August 25, 2019
Morning.
A gnat joins me at the kitchen counter as I read my meditations. It leaps backward, scrambles forward, turns in circles. It slips under my book, pops out and whirls again, a dervish seeking ecstasy - or protesting invasion of territory by a stinky human.
In the bath, a tiny spider – barely a speck – wanders the edge, skirts blobs of water in which it would surely drown.
Afternoon.
On the patio, a whir of wings brings me eye to eye with slender, neon bright hummingbird. It breaks hover when I speak, darts and guzzles from orange trumpet blossoms, then zings to the sky.
Beside the river path, geese yank and tear at grass, their plump bellies threatening to tip them over. Maples edged in crimson foretell approach of autumn.
Evening.
The shy tuxedo cat next door has been alone two days. Though her owner claims she won’t approach humans, she trots over and rubs against my leg. Her eyes glaze as I pet and soothe her with kitty talk.
Monday, August 26, 2019
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Memory Cafe
I talk to my world as I pass through it. I greet dogs and their owners. I tickle pink peonies and exclaim over burnt orange rosebuds that burst into yellow flames. I question squirrels and reply to bird calls. To those eight turkeys wobbling and weaving on the road ahead, I suggest they choose a lane and stick to it.
Not surprising, then, that the song I Talk to the Trees began spinning in my head. A group I belonged to in college (!!) performed it at a choral event. I love the tune and the arrangement they chose. I can recite the first verse perfectly right down to the echoed phrases:
I talk to the trees
but they don’t listen to me
(listen to me)
I talk to the stars
but they never hear me.
(never hear)
The breeze hasn’t time
(hasn’t time)
to stop and hear what I say.
(what I say)
I talk to them all in vain.
Memories. Unique. Personal. Entertaining.
A friend told me he once misread a sign he passed daily. Interesting, he thought. A Memory Café. Months later, he finally saw the second word. Care. Memory Care.
I like Memory Café better. We get to choose our memories, combine them creatively.
My brain understood the intent of the second verse of that song, but the words had slipped away.
Luckily my Memory Café menu allows à la carte selections and served me a verse from Blue Moon:
Suddenly you appear before me
the only one my arms will ever hold.
I hear somebody whisper please adore me
and when I looked the moon had turned to gold.
Memories. How puzzling the pieces remembered and those forgotten.
I remember a concert by the Divine Miss M (aka Bette Midler) at Red Rocks in Colorado. It was 1974. I had never heard a single song by her before that. I had never heard of her before that.
She swept onto the stage hurling F-bombs against the walls, ranting about the amazing setting, obscene expressions of awe that echo in my memory. I cannot tell you a single song she performed, but I remember that dramatic entry.
It must be surprise that embeds certain fragments, discards others. Like the elevator that burst into open air and scaled the side of the building; my sister’s dismay as I sank to the floor in fear.
Or that creepy foreboding on a Montana highway when a green-and-cream El Camino overtook my Ford pickup for the second time, then hung beside me in the passing lane. The driver honked to ensure I got full view of his exposed equipment.
Ah, yes. The Memory Café. Some items more appealing than others.
Not surprising, then, that the song I Talk to the Trees began spinning in my head. A group I belonged to in college (!!) performed it at a choral event. I love the tune and the arrangement they chose. I can recite the first verse perfectly right down to the echoed phrases:
I talk to the trees
but they don’t listen to me
(listen to me)
I talk to the stars
but they never hear me.
(never hear)
The breeze hasn’t time
(hasn’t time)
to stop and hear what I say.
(what I say)
I talk to them all in vain.
Memories. Unique. Personal. Entertaining.
A friend told me he once misread a sign he passed daily. Interesting, he thought. A Memory Café. Months later, he finally saw the second word. Care. Memory Care.
I like Memory Café better. We get to choose our memories, combine them creatively.
My brain understood the intent of the second verse of that song, but the words had slipped away.
Luckily my Memory Café menu allows à la carte selections and served me a verse from Blue Moon:
Suddenly you appear before me
the only one my arms will ever hold.
I hear somebody whisper please adore me
and when I looked the moon had turned to gold.
Memories. How puzzling the pieces remembered and those forgotten.
I remember a concert by the Divine Miss M (aka Bette Midler) at Red Rocks in Colorado. It was 1974. I had never heard a single song by her before that. I had never heard of her before that.
She swept onto the stage hurling F-bombs against the walls, ranting about the amazing setting, obscene expressions of awe that echo in my memory. I cannot tell you a single song she performed, but I remember that dramatic entry.
It must be surprise that embeds certain fragments, discards others. Like the elevator that burst into open air and scaled the side of the building; my sister’s dismay as I sank to the floor in fear.
Or that creepy foreboding on a Montana highway when a green-and-cream El Camino overtook my Ford pickup for the second time, then hung beside me in the passing lane. The driver honked to ensure I got full view of his exposed equipment.
Ah, yes. The Memory Café. Some items more appealing than others.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
WHAT’S HE UP TO?
I encountered racism yesterday. It was so subtle I could have missed it.
The watering system in my section of the complex hasn’t functioned yet this year. The landscape and irrigation supervisor was walking the property searching for the cause.
As I went to the mailbox, a car pulled into my neighbor’s drive. My neighbor does massage as a second job, so this was not surprising.
When I turned back toward my unit, the person from the car was still standing beside her car watching the landscape guy. I was startled when she asked, “What’s he up to?”
I probably don’t need to mention that the man is black.
“He’s the grounds crew supervisor,” I said. “He’s trying to find out why the water system isn’t working.”
She said nothing and proceeded to my neighbor’s door.
I wanted to follow her, pound on the door and ask if she would have been bothered if the man had been white. I wanted to ask if she felt threatened because he wasn’t white. Had she thought she was protecting something – me, my neighbor, the complex – by watching him?
The man never heard her question, thank goodness. But I felt shame for the many times he has undoubtedly been confronted in similar situations.
The watering system in my section of the complex hasn’t functioned yet this year. The landscape and irrigation supervisor was walking the property searching for the cause.
As I went to the mailbox, a car pulled into my neighbor’s drive. My neighbor does massage as a second job, so this was not surprising.
When I turned back toward my unit, the person from the car was still standing beside her car watching the landscape guy. I was startled when she asked, “What’s he up to?”
I probably don’t need to mention that the man is black.
“He’s the grounds crew supervisor,” I said. “He’s trying to find out why the water system isn’t working.”
She said nothing and proceeded to my neighbor’s door.
I wanted to follow her, pound on the door and ask if she would have been bothered if the man had been white. I wanted to ask if she felt threatened because he wasn’t white. Had she thought she was protecting something – me, my neighbor, the complex – by watching him?
The man never heard her question, thank goodness. But I felt shame for the many times he has undoubtedly been confronted in similar situations.
Monday, February 11, 2019
Blackface
Blackface. White people painting themselves black to portray African Americans. Scandal after scandal inflamed by photos dredged up from years ago. And I’m guilty, too, though I don’t worry about being ‘called out’ now.
You see, I once painted my face and legs black, covered my lily-white arms with long sleeves and hid my dishwater blonde hair under a red bandanna.
I still have the photo. My best friend Christina and I look at the camera, unsmiling. We’re nine years old, dressed for a May Day celebration of Stephen Foster’s music. At school. Public school. In Whittier, California. At the time, Whittier was a Sundown Town. No blacks lived within the city limits. I had never met a black person.
By the time I was a senior in high school (1961), Whittier had repealed the Sundown Law. One black family lived in the city limits. Their son was in my class, a daughter a couple of grades behind. And yet that year, in an all-girl dance show, one group wore blackface and titled their act Pickaninny Paradise! They may have used a Stephen Foster song.
I did a little research on Stephen Foster. He was not from the South. He was from Pennsylvania, an anti-slavery stronghold. He did write songs about the South, about black people, sometimes seeming to mimic their speech. He died in 1864, just before the end of the Civil War. His biography states:
He made it his business to study the various music and poetic styles circulating in the immigrant populations of the new United States. His intention was to write the people's music, using images and a musical vocabulary that would be widely understood by all groups.
It goes on to note:
Foster sought to humanize the characters in his songs, to have them care for one another, and to convey a sense that all people--regardless of their ethnic identities or social and economic class--share the same longings and needs for family and home. He instructed white performers of his songs not to mock slaves but to get their audiences to feel compassion for them.
My participation in that long-ago event dancing to Stephen Foster’s music, or watching without protest that group of white girls in blackface – does that mean I am racist?
Over the years, I have had friends who are black. I hope they would feel free to stop me if I speak or act offensively. I can only acknowledge the inappropriateness of my actions and make amends when I become aware. But I must make those amends with sincerity – and change my behavior. That is what is wanted in the current swirl of revelations.
You see, I once painted my face and legs black, covered my lily-white arms with long sleeves and hid my dishwater blonde hair under a red bandanna.
I still have the photo. My best friend Christina and I look at the camera, unsmiling. We’re nine years old, dressed for a May Day celebration of Stephen Foster’s music. At school. Public school. In Whittier, California. At the time, Whittier was a Sundown Town. No blacks lived within the city limits. I had never met a black person.
By the time I was a senior in high school (1961), Whittier had repealed the Sundown Law. One black family lived in the city limits. Their son was in my class, a daughter a couple of grades behind. And yet that year, in an all-girl dance show, one group wore blackface and titled their act Pickaninny Paradise! They may have used a Stephen Foster song.
I did a little research on Stephen Foster. He was not from the South. He was from Pennsylvania, an anti-slavery stronghold. He did write songs about the South, about black people, sometimes seeming to mimic their speech. He died in 1864, just before the end of the Civil War. His biography states:
He made it his business to study the various music and poetic styles circulating in the immigrant populations of the new United States. His intention was to write the people's music, using images and a musical vocabulary that would be widely understood by all groups.
It goes on to note:
Foster sought to humanize the characters in his songs, to have them care for one another, and to convey a sense that all people--regardless of their ethnic identities or social and economic class--share the same longings and needs for family and home. He instructed white performers of his songs not to mock slaves but to get their audiences to feel compassion for them.
My participation in that long-ago event dancing to Stephen Foster’s music, or watching without protest that group of white girls in blackface – does that mean I am racist?
Over the years, I have had friends who are black. I hope they would feel free to stop me if I speak or act offensively. I can only acknowledge the inappropriateness of my actions and make amends when I become aware. But I must make those amends with sincerity – and change my behavior. That is what is wanted in the current swirl of revelations.
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Precarious Life
I climb the ladder, grasping hold of the gutter at the second step, hanging on as I reach the top. I scoop leaves with one hand, careful not to overreach. I retreat to the ground and move the ladder.
On my third ascent, before reaching the top, I’m dismayed. A tiny bird in iridescent green and purple, has been driven from the sky by wind and rain. It is perfectly still, eyes closed as though in a nest. But it is on the roof, mere inches from the eaves. Nothing else, not even leaves, near.
Carefully, I cup this little treasure, hoping the warmth I feel is not merely reflected heat from the roof. I croon to it, but it does not move. I feel no heartbeat.
I’ve had to release my grip on the gutter. I descend slowly, talking to this beautiful creature.
Holding its lifeless body, I wonder – is this the one that paused beside me at the end of summer?
I had been reading with my back to the vermillionaire plant – a favorite of hummingbirds. At the buzz of wings by my ear, I turned. We stared at each other for a moment as it hovered before speeding off over the roof.
I find a small box, the perfect size, decorated with rocks and pearls and a heart-shaped design. I will have a ceremony in the spring, maybe place this small coffin beside another vermillionaire. A reminder that life is precious – and precarious.
On my third ascent, before reaching the top, I’m dismayed. A tiny bird in iridescent green and purple, has been driven from the sky by wind and rain. It is perfectly still, eyes closed as though in a nest. But it is on the roof, mere inches from the eaves. Nothing else, not even leaves, near.
Carefully, I cup this little treasure, hoping the warmth I feel is not merely reflected heat from the roof. I croon to it, but it does not move. I feel no heartbeat.
I’ve had to release my grip on the gutter. I descend slowly, talking to this beautiful creature.
Holding its lifeless body, I wonder – is this the one that paused beside me at the end of summer?
I had been reading with my back to the vermillionaire plant – a favorite of hummingbirds. At the buzz of wings by my ear, I turned. We stared at each other for a moment as it hovered before speeding off over the roof.
I find a small box, the perfect size, decorated with rocks and pearls and a heart-shaped design. I will have a ceremony in the spring, maybe place this small coffin beside another vermillionaire. A reminder that life is precious – and precarious.
Monday, December 10, 2018
Sunrise
For years before, and then after, I tracked the exact minute of sunrise, day by day. Not that I was up at sunrise – especially in the summer. It just seemed important to know when daylight would arrive. It fostered resentment for darker days of the year, especially during many years in Oregon.
But even in those few years in California, I meticulously tracked sunrise there – and also here.
Surprising, then, that this year I’ve paid little attention.
What changed? Is it a factor of my age? Am I losing something by such neglect? Am I becoming less Virgo and more . . . more – what? Libra? In my chart the moon is in Libra. But I have Gemini hidden in there, too. So maybe I’m finding balance and gaining ability to see more than one approach to the rhythms of life.
It feels like a new freedom. I can embrace each season. I don’t have to leave home to find sunshine in winter. I can jog with rain sprinkling my face. I can bundle up against damp foggy days. I can inhale wild scents and sights in spring and go near-naked in the summer.
I can be alive! I am alive! What a blessing.
But even in those few years in California, I meticulously tracked sunrise there – and also here.
Surprising, then, that this year I’ve paid little attention.
What changed? Is it a factor of my age? Am I losing something by such neglect? Am I becoming less Virgo and more . . . more – what? Libra? In my chart the moon is in Libra. But I have Gemini hidden in there, too. So maybe I’m finding balance and gaining ability to see more than one approach to the rhythms of life.
It feels like a new freedom. I can embrace each season. I don’t have to leave home to find sunshine in winter. I can jog with rain sprinkling my face. I can bundle up against damp foggy days. I can inhale wild scents and sights in spring and go near-naked in the summer.
I can be alive! I am alive! What a blessing.
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Perhaps Love
On Saturday, September 1, 2018, I listened to/watched recap of two major funerals – Aretha Franklin’s and John McCain’s.
After a couple hours, sinking into sadness, I had to turn the TV off.
I tried to soothe myself with music, beginning with Peter, Paul & Mary. But that tipped me deeper into the morass – not their music, but the memories stirred by it.
So I grabbed my John Denver CD. One of the songs, Perhaps Love, has this final verse:
If I should live forever,
and all my dreams come true
my memories of love
will be of you.
I spent some time reviewing my intimate relations, but none stood out as the one.
The next morning – my 75th birthday – I sat with a group of people who have chosen to trudge a particular path with me.
My eyes opened. YOU can be plural!
I shared with them that I’d grown up with John Denver, which drew a laugh.
“Well, he was born in 1943 like me,” I said, “and he sang from his heart, often breaking mine.”
I recited the final verse of Perhaps Love, pointing around the room as I reached the word YOU.
A week later, I tried to play that CD. It hitched and stopped before reaching that beautiful song.
No matter, the words are etched deep into my heart.
After a couple hours, sinking into sadness, I had to turn the TV off.
I tried to soothe myself with music, beginning with Peter, Paul & Mary. But that tipped me deeper into the morass – not their music, but the memories stirred by it.
So I grabbed my John Denver CD. One of the songs, Perhaps Love, has this final verse:
If I should live forever,
and all my dreams come true
my memories of love
will be of you.
I spent some time reviewing my intimate relations, but none stood out as the one.
The next morning – my 75th birthday – I sat with a group of people who have chosen to trudge a particular path with me.
My eyes opened. YOU can be plural!
I shared with them that I’d grown up with John Denver, which drew a laugh.
“Well, he was born in 1943 like me,” I said, “and he sang from his heart, often breaking mine.”
I recited the final verse of Perhaps Love, pointing around the room as I reached the word YOU.
A week later, I tried to play that CD. It hitched and stopped before reaching that beautiful song.
No matter, the words are etched deep into my heart.
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