My nights are busy nights. I haven't slept a full eight-hours in more than 18 months. I wake up after about four hours of sleep and take a pill, and then eventually my eyes close again.
But that's a new thing. The old thing is, as always, my nights are full of visions. I dream the dreams of everyone in the world, I think.
I dream crazy, silly little dreams where I roam the roads chasing after rabbits that turn into fairies that turn into mushrooms, leaving me standing in a field of flowers.
I dream shaming, morbidly fascinating dreams, where I turn up in the classroom without my pants on or my hair all messy. The teachers yell and the students laugh, and I flee, throwing my notes high into the air.
Sometimes I can't find my locker. Or my keys. Or the answer when I don't even know the question. Sometimes I run, breathing hard and fast. Usually I am younger, and in much better shape, which at least gives me a chance to get away.
Occasionally I have sleep paralysis, where my mind is awake but the rest of me isn't. I have also been known to walk in my sleep. After my father-in-law passed away, my husband found me asleep in our closet, going through his clothes. I told him I hadn't picked up his suit from the cleaners and he was going to need it.
He woke me up and I went back to bed.
The worst, though, are the bad dreams where I don't wake up. I have nightmares, but sometimes my dreams are beyond even those scary images. I dream in color, too, and the pictures in my mind are vivid and real.
Psychologists call those night terrors, and according to the Mayo Clinic, only a small percentage of adults have them (lucky me). My husband will wake up to find me screaming and shaking, tears rolling down my face. He shakes me until I wake up, disoriented and terrified. I seldom remember what the awful was, but it was obviously very, very bad.
For many years, I dreamed the same dream over and over. Darkness, a bathtub, blood. Screaming. A big hulking monster. Crows cawing in the background, ready to rip me apart because they weren't really crows, they were . . . something else. And the something else was so terrifying, so inexplicable, that to turn the knob on the door was akin to . . .
Well, you know, perhaps. Many people have nightmares. Not everyone has night terrors, but most folks can appreciate the drama that the brain can create in the dark.
Strange dreams seem to run in my family:
On a cold December night in 1975, my grandmother dreamed that Jesus came to her. She was in a beautiful apple tree grove, and the Lord came to her and took off her wedding ring. "You won't be needing this anymore," Jesus told her, and he walked away.
My grandfather died of a heart attack a few days later.
Doesn't that give you chills?
My dreams have not foretold any events large or small, at least, not that I recall. Instead they reflect the mish-mash that is my mind, the things I read, see, or hear. The past looms large in there, I think, though not as much as it once did. Childhood fantasies have given way to more mundane worries, such as health concerns and paying bills.
The last few mornings I have awakened with my cheeks wet, my eyes overflowing, like founts of dew spilling out to greet the morning. I do not remember what I was dreaming of. I have no idea why I'm crying. But I lie there spent and tense, as if I've already lived a day that has not yet begun.
The seeds of my night seem to be planted very deeply, indeed.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Thursday Thirteen: Because a Vision Softly Creeping
Dear Thursday Thirteen players,
The old Thursday Thirteen is dead. Long live Thursday Thirteen! Colleen (looseleafnotes.com) and I, who seem to have been doing Thursday Thirteen the longest, have set up a new Thursday 13 blog at http://newthursday13.blogspot.com. Please give us some time to figure out what we're doing but we hope you will continue to play along.
If you want your blog listed in the sidebar of the new Thursday 13, leave me a note in the comments either here or at the new blog.
So on to Thursday Thirteen!
Many writers, artists, and other visionary folk have turned to substance abuse of some kind (even heavy coffee drinking counts) in order to bring their creative passions to fruition. Here is a list of some of those folks.
1. “I’ve seen a lot of people go down because they attach a harmful substance to their creative process. . . Coffee was part of my process. I used to drink like 14 cups a day… Now, if I want to go to a cafe and write and drink coffee for two hours, I just order them… and I keep diluting it — because it’s not the coffee, it’s the habit.” - Patti Smith (American Singer/Song Writer)
2.“I got very drunk on a nightly basis from the time I was about 19 ’til 32,” Anne Lamott (American writer) said in a PBS interview. She says on her posts on Facebook (which I subscribe to) that she's been sober now for about 28 years and credits her Christian faith.
3. Beethoven(musician) was known to be a heavy drinker and an autopsy performed at his death revealed a shrunken liver.
4. “Addiction has had such an impact on my life and the people I love, and there really is not a lot about it that is funny.” Edie Falco (American actor)
5. Edgar Allen Poe, American poet and writer, is well-known to have used alcohol and opiates.
6. Ernest Hemingway, American writer, drank a lot but denied doing it during his creative periods. “Jeezus Christ! Have you ever heard of anyone who drank while he worked? You’re thinking of Faulkner. He does sometimes – and I can tell right in the middle of a page when he’s had his first one. Besides, who in hell would mix more than one martini at a time?”
7. “I guess I was trying not to feel anything.” Drug use “has less to do with recreation and more to do with the fact that we need to escape from our brains.” - Johnny Depp (American actor)
8. "I can remember one occasion, taking a shower with my wife while high, in which I had an idea on the origins and invalidities of racism in terms of gaussian distribution curves . . . I wrote the curves in soap on the shower wall, and went to write the idea down." - Carl Sagan (astronomer and author)
9. "I was seduced into the ACCURSED Habit ignorantly – I had been almost bed ridden for many months with swelling in my knees – in a medical journal I happily met with an account of a cure performed in a similar case … by rubbing in of Laudanum, at the same time taking a given dose internally – it acted like a charm, like a miracle! … At length, the unusual stimulus subsided – the complaint returned – the supposed remedy was recurred to – but I cannot go thro’ the dreary history – Suffice to say, that effects were produced , which acted on me by Terror & Cowardice of PAIN and sudden death" - Samuel Taylor Coolidge (English poet and philosopher)
10. I thought I was gonna die,” - Lady Gaga, (singer/songwriter)
11. “I have an addictive nature . . . an obsessive-compulsive nature – well, I don’t know that’s what it is clinically. But I go to addictive extremes, and before I got sober, that became routine.” - Tobey McGuire (American actor)
12. “I drink moderately.. I do like weed. I have a different outlook on marijuana than America does. My best friend Sasha’s dad was Carl Sagan, the astronomer. He was the biggest pot smoker in the world and he was a genius." - Kirsten Dunst, (American actor)
13. William Faulkner, American author, is also known to have been addicted to alcohol. “A man shouldn't fool with booze until he's fifty; then he's a damn fool if he doesn't.” (Only Faulkner quote on drinking I could find.)
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 378th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
The old Thursday Thirteen is dead. Long live Thursday Thirteen! Colleen (looseleafnotes.com) and I, who seem to have been doing Thursday Thirteen the longest, have set up a new Thursday 13 blog at http://newthursday13.blogspot.com. Please give us some time to figure out what we're doing but we hope you will continue to play along.
If you want your blog listed in the sidebar of the new Thursday 13, leave me a note in the comments either here or at the new blog.
So on to Thursday Thirteen!
Many writers, artists, and other visionary folk have turned to substance abuse of some kind (even heavy coffee drinking counts) in order to bring their creative passions to fruition. Here is a list of some of those folks.
1. “I’ve seen a lot of people go down because they attach a harmful substance to their creative process. . . Coffee was part of my process. I used to drink like 14 cups a day… Now, if I want to go to a cafe and write and drink coffee for two hours, I just order them… and I keep diluting it — because it’s not the coffee, it’s the habit.” - Patti Smith (American Singer/Song Writer)
2.“I got very drunk on a nightly basis from the time I was about 19 ’til 32,” Anne Lamott (American writer) said in a PBS interview. She says on her posts on Facebook (which I subscribe to) that she's been sober now for about 28 years and credits her Christian faith.
3. Beethoven(musician) was known to be a heavy drinker and an autopsy performed at his death revealed a shrunken liver.
4. “Addiction has had such an impact on my life and the people I love, and there really is not a lot about it that is funny.” Edie Falco (American actor)
5. Edgar Allen Poe, American poet and writer, is well-known to have used alcohol and opiates.
6. Ernest Hemingway, American writer, drank a lot but denied doing it during his creative periods. “Jeezus Christ! Have you ever heard of anyone who drank while he worked? You’re thinking of Faulkner. He does sometimes – and I can tell right in the middle of a page when he’s had his first one. Besides, who in hell would mix more than one martini at a time?”
7. “I guess I was trying not to feel anything.” Drug use “has less to do with recreation and more to do with the fact that we need to escape from our brains.” - Johnny Depp (American actor)
8. "I can remember one occasion, taking a shower with my wife while high, in which I had an idea on the origins and invalidities of racism in terms of gaussian distribution curves . . . I wrote the curves in soap on the shower wall, and went to write the idea down." - Carl Sagan (astronomer and author)
9. "I was seduced into the ACCURSED Habit ignorantly – I had been almost bed ridden for many months with swelling in my knees – in a medical journal I happily met with an account of a cure performed in a similar case … by rubbing in of Laudanum, at the same time taking a given dose internally – it acted like a charm, like a miracle! … At length, the unusual stimulus subsided – the complaint returned – the supposed remedy was recurred to – but I cannot go thro’ the dreary history – Suffice to say, that effects were produced , which acted on me by Terror & Cowardice of PAIN and sudden death" - Samuel Taylor Coolidge (English poet and philosopher)
10. I thought I was gonna die,” - Lady Gaga, (singer/songwriter)
11. “I have an addictive nature . . . an obsessive-compulsive nature – well, I don’t know that’s what it is clinically. But I go to addictive extremes, and before I got sober, that became routine.” - Tobey McGuire (American actor)
12. “I drink moderately.. I do like weed. I have a different outlook on marijuana than America does. My best friend Sasha’s dad was Carl Sagan, the astronomer. He was the biggest pot smoker in the world and he was a genius." - Kirsten Dunst, (American actor)
13. William Faulkner, American author, is also known to have been addicted to alcohol. “A man shouldn't fool with booze until he's fifty; then he's a damn fool if he doesn't.” (Only Faulkner quote on drinking I could find.)
Drugs are bad, m'kay? Don't do drugs!
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 378th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
I've Come to Talk with You Again
Have you ever noticed how people come and go in your life?
For the longest time I had no clue what the majority of my high school classmates were doing. Then along came our 30th reunion and now many of them litter my Facebook newsfeed. I know their children, who they married, when they are vacation. I hit that little "like" button occasionally but I'm not sure they even know who I am.
Over the years I have worked many places. My writing for the local newspaper has kept me in touch with those folks who work there for 30 years. It would be hard not to work with someone for that long and not consider them in some manner to be a friend. But they're not on Facebook. Doesn't matter, though, because all I have to do is pick up the phone, or stop by.
One of my closest friends is also a former coworker from all the way back to 1983. I have known her almost as long as I've known my husband. She's not on Facebook, either. Neither is another close friend of 15 years. I even have a pen pal that I've been corresponding with for 13 years. We've exchanged thousands of emails.
They are dear old friends, and they don't need to see my status to know how I am.
I also have new friends (known for less than 10 years), whom I love dearly. I don't know how long they will be in my life, but I'm grateful they are there.
Sometimes people come and go so quickly you wonder what it is they wanted. Were they there to teach me something? Was I teaching them? Was it a hit and run and nobody stopped?
People I worked with, people I had classes with, people I've interviewed over the years - sometimes they all jumble up in my brain. I long ago stopped guessing who people were when they stopped me in the grocery store and carried on a conversation. I would always guess wrong. "So how's your job at the bank?" would invariably end up with a huffy, "I work at the library!" or something.
Now I just ask generic questions unless I figure out who I'm talking to. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I've met so many thousands of people over the years, between school, jobs, and volunteer work, that I become confused. Because usually the grocery store or the gas station is not where I met them in the first place, and I associate people with place.
I am not sure how I feel about the return of people I used to know into my life, especially via Facebook. It seems a bit artificial. The generation coming up now will never know the value of losing touch with someone (and there is value to that). They will be Facebook friends with their kindergarten class for the rest of their lives. Maybe 35 years from now they will wonder who so-and-so is and why they are friends. Or not. Collecting numbers of friends, quantity, not quality, seems to be the in thing.
While I've connected with some high school and college classmates, for the most part, none of my former coworkers have bothered to engage me on Facebook. This does not bother me; I am not sure I would know who they were unless they reminded me. Sometimes I dream of them - the woman who worked with me who helped me from my car when I was rear-ended in front of the office one day, or the woman at one office that I disliked so much that I hoped she would accidentally lock herself up in the vault in the basement and have to spend the weekend there. Sometimes these old coworkers return to me like wraiths hell-bent on revenge, other times they are visions trapped in mist, beckoning me.
Whatever they're doing, I still don't remember their names.
Sometimes people in my life come and go. I see them for a while, then I don't for a long time, and then they are back again. I am generally glad to see them.
I've heard it said that people come into your life for a reason. Usually, I have no idea why I have met the people I have. Lately, though, some folks in my life have made it pretty clear why they're in my life, and I am learning interesting and useful life lessons from them. I am grateful to these mentors (who don't even know they're teaching me) because they are making me a better person.
And becoming a better person is what it is all about, isn't it? Isn't that part of loving the people you're with?
I found this online. Do you think this is true?
People come into your path for a reason, a season or a lifetime.
When you know which one it is, you will know what to do with that person.
When someone is in your life for a REASON it is usually to meet a need you have expressed.
They have come to assist you through a difficulty . . .
To provide you with guidance and support . . .
To aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually . . .
They may seem like they are a godsend, and they are.
They are there for the reason you need them to be.
Then without any wrongdoing on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.
Sometimes they die . . .
Sometimes they walk away . . .
Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. . .
What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled . . .
Their work is done.
The prayer you sent up has now been answered and now it is time to move on.
Some people come into your life for a SEASON.
Because your turn has come to share, grow or learn.
They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh.
They may teach you something you have never done.
They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy.
Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons.
Things you must build upon to have a solid emotional foundation.
Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life.
It is said that love is blind, but friendship is clairvoyant.
Thank you for being a part of my life . . .
Whether you were a reason, a season or a lifetime
~ unknown author
For the longest time I had no clue what the majority of my high school classmates were doing. Then along came our 30th reunion and now many of them litter my Facebook newsfeed. I know their children, who they married, when they are vacation. I hit that little "like" button occasionally but I'm not sure they even know who I am.
Over the years I have worked many places. My writing for the local newspaper has kept me in touch with those folks who work there for 30 years. It would be hard not to work with someone for that long and not consider them in some manner to be a friend. But they're not on Facebook. Doesn't matter, though, because all I have to do is pick up the phone, or stop by.
One of my closest friends is also a former coworker from all the way back to 1983. I have known her almost as long as I've known my husband. She's not on Facebook, either. Neither is another close friend of 15 years. I even have a pen pal that I've been corresponding with for 13 years. We've exchanged thousands of emails.
They are dear old friends, and they don't need to see my status to know how I am.
I also have new friends (known for less than 10 years), whom I love dearly. I don't know how long they will be in my life, but I'm grateful they are there.
Sometimes people come and go so quickly you wonder what it is they wanted. Were they there to teach me something? Was I teaching them? Was it a hit and run and nobody stopped?
People I worked with, people I had classes with, people I've interviewed over the years - sometimes they all jumble up in my brain. I long ago stopped guessing who people were when they stopped me in the grocery store and carried on a conversation. I would always guess wrong. "So how's your job at the bank?" would invariably end up with a huffy, "I work at the library!" or something.
Now I just ask generic questions unless I figure out who I'm talking to. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I've met so many thousands of people over the years, between school, jobs, and volunteer work, that I become confused. Because usually the grocery store or the gas station is not where I met them in the first place, and I associate people with place.
I am not sure how I feel about the return of people I used to know into my life, especially via Facebook. It seems a bit artificial. The generation coming up now will never know the value of losing touch with someone (and there is value to that). They will be Facebook friends with their kindergarten class for the rest of their lives. Maybe 35 years from now they will wonder who so-and-so is and why they are friends. Or not. Collecting numbers of friends, quantity, not quality, seems to be the in thing.
While I've connected with some high school and college classmates, for the most part, none of my former coworkers have bothered to engage me on Facebook. This does not bother me; I am not sure I would know who they were unless they reminded me. Sometimes I dream of them - the woman who worked with me who helped me from my car when I was rear-ended in front of the office one day, or the woman at one office that I disliked so much that I hoped she would accidentally lock herself up in the vault in the basement and have to spend the weekend there. Sometimes these old coworkers return to me like wraiths hell-bent on revenge, other times they are visions trapped in mist, beckoning me.
Whatever they're doing, I still don't remember their names.
Sometimes people in my life come and go. I see them for a while, then I don't for a long time, and then they are back again. I am generally glad to see them.
I've heard it said that people come into your life for a reason. Usually, I have no idea why I have met the people I have. Lately, though, some folks in my life have made it pretty clear why they're in my life, and I am learning interesting and useful life lessons from them. I am grateful to these mentors (who don't even know they're teaching me) because they are making me a better person.
And becoming a better person is what it is all about, isn't it? Isn't that part of loving the people you're with?
I found this online. Do you think this is true?
People come into your path for a reason, a season or a lifetime.
When you know which one it is, you will know what to do with that person.
When someone is in your life for a REASON it is usually to meet a need you have expressed.
They have come to assist you through a difficulty . . .
To provide you with guidance and support . . .
To aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually . . .
They may seem like they are a godsend, and they are.
They are there for the reason you need them to be.
Then without any wrongdoing on your part, or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end.
Sometimes they die . . .
Sometimes they walk away . . .
Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. . .
What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled . . .
Their work is done.
The prayer you sent up has now been answered and now it is time to move on.
Some people come into your life for a SEASON.
Because your turn has come to share, grow or learn.
They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh.
They may teach you something you have never done.
They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy.
Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons.
Things you must build upon to have a solid emotional foundation.
Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person, and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life.
It is said that love is blind, but friendship is clairvoyant.
Thank you for being a part of my life . . .
Whether you were a reason, a season or a lifetime
~ unknown author
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Hello Darkness, My Old Friend
How many kinds of darkness can you count? How many kinds can you feel?
There is the dark that happens when one turns out the light. Suddenly, there is a nothingness. You blink. Your eyes adjust, and there are shadows. With the shadows are the knowing of familiarity; even in a hotel room, you have an idea of where the bed sits. Because you remember this, you were never truly in the dark.
I was once in deep cave, admiring stalagmites and stalactites and other intriguing formations, when the guide warned us that he was going to turn out the light (this was long before smartphones; I daresay this trick wouldn't work now as someone would have something lit up). He wanted us to experience total darkness.
The light went out.
There was no seeing in that blackness, and because we were being led from one briefly lit place to another, and the space unfamiliar, there was no seeing anything in my mind's eye, either.
You cannot close your eyes and recreate the eerie pitch darkness in the depth of that cave. The darkness without light is darker even than that. Trapped in a place where no sunlight ever filtered through, the black was total. Suffocating. Absorbing. The air felt heavy and lifeless; I could smell the earth, hear the scuffle of feet from someone nearby. Only my ears told me I was not alone.
One could disappear in a darkness like that, falling away into the nothingness of the dark. Even after a few minutes, my eyes could not find anything; there was no light for them to see. No stars, no moon, no blinking computer eye.
I was afraid to move. Indeed, how could I take a step forward, suffocating as I was in that inky blackness? How could anyone do anything other than stand there, feeling the panic rise from the pit of the gut?
I do not know of the darkness of the blind. Perhaps an unfortunate soul without eyes who must live in total darkness has an idea of the blackness of that cave.
When I was younger, and Botetourt more rural, I could look out in certain directions and see only stars. I could even see the milky way, which is something I've not seen in several years. We have too much light now. We have more houses, each sending out its little beacon of brightness to keep the darkness at bay. In the city, one can barely see the moon, much less the stars. I wonder sometimes if constant city dwellers even know how many stars light the sky.
Far, far too many to count, that's for sure.
Some nights can be longer than others. Sleepless nights can lend themselves to walking the floor, or laying in bed looking out the crack in the curtains, where even on the darkest nights of the new moon I can still see a tint of cloud or a star. That deep, incredible dark of the cave exists only underground, not outside.
I only need to open my eyes, and there is always a little light.
There is another darkness, still, that I have experienced. It's a darkness that seeps from inside, casting a cowl of blackness over my head and heart that weighs so much it is as if I've been tied to a cinder block and tossed from a ship. The sinking, choking feeling of that blackness is worse than the total darkness in that cave, because in that cave I knew someone would eventually flick on a flashlight. That darkness would not last forever.
This other darkness goes deep, piercing like Sting, Bilbo's dagger, and it cuts deeply through flesh and sinew. This is a darkness explained away by those who love me as a bad day, or a tough time. A darkness so deep that Gollum could not find his way through the tunnels, not even with the One Ring on his finger and Sauron the Deceiver calling his name.
It is a darkness without name, one that they dare not speak even in the language of Mordor. Darker than the spider lair in the Mountains of Shadow near Cirith Ungol. Even I do not call it by name. Even dwarves sometimes fear to go underground.
Darkness goes, though, when I open my eyes.
I must remember to open my eyes.
There is the dark that happens when one turns out the light. Suddenly, there is a nothingness. You blink. Your eyes adjust, and there are shadows. With the shadows are the knowing of familiarity; even in a hotel room, you have an idea of where the bed sits. Because you remember this, you were never truly in the dark.
I was once in deep cave, admiring stalagmites and stalactites and other intriguing formations, when the guide warned us that he was going to turn out the light (this was long before smartphones; I daresay this trick wouldn't work now as someone would have something lit up). He wanted us to experience total darkness.
The light went out.
There was no seeing in that blackness, and because we were being led from one briefly lit place to another, and the space unfamiliar, there was no seeing anything in my mind's eye, either.
You cannot close your eyes and recreate the eerie pitch darkness in the depth of that cave. The darkness without light is darker even than that. Trapped in a place where no sunlight ever filtered through, the black was total. Suffocating. Absorbing. The air felt heavy and lifeless; I could smell the earth, hear the scuffle of feet from someone nearby. Only my ears told me I was not alone.
One could disappear in a darkness like that, falling away into the nothingness of the dark. Even after a few minutes, my eyes could not find anything; there was no light for them to see. No stars, no moon, no blinking computer eye.
I was afraid to move. Indeed, how could I take a step forward, suffocating as I was in that inky blackness? How could anyone do anything other than stand there, feeling the panic rise from the pit of the gut?
I do not know of the darkness of the blind. Perhaps an unfortunate soul without eyes who must live in total darkness has an idea of the blackness of that cave.
Far, far too many to count, that's for sure.
Some nights can be longer than others. Sleepless nights can lend themselves to walking the floor, or laying in bed looking out the crack in the curtains, where even on the darkest nights of the new moon I can still see a tint of cloud or a star. That deep, incredible dark of the cave exists only underground, not outside.
I only need to open my eyes, and there is always a little light.
There is another darkness, still, that I have experienced. It's a darkness that seeps from inside, casting a cowl of blackness over my head and heart that weighs so much it is as if I've been tied to a cinder block and tossed from a ship. The sinking, choking feeling of that blackness is worse than the total darkness in that cave, because in that cave I knew someone would eventually flick on a flashlight. That darkness would not last forever.
This other darkness goes deep, piercing like Sting, Bilbo's dagger, and it cuts deeply through flesh and sinew. This is a darkness explained away by those who love me as a bad day, or a tough time. A darkness so deep that Gollum could not find his way through the tunnels, not even with the One Ring on his finger and Sauron the Deceiver calling his name.
It is a darkness without name, one that they dare not speak even in the language of Mordor. Darker than the spider lair in the Mountains of Shadow near Cirith Ungol. Even I do not call it by name. Even dwarves sometimes fear to go underground.
Darkness goes, though, when I open my eyes.
I must remember to open my eyes.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Books: The Signature of All Things
The Signature of All Things
By Elizabeth Gilbert
Kindle Edition (513 pages)
Copyright 2013
The author of Eat, Pray, Love, a nonfiction account of Gilber's efforts to change her life, which I read, turns her attention to fiction and the 19th century in this character study and saga.
Alma Whittaker is born with a silver spoon, the only child of a self-made millionaire who found his fortune in botany and plants. Her father, Henry Whittaker, would have ended up dead or jailed had not another man of wealth, Sir Joseph Banks, who established the Kew Gardens in London, noticed the lad's keen mind. Banks sends Henry around the world to gather plant specimens for him. Henry eventually outshines his patron and sets up his own botanist world first in India and then in Philadelphia.
Along the way he chooses a wife, Beatrix, not for love but for her mind and family ties to another botanical family in the Dutch lands. She gives him Alma.
Alma is not pretty but she is brilliant. She is raised to think, to question, and to never take any answer for granted. There is little of the spiritual, the mystical, or the religious in her life, though her mother takes her to church every Sunday. The larger questions of gods and the universe are not where Alma's focus lies: instead, she is drawn to the minutia of the world, right down to the very dirt upon which we tread and take for granted.
I loved this character. I loved her inquisitive mind, her desires for constant learning, her need to make a difference in the world as she understands it. I love that she learns from her mistakes, that she realizes she is human, and that perfection is unattainable but one can live a magnificent and noble life anyway.
This story covers over 100 years, since it also tells her father's backstory, and during Alma's lifetime she experiences great minds and great wealth, and small minds and poverty. Throughout all of her trials, she is always thinking. She makes great contributions to science and in the course of her studies begins to understand the theory of evolution. While of course not as heralded as her male counterparts, she discovers that things change and mutate in order to survive the conditions placed upon them.
Her one big question, at the end, is humanity, and what she ultimately calls "the Prudence problem." Prudence, her adopted sister, gives up all wealth in order to work with abolitionists, to take in orphans, and perform other altruistic and charitable things. These actions, at the time thought to be unique to humans, are at odds with the survival of the fittest notions to which evolution lends itself.
This book is a great story of a strong woman, and I hope it serves an inspiration everywhere to women who find their lots in lives are not as they had hoped. Passion, it seems, however one finds it, can make a difference and help with happiness, regardless of circumstance.
5 stars
By Elizabeth Gilbert
Kindle Edition (513 pages)
Copyright 2013
The author of Eat, Pray, Love, a nonfiction account of Gilber's efforts to change her life, which I read, turns her attention to fiction and the 19th century in this character study and saga.
Alma Whittaker is born with a silver spoon, the only child of a self-made millionaire who found his fortune in botany and plants. Her father, Henry Whittaker, would have ended up dead or jailed had not another man of wealth, Sir Joseph Banks, who established the Kew Gardens in London, noticed the lad's keen mind. Banks sends Henry around the world to gather plant specimens for him. Henry eventually outshines his patron and sets up his own botanist world first in India and then in Philadelphia.
Along the way he chooses a wife, Beatrix, not for love but for her mind and family ties to another botanical family in the Dutch lands. She gives him Alma.
Alma is not pretty but she is brilliant. She is raised to think, to question, and to never take any answer for granted. There is little of the spiritual, the mystical, or the religious in her life, though her mother takes her to church every Sunday. The larger questions of gods and the universe are not where Alma's focus lies: instead, she is drawn to the minutia of the world, right down to the very dirt upon which we tread and take for granted.
I loved this character. I loved her inquisitive mind, her desires for constant learning, her need to make a difference in the world as she understands it. I love that she learns from her mistakes, that she realizes she is human, and that perfection is unattainable but one can live a magnificent and noble life anyway.
This story covers over 100 years, since it also tells her father's backstory, and during Alma's lifetime she experiences great minds and great wealth, and small minds and poverty. Throughout all of her trials, she is always thinking. She makes great contributions to science and in the course of her studies begins to understand the theory of evolution. While of course not as heralded as her male counterparts, she discovers that things change and mutate in order to survive the conditions placed upon them.
Her one big question, at the end, is humanity, and what she ultimately calls "the Prudence problem." Prudence, her adopted sister, gives up all wealth in order to work with abolitionists, to take in orphans, and perform other altruistic and charitable things. These actions, at the time thought to be unique to humans, are at odds with the survival of the fittest notions to which evolution lends itself.
This book is a great story of a strong woman, and I hope it serves an inspiration everywhere to women who find their lots in lives are not as they had hoped. Passion, it seems, however one finds it, can make a difference and help with happiness, regardless of circumstance.
5 stars
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Sunday Stealing: 2014/2015 Meme, Part Two
From Sunday Stealing
2014/2015 Meme, part two
26. What experience would you love to do all over again?
A. If you're talking about 2014, none of it.
27. What was the best gift you received?
A. The gift of love and friendship from unexpected sources.
28. How did your overall outlook on life evolve?
A. I think I am more aware of mortality, and how important it is to tell people you love them.
29. What was the biggest problem you solved?
A. I bought a stool so I could cook without so much pain.
30. What was the funniest moment of your year, one that still makes it hard not to burst out laughing when you think about it?
A. Can't think of one. I'm afraid 2014 was no laughing matter. That said, I have laughed a lot about various things and with many people, because I have a good sense of humor. But nothing really stands out.
31. What purchase turned out to be the best decision ever?
A. We bought a new car in April. I wouldn't call it the "best decision ever" but it was the appropriate decision.
32. What one thing would you do differently and why?
A. I would try to complain less about how bad I felt.
33. What do you deserve a pat on the back for?
A. Hanging in there? I don't know.
34. What activities made you lose track of time?
A. Writing, reading, and computer games.
35. What did you think about more than anything else?
A. Getting my husband healed up and well.
36. What topics did you most enjoy learning about?
A. I have no idea.
37. What new habits did you cultivate?
A. None that I am aware of, unless this permanent limp could be called a habit.
38. What advice would you give your early-2014 self if you could?
A. It will get better, so hang in there.
39. Did any parts of your self or your life do a complete 180 this year?
A. Well, I just put my head between my knees and tried to look at my behind, but couldn't see anything. But maybe that's a 360?
40. What or who had the biggest positive impact on your life this year?
A. Several friends and a couple of my caregivers.
41. What do you want the overarching theme for your 2015 to be?
A. Good health.
42. What do you want to see, discover, explore?
A. A vacation of any kind would be welcome, as I haven't had one for nearly three years now.
43. Who do you want to spend more time with in 2015?
A. My husband and my friends.
44. What skills do you want to learn, improve or master?
A. I would like to learn to read the night sky (the constellations) and I'd like to take a course of photography.
45. Which personal quality do you want to develop or strengthen?
A. My sense of humor.
46. What do you want your everyday life to be like?
A. Content.
47. Which habits do you want to change, cultivate or get rid of?
A. It would be nice if I'd stop chewing my fingernails.
48. What do you want to achieve career-wise?
A. Maybe it's time to write that damned book.
49. How do you want to remember the year 2015 when you look back on it 10/20/50 years from now?
A. It's the year I wrote that damned book?
50. What is your number one goal for 2015?
A. To improve.
2014/2015 Meme, part two
26. What experience would you love to do all over again?
A. If you're talking about 2014, none of it.
27. What was the best gift you received?
A. The gift of love and friendship from unexpected sources.
28. How did your overall outlook on life evolve?
A. I think I am more aware of mortality, and how important it is to tell people you love them.
29. What was the biggest problem you solved?
A. I bought a stool so I could cook without so much pain.
30. What was the funniest moment of your year, one that still makes it hard not to burst out laughing when you think about it?
A. Can't think of one. I'm afraid 2014 was no laughing matter. That said, I have laughed a lot about various things and with many people, because I have a good sense of humor. But nothing really stands out.
31. What purchase turned out to be the best decision ever?
A. We bought a new car in April. I wouldn't call it the "best decision ever" but it was the appropriate decision.
32. What one thing would you do differently and why?
A. I would try to complain less about how bad I felt.
33. What do you deserve a pat on the back for?
A. Hanging in there? I don't know.
34. What activities made you lose track of time?
A. Writing, reading, and computer games.
35. What did you think about more than anything else?
A. Getting my husband healed up and well.
36. What topics did you most enjoy learning about?
A. I have no idea.
37. What new habits did you cultivate?
A. None that I am aware of, unless this permanent limp could be called a habit.
38. What advice would you give your early-2014 self if you could?
A. It will get better, so hang in there.
39. Did any parts of your self or your life do a complete 180 this year?
A. Well, I just put my head between my knees and tried to look at my behind, but couldn't see anything. But maybe that's a 360?
40. What or who had the biggest positive impact on your life this year?
A. Several friends and a couple of my caregivers.
41. What do you want the overarching theme for your 2015 to be?
A. Good health.
42. What do you want to see, discover, explore?
A. A vacation of any kind would be welcome, as I haven't had one for nearly three years now.
43. Who do you want to spend more time with in 2015?
A. My husband and my friends.
44. What skills do you want to learn, improve or master?
A. I would like to learn to read the night sky (the constellations) and I'd like to take a course of photography.
45. Which personal quality do you want to develop or strengthen?
A. My sense of humor.
46. What do you want your everyday life to be like?
A. Content.
47. Which habits do you want to change, cultivate or get rid of?
A. It would be nice if I'd stop chewing my fingernails.
48. What do you want to achieve career-wise?
A. Maybe it's time to write that damned book.
49. How do you want to remember the year 2015 when you look back on it 10/20/50 years from now?
A. It's the year I wrote that damned book?
50. What is your number one goal for 2015?
A. To improve.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Saturday 9: Dancing with Myself
Saturday 9: Dancing with Myself (1980)
Unfamiliar with this week's tune? Hear it here.
1) This song is one of Billy Idol's biggest hits. Can you name another?
A. No. I have never been a big Billy Idol fan.
2) When is the last time you danced around your home?
A. It's been a while. It is hard to dance with a bum ankle.
3) In this song, Billy says he dances with his own reflection. Is there a mirror in the room you're in right now?
A. Yes. I read it was bad Feng Shui to sit with the door at your back unless you had a mirror to reflect the room. So I hung one up.
4) Dancing with Myself is also the name of Billy Idol's 2014 autobiography. Let's say you're going to write your life story. What do you title it?
A. Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen
5) This month, Billy resumes his 2014-15 concert tour in New Orleans. Have you ever been to Louisiana?
A. I think I might have passed through Louisiana on a drive to California but I am not certain. Otherwise, no.
6) In 1980, when "Dancing with Myself" was first popular, VHS players were all the rage. Do you still have yours?
A. I don't think so.
7) In 1980, The Love Boat was getting good ratings. Have you ever taken a cruise?
A. No.
8) Sally Field won her first Oscar in 1980 for the movie Norma Rae. Five years later she won a second Oscar for Places in the Heart and delivered one of the most quoted acceptance speeches in Academy history. Do you remember what she said?
A. You love me, you really love me, or something along those lines.
9) In 1980, People magazine named Stephen King one of the most intriguing people of the year because he had two big paperback bestsellers -- The Dead Zone and The Shining. Do you have a favorite Stephen King book?
A. Not really, no.
Unfamiliar with this week's tune? Hear it here.
1) This song is one of Billy Idol's biggest hits. Can you name another?
A. No. I have never been a big Billy Idol fan.
2) When is the last time you danced around your home?
A. It's been a while. It is hard to dance with a bum ankle.
3) In this song, Billy says he dances with his own reflection. Is there a mirror in the room you're in right now?
A. Yes. I read it was bad Feng Shui to sit with the door at your back unless you had a mirror to reflect the room. So I hung one up.
4) Dancing with Myself is also the name of Billy Idol's 2014 autobiography. Let's say you're going to write your life story. What do you title it?
A. Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen
5) This month, Billy resumes his 2014-15 concert tour in New Orleans. Have you ever been to Louisiana?
A. I think I might have passed through Louisiana on a drive to California but I am not certain. Otherwise, no.
6) In 1980, when "Dancing with Myself" was first popular, VHS players were all the rage. Do you still have yours?
A. I don't think so.
7) In 1980, The Love Boat was getting good ratings. Have you ever taken a cruise?
A. No.
8) Sally Field won her first Oscar in 1980 for the movie Norma Rae. Five years later she won a second Oscar for Places in the Heart and delivered one of the most quoted acceptance speeches in Academy history. Do you remember what she said?
A. You love me, you really love me, or something along those lines.
9) In 1980, People magazine named Stephen King one of the most intriguing people of the year because he had two big paperback bestsellers -- The Dead Zone and The Shining. Do you have a favorite Stephen King book?
A. Not really, no.
Friday, January 09, 2015
Sketch the Trees and the Daffodils
Can you remember your first connection with a tree? I can.
If I'm remembering the location of my first home correctly, the tree on the right and I had an intimate relationship. When I was about three or four, I would play in the yard by the tree. The tree and I would have conversations, along with several of my imaginary friends.
One day as I played, I needed to discipline the tree. I had a little switch in my hand and was going to hit it. I looked down and saw something that terrified me so much I could scarcely move. Finally I ran into the house and stood speechless in front of my mother. I was obviously scared and she grabbed me, saying "What is it?" I could only point. She shook me once, and I sputtered, "Snake!"
Sure enough, a snake had wound itself around the base of the tree, and had been there I don't know how long before I noticed it. My mother called my father, who came home from work and dispatched the reptile. I have not been a fan of snakes since.
I have always loved trees. I love how they reach toward the heavens, their branches lifting upwards, except for willows, which bow down. I love the green leaves and how they whisper to one another when the breeze moves through. I love the play of light as the sun breaks through the leaves, the different shapes that the limbs make, the deformities that sometimes occur to make a tree unusual and photogenic. There is little not to love about a tree.
During the last 27 years, as I've watched the tree line change about me, I've noticed that in some places I see less, because the trees have grown up, and in other places I see more, because the trees were cut or have fallen down.
We have lost a good many trees to ice and wind over the last three decades. We have experienced some wicked winters. I remember one ice storm back in the 1990s where I opened a window and listened to the limbs breaking. Pop. Crack. Snap. It was a terrifying yet hypnotizing sound.
When I was in high school, I thought about becoming a Forest Service ranger. I had enough interest in the subject to consider it, and was once chosen for an internship with the agency. However, my mother would not let me go for whatever reason, and after that I lost interest.
As a newspaper reporter in a nearby county that is largely National Forest, one of my great joys was writing about the Forest Service. Prior to President George Bush's administration, I had complete access to the agency located there, and I was on speaking terms with all the rangers. The head ranger took me on many trips into the wilderness, where he showed me long-lost villages, the homes of endangered bats and mussels, and other interesting things.
I wrote numerous stories about the National Forest and what was going on there. However, my access stopped in 2001, after the new administration made changes to the Forest Service. After that, the rangers were told not to speak to reporters. I could only get my information from the PR person in Roanoke, who knew nothing about what was going on, so the stories dwindled and then eventually stopped.
Trees speak in whispers. They soak in the sun, and grow strong with enough food and water. They are still, but when they make noise, we must pay attention.
We can learn much from trees.
 |
| Image taken from Google Earth |
If I'm remembering the location of my first home correctly, the tree on the right and I had an intimate relationship. When I was about three or four, I would play in the yard by the tree. The tree and I would have conversations, along with several of my imaginary friends.
One day as I played, I needed to discipline the tree. I had a little switch in my hand and was going to hit it. I looked down and saw something that terrified me so much I could scarcely move. Finally I ran into the house and stood speechless in front of my mother. I was obviously scared and she grabbed me, saying "What is it?" I could only point. She shook me once, and I sputtered, "Snake!"
Sure enough, a snake had wound itself around the base of the tree, and had been there I don't know how long before I noticed it. My mother called my father, who came home from work and dispatched the reptile. I have not been a fan of snakes since.
I have always loved trees. I love how they reach toward the heavens, their branches lifting upwards, except for willows, which bow down. I love the green leaves and how they whisper to one another when the breeze moves through. I love the play of light as the sun breaks through the leaves, the different shapes that the limbs make, the deformities that sometimes occur to make a tree unusual and photogenic. There is little not to love about a tree.
During the last 27 years, as I've watched the tree line change about me, I've noticed that in some places I see less, because the trees have grown up, and in other places I see more, because the trees were cut or have fallen down.
We have lost a good many trees to ice and wind over the last three decades. We have experienced some wicked winters. I remember one ice storm back in the 1990s where I opened a window and listened to the limbs breaking. Pop. Crack. Snap. It was a terrifying yet hypnotizing sound.
When I was in high school, I thought about becoming a Forest Service ranger. I had enough interest in the subject to consider it, and was once chosen for an internship with the agency. However, my mother would not let me go for whatever reason, and after that I lost interest.
As a newspaper reporter in a nearby county that is largely National Forest, one of my great joys was writing about the Forest Service. Prior to President George Bush's administration, I had complete access to the agency located there, and I was on speaking terms with all the rangers. The head ranger took me on many trips into the wilderness, where he showed me long-lost villages, the homes of endangered bats and mussels, and other interesting things.
I wrote numerous stories about the National Forest and what was going on there. However, my access stopped in 2001, after the new administration made changes to the Forest Service. After that, the rangers were told not to speak to reporters. I could only get my information from the PR person in Roanoke, who knew nothing about what was going on, so the stories dwindled and then eventually stopped.
Trees speak in whispers. They soak in the sun, and grow strong with enough food and water. They are still, but when they make noise, we must pay attention.
We can learn much from trees.
Thursday, January 08, 2015
Thursday Thirteen: Shadows on the Hills
1. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast. - Charles Dickens (1812-1870) (English writer and social critic)
2. Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you. - Walt Whitman (1819-1892) (American poet, essayist, and journalist)
3. Shadow is the obstruction of light. Shadows appear to me to be of supreme importance in perspective, because, without them opaque and solid bodies will be ill defined; that which is contained within their outlines and their boundaries themselves will be ill-understood unless they are shown against a background of a different tone from themselves. - Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) (Italian Renaissance Man)
4. Probably the happiest period in life most frequently is in middle age, when the eager passions of youth are cooled, and the infirmities of age not yet begun; as we see that the shadows, which are at morning and evening so large, almost entirely disappear at midday. - Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962) (American politician, diplomat, and activist)
5. When walking through the 'valley of shadows,' remember, a shadow is cast by a Light. - Austin O'Malley (1858-1932) (American physicist)
6. It was once said that the moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped. - Hubert H. Humphrey (1911-1978) (American politician)
7. When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. - William Butler Yeats (1865-1935) (Irish poet)
8. Most people think that shadows follow, precede or surround beings or objects. The truth is that they also surround words, ideas, desires, deeds, impulses and memories. - Elie Wiesel (1928- ), (Romanian born, Jewish-American professor and political activist)
9. I look out the window sometimes to seek the color of the shadows and the different greens in the trees, but when I get ready to paint I just close my eyes and imagine a scene. - Grandma Moses (1860-1961) (American folk artist)
10. For me at age 11, I had a pair of binoculars and looked up to the moon, and the moon wasn't just bigger, it was better. There were mountains and valleys and craters and shadows. And it came alive. - Neil deGrasse Tyson (1958- ) (American astrophysicist and author)
11. What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day? - Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) (English playwright and poet)
12. I have come to believe that there are infinite passageways out of the shadows, infinite vehicles to transport us into the light. - Martha Beck (1962- ) (American sociologist and author)
13. Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. - Edmund Burke (1729-1797) (Irish statesman)
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 377th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
3. Shadow is the obstruction of light. Shadows appear to me to be of supreme importance in perspective, because, without them opaque and solid bodies will be ill defined; that which is contained within their outlines and their boundaries themselves will be ill-understood unless they are shown against a background of a different tone from themselves. - Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) (Italian Renaissance Man)
4. Probably the happiest period in life most frequently is in middle age, when the eager passions of youth are cooled, and the infirmities of age not yet begun; as we see that the shadows, which are at morning and evening so large, almost entirely disappear at midday. - Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962) (American politician, diplomat, and activist)
5. When walking through the 'valley of shadows,' remember, a shadow is cast by a Light. - Austin O'Malley (1858-1932) (American physicist)
6. It was once said that the moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped. - Hubert H. Humphrey (1911-1978) (American politician)
7. When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. - William Butler Yeats (1865-1935) (Irish poet)
8. Most people think that shadows follow, precede or surround beings or objects. The truth is that they also surround words, ideas, desires, deeds, impulses and memories. - Elie Wiesel (1928- ), (Romanian born, Jewish-American professor and political activist)
9. I look out the window sometimes to seek the color of the shadows and the different greens in the trees, but when I get ready to paint I just close my eyes and imagine a scene. - Grandma Moses (1860-1961) (American folk artist)
11. What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day? - Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) (English playwright and poet)
12. I have come to believe that there are infinite passageways out of the shadows, infinite vehicles to transport us into the light. - Martha Beck (1962- ) (American sociologist and author)
13. Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. - Edmund Burke (1729-1797) (Irish statesman)
Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; there is a list here. I've been playing for a while and this is my 377th time to do a list of 13 on a Thursday.
With Eyes That Know the Darkness in My Soul
Recently I read a story in the newspaper about a man who married and then immediately went to war. He took with him a black and white photograph of his wife. He had someone paint an oil picture from the photo, and he proudly presented it to his bride upon his return.
Alas, he had told the painter the woman's eyes were brown, and they were blue. So the painting sat in a closet for years.
The eyes are said to be the windows of the soul. Mine, apparently, hide nothing. My husband tells me he can tell how bad my pain is just from looking in my eyes. He can tell when I am deep in thought, or when I am longing for a hug, or when I'm tired.
They tell him everything.
But when, after reading that story, I asked him what color my eyes are, he hesitated. "They're blue and then they're green," he said, finally.
My eyes are hazel, and he's right. They change colors as often as I change my mind. Generally they look blue because I wear blue, but if I wear gray, they look like a cloudy day. If I wear green, they become a forest.
His eyes are blue, a nice, calming blue. His eyes laugh a lot and he seldom shows any other emotion there. Not everyone's eyes are expressive, I suppose. Some people show their emotion in their body language, the set of their lips, the terseness of their voice, or in their mannerisms. Apparently, I show it in my eyes.
When was the last time you looked into someone's eyes. I mean really looked? You can tell so much when you spend time just gazing at someone's face. With all the texting and head-down stuff we're doing these days, our eyes transfixed not upon other human beings but upon screens, I wonder what non-verbal language we are losing. Will the language of the eyes be lost? Will there be eyes that know when a soul feels dark and lonely?
How sad it sounds to think that people will be hurting and aching and no one will know unless the person sends out a text that says so. What does that say about us, about our empathy, and our ability to connect? Is this why we have so much me me me going on the social media sites? Because how else can we connect now, if we don't tell, when no one is actually looking at us?
I saw one of those little sayings on Facebook the other day that said this: Dance like nobody's watching . . . 'cause they're not, they're busy texting.
Now isn't that a sad truth?
Alas, he had told the painter the woman's eyes were brown, and they were blue. So the painting sat in a closet for years.
The eyes are said to be the windows of the soul. Mine, apparently, hide nothing. My husband tells me he can tell how bad my pain is just from looking in my eyes. He can tell when I am deep in thought, or when I am longing for a hug, or when I'm tired.
They tell him everything.
But when, after reading that story, I asked him what color my eyes are, he hesitated. "They're blue and then they're green," he said, finally.
My eyes are hazel, and he's right. They change colors as often as I change my mind. Generally they look blue because I wear blue, but if I wear gray, they look like a cloudy day. If I wear green, they become a forest.
His eyes are blue, a nice, calming blue. His eyes laugh a lot and he seldom shows any other emotion there. Not everyone's eyes are expressive, I suppose. Some people show their emotion in their body language, the set of their lips, the terseness of their voice, or in their mannerisms. Apparently, I show it in my eyes.
When was the last time you looked into someone's eyes. I mean really looked? You can tell so much when you spend time just gazing at someone's face. With all the texting and head-down stuff we're doing these days, our eyes transfixed not upon other human beings but upon screens, I wonder what non-verbal language we are losing. Will the language of the eyes be lost? Will there be eyes that know when a soul feels dark and lonely?
How sad it sounds to think that people will be hurting and aching and no one will know unless the person sends out a text that says so. What does that say about us, about our empathy, and our ability to connect? Is this why we have so much me me me going on the social media sites? Because how else can we connect now, if we don't tell, when no one is actually looking at us?
I saw one of those little sayings on Facebook the other day that said this: Dance like nobody's watching . . . 'cause they're not, they're busy texting.
Now isn't that a sad truth?
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
Look Out on a Summer's Day
As I sit here watching the snow flurries fly by the window, I close my eyes for a brief moment to revisit summers long past.
When I was child, summers were those idyllic carefree days that many of us long for. Until I was 14, I spent them at my grandmother's house in Salem. My mother worked just a block from where Grandma lived, and it was easy enough for her to drop my brother and me off and then pick us back up. She'd even come over and have lunch with us.
I have always been a worrier and someone who leans toward the negative side of life, and that was true even then. Mostly I worried about doing something wrong or getting into trouble, perfectionist that I was (and still am). I was an exacting child, always wanting to please, yet eager for my own comfort. I think the fairy tale of the Princess and the Pea was written for people with my disposition. I feel everything, even the rock that is buried beneath 20 mattresses.
My brother would say I was the spoil-sport who wouldn't throw rocks through windows or play on the river bank. My grandmother lived on the Roanoke River (her house flooded three times, with '85 being the final blow). She was constantly admonishing us to stay away from the water and the river banks. The water was foul and polluted - I remember watching bubbles of gunk wash down stream - and snakes slithered amongst the brush that lined the banks. It doesn't look that way now, of course, as it is part of a greenway and cared for. But at the time it was a delightful jungle that us children found hard to resist.
There were four us for my grandmother to contend with during those sunny days. She had two sons - the last of her six children - who were still children themselves. One of my uncles was four years older than I. The other was a year younger than I, and born on my birthday, to boot.
My brother was three years younger. The older uncle did not always play with us, especially as he aged and found his own friends. But the other three of us, so close in age, played together. Of course, there were times when the youngest uncle and I tried to cut my brother out of our play, since he was the baby. Children do as children do.
I don't know if my grandmother liked having a house full of children all summer, but she was always very kind to me. She made us treats of chocolate pudding - the cooked kind that no one has time for these days - and she would hug us if we fell. Once I fell on her carport and knocked out a front tooth. Another time I fell in her basement and broke my wrist. Once I sliced my thumb on a saw when my grandfather was working the yard (I still have the scar from that). She was there to pick me up every time.
In my mind's eye, I have a picture of her holding tightly to my brother, rocking him furiously while he wiped away tears. I don't know what his hurt was, but she was singing it away.
But all was not falls and hard knocks. On cool June days, she would walk us to downtown Salem. Downtown Salem then was not what is today. Mostly, we went to Newberry's, which was a five and dime store. There we'd take our quarters, hoarded from chores and the tooth fairy, and purchase balsam airplanes, paddle balls, yo-yos, and monster models, things with which in weeks to come we'd fill our time. Then we'd march down a few blocks to Brooks-Byrd Pharmacy, which I think might still be there, and buy ourselves a snow cone. It was the perfect accompaniment to a warming day.
We also had bicycles, which I regularly wrecked. I must have kept a skinned knee, judging by the scars on them today. We'd ride them every Friday up to Front Street, where my grandmother would do my great-aunt's hair. Aunt Neva lived in the home my grandmother was raised in, and it always smelled of over-cooked green beans and hair permanent solution to me. It was a weekly change of scenery for us, though, so we didn't mind.
After I reached the age of nine or so, my grandfather began giving us 25 cents if we'd mow the yard. We'd take turns, each doing a round, until the grass was cut. Then we'd pool our quarters and head up the street to the Orange Market. I think that was what it was called. At any rate, there, for that minute amount of money, we'd each buy a comic book, a soda, and a candy bar. We made sure we all bought different comic books so we would have more than one to read.
We were Marvel comic lovers and I grew up on the likes of Dare Devil, The Fantastic Four, Spiderman, and X-Men. Occasionally we ventured into D.C. Comics, where I would read about Wonder Woman and Batman, but mostly we purchased Marvel comics. We also read Archie and Richie Rich.
On the way back, we'd pedal our bikes through the secret forest, which was really a small planting of pine tree behind the Forest Service's station, which was across the street from the Orange Market. The trees were small at first and would scratch us, but as the years passed they grew tall and straight, and our path became more of a zig-zag through the pine needles.
I have a feeling childhood today is quite different. We didn't have video games or any reason to stay indoors, so most of our time was spent outside. We could roam for blocks, all up and down East Riverside Drive, without worry. The only thing we weren't supposed to do was cross Apperson by ourselves or go into the river.
Today I sense a great deal of a fear amongst parents. I really shouldn't speak to this since I am not a parent, but from where I sit, parents seem scared to allow their kids to be kids, to make mistakes, and to grow at their own pace. I'm sure I was pampered on occasion, but the parenting I watch at Walmart frequently takes that to a new level.
We can never go back again to those carefree days. Fear is here to stay.
When I was child, summers were those idyllic carefree days that many of us long for. Until I was 14, I spent them at my grandmother's house in Salem. My mother worked just a block from where Grandma lived, and it was easy enough for her to drop my brother and me off and then pick us back up. She'd even come over and have lunch with us.
I have always been a worrier and someone who leans toward the negative side of life, and that was true even then. Mostly I worried about doing something wrong or getting into trouble, perfectionist that I was (and still am). I was an exacting child, always wanting to please, yet eager for my own comfort. I think the fairy tale of the Princess and the Pea was written for people with my disposition. I feel everything, even the rock that is buried beneath 20 mattresses.
My brother would say I was the spoil-sport who wouldn't throw rocks through windows or play on the river bank. My grandmother lived on the Roanoke River (her house flooded three times, with '85 being the final blow). She was constantly admonishing us to stay away from the water and the river banks. The water was foul and polluted - I remember watching bubbles of gunk wash down stream - and snakes slithered amongst the brush that lined the banks. It doesn't look that way now, of course, as it is part of a greenway and cared for. But at the time it was a delightful jungle that us children found hard to resist.
There were four us for my grandmother to contend with during those sunny days. She had two sons - the last of her six children - who were still children themselves. One of my uncles was four years older than I. The other was a year younger than I, and born on my birthday, to boot.
My brother was three years younger. The older uncle did not always play with us, especially as he aged and found his own friends. But the other three of us, so close in age, played together. Of course, there were times when the youngest uncle and I tried to cut my brother out of our play, since he was the baby. Children do as children do.
I don't know if my grandmother liked having a house full of children all summer, but she was always very kind to me. She made us treats of chocolate pudding - the cooked kind that no one has time for these days - and she would hug us if we fell. Once I fell on her carport and knocked out a front tooth. Another time I fell in her basement and broke my wrist. Once I sliced my thumb on a saw when my grandfather was working the yard (I still have the scar from that). She was there to pick me up every time.
 |
| Grandma |
In my mind's eye, I have a picture of her holding tightly to my brother, rocking him furiously while he wiped away tears. I don't know what his hurt was, but she was singing it away.
But all was not falls and hard knocks. On cool June days, she would walk us to downtown Salem. Downtown Salem then was not what is today. Mostly, we went to Newberry's, which was a five and dime store. There we'd take our quarters, hoarded from chores and the tooth fairy, and purchase balsam airplanes, paddle balls, yo-yos, and monster models, things with which in weeks to come we'd fill our time. Then we'd march down a few blocks to Brooks-Byrd Pharmacy, which I think might still be there, and buy ourselves a snow cone. It was the perfect accompaniment to a warming day.
We also had bicycles, which I regularly wrecked. I must have kept a skinned knee, judging by the scars on them today. We'd ride them every Friday up to Front Street, where my grandmother would do my great-aunt's hair. Aunt Neva lived in the home my grandmother was raised in, and it always smelled of over-cooked green beans and hair permanent solution to me. It was a weekly change of scenery for us, though, so we didn't mind.
After I reached the age of nine or so, my grandfather began giving us 25 cents if we'd mow the yard. We'd take turns, each doing a round, until the grass was cut. Then we'd pool our quarters and head up the street to the Orange Market. I think that was what it was called. At any rate, there, for that minute amount of money, we'd each buy a comic book, a soda, and a candy bar. We made sure we all bought different comic books so we would have more than one to read.
We were Marvel comic lovers and I grew up on the likes of Dare Devil, The Fantastic Four, Spiderman, and X-Men. Occasionally we ventured into D.C. Comics, where I would read about Wonder Woman and Batman, but mostly we purchased Marvel comics. We also read Archie and Richie Rich.
On the way back, we'd pedal our bikes through the secret forest, which was really a small planting of pine tree behind the Forest Service's station, which was across the street from the Orange Market. The trees were small at first and would scratch us, but as the years passed they grew tall and straight, and our path became more of a zig-zag through the pine needles.
I have a feeling childhood today is quite different. We didn't have video games or any reason to stay indoors, so most of our time was spent outside. We could roam for blocks, all up and down East Riverside Drive, without worry. The only thing we weren't supposed to do was cross Apperson by ourselves or go into the river.
Today I sense a great deal of a fear amongst parents. I really shouldn't speak to this since I am not a parent, but from where I sit, parents seem scared to allow their kids to be kids, to make mistakes, and to grow at their own pace. I'm sure I was pampered on occasion, but the parenting I watch at Walmart frequently takes that to a new level.
We can never go back again to those carefree days. Fear is here to stay.
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Paint Your Palette Blue and Gray
My community is not what one might call completely devoid of art, but I don't consider Roanoke to be a pinnacle of it, either. We have the Taubman Museum of Art, which I visit on occasion, and Hollins University has a museum that I enjoy. There are a few other smaller art museums around, too.
We also have some fine local artists. I have the work of some of them hanging in my home, as I like to support them. I especially like renderings of Botetourt or other landscapes. Some of my artist friends deal more in fantasy or expressionism, and I like their work as well. Just as I like to read in many genres, I enjoy many different kinds of art.
I took a few art classes under Nancy Dahlstrom at Hollins. She is one of our local artists and currently has a show at the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum on campus through February 21. I am hoping to get by to see it.
Nancy was a great teacher. Instead of telling me that I couldn't draw (I can't), she would say something like, "That's a great line right there." But even I could see that my talent for visual artwork was lacking.
While I consider myself a creative person, my creativity tends to lie in my thinking and not so much in my doing. I have attempted needlework in the past, and done okay. But I am not very good at crafty things, or folk art, or anything like that.
Sometimes I think I need to try different mediums. Pottery has appeal; I rather like the idea of getting dirty and throwing mud at something. When I was very young I had a rock tumbler that shined up stones, and I remember I liked that very much. I'm not sure what one does with shiny stones, though.
So while I enjoy arts and crafts, and love seeing the work of others, I feel quite inept in this area.
I do take decent photos, and perhaps there is where I should look for improvement. I have not trained in photography, so I feel I could take even better pictures with a few courses. I have read books about it and I took a class in the 1980s, so long ago that I barely remember it. Of course that was using film cameras, not digital.
I know just enough about design to be dangerous and to realize that taking a step in one direction or the other can make all the difference in a shot. But most of the time, I think my photography turns out well simply through luck. That, and the fact that I have always, even when I was using film, taken more than one shot of something, trying various angles to get the better view.
One of the things I would like to do is create something with my photos to sell. Notecards come to mind, but I am stymied by the process. I am not good at graphic design on the computer or making changes to tweak the pictures. I don't have software that "makes" cards. They also need to be professionally printed, I think.
I suffer from "not good enough" syndrome, however one might define that, and while I have sold enough pictures to newspapers and magazines to be considered a professional photographer, I certainly do not consider myself to be one.
At the moment, I have 29,786 images on my computer, dating as far back as 2011. So I take a lot of photos, almost 10,000 a year. Occasionally I go through and delete duplicates, or try to. After all, who needs 20 pictures of the same doe in the front yard? Apparently I do, since I take so many. It comes from trying to be perfect, I suppose.
How do you feel about art, dear reader? Is it a part of your life? I feel like art is something that is dying as we focus more of our efforts on making money. Artists have lost their patrons and thus have had to become entrepreneurs. I fear many create what sells instead of what their heart tells them. Art should illustrate our lives and make statements. It can be a force for change, even, or a conveyor of messages, political, religious, or otherwise. Art is not respected by many, and people who want to become artists (or writers) are often considered flighty or otherwise not exactly normal by the masses.
Yet artists are also envied, because they live a life closer to the soul than most of us. They have to look inward, be introspective, and consider the many different perspectives available to them as they begin a project. They have to be self-starters or their work would never be started, much less completed. I think there is something in the artist that we all admire, however secretly. Perhaps we even covet that lifestyle, that freedom to create and be a creator.
I like art. I hope to make more visits to the local museums this year.
 |
| Artwork by Dreama Kattenbraker |
We also have some fine local artists. I have the work of some of them hanging in my home, as I like to support them. I especially like renderings of Botetourt or other landscapes. Some of my artist friends deal more in fantasy or expressionism, and I like their work as well. Just as I like to read in many genres, I enjoy many different kinds of art.
 |
| Painting by Fincastle artist Ed Bordett |
I took a few art classes under Nancy Dahlstrom at Hollins. She is one of our local artists and currently has a show at the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum on campus through February 21. I am hoping to get by to see it.
Nancy was a great teacher. Instead of telling me that I couldn't draw (I can't), she would say something like, "That's a great line right there." But even I could see that my talent for visual artwork was lacking.
While I consider myself a creative person, my creativity tends to lie in my thinking and not so much in my doing. I have attempted needlework in the past, and done okay. But I am not very good at crafty things, or folk art, or anything like that.
 |
| Wood turnings by local artist Willie Simmons |
So while I enjoy arts and crafts, and love seeing the work of others, I feel quite inept in this area.
 |
| One of my photos |
I know just enough about design to be dangerous and to realize that taking a step in one direction or the other can make all the difference in a shot. But most of the time, I think my photography turns out well simply through luck. That, and the fact that I have always, even when I was using film, taken more than one shot of something, trying various angles to get the better view.
One of the things I would like to do is create something with my photos to sell. Notecards come to mind, but I am stymied by the process. I am not good at graphic design on the computer or making changes to tweak the pictures. I don't have software that "makes" cards. They also need to be professionally printed, I think.
I suffer from "not good enough" syndrome, however one might define that, and while I have sold enough pictures to newspapers and magazines to be considered a professional photographer, I certainly do not consider myself to be one.
At the moment, I have 29,786 images on my computer, dating as far back as 2011. So I take a lot of photos, almost 10,000 a year. Occasionally I go through and delete duplicates, or try to. After all, who needs 20 pictures of the same doe in the front yard? Apparently I do, since I take so many. It comes from trying to be perfect, I suppose.
 |
| One of my 1,000s of deer pictures. |
How do you feel about art, dear reader? Is it a part of your life? I feel like art is something that is dying as we focus more of our efforts on making money. Artists have lost their patrons and thus have had to become entrepreneurs. I fear many create what sells instead of what their heart tells them. Art should illustrate our lives and make statements. It can be a force for change, even, or a conveyor of messages, political, religious, or otherwise. Art is not respected by many, and people who want to become artists (or writers) are often considered flighty or otherwise not exactly normal by the masses.
Yet artists are also envied, because they live a life closer to the soul than most of us. They have to look inward, be introspective, and consider the many different perspectives available to them as they begin a project. They have to be self-starters or their work would never be started, much less completed. I think there is something in the artist that we all admire, however secretly. Perhaps we even covet that lifestyle, that freedom to create and be a creator.
I like art. I hope to make more visits to the local museums this year.
Monday, January 05, 2015
Starry, Starry Night
Sometimes we all need to hide from the light.
When I hear about meteor showers, I stay up to watch the streaks fly across the sky. I have been known to pull my car out of the garage and watch through the windshield on cold nights.
I photograph eclipses, or try to, and I watch the International Space Station when it flies overhead. (It can currently be seen in the early morning hours; on Wednesday, January 7, at 6:36 a.m., it will be in view for a full 6 minutes in the Fincastle area.)
When my mother became ill, my aunt bought her a star. I don't know where her star is in the sky and couldn't find her name in any online registry, though I noted that most of them did not go back that far in their listings. I thought it was pretty cool to buy a star, though I don't think that star name has any "officialness" about it (The International Astronomy Union, founded in 1919, says there is no way to officially name a star after someone). Regardless, it was a sweet gesture.
One thing I do not know, though, is the constellations. I can find a few of them - mainly the Big and Little Dippers, which apparently aren't even listed in the modern constellations - but others elude me. Even with a map of the sky I usually cannot figure it out. That's pretty sad, given that there are 88 constellations in the current listings.
Many of the constellations relate back to Greek and Roman mythology or astrology. Among the names I recognize from a chart are Andromeda, Aries, Cancer, Cassiopeia, Centaurus, Gemini, Hercules, Hydra, Leo, Libra, Orion, Pegasus, Pisces, Sagittarius, Taurus, and Virgo. Of course, that is not all of them. You can find the list of them all here, along with what look like very complicated charts.
Perhaps this will be the year that I study the stars, gazing upwards with a sky chart to find those constellations. It would be a nice way to spend a warm summer's night, standing in the grass, smelling the scent of cut hay, and watching the fireflies blink.
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