SONNET XVII
by Pablo Neruda
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
ass over teakettle...which reminds me
This is Mama Mag's comin' atcha after a fall on the ice while out for a run yesterday. Yep, 'tis the season for twisted rotator cuffs and broken hips. No need to worry as I thankfully missed my noodle and landed on nature's own airbag; otherwise my body wouldn't have been found until Spring. Unfortunately, for you guys though, my yapper and keyboard are no worse for wear...and after applying a soothing balm of Advil, Ferrero Rocher and Korbel, I have sat my sore derriere down to plunk away at more holiday ramblings on this fine, brisk evening.
It's that time of year again when jingle bells ring and Christmas music wafts across our decked halls...and what can I say? I'm a sucker for a holiday tune. After reading my buddy, Tom's, blog of his fave holiday songs, I have decided to sort of steal that idea and have a little fun and list my own. The girls are beginning to dig on all the seasonal tuneage this year, and surprisingly, my oldest is memorizing some of the lyrics of a few of the more challenging ones. Wow...pretty impressive, my rug rat (you can hear her pipes on my Sites and Sounds page).
So here goes...a Buddhist's Top Ten Christmas Songs...in no particular order (except for the first one which will always be my numero uno).
1) I'm Dreaming Of A White Christmas- Bing Crosby
Besides this movie, White Christmas, being in my Top 20, it is also part of the Mag movie holiday tradition, thanks to my hubby's obsession with it and his sweet introduction of it to me during our first Christmas together, oh, so many years ago. This is a cherished part of our Christmas Day tradition (along with Scrooge, #6) over popcorn, leftovers and coffee. Where do I begin with my Bing....his perfectly silky vibrato is heaven to me. The shot of him singing to the troops, the look on their faces and the bombs bursting in the background breaks my heart every time. My prayers go out to the real soldiers and not to the movie ones that are away from their loved ones at a time when most of us are able to hold our children close and make precious memories with those we cherish. The thought of all those empty chairs around the holiday dinner table saddens me profoundly and I pray wholeheartedly that this nonsense will stop. I'll shut my pie-hole now or this may turn into the Top Ten Politicians Whose Arse I'd Like To Wallop With Santa's Boot.
2) Hallelujah-
I have never had the ability to fly but I do when I hear this classic. It fills my heart and sends me soaring. Whether it's performed by the Mormon Tabernacle, Royal Philharmonic or that little boy's choir who've all been castrated. One of my accomplished pals just got his PHD in music and can now conduct orchestras. I can't even imagine at how superbly blissful it must be..front and center on that stand..saturated in all of that amazing sound.
3) Once As I Remember-
The quiet poetry of this melody is just lovely. Reflective, almost haunting..in a merry holiday kind of way.
4) Charlie Brown's "Christmas Time Is Here"-
You can't leave this one off the list. Peanuts was the best. This one is from Mama's childhood back in the early 1900's. Well, not that long ago, but I grew up with this sweet little ditty and hold it near and dear. Aw...Snoopy skating around, dragging Charlie by the scarf and swinging him into trees. Ouch.
5) Counting My Blessings-
Another White Christmas classic...the smooth voice of ole Rosemary, cozied up by the fireplace, eating a liverwurst with Bing. I wish my life was this movie..all singing, dancing, flowing outfits, smiles and snow...minus the liverwurst. But I am serious when I say that I am most fortunate to have so many of my own to count this holiday season.
6) Bless Us All-
This little gem is from The Muppets-A Christmas Carole. This flick was a sweet one. Paul Williams composed this number where Tiny Tim and his 1/2 pig, 1/2 frog family share a special Christmas moment together. Michael Caine, one of my fave actors, leads up this puppet extravaganza. He's actually wonderful in it as he is in every movie he does. You know you're good when you can find the truth in every moment while acting with a wad of stuffing and some dude lying at your feet. Yep, I guess, its official. I am just a big ole mush ball when a singing amphibian can make me misty.
7) Barbara Allen-
This is actually an old Scottish folk song...but it happens to be on a soundtrack of another Mag family holiday movie must see -Scrooge w/ Alastair Sim. Don't even get me going on him. He should have won the Oscar that year as well as well as Mervyn John for his humble, sweet, poignant performance as Bob Cratchitt. Those two pros together give this actor girl another shot of holiday sock and buskin inspiration. Near the end of the film, after Ebenezer has learned the error of his ways, there is the scene where he finally visits his nephew and wife after a lifetime of absence during their Christmas gathering. He slowly enters the room, his redemption evident by the sincerity and tenderness in his eyes, an underlying vulnerability of someone asking for forgiveness...it just slays me. But again, I must stop with all this acting stuff..this entry is about the music! Focus Mama.
8) The Little Drummer Boy-
Aw...I love this Carole. The sincerity, purity of heart & faith and innocence of youth is a calm, reflective kind of thing to ponder and serve as an example for all of us crusty adults during the holiday and all year around. This little guy offered up not only his music but the beloved sticks he used to make it with. In Buddhism, we have a sort of similar version. where a child presents a mud pie to Shayamuni Buddha.
9) We're A Couple Of Misfits-
This is from the weird minds of Bass and Rankin...the duo's claymation creation of Rudolf The Red-Nosed Reindeer. Hey, when I was a tot, these guys reigned supreme. Nowadays, these kids have to have their fancy-dancy Pixar stuff with all kinds of special effects and nose picking ogre humor. My hubby gripes every year when I insist on including this in our jingle-bell repertoire. I not only told him to get over his humbugish self but I went out and bought us our very own copy! So now we can watch it whenever we want during the holiday hey-day instead of waiting for it to air on T.V. The girls love it. I actually know of another person, one of my dear friends actually, who is a fully grown adult man who worships this stop-motion piece of merriment as much as me. However, I will spare him any humiliation by refraining to expose his identity here on The Daily Mag. Speaking of outing..er, I mean, speaking of my beloved little Hermie...he will always remain my favorite gay dentist and hold a special place in my heart. And that goes for his little song, too. I've always considered myself a bit of a misfit and I am rather diligent about dental hygiene, so the two of us have a lot in common. Besides, what with all the amputation, tangled Barbie hair and missing eyeballs that happen at the hands of my T. when it comes to all of her toys....it's the least I can do for those blessed, deformed misfit playthings that live on that sad little island of theirs.
9) Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas- James Taylor
What can I say? This man's music is like a big, cushy hug. Always comforting, always welcome and, hey, this guy plays guitar chords that take all five fingers on his left hand, for God's sake! Its soft jazzy overtones make this a ticker warmer and I just love it.
10) You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch- from Seuss' The Grinch That Stole Christmas. "Your brain is full of spiders, there's garlic in your soul...termites in your smile". Well, come on. Coupled with Karloff's brilliant voice over, and Ravenscroft singing, ya just gotta love this smarmy, smirky green guy. He is waaaay better than that other green oaf that has the million dollar donkey for his buddy. Plus, now that I have two of my very own Cindy Lous looking up at me from under the tree...well, I think it's evident that this old gal's heart has grown three sizes at least.
Yes, all this musical saccharine may come as a surprise to some of you that know me, what with all my John Lee Hooker..sad, mournful Blues type of thang that I dig on but as I have said before, I am a woman of many layers. And thank goodness, I have a rather thick one on my bum or I may have been spending the holidays with a broken arm.
It's that time of year again when jingle bells ring and Christmas music wafts across our decked halls...and what can I say? I'm a sucker for a holiday tune. After reading my buddy, Tom's, blog of his fave holiday songs, I have decided to sort of steal that idea and have a little fun and list my own. The girls are beginning to dig on all the seasonal tuneage this year, and surprisingly, my oldest is memorizing some of the lyrics of a few of the more challenging ones. Wow...pretty impressive, my rug rat (you can hear her pipes on my Sites and Sounds page).
So here goes...a Buddhist's Top Ten Christmas Songs...in no particular order (except for the first one which will always be my numero uno).
1) I'm Dreaming Of A White Christmas- Bing Crosby
Besides this movie, White Christmas, being in my Top 20, it is also part of the Mag movie holiday tradition, thanks to my hubby's obsession with it and his sweet introduction of it to me during our first Christmas together, oh, so many years ago. This is a cherished part of our Christmas Day tradition (along with Scrooge, #6) over popcorn, leftovers and coffee. Where do I begin with my Bing....his perfectly silky vibrato is heaven to me. The shot of him singing to the troops, the look on their faces and the bombs bursting in the background breaks my heart every time. My prayers go out to the real soldiers and not to the movie ones that are away from their loved ones at a time when most of us are able to hold our children close and make precious memories with those we cherish. The thought of all those empty chairs around the holiday dinner table saddens me profoundly and I pray wholeheartedly that this nonsense will stop. I'll shut my pie-hole now or this may turn into the Top Ten Politicians Whose Arse I'd Like To Wallop With Santa's Boot.
2) Hallelujah-
I have never had the ability to fly but I do when I hear this classic. It fills my heart and sends me soaring. Whether it's performed by the Mormon Tabernacle, Royal Philharmonic or that little boy's choir who've all been castrated. One of my accomplished pals just got his PHD in music and can now conduct orchestras. I can't even imagine at how superbly blissful it must be..front and center on that stand..saturated in all of that amazing sound.
3) Once As I Remember-
The quiet poetry of this melody is just lovely. Reflective, almost haunting..in a merry holiday kind of way.
4) Charlie Brown's "Christmas Time Is Here"-
You can't leave this one off the list. Peanuts was the best. This one is from Mama's childhood back in the early 1900's. Well, not that long ago, but I grew up with this sweet little ditty and hold it near and dear. Aw...Snoopy skating around, dragging Charlie by the scarf and swinging him into trees. Ouch.
5) Counting My Blessings-
Another White Christmas classic...the smooth voice of ole Rosemary, cozied up by the fireplace, eating a liverwurst with Bing. I wish my life was this movie..all singing, dancing, flowing outfits, smiles and snow...minus the liverwurst. But I am serious when I say that I am most fortunate to have so many of my own to count this holiday season.
6) Bless Us All-
This little gem is from The Muppets-A Christmas Carole. This flick was a sweet one. Paul Williams composed this number where Tiny Tim and his 1/2 pig, 1/2 frog family share a special Christmas moment together. Michael Caine, one of my fave actors, leads up this puppet extravaganza. He's actually wonderful in it as he is in every movie he does. You know you're good when you can find the truth in every moment while acting with a wad of stuffing and some dude lying at your feet. Yep, I guess, its official. I am just a big ole mush ball when a singing amphibian can make me misty.
7) Barbara Allen-
This is actually an old Scottish folk song...but it happens to be on a soundtrack of another Mag family holiday movie must see -Scrooge w/ Alastair Sim. Don't even get me going on him. He should have won the Oscar that year as well as well as Mervyn John for his humble, sweet, poignant performance as Bob Cratchitt. Those two pros together give this actor girl another shot of holiday sock and buskin inspiration. Near the end of the film, after Ebenezer has learned the error of his ways, there is the scene where he finally visits his nephew and wife after a lifetime of absence during their Christmas gathering. He slowly enters the room, his redemption evident by the sincerity and tenderness in his eyes, an underlying vulnerability of someone asking for forgiveness...it just slays me. But again, I must stop with all this acting stuff..this entry is about the music! Focus Mama.
8) The Little Drummer Boy-
Aw...I love this Carole. The sincerity, purity of heart & faith and innocence of youth is a calm, reflective kind of thing to ponder and serve as an example for all of us crusty adults during the holiday and all year around. This little guy offered up not only his music but the beloved sticks he used to make it with. In Buddhism, we have a sort of similar version. where a child presents a mud pie to Shayamuni Buddha.
9) We're A Couple Of Misfits-
This is from the weird minds of Bass and Rankin...the duo's claymation creation of Rudolf The Red-Nosed Reindeer. Hey, when I was a tot, these guys reigned supreme. Nowadays, these kids have to have their fancy-dancy Pixar stuff with all kinds of special effects and nose picking ogre humor. My hubby gripes every year when I insist on including this in our jingle-bell repertoire. I not only told him to get over his humbugish self but I went out and bought us our very own copy! So now we can watch it whenever we want during the holiday hey-day instead of waiting for it to air on T.V. The girls love it. I actually know of another person, one of my dear friends actually, who is a fully grown adult man who worships this stop-motion piece of merriment as much as me. However, I will spare him any humiliation by refraining to expose his identity here on The Daily Mag. Speaking of outing..er, I mean, speaking of my beloved little Hermie...he will always remain my favorite gay dentist and hold a special place in my heart. And that goes for his little song, too. I've always considered myself a bit of a misfit and I am rather diligent about dental hygiene, so the two of us have a lot in common. Besides, what with all the amputation, tangled Barbie hair and missing eyeballs that happen at the hands of my T. when it comes to all of her toys....it's the least I can do for those blessed, deformed misfit playthings that live on that sad little island of theirs.
9) Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas- James Taylor
What can I say? This man's music is like a big, cushy hug. Always comforting, always welcome and, hey, this guy plays guitar chords that take all five fingers on his left hand, for God's sake! Its soft jazzy overtones make this a ticker warmer and I just love it.
10) You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch- from Seuss' The Grinch That Stole Christmas. "Your brain is full of spiders, there's garlic in your soul...termites in your smile". Well, come on. Coupled with Karloff's brilliant voice over, and Ravenscroft singing, ya just gotta love this smarmy, smirky green guy. He is waaaay better than that other green oaf that has the million dollar donkey for his buddy. Plus, now that I have two of my very own Cindy Lous looking up at me from under the tree...well, I think it's evident that this old gal's heart has grown three sizes at least.
Yes, all this musical saccharine may come as a surprise to some of you that know me, what with all my John Lee Hooker..sad, mournful Blues type of thang that I dig on but as I have said before, I am a woman of many layers. And thank goodness, I have a rather thick one on my bum or I may have been spending the holidays with a broken arm.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
the richest man in town
It's no secret that I'm a film buff and that It's A Wonderful Life happens to be my fave movie of all time. Yeah, yeah...before I hear this and that about Citizen Cane or Casablanca, all incredible films...there is still no movie that gets me in my gut, my heart, my tear ducts like this one. Every holiday season, I look forward to seeing it for the umpteenth time above anything else I do during the whole pine-scented shebang. It melts away the two or three layers of cynical shellac I may have put on throughout the year and just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Well, it's either that or the tub-sized Grey Goose martini that I make to go along with my viewing pleasure. At any rate, this fab piece of cinema is mandatory for anyone who happens to be in my casa on Christmas Eve. And Mama is all about tradition since I didn't get any holidays as a kid because my parents were in a religious cult. Oh, that isn't totally true, I guess. It's just my bitter talking...but I digress. I am just a big ole Christmas junkie for a lot of reasons aside from all the fun I missed out on as a tyke. To me, it's about many things...the magic, the music, the movies-most definitely, the tastes, the smells, the tree, the candlelight and all that hokey stuff like hope and love and dreams. It isn't so much about the other component because, hey, I'm a Buddhist, but that doesn't mean we can't all come together, no matter what our belief systems are, and celebrate goodwill toward men, peace to all, do unto others, good tidings and gay Yuletides. However, some of my pals Yuletides are just a wee bit gayer than others...
Fortunately, for those of us that are on a stay-at-home mom budget there are very few gifts involved, so it puts the focus right where I think it should be- on the drinking. Oh, relax. I jest. Well...sort of. Nah, for me it's more about the presence we have inside, not the presents we unwrap. Although, if my guy wants to surprise me with a stainless steel Wolf/Subzero 50 grand kitchen rehab, then that would be totally acceptable...or perhaps wake me up on Christmas morning with the keys to a red-ribboned Lexus. But since that and the Armani suit I've been promising him for a decade or so now may not be in the cards anytime soon, I'll settle for the squeals of my kids and the look on their faces when they see the leftover crumbs of Santa's cookies and the simple, sweet holiday cheer shared with my mixed mag-bag of nuts. They always fit and they're better than a tie and you never want to return them. And this particular movie is all about that. My two girls are gonna have to see this little treasure another 15 times or so before they're finally able to escape Mama's clingy clutches and fly the coop. When they're sixteen they'll probably try to lock themselves in their bedrooms. But I'll make them sit their butts right on down and take a lesson from the Master. Capra, that is. The king of the cut, a guy pretty darn good with a pen and the auteur that knew the essence of who we are, what we are, what our hearts are capable of and how our heads sometimes get in the way. And, he was the man that gave us the Supporting Actor categories for my beloved Academy Awards. Didn't know that, did ya? Well, he did, and I for one am most happy about that. I mean, where would Hollyweird be, left with all these crappy leads that can't act their way out of a paper bag, without the steadfast dependability and anchor-like selves of the supporting actor? Speaking of which, when you have Bondi and H.B. Warner in the same flick?...well, that is a master acting class, folks. You can not have a holiday without it. At least for this thespian. But that was no problemo when it came to holding the reins on this fine film. The incomparable Jimmy Stewart was the best in whatever he chose to do throughout his career. When that guy kicked the bucket, the world not only lost a great actor, but a true star and an even truer gentleman.
If you let it, this flick will tell you everything you need to know in life. The stuff that's really important, anyway. It does for me. Every time.
Never ever leave an alcoholic in charge of your accounting.
A lot of a-holes have good money karma. That's just the way it is.
Always tell those you love that you love them because you never know what the morning may bring.
Money isn't everything until you lose 8000 bucks of it and then it becomes a whole lot more important.
Suicide is never the answer. That's why there's reality T.V. When you watch it, then you and your somewhat dysfunctional life look a whole lot better. At least for me, anyway.
There is such a thing as a soul mate.
Your friends are everything. Especially when they pool their dough together and bail you out of a bad situation.
There are a scant few people that can be so drunk that they fall over a row of trashcans but remain lovable, irreplaceable and endearing. May we all aspire to be one of them in the lives of those we love. Er..well, you know what I mean.
Utilize some birth control unless you want a home that maintains a decibel level to that of a leaf blower.
Listen to your mom. Most of the time, she'll tell you what's right.
It's not a big, fancy house and money that keeps a romance alive. It is simply, love.
It's okay to look at someone's junk in the trunk, but advance to Go and head straight home to your companion and kids.
We all have a Clarence. Some may call it intuition or being in rhythm with life and its environment, or simply faith itself. It's always there and it's always working whether you're too damn deaf to hear the bell or not.
You're never to broke to go to Lowes and fix the baluster cap. That's a lawsuit just waiting to happen.
Always dream big, whether or not you find out that what you really need is right in your own backyard.
Instill compassion into your children. That will be the most important thing you do.
and last but not least...
Our truest joy can lie in the petals of a flower.
It truly is a wonderful life, my friends....underneath the gas prices, chaos and car payments. It's down there, but sometimes ya just gotta dig for it. May you challenge yourself to feel, be and do throughout the other eleven months of the year, and more importantly, may you have the great fortune to see the magic and wonder of the holidays through the eyes of a child whether you have one or not.
Fortunately, for those of us that are on a stay-at-home mom budget there are very few gifts involved, so it puts the focus right where I think it should be- on the drinking. Oh, relax. I jest. Well...sort of. Nah, for me it's more about the presence we have inside, not the presents we unwrap. Although, if my guy wants to surprise me with a stainless steel Wolf/Subzero 50 grand kitchen rehab, then that would be totally acceptable...or perhaps wake me up on Christmas morning with the keys to a red-ribboned Lexus. But since that and the Armani suit I've been promising him for a decade or so now may not be in the cards anytime soon, I'll settle for the squeals of my kids and the look on their faces when they see the leftover crumbs of Santa's cookies and the simple, sweet holiday cheer shared with my mixed mag-bag of nuts. They always fit and they're better than a tie and you never want to return them. And this particular movie is all about that. My two girls are gonna have to see this little treasure another 15 times or so before they're finally able to escape Mama's clingy clutches and fly the coop. When they're sixteen they'll probably try to lock themselves in their bedrooms. But I'll make them sit their butts right on down and take a lesson from the Master. Capra, that is. The king of the cut, a guy pretty darn good with a pen and the auteur that knew the essence of who we are, what we are, what our hearts are capable of and how our heads sometimes get in the way. And, he was the man that gave us the Supporting Actor categories for my beloved Academy Awards. Didn't know that, did ya? Well, he did, and I for one am most happy about that. I mean, where would Hollyweird be, left with all these crappy leads that can't act their way out of a paper bag, without the steadfast dependability and anchor-like selves of the supporting actor? Speaking of which, when you have Bondi and H.B. Warner in the same flick?...well, that is a master acting class, folks. You can not have a holiday without it. At least for this thespian. But that was no problemo when it came to holding the reins on this fine film. The incomparable Jimmy Stewart was the best in whatever he chose to do throughout his career. When that guy kicked the bucket, the world not only lost a great actor, but a true star and an even truer gentleman.
If you let it, this flick will tell you everything you need to know in life. The stuff that's really important, anyway. It does for me. Every time.
Never ever leave an alcoholic in charge of your accounting.
A lot of a-holes have good money karma. That's just the way it is.
Always tell those you love that you love them because you never know what the morning may bring.
Money isn't everything until you lose 8000 bucks of it and then it becomes a whole lot more important.
Suicide is never the answer. That's why there's reality T.V. When you watch it, then you and your somewhat dysfunctional life look a whole lot better. At least for me, anyway.
There is such a thing as a soul mate.
Your friends are everything. Especially when they pool their dough together and bail you out of a bad situation.
There are a scant few people that can be so drunk that they fall over a row of trashcans but remain lovable, irreplaceable and endearing. May we all aspire to be one of them in the lives of those we love. Er..well, you know what I mean.
Utilize some birth control unless you want a home that maintains a decibel level to that of a leaf blower.
Listen to your mom. Most of the time, she'll tell you what's right.
It's not a big, fancy house and money that keeps a romance alive. It is simply, love.
It's okay to look at someone's junk in the trunk, but advance to Go and head straight home to your companion and kids.
We all have a Clarence. Some may call it intuition or being in rhythm with life and its environment, or simply faith itself. It's always there and it's always working whether you're too damn deaf to hear the bell or not.
You're never to broke to go to Lowes and fix the baluster cap. That's a lawsuit just waiting to happen.
Always dream big, whether or not you find out that what you really need is right in your own backyard.
Instill compassion into your children. That will be the most important thing you do.
and last but not least...
Our truest joy can lie in the petals of a flower.
It truly is a wonderful life, my friends....underneath the gas prices, chaos and car payments. It's down there, but sometimes ya just gotta dig for it. May you challenge yourself to feel, be and do throughout the other eleven months of the year, and more importantly, may you have the great fortune to see the magic and wonder of the holidays through the eyes of a child whether you have one or not.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
a letter to santa
Dear Santa,
Hi! I want a Sleeping Beauty dress with a tiara and a wig. I love you and I'm going to leave you milk and cookies and a carrot for Rudolph. Also...three more carrots for the other reindeers. I want a Barbie doll with a little mermaid dress..a bra and a little fish tail...a mermaid tail. Please. A little candy cane and a little pair of gloves for winter. A scarf and a hat, too. That's it. That's all I want. Please. Oh, yeah, a cage and hamster, too. That is all. Please. I want a teeny sofa made for a little girl. I love you. And a little lamp. I love reindeer and I want to ride one in my dreams. I also want a tiny Christmas tree in my bedroom. Please. And a little Cinderella dress for my sister.
I love you, Santa. I love you, reindeers.
Your friend,
W.
Hi! I want a Sleeping Beauty dress with a tiara and a wig. I love you and I'm going to leave you milk and cookies and a carrot for Rudolph. Also...three more carrots for the other reindeers. I want a Barbie doll with a little mermaid dress..a bra and a little fish tail...a mermaid tail. Please. A little candy cane and a little pair of gloves for winter. A scarf and a hat, too. That's it. That's all I want. Please. Oh, yeah, a cage and hamster, too. That is all. Please. I want a teeny sofa made for a little girl. I love you. And a little lamp. I love reindeer and I want to ride one in my dreams. I also want a tiny Christmas tree in my bedroom. Please. And a little Cinderella dress for my sister.
I love you, Santa. I love you, reindeers.
Your friend,
W.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
turandot brings it out in me
Here's a pretty neat guy. His name is Paul Potts. He lives in Wales, hawks cell phones and oh, yeah, sings opera.
Click here for Paul's song.
I am reminded all too often of the many wonderful artists who are out in this great big world unable to make a living from their craft but instead are punching keyboards, waiting tables or whatever it takes to stay in the Game of Life. Some weren't able to crack the Hollywood code. Nothing more, nothing less. A few equate it to winning the lottery. I am inclined to agree. It stings, no doubt about it, but at the same time serves to inspire. Potts is all about that. And the humility and purity at which he shares himself moves and encourages me. Our art is who we are; no matter where we are or what we're doing...not what somebody pays us to do. I've known some true talents (and I'm fortunate to have heard and seen their work) that have moved on to other things because the biz never happened for them on the level that they wanted or needed it to. I'm married to one...has the timing of Benny but picks up his paycheck somewhere SSW of Broadway. It used to make me sad, but now that I'm a mom of two brand new shiny people, how can I encourage them not to follow their dreams? No matter what happens. no matter how it plays out. Whether they become bean counters or fly to the moon or ask me for 500 bucks to get their head shots done...it's not so much about the winning but the journey itself that will teach them the most and all the twists and turns along that roller coaster ride that will forge them into the cool ladies I know they're going to be.
Some of us might have missed the boat on that 401 K, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty, we shared the deepest part of ourselves. How awesome is that? Whether we got the bling or not. I am honored to know all of you out there that have shared your art...yourselves..with me. The creative community I immersed myself in for all those years was truly my salvation. I discovered more about myself on that little stage in Silver Lake than I did just about anywhere. Life comes at ya fast. And sometimes a person has to roll in a different direction than they had planned or toward something they've realized may be the gold they really need after all. And sometimes that crazy hairpin turn becomes our true north. At least it has for me.
In Buddhism, there is no room for regret but always time for do-overs...new beginnings. I am looking forward to the next chapter in my life where perhaps I can turn on my klieg again. Until then, I will live through the beauty of art that hangs on my fridge and in the dreams of my children and what I've discovered is around me, always, no matter where I reside.
Art, of any kind, and its expression is truly the heart of humanity, and faith- it's wellspring...and that, my friends, keeps this old ball of rock turning.
Click here for Paul's song.
I am reminded all too often of the many wonderful artists who are out in this great big world unable to make a living from their craft but instead are punching keyboards, waiting tables or whatever it takes to stay in the Game of Life. Some weren't able to crack the Hollywood code. Nothing more, nothing less. A few equate it to winning the lottery. I am inclined to agree. It stings, no doubt about it, but at the same time serves to inspire. Potts is all about that. And the humility and purity at which he shares himself moves and encourages me. Our art is who we are; no matter where we are or what we're doing...not what somebody pays us to do. I've known some true talents (and I'm fortunate to have heard and seen their work) that have moved on to other things because the biz never happened for them on the level that they wanted or needed it to. I'm married to one...has the timing of Benny but picks up his paycheck somewhere SSW of Broadway. It used to make me sad, but now that I'm a mom of two brand new shiny people, how can I encourage them not to follow their dreams? No matter what happens. no matter how it plays out. Whether they become bean counters or fly to the moon or ask me for 500 bucks to get their head shots done...it's not so much about the winning but the journey itself that will teach them the most and all the twists and turns along that roller coaster ride that will forge them into the cool ladies I know they're going to be.
Some of us might have missed the boat on that 401 K, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty, we shared the deepest part of ourselves. How awesome is that? Whether we got the bling or not. I am honored to know all of you out there that have shared your art...yourselves..with me. The creative community I immersed myself in for all those years was truly my salvation. I discovered more about myself on that little stage in Silver Lake than I did just about anywhere. Life comes at ya fast. And sometimes a person has to roll in a different direction than they had planned or toward something they've realized may be the gold they really need after all. And sometimes that crazy hairpin turn becomes our true north. At least it has for me.
In Buddhism, there is no room for regret but always time for do-overs...new beginnings. I am looking forward to the next chapter in my life where perhaps I can turn on my klieg again. Until then, I will live through the beauty of art that hangs on my fridge and in the dreams of my children and what I've discovered is around me, always, no matter where I reside.
Art, of any kind, and its expression is truly the heart of humanity, and faith- it's wellspring...and that, my friends, keeps this old ball of rock turning.
Monday, November 26, 2007
turkey day 2007
As another carb infested Thanksgiving holiday comes to a close...I am majorly bummed that I didn't have the money to participate in the Black Friday retail jam as many are able to do but remain profoundly thankful for so much in my life. At the top of that list?
Braces and contacts.
alfredo's story
"Human behavior is strange- we treat people differently based on where they've been or where they are rather than who they are," he says. "I try to treat everyone with the same respect, whether they are millionaires or the poorest person you can conceive of. I always shake their hand and touch their shoulder. I try to standardize that."
From pulling weeds in a cotton field to operating on brains....the American Dream personified by someone who just may surprise you. To read about Alfredo Quinones' amazing journey...click here!
Sunday, November 18, 2007
finding the buddha through the burn
Eight months ago, I began to notice that I had a bit of an overhang problem. Nothing structurally unsound with my roof again, mind you...sadly, this was more of the fleshy kind. Simply put, it was a science thing- mass and matter. When I buckled up my jeans, there was no choice in the matter, my mass had to move up and then sort of ooze over in a northerly direction, followed by swells in the south, east and west. Yep, there was a storm a brewing and it had the potential to be an F4.
It was a bit of a shocker, actually. No, not the quesadillas with two helpings of ancho-chili sauce right before bed, and definitely not the yummy fries at my husband's restaurant that were sans trans-fat which translated to heart-friendly in my hormonally warped mind, but what was so darn shocking was that my wad had redistributed itself toward the middle of my body...not so much in the rear section where it had been living very comfortably for most of my adult life. Out of sight and out of mind. Just the way I liked it. My heft had characteristically been like that obnoxious guy who sits behind you on the plane...you know he's back there, kicking your seat every now and then, guffawing, but you sorta tune him out by reading a magazine or ordering another Champagne split. Now it had become a totally different situation insofar as this freak had moved up beside me, thigh to thigh, flapping his jaws like crazy, along with the hollow stares of his zombie kid looming at me over the seat in front. It was looking like I was going to have to face the music, pay the piper, address this matter and try my best not to look down. Plain and simple? Mama had a gut and it wasn't pretty. I had gone from an ecto to an endomorph in what seemed like a nano second and I was thrown. Granted, I realized I wasn't getting any younger and I had harbored and abetted two little aliens inside my torso for 18 months combined. If that doesn't change the "center of one's being", then I don't know what does. Don't get me wrong, I am all for my heart expanding two sizes, just not my ass.
All the trouble started when Daisy went on strike at the dairy but I'll get to that part in a sec. Right now, I want to focus on the glory that was my life before I channeled the Michelin Man. Who knew, after all those years of my youth working it at Bally's in my scrunchie and leg warmers that all I really had to do was open my blouse? Nursing turned out to be my best kept diet secret. No Jenny, no Slimfast, no grapefruit for me. This was fab and I don't know why I didn't try it sooner. Oh, that's right, I do know...because a.) I was single and b.) I didn't have anyone to make my living. It turned out to be a cinch; all those extra pounds of me that I had spent nine months creating in each pregnancy (plus, a few extra!) flew off, both times, thanks to my two Icelandic vampires. Don't even get me started on my second one. I am not exaggerating when I say it was like having a Hereford at my chest. No wonder I was thin, she would have eaten the marrow in my bones had I given it to her.
Now as far as you gutsy guys out there, I don't know what to tell ya. Short of an estrogen patch the size of Rhode Island and a whole lot of prayer it’s probably never gonna happen. But that's okay, you'll be just fine, because society labels you the grey fox, distinguished...Me? I'm the older mom, a gray mare that's heading to not quite what she used to be or what my O.B. terms my kind- "elderly secundi gravida". Nice. Some of us are even mistaken as the grandmothers of our children. That I can't even write about.
My dream jobs have always been wildlife conservationist, photo-journalist and pro-poker player, in that order. But now I'm making a revision and adding wet-nurse to the top of the list. How I would love to finish out my mid-life crisis, kicking back, no workouts, eating all the mint chocolate chip I wanted, comfy and buttoned into a size 8...all made possible by just renting out the twins. It would be a noble life. Feeding the world's children and staying svelte all at the same time. But some stars just don't deliver no matter how hard you wish upon them. Which brings me back to the weight of the matter. Here I was a middle-aged broad with a broad middle and what was once an attractive inny navel had become a cyclopsian disaster.
The sad story goes like this. Once upon a time, it was a warm May day and I looked great and then I turned off the mammary spigot and it was over. The End. Sixteen pounds just shy of eight months. Nope, I wasn't fooling around. I kept eating for two but unfortunately there was only me left. My doc checked my thyroid and a few other things to see what might be the problem. Fortunately, he skipped on my liver. There are some things a patient just doesn't need to know. He called a couple days later and gave me the good news- my cholesterol, blood sugar and b.p. was that of a young girl. My figure, however, was not. I didn't have a hernia, so that was good, I wasn't pregnant, so that was double good and my endocrine glands were a-okay. Diagnosis? Fat. I had a chunk of it and it had to go. Funny at how all the trouble was brewing in the mid section of me. Right there in my center where all things begin and end. I had become disconnected from that center in a lot of ways. Definitely...physically, but also on a spiritual level, too....caught in a constant "flight or fight" situation. Mama was lost in the jungle and on the bottom of the food chain. Smack dab in the middle of me was all that stress, worry and extra dressing I was dipping my bread in. I needed to take a deep breath, find my center, burn some of it off and do it quickly before I had to go to Old Navy and buy a new pair of pants.
It was a bit of a shocker, actually. No, not the quesadillas with two helpings of ancho-chili sauce right before bed, and definitely not the yummy fries at my husband's restaurant that were sans trans-fat which translated to heart-friendly in my hormonally warped mind, but what was so darn shocking was that my wad had redistributed itself toward the middle of my body...not so much in the rear section where it had been living very comfortably for most of my adult life. Out of sight and out of mind. Just the way I liked it. My heft had characteristically been like that obnoxious guy who sits behind you on the plane...you know he's back there, kicking your seat every now and then, guffawing, but you sorta tune him out by reading a magazine or ordering another Champagne split. Now it had become a totally different situation insofar as this freak had moved up beside me, thigh to thigh, flapping his jaws like crazy, along with the hollow stares of his zombie kid looming at me over the seat in front. It was looking like I was going to have to face the music, pay the piper, address this matter and try my best not to look down. Plain and simple? Mama had a gut and it wasn't pretty. I had gone from an ecto to an endomorph in what seemed like a nano second and I was thrown. Granted, I realized I wasn't getting any younger and I had harbored and abetted two little aliens inside my torso for 18 months combined. If that doesn't change the "center of one's being", then I don't know what does. Don't get me wrong, I am all for my heart expanding two sizes, just not my ass.
All the trouble started when Daisy went on strike at the dairy but I'll get to that part in a sec. Right now, I want to focus on the glory that was my life before I channeled the Michelin Man. Who knew, after all those years of my youth working it at Bally's in my scrunchie and leg warmers that all I really had to do was open my blouse? Nursing turned out to be my best kept diet secret. No Jenny, no Slimfast, no grapefruit for me. This was fab and I don't know why I didn't try it sooner. Oh, that's right, I do know...because a.) I was single and b.) I didn't have anyone to make my living. It turned out to be a cinch; all those extra pounds of me that I had spent nine months creating in each pregnancy (plus, a few extra!) flew off, both times, thanks to my two Icelandic vampires. Don't even get me started on my second one. I am not exaggerating when I say it was like having a Hereford at my chest. No wonder I was thin, she would have eaten the marrow in my bones had I given it to her.
Now as far as you gutsy guys out there, I don't know what to tell ya. Short of an estrogen patch the size of Rhode Island and a whole lot of prayer it’s probably never gonna happen. But that's okay, you'll be just fine, because society labels you the grey fox, distinguished...Me? I'm the older mom, a gray mare that's heading to not quite what she used to be or what my O.B. terms my kind- "elderly secundi gravida". Nice. Some of us are even mistaken as the grandmothers of our children. That I can't even write about.
My dream jobs have always been wildlife conservationist, photo-journalist and pro-poker player, in that order. But now I'm making a revision and adding wet-nurse to the top of the list. How I would love to finish out my mid-life crisis, kicking back, no workouts, eating all the mint chocolate chip I wanted, comfy and buttoned into a size 8...all made possible by just renting out the twins. It would be a noble life. Feeding the world's children and staying svelte all at the same time. But some stars just don't deliver no matter how hard you wish upon them. Which brings me back to the weight of the matter. Here I was a middle-aged broad with a broad middle and what was once an attractive inny navel had become a cyclopsian disaster.
The sad story goes like this. Once upon a time, it was a warm May day and I looked great and then I turned off the mammary spigot and it was over. The End. Sixteen pounds just shy of eight months. Nope, I wasn't fooling around. I kept eating for two but unfortunately there was only me left. My doc checked my thyroid and a few other things to see what might be the problem. Fortunately, he skipped on my liver. There are some things a patient just doesn't need to know. He called a couple days later and gave me the good news- my cholesterol, blood sugar and b.p. was that of a young girl. My figure, however, was not. I didn't have a hernia, so that was good, I wasn't pregnant, so that was double good and my endocrine glands were a-okay. Diagnosis? Fat. I had a chunk of it and it had to go. Funny at how all the trouble was brewing in the mid section of me. Right there in my center where all things begin and end. I had become disconnected from that center in a lot of ways. Definitely...physically, but also on a spiritual level, too....caught in a constant "flight or fight" situation. Mama was lost in the jungle and on the bottom of the food chain. Smack dab in the middle of me was all that stress, worry and extra dressing I was dipping my bread in. I needed to take a deep breath, find my center, burn some of it off and do it quickly before I had to go to Old Navy and buy a new pair of pants.
So here I was, worn out, puffed up, feeling down and nanny-free. How was I going to work myself back into shape when I didn't even have time to floss? It wasn't like the old days when I actually had control of my life and the freedom of doing anything I wanted without getting the permission of a four year old. I found myself one morning, post diagnosis, standing unclothed in front of my bathroom mirror, taking a scary gander with one eye shut for my own protection. "I'm ruined. If my head wasn't connected, I wouldn't even know who this body belongs to", I woefully exclaimed to my husband. He's no dummy. He told me... that this body had given us our two beautiful children, that this body had attracted him, oh, so long ago and a few other assorted lies. Hey, I didn't marry this guy for nothin'. He also told me that my control freak self was at it again, not getting her way and pouting and if I didn't want to pinch that inch, I had to do something about it whether I had the time or not. He was right. I had to face the naked truth. I fear change- big time and change happened- big time. And I was hiding in my baggy sweatpants behind a whole bunch of it. I guess it was kind of like I said hello to motherhood and goodbye to a part of myself...apparently a goodbye to the Ab-master. Why had I let myself go like that? Where had the proactive part of me gone off to? And was it possible to just put my youngest back on the breast until she was maybe 12 or so? It wasn't like me but I had indeed thrown in the towel. Yep, I had thrown in that sucker alright while eating salt and vinegar chips with the other hand. Bummer. I knew I was gonna have to take out my Buddhist shovel and start digging for some of that "self" stuff again. I knew there had to be some motivation, confidence and esteem down there somewhere...underneath that extra 256 ounces of me that I had no interest whatsoever in loving and lugging around all day. Nope, this so called badge of honor, battle scars of motherhood thing wasn't working for me. The only scars Mama's gonna have is for that tummy tuck I'm saving up for. My husband then popped my thought bubble and gave me a big hug and said "and don't forget, honey, cut yourself some slack, you are over forty". That part he could have left out. I closed the door, had a really good cry, realizing he was right, I was right and that I was never ever going to be able to enter a wet tee shirt contest.
So with the sleepy-eyed sacrifice of my hubby and the mornings he used to spend resting his old, tired bones, I managed not only to join a gym but one just three miles from my house. Hey, that's a big deal considering I live in a holler. Not only was this gym a gem but one that sits on a beautiful nine hole golf course. Just what the doctor ordered. I have rolling green mounds, trees and even a frog pond to stare at while I'm huffing and puffing off the poundage. The beginning, I ain't gonna lie, was absolutely awful. Advil, lactic acid...I was in a world of hurt. It took me twenty minutes just to get to the coffeemaker in the morning. But as time went by I not only got my Rip Van Winkle muscles to wake up, but my head began to clear. I was discovering that I'd been flabby for awhile, on many levels. It was like the Mind and Body used to be these cool couple friends of mine, but they'd broken up, over something stupid, and now I needed to do what I could to get them back together. And I had a lot of time to do just that. Five days, 12 miles and four hours of help from my dumbbell pals every week.
As time progressed and sweat was shed, so were a lot of other things. For the first time in my life, I was actually working out for reasons related to health and not just trying to look and be like someone I wasn't. I guess it's the nature of showbiz, but I had spent years judging myself, busting my rump to make my rump look like someone else's rump. Now, with each curl, each sit-up, each deep breath, I was working to satisfy me and no one else but me. I felt strong again and more appreciative than ever for a lifetime of good health. Taking the time each day on that course to run by and whiff the roses was just what I needed to settle down the whirlwind that had been my life for the last four years. Change? Plenty of it. Scary? Oh, yeah, always. There was enough cortisol in my body to choke a Panda and it sure gave me the belly of one. But it's something I'm going to have to work and not eat my way through. Besides, watching my dad blow through 2 months of chemo without so much as a whine.. it was the least I could do. In the big picture, my fitness efforts are helping to (fingers crossed) insure myself a little more time with my kids...to see their dreams unfold and more importantly to provide them with a decent role model that finally accepts her body for what it is and makes every effort toward its optimum health and function, not its size. As the mom of two daughters, in a society that is fixated on appearance, where young girls are pummeled on every level and an industry that actually manufactures a size zero, I need to give them all the logic, reason and encouragement that their young minds can hold. It sure won't be STAR magazine that does it.
Today, I can proudly say that the extra 16 L.B's of Mama Mags is gone. It took some Herculean effort from this stressed out mom, but I did it. And what I found underneath isn't exactly what it used to be. And that's okay. The gray mare may not be heading the race, but she's not ready to to be put out to pasture yet either. Some lessons you learn later than you want to, but they're worth the wait.
Monday, November 12, 2007
shakespeare and snowflakes
Yesterday was Veteran's Day. And yesterday we honored our people in uniform. Those we have among us and those we don't. My dad is one of those people. Him? Well, he's still hangin' around. Almost 88 now. Still gets up on the roof to clean his gutters...still swings an axe to cut his own firewood...still married to the same lady for 62 years ...and still won't listen to a damn thing any one of us say to slow it down and take it easy. His story, well, I'll write about that sooner or later. It's a good one. But today, it's about Mark Daily. Sound familiar? It shouldn't. He's not a celebrity. He's not a politician. He's not on the Forbes Top 100. And he isn't the latest hottie, in the latest movie, wearing the latest couture, in the latest club, doing the latest thang. He's dead.
These are some of the things that he was- born on the 4th of July, 23 years old, honors graduate, a son, a brother and a husband. He came from Irvine, shipped out at Ft. Bliss and died in Mosul and I am pretty close to certain was reborn in a lovely, remote stretch of the Oregon coastline.
But those are just the facts. Take a minute and read some almost perfect writing about the story of this young soldier...who he really was and the writer who shared in his life only after his death. And may your prayers travel west to his mother, the person that needs them most.
These are some of the things that he was- born on the 4th of July, 23 years old, honors graduate, a son, a brother and a husband. He came from Irvine, shipped out at Ft. Bliss and died in Mosul and I am pretty close to certain was reborn in a lovely, remote stretch of the Oregon coastline.
But those are just the facts. Take a minute and read some almost perfect writing about the story of this young soldier...who he really was and the writer who shared in his life only after his death. And may your prayers travel west to his mother, the person that needs them most.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
from raptor to rapture
It was a morning like any other really. I was scrambling an egg with one hand, stirring oatmeal with the other; my kids wrinkled clothes tucked under my arm and a vulture eye on the coffee maker. You know, if I could just find a way to use my toes, then I'd be perfectly efficient. I am in the South, after all. Meanwhile, the kids were acting like they were on crank and Father Mags was attempting to get a little shut eye after a long night at work. I had just called the girls to breakfast and was making my way to the altar to do my morning prayers and there he was. I froze...shaken for a moment by the stillness and intensity of this unexpected introduction.
In full view through my glass doors, he was perched on the rail of my deck, within just six feet of me. I knew this bird was too big to be one of the broad-winged or red-tailed hawks that I'd seen around. Nah...this guy was at least two feet tall, barrel chested, a beautiful brindle color with thick, stocky feathered cuffs all the way down to his toes sorta like he had his own built-in birdie Uggs. He had kick ass talons and topaz eyes that seemed to look into the deepest part of me. 'Right on', I thought to myself, I had just won the bird watcher's lottery. A golden eagle. Aquila Chrysaetos. Latin for large golden dude. Right there in front of me. These guys you don't see too often unless they're flying like bullets in the sky and you're living out West. But he was right here in the flesh, chilling on my back porch, taking a gander at some lady with bad morning breath and a fluffy pink robe.
As close to a loud whisper as I could manage, I told the girls to skedaddle and make their way into the living room. If you could have seen their faces when they saw this bird...The three of us stood transfixed, wide-eyed, hoping against all hope that he would grace us with his presence for just one second more.
Birds have been a part of my journey for awhile now. It began three years back when we moved cross country from Los Angeles to a quiet, wooded town in the South. The village that we live in is filled with a variety of avian wildlife and everyone has a feeder or two set up on their property to watch the beautiful cardinals, bluebirds, red-breasted robins, you name it, which flit around and do their thing. My neighbor is of the Audubon persuasion, our resident bird-man, in charge of replenishing the many feeders and upkeep on the birdhouses that reside on the seven golf courses in the village. After having just moved into our place, he was the first one to proudly tell me that an extended family of hawks had been shacking up for years in the five story trees that blanket the backyard of our home. We soon stocked up on all things suet and seed, chirps circulated and the next thing you know, birds of every kind showed up for handouts. With my oldest napping and pregnant with my second, I would often sit and regroup; sipping a cup of tea, wishing it was wine and gaze out of the dining room window. I came to really dig on my feathered friends. It was a nice switch from the go-go-go of the city...contemplative, serene and it helped beat the loneliness I felt from leaving my pals of the human variety and a place I'd called home for the last 24 years. We had a lot in common, those birds and I. I like to think this move was in some way a migratory one for me as well...a path that was innately familiar and one I knew I had to make...that led me back to the place where I had nested in my youth, reuniting me with a couple of other old birds I'd shared a lot of happy times with but most importantly, to the clutch from where it all began.
The eagle's a mystical creature. Native American legend holds this mythical super bird as the only one among animals that can look directly into the sun, and that the creation of thunder and lightning came from the beating of its wings. They were believed by the Pawnee to be a fertility symbol, honored by song, chants and dance. Me? I just think they're nifty. Plus, Goldie and I have some commonalities. Let's see..."she-bird" keeps it simple and mates for life, courtship activities include presenting talons and soaring together, she values her independence and privacy, can be a solitary kind of sort, the man goes out and brings home the bacon while she nurtures and nests. Then her kids fledge and she kicks 'em out of the house all within six months! Ya gotta love it. The kids then move away, with all the skills needed to live a productive and happy life but still come home to see mom and pop in the winter and hang for awhile. And let's not forget the fun part, they get to fly and dive at speeds of up to 200 mph.
This mysterious bird stuff goes back even further, some 8 years ago, having just embraced my Buddhist faith and hearing about a member (now a dear friend), whose beloved cockatiel of many years had flown the coop and left her broken hearted. For months, Millie ached, prayed like crazy and took positive action to get her buddy back, and sure enough, thousands of daimoku (that's what we Buddhists call our "spiritual fuel") and a newspaper ad later, Mr. White flew back into her life. Pretty damn amazing in a city of 8 million. I've always loved that story. It tells me several things. Even when the odds are really stacked against you, you can win...kindred spirits always find their way back to each other at some point...we are inextricably bound- a oneness of life and it's environment and that connection is vital to our happiness, progress and survival. Which brings me back to my thunderbird.
I quietly called for my husband, hoping he would hear me through the closed door of the bedroom. It worked and he staggered his way out, disgruntled, with that sideways look he always gives me when I rouse him in a panic over a spider 'that's the size of my fist' that's got into the house, who in reality ends up really no bigger than a pencil eraser. Hey, listen, Mama's all for nature except for the hairy eight-legged variety. Yeah, yeah, they eat bugs, are a link in the chain of life...I know, I know. My hubby took in a quick breath when he saw Joey. Oh, yeah. In the second she saw him, my oldest had already made up her mind on raptor-boy's moniker. Personally, I was thinking along the lines of Apollo, Icarus, or at least a Godfrey but my girl insisted and so it was. There we stood, the four of us Mags, a motley crew of bed-heads and our pal- Joey, the Golden Eagle.
We made a fumbled attempt to chronicle the moment as Geez tiptoed off to get his camera. But the only thing within reach was our quarter of a century old 35 mm with a cracked zoom. But as luck would have it, all eight of our telephoto lenses were in working order, so no worries. Besides, the best memories are the ones we store in the ticker rather than a scrapbook. At this point in the game, we were absolutely shocked that ole Joe was sticking around this long. We'd even settled in, sitting cross-legged on the floor and still he preened. It got me thinking on the matter. These birds don't make it a point to just land on your casa and stare at you. They don't make it a habit of vacationing in them thar hills usually. They like to cruise the Rio Grande, soar above the Rockies, free birds of the West....to me, a grand symbol of home. Perhaps he was just that...a mystical howdy from my old 'hood, or deeper still, a symbol of Millie's protective, super-sized prayer that had helped in guiding me and my family through some serious change and human revolution, coming out safe and sound on the other side. Maybe he was a part of me that I had left behind. Or maybe he was just the man, checking out his own reflection. Who could blame him? He is the Tyrone Power of the winged world.
Suddenly, he lifted his chest, turning his body around and showing us the gorgeous pattern of color on his back, his regal head cocked just so, a king ruling his court. His amazing wings unfolded, an eye-popping span of probably five feet, welcoming the warmth of the morning sun, reflective gold in it's rays and then he crapped on my deck.
Click here for conservation status of the Golden Eagle.
In full view through my glass doors, he was perched on the rail of my deck, within just six feet of me. I knew this bird was too big to be one of the broad-winged or red-tailed hawks that I'd seen around. Nah...this guy was at least two feet tall, barrel chested, a beautiful brindle color with thick, stocky feathered cuffs all the way down to his toes sorta like he had his own built-in birdie Uggs. He had kick ass talons and topaz eyes that seemed to look into the deepest part of me. 'Right on', I thought to myself, I had just won the bird watcher's lottery. A golden eagle. Aquila Chrysaetos. Latin for large golden dude. Right there in front of me. These guys you don't see too often unless they're flying like bullets in the sky and you're living out West. But he was right here in the flesh, chilling on my back porch, taking a gander at some lady with bad morning breath and a fluffy pink robe.
As close to a loud whisper as I could manage, I told the girls to skedaddle and make their way into the living room. If you could have seen their faces when they saw this bird...The three of us stood transfixed, wide-eyed, hoping against all hope that he would grace us with his presence for just one second more.
Birds have been a part of my journey for awhile now. It began three years back when we moved cross country from Los Angeles to a quiet, wooded town in the South. The village that we live in is filled with a variety of avian wildlife and everyone has a feeder or two set up on their property to watch the beautiful cardinals, bluebirds, red-breasted robins, you name it, which flit around and do their thing. My neighbor is of the Audubon persuasion, our resident bird-man, in charge of replenishing the many feeders and upkeep on the birdhouses that reside on the seven golf courses in the village. After having just moved into our place, he was the first one to proudly tell me that an extended family of hawks had been shacking up for years in the five story trees that blanket the backyard of our home. We soon stocked up on all things suet and seed, chirps circulated and the next thing you know, birds of every kind showed up for handouts. With my oldest napping and pregnant with my second, I would often sit and regroup; sipping a cup of tea, wishing it was wine and gaze out of the dining room window. I came to really dig on my feathered friends. It was a nice switch from the go-go-go of the city...contemplative, serene and it helped beat the loneliness I felt from leaving my pals of the human variety and a place I'd called home for the last 24 years. We had a lot in common, those birds and I. I like to think this move was in some way a migratory one for me as well...a path that was innately familiar and one I knew I had to make...that led me back to the place where I had nested in my youth, reuniting me with a couple of other old birds I'd shared a lot of happy times with but most importantly, to the clutch from where it all began.
The eagle's a mystical creature. Native American legend holds this mythical super bird as the only one among animals that can look directly into the sun, and that the creation of thunder and lightning came from the beating of its wings. They were believed by the Pawnee to be a fertility symbol, honored by song, chants and dance. Me? I just think they're nifty. Plus, Goldie and I have some commonalities. Let's see..."she-bird" keeps it simple and mates for life, courtship activities include presenting talons and soaring together, she values her independence and privacy, can be a solitary kind of sort, the man goes out and brings home the bacon while she nurtures and nests. Then her kids fledge and she kicks 'em out of the house all within six months! Ya gotta love it. The kids then move away, with all the skills needed to live a productive and happy life but still come home to see mom and pop in the winter and hang for awhile. And let's not forget the fun part, they get to fly and dive at speeds of up to 200 mph.
This mysterious bird stuff goes back even further, some 8 years ago, having just embraced my Buddhist faith and hearing about a member (now a dear friend), whose beloved cockatiel of many years had flown the coop and left her broken hearted. For months, Millie ached, prayed like crazy and took positive action to get her buddy back, and sure enough, thousands of daimoku (that's what we Buddhists call our "spiritual fuel") and a newspaper ad later, Mr. White flew back into her life. Pretty damn amazing in a city of 8 million. I've always loved that story. It tells me several things. Even when the odds are really stacked against you, you can win...kindred spirits always find their way back to each other at some point...we are inextricably bound- a oneness of life and it's environment and that connection is vital to our happiness, progress and survival. Which brings me back to my thunderbird.
I quietly called for my husband, hoping he would hear me through the closed door of the bedroom. It worked and he staggered his way out, disgruntled, with that sideways look he always gives me when I rouse him in a panic over a spider 'that's the size of my fist' that's got into the house, who in reality ends up really no bigger than a pencil eraser. Hey, listen, Mama's all for nature except for the hairy eight-legged variety. Yeah, yeah, they eat bugs, are a link in the chain of life...I know, I know. My hubby took in a quick breath when he saw Joey. Oh, yeah. In the second she saw him, my oldest had already made up her mind on raptor-boy's moniker. Personally, I was thinking along the lines of Apollo, Icarus, or at least a Godfrey but my girl insisted and so it was. There we stood, the four of us Mags, a motley crew of bed-heads and our pal- Joey, the Golden Eagle.
We made a fumbled attempt to chronicle the moment as Geez tiptoed off to get his camera. But the only thing within reach was our quarter of a century old 35 mm with a cracked zoom. But as luck would have it, all eight of our telephoto lenses were in working order, so no worries. Besides, the best memories are the ones we store in the ticker rather than a scrapbook. At this point in the game, we were absolutely shocked that ole Joe was sticking around this long. We'd even settled in, sitting cross-legged on the floor and still he preened. It got me thinking on the matter. These birds don't make it a point to just land on your casa and stare at you. They don't make it a habit of vacationing in them thar hills usually. They like to cruise the Rio Grande, soar above the Rockies, free birds of the West....to me, a grand symbol of home. Perhaps he was just that...a mystical howdy from my old 'hood, or deeper still, a symbol of Millie's protective, super-sized prayer that had helped in guiding me and my family through some serious change and human revolution, coming out safe and sound on the other side. Maybe he was a part of me that I had left behind. Or maybe he was just the man, checking out his own reflection. Who could blame him? He is the Tyrone Power of the winged world.
Suddenly, he lifted his chest, turning his body around and showing us the gorgeous pattern of color on his back, his regal head cocked just so, a king ruling his court. His amazing wings unfolded, an eye-popping span of probably five feet, welcoming the warmth of the morning sun, reflective gold in it's rays and then he crapped on my deck.
Click here for conservation status of the Golden Eagle.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
poste de primiere
Well, well, well. Hmmm. Now that I've spent the last two months floundering in a cyber pool of html, widgets & scroll boxes, busy as a drone pimping my blog, and still not knowing much more than I did when I started this blasted thing...hey, I'm a child of the seventies...typing was our computer class in those days. And I didn't even elect to take that. Too busy emoting in Drama, I guess. So anyhoo...now, I guess I gotta say something.
I definitely know this isn't going to be an online journal type of thing for me to rattle off what I do for the day. Kids, sleep, kids, sleep, Wal-Mart, kids, sleep. There ya have it. It surely won't be a place for me to pontificate or play pundit on this, that or the other because that isn't where my head's at. Literally....the brain power ain't that good. I'll leave that to Olbermann, Maher, or my friend, Dr. Wayne. And it won't be a place for me to offer up my writing as anything other than an outlet to understand myself a little better, to work out the kinks, be a better human, a better mom, a better friend, help me see that the glass is indeed half-full which takes a little more effort than it did when I was six and perhaps, maybe, just maybe, provide a little inspiration, hopefully not too hokey, to anyone out there who needs it. I hope The Daily Mag in its small, humble way will be a refueling station of sorts. After the morning news, a terror level of orange, and Coulter wasting good oxygen, who doesn't need that?
Which leads me back to Mama's Grand Opening, as it were. I think I have the person for the job. His name is Randy Pausch and he's a computer science prof at CMU. He's 47, pancreatically challenged and landlord to ten tumors in his liver. He's a father to three young kids, a husband, and on his way out of this lifetime in a matter of months. He's also brave, amazing and pretty cool. Below is an excerpt from his last lecture called "How to Live Your Childhood Dreams" on his own life's journey and the lessons he's learned. The Lecture
He talks about achieving our dreams and what's reeeally fun....enabling others to achieve theirs! Ya gotta love the ordinary doing the extraordinary. I do, and I want to pay tribute to the neato peeps that are out on the planet doing just that! You can read and/or watch the whole thing if you go on his site...click here
Yeah, yeah. It's something that most of us already know. Everything I'm gonna put on here or write about is. But it sure doesn't hurt to remind ourselves from time to time. In my case, daily. We can and we should but often don't chill for a bit...away from the 405, the cubicle, the stove or Prada to take heed to life's mallet that keeps banging away at our noggins. Inscription on mine? "Keep it simple, stupid." And then maybe you won't have to do what I did. Move all the way to the Ozarks just to realize that.
I definitely know this isn't going to be an online journal type of thing for me to rattle off what I do for the day. Kids, sleep, kids, sleep, Wal-Mart, kids, sleep. There ya have it. It surely won't be a place for me to pontificate or play pundit on this, that or the other because that isn't where my head's at. Literally....the brain power ain't that good. I'll leave that to Olbermann, Maher, or my friend, Dr. Wayne. And it won't be a place for me to offer up my writing as anything other than an outlet to understand myself a little better, to work out the kinks, be a better human, a better mom, a better friend, help me see that the glass is indeed half-full which takes a little more effort than it did when I was six and perhaps, maybe, just maybe, provide a little inspiration, hopefully not too hokey, to anyone out there who needs it. I hope The Daily Mag in its small, humble way will be a refueling station of sorts. After the morning news, a terror level of orange, and Coulter wasting good oxygen, who doesn't need that?
Which leads me back to Mama's Grand Opening, as it were. I think I have the person for the job. His name is Randy Pausch and he's a computer science prof at CMU. He's 47, pancreatically challenged and landlord to ten tumors in his liver. He's a father to three young kids, a husband, and on his way out of this lifetime in a matter of months. He's also brave, amazing and pretty cool. Below is an excerpt from his last lecture called "How to Live Your Childhood Dreams" on his own life's journey and the lessons he's learned. The Lecture
He talks about achieving our dreams and what's reeeally fun....enabling others to achieve theirs! Ya gotta love the ordinary doing the extraordinary. I do, and I want to pay tribute to the neato peeps that are out on the planet doing just that! You can read and/or watch the whole thing if you go on his site...click here
Yeah, yeah. It's something that most of us already know. Everything I'm gonna put on here or write about is. But it sure doesn't hurt to remind ourselves from time to time. In my case, daily. We can and we should but often don't chill for a bit...away from the 405, the cubicle, the stove or Prada to take heed to life's mallet that keeps banging away at our noggins. Inscription on mine? "Keep it simple, stupid." And then maybe you won't have to do what I did. Move all the way to the Ozarks just to realize that.
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