12-29-10
The year 2010 is drawing to a close.
Curtis and I left tour guide duty today long enough to check email and respond to some. I feel amazed to realize the world exists outside this teaming city, and this hotel room smelling of ‘fragrancia'. We beg the dear cleaning staff of young men to not 'clean', because we cannot breathe at night from the sprays. The concept of 'clean’ suddenly appears ambiguous and cultural as I try to forgive them, for they know not what I smell, or how my sinuses burn at the chemical aerosols, limpiadas, intended as special treatment after a Christmas tip.
Tour guide duty is heavy with museums, El Museo de Archelogia yesterday, following a walk through Chapultapec Park. I’d been to this museo once, but still saw more, as it rivals the magnitude of the Metropolitan Art Museum in NY, yet is more complex.
If you visit, do not order the hash browns in the museum café… but do bring a sketch pad and charcoal if your attention span for ancient artifacts is shorter than 5 hours. Do notice the upstairs filled with life size figures dressed in local custom, painted with mud, adorned in feathers, carved in wood which swings and sways like the woven skirts of a peasant woman in a breezy mountain village. If you take a sun break in the courtyard there are ‘Tortugas’, turtles, which seem quite happy to live in the pond there, and the children watch them with more fascination than any exhibit.
Afterwards we were lucky to catch the ‘voledores’ perform at 4 pm outside the building. Four men, dressed in red pants and hats with roses and ribbons, climbed a 40 foot pole. Their ribbons flowed as they hung from ropes and swung in a spiral from the top of the pole to the ground. One played a flute and beat a little drum as they swung in the widening spiral down. (Precursor to bungi jumping?)
The flute player had the most beautiful dark Native face. I wonder if the advertisers here could be convinced to use native faces in the ads. The natives are so stunning, dramatic and memorable. I feel a sense of sadness every time I see the white Castillian faces smiling on every billboard and milk carton.
Today we walked through the Antiguo Collegio de San Ilfonso. The exhibit featured the work of the famous Mexican artist, Jose Orosco. If you want to talk about dark… well…. Orosco was an ‘anti-cleric’ Given the history of Mexico since Cortez, the wars, the theft of lands, the forced slavery, western deseases, revolution.. Dios mia, there is more violence than one can comprehend. If U.S. politics makes you crazy, well, religion and politics is a bad mix any way you slice it, so this artwork is the visual form of a historical cautionary tale.…Ah, but still the bells of Catedral Metropolitan were ringing exactly at noon, many streets were scrubbed clean by the shop keepers, darling children romped about throwing those helium balloons shaped like huge pencils, and the sky was actually blue.
The holidays have filled the Zocolo with people. There are such crowds, it is like New York sidewalks x 5. My sister Steph’s comment that “In New York you feel like you are always in someone’s way.” comes to me often in this holiday time. Except it is as though we cannot all actually move through this street, but we do, and there are street vendors with items ringing every edge of space, as though shopping could be possible. Even so, the moving throngs of humans in the metro stations, in the square, or on the little cobblestone sidewalks are quite courteous given the crush. Este una milagro, it is a miracle.
I read the subway sign, that 8.84 million people ride every day. The subway, called ‘metro’ is subsidized, which works out to about 4 pesos to ride… something like .35 cents. The max train in Portland costs 2.35. Well, at least we have a train at all.
I love traveling, being in another country, having to communicate in an entirely different language - The miracle of air travel in our age. It has been so short a time that the common proletariat could descend into a foreign land and roam about. This must mean we are all due for a great new era of love and understanding. The linear time concept of NewYears offers that sense of hope, realistic or not.
Prospero ano, y namaste….
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Christmas Eve From Mexico City
Blog entry 12-24-10
Christmas eve in D.F., walking our feet off 2 + miles from the Centro to Café Habana for lunch at noon, then back around through the parks. Everyone is out, and still the vendors line the sidewalks, but fewer because of the holiday.
We sit in the park off the Reforma, in sunshine so warm I think I could sit forever. The carnival continues, and young lovers are on every other park bench exchanging their Christmas gifts or just necking. I love the lovers, that they will unselfconsciously and passionately make out right there in the center of all this bustling city. The only thing I wish more for them is that they have birth control and use it. Today there were several mothers begging with little children in tow.
The vulnerability and transparency of humanity makes me want to sit down and write a poem or something. Walking through this city one sees so many snippets of people’s lives. I can only look for a second and then go on. Try not to stare.
We stop to watch a comedian in the park, and he instantly notices us (the only gringos around ) and begins to add questioning us into his act, : “Te gusta tequila?” Curtis answers mas o menos, and I shake my head no.
“Te gusta mexico?” he asks and we can give a firm “si”. He miraculously continues on to others in the crowd, speaking so fast and clipped I get almost nothing. I like his voice though. It is fun to guess the gist of what someone is saying simply by listening to intonations and gestures, noticing the reactions of those in the crowd. Lots of laughing and teasing. I wish I understood, and someday I might.
I buy a little hand beaded bracelet in Christmas reds and greens from the young huichol man who made it - hecho a mano. It is my one decorative aspect today. I buy una jarro de crema con miel… bee pollen eye crème. The vendor is very friendly and we have fun talking to him about alternative medicines, shamans, honey, and the things he is selling.
The little kids playing accordion are still on the calle, and this time I notice they are even younger than I thought. One is feeding ice cream to his little sister, and singing between his own bites. His singing seems second nature.
The sun is going down on this day, and it’s naptime before mass at El Catedral Metropolitano. The bricks in it’s wall will absorb the music of yet another holiday, the same bricks which used to absorb the prayers of the Aztecs in their dramatic ceremonies. They shed real blood, and now the blood is only in the words.
I am reading the Lacana, by Barbara Kingsolver and it is telling a story which takes place exactly where we are. To stand on the places of so much history feels tender in a way, that tenderness of the human condition. Cortes and Moctezuma are long dead, as are the lovers from so many Christmases past. The gifts mere memories. This is my memory, walking hand in hand with Curtis between buildings of every age, some leaning away into the sinking lakebed. Humanity …. Who, as e.e. Cummings notes, puts the secret of the universe in his pants pocket, forgets, and sits down on it.
Christmas eve in D.F., walking our feet off 2 + miles from the Centro to Café Habana for lunch at noon, then back around through the parks. Everyone is out, and still the vendors line the sidewalks, but fewer because of the holiday.
We sit in the park off the Reforma, in sunshine so warm I think I could sit forever. The carnival continues, and young lovers are on every other park bench exchanging their Christmas gifts or just necking. I love the lovers, that they will unselfconsciously and passionately make out right there in the center of all this bustling city. The only thing I wish more for them is that they have birth control and use it. Today there were several mothers begging with little children in tow.
The vulnerability and transparency of humanity makes me want to sit down and write a poem or something. Walking through this city one sees so many snippets of people’s lives. I can only look for a second and then go on. Try not to stare.
We stop to watch a comedian in the park, and he instantly notices us (the only gringos around ) and begins to add questioning us into his act, : “Te gusta tequila?” Curtis answers mas o menos, and I shake my head no.
“Te gusta mexico?” he asks and we can give a firm “si”. He miraculously continues on to others in the crowd, speaking so fast and clipped I get almost nothing. I like his voice though. It is fun to guess the gist of what someone is saying simply by listening to intonations and gestures, noticing the reactions of those in the crowd. Lots of laughing and teasing. I wish I understood, and someday I might.
I buy a little hand beaded bracelet in Christmas reds and greens from the young huichol man who made it - hecho a mano. It is my one decorative aspect today. I buy una jarro de crema con miel… bee pollen eye crème. The vendor is very friendly and we have fun talking to him about alternative medicines, shamans, honey, and the things he is selling.
The little kids playing accordion are still on the calle, and this time I notice they are even younger than I thought. One is feeding ice cream to his little sister, and singing between his own bites. His singing seems second nature.
The sun is going down on this day, and it’s naptime before mass at El Catedral Metropolitano. The bricks in it’s wall will absorb the music of yet another holiday, the same bricks which used to absorb the prayers of the Aztecs in their dramatic ceremonies. They shed real blood, and now the blood is only in the words.
I am reading the Lacana, by Barbara Kingsolver and it is telling a story which takes place exactly where we are. To stand on the places of so much history feels tender in a way, that tenderness of the human condition. Cortes and Moctezuma are long dead, as are the lovers from so many Christmases past. The gifts mere memories. This is my memory, walking hand in hand with Curtis between buildings of every age, some leaning away into the sinking lakebed. Humanity …. Who, as e.e. Cummings notes, puts the secret of the universe in his pants pocket, forgets, and sits down on it.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Organ Grinders, Snow Mobiles, Acclimating
Can it be adequately referred to as 'jet lag' when one has only adjusted to 2 hours behind and traveled less than 2000 miles in the same hemisphere? Whatever it was, yesterday I felt a bit drunk and slept like a stone when I reached the bed at Hotel Habana on Republica de Chili, Mexico City D.F.. The journey involved a few delays, as must be expected during the holidays, but with the magic of planes I am dropped like Dorothy in Kansas to this huge city once again.
When Curtis and I walked out into the Zocolo after a shower and lunch, it was filled with the pursuits of winter in the North. An ice skating rink, a snowmobile track, snow sculpture and inner tube sliding on the ice, all with the Cathedral in the background. I love the juxtaposition, all these modern little kids romping away in the snow that all kids everywhere seem to naturally love, with the oldest Catholic church in the western hemisphere (1550) towering above, full of its sad karma of grandeur and tradgedy. That combination seems also as timeless as children loving snow.
Curtis, in his tour guide mode, could tell me that the city uses it's revenue to offer this 'Festival a Magica de la Navidad' and all the activities are free. Families stand in line for hours to reach one of the features.
The sun is shining, like a warm day in spring. Last time I was here it was rainy and cold, so the gods are smiling now, ready for Christmas.
Another poignant scene yesterday, as we walked along Calle Gustavo Madero (Permanently closed to cars now, heavenly) we passed 2 little kids sitting on the pavement, about 6 or 7, maybe younger. One was playing a little accordion, and they were both singing in a style I think must be learned from the Son Jarocho music. They had a little lime green plastic piggy bank with a big hole cut into the top for tips. The singing is projected heartfelt and from the mid chest it seems. It is especially heartrending when performed by little kids I think. I left a coin, but still feel concerned about where they live, and what their lives are like.
On the other end of the spectrum is the 26 year old priest we sat next to on the plane from S.F. to D.F. He was going from Vancouver BC to a wealthy area in the city, S. of where we are staying. He had just finished touring with the Arch Bishop and could regal us on how fun it was riding first class to Australia. When we told him where we stayed in the city, he said his mom wouldn't let him go there. He rarely took the metro because "we have a driver', as he said.
He watched an animated movie on his laptop while we slept through the nightflight.
It is good to be here on the ground with the bustling masses.
Two cafe's barely takes me to myself. I have this terrible American female urge to slather on some oil and find a spot in the sun.... but the park is full of giant photo scene background booths and a carnival.. and no one lays in the sun here. They will be posing for holiday photos with the walking Toystory characters or the lifesize glitter castle scenes.
The organ grinders are playing in the street. We will walk and walk, preparing for Dave and Bob to arrive on Christmas, ready to take the Curtis Daily tour de force. Buenas dias, y amor siempre
When Curtis and I walked out into the Zocolo after a shower and lunch, it was filled with the pursuits of winter in the North. An ice skating rink, a snowmobile track, snow sculpture and inner tube sliding on the ice, all with the Cathedral in the background. I love the juxtaposition, all these modern little kids romping away in the snow that all kids everywhere seem to naturally love, with the oldest Catholic church in the western hemisphere (1550) towering above, full of its sad karma of grandeur and tradgedy. That combination seems also as timeless as children loving snow.
Curtis, in his tour guide mode, could tell me that the city uses it's revenue to offer this 'Festival a Magica de la Navidad' and all the activities are free. Families stand in line for hours to reach one of the features.
The sun is shining, like a warm day in spring. Last time I was here it was rainy and cold, so the gods are smiling now, ready for Christmas.
Another poignant scene yesterday, as we walked along Calle Gustavo Madero (Permanently closed to cars now, heavenly) we passed 2 little kids sitting on the pavement, about 6 or 7, maybe younger. One was playing a little accordion, and they were both singing in a style I think must be learned from the Son Jarocho music. They had a little lime green plastic piggy bank with a big hole cut into the top for tips. The singing is projected heartfelt and from the mid chest it seems. It is especially heartrending when performed by little kids I think. I left a coin, but still feel concerned about where they live, and what their lives are like.
On the other end of the spectrum is the 26 year old priest we sat next to on the plane from S.F. to D.F. He was going from Vancouver BC to a wealthy area in the city, S. of where we are staying. He had just finished touring with the Arch Bishop and could regal us on how fun it was riding first class to Australia. When we told him where we stayed in the city, he said his mom wouldn't let him go there. He rarely took the metro because "we have a driver', as he said.
He watched an animated movie on his laptop while we slept through the nightflight.
It is good to be here on the ground with the bustling masses.
Two cafe's barely takes me to myself. I have this terrible American female urge to slather on some oil and find a spot in the sun.... but the park is full of giant photo scene background booths and a carnival.. and no one lays in the sun here. They will be posing for holiday photos with the walking Toystory characters or the lifesize glitter castle scenes.
The organ grinders are playing in the street. We will walk and walk, preparing for Dave and Bob to arrive on Christmas, ready to take the Curtis Daily tour de force. Buenas dias, y amor siempre
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Holiday Letter
I have these lovely holiday cards from Unicef, which I can't wait to send to all of my people far and near, some of whom I see regularly and some I wish I saw more. Maybe you got one, and that is why you are here reading what my pal Lori calls "Bog's blog".
An annual letter of sorts is utilitarian, to convey the 'hard news', but I thought I'd cover the bases this year by inviting you here, because my blog includes snippets of my life since it's inception in July. (My blog's inception,, not my life's - ah, there you go, an SAT grammar correction problem, indefinite pronouns - my little stocking stuffer to you!)
The year has been full, and as the title of my blog indicates, it has included all of my favorite things - yoga, food, love and living with intention.
Where is it appropriate to begin? I always imagine my little family reading this and thinking... hey, she didn't mention me first, or she didn't brag about me. That is, most likely, my own projection, because when I read holiday letters I am excited when I see myself highlighted.... yes, childish, but I'm stuck with it. So, there you go, the first person mentioned in my letter is me. Now all the other wonderful people in my little family will not feel second or third. (You can see why holiday letters are such a challenge for me.)
Amidst all the images of the year, the enlargement of my little family is so awesomely wonderful. On October 23 we got to legally add Kirsten Curtis, ne: Atkin, to our lineage. I have to say, seeing two people so in love is fun beyond words. Kirsten is in her final year of law school at The University of Arizona. Amery has just completed his MBA in Sports Management. Tahoe, their husky, is the third element of the new Curtis family. Tahoe wishes he could dig into mole hills for hours.
The wedding was held in Bend, OR. Amery chose his brother, Arlyn, as his best man, and Kirsten chose her sister, Lauren. What a lovely wedding party... and the start of new family attachments.
Nama and Nampa got on a plane from Sea-Tac to Bend, and so were able to attend Amery and Kirsten's wedding as our very esteemed elders, Nama dressed in the requisite orange. We wondered how Mom would do with the big trip, but it turns out that being patted down by the female airport security agent felt really good on her back. We take what we can get, eh?
The wedding was so fun, I wish I could do it all again...
This year has been one of doing the things I believe in and enjoy, not the least of which is hanging out on the mountain with Curtis Daily, my dear partner. If you have not yet met Curtis, I hope you get to meet him soon. He is an Accomplished double bass player, yep, same instrument that my Arlyn plays. As Curtis puts it, my life is full of 'low notes'. Being an alto, that really works for me!
It turns out that Curtis grew up 4 blocks away from me in Salem when we were little kids. We did not cross paths until our 50's. That is the way the universe works I guess. If it were not for Arlyn's bass recital, we never would have met. I have believed for years that my kids are my lucky charms, and this fully proves it. If you ever wonder how long one must wait for love, don't doubt that it is there, no matter where you are in life.
Arlyn Has been promoted to Wine Steward at Carafe Restaurant in downtown Portland. This allows him to attend 'industry' wine tastings, where he has described tasting over 100 wines in a few hours. Since I live a few miles from numerous wineries, it is fun to go along with Arlyn to make the rounds.
Curtis and I have joined the legions of wines makers. Last year we made 5 gallons of Chardonnay. This year we have 7 gallons of Chardonnay and 7 gallons of Riesling. This does not include the IPA. We have Fish Schaad to thank for letting me trade picking for grapes. What a deal! If you visit you can taste.
In February I spent 3 weeks in Mexico with Curtis, learning the terrain of Mexico City and the road west to smaller towns. When you read this we will probably be checking into the little Hotel Habana in the Centro Historico. We try to blend into the colorful bustling life of this complex and ancient city by speaking as much Spanish as possible and not wearing shorts..... the locals never wear shorts.
I will take some yoga classes in Spanish, Curtis has guitar and string selling work, as well as tour guide duty.
Work, yes we do have that too. I have regular Monday and Saturday morning yoga classes, private tutoring and substitute teaching. I am eternally grateful to my students for inspiring me in my practice. I also love private tutoring. I have not substitute taught for several years, and I am really liking the little rural schools in my area. If you read some of my blogs you may see some of my students there.
If you took the time to find this link and read my letter, you are indeed wonderful. I am lucky to know you... you are my charm too....
May you have a beautiful New Year, where you find that life is what you intend, and love is everywhere.......
Yours,
Bog
An annual letter of sorts is utilitarian, to convey the 'hard news', but I thought I'd cover the bases this year by inviting you here, because my blog includes snippets of my life since it's inception in July. (My blog's inception,, not my life's - ah, there you go, an SAT grammar correction problem, indefinite pronouns - my little stocking stuffer to you!)
The year has been full, and as the title of my blog indicates, it has included all of my favorite things - yoga, food, love and living with intention.
Where is it appropriate to begin? I always imagine my little family reading this and thinking... hey, she didn't mention me first, or she didn't brag about me. That is, most likely, my own projection, because when I read holiday letters I am excited when I see myself highlighted.... yes, childish, but I'm stuck with it. So, there you go, the first person mentioned in my letter is me. Now all the other wonderful people in my little family will not feel second or third. (You can see why holiday letters are such a challenge for me.)
Amidst all the images of the year, the enlargement of my little family is so awesomely wonderful. On October 23 we got to legally add Kirsten Curtis, ne: Atkin, to our lineage. I have to say, seeing two people so in love is fun beyond words. Kirsten is in her final year of law school at The University of Arizona. Amery has just completed his MBA in Sports Management. Tahoe, their husky, is the third element of the new Curtis family. Tahoe wishes he could dig into mole hills for hours.
The wedding was held in Bend, OR. Amery chose his brother, Arlyn, as his best man, and Kirsten chose her sister, Lauren. What a lovely wedding party... and the start of new family attachments.
Nama and Nampa got on a plane from Sea-Tac to Bend, and so were able to attend Amery and Kirsten's wedding as our very esteemed elders, Nama dressed in the requisite orange. We wondered how Mom would do with the big trip, but it turns out that being patted down by the female airport security agent felt really good on her back. We take what we can get, eh?
The wedding was so fun, I wish I could do it all again...
This year has been one of doing the things I believe in and enjoy, not the least of which is hanging out on the mountain with Curtis Daily, my dear partner. If you have not yet met Curtis, I hope you get to meet him soon. He is an Accomplished double bass player, yep, same instrument that my Arlyn plays. As Curtis puts it, my life is full of 'low notes'. Being an alto, that really works for me!
It turns out that Curtis grew up 4 blocks away from me in Salem when we were little kids. We did not cross paths until our 50's. That is the way the universe works I guess. If it were not for Arlyn's bass recital, we never would have met. I have believed for years that my kids are my lucky charms, and this fully proves it. If you ever wonder how long one must wait for love, don't doubt that it is there, no matter where you are in life.
Arlyn Has been promoted to Wine Steward at Carafe Restaurant in downtown Portland. This allows him to attend 'industry' wine tastings, where he has described tasting over 100 wines in a few hours. Since I live a few miles from numerous wineries, it is fun to go along with Arlyn to make the rounds.
Curtis and I have joined the legions of wines makers. Last year we made 5 gallons of Chardonnay. This year we have 7 gallons of Chardonnay and 7 gallons of Riesling. This does not include the IPA. We have Fish Schaad to thank for letting me trade picking for grapes. What a deal! If you visit you can taste.
In February I spent 3 weeks in Mexico with Curtis, learning the terrain of Mexico City and the road west to smaller towns. When you read this we will probably be checking into the little Hotel Habana in the Centro Historico. We try to blend into the colorful bustling life of this complex and ancient city by speaking as much Spanish as possible and not wearing shorts..... the locals never wear shorts.
I will take some yoga classes in Spanish, Curtis has guitar and string selling work, as well as tour guide duty.
Work, yes we do have that too. I have regular Monday and Saturday morning yoga classes, private tutoring and substitute teaching. I am eternally grateful to my students for inspiring me in my practice. I also love private tutoring. I have not substitute taught for several years, and I am really liking the little rural schools in my area. If you read some of my blogs you may see some of my students there.
If you took the time to find this link and read my letter, you are indeed wonderful. I am lucky to know you... you are my charm too....
May you have a beautiful New Year, where you find that life is what you intend, and love is everywhere.......
Yours,
Bog
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Coming Home
I am in my parents home, the place they've lived for 44 years. They have changed, and I have changed. In the quiet of the evening though, we always do come back to who we are. My spiritual choices have diverged from theirs in semantic terms, but I still see myself in them, the basic heart.
They gave me my locus of conviction, however it plays out on the political scene. And we can still sit down to eat fresh dug potatoes and buttered beets, listen to 'Evening Adagios' on the stereo, and feel like we are all at home.We always do come back to who we are, and that is the miracle of love.
The physical changes of aging are a reality for Mom and Dad, We were able to get Mom to the Christmas concert to see her grandson in the Symphony, only by careful planning, and the use this year of a wheel chair. But we did it, and it was worth it. At one point Mom said,"What do people without daughters do when they get old?" Well, someday I will find out.
Taking care of each other is our practice, our gift. It can be taken on with joy, or not, as the case may be. Tonight I chose joy, cooking a simple dinner. How fortunate that my parents appreciate this small gift so much.
The season of giving is upon us, and I have to figure out how to maneuver through the tricky maze of the material world. I wish I were rich, and my car didn't need a new clutch. It would seem I am not alone this year in wishing for quite basic gifts from St. Nicholas.
I don't like shopping, except for books. Every year I feel more like a deer in the headlights at holiday time. I wish fresh spuds and buttered beets were enough. Memories become everything it seems. I think I am in the right place, coming home to myself over and over again. Being with what is, graying hair, the neediness of others, the cold rain, a warm heart.
They gave me my locus of conviction, however it plays out on the political scene. And we can still sit down to eat fresh dug potatoes and buttered beets, listen to 'Evening Adagios' on the stereo, and feel like we are all at home.We always do come back to who we are, and that is the miracle of love.
The physical changes of aging are a reality for Mom and Dad, We were able to get Mom to the Christmas concert to see her grandson in the Symphony, only by careful planning, and the use this year of a wheel chair. But we did it, and it was worth it. At one point Mom said,"What do people without daughters do when they get old?" Well, someday I will find out.
Taking care of each other is our practice, our gift. It can be taken on with joy, or not, as the case may be. Tonight I chose joy, cooking a simple dinner. How fortunate that my parents appreciate this small gift so much.
The season of giving is upon us, and I have to figure out how to maneuver through the tricky maze of the material world. I wish I were rich, and my car didn't need a new clutch. It would seem I am not alone this year in wishing for quite basic gifts from St. Nicholas.
I don't like shopping, except for books. Every year I feel more like a deer in the headlights at holiday time. I wish fresh spuds and buttered beets were enough. Memories become everything it seems. I think I am in the right place, coming home to myself over and over again. Being with what is, graying hair, the neediness of others, the cold rain, a warm heart.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Broken and Loved
This body, succumbing to a virus calls
for love, I'm broken, love me
The world is broken, how do I love the world?
I teach my students to sit, to practice
Everyday I teach myself,
this again
Eight year old Isabel says: "Oh this again"
Again we meet here with ourselves, and who better?
Broken, yes, but still adorable and quaint
for love, I'm broken, love me
The world is broken, how do I love the world?
I teach my students to sit, to practice
Everyday I teach myself,
this again
Eight year old Isabel says: "Oh this again"
Again we meet here with ourselves, and who better?
Broken, yes, but still adorable and quaint
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Book Review: The Great Failure
In The Great Failure: My Unexpected Path to Truth, Natalie Goldberg has offered yet another unvarnished view into what it means to be human. I am grateful to her, and to the many writers who are able to pull this off. It is not common writing, and therefore I surmise it must not be effortless, even as her prose is as natural as to read itself.
I am fascinated by memoir, my favorite genre. I find inspiration in the realworld experiences of people, and how they choose to tell the story. Truth being stranger than fiction, the other part of what I find captivating is the unpredictable nature of actually happens in the everyday lives of families, marriages, spiritual quests - the type of human experiences which are not normally included in 'small talk'. A myriad of ironies happen everywhere, everyday, as we pretend in our little human way that we have control over life, that it can be managed and structured by our fervent wishing and hard work.
Natalie Goldberg practices Zen Buddhism, which has been her way to make sense of life for more than 30 years. She is my age, the mid fifties. We shared the same eras, the same parent generation. Ours was an age group faced with more choices than our parents, yet we were still sorting through the remnants of old paradigms in conflict with the new. Many of our generation did not make it through. (I have 2 siblings who are mentally ill). Many became wildly rich. Many are gone altogether. We will become the elders soon, the past becomes longer and more varied for those of us still grinding away at the questions, making the most of this gift-challenge of life.
Early in her Buddhist practice, Natalie found her teacher/mentor, Katagiri Roshi. He was her strongest inspiration for 12 years, a formative time which changed Natalie's life, informed her writing and inspired her to create. In the midst of Roshi's teaching, he died of cancer, leaving his student devastated and disoriented. Natalie stayed with her practice, and carried Roshi's memory like a light, trying to survive the loss of the physical presence of a beloved person, gone too soon.
Several years after his death, Natalie learned that Roshi had had numerous extra marital affairs. The man she fervently revered was not the man he appeared to be as they sat for hours in dedicated meditation. Like the grief over death, she was faced with finding the way to still love her teacher, and be with the truth.
In tandem to this struggle, she relates the experiences of her family and it's failings, which she spent much of her life coming to terms with. What a gift this type of story is, a person willing to discuss the workings of a family, the personal journey of a spiritual practice as well as the realities of their own flawed human relationships, like a marriage that didn't work. It gives me solace, assuages that nagging sense that whatever I do is not enough, and that I am not as good as someone who has managed a more conventional life.
I found this quote recently: "Success has a thousand fathers, but failure is an orphan". I think understanding failure is complex, and uncomfortable, but Natalie Goldberg has managed to write through the wall, putting light and air to our human weaknesses, offering forgiveness, setting aside judgment. It is an example of how we can each be in our own practice, noticing more, and judging less.
I bow to Natalie Golberg for her courage to write with honesty and love.
I am fascinated by memoir, my favorite genre. I find inspiration in the realworld experiences of people, and how they choose to tell the story. Truth being stranger than fiction, the other part of what I find captivating is the unpredictable nature of actually happens in the everyday lives of families, marriages, spiritual quests - the type of human experiences which are not normally included in 'small talk'. A myriad of ironies happen everywhere, everyday, as we pretend in our little human way that we have control over life, that it can be managed and structured by our fervent wishing and hard work.
Natalie Goldberg practices Zen Buddhism, which has been her way to make sense of life for more than 30 years. She is my age, the mid fifties. We shared the same eras, the same parent generation. Ours was an age group faced with more choices than our parents, yet we were still sorting through the remnants of old paradigms in conflict with the new. Many of our generation did not make it through. (I have 2 siblings who are mentally ill). Many became wildly rich. Many are gone altogether. We will become the elders soon, the past becomes longer and more varied for those of us still grinding away at the questions, making the most of this gift-challenge of life.
Early in her Buddhist practice, Natalie found her teacher/mentor, Katagiri Roshi. He was her strongest inspiration for 12 years, a formative time which changed Natalie's life, informed her writing and inspired her to create. In the midst of Roshi's teaching, he died of cancer, leaving his student devastated and disoriented. Natalie stayed with her practice, and carried Roshi's memory like a light, trying to survive the loss of the physical presence of a beloved person, gone too soon.
Several years after his death, Natalie learned that Roshi had had numerous extra marital affairs. The man she fervently revered was not the man he appeared to be as they sat for hours in dedicated meditation. Like the grief over death, she was faced with finding the way to still love her teacher, and be with the truth.
In tandem to this struggle, she relates the experiences of her family and it's failings, which she spent much of her life coming to terms with. What a gift this type of story is, a person willing to discuss the workings of a family, the personal journey of a spiritual practice as well as the realities of their own flawed human relationships, like a marriage that didn't work. It gives me solace, assuages that nagging sense that whatever I do is not enough, and that I am not as good as someone who has managed a more conventional life.
I found this quote recently: "Success has a thousand fathers, but failure is an orphan". I think understanding failure is complex, and uncomfortable, but Natalie Goldberg has managed to write through the wall, putting light and air to our human weaknesses, offering forgiveness, setting aside judgment. It is an example of how we can each be in our own practice, noticing more, and judging less.
I bow to Natalie Golberg for her courage to write with honesty and love.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Holidays We're Stuck With
I like holidays. I like the chance to feel like I'm not obligated to the usual level of productivity. Isn't that what holidays are about? This one, Veteran's Day, is one I feel some ambiguity toward. I wish there were non-violent ways to serve one's country, then I would be a veteran too.
The On-line Dictionary defines veteran as: "A person who is long experienced or practiced in an activity or capacity." So, I am a veteran. I am a veteran of life, of young widowhood, single parenthood and Catholic School. I am a veteran of broken hearts, tight budgets, and second hand clothes. I am a veteran of middle childhood in a pack of 9, working for peace, lobbying for the land and being ignored.
I am also a veteran of privileges, like never knowing hunger, and having healthy, kind, smart children. I am a veteran of knowing love, watching sunsets, climbing mountains and eating beautiful food.
My father is the kind of Veteran this day is about. He served in the Air Force in WWII. He hasn't talked about it much until recently. We were at a party a few months ago, speaking to a young woman from Japan. My Dad was in an animated conversation with us. The woman mentioned the town she was from. Dad suddenly became intensely serious, and told her how sorry he was that his plane dropped bombs on that very town during the war. I was impressed beyond words. She was stunningly gracious. We all felt very close and exchanged contact numbers toward the end of the evening.
I think it took as much, if not more courage for my Dad to admit that fact to this young woman as it took for him to fly in planes in wartime. He doesn't like war. The best kind of veteran.
What are you a veteran of?
If we realize, all of us, that we are serving something every day, that what we do becomes our legacy, we are touching eternal life.
The On-line Dictionary defines veteran as: "A person who is long experienced or practiced in an activity or capacity." So, I am a veteran. I am a veteran of life, of young widowhood, single parenthood and Catholic School. I am a veteran of broken hearts, tight budgets, and second hand clothes. I am a veteran of middle childhood in a pack of 9, working for peace, lobbying for the land and being ignored.
I am also a veteran of privileges, like never knowing hunger, and having healthy, kind, smart children. I am a veteran of knowing love, watching sunsets, climbing mountains and eating beautiful food.
My father is the kind of Veteran this day is about. He served in the Air Force in WWII. He hasn't talked about it much until recently. We were at a party a few months ago, speaking to a young woman from Japan. My Dad was in an animated conversation with us. The woman mentioned the town she was from. Dad suddenly became intensely serious, and told her how sorry he was that his plane dropped bombs on that very town during the war. I was impressed beyond words. She was stunningly gracious. We all felt very close and exchanged contact numbers toward the end of the evening.
I think it took as much, if not more courage for my Dad to admit that fact to this young woman as it took for him to fly in planes in wartime. He doesn't like war. The best kind of veteran.
What are you a veteran of?
If we realize, all of us, that we are serving something every day, that what we do becomes our legacy, we are touching eternal life.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Light Tonight
The Light Tonight
The light tonight was soft and kind, orange peach alpenglow
lit the bluewhite mound of Mt Adams in the East.
What is it about maple trees, all goldeny between dark green firs,
we winding in dappled sun and shadow on the road
to pick ripe reisling grapes at the vineyard?
Whose life is this? Surrounded in rows of yellow leaved vines, mud cakes to my hiking boots
hands sticky from fruit, my lover holding out his hand,
with purple blue pinot grapes to taste.
The clouds parted again,
it was election day, but we, the proletariat playing hooky in
the vineyard were sheltered from the mess
of a country divided and sinking under the weight of billionaires and
how they can use money to make the sea wider and oilier.
After dinner my son practices his bass upstairs,
the sounds waft down, reverberate in my heart...
we read, and wait for our favorite cat to knock at the window.
Two years ago we were excited, we thought and hoped
we danced
Tonight we read to forget, and silently the waning moon rises
in a crystal clear sky
dotted with galaxies...
like little candles in the night wind.
The light tonight was soft and kind, orange peach alpenglow
lit the bluewhite mound of Mt Adams in the East.
What is it about maple trees, all goldeny between dark green firs,
we winding in dappled sun and shadow on the road
to pick ripe reisling grapes at the vineyard?
Whose life is this? Surrounded in rows of yellow leaved vines, mud cakes to my hiking boots
hands sticky from fruit, my lover holding out his hand,
with purple blue pinot grapes to taste.
The clouds parted again,
it was election day, but we, the proletariat playing hooky in
the vineyard were sheltered from the mess
of a country divided and sinking under the weight of billionaires and
how they can use money to make the sea wider and oilier.
After dinner my son practices his bass upstairs,
the sounds waft down, reverberate in my heart...
we read, and wait for our favorite cat to knock at the window.
Two years ago we were excited, we thought and hoped
we danced
Tonight we read to forget, and silently the waning moon rises
in a crystal clear sky
dotted with galaxies...
like little candles in the night wind.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Time, Space and Love Collide
It is four and a half days away from Amery's wedding. He is the youngest of my 2 sons, born the day after Christmas on 'The rez' of the Lower Elwha Valley, named after my dear Grama, Amy. We thought maybe he would be a girl. He was an on-time birth, 9 lb 12 oz boy, all boy. My big family was still in town, and so was at our house to celebrate dinner together, passing this substantial babe around an hour after he was born. That must be why he loves to connect to people.
A week after, I took baby Amery out to see the baby loving neighbors (Indians love babies). Grandma Sampson, one of the two main tribal matriarchs, declared him 'the little chief'. Chief green eyed child of this mother's heart.
I am trying to be a good mom of the groom. In this age of weddings as big business, I feel like I'm walking a tightrope. I live a simple life, if I didn't, I would not be writing this now, or spending the summer making 95 jars of wedding jams from fruit I picked, processed and canned by hand. There is no way to get around the spending of money though. So I walk the the line of spending a little more than I really have, knowing this is his day, this is only once, this is my kid. Yet, I know the bottom line is always love, like John the Apostle wrote:
" I can speak with the tongues of men and of Angels, but if I have not love, I am but a clanging cymbal or a loud gong."
That is the only part of the Bible I have committed to memory. It is poetry and wisdom. It speaks more to the longings and lackings of humanity every passing day. I want to carry myself into this weekend buoyed by the pure joy of the celebration, the warmth of family and dear ones all gathered for a great occasion.
Yet even as I spend these weeks preparing for a wedding, my dear Uncle Lee, the only sibling of my mom's, has died. His funeral is the day after my son's wedding, and 3000 miles away in Maine. Time and space collide. The west coast family is unable to attend.
Yesterday I sat with Amery over a Thai lunch at one of our favorite old hang-outs from the days he was in High school. (How lucky I realize now, that both my kids like Thai food). I gave him my wedding ring, the Navajo wedding band his Dad put on my finger when I was really but a girl, only 21. I looked into Ame's eyes, to see the same green of his father's, like an ocean, like sparkling water, the eyes that drew me in.
Ame's love, Kirsten, has deep brown eyes, maybe from her Osage Indian Heritage. He has looked there and found his own warm ocean of love to commit to. How much more could a mom ask for? Knowing that your child loves and is loved is the ultimate comfort to a mother's heart.
Kirsten is in her final year of law school. She related to me that in this month of planning the final stages of her own wedding, she has also been working in family law, on divorce and child custody cases. The universe collides. How grateful I am that my sons and their romantic partners were responsible. Amery and Kirsten have Tahoe, the wolf-like husky dog to assuage any current needs to parent. How intelligent and responsible this generation is. How grateful I feel that birth control is the norm now, not the exception. Oh young women of the world... don't let them go backwards on that issue.
So even as the universe collides, it also gently repeats the seasons, now fall and the harvest of grapes. My own love, Curtis and I went grape picking in the brilliant afternoon sunshine of the day, as we had a year ago. Except a year ago we had a very new relationship, and now we have passed two whole summers together and are entering our second autumn. The universe collided the day I met him, when he attended my oldest son's double bass recital just as a supportive fellow bass player. (Now I have two bass players in my life, which Curtis translates as my life now having a lot of low notes).
As I worked today on rendering my garden acorn squash for rehearsal dinner pies, doing laundry, picking grapes and packing my car for the weekend in Bend, the wedding venue, I thought... maybe all this cosmic collision would be better done as a poem. Ah, but I need more time, and that is another song. Maybe the next post reviewing my first wedding as part of the elder generation, mother of the groom, will be done as a poem. Where the love shines over the words, the cosmic families converge in celebration, I dance with my own new love and watch as my baby dances with his new and forever wife.
There is always reason to celebrate.
A week after, I took baby Amery out to see the baby loving neighbors (Indians love babies). Grandma Sampson, one of the two main tribal matriarchs, declared him 'the little chief'. Chief green eyed child of this mother's heart.
I am trying to be a good mom of the groom. In this age of weddings as big business, I feel like I'm walking a tightrope. I live a simple life, if I didn't, I would not be writing this now, or spending the summer making 95 jars of wedding jams from fruit I picked, processed and canned by hand. There is no way to get around the spending of money though. So I walk the the line of spending a little more than I really have, knowing this is his day, this is only once, this is my kid. Yet, I know the bottom line is always love, like John the Apostle wrote:
" I can speak with the tongues of men and of Angels, but if I have not love, I am but a clanging cymbal or a loud gong."
That is the only part of the Bible I have committed to memory. It is poetry and wisdom. It speaks more to the longings and lackings of humanity every passing day. I want to carry myself into this weekend buoyed by the pure joy of the celebration, the warmth of family and dear ones all gathered for a great occasion.
Yet even as I spend these weeks preparing for a wedding, my dear Uncle Lee, the only sibling of my mom's, has died. His funeral is the day after my son's wedding, and 3000 miles away in Maine. Time and space collide. The west coast family is unable to attend.
Yesterday I sat with Amery over a Thai lunch at one of our favorite old hang-outs from the days he was in High school. (How lucky I realize now, that both my kids like Thai food). I gave him my wedding ring, the Navajo wedding band his Dad put on my finger when I was really but a girl, only 21. I looked into Ame's eyes, to see the same green of his father's, like an ocean, like sparkling water, the eyes that drew me in.
Ame's love, Kirsten, has deep brown eyes, maybe from her Osage Indian Heritage. He has looked there and found his own warm ocean of love to commit to. How much more could a mom ask for? Knowing that your child loves and is loved is the ultimate comfort to a mother's heart.
Kirsten is in her final year of law school. She related to me that in this month of planning the final stages of her own wedding, she has also been working in family law, on divorce and child custody cases. The universe collides. How grateful I am that my sons and their romantic partners were responsible. Amery and Kirsten have Tahoe, the wolf-like husky dog to assuage any current needs to parent. How intelligent and responsible this generation is. How grateful I feel that birth control is the norm now, not the exception. Oh young women of the world... don't let them go backwards on that issue.
So even as the universe collides, it also gently repeats the seasons, now fall and the harvest of grapes. My own love, Curtis and I went grape picking in the brilliant afternoon sunshine of the day, as we had a year ago. Except a year ago we had a very new relationship, and now we have passed two whole summers together and are entering our second autumn. The universe collided the day I met him, when he attended my oldest son's double bass recital just as a supportive fellow bass player. (Now I have two bass players in my life, which Curtis translates as my life now having a lot of low notes).
As I worked today on rendering my garden acorn squash for rehearsal dinner pies, doing laundry, picking grapes and packing my car for the weekend in Bend, the wedding venue, I thought... maybe all this cosmic collision would be better done as a poem. Ah, but I need more time, and that is another song. Maybe the next post reviewing my first wedding as part of the elder generation, mother of the groom, will be done as a poem. Where the love shines over the words, the cosmic families converge in celebration, I dance with my own new love and watch as my baby dances with his new and forever wife.
There is always reason to celebrate.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Bricks and Mortar
"Bricks and mortar sing us no audible tune; the heart opens only to the human chant of being."
~ Paramahansa Yogananda's teacher
During a recession, these words offer a different way of knowing life. Sages are like the lilies of the field. They neither toil nor spin. I believe this does not mean one should not work. It means one's work should be indistinguishable from other parts of life. This wise man was a yogi, and the 'perfume saint'. I like that name. If I could be a saint, I think I would be the flower saint. What would your symbol be, if you were a saint?
My Feast day approaches soon, on October 17, the feast of St. Margaret Mary of Alcoque. The Feast day marks the day the saint died. My namesake was a nun, who, I recently learned, was anorexic. She became so weakened from not eating that she saw visions, namely, the sacred heart of Jesus. The ruling clerical bosses decided this was useful to the cause, and so she was canonized.
I have a copy of a painting depicting the miracle. It is taped above my computer in order for me to be inspired as my parents wished when they gave me the name. When I was little my mother often reminded me how special my saint was, and therefore how special that made me.
In the painting Sister Margaret Mary, dressed in the same black garb my first teachers wore, is kneeling in a chapel praying earnestly. Reportedly, the actual heart of the man Jesus is what she saw, the organ red and beating, as though the skin were pulled apart to reveal internal organs. I wonder what would happen to a young woman who claimed something similar today.
Yet, I feel somehow connected to this woman who lived a very short life and spent it in the quest for spiritual enlightenment. I share the fever to find the meaning in life. To see the real heart of people, and not the 'bricks and mortar' of the material world, only an illusion reinforced every day in the story we are told, the story we tell ourselves.
When we practice yoga we ask ourselves to soften the heart, open the heart to the pose, to life. In practice I like to think of chants, deep red love music of the heart, harmony in the world.
~ Paramahansa Yogananda's teacher
During a recession, these words offer a different way of knowing life. Sages are like the lilies of the field. They neither toil nor spin. I believe this does not mean one should not work. It means one's work should be indistinguishable from other parts of life. This wise man was a yogi, and the 'perfume saint'. I like that name. If I could be a saint, I think I would be the flower saint. What would your symbol be, if you were a saint?
My Feast day approaches soon, on October 17, the feast of St. Margaret Mary of Alcoque. The Feast day marks the day the saint died. My namesake was a nun, who, I recently learned, was anorexic. She became so weakened from not eating that she saw visions, namely, the sacred heart of Jesus. The ruling clerical bosses decided this was useful to the cause, and so she was canonized.
I have a copy of a painting depicting the miracle. It is taped above my computer in order for me to be inspired as my parents wished when they gave me the name. When I was little my mother often reminded me how special my saint was, and therefore how special that made me.
In the painting Sister Margaret Mary, dressed in the same black garb my first teachers wore, is kneeling in a chapel praying earnestly. Reportedly, the actual heart of the man Jesus is what she saw, the organ red and beating, as though the skin were pulled apart to reveal internal organs. I wonder what would happen to a young woman who claimed something similar today.
Yet, I feel somehow connected to this woman who lived a very short life and spent it in the quest for spiritual enlightenment. I share the fever to find the meaning in life. To see the real heart of people, and not the 'bricks and mortar' of the material world, only an illusion reinforced every day in the story we are told, the story we tell ourselves.
When we practice yoga we ask ourselves to soften the heart, open the heart to the pose, to life. In practice I like to think of chants, deep red love music of the heart, harmony in the world.
Friday, September 24, 2010
What Did You Learn Today?
When my sons were little kids at home ( seems like another lifetime now), we tried hard to have dinner together in the otherwise busy day when we were rushing to school, work and activities - you know the drill. So when we all merged at dinnertime I felt it was an occasion. I employed intentional conversation tactics. One of them was the question: What did you learn today?
Many years ago I read Living, Loving and Learning, by Leo Buscaglia. The main story which impressed me from this truly wonderful book was his explanation of how, at the dinner table, his father would always ask Leo and his sister what they learned that day. Buscaglia's father expected a decent answer, so Leo learned to anticipate the question, and catalogue something really good during the day to relate. How perfect. So, whenever I could manage it I would ask my sons, and anyone at the dinner table, the question: What did you learn today?
I would wait for an enthusiastic response, and if it was not imminent, I volunteered my own bit gleaned out of a routine which was mostly work and housecleaning. This kept me on my toes too. The learning must be meaningful, current, appropriate and memorable so they knew this was not game show trivia stuff. My boys began to get very adept at the response, giving thoughtful and unpredictable answers. I learned so much about their lives, their perceptions, and the world of school and friends, which they otherwise carefully guarded as kids will. We had good dinner times, in an otherwise fragmented world after their Dad was taken in death when they were 11 and 5.
I feel so indebted to this concept, that I am asking you: What did you learn today?
In an attempt at being a good role model, I will relate what I learned today.
One of my occupations is working as an SAT tutor. I have students whose parents dearly want them to get a high SAT score in order to have a shot at a top notch school. Most students want this too, yet have a different perspective than their parents. Young people today have so much going on, and more stimulus than ever in history. Conversely, they are somewhat insulated from the larger world's realities, simply because they are so overbooked, affluent, competitive and hungry for something, they know not what. Essay writing requires life experience, for which this generation is often challenged in that they have very little which remains unmanaged in their daily lives.
Enter the SAT, a test unlike other academic assessment tests. It is cleverly designed to measure skills which anyone in college will need in spades: Critical thinking, grammar, skim reading, higher level vocabulary, a myriad of math skills and .... essay writing.
So, after a conference with a parent where she related her concern about whether or not her daughter's scores would reach the level for the 'best' schools, I went home and researched SAT scoring on google. The Wikipedia entry listed the following facts from the book Fooling the College Board, by Dr. Les Perelman:
"In March 2004 Dr. Les Perelman analyzed 15 scored sample essays contained in the College Board's Score Write book along with 30 other training samples and found that in over 90% of cases, that the essay's score could be predicted by counting the number of words in the essay. Dr. Perelman went on to train High School Seniors to write essays that made little sense but contained infrequently used words such as 'plethora' and 'myriad'. All the students received scores of 10 or better, which placed the essay in the 92nd percentile or higher."
Do parents want just the results, or do they want their kids to learn real skills from the bottom up? In a world where time and careful attention are limited by the shear amount of choice and opportunity for distraction, is it possible to teach thoughtful writing to a 'mathkid'? Is it possible to engender altruistic feelings and empathy, as well as a desire to read non-fiction? Are 5 syllable words worth knowing, when one can certainly get by without them? ( Most news is written at a 7th grade reading level). If you sound like you know what you're talking about, is that enough?
I want to continue tutoring for the SAT, so I must balance these dichotomies (nice SAT word), with the reality that most of my students are 16 or 17, and victims of mass media advertising and pop culture. I will balance my work with reality and hope for all my students to reach Stanford, Harvard, or any other dream they hold. I will hope that the hours spent drilling on 'big words' will foster the growth of more thoughtful adults.
Many years ago I read Living, Loving and Learning, by Leo Buscaglia. The main story which impressed me from this truly wonderful book was his explanation of how, at the dinner table, his father would always ask Leo and his sister what they learned that day. Buscaglia's father expected a decent answer, so Leo learned to anticipate the question, and catalogue something really good during the day to relate. How perfect. So, whenever I could manage it I would ask my sons, and anyone at the dinner table, the question: What did you learn today?
I would wait for an enthusiastic response, and if it was not imminent, I volunteered my own bit gleaned out of a routine which was mostly work and housecleaning. This kept me on my toes too. The learning must be meaningful, current, appropriate and memorable so they knew this was not game show trivia stuff. My boys began to get very adept at the response, giving thoughtful and unpredictable answers. I learned so much about their lives, their perceptions, and the world of school and friends, which they otherwise carefully guarded as kids will. We had good dinner times, in an otherwise fragmented world after their Dad was taken in death when they were 11 and 5.
I feel so indebted to this concept, that I am asking you: What did you learn today?
In an attempt at being a good role model, I will relate what I learned today.
One of my occupations is working as an SAT tutor. I have students whose parents dearly want them to get a high SAT score in order to have a shot at a top notch school. Most students want this too, yet have a different perspective than their parents. Young people today have so much going on, and more stimulus than ever in history. Conversely, they are somewhat insulated from the larger world's realities, simply because they are so overbooked, affluent, competitive and hungry for something, they know not what. Essay writing requires life experience, for which this generation is often challenged in that they have very little which remains unmanaged in their daily lives.
Enter the SAT, a test unlike other academic assessment tests. It is cleverly designed to measure skills which anyone in college will need in spades: Critical thinking, grammar, skim reading, higher level vocabulary, a myriad of math skills and .... essay writing.
So, after a conference with a parent where she related her concern about whether or not her daughter's scores would reach the level for the 'best' schools, I went home and researched SAT scoring on google. The Wikipedia entry listed the following facts from the book Fooling the College Board, by Dr. Les Perelman:
"In March 2004 Dr. Les Perelman analyzed 15 scored sample essays contained in the College Board's Score Write book along with 30 other training samples and found that in over 90% of cases, that the essay's score could be predicted by counting the number of words in the essay. Dr. Perelman went on to train High School Seniors to write essays that made little sense but contained infrequently used words such as 'plethora' and 'myriad'. All the students received scores of 10 or better, which placed the essay in the 92nd percentile or higher."
Do parents want just the results, or do they want their kids to learn real skills from the bottom up? In a world where time and careful attention are limited by the shear amount of choice and opportunity for distraction, is it possible to teach thoughtful writing to a 'mathkid'? Is it possible to engender altruistic feelings and empathy, as well as a desire to read non-fiction? Are 5 syllable words worth knowing, when one can certainly get by without them? ( Most news is written at a 7th grade reading level). If you sound like you know what you're talking about, is that enough?
I want to continue tutoring for the SAT, so I must balance these dichotomies (nice SAT word), with the reality that most of my students are 16 or 17, and victims of mass media advertising and pop culture. I will balance my work with reality and hope for all my students to reach Stanford, Harvard, or any other dream they hold. I will hope that the hours spent drilling on 'big words' will foster the growth of more thoughtful adults.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
For My Son, After a Job Interview
In case I never said it enough when you were little, or recently-
You are a great son.
When I think of you or speak of you I feel a surge of one of the seven deadly sins (pride) ... because you are my kid and I've known you forever in my heart, even before you existed. Since your Dad and I wanted you so much, it goes with out saying that your life should offer you amazing opportunities for happiness, fulfillment, and a contribution to a generally better world. (Yeah, that is me, honoring my own intention!)
I am not just doing the mom thing of going on, I mean this seriously and with every bit of my Mother heart which exists partly outside of myself in you and your brother.. I don't think I ever say enough that you wonderful... so here I am saying it . Now it is for you to believe it... no matter what happens in the job market. Things will jell, they will. Just keep positive, counting all the good things in your life to keep you afloat.
You chose a partner who is just as good as can be in your life. Build on all the good...
and then you can tell me the same, cuz I had a down day, second guessing myself. But I have a 6 am yoga gig tomorrow, and I am going to look them all in the eyes and smile and tell them I'm really happy to be there. Maybe I can pull a few people from the doldrums of a confusing, uncertain world.
And maybe soon, or sometime before the spirit of this land fades to a murmer, the rich leaders will stop the hemorrhaging of our Nations resources into wars and the elements of destruction, and we will have a world to build on.
Love,
mom
You are a great son.
When I think of you or speak of you I feel a surge of one of the seven deadly sins (pride) ... because you are my kid and I've known you forever in my heart, even before you existed. Since your Dad and I wanted you so much, it goes with out saying that your life should offer you amazing opportunities for happiness, fulfillment, and a contribution to a generally better world. (Yeah, that is me, honoring my own intention!)
I am not just doing the mom thing of going on, I mean this seriously and with every bit of my Mother heart which exists partly outside of myself in you and your brother.. I don't think I ever say enough that you wonderful... so here I am saying it . Now it is for you to believe it... no matter what happens in the job market. Things will jell, they will. Just keep positive, counting all the good things in your life to keep you afloat.
You chose a partner who is just as good as can be in your life. Build on all the good...
and then you can tell me the same, cuz I had a down day, second guessing myself. But I have a 6 am yoga gig tomorrow, and I am going to look them all in the eyes and smile and tell them I'm really happy to be there. Maybe I can pull a few people from the doldrums of a confusing, uncertain world.
And maybe soon, or sometime before the spirit of this land fades to a murmer, the rich leaders will stop the hemorrhaging of our Nations resources into wars and the elements of destruction, and we will have a world to build on.
Love,
mom
Friday, August 27, 2010
Finally This August Garden
Finally this August garden after scary freeway hours
sore butt
back up the hill into the dust, and this moon rising orange.
Gathering dinner,
the particular way you twist a cucumber at the stem
to make it release into your salad hands-
Then sit beneath hummingbird's rhythmic whirr
while light moves between clouds
on fields golden rolling over evenly cut oats harvested
Remembering why the freeway hours..
To visit Mommy, and cook her 85th birthday gravenstien apple kuchen
like mama made it
"Mama didn't use egg I think."
We improvise,
and laugh in the morning, apropos of nothing and everything
requiring hankies to blow our noses and wipe our tears.
sore butt
back up the hill into the dust, and this moon rising orange.
Gathering dinner,
the particular way you twist a cucumber at the stem
to make it release into your salad hands-
Then sit beneath hummingbird's rhythmic whirr
while light moves between clouds
on fields golden rolling over evenly cut oats harvested
Remembering why the freeway hours..
To visit Mommy, and cook her 85th birthday gravenstien apple kuchen
like mama made it
"Mama didn't use egg I think."
We improvise,
and laugh in the morning, apropos of nothing and everything
requiring hankies to blow our noses and wipe our tears.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Book Review: The Brain Dead Megaphone
In one of my former lives I was a book seller, in the quaint town of Cannon Beach, Oregon. I worked for a wonderful family of teachers who, for 10 years, made a valiant effort to keep Ecola Square Children's Bookstore vibrant and alive.
In 2003 we all said goodbye, and the little bookstore on the south end of town is now condos above shops. The discount chains and internet sales washed over us like one of those big waves on the beach which come fast and hard, and are impossible to outrun.
During those ten idyllic bookstore years I wrote book reviews for The Independant Booksellers monthly, 'Booksense' .
I so miss those days of opening a box filled with publisher's advance copies, all free. I could read and review what I chose. For a book nut, that put me in the vicinity of heaven.
I am still reading, between yoga classes, tutoring gigs, farm work, and projects. I give you my latest inspiring find:
The Brain Dead Megaphone, a collection of essays by George Saunders. It works as a summer vacation read, more elevating than a romance or a mystery, and still as engaging as a clever novel. It is a collection of his work from the past 5 years, timely, pithy and humorous stuff written in Saunder's spare, cunning style. One can see why his work appears in GQ magazine. He is of the rare type of writer, a journalist. A real investigative journalist, whose prose will show, not tell, whose ideas are colored with his life experience as well as the ironies and dichotomies of whatever issue he is attempting to illuminate.
The first essay is about what it means to have a commercial media which is like a megaphone, out shouting the polite discourse of a culture, a community, any normal venue for humans to connect as they need to do. Another essay follows him through a night on the Texas/Mexico border with a group of armed minutemen. Sound like anything you've ever read? It is a refreshing take on the world we find ourselves in, (forgive the hackneyed phrase) - post 9-11.
Saunders allows that he is a Republican, as in the party. For this I might forgive him, because his ideas do not mirror the dearth of thoughtfulness contained within the usual discourse coming from that camp. It's a complicated time, but we need to keep connecting, and someone who paints a good picture is worth my attention.
Now, back to harvesting garlic and coriander seeds.....
In 2003 we all said goodbye, and the little bookstore on the south end of town is now condos above shops. The discount chains and internet sales washed over us like one of those big waves on the beach which come fast and hard, and are impossible to outrun.
During those ten idyllic bookstore years I wrote book reviews for The Independant Booksellers monthly, 'Booksense' .
I so miss those days of opening a box filled with publisher's advance copies, all free. I could read and review what I chose. For a book nut, that put me in the vicinity of heaven.
I am still reading, between yoga classes, tutoring gigs, farm work, and projects. I give you my latest inspiring find:
The Brain Dead Megaphone, a collection of essays by George Saunders. It works as a summer vacation read, more elevating than a romance or a mystery, and still as engaging as a clever novel. It is a collection of his work from the past 5 years, timely, pithy and humorous stuff written in Saunder's spare, cunning style. One can see why his work appears in GQ magazine. He is of the rare type of writer, a journalist. A real investigative journalist, whose prose will show, not tell, whose ideas are colored with his life experience as well as the ironies and dichotomies of whatever issue he is attempting to illuminate.
The first essay is about what it means to have a commercial media which is like a megaphone, out shouting the polite discourse of a culture, a community, any normal venue for humans to connect as they need to do. Another essay follows him through a night on the Texas/Mexico border with a group of armed minutemen. Sound like anything you've ever read? It is a refreshing take on the world we find ourselves in, (forgive the hackneyed phrase) - post 9-11.
Saunders allows that he is a Republican, as in the party. For this I might forgive him, because his ideas do not mirror the dearth of thoughtfulness contained within the usual discourse coming from that camp. It's a complicated time, but we need to keep connecting, and someone who paints a good picture is worth my attention.
Now, back to harvesting garlic and coriander seeds.....
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Will There Ever Be Interest on Savings Accounts Again?
In the very first entry I posted for this blog, 2 long months ago in July, I noted that my themes would sometimes lean toward the political. Tonight, as I write, on this lovely August evening after a 95 degree day here in the Pacific Northwest, which offers the brief other-worldly feeling of living in a different climate zone, (as in the kinds of places one might save for months to reach on a vacation), with only a tiny bit of irony I am involved with a political cause.
Enter The Working Families Party of Oregon, establishing itself as a political party in Oregon since 2006, and now taking off with high hopes into the 2010 Oregon Voters Pamphlet.
Currently, we are stuck with the 2 parties, democrats and republicans, from which our National elected officials are comprised, mostly millionaires. This cannot be separated from the facts of our terrible economic situation at the present. When those who own the gold make the rules, it will follow that the rules will favor those who own the gold.
The Oregon Working Families Party currently must gather 5000 Oregon registered voter's signatures to gain ballot access to publish a platform in the next general election Voter's Pamphlet. The OWFP wishes to foster 'fusion' voting, which means they will publicly endorse a candidate based on working people's issues, and not always run an opposition candidate, thereby elevating the level of accountability while not 'spoiling' the 2 party balance.
The OWFP aspires to become the influencing party to hold the main party candidates to values like living wage jobs, affordable college tuition and health care, funding for schools and the arts and a state owned bank to keep our money working for us.
A state owned bank is not a novel, untried concept. North Dakota has one. They are funding community programs, and bolstering state coffers at the same time. We have reached the time to take back our economic fortunes, have we not?
If your interest has been aroused, please visit : oregonwfp.org
So, what does this have to do with yoga, love and heaven? Well, wouldn't it be wonderful (heavenly) to have a bank which paid the saver an interest rate... even 3%, and put dollars into the state coffers to offset our taxes to fund the programs we really want... instead of skimming profits into the CEO's multi- million dollar bonuses? Wouldn't it be love to give all kids great programs? Yoga is about health, integrating all the facets of life. We cannot hold our practice apart from the suffering of others.
We work hard, and we deserve to share in the wealth of our labors and our savings.
Another world is possible. Breathe and read. :) Namaste~
Enter The Working Families Party of Oregon, establishing itself as a political party in Oregon since 2006, and now taking off with high hopes into the 2010 Oregon Voters Pamphlet.
Currently, we are stuck with the 2 parties, democrats and republicans, from which our National elected officials are comprised, mostly millionaires. This cannot be separated from the facts of our terrible economic situation at the present. When those who own the gold make the rules, it will follow that the rules will favor those who own the gold.
The Oregon Working Families Party currently must gather 5000 Oregon registered voter's signatures to gain ballot access to publish a platform in the next general election Voter's Pamphlet. The OWFP wishes to foster 'fusion' voting, which means they will publicly endorse a candidate based on working people's issues, and not always run an opposition candidate, thereby elevating the level of accountability while not 'spoiling' the 2 party balance.
The OWFP aspires to become the influencing party to hold the main party candidates to values like living wage jobs, affordable college tuition and health care, funding for schools and the arts and a state owned bank to keep our money working for us.
A state owned bank is not a novel, untried concept. North Dakota has one. They are funding community programs, and bolstering state coffers at the same time. We have reached the time to take back our economic fortunes, have we not?
If your interest has been aroused, please visit : oregonwfp.org
So, what does this have to do with yoga, love and heaven? Well, wouldn't it be wonderful (heavenly) to have a bank which paid the saver an interest rate... even 3%, and put dollars into the state coffers to offset our taxes to fund the programs we really want... instead of skimming profits into the CEO's multi- million dollar bonuses? Wouldn't it be love to give all kids great programs? Yoga is about health, integrating all the facets of life. We cannot hold our practice apart from the suffering of others.
We work hard, and we deserve to share in the wealth of our labors and our savings.
Another world is possible. Breathe and read. :) Namaste~
Monday, July 26, 2010
Time Spent Sitting Linked to Health
When one is considering all the habits of a normal day, taking the following research into account might keep one standing when one might rather veg.
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2010/07/100722102039.htm
Active yoga seated postures, I would assert,, such as Bada konasana (butterfly), or Mariachasana (Half Lord of the Fishes), are not in the same category as a lounge chair or a car seat. Sitting on the floor asks the spine to hold up the torso frame, and the hips must release out.
Food for thought...
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Wisdom Condensed
Recently while on the road, I passed a sign pointing toward the Diamond, Missouri birthplace of George Washington Carver.
I remember learning about him in grade school, mostly that he developed 100 uses for a peanut and was the child of slaves.
Since becoming a serious gardener, my curiosity about his life is much better than when I was 9, and now we have wikipedia, so I looked him up. I found that he was a pioneer in the field of sustainable agriculture, and he wrote this:
* Be clean, both inside and out.
* Neither look up to the rich, nor down on the poor.
* Lose, if need be, without squealing.* Win with out bragging.
* Always be considerate to women, children and older people.
* Be too brave to lie.
* Be too generous to cheat.
* Take your share of the world, and let others take theirs.
George Washington Carver
Sunday, July 18, 2010
To Be a Bluebird or a Swallow?
Are you a shy bluebird,
concerned with flying lightly, quietly in little skips
evanescent azure toned,
morning chirp music maker,
cute and vulnerable, endangered?
or
Are you a bold swallow,
swooping, spiraling, obviously colored
batlike presence
willing to nest opportunistically, taunting and aggressive,
the unafraid majority?
Even as the little bluebird perches on its home,
shivering bravely, standing ground over the eggs
the swallow plays, airplane diving with abandon
catching bugs in midair
claiming the house next door (built for bluebirds)
then throwing
loud parties anytime
till the bluebirds decide to take a trip
get away for a few weeks
It might be easier to be
a swallow sometimes, really.
concerned with flying lightly, quietly in little skips
evanescent azure toned,
morning chirp music maker,
cute and vulnerable, endangered?
or
Are you a bold swallow,
swooping, spiraling, obviously colored
batlike presence
willing to nest opportunistically, taunting and aggressive,
the unafraid majority?
Even as the little bluebird perches on its home,
shivering bravely, standing ground over the eggs
the swallow plays, airplane diving with abandon
catching bugs in midair
claiming the house next door (built for bluebirds)
then throwing
loud parties anytime
till the bluebirds decide to take a trip
get away for a few weeks
It might be easier to be
a swallow sometimes, really.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Integrating Practice With Travel and Hosting
After the past month of visiting friends in other parts of the country, being on the road, and then co-hosting a large family gathering, I'm thinking of how one continues a practice and healthy eating habits in non-routine environments. I realize that for most of my life I have let go of my routines when I traveled or spent time in other people's spaces. I am trying to amend that tendency because I love to travel, I love my friends and I love my practice. Giving up routines which keep me healthy should not be a trade-off for indulging my gypsy or my great joy in being with the loved people in my life.
The dilemma, of course, remains how challenging it becomes to practice if there is not space, or a quiet situation. Eating is even more complicated as it is a social ritual, one which I dearly love to share with others. The shear amounts of so much available food containing varying degrees of nutrition have given new challenges to all meal planning. Add to this the increase in allergies and restricted diets, and food choices have never been so complex.
We live in a culture of food abundance, so our new survival has switched from expending energy to acquire food, to expending energy to carefully select and manage what we choose to eat out of the plethora of offerings. When I speak of food abundance, I am referring to the U.S. as a whole, and do not in any way minimize those parts of the world where people are starving. It seems impossible that the 2 paradigms exist together on the same planet, and yet herein probably lies part of the clue to obesity and starvation both.
Returning to the subject of staying with a yoga practice no matter where one wakes up in the morning, I believe this is also part of the key to staying right on eating. I find, and I hope you have experienced this as well, that after my practice, my bodily desires shift. I feel less like eating empty calories, more aware of my internal organs, my interior self and less inclined to eat unconsciously. The simple act of sitting and breathing, going inside, offers us the connection to that part of our physical self which operates in it's marvelously autonomous manner. Bringing the self back to the self is the magic we can partake in every day, even if it just means finding a small space of floor to sit on, finding breath, and doing a rotation or 2.
In my family enough of us practice in some form that we actually practice together as part of our gathering. I recommend this to anyone wishing to enjoy the family reunion at a new level. It may begin with 2 or 3 people, but I almost guarantee others will join in as the practice continues into a tradition. This year we had so many family members joining in morning yoga, we had to crowd the mats. Our participation is growing, as the less inclined watch and notice how good the yogis feel afterwards. We have created a new little paradigm, which works like ultimate frisbee or a poker game to draw people together in an enjoyable activity. It is a relief to find a shared activity which is not eating!
One of my offerings as a yoga teacher is "special order yoga" which allows an individual to create a group and a time, and I will tailor a class to fit the needs of the participants. I've done this a few times in the past year, and it is very fun for all. You might want to lead your group too, give it a try!
If you have any inspirations to share about travel and social eating, post a comment!
The dilemma, of course, remains how challenging it becomes to practice if there is not space, or a quiet situation. Eating is even more complicated as it is a social ritual, one which I dearly love to share with others. The shear amounts of so much available food containing varying degrees of nutrition have given new challenges to all meal planning. Add to this the increase in allergies and restricted diets, and food choices have never been so complex.
We live in a culture of food abundance, so our new survival has switched from expending energy to acquire food, to expending energy to carefully select and manage what we choose to eat out of the plethora of offerings. When I speak of food abundance, I am referring to the U.S. as a whole, and do not in any way minimize those parts of the world where people are starving. It seems impossible that the 2 paradigms exist together on the same planet, and yet herein probably lies part of the clue to obesity and starvation both.
Returning to the subject of staying with a yoga practice no matter where one wakes up in the morning, I believe this is also part of the key to staying right on eating. I find, and I hope you have experienced this as well, that after my practice, my bodily desires shift. I feel less like eating empty calories, more aware of my internal organs, my interior self and less inclined to eat unconsciously. The simple act of sitting and breathing, going inside, offers us the connection to that part of our physical self which operates in it's marvelously autonomous manner. Bringing the self back to the self is the magic we can partake in every day, even if it just means finding a small space of floor to sit on, finding breath, and doing a rotation or 2.
In my family enough of us practice in some form that we actually practice together as part of our gathering. I recommend this to anyone wishing to enjoy the family reunion at a new level. It may begin with 2 or 3 people, but I almost guarantee others will join in as the practice continues into a tradition. This year we had so many family members joining in morning yoga, we had to crowd the mats. Our participation is growing, as the less inclined watch and notice how good the yogis feel afterwards. We have created a new little paradigm, which works like ultimate frisbee or a poker game to draw people together in an enjoyable activity. It is a relief to find a shared activity which is not eating!
One of my offerings as a yoga teacher is "special order yoga" which allows an individual to create a group and a time, and I will tailor a class to fit the needs of the participants. I've done this a few times in the past year, and it is very fun for all. You might want to lead your group too, give it a try!
If you have any inspirations to share about travel and social eating, post a comment!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
For My Peeps
Welcome to Heaven Now.
One of the hardest parts of starting a blog is creating a title which acts as a signpost to adequately portray the nuance of the subject matter. The title must also have the right search words to attract the searcher. (Having the word 'search' in the title seemed good) All humor aside, or even including all humor, I am glad you are here, and hope you are searching too, like me.
The heaven reference was inspired by a conversation with my Dad. He is a very fine, intelligent man, and a seriously good father. He is also a devout Catholic and puts a great deal of stock in 'eternal life'. As I think of eternal life, and what that means, I have come to realize it is a metaphor as are the positive and negative aspects of its loudly marketed options - heaven and hell.
If metaphor is your vehicle, let's ride this life story and find... heaven now. The option of waiting to die first is not a gamble that would appeal to an actuary, or to a lover of this life, here and now.
As to the order of the sustenance words in the title, love should, of course, come first. Yet love is sadly a broad, hackneyed word, utilized to a point of functionless verbage co-opted by Madison Avenue. ( I was just walking down Madison Avenue lately, I suspect they are hurting like many of the proletariat).
If we discuss reaching love through our practice, and the food which we offer the body, we can work our way toward love.. love of self, love of feeling good, and love in our work and our relationships.
So, we will explore how our practice, the food we consume, our thoughts and the way we spend our energies can help us follow our way to love.. to heaven now.
If you have an insight which fits this paradigm, you may write it here. I offer to you all the most unique information I can find, all the inspiration I can muster, all the encouragement you will accept, and my inimitable love.
A rising tide floats all boats... so lets search out heaven now!
One of the hardest parts of starting a blog is creating a title which acts as a signpost to adequately portray the nuance of the subject matter. The title must also have the right search words to attract the searcher. (Having the word 'search' in the title seemed good) All humor aside, or even including all humor, I am glad you are here, and hope you are searching too, like me.
The heaven reference was inspired by a conversation with my Dad. He is a very fine, intelligent man, and a seriously good father. He is also a devout Catholic and puts a great deal of stock in 'eternal life'. As I think of eternal life, and what that means, I have come to realize it is a metaphor as are the positive and negative aspects of its loudly marketed options - heaven and hell.
If metaphor is your vehicle, let's ride this life story and find... heaven now. The option of waiting to die first is not a gamble that would appeal to an actuary, or to a lover of this life, here and now.
As to the order of the sustenance words in the title, love should, of course, come first. Yet love is sadly a broad, hackneyed word, utilized to a point of functionless verbage co-opted by Madison Avenue. ( I was just walking down Madison Avenue lately, I suspect they are hurting like many of the proletariat).
If we discuss reaching love through our practice, and the food which we offer the body, we can work our way toward love.. love of self, love of feeling good, and love in our work and our relationships.
So, we will explore how our practice, the food we consume, our thoughts and the way we spend our energies can help us follow our way to love.. to heaven now.
If you have an insight which fits this paradigm, you may write it here. I offer to you all the most unique information I can find, all the inspiration I can muster, all the encouragement you will accept, and my inimitable love.
A rising tide floats all boats... so lets search out heaven now!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)