I suppose it would depend on where this plot of land was? If it were
the one where my house currently resides I would fix that house up. I
would redo the back addition, so that there would be some open space
and another access to the basement. Another bedroom and bathroom
perhaps.. there would be some rewiring and re-plumbing.
Following that, I would plant a garden of the variety that uses native
seeds and produces comestibles, I would get my chicken coop set up and
plant some more fruit trees.
NaBloPoMo
Friday, November 01, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
ode to mom
Mamacita,
I am so deeply grateful for you.
You cheer me when I need it, and even when I think I don't.
You hold me when I need to be held, and even when I think I don't.
You praise me when I need praise, and even when I think I don't.
You challenge me when I need to be challenged, and even when I think I don't.
You support me when I need it, and even when I think I don't.
You love me when I need love, and even when I think I don't.
You worry about me when I need to be worried about, and even when I don't.
And as I sit here reflecting in gratitude for what you are to me, I realize just how important those times are where you stood by me when I thought I didn't need someone to.
I love you, mama... even when you think I don't.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
My inner sloth or why I mostly hate October
I want to love the month that brings those changes... you know, the ones that move from a heat so intense you can feel it caress your skin on the most darkest of summer nights like a nocturnal Poludnica to sensing the chill so intense that it pierces the most thickest of clothes and paints a fine patina on your cheeks on its most blustery day as if gently kissed by a Hrimthur.
I love the idea of months like these... but living them can be brutal... admittedly, some years are better than others. This year, this October 2013, feels like some vile gorgon that needs to be fought tooth and nail. Its steel claws grabbing my heart in an elusive silence that I only realize I need to fight at what begins to feel like bottom.
This year, as the transition began I awoke one morning and felt like I had to just stop doing things... this is not a good place for a person like me. I started an involuntary shut down that my mind rebelled against and got to a point where I needed something external to push me over the edge. I was feeling like I had managed to punch myself in the gut in one of those sweetly french and existential ways... I was walking into a Sartre play and was desperately looking for my exit
I know myself enough these days that I can find things to tip me over back among the living, letting my time in an uncomfortable cuddle with the inner sloth come to an end or to at least take a break. Sometimes I am completely able to direct myself out of the sloth abyss and other-times I require assistance. This year required me to find an external mechanism to bring me back among the living.
Also, I should add that I had a hard time agreeing to the word sloth, I resisted because I grew up around tree sloths and think them quite wonderful and magical and this month has been less than that... but, I realized that it needs an association to a sloth, a cute arboreal mammal that is in need of a good mani-pedi.
 |
| Source: http://www.zooborns.com/ |
Now, I don't think that this is depression, but perhaps there is some other Victorianesque word that fits... melancholy or the doldrums might work, but they seem to be to much on the side of depressed and while I think it is most certainly something that is part of that spectrum on which one end lies ecstasy and on the other sadness or depression, it feels like something that is a nudge or two to the left of center...
 |
| Source: https://medium.com/ |
One of the things I did to try to get me to do exercises to help me get past this was to join SuperBetter.com. SuperBetter offered something to help me start looking at what I needed in order to move past the sloth. One of the first tasks I had was to draw a picture of myself as I felt that very moment (the worst in this series of monthly sloth) and did not find myself looking like a sloth but I drew something of some strange chicken woman:
.JPG) |
| Source: the photo album for the camera on my phone |
Yes, I am completely mortified that I put this out there.
The task told us to tear it up... but I was so completely horrified by the picture that I decided that I had to take a picture of it to keep as a reminder of where I did not want to be or return to. I tore up the original whispering a sweet goodbye to that strange perception of myself created in a place that might as well be the third nudge away from center.
So, I am still working my way to center, I feel one nudge away from where I think happiness resides....yes, I think happiness lives in that delicate balance between ecstasy and depression. It is the fullness of life and includes the good and the bad. It is the place where I feel magical and am able to count all my blessings. It is where I think of myself as consistently wonderful and beautiful and a child of the divine, be that God or the marvelously complex organization of cells that make me.
In the spirit of learning to love this October I am making a list of ten things I love about October:
1. My nephew was born smack dab in the middle of it and that is awesome.
2. It prepares and brings us to All Souls Day at its end.
3. Coffee tastes better on its chilly morning and hot chocolate is a viable alternative.
4. Working on Squinks Halloween costume.
5. Orange abounds in both nature and decorations, just look at all the gourds and pumpkins.
6. Blankets, I get to pull out the blankets by the end.
7. No more running the A/C, we shut off the thermostat!
8. Soup becomes delightfully edible in the dessert .
9. Greekfest (it is a Central Phoenix thing).
10. Some cool historical things happened this month (most American presidents were born in Oct.).
There, I feel better! I find that I may actually like October.
Relevant reference sites:
- http://www.rebellesociety.com/
2013/10/14/14-tidbits-to-stir- in-your-coffee-or-tea-when- the-sloth-visits/ - http://www.rebellesociety.com/
2012/08/27/blessed-be-your- longing-your-endless-ache- your-sharp-crystal-shatter- your-sea-glass-heart/ - http://www.superbetter.com
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
I Have A Dream Too
Fifty years ago this week there was a March on Washington that changed many things in the United States. It was incredible to me, these fifty years later, as a tribute to non-violent calls to action... which led, in part, to the Civil Rights Act the following year. Some people feel like it was a terrible moment, but for the words of the Dream Speech alone, I believe it was amazing.
My mother participated in Civil Rights marches and actions. Now this is nothing she has ever told me about, though two things happened that led me know that she had even been a part of this movement.
The first was when I was talking to my grandmother about inter-racial marriage and she told me how her own daughter had brought her to face her own prejudices by "bringing a big black beautiful buck" to dinner one night. She said that she welcomed the young man into her home but was struck by the thoughts she had about this young (and by her own admission genteel) black man that her daughter had brought home. The interesting part of this is that I assumed she meant my aunt, my mother's sister as having done this... but no, it turned out it was my own mother. My grand mother told me how grateful she was for that look in the mirror... I have also heard since that conversation that my mother also brought home a "young Hispanic buck" as well, and that evening (or so I am told) was fraught with tension as well.
The second was when I was a youngster in college and my grandmother took me to a reception for The Arizona Council for Foreign Visitors (then called the World Affairs Council of Phoenix). We met a gentleman named Lincoln Ragsdale. When my mother found out that I would be going she asked me to say hello, and told me that she had marched with him. So, I went up to him and introduced myself and said, "my mother marched with you in the 60's". We had a wonderful conversation and the stories he shared about the early days of desegregation and integration in Arizona were fascinating. It is a conversation I will cherish.
I grew up with racial and ethnic inequality all around me. The first evidence that hit me deep in the gut was a situation that happened with the neighbor.
I am sure that this man has no idea that he impacted me so profoundly. If he is still alive, he was living with a deck of cards that were stacked against him... and by that I mean that he was deemed to live a life of very hard labor and abuse by those with power with the goal being to feed his family.
I am sure I have written about this somewhere in this blog, but here is that story again.
My family had just moved into a new neighborhood in the suburbs of Quito, Ecuador called Jipijapa (those j's have an h sound) and our house had an empty lot and then a large apartment building to one side... the empty lot, however, was not so empty. A house, made of wattle and daub adobe was built with palm fronds for a roof and compact dirt for a floor, was on that empty lot.
One afternoon, I was playing with all the neighborhood kids when the kids from the apartment complex started getting mean to the kids in the adobe house... I don't recall what it was about, but the kids in the apartment were being mean and began to throw rocks at the kids from the adobe house. I was sticking with the adobe house kids, no idea why other than a tendency to stay with underdogs (though I recognize that may be more wishful, but I remember being mad at the kids from the apartment complex and I was in fact in the adobe house when it happened). The father opened the door to yell at the kids to go home and the kids threw more rocks at us. One of those rocks hit me smack in the forehead and blood began pouring down my face (head wounds do that). I asked the father to walk me home and he said he couldn't, that my mother would think that he had done it. I remember being completely shocked by this and telling him that my mother was not like that, she would be glad that he brought me home. We argued this a bit and I don't actually recall if he ended up taking me home, though I think he did and left me at the door and ran to wait at the gate. I do recall telling my mom that this had happened and what he had said. She seemed as sad as I was that this was how he had felt.
Ecuador is a lovely country, and while I may wax poetic about its beauty and consider it to be full of splendor, I have never been completely blind to its injustices. I have seen my friends hit their servants, I have seen my friends call their servants to get something that was well within their own reach. I have seen the poor begging for food, most often mothers with children around them, and it is such a glaring contrast to the beauty of Ecuador's landscape that if you are aware, it is striking. I too grew up with servants, and apparently horrified some of my American relatives with the ease in which I navigated my role as daughter of the house. The thing is, I loved them... the one that lived with us the longest holds such a dear place in my heart that I tear up just thinking of her. I have visited her when I have been back there, she is a part of my family in a way I can't really explain to anyone who has not been in that role. I want my son to meet her.
But all of this has brought me to ponder anger, and fear... I think this ultimately is about anger and fear... at the root of cruelty to others, discrimination...My mother participated in Civil Rights marches and actions. Now this is nothing she has ever told me about, though two things happened that led me know that she had even been a part of this movement.
The first was when I was talking to my grandmother about inter-racial marriage and she told me how her own daughter had brought her to face her own prejudices by "bringing a big black beautiful buck" to dinner one night. She said that she welcomed the young man into her home but was struck by the thoughts she had about this young (and by her own admission genteel) black man that her daughter had brought home. The interesting part of this is that I assumed she meant my aunt, my mother's sister as having done this... but no, it turned out it was my own mother. My grand mother told me how grateful she was for that look in the mirror... I have also heard since that conversation that my mother also brought home a "young Hispanic buck" as well, and that evening (or so I am told) was fraught with tension as well.
The second was when I was a youngster in college and my grandmother took me to a reception for The Arizona Council for Foreign Visitors (then called the World Affairs Council of Phoenix). We met a gentleman named Lincoln Ragsdale. When my mother found out that I would be going she asked me to say hello, and told me that she had marched with him. So, I went up to him and introduced myself and said, "my mother marched with you in the 60's". We had a wonderful conversation and the stories he shared about the early days of desegregation and integration in Arizona were fascinating. It is a conversation I will cherish.
I grew up with racial and ethnic inequality all around me. The first evidence that hit me deep in the gut was a situation that happened with the neighbor.
I am sure that this man has no idea that he impacted me so profoundly. If he is still alive, he was living with a deck of cards that were stacked against him... and by that I mean that he was deemed to live a life of very hard labor and abuse by those with power with the goal being to feed his family.
I am sure I have written about this somewhere in this blog, but here is that story again.
My family had just moved into a new neighborhood in the suburbs of Quito, Ecuador called Jipijapa (those j's have an h sound) and our house had an empty lot and then a large apartment building to one side... the empty lot, however, was not so empty. A house, made of wattle and daub adobe was built with palm fronds for a roof and compact dirt for a floor, was on that empty lot.
One afternoon, I was playing with all the neighborhood kids when the kids from the apartment complex started getting mean to the kids in the adobe house... I don't recall what it was about, but the kids in the apartment were being mean and began to throw rocks at the kids from the adobe house. I was sticking with the adobe house kids, no idea why other than a tendency to stay with underdogs (though I recognize that may be more wishful, but I remember being mad at the kids from the apartment complex and I was in fact in the adobe house when it happened). The father opened the door to yell at the kids to go home and the kids threw more rocks at us. One of those rocks hit me smack in the forehead and blood began pouring down my face (head wounds do that). I asked the father to walk me home and he said he couldn't, that my mother would think that he had done it. I remember being completely shocked by this and telling him that my mother was not like that, she would be glad that he brought me home. We argued this a bit and I don't actually recall if he ended up taking me home, though I think he did and left me at the door and ran to wait at the gate. I do recall telling my mom that this had happened and what he had said. She seemed as sad as I was that this was how he had felt.
Ecuador is a lovely country, and while I may wax poetic about its beauty and consider it to be full of splendor, I have never been completely blind to its injustices. I have seen my friends hit their servants, I have seen my friends call their servants to get something that was well within their own reach. I have seen the poor begging for food, most often mothers with children around them, and it is such a glaring contrast to the beauty of Ecuador's landscape that if you are aware, it is striking. I too grew up with servants, and apparently horrified some of my American relatives with the ease in which I navigated my role as daughter of the house. The thing is, I loved them... the one that lived with us the longest holds such a dear place in my heart that I tear up just thinking of her. I have visited her when I have been back there, she is a part of my family in a way I can't really explain to anyone who has not been in that role. I want my son to meet her.
I don't like that mean side of people, the one that makes them so angry and bitter that they throw rocks (real and metaphorical)... they make me angry. So very angry. But not usually in a hateful way like them... more like in a sad way. An I pity them way... which actually makes me angry at them again... but that is a whole different conversation. What I am trying to get at is that I think I have one thing that the angry people don't have.
What I have is hope... the kind that Martin Luther King spoke about fifty years ago. The dream kind of hope...
Today, I heard a story on public radio about that event. One of Dr. King's legal adviser was there that day and had prepared everything and was ever so concerned that things would get out of hand and go off the planned agenda. He told about how Mahalia Jackson sang and how beautiful it was. He continued with the tale about how Dr. King would call on Mahalia and tell her he was having a bad day and ask her to sing to him. And that the one time he witnessed this he saw Dr. King in tears. It turns out that as Dr. King was just starting to give his speech, Mahalia Jackson yelled at him to "Tell them about the dream, tell them about the dream". The gentleman telling this story said he saw Dr. King move his papers to the left and at that moment the story teller told the person next to him that the audience didn't know it, but they were about to go to church.
How unbelievably wonderful to have Mahalia Jackson and her beautiful voice lull you through the trying and difficult days and challenge you to give a glorious speech about a dream.
I too have a dream.
I have a dream that we can find a way to help angry people beat down the walls they put up to hide behind as they throw pain at others, as if that would in some way relieve their own suffering. I have a dream that people will find hope, the dreaming kind of hope, the hope that will allow for empathy... I have a dream that people will understand consequences but accept that they are an individuals burden and not their own, where people can celebrate the joys, especially when they are among the sorrows.
My dream is hope.
And I hear Mahalia singing to me.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Random thoughts
When you've been in 6 countries on three continents before you're 5 years old... the world, as you see it, starts to seem like it's very, very small... and that never goes away.
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