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.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
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.
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