This year my birthday fell on the 10th day of the 10th month of the 10th year of the decade. I’ve never studied numerology – it just doesn’t light my fire - but I’m well aware that the number ten has gathered a collective energy that ranks high on the scale of all sorts of things like emotions; sex appeal; product reviews. Plus, ten can signify perfection or hell.
The days leading up to this unusual convergence of personal tens were steadily heading toward a great personal loss. Around midnight of 10/10/10, I received the email saying that one of the women I cherish most was being taken off life support. First came the tears, and the mourning; the sense of loss. Never again would hear her voice at the other end of the phone line, or see her smile when I entered a room. No more the irreverent glint that appeared in her eyes when the potential for mischief arose. We would never again share the secrets, the concerns, the prayers that women tell other women, nor would we walk arm in arm down the street.
In her 80s, she’d lived quite an extraordinary life. On her honeymoon, she slept in a palace and explored Jaipur on the back of an elephant. In Europe, she was on the cusp of elegance. As a hostess, nobody kept them laughing like she did. She could eat a pound of spaghetti and never gain an ounce. Above all, she loved her family. To her granddaughter, who loved the stories of a rosary toting fun-filled deb, she was known as ‘La Divina.’
Sitting up in the wee hours, I couldn’t help but think about how much she was a woman of her generation. Okay, she lived a life full of glamour and excitement, but in her later years, she talked about coming of age in the 40s; the toll it took. That side of her life was incredibly harsh. Like other women taught to follow the well-worn path of femininity she was warned of the risks, the isolation from family and friends that lay in choosing something more daring. Some women were braver than others. Many continued to hear the faint siren’s voice of what might have been, the silent longing for fulfillment on a deeper level. Some turned bitter rolling their desires into angry and sad packages of wishes and urgings they placed in the arms of their own daughters. It didn’t have to be that way, but more often than not, it just was.
After thinking about what I would miss about this dearest of women, I began to wonder if there wasn’t something I could give her, something in memory of her. The winds of unpredictability are blowing stronger than ever before. For women worldwide this seems to be particularly true. They advance and the demons that oppose change rise up to stop them. In the Middle East, it’s fundamentalist Islam, in the West, it’s also the fundamentalists. The people who just can’t seem to grasp that going back isn’t possible. What was once daring has become more satisfying. If that weren’t true we wouldn’t see so many young women getting college degrees.
If we’re going to do things that matter, whether it’s standing, walking or even while sitting in a wheelchair, we need to take more chances. It’s important to remember that Change Makers aren’t necessarily those who make great waves. They may be the quiet ones who carry light into dark corners so that others can find their way out. It doesn’t require being rich, climbing mountains, or building an empire. There are always slots for you to fill at 50, 60, 70 and beyond. Older women who dare have much to offer; their experience, their survival skills, their collection of stories. Being a Female Change Maker is a state of mind and spirit and the rewards are immense. If you’re interested here are important things to help:
1. Honor differences.
2. Practice compassionate communication.
3. Be intellectually hungry and seek out big ideas.
4. Laugh a lot.
5. Forget about the due dates society imposes on age.
6. By now you’ve stumbled, fallen and got up again. You CAN do it again.
7. Don’t be judgmental. Cultivate forgiveness.
8. Listen for the echoes. If more than one person is telling you something, there may be some truth in it.
9. Listen for the good stories, the ones that inspire and offer solutions. Then pass them forward.
10.Honor your wrinkles; they’re stripes of service to life.
11.Build on what you know, but be ready to modify or create something you’ve only dreamed about.
12. Hang onto your hat; it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Do you have any other ideas to add to this list? Please share!
(Here’s looking at you, C. The stories, the laughter, the times we shared and the love you gave me are tucked in close to my heart.)
Friday, October 15, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Meet My Tribe - The Creatively Maladjusted
“Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted." Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
When Dr. King spoke of maladjusted, he was speaking of my tribe. The people who refuse to settle for normal, they’re alert to the possibilities that come when you look at the world from a slightly skewed perspective. And with 60+ years, I’ve never been so excited as I am now about this moment in history and the creatively maladjusted. Okay, there’s a lot I don’t like what’s happening, things that make me feel uncomfortable and afraid. However, I’m not about to feed that wolf - that hungry animal that thrives on fear. I know fear sells, but I’m not sold on it. I’d rather keep my eyes on the glory, the absurd that’s emerging from people who had the nerve to step outside the box.
It all reminds me of that amazing period in Europe called the Renaissance, the French word for rebirth and in Italian Rinascimento, from ri- "again" and nascere – to be born. A break through historical moment that gave us writers, architects and thinkers like Michelangelo to Dante, Brunelleschi and Da Vinci, to name a few. Underlying this astonishing creative eruption was a cultural and educational reform movement called Humanism. Humanists held the intent of creating well rounded citizens, women and men; people who would be able to write eloquently and with clarity and would be capable of persuading acts of virtue in their communities.
It seems to me that Humanists were what Jeremy Rifkin, author and advisor on sustainability to the European Community calls Homo Empathicus. As far as I’m concerned, they’re back in greater numbers. They’re taking the lead in promoting life supporting choices and change. Rifkin believes empathic consciousness will be the new organizing principle for global society. The Big Bonus: It’s extremely valuable in the lean years, as it offers support for both parties, which means greater opportunity for success. Without it, he believes we may not even have a future.
During the Renaissance artists were supported by some of Europe’s wealthiest and most powerful families, like the Medici in Italy. Today, millions are supporting others by connecting and providing access to their ideas and spirit on blogs, Skype, in local meet ups and flash crowds. Today, we have hundreds of thousands of people who become patrons and donors who use penny power and micro-financing to provide meals, and healthcare, and education. It seems to me that’s a whole lot of intentional international humanism.
The creatively maladjusted have moved beyond normal to empowering the wildly sublime.
When Dr. King spoke of maladjusted, he was speaking of my tribe. The people who refuse to settle for normal, they’re alert to the possibilities that come when you look at the world from a slightly skewed perspective. And with 60+ years, I’ve never been so excited as I am now about this moment in history and the creatively maladjusted. Okay, there’s a lot I don’t like what’s happening, things that make me feel uncomfortable and afraid. However, I’m not about to feed that wolf - that hungry animal that thrives on fear. I know fear sells, but I’m not sold on it. I’d rather keep my eyes on the glory, the absurd that’s emerging from people who had the nerve to step outside the box.
It all reminds me of that amazing period in Europe called the Renaissance, the French word for rebirth and in Italian Rinascimento, from ri- "again" and nascere – to be born. A break through historical moment that gave us writers, architects and thinkers like Michelangelo to Dante, Brunelleschi and Da Vinci, to name a few. Underlying this astonishing creative eruption was a cultural and educational reform movement called Humanism. Humanists held the intent of creating well rounded citizens, women and men; people who would be able to write eloquently and with clarity and would be capable of persuading acts of virtue in their communities.
It seems to me that Humanists were what Jeremy Rifkin, author and advisor on sustainability to the European Community calls Homo Empathicus. As far as I’m concerned, they’re back in greater numbers. They’re taking the lead in promoting life supporting choices and change. Rifkin believes empathic consciousness will be the new organizing principle for global society. The Big Bonus: It’s extremely valuable in the lean years, as it offers support for both parties, which means greater opportunity for success. Without it, he believes we may not even have a future.
During the Renaissance artists were supported by some of Europe’s wealthiest and most powerful families, like the Medici in Italy. Today, millions are supporting others by connecting and providing access to their ideas and spirit on blogs, Skype, in local meet ups and flash crowds. Today, we have hundreds of thousands of people who become patrons and donors who use penny power and micro-financing to provide meals, and healthcare, and education. It seems to me that’s a whole lot of intentional international humanism.
The creatively maladjusted have moved beyond normal to empowering the wildly sublime.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Finding Hope and Beauty in the Ruins: A Pilgrim's Journey to the Gulf Coast
And So It Was I Entered the Broken World – Hart Crane
A glossy sheen shifts over the swells and currents of the water. A shell-covered back road that winds through thick vegetation leads to a smaller cove whose entry is blocked by several lines of booms. In the center, a mother porpoise, two babies and the nurse playfully dive and surface. Cicadas rattle the air. A young girl’s bathing suit and a pair of tennis shoes lay abandoned on a small rise.
The Gulf Coast news reports waters turning from blue to black. The dead rise from the sea and wash ashore; dolphins, a sperm whale, countless birds and fish. Others sink silently to the bottom. All mute witnesses to a massacre they’re mostly some distance to the West of where I stand. It’s rumored that soon the beaches of Florida will be submitted to the same indignities.
Perdido, which means lost in Spanish acquired its name due to an entrance which can be easy to miss. According to local lore it was a hiding place for pirates. Spending two very short days here feels like a rare gift. Wild and thick, nature in this place packs a visceral punch. As in tropical zones, the beauty is transient, sometimes dangerous and always seductive. It’s easy to imagine a saber tooth tiger suddenly appearing to sip from the small freshwater brook meanders through the woods.
The diversity of creatures on land, in the air and the water is immense and as the land has been developed over the years you find their names appearing on lists with headings like: extinct, endangered, rare, and exotic.
We stop for seasonal sweet corn, cantaloupe and plump blueberries from a stand at the side of the road. Two dogs snarl, circling each other as they battle over territorial rights. The small mutt wins and the Lab retreats, shaking his coat, as if to say he doesn’t care. Getting into the car, I’m reminded it’s not always size. Belief and the willingness to risk all means I’ve just witnessed another David and Goliath story unfold.
At midnight, it’s still so humid and hot, that the air snatches my breath from my lungs. In bed, stretched out in the darkness, I quietly review the day. The patches on the water with an opalescent sheen, small black tar balls on white sugar sand. I am a pilgrim to a broken land that’s part of a larger broken world. I know there’s nothing here, or anywhere for that matter, that hasn’t changed, that won’t change. All the same, I believe one can find beauty and hope in the ruins. If I listen carefully, I’ll hear the prayers of what’s dying, what’s struggling to survive, and what wants to be born.
Day II
Two Red Flags:
Passing small restaurants and shops with hastily written red letters that advertise URGENT SALES, we arrive at the public beach. The red flags hang limply from the top of a pole on an empty lifeguard station. The sand is blindingly white; it makes my eyes sting. Under a loose gauzy top, my skin feels as if it’s been seared.
A few yards a vision that combines past, present and a possible future stops me in my tracks. Not a soul is in the water. A line of people stretches as far as the eye can see in both directions. No one moves. Those who speak do so quietly. They stare at the horizon, until inevitably their gaze drops to where curved lines of muddy looking foam lick at their toes.
This is where they come to swim and play, to relax. It’s home. One feels their anger. They’re mourning. My heart hurts as I step into line beside them.
For the outlander, Southerners and southern culture is deceptive. One is led to believe being slow in speech and movement local brains are pan-fried like the fish and chicken they enjoy eating. But if the traveler stays awhile, they soon learn that these are stubborn, hardy folk. They have a sly sense of humor that creeps up and slaps you on the side of the head. It takes a lot to survive the elements down here. Yes, they’re sometimes slow to accept new ideas, but they’re generous and the love they have for their home runs fierce and deep.
Late Afternoon. The Seafood Shack:
We pull into the parking lot in front of a white ramshackle building located on a quiet inlet about 8 miles inland from the Gulf shores. Outback a line of empty midsized shrimp boats bump against the docks. The small seafood distributor is where many of the locals go to buy crab, oysters, redfish, halibut, snapper and shrimp among others. Fishing was a $2.5B industry in the Gulf.
The man behind the counter wears a cap pulled low above pale blue eyes. His skin is weathered and lined. The name on his spotted and frayed short sleeve shirt is Bubba. The dictionary defines Bubba as a name commonly given ‘to white uneducated men who are gregarious with their peers.’ It rolls off the tongue like a word a small child might substitute for something that doesn’t fit or is difficult to say. It has an affectionate sound to it. Like most every Southerner, for Bubba a simple sentence isn’t sufficient about going to the corner to buy a pound of flour. Where’s the fun in that? My Bubba (I’m already thinking of him that way) launches into the story about the shrimpers, the boats, long nights and lost jobs. Jim Bob who’s had a few is currently sleeping on the dock out back. Twenty-five years as a shrimper and now nothing.
BP is hiring people with boats to patrol the Gulf. They call in when they spot a slick and wait for the skimmers. Sadly, not all of the fisher captains are hired because some slick operators who own boats they use on weekends have taken temporary leaves from work, or closed their shops and hired on. “Hell,” Bubba says, “there’s even some minister who drives a hundred miles, his boat in tow. He figures on clearing around $50K the next weeks.”
Further West, he informs me, some shrimper captains are leading ‘tours of destruction.’
When we ask how the shrimp are, he assures us they’re fine. We order three pounds. The shrimpers are sailing several hundred miles further. Ordinarily, they would unload at the docks in the back. Now, they loading up their pickup trucks and drive non-stop through the night to bring Bubba their shrimp.
As we leave, a group of young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will heading to the beach. Their faces are lined with exhaustion. Their eyes are dim.
Outside, a group of tired looking young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will be heading to the beaches.
How Do We Pick Up The Pieces?
The cosmos works by a harmony of tensions like the lyre and the bow - Heraclitus
We’re tearing nature apart limb-by-limb, creature by creature, sea to sea, mountains and deserts, rivers and lakes. We act as if the land is our slave. And each person that does nothing to conserve nature is accountable for her dying.
Once diversity goes, so do we. Science hasn’t come close to calculating the importance of the links between creatures and humans. There isn’t time when you line up the number of deaths and extinctions occurring at a breathtaking pace. Some links, however, are obvious. For instance, over thirty percent of the bee population has disappeared in the last few years. Without them we will be living mainly on grains, no fruits and fewer vegetables. As a nation we use more oil per capita than any other country in the world.
As nature writer Terry Tempest Williams wrote 'Each morning, we must ask ourselves how do we wish to live and with whom.'
The root of the noble is in the common, the high stands on what’s below.
Tao te Ching
We need to connect because it is in community with like-minded individuals we will find ways to conserve, and survive. In community there’s less chance of severe burnout. In community we are inspired. We learn to build on the work of others. Communities don’t wait on D.C. or dwell on who’s to blame.
All across America, regional groups and communities are busy creating solutions and preparing for what might come. Detroit is turning abandoned blocks and empty streets into parks and farmland, saving on utilities and bringing people together. Cleveland has taken an abandoned mall and turned it into an atrium where they’re growing vegetables and fruits. In town halls people are charting their destiny as they make group decisions as to the next step that’s needed whether it has to do with education, jobs, or basic resources.
In the Gulf, groups gather to form a center of concern. Blogs are created with videos that show what’s happening, along with to do lists. Amidst stories of childhood games of pirates, swimming with dolphins, and Independence Day picnics, neighbors pinpoint resources. Plans are drafted to protect this small corner, their corner.
The Morning of Day III:
Rising early, as I step outside to savor the view of the Bay one last time, a poem by Mary Oliver comes to mind.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
If I have made of my life something particular and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
Or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
(* This blog will begin to provide easy hook ups for anyone who wants to join a community that’s enabling life-supporting change.)
A list from ‘The Soul of a Citizen” for your bathroom mirror.
• Be Radical
• Be Radically Patient
• Keep your eyes open
• Find your community
• Seek Solutions
• Connect and be compassionate with others & yourself.
• Be playful
• Sleep
• Eat local and well
• Take time to reflect
• Give yourself credit
• Look for the light in the shadows of defeat, and beauty in the ruins.
• Celebrate the small victories.
The future will be created by not only by what we learn, it will be created by the values of hearts and souls.
A glossy sheen shifts over the swells and currents of the water. A shell-covered back road that winds through thick vegetation leads to a smaller cove whose entry is blocked by several lines of booms. In the center, a mother porpoise, two babies and the nurse playfully dive and surface. Cicadas rattle the air. A young girl’s bathing suit and a pair of tennis shoes lay abandoned on a small rise.
The Gulf Coast news reports waters turning from blue to black. The dead rise from the sea and wash ashore; dolphins, a sperm whale, countless birds and fish. Others sink silently to the bottom. All mute witnesses to a massacre they’re mostly some distance to the West of where I stand. It’s rumored that soon the beaches of Florida will be submitted to the same indignities.
Perdido, which means lost in Spanish acquired its name due to an entrance which can be easy to miss. According to local lore it was a hiding place for pirates. Spending two very short days here feels like a rare gift. Wild and thick, nature in this place packs a visceral punch. As in tropical zones, the beauty is transient, sometimes dangerous and always seductive. It’s easy to imagine a saber tooth tiger suddenly appearing to sip from the small freshwater brook meanders through the woods.
The diversity of creatures on land, in the air and the water is immense and as the land has been developed over the years you find their names appearing on lists with headings like: extinct, endangered, rare, and exotic.
We stop for seasonal sweet corn, cantaloupe and plump blueberries from a stand at the side of the road. Two dogs snarl, circling each other as they battle over territorial rights. The small mutt wins and the Lab retreats, shaking his coat, as if to say he doesn’t care. Getting into the car, I’m reminded it’s not always size. Belief and the willingness to risk all means I’ve just witnessed another David and Goliath story unfold.
At midnight, it’s still so humid and hot, that the air snatches my breath from my lungs. In bed, stretched out in the darkness, I quietly review the day. The patches on the water with an opalescent sheen, small black tar balls on white sugar sand. I am a pilgrim to a broken land that’s part of a larger broken world. I know there’s nothing here, or anywhere for that matter, that hasn’t changed, that won’t change. All the same, I believe one can find beauty and hope in the ruins. If I listen carefully, I’ll hear the prayers of what’s dying, what’s struggling to survive, and what wants to be born.
Day II
Two Red Flags:
Passing small restaurants and shops with hastily written red letters that advertise URGENT SALES, we arrive at the public beach. The red flags hang limply from the top of a pole on an empty lifeguard station. The sand is blindingly white; it makes my eyes sting. Under a loose gauzy top, my skin feels as if it’s been seared.
A few yards a vision that combines past, present and a possible future stops me in my tracks. Not a soul is in the water. A line of people stretches as far as the eye can see in both directions. No one moves. Those who speak do so quietly. They stare at the horizon, until inevitably their gaze drops to where curved lines of muddy looking foam lick at their toes.
This is where they come to swim and play, to relax. It’s home. One feels their anger. They’re mourning. My heart hurts as I step into line beside them.
For the outlander, Southerners and southern culture is deceptive. One is led to believe being slow in speech and movement local brains are pan-fried like the fish and chicken they enjoy eating. But if the traveler stays awhile, they soon learn that these are stubborn, hardy folk. They have a sly sense of humor that creeps up and slaps you on the side of the head. It takes a lot to survive the elements down here. Yes, they’re sometimes slow to accept new ideas, but they’re generous and the love they have for their home runs fierce and deep.
Late Afternoon. The Seafood Shack:
We pull into the parking lot in front of a white ramshackle building located on a quiet inlet about 8 miles inland from the Gulf shores. Outback a line of empty midsized shrimp boats bump against the docks. The small seafood distributor is where many of the locals go to buy crab, oysters, redfish, halibut, snapper and shrimp among others. Fishing was a $2.5B industry in the Gulf.
The man behind the counter wears a cap pulled low above pale blue eyes. His skin is weathered and lined. The name on his spotted and frayed short sleeve shirt is Bubba. The dictionary defines Bubba as a name commonly given ‘to white uneducated men who are gregarious with their peers.’ It rolls off the tongue like a word a small child might substitute for something that doesn’t fit or is difficult to say. It has an affectionate sound to it. Like most every Southerner, for Bubba a simple sentence isn’t sufficient about going to the corner to buy a pound of flour. Where’s the fun in that? My Bubba (I’m already thinking of him that way) launches into the story about the shrimpers, the boats, long nights and lost jobs. Jim Bob who’s had a few is currently sleeping on the dock out back. Twenty-five years as a shrimper and now nothing.
BP is hiring people with boats to patrol the Gulf. They call in when they spot a slick and wait for the skimmers. Sadly, not all of the fisher captains are hired because some slick operators who own boats they use on weekends have taken temporary leaves from work, or closed their shops and hired on. “Hell,” Bubba says, “there’s even some minister who drives a hundred miles, his boat in tow. He figures on clearing around $50K the next weeks.”
Further West, he informs me, some shrimper captains are leading ‘tours of destruction.’
When we ask how the shrimp are, he assures us they’re fine. We order three pounds. The shrimpers are sailing several hundred miles further. Ordinarily, they would unload at the docks in the back. Now, they loading up their pickup trucks and drive non-stop through the night to bring Bubba their shrimp.
As we leave, a group of young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will heading to the beach. Their faces are lined with exhaustion. Their eyes are dim.
Outside, a group of tired looking young men are gathering, part of the clean up crew that will be heading to the beaches.
How Do We Pick Up The Pieces?
The cosmos works by a harmony of tensions like the lyre and the bow - Heraclitus
We’re tearing nature apart limb-by-limb, creature by creature, sea to sea, mountains and deserts, rivers and lakes. We act as if the land is our slave. And each person that does nothing to conserve nature is accountable for her dying.
Once diversity goes, so do we. Science hasn’t come close to calculating the importance of the links between creatures and humans. There isn’t time when you line up the number of deaths and extinctions occurring at a breathtaking pace. Some links, however, are obvious. For instance, over thirty percent of the bee population has disappeared in the last few years. Without them we will be living mainly on grains, no fruits and fewer vegetables. As a nation we use more oil per capita than any other country in the world.
As nature writer Terry Tempest Williams wrote 'Each morning, we must ask ourselves how do we wish to live and with whom.'
The root of the noble is in the common, the high stands on what’s below.
Tao te Ching
We need to connect because it is in community with like-minded individuals we will find ways to conserve, and survive. In community there’s less chance of severe burnout. In community we are inspired. We learn to build on the work of others. Communities don’t wait on D.C. or dwell on who’s to blame.
All across America, regional groups and communities are busy creating solutions and preparing for what might come. Detroit is turning abandoned blocks and empty streets into parks and farmland, saving on utilities and bringing people together. Cleveland has taken an abandoned mall and turned it into an atrium where they’re growing vegetables and fruits. In town halls people are charting their destiny as they make group decisions as to the next step that’s needed whether it has to do with education, jobs, or basic resources.
In the Gulf, groups gather to form a center of concern. Blogs are created with videos that show what’s happening, along with to do lists. Amidst stories of childhood games of pirates, swimming with dolphins, and Independence Day picnics, neighbors pinpoint resources. Plans are drafted to protect this small corner, their corner.
The Morning of Day III:
Rising early, as I step outside to savor the view of the Bay one last time, a poem by Mary Oliver comes to mind.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
If I have made of my life something particular and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
Or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
(* This blog will begin to provide easy hook ups for anyone who wants to join a community that’s enabling life-supporting change.)
A list from ‘The Soul of a Citizen” for your bathroom mirror.
• Be Radical
• Be Radically Patient
• Keep your eyes open
• Find your community
• Seek Solutions
• Connect and be compassionate with others & yourself.
• Be playful
• Sleep
• Eat local and well
• Take time to reflect
• Give yourself credit
• Look for the light in the shadows of defeat, and beauty in the ruins.
• Celebrate the small victories.
The future will be created by not only by what we learn, it will be created by the values of hearts and souls.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
I'm Proud to be a MUTT
I’m a MUTT, and what could be better than that?
Purebred dogs are beautiful, but why settle for one dog, when you can have a combination of both or several?
Athough the rules changed in 2009, up until then you didn’t see mutts at the AKC Show, that country clubbish gathering with purebreds groomed to the tips of their toes and lashes. Where somewhere a sign was posted Real Dogs Are Forbidden to Enter.
Purebreds may be more beautiful on the outside, but mutts know inner beauty is what counts. Your purebred is more likely to be stolen, a mutt won’t. In Brazil and the Dominican Republic MUTTS are called vira lata (trash can tippers) which means not only are they survivors, they’re problem solvers. Known as quick thinkers, their boundless curiosity makes them well informed. MUTTS don’t get lost, but if you do they’re experts at finding people who will help.
Mutts enjoy going to places where you never know who you’ll meet. Back roads and barrios and parks where there are a lot of people to play with, especially kids with frisbees.
MUTTS get a kick out of making other people laugh because when there’s laughter, anger and sorrow are somewhere else. And sometimes they might even get a treat.
MUTTS make great pals. Bring them home and they’ll love you forever, because you knew a good thing when you saw it.
Purebred dogs are beautiful, but why settle for one dog, when you can have a combination of both or several?
Athough the rules changed in 2009, up until then you didn’t see mutts at the AKC Show, that country clubbish gathering with purebreds groomed to the tips of their toes and lashes. Where somewhere a sign was posted Real Dogs Are Forbidden to Enter.
Purebreds may be more beautiful on the outside, but mutts know inner beauty is what counts. Your purebred is more likely to be stolen, a mutt won’t. In Brazil and the Dominican Republic MUTTS are called vira lata (trash can tippers) which means not only are they survivors, they’re problem solvers. Known as quick thinkers, their boundless curiosity makes them well informed. MUTTS don’t get lost, but if you do they’re experts at finding people who will help.
Mutts enjoy going to places where you never know who you’ll meet. Back roads and barrios and parks where there are a lot of people to play with, especially kids with frisbees.
MUTTS get a kick out of making other people laugh because when there’s laughter, anger and sorrow are somewhere else. And sometimes they might even get a treat.
MUTTS make great pals. Bring them home and they’ll love you forever, because you knew a good thing when you saw it.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Elegance of Simplicity, The Beauty in Space
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a nomad. It started when I was five and ran away from home to spend the night under an avocado tree several blocks away. Thrilled to be there, I was also deathly afraid of what might be waiting in the darkness just beyond my leafy sanctuary.
In the years that followed, I was compelled to travel further and further, until there were thousands of miles between me and the town I’d grown up in. I crossed oceans and continents, spending intervals in Europe, South and Central America. I slept in a hammock, on boats, in a Roman wine cellar and in an 11the century castle
When I first started off I carried a few suitcases. They became trunks that disappeared in the holds of cargo ships and the backs of trucks alongside small mountains of boxes. There were the utensils I couldn’t live without; pots and pans, clothes, linens and paintings. Photos and small bits and pieces were the footprints of my past. Always always there was a collection of books that kept growing.
Eventually, I’ve divested myself of two husbands, a long-term live in lover, and my daughter followed nature’s course and moved to Manhattan. Another few years passed, and suddenly I began to relinquish my possessions, despite the occasional tug or ache that appeared when I handed over something that had served me well. The orange Le Creuset pot that cooked a perfect stewed chicken, and weighed 6 pounds! Having more than one blanket, the heavy royal blue wool was given to a woman I met. It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re freezing, and as a single mother of three she needs to nourish her dreams. Although I haven’t given them all up and never will, a great many of my beloved books have slowly been repurposed, finding their way to libraries and into the hands of people who I felt would enjoy them.
And as things continued to disappear, I began to recognize the elegance of simplicity. The beauty of space. In the forest, it’s the clearing. In the desert, the sky. On the beach, it’s the horizon. In Chinese calligraphy, empty space is named ‘designing the white’ and it enhances the blackness of the letters. In Japanese gardens, the empty space provides balance. It defines the elements that surround it, just as the elements that surround it define the space.
Like the yoga master who teaches that the empty space following the breaths inward and outward is where great movement occurs, modern physics tells us that there is no empty space. What appears to be emptiness is filled with particles, atoms and invisible energy.
Bringing emptiness into various aspects of my life, gave me the freedom and serenity that I’d unknowingly longed for. No more need to carve out chunks of time to polish the furniture and the silver!
My friend R, a devout Buddhist and a healer of children from war zones, once said, I don’t think I’ll reach enlightenment this lifetime, nor am I completely sure I even want to. We both laughed. Be that as it may, I’ve come to believe that the last stage of a woman’s life journey is when she focuses on cultivating her soul, something that’s done moment by moment. Enjoying the peaks and lighting fires in the darkness, life becomes an act of devotion, a joyous commitment to all living beings. Embracing divine madness, moments of insight and the intoxification of Divine Love, the older woman finds grace by surrendering to simplicity.
The journey becomes easier.
In the years that followed, I was compelled to travel further and further, until there were thousands of miles between me and the town I’d grown up in. I crossed oceans and continents, spending intervals in Europe, South and Central America. I slept in a hammock, on boats, in a Roman wine cellar and in an 11the century castle
When I first started off I carried a few suitcases. They became trunks that disappeared in the holds of cargo ships and the backs of trucks alongside small mountains of boxes. There were the utensils I couldn’t live without; pots and pans, clothes, linens and paintings. Photos and small bits and pieces were the footprints of my past. Always always there was a collection of books that kept growing.
Eventually, I’ve divested myself of two husbands, a long-term live in lover, and my daughter followed nature’s course and moved to Manhattan. Another few years passed, and suddenly I began to relinquish my possessions, despite the occasional tug or ache that appeared when I handed over something that had served me well. The orange Le Creuset pot that cooked a perfect stewed chicken, and weighed 6 pounds! Having more than one blanket, the heavy royal blue wool was given to a woman I met. It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re freezing, and as a single mother of three she needs to nourish her dreams. Although I haven’t given them all up and never will, a great many of my beloved books have slowly been repurposed, finding their way to libraries and into the hands of people who I felt would enjoy them.
And as things continued to disappear, I began to recognize the elegance of simplicity. The beauty of space. In the forest, it’s the clearing. In the desert, the sky. On the beach, it’s the horizon. In Chinese calligraphy, empty space is named ‘designing the white’ and it enhances the blackness of the letters. In Japanese gardens, the empty space provides balance. It defines the elements that surround it, just as the elements that surround it define the space.
Like the yoga master who teaches that the empty space following the breaths inward and outward is where great movement occurs, modern physics tells us that there is no empty space. What appears to be emptiness is filled with particles, atoms and invisible energy.
Bringing emptiness into various aspects of my life, gave me the freedom and serenity that I’d unknowingly longed for. No more need to carve out chunks of time to polish the furniture and the silver!
My friend R, a devout Buddhist and a healer of children from war zones, once said, I don’t think I’ll reach enlightenment this lifetime, nor am I completely sure I even want to. We both laughed. Be that as it may, I’ve come to believe that the last stage of a woman’s life journey is when she focuses on cultivating her soul, something that’s done moment by moment. Enjoying the peaks and lighting fires in the darkness, life becomes an act of devotion, a joyous commitment to all living beings. Embracing divine madness, moments of insight and the intoxification of Divine Love, the older woman finds grace by surrendering to simplicity.
The journey becomes easier.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Mother's Day: Bring the Real One Back!
"War is unhealthy for children and other living things."
Larriane Schneider
Shortly after the Civil War, activist, Julia Ward Howe wrote a Mother’s Proclamation. It began with these words:
We will not have great questions decided by
irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking
with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be
taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach
them of charity, mercy and patience.
Her intentions for a Mothers for Peace Day changed over the years, until finally in the early 20th century, the date was co-opted by the floral industry. From there it ballooned into a billion dollar industry.
One thing is still certain, no matter where you go, what color or nationality you are, mothers everywhere want the same thing for their children: food to eat, safe shelter and love. Now, it’s time for mothers to take back the day! Imagine what would happen if all the mothers in America asked their children to join them in declaring a Mothers for Peace Day.
This mother’s day, you can start in your own neighborhoods and homes by holding a Mothers for Peace Day.
These are some of the things you can do:
1. Organize a family or neighborhood potluck to talk about peace. Ask the children what peace means to them? Talk about the roles of compassion, kindness, forgiveness and beauty in creating peace. Ask them what it means to do no harm.
2. Tell them Sadako’s story, a Japanese girl who developed "bomb sickness" shortly after Hiroshima. Informed by a friend ‘if you fold a 1000 paper cranes you will be granted a wish,' and wishing to be well, Sadako began making cranes. She died before she could finish. Her classmates made the rest and they helped raise money for a peace memorial built in her honor.
Make your own origami cranes for peace. (watch this easy YouTube video for making a crane with recycled paper www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnBhAhqU_PY ) String them in neighborhood windows or in your family’s home.
3. Jill McManigal, co-founder of Kids for Peace (www.kidsforpeaceusa.org) was inspired by her daughter, Hana, to start this group which grew to 17 chapters across the U.S. They have a Facebook page (Kids for Peace) with all kinds of interesting links for ways to get involved. There are other programs on their website.
4. Write out the Kids for Peace Pledge. Have them share it at school.
• I pledge to use my words to speak in a kind way.
• I pledge to help others as I go throughout my day.
• I pledge to care for our earth with my healing heart and hands.
• I pledge to respect people in each and every land
• I pledge to join together as we unite the big and small.
• I pledge to do my part to create peace for one and all.
5. Some children connect peace to having a healthy environment. You can start by bringing home a ‘peace’ tree and planting it in your backyard.
Find a local eco group you and your kids can be involved with.
And when your Mothers for Peace Day is coming to a close, sit down quietly with the children and tell them this. Mothers everywhere dream of peace for their children and the world needs children who dream of peace. Tell them how unique they are, how clever they are and that there’s never been another one like them. That you believe that day by day they have an important part in creating peace. Then thank them because by sharing a Mother Day for Peace, you’ve already begun to make those dreams come true.
Larriane Schneider
Shortly after the Civil War, activist, Julia Ward Howe wrote a Mother’s Proclamation. It began with these words:
We will not have great questions decided by
irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking
with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be
taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach
them of charity, mercy and patience.
Her intentions for a Mothers for Peace Day changed over the years, until finally in the early 20th century, the date was co-opted by the floral industry. From there it ballooned into a billion dollar industry.
One thing is still certain, no matter where you go, what color or nationality you are, mothers everywhere want the same thing for their children: food to eat, safe shelter and love. Now, it’s time for mothers to take back the day! Imagine what would happen if all the mothers in America asked their children to join them in declaring a Mothers for Peace Day.
This mother’s day, you can start in your own neighborhoods and homes by holding a Mothers for Peace Day.
These are some of the things you can do:
1. Organize a family or neighborhood potluck to talk about peace. Ask the children what peace means to them? Talk about the roles of compassion, kindness, forgiveness and beauty in creating peace. Ask them what it means to do no harm.
2. Tell them Sadako’s story, a Japanese girl who developed "bomb sickness" shortly after Hiroshima. Informed by a friend ‘if you fold a 1000 paper cranes you will be granted a wish,' and wishing to be well, Sadako began making cranes. She died before she could finish. Her classmates made the rest and they helped raise money for a peace memorial built in her honor.
Make your own origami cranes for peace. (watch this easy YouTube video for making a crane with recycled paper www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnBhAhqU_PY ) String them in neighborhood windows or in your family’s home.
3. Jill McManigal, co-founder of Kids for Peace (www.kidsforpeaceusa.org) was inspired by her daughter, Hana, to start this group which grew to 17 chapters across the U.S. They have a Facebook page (Kids for Peace) with all kinds of interesting links for ways to get involved. There are other programs on their website.
4. Write out the Kids for Peace Pledge. Have them share it at school.
• I pledge to use my words to speak in a kind way.
• I pledge to help others as I go throughout my day.
• I pledge to care for our earth with my healing heart and hands.
• I pledge to respect people in each and every land
• I pledge to join together as we unite the big and small.
• I pledge to do my part to create peace for one and all.
5. Some children connect peace to having a healthy environment. You can start by bringing home a ‘peace’ tree and planting it in your backyard.
Find a local eco group you and your kids can be involved with.
And when your Mothers for Peace Day is coming to a close, sit down quietly with the children and tell them this. Mothers everywhere dream of peace for their children and the world needs children who dream of peace. Tell them how unique they are, how clever they are and that there’s never been another one like them. That you believe that day by day they have an important part in creating peace. Then thank them because by sharing a Mother Day for Peace, you’ve already begun to make those dreams come true.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Normal is Cow. My Dance Partner's Name is Indulgence
At 14, after looking closely at a cow in a pasture I made a momentous decision. Despite its lovely lashes, I realized that behind the lazy cud chewing and outrageous eyelashes was a shoo-in for Normal. Don’t get me wrong; cows are okay. Unless you find a bale of hay exciting, they never really go anywhere you’d find particularly interesting.
Following my cow epiphany, I went on the run from Normal. Occasionally, I would hear others ask for Normal, praise, and give thanks when Normal was the star of their lives. Often, I wondered about these people and why were they seeking Normal. Normal isn’t challenging. It doesn't ask me to do my best. It certainly didn’t find its way to an illiterate blind healer who built a small village for a group of blind lepers and taught them to sing Bach a Capella. Normal didn’t sit at the table of poor fishermen who emptied their cupboards for a hungry stranger.
Normal often feels entitled to keep things on an even keel and isn't fond of passion. It shuns the difficult questions. Normal wouldn’t have heard firsthand the story of the man who put together a flotilla of taxis, old cars and school buses to save hundreds from being killed by a murderous group of soldiers.
Normal didn’t live in an all black low-income neighborhood in Los Angeles with crazy Corene two doors away. With her scarred face, false teeth, and pissy attitude hiding her generous heart, Corene loved to tease the neighborhood kids who thought she was a witch. She lent me cotton gloves to go dumpster diving for cans she recycled for a nickel per. I became her chauffeur and gave her avocado rights to the tree against my house. She brought me cheese from the Food Bank, a wicked sense of humor and a new awareness about what it’s like to never go through the front door of a white person’s house. Normal would have run away before any of these things could have happened.
As an older woman, I sometimes wish for Normal, but only for a few seconds when I’m very tired. Now that I have a few decent years in my sails, my non-normal Self has a new dance partner. His first name is indulgence, his name eccentric. He’s also a big fan of Non Normal. We do very well together. If I can’t go to sleep he escorts me outside to sit under the moon. He reminds me when I’m being too critical of my Self. We laugh when I wear my slippers to the market and take an afternoon nap on my bed. There are times we practice selective hearing, something that gets easier as you get older and something we have in common with teenagers. He applauds when I turn out a story. Sometimes, we’re loud, others quiet. We watch each other’s back.
I’ve traveled a long way from Normal and wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to go back. Why would I want to? How about you?
Following my cow epiphany, I went on the run from Normal. Occasionally, I would hear others ask for Normal, praise, and give thanks when Normal was the star of their lives. Often, I wondered about these people and why were they seeking Normal. Normal isn’t challenging. It doesn't ask me to do my best. It certainly didn’t find its way to an illiterate blind healer who built a small village for a group of blind lepers and taught them to sing Bach a Capella. Normal didn’t sit at the table of poor fishermen who emptied their cupboards for a hungry stranger.
Normal often feels entitled to keep things on an even keel and isn't fond of passion. It shuns the difficult questions. Normal wouldn’t have heard firsthand the story of the man who put together a flotilla of taxis, old cars and school buses to save hundreds from being killed by a murderous group of soldiers.
Normal didn’t live in an all black low-income neighborhood in Los Angeles with crazy Corene two doors away. With her scarred face, false teeth, and pissy attitude hiding her generous heart, Corene loved to tease the neighborhood kids who thought she was a witch. She lent me cotton gloves to go dumpster diving for cans she recycled for a nickel per. I became her chauffeur and gave her avocado rights to the tree against my house. She brought me cheese from the Food Bank, a wicked sense of humor and a new awareness about what it’s like to never go through the front door of a white person’s house. Normal would have run away before any of these things could have happened.
As an older woman, I sometimes wish for Normal, but only for a few seconds when I’m very tired. Now that I have a few decent years in my sails, my non-normal Self has a new dance partner. His first name is indulgence, his name eccentric. He’s also a big fan of Non Normal. We do very well together. If I can’t go to sleep he escorts me outside to sit under the moon. He reminds me when I’m being too critical of my Self. We laugh when I wear my slippers to the market and take an afternoon nap on my bed. There are times we practice selective hearing, something that gets easier as you get older and something we have in common with teenagers. He applauds when I turn out a story. Sometimes, we’re loud, others quiet. We watch each other’s back.
I’ve traveled a long way from Normal and wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to go back. Why would I want to? How about you?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)