Friday, January 29, 2016
Women Who Write
Unseasonal slice of spring
splashes light across my desk,
interrupts my morning write,
lures fingers from the keyboard.
I set aside my daily task
and reach for other keys.
Morning sun steamrolls
across damp fields,
trailing vapor
that dissipates in thin air.
I shake winter from my wings
to skitter up and around
and up some more,
listening along the way
to hikers chatter like chickadees
celebrating a fresh-filled feeder.
At the crest, above distant valley floor
and so close to sky, I wish that I
could fly, could soar,
could be both large and small.
My slow descent savoring
January sweetness gains
blessing of a stranger’s car,
newly parked beside my own,
door open.
Our greeting extends
into connection – however brief –
between two women who write.
I tuck the moment in my heart.
January 22, 2016
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
May The Force Awaken Us All
I’ve seen the new Star Wars movie twice now and have fallen in love with BB-8 and Rey.
In that order.
BB-8 charmed me even more than R2D2 had those many years ago.
You see, I’ve seen only the first Star Wars and this latest release. I’m not sure why I missed the others. But when The Force Awakens promised the original Han Solo, Luke and Leia, I couldn’t miss it.
Now I’m hooked on that little round droid and her powerful human, Rey (way to go, Daisy). Okay, I know that without Poe, the two would not have met. Still, the story is theirs. It belongs to Rey and BB-8.
As a lifelong feminist, I was thrilled with the powerful, resourceful yet sensitive Rey. Of course her droid would be intelligent, perceptive – and female.
Hooray, I thought! Hollywood finally recognizes strong female characters. After all, even Han Solo cautions Finn that women always find out the truth.
And in the end, the two who are left, the two who are in charge, are Leia and Rey. And BB-8.
I did some browsing, looking for more information on the droid. One of the sites began with two questions:
• Wait, is BB-8 female?
• What does that mean?
The first question could have been written by anyone, male or female. The second? Definitely male. At least, I believe a woman would have written:
• Wait, BB-8 is female?
• Hallelujah!
What a disappointment, then, to find that Disney left Rey out of their new Monopoly game. An eight-year-old girl wrote in protest, saying, “girls matter.”
Both Disney and Monopoly-maker Hasbro are now scrambling to include Rey – and hopefully BB-8 – in their games and toys.
May The Force awaken us all to the power and wonder of women.
In that order.
BB-8 charmed me even more than R2D2 had those many years ago.
You see, I’ve seen only the first Star Wars and this latest release. I’m not sure why I missed the others. But when The Force Awakens promised the original Han Solo, Luke and Leia, I couldn’t miss it.
Now I’m hooked on that little round droid and her powerful human, Rey (way to go, Daisy). Okay, I know that without Poe, the two would not have met. Still, the story is theirs. It belongs to Rey and BB-8.
As a lifelong feminist, I was thrilled with the powerful, resourceful yet sensitive Rey. Of course her droid would be intelligent, perceptive – and female.
Hooray, I thought! Hollywood finally recognizes strong female characters. After all, even Han Solo cautions Finn that women always find out the truth.
And in the end, the two who are left, the two who are in charge, are Leia and Rey. And BB-8.
I did some browsing, looking for more information on the droid. One of the sites began with two questions:
• Wait, is BB-8 female?
• What does that mean?
The first question could have been written by anyone, male or female. The second? Definitely male. At least, I believe a woman would have written:
• Wait, BB-8 is female?
• Hallelujah!
What a disappointment, then, to find that Disney left Rey out of their new Monopoly game. An eight-year-old girl wrote in protest, saying, “girls matter.”
Both Disney and Monopoly-maker Hasbro are now scrambling to include Rey – and hopefully BB-8 – in their games and toys.
May The Force awaken us all to the power and wonder of women.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
The End of Our Empire
Last week, a forwarded email proclaimed the end of the United States in 2016. Or, at least, the end of the U.S. as we know it – and that the demise of our democracy would inevitably be followed by a brutal dictatorship.
Some well-reasoned arguments were used to blame the current administration as the cause.
I wanted to respond, but have kept my fingers off the keyboard until now. Here, on my blog, no one need read it, no one need respond, and I get to ‘moderate’ any comment submitted.
In 2006, I attended three lectures on the Fall of Empires: Roman, Spanish and British. At the end of the last lecture, a man asked if the lecturer saw parallels for the U. S. today. Remember: “today” was June, 2006, well before the 2008 elections.
He replied yes.
The man then asked, “Can we turn back?”
He answered, “Maybe” We were headed for that cliff, but there was still time to change direction. The dilemma: even if we want to do so, could we?
Long before I sat through those lectures, mere days after 9/11, I wrote a letter to the editor that was never published. In part it said:
“I hope our government won't use events of September 11 to justify massive vengeful acts in foreign lands.
The God of my understanding does not take sides, but gave us intelligence and free will. With those we can do great good or great evil. With self-awareness and self-control, may we avoid the latter.”
We all know what happened after that.
Perhaps it is inevitable for powerful nation-states to crumble in some way. Everything points in that direction. I, for one, would be happy to see the U.S. draw back from the role of worldwide cop.
But whatever happens, I don’t believe we are destined to fall under brutal dictatorship as the email proclaimed. Look at Great Britain. No longer a super-power, yet certainly not a dictatorship. May we learn from them.
Some well-reasoned arguments were used to blame the current administration as the cause.
I wanted to respond, but have kept my fingers off the keyboard until now. Here, on my blog, no one need read it, no one need respond, and I get to ‘moderate’ any comment submitted.
In 2006, I attended three lectures on the Fall of Empires: Roman, Spanish and British. At the end of the last lecture, a man asked if the lecturer saw parallels for the U. S. today. Remember: “today” was June, 2006, well before the 2008 elections.
He replied yes.
The man then asked, “Can we turn back?”
He answered, “Maybe” We were headed for that cliff, but there was still time to change direction. The dilemma: even if we want to do so, could we?
Long before I sat through those lectures, mere days after 9/11, I wrote a letter to the editor that was never published. In part it said:
“I hope our government won't use events of September 11 to justify massive vengeful acts in foreign lands.
The God of my understanding does not take sides, but gave us intelligence and free will. With those we can do great good or great evil. With self-awareness and self-control, may we avoid the latter.”
We all know what happened after that.
Perhaps it is inevitable for powerful nation-states to crumble in some way. Everything points in that direction. I, for one, would be happy to see the U.S. draw back from the role of worldwide cop.
But whatever happens, I don’t believe we are destined to fall under brutal dictatorship as the email proclaimed. Look at Great Britain. No longer a super-power, yet certainly not a dictatorship. May we learn from them.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Miracle on New Year's Eve
A small miracle today: On my jog, a pit-bull mix came growling up behind me. I stopped, turned and said, "Whoa, that's not nice. I'm not bothering you."
He cocked his head, puzzled, then trotted back into his yard. Whew!
Does that make me a dog whisperer? Probably not. But I will give wide berth to that particular house.
Later, gazing at blue sky through bare trees above a pond by my new home, I realized how blessed I am to end this year unharmed.
That evening, I watched the sun slide away and wrote:
New Year’s Eve, 2015
Horizon glows amber, backlights bare trees,
casts shadows onto steel-tinted pond.
Fog that worried our weatherman failed to arrive.
The squirrel-proof birdfeeder replenished,
I cozy into winter quiet, grateful
this year ended clear and dry
and safe.
He cocked his head, puzzled, then trotted back into his yard. Whew!
Does that make me a dog whisperer? Probably not. But I will give wide berth to that particular house.
Later, gazing at blue sky through bare trees above a pond by my new home, I realized how blessed I am to end this year unharmed.
That evening, I watched the sun slide away and wrote:
New Year’s Eve, 2015
Horizon glows amber, backlights bare trees,
casts shadows onto steel-tinted pond.
Fog that worried our weatherman failed to arrive.
The squirrel-proof birdfeeder replenished,
I cozy into winter quiet, grateful
this year ended clear and dry
and safe.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
re-Oregonized
Monday, November 30, 2015: The movers stashed my stuff in their truck and drove it to the warehouse. That night, I stayed in my empty apartment, sleeping bag with airbed on the floor.
Tuesday, December 1: I paced and prowled, waiting for the cleaning woman. We arranged that she would do the walk-through with the landlady. I began my journey north that afternoon under sunny California skies.
I made it as far as Morgan Hill where an old college boyfriend has lived for years. I decided against attempting contact.
Wednesday, December 2: Ashland, Oregon! In my motel, I commemorated with a new Oregon poem –
Last night I slept near
an old lover and dreamt us
young again
then spent today
chasing rainbows north,
toward the place we met.
Now I wrestle with dark hours
before dawn,
eager to complete my journey:
An old poet, homeward bound.
Thursday, December 3: Oregon welcomed me with green hills, warm rain and scattered blue spaces overhead. I rolled into Eugene early in the afternoon.
Friday, December 4: I got the key to my beautiful condo and called the moving company. When would my goods arrive?
Well, they hemmed, the driver was to pick it up yesterday. He never showed. Never called. They would reschedule. They would let me know.
So, not until next week?
Yeah. We’ll contact you.
Saturday, December 5: I bought a nice oak captain’s chair at Goodwill, a small table at Freddie’s and a camp cot at BiMart – no more sleeping on the floor for me!
Sunday, December 6: I moved into my empty new place.
Monday, December 7: Running out of clothes. I started the washer and was soon awash in water!
The drain hose had not been connected and water simply ran in, then out. Turning the machine off was little help. This would have been less of a problem had the washer been on the ground floor. Instead, water found its way down, down, down through a light fixture to the hall below.
I threw all my dry clothes under the washer, and raced downstairs, dialing the landlord as I ran. Thankfully, he answered my distress call and promised help.
I was borrowing towels from my neighbor when he called back. His friend would be arrive in minutes to begin the process of ripping things up and drying them out.
I moved back to my friend’s house and called the movers. Still no plan, no schedule. They would let me know.
Wednesday, December 9: The house was a dry 85 degrees, like a sauna. I would stay away another night.
I’d been told they would redo the floor and re-tack the carpets on Thursday.
Thursday, December 11: I trundled back early and waited. The floor guy called at noon. They would be here at noon - tomorrow.
“I was promised you’d be here today,” I groaned.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated.
I used the afternoon to get cable equipment, start newspaper delivery and haunt resale stores for ‘necessary’ items.
The moving company called. Someone named Monroe would pick up my stuff on Saturday and deliver on Sunday – the final day of their estimated delivery schedule. The weather threatened snow in the mountains.
On Saturday, with the washer still not set in place and running out of clothes, I made a run to the laundromat. No word from this Monroe guy.
Sunday, December 13: I woke at 5 a.m. excited as a kid at Christmas. But had Monroe-the-mover has made it safely over the Siskiyou Summit? Is he sliding closer in his oversized sleigh?
Then the texts began.
8:38 a.m. The passes have too much snow on them right now, going to wait until later and see if they clear up. Probably won’t be there till tomorrow . . . don’t want to be stuck on a mountain in the snow.
(me: Okay, thanks for letting me know)
You’re welcome. I’ll let you know later.
(me: okay, so where are you?)_
Weed, CA
(me: lovely spot! It’s cold enough to snow here, too. Hope things warm up soon)
Monday, December 14: more texts
7:27 a.m. Still stuck in Weed. Chains required. If they lift the chain law today we’ll head up and be there first thing in the morning tomorrow. Thanks for your patience. As soon as I can head north I will let you know.
(me: so, you don’t have chains?)
Can’t chain my truck. It has fenders that are too close to the tires . . .
(me: okay)
I called the moving company just to note that they would deliver outside of the promised time window. Later, Monroe called. They would be here by 8 a.m. in the morning.
Tuesday, December 15:
7:30 a.m. A huge moving van rolled up. I went outside and met Monroe and his partner. I was embarrassed to have questioned the delay. I wouldn’t have dared move that rig two feet!
And Monroe parked it so well that my neighbors could get in or out, if necessary.
9:15 a.m. The van rolled out, all my good delivered. I’d spent just under two hours with a couple of really nice guys who clearly enjoy what they do.
I called the moving company to retract my earlier complaint.
“Give those guys a gold star,” I told the woman on the phone.
And then I started really getting re-Oregonized!
Tuesday, December 1: I paced and prowled, waiting for the cleaning woman. We arranged that she would do the walk-through with the landlady. I began my journey north that afternoon under sunny California skies.
I made it as far as Morgan Hill where an old college boyfriend has lived for years. I decided against attempting contact.
Wednesday, December 2: Ashland, Oregon! In my motel, I commemorated with a new Oregon poem –
Last night I slept near
an old lover and dreamt us
young again
then spent today
chasing rainbows north,
toward the place we met.
Now I wrestle with dark hours
before dawn,
eager to complete my journey:
An old poet, homeward bound.
Thursday, December 3: Oregon welcomed me with green hills, warm rain and scattered blue spaces overhead. I rolled into Eugene early in the afternoon.
Friday, December 4: I got the key to my beautiful condo and called the moving company. When would my goods arrive?
Well, they hemmed, the driver was to pick it up yesterday. He never showed. Never called. They would reschedule. They would let me know.
So, not until next week?
Yeah. We’ll contact you.
Saturday, December 5: I bought a nice oak captain’s chair at Goodwill, a small table at Freddie’s and a camp cot at BiMart – no more sleeping on the floor for me!
Sunday, December 6: I moved into my empty new place.
Monday, December 7: Running out of clothes. I started the washer and was soon awash in water!
The drain hose had not been connected and water simply ran in, then out. Turning the machine off was little help. This would have been less of a problem had the washer been on the ground floor. Instead, water found its way down, down, down through a light fixture to the hall below.
I threw all my dry clothes under the washer, and raced downstairs, dialing the landlord as I ran. Thankfully, he answered my distress call and promised help.
I was borrowing towels from my neighbor when he called back. His friend would be arrive in minutes to begin the process of ripping things up and drying them out.
I moved back to my friend’s house and called the movers. Still no plan, no schedule. They would let me know.
Wednesday, December 9: The house was a dry 85 degrees, like a sauna. I would stay away another night.
I’d been told they would redo the floor and re-tack the carpets on Thursday.
Thursday, December 11: I trundled back early and waited. The floor guy called at noon. They would be here at noon - tomorrow.
“I was promised you’d be here today,” I groaned.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated.
I used the afternoon to get cable equipment, start newspaper delivery and haunt resale stores for ‘necessary’ items.
The moving company called. Someone named Monroe would pick up my stuff on Saturday and deliver on Sunday – the final day of their estimated delivery schedule. The weather threatened snow in the mountains.
On Saturday, with the washer still not set in place and running out of clothes, I made a run to the laundromat. No word from this Monroe guy.
Sunday, December 13: I woke at 5 a.m. excited as a kid at Christmas. But had Monroe-the-mover has made it safely over the Siskiyou Summit? Is he sliding closer in his oversized sleigh?
Then the texts began.
8:38 a.m. The passes have too much snow on them right now, going to wait until later and see if they clear up. Probably won’t be there till tomorrow . . . don’t want to be stuck on a mountain in the snow.
(me: Okay, thanks for letting me know)
You’re welcome. I’ll let you know later.
(me: okay, so where are you?)_
Weed, CA
(me: lovely spot! It’s cold enough to snow here, too. Hope things warm up soon)
Monday, December 14: more texts
7:27 a.m. Still stuck in Weed. Chains required. If they lift the chain law today we’ll head up and be there first thing in the morning tomorrow. Thanks for your patience. As soon as I can head north I will let you know.
(me: so, you don’t have chains?)
Can’t chain my truck. It has fenders that are too close to the tires . . .
(me: okay)
I called the moving company just to note that they would deliver outside of the promised time window. Later, Monroe called. They would be here by 8 a.m. in the morning.
Tuesday, December 15:
7:30 a.m. A huge moving van rolled up. I went outside and met Monroe and his partner. I was embarrassed to have questioned the delay. I wouldn’t have dared move that rig two feet!
And Monroe parked it so well that my neighbors could get in or out, if necessary.
9:15 a.m. The van rolled out, all my good delivered. I’d spent just under two hours with a couple of really nice guys who clearly enjoy what they do.
I called the moving company to retract my earlier complaint.
“Give those guys a gold star,” I told the woman on the phone.
And then I started really getting re-Oregonized!
Monday, October 12, 2015
McKenzie River
She bubbles from Cascade crest,
then bounces through canyons
down, down –
cold and sweet and pure.
I traveled the length of her
uncounted times,
rounded every curve as
my heart danced to her music,
and names of camp and trail
and waterfall,
sang in my mind –
Ollalie
Sahalie
Paradise.
For fifty years, she flowed from my tap
and I drank her straight.
Then I abandoned her,
sought sun and sea
and tried to forget.
Yet here, seven hundred
miles south – where I squint
in white brightness,
watch lakes evaporate and
bare peaks shimmer with heat –
even here, the taste of her
lingers on my tongue
and lures me back.
then bounces through canyons
down, down –
cold and sweet and pure.
I traveled the length of her
uncounted times,
rounded every curve as
my heart danced to her music,
and names of camp and trail
and waterfall,
sang in my mind –
Ollalie
Sahalie
Paradise.
For fifty years, she flowed from my tap
and I drank her straight.
Then I abandoned her,
sought sun and sea
and tried to forget.
Yet here, seven hundred
miles south – where I squint
in white brightness,
watch lakes evaporate and
bare peaks shimmer with heat –
even here, the taste of her
lingers on my tongue
and lures me back.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Another Early Autumn
I felt it the other day, that subtle shift as summer slides into September.
Early Autumn! Not as early here as farther north.
But I’m energized by the new slant of light, by cooler mornings and longer evenings, glad of the end to long, hot summer days.
I mentioned it to a friend.
“Oh, no,” she assured me. “Not until October.”
I didn’t argue. Not verbally, anyway. But I’ve always been puzzled by the lag between when I feel the shift and the official change-of-season dates. A few years back, I adopted the medieval calendar, marking the summer solstice as midsummer, the beginning of fall sometime in August, and the onset of winter in November. Nothing really changed except my attitude. Imagining December as the dead of winter just made sense to me.
So yesterday I jogged happily in a misty morning, as though finally able to breathe.
Today, my birthday, I hiked with a friend to an overlook, the view still hazy from morning fog. It reminded me of the first day of school when I’m eager for the lessons to come my way – lessons not yet defined.
A perfect start to my next loop around the sun.
Early Autumn! Not as early here as farther north.
But I’m energized by the new slant of light, by cooler mornings and longer evenings, glad of the end to long, hot summer days.
I mentioned it to a friend.
“Oh, no,” she assured me. “Not until October.”
I didn’t argue. Not verbally, anyway. But I’ve always been puzzled by the lag between when I feel the shift and the official change-of-season dates. A few years back, I adopted the medieval calendar, marking the summer solstice as midsummer, the beginning of fall sometime in August, and the onset of winter in November. Nothing really changed except my attitude. Imagining December as the dead of winter just made sense to me.
So yesterday I jogged happily in a misty morning, as though finally able to breathe.
Today, my birthday, I hiked with a friend to an overlook, the view still hazy from morning fog. It reminded me of the first day of school when I’m eager for the lessons to come my way – lessons not yet defined.
A perfect start to my next loop around the sun.
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