I tested the theory of losing myself in anonymity. After a productive morning plotting my novel I headed to Peet’s for coffee and a sugary walnut cranberry scone. Settling into a comfy chair with a neglected copy of E.M. Forster’s Aspects of the Novel. I deliberately made no eye contact with any co-coffee afficionados.
Shortly, a distressed voice hovered in front of me like the winged golden egg in a game of Quidditch, and then darted over to a man just outside my peripheral vision.
“Did either of you put something in my cup while I was gone?” the voice inquired in fearful alarm. I looked up to see an unassuming looking middle aged woman. I shook my head and the man answered “no.”
“You can’t be too careful, especially if you’ve been hit by a hit-and-run-driver,” she said, collecting the suspect cup of coffee and making a hasty exit.
A thought bubbled up in my head. I forgot, I’m seeking solitude in Santa Cruz. What was I thinking? I returned to my book.
Shortly, a darling little girl flopped into the chair next to mine. I glanced at her, noting that she was about the same age as my granddaughter and just as cute, but did not do her the courtesy of an engaging smile. I returned to my book.
“I like your earrings,” said the five-year old. It became quickly apparent that this truly charming child had the skills of a talk show host. We discussed her wardrobe, her social schedule and the sugar glaze on her cookie. When her grandpa showed up, I kindly offered up my chair so he could sit with her and headed out the door.
I spent the rest of the day on the Capitola Wharf reading, watching the ocean and letting the waves of other people’s conversation roll over me. At Paradise Beach Grille I sipped a Grey Goose Pear Cucumber martini and ate a Castroville artichoke and bay shrimp salad (I could get used to the writing life!)
At the next table an attractive dentist and a wine broker were getting to know each other. “I’m too old to work this much, and my dog is sad,” she said, having explained that she might have to add a day to her four-day work schedule. I had to sneak a peek at her as I left. Okay, big dark sunglasses hide a lot of crow’s feet but I swear she wasn’t a day over 35. Apparently there is still hope for this economy.
Now I’m back at my beach retreat. The clouds parted at 6 pm, just as I was leaving the beach. I feel warmed by the sun, inspired by what I’ve read and amused by my fellow travelers.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Alone
Soquel, CA
I found this quote in my journal. It’s a tall order! Kathy said something in our Senior board meeting today that applies here. Chunk it down. I have three days now to be alone, be still, to write, and to enjoy a place I like very much – the Pacific coast. I’ll call it guarding my spiritual nature and record the journey for the benefit of my writer friends. What the heck, I’ll throw in relishing freedom and admiring beauty as well. The challenge will be to not bore you with a diary of my daily activities but to inspire you to try this yourself.
We (my family) are playing musical houses. While April and her family played at my house in the mountains last week, Devin and Victoria enjoyed her house on an Island in the Puget Sound and I took over their house on the coast right after the grandkids left.
Traffic on 17 was light this evening and the fog layer was high, light and luminescent. First thing after I let myself into the house, I checked the connectivity on my iPod iTouch and Yelped (cool app Devin told me about) New Leaf Market and Peet’s Coffee for tomorrow’s breakfast run. Then I walked across the street to Star of Siam for a dinner of steamed tilapia, mango , broccoli, red peppers and peas in a yellow curry sauce. My dining companions were two fat pink fish with warm brown eyes and clown lips and a surreal blue crustacean who seemed highly tempted to pinch a passing fat fish but was deflected with a gentle bump in his armpit (picture that!) by fat fishy who anticipated his churlish mood.
Back at the house, I’d already determined I wouldn’t bother with the TV but instead of jumping into my writing I warmed up by making up a grocery list for tomorrow (wine glass, coaster, chocolate). Now I’m contemplating the joy of solitude. For three days, I have no role to maintain in front of anyone. I am anonymous here; like Harry Potter in the invisible cloak, I can lose myself. How delightful.
“It is the role of thinkers and writers to serve as guardians of our spiritual nature and custodians of timeless values; cultivating truth, goodness and beauty as well as freedom and justice, love and charity.”
From Nobility of Spirit by Rob Rieman
I found this quote in my journal. It’s a tall order! Kathy said something in our Senior board meeting today that applies here. Chunk it down. I have three days now to be alone, be still, to write, and to enjoy a place I like very much – the Pacific coast. I’ll call it guarding my spiritual nature and record the journey for the benefit of my writer friends. What the heck, I’ll throw in relishing freedom and admiring beauty as well. The challenge will be to not bore you with a diary of my daily activities but to inspire you to try this yourself.
We (my family) are playing musical houses. While April and her family played at my house in the mountains last week, Devin and Victoria enjoyed her house on an Island in the Puget Sound and I took over their house on the coast right after the grandkids left.
Traffic on 17 was light this evening and the fog layer was high, light and luminescent. First thing after I let myself into the house, I checked the connectivity on my iPod iTouch and Yelped (cool app Devin told me about) New Leaf Market and Peet’s Coffee for tomorrow’s breakfast run. Then I walked across the street to Star of Siam for a dinner of steamed tilapia, mango , broccoli, red peppers and peas in a yellow curry sauce. My dining companions were two fat pink fish with warm brown eyes and clown lips and a surreal blue crustacean who seemed highly tempted to pinch a passing fat fish but was deflected with a gentle bump in his armpit (picture that!) by fat fishy who anticipated his churlish mood.
Back at the house, I’d already determined I wouldn’t bother with the TV but instead of jumping into my writing I warmed up by making up a grocery list for tomorrow (wine glass, coaster, chocolate). Now I’m contemplating the joy of solitude. For three days, I have no role to maintain in front of anyone. I am anonymous here; like Harry Potter in the invisible cloak, I can lose myself. How delightful.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Love and Death
A lot of books have been written about heaven. My favorite is A Travel Guide to Heaven, by Anthony DeStefano. The author speculates that God doesn’t create good things only to watch them die, so we will likely always have Paris. In other books, authors report actual experience. They have made a round trip, died and gone to heaven and come back to life. Ninety Minutes in Heaven, by Don Piper and Cecil Murphey, Flight to Heaven, by Dale Black, Return from Tomorrow by George G. Ritchie are among them.
I’m wondering why all these books are written by men. Do women not experience heavenly fly-bys? The men all express regret at having to return to earth; are women better at talking their way in?
There is surprising harmony among the accounts I’ve read. That God is light and love seems literal. He seems to speak a language of math and science. The eternal musical score is pleasing. The absence of sin is palpable. Newcomers are anticipated and welcome. It sounds as if Heaven hums with purposeful activity.
These accounts offer only peeks through the gates; different authors noticed different things – vegetation, villages, habitats, heavenly beings, but they all experienced unity and oneness.
In Heaven, we’re told by those who have tasted and seen God’s goodness, time doesn’t frogmarch a weary, frustrated population, nor does it stand still.
I haven’t read Ritchie’s book, written in 1978, but my friend Teri sent me this:
I’m wondering why all these books are written by men. Do women not experience heavenly fly-bys? The men all express regret at having to return to earth; are women better at talking their way in?
There is surprising harmony among the accounts I’ve read. That God is light and love seems literal. He seems to speak a language of math and science. The eternal musical score is pleasing. The absence of sin is palpable. Newcomers are anticipated and welcome. It sounds as if Heaven hums with purposeful activity.
These accounts offer only peeks through the gates; different authors noticed different things – vegetation, villages, habitats, heavenly beings, but they all experienced unity and oneness.
In Heaven, we’re told by those who have tasted and seen God’s goodness, time doesn’t frogmarch a weary, frustrated population, nor does it stand still.
I haven’t read Ritchie’s book, written in 1978, but my friend Teri sent me this:
The last paragraph is "God is busy building a race of men who know how to love. I believe that the fate of the earth itself depends on the progress we make - and that the time now is very short. As for what we'll find in the next world, here too I believe that what we'll discover there depends on how well we get on with the business of loving, here and now."When we watch the nightly news and wonder how we will ever dig ourselves out of an economic and moral deficit that threatens to undo us all, we would do well to remember that the business of loving is a profitable, high yield business with healthy returns that are not dependent on current economic and political conditions. That’s good news.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Adobe
On vacation in the Southwest we walked the dusty roads through the Taos Pueblo, trailing a fresh-faced young Hopi who reminded us that though his talk was free donations would help with his college education. Later he confided to us that actually, he was about to join the Army.
We bought a painting of the pueblo in relief against a sunset descending on the landscape like time overshadowing an ancient people, and apparently it has. Our Indian guide explained that the pueblo has been continuously occupied for over 1,000 years by the Red Willow people. Well, continuously in the sense that the condominiums are owned by Indian families and passed down from generation to generation. In fact the current generation lives elsewhere, choosing to visit occasionally for a religious ceremony or community event. The upcoming generation has even less interest and some properties are falling into disrepair.
Summers, some young people sell crafts in living quarters turned store fronts and tell stories of learning to pot, paint or make jewelry from their elders. The artist who sold us our painting told us he was going to be featured in Southwest magazine in August. (When I heard a similar story for the third time in as many art galleries, I figured this must be the latest art marketing ploy, but still, I believe him.)
The charm of the pueblo is the discipline of maintaining it as it has been for a thousand years with no running water and no electricity – a sanctuary for the preservation of cultural beliefs. As I reflected on the value of doing this I wondered how my own life would be different if I lived in spare circumstances. I imagine that people who live in simple dwellings would spend more time with each other building community and passing down tradition.
More than the weather that wears away the adobe walls and must be plastered annually, it seems that technology has worn away the young people’s desire to invest in this way of life short of an occasional pilgrimage to the pueblo, like the fun family camping trip that creates good memories of simpler days.
Much as we want to preserve culture, life is a contaminant. New possibilities fire the imagination. Our children forge new connections. They move away. Perhaps they carry with them some of the old values that will inform new generations.
Adobes must be tended to survive generations. They are merely earthly dwellings after all. The soul of a people must be tended as well. Keeping the Kivas hidden creates space for the sacred. What does sacred mean, but “do not touch?” Sorting out what remains worthy of reverence, which values are untouchable is soul work.
In the welcome warmth of the sun after unseasonable cold, a young Hopi girl circled my husband on her bicycle. “Great day!” she commented with a wide bright smile, and rode on. I think she knows.
We bought a painting of the pueblo in relief against a sunset descending on the landscape like time overshadowing an ancient people, and apparently it has. Our Indian guide explained that the pueblo has been continuously occupied for over 1,000 years by the Red Willow people. Well, continuously in the sense that the condominiums are owned by Indian families and passed down from generation to generation. In fact the current generation lives elsewhere, choosing to visit occasionally for a religious ceremony or community event. The upcoming generation has even less interest and some properties are falling into disrepair.
Summers, some young people sell crafts in living quarters turned store fronts and tell stories of learning to pot, paint or make jewelry from their elders. The artist who sold us our painting told us he was going to be featured in Southwest magazine in August. (When I heard a similar story for the third time in as many art galleries, I figured this must be the latest art marketing ploy, but still, I believe him.)
The charm of the pueblo is the discipline of maintaining it as it has been for a thousand years with no running water and no electricity – a sanctuary for the preservation of cultural beliefs. As I reflected on the value of doing this I wondered how my own life would be different if I lived in spare circumstances. I imagine that people who live in simple dwellings would spend more time with each other building community and passing down tradition.
More than the weather that wears away the adobe walls and must be plastered annually, it seems that technology has worn away the young people’s desire to invest in this way of life short of an occasional pilgrimage to the pueblo, like the fun family camping trip that creates good memories of simpler days.
Much as we want to preserve culture, life is a contaminant. New possibilities fire the imagination. Our children forge new connections. They move away. Perhaps they carry with them some of the old values that will inform new generations.
Adobes must be tended to survive generations. They are merely earthly dwellings after all. The soul of a people must be tended as well. Keeping the Kivas hidden creates space for the sacred. What does sacred mean, but “do not touch?” Sorting out what remains worthy of reverence, which values are untouchable is soul work.
In the welcome warmth of the sun after unseasonable cold, a young Hopi girl circled my husband on her bicycle. “Great day!” she commented with a wide bright smile, and rode on. I think she knows.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Time on my mind
My friend Steven poses a question on Facebook, “Does anybody know where I can buy some extra time?” Last week another friend told me, “God didn’t give me my house or my car; the only thing He gave me is my time. It’s up to me where I spend it and who I spend it with.”
Like money, you can’t have enough time. Unlike money, you can’t horde time. Both time and money can be saved and spent, given and taken, invested and wasted, stolen and redeemed.
Buying extra time involves money. You can pay someone to spend their time on your enterprise. You only get the extra time, though, if you are willing to take your hands off the outcome (micromanagers need not apply).
You can buy time with time, but not extra time. If you spend less time on one project, you can buy time for another project. But small efficiencies yield small gain. To buy real time involves hard choices and lifestyle changes. Making time to write is a good example.
Like a grazing cow, the time put into keeping a blog ultimately yields a product, but also produces a lot of questionable byproduct. Some of the result becomes manure that will nourish other endeavors and some merely pollutes the day with things left undone – like laundry, dinner preparation, bill paying, exercising – all good and necessary activities.
The multi-tasking that served me so well in my career no longer serves. Writing requires focus and abandon. Abandon hope of ticking much off the task list all ye who enter here. Perhaps this is the answer. To buy time, I must: a|ban∙don: 1. give up (something) completely or forever and 2. yield (myself) completely in unrestrained freedom of action or emotion.
This is the crossroads where it is possible to enter a creative flow and experience time standing still. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, strange and wonderful things happen, but then we emerge and the clock keeps ticking.
Here is the adventure. Give up something completely (for today). Give up something forever. Yield to one calling with abandon; limit the others completely (for today) or forever.
Like money, you can’t have enough time. Unlike money, you can’t horde time. Both time and money can be saved and spent, given and taken, invested and wasted, stolen and redeemed.
Buying extra time involves money. You can pay someone to spend their time on your enterprise. You only get the extra time, though, if you are willing to take your hands off the outcome (micromanagers need not apply).
You can buy time with time, but not extra time. If you spend less time on one project, you can buy time for another project. But small efficiencies yield small gain. To buy real time involves hard choices and lifestyle changes. Making time to write is a good example.
Like a grazing cow, the time put into keeping a blog ultimately yields a product, but also produces a lot of questionable byproduct. Some of the result becomes manure that will nourish other endeavors and some merely pollutes the day with things left undone – like laundry, dinner preparation, bill paying, exercising – all good and necessary activities.
The multi-tasking that served me so well in my career no longer serves. Writing requires focus and abandon. Abandon hope of ticking much off the task list all ye who enter here. Perhaps this is the answer. To buy time, I must: a|ban∙don: 1. give up (something) completely or forever and 2. yield (myself) completely in unrestrained freedom of action or emotion.
This is the crossroads where it is possible to enter a creative flow and experience time standing still. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, strange and wonderful things happen, but then we emerge and the clock keeps ticking.
Here is the adventure. Give up something completely (for today). Give up something forever. Yield to one calling with abandon; limit the others completely (for today) or forever.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Cheap Scissors
I buy cheap scissors and litter them on desks and countertops all over the house where they will be accessible when I want to separate a return form from a meeting notice, slice the top off a vacuum sealed pack of salami or stab at a foil-wrapped card of allergy pills. But when I reach for them, they aren’t there.
Apparently cheap scissors have a Facebook page where they announce nocturnal gatherings in my kitchen drawers. They get together, party all night and when I finally track them down, they are piled on top of each other like an exhausted mosh pit.
Why haven’t the prayer beads I lost showed up in the drawer to evangelize these lost scissors? And my ivory carved elephant earrings, made in France, purchased for $4 in a Berkeley head shop, stolen by a babysitter – why haven’t they used the sponsored links on Google to find and reunite with me?
I must admit, my cheap scissors do not break out in a chorus of “Once I was lost, but now I am found!” when I locate them in their nefarious nest behind my silverware organizer. If I pull them out by their blades, warn them about the pitfalls of mob behavior and attempt to restore them to a purposeful existence they disappear again as soon as I turn my back.
So I’ve decided to try something different. Maybe more is not better, better is better. If I pay good money for a quality pair of scissors, one with ergonomic eye rings, a properly threaded lower shear blade, an upper shear blade with a finely beveled back and a cutting edge that is, well cutting edge – they might not want to run off and huddle with the buck-and-a-quarter riff-raff.
Scissors formed of hot forged cutlery grade steel might appreciate their place of prominence on my counter. A quick internet search led me to KnifeCenter.com where I can choose from 283 models, each with a different purpose.
This could be a slippery slope.
Apparently cheap scissors have a Facebook page where they announce nocturnal gatherings in my kitchen drawers. They get together, party all night and when I finally track them down, they are piled on top of each other like an exhausted mosh pit.
Why haven’t the prayer beads I lost showed up in the drawer to evangelize these lost scissors? And my ivory carved elephant earrings, made in France, purchased for $4 in a Berkeley head shop, stolen by a babysitter – why haven’t they used the sponsored links on Google to find and reunite with me?
I must admit, my cheap scissors do not break out in a chorus of “Once I was lost, but now I am found!” when I locate them in their nefarious nest behind my silverware organizer. If I pull them out by their blades, warn them about the pitfalls of mob behavior and attempt to restore them to a purposeful existence they disappear again as soon as I turn my back.
So I’ve decided to try something different. Maybe more is not better, better is better. If I pay good money for a quality pair of scissors, one with ergonomic eye rings, a properly threaded lower shear blade, an upper shear blade with a finely beveled back and a cutting edge that is, well cutting edge – they might not want to run off and huddle with the buck-and-a-quarter riff-raff.
Scissors formed of hot forged cutlery grade steel might appreciate their place of prominence on my counter. A quick internet search led me to KnifeCenter.com where I can choose from 283 models, each with a different purpose.
This could be a slippery slope.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Brainy Groveland
Early in the school year I sat side by side with a third-grade boy in an empty grade school classroom in our town. He stumbled over simple words in a chapter book and could not make sense of the narrative.
I saw him again last week. It was a different story. He handed me his chapter book, Nate the Great Stalks Stupidweed.
“What does “stalk” mean?” I asked him.
He smiled broadly, got a stealthy look on his face and mimed crawling through brush on his belly.
“It’s when you sneak around and spy on someone,” he said gleefully. I stalked my sister. I snuck up and watched her send a text message on her phone.
Then he began to read with confidence and comprehension. When he finished he looked up at me with wide eyes and said,
“I’m getting better at this!”
“Well yes you are,” I said. I pulled out the paper that listed all the books he’d read during the school year. He counted them -- twenty-three.
“My sister doesn’t believe me when I tell her I’ve read a lot of books,” he said. “But I have!”
“Would you like me to write her a note and tell her how many books you’ve read?” I asked? He thought that was a great idea.
“Dear sis,” I wrote, “your brother has read 23 books this year.” And I signed the note. He went back to class, his note stuffed in his pocket and the title of the next book he wanted to read in his head.
Steve and Kathy Ryan are the sponsors of Brainy Groveland, a reading incentive program in our town modeled after many other reading programs across the nation. The children get 1:1 time with mentors (over 30 volunteers), a dollar now for each book read (two dollars, if it’s over 120 pages) and a matching amount of money in a lump sum at the end of the school year. Programs like these are reported to be successful.
If you have a story about reading with a child, please share it.
I saw him again last week. It was a different story. He handed me his chapter book, Nate the Great Stalks Stupidweed.
“What does “stalk” mean?” I asked him.
He smiled broadly, got a stealthy look on his face and mimed crawling through brush on his belly.
“It’s when you sneak around and spy on someone,” he said gleefully. I stalked my sister. I snuck up and watched her send a text message on her phone.
Then he began to read with confidence and comprehension. When he finished he looked up at me with wide eyes and said,
“I’m getting better at this!”
“Well yes you are,” I said. I pulled out the paper that listed all the books he’d read during the school year. He counted them -- twenty-three.
“My sister doesn’t believe me when I tell her I’ve read a lot of books,” he said. “But I have!”
“Would you like me to write her a note and tell her how many books you’ve read?” I asked? He thought that was a great idea.
“Dear sis,” I wrote, “your brother has read 23 books this year.” And I signed the note. He went back to class, his note stuffed in his pocket and the title of the next book he wanted to read in his head.
Steve and Kathy Ryan are the sponsors of Brainy Groveland, a reading incentive program in our town modeled after many other reading programs across the nation. The children get 1:1 time with mentors (over 30 volunteers), a dollar now for each book read (two dollars, if it’s over 120 pages) and a matching amount of money in a lump sum at the end of the school year. Programs like these are reported to be successful.
If you have a story about reading with a child, please share it.
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