“Wiggle your left toe,” my chiropractor typically says at some point during almost any routine visit. Sometimes it’s the right toe, other times she may request a swivel of an entire foot, but I’m not fooled—-all of the movements are just variations of a single psychological sleight of hand, exposed long ago by the good doctor herself.
The only connection the podiatric twists and pivots have to feats of spinal manipulation is the freedom the split second the shift in my mental focus provides for her to pop a vertebra or two into position without the instinctual resistance I create simply because my focus is on the fact that my neck is between someone's hands.
It’s a psychological flip of the switch: a small movement with a big impact. It’s like having a key to one of a myriad of mental barricades we humans put in place for reasons with lots of names but one true identity: fear. During a of moment of clarity of on sheet of ice last night, I determined that there almost certainly exists an endless panel of these mental switches, capable of unlocking any number of mad skills if only we knew the access code.
I stumbled across another one during a pick-up style game of ice hockey at a friend’s 30th birthday bash last night. See, I’m a reasonably good skater, which basically means I can go straight around the rink without falling, and pretty fast, too, sort of like a cut-rate Anton Ohno without the good form or the gold and silver investment portfolio. But ask me to switch directions, execute a 360, or, heaven forbid, go backwards, and I’m suddenly inching along, focusing every bit of my mental energy on performing even the most basic deviation from my straightforward course.
So I have to admit that I was a little reluctant to grab a stick and enter the fray last evening, particularly in light of the bloody skirmishes I’ve witnessed in HD in my own living room of late as my husband watches his beloved Flyers battle their way toward the Stanley Cup. I wanted to be a part of the fun, but I wasn’t about to lose any teeth over it. Well into the game, however, I became aware of no less than two surprises: not only were all my teeth still solidly in place, but I was all over the ice, in a really good way. Turning left. Turning right. Stopping. Starting. Spinning. Without even thinking about it. Evidently, when my focus turned to the soft, family-friendly, teeth-sparing puck substitute, I unlocked the uptight-way-too-cautious barrier I erected that normally thwarts my attempts to try new things on ice.
Now that I know that these keys exist, I want more of them. I want the key to unlock my fear of driving in traffic, or maybe the one that would nix my roller-coaster phobia. I might want to undo my reticence about talking to strangers, or embolden myself enough to jump from an airplane, or eat fish. A world without fear is a pretty wide open place.
The problem? My limited analysis leads me to the conclusion that distraction is, well, the key to the key. It seems the message here might be: if something could be hazardous, your best bet is probably not to think about it. And I just can’t seem to unlock the barrier of the decidedly convincing argument that distraction might just be a bad idea when it comes to scary and possibly dangerous behavior.
So what are your thoughts, Readers? What barriers would you love to unlock? Would we all be better off under-thinking our favorite fears? Or am I over-thinking the power of under-thinking?
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Riptide
Here in Virginia, routine water play is occasionally interrupted by the harsh and hazardous phenomenon known as a riptide: a strong undercurrent with the power to suck even the most adept swimmer into a hydraulic tailspin of uncertain outcome.
I’ve been living in the midst of my own metaphoric riptide for the past ten days.
Swimming along at a steady clip in the sea of my daily affairs, I detected a subtle turn of the tide, a hiccup, if you will, in the ebb and flow of my personal affairs. Nothing any more or less dramatic than an accumulation of normal events that suddenly threatened to reach a high water mark, my riptide—in characteristic fashion—caught me off-guard, unprepared to navigate the steady stream of personal and professional opportunities, responsibilities, and routine eventualities which have left me with a cup that is not merely half full, but spilling over into slick and slightly dangerous puddles, some of which manifested themselves as indiscretions my Labradors have left, in expressions of displeasure, when last week found half of the family away from home on various business.
Mopping up the literal and figurative overflow of life events remains my solitary focus as I enter a new week. I long to write…I miss it so, but I am still firmly within the grasp of the current. This post is akin to a moment of control, of emerging from the roiling waves to let shoreline onlookers know I’m still here, OK, breathing—lest more silence cause undue speculation.
In Other News:
Today was a notable day in the life of my mosaic seahorse. Originally scheduled to arrive at the gallery along with a handful of other pieces in mid-June, his life took an unexpected turn when I received word that the gallery was hosting a water themed show. Committed as I am to giving Readers the behind-the-scenes scoop on life events, I will confess here that he would still be waiting on my studio counter were it not for a good catch on the part of my daughter. She inquired about the progress of the pieces last week and I told her that things were plodding along, but I was overwhelmed by a communiqué I received from the gallery about the show. “Who just has water-themed art work lying about?” I scoffed, noting that the show was less than two weeks away. “Who could just whip something up in so short a time?” I continued.
She looked at me as though I had disembarked a spaceship from planet Zorp. “You are kidding, right?” she said.
“Kidding? No, why would I be kidding?”
“The seahorse, Mom. The seahorse.”
“Oh.”
So the seahorse is apparently going to be in a show. I say apparently because he could, technically, not make the cut. But my friend Lisa says this won’t happen, so I’ll just assume smoother waters for him at the gallery than those he’s witnessed here.
I’d also be remiss not to report that I evidently don’t have skin cancer. Although I have a wide range of interestingly named blemishes, all save one are of absolutely no consequence. The only one worthy of even an elevation of eyebrow is just on a generic sort of watch list. Which is really good, because I have a host of other problems: when it’s cold (half the days) my heat doesn’t work. When it’s blazing hot (the rest of them) the air doesn’t work. I also found some bugs that examination with the Discovery Channel 30X indicates may be termites. Of course, this is the device that started the whole skin cancer hub-bub, so perhaps the bugs are really just benign creatures with some exotic sounding name.
I’ve been living in the midst of my own metaphoric riptide for the past ten days.
Swimming along at a steady clip in the sea of my daily affairs, I detected a subtle turn of the tide, a hiccup, if you will, in the ebb and flow of my personal affairs. Nothing any more or less dramatic than an accumulation of normal events that suddenly threatened to reach a high water mark, my riptide—in characteristic fashion—caught me off-guard, unprepared to navigate the steady stream of personal and professional opportunities, responsibilities, and routine eventualities which have left me with a cup that is not merely half full, but spilling over into slick and slightly dangerous puddles, some of which manifested themselves as indiscretions my Labradors have left, in expressions of displeasure, when last week found half of the family away from home on various business.
Mopping up the literal and figurative overflow of life events remains my solitary focus as I enter a new week. I long to write…I miss it so, but I am still firmly within the grasp of the current. This post is akin to a moment of control, of emerging from the roiling waves to let shoreline onlookers know I’m still here, OK, breathing—lest more silence cause undue speculation.
In Other News:
Today was a notable day in the life of my mosaic seahorse. Originally scheduled to arrive at the gallery along with a handful of other pieces in mid-June, his life took an unexpected turn when I received word that the gallery was hosting a water themed show. Committed as I am to giving Readers the behind-the-scenes scoop on life events, I will confess here that he would still be waiting on my studio counter were it not for a good catch on the part of my daughter. She inquired about the progress of the pieces last week and I told her that things were plodding along, but I was overwhelmed by a communiqué I received from the gallery about the show. “Who just has water-themed art work lying about?” I scoffed, noting that the show was less than two weeks away. “Who could just whip something up in so short a time?” I continued.
She looked at me as though I had disembarked a spaceship from planet Zorp. “You are kidding, right?” she said.
“Kidding? No, why would I be kidding?”
“The seahorse, Mom. The seahorse.”
“Oh.”
So the seahorse is apparently going to be in a show. I say apparently because he could, technically, not make the cut. But my friend Lisa says this won’t happen, so I’ll just assume smoother waters for him at the gallery than those he’s witnessed here.
I’d also be remiss not to report that I evidently don’t have skin cancer. Although I have a wide range of interestingly named blemishes, all save one are of absolutely no consequence. The only one worthy of even an elevation of eyebrow is just on a generic sort of watch list. Which is really good, because I have a host of other problems: when it’s cold (half the days) my heat doesn’t work. When it’s blazing hot (the rest of them) the air doesn’t work. I also found some bugs that examination with the Discovery Channel 30X indicates may be termites. Of course, this is the device that started the whole skin cancer hub-bub, so perhaps the bugs are really just benign creatures with some exotic sounding name.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Fingerpainting the Future
Today, the Space Shuttle Discovery has been safely back on Floridian soil for two weeks--a fact of which made my radar only because four weeks ago I happened to see it launch.
Prior to last month, my most vivid memory of the Space Shuttle program is one I likely share with most people my age or older: the 1986 Challenger explosion. Within minutes after the news broke, school administrators set up televisions in every classroom—I was in art class at the time—and kept the coverage playing school wide for the remainder of the day. At least that’s how I remember it.
The summer before the explosion, I’d read a feature in one of my teenie-bopper magazines about Christa Mcauliffe, the school teacher who had been selected to accompany the astronauts on that ill-fated mission. At that time, I viewed Mcauliffe as a role model simply because she was a woman—an average woman, really—doing something brave and noteworthy. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the mission details—I wasn’t really into that sort of thing (I was an art student, remember?)—but I was in the middle of a pretty big feminist phase, so I couldn’t help but be impressed.
Years later, I would remember Christa for a different reason. Something she said once about teaching wound up as a bumper sticker fave that I still see in traffic from time to time: “I touch the future. I teach.” I’ve thought about those words dozens of times over the years, every time I have thought of teaching as only the bread-and-butter work I do because there is no money in art, or writing— the only two things I really know to do, the latter more than the former. To date, I’ve held two real teaching jobs, periods of my life that I mentally reference as Art I and Art II.
I loved Art I, adored it, actually, and still miss it. Not in the I-wish-I-was-still-there sort of way, but in a sort of I-miss-that-sweet-time way. My kids were little. I went to school with them twice a week. I was their art teacher, and their friend’s teacher, too. Still, my real ambitions were in writing—still are, in fact, and I had it in my head that when I “made it” as a writer, I’d leave teaching, because, well, I’d be doing writerly things all the time. Writing was my real calling—teaching was a worthwhile way to bide my time and be a good mom, too.
Every now and then, though, I’d see Christa’s words tooling around town on the back of some fender, and I’d wonder about the parts of the future I was touching as I bided my time, waiting to become a writer, which I slowly became. By late Art I, I found myself on assignment for my local newspaper most days I wasn’t in the classroom. Still, I wasn’t making enough money on all those assignments to justify leaving the classroom, and, besides, I loved those kids. They literally cheered when they’d see me arrive on campus—I was something of a paintbrush wielding, clay shaping, tile smashing celebrity to them. They ‘d shower me with hugs, pepper me with questions, and remember parts of lessons I forgot I even taught.
I thought about all of these things whenever I’d see Christa’s words, but oddly, I never dwelled much on the shuttle. Before last month, it’s unlikely that I gave the space program more than a few fleeting thoughts in the past couple decades.
Then my husband who is, of late, an independent contractor working for NASA, happened to score a pass to watch April’s launch from a prime location. I instantly recognized the opportunity as something that was to be valued, an experience that even makes the cut as a Bucket List item for some folks. Indeed, we were even able to share our pass with a Virginia family who made the 18 hour drive to meet us in a Wal Mart parking lot at 2:30 in the morning to fulfill that dream.
Driving to our meet-up, I couldn’t miss the energy coursing through the town—encampments at Wal Mart, traffic funneling into NASA, busses transporting people to locations some 6 miles away from the launch pad—vantage points they’d paid seep prices to secure. The excitement was palpable, raising my interest level and curiosity about what I was to witness.
As our party of six set up camp along the banks of the Banana River, I quickly realized that the whole experience was being narrated in a fashion not unlike the color commentary at a baseball game. An anonymous voice kept the assemblage appraised of events in surprisingly layman-friendly terms. The astronauts—one of whom was a teacher—would be “doing science” in space, we were told. The Voice informed of the discovery that a part was “a little bit broken,” but not anything about which we should worry. We were continually assured of the favorability of the weather conditions, the happiness of the crew, and the time remaining until launch.
Across the dark waters—in which we could just make out the movements of the dorsal fins of playing dolphins—we saw the powerfully-illuminated shuttle. Thanks to the vigilance of The Voice, we we able to track the movements of the International Space Station—the entity with which the Shuttle would be uniting—as it streaked across the clear sky.
The actual moment happened quickly, yet made an imprint on the sky that lasted long after the craft was out of sight. Jet trails etched over the sunrise, cementing the memory into my mind with a visual as beautiful as priceless artwork. On that morning, at that moment, I was very much in the present, savoring something I wanted to remember. And, as a result, I now have a different memory of the space shuttle, one that will always make me feel connected to a program that is just three missions away from becoming our past.
In a way, too, I suppose I forged another connection with the astronaut who taught me to value my classroom and inspired me to make an imprint of my own--across hearts, rather than skies. Although Christa Mcauliffe never knew me, I became her accidental student all the same--a student who has learned well the lesson to embrace the opportunity to leave fingerprints on the future—even though mine just happen to be in paint.
Prior to last month, my most vivid memory of the Space Shuttle program is one I likely share with most people my age or older: the 1986 Challenger explosion. Within minutes after the news broke, school administrators set up televisions in every classroom—I was in art class at the time—and kept the coverage playing school wide for the remainder of the day. At least that’s how I remember it.
The summer before the explosion, I’d read a feature in one of my teenie-bopper magazines about Christa Mcauliffe, the school teacher who had been selected to accompany the astronauts on that ill-fated mission. At that time, I viewed Mcauliffe as a role model simply because she was a woman—an average woman, really—doing something brave and noteworthy. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the mission details—I wasn’t really into that sort of thing (I was an art student, remember?)—but I was in the middle of a pretty big feminist phase, so I couldn’t help but be impressed.
Years later, I would remember Christa for a different reason. Something she said once about teaching wound up as a bumper sticker fave that I still see in traffic from time to time: “I touch the future. I teach.” I’ve thought about those words dozens of times over the years, every time I have thought of teaching as only the bread-and-butter work I do because there is no money in art, or writing— the only two things I really know to do, the latter more than the former. To date, I’ve held two real teaching jobs, periods of my life that I mentally reference as Art I and Art II.
I loved Art I, adored it, actually, and still miss it. Not in the I-wish-I-was-still-there sort of way, but in a sort of I-miss-that-sweet-time way. My kids were little. I went to school with them twice a week. I was their art teacher, and their friend’s teacher, too. Still, my real ambitions were in writing—still are, in fact, and I had it in my head that when I “made it” as a writer, I’d leave teaching, because, well, I’d be doing writerly things all the time. Writing was my real calling—teaching was a worthwhile way to bide my time and be a good mom, too.
Every now and then, though, I’d see Christa’s words tooling around town on the back of some fender, and I’d wonder about the parts of the future I was touching as I bided my time, waiting to become a writer, which I slowly became. By late Art I, I found myself on assignment for my local newspaper most days I wasn’t in the classroom. Still, I wasn’t making enough money on all those assignments to justify leaving the classroom, and, besides, I loved those kids. They literally cheered when they’d see me arrive on campus—I was something of a paintbrush wielding, clay shaping, tile smashing celebrity to them. They ‘d shower me with hugs, pepper me with questions, and remember parts of lessons I forgot I even taught.
I thought about all of these things whenever I’d see Christa’s words, but oddly, I never dwelled much on the shuttle. Before last month, it’s unlikely that I gave the space program more than a few fleeting thoughts in the past couple decades.
Then my husband who is, of late, an independent contractor working for NASA, happened to score a pass to watch April’s launch from a prime location. I instantly recognized the opportunity as something that was to be valued, an experience that even makes the cut as a Bucket List item for some folks. Indeed, we were even able to share our pass with a Virginia family who made the 18 hour drive to meet us in a Wal Mart parking lot at 2:30 in the morning to fulfill that dream.
Driving to our meet-up, I couldn’t miss the energy coursing through the town—encampments at Wal Mart, traffic funneling into NASA, busses transporting people to locations some 6 miles away from the launch pad—vantage points they’d paid seep prices to secure. The excitement was palpable, raising my interest level and curiosity about what I was to witness.
As our party of six set up camp along the banks of the Banana River, I quickly realized that the whole experience was being narrated in a fashion not unlike the color commentary at a baseball game. An anonymous voice kept the assemblage appraised of events in surprisingly layman-friendly terms. The astronauts—one of whom was a teacher—would be “doing science” in space, we were told. The Voice informed of the discovery that a part was “a little bit broken,” but not anything about which we should worry. We were continually assured of the favorability of the weather conditions, the happiness of the crew, and the time remaining until launch.
Across the dark waters—in which we could just make out the movements of the dorsal fins of playing dolphins—we saw the powerfully-illuminated shuttle. Thanks to the vigilance of The Voice, we we able to track the movements of the International Space Station—the entity with which the Shuttle would be uniting—as it streaked across the clear sky.
The actual moment happened quickly, yet made an imprint on the sky that lasted long after the craft was out of sight. Jet trails etched over the sunrise, cementing the memory into my mind with a visual as beautiful as priceless artwork. On that morning, at that moment, I was very much in the present, savoring something I wanted to remember. And, as a result, I now have a different memory of the space shuttle, one that will always make me feel connected to a program that is just three missions away from becoming our past.
In a way, too, I suppose I forged another connection with the astronaut who taught me to value my classroom and inspired me to make an imprint of my own--across hearts, rather than skies. Although Christa Mcauliffe never knew me, I became her accidental student all the same--a student who has learned well the lesson to embrace the opportunity to leave fingerprints on the future—even though mine just happen to be in paint.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Seeing the Seahorse
I am so excited to share my mosaic seahorse, finished and ready for the gallery. He is hopefully one of many of his kind...I find myself dreaming up all kinds of color schemes. Work on the next one commences in the next week or so--in vivid orange.
Post post postscript: Friends who saw this post and later saw the seahorse in real life clued me in to the obvious: There's nothing in these pictures to indicate the actual size of this work of ceramic sea life. He's a big guy. A full 29 inches. That's a lot of hours and a lot of materials...he's currently in a gallery, waiting for either just the right buyer or for me to rotate my stock and bring him home (my personal favorite option!) Meanwhile, both real life and online friends suggested I make smaller versions of my seahorse, to accommodate a range of budgets and decor needs. I have two now in the works--one 75% of the original size, and the other half. I've got an idea for a miniature in mind as well--perhaps even as a blog giveaway--stay tuned!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
MWF ISO Island Connection(s)
Traveling to a new place is like a blind date: anything is possible. An ill mood may prevail, disaster could unfold, plans could go awry. On the other hand, things could play out in a spirit of frivolous fun; the tone is light, casual. But every so often? You discover a match mach made in heaven and find true love.
Indeed, I prepared for my recent foray into Florida and Grand Bahama Island with a date-like attention to my physique: I worked out, got my hair highlighted, shopped for new clothes. A couple of times I questioned the motivation behind my concerted effort to look my best. I tell myself that my beauty regimen consisted of things I would have done anyway, and that is mostly true. But I have to admit to some sort of strange desire to make a good impression, to be physically compatible with my island surroundings.
Our itinerary took us first to the Sunshine State, then onward via cruise ship to the Bahamas before winding down on American soil back in Florida. Florida and I had already met, at various points in my formative and adolescent years, so we were beyond both the initial wonder and uncertainty of a fresh introduction. Still, Florida went all out to impress with splashy smorgasbord of big-ticket fun in the skies and on the waterways. I left feeling suitably wooed.
Our introduction to GBI got off to an admittedly rocky start. Not unlike that awkward moment of realization when you discover your date intended to go Dutch and you didn’t bother to stop at the bank, we wound up hungry and irritated within the first hour. It seems the cruise line, that sketchy mutual friend who introduced us, told a lot of half truths and downright lies about the grandiosity of the spread GBI was prepared to put out for us. Grand Bahama was happy to have our company, but not prepared to play host to the extent to which our matchmaker led us to believe. Our time together would include dining, but it was up to us to procure the goods.
It wasn’t long before we realized that our disappointment wasn’t really Grand Bahama’s fault. The island hadn’t had a chance to speak for itself. So, like any good date, we started listening to Grand Bahama, discovering what the island had to say for itself.
As I tuned in to GBI, I discovered that despite the vibrancy of the surroundings and the boisterousness of the people (there was a “Friendly Bob” or a “Big Mama” around every corner, eager to hock wares or sell various services) the island approached me with a whisper, with hints of what was possible.
A shell-spangledled postcard I picked up at a drugstore with a name that made me predispositioned to love it (Regular Readers can guess why I may have been drawn to The Seahorse Drug Mart) tipped me off to the possibility of some great beach combing which sparked an after dinner walk covering at least three miles of ocean front.
GBI wasn’t prepared to give up its secrets so quickly, however. It offered up just these small Bahama Bits, pieces to represent potential treasure, waiting, for some other time, some other shore.
Postcards from The Seahorse spoke also of reef-dwelling wonders. Outfitted in snorkeling gear, I got a little peek of what was possible, there, as well, although the island whispered then, too, on my single opportunity to connect with it on a below-the-surface level. The seas were rough that day, and the island chose not to make it easy for me see what lies below. I battled 4-6 foot waves for ever single glimpse I got of the vibrant kaleidoscope of sea life swimming in those aqua waters. But I saw enough to know that there is a lot of potential. Potential for a deeper connection some time, some where on that chain of islands.
But if true love is best defined by a pining to reconnect, then it just may be Florida with whom we made a love connection. My husband and I truly enjoyed every moment we were there. The water, the scenery, the weather. And as an added benefit, during the entire vacation my husband’s surgically repaired knee functioned completely normally. At our Virginia home, he can’t comfortably do stairs, let alone three mile beach walks. All of our Florida raving along with the joint benefit has led to talk and more than a little joking about a Sunshine State retirement.
I’m not sure I’m ready, yet, for that level of commitment. I want to believe that there are many more blind dates, and perhaps a second shot at a Grand-er Bahama match up before I settle down in such an, umm…, permanent way.
In Other News
I know I alluded to the possibility of seahorse pics going up today, but a combination of dreary weather (I prefer shooting in natural light) and some last minute finish work pushed the photo shoot to sometime today.
An After-the-Fact After Thought (read: a fleeting thought I added to the post when it was several hours old):
What destinations have been true love for you, Readers? I'd love to know!
Indeed, I prepared for my recent foray into Florida and Grand Bahama Island with a date-like attention to my physique: I worked out, got my hair highlighted, shopped for new clothes. A couple of times I questioned the motivation behind my concerted effort to look my best. I tell myself that my beauty regimen consisted of things I would have done anyway, and that is mostly true. But I have to admit to some sort of strange desire to make a good impression, to be physically compatible with my island surroundings.
Our itinerary took us first to the Sunshine State, then onward via cruise ship to the Bahamas before winding down on American soil back in Florida. Florida and I had already met, at various points in my formative and adolescent years, so we were beyond both the initial wonder and uncertainty of a fresh introduction. Still, Florida went all out to impress with splashy smorgasbord of big-ticket fun in the skies and on the waterways. I left feeling suitably wooed.
Our introduction to GBI got off to an admittedly rocky start. Not unlike that awkward moment of realization when you discover your date intended to go Dutch and you didn’t bother to stop at the bank, we wound up hungry and irritated within the first hour. It seems the cruise line, that sketchy mutual friend who introduced us, told a lot of half truths and downright lies about the grandiosity of the spread GBI was prepared to put out for us. Grand Bahama was happy to have our company, but not prepared to play host to the extent to which our matchmaker led us to believe. Our time together would include dining, but it was up to us to procure the goods. It wasn’t long before we realized that our disappointment wasn’t really Grand Bahama’s fault. The island hadn’t had a chance to speak for itself. So, like any good date, we started listening to Grand Bahama, discovering what the island had to say for itself.
As I tuned in to GBI, I discovered that despite the vibrancy of the surroundings and the boisterousness of the people (there was a “Friendly Bob” or a “Big Mama” around every corner, eager to hock wares or sell various services) the island approached me with a whisper, with hints of what was possible.
A shell-spangledled postcard I picked up at a drugstore with a name that made me predispositioned to love it (Regular Readers can guess why I may have been drawn to The Seahorse Drug Mart) tipped me off to the possibility of some great beach combing which sparked an after dinner walk covering at least three miles of ocean front.
GBI wasn’t prepared to give up its secrets so quickly, however. It offered up just these small Bahama Bits, pieces to represent potential treasure, waiting, for some other time, some other shore.
Postcards from The Seahorse spoke also of reef-dwelling wonders. Outfitted in snorkeling gear, I got a little peek of what was possible, there, as well, although the island whispered then, too, on my single opportunity to connect with it on a below-the-surface level. The seas were rough that day, and the island chose not to make it easy for me see what lies below. I battled 4-6 foot waves for ever single glimpse I got of the vibrant kaleidoscope of sea life swimming in those aqua waters. But I saw enough to know that there is a lot of potential. Potential for a deeper connection some time, some where on that chain of islands.
But if true love is best defined by a pining to reconnect, then it just may be Florida with whom we made a love connection. My husband and I truly enjoyed every moment we were there. The water, the scenery, the weather. And as an added benefit, during the entire vacation my husband’s surgically repaired knee functioned completely normally. At our Virginia home, he can’t comfortably do stairs, let alone three mile beach walks. All of our Florida raving along with the joint benefit has led to talk and more than a little joking about a Sunshine State retirement.
I’m not sure I’m ready, yet, for that level of commitment. I want to believe that there are many more blind dates, and perhaps a second shot at a Grand-er Bahama match up before I settle down in such an, umm…, permanent way.
In Other News
I know I alluded to the possibility of seahorse pics going up today, but a combination of dreary weather (I prefer shooting in natural light) and some last minute finish work pushed the photo shoot to sometime today.
An After-the-Fact After Thought (read: a fleeting thought I added to the post when it was several hours old):
What destinations have been true love for you, Readers? I'd love to know!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
What Are the Odds?
As Regular Readers know, I have displayed uncharacteristic calm in the face of a recent discovery of some decidedly sketchy skin anomalies. As a Card-Carrying Hypochondriac, this type of Finding is typically a one way ticket to The Dark Place--a mental destination in which I wallow in despair over my certain doom. I've done some Hard Time in the Dark Place over possibilities with chances of actually unfolding hovering in the single digits. However, for reasons which remain unclear, I surveyed my odds against possible skin cancer and deemed the whole thing Thoroughly Survivable, a belief that casual conversations with family and even blog comments confirmed.
Imagine my surprise, then, at the publication of the following table in my local paper reporting the Actual Odds of Surviving various afflictions by locality:
For those who may encounter difficulties viewing the area of detail within the image, reference the stats in the "melanoma" block in the "My City" column. Really? Apparently, in My City, not only does every single one of the melanoma victims perish, so also does .8--a full 80%!-- of some other poor, unsuspecting soul. What are the chances? More people die of melanoma than even have it? Long odds, indeed.
Considering my recent gaffes in reading comprehension, I'm willing to concede the possibility that I have completely misread the above table. But what I'm seeing here is melanoma--a form of skin cancer stacked up against some of the biggest Medical Headline Makers and emerging, by far, as the most virulent of the maladies. Now, I do know that not all skin cancers are melanomas--but, frankly, we don't know what we're dealing with here, and let me reiterate: we're looking at an ailment possible of taking out more people than even have the diagnosis.
And you know what? At the risk of losing my own hypochondria diagnosis--I'm still completely unfazed. What are the odds of that?
Imagine my surprise, then, at the publication of the following table in my local paper reporting the Actual Odds of Surviving various afflictions by locality:
For those who may encounter difficulties viewing the area of detail within the image, reference the stats in the "melanoma" block in the "My City" column. Really? Apparently, in My City, not only does every single one of the melanoma victims perish, so also does .8--a full 80%!-- of some other poor, unsuspecting soul. What are the chances? More people die of melanoma than even have it? Long odds, indeed.
Considering my recent gaffes in reading comprehension, I'm willing to concede the possibility that I have completely misread the above table. But what I'm seeing here is melanoma--a form of skin cancer stacked up against some of the biggest Medical Headline Makers and emerging, by far, as the most virulent of the maladies. Now, I do know that not all skin cancers are melanomas--but, frankly, we don't know what we're dealing with here, and let me reiterate: we're looking at an ailment possible of taking out more people than even have the diagnosis.
And you know what? At the risk of losing my own hypochondria diagnosis--I'm still completely unfazed. What are the odds of that?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Home
After a week of wandering on domestic and foreign soil, observing celestial phenomena, and swimming with sea creatures, it was time to return to a place that’s even more adventurous. Two weeks ago this evening I came home.
Home may be familiar and infinitely more comfortable than the places we choose to wander, but that doesn’t mean it’s predictable or risk-free. Although most of us equate home with stability, others view it as more fragile. Some even claim that if you leave home for long enough, you can’t ever go back.
Having returned to many “homes” on varied occasions, I’ve had the pleasure of returning to the comforts of things known, even as I have learned to embrace the uncertainties of interacting within the dynamic, changing, environments in which we live. I’ve thought a lot about home today, as I have reflected on two very different homes to which I recently returned.
This morning my husband and I returned to our home church to participate in the congregation’s annual Homecoming Day. Our history at that church spans nearly eighteen years, including the cumulative six that passed the two times we left—once in the nineties, for complicated reasons, and again three years ago because attending a new church was best for our kids. Still, this place is home—a place where people have seen me at my best and at my worst, a place where I’ve grown, learned, laughed, and loved. It’s a place, now, to which I am able to return in the same way a grown child heads home for family celebrations, knowing that there’ll be hugs, kisses, newsy updates, and lots of good wishes. It’s a place where I choose to keep a bit of my heart, not sure where, or when, or if, I will ever again be a part of the daily happenings, but choosing to leave open the possibility that I might.
This afternoon I spent my time inside another type of “home” to which I’ve returned of late. Mosaic art has been a huge part of my life for the past nine years, including the nearly three that passed after an accident with a certain piece drove my interest in the craft into deep underground. Prior to the accident—which claimed a mirror I had made as a wedding gift for my friend, Jen, and her husband—working with tile was an integral part of my existence. It was a medium in which I operated in full confidence—believing that my grasp on the craft was as invincible as the tile with which I worked. That ended the day that I learned that tile was not invincible, that it was possible for damage other than that of my own, strategic design to destroy everything for which I’d worked. I learned this hard lesson at the worst possible moment—during what I thought was the final polishing. As I buffed the surfaces with my glass cloth, I discovered, to my horror, that they weren’t “coming clean.” It was then that I realized that the surface of each piece of tile was badly scratched. To this day, I have no idea how this was even possible—a fact that created a reticence to rebuild. Being, as I was, then, in the midst of graduate school, it was easier just to leave, to quit inhabiting this domain that I thought I ruled. If I didn’t know what went wrong, then it could happen again. I couldn’t control the outcome, which made it too scary to invest.
It’s a good thing I don’t view my real life home the same way. Because, life is the magical experience that it is for the very reason that we can’t ever really control it. We can learn, choose, practice, and act, to the best of our ability, what we think we know, but we are never guaranteed an outcome. Which is why, four months ago, I was brave enough to respond to the urge I felt to try again, to break tile and remake it into something beautiful and unexpected. I made something small—and even though I held my breath during the final grouting and subsequently shining, things went exactly as they did during the dozens of groutings and shinings that transpired before the damaged mirror—just as they should.
So in March, when I was presented with the opportunity to designed pieces for a gallery, I decided to take a big risk and return in a bigger way to craft which used to be my artistic home. I painted tiles, fired and smashed them. I arranged the broken bits on a wooden pattern I designed. I grouted those little bits, one by one, into place. And today, after returning home from the Homecoming, it was time to grout and shine.
Although I did not perform this task with my former confidence, I completed it all the same—slowly, carefully, with long breaks for deep, unnecessary breaths. Unnecessary, because the piece is fine—as, in reality, the next several dozen or more pieces will likely be. What happened on that fateful day that took me far away from my comfortable realm was “one of those things,” a random, unexplained happening of the kind that should evoke respect rather than fear.
Yes ,home is fragile--in the same way a priceless piece art, or a common mosaic, is fragile—for its beauty, for the joy and shelter it provides, and even, perhaps especially, for the mysteries embedded within the unknown parts of those places we know so well.
It is good to be home. In every sense of the word.
In Other News:
Look for The Big Reveal on the Seahorse long about Wednesday. He's basically finished, but I needs some finishing touches before I do a photo shoot.
Jen, I still owe you a mirror. Let's talk.
For those of you who have asked about my pieces: Yes, I am taking orders, particularly for those who aren't in a big hurry for a speedy delivery. More details will follow about my future plans.
Home may be familiar and infinitely more comfortable than the places we choose to wander, but that doesn’t mean it’s predictable or risk-free. Although most of us equate home with stability, others view it as more fragile. Some even claim that if you leave home for long enough, you can’t ever go back.
Having returned to many “homes” on varied occasions, I’ve had the pleasure of returning to the comforts of things known, even as I have learned to embrace the uncertainties of interacting within the dynamic, changing, environments in which we live. I’ve thought a lot about home today, as I have reflected on two very different homes to which I recently returned.
This morning my husband and I returned to our home church to participate in the congregation’s annual Homecoming Day. Our history at that church spans nearly eighteen years, including the cumulative six that passed the two times we left—once in the nineties, for complicated reasons, and again three years ago because attending a new church was best for our kids. Still, this place is home—a place where people have seen me at my best and at my worst, a place where I’ve grown, learned, laughed, and loved. It’s a place, now, to which I am able to return in the same way a grown child heads home for family celebrations, knowing that there’ll be hugs, kisses, newsy updates, and lots of good wishes. It’s a place where I choose to keep a bit of my heart, not sure where, or when, or if, I will ever again be a part of the daily happenings, but choosing to leave open the possibility that I might.
This afternoon I spent my time inside another type of “home” to which I’ve returned of late. Mosaic art has been a huge part of my life for the past nine years, including the nearly three that passed after an accident with a certain piece drove my interest in the craft into deep underground. Prior to the accident—which claimed a mirror I had made as a wedding gift for my friend, Jen, and her husband—working with tile was an integral part of my existence. It was a medium in which I operated in full confidence—believing that my grasp on the craft was as invincible as the tile with which I worked. That ended the day that I learned that tile was not invincible, that it was possible for damage other than that of my own, strategic design to destroy everything for which I’d worked. I learned this hard lesson at the worst possible moment—during what I thought was the final polishing. As I buffed the surfaces with my glass cloth, I discovered, to my horror, that they weren’t “coming clean.” It was then that I realized that the surface of each piece of tile was badly scratched. To this day, I have no idea how this was even possible—a fact that created a reticence to rebuild. Being, as I was, then, in the midst of graduate school, it was easier just to leave, to quit inhabiting this domain that I thought I ruled. If I didn’t know what went wrong, then it could happen again. I couldn’t control the outcome, which made it too scary to invest.It’s a good thing I don’t view my real life home the same way. Because, life is the magical experience that it is for the very reason that we can’t ever really control it. We can learn, choose, practice, and act, to the best of our ability, what we think we know, but we are never guaranteed an outcome. Which is why, four months ago, I was brave enough to respond to the urge I felt to try again, to break tile and remake it into something beautiful and unexpected. I made something small—and even though I held my breath during the final grouting and subsequently shining, things went exactly as they did during the dozens of groutings and shinings that transpired before the damaged mirror—just as they should.
So in March, when I was presented with the opportunity to designed pieces for a gallery, I decided to take a big risk and return in a bigger way to craft which used to be my artistic home. I painted tiles, fired and smashed them. I arranged the broken bits on a wooden pattern I designed. I grouted those little bits, one by one, into place. And today, after returning home from the Homecoming, it was time to grout and shine.
Although I did not perform this task with my former confidence, I completed it all the same—slowly, carefully, with long breaks for deep, unnecessary breaths. Unnecessary, because the piece is fine—as, in reality, the next several dozen or more pieces will likely be. What happened on that fateful day that took me far away from my comfortable realm was “one of those things,” a random, unexplained happening of the kind that should evoke respect rather than fear.
Yes ,home is fragile--in the same way a priceless piece art, or a common mosaic, is fragile—for its beauty, for the joy and shelter it provides, and even, perhaps especially, for the mysteries embedded within the unknown parts of those places we know so well.
It is good to be home. In every sense of the word.
In Other News:
Look for The Big Reveal on the Seahorse long about Wednesday. He's basically finished, but I needs some finishing touches before I do a photo shoot.
Jen, I still owe you a mirror. Let's talk.
For those of you who have asked about my pieces: Yes, I am taking orders, particularly for those who aren't in a big hurry for a speedy delivery. More details will follow about my future plans.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Fractured Wary Tales
I may present myself regularly in this forum as a freelance writer and working artist, but going strictly by my official credentials, I’m best described as a secondary English teacher. Never mind that the only time I ever presided over an Actual English class with Real Students was during my student teaching, and that I entered the masters program through which I earned my certification only as a back door to getting re-hired as an elementary art teacher. But those are different stories, most of which have been thoroughly explored in assorted posts spanning late ’07-mid ’09.
My educational details come to bear within the current post only to underscore the alarm with which I regard recent evidence that my reading comprehension has hit an all time low. Yesterday I mentally substituted a key noun in a friend’s facebook status, effectively changing the meaning the poster intended to convey. Twice, today, I cheerfully volunteered to cover specific meals to be served during an upcoming girls’ lake house weekend—only to discover that other prospective attendees had already claimed both mealtimes in clear, concise prose within a widely-distributed email thread which I had ostensibly been reading. For days, I revealed in the possibility of enrolling in a particular art class I’ve been eying on the local community college website. When I finally decided to take the plunge and register, I discovered that the class was clearly labeled as an offering at a relatively remote satellite campus, too many miles north to be a viable option.
I chalk much of these gaffes up to side effects from trying to keep up with too much at once. Aside from the usual rigors of part time teaching, family life, and general post- vacation re-assimilation into society, I have been stoically plugging away on the mosaic pieces I agreed to submit to a local art gallery.
I say stoically because of my ongoing dismay over the contractual terms associated with becoming a Participating Artist at the gallery. I’ve been having difficulty accepting the concept of forking over a full two-thirds—66%!—of my sales to the gallery, in addition to an accompanying 8 hours of monthly in-shop servitude. It seems impossible, under these conditions, for one to break even, considering the cost of materials alone, without even getting into the hours of labor and creative energy. Still, I’ve gamely pressed on in spite of my prevailing wariness, encouraged by family, friends, and even Readers that the exposure alone was worth it.
“Consider the pieces advertising costs,” my wise friend, Lori, suggested.
“Just figure out your materials cost, double it and then multiply it by three,” my husband said. “It is what it is.”
So I’ve been logging each expense along the way, struggling to remain excited for the opportunity to practically give away a finished puzzle comprised of hand painted pieces and careful design.
Sunday, my friend Lisa, who happens to be a Participating Artist as well as a Board Member at said gallery called to see how things were coming.
“Oh, pretty good,” I said. “It’s just that I’m really wondering how much I’m going to have to charge for these pieces to even break even. It’s just that with the gallery taking a 66% commission, I don’t know how I can keep from losing money on the deal,” I confessed.
“What?! Who would do that?” Lisa’s shock jolted across the phone lines. “YOU get the 66%, silly. “
Oh.
“And you do know that if you work the 8 hours a month, they’ll give half of the commission they take back to you, right?”
Um, no. I didn’t know that, because It appears that I read the entire contract backwards.
Which is why it’s probably a good thing that I’m not teaching English right now.
My educational details come to bear within the current post only to underscore the alarm with which I regard recent evidence that my reading comprehension has hit an all time low. Yesterday I mentally substituted a key noun in a friend’s facebook status, effectively changing the meaning the poster intended to convey. Twice, today, I cheerfully volunteered to cover specific meals to be served during an upcoming girls’ lake house weekend—only to discover that other prospective attendees had already claimed both mealtimes in clear, concise prose within a widely-distributed email thread which I had ostensibly been reading. For days, I revealed in the possibility of enrolling in a particular art class I’ve been eying on the local community college website. When I finally decided to take the plunge and register, I discovered that the class was clearly labeled as an offering at a relatively remote satellite campus, too many miles north to be a viable option.
I chalk much of these gaffes up to side effects from trying to keep up with too much at once. Aside from the usual rigors of part time teaching, family life, and general post- vacation re-assimilation into society, I have been stoically plugging away on the mosaic pieces I agreed to submit to a local art gallery.
I say stoically because of my ongoing dismay over the contractual terms associated with becoming a Participating Artist at the gallery. I’ve been having difficulty accepting the concept of forking over a full two-thirds—66%!—of my sales to the gallery, in addition to an accompanying 8 hours of monthly in-shop servitude. It seems impossible, under these conditions, for one to break even, considering the cost of materials alone, without even getting into the hours of labor and creative energy. Still, I’ve gamely pressed on in spite of my prevailing wariness, encouraged by family, friends, and even Readers that the exposure alone was worth it.
“Consider the pieces advertising costs,” my wise friend, Lori, suggested.
“Just figure out your materials cost, double it and then multiply it by three,” my husband said. “It is what it is.”
So I’ve been logging each expense along the way, struggling to remain excited for the opportunity to practically give away a finished puzzle comprised of hand painted pieces and careful design.
Sunday, my friend Lisa, who happens to be a Participating Artist as well as a Board Member at said gallery called to see how things were coming.
“Oh, pretty good,” I said. “It’s just that I’m really wondering how much I’m going to have to charge for these pieces to even break even. It’s just that with the gallery taking a 66% commission, I don’t know how I can keep from losing money on the deal,” I confessed.
“What?! Who would do that?” Lisa’s shock jolted across the phone lines. “YOU get the 66%, silly. “
Oh.
“And you do know that if you work the 8 hours a month, they’ll give half of the commission they take back to you, right?”
Um, no. I didn’t know that, because It appears that I read the entire contract backwards.
Which is why it’s probably a good thing that I’m not teaching English right now.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Faded
The most disturbing part of any vacation is the certainty and speed with which it begins to fade. From the time the former destination becomes so distant as to be framed nicely in a rear view mirror or the window of a plane, the sights, sounds, flavors, and even the mood of the excursion begins to slowly pale until weeks, months, or certainly years later, all that remains are a few mental snapshots to go along with whatever ones were captured through a lens.The first time I remember being truly saddened by the fading process of travel was at the end of an especially delightful trip to San Diego ten years ago. As the bay dissolved into a single reflective glint in the view at take off, I remember being struck by the thought that, from there on, the trip was destined only to go ever further away. Sure, I had memories, but the only ones of those I could truly count on were those safely recorded in the little bound book in which I’d been furtively storing them.
I didn’t keep a journal on my recent trip to Florida and The Bahamas, and that kind of scares me. It wasn’t an intentional decision—a fresh journal whiled away the entire trip in my carry on —it just never happened. Typically, in the event that actually living a journey precludes the recording of it, I’ll spend the return trip logging the memories as they waft, vapor-like, from my mind. But this time, I didn’t despite the fact that I had to go back to work the morning after our return, an event I knew would have a Clorox-like effect on the vivid pattern of the beach milieu in which I’d been so recently enveloped.
I didn’t, even though not three weeks ago, I found a journal from a 2003 trip to Seattle in which I read that my then-twelve year old daughter, though fascinated by the trolley bus outfitted with two steering wheels for swift changes in direction, expressed great concern that sitting in the seat opposite mine could result in us winding up at opposing destinations and I laughed myself senseless. I never would have remembered that, but I have that memory now because I preserved it in print—the only reliable anti-fading agent of which I’m aware.
And yet, by ten AM Monday morning, I was elbow deep in grout, surrounded by kindergartners wielding miniature mosaic tiles and hadn’t had a single thought about blue skies, ocean waters, or palm trees in hours. And so the week went, each day taking me further from the sun and surf until it seemed the trip lived on only in my dreams, during which I remained fully convinced that I was moving across the ocean, which isn’t that far of a stretch in a full-motion water bed.
By now, I’ve almost been back for as long as I was gone, and I am determined to write something in that journal today before time can further act on my memory. Because the only reliable thing I know about time is that it is a thief, but at least a kind one. Already, the intervening days have polished the jagged edges from some of the rougher recollections of the trip, like the dismal hours of paper work and long lines required to board the cruise ship, or the disappointment of discovering that the all-inclusive package we paid for somehow did not extend to meals at the resort on Grand Bahama Island. Pshh…barely worth noting from this vantage point, especially when there is so much I do want to remember, that I’m struggling to impress on my mind so it isn’t lost.
Many of these are little things, most matter only to me. Some are as simple as little facts I learned about the environment on an eco-tour of the Space Coast waterways immediately after we saw the Shuttle Discovery off on its mission. (Who knew that the root systems of mangrove trees provide safe harbor for 80% of seafood species, or that dolphins remain in motion every moment of their 30 years of life? I didn't.)Other events are just moments—moments that were funny, or peaceful, or felt adventuresome. All of them, I want to remember.I want to remember the irony of passing up a cup of coffee at the airport in hopes of getting some good brew upon landing in Florida and my husband saying, in an off-hand sort of way, “I don’t think your opportunities are what you think they are,” and the following string of inexplicable events that left me virtually joe-less for the next 36 hours. Things like thinking I was so smart, buying a whole bag of coffee to brew at the hotel, but not purchasing any accompanying filters. Things like forgoing all but a few ounces of coffee when we awoke for the space shuttle launch in the in the middle of the night for fear that I’d be caught without facilities, and then somehow not finding a coffee shop until the next afternoon. And foolishly passing it up because I felt hot, and already settled for coffee ice cream, and then not finding another one until nearly bedtime. And waking up the next morning and saying things would be different and immediately tearing into the only envelope of prepackaged coffee in the hotel and severing the ironically named commodity asunder in my eagerness.
I want to remember the thrill of getting up at 2:00—two o’clock!- AM to see the launch of Space Shuttle Discovery. Not only was seeing the shuttle a lifetime first, seeing that particular hour at the outset of a day as opposed to the flip side was a new experience as well.
In the aftermath of a couple of recent, hazy stupors triggered by early risings associated with an ill-timed dental appointment and volunteerism at a homeless shelter, I was skeptical about `my prospects for long term alertness, particularly in light of the aforementioned caffeine shortage. Which makes it all the more satisfying to remember being up 17 hours later, thanks to the best nap I probably ever had and waking up with less than 24 hours of amazing memories behind me and nearly a week’s worth ahead.I want to remember driving down the coast on Florida’s A1A the next day, talking with my husband about things on which we agree—the wonderful-ness of our surroundings, and various thoughts about life and kids—as well as things about which we don’t always agree, such as politics.
I want to remember watching the sunset off the aft end of the cruise ship, and reclining in a big cozy lounge chair with my husband as the stars emerged and the deck cleared and we were somehow alone in a floating city with a population of 1200 people.
I want to remember that even though the snorkeling excursion we splurged on turned into a couple hours on rough seas on and off a catamaran, that even though death seemed a viable options, I mastered both my gag reflex and my seasickness and saw some amazing fish in their coral reef digs.
I never want to forget that I came reasonably close to fulfilling a Life List dream when Salvador kissed me.
I don’t want to forget escaping the expensive tourist area in the aftermath of the not-very-inclusive meal plan scandal and finding a humble grocery store where I bought a $2.00 pineapple and begged a deli worker to slice it for me.
Even though I don’t have a single photo of the place, I don’t want to forget the little Irish restaurant we discovered next to the grocery store, and the good people we met.
A despite the fact that I probably took too many pictures of the place, I’m afraid I won’t remember enough about the awesome suite we stayed in on our last vacation night, back in Florida. Masterfully designed and artfully decorated, it would make an ideal model for guest accommodations in the house we hope to build.
The truth is that I’ll probably forget things I’d like to remember, and recall random things I’d expect to forget. Life is like that. And journal or no, vacations have their own way of Living Large in a sort of Travel Immortality. And maybe our memories of them evolve into just what they should be, regardless of whatever we may do—or not—to preserve them.
In Other News:
The skin cancer scare is on hold. Dr. M is on vacation, and I can't trust a substitute with cancer of any kind. This gives me a month to test out a skin cancer potion from the herbalist that I've kept on hand for just this sort of circumstance. With any luck, I can dissolve away all the sketchy spots before Dr. M is back in the office.
I appreciated reading the comments from faithful readers while I was away. I will be getting caught up on blog reading and commenting over the coming week. Can't wait to see what everyone has been up to!
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Band Aids Stuck On Me
If things have gone even remotely according to plan, I’ll be on a white sandy beach somewhere in the Bahamas by the time you read this. At the time of this writing, I feel as prepared as I possibly can be: I’m modeling newly highlighted hair, wearing my 2007 jeans, and feeling fairly loose and agile, after a visit to the chiropractor to adjust the neck and back muscles that got all moved around while working to get back into said 2007 jeans. And I’m sporting an assortment of tiny circular Band-Aids.
Why the adhesive rounds? They’re the result of findings made through a routine encounter with the Discovery Channel’s Scope It Out 30 X magnification device.
See, the other evening I was just, well, scoping things out, and decided to take a little look-see at a couple of fairly innocuous looking moles on my arms. For the most part, I observed smooth, uniform surfaces that were of no real interest. One blemish, however, transformed beneath the powers of the Scope it Out’s 30 times magnification into a visual not unlike those seen illustrating certain skin cancers in various Dermatology Brochures.
Now, I’m aware that the Scope it Out is not a cutting edge diagnostic tool, and I’m also aware that, to the trained eyes of particular longtime Readers and Friends, that this is going to read like a Hypochondriac Relapse. Fear not. My hypochondria is still solidly under control. I assure you that I am completely matter of fact and calm about the situation. To the naked eye, the spot in question looks incredibly normal, so what we’re dealing with here is the Actual Possibility that the Scope it Out may become a genuine early diagnostic tool, which would really be rather cool. But as I’m planning a beach week, I decided to err on the side of caution and give the iffy area—as well as a second possibly suspicious spot on the other arm and a strange new mole on the far back side of my left ankle that I can’t reach with the Scope it Out without risking another chiropractor visit—some added protection with the circular Band Aids.
I actually planned to sort of go with the look and flash some colored Band Aids, like the ones I wore like little face tattoos in the late nineties when I had some moles removed for cosmetic reasons, but the only ones I found in stock were boring, flesh colored disks. I’ll keep my eyes open in case I find some cool island Band Aids in the meantime to accent my highlights and my 2007 jeans. Either way, I’ll have plenty on hand to use after I have the spots removed when I get home. Unless I find another Discovery Channel toy in the meantime that can take care of that, too.
Why the adhesive rounds? They’re the result of findings made through a routine encounter with the Discovery Channel’s Scope It Out 30 X magnification device.
See, the other evening I was just, well, scoping things out, and decided to take a little look-see at a couple of fairly innocuous looking moles on my arms. For the most part, I observed smooth, uniform surfaces that were of no real interest. One blemish, however, transformed beneath the powers of the Scope it Out’s 30 times magnification into a visual not unlike those seen illustrating certain skin cancers in various Dermatology Brochures. Now, I’m aware that the Scope it Out is not a cutting edge diagnostic tool, and I’m also aware that, to the trained eyes of particular longtime Readers and Friends, that this is going to read like a Hypochondriac Relapse. Fear not. My hypochondria is still solidly under control. I assure you that I am completely matter of fact and calm about the situation. To the naked eye, the spot in question looks incredibly normal, so what we’re dealing with here is the Actual Possibility that the Scope it Out may become a genuine early diagnostic tool, which would really be rather cool. But as I’m planning a beach week, I decided to err on the side of caution and give the iffy area—as well as a second possibly suspicious spot on the other arm and a strange new mole on the far back side of my left ankle that I can’t reach with the Scope it Out without risking another chiropractor visit—some added protection with the circular Band Aids.
I actually planned to sort of go with the look and flash some colored Band Aids, like the ones I wore like little face tattoos in the late nineties when I had some moles removed for cosmetic reasons, but the only ones I found in stock were boring, flesh colored disks. I’ll keep my eyes open in case I find some cool island Band Aids in the meantime to accent my highlights and my 2007 jeans. Either way, I’ll have plenty on hand to use after I have the spots removed when I get home. Unless I find another Discovery Channel toy in the meantime that can take care of that, too.
Tuesday, April 06, 2010
From the Better Late Than Never Files or Away, Squared
So, I stood you up yesterday. I apologize. Neither the tech, or as it turns out, the coffee, is as abundant as the solar rays here in the Sunshine State. Everything else is wonderful. I awoke at 2 AM yesterday to witness the launch of the Space Shuttle Discovery. A friend asked me via facebook if it was everything I expected, and I had to say that, honestly, I had no idea what to expect. At one point, I actually thought we'd be standing around a platform, waving to the astronauts as they boarded, feeling the heat of the exhaust on our bare skin as the rockets propelled the shuttle heavenward right behind some burly security guards and braided rope, and other crazy things.As it turned out, we were some of the lucky few, thanks to my husband's affiliations with NASA, to have passes to view the whole scene from the causeway observation point. What's more, we were able to meet up with a couple I know from work and take them along. Viewing a launch represented an item from her husband's Life List, and, evidently, our vantage point was beyond his wildest dreams. So it was great to assist in making a dream come true and watching the joy of it unfolding.
I was as tired as I expected to be, particularly considering that I was still going at 9 PM even though, for various reasons that could star in a post of their own, I'd been without beans for seventeen hours.
It's a new day now, and I'm off now to scout out some joe. Now that the shuttle is up, up, and away, it is now time for anchors to follow suit. I'm Bahamas bound!
Monday, April 05, 2010
Popping In About Lifting Off
If things have gone even slightly as planned, by the time you read this I will be in Florida. If an entire other tier of events go unthwarted, I will have witnessed the launch of STS-131, commonly known as the Space Shuttle. If still more happenings remain predictable, there is a strong chance if you come back later on today, you may see a photo or two of the launch.
Yep, that’s a whole lot of question marks. But, really, isn’t that just status quo?
I’ll try to stop back by later today—if you can make it, why don’t you pop back on in, too, and we’ll see if anything went even slightly as planned.
Yep, that’s a whole lot of question marks. But, really, isn’t that just status quo?
I’ll try to stop back by later today—if you can make it, why don’t you pop back on in, too, and we’ll see if anything went even slightly as planned.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Two Places at Once
So I’m finally leaving the country. But as I’ve already been largely gone from gone from Bloggy-ville for way too long already, I’ve actually made arrangements to be two places at once for the coming week: on far away sunny beaches and right here at my virtual home. Yep, I am THAT good!
So if you’d like to stop by for a visit this week, I’d plan on Monday and Wednesday, for sure (hint: there’s some pre-fabbed material already scheduled). I wouldn’t put another surprise visit or two out of the question, but as I’ll be working off my i-touch and my husband’s netbook, those would be of the short and sweet, possibly pictorial variety.
I won’t be able to read other blogs this week, but I will be sure to visit all of my faithful commenting followers upon my return.
So if you’d like to stop by for a visit this week, I’d plan on Monday and Wednesday, for sure (hint: there’s some pre-fabbed material already scheduled). I wouldn’t put another surprise visit or two out of the question, but as I’ll be working off my i-touch and my husband’s netbook, those would be of the short and sweet, possibly pictorial variety.
I won’t be able to read other blogs this week, but I will be sure to visit all of my faithful commenting followers upon my return.
Friday, April 02, 2010
All Spring Break in a Day (version 2.0)
We may not be dealing with anything as epic as the single hour of sunlight in seven years that Ray Bradbury’s characters had to work with in his All Summer in a Day, but, we are, nonetheless, working on a compressed time schedule.
See, Spring Break in my home has traditionally been a full week of projects and local tourism: a little bit of spring cleaning, a bit of extreme makeover, and a dash of stay-cation. My kids and I typically stock up on audio books and foray into all kinds of literary adventures while completing a thorough scrubbing of the kitchen floor and repainting of a bedroom or bathroom or the sewing of curtains. Despite the full roster of projects, there's always plenty of time for park treks and museum explorations.In short, the typical blueprint for Spring Break is a full ten days of relaxed productivity and meandering fun.
This year, the kids and I have a single day: today. One Spring Day with no school, no work, no plans other than going wherever the day leads. The compressed format has everything to do with those passports my husband and I secured before I disappeared on the unplanned blogging hiatus that has kept me mum for the better part of three weeks. This coming Sunday after church, we’re off on a different kind of Spring Break that’s slated to take off with an up close and personal viewing of the Space Shuttle launch and head straight to the Bahamas via cruise ship. I’m suitably excited, although the small twinge of guilt I feel for leaving the kids over Spring Break motivated me to get most of my laundry and nearly all of my cleaning out of the way yesterday so that today can exist as a sort of metaphoric tootsie roll: all the goodness of Spring Break rolled up into one single day.
In Other News:
At this writing, I’m planning one decent post before my departure. If you’re still out there, I hope you’ll look for it.
My recent disappearance comes with no concrete excuse, story, or reasonable explanation. It was completely unplanned and surprised even me.
Literature Minute:
If you've never read All Summer in a Day, I recommend taking a fifteen minute Spring Break of your own and doing it now. As thought-provoking old school YA, it's a crash-course introduction to an essential American author.
As another literary notable, don't miss the Hans Christian Andersen gallery on Google's main page today. It may look like a single celebratory image in honor of the fabled author, but, as I inadvertently discovered, the image changes when you click on it. I think there are four to see before google dumps you out onto a Hans Christian Andersen search page.
Disclaimer:
I’m fully aware that, as posts go, this one isn’t winning any awards. I’ve just been silent for so long I thought it was time to say something.
See, Spring Break in my home has traditionally been a full week of projects and local tourism: a little bit of spring cleaning, a bit of extreme makeover, and a dash of stay-cation. My kids and I typically stock up on audio books and foray into all kinds of literary adventures while completing a thorough scrubbing of the kitchen floor and repainting of a bedroom or bathroom or the sewing of curtains. Despite the full roster of projects, there's always plenty of time for park treks and museum explorations.In short, the typical blueprint for Spring Break is a full ten days of relaxed productivity and meandering fun.
This year, the kids and I have a single day: today. One Spring Day with no school, no work, no plans other than going wherever the day leads. The compressed format has everything to do with those passports my husband and I secured before I disappeared on the unplanned blogging hiatus that has kept me mum for the better part of three weeks. This coming Sunday after church, we’re off on a different kind of Spring Break that’s slated to take off with an up close and personal viewing of the Space Shuttle launch and head straight to the Bahamas via cruise ship. I’m suitably excited, although the small twinge of guilt I feel for leaving the kids over Spring Break motivated me to get most of my laundry and nearly all of my cleaning out of the way yesterday so that today can exist as a sort of metaphoric tootsie roll: all the goodness of Spring Break rolled up into one single day.
In Other News:
At this writing, I’m planning one decent post before my departure. If you’re still out there, I hope you’ll look for it.
My recent disappearance comes with no concrete excuse, story, or reasonable explanation. It was completely unplanned and surprised even me.
Literature Minute:
If you've never read All Summer in a Day, I recommend taking a fifteen minute Spring Break of your own and doing it now. As thought-provoking old school YA, it's a crash-course introduction to an essential American author.
As another literary notable, don't miss the Hans Christian Andersen gallery on Google's main page today. It may look like a single celebratory image in honor of the fabled author, but, as I inadvertently discovered, the image changes when you click on it. I think there are four to see before google dumps you out onto a Hans Christian Andersen search page.
Disclaimer:
I’m fully aware that, as posts go, this one isn’t winning any awards. I’ve just been silent for so long I thought it was time to say something.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Courtship is Over, and Other Stories
Oh, state of Virginia, looking back, it was all very silly, wasn’t it?
For four years, you’ve pursued me with the persistence of a school boy in deep puppy love. You’ve sent me letters. Initiated phone communications. You even sent one of your own, uniformed finest to my door with a Special Invitation. You went so far as to set aside two full weeks in hopes for my full attention, when I would be at your beck and call.
What happened? I phoned in like you requested. I checked my computer daily for your messages, but found only curt rebuffs instead of details about all the dates I anticipated. And then, this morning—what was that? A computerized message that its over between us, just like that? Didn’t see that coming.
Whatever will I do now, with what is left of my winter break? I’ll have to make my own plans, without consideration of when or where you may need me to come to sit in your courts. I won’t have your messages to wait for each day. When my friends call, I’ll actually have to make independent decisions about how to spend my time.
Although it’s clear we weren’t right for each other—I have to ask—Why you couldn’t have done this 10 days ago? Was it a cheap thrill, stringing me along day to day? If so, that would make one of us who found it amusing.
But it’s OK, Virginia District Court, I wasn’t really interested anyway. And even though I’ve complained heartily about your imposition on my winter break and your subsequent Daily Dissing, I’ve rather managed to enjoy myself anyway, quietly continuing the various threads of my life even without the ability to plan more than 12 hours out.
No, I haven’t been blogging much (sorry Readers!) or commenting on other blogs (sorry, fellow Bloggers), but I did do a little writing, in the form of a functional piece of online journalism. And I’ve been gearing up to crank out some mosaic pieces—and by gearing up, I basically mean sketching and buying materials. As of this writing, I am seriously considering following through on a recent invitation I received to start showing at a local gallery. I waffled on the whole thing for a few days, because, looking the whole thing over, I don’t think I stand to turn over much of a profit—but my husband thinks the exposure might be good, because I would love to do some custom work for clients I currently don’t have. But if I ever print up the business cards I blogged about way back in September, I’d slap one of those on each piece at the gallery and potentially meet some clients.
A few of you might remember this strange wooden piece I snagged at a thrift store last fall, the one my daughter thought looked like a spindly manger,but my friend, Lori, identified as a butler something-or-other? It had a close brush with becoming a planter for my sister, who may either be disappointed or relieved when she reads this report, but it turns out, though, that it’s a cat bed. The plan right now is for mosaic work around the four sides and legs painted in patterns replicating my own kitties. There are some other possible features, but I’ll save those for the reveal when it’s done. Right now, it’s in the initial prepping phase.
I’ve also been going to my art classes: one on mixed media, and the other a portraiture class where we sketch live models. Meet Eegore:
When my daughter saw Eegore, she suggested that my next job should be as a court sketch artist. But, Virginia District Court, you and I both know that that isn't likely to happen.
I’ve also had time to work on my experimental oil painting (which is still in the Work in Progress category):
I’ve also had a lot of time to work out. My new passport arrived today, and I am heading to the Bahamas in three weeks. I was horrified to discover that my summer clothes were tight. So thanks to you, Virginia District Court, I haven’t been off gallivanting on some East Coast Tour, visiting my sister in Pennsylvania or Lori, in Maryland. I’ve been here, running intervals on my treadmill. Biking. Doing floor exercises with the wii Fit trainers, who say I’ve lost 2.2 pounds. And gained a bit of muscle, too, I dare say. So it’s all good, State of Virginia. Just so long as I don’t hear from you again for a good, long, time. Remember, you had your chance. And tomorrow? That’s all mine….
For four years, you’ve pursued me with the persistence of a school boy in deep puppy love. You’ve sent me letters. Initiated phone communications. You even sent one of your own, uniformed finest to my door with a Special Invitation. You went so far as to set aside two full weeks in hopes for my full attention, when I would be at your beck and call.
What happened? I phoned in like you requested. I checked my computer daily for your messages, but found only curt rebuffs instead of details about all the dates I anticipated. And then, this morning—what was that? A computerized message that its over between us, just like that? Didn’t see that coming.
Whatever will I do now, with what is left of my winter break? I’ll have to make my own plans, without consideration of when or where you may need me to come to sit in your courts. I won’t have your messages to wait for each day. When my friends call, I’ll actually have to make independent decisions about how to spend my time.
Although it’s clear we weren’t right for each other—I have to ask—Why you couldn’t have done this 10 days ago? Was it a cheap thrill, stringing me along day to day? If so, that would make one of us who found it amusing.
But it’s OK, Virginia District Court, I wasn’t really interested anyway. And even though I’ve complained heartily about your imposition on my winter break and your subsequent Daily Dissing, I’ve rather managed to enjoy myself anyway, quietly continuing the various threads of my life even without the ability to plan more than 12 hours out.
No, I haven’t been blogging much (sorry Readers!) or commenting on other blogs (sorry, fellow Bloggers), but I did do a little writing, in the form of a functional piece of online journalism. And I’ve been gearing up to crank out some mosaic pieces—and by gearing up, I basically mean sketching and buying materials. As of this writing, I am seriously considering following through on a recent invitation I received to start showing at a local gallery. I waffled on the whole thing for a few days, because, looking the whole thing over, I don’t think I stand to turn over much of a profit—but my husband thinks the exposure might be good, because I would love to do some custom work for clients I currently don’t have. But if I ever print up the business cards I blogged about way back in September, I’d slap one of those on each piece at the gallery and potentially meet some clients.
A few of you might remember this strange wooden piece I snagged at a thrift store last fall, the one my daughter thought looked like a spindly manger,but my friend, Lori, identified as a butler something-or-other? It had a close brush with becoming a planter for my sister, who may either be disappointed or relieved when she reads this report, but it turns out, though, that it’s a cat bed. The plan right now is for mosaic work around the four sides and legs painted in patterns replicating my own kitties. There are some other possible features, but I’ll save those for the reveal when it’s done. Right now, it’s in the initial prepping phase.
I’ve also been going to my art classes: one on mixed media, and the other a portraiture class where we sketch live models. Meet Eegore:
When my daughter saw Eegore, she suggested that my next job should be as a court sketch artist. But, Virginia District Court, you and I both know that that isn't likely to happen.
I’ve also had time to work on my experimental oil painting (which is still in the Work in Progress category):
I’ve also had a lot of time to work out. My new passport arrived today, and I am heading to the Bahamas in three weeks. I was horrified to discover that my summer clothes were tight. So thanks to you, Virginia District Court, I haven’t been off gallivanting on some East Coast Tour, visiting my sister in Pennsylvania or Lori, in Maryland. I’ve been here, running intervals on my treadmill. Biking. Doing floor exercises with the wii Fit trainers, who say I’ve lost 2.2 pounds. And gained a bit of muscle, too, I dare say. So it’s all good, State of Virginia. Just so long as I don’t hear from you again for a good, long, time. Remember, you had your chance. And tomorrow? That’s all mine….
Friday, March 05, 2010
The Jury Is Out, Part 2
So we’re at Friday, which happens to mark the conclusion week 1 of my Forced Participation in the Legal System, and I’ve yet to darken the door of the courthouse.
A week ago this evening, I made my first call to the Jury Action Hotline only to hear the voice on the other in inform that I was not selected to participate on Monday, in a sort of apologetic tone that implied that I might file this news in the Hard to Take Category. I was actually elated, as the news actually translated into a Free Day Off, as my school happened to be closed on Monday. I enjoyed my day, but figured the freebie made it all the more likely that I’d get summoned on Tuesday, when my school was open, and I would spend a long, boring day in court instead of printing and painting with my students.
I called the number at the appointed time Monday evening to learn my status, only to discover that the Action Line, was well, Inactive. With school administration waiting to hear whether or not I was going to be a no-show the next day, I spent a frantic half hour wondering if I’d be jailed if I turned out to be scheduled but was never able to find out. I reread my materials and discovered that I could check in online. I was, happily, not scheduled to report.
Nor was I scheduled Wednesday, Thursday, or today, which may seem to mean that the current standings are Me, 5, Virginia Court System ,0. I say may, because I am not sure this is the case at all.
See, it occurred to me long about Wednesday afternoon, better known as Day 3 of Not Being Able to Make Any Plans, that it might just be better to get the whole thing over with, especially after a second rereading of the literature revealed that once you work a trial (which tend to run 1-3 days) you’re excused from whatever remains of your two week service. At that point, anything short of a worst case scenario—a 3+ day trial, would get me out of this before the advent of the coming week, when my school is closed for the full week. (Yes, I notice the theme of excessive school closures. But it’s an Independent School, and they play by their own rules.)
The thought of a Winter Break when I could actually make plans was so appealing that I actually wished fervently to be called in. I realized that I’d rather spend two days in court and have a free week than to limp along day by day—even if I never get called in at all.
But it was not to be. We’re currently at T-2 hours until my next check-in. I don’t know what to hope for, really. I don’t want to go, but what I’m really afraid of is getting called in on the last day and having to serve Extra Time, which, I’m told, can happen. So really, no one is winning right now. Not me, and not the courts who so eagerly courted me. At least not yet. How this ends is anyone’s guess—the jury is still solidly out.
A week ago this evening, I made my first call to the Jury Action Hotline only to hear the voice on the other in inform that I was not selected to participate on Monday, in a sort of apologetic tone that implied that I might file this news in the Hard to Take Category. I was actually elated, as the news actually translated into a Free Day Off, as my school happened to be closed on Monday. I enjoyed my day, but figured the freebie made it all the more likely that I’d get summoned on Tuesday, when my school was open, and I would spend a long, boring day in court instead of printing and painting with my students.
I called the number at the appointed time Monday evening to learn my status, only to discover that the Action Line, was well, Inactive. With school administration waiting to hear whether or not I was going to be a no-show the next day, I spent a frantic half hour wondering if I’d be jailed if I turned out to be scheduled but was never able to find out. I reread my materials and discovered that I could check in online. I was, happily, not scheduled to report.
Nor was I scheduled Wednesday, Thursday, or today, which may seem to mean that the current standings are Me, 5, Virginia Court System ,0. I say may, because I am not sure this is the case at all.
See, it occurred to me long about Wednesday afternoon, better known as Day 3 of Not Being Able to Make Any Plans, that it might just be better to get the whole thing over with, especially after a second rereading of the literature revealed that once you work a trial (which tend to run 1-3 days) you’re excused from whatever remains of your two week service. At that point, anything short of a worst case scenario—a 3+ day trial, would get me out of this before the advent of the coming week, when my school is closed for the full week. (Yes, I notice the theme of excessive school closures. But it’s an Independent School, and they play by their own rules.)
The thought of a Winter Break when I could actually make plans was so appealing that I actually wished fervently to be called in. I realized that I’d rather spend two days in court and have a free week than to limp along day by day—even if I never get called in at all.
But it was not to be. We’re currently at T-2 hours until my next check-in. I don’t know what to hope for, really. I don’t want to go, but what I’m really afraid of is getting called in on the last day and having to serve Extra Time, which, I’m told, can happen. So really, no one is winning right now. Not me, and not the courts who so eagerly courted me. At least not yet. How this ends is anyone’s guess—the jury is still solidly out.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Not Wanted, After All
Feliz Baba went missing late last week, causing quite a stir in my environs.The news came out, quite by accident, one recent late afternoon right after my kids were admiring a crumpled wanted poster they had salvaged from a shipment of Florida oranges and displayed over the country map in the kitchen, because, as I was told,
“These guys could be anywhere, Mom.”
I’m going to pause here, just to say that although many of you may know my kids’ ages from other posts, or Real Life, I’m not going to highlight that information in this particular post, because, frankly, it would be a little embarrassing.
A phone call soon interrupted the conversation and my son darted phoneward, an event that invariably induces cringing from any family members who happen to be home.
This is a kid who thrives on chatting up anyone who happens to be on the other end of the line. We’ve overhead him saying things like, “Well, all I really know about health care is that I go see my doctor every year;” or “I’d love to help you, but we’re getting ready for a Christmas party right now. Could you call back later?” Recently, a researcher phoned the home actually looking for kids his age (which, you may recall, I am not revealing at this time) to question about various issues. We heard him explaining that he loved church and school and is generally in bed by 9 PM, but when asked to choose between the two, he said that he considers himself more street smart than book smart. He quite possibly used words like “ergo” and “syllogism” during the discussion.
On this particular day, we heard him engage in a lengthy discourse wherein he expressed deep regret about his inability to offer assistance. He finally hung up the phone and reentered the kitchen. “I really feel bad for that lady, Mom,” he said. “Her English wasn’t very good, and she seems really sad that she can’t find her friend. “
“Who is she looking for, Buddy?”
“Feliz Baba,” he said.
“Feliz Baba?” his sister scoffed.
“Yeah. It’s like she really expected he would be here, and I had to tell her she had the wrong number.”
His sister whipped out a sheet of notebook paper and began to assemble an ad hoc addendum to the roster of wanted folks. “Who knows? We may see him around,” she said, retrieving the caller’s phone number and city of origin from the caller ID and adding it to the poster.
Over the next hour, much talk ensued over the possible identity of Feliz Baba, what his connection might be to the foreign woman, and, most importantly, why was he was thought to be here, in our home? It wasn’t long before the phone rang again, amid general excitement which reached a boiling point when the number on the caller ID was crosschecked with the poster, and it was determined that the foreign woman was calling back.
I grabbed the receiver, deciding it was time to get to the bottom of the whole affair.
“Mees-sees Da-bis? “
Ah-ha. Mrs. Davis….the puzzle went together in my mind, even as the woman prattled on about the Time Share Special she was hocking. Mrs. Davis sounds exactly like Feliz Baba, at least to my son. Not a great listener even in the best of conditions, the boy heard his own personal interpretation in the routine sales pitch. Mystery solved.
As my daughter--who I will identify as the older of the siblings--and I shared a hearty laugh, my son (who had wandered off during the proceedings) came running down the stairs.
"Feliz Baba has been found!" his sister announced, "and is in this very house."
A look of shock washed over the boy. "Is it me?" he asked, in amazement.
No such luck, kid. I’m Feliz Baba. Feliz Baba! Such an urbane, cultured ring to my new moniker, yes?
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
The "Our Reach" Challenge
In general, I’m a pretty big fan of typos, grammatical gaffes, and other rifts between native speakers and the Mother Tongue. As a freelance writer and a non-practicing English teacher, I view these breaches in convention as readily available sources of entertainment, not unlike sports bloopers or film outtakes.
Most of us are familiar with those church bulletin faux pas that get passed around via email—you know, the ones informing the congregation of the need for new choir robes due to the recent addition of new members and the deterioration of some older ones, or those announcing that the ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind, and may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon. One announcement stated the need for attendees of the Weight Watchers meeting to enter through the large double doors at the back of the building. Every now and then, though, I happen across slip of the keyboard that is just, well, perfect.
A serendipitous typo in my own church bulletin on Sunday doubled as a one word sermon summary for me. It could have passed easily as the well-considered material from a large publishing house, but it wasn’t. It was, simply, an omitted letter “t,” an oversight in the notes for the sermon entitled the Outreach Challenge, which now read as the “Oureach” Challenge. Our Reach. What could be a more perfect moniker for a lesson all about the little pieces of big puzzles, the small gestures and simple kindnesses that are within our grasp? The things we can do to alleviate problems even if we can’t solve them. The acts that may seem insignificant by themselves, but represent our unique contribution to an equation that will otherwise remain unsolved; the hearts, the lives, the souls behind the needs right within Our Reach.
None of us can do everything. In fact, sometimes what we have to offer—physically, emotionally, or financially—seems a small contribution in comparison with the need. Last week felt like that, for me. I had friends, just within my grasp who were dealing with trouble of all kinds. Sudden loss. Disappointment. Sickness. The stories aren’t mine to tell, and my part in them was small—very small. But doing something seemed better than nothing, and small though my responses were, they were the ones within my reach.
So, in conclusion….Let’s meat the needs in front of us that are as plane as the nose on our faces. And let’s watch are grammer and spelling, to. There’s a lot of bad examples out their.
Most of us are familiar with those church bulletin faux pas that get passed around via email—you know, the ones informing the congregation of the need for new choir robes due to the recent addition of new members and the deterioration of some older ones, or those announcing that the ladies of the church have cast off clothing of every kind, and may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon. One announcement stated the need for attendees of the Weight Watchers meeting to enter through the large double doors at the back of the building. Every now and then, though, I happen across slip of the keyboard that is just, well, perfect.
A serendipitous typo in my own church bulletin on Sunday doubled as a one word sermon summary for me. It could have passed easily as the well-considered material from a large publishing house, but it wasn’t. It was, simply, an omitted letter “t,” an oversight in the notes for the sermon entitled the Outreach Challenge, which now read as the “Oureach” Challenge. Our Reach. What could be a more perfect moniker for a lesson all about the little pieces of big puzzles, the small gestures and simple kindnesses that are within our grasp? The things we can do to alleviate problems even if we can’t solve them. The acts that may seem insignificant by themselves, but represent our unique contribution to an equation that will otherwise remain unsolved; the hearts, the lives, the souls behind the needs right within Our Reach.
None of us can do everything. In fact, sometimes what we have to offer—physically, emotionally, or financially—seems a small contribution in comparison with the need. Last week felt like that, for me. I had friends, just within my grasp who were dealing with trouble of all kinds. Sudden loss. Disappointment. Sickness. The stories aren’t mine to tell, and my part in them was small—very small. But doing something seemed better than nothing, and small though my responses were, they were the ones within my reach.
So, in conclusion….Let’s meat the needs in front of us that are as plane as the nose on our faces. And let’s watch are grammer and spelling, to. There’s a lot of bad examples out their.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Close to Home, Part 2: Talking About the Neighbors
In my city, they frequent intersections, although you may find them different places in your home town: those neighbors we know collectively as hobos, bums, and bag ladies, many of them carrying hand scrawled signs announcing their hunger. We all have our own reasons; our personal set of rationalizations, justifications, and moralizations that we subconsciously activate as we avoid eye contact.
Many of our thoughts are rational, logical, and not far off the mark. My own involve rumors from unidentified eyewitnesses of limo-driving accomplices relieving unspecified local beggars from wads of collected cash. Other thoughts concern a confirmed experiment an acquaintance conducted when he spent a Saturday offering employ to the entire cast of local characters whose signs claimed they’d work for food. He had no takers.
Further consideration revolves around a San Diego waterfront walk when I, along with some church friends, happened past no fewer than a half dozen idle beggars of indeterminate physical or mental ability and didn’t stop until we saw an amputee selling water from an ice-filled cooler and, respecting his approach, enthusiastically patronized his enterprise.
For years, now, these anecdotes have served as a framework to justify a straightforward drive-by. They were enough to alleviate the little tug of empathy and accompanying twinge of guilt I’d feel as I ignored any evidence on my periphery that all may not be well.
The problem with these well considered thoughts? They’re based on rusty rumors, and a second hand report from a single Saturday fifteen years ago. They’re based on judgment calls about what makes sense to me, an educated woman with a relatively privileged background. And worst of all? They don’t mesh well with my beliefs. I call myself a Christian, but I turn my gaze away from those Jesus called the “least of these”—those folks on the margins of life, the ones he told us to treat as though their flesh was his.
I never knew quite how to reconcile the discrepancy. I don’t feel good just handing over cash. I know I can’t assume honesty, but that shouldn’t be an excuse for automatic cynicism, either. What I really want these people to know is that, thanks to a great local organization, there is no need for anyone to be hungry or without shelter in our city. Our local HELP organization is an ecumenical effort to provide meals and lodging in host churches during the winter months, as well as year round bag lunches, housing assistance, and medical and dental care.
So I’ve decided to tell anyone who asks, by way of a hand held sign, about the options available to them. From now on, my response will be a brown bag. I went to the organization’s web page and printed off copies of the page listing their services and tucked the print outs in lunch bags filled with inexpensive pick-me-ups: granola bars, mini Spaghetti-os, applesauce, and a plastic spoon—simple resources that could sustain someone long enough to make it to the HELP office or the bus stop where staff provides nightly transport to host congregations during the cold weather months.
I have also decided to support the shelter, knowing that is the single best response to folks with legitimate needs. No, I can’t tell if someone is truly needy just by looking at them. But I’m willing to gamble a few snacks, some plastic spoons and a few paper print outs for the chance to give someone some hope.
These bags will be in a handy location in my car, at the ready whenever I encounter sign-wielding folks at city intersections. I haven’t handed one out yet—today marks the official launch of this operation—but I haven’t identified a downside yet. I’m not parting with any cash that might be misused. I’m not putting myself in danger --I am, after all, in a two and a half ton mini van and equipped with various cellular devices—or at risk for continued awkward interactions with potentially unstable people. I see it as funneling them into the proper channels, with a brown bag snack for the journey. This image works for me. I know it won’t meet everyone’s need, but no one can do that. It’s a tiny piece—my piece—in an enormous puzzle everyone would like to solve.
What does your puzzle piece look like? What thoughts are difficult for you to overcome in responding to folks on the periphery? Would the snack pack and literature distribution work for you? Is there something I’m missing? Why don’t we take the opportunity to do something that’s usually not nice --let’s talk about our neighbors.
*Editor's Note: The young man fishing through the goods is NOT a neighbor receiving assistance. He is the author's son.
Many of our thoughts are rational, logical, and not far off the mark. My own involve rumors from unidentified eyewitnesses of limo-driving accomplices relieving unspecified local beggars from wads of collected cash. Other thoughts concern a confirmed experiment an acquaintance conducted when he spent a Saturday offering employ to the entire cast of local characters whose signs claimed they’d work for food. He had no takers.
Further consideration revolves around a San Diego waterfront walk when I, along with some church friends, happened past no fewer than a half dozen idle beggars of indeterminate physical or mental ability and didn’t stop until we saw an amputee selling water from an ice-filled cooler and, respecting his approach, enthusiastically patronized his enterprise.
For years, now, these anecdotes have served as a framework to justify a straightforward drive-by. They were enough to alleviate the little tug of empathy and accompanying twinge of guilt I’d feel as I ignored any evidence on my periphery that all may not be well.
The problem with these well considered thoughts? They’re based on rusty rumors, and a second hand report from a single Saturday fifteen years ago. They’re based on judgment calls about what makes sense to me, an educated woman with a relatively privileged background. And worst of all? They don’t mesh well with my beliefs. I call myself a Christian, but I turn my gaze away from those Jesus called the “least of these”—those folks on the margins of life, the ones he told us to treat as though their flesh was his.
I never knew quite how to reconcile the discrepancy. I don’t feel good just handing over cash. I know I can’t assume honesty, but that shouldn’t be an excuse for automatic cynicism, either. What I really want these people to know is that, thanks to a great local organization, there is no need for anyone to be hungry or without shelter in our city. Our local HELP organization is an ecumenical effort to provide meals and lodging in host churches during the winter months, as well as year round bag lunches, housing assistance, and medical and dental care.
So I’ve decided to tell anyone who asks, by way of a hand held sign, about the options available to them. From now on, my response will be a brown bag. I went to the organization’s web page and printed off copies of the page listing their services and tucked the print outs in lunch bags filled with inexpensive pick-me-ups: granola bars, mini Spaghetti-os, applesauce, and a plastic spoon—simple resources that could sustain someone long enough to make it to the HELP office or the bus stop where staff provides nightly transport to host congregations during the cold weather months.
I have also decided to support the shelter, knowing that is the single best response to folks with legitimate needs. No, I can’t tell if someone is truly needy just by looking at them. But I’m willing to gamble a few snacks, some plastic spoons and a few paper print outs for the chance to give someone some hope.
These bags will be in a handy location in my car, at the ready whenever I encounter sign-wielding folks at city intersections. I haven’t handed one out yet—today marks the official launch of this operation—but I haven’t identified a downside yet. I’m not parting with any cash that might be misused. I’m not putting myself in danger --I am, after all, in a two and a half ton mini van and equipped with various cellular devices—or at risk for continued awkward interactions with potentially unstable people. I see it as funneling them into the proper channels, with a brown bag snack for the journey. This image works for me. I know it won’t meet everyone’s need, but no one can do that. It’s a tiny piece—my piece—in an enormous puzzle everyone would like to solve.
What does your puzzle piece look like? What thoughts are difficult for you to overcome in responding to folks on the periphery? Would the snack pack and literature distribution work for you? Is there something I’m missing? Why don’t we take the opportunity to do something that’s usually not nice --let’s talk about our neighbors.
*Editor's Note: The young man fishing through the goods is NOT a neighbor receiving assistance. He is the author's son.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Jury Is Out
I was driving my Usual Route on a Usual Day, but I knew, without a shade of doubt, that it was The Day. My number was up. The Gig was over. I’d be Rounded Up. Called In. Flagged Down. I didn’t know exactly when, or how, but Dread settled upon me as I awaited my fate.
Although the incidents I am about to describe have actually nothing to do with yesterday’s post, or blogging, for that matter, as an aside, I find it necessary to confess to a moment of horror immediately after I went live with a narrative in which I made fun of the Department of Homeland Security. I spent a couple jittery hours, wondering if the FBI would knock on my door. Two men, in suits in fedoras. One nodding gravely as the other said, “OK, Funny Girl, grab those mug shots of yours and out to the Paddy Wagon with you.” Really, I could see it all going down.
Although Legal Affairs were, indeed, on my mind as I drove home that January afternoon, the Summons for which I was bracing was of the ilk most Regular Citizens encounter from time to time: a seemingly routine Jury Duty.
As I strive, like any good journalist, to keep my use of adverbs to a minimum, I use the word “seemingly” with purpose. You see, it seems I have been a Person of Interest to the Virginia Court System since 2006, beginning with a routine questionnaire determining my eligibly to serve during a specific period of time.
The questionnaire listed some specific automatic exemptions, one of which being the main caregiver for a child under 16. As I was homeschooling my 7th grade son at the time, I checked that box and hoped that was the end of it. The specified period came and went. I forgot about the whole thing.
Until a sheriff showed up at my door with a summons about a year after the questionnaire time period had passed. I called to find out why I was being summoned, and to see if I couldn’t just be removed from whatever list I was on that had caused all this, because, remember, I was exempt. Except now I was no longer homeschooling, but a full time Masters Degree candidate, which, I might add was also qualified as an exemptible circumstance.
The Lady on the Phone explained that I had “lucked out” and it would be “in my best interest” to get it over with” because I had been selected to serve on some sort of panel that just meets for one morning—home for lunch even!—and then you get a certificate that says you’re off the hook for “at least” two years. I felt relived, in a temporary sense, even though I had a vague sort of disquiet about the lack of explanation about how I got roped into all this in the first place. I made arrangements to miss class, which really killed me because I was new and still trying to build a reputation as an overachiever. But, in all, it seemed a fairly painless way to participate in a civic responsibility, and why fight it?
I did my morning duty where I basically sat with a group of bored individuals and did a lot of murmuring and nodding, assuring a string of policemen that they had done a good enough job collecting evidence so as to proceed forward with their cases. I went home for lunch, filed my certificate, enjoyed a sense of pro-social responsibility and hoped that was the end of it. I forgot about the whole thing.
Until I was in the middle of my capstone field experience for my Masters Program and got a questionnaire determining my eligibility to serve on a different court. I pulled out my certificate, checked the box that said I was exempt because I had recently served, and hoped that was the end of it. I forgot about the whole thing.
Until a questionnaire arrives in my mailbox, virtually to the day of when my “You’re Off the Hook” certificate expired. The Outfit peddling this questionnaire offered very limited options for exemption. The literature indicated that I would be in a pool of people who could be called at any given time for a period of two--count ‘em—two years, and also that it would be for one of two types of service: an “on call” kind for a two week period, or The Grand Puma of all Juries, a stalwart group that meets for three consecutive days a months for a year (with an included footnote that it could be 18 months depending on the county in which you reside.)
Considering my mounting history, I was horrified by this communiqué. The dread, walking around every day, just waiting for a sheriff to pull you out of your real life and into what could be anything from an annoying two weeks to tantamount community arrest, unable to go far or long, chained to the court docket for a year.
Living with the cloud of uncertainty for up to two years seemed unbearable, but that afternoon in mid-January, I knew I would hear from them before the sun went down that day. See, I’d gotten the questionnaire in December, and after a respectable period went by in observance of the holidays, I knew they would send for me. Why? Simply, greed. These folks want me. They want me bad. They want me often, as soon as they can get me. Sure, I’ll get my “Off the Hook” certificate, but guess what, it will expire just as they are finished with the people they have in their clutches for this two year round, making me more immediately available to them again.
As you can tell, I have lost all belief in the supposed “random selection” of juries. There is no hope that I will regain that innocence. I do believe that I am in some sort of loop, and I will be summoned to more and more courts of varying formats. Although I was relieved to be selected for the Annoying Two Weeks type of duty this time--I start on Monday--just knowing that Other Kind looms out there is Concerning Knowledge.
And that January afternoon? I came home to a Summons in my mailbox (no sheriff this time.)
If I am to be honest, I must admit that I am considering filling out some paperwork to be removed from the voter rosters, at least for a time—until things, you know, simmer down. In the spirit of lively debate, I would like to know what my readers think. Would that be a huge faux pas, like a dis on America? Especially considering that most people I know have never served? For those of you who are spiritually minded, what are your thoughts? Is it a religious responsibility to remain on the voting rosters, and therefore does not matter that I feel targeted and weary? Is the right thing to do just to trust that God will put me where I am supposed to be—even if it means winding up on the Ball and Chain Duty for a year?
I want to hear your thoughts. It's your own personal Summons--a chance to weigh in on the future of the Virginia Legal System (because they'd clearly fall apart without me). Just please be gentle on me. I’m still a little jumpy from the whole fedora-sporting FBI agent scare.
Although the incidents I am about to describe have actually nothing to do with yesterday’s post, or blogging, for that matter, as an aside, I find it necessary to confess to a moment of horror immediately after I went live with a narrative in which I made fun of the Department of Homeland Security. I spent a couple jittery hours, wondering if the FBI would knock on my door. Two men, in suits in fedoras. One nodding gravely as the other said, “OK, Funny Girl, grab those mug shots of yours and out to the Paddy Wagon with you.” Really, I could see it all going down.
Although Legal Affairs were, indeed, on my mind as I drove home that January afternoon, the Summons for which I was bracing was of the ilk most Regular Citizens encounter from time to time: a seemingly routine Jury Duty.
As I strive, like any good journalist, to keep my use of adverbs to a minimum, I use the word “seemingly” with purpose. You see, it seems I have been a Person of Interest to the Virginia Court System since 2006, beginning with a routine questionnaire determining my eligibly to serve during a specific period of time.
The questionnaire listed some specific automatic exemptions, one of which being the main caregiver for a child under 16. As I was homeschooling my 7th grade son at the time, I checked that box and hoped that was the end of it. The specified period came and went. I forgot about the whole thing.
Until a sheriff showed up at my door with a summons about a year after the questionnaire time period had passed. I called to find out why I was being summoned, and to see if I couldn’t just be removed from whatever list I was on that had caused all this, because, remember, I was exempt. Except now I was no longer homeschooling, but a full time Masters Degree candidate, which, I might add was also qualified as an exemptible circumstance.
The Lady on the Phone explained that I had “lucked out” and it would be “in my best interest” to get it over with” because I had been selected to serve on some sort of panel that just meets for one morning—home for lunch even!—and then you get a certificate that says you’re off the hook for “at least” two years. I felt relived, in a temporary sense, even though I had a vague sort of disquiet about the lack of explanation about how I got roped into all this in the first place. I made arrangements to miss class, which really killed me because I was new and still trying to build a reputation as an overachiever. But, in all, it seemed a fairly painless way to participate in a civic responsibility, and why fight it?
I did my morning duty where I basically sat with a group of bored individuals and did a lot of murmuring and nodding, assuring a string of policemen that they had done a good enough job collecting evidence so as to proceed forward with their cases. I went home for lunch, filed my certificate, enjoyed a sense of pro-social responsibility and hoped that was the end of it. I forgot about the whole thing.
Until I was in the middle of my capstone field experience for my Masters Program and got a questionnaire determining my eligibility to serve on a different court. I pulled out my certificate, checked the box that said I was exempt because I had recently served, and hoped that was the end of it. I forgot about the whole thing.
Until a questionnaire arrives in my mailbox, virtually to the day of when my “You’re Off the Hook” certificate expired. The Outfit peddling this questionnaire offered very limited options for exemption. The literature indicated that I would be in a pool of people who could be called at any given time for a period of two--count ‘em—two years, and also that it would be for one of two types of service: an “on call” kind for a two week period, or The Grand Puma of all Juries, a stalwart group that meets for three consecutive days a months for a year (with an included footnote that it could be 18 months depending on the county in which you reside.)
Considering my mounting history, I was horrified by this communiqué. The dread, walking around every day, just waiting for a sheriff to pull you out of your real life and into what could be anything from an annoying two weeks to tantamount community arrest, unable to go far or long, chained to the court docket for a year.
Living with the cloud of uncertainty for up to two years seemed unbearable, but that afternoon in mid-January, I knew I would hear from them before the sun went down that day. See, I’d gotten the questionnaire in December, and after a respectable period went by in observance of the holidays, I knew they would send for me. Why? Simply, greed. These folks want me. They want me bad. They want me often, as soon as they can get me. Sure, I’ll get my “Off the Hook” certificate, but guess what, it will expire just as they are finished with the people they have in their clutches for this two year round, making me more immediately available to them again.
As you can tell, I have lost all belief in the supposed “random selection” of juries. There is no hope that I will regain that innocence. I do believe that I am in some sort of loop, and I will be summoned to more and more courts of varying formats. Although I was relieved to be selected for the Annoying Two Weeks type of duty this time--I start on Monday--just knowing that Other Kind looms out there is Concerning Knowledge.
And that January afternoon? I came home to a Summons in my mailbox (no sheriff this time.)
If I am to be honest, I must admit that I am considering filling out some paperwork to be removed from the voter rosters, at least for a time—until things, you know, simmer down. In the spirit of lively debate, I would like to know what my readers think. Would that be a huge faux pas, like a dis on America? Especially considering that most people I know have never served? For those of you who are spiritually minded, what are your thoughts? Is it a religious responsibility to remain on the voting rosters, and therefore does not matter that I feel targeted and weary? Is the right thing to do just to trust that God will put me where I am supposed to be—even if it means winding up on the Ball and Chain Duty for a year?
I want to hear your thoughts. It's your own personal Summons--a chance to weigh in on the future of the Virginia Legal System (because they'd clearly fall apart without me). Just please be gentle on me. I’m still a little jumpy from the whole fedora-sporting FBI agent scare.
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