yep, that's my mama

The other day a story came to the forefront of my memory—a story quite worth the telling. But before I tell it, I should explain the reason for the remembrance, as it is a part of the tale as well . . .
Earlier this week, upon my return home from work in the afternoon, I was walking along my street, delivering community event flyers to my neighbors. As I taped the flyer to his mailbox, one of my neighbors came out to greet me. Seeing that I was an “involved” neighbor, he wanted my opinion about a proposal he had for our care of the communal park: we have an open grassy field in the center of our “crescent” shaped street, as all the houses line one end. It is a nice area, with trees lining a small creek, but has never been cared for terribly well. The city is nice enough to mow it periodically, even though technically we are all responsible for it, as each house owns a portion.
My neighbor was lamenting the fact that it needs better care: several of the trees have deadwood that needs trimming, and the area is low-lying and prone to flooding, so the creek should be cleared out somewhat. He wanted my help in getting everyone to chip in to an annual maintenance fund for it, which sounded reasonable enough to me—as long as we can convince some of the owners that they are in fact legally responsible for the land. At any rate, the point of all this is that, as we parted, he mentioned to me that my mother was active in caring for the park—a fact that I had actually forgotten, and that I was surprised to hear from someone who had not even been living here back when she did. But he pointed out the 2 thriving Cypress trees, noting that she had done well to plant such thirst-prone little seedlings. I grinned at the thought of Mom doing her planting, and then, more to myself than to him, I musingly replied, “Yep, that’s my mama!”
And that was when I remembered that strange evening back in elementary school . . . I know we were all quite young at the time, so it could not have been too long after we got settled in the U.S. again, in our own home. But it must have also been just long enough for Mom to get just done enough with her grieving in order to recover a bit of her tendency towards unanticipated nuttiness. Then again, who knows: perhaps the nuttiness was as much a part of the grieving process as anything else . . .
But here’s the way I remember the evening: I was “in charge,” along with my sister, while Mom went out for our groceries. The boys were being characteristically rowdy, especially since their more-rowdy neighborhood playmate was there with us. Helen and I bossily tried to mother them, sulking a bit, and eventually giving up, when they showed their clear disdain of our seniority.
After a bit, we heard the Buick drive up and the large door shut as Mom rolled in to the kitchen downstairs. “Kids, come help carry stuff in for me!” . . . and then my mother—my Missionary, Sunday-school teacher, wash-our-mouths-out-with-soap-for-swearing Mother—added, “I got us a six-pack—come on down!”
It seems that Mom had happened upon some “Non-alcoholic” beer in the store, and she was so amused at the idea of it—having never encountered it before—that she couldn’t resist a bit of practical joking.
Helen and I peered at the cans she held up proudly, and then rolled our eyes with an exaggeratedly mature, “oh, Mom!.” And the boys gazed wide-eyed. Each poured himself a plastic cup-full—with a flourish, and the three proudly bounded back up the stairs to the playroom. My brothers made tiny dents in their cups, throwing their heads back as they swallowed and attempting to hide their grimaces. The neighbor, though, took the cake. After a couple of sips, he began to take larger, slower steps around the room. And then he loudly announced: “Man! I think it’s getting to me a bit, guys . . . I’m getting a bit light-headed!”
At that point, I believe Helen and I returned to our room for some nice grown-up girl games, deciding for the umpteenth time that boys were such a pain . . .
Yep, that’s my Mama!

a French picture book mini-review

La Petite Marchande d’Allumettes [The little match girl], by H.C. Andersen/ translation by P.G. La Chesnais/ illustrated by Georges LeMoine
As the French librarian read this book to us out loud, in Paris, I cried. I was immensely moved by this retelling of Andersen’s tale, and I was rather taken aback at my own reaction. Interestingly enough, the language of the story is not what touched me the most. The tale is indeed a highly moving, and immensely sad one; unfortunately, though, I fear I have grown hardened to the original by merely being overly familiar with it.
For that reason, I love that La Chesnais and LeMoine have redone the story in a way that brings new poignancy to a potentially stale story. They have brought it to life by the ingenious parallel, via solely the artwork, of the original tale with the modern real-life equivalent of a little Bosnian girl stuck in war-time harsh reality. The truth, of course, is that life really can be every bit as heartbreaking as Andersen’s original story . . . and I am grateful for any way of communicating, in a manner that can cut to the core of the heart, such truth to often too-sheltered young people today.

travel photos

alright folks--it's done . . . i made a bit of a photo journal of my travels, keeping it relatively short and sweet, in that it does not include all the photos--just those that are, in my opinion, most illustrative, interesting, or just plain pretty :-) presuming i can link this correctly, you should be able to link on the right hand side to my name, which will direct you to the blog, called "from steaming springs to time for tea"

CLISS, take 2

Another day of writing inspirations, lectures, and classes is nearing its end. I am struggling with feeling so intimidated by the genius surrounding me, but offer another instalment in my day’s free writing, all the same:

Assignment: Write a paragraph on “going to bed” however you want to interpret that. Paragraph 1 should be geared towards a child and Paragraph 2 geared towards an adult.
For a 6-year-old:
Now you lay on down to sleep. So don’t you fear—no monsters here. Just Daddy & Mommy & little sis Janie. And maybe, just maybe, if you lie real still, big Scraggles will come to cuddle with you. But before that, of course, he’ll circle and circle and circle about, wagging his tail & flapping his ears, until he has found that one perfect spot to curl right up with you and dream of slow cars.
For an adult:
Now I lay me down to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream?
I lay me down, yet may not sleep. Though if I sleep, pray let me dream. To dream my way away from worries of the day. To sleep so deep away must creep the fears I fear to name. Away this weary-some, worry-some day.

Assignment, part 2: Now, take the child’s paragraph and remove the adults from it, however you choose to interpret that.
Rewrite:
Now I lay me down to sleep. I sure don’t fear no monsters here. Cause me and Scraggles, we’re brave like grown-ups. In just a few minutes he’ll hop on my bed, to sleep here with me so he doesn’t get scared. But first thing, of course, he’ll circle and circle and circle around, flapping his tail & waggling his ears. And finally he’ll find one real perfect spot, plop down with a snort, and maybe a slobber, and dream all night long of . . . [at this point, again, I ran out of time]

writing freely

After one full day of CLISS classes now, in London, I thought I would share a snippet from my assignments thus far. I am in the Creative Writing strand, and below is one of our free-write assignments. Our writing instuctor had us spend a couple minutes on several questions first thing this morning:
1. How do I feel about beginning this session?
Intimidated. Fearful. Thrilled. I am simmering over the prospect [could it happen??] of coming away from here with a focus for my writing. And I am terrified that I will end up, in the midst of all this creative genius, finding that in fact I do not have what it takes to be a writer.
Could I be so driven, and yet it be for nothing? From whence cometh this yearning . . .
That I could direct this force outwards, that I could create!

2. Reconstruct a childhood object, based upon the emotions described above.
Thrilled. I was thrilled when Mom presented me with that Swan Lake snow globe. She had thought of me, months earlier, on a shopping field trip with her physical rehab inpatient group. Passing it in a store window, it spoke to her of me, she said. So she bought it, thinking ahead to my 10th birthday, when she would be home with us again, when we would celebrate again.
Fearful. Shattered. My lovely, perfect globe. And I was fearful that in losing this precious gift I had ruined yet another piece of my broken mother . . . [at this point I ran out of time for the alloted slot :-)].

la remedie

Thanks to a brief meningitis scare on our behalf, one brave soul amongst us experienced the French treatment for severe back pain and nausea. Here in Paris, it seems, la remedie is found in a 6-inch needle plunged firmly into the rear.
As her back pain had worsened, this student ended up spending over a day stuck in her hotel bed, unable to keep anything down. By midnight, we realized that her pounding head and sensitivity to light could also be indicators of meningitis, with its rapid onset and grave potentials. Rather than take that risk, we opted to go ahead and take her to the hospital.
Next came the task of figuring out just how that was done here. After a few redirected phone calls, I found a nurse who, thankfully, had clear enough diction for me to be able to understand her advice. [Had I had time to worry, I would have been concerned that my French experience has never provided me with a terribly solid base in medical terminology]. What I learned was that a trip to the Urgences would put us under 5,000 euros—approximately 8,600 dollars. As I gasped, she offered option #2: apparently, house calls are rather standard, so for a mere 100 euros, the doctor would come to us, to see if she did in fact need further treatment. The second option we accepted without great hesitation.
About 45 minutes later our medicin arrived. With a flurry of brusque questions and commands, he poked and pried while I tried to keep track of his queries and, hopefully, to relay translations while I could still remember his last order [and before he had time to throw out another].
It all seemed relatively standard until he told me to warn her about a picure. I questioned him to be sure, gulped, and told her that he was going to give her a shot—after, that is, he had me utterly perplexed for a moment by a request for perfume. The wise Professor Dean divined that this must be for the alcohol content’s sterilization. We happily obliged.
Perhaps before continuing (for the sake of any disturbed readers), I should explain that he had already told me that there was no suspicion whatsoever of meningitis. We did not, then, have to fear some bizarre form of injected medications; it turns out she simply had a virus that had affected her more heavily due to the back injury she had sustained earlier in the year.
Six inches of picure and sixty seconds, plus a few basic pain prescriptions later, we were well on our way to full recovery . . . and all significantly more experienced in and wizened to the ways of the world—or at least to the ways of this particular [and peculiar?] Parisian physician.

la conductrice

"Alors, vas-y--tu vas conduire en France!"
And with that, he idled the Pugeot into neutral, stepped out of the car, and came around to escort me out of the passenger's seat and into the driver's. In a slightly muted-by-exhaustion state of panic, I blurted out a halting:
"Mais non . . . ça fait longtemps depuis que je conduisse une voiture manuelle . . . je ne sais comment conduire ici . . ."
But the damage was done: when asked if I had one, I had answered that yes, I did have a permet de conduire. So yesterday I did what I had years ago assured myself that I was too scared to ever do: I drove in Fance.
Thankfully, we were in the outskirts rather than in Paris proper, but nonetheless, it did make for a bemusing beginning to my sejour with my friends in the French countyside. This family is one of those that I have, over the years, been severely spoiled by each time I have the delightful occasion to see them again. So it was a joy to be in their home with them for these past 2 days . . .

touristic ignorance?

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.

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.

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 :-)

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.

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 :-)

my goofy sister--far far away from here, in Germany . . . too far away from me :-) 

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.

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.

a photo-necessary moment during Jill's wedding--one of my favorite captured moments, though the entire ceremony was truly lovely 

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.

finished floor & proud owner 

gardenia watch

June 6, 2005:
fourteen fresh flowers fuse on the fragrant foliage

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 :-)