It is time again to take the boxes of winter holiday/Christmas acoutrements out. We gathered a fine noble fir from one of my yoga student's farms, and it sits waiting for decorations. A year has passed and my ornaments have diminished each year. I haven't purchased any lately, with the kids all grown, and barely able to arrange a time to come and see a tree. It has become an exercise in remembrance now, each ornament, where it came from, why I bought it, who made it, what year it represents and how much it appeals aestheticallly to someone looking at my tree with no knowledge of the history.
Silly, this stuff of mothers, but there it is.
Here is the history of ornaments passed, as well as I can remember them: (If I forget one of you, please forgive me, I have had too much on my mind as of late and doubtless when I am much, much older, the memory of you will return).
The first lost ornament would have been about 50 years ago, in Salem, OR. My Dad's folks came to Christmas day, and I was 6, so excited for our holiday and gifts, special foods. Ah, the child's view of Christmas. When Grandad came in the door, I pulled him over to our tree to show him my favorite ornament. It was one of those glass balls, painted in vivid colors, with *glitter* liberally covering the orb of it's surface. I held the bauble - we called them baubles- in my hand and said, "Look Grandad!"
Quiet Grandad, (Louis) humored me and smiled at my enthusiam. He was such a good, kind man. My ardor for the bauble reached a peak, and my hands squeezed it tightly enough that I crushed it. Yea, my little child hands made the glass ball break with the sound of a 'pop', and it fell to the floor in sad shards. I was mortified. Grandad did not know what to say. Luckily everyone knew it was an accident, and my parents did not make me feel bad. But oh, I missed that ornament, I missed it every year. It had a twin, but the twin was the lesser pretty of the 2, so every year I would either avoid that twin when we decorated the tree, or I would gingerly hang it, with a sad little heart.
The second lost ornaments happened many years later, when I was a mother. When my boys were little I made salt dough before Christmas, and we would sit around the kitchen table fashioning our Christmas ornaments. My kids are very creative, and I knew that years later I would cherish their creations, just as I cherished their child selves, fun loving and free.
We made ornaments every year for 5 or 6 years, marking the year on the back. In time, we moved to a house near the ocean, where lots of racoons lived. Can you see where this is going? Well, I could not, because I stored my Christmas boxes in the basement, where I had left a window open to vent the clothes dryer. (The previous owners had never seen fit to install a dryer vent, just one of those little things one misses when looking at a prospective house). So one day I went downstairs and found my boxes ravaged and a feast of salt dough had ocurred right there in my basement, the lovely carefully decorated creations of my children from so many years were now in shreds, or completely gone. First I was aghast, then I was very angry, and lastly I could not help wondering how acrylic paint and fixitive tasted to these hoodlums of the woods. They were huge racoons, by the way, they came up to the windows and looked in with absolutely no fear. They were as big as a large dog, but with human like hands. I had to not think of that too much. I made new dough and coaxed an ornament or 2 from the boys, but then they got too old for that sort of thing, and salt dough became a thing of the past.
The most recent ornaments lost were those I purchased while living at the coast, in one of those upscale Christmas shops. Glass, again seemed right, it cannot mold, be eaten, or dissipate into a mush over time. The peach ornament I bought the year my youngest son was liking peaches.. I wrote on it in indelible pen "Amery 1994, A peach of a guy" which. of course, he was. Every year that cute little peach came out, to remind him and me, of our mutual affection, and of the year, receding further and further into the past, of his connection, however brief, to peaches.
You see, I think these connections to our past selves is important. I think many, if not most of us are swimming in a sea of newness, without connection to what many events over thousands and millions of years conspired to bring us to this moment, with this combination of elements which allow us to survive and thrive.
So, I have delayed the telling of how I lost the peach. It was because I moved, and I had a few years where I had no room for a full tree, plus the floors in my home are now formica over concrete. And, I used a bare tree branch for a tree, "My Christmas twig" I called it, and it was easy to brush past and bump, knocking an ornament off it's tenuous little hook on twig. If that ornament were made of thin glass, and hit a hard surface, that is the end of it. So, I lost a peach, and a favorite blue glitter pine cone that way. Se la vie.
Maybe loosing long saved ornaments is part of the practice, a zen kind of opportunity. The chance to let go of the material world, even when one has infused it with all kinds of sentiment and meaning. Maybe this is truly advance training for the bigger stuff. The heart break of loosing loved ones, the ultimate experience of having to accept and let go, as we all have to do at some point, inevitably, inexorably and unequivocally.
My ornaments, my existential teachers. I will make new ones, find others, do with less and carefully love what I have left in my meager little Christmas box of life.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
6th Period Reading Class
ELD room at the High School in a smallish town,
Tim O"Brien is the subject on the page, his book,
"The Things They Carried" - so poignant for me,
I was their age, 13, 14, 15 when Vietnam
was a place of misery and death
for my generation at the mercy,
of my parents generation.
how to translate, to people who were 4 when the
Twin Towers went down in that apocalyptic cloud of smoke.
I gather my courage in response to the quiet apathy of these
who are the reading challenged, who come to class and zone out,
Who read words which are only words, empty of inspiration
Who do not know yet how to ask, because they do not envision
the questions yet.
For ten minutes I speak -
Of the men in my life and their own war stories.
Louis, my quiet grandfather
Driving his horse cart in France, age of 19,
the cart full of supplies
and he stops at a stream for water to bring the horses
while he is away, a bomb destroys the cart
And his son, alive then because his father survived
the war to end all wars
Robert becomes a navigator
flying planes to drop bombs
On targets in Japan.
My brother, alive because these fathers survived these world
wars,
he becomes a pacifist,
even as the draft lottery has his name at 18
registered or jail
56,000 of my generation perished in that one.
The students stopped their fidgeting, their eyes focused in my direction
It is dangerous to speak of politics,
but a story paints a picture,
A story carries the listener
makes the speaker human.
They listened, quietly for the first time in that hour.
A truth fell upon the room like a soft blanket.
A pretense was pulled away.
And when I came to the end, I hardly knew what I had said,
as though the spirit had take over,
and all the words flowed from some other consciousness,
from some deep pain of the recent Iraqi amputee,
from the old Vets for Peace who were not allowed
to march in the Auburn Veterans Day
parade,
from William Stafford, and all the men
who dared to be the rare CO's
in WWII - The " just" war.
From the young vets now, only the age of my sons,
committing suicide or drowning in alcohol
It came, from a higher place and
The wounded and dead helped me tell it.
I only hope to honor them
by breaking the cycle
somehow
someday
by
telling
stories.
Tim O"Brien is the subject on the page, his book,
"The Things They Carried" - so poignant for me,
I was their age, 13, 14, 15 when Vietnam
was a place of misery and death
for my generation at the mercy,
of my parents generation.
how to translate, to people who were 4 when the
Twin Towers went down in that apocalyptic cloud of smoke.
I gather my courage in response to the quiet apathy of these
who are the reading challenged, who come to class and zone out,
Who read words which are only words, empty of inspiration
Who do not know yet how to ask, because they do not envision
the questions yet.
For ten minutes I speak -
Of the men in my life and their own war stories.
Louis, my quiet grandfather
Driving his horse cart in France, age of 19,
the cart full of supplies
and he stops at a stream for water to bring the horses
while he is away, a bomb destroys the cart
And his son, alive then because his father survived
the war to end all wars
Robert becomes a navigator
flying planes to drop bombs
On targets in Japan.
My brother, alive because these fathers survived these world
wars,
he becomes a pacifist,
even as the draft lottery has his name at 18
registered or jail
56,000 of my generation perished in that one.
The students stopped their fidgeting, their eyes focused in my direction
It is dangerous to speak of politics,
but a story paints a picture,
A story carries the listener
makes the speaker human.
They listened, quietly for the first time in that hour.
A truth fell upon the room like a soft blanket.
A pretense was pulled away.
And when I came to the end, I hardly knew what I had said,
as though the spirit had take over,
and all the words flowed from some other consciousness,
from some deep pain of the recent Iraqi amputee,
from the old Vets for Peace who were not allowed
to march in the Auburn Veterans Day
parade,
from William Stafford, and all the men
who dared to be the rare CO's
in WWII - The " just" war.
From the young vets now, only the age of my sons,
committing suicide or drowning in alcohol
It came, from a higher place and
The wounded and dead helped me tell it.
I only hope to honor them
by breaking the cycle
somehow
someday
by
telling
stories.
Friday, November 9, 2012
This Night, 2012, Questions of Leaders
It is now 1:00 am of election night, 2012. A black man has claimed his 2nd term against an onslaught of racism and lies from his opponents.
I attended Raja yoga class all evening, and tried not to listen to any comments on the returns. Our teacher: " You may think worldly things matter, ... like who is president... but none of it stacks up to your spiritual being."
Forgive me teacher, I do not quote you accurately, I paraphrase, yet I am elated at the returns, and would be the opposite if the situation were reversed. Make me worldly because of that, but there are so many issues which hang in the balance, many personally worrisome in my own life, I had a huge amount at stake on this evening of a quarter moon at the beginning of November .
Our class subject tonight, ironically, focused upon gurus, and their role. What is a guru, and how have ours operated through time to bring our little class to where it sat tonight, pondering the truest path to enlightenment? No simple answer can be given to that question, but there we all were, while a $2.5 billion election was finalizing itself, like a long, expensive football game.
As a country we just endured more than 18 months of electioneering, which involved a huge amount of the breaking of the Yama 'non- lying', and possibly the one that admonishes 'non'stealing'. It is hard for me to separate the issues of government from issues of spirituality. If this were Mitt Romney as angry tyrant, engaging the disparaging masses toward wrong thought because they need a scapegoat to their victimhood, I have a hard time just letting that one pass without some strident response. The hope is that their bad Karma will take them down, as it has seemed to do tonight.
As I check my facebook and emails, I am comforted by the elation from my friends, gay people, musicians, teachers, civil rights lawyers and many others I know who are just good, informed working folks who know which side of the bread their butter is on.
The numbers had me disappointed earlier because Obama was ahead in the popular vote by slightly less than a million. As the counts move toward the west, my dear homeland, his popular lead increases. The last I checked, my president leads by more than 1.8 million. The west coast is an entirely different country from the South or the Midwest. We are a polarized country, carrying all the neurosis associated with that affliction.
Ah, but gods and goddesses, Divine Mother, thank you for the 57 million or more who were able to vote against corruption, and lies and shifty voting policies, to elect a decent man. May the future improve with this motion forward.
I attended Raja yoga class all evening, and tried not to listen to any comments on the returns. Our teacher: " You may think worldly things matter, ... like who is president... but none of it stacks up to your spiritual being."
Forgive me teacher, I do not quote you accurately, I paraphrase, yet I am elated at the returns, and would be the opposite if the situation were reversed. Make me worldly because of that, but there are so many issues which hang in the balance, many personally worrisome in my own life, I had a huge amount at stake on this evening of a quarter moon at the beginning of November .
Our class subject tonight, ironically, focused upon gurus, and their role. What is a guru, and how have ours operated through time to bring our little class to where it sat tonight, pondering the truest path to enlightenment? No simple answer can be given to that question, but there we all were, while a $2.5 billion election was finalizing itself, like a long, expensive football game.
As a country we just endured more than 18 months of electioneering, which involved a huge amount of the breaking of the Yama 'non- lying', and possibly the one that admonishes 'non'stealing'. It is hard for me to separate the issues of government from issues of spirituality. If this were Mitt Romney as angry tyrant, engaging the disparaging masses toward wrong thought because they need a scapegoat to their victimhood, I have a hard time just letting that one pass without some strident response. The hope is that their bad Karma will take them down, as it has seemed to do tonight.
As I check my facebook and emails, I am comforted by the elation from my friends, gay people, musicians, teachers, civil rights lawyers and many others I know who are just good, informed working folks who know which side of the bread their butter is on.
The numbers had me disappointed earlier because Obama was ahead in the popular vote by slightly less than a million. As the counts move toward the west, my dear homeland, his popular lead increases. The last I checked, my president leads by more than 1.8 million. The west coast is an entirely different country from the South or the Midwest. We are a polarized country, carrying all the neurosis associated with that affliction.
Ah, but gods and goddesses, Divine Mother, thank you for the 57 million or more who were able to vote against corruption, and lies and shifty voting policies, to elect a decent man. May the future improve with this motion forward.
Haiku for Misty Fall Day
Last Leaves
My dogwood tree waits
Sparse leaves hold against a breeze
Birds visit quietly
My dogwood tree waits
Sparse leaves hold against a breeze
Birds visit quietly
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Wet October Night
Indian summer is a long ago dream now, as the wood stove creaks and sighs in the background of my warm rooms. The last of the tomatoes simmers into sauce on it's surface, the perfect dual use for the wood gathered all spring and summer. The grapes have been stemmed, crushed, pressed and safely tucked away into their next phase. Many gallons of wine red and white are finding natural yeast, and already taste like wine after 2 weeks of nothing but this air. One batch of Pinot Noir jelly sits on the counter, slowly thickening into it's jell.
The jams of cherry, strawberry and plum have a new shelf, under the green beans, applesauce, over the pickles, tomatio sauce and potatoes. The second most comforting thing next to a woodstove is a full larder. It's just a used bookcase we found at a little Lafayette thrift store for 20.00, but it holds the winter's goodies and lots of work in a nice arrangement rather like a gallery of food behind glass.
October.
Soon we will celebrate the Day of the Dead. Harvest time and the light change makes us think of our mortality it would seem. We approach winter with all the best intentions, and yet our own unknown expiration date is always there somewhere, and we think of those who have gone before, hoping they will light the way for us, because love is the thing which survives death.
Here I wash the floors, scrub the sinks, hang the laundry by the woodstove - ah- it serves three functions tonight.
The air outside is almost tropical, the drops of rain huge and random. I watch the progress of Hurricane Sandy 3000 miles away, and wonder if there is any relation to our rain storm, maybe they are second cousins once removed? There is poetic justice in the concept that a big storm is interrupting the presidential election campaigns. I wish the common people, the workers who make the rich rich, I wish them to be high and dry. As for the rich, if global warming sends a flood into their luxury, there is some justice in that. (Not that I wish it at all. In Catholic School I learned that is a sin, and I think it still is wrong, to wish misfortune upon others, even cretins who are insensitive and speak leisurely of rape.)
On this peaceful night the air is inky black, no moon shines, the middle of autumn. It becomes time to vote, and to harvest walnuts for Christmas fruitcake. It becomes time to stand back quietly and notice the work of busy months past. We become what we reap, what we sow, as the light decreases slowly toward solstice.
Indian summer is a long ago dream now, as the wood stove creaks and sighs in the background of my warm rooms. The last of the tomatoes simmers into sauce on it's surface, the perfect dual use for the wood gathered all spring and summer. The grapes have been stemmed, crushed, pressed and safely tucked away into their next phase. Many gallons of wine red and white are finding natural yeast, and already taste like wine after 2 weeks of nothing but this air. One batch of Pinot Noir jelly sits on the counter, slowly thickening into it's jell.
The jams of cherry, strawberry and plum have a new shelf, under the green beans, applesauce, over the pickles, tomatio sauce and potatoes. The second most comforting thing next to a woodstove is a full larder. It's just a used bookcase we found at a little Lafayette thrift store for 20.00, but it holds the winter's goodies and lots of work in a nice arrangement rather like a gallery of food behind glass.
October.
Soon we will celebrate the Day of the Dead. Harvest time and the light change makes us think of our mortality it would seem. We approach winter with all the best intentions, and yet our own unknown expiration date is always there somewhere, and we think of those who have gone before, hoping they will light the way for us, because love is the thing which survives death.
Here I wash the floors, scrub the sinks, hang the laundry by the woodstove - ah- it serves three functions tonight.
The air outside is almost tropical, the drops of rain huge and random. I watch the progress of Hurricane Sandy 3000 miles away, and wonder if there is any relation to our rain storm, maybe they are second cousins once removed? There is poetic justice in the concept that a big storm is interrupting the presidential election campaigns. I wish the common people, the workers who make the rich rich, I wish them to be high and dry. As for the rich, if global warming sends a flood into their luxury, there is some justice in that. (Not that I wish it at all. In Catholic School I learned that is a sin, and I think it still is wrong, to wish misfortune upon others, even cretins who are insensitive and speak leisurely of rape.)
On this peaceful night the air is inky black, no moon shines, the middle of autumn. It becomes time to vote, and to harvest walnuts for Christmas fruitcake. It becomes time to stand back quietly and notice the work of busy months past. We become what we reap, what we sow, as the light decreases slowly toward solstice.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Flowing Free
The Elwha River is now flowing free for the first time in 80 years. I went to see it with my own eyes. As I walked over the hills of accumulated silt which was the bottom of Lake Aldwell, I thought of Monica, my Elwha friend. She, who told me that Elwha means "deep voiced people", and that the legendary Elwha King Salmon was gone since the damns were built.
I have not seen or heard from Monica for many years. I moved away from that valley below Mt. Olympus, and only now return to visit in the hills above where my brother has made his home for more than 30 years.
We walked the new river bed together, and words did not come for the feeling of seeing a river literally 'breathing' after being strangled in the hands of profiteers who knew or cared nothing about the connection to life salmon has been for thousands of years to the natives of this land.
Now fish have become a political issue. If you have noticed the price rising into brackets where only the rich can afford fresh local fish like halibut, cod and salmon. Fish used to be s staple food for those living near water. Now it is a luxury.
May the salmon come back to the reaches above the Elwha, 22,000 acres of pristine habitat protected by Olympic National Park. The Elwha have a salmon coming home song, and they are singing it now with hope.
I have not seen or heard from Monica for many years. I moved away from that valley below Mt. Olympus, and only now return to visit in the hills above where my brother has made his home for more than 30 years.
We walked the new river bed together, and words did not come for the feeling of seeing a river literally 'breathing' after being strangled in the hands of profiteers who knew or cared nothing about the connection to life salmon has been for thousands of years to the natives of this land.
Now fish have become a political issue. If you have noticed the price rising into brackets where only the rich can afford fresh local fish like halibut, cod and salmon. Fish used to be s staple food for those living near water. Now it is a luxury.
May the salmon come back to the reaches above the Elwha, 22,000 acres of pristine habitat protected by Olympic National Park. The Elwha have a salmon coming home song, and they are singing it now with hope.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Buying Magic
Buying Magic
"The swans, they were so pretty,
on the little lake...
How did they get the swans?"
I say " You can buy swans." She says, " You CAN?"
Like swans are magical, they should only appear
from the etheral whims of fairy tale themes.
Because really,
you should not
be able to buy magic.
"The swans, they were so pretty,
on the little lake...
How did they get the swans?"
I say " You can buy swans." She says, " You CAN?"
Like swans are magical, they should only appear
from the etheral whims of fairy tale themes.
Because really,
you should not
be able to buy magic.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Autumn Equinox 2012
Today the rains came, temperatures dropped into sweater territory. Right on cue the curtain fell on summer. How does the cosmos know how to do that so precisely?
A pile of red tomatoes is heaped on my kitchen counter. Some are split from the rain and quickly saved into a slowly simmering sauce. The smell of that sauce is fall, the night comes along inky dark. My African music on Pandora radio comforts what is left of the day.
It is with great and earnest idealism that I find these days those in the public sphere who comport themselves with the greatest dignity and integrity are those with whom I align my allegiances. How about that for some 19th Century language? A tip-toe around the subject of politics, that dire and dangerous territory where my country is drawing the lines of divisive ideologies deeper, bolder, more dramatic every day.
How I miss the educated, idealist Kennedy types who used to hold more sway on the national stage. They had money, but they were also fiercely dedicated to causes which uplifted all, like the Peace Corps. This morning I was fortunate to have 3 emails from a young acquaintance who is just beginning his Peace Corps teaching assignment in Guana, Africa. Jakob writes of the images, the cultural differences, the food, the land, the kids, and the way his experiences are shaping him as a person. I find myself reading his words, being there in spirit, with a village of people living simply and being generous and respectful to the new American English teacher, who left the country where the streets are paved with gold, to live in a meager cabin with few amenities. Jakob is looking for the world, and he is finding it. John F. Kennedy began that program. How I miss him, and his brothers!
Later on I watch a video of Edward Kennedy's predecessor hammer on a Harvard Law professor who is running against him for the Senate seat in Massachusetts. This white, male WASPy cretin took the first 10 minutes of a televised debate to attack his opponent on the subject of her Native American heritage, and how he alleges she was hired only because of Affirmative Action to her Harvard position. Was he diverting, quickly and desperately, from any comment or connection to the pathetic and embarrassing candidate his own party is running for President of this "great land"?
I miss the Kennedy idealism, the football on the beach, the wind swept hair, the little kids everywhere, the great speeches with phrases like "Ask not, what your country can do for you...." The eloquence, the obvious culture and decorum, the humility, the humanity, the chiseled handsome looks which bespoke of outdoor pursuits, and an open mind.
I miss the years of my own youth where I believed in an evolving world, where education and civic duty would save us from ourselves. It is hard to be in this new world, not brave, but full of bravado. The seven deadly sins come back full force, despite The Bible being carried about like a gun.
A pile of red tomatoes is heaped on my kitchen counter. Some are split from the rain and quickly saved into a slowly simmering sauce. The smell of that sauce is fall, the night comes along inky dark. My African music on Pandora radio comforts what is left of the day.
It is with great and earnest idealism that I find these days those in the public sphere who comport themselves with the greatest dignity and integrity are those with whom I align my allegiances. How about that for some 19th Century language? A tip-toe around the subject of politics, that dire and dangerous territory where my country is drawing the lines of divisive ideologies deeper, bolder, more dramatic every day.
How I miss the educated, idealist Kennedy types who used to hold more sway on the national stage. They had money, but they were also fiercely dedicated to causes which uplifted all, like the Peace Corps. This morning I was fortunate to have 3 emails from a young acquaintance who is just beginning his Peace Corps teaching assignment in Guana, Africa. Jakob writes of the images, the cultural differences, the food, the land, the kids, and the way his experiences are shaping him as a person. I find myself reading his words, being there in spirit, with a village of people living simply and being generous and respectful to the new American English teacher, who left the country where the streets are paved with gold, to live in a meager cabin with few amenities. Jakob is looking for the world, and he is finding it. John F. Kennedy began that program. How I miss him, and his brothers!
Later on I watch a video of Edward Kennedy's predecessor hammer on a Harvard Law professor who is running against him for the Senate seat in Massachusetts. This white, male WASPy cretin took the first 10 minutes of a televised debate to attack his opponent on the subject of her Native American heritage, and how he alleges she was hired only because of Affirmative Action to her Harvard position. Was he diverting, quickly and desperately, from any comment or connection to the pathetic and embarrassing candidate his own party is running for President of this "great land"?
I miss the Kennedy idealism, the football on the beach, the wind swept hair, the little kids everywhere, the great speeches with phrases like "Ask not, what your country can do for you...." The eloquence, the obvious culture and decorum, the humility, the humanity, the chiseled handsome looks which bespoke of outdoor pursuits, and an open mind.
I miss the years of my own youth where I believed in an evolving world, where education and civic duty would save us from ourselves. It is hard to be in this new world, not brave, but full of bravado. The seven deadly sins come back full force, despite The Bible being carried about like a gun.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Dry/Seco
Here in the 'Pacific Northwet' we are into a month at least of dryness. Painting jobs are made easier, and the grass finally stops growing. The plants not watered have become brown stalks. There is a preponderance of the color 'gold' in our landscape.
In early summer we heard of heat waves in every other part of our country. Heat waves over a hundred degrees, where the new plants had no chance to take hold. Friends in the East coast complained to us here in the Northwest of the discomfort with the extreme unrelenting heat as though they knew how cool we were, (literally and figuratively). Our early summers are so cold, sometimes it feels impossible that a summer will ever come, and then, strangely, after the 4th of July something shifts. It gets warm and the garden vegetables begin to suddenly grow in noticeable spurts.
Even though the ground is too dry to dig anything out or in, the gophers manage to root around, creating the piles which signal their habitat. The moles go for the only places one waters, like the black-eyed susan flowers I guard and nurse every year. A mole hole rises exactly in the middle of my beautiful plant. It is hard to like 'wildlife' when I see that....
I mowed the weeds today, the little yellow flowers that are everywhere and go to seed. Even mowed weeds look OK. Last night there were coyotes howling and all the animals in the area, cows, dogs, cats etc, were making extra noise. The air is so dry, the fir trees are giving off that mountain air pine smell - exquisite. In a few weeks this will all be a memory, but for now the night is warm and full of stars. The breezes blow into open windows warm even in the dark. We pretend we live in a different climate zone, briefly.
In early summer we heard of heat waves in every other part of our country. Heat waves over a hundred degrees, where the new plants had no chance to take hold. Friends in the East coast complained to us here in the Northwest of the discomfort with the extreme unrelenting heat as though they knew how cool we were, (literally and figuratively). Our early summers are so cold, sometimes it feels impossible that a summer will ever come, and then, strangely, after the 4th of July something shifts. It gets warm and the garden vegetables begin to suddenly grow in noticeable spurts.
Even though the ground is too dry to dig anything out or in, the gophers manage to root around, creating the piles which signal their habitat. The moles go for the only places one waters, like the black-eyed susan flowers I guard and nurse every year. A mole hole rises exactly in the middle of my beautiful plant. It is hard to like 'wildlife' when I see that....
I mowed the weeds today, the little yellow flowers that are everywhere and go to seed. Even mowed weeds look OK. Last night there were coyotes howling and all the animals in the area, cows, dogs, cats etc, were making extra noise. The air is so dry, the fir trees are giving off that mountain air pine smell - exquisite. In a few weeks this will all be a memory, but for now the night is warm and full of stars. The breezes blow into open windows warm even in the dark. We pretend we live in a different climate zone, briefly.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Indian Summer
Today there is a prevailing east wind, the grass is dry and crackly, summer is winding down. Plants like foxglove and feverfew are sending out little flowers, their last gasp. Plants that produce huge amounts of seed are spreading themselves cleverly as I clip the dried stems and haul them out and away, but not before they drop a hundred little seeds as hardy as the winter is long, seeds which, if not found by the birds will bring lots more of their species into the lawn, the beds, and even the cracks between the pavement.
A human with a strong spirit is like a wild daisy, or a poppy in the dry, shorter days just before the equinox. The spirit sends out seeds, flowers, seizing the moment before winter sets in. How do we keep our spirits strong and feisty? How do we stand up like the last lemon yellow calendula flower against the hot dry winds of oppression and inequity?
Everyone seems to have some way to do it, everyone who survives. Swami Kriyananda spoke last Sunday of "not wanting". How do we live, thrive, create and love without wanting? It must be somewhere in the dichotomy of Eckart Tolle's statement, "Don't look for peace." We free ourselves from desire, and the incessant search for illusive ideals, and then... be.
A human with a strong spirit is like a wild daisy, or a poppy in the dry, shorter days just before the equinox. The spirit sends out seeds, flowers, seizing the moment before winter sets in. How do we keep our spirits strong and feisty? How do we stand up like the last lemon yellow calendula flower against the hot dry winds of oppression and inequity?
Everyone seems to have some way to do it, everyone who survives. Swami Kriyananda spoke last Sunday of "not wanting". How do we live, thrive, create and love without wanting? It must be somewhere in the dichotomy of Eckart Tolle's statement, "Don't look for peace." We free ourselves from desire, and the incessant search for illusive ideals, and then... be.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Sleepless in Bellevue
The beautiful weather of August taunts me as I find myself spending a week as assistant, caregiver, tile fixer, paint crew laison and "chief cook and bottle washer" here in suburbia turned small wealthy city via microsoft.
(My window spell check puts the angry red line under the word 'microsoft')
I went to the local Home Depot, which is probably the closest one to the famed area of downtown Bellevue, and it is busy as a beehive. Outside in the parking lot stand 10-12 Hispanic men waiting for day labor. The contrast is striking between the white population shopping, and this little group at the edges of the economy. As I leave the store with my little tube of silicone caulking, I fantasize about hiring one of them to sit and "platicar" en Espanol for an hour at the nearby Starbucks. An easy 12.00/hour or whatever their going rate is. It seems like a good story, and a great way to get my conversational Spanish up to traveling standards. Maybe I will do it in the winter, when being inside will be a welcome option.
Right now the weather in the Pacific Northwest is just lovely. When I set my Mom up for a massage yesterday, we didn't need extra heaters or blankets. The air was toasty warm naturally. We take it when we can get it.
Mom turns 87 on Friday. We have been having mini birthday events all week, including a cherry pie I made just like the ones she made from our cherries in Salem, OR, where we lived when I was little. It was a different time and place, not like this Bellevue life. Reminiscing is one of my folk's favorite pastimes these days. I totally relate, as I am old enough to love that too. I'm sure my sons have had enough of my stories about how cute they were and what funny things they did with words when they were little. Someday they may understand, as they pile on the years and realize how much there is in the old memory banks. Some precious bits bear pulling out every now and then to look at like the jewelry in safe deposit box.
Later today my sister and I will go through 45+ years of accumulated books, to find homes for them, maybe a little cash too. I'm sure the children's books will bring a little tear of nostalgia, knowing they were read to our little children by their loving grandparents. Some things will never happen again, but we hold their essence in our hearts.
(My window spell check puts the angry red line under the word 'microsoft')
I went to the local Home Depot, which is probably the closest one to the famed area of downtown Bellevue, and it is busy as a beehive. Outside in the parking lot stand 10-12 Hispanic men waiting for day labor. The contrast is striking between the white population shopping, and this little group at the edges of the economy. As I leave the store with my little tube of silicone caulking, I fantasize about hiring one of them to sit and "platicar" en Espanol for an hour at the nearby Starbucks. An easy 12.00/hour or whatever their going rate is. It seems like a good story, and a great way to get my conversational Spanish up to traveling standards. Maybe I will do it in the winter, when being inside will be a welcome option.
Right now the weather in the Pacific Northwest is just lovely. When I set my Mom up for a massage yesterday, we didn't need extra heaters or blankets. The air was toasty warm naturally. We take it when we can get it.
Mom turns 87 on Friday. We have been having mini birthday events all week, including a cherry pie I made just like the ones she made from our cherries in Salem, OR, where we lived when I was little. It was a different time and place, not like this Bellevue life. Reminiscing is one of my folk's favorite pastimes these days. I totally relate, as I am old enough to love that too. I'm sure my sons have had enough of my stories about how cute they were and what funny things they did with words when they were little. Someday they may understand, as they pile on the years and realize how much there is in the old memory banks. Some precious bits bear pulling out every now and then to look at like the jewelry in safe deposit box.
Later today my sister and I will go through 45+ years of accumulated books, to find homes for them, maybe a little cash too. I'm sure the children's books will bring a little tear of nostalgia, knowing they were read to our little children by their loving grandparents. Some things will never happen again, but we hold their essence in our hearts.
Monday, July 30, 2012
End of July
The perennial question: where does the summer go? Already we have arrived to the last days of July, and so August with part of September is left, our last chance to be in summer. Being is the trick. Being in this time of warmth, long nights, fresh berries and fruits coming along in a kind of gentle sequence. Friends visiting who like the view and the relative cool.
Last weekend was wine tasting with my sis Therese and her man Greg. Curtis drove the hills, with Greg up front, Therese and I sitting in back being the girls, being who we have always been with each other, taking the best of the moment and laughing a whole bunch.
The four of us, playing poker into the wee hours, with our pennies and our wine. She and I laugh, the kind of laughs which bring tears and cleanse the body. The laugh we inherited from our Grama. The laugh I remember viscerally, so grateful that I can still experience that feeling. It is a way of saying to life:
"I am so in the moment, I can feel this abandon, even though 26 Billionaires may be trying to steal my country even as I write."
Sparrow writes, in 'Poor Sparrow's Almanac', (August Sun Magazine):
"The rich chuckle; the poor laugh."
I think I would rather laugh if given the choice. My car is old and dusty, but it knows the way to the best wineries in our neighborhood, the insurance is low, and it always starts.
July, the month of dust, green grapes, ripe radishes and raspberries, lots of visitors who like scones and home roasted coffee in the morning, with all that crazy jam we made last fall.
August will bring the blackberries and cabbage, astors and dahlias, carrots and basil. My mom, who is good at laughing and giggling will turn 87 in August, and I think her daughters will be there to get some good belly busters going, kleenex on hand. We will invoke her mom, Brama, our queen of the good giggle.
Last weekend was wine tasting with my sis Therese and her man Greg. Curtis drove the hills, with Greg up front, Therese and I sitting in back being the girls, being who we have always been with each other, taking the best of the moment and laughing a whole bunch.
The four of us, playing poker into the wee hours, with our pennies and our wine. She and I laugh, the kind of laughs which bring tears and cleanse the body. The laugh we inherited from our Grama. The laugh I remember viscerally, so grateful that I can still experience that feeling. It is a way of saying to life:
"I am so in the moment, I can feel this abandon, even though 26 Billionaires may be trying to steal my country even as I write."
Sparrow writes, in 'Poor Sparrow's Almanac', (August Sun Magazine):
"The rich chuckle; the poor laugh."
I think I would rather laugh if given the choice. My car is old and dusty, but it knows the way to the best wineries in our neighborhood, the insurance is low, and it always starts.
July, the month of dust, green grapes, ripe radishes and raspberries, lots of visitors who like scones and home roasted coffee in the morning, with all that crazy jam we made last fall.
August will bring the blackberries and cabbage, astors and dahlias, carrots and basil. My mom, who is good at laughing and giggling will turn 87 in August, and I think her daughters will be there to get some good belly busters going, kleenex on hand. We will invoke her mom, Brama, our queen of the good giggle.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Forty Years Later ~
Recently I received an invitation in the mail to attend the Garfield High School Class of '72 reunion. So many memories returned as I read the details, and briefly considered attending, if only to tell my story and find closure to a painful memory.
I couldn't figure out why I got the invitation, because I only attended Garfield for a month. One of the longest, scariest, most challenging months of my life. Certainly at 15, it was the hardest cause I'd ever undertaken. I was a white kid from the suburbs who volunteered to get bussed across Lake
Washington into the inner city of Seattle, to a high school which was 80% black. We could have also chosen Franklin High School, which had a 30/30/30 split of the races, but Lori, Diane and I, ( we called ourselves 'the Garfield three') chose the greatest challenge on purpose. Fresh out of Junior High and looking for a way out of the snobbery and shallow culture of Bellevue, we signed on to what amounted to 'reverse busing' to a place we thought would be exciting and new.
To this day I do not know whose idea that program was. It had merit, but as you shall see, there was no support system set up for the hapless young students who thought they were just entering a sort of "Room 222" or "Welcome Back Cotter" type world. For those of you born after the 70's, that is a reference to two popular TV sitcoms about inner city high schools. They were funny and clever, and everyone was so congenial and cool. Ah... an example of how the media creates its own reality.
It was 1972. The political situation regarding race was complicated. The Black Panthers were strong and the Civil Rights struggles were fresh. However, we idealistic youngsters were naive enough to believe that racism in America was essentially over. Forty years later I am stunned to find that racism in America seems to be increasing.
The story of our month was this: We attended classes, and walked the halls. Some days it seemed OK, we would only get questions from out of the blue like, "Are you from Mercer Island?" Too often, though, girls would follow us asking for money. "White bitch, gimme a quarter". Going into some of the bathrooms was an exercise in courage. There would be a few girls hanging out at the sinks, staring with burning hate as I walked past. I know what it feels like to try not to exist. After a few weeks I began to understand from the inside out what living as a black person in America felt like.
On a Friday in the 4th week of school, there was a football game rally during the last hour of the day. Everyone was hyped up. I could feel the energy, and I knew I did not belong. It was hard to feel a part of the school when we went home to a whole different town, even likely to go to the football game at our local high school, Sammamish.
The five of us who took the same bus stood waiting at our corner behind the school gym. The bus didn't come on time, and the minutes went by, until it was over an hour late. We stood there, not knowing what to do. This is before cell phones, remember how that was? We didn't have access to a phone nearby, and no idea even who to call to find out what was happening with the bus.
Meanwhile a group of kids was leaving the rally, and they saw us on the sidewalk. They began calling us names and getting very close, screaming at us. They hit one girl in the face. I can still see the red mark, her broken glasses, and her stunned look. She was from another school, and we didn't know her very well. She was a small, serious girl and I could not figure out why they hit her. We all began to walk away, to get off that corner to somewhere, anywhere to ask for help. A police car cruised by, and we turned to it with relief. The black kids following us quickly disappeared.
The police asked us what we were doing there, and what was going on. We explained our predicament, and I remember them looking at each other and chuckling, like we were so stupid to get our dumbass white selves into that crazy situation. I felt such disappointment in these men, (both white) who were there to "serve and protect". They reluctantly offered us a ride up to a store which had a phone. They acted callous, even as we were clearly traumatized and scared.
We called the school district office and they were able to tell us that a tanker truck had overturned on the Lake Washington Bridge. Our bus was stuck on the wrong side of the accident. They assured us that it would arrive within the hour. We waited at the store, and the bus finally made it. The rest of the night is a blur. The last part of the memory is that I never wanted to go back to Garfield again. I felt like a coward, but I never did make myself go back.
So when I got the reunion invitation, I fantasized about showing up, just to see if there was anyone who remembered any of my month. It amazes me to think that some of those students are now almost 60 years old, we all have many years between us and the complicated angst filled days of high school in Vietnam War- Nixon era America. If I could bet on the type of person putting on this event, I am betting it was not one of those angry girls hanging in the bathrooms, or following me calling me names. I wasn't there long enough to make connections with the kind people. Consequently I remember the angry people forever. Yet, maybe it was only youth and the insecurities of adolescence which caused the hatred. Oh, and economic inequality, a history of slavery and violence, and that thing which dogged us then, and dogs us now - ignorance.
The dates have passed and I can only hope the reunion was a success and the class of '72 had fun. Maybe if they invite me again to the 50th, I'll try to attend.
Recently I received an invitation in the mail to attend the Garfield High School Class of '72 reunion. So many memories returned as I read the details, and briefly considered attending, if only to tell my story and find closure to a painful memory.
I couldn't figure out why I got the invitation, because I only attended Garfield for a month. One of the longest, scariest, most challenging months of my life. Certainly at 15, it was the hardest cause I'd ever undertaken. I was a white kid from the suburbs who volunteered to get bussed across Lake
Washington into the inner city of Seattle, to a high school which was 80% black. We could have also chosen Franklin High School, which had a 30/30/30 split of the races, but Lori, Diane and I, ( we called ourselves 'the Garfield three') chose the greatest challenge on purpose. Fresh out of Junior High and looking for a way out of the snobbery and shallow culture of Bellevue, we signed on to what amounted to 'reverse busing' to a place we thought would be exciting and new.
To this day I do not know whose idea that program was. It had merit, but as you shall see, there was no support system set up for the hapless young students who thought they were just entering a sort of "Room 222" or "Welcome Back Cotter" type world. For those of you born after the 70's, that is a reference to two popular TV sitcoms about inner city high schools. They were funny and clever, and everyone was so congenial and cool. Ah... an example of how the media creates its own reality.
It was 1972. The political situation regarding race was complicated. The Black Panthers were strong and the Civil Rights struggles were fresh. However, we idealistic youngsters were naive enough to believe that racism in America was essentially over. Forty years later I am stunned to find that racism in America seems to be increasing.
The story of our month was this: We attended classes, and walked the halls. Some days it seemed OK, we would only get questions from out of the blue like, "Are you from Mercer Island?" Too often, though, girls would follow us asking for money. "White bitch, gimme a quarter". Going into some of the bathrooms was an exercise in courage. There would be a few girls hanging out at the sinks, staring with burning hate as I walked past. I know what it feels like to try not to exist. After a few weeks I began to understand from the inside out what living as a black person in America felt like.
On a Friday in the 4th week of school, there was a football game rally during the last hour of the day. Everyone was hyped up. I could feel the energy, and I knew I did not belong. It was hard to feel a part of the school when we went home to a whole different town, even likely to go to the football game at our local high school, Sammamish.
The five of us who took the same bus stood waiting at our corner behind the school gym. The bus didn't come on time, and the minutes went by, until it was over an hour late. We stood there, not knowing what to do. This is before cell phones, remember how that was? We didn't have access to a phone nearby, and no idea even who to call to find out what was happening with the bus.
Meanwhile a group of kids was leaving the rally, and they saw us on the sidewalk. They began calling us names and getting very close, screaming at us. They hit one girl in the face. I can still see the red mark, her broken glasses, and her stunned look. She was from another school, and we didn't know her very well. She was a small, serious girl and I could not figure out why they hit her. We all began to walk away, to get off that corner to somewhere, anywhere to ask for help. A police car cruised by, and we turned to it with relief. The black kids following us quickly disappeared.
The police asked us what we were doing there, and what was going on. We explained our predicament, and I remember them looking at each other and chuckling, like we were so stupid to get our dumbass white selves into that crazy situation. I felt such disappointment in these men, (both white) who were there to "serve and protect". They reluctantly offered us a ride up to a store which had a phone. They acted callous, even as we were clearly traumatized and scared.
We called the school district office and they were able to tell us that a tanker truck had overturned on the Lake Washington Bridge. Our bus was stuck on the wrong side of the accident. They assured us that it would arrive within the hour. We waited at the store, and the bus finally made it. The rest of the night is a blur. The last part of the memory is that I never wanted to go back to Garfield again. I felt like a coward, but I never did make myself go back.
So when I got the reunion invitation, I fantasized about showing up, just to see if there was anyone who remembered any of my month. It amazes me to think that some of those students are now almost 60 years old, we all have many years between us and the complicated angst filled days of high school in Vietnam War- Nixon era America. If I could bet on the type of person putting on this event, I am betting it was not one of those angry girls hanging in the bathrooms, or following me calling me names. I wasn't there long enough to make connections with the kind people. Consequently I remember the angry people forever. Yet, maybe it was only youth and the insecurities of adolescence which caused the hatred. Oh, and economic inequality, a history of slavery and violence, and that thing which dogged us then, and dogs us now - ignorance.
The dates have passed and I can only hope the reunion was a success and the class of '72 had fun. Maybe if they invite me again to the 50th, I'll try to attend.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Wildflower Mountains
We walk, my brother and his sons, through wildflowers
covering the hillsides of a mountain peak
We climb and talk, climb and talk,
reach the top to eat our lunch.
Cherries from my yard, cheese and bread.
My brother offers me a slice of apple.
My brother who rode me on his bike to school
who brought my little kids here -
who invited me to attend the birth of his first child,
who always hugs me like I am cherished
who sings with me at campfire time.
Who was the first to take me to the mountains.
We four walk back, down the long trail,
the verdant forest standing by as we pass.
Switch back by switch back,
dappled sunlight on moss.
Chatting easily I learn about the boys,
Our conversations all in stride, our stride down the mountain
of foot moving forward imprinting trail dust,
next foot, and the next.
There is no need for much, it is all here,
we four, walking a summer day away.
covering the hillsides of a mountain peak
We climb and talk, climb and talk,
reach the top to eat our lunch.
Cherries from my yard, cheese and bread.
My brother offers me a slice of apple.
My brother who rode me on his bike to school
who brought my little kids here -
who invited me to attend the birth of his first child,
who always hugs me like I am cherished
who sings with me at campfire time.
Who was the first to take me to the mountains.
We four walk back, down the long trail,
the verdant forest standing by as we pass.
Switch back by switch back,
dappled sunlight on moss.
Chatting easily I learn about the boys,
Our conversations all in stride, our stride down the mountain
of foot moving forward imprinting trail dust,
next foot, and the next.
There is no need for much, it is all here,
we four, walking a summer day away.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Bake Sale for Civics Textbooks
Last week the Yamhill County Oregon Democrats held a bake sale. The proceeds from this sale go to purchase civics textbooks for our county's secondary schools. How about that. In the U.S.A., the country which is fond of bragging about our superiority, we have dropped the ball on nurturing our children into becoming citizens.
I have several ideas (fears) about why this has happened. The worst is that the money powers, the same ones who decide what is 'news' have decided that young people can be easily diverted from knowing what is really going. Their attentions can be drawn into a vapid pop culture full of useless celebrities who exhibit the behaviors of wealth which they themselves will never attain. Their youth spent in a dearth of knowledge about the political process at the most basic local level.
Yes, and money too is a problem. We know our state coffers are empty, our budgets being cut everywhere. Yet, I see "Smartboards" in every classroom, carts of laptops, whole rooms full of computers. Why is a decent civics textbook not as important as a computer?
I welcome comments.
I have several ideas (fears) about why this has happened. The worst is that the money powers, the same ones who decide what is 'news' have decided that young people can be easily diverted from knowing what is really going. Their attentions can be drawn into a vapid pop culture full of useless celebrities who exhibit the behaviors of wealth which they themselves will never attain. Their youth spent in a dearth of knowledge about the political process at the most basic local level.
Yes, and money too is a problem. We know our state coffers are empty, our budgets being cut everywhere. Yet, I see "Smartboards" in every classroom, carts of laptops, whole rooms full of computers. Why is a decent civics textbook not as important as a computer?
I welcome comments.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
To Mother - From The Road
April 11, 1976
Seattle to the Grand Canyon by Bicycle
Today my eyes sting warmly from the sun,
And all about I look to cliff and hill.
My many thoughts have rolled into just one,
The memory of you, so very still.
The road is long and weary in the day,
I wish for quiet places I might hide.
Sometimes a tree will beckon me to stay,
But always in the morning I must ride.
Today, beneath the juniper I lie,
to write my humble love into a song,
and wonder what you do for us, and why.
Your gentle patience never turned a wrong.
I like to go away on journeys thus,
to breath and see the newness of the earth.
But always as I look into the dusk,
I ponder heavily my place of birth.
And one who I know lovingly you bore,
you sang and taught with joy so plain to see.
Played games and laughed the gaiety you wore,
that person, I am sure, is almost me.
So when the evening comes to end the day,
I look towards myriads of stars above,
and reaching out to them my soul will pray,
To bless my mother with a world of love.
Given again, 36 years later, and still almost me....
Seattle to the Grand Canyon by Bicycle
Today my eyes sting warmly from the sun,
And all about I look to cliff and hill.
My many thoughts have rolled into just one,
The memory of you, so very still.
The road is long and weary in the day,
I wish for quiet places I might hide.
Sometimes a tree will beckon me to stay,
But always in the morning I must ride.
Today, beneath the juniper I lie,
to write my humble love into a song,
and wonder what you do for us, and why.
Your gentle patience never turned a wrong.
I like to go away on journeys thus,
to breath and see the newness of the earth.
But always as I look into the dusk,
I ponder heavily my place of birth.
And one who I know lovingly you bore,
you sang and taught with joy so plain to see.
Played games and laughed the gaiety you wore,
that person, I am sure, is almost me.
So when the evening comes to end the day,
I look towards myriads of stars above,
and reaching out to them my soul will pray,
To bless my mother with a world of love.
Given again, 36 years later, and still almost me....
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Later, on the Train
Later, on the Train
Click clicking, thump hooting, chug northward between stations
brief glimpses, blurred houses, riverponds, rolling past.
Neat sequence, clouds lifting, oh so slightly, over marshes
New maple, all fancy, all broadleaf, all May Day
The world, my friend, spreads inspired from a train,
the hum rolling forward into a good future.
Some destination where loved ones wait there at another station
Sweet anticipation, and still the trees, sky, light on water.
The seat shifts backward, only a twist of the toggle -
way back, twice as far as an airplane seat would.
No security xray, foregone shoes, invasion of gear.
We passengers stride boldly past chugging engines, to find our car.
Train, train, I wanted you since childhood,
gazed longingly down your tracks and wished to climb those steps aboard.
Six years old , I could not know this luxury,
To buy my fare while sitting in my office chair.
Ah, there, slides by, a small house with
the porch light on, an answer against this gloaming.
So recently a rain, over spring's thick greenness, muddy land,
everything newly wet, porch light illuminating apple trees in bloom.
Passengers, we share this car, this brief ride North
Out of the window train thoughts I hear:
One stray cell conversation closed with:
"I ain't forgot aboutcha love."
Click clicking, thump hooting, chug northward between stations
brief glimpses, blurred houses, riverponds, rolling past.
Neat sequence, clouds lifting, oh so slightly, over marshes
New maple, all fancy, all broadleaf, all May Day
The world, my friend, spreads inspired from a train,
the hum rolling forward into a good future.
Some destination where loved ones wait there at another station
Sweet anticipation, and still the trees, sky, light on water.
The seat shifts backward, only a twist of the toggle -
way back, twice as far as an airplane seat would.
No security xray, foregone shoes, invasion of gear.
We passengers stride boldly past chugging engines, to find our car.
Train, train, I wanted you since childhood,
gazed longingly down your tracks and wished to climb those steps aboard.
Six years old , I could not know this luxury,
To buy my fare while sitting in my office chair.
Ah, there, slides by, a small house with
the porch light on, an answer against this gloaming.
So recently a rain, over spring's thick greenness, muddy land,
everything newly wet, porch light illuminating apple trees in bloom.
Passengers, we share this car, this brief ride North
Out of the window train thoughts I hear:
One stray cell conversation closed with:
"I ain't forgot aboutcha love."
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday night
April is coming to a close. This spring seems warmer than the last two. I stop at Farmington gardens and people are lining up to buy their trees and other plants. We get so excited by a few warm days.
The grass grows madly, voraciously, intensely, unhindered, exuberant. My poor little electric mower gags and chokes. I feel like a torturer to push it through the damp fields.
Tonight I dug out compost. This is always a small miracle, the way the vegetable matter of a year can turn itself to dirt, heavy with worms working their magic, happy worms. I try not to cut them with my shovel. I greet them like little friends, take them out to my larger garden and watch them disappear into the soil of my desires. Where ever they go, I am as happy as they are to have it be spring, warm enough to wiggle around, think about colors and birds, witness the blueberry bushes and fruit trees covered in blossoms.
There is dirt under my finger nails. I have planted my first starts of cabbage and tomatoes. It does not seem possible that the earth should be so good to us. Fickle friends as we are. The earth, an ever forgiving mother, an unceasingly tolerant friend.
The grass grows madly, voraciously, intensely, unhindered, exuberant. My poor little electric mower gags and chokes. I feel like a torturer to push it through the damp fields.
Tonight I dug out compost. This is always a small miracle, the way the vegetable matter of a year can turn itself to dirt, heavy with worms working their magic, happy worms. I try not to cut them with my shovel. I greet them like little friends, take them out to my larger garden and watch them disappear into the soil of my desires. Where ever they go, I am as happy as they are to have it be spring, warm enough to wiggle around, think about colors and birds, witness the blueberry bushes and fruit trees covered in blossoms.
There is dirt under my finger nails. I have planted my first starts of cabbage and tomatoes. It does not seem possible that the earth should be so good to us. Fickle friends as we are. The earth, an ever forgiving mother, an unceasingly tolerant friend.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Friday Night
In the morning I will lead Sadhana with my yoga teacher trainees. We will begin outside in the cool morning air doing the energisation exercises that Paramhansa Yogananda developed. They move more than just the muscles. They awaken more than just the mind.
Tonight we did 2 hours of restorative yoga, as the light faded into night. What peace and release there is in that. I thought afterward, as I drank my cleansing water, about how I want to give that experience to others. I hope I get the chance soon.
Now it is time to go to sleep, reading words of inspiration, looking for the prayer for morning meditation. How fortunate I am, that this yoga community has moved to land on Chehalem mountain. I am a neighbor, and a friend, a member of the practice, and the teaching group. I am encountering myself in a new way, in a new place.
In the morning I will lead Sadhana with my yoga teacher trainees. We will begin outside in the cool morning air doing the energisation exercises that Paramhansa Yogananda developed. They move more than just the muscles. They awaken more than just the mind.
Tonight we did 2 hours of restorative yoga, as the light faded into night. What peace and release there is in that. I thought afterward, as I drank my cleansing water, about how I want to give that experience to others. I hope I get the chance soon.
Now it is time to go to sleep, reading words of inspiration, looking for the prayer for morning meditation. How fortunate I am, that this yoga community has moved to land on Chehalem mountain. I am a neighbor, and a friend, a member of the practice, and the teaching group. I am encountering myself in a new way, in a new place.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Full Moon over the Passion
You know, I have always loved the word 'passion'. In fact, you could say that I am passionate about the word passion. Tonight in the Zocolo of Mexico City my honey and I witnessed the pageantry of Mexican Catholicism playing out under - dude- a full moon. Really.... floats of statues depicting the stations of the cross, Roman soldiers stabbing Jesus or stealing his clothes, and his mourning mother dressed in black following behind. The 'sorrowful' mother. I do remember all this from childhood.
In recent years I have become more enamoured with the painting of Easter eggs and the search for a decent chocolate marshmellow bunny. The passion of Christ is a mythic tale, full of metaphor and emotion, imagery and tragedy. The human condition elevated to endless yearly reenactment to remind us if, we had forgotten, of how shallow and fickle humanity is. (The republicans have done a fine job of that this year, they should get the passion award).
It is exciting to see the excitement, and even the full scale fireworks, the street performers and the little kids tossing glow sticks in the air. The priests lead funeral processions to the droll beat of the death drum, or the keening chant with call and response. What have you done to betray a good person, they ask? What indeed.
It never hurts to look inside, to wonder about infinity and the transitory nature of this life. If statues and songs can bring people back to who they want to be, how they want to live, maybe a tear shed for someone already gone on to the big unknown, this is one way to start spring.
On Easter I will not look for any eggs in the Zocolo, only candles and statues illuminated by the full moon of April, the first full moon of spring.
In recent years I have become more enamoured with the painting of Easter eggs and the search for a decent chocolate marshmellow bunny. The passion of Christ is a mythic tale, full of metaphor and emotion, imagery and tragedy. The human condition elevated to endless yearly reenactment to remind us if, we had forgotten, of how shallow and fickle humanity is. (The republicans have done a fine job of that this year, they should get the passion award).
It is exciting to see the excitement, and even the full scale fireworks, the street performers and the little kids tossing glow sticks in the air. The priests lead funeral processions to the droll beat of the death drum, or the keening chant with call and response. What have you done to betray a good person, they ask? What indeed.
It never hurts to look inside, to wonder about infinity and the transitory nature of this life. If statues and songs can bring people back to who they want to be, how they want to live, maybe a tear shed for someone already gone on to the big unknown, this is one way to start spring.
On Easter I will not look for any eggs in the Zocolo, only candles and statues illuminated by the full moon of April, the first full moon of spring.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Mitakuye Oyasin
Mitakuye Oyasin - To all My Relations
This poem goes out
To all my relations - future and past
The grandmothers I knew, and those I did not,
The grandchildren i can feel, but have not yet
seen
You remember the clear water flowing
near your camp, your village,
under the good dirt of your gardens
Springing from the rock of the earth
where water is kept safe and sweet
My grandchildren, you deserve
this sweet water
You, who will come near the end of my own life
and gather your own present to yourselves
You deserve good dirt, untainted by chemicals unwisely spread in ignorance and haste
You deserve good air to breath
rain washed, sun warmed, like
the elixir of love to inhale
you deserve
space on this planet, the space for a home
a garden, the look at trees and mountains,
birds singing when the light changes.
How can I give these things, store these gifts,
wish these life things
For all my relations?
This poem goes out
To all my relations - future and past
The grandmothers I knew, and those I did not,
The grandchildren i can feel, but have not yet
seen
You remember the clear water flowing
near your camp, your village,
under the good dirt of your gardens
Springing from the rock of the earth
where water is kept safe and sweet
My grandchildren, you deserve
this sweet water
You, who will come near the end of my own life
and gather your own present to yourselves
You deserve good dirt, untainted by chemicals unwisely spread in ignorance and haste
You deserve good air to breath
rain washed, sun warmed, like
the elixir of love to inhale
you deserve
space on this planet, the space for a home
a garden, the look at trees and mountains,
birds singing when the light changes.
How can I give these things, store these gifts,
wish these life things
For all my relations?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
From the Drain Pipe at Wilburton
I have known her,
How many years now, I have to count....
from 11 to 56,
she knows just about my whole life
She sat in the drain pipe, wearing her favorite dress, cotton plaid, knee sox and sturdy shoes.
There, I found her, me wandering alone
the new kid,
dressed in some Sears outfit from a smaller town south,
where farm kids lived.
Me looking dorky but still longing for a friend.
I asked her something... "What is it like in there, why are you sitting in the pipe? "
She answered, "it is the best place to be on this damn playground..."
Me, fresh from Catholic School to this public one
"You aren't supposed to swear.."
Like she cared..
She told me, " Oh,
everyone here does it, soon you will too."
She was absolutely right.
We wandered through our adolescence, crossing paths
in our various survival endeavors
like going to a big city black school - "reverse bussing'
Her courage impressed me, while
my timidity brought me back to
that snobby High School in our
"premium suburban bedroom community"
All that happened soon was never part of my dreams.
She was always there, 2 blocks away.
We could walk the forested hill and talk.
She went to Europe and wrote me long letters.
I wondered why I was not in Europe,
what courage, even to live with the Irish during
The violence of the 70's
I have boxes of our letters from all those years
They chronicle what we loved, how we lived, what we never learned to understand.
She still writes me letters, by hand.
It is in this later part of life we have our parents health issues
Our sons, we both had boys who brought our mother hearts
to full passion
This story is not over, this friendship
The years keep piling up
And the drain pipe image keeps returning
How I had the sense to ask her a question,
how she desired to answer the awkward new kid
and there
there we began on a rainy September playground
the sawdust cool and wet
Us not wanting to return to the classroom
each for different reasons
Later, we
began to write poetry
and laugh.
This story is not over, wait.
I will tell you more -and if you want
you can find someone sitting quietly away from the noisy world
of girly girls and pretense.
Ask a question, look vulnerable
It may be a friendship thread you can pick up
and weave into your life forever,
in the way which will keep you alive.
How many years now, I have to count....
from 11 to 56,
she knows just about my whole life
She sat in the drain pipe, wearing her favorite dress, cotton plaid, knee sox and sturdy shoes.
There, I found her, me wandering alone
the new kid,
dressed in some Sears outfit from a smaller town south,
where farm kids lived.
Me looking dorky but still longing for a friend.
I asked her something... "What is it like in there, why are you sitting in the pipe? "
She answered, "it is the best place to be on this damn playground..."
Me, fresh from Catholic School to this public one
"You aren't supposed to swear.."
Like she cared..
She told me, " Oh,
everyone here does it, soon you will too."
She was absolutely right.
We wandered through our adolescence, crossing paths
in our various survival endeavors
like going to a big city black school - "reverse bussing'
Her courage impressed me, while
my timidity brought me back to
that snobby High School in our
"premium suburban bedroom community"
All that happened soon was never part of my dreams.
She was always there, 2 blocks away.
We could walk the forested hill and talk.
She went to Europe and wrote me long letters.
I wondered why I was not in Europe,
what courage, even to live with the Irish during
The violence of the 70's
I have boxes of our letters from all those years
They chronicle what we loved, how we lived, what we never learned to understand.
She still writes me letters, by hand.
It is in this later part of life we have our parents health issues
Our sons, we both had boys who brought our mother hearts
to full passion
This story is not over, this friendship
The years keep piling up
And the drain pipe image keeps returning
How I had the sense to ask her a question,
how she desired to answer the awkward new kid
and there
there we began on a rainy September playground
the sawdust cool and wet
Us not wanting to return to the classroom
each for different reasons
Later, we
began to write poetry
and laugh.
This story is not over, wait.
I will tell you more -and if you want
you can find someone sitting quietly away from the noisy world
of girly girls and pretense.
Ask a question, look vulnerable
It may be a friendship thread you can pick up
and weave into your life forever,
in the way which will keep you alive.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
February Questions
From a teaching article:
"Questions open the mind. Statements close it."
Some people, like my late husband Jim, were given the message that asking a question is a sign of weakness, of not knowing. Ah, how much none of us really know. How valuable is the person who knows how to ask, and does not feel the less for doing so?
My question: What do our traditional holidays tell us about our ancestors?
February is the in-between month of winter. It is the month of my birthday and my Dad's as well. It is the month where the weather will suddenly become warm and spring-like, and then retreat just as quickly into winterness. It is the month of sunrises and sunsets against the bare branches of oak trees, the mistletoe bundles arranged like little balls of fur about the stark branches. It is the month when my scented violets bloom in small purple profusions as a harbinger to spring, the scent hovering enchanting and nebulous.
It is the month of Valentines Day... red hearts and lace, chocolate and flowers, placed there in the grayness as a reprieve until those colorful Easter eggs take the stage.
I'm certain that our ancestors had reasons to devise holidays in increments thoughout the year. How clever they were, and how grateful I am.
When I go into classrooms now I see all kinds of red hearts and flowers. Hearts represent life and love. I believe so strongly in both those concepts. What a miracle our own heart is, the way it works, all by itself.
Happy Winter then, happy heart day, happy life and breath, happy birthday to all of us in Aquarius or Pisces... water and fish... life.
"Questions open the mind. Statements close it."
Some people, like my late husband Jim, were given the message that asking a question is a sign of weakness, of not knowing. Ah, how much none of us really know. How valuable is the person who knows how to ask, and does not feel the less for doing so?
My question: What do our traditional holidays tell us about our ancestors?
February is the in-between month of winter. It is the month of my birthday and my Dad's as well. It is the month where the weather will suddenly become warm and spring-like, and then retreat just as quickly into winterness. It is the month of sunrises and sunsets against the bare branches of oak trees, the mistletoe bundles arranged like little balls of fur about the stark branches. It is the month when my scented violets bloom in small purple profusions as a harbinger to spring, the scent hovering enchanting and nebulous.
It is the month of Valentines Day... red hearts and lace, chocolate and flowers, placed there in the grayness as a reprieve until those colorful Easter eggs take the stage.
I'm certain that our ancestors had reasons to devise holidays in increments thoughout the year. How clever they were, and how grateful I am.
When I go into classrooms now I see all kinds of red hearts and flowers. Hearts represent life and love. I believe so strongly in both those concepts. What a miracle our own heart is, the way it works, all by itself.
Happy Winter then, happy heart day, happy life and breath, happy birthday to all of us in Aquarius or Pisces... water and fish... life.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friday the 13th
Driving down the hill to teach at the local Middle School this morning, the concept of 'Friday the 13th' wove it's way into my head... maybe something on the radio... the stations I wish would play only uplifting music to bring me to a work mode, but which seem to rely heavily upon extraneous commentary in the morning hours.
My favorite comedienne as a child was Phyllis Diller, who maintained that Friday the 13th was her lucky day. Phyllis was an iconoclast. I did not know what an iconoclast was when I was 9, but I somehow got that she was not following the party line, and that was for me. In order to equate myself with Phyllis, I decided Friday the 13th was my lucky day too. Ah, the impulsive logic of the child mind.
Today, being my lucky day, maybe I dropped the ball, or maybe I began with a Zen like calm which would allow me to function through the day which awaited me. The day was, as someone famous said, "One darned thing after another".
The drive was a little icy, but I safely arrived to the parking lot early, with a responsible sack lunch packed and sitting next to me. I did the last minute leave the car routines, and decided to keep the lunch in the car so I wouldn't have to lug it around, or have it get warm. I put on pink lipstick ( middle school kids seem to notice it) and I exited the car, locked it, and promptly realized that my keys were still in the ignition. I have done this before... and always think that I should never have to do it again. Well, today I was in some kind of Zen Siddhartha River, and the universe was testing me. No lunch, and a snafu to figure out later.
When I arrived at the appointed classroom, to work for a teacher new to me, I quickly began the exercise of orienting myself to the daily routine in a space of about 10 minutes. The classroom aid came in, bless her heart, and began to fill in the gaps, but even then, there were gaps... the teacher is a techie, his aid is not.
Nowadays in the classrooms they have these electronic wall pieces called 'Smart boards'. They interface with a computer, and project onto a screen. This is the new 'chalkboard'. They are very expensive, and not simple to use. I am still barely learning. (Plus, it seems the teachers have PC's, and I, alas, am a mac user.)
Laura, who teaches math upstairs, came in to help me, I sub for her and she knows I'm in the building. As she began to help me access the right programs for the smart board, we soon heard a loud POP. The bulb in the ceiling projector had just extinguished itself... funny (back to my love of comedy) that just yesterday at another school a teacher was telling me "those bulbs cost a million dollars" - perfect irony to the fact that we were studying the word 'hyperbole', for freshman English.
Another teacher arrived to look at the projector and flatly stated, "You won't be able to use this today".
All the lessons were set to appear on this smart thing, and I could not help but think about how dumb this felt to me.
At this point I began to improvise quickly and ruthlessly.... keeping my Siddhartha Zen calm. I taught the days lessons without technology. Mrs. Patrick, the classroom aid was a great boon here. She figured out how to find the math quiz, and make hard copies of it... bless her heart.
The kids in these classes were considered 'special ed', and I loved them all....
The day progressed with many actual teaching opportunities, which for a substitute constitute that warm feeling of validation which everyone seeks in a working life. I taught young James, who I had met working one on one in study hall last year. He is the gentlest middle school age kid I have ever encountered, and he smiles about 80% of the time. The fact that his home work paper was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke made me sad. Who knows how much of his learning disability is caused by second hand smoke?
During my lunch 1/2 hour, after doing lunch duty all through what would have been the teacher's prep time, I was able to call AAA. The savior truck came and unlocked my car, so for the second half of the day I didn't have to ponder that problem any more. Thanks Mom, your yearly gift of AAA makes these kinds of goof ups so much less painful...
Another weird occurrence was watching 3 male teachers have to subdue a kid who went crazy with anger because he couldn't participate in a group game time, he had not earned the privilege. A staff person told me the district decided it could not afford to give the staff training in responding to physically violent students. I wonder how much that cost would compare to a smart board in every classroom. Technology has taken the lions share it seems, not just in schools, but in every other facet of life, except maybe that of a monk.
The day ended with me buying myself a much deserved IPA, what I thought was IPA, but turned out to be Porter. I guess my Zen state was just slightly jangled. Luckily I arrived home to a warm house, and only a few minor problems in tutoring land. My printer decided to be out of toner, and a new cartridge costs almost as much as the printer cost new. This seems like a cruel trick to me, but I am making myself realize I must accept the new paradigms, smart or not.
Now it is the weekend, and we can sit back and think about a man who practiced non-violence. That is a pleasing prospect. Happy Birthday Martin. I am so glad we have a holiday for you, we need holidays.
My favorite comedienne as a child was Phyllis Diller, who maintained that Friday the 13th was her lucky day. Phyllis was an iconoclast. I did not know what an iconoclast was when I was 9, but I somehow got that she was not following the party line, and that was for me. In order to equate myself with Phyllis, I decided Friday the 13th was my lucky day too. Ah, the impulsive logic of the child mind.
Today, being my lucky day, maybe I dropped the ball, or maybe I began with a Zen like calm which would allow me to function through the day which awaited me. The day was, as someone famous said, "One darned thing after another".
The drive was a little icy, but I safely arrived to the parking lot early, with a responsible sack lunch packed and sitting next to me. I did the last minute leave the car routines, and decided to keep the lunch in the car so I wouldn't have to lug it around, or have it get warm. I put on pink lipstick ( middle school kids seem to notice it) and I exited the car, locked it, and promptly realized that my keys were still in the ignition. I have done this before... and always think that I should never have to do it again. Well, today I was in some kind of Zen Siddhartha River, and the universe was testing me. No lunch, and a snafu to figure out later.
When I arrived at the appointed classroom, to work for a teacher new to me, I quickly began the exercise of orienting myself to the daily routine in a space of about 10 minutes. The classroom aid came in, bless her heart, and began to fill in the gaps, but even then, there were gaps... the teacher is a techie, his aid is not.
Nowadays in the classrooms they have these electronic wall pieces called 'Smart boards'. They interface with a computer, and project onto a screen. This is the new 'chalkboard'. They are very expensive, and not simple to use. I am still barely learning. (Plus, it seems the teachers have PC's, and I, alas, am a mac user.)
Laura, who teaches math upstairs, came in to help me, I sub for her and she knows I'm in the building. As she began to help me access the right programs for the smart board, we soon heard a loud POP. The bulb in the ceiling projector had just extinguished itself... funny (back to my love of comedy) that just yesterday at another school a teacher was telling me "those bulbs cost a million dollars" - perfect irony to the fact that we were studying the word 'hyperbole', for freshman English.
Another teacher arrived to look at the projector and flatly stated, "You won't be able to use this today".
All the lessons were set to appear on this smart thing, and I could not help but think about how dumb this felt to me.
At this point I began to improvise quickly and ruthlessly.... keeping my Siddhartha Zen calm. I taught the days lessons without technology. Mrs. Patrick, the classroom aid was a great boon here. She figured out how to find the math quiz, and make hard copies of it... bless her heart.
The kids in these classes were considered 'special ed', and I loved them all....
The day progressed with many actual teaching opportunities, which for a substitute constitute that warm feeling of validation which everyone seeks in a working life. I taught young James, who I had met working one on one in study hall last year. He is the gentlest middle school age kid I have ever encountered, and he smiles about 80% of the time. The fact that his home work paper was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke made me sad. Who knows how much of his learning disability is caused by second hand smoke?
During my lunch 1/2 hour, after doing lunch duty all through what would have been the teacher's prep time, I was able to call AAA. The savior truck came and unlocked my car, so for the second half of the day I didn't have to ponder that problem any more. Thanks Mom, your yearly gift of AAA makes these kinds of goof ups so much less painful...
Another weird occurrence was watching 3 male teachers have to subdue a kid who went crazy with anger because he couldn't participate in a group game time, he had not earned the privilege. A staff person told me the district decided it could not afford to give the staff training in responding to physically violent students. I wonder how much that cost would compare to a smart board in every classroom. Technology has taken the lions share it seems, not just in schools, but in every other facet of life, except maybe that of a monk.
The day ended with me buying myself a much deserved IPA, what I thought was IPA, but turned out to be Porter. I guess my Zen state was just slightly jangled. Luckily I arrived home to a warm house, and only a few minor problems in tutoring land. My printer decided to be out of toner, and a new cartridge costs almost as much as the printer cost new. This seems like a cruel trick to me, but I am making myself realize I must accept the new paradigms, smart or not.
Now it is the weekend, and we can sit back and think about a man who practiced non-violence. That is a pleasing prospect. Happy Birthday Martin. I am so glad we have a holiday for you, we need holidays.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Where to Build the Fire
This morning, while contemplating the various complexities of the world situation - 2012- the Jack London story "To Build a Fire" surfaced in my mental stream of thought. That story was connected to a family discussion of the concept a "Three dog night" where the North dwellers only survived bitter cold by huddling up with their dogs. We have 2 lovely Huskies in my family who would be more than happy to cuddle up on a cold night.
Jack London's character had a dog, but the dog was much more able to withstand cold than the man.
The man built his fire under a spruce tree, and picked its twigs off, upsetting the balance of the tree. Finally the tree bent and its snow dumped onto the man's last good fire, his life line. He tried another fire, but it failed taking all his remaining matches. He then ran along side the creek, hoping to warm himself, his dog running with him. When he could no longer move because of cold, he stopped, and succumbed to hypothermia. The dog waited unit he knew the man was finally gone, then ran on to the original camp destination.
That story made me think again about how reliant we are on the other creatures of the world, and on the laws of physics for our survival. Where we build our fires is important. If we are cold, and this fire is of vital importance, we may take one last look around to see the landscape and let it speak to us. The dog is only a dog, but will survive because he has the genetics to do so. The creatures of the earth will serve us, only as long as our own consciousness holds out.
We talked of harmony tonight, and how when chanting or singing with other voices we instinctively search for the right tone and pitch to achieve the magic sound. It takes a keen sense of the other voices, the air, that acoustics, and the intentions of all present to create a harmony. This happens with deep consciousness. Where we listen, how we listen, where we decide to build our fire.
I like these thoughts to begin the new year. I like thinking about what I can do for survival and harmony at once. Maybe the man building the fire should have been more aware of the dog, who has been bred for generations to live in the harsh climates of the frozen North. Maybe the country could practice awareness of the tones others are singing, to blend in, rather than stand out. If we watch carefully we may hear and see the small messages our world sends to us, not always linear, not always obvious.
Jack London's character had a dog, but the dog was much more able to withstand cold than the man.
The man built his fire under a spruce tree, and picked its twigs off, upsetting the balance of the tree. Finally the tree bent and its snow dumped onto the man's last good fire, his life line. He tried another fire, but it failed taking all his remaining matches. He then ran along side the creek, hoping to warm himself, his dog running with him. When he could no longer move because of cold, he stopped, and succumbed to hypothermia. The dog waited unit he knew the man was finally gone, then ran on to the original camp destination.
That story made me think again about how reliant we are on the other creatures of the world, and on the laws of physics for our survival. Where we build our fires is important. If we are cold, and this fire is of vital importance, we may take one last look around to see the landscape and let it speak to us. The dog is only a dog, but will survive because he has the genetics to do so. The creatures of the earth will serve us, only as long as our own consciousness holds out.
We talked of harmony tonight, and how when chanting or singing with other voices we instinctively search for the right tone and pitch to achieve the magic sound. It takes a keen sense of the other voices, the air, that acoustics, and the intentions of all present to create a harmony. This happens with deep consciousness. Where we listen, how we listen, where we decide to build our fire.
I like these thoughts to begin the new year. I like thinking about what I can do for survival and harmony at once. Maybe the man building the fire should have been more aware of the dog, who has been bred for generations to live in the harsh climates of the frozen North. Maybe the country could practice awareness of the tones others are singing, to blend in, rather than stand out. If we watch carefully we may hear and see the small messages our world sends to us, not always linear, not always obvious.
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