In The Frame

Magic

From indescribable transformation flash

such creations---; feel! and  trust!

We suffer it often: flames become ash;

yet, in art: flames come from  dust.

Here is magic. In the realm of a spell

The common word seems lifted up above...

And yet is really like the call of the male who calls to the invisible female dove.

--Rainer Maria Rilke

It's all right...

Vision fugitive…;
In matters such as this
‘tis best to close one’s eyes.

We were in Mearlsylvania for a spring escape from the structures of urban living, a school community gathering and commune with nature. So naturally, the Northwest sky above looked like a torn piece of grey construction paper, large swaths dark and threatening and the rest blue with billowy white clouds.  Oh it was raining from the first and chilly, then hail came railing down covering the sodden green fields with dancing dots of ice white.  This chased all the adults inside for their civilized chatter in the dark wood lodge, while the kids stayed outside, tongues stuck out to catch god’s frozen morsels, careening bikes flinging mud as they whizzed by like moving Jackson Pollacks at work on canvasses of white sweatshirts, red coats, and blue jeans-- playful evidence, brown sparks of wonder in these young minds…we adults will soon wash them out after we hold forth in circles, trying to remember parent’s names, expressing concern about the middle schools looming large, carefully constructing our children’s futures as if they were our own, embracing old familiar friends, seeking to discover new ones… eventually for me,  I had enough of the ceiling as the sky and the coffee was a cold cup to hold onto as I felt myself languishing in the pool of parental wisdom… “Now you Doctor, you’re a sensible broad-minded man, you’ll know which of the schools is best for our budding adolescents.” I looked down at these shuffling boots made for walking. I’ve got holes in the soles of my socks. The pixilated parents were fazing out, and I couldn’t speak, though my mind wanted to cry out loud. The right side of my brain was experiencing perhaps a stroke…of genius.

It was almost April and although it might seem absurd, I buttoned my sweater, zipped up my orange down vest and my green anorak, put on my gloves and hat and through the double doors I pushed out into the frigid spring day moving like the steamy sea as I hummed to myself, bop bop bop I feel free… I can walk down the path, there’s no one there.

Anyway, I tried to leave the left side of my brain in the lodge, inspired by Jill Bolte Taylor, the neuroscientist who in her Ted Talk explained the significance and workings of our neglected and dominated right side. “Our brain’s right hemisphere, it thinks in pictures and it learns kinesthetically through the movement of our bodies. Information in the form of energy streams in simultaneously through all of our sensory systems. And then it explodes into this enormous collage of what this present moment looks like. What this present moment smells like and tastes like, what it feels like and what it sounds like. I am an energy being connected to the energy all around me through the consciousness of my right hemisphere. We are energy beings connected to one another through the consciousness of our right hemispheres as one human family. And right here, right now, all we are brothers and sisters on this planet, here to make the world a better place. And in this moment we are perfect. We are whole. And we are beautiful.”

Along the fence of Swann’s way I trudged with hands jammed in my pockets, making my way up the slope to the old growth forest, my boots sinking into the muddy path, kids laughter and squealing fading with the distance. . I passed through the gate and was surrounded by towering cedars, jack pines, fir, spruce, and ash and alder, and on each side of the path an undergrowth bursting to life, fern-leaf goldthread, five-leaf bramble, lupines, strawberries and blueberry bushes. A quiet descended with the sun trickling through the dark green moss draped canopy of trees and it seemed to break my simple face…. bring me to release…darling kiss me as I weep. A cool freshness expanded my nostrils as I took in a breath and found myself in search of lost time in these woods.

The cello even played breathing, in and out, in and out, of various durations, like the baaing of new lambs in the distant barn, yo yo ma Bach-ing me down the dark wooded path in a surging tide of sound pleasure, unyielding, substantial, the music alighted the raindrops falling. It gave an impression of order that vanished in the muddy path before me as puddles formed around sunken past footprints, ribbons of water breaking everywhere in rising and falling melody at my feet, silvered and charmed.  I was unable to give a name to the  harmony resonating within me, my eyes fell upon a gleaming wet clump of ferns with new furry growth about to unfurl, and with it gusts of memories flooded in with a shudder, the vicissitudes of my childhood life patterned in the ribbons of fresh and old broken brown fronds, the unkempt past arranged involuntarily before me, its brevity illusory. I gave over to my mind’s eye as I dipped down and fingered the pattern of my past life, touched the damp cold moss carpet and the lacey lichens around the fern and then I gazed at my wet hand and the raindrops landing and gathering there one by one, magnifying the world, my face, my skin, and the vibrations of the rising, unrelenting sonorous waves all contained within a tiny liquid sphere on my fingertip. Slowly it slid down into the valley of my palm, crossing my heart line, then my fate line, and finally my life line. My mother's child.

Sometimes I almost feel as if I'm gone, a long way from my home. But there you go to the years spent in the woods behind your childhood home with your sisters and your gang of neighborhood friends. This was the sanctuary in which we grew our young souls. Hugging the giant oaks, climbing the maples, gazing up at the black walnut trees, and collecting the black walnuts hard as rock but green, dropping with a thud at our feet. There you stood deep in the woods as a girl in boots at the natural spring that sprung magically each March, where you wielded shovels dragged from the garage to dig a mud depression, digging deep down, getting past your wounds, the many scars and scratches, reaching into the core of the earth, up came gnarled roots, pulled up from the hard earth with your small bare hands with all your might, and it wasn't easy but there in that childhood play, the destruction and construction, was the creation of the pond of your core beliefs. With sticks, smiling, you whacked the air and the tree trunks with tremendous will and force and for no apparent reason other than pure powerful energetic joy. And then you set to work on the method to your childhood madness. You'd kneel in the mud, determined to give purpose to the wild spring, sticking sticks into the mud in a long row, pressing stones and rocks and mud against it,  forming an impressive wall, a dam to hold back the imagined floods, tame the current of emotional tumult, ready for the rains to come and fill your mud pond, your grand creation in preparation for the spring delivery of your ducklings. Each year you would walk them there and give them a gift; they could swim and dunk their heads and quack and shake off the wetness and fully realize their being, their freedom in that swim.

Oh yes, we were the mistresses of the woods, the keepers of the pond, the blazers of new trails, the builders of dams. We held the keys to our pandora's box.  We were kings and queens, cowboys and Indians, aliens and animals, faeries and goblins, lovers and enemies. It was our kingdom, alive and real yet imagined, where a day’s duration melted clocks until the bell rang and the entire construct of our imagination would collapse around us as we tossed our tools in the bushes and ran home to our mother for dinner.

The persistence of memory washes away the defects into glimmers of hope and longing.  Here, I had touched one of those invisible realities, and dipped a bucket into the well of deeply held desire and pulled up the power to consecrate my life.  Could I abandon my habit of taking refuge in the trivialities of everyday living, the lust for numbers, the involuntary call to the childhood sonata that speaks to my vain sense of suffering, the sweet solace of utter self-pity, the protective trappings of adulthood. Can I follow the released tide that was sending me on this journey?  A journey where with each vision, each reading, a new layer is uncovered, a new meaning emerged.

Is my own child getting enough of this? I wandered further into the tranquility of the dripping forest and went off the muddy path tripping through the undergrowth toward a clump of branches that seemed to call out to me with their eerie beauty, their green iridescence, knots of ribbons, falls of lace, fringes of vertically hanging green jet moving like a dance troop with elongated green arms flailing above their heads loosely gathered, hugging in a circle.  The branches formed an undulating skeleton of a big green tent…I crunched my way down the fern strewn path and pushed away the glistening draperies of dripping moss to enter. Could it be a faeries village? And there I sat on the damp forest floor ready for faeries and goblins to emerge from the small dark triangular caves at the base of the two huge cedars several feet away, wearing pointy shoes and green jackets with big eyes and small cheerful voices, and in the hallucination they would dance and sing a new tune and take me in and bring forth more gusts of reverie to stir my soul, the one joyously swinging sticks, the child whose got her own, and carry me away with a wink of connivance, a hint of hidden meaning, a secret understanding found in this detached and incoherent fragment of recollection, lighting up for me the way, and for us the moment and the energy flowing between nature and my body, the ferns, the wet moss beneath my bottom, the faeries and goblins, the past, the present, the real and imagined, illuminated in these raindrops glistening on my palm, dripping off my nose, chilling my cheeks, wetting my smile, making my peace.

I wanted to cup this moment in my hands as if it was the liquid of life pouring from the sky. I wanted to hold tight my little girl, the one who was off in the distant fields running free with friends; I wanted to touch her with my love and show her this special quiet place teeming with strange life.  The sunlight laughed on my face and the lyrics of a deeply embedded song rose up in me, asking for release,  … everybody knows her ribbons and her bows and the twists in her curls…. aha she takes just like a woman, yes she does, and she makes love just like a woman, and she aches just like a woman… but she breaks just like a little girl.

Can it be she creates like a little girl? The light glides through my mind, It was raining here at first. Little darling, here comes the sun, here comes the sun. The smiles are returning to our faces. God bless the child who's got her own.

On the Road

Oh bird, my brother, why do you wander

    from forest to forest?

Oh bird, my brother, why do you stray

    from forest to forest?

In the city of your body is the holy name.

In your own green garden is the sacred sound.

Kabir

Snowy Climes

The sun shone so bright on the snow covered valley it was impossible to go out without dark glasses. And no need for hat or jacket; within minutes I'd be sweating.  I could not resist the call of the wild. I strapped on my skate skis, tuned my ipod up to my Kada playlist---Califone, Ulrich Schnaus, Imogen Heap, Sia, Tabla Beat Science, Talvin Singh, St. Germain, La Cor de la Plana, Snow Patrol, Joni Mitchell, and set off into the blazing sun-filled cold winter day in the Pasayten wilderness.

The day before I had finished plowing my way through  The Road by Cormac McCarthy, a most disconcerting, haunting, terrible, beautiful book. It left me holding the emptiness of the almost end of the world in my book-filled hands, the loneliness and desperation of being a person still alive in that situation, the odd, overwhelming attachment to life even in the face of absolute charred ruin. And it made us contemplate the beauty of young human spirits and the deep-seated goodness embedded in them.

Today my view of the world was enlightened by the shadow cast by that book. I was in a place that I consider my cathedral, my heaven on earth, full of life, goodness, natural wonders. It was a gorgeous day in Mazama. I set out skate skiing with not much ambition frankly. My back hurt; it's been strained, and I was tired from digging a snow tunnel with my daughter earlier in the day. But I couldn't not go out on this kind of day; it seemed like it would be a sin. And given the haunt of "The Road" i really did think, you never know, it could be the last.  I swallowed a few advil to overcome my back's resistance to the outing.

I've skied many times before; I have my regular route. Not overly long just a good workout. I set out gliding easily over the sparkly snow and before I knew it my glutes and my quads were working wonders and I was flying down the trail, paced by the rhythm of my heartbeat and St. Germain in my ears...I felt like I was floating. I saw Walter up ahead on the trail and skied right to him and gave him a kiss. We rested, we chatted and I couldn't convince him to go on with me. His feet hurt. Off we went our separate ways. I continued on and a few songs later I I arrived at my usual turning back spot and I slid to a stop and looked around the open snow covered fields. I was all alone surrounded by open fields. Silence. Fullness. And I pushed off again. Deep in it.

I came upon a Child of God walking along the ski trail and I asked her where she was going to and she said she was trying to get her soul free. And I thought, yes, we are star dust; we are golden. We each skied off and the child disappeared in a cloud. Off past Yasgur's farm, down Coyote Run and then on to Goat Creek trail, over to Fawn Creek I went climbing, sweating, glinting as the sun filtered through the trees. I had reached a heavenly high gear. A goat on skate skies; the mountain before me, up and up I climbed scissor skiing my way up the trail, sucking in and puffing out steamy clouds of air. By the time I got to Fawn creek I paused and celebrated the rushing frigid waters making their ways around the snow blanketed boulders in the creek. Sacred stones. I thought about "The Road" and the phrase in the book, "There is no later. This is later." Before me was a perfect vision of snow-caked beauty, a crystal clear rushing river alive with trout and moss and animal tracks on the banks. Nothing between us and them. Sacred stones. I soaked my soul in the creek's presence, in the moment, and felt cleansed and free; the proportions of my soul expanding. Om namaha shiva. Om namaha shiva. The music chimed in.

I had no water to drink because I didn't expect to be out this long. I was miles from home and thirsty in the dry, high altitude. I thought about eating some snow. Then I remembered again the book, the road, why would they keep walking on a road...where was their imagination...they were filled with fear... with good reason...cannibals everywhere...the dark side of humanity...and my thirst felt trivial, small, slaked. I let it all go and looked again at my cathedral full of gratitude. I came back to the airy wilderness of heaven I was within. And I pushed off the bridge over the creek and headed up one last hill through the pine strewn forest. I gazed up at a tree branch and there was a squirrel working over a pine cone munching on pine nuts. A moment, a fruitful gaze. Panting up to the top, I saw two skiers up ahead coming down; I stopped my climb, lost my balance and fell down. Nothing between us and them. Trains passing by. Ouch, my back screamed. The women whizzed by and I untangled my skies and got up. To the top I pushed and when I got there I paused and gazed with anticipation down the trail steep and winding through the forest. The reward. I see all the berries of the world raining down on me from the berry tree in the sky....in the sublime, in the sublime, I wish it could always be this way...I took off serenaded ..forever forever...I get lost in the sublime...taking a big bite of the juicy cherry. Think happy thoughts...happier thoughts and I will fly.

I was cruising, leaning, curving, sliding, breathing, laughing, smiling, floating, flying through the turns...one after another...down, down, down...no one was out...in the sublime...my reward for going beyond my limitations....stretching for it....following Ganesh as he removed the obstacles...gave me a new beginning...breathe, breathe...I was one step closer I am one step closer to heaven...never the same girl twice. This was skate skiing nirvana. I went on for miles.

And when I got home and  shared my exhilaration, my thrill, the fact that I had reached an incredible new realm in my growing skate skiing universe, my teenage boys grunted a polite "oh that's nice mom..." and went about their lazy day business. Smells like teen spirit. Help Help I thought. Be with me. But they weren't where I was. I felt a bit alone then. Be calm. Alone with the incredibleness of my afternoon. The beauty of this natural journey. And the realization that we can be one with the universe. The proportions of our soul can be expand by it. And in fact, we are alone with it; we hold it within us, we cradle it, we search for ways to share it, release it. Occasionally we walk side by side in it. Trust me on this one. No hesitation. Smash. bap bap bap.bop. Breathe. Down the ski trail we go, we went. And to billion year old carbon we will soon return. Songs and celebration. Stardust.

A Cirrus Snowshoe Day

The snow crunched under my snowshoes like potato chips as the sun beat down frying the frozen crust. Up Goat Peak, my iphone and me climbed. No birds to be seen. No deer. Just some tracks of skiers who had come down the steep rocky tree strewn slope that I was climbing up. As I teetered and sunk unexpectantly, I prayed  to avoid tumbling down the hillside under an avalanche. It was slippery out there. I sat on the wet boulders and snapped a few photos and there next to me, what did a I see but a bear den. I didn't find Yogi and Boo Boo sleeping in there though. See below.

Slush Fun

Here's some new music I've been enjoying during these winter wonder days...enjoy...

Korean Spa Day

It's the New Year and my back aches. So for a moment, let's leave behind politics and saving our little worlds and spend the day in Korea's version of heaven.

My friends and I found it in Tacoma of all places years ago and we've been making the trek periodically ever since. What a  place. I remember the first time Marina and Laura took me there. Marina, my Russian friend who grew up being dragged to Russian baths on Saturdays by her mother to be flogged by birch twigs, or venik, until she was shiny clean had converted by necessity in Seattle where Russian baths do not exist, to the Korean way and gave me strict orders that we had to get there early and leave open the whole day and although I wondered why, I followed orders and dropped my kids at school and headed to hitch a ride with her at 9 am.

Actually getting to the Korean Spa is the toughest part since the drive is long and trafficked through endless freeway construction and warehouse, truck laden streets--not your usual setting for a relaxing spa day f. Marina and I passed the time by talking about Russian literature. She told me how back in Russia she read one of her favorite books "Master and Margarita" (then blacklisted) in her college room dorm, overnight under the blanket, printed on a huge computer lab printer by someone very brave, who secretely typed it in by bits and pieces nightly (remember perforated cards as means of communicating with a giant blinking computer?). She lamented how  Russia is moving backwards now, as far as censorship goes - very sad.

Then as we idled in traffic Marina told me how the Korean spa is the only place she knows of where you can eat good Korean food for lunch while naked.  This image of munching on Kimchee  in a restaurant around a table with my naked friends made the traffic jams seem rather inconsequential and at the same time less urgent to escape.

We got off at the Tacoma Way exit and passed a bunch of run down strip mall shops to arrive at our destination. The official name is The Olympus Women's Spa. It was a non-descript grey one story building we entered with dim fluorescent lighting, light green walls, linoleum floors and dingy drapes and two pretty Korean women seated behind a metal reception desk. I could see marina's excitement level increase  once we arrived while mine was going into a east/west timewarp. There were no little bowls of flowers and women in kimonos running around with arched doorways. This was a working spa; the real thing.They took our credit cards and we signed up for a scrub and moisturizing and free access to the baths for a very reasonable price. They gave me a key and told me my number was 89 and mumbled some more instructions which whizzed past me. I clutched the key with my life, still thinking about my naked lunch to come.

We got to the locker rooms and got into our flimsy light green robes and went through the door into the baths. There, you're greeted by a echoes of korean women talking muffled by rushing water, steam steaming, and buckets of joy. The large steamy room with white tile and marble, showers, steam baths,  and four large pools with baths of varying temperatures was lively and inviting and the stress went right out of my spine and I started to strut around naked like a regular with the other 15 other women who had already settled into the spa by 9:30 AM. As we sunk into the 115 degree pool our spirits ascended the stairs to Korean heaven. The Korean ladies who looked like tanks in short black shorts with tops that showed their round bellies circled the baths periodically calling out numbers, searching for their customer for the next scrubbing. And before I knew it, off I went to the scrubbing room, only partially screened from the main baths where lined up iin a row ten deep women lay buck naked on their fronts, on their backs, each attended by a korean woman throwing buckets of water on them and scrubbing the living daylights out of their white skin before getting faces covered in honey and cold cucumbers. I  lay there feeling like a  Kobe beef cattle being massaged... angels on kites flew threw my head while my body seemed to turn into cumulus clouds...

And who were my fellow naked women strolling from bath to bath, giggling in the steam room, reading a book on their side? lazing away the day. Some were young, some were very old, some were Korean, and an awful lot of them I mused were strippers on their day off, escaping the grind.

We had our lunch, spicey tofu soup and plenty of kimchee. It tasted good. We laughed. We cried. The chairs were cold. And then back to the baths we went for another dose of Korean goodness.

India--Where Today is Yesterday

Today Is Yesterday

What you’ll remember about India:
“Garbage,” said a man concerned about ecology.
“The future,” said a man used to building cities.
“The commotion,” said a woman who cherished deep silence.
But I will remember cows with pink horns or red —
(Some overdue for a touch up)
Their placid bliss amidst the trash and noise
How you could buy alfalfa from a cart piled high
With green in the morning on your way
To feed the cows, to gather merit,
To honor Shiva, pay respect to the mother
Who gives us all
Cream for our ghee,
Milk for our paneer,
Fuel for our fires,
Fuel for our hearts —

She is a slow reminder, ambling through traffic,
Pushy commerce, pink horned,
Kind companion to the bull
Who bears the fierce god
Who wields our destruction —
Blessed by ignorance
We are the dust of ashes
Whirling tightly through the air.

Darcie Furlan
11/21/2007

Taj Mahal

A more mesmerizing thing of beauty would be hard to find on this planet...this grand white marble building constructed to honor a mughal emperor's first wife...wow how times have changed. THe inlaid marble with tulips, poppies, irises carved into them, the inlaid geometric patterns made of semi precious stones,,,20,000 workers driving oxcarts up a huge mile long ramp to cart int he marble to make the dome...these guys knew how to think big.

THe mosquitos are aplenty here...at dawn and dusk. Yesterday morning I woke at 5 and heard some beautiful sound outside...I opened my window to hear the call to prayer in the darkness...a loud deep voice chanting out across the land...it transported me until a swarm of mosquitos entered my midst and reminded me of the realities of this place.

Darcie has been taking her malarone religiosly and now I know why...not because of the mosquitos but it's dawned on her it's making her a bit manic...I wondered why she's so full of energy and ready to go to one more lecture about the mughal empire while I am heading to flop in the hotel pool and nap...so I've been instructed by her...she's semi conscious but I notice her shopping level going up....to watch her and take her malarone away if it gets too bad...

anyway we're having fun and I'll write more later. This hotel charges an arm and a leg for using wireless and it's not easy for us to find a better place.

I wrote an iku about the Taj but found it so utterly inadequate I've forgone it. I will share these thoughts from our last lecture about the Bahagadavida.

How can you do actions without attachment to the fruits of those actions? In other words, how to act without desire? A lot of self-knowledge is attained when you learn to let go of grasping compulsively  to get things or pushing things away. Acting without desire or attachment leads to self-knowledge...and soul building...this does not mean you give up or renounce desire...just the attachment to the fruits of those actions...this is an opening of the soul and to life experience.

that's all the guru talk for today. ONward to Barathpur where we shall see a Hindu fort...

Rikshaws through the market

Yesterday was a wild jampacked day....starting with a lecture on Indian history and ending with one, we will get an honorary degree by the end.

The most thrilling sensory overload experience was riding for an hour and a half on man powered rik shaw through the teeming streets of the market...i'm glad to still be alive. The kaleidiscope of colours, peoples, things sent our minds reeling...giant bull cows and camels in streets crammed with cars and buses do have right of way...after Gandhi's grave where I felt some sense of peace return observing his flame and imagining how one man could focus and move a country like India that is so random and haphazard, I marvel...yet in all the people we meet including an indian woman poet, a woman who has been a feminist here for thirty years, and a man who was a professor of poetry and now serves in a high office in the government, I feel within them a deep respect and love for democracy, diversity, and a desire for the rule of law to ensure their independence. One thing on the environmental front...all little taxis and buses were converted to Natural gas...this has been amazing improvement for air yet it is still hazy and dirty. The other improvement...electric crematoriums! They are all over the place.

So, we continue with our i-ku (thanks to Beth for inspring this name) puzzle. Tomorrow I may invite our group to begin submitting their own i-kus for this blog.-

Perch

Brahmins in the street

A constant din of honking horns

Parrots perch on tombs.

--------------

We're off to Agra today.

Smell of Delhi

Smell of Delhi

Rose petals and pollution

Aqua blue afternoon.

iku by Darcie

Sent from my iPhone

Day 1 Delhi India

Flying PharmaCOPEia

study of restlessness

My first I-ku

Wave home from the sky
guide books open, seats belted
Restless nadanta.*

*dance of life

Shame and Braking Wind

The girls over at Alice's blog continue to do a crack up job relaying their young adventures in India.
I've included the following excerpt...there's more where that came from...

And at dinner tonight Wally related in vast panoramic detail how the book/movie Passage to India (I recommend it) was actually about the intersection of the "little r" reality with the big "R" reality when the English woman and the Indian doctor have their strange encounter at the caves. I like that movie--it's a strange classic...onward to Alice's blog where Kate is infusing us all with laughter and light.

----------------
Shame
The shame concept has certainly made it onto the blog, but given its prevalence, I thought I’d delve a bit deeper. Currently, at The Children’s Home, shame is in vogue. This manifests itself most clearly when the children forcibly strip one another—lifting each other’s skirts, pulling up shirts, and generally undressing their peers. The general ruckus is always accompanied by a shyer, earnest girl, who will helpfully point out, “Auntie. This! This is shame.” I am grateful for these reminders on the boundaries and intricacies of shame, so we don’t forget, and started stripping each other on our morning walks through the village. But, seriously, shame is no joke. Alice was walking home, wet from swimming, and a village girl barricaded the path until Alice agreed to take her offered duputta. There was a moment last week when I hid myself under a desk because I heard a man in the hallway and was wearing a wide-strap tank top. And then there’s Deepa. Read on…

Rabbits
About a week back, I was teaching English class to a group of about 10 local fishermen, when I noticed, lying in the center of our circle, were Deepa’s underpants.

Shame.

They have bunnies on them. Shame, Deepa, shame. I was using the unemptied backpack we had taken to Madurai, and they must have fallen out. Luckily, I was able to snatch them up before anyone noticed. Otherwise, Deepa would probably have to fly home.

Let There Be Light (and wind)
Last week, Alice and I came across a character of the highest esteem. This would be, of course, The Very Helpful Boy. It all began in the community hall, as we were waiting for our English class to turn up. TVHB began to turn on fans. And turn off fans. And turn on more fans, while simultaneously (with the other hand) turning off fans. And turn off fans for a moment, and then very quickly turn them on again, and then, when you least expect it, turn them off. And then on. And all the while (every five seconds. no joke.) asking, "Auntie, fan?", "Auntie, good?". Finally, someone who knows the fastest way to a woman's heart is through an expertly arranged fan configuration. I have never met someone so desperate for approval And then he starts on lights. Alice and I sit, for—I kid you not—thirty minutes, as TVHB turns switches on and off, in what can only be described as the display of the century, a spectacle of wind and light.

Rats and Packing

When you go to these religious conservative dress countries where the women are, as a friend told me, "treated like they are nothing" yet at the same time must be something because they have to lots of their bodies hidden, it's kinda sending me into a quandary. Are we supposed to dress like them, or like us? They say the men get whacked out if they see our elbows or our knees, yet I just looked at the weather report for New Delhi and it's 90 friggin degrees there. No shorts allowed; no t-shirts allowed; no short skirts allowed.

I watched Passage to India last night, the academy award winning picture of 30 years ago based on Foerster's novel. It's worth watching as a timecapsule, exploding....the english women in their bonnets and cream colored crisp shirts and straight belted skirts...

So I find myself at this stage putting stuff in my suitcase and then pulling stuff out of my suitcase, putting it in, pulling it out. I've thought maybe I should just pack a couple of white sheets, wrap them around myself and try to join in the Indian parade of cloaked colorful beauty...yet still I wrestle. One way to pack light and escape this madness.

But I'm not unsure about the six Fran's chocolate bars, the full season of weeds on my ipod, and the Ambien I'm packing except whether I actually should go buy more. Oh yeah, and the Gandhi book the professor assigned us so at least. I'm on page 47. The flight is 17 hours and we're in coach; my mantra will be suffering in a stupor...

My friends who have travelled to India have a range of responses to the knowledge I'm going. Some say, "it's the hardest place you'll ever travel" still more say "oh, I was transported and fell in love with the place..."

And then there's the "Watch out for the rats in Bombay; they may look plump and  tasty but they aren't"--I may have to go vegetarian after hearing that one.  Another friend said "I traveled to India last year. Tell me you're not on a tour with Vraga Sathagraha Agency. Frankly I have to admit the place drove me to drink more than to the spiritual life!" I guess the best way to take this one: it sounds like a win win.

Hazard a Claim

I'm studying my Indian vocabulary: nam/name, shabda/word; bhajan/devotional song; dhun/melody; tal/rhythm; baha/instrument; shvas/breath; oham soham;outbreadth/inbreadth; mangalgit/ auspicious song of welcome; ulat-bamsi/upside-down language;

nirgun/divine reality beyond form, yet evoked through poetic images--a subtle voice ringing within the body, a burst of light, a wound from the arrow of the guru's Word

anahad nad/unstruck sound
tu ka tu/ you only you

me playing with these strange new words

ulad bamsi
anahad nad
tu ka tu

upside-down language
unstruck sound
you only you

Here's a real excerpt of Kabir poem song

On the Road

Oh bird, my brother, why do you wander
from forest to forest
Oh bird, my brother, why do you stray
from forest to forest?
In the city of your body is the holy name.
In your own green garden is the sacred sound

Linda, who is leading our trip and is a professor of religious studies and an expert on Kabir poetry in music and popular religion is working her magic and putting me in the hindu groove. She's inspiring and I haven't even met her...she shared with us a piece she wrote about her time spent with Prahlad Singh Tipanya, the folk singer who performs Kabir. She travelled with him in an old jeep with his band as a "groupee" as they performed around India for two years and now she is writing a book that includes chapters on this experience.

Maybe I won't have to write my own poetry...I can just find Kabir poetry to share via my blog as the trip unfolds. When a group says, "We sing Kabir," they might just say, " We sing nirgun." Nirgun is a theological term that refers to a notion of God beyond form and attributes, contrasted with sagun, which refers to God as represented in concrete forms, having incarnations, icons, stories. Here's to running in to our fair share of Bhajan mandalis, or groups that get together to sing devotional songs present in nearly every village...

Hey wise one, tell us the secret!
Just live your life well.
In this world flowers, branches--
where ever I look,
you, only you.

I'm writing this blog from Mazama, my bhajan meditative village in eastern washington...where everything, even improbable and funny things appear as my nirgun or sagun or a combination of both. Satguru! Satya nam!

off I go to return to Seattle.

Anthony Q. Harris

Today the air is chilled and the sun is streaming over the bright autumn leaves. In my quest to prepare for India, I decided to do a meditative walk my friend Sarah and I practiced down in the aspen strewn hills of Red River, New Mexico. Off I went with my ipod hooked up, listening to Ulrich Schnauss, Jai Uttal, and others passing step by step shuffling through the crisp leaf strewn sidewalk, counting to the beat of each music step 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 over and over.

I eventually looked up to see Mount Rainier glowing in the distance like a beacon calling me to far off lands, asking me to leave behind the little things that chained me, and let the cumulus move, build, and disappear. It sounds easier than it was; I struggled for the clearing. And as I stood looking out over the lake, a couple was coupling under a tree, and for me I met my match in the form of a large curved voluptious black stone bench perched on a point overlooking the water. I walked over to it, sat down and was embraced by its cold smooth curved shape somehow designed to fit my sitting body like a glove. At the center of this bench was an inscription

Anthony Q. Harris
The art of living is always
to make something good
out of something bad.

I liked Anthony's bench as I stared out at its perfect view of Mount Rainier...I wondered about him and his life with a feeling that he now had the most inspired seat in the city. I thought about googling him to learn his story. Then I decided no; I will know Anthony through my visits to this bench. And I'm sure I will be a regular now.

From the bench I turned my thoughts out to India and could feel a surge of excitement. The trip is imminent and  today I received a letter from the trip leader. She  writes that she  has arranged for  some friends/special guests to join us including a couple of  experts on women's issues and democracy in Inda, and also an Indian folk singer who she has worked with on her research of the great poet Kabir for a book about Kabir poetry and music she is writing. I love Indian music so this news was very welcome. And it makes me think my poetry theme may be inspired.

My poet friend Ruth suggested to me today that I consider the tanka form for my short missives from India  She relates "I think you might really find the tanka helpful as an alternate form for your poem project.  it's 5/7/5/7/7, so the two extra lines would give you more space. tankas are frequently about love, which is what I think travel at its very root is all about, that love for life and the whole planet, like the living like roman candles passage from On the Road that was on your blog a while ago and has long been a favorite of mine."

After a good long time on the bench, I arose, said my farewells to Anthony Q. Harris, and began again my 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 walk through the crinkly leaves 3 miles home. Many questions still unanswered, many feelings still floating, yet somehow more certain still in my conviction to burn brightly, live with intention, and stay open to what the future may hold for me..

I

i do autumn

It was a gorgeous global warming day yesterday. This early morning the sun streams through a grey cotton blanket of clouds laced with pink. I walked yesterday to these new tunes. M.I.A has a fun new CD out as do some other folks I enjoy listening to...my music theme continues...

Just practicing

I've been contemplating writing iphone haikus posted each day from India, kinda like my own form of puja back to the west and in homage to our internet connectedness (1.Pooja meaning daily domestic worship in Hinduismn consisting of a ritual offering of food, drink, and ritual actions and prayers, most commonly to an image of a deity) so in preparation, I've been researching the haiku form of poetry and practicing some. First off, I learned that the 5/7/5 rule is not so firm, yeha!.

Here's a nice summary definition of haiku from a resourceful site called Haikuhut:

What is the proper form for haiku in English? Well, a simple definition might be a poem that captures a ‘moment in time’, usually involving nature, and as perceived or experienced by the poet. It is recorded in less than seventeen syllables, usually in three lines, and usually with the center line longer than the others, sometimes with a seasonal reference, or ‘kigo’. Although many times a 5-7-5 pattern is prescribed as a ‘firm’ rule in rudimentary definitions of haiku this is not supported by research, translation, or history, even in Japanese haiku.

One component that does appear critical is a ‘break’, 'cutting word' , or 'turn', which usually occurs between the second and third lines, but can occur also in the second line, but a ‘break’ or shift of perspective that juxtaposes the other images in the poem is considered by many as an important aspect of haiku. There are many ‘schools’ of haiku, both in Japanese and the English, and there always have been. In fact Basho, considered by most scholars to be the Father of the modern haiku, told his students to: “Learn the rules, so that you can break the rules”. Today three lines, two lines, single line, and ‘Zip’ poems all offer the sincere student of this poetic form realistic options to pursue in finding their personal approach to haiku.

Haiku has long been associated with Zen Buddhism, but it has always stood apart from any religious or philosophical bent, and so maintains its universality. Perhaps the association with Zen can best be explained by the fact that both place high value on the ‘present moment’, and human interactions with nature. In any case a knowledge of, or practice of Zen is unnecessary to understanding or creating fine haiku.

A close cousin to the haiku is the senryu, which has many of the same goals, but deals humorously or even sarcastically with ‘human nature’, and does not require a reference to nature or seasonal reference. In point of fact, the lines between senryu and haiku are consistently blurred, and most scholars and poets do not consider one form higher than the other.

This is a very basic overview and definition of haiku/senryu, and it hardly an all encompassing discussion of the form or its origins. There is no single expert in haiku, and the masters sometimes broke their own rules with little more comment than a shrug of the shoulders. It is at once a highly disciplined form, yet one that remains flexible, and has continued to evolve; particularly the English version of this Japanese poetic form, that itself is thought to have evolved from far older Japanese forms; Tanka, Sedoka, and Renga.

In pursuit of knowledge about haiku a true ‘haijin’, or ‘haiku poet’, is nothing more than a lifetime student, and what Bob Dylan once said is highly relevant advice in pursuing an understanding of haiku; “Don’t follow leaders. Watch your parking meters.” Don’t let any Basho wannabe, or self appointed ‘expert’ crush your enthusiasm with their ‘rules’, but rather continue to search, study, and refine your work ‘in the present moment’.

I like this last piece of advice the best. Maybe I can discover a short form of poem in India that I can use. Indian words can run on forever so the 17 syllable limit doesn't leave much room to maneuver.

It's a gorgeous, warm, fall day,
Take out the trash and marvel

India haiku

Mobile haiku tastes
Like Gandhi's satyagraha salt

Of revolution.

My Listening vrjwa!

That vrjwa is gibberish for spirit. Not only am I obsessed with my iphone these days, I'm also submerged in music, filling up my ipod, copying our shelves full of old cds onto my Mac, downloading podcasts on everything from the environment, to entrepreneurs at work via Stanford's series, and KCRW's free daily download. I've been making playlists and one I made this summer I've enjoyed a lot and folks keep asking me for copies of it... I finally  posted an imix of it on iTunes today though a few of the songs I really like on it, such as the Unwon Boys and some old Beatles songs, aren't available in iTunes. Then, I noticed I could publish this imix here, so it follows. The miracle of technology and the web. I love making imixes so this may be the beginning of my dj blogging career. 

Lately I've been listening to a lot of Indian inspired music (Ravi Shankar, etc) because of my upcoming adventure there to Northern india with my old friend Darcie.  I've also come up with a blogging game plan for that trip. My hope is to send a haiku like poem every day via my iphone that captures some essence of my daily experience there. Some of my son's high school friends are traveling and working for the year in India and they are writing a blog that is totally hilarious and informative...don't miss it for some vicarious fun with youngsters on the Indian road.

Enjoy the music and watch for more. This is fun to do.

Day 3: A Xu Bing Story with WordMagick

You've got to look at the larger image, (click on this image) to see what the artist XuBing is up to with this software...you type in your story and his software spits out pictures...it's fascinating to think about how he does this...and it's really fun to play with...plus, I like the story...it actually seems more powerful if you just read it through the pictures...not the words...my boys spent a long time playing with this software in MOMA and so too did I.

DAY 3: Folding Tons of Metal @ MOMA

Somehow Richard Serra makes folding and bending huge heavy slabs of rusty steel and balancing them seem like working with sheets of light and pliable paper. MOMA has a nice online site for the exhibit you can visit here. I liked "One Ton Prop" (House of Cards) for the incredible balancing act...it's weightless quality was astounding. In his more recent work, the 20 foot high rusty pieces enveloped us in a  a zen-like maze of fascination and fresh connections. "How does he do this beautiful thing?" "How did he see this when no one else did?" And "why does it fit so snugly into our collective consciousness?"  Richard Serra provides a "aha" moment of great art.  Even with hundreds of people teaming through the exhibit, somehow the huge structures maintain and exude their quiet light spirit...if tons of steel can do such a thing...Serra  found the kharma in steel, the action, and brought it out..."Sequence" is pretty special... From his early work, I like best his handwritten list of verbs...grab a verb you like and do it! Being a person prone to inertia, here's my whack at a verb list......

to roll, to crease, to unfold, to store, to bend, to shorten, to dig, to weave,  to join, to match, to bond, to hinge, to force, to spray, to flow, to spread,  to gather, to collect, to complement, to pair, to arrange, strengthen, to distribute, to reach, to touch, to lighten, to continue, to distill, to furl, to grasp, of location, of tension, of gravity of letting, of context, of simultaneity, of tides, of reflection, of equilibrium, of friction, of soul, to go, to stretch, to continue...

Wally was engrossed by the museum...thomas skated through picking up vibes along the way...they both loved the Akio Morita computer art room where one piece of software did an amazing thing, translating words into icons that actually told the story just as effectively...the work is by Xu Bing, a chinese artist who now lives and works in Brooklyn.

The other work I loved was by Kara Walker...her black and white silhoetted images are amazing in how they work on so many levels and embrace so many painful contradictions yet appear so simple and beautiful...

The MOMA never ceases to delight...and I didn't even get to touch on the Rothkos, Picassos, and Pollackos that overflow the galleries and provide endless delight.

Day 3: Spring Awakening

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." Marcel Proust

I seem to be doing a bit of both these days...seeking new landscapes and eyes...while I race around this week trying to get my kids (and me) into a school routine, forgetting piano lessons...skipping class picnic...squeezing in a walk in the rain...setting up business meetings...enjoying the peace of quiet between wash loads from 9 to 3...my New York escape trip is fading fast into memory...gotta get back there so here goes another blog entry in hopes I can recapture what I saw with thine own fresh eyes...

The theme for the drama portion of our NYC was romance because I had bought tix to Shakespeare in the Park Midsummer Night's Dream, a fun rollicking story of pure love gone awry and then back together again...and then Spring Awakening the Broadway musical that won a pile of Tony's last year. It's a coming of age teenage story originally written in German(y) in early 1900s which was so racy at the time it was never performed. It's day has come...set to rock music the play is an edgey, break new boundaries hit for broadway and a good attempt at luring the youth of our nation into the musical theatre.

The boys tickets were in the second row. I could only get two there, so mine was further back, and fortunately as I would discover I wasn't sitting with them...why you ask...well because by the end of the first act this moving play about boys in a boarding school and girls nearby...and all the deep thought, strange emotions, moments of discovery, shards of stinging doubt, and blossoming of pure love leads to nudity and sex scenes on the stage just about ten feet from my boys seat. Little did I know what sex education class I was setting up for my boys. At intermission, I asked them calmly, "so, do you like the play?" ...they nonchalantly answered..."well it's pretty good..." looking down at the ground. Later, when Wally was recounting the play to his father on the phone he exclaimed excitedly "And dad, not only were we so close to the stage that the main actors were spitting on us as they said their lines, but when the sex scene happened, Thomas grabbed my arm so hard he gave me a bruise!"...."what, you want to speak to mom? but I haven't told you about the masturbation scene yet..." oh okay..."Yes dear, no I didn't know ...well the music was great....I actually loved it...yes honey....Lion King next time dear...."

After the play, while eating dinner and sniggering with the boys about the play...I took the opportunity in my sternest voice to talk to them about safe sex...I'm sure this is what they will remember...oh and the play unlike most trashy tv which is what my kids usually watch...has a lot of real life consequences to the wild and raucous activities of the teenagers...this must be the german heritage part of the play....the girl gets pregnant...the boy gets sent off to reform school...etc..etc... the whole boarding school world tumbles down into tragic consequences...I cried in the end...it really is a good play.

And it led to more bonding between my sons and me...our dinner conversation at Isabella's was cute and very moving all at the same time. I've never had such a freewheeling converation with my boys before...we covered all the rocky topics with humor and sincerity and openness...and I fear the table next to us...some young parents with 7 year olds...who were obviously eavesdropping...must have been horrified at the thought of what they might face in 10 years....oh well...we added some excitement to their otherwise mundane dinner.

I skipped the recount of MOMA during the day. I'll do my art report later.

Day 2: NYC, Sisters and Shopping

We met my sister, Mary, who came up from Baltimore for the day, at Rockefeller Center.  gave her a big hug. We gazed at the Giant Atlas man and then went in to the Rock and took a gander at the giant murals Diego Rivera had painted for the first floor. Giant bulked out towering working men in black and white and grey and sepia toned adorned the walls and arched ceilings. Elegant. Amazing.  Gilted gold laid in the marble floors. Gleaming brass elevators...

And then, no time to waste,  the billy goat I am, we all set off on foot. Two blocks into it, everyone said they were starving so we strolled to Bryant Park and had muffins and juice and coffee. Mary pulled out some pictures she had saved of Thomas and Wally from her visit years ago when Thomas was born. We had gone to Lopez Island. Those boys, now six feet tall and shaving, were so adorable as youngsters. I was transported back in time and touched then returned to the present moment. They were handsome now, turning heads as we walked the streets. It's fun to hang out with them.

Wally proceeded to give us an update on why we hadn't seen many bicycle messengers careening through the traffic hootin' and hollerin'; many, in particular the take-out food bicycle delivery guys, were on strike, he explained. The problem: the Chinese restaurants pay like crap and  the doormen, more prevalent than ever as NYC becomes more upscale, won't let the delivery guys go up anymore to deliver the food in person. Instead, the doormen take the money from the resident, skim off the tip and then pass (some of it) on to the delivery guy. You'd think Wally had lived here for years the way he talked. He has struck delivery guy off his career job list.

We decided this day would be about "art galleries" so off we set to Chelsea to see the Gagosian and all the new art brewing in this town. But it was a bust. We strolled two long, construction riddled blocks of Chelsea, and except for those with cheesy art, the good ones were closed for installations. Bummer. We gave up, hopped in the taxi to head to Soho. Plan B: Shopping.
We strolled down the Soho streets aimlessly, Mercer, Spring, Prince....Fancy boutiques riddled them; Prada, Anna Sui, Phillip Lim. We got to Houston and Broadway; teeming with NYU students. After a year of living in NYC basically most look like the girl to the left here. Kinda fancy grungy. There were fun, sexy stores like "The good, the bad, and the ugly." or "Agent Provacateur" wooey, lingerie on steroids...it offers these things with a very naughty, very pretty twist. So if you want to indulge your NYC crotch in fineries, this would be the place to go. Boys gawking. We didn't go in...the window was enough.

By the time we reached Broadway we were famished. I spotted Dean and DeLucca and said let's go. It's the greatest fancy grocery store on the planet. We salivated while we shopped the aisles. We were happy; we were amazed. Mary suggested a picnic in Washington Park so we bought some exotic cheeses, some bread including one with semolina, raisins and nuts, and some honey from Spain with hazlenuts that was supposed to go well with cheese. Italian plums, bottled water in flask shaped bottles, and chocolate pecan cookies. We were set. Off we went to the park. We sat down on our benches and aite and observed and chatted the hour away. It's so great being with my sister Mary. I love her company. We need to get together more often. The day was  informal, strolling shopping and catching up... Mary and I laughing,  gazing,  getting our juices flowing. It seemed all so easy.

The park was packed with clumps of wide=eyed fresh new NYU students clinging to identical white paper bags who looked  like they were being oriented: "This will be the place you eat your sack lunch for the next four years, on this bench, in this park." Wally exclaimed, "Oh, I wonder if we'll see Erica" One of his classmates from Lakeside had left a year early to enter the freshmen class at NYU. He took out his phone and started texting her.

On Broadway, Wally spotted the stores he wanted to go to: UNIQLO and Scoop. UNIQLO is a chain from Japan and the store was impressive; it's modern, clean and hopping. Thirty foot walls covered in shelves lined with unique t-shirts, neatly folded and stacked rainbows of cashmere sweaters, jeans, cords, and classic but fashiony clothes for reasonable prices. I bought a pair of jeans there and a big fat leather belt. The boys found t-shirts by Japanese comic artists. Afterward, out on the street, I spied an African woman with a nice table of bracelets and she had some from the Masai people, bright, colorful beaded bangles. I bought 2 for $14.00. I asked her where she got them. "Not from factory; I travel." she said. They were beautiful. Hopefully, someone got paid to make them.

There was one more store the boys were begging us to go to. "It's a store that's hard to find." "It's off the hook." "It's so bomb, mom!" "It's Bathing Ape" Thomas told me. I felt like a fading ape. We entered the tiny chic store with colorful gym shoes in the window swirling around on a giant 8-foot diameter glass lazy susan. They made us check our bags.  Inside was a single row of carefully pressed hung t-shirts with different ways of writing bathing ape or BAPE or some with cartoon characters.And they had big baggy jeans with "I love Bathing Ape" in big red type on the seat of the pants. That was pretty much the extent of the store's clothing inventory. Very expensive price tags on these t-shirts. This was RiDICKOLUS, I thought. The boys were drooling. This was merchandising; this was fashion gone ape, I thought. The other patrons in the store: an odd mix. Rich white kids with khaki shorts, foreign youngsters in tight black jeans and black kids with rapper style saggy jeans and giant bright white t-shirts or BAPE t-shirts paying with cash. My boys bought one t-shirt each and paid cash.

Then we strolled around in block circles some more until I spied a fashionable store with salwars and kurtas American style in the window. Couldn't resist. Bought some purple ones. India here I come. Afterwards I thought...oh I coulda bought those for $2.00 in India probably.

Our feet were throbbing from all the walking so we stopped for late lunch at the Mercer Hotel cafe. It was small and full of beautiful people. We ate our sandwiches and I had a fennel salad that was delicious, delicious food. And then we topped it off with warm chocolate cake. Ladies lunching there with powerbook laptops and tiny little dogs on leashes and big lips and giant sunglasses.

We took the metro back up to Rockefeller center, said our fond farewells to Mary who had to head back to Baltimore and then we headed to our apartment. Dinner reservations at 10:30 at Babbo. It was worth the wait.

80 blocks in NYC--Day 1

Right before we left, a friend called and said "hey, do you want to use G.'s apartment in NYC? It's nice and they're gonna be gone the whole week?" I said sure and cancelled my $300.00 per night 300 square foot hotel room that Thomas, Wally and I were gonna cram into for the week. What a good move.

The taxi dropped us off and the door man greeted us as if he had been waiting for us all day. Ah yes, Mr. C.'s guests of course go on up to the 21st floor. The boys eyes lit up, nice place they thought. We piled into the tiny elevator cramming in our bags and when the door closed we burst out laughing. Wally said, "Here we come CPW!"... he had done his homework researching NYC, never having been here before, and already turned every neighborhood in NYC into an exaggerated acronym...for example...Upper West Side had become "U DaBest" for UWS.  And UES had become YOU E ESSS or my response/question "You eat less? What are you talking about Wally?" "Mom, did you know the Dakota is one block away?" He said, ignoring my cluelessness about modern language...and Thomas said "Oh mom, you didn't know that?"

THis week was supposed to be a bonding experience for me, the mom, with my two boys and I could already tell I was gonna get schooled...schooled in how teenage minds work like firecrackers...and there was gonna be a lot of rubbing it in...

Sure enough, we left the tiny elevator to enter a tiny box of an entry way and entered through a large polished metal front door and found ourselves in a very nice apartment; small by suburban standards but spacious, elegant, modern, urbane by NYC standards. Wally walked around in circles saying "This is so COOOOOOL, mom!!!!" about a hundred times. Windows on all sides...we had a view of the city, the empire state building and Central Park.

Later we rode down the elevator...a tall 20 something girl with a book and running shoes was on it already.  We noted she had come from the 26th floor. She looked up from her book and smiled. We smiled back ....then out the door we glided with trusty map in hand to walk....my goal was Times Square...40 blocks away...no walk in the park. The boys strode beside me and looked up and down and all around. At one point 15 police cars paraded by with lights flashing, then they stopped in front of Lincoln Center and each policeman emerged and stood by his car. Then fifteen more police cars paraded in and did the same thing...We waited for awhile, nothing happening...no one special to see...and moved on...the boys were fascinated. Each block for me was a stroll through my past years visiting NY when I came often, but that was years ago, my last visit being in the summer before 9/11...i noted the changes, the updates...what remained the same... Why had it been so long? I asked myself silently....nevermind... I'm emerging and NYC is back on my list...lists are big now...and my list isn't long...get a place in NY and go there often to be surprised and invigorated by the city's machinations...the flashing, the reeling, the squeeling, the crazy outfits...the language...the snoring of the street people... the stink, the dirty majesty, the sturdiness, the yellow taxis honking...the crush of lost and lollygagging tourists...the gum ground into the sidewalk...the rough and ready purposefulness of the people who live and work here....

Wally literally sprang through the 30 blocks to Times Square....Thomas trudged with a somehwat concerned look and I read his mind... "Mom said we were gonna walk a lot and this is gonna be miserable if every day we have to walk forty blocks..." We went down a subway station and loaded up some metro cards...my first hint of consolation to Thomas...it was about 100 degrees in the station, 80 above, nevertheless Thomas looked relieved. But no subway rides yet; I wanted them to see and feel the lay of the manhattan land so on we went... Then we hit Times Square where the boys really wanted to go and their eyes lit up...we snuck into a hotel to go pee and Thomas spotted his first MTV celebrity...then 2-3 more...some guys on the show Making a Band...they looked like gangsters to me...W & T were perky and ready for more.

Ten blocks later we hit the New York Public Library and I was excited... the boys were sarcastic... though Wally could recount a movie scene from "The Thomas Crown Affair"  where everyone took refuge int he library...and then we hit Bryant Park. Thomas finally got up the courage to ask "Are we ever gonna stop walking, mom?" so I granted a reprieve and we sat and listened to the city's language, its cacaphony, it's music. Bryant Park used to be a sleepy park when I went years ago...now it was thoroughly modern, surrounded by swishy hotels like The Bryant Park Hotel..they had turned the park into an outdoor internet cafe with green metal tables everywhere and signs asking for quiet while in the middle workmen struggled to erect giant white tents for fashion week which is coming up...Wally was intrigued...he's a watcher of project runway...

After awhile I pulled my 14 year old from his chair and off we went uptown on 5th Avenue and then 40 more blocks back to our apartment where we would change and head for dinner at 10 PM...benefits of jet lag in NYC is a nightlife for me...since I normally got to bed at 10PM in Seattle...

We stood for the elevator and who should emerge from the door on the first floor lobby but the girl we had seen before...she said "Fancy meeting you here again." all her eyes on Wally. Me/mom looked on wearily wondering where this would lead...and thought of the nanny diaries... She pushed the button for the top 26th floor. We got off at the 21st. Wally said, "She must work for the people on the 26th floor; maybe she's a nanny."

At Elaine's restaurant, another old haunt of mine that my old boss Min Yee had introduced me to once with his friend Diane Ackerman, the writer...I told the boys we might see some celebrities...they looked doubtful unable to imagine their gangster MTV stars in a place like this...I said a different kind of famous person...the place was busy at 10 with diners and drinkers...and there sat Elaine, a short rotund woman in her sixties chatting with four men ...young and old filled the tables...if there were any celebrities it was the "Old fashioned" kind I told the boys...you know...writers, artists, directors...the non-screen types...novelists were the real stars when I was young...everyone wanted to be The Great American Novelist...the boys rolled their eyes..I guess not anymore I thought....I pointed to the Rothko, Rauschenberg, and Jasper Johns paintings strewn about the place setting on the molding ledge casually next to posters and photographs, a framed poem, a photo of Merce Cunningham, another of Woody Allen......and there amongst them was a Life Magazine cover with Elaine presiding, surrounded by her now famous patrons... two tables away from us she sat overflowing on her chair in a flowery orange and purpley light summer dress, throwing back her head laughing...an unlikely "presider" given the "slave to beauty and youth" age we live in, save for her spirit and warmth which outshone anything physical in the room...

I explained to the boys about how to pay bills when you're getting started in NY as an artist; "in kind/in trade" works  sometimes...it can make a difference, a bond...it can make a place more than a place...especially one that provides community, inspiration, and sustenance... and it adds a certain patina to everyone involved......just look at this place...still a home away from home...still bursting with creative energy after all these years...as nearly everyone stopped to greet or say goodbye to Elaine on their way out.... And the food was better than I remembered....

80 blocks of walking and a good plate of pasta in our bellies...we too had found our home away from home...we were happily settling into our week in NYC....

to be continued....

Moments of Happiness

Stefan Sagmeister is an well-known graphic designer in our time and recently gave a fun and "aha" talk at the annual TED conference. Years ago I attended this conference and still recall today it being the best conference I've ever attended and definitely a "happiness moment" nearly having to swim  out of the place because of all the stimulating folks I had spent time with and all the ideas I was floating in...anyway, the TED folks have begun to share the fantastic talks via their web site, and here is one I've enjoyed recently by Stefan about happiness and his work as a designer.

Takeaway thoughts: Make some lists about what makes you happy in your life and take note. These "take your breath away" lists might actually be useful guides...

And some of Stefan's list entries:

Trying to look good limits my life.
Everything I do always comes back to me.
Having guts always works out for me.

He says it all in the talk. Watch it.

Bonobos

They're stirring up lots of interest in and among the intelligentsia... and Sara Gruen, author of Water for Elephants has written her latest novel about these fun-loving, matriarchal creatures...you can read  a preview on her site.
We may live in a chimpanzee world now, headed by the Chimpanzee and Chief...but in the Congo the bonobos are cooking up a takeover...aren't they charming?

Likasi, four-year-old female. From the book “James & Other Apes

Island walk

This summer I've had the pleasure of spending some time in the San Juans. The last time I was there we had a terrific time with a large group of friends stuffed into two cabins, making communal dinners, swimming at midnight in the pond, kayaking, jumping in the icey cold Puget Sound and then warming up in the hot tub, and also for me, taking long walks. It rained more than usual while we were there. I took note, I closed my eyes, listened in the land devoid of human noise, and thought I'd share...

The sound of rain as I walk shapes the landscape so that I see it with my ears. The soft pats on the garden path as I pad out of the cabin alone in my rain jacket. I'm greeted by the timpani on the paved road as I turn to hike up it. The little bleeps on the leaves of the  bushes and plops off the tree limbs, soon are drowned out by the clanging on a metal gate I pass by. My eyes closed, I peer at my inner screen as rain streams down my face. Rain brings out the contours of the land and throws a sparkling colored blanket over invisible things...steadily falling, it erects and envelops me in its contours, the tonal peaks and valleys...creating a mental map, reproducing impressions, thoughts, landscaps in a muscular way on my inner screen, my mind's eye...imagination unrestrained runs away with itself in a cascade of associations...a vivid, pulsing, living world shaped by rain.

The ancients said animals are taught through their organs. I ask, does the mind run the brain or the brain run the mind? To what extent are we the authors, creators of our own experiences? This inner screen that is as big as it needs to be, upon which anything and everything, even sounds, is projected. Shapes, figures, objects, numbers in all the colors of the rainbow. Cave man, what is your pleasure? Just look, turn around, let the sun get in your eyes. Radiance, release, formless luminosity, calling upon our imagination with our self, our unconscious and release...a vision.

On the Peruvian trail---Wally-style...

My dear son on the road...

July 2

Hola señoras and señores,

Today half the group got to hike up to the pre-Incan ruins to put in the signs while the other half stayed behind to create a brochure.  Luckily I was making the brochure so I stayed behind while many people, accompanied by some “patas” trekked up the mountain carrying huge, solid signs.  Many people had to carry up bags of cement and shovels.  Such hard work.

When the laborers returned around 2:00 people hung out and socialized after their arduous physical service.  I worked in the free trade store for a while and almost had a 400 sole sale.  Unfortunately the internet was down across the village so the credit card didn’t work. We had a chill meeting at 5:00, and then watched soccer.  After that we all dispersed for the night.

Peace and Love, Wally E.

Corn Stalks and the Rough Life

A note from one of the kids in Peru:

I am very sun burnt. I was going to put on sunscreen but then Carrie told me not to. They also don’t feed us. This morning, after not having eaten anything but gruel, I asked if I could have some of the left over bread from the feast the teachers had eaten the night prior. To punish me for asking, I had my bedding privileges revoked. Being a problem solver, I went on my own and bought some potatoes in the market. I picked out the worms and was ready to eat. But they found me hiding in the closet and beat me with a corn stalk.
In all seriousness, I am having a great time. Not sure if I want to come back. But I miss you all and will see you soon.
Much love,

(Tell D. to put my clothes back and tell A. that I (don't) miss her. )

My Son in Ollantaytambo, Peru

My oldest son is off to Peru for five weeks on a school trip. He's been gone for a week starting out in Lima and then heading to the small mountain village of Ollantaytambo. The kids had to leave all their electronics at home and will be staying individually with village families in their homes. The only means of communication is via postings they will make on a blog once they get it set up. In the meanwhile, the leader of the group is sending collections of entries to all the parents. Here's one from Wally. I think I have a food writer on my hands...this makes me hungry...

June 21st
At Cantarana (the singing frog), the restaurant in which we ate lunch, we had loads of food while admiring the plethora of Argentinean football paraphernalia and posters of Marilyn Monroe and Bridget Bardot that adorned the walls.  We first had corn nuts and beans for appetizers.  We also had a drink I had never tried before; it was a blue corn drink that tasted like funnily flavored iced tea.  For our meal we had mussels with onion and tomato relish, boiled scallops in the shell with garlic and parmesan cheese, yucca fries, two kinds of ceviche, fried calamari, a paella-like rice, baked beans, white rice and probably other stuff I can’t remember.  All of it was delicious!

We then toured around downtown Lima and saw many government buildings, parks, and squares.  They were nice.  Then we went to visit a non profit called Ania that helps children learn to care for the environment by giving them parcels of land which the children manage.  Then we went back to our neighborhood to eat dinner.   Back at the hostel, we sat around reading comic magazines in other languages and books in German.   By 9:00 pm we were all sufficiently tired and went to bed looking forward to a super early morning on Friday in which we had to get up at 2:45 am to a catch a plane!  Crazy.  I know.
Peace and love, Wally E.

Field Notes from Summer Travel

We had a fabulous summer filled with lots of travel adventures in the United States. Friends have asked me to share the details so they can consider pursuing similar paths next summer. So here goes an attempt to summarize some highlights and recommendations. One thing that helps in setting up these trips is planning ahead!

First off let me say there were usually five of us travelling, two adults with three kids, but what also made the summer so special was that we travelled with other families and friends and new acquaintances on our trips and that added a great dimension to our trips and led to countless hours of fun for the kids who could play together during downtime as well as uptime.

So where did we go this summer, either together or individually: Grand Canyon, Bryce and Zion National Parks. Colorado and Utah for a biking and rafting trip; San Juan Islands to stay with friends on Decatur ; Thomas went for two weeks to live on the Makah Indian Reservation with classmates. Walter and Thomas went to North Carolina and South Carolina where Thomas attended basketball camp and then golf camp. And we all went to Hawaii to celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary.

Now when I read this I think, wow, that sounds like an overindulgent summer but let me say it was all out active, on the go, fascinating fun and we all enjoyed it. Even the day at home between trips rushing around to do laundry and get packed up for the next trip wasn't bad. The summer seemed like it lasted forever and I was sorry to see it go. But we did miss our friends here at home and the joys of spending summer in Seattle with the spectacular weather. Maybe next summer we'll stick closer to home.

he two major trips I'll be talk about here were are trip to Zion, Bryce, and Grand Canyon for ten days along with three of my sisters and their families. This launched our summer and was one of the best trips I've ever taken in my life. I can't say enough about the transforming, inspirational qualities of these three places, particularly when you see and explore them one after the other. And staying on site in the National Park lodges and cabins just carries so much history and connection to our country's values and attitudes, particularly those inspired by Teddy Roosevelt. In addition, it allows you to easily participate in the life of the national park rangers, the talks, the walks, the community feel of the place. I highly recommend planning ahead and making your reservations at the National Park lodges and especially the cabins. The lodges are wonderful gathering spots of people from all over the country (we counted nearly 39 state license plates in one parking lot alone) and also from all over the world (the tv room in the restaurant was packed with French and Germans and English watching the World Cup finals) In many cases, you need to reserve a place a year in advance. You might as well do it, you can always cancel if your plans change without much penalty.

We did a lot of hiking at each place, day hikes mostly, and we often got recommendations at the ranger station. Some real highlights included the RiverWalk Hike in Zion where you actually hike in the water of the river surrounded by steep, beautiful canyon walls. Sometimes, the water is six feet deep so you swim but no matter, it's hot there and it feels good. Kids love this hike. Another totally different hike but equally fascinating was the FairyLand Trail in Bryce. This dry, arid hike through the HooDoos of Bryce stoked the imagination and led to all kinds of visions in the rock formations. Finally, in the Grand Canyon, while we didn't have time to do the Rim to Rim hike, which of course we could have done no problem, we did enjoy the Angel's Point trail and most especially the Ranger talk about Condors where luckily in the middle of the talk a Condor came flying over us to give us a show and announce  that indeed they are making a comeback from near extinction. We also had a rare and interesting Nighttime hike hosted by a Ranger in the darkness of Bryce Canyon when the full moon was shining. It was a very different experience of the Canyon.

Logistics: My sister put out the email invitation about nine months ahead asking if we all wanted to go, laying out the dates, and telling us we needed to make reservations at the lodges for cabins right then to reserve our spots. We followed her suggestion. This is the first and important step. The rest is easy. We flew into Las Vegas, rented a van and then drove to our first stop Zion where we all met up.   I recommend seeing this park first. We then a couple of days later drove to Bryce which is a smaller, more approachable canyon than the Grand Canyon, a two hour drive. Then after exploring Bryce for a couple of days, we drove the 3 hours to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon where we stayed. The scale of the Grand Canyon is breathtaking and mind-expanding. The North Rim is very remote and truly spectacular. Our cabin in the village was set in a pine forest and nestled right up against the Canyon rim. I highly recommend it. After the Grand Canyon we drove back to Las Vegas and flew home.

Also if you are travelling as a big group (there were fourteen of us) you need to make dinner reservations at the lodges months in advance in order to get in at a reasonable hour. So again, make the reservations ahead and you can always cancel them later if your plans change. And if you are a big group, you might consider having separate tables since you'll get in easier. But it is really fun to all get together at the end of your full day of hiking and exploring or just hanging out at the lodges where you encounter people from all over the world and share your stories and insights from your day of adventure.

So that's the scoop on our National Park Trip. I recommend visiting their web sites and making your plans accordingly. We hope to go back in the next couple of years to explore even more of the National Parks in Utah (that state has many many great parks to visit). Or perhaps we'll go back to do that Rim to Rim hike one day.

The next trip I'll write about was our hiking and biking trip in Utah and Colorado. Another fun, challenging family adventure. More later...