Yes, introverted (link).
For some reason, when I decide to share this part of me with people, they are always surprised. That link above, probably explains why this might be so surprising... and describes the way I see myself pretty well...
But, that is not what this post is actually about.
Friends are an interesting aspect of life for me. I don't mean to say that I don't have them, don't make them, or don't want them.
I enjoy the cadre of folks that I think I can call my friends.
I am very comfortable with quiet. More comfortable than any of the people I know and care about. Most of the people I deeply value don't like quiet. So, it is always interesting to me, to share space with people that value different a sound space.
So, today I had brunch with a young woman that I think very highly of and feel like I navigate a role as her mentor. When we sat down at the restaurant I noticed that there was an item on the menu that a mutual friend would want to know about. So, I asked if I could text her before I forgot. She said OK and I sent the text... a few texts later we were joined by our mutual friend and shared a lovely brunch.
These moments are so deeply wonderful to me, especially when I can share time with women who are as kind and generous. Most wonderful is that they seem to be able to deal with my quirks.
The young woman is amazingly beautiful. She has a grace and beauty that she is fully coming into, is both inside and outside and it is lovely to watch. I can tell that she loves shopping (something that if I don't do with some caution can send me into a tailspin of social angst) and she is an impeccable dresser.
The friend that joined us is very similar, a devout shopper with a great talent for it. She has actually managed to go shopping with me and help me to survive its pressures.
So, I was at lunch and was sharing this time with these two women, both of whom I deeply respect and I thought to myself about how magical it was to have them in my life.
When I got home, I was reflecting on friendship and doing things with people and thought about how terrible I am at making and keeping the ties that bind with some folks and how the group of people that I can call my friends is a small yet mighty wonderful crowd and how wonderful it is that they all know me well enough to have a kids menu waiting for me when we meet for brunch and they arrive first.
NaBloPoMo 3
Sunday, November 03, 2013
Saturday, November 02, 2013
Dia de los Difuntos - Death American Style or Love South-American Style
One of the big surprises that I found after coming to the USA is that Americans (as in from the USA), in general, have a real issue with death. I came to this realization when my maternal Grandfather passed away while on a private cruise of the Galapagos and we went to the US for his funeral. One of the worst parts of that was that I was not allowed to attend the funeral. That was my father's decision, my mother, deep in grief I am sure, picked her battle and allowed that to happen. I am sure that had I been in her situation I might have made the same choice. So, my father was my first experience with Americans that tend to treat death as some unnatural thing that children should not be exposed to... like sex, it is taboo. However, what I think he failed to realize is that I did not have that view point. Death was something I deeply understood to be a part of the process of being human, I was strangely comfortable about the grip this stage of life had in my young mind. So, I was very angry. It took me years, 37 of them, and a procession of disjointed experiences to finally realize what had happened. My father was fully American and failed to realize he had a fully Latin American daughter.
Another stand out event was with one of my first roommates. Being a seemingly very white woman I think I throw people for a loop when my more Latin nature seeps through.
A little background; when we came to the US following my parents separation, my mother arranged through a miraculous series of events to bring my cat with us. My cat lived to be 23 years old and when she died, I had her cremated. Her ashes joined a cadre of jars, glass jars, that held the beloved remains of my other pets. These jars of remains have traveled with me since I left home, and still have places around my house and are joined by the ashes of my grandmother and great uncle. Unusual for a white family, I would imagine. I can think of one exception to this, and that is a magnificently dear friend who was born with an expat spirit.
So, I am living in a house with four others and we all put special things out in our living room. I thought nothing about putting the ashes of my pets. A few weeks later one of my roommates approaches me as I was dusting and tells me that one of the other roommates found it a bit odd and that they suspected this person was upset, in a way, about my putting my pets on a shared display. I was taken aback, it was truly nothing I found odd, at least not as odd as an acquaintance of my mothers when we lived in South America who loved Pomeranian's and when her beloved puppies died she turned them into doilies with stuffed heads, much like the bear skin rugs of a fireside romance, and placed them around her home including on her coffee table and on the arms of her chairs.
However, I realized that I had just assumed everyone who loved their pets would feel this way... but that there was a series of unexplored assumptions I had been making. So, I took my jars off our TV stand and moved them to my room. Several months later the roommate who had apparently had a problem with the ashes asked me where they were. I told them that I had heard they weren't fond of them and that I had moved them to my room. They looked a me for a bit, and said that they somewhat missed them being around. I was skeptical, and said that my room was probably best. I actually was wondering if they used them to talk to their friends about their weird roomie with a penchant for dead things. Which I suppose is one way to look at things.
However, it wasn't until today that I realized that my father must have the same or very similar viewpoint as my old roommate. The idea of which is still sitting in my center being mulled and contemplated. I grew up, to use a military vernacular, "in the economy". I attended the local schools, I went to my father's bullfights, spoke primarily in Spanish at home and elsewhere, and lived and played with children of both locals and other expats. My childhood was uniquely Latin. I attended Catechism classes, I loved the beautiful churches that remained untouched by Vatican II, I learned my role as a female (albeit for the Spanish me, the American me missed out on that formative time and was apparently a tomboy), and I was around and played with the children of people who loved and lived with death as a part of the whole existence.
One of my favorite times of year was Dia de los Difuntos, or as most (north) Americans know it, Dia de los Muertos. We had a special drink made with blackberries and ate pan de guagua. Loved ones were recalled and appreciated in many homes, and since I lived so far away, I wasn't all that aware of the history of my own ancestors so I just assumed in a naive way, that it wasn't my turn yet to celebrate the lives of people that I had loved who had passed away. The night my grandfather passed away, all of us on the trip sat in the galley of the ship and were silent as my grandfather was getting CPR. I recall looking at this group of desperately sad adults, and telling them that I knew he was going to heaven. These words that comforted me seemed to infuriate this group of Americans I was traveling with. I was yelled at to shut up. I suppose that this was my first glimpse into the cultural difference I had with these people. Many years later, I was talking with my great uncle, my grandfathers brother, about my grandfather and as he was on that trip and I asked him about that situation. He thought a bit about the event, both our eyes were welled with tears, and he looked at me and told me that he thought that the rest of them were not as ready to let him go as I must have been. At the time, I thought they were a funny choice of words, as I don't think I ever felt like that had been about letting him go... it had been about moving him from one place to another. After my grandfather died I saw his presence everywhere, especially at night. He came to me often... some may call it a dream, other perhaps might say it was a ghost or his spirit.
So today, some 37 years later, on All Souls Day, I bought myself a raspberry smoothie, some snacks and took my son to visit the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. I lay my jacket on the grass just below his headstone and we sat down. I took pictures of us as we snacked and I told him stories about Grandpa Honey. How every time he crosses his legs it reminds me of him, and that he would have really liked him because he was an engineer and knew about things with chemistry and physics and loved science. I told him how I had argued, while pregnant, that I wanted to call our unborn child Percy, and Pertz for short. Squink looked over at me and told me that I could call him Percy if I wanted. Squink ran around the cemetery chasing pigeons that were feasting on the winter grass seed. It felt perfect to sit there and just be in a space that is that of my grandfather, watching my son chase birds as he ran through and around different burial plots, causing the flocks to move like waves around us. It was a beautiful All Souls Day for me.
.JPG)
Near the end of our stay at my grandfathers grave-site, I watched several cars drive past us with befuddled looks as they stared at us having a picnic on a grave, one literally with their mouth agape. As I watched an older couple drive past in an older model Cadillac... it hit me, I am not as American as I look. I have a heart full of liberation theology, mixed with indigenous beliefs, my comfort foods can be exotic, my dreams are often in Spanish... all of which I know and understood before... but what hit me in conjunction with that was that my father was not made of this ilk, though he had had a huge part in creating it. I finally, after 37 years, was able to understand why he had forbidden me from going to the funeral.
NaBloPoMo
Another stand out event was with one of my first roommates. Being a seemingly very white woman I think I throw people for a loop when my more Latin nature seeps through.
A little background; when we came to the US following my parents separation, my mother arranged through a miraculous series of events to bring my cat with us. My cat lived to be 23 years old and when she died, I had her cremated. Her ashes joined a cadre of jars, glass jars, that held the beloved remains of my other pets. These jars of remains have traveled with me since I left home, and still have places around my house and are joined by the ashes of my grandmother and great uncle. Unusual for a white family, I would imagine. I can think of one exception to this, and that is a magnificently dear friend who was born with an expat spirit.
So, I am living in a house with four others and we all put special things out in our living room. I thought nothing about putting the ashes of my pets. A few weeks later one of my roommates approaches me as I was dusting and tells me that one of the other roommates found it a bit odd and that they suspected this person was upset, in a way, about my putting my pets on a shared display. I was taken aback, it was truly nothing I found odd, at least not as odd as an acquaintance of my mothers when we lived in South America who loved Pomeranian's and when her beloved puppies died she turned them into doilies with stuffed heads, much like the bear skin rugs of a fireside romance, and placed them around her home including on her coffee table and on the arms of her chairs.
However, I realized that I had just assumed everyone who loved their pets would feel this way... but that there was a series of unexplored assumptions I had been making. So, I took my jars off our TV stand and moved them to my room. Several months later the roommate who had apparently had a problem with the ashes asked me where they were. I told them that I had heard they weren't fond of them and that I had moved them to my room. They looked a me for a bit, and said that they somewhat missed them being around. I was skeptical, and said that my room was probably best. I actually was wondering if they used them to talk to their friends about their weird roomie with a penchant for dead things. Which I suppose is one way to look at things.
However, it wasn't until today that I realized that my father must have the same or very similar viewpoint as my old roommate. The idea of which is still sitting in my center being mulled and contemplated. I grew up, to use a military vernacular, "in the economy". I attended the local schools, I went to my father's bullfights, spoke primarily in Spanish at home and elsewhere, and lived and played with children of both locals and other expats. My childhood was uniquely Latin. I attended Catechism classes, I loved the beautiful churches that remained untouched by Vatican II, I learned my role as a female (albeit for the Spanish me, the American me missed out on that formative time and was apparently a tomboy), and I was around and played with the children of people who loved and lived with death as a part of the whole existence.
One of my favorite times of year was Dia de los Difuntos, or as most (north) Americans know it, Dia de los Muertos. We had a special drink made with blackberries and ate pan de guagua. Loved ones were recalled and appreciated in many homes, and since I lived so far away, I wasn't all that aware of the history of my own ancestors so I just assumed in a naive way, that it wasn't my turn yet to celebrate the lives of people that I had loved who had passed away. The night my grandfather passed away, all of us on the trip sat in the galley of the ship and were silent as my grandfather was getting CPR. I recall looking at this group of desperately sad adults, and telling them that I knew he was going to heaven. These words that comforted me seemed to infuriate this group of Americans I was traveling with. I was yelled at to shut up. I suppose that this was my first glimpse into the cultural difference I had with these people. Many years later, I was talking with my great uncle, my grandfathers brother, about my grandfather and as he was on that trip and I asked him about that situation. He thought a bit about the event, both our eyes were welled with tears, and he looked at me and told me that he thought that the rest of them were not as ready to let him go as I must have been. At the time, I thought they were a funny choice of words, as I don't think I ever felt like that had been about letting him go... it had been about moving him from one place to another. After my grandfather died I saw his presence everywhere, especially at night. He came to me often... some may call it a dream, other perhaps might say it was a ghost or his spirit.
So today, some 37 years later, on All Souls Day, I bought myself a raspberry smoothie, some snacks and took my son to visit the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. I lay my jacket on the grass just below his headstone and we sat down. I took pictures of us as we snacked and I told him stories about Grandpa Honey. How every time he crosses his legs it reminds me of him, and that he would have really liked him because he was an engineer and knew about things with chemistry and physics and loved science. I told him how I had argued, while pregnant, that I wanted to call our unborn child Percy, and Pertz for short. Squink looked over at me and told me that I could call him Percy if I wanted. Squink ran around the cemetery chasing pigeons that were feasting on the winter grass seed. It felt perfect to sit there and just be in a space that is that of my grandfather, watching my son chase birds as he ran through and around different burial plots, causing the flocks to move like waves around us. It was a beautiful All Souls Day for me.
Near the end of our stay at my grandfathers grave-site, I watched several cars drive past us with befuddled looks as they stared at us having a picnic on a grave, one literally with their mouth agape. As I watched an older couple drive past in an older model Cadillac... it hit me, I am not as American as I look. I have a heart full of liberation theology, mixed with indigenous beliefs, my comfort foods can be exotic, my dreams are often in Spanish... all of which I know and understood before... but what hit me in conjunction with that was that my father was not made of this ilk, though he had had a huge part in creating it. I finally, after 37 years, was able to understand why he had forbidden me from going to the funeral.
NaBloPoMo
Friday, November 01, 2013
What would I do with a plot of land and unlimited resources?
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
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
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
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