Advisory to future visitors to Paris:Do not attempt to run in a cemetary.
Out for my morning run, I decided today to see if I could locate the cemetary that I heard was not too far from where we were staying. Seeing as how I am incessantly on the prowl for a scenic new route, and had already completed approximately 15 circlings of the small park I had found the previous morning, I was more than up to the quest. Besides, I hqve a particular fondness-inexplicably-for meandering through cemetaries. So off I went.
Sure enough, a few busy Parisian intersections later, I saw a gate behind which promising glimpses of greenery appeared. I did not expect quite so ,qny paved paths, imposingly gated tombstones, and crowds of tourists, but the entrance was large and open, so in I went. Only a few yards in, however, I thought I heard shouting, so pulled my earphones off and looked around. There I saw a uniformed guard running towards me.
"Arrete! Arrete!" I stopped--without hesitation. "Pardon, monsieur--il faut payer?" (I'm sorry, sir--do I need to pay to enter?) . . . A few interqctions later, I discovered that the problem was not my lack of an entrance fee. In fact, he informed me, it is forbidden to run in the cemetary.
Frankly, I immediately realized that it was silly of me to not have foreseen the possibility of such a cultural rule, and so I berated myself for the remainder of my run (in the park) for such ignorant insensitivity on my part.
Interestingly, though, is that I discovered another aspect to my ignorance after speaking later in the day with a French friend about my experience. See, not only was I attempting to run in a cemetary. I was running in the resting place of Voltaire . . . and Jim Morrison. Oy ve.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
shedding
In exquisite indulgence, I floated in the steaming Icelandic hot springs yesterday, slathering my body in its touted mud masque and showering under its waterfalls. The air here is mild--without humidity and with 60° F temperatures, and the sun shines high, brilliant but gentle. And this morning´s pampering was rendered all the more luxurious by the fact that we came directly from the airport, after a full day and night of travel.
But what left me the most blissfully whole-feeling was the shedding of my inhibitions. Showering before and after entering the springs, I began as a good, modest American, staying suited in the large shower room. But the spa was equipped with specialty salt spring gels, shampoos, and conditioners, engendering an environment of soothing relaxation rather than one of careful self-consciousness.
And so, returning to the showers afterwards, I took my cue from the calmly confident Europeans slowly bathing around me, and I shed my coverings. In doing so, I found I simultaneously shed my self-consciousness. That simple choice--in a sense, I think, a decision to accept this culture I am partaking of as a traveler--left me with an exhilarating sense of liberation. I felt pure, and lovely, as if I was soaking into my own naked skin a small part of the beauty of the women around me. It is good, to be woman.
But what left me the most blissfully whole-feeling was the shedding of my inhibitions. Showering before and after entering the springs, I began as a good, modest American, staying suited in the large shower room. But the spa was equipped with specialty salt spring gels, shampoos, and conditioners, engendering an environment of soothing relaxation rather than one of careful self-consciousness.
And so, returning to the showers afterwards, I took my cue from the calmly confident Europeans slowly bathing around me, and I shed my coverings. In doing so, I found I simultaneously shed my self-consciousness. That simple choice--in a sense, I think, a decision to accept this culture I am partaking of as a traveler--left me with an exhilarating sense of liberation. I felt pure, and lovely, as if I was soaking into my own naked skin a small part of the beauty of the women around me. It is good, to be woman.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
green land of ice
This morning I awoke with a hint of that lifting of the spirits that accompanies the beginning of a journey. Not too much, mind you—I consciously shoved aside most of it, knowing that there was yet too much to do in preparation to fully lose myself in happy-traveling-mindset. But, I can see the nearing date now, just 4 days away. One more work day and 2 more packing and studying days. What with the month of catch-up work for this class that was already in session before I joined and the class that I was already attending, there is a fair bit of studies on my list, to say the least. But I know, from all my years as a traveler, that if I persist diligently enough in the preparations, I will be more than rewarded by that glorious moment of the journey’s commencement.
One interesting thing about it all is that it was only after my going was certain that I discovered that Iceland was the first stop—only 2 days there, but it will be our recoup time, with freedom for reading, sightseeing, and such. Now the reason this was such a surprising discovery to me is that I have had an intense fascination with Iceland since my elementary years, at boarding school. In the play area there, we had a large flat map of the world, in relief. It was about the size of a sandbox, with each country painted a different colour and labeled. From the first time I examined it, I was inexplicably drawn to the two parallel countries of Iceland and Greenland. What funny names, I thought. Why would they be called that . . . Is Iceland full of ice? . . . And is Greenland all green? . . .
Finally, one day a teacher was nearby and I asked about the two countries. Oh, he said, actually, you know, they are sort of the opposite. Greenland is pretty bleak, while Iceland is quite lush and green.
Well, that clenched it for me. Iceland must be the most lovely country ever. I mean, what else could explain a land that was so beautiful that it could only be named the exact opposite of what it really was. Oh, I did long to see such a place.
And what do you know? As it turns out, I have stumbled upon the chance to not only spent 3 weeks immersed in the world of children’s literature, hobnobbing with all the Greats in the field and studying with other lovers of the genre . . . but also, I am now--20 years after my initial discovery of the country—well, I’m going. Iceland or bust. p.s. I do plan on posting some blog entries during my travels so, if you are inclined to do so, please do stay tuned :-)
One interesting thing about it all is that it was only after my going was certain that I discovered that Iceland was the first stop—only 2 days there, but it will be our recoup time, with freedom for reading, sightseeing, and such. Now the reason this was such a surprising discovery to me is that I have had an intense fascination with Iceland since my elementary years, at boarding school. In the play area there, we had a large flat map of the world, in relief. It was about the size of a sandbox, with each country painted a different colour and labeled. From the first time I examined it, I was inexplicably drawn to the two parallel countries of Iceland and Greenland. What funny names, I thought. Why would they be called that . . . Is Iceland full of ice? . . . And is Greenland all green? . . .
Finally, one day a teacher was nearby and I asked about the two countries. Oh, he said, actually, you know, they are sort of the opposite. Greenland is pretty bleak, while Iceland is quite lush and green.
Well, that clenched it for me. Iceland must be the most lovely country ever. I mean, what else could explain a land that was so beautiful that it could only be named the exact opposite of what it really was. Oh, I did long to see such a place.
And what do you know? As it turns out, I have stumbled upon the chance to not only spent 3 weeks immersed in the world of children’s literature, hobnobbing with all the Greats in the field and studying with other lovers of the genre . . . but also, I am now--20 years after my initial discovery of the country—well, I’m going. Iceland or bust. p.s. I do plan on posting some blog entries during my travels so, if you are inclined to do so, please do stay tuned :-)
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
my complaint
Below is the copy of a slightly altered-for-confidentiality letter I sent today to the doctor's office--I actually sent 2: 1 to the physician and 1 to the bank. I'm feeling whiney today . . . :-)
Dear Sir or Madam,
If you could please make sure this letter reaches the appropriate manager, I would appreciate it immensely. I am writing in response to my recent experience with overdraft charges for my xxxx Health Savings Account.
Due to the fact that your medical office chose to resend my payment check multiple times rather than contact me about the bill, I discovered yesterday that I had accrued $100.00 in overdraft charges. This, combined with the discovery that the bill itself was still pending, and that the office had not yet billed me for another charge my insurance had not covered led to a stressful day, to say the least.
After many phone calls to all parties involved, I am left with $300.00 in bills plus $100.00 in charges. And I am panicked. You see, this may not seem like a great amount of money to the average, say, physician. But to me—a newly unemployed and uninsured graduate student with bills and tuition to pay—it is huge. This means cutting car trips to save on gas, not buying groceries for the week, and stressing about finances when I need to be focusing my mental energy on term papers and assignments.
In short, I am simply a struggling student who had to voice my frustration to someone in authority. It bothers me that banks must rely on fees to people like me—those who do not have the funds to begin with. It disturbs me that talented and creative people all around are stifled—paralyzed—by basic needs, when they have energies that could be poured into life-giving songs, books, and artwork that would have been able to enrich the lives of others.
Thank you, finally, for your time, and for letting me voice my frustration—or at least, perhaps, imagine that I have done so.
Dear Sir or Madam,
If you could please make sure this letter reaches the appropriate manager, I would appreciate it immensely. I am writing in response to my recent experience with overdraft charges for my xxxx Health Savings Account.
Due to the fact that your medical office chose to resend my payment check multiple times rather than contact me about the bill, I discovered yesterday that I had accrued $100.00 in overdraft charges. This, combined with the discovery that the bill itself was still pending, and that the office had not yet billed me for another charge my insurance had not covered led to a stressful day, to say the least.
After many phone calls to all parties involved, I am left with $300.00 in bills plus $100.00 in charges. And I am panicked. You see, this may not seem like a great amount of money to the average, say, physician. But to me—a newly unemployed and uninsured graduate student with bills and tuition to pay—it is huge. This means cutting car trips to save on gas, not buying groceries for the week, and stressing about finances when I need to be focusing my mental energy on term papers and assignments.
In short, I am simply a struggling student who had to voice my frustration to someone in authority. It bothers me that banks must rely on fees to people like me—those who do not have the funds to begin with. It disturbs me that talented and creative people all around are stifled—paralyzed—by basic needs, when they have energies that could be poured into life-giving songs, books, and artwork that would have been able to enrich the lives of others.
Thank you, finally, for your time, and for letting me voice my frustration—or at least, perhaps, imagine that I have done so.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
what i'm reading today
New author discovery: Kathleen Norris. Currently loving _Cloister Walk_: a starkly beautiful meditative collection of musings about her time spent living in monasteries. Perfect for evening reading, as snippets can be read as a way of centering oneself. She also is good for those of us who tend to think in ways outside the bounds of standard religiosity, but decidedly passionate about living a life of faith.
And that, friends, is today's installment of a recommended read--as I often can go through a book a day, and there are days in which studies/paper writing/work take precedence over blog entrying, I figured the least I could do is share whatever book I am passionate about at the moment :-)
And that, friends, is today's installment of a recommended read--as I often can go through a book a day, and there are days in which studies/paper writing/work take precedence over blog entrying, I figured the least I could do is share whatever book I am passionate about at the moment :-)
Friday, July 01, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
a family observed
The day was ridiculously busy. Sweaty tourists, grumpy with the heat and with the wait, spilled out from the hallway into the foyer. Servers performed the nearly orchestrated dance of hurriedly delivering steaming trays while miraculously avoiding seemingly inevitable collisions. And I spent the entire day darting from one “urgent” task to the next, unaware of the passing of time and mostly unaware of what I was doing at any given moment.
But they caught my eye and, for a moment, I was transfixed. Time stood still in a blessed moment of catch-in-the-throat emotion. An unnoticed bystander, I stood witness to a beautiful evidence of humanity. It was an East-Asian woman and her elderly mother, paying no heed to the bustling activity surrounding them or the other patrons pressing in against them. They stood engaged in what seemed to be just casual passing-time conversation: “I wonder if Dad found a parking space yet” . . . “Did you get the hotel keys back from Michael?” . . . . “Do you think I should wear comfortable shoes for the rehearsal dinner?” . . .
But what was striking was the unthinking way that they touched each other as they spoke. This was obviously a family for which physical affection was commonplace and daily. The mother patted her daughter’s hand, and straightened her rings for her. The daughter pushed a strand of hair out of her mother’s eyes, and let her hand linger for a brief moment on her cheek, just long enough to finish the phrase. Then, thought completed, she lifted her hand and gestured in the air with it as she pointed out an interesting advertisement hanging on the wall.
In that moment, my heart ached for my mother, and for all things familial. I thought, how beautiful, how lovely, how blessed to have daily instances of nothingness with which to care for our own--to be human together.
But they caught my eye and, for a moment, I was transfixed. Time stood still in a blessed moment of catch-in-the-throat emotion. An unnoticed bystander, I stood witness to a beautiful evidence of humanity. It was an East-Asian woman and her elderly mother, paying no heed to the bustling activity surrounding them or the other patrons pressing in against them. They stood engaged in what seemed to be just casual passing-time conversation: “I wonder if Dad found a parking space yet” . . . “Did you get the hotel keys back from Michael?” . . . . “Do you think I should wear comfortable shoes for the rehearsal dinner?” . . .
But what was striking was the unthinking way that they touched each other as they spoke. This was obviously a family for which physical affection was commonplace and daily. The mother patted her daughter’s hand, and straightened her rings for her. The daughter pushed a strand of hair out of her mother’s eyes, and let her hand linger for a brief moment on her cheek, just long enough to finish the phrase. Then, thought completed, she lifted her hand and gestured in the air with it as she pointed out an interesting advertisement hanging on the wall.
In that moment, my heart ached for my mother, and for all things familial. I thought, how beautiful, how lovely, how blessed to have daily instances of nothingness with which to care for our own--to be human together.
Friday, June 24, 2005
moments that carry us
It was a silly moment, all things considered. The day was a crazy one, as far as days go in the restaurant business, as I recognized even in my trainee state. We all bustled about madly, trying to avoid catastrophic collisions in the process—steering patrons around sailing servers, mindlessly repeating the menu mantra and, for my part, desperately trying to remember all that I was supposed to do, and stressing about doing everything correctly. It is infinitely strange to me how traumatic this business has been, and how I have been on the verge of tears over something so seemingly ridiculous over forgetting the table number order and not knowing which table I was supposed to be directing my current guests towards. How does someone who has spent 2 years supervising employees and managing/organizing a department feel like bursting into childish tears over a dirty look when I ask a “stupid question” from the perspective of seasoned servers?
I don’t know—I do know that I am grateful for this experience, for this time of branching out from what I have done thus far in life. It is a choice I have made, to at least try something totally different, and it will no doubt make me a better, stronger, and more compassionate person.
But, what made this one day worth it all was one small moment in the midst of the flurry of a day. As I seated the party, leaning over to hand them their menus, their server brushed past with the next table’s order and, in passing, touched my back to get my attention. When I looked up, he asked me if I had a moment to go ahead and take their drink orders.
Technically, I was not supposed to be doing that—I hadn’t even been “trained” in how to, and in my current state I stress over the proper way to do even the smallest, most inconsequential-seeming tasks. But, I certainly wasn’t about to try to interrupt the craziness by asking at the moment. So I, in a slightly uncertain and probably fumbling manner, took their orders and got their drinks.When I returned with them, he was taking their lunch orders, and, as I placed their drinks in front of them, he looked at me with the most genuine look of relieved gratitude and mouthed a silent “Thank you!” Whether it was the knowledge that someone, anyone, was thankful for something I had done, the endearing expression on his face as he breathed a sigh of relief, or the simple act of doing something right again, I do not know. But for whatever reason, my heart swelled up at that moment, and my eyes filled with grateful tears. The day continued in its hectic-ness, and we all continued in our frazzled-ness, but I was carried for the remainder of it by a single snippet of a moment.
I don’t know—I do know that I am grateful for this experience, for this time of branching out from what I have done thus far in life. It is a choice I have made, to at least try something totally different, and it will no doubt make me a better, stronger, and more compassionate person.
But, what made this one day worth it all was one small moment in the midst of the flurry of a day. As I seated the party, leaning over to hand them their menus, their server brushed past with the next table’s order and, in passing, touched my back to get my attention. When I looked up, he asked me if I had a moment to go ahead and take their drink orders.
Technically, I was not supposed to be doing that—I hadn’t even been “trained” in how to, and in my current state I stress over the proper way to do even the smallest, most inconsequential-seeming tasks. But, I certainly wasn’t about to try to interrupt the craziness by asking at the moment. So I, in a slightly uncertain and probably fumbling manner, took their orders and got their drinks.When I returned with them, he was taking their lunch orders, and, as I placed their drinks in front of them, he looked at me with the most genuine look of relieved gratitude and mouthed a silent “Thank you!” Whether it was the knowledge that someone, anyone, was thankful for something I had done, the endearing expression on his face as he breathed a sigh of relief, or the simple act of doing something right again, I do not know. But for whatever reason, my heart swelled up at that moment, and my eyes filled with grateful tears. The day continued in its hectic-ness, and we all continued in our frazzled-ness, but I was carried for the remainder of it by a single snippet of a moment.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
for those interested in literature for the young [and not so young]
As happens periodically, my work schedule of late has made it such that my for-fun writing has suffered. So, in lieu of my normally more frequently posted blog entries, I will post here the intro [don’t worry—only the intro!] to one of the book reviews my writing energy has been going into. This one is for a picture book that was published in 1996, and that I stumbled upon in McKays . . .
I. The Captivation
If, when done well, a picture book is “an artistic achievement worthy of respectful examination and honor,” as Karla Kuskin aptly states, then it is no wonder that Minfong Ho and Holly Meade’s Hush! captivated so thoroughly my sensibilities, adult though they may be (Horn Book 159). Kuskin’s description hints at the true reality—one would hope—of books for children: namely, that a book for a child, if worthy of a child’s attention, is just as worthy of the esteem and admiration of an adult. And so, it is fitting that this particular award winning picture book could leave me—a professional [if at times childlike] adult—in literary and artistic bliss as I experienced the book, in solitude [except for a similarly blissful kitten purring on my lap] and in my own home.
Once the initial effect of all-encompassing enjoyment had subsided, further consideration led me to the realization that I had a deeper reason for my love for this book. All things considered, Hush! is the sort of book that is instrumental in the healthy development of a young child. By this I mean that its different aspects—language, art, and music—combine to make it the ideal influence on a child in those earliest stages of life. After an exploration of the effect of the artwork as a whole and in its details, I will go on to examine each of those three aspects mentioned above, along with its role in early childhood development.
I. The Captivation
If, when done well, a picture book is “an artistic achievement worthy of respectful examination and honor,” as Karla Kuskin aptly states, then it is no wonder that Minfong Ho and Holly Meade’s Hush! captivated so thoroughly my sensibilities, adult though they may be (Horn Book 159). Kuskin’s description hints at the true reality—one would hope—of books for children: namely, that a book for a child, if worthy of a child’s attention, is just as worthy of the esteem and admiration of an adult. And so, it is fitting that this particular award winning picture book could leave me—a professional [if at times childlike] adult—in literary and artistic bliss as I experienced the book, in solitude [except for a similarly blissful kitten purring on my lap] and in my own home.
Once the initial effect of all-encompassing enjoyment had subsided, further consideration led me to the realization that I had a deeper reason for my love for this book. All things considered, Hush! is the sort of book that is instrumental in the healthy development of a young child. By this I mean that its different aspects—language, art, and music—combine to make it the ideal influence on a child in those earliest stages of life. After an exploration of the effect of the artwork as a whole and in its details, I will go on to examine each of those three aspects mentioned above, along with its role in early childhood development.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Monday, June 06, 2005
Saturday, June 04, 2005
blooms abounding
Today was the day I have been waiting for, watching for, since the days began to warm: I picked the first 2 fragrant blooms today, savoring the moment as I set each one in a clear wine glass so that it's delicate while bloom floated on a bed of water.
Soon after we moved into our house, my mother realized how much she missed the native Gardenia plants that surrounded us in Zambia. So she did a bit of hunting and found one to plant in our Tennessee yard. Amazingly, thanks to mother's magic touch, it flourished.
I never noticed it much as a child, but shortly after moving in to the old homestead last summer, I was thrilled to discover the small bush, covered with blooms. Not only was it blooming in July. It continued to slowly bloom, offering me a weekly gift of 2 or 3 blooms--plenty to provide a steady supply so that I always had at least one fresh bloom gracing my apartment. And, to my amazement, it bloomed steadily well into the Fall.
So it was with pleasure that I realized today that the blooms have begun :-)
Soon after we moved into our house, my mother realized how much she missed the native Gardenia plants that surrounded us in Zambia. So she did a bit of hunting and found one to plant in our Tennessee yard. Amazingly, thanks to mother's magic touch, it flourished.
I never noticed it much as a child, but shortly after moving in to the old homestead last summer, I was thrilled to discover the small bush, covered with blooms. Not only was it blooming in July. It continued to slowly bloom, offering me a weekly gift of 2 or 3 blooms--plenty to provide a steady supply so that I always had at least one fresh bloom gracing my apartment. And, to my amazement, it bloomed steadily well into the Fall.
So it was with pleasure that I realized today that the blooms have begun :-)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
he's a tramp
As I roamed the aisles, peering into forlorn faces and pitifully sorrowful pup-eyes, I was, unexpectedly, emotional. I thought I was a hook, line, and sinker cat person, but it turns out I have a soft spot for dogs as well. Or maybe just for dogs that transport me directly into _Lady & the Tramp_. Listening to the soft whimpers and croons, I would not have been surprised to hear it all turn into a melodious chorus of "He's a tramp."
I am beginning the search for a dog for my folks, as they have had some trouble finding affordable adoptable pets up in their neck of the woods. While I had been already to the adoption fairs at the pet store, this was my first time to the Humane Society itself. So, I guess I was unprepared, not knowing what to expect.
While I did not find the perfect puppy--yet--I am now prepared to frequent the place in my quest. Today was certainly not fruitless, though; upon leaving the place, I was inspired to change my plans and go home again just so I could love on my own home-ful kitty, grateful to be able to do something concrete for at least one creature after being overwhelmed by all those I could not bring with me.
Mind you, I am in no way ready to be showered with homeless pets--so, please, no doorstep donations :-)
I am beginning the search for a dog for my folks, as they have had some trouble finding affordable adoptable pets up in their neck of the woods. While I had been already to the adoption fairs at the pet store, this was my first time to the Humane Society itself. So, I guess I was unprepared, not knowing what to expect.
While I did not find the perfect puppy--yet--I am now prepared to frequent the place in my quest. Today was certainly not fruitless, though; upon leaving the place, I was inspired to change my plans and go home again just so I could love on my own home-ful kitty, grateful to be able to do something concrete for at least one creature after being overwhelmed by all those I could not bring with me.
Mind you, I am in no way ready to be showered with homeless pets--so, please, no doorstep donations :-)
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
why i tell stories
As any of you who has read my blog with any regularity has probably noticed by now, I tend to tell stories. I believe in telling stories; more specifically, I have found that by telling my own stories I begin to glimpse the mystery and meaning that can so easily be hidden behind the daily-ness of a life.
My recognition of this drive came not so long ago, when I began to awaken in the night with the itch to tell a story. I would lie there wide-eyed and restless, feeling as though I needed to somehow give birth, yet not knowing why I felt this way. This was the sort of sleeplessness that does not need to be soothed to sleep; rather, it was the kind that needs to be nurtured, and gently coaxed until it can release its creative seed.
This was happening regularly, and each night it was a different event—a specific happening from my life, that was swirling about in my head.
And so I began to listen to it. When I awoke, I rose and began to write, to put words to that story. I wrote of childhood wounds, of silly anecdotes, of events in my adult life—all was fair game when it came to the need to tell a story.
The seed of the drive was taking root much earlier however, well before waking moments when I actually put words to these stories. It began when my family first moved to the U.S., and I would have those childhood introductory conversations.
“What’s your name? . . . Is that your sister?—she looks just like you.”
And then: “Why do you talk funny? . . . Where are you from? . . . Why’s doesn’t your Mommy walk?”
That was my cue to explain that I wasn’t really American, not like they were. I was African—or maybe Canadian—but apparently I sounded British? . . .I wasn’t quite sure, actually . . . but Mommy is paraplegic, because she was in a car accident when we lived in Africa. Daddy was in the car too. He’s in heaven now.”
It was always the same after that—a stunned silence, or a series of stumbling apologies: sorry for asking, sorry for making you talk, sorry that happened. A quick change of the topic or, more likely, an excuse to find a more normal playmate for the day.
But I was not sorry. I wanted to keep talking. I wanted to tell them about Africa, about my family, about what my Daddy was like. I wanted to tell them how tall the trees were in my village, and how small the huts looked from high in the Paw-paw tree. I wanted to tell my stories, and I wanted someone to listen.
So when, as an adult, I began to start telling my stories, what I realized was that the telling gave life to the experiences. Whether I was telling the story of my cat’s love affair with his pet duck or the story of scaling the icy mountain to get to work in the morning, the telling was as important as the tale itself. Because somehow the words give significance to the event. And suddenly life is no longer just a string of daily routines: each day is a glimpse into the mysterious beauty of the woven whole.
There is a power in the telling. A making real. So I speak the words, and write the stories . . . and live.
My recognition of this drive came not so long ago, when I began to awaken in the night with the itch to tell a story. I would lie there wide-eyed and restless, feeling as though I needed to somehow give birth, yet not knowing why I felt this way. This was the sort of sleeplessness that does not need to be soothed to sleep; rather, it was the kind that needs to be nurtured, and gently coaxed until it can release its creative seed.
This was happening regularly, and each night it was a different event—a specific happening from my life, that was swirling about in my head.
And so I began to listen to it. When I awoke, I rose and began to write, to put words to that story. I wrote of childhood wounds, of silly anecdotes, of events in my adult life—all was fair game when it came to the need to tell a story.
The seed of the drive was taking root much earlier however, well before waking moments when I actually put words to these stories. It began when my family first moved to the U.S., and I would have those childhood introductory conversations.
“What’s your name? . . . Is that your sister?—she looks just like you.”
And then: “Why do you talk funny? . . . Where are you from? . . . Why’s doesn’t your Mommy walk?”
That was my cue to explain that I wasn’t really American, not like they were. I was African—or maybe Canadian—but apparently I sounded British? . . .I wasn’t quite sure, actually . . . but Mommy is paraplegic, because she was in a car accident when we lived in Africa. Daddy was in the car too. He’s in heaven now.”
It was always the same after that—a stunned silence, or a series of stumbling apologies: sorry for asking, sorry for making you talk, sorry that happened. A quick change of the topic or, more likely, an excuse to find a more normal playmate for the day.
But I was not sorry. I wanted to keep talking. I wanted to tell them about Africa, about my family, about what my Daddy was like. I wanted to tell them how tall the trees were in my village, and how small the huts looked from high in the Paw-paw tree. I wanted to tell my stories, and I wanted someone to listen.
So when, as an adult, I began to start telling my stories, what I realized was that the telling gave life to the experiences. Whether I was telling the story of my cat’s love affair with his pet duck or the story of scaling the icy mountain to get to work in the morning, the telling was as important as the tale itself. Because somehow the words give significance to the event. And suddenly life is no longer just a string of daily routines: each day is a glimpse into the mysterious beauty of the woven whole.
There is a power in the telling. A making real. So I speak the words, and write the stories . . . and live.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
rug r.i.p.
Never underestimate the brute strength of a woman on a mission. Today I hacked, sawed, ripped, and tugged my way through this apartment’s original carpeting, and there is now a delightful mountain of rolled strips of carpet and carpet padding by my trash bins.
After a good bit of time mulling over the prospect of tackling such a task—was it even possible for me to do?—I devised a plan and today, having a day of freedom, I carried it out. With rather pleasant results, I might add.
I am left, for the moment, with a swept, mopped, and re-ordered apartment, minus only the pet-soiled, stained, and generally unappealing carpet. Mind you, this does mean that, instead of carpet, I am the proud owner of a paint-speckled and knobby concrete slab of a floor. Oddly enough, it really is not so bad—especially when it smells clean and orange-essence fresh :-)
The day also included a trip to Lowe’s, where I decided upon a tile that I purchased—along with primer—and will begin laying next week. Concrete does not bother me, but unfinished tasks do. Consequently, I planned the tile-laying for the weeks when I will be house-sitting and will not have to stay here looking at a partially-tiled floor. My plan at the moment is just to come and lay as much tile each day as I have time for, then returning to finished house. By the time I am finished with the house-sitting job, I will also have completed the lovely tiling. And don’t worry: I will not get too terribly attached to the concrete in the meantime.
I am always pleasantly surprised all over again at how much satisfaction comes from undertaking such projects as these . . . * sigh * . . . the satisfaction of a job well done :-)
After a good bit of time mulling over the prospect of tackling such a task—was it even possible for me to do?—I devised a plan and today, having a day of freedom, I carried it out. With rather pleasant results, I might add.
I am left, for the moment, with a swept, mopped, and re-ordered apartment, minus only the pet-soiled, stained, and generally unappealing carpet. Mind you, this does mean that, instead of carpet, I am the proud owner of a paint-speckled and knobby concrete slab of a floor. Oddly enough, it really is not so bad—especially when it smells clean and orange-essence fresh :-)
The day also included a trip to Lowe’s, where I decided upon a tile that I purchased—along with primer—and will begin laying next week. Concrete does not bother me, but unfinished tasks do. Consequently, I planned the tile-laying for the weeks when I will be house-sitting and will not have to stay here looking at a partially-tiled floor. My plan at the moment is just to come and lay as much tile each day as I have time for, then returning to finished house. By the time I am finished with the house-sitting job, I will also have completed the lovely tiling. And don’t worry: I will not get too terribly attached to the concrete in the meantime.
I am always pleasantly surprised all over again at how much satisfaction comes from undertaking such projects as these . . . * sigh * . . . the satisfaction of a job well done :-)
Friday, April 29, 2005
malaria nights
Once I read that having Malaria as a child leaves one plagued later in life by recurring dreams. Do my repeated bouts of the feverish illness explain my later childhood years of frightful nightmares? Perhaps. I am more inclined to suspect that my own dark and brooding dreams were due more so to a childhood marred by pain and to a nature prone to dwelling on the same.
Like the night I spent imagining my father’s gasping last breaths, other solitary mental images and nightmares of my young mind claim a strangely predominant position in my memories of childhood.
In the years following my father’s death, I spent nights fearing the image that would no doubt appear, unbidden, once my waking guard was weakened by the stealthy grip of sleep.
The dreams would always begin innocuously, with the exciting certainty that I was to be with Daddy again, that perhaps he was not really dead. Or that, even if he really was, I would at least get to spend the span of the dream with him again. But each time, once my dreaming awareness progressed beyond the initial excitement, my heart thudded with the sickening realization that this was not my Daddy. And sometimes with the even more sickening one that it was him.
Each night, you see, he was altered somehow, deformed beyond recognition. I only wished that I were not so certain that it was still him. There was some deep knowledge that it was him, but nothing remained of the Daddy I loved.
In one dream he appeared in the form of a tiny dwarf, with exaggerated features and the head of a grown man but features and mannerisms of a child. That night he approached me cheerfully, awkwardly but speedily coming to greet me. And I ran, horrified more by the prospect of encountering him than I had ever been cheered at the idea of a reunion.
Another night he was not changed so much physically as he was estranged emotionally. He was an adult, and I knew it was him even though I couldn’t place his features into any recognizable form. I was terrified that I had forgotten what he looked like, as I often was in my waking hours, when I would seek out photos to memorize, in case I was losing my own mental images of his face, of his form. At any rate, in this dream he simply passed by me, engaged by his companions, ignoring me. He even looked at me directly, as if he knew who I was, but did not care in the slightest.
There were more, along the same vein of a recognizably him but strangely altered Daddy. I grew accustomed to my vivid dream life—so accustomed that it never occurred to me that it was anything worth coming out of my own head. Now I wonder how common that is, for children. And I remain fascinated by, and still slightly frightened by, the lapsing into the untamed, unpredictable territories of the sleeping mind . . .
Like the night I spent imagining my father’s gasping last breaths, other solitary mental images and nightmares of my young mind claim a strangely predominant position in my memories of childhood.
In the years following my father’s death, I spent nights fearing the image that would no doubt appear, unbidden, once my waking guard was weakened by the stealthy grip of sleep.
The dreams would always begin innocuously, with the exciting certainty that I was to be with Daddy again, that perhaps he was not really dead. Or that, even if he really was, I would at least get to spend the span of the dream with him again. But each time, once my dreaming awareness progressed beyond the initial excitement, my heart thudded with the sickening realization that this was not my Daddy. And sometimes with the even more sickening one that it was him.
Each night, you see, he was altered somehow, deformed beyond recognition. I only wished that I were not so certain that it was still him. There was some deep knowledge that it was him, but nothing remained of the Daddy I loved.
In one dream he appeared in the form of a tiny dwarf, with exaggerated features and the head of a grown man but features and mannerisms of a child. That night he approached me cheerfully, awkwardly but speedily coming to greet me. And I ran, horrified more by the prospect of encountering him than I had ever been cheered at the idea of a reunion.
Another night he was not changed so much physically as he was estranged emotionally. He was an adult, and I knew it was him even though I couldn’t place his features into any recognizable form. I was terrified that I had forgotten what he looked like, as I often was in my waking hours, when I would seek out photos to memorize, in case I was losing my own mental images of his face, of his form. At any rate, in this dream he simply passed by me, engaged by his companions, ignoring me. He even looked at me directly, as if he knew who I was, but did not care in the slightest.
There were more, along the same vein of a recognizably him but strangely altered Daddy. I grew accustomed to my vivid dream life—so accustomed that it never occurred to me that it was anything worth coming out of my own head. Now I wonder how common that is, for children. And I remain fascinated by, and still slightly frightened by, the lapsing into the untamed, unpredictable territories of the sleeping mind . . .
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
my bald spot
My bald spot itches. And yes, I am 25 years old. And no, I am not undergoing chemotherapy. I did, however, have a biopsy not too long ago; it was purely perfunctory, though, not dramatic in the least. My doctor, after running blood work and finding nothing wrong, referred me to a dermatologist, who declared, with a rapid wave of his hand, that it was simply Alopecia Areata. “So,” I queried, “why exactly did my hair fall out?” He waved his arm in the air again and pronounced, “Who knows? Some people just react that way—it’s more common than you would think.”
And there you have it. I am just one of those people who, when under the proper combination of stresses, reacts by losing a chunk [or a whole head, for that matter] of hair. I suppose an indication of the stressed out state of mind I was in at the time (several months ago) is the reaction I had when discovering, while pulling back my hair in the morning, this large patch of smooth-as-a-baby’s-bottom baldness:
I felt it; pulled my hand back in confusion; felt it again; held up a mirror behind my head to confirm my suspicion . . . then I laughed. Oh my—I’m going bald! How oddly amusing! Mind you, I was sensible enough to be concerned. So I did my research, talked to knowledgeable friends, called the telephone nurse, and made an appointment with my doctor. What I discovered is that it was in fact probably stress. But I did not know if it would stop with one patch of hair for me, or continue. So my thought process went something like this:
Well, I have one bald spot. I may be losing all my hair. And even if it is treatable, then chances are, by the time the treatment kicks in, I will have probably lost at least another chunk, considering how quickly this one appeared. And what does one do with a couple of bald spots? Why shave the rest of it off of course!
And I proceeded to contentedly plan my baldness. What I realized in the process is that I was actually rather tired of having so much hair to fool with, so that the prospect of not having it anymore was surprisingly pleasant. What I concluded in my planning process was that I would certainly not wear a wig. An image came to mind of colorful cloth scarves wrapped artistically around the scalp. So I resolved to learn how that was done, and to buy various shades and patterns of cloth, and simply alternate head wraps for the duration of my baldness.
When I told my Mother what was happening, she laughed and said that it figured that I would be the one to lose my hair: see, I was always teased for having more hair than I knew what to do with. My relatives wondered where I had gotten all of it, since no other women, on either side of the family, had much to speak of. All I knew was that it could be a hassle having such a heavy head of hair.
At any rate, Mom said that if I did keep losing it, I should at least save it as it fell out and share it with the rest of them. I opted instead to ship it down to Locks of Love. Before doing so, however—and before warning anyone that I had just chopped it off, I took a segment out of the large ponytail I held oddly detachedly in front of me. I put this segment, unmarked, in a regular letter envelope and mailed it to Mom.
But, back to today’s appointment: what my dermatologist generally does [why I think of him as mine, I cannot tell you—I actually have never had a dermatologist before . . .then again, perhaps that’s why I claimed him so . . .]. Well, like I was saying, after a standard biopsy, he likes to do a series of scalp super-hair-growth-serum injections. Ok, so maybe that’s not the technical term for it, but as I cannot recall him ever telling me what it was, that is the term I settled upon in my head.
Today was the 2nd appointment in my series [and necessarily the last, as it is the last month in which I will be insured]. So, upon pronouncing my hair to be growing back nicely—he was, I am pleased to report, “proud” of my hair growth, he then shook my hand, told me it had been a pleasure doing business with me, and jetted out the door in his jauntily comical manner.
It all ended up being a bit of a false alarm, in the sense that my Alopecia Areata stopped with only one patch. But I learned a good lesson about monitoring my life balance more closely, being mindful of not letting school and work billow out of control, and keeping social outlets and positive stress-relieving activities in my life . . . and I do love having short hair!
And there you have it. I am just one of those people who, when under the proper combination of stresses, reacts by losing a chunk [or a whole head, for that matter] of hair. I suppose an indication of the stressed out state of mind I was in at the time (several months ago) is the reaction I had when discovering, while pulling back my hair in the morning, this large patch of smooth-as-a-baby’s-bottom baldness:
I felt it; pulled my hand back in confusion; felt it again; held up a mirror behind my head to confirm my suspicion . . . then I laughed. Oh my—I’m going bald! How oddly amusing! Mind you, I was sensible enough to be concerned. So I did my research, talked to knowledgeable friends, called the telephone nurse, and made an appointment with my doctor. What I discovered is that it was in fact probably stress. But I did not know if it would stop with one patch of hair for me, or continue. So my thought process went something like this:
Well, I have one bald spot. I may be losing all my hair. And even if it is treatable, then chances are, by the time the treatment kicks in, I will have probably lost at least another chunk, considering how quickly this one appeared. And what does one do with a couple of bald spots? Why shave the rest of it off of course!
And I proceeded to contentedly plan my baldness. What I realized in the process is that I was actually rather tired of having so much hair to fool with, so that the prospect of not having it anymore was surprisingly pleasant. What I concluded in my planning process was that I would certainly not wear a wig. An image came to mind of colorful cloth scarves wrapped artistically around the scalp. So I resolved to learn how that was done, and to buy various shades and patterns of cloth, and simply alternate head wraps for the duration of my baldness.
When I told my Mother what was happening, she laughed and said that it figured that I would be the one to lose my hair: see, I was always teased for having more hair than I knew what to do with. My relatives wondered where I had gotten all of it, since no other women, on either side of the family, had much to speak of. All I knew was that it could be a hassle having such a heavy head of hair.
At any rate, Mom said that if I did keep losing it, I should at least save it as it fell out and share it with the rest of them. I opted instead to ship it down to Locks of Love. Before doing so, however—and before warning anyone that I had just chopped it off, I took a segment out of the large ponytail I held oddly detachedly in front of me. I put this segment, unmarked, in a regular letter envelope and mailed it to Mom.
But, back to today’s appointment: what my dermatologist generally does [why I think of him as mine, I cannot tell you—I actually have never had a dermatologist before . . .then again, perhaps that’s why I claimed him so . . .]. Well, like I was saying, after a standard biopsy, he likes to do a series of scalp super-hair-growth-serum injections. Ok, so maybe that’s not the technical term for it, but as I cannot recall him ever telling me what it was, that is the term I settled upon in my head.
Today was the 2nd appointment in my series [and necessarily the last, as it is the last month in which I will be insured]. So, upon pronouncing my hair to be growing back nicely—he was, I am pleased to report, “proud” of my hair growth, he then shook my hand, told me it had been a pleasure doing business with me, and jetted out the door in his jauntily comical manner.
It all ended up being a bit of a false alarm, in the sense that my Alopecia Areata stopped with only one patch. But I learned a good lesson about monitoring my life balance more closely, being mindful of not letting school and work billow out of control, and keeping social outlets and positive stress-relieving activities in my life . . . and I do love having short hair!
Thursday, April 21, 2005
this feeble faith
*this evening i distract myself by job applications interspersed with scrubbing the carpet* [we are having another episode of too-good-for-the-litter-box-ness]. consequently, class was a bit difficult to stay focused on tonight. i am, i must admit, anxious. it is official that i am unemployed, and the official-ness unfortunately coincided with the discovery that my scholarship for next year is substantially smaller than i thought. and i am feeling my humanity. oh ye of little faith . . . i try to trust, and believe that He who made me this way [whether or not i like it] is somehow in charge of even my mistakes, my silly human errors. but i worry . . .
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
mom + pond =
As far as standards of motherhood go, I believe I can safely say that my own mother plants her feet firmly outside the boundaries of the expected. Case in point:
Like the good, conventional daughter that I am, I called her this evening to report on the scholarship awards ceremony we were returning from—thinking I was fostering her need to be proud and parental. Like the unconventional mother that she is, she replied with her own rivaling tale of the day.
Overhearing from the front seat, when I said goodbye my grandparents promptly inquired as to what mom had gotten herself into this time. And I duly relayed the story . .
My mother, it seems, invented her own [unconventional] method for breaking in her new shoes this afternoon. She had accompanied my stepfather on a day trip to Keene so as to get some “big city” errands accomplished that their rural town does not allow for. One of these, earlier in the day, involved the investment of a new pair of shoes. Shoes are understandably important for Mom, and so she had decided to try a pair of Merrells this time. And they were on sale, so she [of course] had to buy them.
New shoes afoot, and several errands completed, later in the day she found a nice park, with a pleasant-looking pond, and decided to go for a short walk. Nearing the pond, one crutch found a wet patch of pine needles, her foot accordingly found a slippery slope of grass, and down she went. Into the pond. She emerged momentarily, laughing, and quite wet. Keep in mind that my stepfather was nowhere nearby at the time, and that the park itself was unoccupied, except for Mom. She now found herself in the predicament of being a slightly less-than-normally mobile person, alone, and in a pond. After surveying her surroundings, she noticed some stumps on the other end of the good-size pond that looked promising as far as providing the support needed to lift herself and her crutches back onto dry land. So she, as she relayed it to me, “rolled” to the other side. “Rolled??” I questioned, a bizarre image in my mind. She then clarified that she had probably slided more than rolled. But I dare say, I quite prefer to keep the verb “roll” for my own personal amusement. At any rate, her plan worked, and she got herself out of the pond. Then, being my [unconventional] mother, her next logical step was to go back to the store where she had purchased her fine new shoes and, in all her dripping finery, announce to them how pleased she was with her new shoes, now that she had “broken them in.”
And that, my friends, is my mother.
Like the good, conventional daughter that I am, I called her this evening to report on the scholarship awards ceremony we were returning from—thinking I was fostering her need to be proud and parental. Like the unconventional mother that she is, she replied with her own rivaling tale of the day.
Overhearing from the front seat, when I said goodbye my grandparents promptly inquired as to what mom had gotten herself into this time. And I duly relayed the story . .
My mother, it seems, invented her own [unconventional] method for breaking in her new shoes this afternoon. She had accompanied my stepfather on a day trip to Keene so as to get some “big city” errands accomplished that their rural town does not allow for. One of these, earlier in the day, involved the investment of a new pair of shoes. Shoes are understandably important for Mom, and so she had decided to try a pair of Merrells this time. And they were on sale, so she [of course] had to buy them.
New shoes afoot, and several errands completed, later in the day she found a nice park, with a pleasant-looking pond, and decided to go for a short walk. Nearing the pond, one crutch found a wet patch of pine needles, her foot accordingly found a slippery slope of grass, and down she went. Into the pond. She emerged momentarily, laughing, and quite wet. Keep in mind that my stepfather was nowhere nearby at the time, and that the park itself was unoccupied, except for Mom. She now found herself in the predicament of being a slightly less-than-normally mobile person, alone, and in a pond. After surveying her surroundings, she noticed some stumps on the other end of the good-size pond that looked promising as far as providing the support needed to lift herself and her crutches back onto dry land. So she, as she relayed it to me, “rolled” to the other side. “Rolled??” I questioned, a bizarre image in my mind. She then clarified that she had probably slided more than rolled. But I dare say, I quite prefer to keep the verb “roll” for my own personal amusement. At any rate, her plan worked, and she got herself out of the pond. Then, being my [unconventional] mother, her next logical step was to go back to the store where she had purchased her fine new shoes and, in all her dripping finery, announce to them how pleased she was with her new shoes, now that she had “broken them in.”
And that, my friends, is my mother.
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