Whew. Flu knocked me flat on my back, but I am happy to say I've returned to the land of the alert and alive. Kind of. I actually wrote pages this morning, so that's a good sign.
For you:
A photo taken a few days ago. These are the elements that make me want to shoot, that quiet light, the fleeting moment.
Now, I'm off to catch an early showing of the The Other Boleyn Girl. Have a happy leap day!
In college, I had a deep and abiding crush on my friend Jan. I'd just limped to Pueblo after a disastrous series of reckless adventures. I was twenty two and gawky and a little bruised by life. Jan was few years older, and everything about her was quirky and cool and interesting. She was tall and wore her hair short when everyone else wore theirs long. Her lipstick was bright (as I came of age in the "long and silky" era, I didn't even know how to wear lipstick!) and she drove a Karmann Ghia. Her apartment was on the second floor of an old building in downtown Pueblo, with long windows and wallpaper with cabbage roses and a huge, sunny kitchen where she had pinned postcards and quotes in odd spot. By the sink: "I have too many fantasies to be a housewife."
She was also a mothering sort, and took me under her wing. She cooked for me and invited me to sit in that beautiful kitchen and lay down all the sad stories I was carrying around. She had come from some grimy city just over the river from St.Louis, and had made her escape to Colorado, but now the horizon was calling her and she thought she would go to San Francisco. It sounded like a dream, so I didn't think a lot about it.
When the spring semester finished, however, it turned out that she was serious. She was leaving. She packed her belongings into that little yellow Karmann Ghia and headed out for the glamor of San Francisco. It was the early 80s, before the Great Darkness there, and as she drove away, looking like one of her own vintage postcards, a scarf flying around her neck, I envied her the adventure.
But I got her apartment. And her fern.
Which sits now by my front door. Lately, it astonishes me that it's so old. It's older than my children! It outlasted my marriage! Ian once gave it a radical haircut when he was two or three, right down to the dirt, but it came right back and grew more hair to thrive at nine addresses. And often, when I water it, I think of Jan and her bright lipstick and her kindness to a lost young woman. I'm pretty sure she knows what she gave, but if not, I'm sending a thank you out in the ether.
Do you have a memento (living or not) that reminds you of someone you lost touch with?
A peaceful Sunday around here. I headed out for a long walk (aiming for eight, but missed the marker to turn around and ended up with nine), and it was interesting to note I was almost the only walker out. Lots of runners, lots of cyclists in their neon spandex (and kudos to every cyclist with a bell--thank you so much).
Walking is a quiet thing. Meditative. No dogs today, since I exhausted them a few days ago, and I needed to get a very long walk in to check out my new shoes. My walking partner has fallen in love and has been a bit scarce. I brought my Ipod and listened to music in one ear, nature (and bike bells) in the other. Admired the river, running beneath snow and melting ice. Hoped to see a fox, or perhaps a coyote, and instead saw a whole flock of blue jays, who wheeled around preening for me.
Both of my sons called. One wanted to talk politics, with all due passion, and I enjoyed it. The other one called to laugh about something on television. I cooked a beautiful lasagna for supper, with all organic everything, which CR will eat over the next couple of months on his long run days.
And then tonight, that beautiful a mountain-shaped cloud, edged with the setting sun, rounding out a pretty much perfect day.
What makes a day perfect for you?
In yoga class last Friday, our teacher asked us to think of a word we'd like to use as a mantra or guiding principle over the course of 2008. The word that popped into my mind, and stuck there like an annoying burr no matter how I tried to dislodge it, was honor.
Honor. No problem to think about that one, hmmm? Honor yourself, others, the world. Yes, yes, very good
idea. But as with all spiritual concepts, there is ever so much more to it when you start giving it real thought. And of course, I'm now tripping on ideas of honor at the click of every hour.
Reading a regular column called A Million Ways to Save the World in the new Oprah magazine, a line struck me like a thunderclap: Forget self-esteem...focus on self-respect, says Diana de Vegh, a psychotherapist.
Not self-esteem, self-respect. It made me hear my father's voice in my head, exhorting me to be responsible, to think about the consequences of my actions (and, thankfully, he never allowed me to slide--if consequences were not forthcoming from external sources, he imposed them from within the family structure).
Not self-esteem, self-respect. One implies unconditional love, which is fine in its place. The other encourages esteem born of action and responsibility to self, others, the community and world. Honor?
I have been thinking far too often of one of the incidents from last week, about a person I am fond of who took a dramatic and destructive turn. The consequences are terrible for her, and she was first in my prayers and sorrows, but as the days pass, I keep catching glimpses of the ripples that radiate outward from her, and how many different people are affected in small and large ways. She most of all, of course, but we all choose our paths, one way or another, and so did she. Those around her did not choose but will be forced to deal with the fall-out. Her actions have consequences.
I'm sure many of you have heard about the plagiarism discussion surrounding a historical romance writer, who was outed on an irreverent romance review website. (I am not going to contribute to the fire by adding links or names--that is not the point here.) There are dishonorable actions all around on this one--the plagiarism is wrong, and should rightfully have been reported. But with power comes responsibility, and the glee of the exposers is in poor taste. The body of journalism law and ethics has developed for a reason, out of trial and error. Plagiarism is a crime that must be reported whenever it is discovered. That is responsible. Continuing to hoot and holler over the crime after reporting makes it feel about as appealing as a couple of sixth graders kicking a dead deer on the side of the road.
Also, Madeline L'Engle says, "If you don't do your work, it might not ever get done." My minister (whom I seem to be quoting a lot here recently) says over and over, "Do what is yours to be done."
Simple, clear, straightforward, and like a powerful sword, the idea carries both redemption and crusade. If you do your work, it then goes into the world to heal or inspire or quiet or amuse or breathe life or excite or express. If you do it, things heal, get better. If you don't, the work goes unfinished, the holes remain, the ache stays aching.
It's almost impossible to imagine a world in which everyone is doing that, focusing on what is theirs to do. I can certainly see times in my life when simply focusing on my own stuff would have made a difference. I'm sure you can see incidents in your own, can't you? To earn self-respect, I must be responsible to the press of the work that is mine to do, and the consequences are toward healing. My acquaintance turned her back on what was hers to do, and the result is crushing. The reporters of the plagiarism were responsible and did what was theirs to do, but then allowed power to lead them into destructive action, and thereby possibly wound the work that is still theirs to do. They turned honorable action to dishonorable action. Sensationalism is never honorable. (Notice how sensationalism enters into the presidential race, for example.)
Hmm. I think this is going to be very interesting, exploring honor, as part of what is mine to do this year.
What is yours to honor this year? What does honor mean to you?
Jacqueline Mitchard posted today about her Saint Bernard puppy, who is quite, quite adorable. (Seriously, go look at the photo.) What is it about writers and their animals? I am ashamed to say that I sometimes forget to carry photos of my children, but there is always a photo of Jack on my cell phone.
Jack, who is too afraid to go to doggie day care and shivers over lightening.
Jack who has never listened to a word anyone has to say except me. Sometimes.
Jack who bit the lawn boy (who had been warned not to come into the yard without asking me and did it anyway, thinking it would be okay).
Jack who shattered the living room window last New Year's Eve when fireworks started going off and he had to find us NOW.
Jack who had to have knee surgery last month because he took a flying leap from the deck and demolished the joint.
Jack who sits beside my chair squeaking the toy of the day, which is cute for the first five minutes.
Miles brought me photos of Jack as a baby tonight, and looking at them, CR teased me about the release of the list of most trainable dogs. My old dog, April, was a border collie husky who really could practically speak English. A rancher with hands as withered as tree trunks once offered me a hundred dollars cash for her on the spot. Border Collies are the #1 most trainable dogs.
Chows are dead last. I'm pretty sure it doesn't help a lot to have a chow mix.
But I didn't know all that when he arrived at my door, barely five weeks old, a rescue from the interstate, where he'd been dumped. Even if I had, how could I ever have turned this baby away?
And he has stayed this cute. I mean, sometimes, you get a really smart dog. And sometimes, you get one that just loves you to pieces. Since Jack showed up five weeks to the day after I split with my ex-husband, I'm pretty sure there was Divine Order in place. Jack came to love me, and you know, he's really good at that.
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