’re enjoying really good food on a discount, you are also contributing to the economy, keep that in mind.

Capitalism, like it or not, is largely dependent on consumption, and all the stimulus packages on earth won’t work unless we go out and buy, preferably within our means, and ensure that businesses stay open, even if earning more modest margins, and employment doesn’t totally fall apart, which is perhaps the greatest danger we face right now. So those who have, even a little, get out and share, and at the same time, stave off the doldrums of these crazy times.

Everything is negotiable right now. Well, almost everything. Gasoline is not negotiable, although perhaps it should be, and utility prices not so, again, something for consideration. But purchases not controlled or fixed are up for grabs. I heard a story today of a shopper at Nordstom’s who told the sales manager that he really loved a certain jacket and would be happy to purchase it at half the ticket price, and the sales manager was smart enough to close the deal. Even at smaller margins or even at cost, better to move the merchandise. Smart business people understand this. My own landlord offered to reduce my rent to stay another year, or even more of a reduction if I chose to move just down the street to another of her properties that doesn’t as a rule rent as quickly as my place. I imagine many landlords or home-sellers are open to offers right now.

One of my neighbors manages mall properties and told me that any tenant who comes forth with a request for a rent reduction or a pass on a month or so, is considered honorable, and thus accommodated, while those who simply don’t answer the phone or ignore repeated rent reminders will be booted. Seems to me the banks might have considered such a move with their lenders in the hopes that over time everyone might make good.

It’s the Baileys versus the Potters all over again in this not so wonderful life. And yet, there remains so many wonderful options and opportunities if only we get out instead of hold back.

I had hoped that Obama might ask us all to do more in the sharing. Landlords reducing rent, bankers reducing mortgage terms, employers asking employees, as Governor Arnold aksed, to take a couple of days off each month without pay, rather than lose their jobs. Surely we might reduce hours at the library or the state park rather than shutter the doors? We can live without postal service one day a week. We can demand that CEO’sfreeze their wages and eliminate bonuses. Why don’t we re-embrace a day set aside for families and save everyone money by making retail a six day a week operation, so that everyone might rest and restore themselves the way we used to, not so long ago [anyone else old enough to remember most stores closed on Sundays?]

Perhaps we might turn off the television [and the computer] one night each week to gather instead with family and friends, and save a little electricity, to save money and help save the planet. Organize neighborhood picnics to share what we have with each other and begin to remember what matters most. That might be a real bonus of the downturn.

What’s good about recession in the end is that we might all learn to live with a little less, and limit the slaughter of some at the hands of others, and perhaps all come to a new place where greed is replaced by restraint and a sense of responsibility to each other. In the meantime, enjoy the perks.

Mona

2009-02-09T19:05:00.000-08:00

She came into my life unexpectedly, as so many good things do. I was visiting with a friend in La Jolla and at end of day, strolling down a shopping street, I noticed a few people clustered in front of a pet shop. I don’t really know why I looked, nor why I stopped, but it was a group from an animal shelter in Chula Vista and they were packing up after a day of trying to seduce passers-by to adopt homeless animals. Mona was the only dog still there, perched behind a make-shift fence, but there was no need to fence in this dog, she had already learned that there was no where to go. She looked up at me with eyes almost blue and I swear I heard her say, “I don’t expect much.” But you should, I thought, because I knew at first glance that there was an elegance to this short-legged barrel-shaped little mutt. I was smitten from the first. Frankly, I’m not sure which of us needed a friend more. No matter. I wasn’t allowed pets at my rental cottage but I talked my landlord into allowing her to stay and took her home to Laguna Beach where she found not only a safe place but a village, a neighborhood of dog lovers who loved and protected her and gave her the safety net I think she may never have had. She came to me openly and with hope in her eyes, but also with tumors inside that we tried to heal but they had staked their claim. 20 months was all we had together but it was a small lifetime. We’ll never know exactly where Mona came from, nor her full story. I can only conjecture based on the dog we came to know. She had never been neutered and had several litters, and at the shelter they had to sedate her to clean her teeth and clip nails, but somewhere along the line she had been loved, as she responded so well to it. I suspect her original family was poor, but caring. And she must have lived with children because the very sound of young laughter made her ears perk up and she always sat so patiently to allow them to pet her, as if a remembrance of a happy time. She came to me anxious and skittish after who knows how long on the streets and six months in a cage in a shelter plus one month with a foster family with alpha dogs, but she also came to me fiercely independent and determined and with a sweetness that is utterly indescribable. She was at first afraid of strangers, especially men, and also of shoes, which must have been at the bottom of feet that kicked her. Still, in a matter of moments, she seemed to know she belonged to me and adapted quickly to a simple life. She loved long walks, albeit slowly so that she might sniff every single low-growing flower and every post and beam. She loved car trips and would have been happy to wait in the car for me all day at work, as she never loved being home alone, although she never complained, only spun around in delight when I came to collect her, the same little dance she danced at feeding time, which was never often enough. She loved going out to breakfast or lunch and would wait patiently for her share, staring up at me all along, grateful for every bit of potato or scrambled egg or bagel. Pizza crust was the rare and most favorite treat of all. And before long, she relinquished her fears and stopped to examine every dog and looked up at every person who might have a treat for her. She loved her Uncle Byron, and Moose and Poppy who welcomed her into their home and made her part of the neighborhood pack. She loved her sitter, Auntie Louie, who she allowed to walk her on a leash after months of refusals, and wagged her tail especially wildly when she came into view, but still growled at her now and then to let her know who was boss. And after a few months of sleeping on a padded dog bed on the floor, she looked up at me one night and trotted over to me for a lift up onto my bed and never slept alone again. And I, who have slept alone for too long, will feel her absence most of all in the midst of night and again every morning when that little face looked up as if to say, what shall we do today? Rest in peace Mona Francesca.

Late Life Lunacy

2009-02-03T19:31:00.000-08:00

I am not a risk taker. I have always exercised good judgment and largely done what was expected of me. When others might ask why not, I have always demanded why, and labored over the answer to ensure that there was a carefully considered good reason for everything I have done. Sixty years of good judgments. My husband Rusty was the same way, and more so. He didn’t believe anything should be undertaken without careful consideration and without an exceptional reason. He believed one should never go from anything, rather to. The unknown was unknown to him. I loved him anyway.

I’ve never slept with a man without protection. I never eat raw meat. I only occasionally jay-walk, which is the genetic right of all New Yorkers, and I consider myself rebellious when I purposely neglect to wear my seat belt. I still blast rock and roll on my car radio. Overall, I make choices that I hope will set the right course and I aim to be a good role model for my daughters. Good judgment in my world has been defined as what is best for others or best for the common good. What is the most efficient use of my time and money? What is the choice that best avoids loss? I am frugal and thoughtful in all things. Waste not, want not is my motto. What however defines a wasted life?

While my dearest friends might describe me as bold, I have never been nor would I be considered audacious. I am rarely impulsive. Until three years ago when, my husband gone, my children grown and flown, I moved from conservative Connecticut to Laguna Beach, California. Not because of any ill-conceived MTV reputation nor even a real sense of adventure, but because the hillsides and sunshine called to me and the laid back atmosphere soothed the savage beast within. Frankly, I fell in love with a town, in a way that I have never fallen in love with a human being. With what might be construed as true abandon. But not without due diligence. I spent first a three-month winter sojourn, a sabbatical of sorts, [during which time I rented my place in CT to avoid excess out-of-pocket expense] and then a second winter, when I tried on for size the idea of living in such a place. I learned about tide pools and learned to love breakfast at outdoor café’s. Climbing steep inclines I regained muscle tone I’d lost or never had. I discovered the joys of a nearly desert landscape and the thrill of dolphin sightings. However, I did not relocate to Southern California nor to Orange County, decidedly not; I moved to a funky hilly gorgeous beach town bordered ubiquitously by the Pacific Ocean and populated with surfers and artists, tourists and wannabe’s, and found in this place, so different from any place I have every known, the side of myself that welcomes a bit of risk and a decidedly Zen state of mind. I went back to listening to Joni Mitchell and reading Dostoyevski and studying Buddhism and rethinking every thought I’ve ever had. And now, three years later, I find myself reaching for risk, within reason of course, and wanting to experience more life, more possibilities, more experiences, before I am too tired.

I am sixty years old and I am willing to take a few risks before it’s too late. There’s plenty of time to sit on the beach or quietly by the fire, when the charge of daily living is sublimated to the very essence of aging. I am healthy and strong and my energy level is only slightly diminished. Perhaps I can take more risk now because there is so much less to lose. Whatever the case, call me crazy, but in the midst of a deep recession, and well before I can afford to retire, I would like to take off for a while, reclaim the nearness of loved ones and also to parts unknown, open to whatever comes next. The very definition of risk. Call me a late life lunatic, but, in the end, I can always find work, I can always settle down, I can always spend my nights with Netflix, but I can never claim what is still undefined and unexpected and oh so much more meaningful than the known. Bring it on!

The Music of Winter

2009-01-11T15:09:00.000-08:00

Driving south on Pacific Coast Highway today, on my way to brunch with friends at a wonderful french bistro in San Clemente, I heard a Beatles song on the radio that always makes me smile. I felt my shoulders sway and my head bob, an involuntary, joyful response to sweet sounds. A young man in an old VW stopped at a red light in the lane next to me was bobbing his head in a rhythm that must have mirrored a hip hop beat and although he didn't notice me, immersed as he was in the sound and in the momentary stillness imposed on us at that moment, I felt we were one.
Ah, music. In the throes of economic hysteria, personal heartache and natural disasters, perhaps only the music can lighten the heart. I am rethinking my concern about young people everywhere plugged into tiny pods. I find myself keeping NPR playing softly on my office computer more often than not [usually wfuv from Fordham University, still the best radio station I know] and my 25-year old assistant/office mate is all the happier for it. Now she brings me a hot new CD she thinks I might like and sometimes we sample together tracks from an emerging artist's My Space page. I sometimes wonder if church goers relish their Sunday mornings not only for the spiritual solace and thought provoking [if they're good] sermons, but for the chance to sing.
When do we have the chance to sing? I still hum or sing along to my music at home, sometimes loudly, as one of the blessings of living alone is that no one is disturbed. The sound of some voices soothe completely, better than any camomille tea or sedating herb. Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro, Amos Oz. Years ago, I listened to Norah Jones's first album every night as I slipped into sleep, and after a while, I was out cold by the 4th track, lulled literary into sleep, and discovered that I'd never heard the last songs on the album. Studies have been done on music as a calming influence on everything from tigers to teenagers.
Is it no wonder that Cubans, in the midst of a lifetime of repression, cling to their music, and that music speaks to us all. The music and dance of African tribes sustain their culture. Adolescents of every ethnicity whose music defiines their lives and their memories. Don't we all stop at the first notes of a song that rekindles the fondest, the saddest, the dearest of remembrances. Music perhaps more the trigger of nostalgia than scent.
My days are sometimes long and feel nearly meaningless. I know that I have more than most and am grateful every day, every moment I can connect to that feeling, that I am blessed. Too blessed to be stressed, that's the new mantra. But there are days, like today, that I feel as if all I have done is move from keyboard to phone to files, merely adjusting information, slotting it into its proper place, accounting for plans rather than making them. And so the music on the radio, the music on my stereo [yes I still call it that] the music in my heart is the soothing balm. As if singing to me that the day is only the sum of the moments and the music the sum of the days and, en sum, it is sweet. Especially in winter, when the heart might otherwise grow cold.

Equilibrium

2008-12-21T12:58:00.000-08:00

Someone asked me recently where I was at this point in my life and the word equilibrium came to mind. Not the same as contentment, although surely in the same hemisphere. A state of equanimity. What a chemist might define as stasis: a state of stability. A state of balance created by forces of opposition of equal strength so as to neutralize each other in the middle. Also known as equality of effect. Is this perhaps the true meaning of middle age? No longer the moment by moment changeability of childhood. Neither the anticipation or expectation, or anxiety, of youth. None of the angst of young love or the intensity of motherhood, nor the fearsome grind of career development, the nurturing of a marriage. This is a time of presence of mind. In fact, presence of being, true presence, without always looking back for comfort or looking forward in quest of all things meant to be. Will the more peaceful course of the future in fact compensate for the more difficult past. Steady as you go, but not an end-point. One never knows what’s ahead and one of the great joys of living in the moment is being open to the unexpected.

Four years ago I visited Laguna Beach for the winter, never imagining I might soon take up residence. In fact, if you had ever asked me if I might someday live in Southern California, I would have denied the possibility. Another aspect of equilibrium is knowing never to say never. I know that for certain now. Thus, personal equilibrium is not so much stasis as a state of calm, a state of readiness, without expectation. This is not to say that I don't [way too often] ponder what might be next or where I might explore, but I do enjoy a sense of personal contentment that I never experienced or expected.

Knowing oneself, accepting oneself and others, accepting one’s destiny without disappointment, rather willingness, this is the essence of equilibrium. An excellent place to be, in the context of a very dynamic and difficult world. News all around is bad. We – the global we – are in a terrible place, and I for one expect much worse and of much longer duration. This is not pessimism, quite the contrary. Crisis is an opportunity. The word comes from the Greek word, krisis, meaning to separate. In English, it is defined as a critical situation, a turning point. It’s antonym is peace or calm. The Chinese write the word crisis with two characters – danger and what some have interpreted as opportunity and others outcome. Either way, a sense of necessitated new direction. Perhaps America will see this economic crisis as an opportunity to reconsider our ways. Capitalism contains within itself the seeds of its own destruction, said Karl Marx in the Communist Manifesto, and certainly there is evidence of this these days in the intensity of poverty, even in this rich country, in combination with rising unemployment, home foreclosures, business closings, and, above all, a lack of confidence in our future, and in those who have been entrusted with that future. There is little we can rely on and a state of disequilibrium is anathema for most Americans. All the more reason to take this moment to restructure the way we do business and the way we live.

Anthropologist Margaret Mead once said that the speed of change is directly proportionate to the speed of communication. In today’s world, communications are in real time, thus the pace of change is constant, omnipresent. In fact, change may be the only thing we can count on. Such dynamism is traumatic to both person and planet. A perpetual state of psychic chaos. So it would behoove us all to step slowly and carefully, and move into the future with a different view. A real global attitude adjustment. And while we will all surely suffer in some way – few will escape this economic debacle – we have an opportunity to emerge perhaps saner. Perhaps closer to global peace of mind. Economic, sociological, environmental equilibrium. Wouldn’t that be something! Happy new year.

In Praise of Off Season

2008-11-22T14:23:00.000-08:00

No two beach towns in America are exactly alike, but at the peak of the season, they seem so.

From Cape Cod to the Jersey shore, the Chesapeake Bay, Virginia Beach, gulf towns and throughout the West Coast, beach communities come to life to serve the vacation traveler, seduced by sandy shorelines, sunny skies and perpetual hospitality. There are few differences beyond the eccentricities of their landscape and the length of the season.
They look alike, they sound alike. They share a gently frenzied ambiance. They all smell like commingled sun block, sweat and seared meats. When the weather cooperates, sunlight is ubiquitous and bright, but the streets so densely populated that hardly a shadow is cast, except by the occasional shade of tree line. Clouds drift by as if setting the pace, exhorting vacationers to slow down. Children run and splash and delight in their liberation from otherwise structured lives. Car doors and screen doors slam throughout the day. Engines whir and stall, thwarted by pedestrian traffic. Shops overflow with whimsical necessities – kites shaped like lobsters or parrots, primary colored plastic pails wrapped with shovels in white netting, striped beach umbrellas, film and lotions, post-cards stacked on racks and T-shirts blowing in the breeze. Sidewalk strollers ebb and flow like the surf. On the beach, shiny plastic beach balls roll in the wind, below the serrated fringes of kite tails flapping overhead. Small planes murmur now and then against skies of every possible shade of blue. Rock music competes with the calls of families, lovers and friends clustered together on the sand. Drum beats blare from car radios passing by and the constant din of chatter blankets all other sounds, like beach towels that punctuate the shoreline. Weekend walkers linger to watch impromptu games of volleyball or admire shapely bodies that drape the landscape.
The so-called quiet of vacation is a cacophony of sounds and scents and scenery that comfortably collide, much like waves that crash against the shore over and over again. The din subsides only late at night, long after the pink hues of sunset, when the last child collapses into peaceful dreams, the last glass of wine sipped, the last beach towels hung to dry, accompanied by the orchestral lullaby of katydids and grasshoppers crying through the stillness.
Beach town life is a spell that settles happily over inhabitants year after year. People thrive on it, long for it, and wait patiently for the season to return, because it is only in season when they permit themselves the freedom to explore, to abandon their responsibilities for a time, bond to their loved ones with neither obligation nor resignation nor rancor, and ignore the clock other than to prepare lunch or turn over on the sand. The vacation season, with its colors and music and singular scents, is the ultimate refuge from what might be seen as the colorless odorless monotony of daily living, even for those blessed with a satisfying life.
The very landscape jolts into ebullience as the season approaches, reaching its arms out to welcome the throng, then returning blissfully to hibernation in the off-season, because the landscape, as life in all forms, in the off-season exists only for itself. Craggy edges of shoreline spring back into view, no longer obfuscated by the crowd. Seagulls soar overhead, no need to share the sand. The surf surges with renewed vigor as if reclaiming its shore. A thin layer of sand blows about in chillier wind, unencumbered by the accoutrements of vacationers. The sun’s rays spread wide, diffusing shadows into abstracted muted images. Clouds drift closer to land. Long sunny days turn to short, warmth to chill. Runners breathe more deeply, walkers walk more slowly.
There is a collective sigh among the locals when their community is returned to them, because they know, rather than diminished by the quiet, their beach town is enhanced, strengthened from within like a delicate rose that’s been trimmed to its roots to restore vigor and balance, to bloom once again in the new season. It is the throng that most characterizes these towns in season – the throng of people on the streets, bodies on the beach. The throng of sound and scent. And it is the sheer absence of the throng that defines the off season, that time when a beach community is at its best: free of the frenzy, relinquished to residents and the occasional visitor to re-capture its true natural beauty, like an ancient succulent that blossoms only in the rain.
The off-season is more than a respite, it is a restoration, a haven of sorts, when the terrain is permitted to go wild, returning to a more organic state. The ocean is more gray than blue. The weather and the colors of the sky more volatile. Untamed and unobstructed, solemnity hovers over the town like an ancient church, deeply encrypted with mystical powers, where one might commune privately on a weekday morning, without parishioners or dictum, only the solace of silence and the wisdom of one’s inner voice.
Off-season was when I began my life in Laguna Beach and it is in the off-season that I am reminded most why I remain, its natural beauty best exposed to those of us that call this place home.

Study in Contrasts

2008-11-16T16:39:00.000-08:00

The days are short again. We return home from work in the dark. Mornings are cool, nearly brisk. The sun moves in a different angle across the sky, casting a light more silver than golden, and lands farther south than in summer, setting just behind Catalina Island, fashioning a halo behind the island's hilly terrain. And yet, the afternoon temperature hovers in the 80's. The air is oppressively hot and dry. A wild shockingly bright full moon woke me in the middle of the night as if a spotlight, and stars gleemed in the glow. Today, brush fires burned out of control in northern hills and too many people are homeless tonight. My eyes burn, my skin is dry, my throat perpetually parched. Yet, at this very moment, a gigantic orange ball is spreading ribbons of color across the horizon. And now, having fallen just behind the island, those ribbons rise to blanket the view like a color chart. The shades of sunset. As if on cue, the breeze picks up to blow away the last of the heat.

Everyone I know is grappling with their finances. Worrying about what comes next. How severe the recession might be, how long, how deep. Heaving with the weight of another year of college tuition. Loans to be repaid. Excessive credit card debt. Retirements postponed. Travels plans scrapped. Worry lines deepening. I came close this year to reaching a financial goal, a year or two away from working less and spending more time with friends and family in other places. We can never be certain of anything, but I know this for sure right now - I have to work harder and longer than I'd hoped. But I'm one of the lucky ones - I have a job I like and I still have savings. And the hope of recovery. Far better off still than most.

In the midst of great anxiety there is a palpable sense of political optimism. Obama has given us hope and the prospect of change. Straight talk reminds us that we are in for the long haul and we will have to play our part in recovery, but now there is a new destiny, within which we are not helpless. Optimism compensates for the fear. Perhaps the holiday season, despite the portent of gloom and doom in the marketplace, will bring a sense of renewal, or at least a sense of connection with fellow man. What ails us ails us all, and we face the future as one.

Summer has passed. Fall here has been among the warmest on record and there is no sign of winter, not event a Southern California winter. And yet, night comes quickly and it feels like winter. I should be wearing boots and sweaters by now, and, as if in protest, young people have already slipped their uggs on to the bottom of long tanned legs still in shorts. My friends in Connecticut bemoan gloomy wet days while many here would sell their souls for rain. I am already envisioning blustery days in New York City brightened by holiday lights and electric tinsel hanging across the facades on Fifth Avenue. I can picture the tree of angels at the Metropolitan Museum and origami at MOMA. Lights adorm much of downtown Laguna now and candlelight flickers in restaurant windows where, despite shrinking bank accounts and credit crunches, friends gather together to make merry.

Tomorrow morning I will slip into my sweat pants and clogs to walk Mona and by mid-day will seek shade. But tonight, I will pull the blanket up to my chin and huddle close to the dog for warmth, welcoming just a little bit of cooler air, which is always just a moment past sunset. Night is not day, and the days are bright before the dark. That is all we can count on, and that will just have to do for now. Life is a study in contrasts.

On a Clear Day in SoCal

2008-11-09T10:42:00.000-08:00

I imagine it seems odd in this a historic week to write about such a lowly subject as window screens, but read on, as there is a connection.

Among the many differences between east coast and west is the simple window screen. Not an item one finds in poetry, nor significant in the larger scheme of life, but of interest in this part of the world by virtue of its absence. One rarely finds a screen on windows in southern California. Nor on doors. No need. Despite green hillsides, tall palm trees and the constant surrounds of the sea, we live in a desert clime. Little or no humidity most of the time. And that sea brings with it sea breezes. Thus, no bugs. At least not the flying insects that screens are meant to obstruct. No annoying mosquitoes buzzing dangerously close to your ear in the dead of night. Rarely a wasp or a bee. Flies found largely in the orbit of open garbage pails or the sodden remains of an ice-cream cone. Termites are ubiquitous but largely unseen and they don’t fly through windows. On occasion, I spy a dragonfly and spiders abound, but they borrow their way in through the tiniest cracks and crevices. Flying roaches and killer bees seem to congregate in Texas and the panhandle, where they belong.

One day, a hummingbird flew through my open door to find itself trapped in the tiny solarium that borders my room. I watched in horror as that stunning creature fought against the glass and immediately called Byron, then living next door and the knower of all things, to determine how to help. Leave it by, he advised, as it relies on its radar and once it calms down it will find its way home. Sure enough, after just long enough for me to admire its form, it lifted its long nose, beamed on to the scent of a flower nearby and took off through the open doorway.
Tree rats are common, tiny squirrels flitting under cover of darkness among thick growths of ivy along back fences, but, thankfully, do not fly. I know this because the first few nights I slept here, I was kept awake by such rats in the overhead crawl space [no attic, that’s another thing not often found here – they interfere with views] and my only protection, I thought, was to keep the windows closed for safety, although the thunder of those little hooves overhead was nearly enough to turn this modern-day pioneer back east.
Now and then ants descend, although I’ve only seen a few now and then, hovering near the dog’s food bowl in anticipation of nearly invisible remains; Mona is a very thorough diner.
I’ve not seen any water bugs, my nemesis when a young girl in the city. In fact, perhaps the only creature that regularly sparked terror in my heart, even more so than the roaches with whom the poor in the city make peace by avoiding the kitchen after lights out. No, no nasty bugs in Laguna Beach, rarely a screen, and thus, the view is all the more clarified. A metaphor for the general sense of expansiveness one feels in Southern California. Nothing much stands between us and our environs. Breezes blow through windows without encumbrance. One steps from the inside to outside through fully open doorways, a constant connection from inside to out.
I attended a birthday party recently at a newly renovated 4-story home set into a steep incline. Every floor had a patio or two, encompassing roughly 280 degrees of breathtaking view, and floor-to-ceiling glass receded seamlessly and silently into walls so that it was hard to tell where the structure ended and the landscape began. On the upper floor, a Jacuzzi was carved into a terrace bordering the master bedroom, where I imagine sunset reflects in the wine glasses of the lucky couple while submerged in the soothing flow of rippled waters. Ah, SoCal.
However, there is one thing missing, nearly synonymous with my childhood summers – the sound of screen doors slamming through the day. I attended a summer camp in upstate New York where the sound of those doors marked the beginning and ends of day even more than flag-raising or taps. Screen doors slam in a gentler way, lighter by virtue of voided glass and thus more easily slammed, but less damning in the slamming. Warm week-ends at my husband’s family home on Candlewood Lake in Connecticut were defined by the constant banging of summerhouse screen doors, punctuating the ebb and flow of deliciously long days on the lake. I occasionally long for that sound as I long for crunchy leaves beneath my feet and the hum of the subway just below the surface on Broadway. The east coast has weather, my friend Diane reminded me not long ago, and here we have only climate, albeit lovely. And few bugs.

This week, as we celebrate President-elect Obama, and welcome a new way in the world, I imagine screens lifted from our collective consciousness, eliminating the rusted remains of mesh marring our vision for the future, a vision of hope and a new destiny, for which I am most grateful. Perhaps we have permanently shuttered screened windows against racism and opened wide a more expansive view of our humanity. I hope so.

One More Hour

2008-11-01T16:17:00.000-07:00

We set the clocks back tonight and tomorrow morning I will rise nearly with the sun and enjoy that delicious semi-annual sensation of having somehow beat Mother Nature. As much as we all love that moment in spring when we seem to extend the day, I prefer the fall because we truly gain the hour. One brief but precious hour. My body clock seamlessly realigned to earlier mornings and shorter evenings, which for those of us living alone is often a blessing. The hours of darkness can be painfully long for a single – work day done, dog walked, dinner dishes cleaned, and while a blissful time for reading or writing or the occasional visit with friends, often a bit too long. In fact, about an hour too long.
NPR yesterday reported results of a long-term longitudinal study that suggests that this one hour more of sleep alone may be the significant factor producing a 5% reduction in heart attacks during the 24-hours immediately following the fall-back time change. In a remarkable correlation, heart attacks increase exactly 5% in the wake of the spring time change that equates to one hour less of sleep.
Of course not everyone uses the extra hour for sleep as our bodies take time to adapt, so what becomes of that extra hour? Do we languish in bed just a bit longer given the gift of time? The dog may feel like she has to be walked, but she too will have to adjust. I might enjoy an hour of early morning reading in bed, a special reward as reading time, albeit the most cherished time of my day, always waits until all else has been fulfilled. Perhaps I will call daughter Dana in London, where clocks were reset a week earlier for some reason, and might catch her at a café on waiting for the tube, so that we might have an impromptu chat, cell phone to cell phone, a phenomenon I confess I still find remarkable and inexplicable.
This day of the time change always feels surreal, as no matter the actual hour it feels later. There is a great jolt of pleasure when peering at the newly set clocks to realize that less of the day has passed than expected, although a harsh realization when too soon the sun falls into the sea. The hour longer day plunges us into the semblance of winter, when we will return home from work in the dark and awaken early and before we’ve even had a chance to enjoy the extra time it slips away.
I’d like to use this hour well. Perhaps a bit more sleep. Read. Blog. Perhaps I will meditate, which I do rarely, largely because my mind wanders, although day-dreaming is a nearly daily pasttime. Perhaps the hour of Pilates that tends to fall into the cracks of a busy schedule. An extra long walk without rushing back in service of work or chore. Have a long talk with an East Coast friend, whose longer day is well underway. Perhaps I will take a nap, now there’s a rare treat. On the East Coast, I often used the time to switch out from the summer to winter closet, which one does not do so fully here, the lines less pronounced between seasons, clothing etiquette blurred. This year, I am invited to a cocktail party at 5:00 PM, but I will have a very full day before I leave, having slept well and used my time well and paid closer attention to the day, the attention we should all pay daily so that we use all our hours well. And when my body yearns for sleep, sooner than the clock would suggest, I will hold off and hold on to this day just a bit longer, granted this small coveted pleasure of one more hour in the day.

The Joys of October

2008-10-11T16:28:00.000-07:00

October may be the best month of the year, wherever you live. In Connecticut it is an especially beautiful time, leaves rippling, changing, casting a burnt orange tint over the landscape, and the air as crisp as the fallen leaves that will soon lay a blanket over sidewalks and driveways. And while the weather is fungible, there is always that one last burst of warmth mid to late October that holds you for the months ahead. I know this because my #1 daughter was born on the 20th and we brought her home to 70 degree temperature and every year since [OMG – 30 years this month!] we always enjoy “Dana-weather” some time close to her birthday. Seems like yesterday that I took her out for her first walk in her English pram [perhaps shades of her future life in London] and wrapped her gently in a matching coverlet to protect her from the morning chill. October in New York, the sun slants a bit, casting softer shadows between skyscrapers and bathing parks in a uniquely golden glow. Europe is lovely in October, both the weather and the absence of the throng of [American] tourists that have hovered all summer. London is drier in October. So is Seattle. San Francisco and the Bay area are best in early fall, when a silvery light filters through the early morning fog and a nearly summer sunshine warms the day.
Sonoma County wine country is stunning in fall, when mornings are so cold the dew is nearly frosted, and by mid-day it’s summer-hot, every leaf and vine soaking in warmth to last through the chilly night. My friend Chris tells me the season is sweet. Mustard seed and lavendar blanket hillsides, the air smells of the grape. Perfect final days and nights for the vines before harvest.
In New Orleans the worst of the heat has evaporated and hurricane season has blessedly past. Same in Austin. Florida is also at its best. I imagine Chicago is lovely in fall. Even in Buffalo snow rarely falls in October.
Is it no wonder that Libra, the astrological sign of the October born, is the sign of balance. Like the scales of justice that Libra represents, Librans are objective. They abhor unfairness and conflict. They strive for peace, something always in short supply.
My friend Byron tells me that Hong Kong is warm but not hot right now, drier and brighter and the nights so clear one might almost make out the stars. And in Southern California, where people say there are no seasons, October marks the end of summer heat, although not the end of fire season if Santa Ana winds blow in from the desert. It is however a period of equanimity. Mornings and evenings are cooler, the marine layer dissipates quickly leaving a mere residue of moisture along the shoreline, where waves crash more forcefully to shore as the Pacific reclaims its cold. Summer blossoms remain but the foliage prepares for a brief winer respite. Sunsets are especially spectacular, which some suggest is pollution but I prefer to believe is the rapid descent of the autumn sun at day's end, its rays spreading their halo beyond Catalina Island.
A simply beautiful month, a beautiful time of year, a time of ancient holidays, pumpkins, pie and candy. Apples are bountiful, gords everywhere, and while we all love summer, there is a lighter step and a brighter spirit in October. A season of harvest and for many a season of reflection and rededication to another year of days. The season of atonement.
October comes upon us quickly and disappears too soon. Then again, November is quite lovely in Laguna Beach, and for all of us this year, that time when the election will at last come and go, and perhaps the many crises that exist in our world right now might subside, just a bit, hopefully, we will all have a chance to breathe before the darker days of winter. Enjoy the moments.

Risk = Individualism Squared

2008-09-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

NPR this morning reported on an event that took place in 1971 in honor of the dedication of the Kennedy Center in Washington DC. The always controversial and extraordinary Leonard Bernstein was commissioned to create an original work for the opening ceremony. Bernstein, as you likely know, was a force for contemporary music and a devout non-conformist. He created a work in honor of JFK that included unique pairings of instruments, dissonant rhythms sometimes reminiscent of West Side Story and shades of Bach. Known only as “Mass” the performance was not well received critically at the time, but continues to be played by symphony orchestras throughout the world and is viewed now as a masterpiece.*
At its conclusion, the audience neither moved nor responded for three minutes. Deafening silence. Three minutes may not seem like much in the general scheme of time, but three minutes of stillness is surreal. According to the report, the silence was followed by applause and cheers from a standing audience for roughly half an hour. Ten times as long the jubilance as the silence.
Here’s what struck me on this story: who was the first person to clap? Surely one person broke the silence and initiated the thunder. What precipitated that sudden alteration? What is it that makes one member of a crowd break out? Surely it’s never easy to decide to be the one to stand apart from the pack, risking ostentation or scorn. Was it some sort of intuition that suggested the pack needed only one to lead? Or was it one individualist determined to answer the stunning absence of response?
I have always favored individualists and admired, even envied, those who listen only to their inner voice. Joni Mitchell is an idol of mine, not only for her exorbitant talent, but her steadfast determination to play her music her way and continually explore alternate genres. No surprise that Joni was also a painter, what she called her true talent, a woman with a devout sense of independence, what some have accused as selfish to the core, but perhaps only those who stay resolute to their vision retain true creative integrity. Other names come to mind, we all know who they are, and we know because the dared to be different.
Inner directness has been often maligned, but one can and should stay true to oneself, as Polonius directed Hamlet, while exhibiting consideration for others. The truth lies in one’s willingness to take risk. And what is risk after all but an acceptance that we cannot lose what we never had. That was a favorite saying of my father, a man who struggled his entire life with the balance between creating some sort of security for his family while living a larger opportunistic and frequently manic life. He was a gambler and as such recognized that easy come will easy go, and then hopefully come again. Something my financial advisor-friend keeps repeating as mantra, especially these days, related to the cycles of the economy.
So while I sit here in my little idle by the sea, having made this marginally bold mid-life move across country, I find myself fascinated with that one person who brought hands together to honor risk and in so doing took what in that theater in that moment must have felt a Herculean risk, only to discover that in the bold move he/she moved the mass. What can each of us do to lead such a charge and reap the rewards? Or, do we sit on our hands and wait for someone else to take the lead and, if no one emerges, do we take the greatest risk of all, that of complacence. What might also be known as inertia, that place we stay when we are too frightened to take that first step towards something if not bigger perhaps better and, if not better, certainly challenging. If we do not challenge ourselves, and others, we might find ourselves immersed within a metaphorical life of profound stillness. A collective flat affect reflecting off the walls of silence. I shudder at the thought.

*Though 37 years have passed since its debut, the spiritual and political messages of Bernstein's Mass are still as relevant as ever. Mass mixes classical music with a wide range of musical idioms: Broadway, opera, blues, rock, even a marching band! Commissioned for the opening of The Kennedy Center in 1971, Mass candidly explorers what Bernstein called "the crisis of faith" in our time.

New Places, New Faces

2008-09-24T21:17:00.000-07:00

People travel in packs. This town is a very friendly and welcoming place, but most grown-ups have long-standing relationships and are not exactly foraging for new ones. Being the newbie is not easy. Making friends, real friends, takes time and cultivation. Something most of us at this age haven’t had to do in a long time, relying as we do on our own pack for the comfort of connection.
Shortly after I settled in Laguna Beach, I placed an ad at CraigsList for a middle-aged movie buddy. Strictly platonic. A like-kind responded immediately. A quintessential New Yorker, although she’d been in CA for 25 years, she had a big personality, an east coast sort of neurotic endearment, and an apparent interest in many things artsy. As she was single and perpetually on the prowl, she preferred meeting at big noisy theme restaurant bars that I hate, but I was determined to go with the flow and grateful for the company. We began to tell each other our stories and I found to my dismay that while she was a welcome cohort in those first lonely days, our values did not mesh. An awkward stumbling block. After all, one cannot be friends with the first or perhaps second or third person you meet. Friendships evolve and there must be common ground. But how do you reject a 50-something gal pal? I began to be busy and, in the end, she dismissed me as unfriendly. I suppose I deserved that.
Bit by bit, thanks in large part to a stint as Lois Lane at the local newspaper, I got to meet and interview many mostly interesting people. Thus, walking through town, I slowly discovered familiar faces and became less of a stranger. Still, making friends is hard. Friends, just like lovers, must be courted. You meet for coffee. You share stories. You make the call to go to a movie or shopping or to a local event. You invite each other to dinner with or without spouses/partners. You call now and then just to chew the rag, but not too often to appear intrusive. Finding friends is like finding a good job – it takes time and effort and a willingness to put yourself out there. And as important as friends are to me, I am too frequently content to curl up with a book or Netflix.
And then there are the friends you lose too soon. My first and best friend in Laguna, my next door neighbor Byron, moved to Hong Kong. The blessings of Skype keep us close but he is no longer the constant presence that made my relocation so much easier. Always just over the fence, we both worked at home and frequently ended the day with a dog walk and a glass of wine. Couldn't have scripted a more perfect union, but, alas, not to last. My other neighbor and walking buddy Joanne moved back East. Melony, a new friend but clearly a friend of another lifetime, moved north to a simpler lifestyle. Easy come, easy go. However, bit by bit, there are people in my California life I can call friend. Not the same as the forever friends, those with whom kids are raised, graduations rejoiced, disappoints and despair shared, weddings and now grandchildren celebrated, funerals mourned. However new friends are a different sort of blessing. One is truly oneself in middle age and unafraid to bare our personal truths. Unwilling to compromise who we are. This makes for more instant and honest friendships. And there are many ways to meet new people… Always a book club. Fundraising luncheons. Film programs. Yoga class. Talks at the local Business or Women’s Club. Friday night wine tastings where, at communal dining tables, you get to know the regulars and perhaps become one. And now there’s http://www.meetup.com/ where you can latch on to all kinds of shared-passions groups from hikers to diners to pug lovers – a gold mine for newbies. Volunteers are in need. Mah Jong is enjoying a Renaissance. There is always a garden club, if that’s your fancy, and always a class to take. And along the way, you discover more and more of who you are in the choice of friends, and in their reflection. There are good people everywhere. And, the more known, the less alone, and more at home.

A Serious Soul

2008-09-13T10:13:00.000-07:00

"Nothing holds its truth for long enough. Home leaves us, not the other way around..." Words of wisdom from Helen Humphreys, Canadian writer, from Coventry, her new novel to be published in February [Until then, read Lost Garden or Wild Dogs or Afterimage]
I am a serious soul. Have always been. Frivolity does not come easy to me. I do love to laugh and appreciate sophisticated humor, but I tend to be a bit high brow. I come by this naturally. I was the only child of immigrant parents, much to live up to, although in the homes of Eastern European immigrants there was always more laughter than despair. However, most of my life, my mother was struggling for her own life, which she lost when I was an adolescent. Thus, at a very young age I took on more responsibility than any young person should shoulder, and also found myself recognizing the fragility of life, needing to feel a sense of meaning in all things.
This sort of personality does not easily embrace anything that seems a waste of time. Or a waste of imagination. I abhor frat-boy humor and find myself increasingly embarassed by American pop culture. My book group thinks I'm a snob, which in literary terms I am. I don't read chic lit and rarely watch network television. I thank my blessings for NetFlix so I can always watch a good film of my own choosing in my own home. Although I confess I saw Sex in the City opening week-end, for the fun of it, and I saw the Dark Knight for Heath Ledger's final breathtaking performance. I blast rock and roll at home and in my car, but at concerts I rarely stand or dance, rather listen with intent.
I married a similar sort and we ended up taking our differences way too seriously.
I took one of those personality tests recently for a seminar at work and I was classified as a "Thinker." The life coach looked at my profile and said "You really need to have more fun." This of course made me laugh. It's funny to me to be nailed so quickly by a stranger. What was not funny to me was when I was invited last week to attend a chocolate tasting-sale at the home of an acquaintance. I stared at the e-invite with disdain. So much of the world is at war. Poverty is ubiquitous and ignorance rampant. I work for an organizaton that shelters the homeless and I shudder at their lives on the streets. The right wing has taken over the Republican party and Rove is once again master-minding a candidacy that may permanently mark this country, founded on religious freedom and opportunity, as fundamentalists determined to do battle with perceived evil across the world. Women are being bamboozled by an inexperienced opportunist. Greed is imploding our banking system, while war and special interests are mounting insurmountable debt. I watch my portfolio hemmorage and my hopes for any sort of retirement vanish into a far more distant future than was in reach only a year ago. Friends are battling cancer. There are people who still don't believe in global warming. And the other day, I was invited to a chocolate tasting and sale at the home of an acquaintance. I stared at the e-invite in horror. Who has time for such nonsense? One of my friends asks - why not? She's right. One must balance reality with a bit of frivolity. Still, the chocolate is Dove, and if it were Scharfenberger or some new Swedish conconction, I might have felt differently. Dove? I'd rather munch on M&M's.
Truth is, I can and do have fun. I recognize that serious can border too often on stuffy. I get that. Still, life is short - each of us must choose how we spend our time and I prefer a more existential existence. We are meant to know ourselves and live accordingly. And though living in Laguna Beach is instantaneous lightening up, home is within.

Beach Town Brat

2008-09-10T21:04:00.000-07:00

The downside of living in a beach town is that you are always at the beach. While this sounds like a paradox, for an east coast winter weather resident, there are particular joys associated with leaving home and heading to a beach. In the depths of winter, when you have been chilled fully through to the bone and wonder if you might ever again be warm, a holiday to a tropical place is Nirvana. For me, there was an indescribable jolt of joy at that moment when stepping off a plane, usually onto one of those rickety aluminum staircases, to feel that blanket of steamy air envelope your body, shocking in its torpor, with that simultaneous thrill of knowing you have left behind the cold and stress and tedium of the every day and landed on vacation at last. For me, the only reward of living in a cold weather climate, besides that phenomenal first flush of spring, is the leaving, and also the always welcome first days of summer. That moment you open your windows to capture the breeze and banish that stale overheated winter air. But it isn't only in winter when leaving is a delight. We spent many joyous holidays on Cape Cod and there is nothing equal to the thrill of crossing the bridge as that salty clean air fills your lungs and you know, once again, you are on holiday, in a totally different place, albeit familiar. A place that resonates with summer. For some, it's a lake that shimmers in the sunlight. A cabin in the woods, screen doors slamming all day and the nearly deafening sound of crickets at night. A bungalow on a secluded beach on an exotic island. An old-world hotel sitting on a hill in a secluded small town where the pleasure of the day is measured by tanned faces at dinner. Where sleep nearly overwhelms the body, eclipsing all sense and sound with the exception of that delicious flutter of moist night air through an open window. Ah, vacations in the warm. I have never been a winter weather vacationer, no skiing for me, but I suspect, beyond the difference in temperature, that the thrill of the familiar in an otherwise unfamiliar place is the essence of holiday no matter the climate. All wonderful and all the more wonderful because it is different. Away from the every day, not matter how wonderful. Okay, I'm a brat.

Understand please that living in a beach town is a gift and I know this. I see that fantastically ubiquitous Pacific every day, and delight in cool sea breezes blowing through the night. I can walk to the beach, even for a moment in the middle of the work-day, when the intensity is a bit too much, and that soothing sense of being that one can only find at the beach is always within reach. So wonderful. However, by virtue of its constancy, the beach town loses distinction. Hard to imagine why one would want to get away, and yet even the best in high doses can lose its glow. So, I’ve planned a holiday to Mexico with my daughters and even though that western coast offers not much more than what I have right here in Laguna Beach, when I get off the plane, I will be somewhere else, with different sights and scents and sensibilities. The sand might feel different, the scent of the sea perhaps more or less, and I might happily while away an afternoon at the hotel pool, my nose buried in a book, occasionally dipping my toes into cool water that is perpetually refreshed. Pools are a different feeling entirely, a vacation feeling. The beach is organic, connected to earth and sky, strengthened by the undulation of ocean waters and punctuated by the natural cushion of a billions of grains of sand. Pools are man-made and no matter their irregular edges or infinity shapes, they are an artifice, and as such, a distinct change of scene for a girl from a beach town. I will look forward to lounging there and enjoying the sounds and flavors of our southern neighbor, with the distinct pleasure of knowing that I will return to my beautiful little beach town refreshed and always grateful. How blessed are we, always to return to this place by the sea.

Feminist Boomer

2008-09-05T19:32:00.000-07:00

One can hardly be a boomer without being feminist. We are the perpetrators of the modern feminist movement. In 1970, the official launch of this phase, I entered the corporate world. Not by choice exactly. I had intended to be a writer or songwriter, but I lacked courage and I lacked resources. And I liked to eat. Quite by accident, I got a job as a gal-friday [remember that moniker?] at a marketing firm and because I was inquisitive and a quick study, I found myself suddenly elevated to a marketing analyst. The bottom rung on a ladder totally occupied by Harvard MBA's and former high-powered consultants and the only woman in a company that produced products for women. I didn't really want to be there but I found myself captured by the daily sense of productivity based only on good common sense, and an oppotunity to make more money in one year that my father had made in any five years of his life. I wasn't eager to be wealthy but oh how lovely to have money in your pocket and a savings account and a trip to the Caribbean each winter. I didn't exactly break any glass ceilings but I fractured a few. I wore pants suits with pride, although I steadfastly refused to wear those silk ties that truly serious business women wore in those days, and I remember an unexpected sense of achievement when I was refused entry to the Plaza Bar because I had pants on - I know this seems nearly barbaric now, but it was a rite of passage that we baby boomer working women endured. I mentored women in MBA programs both before and after I had my own. I stood up for flex time and part time assignments even though in those days they were anathema to the corporate big boys. I left my rising career slot at Lever Brothers when my first daughter was born because they refused me a 3-day a week assignment, despite my label as a "rising star" because, the personnel director said, "what kind of precedent might we set?" I withstood the advances of sales men at sales meetings, including the pressing of hotel room keys into my palm, and I resisted the advances of'[most]of my male colleagues, because it was bad form, although ultimately I married the man who had me at hello, but only after we were working at different firms. I kept my own checking account. I advocated for women's right to work and raise families or to choose one or the other. I educated my daughters to make lives of their own choosing and tried every single day to model such a life in order to prove it possible. And now, when a woman has advanced to a vice-presidential candidacy, I should be proud. Instead, I am ashamed that the candidate wants to ban books and drill into sacred land and holds her baby facing out as a talisman of motherhood, while neglecting to teach her daughter about safe sex. A woman who seems to see herself as a pit bull and behaves as such, and thus behaves more like a man, which I guess is her definition of feminism. Equal rights and equal opportunity, that's the essence of feminism, and the right to live the life of our own choosing, the same right generally afforded to [straight white] men. Opportunity not tokenism, that's what we're after, not opportunism or delusions of grandeur. I believe that we earn what we have, we seize opportunities worthy of our efforts, and we always, always consider the common good, not only for women but for all. Nearly 40 years later, we have part-time and flex-time and equal opportunity although still too often without equal pay, and we can have it all, but hopefully recognize that no one can be all things to all people and be equally good at everything. I've learned that good enough is often good enough, not to sacrifice goals or personal achievement, but because balance is everything, in all things. In the end, it is not our gender that matters, but our motives and our integrity. Truly, I want to be proud at this moment in history, but this is a set-back. And an insult to the many hard-working, experienced and wonderful women in important political positions who should have come first. Ironic that politics of the womb should be the greatest threat to equality for women since we first voted, and we need these votes to count more than ever. Vote for what matters, vote for the future in a way that fulfills the past.

Making the Move

2008-09-02T18:53:00.000-07:00

I never planned to move. I wasn’t sure what was in store for me once the kids had grown and my husband was gone. I just realized, after a lifetime of working and doing what was expected of me, that I was ready for something different, but what? I tend to be a planner, but this one time I rode the current of spontaneity and decided to relieve myself of winter and try something else on for size. I rented my house in CT and moved for three months to a little town I’d seen only twice in my life, but remembered well: Laguna Beach. My friend Ed called it a cross between Westport CT and Provincetown MA and that's a pretty good description. I didn’t even know about MTV or the OC at the time, but I knew that this town of craggy shoreline and voluptuous hillsides appealed to me. I have a fondness for topography and uneven edges. I like what the locals fondly refer to as shabby chic.

The first time I drove down the winding access road that insulates the town from the noise and grit of the freeway, I marveled that only seconds removed from a 10-lane highway the canyon takes over and you might be in Colorado or Utah for all the similarity to what most of us think of as Southern California. Brown in summer, green in winter, exactly the opposite of where I’d come from and only one of many fascinations. I was immediately charmed. No longer tethered from the type-A life of the East Coast, I learned to move a little slower, talk a little slower and savor much more of the natural environs. It was 2005, the winter of the rains, but even so, more often than not the sun broke through and the sky seemed bigger and brighter to me, and that Pacific Ocean was always there, a guidepost - one can never get lost because the Pacific is always south/west and mountains east. The ocean is always a slightly different shade of blue, sometimes churning, sometimes nearly flat as a lake, and perpetually enthralling for those who love water and love the color blue, as I do. Solitude those first three months was at times oppressive, and yet didn't damper my enthusiasm for the place. In fact, I discovered some comfort in the solitary life, with the environs of this lovely town a constant and true companion.

Three months later I returned to the beautiful suburb of New York City that I called home, happy to reconnect to my wonderful friends, but found myself longing for outdoor café’s and hikes in the hills and those remarkable sunsets at day's end. Truly, if you had ever asked me that I might find myself in middle age living in southern California, I would have asked you what you were smoking. I lived in San Francisco for a few months after college but it wasn’t a good time for me then, so I returned to NYC. All through the years, California called to me, despite my life-long love affair with NYC. I thought I might find myself someday in Berkeley, a wonderful place for literarati’s and intellectuals and social advocates, and also people who love great food. Or maybe Sausalito, that patch of land that shares some of the characteristics of this town. I spent a week-end in Santa Cruz once, another interesting coastal community, and of course have always marveled at Big Sur and Carmel and the endlessly hip and blustery towns further north, but I’m here on the Southern shore now, and I’ve found a way to make a life, a good life. Slowly but steadily making friends and becoming more and more familiar with the surrounds. Just last month I visited all the people I love most in CT and NYC and hated to leave, but as I drove back into the modest bustle of summertime Laguna Beach and caught sight of sunlight glimmering on the water, I felt that I had come home.

If you have even an inkling that there’s a place out there that might suit you better than where you are, or delight you in some new way, take the risk. A great way to get in touch with yourself, and who you might wish to become in the later stage of life. I’m not talking about retirement, I’m talking about simply another way of life. What’s that platitude? Never too late to become the person you want to be. I would say it’s never too late to adopt a lifestyle that you’d like to live. If nothing else, you challenge your own senses and perspective and shake yourself out of the inertia where so many of us too often reside forever. I prefer Laguna Beach.

In praise of breakfast

2008-09-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

This was a very good day. Labor Day, designated a holiday in order to skip labor. Well done. The day began [after the obligatory dog walk] with breakfast with Byron. Breakfast with Byron is one of my favorite pastimes, unfortunately more past than present as Byron now lives in Hong Kong. The best we can do as a rule is eat at the same time as we Skype, not the same. Now he is here visiting friends and family and we frequently meet in the morning. Breakfast is an under-rated outing. People gather for lunch or drinks or dinner, all good, but breakfast at an outdoor café may be the best dining out of all. Europeans know this well. So do South Americans. And Lagunans get it as well, as every morning, every café in town is flush with patrons sipping their lattes and munching on muffins and either scanning the newspaper, especially Fridays when the two local papers publish, or arguing the merits of town planning and politics with intimates. I know people who meet every morning this way. They all have their favorite place. Zinc is the chic breakfast place, known largely by locals but occasionally found by tourists who are forever confounded by the one door to the take-out market and another to the café, largely because all seating is outside.

There are at least a half dozen similar breakfast café’s around town, and all close by four. As if to clam that daylight is the best time for food with friends. Meetings are best held at breakfast. Deals are done as much over breakfast as on the golf course. Awakening to a new day we’re relaxed, open-minded, cheerful. The stresses of the day have not yet set in. Breakfast is an intimate act, like that first morning after the night before. It’s the time we once spent with children and before that our own parents. With room-mates and spouses and lovers. I like to meet friends for breakfast, although I’m known as a lady who lunches, which I also like to do, especially on the spur of the moment, and frankly, I’m quick to put down my pan and meet for a light dinner. I like scanning a menu to choose just what suits me at the moment. I like someone serving me with a smile [or not as in Europe. In Spain, they bark at you, Diga me! And of course one must order from the menu, no special orders as we Americans have turned into high art. Still, the experience is enhanced by the very presence of someone else doing the work.]

I do not mean for a moment to disparage home cooking. I like slow food, freshly prepared. But home is where the phone is. Where email alerts ring out from the desk. Where chores remain incomplete, laundry and ironing to be done. There’s enough of that all day, and always waiting for the return home. On the way to breakfast, all that is left behind the locked door for quiet time with a friend. I confess, I often take a book to breakfast, another not-so-guilty pleasure. Also a great place to read the newspaper without interruption, although alone it’s hard to bitch or read aloud smart words or stories that sting. Lunch is better served as a quick visit with a friend or business. Dinner is social or the quiet end to a busy day. Breakfast, nothing has started, nothing to finish, nothing to distract, not just yet.

The one great irony… I don’t drink coffee. Only tea, usually iced, and I knew I had truly landed in Laguna Beach the first time I stopped in at Heidelberg Café, one of my favorites, and before I placed my order for a lightly toasted healthy harvest muffin [whole grains and nuts and sweetened with juice, hits the spot] when Fernando, one of the constants behind the morning counter, poured my iced tea, no lemon. He doesn’t ever remember my name, but he knows what I drink. There is something truly wonderful about being known. Especially at breakfast. Makes one feel right at home.

What is home?

2008-09-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

What is home? Where the heart is? What heart is that – with your husband or partner, friends or family? Perhaps home is truly where you grew up, if you grew up in one place, although your parents or siblings are likely somewhere else and your childhood home is now a condo complex or a mall. I wonder if the whole concept of home is an economic construct, especially in this country, to support a consumerist economy where home means residence, with all the latest must-have stuff. A man I know makes his home on the street, by choice, largely because he’s easily frightened and claustrophobic, and his home he says is his guitar, a constant companion, which makes the sweet music one might associate with contentment. Home may traditionally be defined as native habitat, or perhaps a launch pad, and in cyberspace, the place to begin, like the home page, although home base is also the place one aims to land. A dictionary suggests home is simply an environment offering security and happiness, or a place of refuge. For those fleeing war, plague or poverty, home is their beloved country or the culture they cling to. What about the workplace as that home away from home? Surely we have multiple homes.

My first home was a tiny apartment where I shared a bedroom with my parents – my little bed pushed into a corner diagonally across from my parents’ not much larger one. In the dark of night, but before they came to bed, I listened to the distant omnipresent tremor of New York City and the regular punctuation of a subway train. Is home a series of sounds? Smells? I walk the streets of that city sometimes and the scents emanating from every bakery and restaurant remind me of the cacophony of pungent aromas wafting from apartment windows to greet a throng of street kids charging home to dinner. Is home merely environs that feel familiar? Or is home the place where you simply surround yourself with the familiar – my books are always first out of the box, and those few knick-knacks I retain only because they trigger sweet memories. Is home the place where you store memory? My parents moved from that tiny apartment when I turned twelve to a bigger apartment in a slightly more upscale neighborhood where my mother felt a sense of upward mobility and I slept in a little bedroom all alone, longing longed for the distant rumbling of a train. We lived there three years but I never felt at home there. As a young adult in Manhattan, I was awakened repeatedly by the sounds of drunks tossed from 2nd Avenue bars and the harsh blare of sirens, until I kept a promise to my new husband to move to our first of three houses in a picture-perfect suburb, sleeping to the sounds of leaves rustling on giant maple trees. One might say my home remained East Coast, or more specifically, the tri-state area, but in that pristine bedroom community I never felt completely at home until now when I go back to visit, and only because so many dear friends remain there.

Like the pioneers of old, when my husband was gone and my kids grown and flown, I migrated West, and soon after I relocated to Laguna Beach, my older daughter, who makes her home in London, visited me and said she was struck by the sense of home, she said, because our stuff was there. Stuff is easy to take with you. She, who in her short life has made homes for herself in New Orleans, Austin and Barcelona, forgave me moving away from her childhood home because, she said, home is where I am. So now I hang my hat in a beach town where I sometimes awaken to the sound of the surf, dulled by day by traffic along Pacific Coast Highway, and I feel at home, perhaps because I chose this place as where I want to be at this moment in my life. Is that all home is – the place that fits at this moment in your life? Works for me.