Well, I'm still feeling bad, but I'm doing better than I have been the last two days. I've pulled myself together and will shortly be on my way to my parents' house. Every year my family gets together to eat, play cards or board games, and watch the ball fall in Times Square on TV. Even after I turned 21, I preferred this tradition. After all, these are the good people who get me through every year without completely losing it. I just assume be with them rather than at some bar... well... losing it.
Not that I'm totally against losing it. Some of us could use one night of unbridled debauchery so that the hangover in the New Year refreshes our resolve to take better care of ourselves. I've had those New Year's Eves, too... I just like the ones with my family better. I like thinking that my year was not so bad that I need a night that I can easily erase. I like knowing that my family is a safe group of people with whom I can relax and be myself as I embark on a new beginning.
I love new beginnings. It's just an arbitrary date on a calendar, yes, but we give it meaning by calling it the first day of another 365 day cycle. A chance to start over. A pause in our "normal" lives that asks us to step back, slow down, take inventory, and make decisions to improve our lives. I'll write about some of my own decisions, or "resolutions," tomorrow, the first day of 2010.
Wherever you are all headed tonight, please, drive safely and be kind to yourself. Whatever has happened to you lately, you've got a chance to try again.
Try again.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday Review: A sick day means time to read
It was my first day to do nothing for weeks. To sit at home with my cat and relax. I could have watched my new collections of The Muppet Show or whatever is available on NetFlix Instant Viewing this week, but I've been drooling at the sight of a pile of books just waiting for me even since before Christmas. I decided to read a chapter from some of those books today from the moment I woke up until now...
1. THE WOMAN WARRIOR by Maxine Hong Kingston
I purchased this text for myself while Christmas shopping. I ordinarily refrain from buying any books for myself during the holidays, but I consider this book research. THE WOMAN WARRIOR is a memoir about the author's family and culture as a second generation Chinese immigrant. What moves me the most about her writing is her ability to twist the perspective on stories for which most of us have bucket responses. To a story about an adulteress mother who killed herself with her infant in the family drinking well, we would say, "How tragic," or "What cruelty led a woman to such a drastic act?" Kingston, however, in writing about her aunt with no name, a woman the family will punish for all time by actively forgetting her, pretending she was never born, the author fears she does her aunt no favors by writing about her. She feels her aunt is the watery sort of soul anxious for a replacement... she sees, perhaps, the seduction and absolution in just running away, in displaying sympathy. In my own writings about family, I hope to reach beyond the obvious like this brave Chinese woman.
2. A gift from someone I love
I will not name the next book I opened because it was actually a thoughtful gift from a dear person who has recently become a special part of my life... but it's dreadful. Written by a fanatic who has learned to make money off of people too lazy to think for themselves, the book is jam packed with poorly researched drivel, cheap rhetoric, and senseless antisemitism. I doubt my friend has read this book, but I know why it was chosen, and I appreciate it... and so will the library when I donate it this week.
3. OLIVE KITTERIDGE by Elizabeth Strout
Aside from the fact that this book won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2008, I can tell this is going to be a good read. In the first chapter, the reader follows Olive's husband, Henry Kitteridge, to work. He's a pharmacist and develops a relationship with a young woman hired to help around the drug store. Though your mind might lean towards assuming a romantic connection, Henry pursues a much more fatherly route when interacting with her as she loses her first husband to a hunting accident and starts the hard road toward living on her own. It's simple, but engaging. I care about what may happen to these people... as well as the title character. So far, Olive has been an auxiliary character... argumentative, disagreeable, and civil when forced to socialize. I'm interested in what the author will do with her... what makes her significant enough to have the title role.
4. CLEAVING by Julie Powell
So, I just took another chapter out of Powell's dark memoir. I've found I kind of hate her lover. Not only because the situation is ugly, but because he reminds me of guys I once permitted to use me. I had the luck to get that out of my system before I'd qualify as an adulteress, but I don't think that puts me or anyone else above Powell and the troubles that drove her to this useless prick. I've also found my first complaint about the book - well, maybe it's just how I read. I'm having trouble imagining the scenes in which she's performing her butchering tasks, the cutting, dividing, etc. I don't know if this is an issue of how clearly she describes these activities or my lack of visual imagination. I'm still consumed in her story, but struggling with the guts and gore.
5. THE ESSENCE OF SHINTO by Motohisa Yamakage
This was a Christmas gift, but I also consider it research into my grandmother's homeland. I feel very fortunate to have it... it's actually pretty difficult to just walk into a bookstore and find a decent volume on the subject of Shinto. But, Yamakage's volume is not terribly... readble. It's translated from Japanese... and that aspect of the writing stands out loudly. I fell asleep twice trying to make it through very short chapters. And yet, the subject matter is like coming home. So far, as I understand it, the things I connect to the most within Shinto philosophy is the lack of a founder, the lack of an idol or image for the Divine, and a deep reverence to nature. More than once, Yamakage has referenced Lovelock's Gaia hypothesis; the concept that earth is not a mechanical, revolving rock, but a living, breathing organism. As long as I set aside time for coffee, I think I'll make it through this book and gain a little more faith in the process.
6. CONTACT by Carl Sagan
I've been reading this book bit by bit for... well, more years than I want to admit. For some reason, every time I start it, something comes up and I can't finish it. School, holidays, family and friends issues, etc. I used to feel badly, but, now I consider it the best part of my love affair with the work of Sagan. I'm just taking it slow, so to speak. I think I might be reading and re-reading this novel for many years to come... falling in love again and again with Sagan's creativity, believeability, and scientific poetry.
7. AMY AND ISABELLE by Elizabeth Strout
It was interesting reading two works by the same author. I had my natural concerns that the books would sound the same, but Strout's voice changes for this book about the relationship between mothers and their teenage daughters. The whole first chapter is pure tension. I picked this book up while at the charming used book store in Colonial Williamsburg. It was the book that almost made it for the last book my book club will read together as a group. I'm still satisified with the choice that was made (CEREMONY by Leslie Marmon Silko), but I can see why Strout's book was suggested.
8. EATING ANIMALS by Jonathan Safran Foer
I was afraid this would happen... while Foer is somewhat extremist in his thinking, his research and arguments are still sound. I don't know if I'll be able to eat sushi again for a while... I've already tried weaning away from foods that come from unknown sources, places where I cannot feel secure that the animals were raised and slaughtered in a humane fashion. But, the situation with fish is disturbing.
The only book I didn't make have a chance to open yet is my gift from my Secret Santa... Geraldine Brooks' PEOPLE OF THE BOOK. I've really been looking forward to this one. I see it in airports and bookstores, but I never see it when I'm in the mood to justify buying something for myself. I'll be jumping into that after I log off here and go to bed.
Great way to feel like dirt... surrounded by tea and books... and my new book embosser, a Christmas gift from Anya. I'm working my way through every book in my collection to emboss them with my initial.
1. THE WOMAN WARRIOR by Maxine Hong KingstonI purchased this text for myself while Christmas shopping. I ordinarily refrain from buying any books for myself during the holidays, but I consider this book research. THE WOMAN WARRIOR is a memoir about the author's family and culture as a second generation Chinese immigrant. What moves me the most about her writing is her ability to twist the perspective on stories for which most of us have bucket responses. To a story about an adulteress mother who killed herself with her infant in the family drinking well, we would say, "How tragic," or "What cruelty led a woman to such a drastic act?" Kingston, however, in writing about her aunt with no name, a woman the family will punish for all time by actively forgetting her, pretending she was never born, the author fears she does her aunt no favors by writing about her. She feels her aunt is the watery sort of soul anxious for a replacement... she sees, perhaps, the seduction and absolution in just running away, in displaying sympathy. In my own writings about family, I hope to reach beyond the obvious like this brave Chinese woman.
2. A gift from someone I love
I will not name the next book I opened because it was actually a thoughtful gift from a dear person who has recently become a special part of my life... but it's dreadful. Written by a fanatic who has learned to make money off of people too lazy to think for themselves, the book is jam packed with poorly researched drivel, cheap rhetoric, and senseless antisemitism. I doubt my friend has read this book, but I know why it was chosen, and I appreciate it... and so will the library when I donate it this week.
3. OLIVE KITTERIDGE by Elizabeth StroutAside from the fact that this book won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2008, I can tell this is going to be a good read. In the first chapter, the reader follows Olive's husband, Henry Kitteridge, to work. He's a pharmacist and develops a relationship with a young woman hired to help around the drug store. Though your mind might lean towards assuming a romantic connection, Henry pursues a much more fatherly route when interacting with her as she loses her first husband to a hunting accident and starts the hard road toward living on her own. It's simple, but engaging. I care about what may happen to these people... as well as the title character. So far, Olive has been an auxiliary character... argumentative, disagreeable, and civil when forced to socialize. I'm interested in what the author will do with her... what makes her significant enough to have the title role.
4. CLEAVING by Julie PowellSo, I just took another chapter out of Powell's dark memoir. I've found I kind of hate her lover. Not only because the situation is ugly, but because he reminds me of guys I once permitted to use me. I had the luck to get that out of my system before I'd qualify as an adulteress, but I don't think that puts me or anyone else above Powell and the troubles that drove her to this useless prick. I've also found my first complaint about the book - well, maybe it's just how I read. I'm having trouble imagining the scenes in which she's performing her butchering tasks, the cutting, dividing, etc. I don't know if this is an issue of how clearly she describes these activities or my lack of visual imagination. I'm still consumed in her story, but struggling with the guts and gore.
5. THE ESSENCE OF SHINTO by Motohisa YamakageThis was a Christmas gift, but I also consider it research into my grandmother's homeland. I feel very fortunate to have it... it's actually pretty difficult to just walk into a bookstore and find a decent volume on the subject of Shinto. But, Yamakage's volume is not terribly... readble. It's translated from Japanese... and that aspect of the writing stands out loudly. I fell asleep twice trying to make it through very short chapters. And yet, the subject matter is like coming home. So far, as I understand it, the things I connect to the most within Shinto philosophy is the lack of a founder, the lack of an idol or image for the Divine, and a deep reverence to nature. More than once, Yamakage has referenced Lovelock's Gaia hypothesis; the concept that earth is not a mechanical, revolving rock, but a living, breathing organism. As long as I set aside time for coffee, I think I'll make it through this book and gain a little more faith in the process.
6. CONTACT by Carl SaganI've been reading this book bit by bit for... well, more years than I want to admit. For some reason, every time I start it, something comes up and I can't finish it. School, holidays, family and friends issues, etc. I used to feel badly, but, now I consider it the best part of my love affair with the work of Sagan. I'm just taking it slow, so to speak. I think I might be reading and re-reading this novel for many years to come... falling in love again and again with Sagan's creativity, believeability, and scientific poetry.
7. AMY AND ISABELLE by Elizabeth StroutIt was interesting reading two works by the same author. I had my natural concerns that the books would sound the same, but Strout's voice changes for this book about the relationship between mothers and their teenage daughters. The whole first chapter is pure tension. I picked this book up while at the charming used book store in Colonial Williamsburg. It was the book that almost made it for the last book my book club will read together as a group. I'm still satisified with the choice that was made (CEREMONY by Leslie Marmon Silko), but I can see why Strout's book was suggested.
8. EATING ANIMALS by Jonathan Safran FoerI was afraid this would happen... while Foer is somewhat extremist in his thinking, his research and arguments are still sound. I don't know if I'll be able to eat sushi again for a while... I've already tried weaning away from foods that come from unknown sources, places where I cannot feel secure that the animals were raised and slaughtered in a humane fashion. But, the situation with fish is disturbing.
The only book I didn't make have a chance to open yet is my gift from my Secret Santa... Geraldine Brooks' PEOPLE OF THE BOOK. I've really been looking forward to this one. I see it in airports and bookstores, but I never see it when I'm in the mood to justify buying something for myself. I'll be jumping into that after I log off here and go to bed.
Great way to feel like dirt... surrounded by tea and books... and my new book embosser, a Christmas gift from Anya. I'm working my way through every book in my collection to emboss them with my initial.
(Images from http://ecx.images-amazon.com, www.pasajeslibros.com, http://images.amazon.com, http://ecx.images-amazon.com, http://upload.wikimedia.org, http://rgr-static1.tangentlabs.co.uk, and www.treehugger.com)
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sunday Reflections: Slow me down
Since this is my second night in a row feeling ill, I will be making this very short.
I received a forwarded email today about the top ten works of fiction for 2009:
TOP TEN BEST FICTION BOOKS OF 2009
Read any of these? Agree or disagree?
Also, here's an article for those of you who bought live trees this year:
RECYCLE YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE
And, lastly, here's one of my favorite Muppet songs... it's an after-Christmas sort of...weird:
Gingerbread Man
I'm off to bed... early... AGAIN...
I received a forwarded email today about the top ten works of fiction for 2009:
TOP TEN BEST FICTION BOOKS OF 2009
Read any of these? Agree or disagree?
Also, here's an article for those of you who bought live trees this year:
RECYCLE YOUR CHRISTMAS TREE
And, lastly, here's one of my favorite Muppet songs... it's an after-Christmas sort of...weird:
Gingerbread Man
I'm off to bed... early... AGAIN...
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Saturday Speaks: Holiday Cheer
I'm one of those dorks who actually appreciates hearing people say, "Merry Christmas," to one another. The wish itself just brings a sort of hot cocoa at home with Mom and Dad kind of feeling. So, the best thing I heard this week were all the holiday greetings from my loved ones... those I could not see sent me messages or called... and that made my day resemble more closely my ideal Christmas.
Worst thing? This pounding in my head and back... surviving the holiday only to get sick. Bah.
Worst thing? This pounding in my head and back... surviving the holiday only to get sick. Bah.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Friday Sabbath: A Christmas Story
This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be with child through the Holy Spirit. Because Joseph her husband was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.
It was not intentional that she didn't say anything to him as he walked out the door. This was not his fault, she knew that. The words just weren't coming to mind. She was unaware of her shallow breathing, her body the only part of her still grasping for life. She stood at the kitchen counter, frozen in her motivation- whatever it was. Did she come in here for juice? To put the cereal away? She couldn't remember. All she could think of was the hole inside of her now emptied of the purpose that recently wakened her spirit.
But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, "Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins."
She realized she should have gone with him. She always had everyday before this one. Some sensible thought tried breaking through the intense sadness covering her. Shouldn't she be counting her blessings? She turned to the fridge to get the juice.
All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: "The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel"—which means, "God with us."
The phone startled her. She faltered for a moment over cleaning the droplets of juice or picking up the phone. She grabbed a paper towel as she made her way to the telephone and held on to the receiver. "I know what you're doing," she heard her friend say. "How could you know?" she answered while wiping the counter. "I know how you get when you're upset. Look, it's not that I'm not sorry that this has happened to you, but it happens, and it could be worse." "Don't tempt Gd, looking at how things could be worse." "Fine... you are still pretty lucky."
When Joseph woke up, he did what the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took Mary home as his wife. But he had no union with her until she gave birth to a son. And he gave him the name Jesus.
The door opened and she hung up. Her husband had returned home with their son after retrieving him from school. At the sight of her little boy, oxygen filled her lungs. The sadness seemed to shrink moderately to disappointment. Her only child's eyes shone with that most innocent of loves... the kind that knows nothing of the potential for mistrust, jealousy, or loss. All he knows is this overwhelming warmth and security. She wanted to bury her face in his blissful ignorance. She came to her knees, held out her arms, and the boy ran into her with laughter. As she held him, her husband placed his large palm on the back of her skull which seemed to remind her to think about spaces within her that were still filled.
(Verses taken from Matthew 18-25, KJV)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday Kitchen: Christmas Eve Dinner
For several years now, my mother's family has held our Christmas celebration on Christmas Eve. I think this started sometime after Grandma died to compensate for spousal sides of family. I think when Grandma was still with us, we all saw each other on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day for church and dinner. All of us meant more people than it does now, too... a cousin has abandoned us and some of my other cousins work or have other obligations during family time. Now it's dinner Christmas Eve and brunch Christmas morning.
I think it's this lack of her that also changed our menu over the years.
As I've mentioned before, we always have stuffing at these end of the year dinners... but, tonight, we had a soup and salad evening. There were three kinds of soup: potato, chili, and Brunswick stew. It is cold outside, so, I'm not really complaining. It's a simple alteration to food options... maybe even healthier. The aunts are a little more conscientious of their diets than they were when we were younger. That's fine...
...but it reminds me of the hole in the heart of my family.
One of the few things that remains the same is my aunt's sugar cookies. She's been making them for most holidays as long as I can remember. She chooses the appropriate shape of cookie cutter which ranges from Easter eggs to bats to Christmas trees. I remember these cookies in particular because they're not just any sugar cookies. My aunt makes this amazing, light frosting... it's a lemon flavor, sweet and tart. It's always been among my favorites.
But, I guess not everything has to stay the same. One of our new Christmas traditions since we lost my grandmother includes a recipe given to me by a dear friend's mother. I've made it so many times now that I can pour the juices by heart. It's an old recipe for a special, hot Christmas punch called Wassail (Yes, that references that carol you might have sung in choir: Wassail, Wassail, All over the town, Our toast it is white, And our ale it is brown, Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree, With a wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee.) My cousins drink seconds, thirds, and sometimes fourth cups of wassail. It's expected. That's a nice feeling...
...because, in this way, I've sort of turned into my grandmother. I can't tell them how to make it. I lost the recipe a long time ago. I just eyeball the portions and simmer the juices with spices. When my grandmother was asked to write down her stuffing recipe, she did, but with difficulty. She also just "eyeballed" the portions and had trouble putting measurements to her recipe. To this day, we still can't make it like she did. I guess, if I depart from her habits, I'll at least teach one of my younger cousins, and/or maybe their kids, how to make the wassail by making it with someone several times. It's not as complicated as stuffing, but it's a touch-and-go process that might need a little repetition to commit to memory.
I'm contented and even excited about new additions to our menu... but the omissions remind me strongly of what is missing. She's been gone for12 years since December 15th... the quietest, saddest Christmas of my life. We sat in her living room, as we had every year before then, openned gifts, and looked around the house rather than at one another. We were remembering previous Christmases, making a mental map of a place we knew would never be the same... a place that would, in weeks, start to lose its pictures, furniture, and scent.
I miss her so much tonight.
I know I'm not the only one looking around at a Christmas tonight that, no matter how merry, will never be the same. May we all find peace in the old traditions, the new additions, and shared memories that keep our loved ones alive.
I think it's this lack of her that also changed our menu over the years.
As I've mentioned before, we always have stuffing at these end of the year dinners... but, tonight, we had a soup and salad evening. There were three kinds of soup: potato, chili, and Brunswick stew. It is cold outside, so, I'm not really complaining. It's a simple alteration to food options... maybe even healthier. The aunts are a little more conscientious of their diets than they were when we were younger. That's fine...
...but it reminds me of the hole in the heart of my family.
One of the few things that remains the same is my aunt's sugar cookies. She's been making them for most holidays as long as I can remember. She chooses the appropriate shape of cookie cutter which ranges from Easter eggs to bats to Christmas trees. I remember these cookies in particular because they're not just any sugar cookies. My aunt makes this amazing, light frosting... it's a lemon flavor, sweet and tart. It's always been among my favorites.
But, I guess not everything has to stay the same. One of our new Christmas traditions since we lost my grandmother includes a recipe given to me by a dear friend's mother. I've made it so many times now that I can pour the juices by heart. It's an old recipe for a special, hot Christmas punch called Wassail (Yes, that references that carol you might have sung in choir: Wassail, Wassail, All over the town, Our toast it is white, And our ale it is brown, Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree, With a wassailing bowl we'll drink to thee.) My cousins drink seconds, thirds, and sometimes fourth cups of wassail. It's expected. That's a nice feeling...
...because, in this way, I've sort of turned into my grandmother. I can't tell them how to make it. I lost the recipe a long time ago. I just eyeball the portions and simmer the juices with spices. When my grandmother was asked to write down her stuffing recipe, she did, but with difficulty. She also just "eyeballed" the portions and had trouble putting measurements to her recipe. To this day, we still can't make it like she did. I guess, if I depart from her habits, I'll at least teach one of my younger cousins, and/or maybe their kids, how to make the wassail by making it with someone several times. It's not as complicated as stuffing, but it's a touch-and-go process that might need a little repetition to commit to memory.
I'm contented and even excited about new additions to our menu... but the omissions remind me strongly of what is missing. She's been gone for12 years since December 15th... the quietest, saddest Christmas of my life. We sat in her living room, as we had every year before then, openned gifts, and looked around the house rather than at one another. We were remembering previous Christmases, making a mental map of a place we knew would never be the same... a place that would, in weeks, start to lose its pictures, furniture, and scent.
I miss her so much tonight.
I know I'm not the only one looking around at a Christmas tonight that, no matter how merry, will never be the same. May we all find peace in the old traditions, the new additions, and shared memories that keep our loved ones alive.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday Valuables: Christmas Spirit
I'm thinking of an older time... a time when my responsibilities included school and maybe some laundry. I spent most of my days with a boy, a boy who would stay in my life for a decade and help to shape many of the parts of me that would become permanent in my adulthood. When Christmas rolled around, we had a very busy day. Early morning with my mother, lunch with my step-father's mother, dinner with his mother, friends and coffee at moments in between, a late Christmas drink and a chance to play with new toys at the end of the day with my folks... it was a lot of driving, a lot of food, a lot of hugging and wishing for a good new year.
Frankly, I miss those days.
There was something magical about seeing so many people I cared about in one day. I saw my family, his family, my closest friends, and all of that with him, the person I loved most at the time. He hated Christmas... for the very reasons I loved it. He didn't like the driving, the back and forth, the visiting with so many people... but he humored me anyway... and there's something that was always magical about that willingness, too.
I like the idea of seeing as many of the people I love as I can. Without permission, if I could, I would see: Mom, Daddy, Johnah, Clif, Jaci, Corey, Marc, Paul, Jeanette, Judy, Paul, Kenny, Uncle Philip, Anne, Uncle John, Anya, Dennis, Lilia, Jude, Kat, my pen pal and her family, Tristan, Robin, Ada, Schuyler, Lucy, Stacy, Georgia, Jay, Beth, Johanna, Charley, Miles, Caro, Mike, Gandolf, Jude, Amy, Edie, Joanne, Meredith, Silvia, Claes, Erielle, Louis, Bruno, Joyce, Jerusha, Norah, Micah, Gabriel, Victor, Signora, Judy, Ron, Phil, Arlene, Melissa, Dan, Audrey, Ralph, Andy, Papa, Valeria, Dina, Grandma B, Grandpa B, Mike, Davie, Kerry, Kristen, Josh, Jacob, Diane, Tom, Doris, John, Lauren, Brian, Eric, Micheal, Lane, Mister Millionaire, Ginger, Jennifer, and Joe. That makes me lucky I suppose... that if there were no issues, no distances, no time-consuming obligations, I would want to take a whole day to make my way to all the doors of the people above... to say that I love you, wish the best for you, and carry you in my heart all the days of the year. It may seem that, with this many people, my heart would burst... but it seems to me that more space is created, more openness, more hope.
I'd like to think that this is the point. The love. The thing that connects you to other people. The inexplicable emotion that reminds you who it is that has made you who you are, that causes desire for contact, for knowing, for being outside of yourself. These are the people that you care to know all those specific, seemingly mundane things... How are you? No, really? Are you happy? Amused? Abused? Wishing like hell you were anywhere but here? I want to know... it has nothing to do with myself, but I want to know. I need to know. I need to be aware. To care about your life, your thoughts, your considerations, no matter what.
Yes, the gifts will remind many of us that many people know us, know what we like, take the time to ponder our interests. But, plenty of people full of adoration and influence don't have the knack for gift giving, for offering something to you that says more than they can on their own by their actions. Those people knew what you needed when you were ill, crazy, sad, etc... or the ones with the courage to be themselves so that you could also bring out your most authentic Self.
I'm not one of those people who can emphasize on the birth of Christ this time of year... but I do see the creation of love, tremendous love, all over the map of my existence, and I am grateful to look back, know where I've been, and see that, with all the ground covered, all the fellow travellers, I'm bound to make it wherever I'm going. The story of Jesus is one of the best love stories I've ever heard, truly, and that's why it's the love, rather than the man, that I am fortunate enough to drown in on this day... to have this point on the calendar that reminds me to think of all of you, to renew my love, to be glad to be me, to know you, to care that you're you when I'm me, and to be where I am.
Love one another. Be at peace. Be with those you love... in the heart if not the body, and know how lucky you are.
Frankly, I miss those days.
There was something magical about seeing so many people I cared about in one day. I saw my family, his family, my closest friends, and all of that with him, the person I loved most at the time. He hated Christmas... for the very reasons I loved it. He didn't like the driving, the back and forth, the visiting with so many people... but he humored me anyway... and there's something that was always magical about that willingness, too.
I like the idea of seeing as many of the people I love as I can. Without permission, if I could, I would see: Mom, Daddy, Johnah, Clif, Jaci, Corey, Marc, Paul, Jeanette, Judy, Paul, Kenny, Uncle Philip, Anne, Uncle John, Anya, Dennis, Lilia, Jude, Kat, my pen pal and her family, Tristan, Robin, Ada, Schuyler, Lucy, Stacy, Georgia, Jay, Beth, Johanna, Charley, Miles, Caro, Mike, Gandolf, Jude, Amy, Edie, Joanne, Meredith, Silvia, Claes, Erielle, Louis, Bruno, Joyce, Jerusha, Norah, Micah, Gabriel, Victor, Signora, Judy, Ron, Phil, Arlene, Melissa, Dan, Audrey, Ralph, Andy, Papa, Valeria, Dina, Grandma B, Grandpa B, Mike, Davie, Kerry, Kristen, Josh, Jacob, Diane, Tom, Doris, John, Lauren, Brian, Eric, Micheal, Lane, Mister Millionaire, Ginger, Jennifer, and Joe. That makes me lucky I suppose... that if there were no issues, no distances, no time-consuming obligations, I would want to take a whole day to make my way to all the doors of the people above... to say that I love you, wish the best for you, and carry you in my heart all the days of the year. It may seem that, with this many people, my heart would burst... but it seems to me that more space is created, more openness, more hope.
I'd like to think that this is the point. The love. The thing that connects you to other people. The inexplicable emotion that reminds you who it is that has made you who you are, that causes desire for contact, for knowing, for being outside of yourself. These are the people that you care to know all those specific, seemingly mundane things... How are you? No, really? Are you happy? Amused? Abused? Wishing like hell you were anywhere but here? I want to know... it has nothing to do with myself, but I want to know. I need to know. I need to be aware. To care about your life, your thoughts, your considerations, no matter what.
Yes, the gifts will remind many of us that many people know us, know what we like, take the time to ponder our interests. But, plenty of people full of adoration and influence don't have the knack for gift giving, for offering something to you that says more than they can on their own by their actions. Those people knew what you needed when you were ill, crazy, sad, etc... or the ones with the courage to be themselves so that you could also bring out your most authentic Self.
I'm not one of those people who can emphasize on the birth of Christ this time of year... but I do see the creation of love, tremendous love, all over the map of my existence, and I am grateful to look back, know where I've been, and see that, with all the ground covered, all the fellow travellers, I'm bound to make it wherever I'm going. The story of Jesus is one of the best love stories I've ever heard, truly, and that's why it's the love, rather than the man, that I am fortunate enough to drown in on this day... to have this point on the calendar that reminds me to think of all of you, to renew my love, to be glad to be me, to know you, to care that you're you when I'm me, and to be where I am.
Love one another. Be at peace. Be with those you love... in the heart if not the body, and know how lucky you are.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tuesday Favorites: The Star of Bethlehem
(from http://www.edupics.com)What I suddenly love about Christmas are the astronomical questions the holiday raises. I've been reading through my Astronomy magazine and I've discovered that scientists have actually tried to find the Star of Bethlehem mentioned in the Gospel of Matthew. Does the following passage sound familiar?
Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him. When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him. And when he gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born.
And they say unto him, In Bethlehem of Judea: for thus it is written by the prophet, And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the princes of Juda: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule my people Israel. Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, enquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also. When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding joy.
(from Matthew 2: 1-10)
And they say unto him, In Bethlehem of Judea: for thus it is written by the prophet, And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the princes of Juda: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule my people Israel. Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, enquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also. When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding joy.
(from Matthew 2: 1-10)
Well, if that's not familiar, surely you've heard the carol Do You Hear What I Hear? It references "A star, a star, dancing in the night with a tail as big as a kite..."
Astronomers and historian have speculated as to whether or not this star existed. What could it have been? Was it just shameless propaganda? Matthew is the only gospel writer who discusses this star. Did he write about it to fulfill the prophecy mentioned in The Old Testament? In Numbers 24:17, one reads, " I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel..." Most historians seem to feel that Matthew would not have made up a star, so, astronomers have assembled a handful of contenders for the actual Star of Bethlehem.
It was once suggested that the star of Bethlehem was a comet. Some rare comets can be visible in the sky over the course of several days to several months. However, historians find the cultural context of the age substantial enough to dispute this possibility. Since ancient times, comets were perceived as omens for impending disaster. Therefor, it is doubtful that Matthew would have referred to a comet when describing the scene in which the Saviour of the World was to be born. So much for that Christmas carol... it's doubtful this star had a "tail as big as a kite."
How about a supernova? The article tells the reader of one such dying star that became visible in 1054. Stargazers were able to observe the event (which created what we now see as the Crab Nebula) for two years with the naked eye. For three weeks, during its maximum brightness, people could see this supernova during the daylight hours. Still, astronomers feel that this is also an unlikely possibility due to the fact that this celestial event is only recorded in Matthew's Gospel. They find it implausible that Eastern astrologers, particularly the Chinese, would have failed to record something as remarkable as a star bright enough to be seen during the day. The earliest recorded supernova event dates to 185 A.D. by the Chinese. A little late to refer to the birth of Christ...
...Which was when, by the way? Wouldn't that be useful in trying to dig through history for a mysterious star event? There is probably no way to know when Jesus was born, but historians have tried to narrow it down. According to Luke's Gospel, "...there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night." Such a harmless little line... but it marks a specific moment in a shepherd's work routine. December and January are rainy and cold seasons in Bethlehem and sheep are kept in corrals. No need to "watch" them. It is during the spring months, February through April, when spring lambs are born and shepherds watch their flocks during the evenings.
Are you wondering then, as a side note, why we celebrate Christmas on December 25th? I have many opinions on that matter, but, simply, Pope Julius I proclaimed the date for the commemoration of Jesus' birth in 350 A.D. It seems he based this on the once common belief that Jesus' Incarnation happened on March 25... December 25th being 9 months later. He may have had other reasons, too, since he moved it from the original January 6th date. The day he eventually choose coincides with a non-Christian festival called Sol Invictus (the sun's birthday). Perhaps trying to bring back the emphasis on the Festival of Christ...
So, back to Jesus' birthday...
Luke also mentions that Joseph and Mary were traveling to Bethlehem during tax season. Archaeologists of the early 1900s discovered tax records that may refer to this specific moment in history. This and the context surrounding Herod's lifetime suggest that Jesus was possibly born in spring or summer between 8 B.C. and 2 B.C.
This information leads us to early astrologers' records. In late May of 7 B.C., Jupiter passed Saturn, for the first time of which we can know, three times. A celestial event of this kind is referred to as a triple conjunction and it occurred in the Pisces constellation. This is intriguing information due to the superstitions of ancient people. Jupiter was seen as a royal star (since they did not realize that it was a planet simply reflecting light) and therefor named after the king of the ancient gds. Saturn also had a special significance, seen as the symbolic protector of the Mediterranean peoples. If that was not enough, unusual star movements occurring in Pisces were viewed as signals for important events occurring on earth. This event would have happened in the eastern sky, linking the location of this event to the words of Matthew's story.
There are a couple more guesses concerning the identity of "the real" star of Bethlehem that all lean toward planetary sky dances during the last several years of B.C. Evidence like this reminds me of interviews with authors and poets... learning about the little truths from their personal lives that link to the events in their written works. I find it fascinating and maybe encouraging that, whatever you believe, there's a shred of truth in many, many stories.
The picture below was taken in September of this year of Jupiter shining brighter than all the stars of a mostly clear sky. You can't miss it - it's the brightest, largest orb in the sky scene... twinkling over the Mediterranean. There's something calming and hopeful in a picture like this... you can see why it stood out to people in search of peace in tough times. May we find that peace we've been hoping for... someday.
(from http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/ap090907.html) Monday, December 21, 2009
Monday Review: Christmas Music
Among traditional activities in which we engage to celebrate the holidays, I enjoy listening to the music of the winter season. I don't usually play Christmas music until after Hanukkah (save on the years when the holidays overlap). That way, the carols won't get old before Christmas. As you well know, people start playing Christmas music as early as the day after Halloween in the stores to get us all in mind of spending money on each other. I close my ears or talk on the phone in those places... I like the usual carols, and I don't want to wear them out to the point where I'm rolling my eyes at every familiar note.
Tonight, Anya and I ventured out into the cold to attend the Virginia Choral Society concert at Trinity Lutheran Church in Newport News (the church in which I was raised). I don't attend their performances every year, but I like to try and see some live performance in December. A friend of ours was singing in the choir, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to hear some old favorite songs.
It's a decent choir. Only with the cooperation and dedication of a large group of people can you achieve this sort of sound that makes your bones rattle and your skin prick with emotion. The first half of the concert featured predominantly lovely, sacred pieces. They sang an arrangement of The First Noel combined with Pachabel's Canon that was quite beautiful. I've always been mystified by people who can hear such different tunes separately and know that, with some tweaking, the melodies will harmonize. It was a striking sound, a moving carol.
This carol also asks of the choir to sing very high very softly... and this choir is good at that. Aside from one or two sort of badly chosen songs, my only complaint about this choir would be their loud high notes... they need to stick to the soft stuff. Their emotive power greatly exceeds their clarity at higher volumes.
They sang a very strange song about Mary... "rockin' her baby..." which was really just odd. The composer obviously refused to make up his mind as to whether or not he wanted a powerful choir piece or a soulful jazz number. However, not all the secular carols were corny or badly written. One song, Merry Christmas to Me, actually made me laugh out loud. The lyrics are written from the point of view of a modern child making a Christmas list... wanting things like a pinball machine and a cellular phone... not wanting things like pajamas or socks. At one part of the song, the entire choir sings through kazoos. It was amusing.
The second half of the program featured mostly these sorts of silly Christmas songs... so I was disappointed that they chose to end the program with a slow, boring song. While the sound they made by surrounding the audience and belting out their final notes was fantastic, it didn't make up for the whole humdrum tune.
Overall, it was a good concert and I'm not disappointed that this was what I saw for my annual live Christmas performance.
~~~
Speaking of Christmas music, we all have our favorite albums... the ones we play every year while wrapping gifts or cleaning up for a family dinner. Below I'm listing my own current favorites at this moment... and I'd like to know what albums the rest of you are enjoying.
5. James Taylor, James Taylor at Christmas
James Taylor wrote one of my all-time favorite songs, Close Your Eyes. Naturally, I was excited to receive his Christmas album some years ago. He has his own sound but he keeps his arrangements simple which just contributes to the lasting brilliance of the songs as well as his obvious talent.
4. Billy Gilman, Classic Christmas
I, in no way whatever, pollute my surroundings with country music. However, I adore little Billy. Billy Gilman's Christmas album was recorded when he was 12 years old... and he's very, very impressive for a young boy. He has so much character and just bursts with... well, it's a "joyful noise," for lack of a better phrase. You can tell he smiles when he works. His carols are very classic and stay pretty far from the twanging nightmare of country music. He sings a duet with Charlotte Church (Sleigh Bells) and blows her out of the water with his personality.
3. Sarah McLachlan, Wintersong
I'm not a huge fan of Sarah McLachlan... in fact, her Christmas album is the only one that she has made that I own. But, this album is truly a thing of beauty. Her rendition of First Noel is haunting, her secular carols thoughtful and moving, and her lullabye tone makes for a calm, quiet Christmas evening with hot cocoa and a full day of good memories. It's just a great album.
2. Loreena McKennitt, A Midwinter Night's Dream
Admittedly, this lady could sing numbers from the phone book and I'd probably still want to listen... but, like McLachlan, this is just a gorgeous collection of Christmas songs. McKennitt's voice also lends itself to the emotive power that makes the magic of winter carols. Her song choices tend toward old tunes that transport you to an old Celtic fairy world. She includes selections like The Holly and the Ivy and The Seven Rejoices of Mary. If you're interested in that more old fashioned sound, this collection provides it.
1. Tori Amos, Midwinter Graces
This album just came out this year... and this may seem like Tori is finally selling out, but this is not your typical Christmas album. That's probably why I like it so much... the tunes are familiar, but it's still Tori being her fabulous, weird self. She mixes and matches her old tunes with more contemporary ones... leaning far enough into a genre to which I think her voice and attitude are perfectly suited. In a song called Pink and Glitter, she performs with a 1940s jazz siren sound. It's a great song that keeps you in the mood for the holidays without cramming the figgy pudding down your throat.
May all your holiday sounds be pleasing songs...
Tonight, Anya and I ventured out into the cold to attend the Virginia Choral Society concert at Trinity Lutheran Church in Newport News (the church in which I was raised). I don't attend their performances every year, but I like to try and see some live performance in December. A friend of ours was singing in the choir, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to hear some old favorite songs.
It's a decent choir. Only with the cooperation and dedication of a large group of people can you achieve this sort of sound that makes your bones rattle and your skin prick with emotion. The first half of the concert featured predominantly lovely, sacred pieces. They sang an arrangement of The First Noel combined with Pachabel's Canon that was quite beautiful. I've always been mystified by people who can hear such different tunes separately and know that, with some tweaking, the melodies will harmonize. It was a striking sound, a moving carol.
This carol also asks of the choir to sing very high very softly... and this choir is good at that. Aside from one or two sort of badly chosen songs, my only complaint about this choir would be their loud high notes... they need to stick to the soft stuff. Their emotive power greatly exceeds their clarity at higher volumes.
They sang a very strange song about Mary... "rockin' her baby..." which was really just odd. The composer obviously refused to make up his mind as to whether or not he wanted a powerful choir piece or a soulful jazz number. However, not all the secular carols were corny or badly written. One song, Merry Christmas to Me, actually made me laugh out loud. The lyrics are written from the point of view of a modern child making a Christmas list... wanting things like a pinball machine and a cellular phone... not wanting things like pajamas or socks. At one part of the song, the entire choir sings through kazoos. It was amusing.
The second half of the program featured mostly these sorts of silly Christmas songs... so I was disappointed that they chose to end the program with a slow, boring song. While the sound they made by surrounding the audience and belting out their final notes was fantastic, it didn't make up for the whole humdrum tune.
Overall, it was a good concert and I'm not disappointed that this was what I saw for my annual live Christmas performance.
~~~
5. James Taylor, James Taylor at Christmas
James Taylor wrote one of my all-time favorite songs, Close Your Eyes. Naturally, I was excited to receive his Christmas album some years ago. He has his own sound but he keeps his arrangements simple which just contributes to the lasting brilliance of the songs as well as his obvious talent.
4. Billy Gilman, Classic Christmas
I, in no way whatever, pollute my surroundings with country music. However, I adore little Billy. Billy Gilman's Christmas album was recorded when he was 12 years old... and he's very, very impressive for a young boy. He has so much character and just bursts with... well, it's a "joyful noise," for lack of a better phrase. You can tell he smiles when he works. His carols are very classic and stay pretty far from the twanging nightmare of country music. He sings a duet with Charlotte Church (Sleigh Bells) and blows her out of the water with his personality.
3. Sarah McLachlan, Wintersong
I'm not a huge fan of Sarah McLachlan... in fact, her Christmas album is the only one that she has made that I own. But, this album is truly a thing of beauty. Her rendition of First Noel is haunting, her secular carols thoughtful and moving, and her lullabye tone makes for a calm, quiet Christmas evening with hot cocoa and a full day of good memories. It's just a great album.
2. Loreena McKennitt, A Midwinter Night's Dream
Admittedly, this lady could sing numbers from the phone book and I'd probably still want to listen... but, like McLachlan, this is just a gorgeous collection of Christmas songs. McKennitt's voice also lends itself to the emotive power that makes the magic of winter carols. Her song choices tend toward old tunes that transport you to an old Celtic fairy world. She includes selections like The Holly and the Ivy and The Seven Rejoices of Mary. If you're interested in that more old fashioned sound, this collection provides it.
1. Tori Amos, Midwinter Graces
This album just came out this year... and this may seem like Tori is finally selling out, but this is not your typical Christmas album. That's probably why I like it so much... the tunes are familiar, but it's still Tori being her fabulous, weird self. She mixes and matches her old tunes with more contemporary ones... leaning far enough into a genre to which I think her voice and attitude are perfectly suited. In a song called Pink and Glitter, she performs with a 1940s jazz siren sound. It's a great song that keeps you in the mood for the holidays without cramming the figgy pudding down your throat.
May all your holiday sounds be pleasing songs...
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday Reflections: What do I do without you?
I'm back from my week off from writing... but, it doesn't feel like it's been a full week to me. I guess days go by faster during the congestion of the winter holidays. For those of you who read this blog with any regularity, I appreciate your effort and hope not to disappoint as I write through Christmas and up until new year (Come on, 2010... I'm over 2009 already!) before changing formats.
So, what did I do with myself while not writing in this blog?
Honestly, as you may have guessed, I was a little sick for parts of it... not deathly ill, but, not enjoying the cold and snow. Well, okay - I'm a Virginian, so, snow is great... to look at through the window from inside your apartment. During both snowfalls this past week, I had to venture out into the evening and run errands and make visits. While I'm a decent driver, cautious but not in the way of other motorists' confidence, I did not like squinting through the falling white dust, my windshield wipers somewhat useless against the downpour- or trying to predict if those shiny spots on the road were just moisture or patches of ice.
On a more pleasant note, during this break I had a chance to read a book to which I had been anxiously looking forward... there's something about cold weather that puts me in the mood for "classics," or, rather Victorian or early 1900s literature. THE AGE OF INNOCENCE by Edith Wharton reeks of sophisticated sarcasm and delicate, thoughtful emotion. She was the first female writer to win The Pulitzer Prize and she won by obeying the rules and breaking them simultaneously. Here was a women writing about forward-thinking while minding her P's and Q's about love and sex. It was a cozy and moving read. The book club discussed it during our seasonal meeting making the book even more enjoyable. I will miss reading books with friends after the club disperses across the states, with hope that we will still keep each other up to date on what we're reading, and what we're liking and hating about our solo book choices.
I spent some time with a dear friend I see so infrequently... we had a whole day to bash around and do some holiday shopping (I was relatively productive). I've missed having my writer-pal to talk to about our work, our methods, our new ideas. I'm fortunate to know someone I trust with my hopes for future projects... she's given me a reason to look forward to summer no matter where either of us lives by then. It's great to have another writer in my world to hold me accountable for my work... and vice versa.
I started Julie Powell's latest memoir entitled CLEAVING. She discovers that she has this passion for artisan butchery while her marriage survives an illicit love affair. It's much darker than her first published work, but I think she's maintaining her cleverness and self-awareness. There are few lines between her need to learn butchery and her desire to be with this other man. She's able to look at these seemingly disparate obsessions and figure out where it puts her on the path of her personal life journey. Get upset about the implications of writing about adultery, (as the adulteress), if you want to waste your time with that... she's not you and you're not her and her marriage was made with a different material than many others. A lot of us see adultery as a reason to split... maybe Powell had believed that as well... but, some people take that whole "for better or for worse thing" pretty seriously. That's not license to do whatever you damn well please, but, if you have the love, maybe that transcends certain mistakes (I'm not talking about the run of the mill asshole who never loved you in the first place and has been cheating on you ever since he met you... I mean someone who loves you and had a personal lapse that drove him or her to do something hurtful). I doubt I have the strength of character to make it through "the cheating game," but, I hope someday I can look back and say that I had the love to try and make it. I'm enjoying Powell's process of working through... herself.
I have a whole week of little holiday activities planned... from finishing a few homemade gifts to seeing friends coming home from out of town to having family time with my whole family (including the best of friends that became family over the years). I hope it will be a fun and heartwarming week for us all.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Gone Fishin'
In observance and preparation for the holidays, I'm taking a week off from my daily entries. Since I've been writing every day for half a year now, I'll return next week to my regular writings and consider my new plan for this blog in the new year.
I wish everyone a beautiful winter celebration in the meantime.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday Speaks: Precious sounds
The best thing I heard all week... it's a tie.
1) Hearing my gddaughter pronounce the Hebrew letters on the dreidel we gave her for Hanukkah
2) Receiving a phone call from my pen pal, unexpectedly, after such a busy few months
The worst thing was hearing that my cat had, finally, as I had feared, run out the front door - but, don't worry! We got her back in... I didn't cry... really... *sniff sniff*
1) Hearing my gddaughter pronounce the Hebrew letters on the dreidel we gave her for Hanukkah
2) Receiving a phone call from my pen pal, unexpectedly, after such a busy few months
The worst thing was hearing that my cat had, finally, as I had feared, run out the front door - but, don't worry! We got her back in... I didn't cry... really... *sniff sniff*
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday Sabbath: It's all about bearded white men
Hanukkah is a lovely, light-hearted holiday that offers a week of devoted togetherness within Jewish households. In a nation where most of us are busier than we can handle, I hope this holiday reminds Jews of the old laws of slowing down, taking time to rest. Really, it's a lovely idea.
But, my issue with this holiday, and several others, is the specific omission of the female heroines who make so many Jewish "miracles" possible. I keep saying I'm going to rewrite some of the seders and ceremonies for modern Jews to include these brave women more actively in the remembrance of the holy days.
As I said yesterday, Hanukkah celebrates the miracle that happened in the temple... the temple that needed to be purified... because the Greeks had filled it with their non-kosher habits... because the Jews were able to overcome the Greek army...
...and HOW did they do that? The Greek army was defeated because a courageous, Jewish woman walked into the tent of the Greek commander, Holofernes. She seduced him, and as he fell into a drunken slumber, she sawed off his head. With the commander dead, the Greek army lost all sense of how to fight, making it easier for the Jews to overtake them.
Is this story in the children's books? Of course not. Is it mentioned in the prayers said over the lights of the menorah? No. Do all Jews who celebrate Hanukkah know this story? Again, NO. The Jewish person I know best didn't even know who Judith was until I took a Baroque Art History class.
Obviously the Christian religion is guilty of a similar discrimination. The only women who receive any siginificant recognition are Mary, Mother of Jesus, and Mary Magdalene... a female disciple. Is Mary Magdalene included in the 12 apostles? No. They were all men... men who followed Jesus around... But, so did Mary. Shouldn't there have been 13 apostles? I actually think there was one other women as well, so was 14 not a good number?
It's simpler than that. Women do not count.
They do the dirty work, but they are not equal to the men who observed and recorded the miracles after the women saved their lives. It's like Purim. During the acutal services at Temple, you don't hear Esther's name more than once. How is that fair? Esther risked her life to save her people... She walked into the chamber of the king without being summoned. At the time, such an action was punishable by death. However, the king was fond of his wife, and spared her life. Instead, he honored her request to save the Jews from the genocide that the king's advisor had planned (that there would be one day on which all members of the kingdom had to bow down to the king... knowing that the Jews only bowed down to Gd... and the king fell for it).
Admittedly, sex and seduction has always been a spikey subject. In fact, the only times I remember hearing about sex in church were all in reference to the "naughty characters," like the woman who asked for the head of John the Baptist... Potiphar's wife who tried to seduce Joseph (who refused, enraging her, and so she told her husband that he had propositioned her and Potiphar threw Joseph out)... and the less I say about Jezebel the better. However, Jews, in my opinion, have always seemed to have a much healthier perspective on sex than most Christians who see it as taboo, as the method by which we all inherit the original sin committed by (Guess who? A woman, of course!) Eve in the Garden of Eden. In the old marriage contracts, Jewish women were protected in writing concerning how often her "needs" should be met depending on the man's occupation.
So, one may bind sex rules up in the Jewish law and tradition of marriage, but no one speaks for the women who used their wiles to help perpetuate the entire Jewish race? Makes me wonder if men would simply prefer not to have to admit that they're as easy as they are...
Don't misunderstand me - there are a handful of Jewish men that deserve every bit of recognition they receive. I, myself, am a big fan of Daniel, the prophetic boy. But, the problem creeps up again... Manyof you, most likely, do not know that a whole chapter of Daniel was removed after the dawn of the Middle Ages. The 13th Book of Daniel tells the story of Susanna, one of my favorite characters of Medieval Literature. Susanna was a Jewish woman who was very devoted to her husband. She was also beautiful, and other men definitely noticed her. Two elders of the Hebrew circle spied on her as she bathed in her garden unattended and caught her unawares. They threatened her to submit to them (sexually, naturally)... if she refused, they would accuse her of adultery anyway, which would cost her her life. She still refused, telling them that Gd would know the truth of her actions and she would never betray her husband. So, they formally accused her and she was hauled into court. It was Daniel who asked them, "Under what tree in her garden did you see her commit adultery?" Neither of the elders could come up with the actual tree that grew by her bath, and she was proven innocent. I'd say both Daniel and Susanna should get some credit for this shining example faith and conscience. But, unless you have a copy of the Douhay-Rheims Bible or bother to search the internet, you won't find this story in your Bible. Was it because it focused too much on a woman and not enough on the heroics of good old Daniel? Probably.
I was once told by a close Jewish friend, "All Jewish holidays are about the same thing: They tried to kill us. We killed them instead. Let's eat!" While that's a simplification, it's also partially true. It's not like there's any gratitude for the risks and sacrifices of Judith, Esther, or Jael... for the bravery of all the Jewish people, not just the men who waited in the dark for a woman to risk her life so that the men had a clear shot of the enemy.
So, for this Hanukkah season, I'm going to say a few words after the prayers to thank Judith, for having more guts than most men... and for having the strength to cut off a man's head.
(from http://sai.msu.su)
But, my issue with this holiday, and several others, is the specific omission of the female heroines who make so many Jewish "miracles" possible. I keep saying I'm going to rewrite some of the seders and ceremonies for modern Jews to include these brave women more actively in the remembrance of the holy days.
As I said yesterday, Hanukkah celebrates the miracle that happened in the temple... the temple that needed to be purified... because the Greeks had filled it with their non-kosher habits... because the Jews were able to overcome the Greek army...
...and HOW did they do that? The Greek army was defeated because a courageous, Jewish woman walked into the tent of the Greek commander, Holofernes. She seduced him, and as he fell into a drunken slumber, she sawed off his head. With the commander dead, the Greek army lost all sense of how to fight, making it easier for the Jews to overtake them.
Is this story in the children's books? Of course not. Is it mentioned in the prayers said over the lights of the menorah? No. Do all Jews who celebrate Hanukkah know this story? Again, NO. The Jewish person I know best didn't even know who Judith was until I took a Baroque Art History class.
Obviously the Christian religion is guilty of a similar discrimination. The only women who receive any siginificant recognition are Mary, Mother of Jesus, and Mary Magdalene... a female disciple. Is Mary Magdalene included in the 12 apostles? No. They were all men... men who followed Jesus around... But, so did Mary. Shouldn't there have been 13 apostles? I actually think there was one other women as well, so was 14 not a good number?
It's simpler than that. Women do not count.
They do the dirty work, but they are not equal to the men who observed and recorded the miracles after the women saved their lives. It's like Purim. During the acutal services at Temple, you don't hear Esther's name more than once. How is that fair? Esther risked her life to save her people... She walked into the chamber of the king without being summoned. At the time, such an action was punishable by death. However, the king was fond of his wife, and spared her life. Instead, he honored her request to save the Jews from the genocide that the king's advisor had planned (that there would be one day on which all members of the kingdom had to bow down to the king... knowing that the Jews only bowed down to Gd... and the king fell for it).
Admittedly, sex and seduction has always been a spikey subject. In fact, the only times I remember hearing about sex in church were all in reference to the "naughty characters," like the woman who asked for the head of John the Baptist... Potiphar's wife who tried to seduce Joseph (who refused, enraging her, and so she told her husband that he had propositioned her and Potiphar threw Joseph out)... and the less I say about Jezebel the better. However, Jews, in my opinion, have always seemed to have a much healthier perspective on sex than most Christians who see it as taboo, as the method by which we all inherit the original sin committed by (Guess who? A woman, of course!) Eve in the Garden of Eden. In the old marriage contracts, Jewish women were protected in writing concerning how often her "needs" should be met depending on the man's occupation.
So, one may bind sex rules up in the Jewish law and tradition of marriage, but no one speaks for the women who used their wiles to help perpetuate the entire Jewish race? Makes me wonder if men would simply prefer not to have to admit that they're as easy as they are...
Don't misunderstand me - there are a handful of Jewish men that deserve every bit of recognition they receive. I, myself, am a big fan of Daniel, the prophetic boy. But, the problem creeps up again... Manyof you, most likely, do not know that a whole chapter of Daniel was removed after the dawn of the Middle Ages. The 13th Book of Daniel tells the story of Susanna, one of my favorite characters of Medieval Literature. Susanna was a Jewish woman who was very devoted to her husband. She was also beautiful, and other men definitely noticed her. Two elders of the Hebrew circle spied on her as she bathed in her garden unattended and caught her unawares. They threatened her to submit to them (sexually, naturally)... if she refused, they would accuse her of adultery anyway, which would cost her her life. She still refused, telling them that Gd would know the truth of her actions and she would never betray her husband. So, they formally accused her and she was hauled into court. It was Daniel who asked them, "Under what tree in her garden did you see her commit adultery?" Neither of the elders could come up with the actual tree that grew by her bath, and she was proven innocent. I'd say both Daniel and Susanna should get some credit for this shining example faith and conscience. But, unless you have a copy of the Douhay-Rheims Bible or bother to search the internet, you won't find this story in your Bible. Was it because it focused too much on a woman and not enough on the heroics of good old Daniel? Probably.
I was once told by a close Jewish friend, "All Jewish holidays are about the same thing: They tried to kill us. We killed them instead. Let's eat!" While that's a simplification, it's also partially true. It's not like there's any gratitude for the risks and sacrifices of Judith, Esther, or Jael... for the bravery of all the Jewish people, not just the men who waited in the dark for a woman to risk her life so that the men had a clear shot of the enemy.
So, for this Hanukkah season, I'm going to say a few words after the prayers to thank Judith, for having more guts than most men... and for having the strength to cut off a man's head.
(from http://sai.msu.su)Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday Kitchen: What do you eat during Hanukkah?
(from www.courier-journal.com)Some of you might know that the first night of Hanukkah starts tomorrow. Jews all around the world celebrate the story of a miracle... When the Maccabees ran the Greeks out of their temple. They needed to purify it (of pork and other non-kosher ick), but they only had enough oil to light the temple as they worked for one night. And yet, as the story goes, the oil lasted for eight nights. I'll rant a little more on my thoughts about this holiday tomorrow. For now, I'll talk about the food...
...because, unlike most Jewish holidays, there's no specific meal that one prepares to honor the holiday. Yes, they make latkes... yummy, delicious, fantastic latkes... but, think about it. They didn't make latkes in temple. There were no potatoes in that part of the world. Latkes are an Eastern European thing... as in after Christopher Columbus brought back these souvenirs from his trip to America. The only link between the latkes and the original holiday is the oil.
Because the oil in the temple lasted eight days, Jewish kitchens are filled with cooking oil this time of year. Latkes are traditional, but any fried foods work... like donuts. When I have perused Jewish magazines this time of year, donuts are the next best thing. To me, that all sounds like breakfast. Because, well, latkes are an awful lot like hash browns (but better) and they're really terrific with eggs. Then you have a donut with your tea or coffee. And it's cold outside. What could be better?
There are a couple of other ways to eat latkes (eggs and latkes are just my personal favorite). Some people like to put applesauce on their latkes (it's not bad... especially if you like to mix salty with sweet). Others like sour cream. Some people are getting innovative and making latkes with different vegetables like carrots and parsnips (Click Here for a recipe). For recipes for all things yummy at Hanukkah, visit Chabad.org or click Here.
You've also probably seen those gold coins in some of the grocery stores... it's gold foil wrapped around chocolate. These little treats tend to accompany a spirited game of driedle... or, at least, it's a spirited game with my folks. We don't play for the chocolate coins since my brothers don't care for chocolate (Before you call them freaks, which is a natural reaction, they had a somewhat impressive dairy allergy when they were younger, so, they've never had a reason to develop a taste for the stuff). Instead, we play for popcorn... because there's plenty of it and you can play for a quite some time on popcorn.
(from http://hostedmedia.reimanpub.com)So, you can guess my family really likes popcorn to play this game. Whatever you play with, the more you have, the longer the game lasts... and if you use popcorn, you can eat while you play!
While I am fond of playing driedle for popcorn, I still include chocolate in my Hanukkah celebrations. We light the candles, say the prayer, and then we exchange gifts (eight little gifts for eight days) while eating clementines and chocolate (either dark chocolate pieces or, oddly enough, chocolate from our advent calendar). It's this ritual that I love the most about Hanukkah. Finding a moment of the day, on all eight days, to slow down and have a snack with your loved ones by candlelight. We're not so good about lighting the candles when "you're supposed to," (which is sundown), but we light them as soon as we can and have ourselves a lovely, quiet night in.
Happy Hanukkah, in advance, to those who celebrate this holiday!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday Valuables: Gooey, but grateful
Though my inability to accurately estimate how much time I need to complete various tasks has run me into the ground, I'm actually very appreciative of the process of "journaling." I mean, yes, I've been keeping journals since I was... maybe 6 years old... but this journal was special.
The goal was to keep several writing samples in the journal, but to also play around with the look of the page. A fellow writer told me about a month ago that it's important for writers to "play." I thought that sounded pretty silly... I've never been particularly interested in "playing." Even as a kid, my idea of playing was memorizing Broadway musicals and acting them out with my stuffed animals in my room alone. My sisters and I played "make believe" a little, but it was typically based on books I'd read or theatrical productions I'd seen (I was a big fan of pretending to perform Peter Pan and stand in for Mary Martin).
This journal assignment asks you to play in a visual way... another place where I am distinctly untalented. I was never a doodler in school or a painter. Even when I tried those activities in art class, I would get very frustrated with how incapable I was to make my pictures look like "the real thing."
However, with the journal, you have tons of options for visual presentation. I tore out images from magazines and placed them together with print-outs from the internet. So, the images themselves are not my work, but I have re-arranged them in such a way to tell a story... or illustrate a significant feature of a story.
The prompts for the journal are really what made it a great exercise... we were given topics on which to write that I probably would not have considered on my own. I've decided to share one of the pieces I wrote for this class as an example. The prompt below asked, "Write about a time in which you were considered 'the other'." This prompt was given to us after reading about several racial issues just a few decades ago. Since very few people can identify my race at all, I pulled my material from a childhood memory:
“But, this car seats five people,” I stared blankly at the back of my father’s half-bald head.
“So?”
“When I’m here, there are six of us,” I was wishing for some decent explanation. Maybe this was all they could afford. Maybe the van broke down and this was a rental.
“Oh, yeah,” he spoke as though he was just noticing this fact and looked to his wife in the passenger seat. She looked back at him and her eyes widened. Her expression was expectant as though it were so clearly up to him to explain the situation to me. I was not her child, not her problem.
“Where are we all supposed to sit if we go somewhere?”
“Guess Davie will have to sit in someone’s lap,” my father frowned as he chuckled.
“Isn’t that against the law?” I asked.
“That’s right,” my step-mother chimed in as she turned in her seat to face me. “And you don’t want us to go to jail, do you? So, whenever it’s your turn, you better hide in the floor if a cop drives by.” She turned back in her seat and looked at my father with her chin to her chest and a grin blowing out her cheeks… as though she were proud of herself.
I was silent for several minutes. I was thinking about two major plans. I considered how to get as much of my body down on the floor as possible if a policeman did drive by one day. I imagined my three siblings squirming under the pressure and decided that I should be the one to hide on the floor. I was fast and flexible. I was also deciding how I worried I would be if my father went to jail. For a moment, I felt responsible for the image being painted in my mind: I could see my father in black and white striped pajamas, a ball and chain at his ankle, and a barrel of potatoes and a peeler in a small, lonely cell. I thought of ways to bail him out. I thought of what I would say to my mother when the cops brought me home and told her the story.
I was 8, but I was not blind. I could see from the red paint, the comfy beige interior, and all the stupid gadgets that this was my step-mother’s kind of car. It never entered her mind how her husband’s first child might react to her whim to purchase an attractive vehicle.
“We could all fit into the van,” I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
My step-mother sighed and opened her mouth to say something, but my father interrupted her. “We just thought this car was fun. Didn’t you see that keypad on the outside of the door? I’ll give you the combination so you can get into the car without a key.”
“That’s fun?” I asked with sincere confusion. “A keypad? I know how to use a real key, too.”
“I know you can use a real key,” he sighed. “Look. You’re only here twice a month, so, it won’t be too bad, right?”
My step-mother nodded in agreement and turned in her seat to smile at me.
I hated that smile.
It was the smile she used after my father did her dirty work. She would smile like that as though everything was his doing, like she was my friend, and that she thought this was all a misunderstanding, a crying shame.
I suddenly wanted to go home. I missed my sisters, but I didn’t want to be with these people driving the red car anymore than they wanted me in backseat. My head started to get hot around the temples and where the neck connects. My eyes were tearing, so I poked out my jaw, curled my bottom lip, and blew up hard to dry them out. I noticed my father looking briefly into the rear view mirror in order to see what was making that sound. I saw no concern in his expression as he looked back to the road and turned on the radio.
The goal was to keep several writing samples in the journal, but to also play around with the look of the page. A fellow writer told me about a month ago that it's important for writers to "play." I thought that sounded pretty silly... I've never been particularly interested in "playing." Even as a kid, my idea of playing was memorizing Broadway musicals and acting them out with my stuffed animals in my room alone. My sisters and I played "make believe" a little, but it was typically based on books I'd read or theatrical productions I'd seen (I was a big fan of pretending to perform Peter Pan and stand in for Mary Martin).
This journal assignment asks you to play in a visual way... another place where I am distinctly untalented. I was never a doodler in school or a painter. Even when I tried those activities in art class, I would get very frustrated with how incapable I was to make my pictures look like "the real thing."
However, with the journal, you have tons of options for visual presentation. I tore out images from magazines and placed them together with print-outs from the internet. So, the images themselves are not my work, but I have re-arranged them in such a way to tell a story... or illustrate a significant feature of a story.
The prompts for the journal are really what made it a great exercise... we were given topics on which to write that I probably would not have considered on my own. I've decided to share one of the pieces I wrote for this class as an example. The prompt below asked, "Write about a time in which you were considered 'the other'." This prompt was given to us after reading about several racial issues just a few decades ago. Since very few people can identify my race at all, I pulled my material from a childhood memory:
“But, this car seats five people,” I stared blankly at the back of my father’s half-bald head.
“So?”
“When I’m here, there are six of us,” I was wishing for some decent explanation. Maybe this was all they could afford. Maybe the van broke down and this was a rental.
“Oh, yeah,” he spoke as though he was just noticing this fact and looked to his wife in the passenger seat. She looked back at him and her eyes widened. Her expression was expectant as though it were so clearly up to him to explain the situation to me. I was not her child, not her problem.
“Where are we all supposed to sit if we go somewhere?”
“Guess Davie will have to sit in someone’s lap,” my father frowned as he chuckled.
“Isn’t that against the law?” I asked.
“That’s right,” my step-mother chimed in as she turned in her seat to face me. “And you don’t want us to go to jail, do you? So, whenever it’s your turn, you better hide in the floor if a cop drives by.” She turned back in her seat and looked at my father with her chin to her chest and a grin blowing out her cheeks… as though she were proud of herself.
I was silent for several minutes. I was thinking about two major plans. I considered how to get as much of my body down on the floor as possible if a policeman did drive by one day. I imagined my three siblings squirming under the pressure and decided that I should be the one to hide on the floor. I was fast and flexible. I was also deciding how I worried I would be if my father went to jail. For a moment, I felt responsible for the image being painted in my mind: I could see my father in black and white striped pajamas, a ball and chain at his ankle, and a barrel of potatoes and a peeler in a small, lonely cell. I thought of ways to bail him out. I thought of what I would say to my mother when the cops brought me home and told her the story.
I was 8, but I was not blind. I could see from the red paint, the comfy beige interior, and all the stupid gadgets that this was my step-mother’s kind of car. It never entered her mind how her husband’s first child might react to her whim to purchase an attractive vehicle.
“We could all fit into the van,” I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
My step-mother sighed and opened her mouth to say something, but my father interrupted her. “We just thought this car was fun. Didn’t you see that keypad on the outside of the door? I’ll give you the combination so you can get into the car without a key.”
“That’s fun?” I asked with sincere confusion. “A keypad? I know how to use a real key, too.”
“I know you can use a real key,” he sighed. “Look. You’re only here twice a month, so, it won’t be too bad, right?”
My step-mother nodded in agreement and turned in her seat to smile at me.
I hated that smile.
It was the smile she used after my father did her dirty work. She would smile like that as though everything was his doing, like she was my friend, and that she thought this was all a misunderstanding, a crying shame.
I suddenly wanted to go home. I missed my sisters, but I didn’t want to be with these people driving the red car anymore than they wanted me in backseat. My head started to get hot around the temples and where the neck connects. My eyes were tearing, so I poked out my jaw, curled my bottom lip, and blew up hard to dry them out. I noticed my father looking briefly into the rear view mirror in order to see what was making that sound. I saw no concern in his expression as he looked back to the road and turned on the radio.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday Favorites: A continuing goo theme
Well, when I sat down to write, I had about three ideas in my head for a Tuesday Favorites entry. However, since my brains are still goo, I'm not going to write about any of those three things. I can't do them justice tonight.
I think I'm going to go read before I fall asleep.
Yeah.
Here's a link to my current favorite portion of The Muppet Show... just for your amusement.
It's raining. Not helping to meld my brains back together. It's a weird rain, too... not as cold as you might think it would be for December. It's going to bring warmer weather rather than colder. My head can felt the drops as though they were drops of lead. Still, it's a nice sound. It's the sort of rain that needs no accompaniment. I had no desire to turn on the TV with another re-run of Frasier or something. It's the sort of rain for sitting and reading... a cozy, quiet night in sort of rain. Despite the physical discomfort, I like it.
I think I'm going to go read before I fall asleep.
Yeah.
Here's a link to my current favorite portion of The Muppet Show... just for your amusement.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Monday: Exam Period
Due to the mad dash to get everything ready for the conclusion of my writing class, my brains are goo and I must sleep.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sunday Reflections: Our teachers; Stories of my education
Students across the nation are in exam mode. It's the end of the semester for nearly everyone in school, and both teachers and students are scrambling to turn in papers, grades, projects, etc. This brings to mind my past exams... past teachers... people who taught me to think the way I think...
I guess I was lucky. I can think of only one teacher who did me any educational harm. Only one teacher actively stifled my creativity, my self-confidence. So, since there's only one scratch on my record, I'd rather not waste my energy complaining. My school days are among my favorite memories. I used to dread summer... it took me away from my books, new ideas, and inspiring instructors...
When I was in first grade, my mother taught in the section of my elementary school designed for children with physical disabilities. She used to bring me to school with her, rather early in the morning, before any of the other kids arrived. This gave me a chance to get to know some of the other teachers... one in particular, Mr. Patrick, who was an artist of sorts. He encouraged all of my potential talents. We would talk in the mornings or after school, and he would ask me what was on my mind. Whatever I told him, he would offer me little art projects to guide me through my feelings. He told me to write poems, sing and compose songs, create plays and skits, etc... and his expectations were only that I did these things. I'd show him my work after completing one of his assignments, and he never criticized me. Sometimes he would help me elaborate on a theme or derive even more stories and poems from originals, but he never voiced dislike for what I created. All he cared was that I become an artist.
In second grade, my teacher was asked to teach a rap about drugs to her class. We were supposed to perform this song in front of the entire school for some special event. During the first practice, she heard my voice over the muttering of bored students (I had been in acting classes outside of school for three years by this point in time). She singled me out, and when the performance day finally arrived, I performed the rap by myself with the rest of the class reciting the chorus in between verses. I'm only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still know most of that rap...
In fourth grade, I met a woman that I would wish for sometime were my step-mother (my own step-mother was not terribly fond of me). Ms. Babcock was beautiful, smart, and feisty. She treated us with the same familiarity she would her own children. She encouraged thoughtful answers... meaning we learned to close the book and speak for ourselves. If you read it, then you knew it. Use your own words. One day, and I can't remember what set her off, she went on this long tangent... she went around the room and told the entire class what she thought of every single one of us. Some of us were lazy, some of us were funny, some of us needed to get over ourselves. I was a little nervous, naturally, when she finally came to me. "Now you all know I love her," she said pointing to me, and moved on. She was one of the first people in my life to make me feel significant, special to someone. Later that year, our teacher was in an accident major enough that we were assigned a temporary, regular substitute. While this stand-in teacher was very kind, and became my first pen pal, I was devastated to have to get through about three months of fourth grade without Ms. Babcock.
Something inside me woke up in sixth grade... and that is all due to my homeroom teacher. She was in charge of our English lessons and assigned us quite a bit of creative writing. When Author Day was around the corner, she wanted us to begin working on longer works of fiction (more than three pages... mine ended up close to 15). She insisted that we write an intriguing first line... something that popped out at the reader and made him or her want to read on. The day we presented these first lines, I was towards the back of the last row. I waited impatiently for my turn... waited through many indifferent, silly, or boring first lines. When she finally nodded at my desk, I screamed out my first line (I had created a mother reprimanding her child for drawing on the wall). My teacher didn't say a word. She crooked her finger and curled it as if to say, "Come here." I walked towards her desk with my paper. She pulled out a spare desk, put it at the front of the room, and then asked me to sit and read the rest of what I wrote. Each week after, I was asked to read aloud each new installment of my work. This teacher had put me in a position to have a following, a group of readers who wanted to hear more of my story. She gave me the responsibility to keep their attention with my writing. Soon, I had people asking me in the hallways between classes to tell them what was going to happen next. It was one of those very rare moments during the preteen experience when you feel smart and successful.
In high school, the most influential of my teachers was the one who would later "adopt me," in a manner of speaking. The first year I knew him, he gave me extra reports to do outside of class. These reports were not graded. He just decided I needed the extra challenge. We spent a great deal of time talking after school. During these talks, he would pull out everything I thought I knew from my head, clean it up, and shove it back in. He was really a life coach, someone who broke down my misconceptions and opened my eyes to the world as it is beyond the arrogance of adolescence. He taught me how to read people, how to tell by what they do, or don't do, the sort of person they could be... and in turn, how to deal with my findings. He taught me to stop hanging my heart on the mistakes made by my father. I could go on for pages and pages... but it would be trite to list his accomplishments when it comes to my personal education. You know how we all say about one person or another that we wouldn't be who we are without him or her? Aside from our parents and those who grew up with us, there is no purer example of a presence that shaped a soul than this man to me. That was not his job... to help me grow up... to do better than ask me to regurgitate facts onto a test sheet... but he did.
In college, I certainly encountered a number of different sorts of academics... one of the cleverest lessons I ever learned was during a Biology exam. Our professor passed out the test sheets, casually mentioned that we should read the instructions before beginning, and we were given one hour. I dove into test mode and carefully filled out my answers. I took up the entire hour to look over my exam which made me the last student to turn in my work. Seeing that everyone had left the room, my professor chuckled as he took my paper from me. "Did you read the instructions?" he asked me, smiling kindly. "Of course," I said, wondering suddenly if I actually had. "Read them again," he handed my paper back to me, "Right there at the top of the page." The instructions read something along the lines of: You will have one hour to complete the questions below. Please use pencil or pen, black or blue ink only. For an automatic passing grade, simply fill out your name, the date, and answer the very last question on this exam. Please, do your own work. I felt so silly... but it certainly made an impression on me. I won't say I always read out all the instructions on my exams after that, but I definitely paid closer attention to what it was each individual professor was actually asking of me.
I will admit that one of my favorite professors was that sort of "receptacle" teacher... my first philosophy professor. He stood at the front of the room, lectured, and his exams were based on his words and the readings. All we were expected to do was regurgitate twice per semester what he had said during class. However, he was very open to questions and was able to offer a single answer in a number of different ways in order to make the concept make sense to pretty much anyone. It was his ability to work unrehearsed with anything that was thrown to him that prepared me for less versatile "receptacle" teachers. His creativity inspired me to demand more from my proud academic lecturers and, if they were unable to deliver, I demanded more of myself. I would find another book or another expert that would clear my confusion, illuminate the possibilities.
As long as I live, I will be in debt to Dr. Long. He was the ideal professor, in my mind. He would offer guidelines within projects, but you had absolute freedom as to the presentation of the material as well as the subject matter. He was my American Literature professor and our grade was broken into four parts: a rare books project, a museum project, a performing arts project, and the final presentation. Without going too far into the specifics, I chose early American children's education as my subject. I found old text books, mostly primers for science and religion in the W&M rare books collection. I went to The DeWitt Wallace museum and found an exhibit on early American children's toys. Then I went to the first Storytelling Festival in Williamsburg where I met a very, very dear friend (I will be grateful to this professor forever for leading me to a place that would inspire this precious friendship). For my final project, I created a "Commonplace Book," a early modern European tradition that came over on the boat, to display my findings from these adventures. Dr. Long not only led me to a beautiful friendship, he made research and field work exciting. By encouraging us to find a topic we could care about, I was hungry for more information... not so much for the grade, but to know things...
The list goes on and on... I've just been remarkably lucky. At W&M, I had a number of professors who expected his or her students to contribute to the general knowledge of the class just as a professor is subject to such a presumption. I have been asked not just for above average work, but to be myself. To use my own brain. I know a number of people have been traumatized by teachers abusing students and causing them to beileve they are stupid, uninteresting, and without hope. I had been well-trained before encoutering any such high and mighty tyrannts and was prepared to think about the situation before allowing those rare bad experiences to define me. I am grateful for the time I spent in school...
I guess I was lucky. I can think of only one teacher who did me any educational harm. Only one teacher actively stifled my creativity, my self-confidence. So, since there's only one scratch on my record, I'd rather not waste my energy complaining. My school days are among my favorite memories. I used to dread summer... it took me away from my books, new ideas, and inspiring instructors...
When I was in first grade, my mother taught in the section of my elementary school designed for children with physical disabilities. She used to bring me to school with her, rather early in the morning, before any of the other kids arrived. This gave me a chance to get to know some of the other teachers... one in particular, Mr. Patrick, who was an artist of sorts. He encouraged all of my potential talents. We would talk in the mornings or after school, and he would ask me what was on my mind. Whatever I told him, he would offer me little art projects to guide me through my feelings. He told me to write poems, sing and compose songs, create plays and skits, etc... and his expectations were only that I did these things. I'd show him my work after completing one of his assignments, and he never criticized me. Sometimes he would help me elaborate on a theme or derive even more stories and poems from originals, but he never voiced dislike for what I created. All he cared was that I become an artist.
In second grade, my teacher was asked to teach a rap about drugs to her class. We were supposed to perform this song in front of the entire school for some special event. During the first practice, she heard my voice over the muttering of bored students (I had been in acting classes outside of school for three years by this point in time). She singled me out, and when the performance day finally arrived, I performed the rap by myself with the rest of the class reciting the chorus in between verses. I'm only somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still know most of that rap...
In fourth grade, I met a woman that I would wish for sometime were my step-mother (my own step-mother was not terribly fond of me). Ms. Babcock was beautiful, smart, and feisty. She treated us with the same familiarity she would her own children. She encouraged thoughtful answers... meaning we learned to close the book and speak for ourselves. If you read it, then you knew it. Use your own words. One day, and I can't remember what set her off, she went on this long tangent... she went around the room and told the entire class what she thought of every single one of us. Some of us were lazy, some of us were funny, some of us needed to get over ourselves. I was a little nervous, naturally, when she finally came to me. "Now you all know I love her," she said pointing to me, and moved on. She was one of the first people in my life to make me feel significant, special to someone. Later that year, our teacher was in an accident major enough that we were assigned a temporary, regular substitute. While this stand-in teacher was very kind, and became my first pen pal, I was devastated to have to get through about three months of fourth grade without Ms. Babcock.
Something inside me woke up in sixth grade... and that is all due to my homeroom teacher. She was in charge of our English lessons and assigned us quite a bit of creative writing. When Author Day was around the corner, she wanted us to begin working on longer works of fiction (more than three pages... mine ended up close to 15). She insisted that we write an intriguing first line... something that popped out at the reader and made him or her want to read on. The day we presented these first lines, I was towards the back of the last row. I waited impatiently for my turn... waited through many indifferent, silly, or boring first lines. When she finally nodded at my desk, I screamed out my first line (I had created a mother reprimanding her child for drawing on the wall). My teacher didn't say a word. She crooked her finger and curled it as if to say, "Come here." I walked towards her desk with my paper. She pulled out a spare desk, put it at the front of the room, and then asked me to sit and read the rest of what I wrote. Each week after, I was asked to read aloud each new installment of my work. This teacher had put me in a position to have a following, a group of readers who wanted to hear more of my story. She gave me the responsibility to keep their attention with my writing. Soon, I had people asking me in the hallways between classes to tell them what was going to happen next. It was one of those very rare moments during the preteen experience when you feel smart and successful.
In high school, the most influential of my teachers was the one who would later "adopt me," in a manner of speaking. The first year I knew him, he gave me extra reports to do outside of class. These reports were not graded. He just decided I needed the extra challenge. We spent a great deal of time talking after school. During these talks, he would pull out everything I thought I knew from my head, clean it up, and shove it back in. He was really a life coach, someone who broke down my misconceptions and opened my eyes to the world as it is beyond the arrogance of adolescence. He taught me how to read people, how to tell by what they do, or don't do, the sort of person they could be... and in turn, how to deal with my findings. He taught me to stop hanging my heart on the mistakes made by my father. I could go on for pages and pages... but it would be trite to list his accomplishments when it comes to my personal education. You know how we all say about one person or another that we wouldn't be who we are without him or her? Aside from our parents and those who grew up with us, there is no purer example of a presence that shaped a soul than this man to me. That was not his job... to help me grow up... to do better than ask me to regurgitate facts onto a test sheet... but he did.
In college, I certainly encountered a number of different sorts of academics... one of the cleverest lessons I ever learned was during a Biology exam. Our professor passed out the test sheets, casually mentioned that we should read the instructions before beginning, and we were given one hour. I dove into test mode and carefully filled out my answers. I took up the entire hour to look over my exam which made me the last student to turn in my work. Seeing that everyone had left the room, my professor chuckled as he took my paper from me. "Did you read the instructions?" he asked me, smiling kindly. "Of course," I said, wondering suddenly if I actually had. "Read them again," he handed my paper back to me, "Right there at the top of the page." The instructions read something along the lines of: You will have one hour to complete the questions below. Please use pencil or pen, black or blue ink only. For an automatic passing grade, simply fill out your name, the date, and answer the very last question on this exam. Please, do your own work. I felt so silly... but it certainly made an impression on me. I won't say I always read out all the instructions on my exams after that, but I definitely paid closer attention to what it was each individual professor was actually asking of me.
I will admit that one of my favorite professors was that sort of "receptacle" teacher... my first philosophy professor. He stood at the front of the room, lectured, and his exams were based on his words and the readings. All we were expected to do was regurgitate twice per semester what he had said during class. However, he was very open to questions and was able to offer a single answer in a number of different ways in order to make the concept make sense to pretty much anyone. It was his ability to work unrehearsed with anything that was thrown to him that prepared me for less versatile "receptacle" teachers. His creativity inspired me to demand more from my proud academic lecturers and, if they were unable to deliver, I demanded more of myself. I would find another book or another expert that would clear my confusion, illuminate the possibilities.
As long as I live, I will be in debt to Dr. Long. He was the ideal professor, in my mind. He would offer guidelines within projects, but you had absolute freedom as to the presentation of the material as well as the subject matter. He was my American Literature professor and our grade was broken into four parts: a rare books project, a museum project, a performing arts project, and the final presentation. Without going too far into the specifics, I chose early American children's education as my subject. I found old text books, mostly primers for science and religion in the W&M rare books collection. I went to The DeWitt Wallace museum and found an exhibit on early American children's toys. Then I went to the first Storytelling Festival in Williamsburg where I met a very, very dear friend (I will be grateful to this professor forever for leading me to a place that would inspire this precious friendship). For my final project, I created a "Commonplace Book," a early modern European tradition that came over on the boat, to display my findings from these adventures. Dr. Long not only led me to a beautiful friendship, he made research and field work exciting. By encouraging us to find a topic we could care about, I was hungry for more information... not so much for the grade, but to know things...
The list goes on and on... I've just been remarkably lucky. At W&M, I had a number of professors who expected his or her students to contribute to the general knowledge of the class just as a professor is subject to such a presumption. I have been asked not just for above average work, but to be myself. To use my own brain. I know a number of people have been traumatized by teachers abusing students and causing them to beileve they are stupid, uninteresting, and without hope. I had been well-trained before encoutering any such high and mighty tyrannts and was prepared to think about the situation before allowing those rare bad experiences to define me. I am grateful for the time I spent in school...
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Saturday Speaks: A Change of Scenery
The highlights of my week include spending a day doing work I'd ordinarily do at home at the Art Café, dinner out with my favorite young mother, and goofing off on more than one occasion with a friend in another state that understands my hang-ups.
Also, an artist I respect wanted to take a picture of my g-ddaughter's little hands... it is so very touching when others see the sweetness and beauty that you see in those you love so terribly much.
Also, an artist I respect wanted to take a picture of my g-ddaughter's little hands... it is so very touching when others see the sweetness and beauty that you see in those you love so terribly much.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Friday Sabbath: "In the windmills of your mind"
I've come across an old song. This happens with most things I really like- I'm usually about 20 years late hearing about songs, books, or movies that are brilliant and, inevitably, become my favorites. In the case of Dusty Springfield's The Windmills of Your Mind, I'm about 40 years late.
Now, most of us know Son of a Preacher Man, right? Well, this is the same lady. She was pretty popular in the late 60s, early 70s. While the song that keeps her famous was definitely in the Top 40, so was The Windmills of Your Mind. Upon further investigation, I found that this song was featured on the soundtrack of the original Thomas Crown Affair film, performed by Noel Harrison. Then I found out that the song won an Academy Award, an OSCAR, for Best Original Song in 1969. Furthermore, another one of my recent favorites, who I discoverd only last year, made another recording of the song in 1969; the incomparable, Miss Petula Clark (77 years young this past November 15th). As if I was not feeling behind enough, the song was translated into the language of the original composer of the song... of a FRENCHMAN, Michel Legrand.
I am so out of touch.
Here's Dusty Springfield's version if you haven't heard it... It's slow, but very pretty, and more emotive than the film version: The Windmills of Your Mind
Now, for fun, here's what turned me onto the song in the first place... because I am a big fan of this polypedal freak... The Screaming Thing reminds me so much of me: What the hey?
The Muppets are just so smart... but, that's another entry for another day.
Why does this remind me of myself? Can't I just get in line? Aren't most of us semi-normal people more terrifying on the inside than on the outside?
Thing is, I feel like I think like this green and pink creature... in strands of awkward, somewhat disjointed poetry. While many of us have thoughts that are, more or less, all over the place, rarely settling down to a stable, single thought. All my thoughts sort of sound like this. I can't just make lists or cuss people out or long for the seductive peace of the past... I mean, I do all of that, too, but in bursts of haiku or song lyrics.
Let's look at the lyrics to explain what I mean...
As you can see, it's not these thoughts are not all referring to the craziness we humans are lucky enough to experience in our brains, but there are so many different ways in which the song describes this condition. I am the same way... always thinking of more and more accurate ways to think of a person, place, situation. And more accurate descriptions inevitably turn to other thoughts that, maybe, if you're me, relate.
This has been so much fun for me... it's not everyday that you come across a song that causes that feeling... and you have to listen to it all the time for a month or two until the people who live with you threaten to break your computer. Anya and I found maybe a handful of songs like that in high school, when your emotions are heightened and sensitive from the naivety of youth. I don't think I've connected to a song in this way since... Hmmm... I guess it's either Lena Horne's version of I Concentrate on You or Tori Amos' Beekeeper album from 2005.
Music is infectious and esoteric in this way... for whatever reason, it gets inside you and makes more sense to you than you can say. It can't be one aspect of the song... we don't connect in this urgent sort of way with songs that just have a good melody, or if we just like the lyrics. It's a whole sensation. You can't really describe it... because the song does it for you, better than you can, though you very well may be the only person you know of who can hear what you hear.
Perhaps most of us are like this... pieces of music, unique and indescribable save only to be that which it is...
Yeah. Chew on that for a minute. If you're a song, how do you sound? It reminds me of a meditation I read... that you strip away all the "I am" labels. Statements like, "I am a teacher," "I am a bad parent," "I am a good cook," etc. After removing all those statements, whatever is left over, is pure You. Reminds me of a Fraggle Rock episode (yeah, got Muppets on the brain). Cantus, the mysterious minstrel comes to the Rock to inspire a Medley. Each Fraggle must take some and time and "find his/her song," the sound of You. Each Fraggle finds a tune in his or her head that echos who they really are. The result, when you're honest and true to your Self, is something like this: Just listen... it's amusing. Click Me!
For fun, and for my few French-speaking readers, here are the lyrics again as performed by the original composer of the music:
Les moulins de mon coeur
(Translated by Eddy Marnay; Click Title to hear it.)
Comme une pierre que l'on jette
Dans l'eau vive d'un ruisseau
Et qui laisse derrière elle
Des milliers de ronds dans l'eau
Comme un manège de lune
Avec ses chevaux d'étoiles
Comme un anneau de Saturne
Un ballon de carnaval
Comme le chemin de ronde
Que font sans cesse les heures
Le voyage autour du monde
D'un tournesol dans sa fleur
Tu fais tourner de ton nom
Tous les moulins de mon cœur
Comme un écheveau de laine
Entre les mains d'un enfant
Ou les mots d'une rengaine
Pris dans les harpes du vent
Comme un tourbillon de neige
Comme un vol de goélands
Sur des forêts de Norvège
Sur des moutons d'océan
Comme le chemin de ronde
Que font sans cesse les heures
Le voyage autour du monde
D'un tournesol dans sa fleur
Tu fais tourner de ton nom
Tous les moulins de mon cœur
Ce jour-là près de la source
Dieu sait ce que tu m'as dit
Mais l'été finit sa course
L'oiseau tomba de son nid
Et voila que sur le sable
Nos pas s'effacent déjà
Et je suis seul à la table
Qui résonne sous mes doigts
Comme un tambourin qui pleure
Sous les gouttes de la pluie
Comme les chansons qui meurent
Aussitôt qu'on les oublie
Et les feuilles de l'automne
Rencontre des ciels moins bleus
Et ton absence leur donne
La couleur de tes cheveux
Une pierre que l'on jette
Dans l'eau vive d'un ruisseau
Et qui laisse derrière elle
Des milliers de ronds dans l'eau
Au vent des quatre saisons
Tu fais tourner de ton nom
Tous les moulins de mon cœur
Now, most of us know Son of a Preacher Man, right? Well, this is the same lady. She was pretty popular in the late 60s, early 70s. While the song that keeps her famous was definitely in the Top 40, so was The Windmills of Your Mind. Upon further investigation, I found that this song was featured on the soundtrack of the original Thomas Crown Affair film, performed by Noel Harrison. Then I found out that the song won an Academy Award, an OSCAR, for Best Original Song in 1969. Furthermore, another one of my recent favorites, who I discoverd only last year, made another recording of the song in 1969; the incomparable, Miss Petula Clark (77 years young this past November 15th). As if I was not feeling behind enough, the song was translated into the language of the original composer of the song... of a FRENCHMAN, Michel Legrand.
I am so out of touch.
Here's Dusty Springfield's version if you haven't heard it... It's slow, but very pretty, and more emotive than the film version: The Windmills of Your Mind
Now, for fun, here's what turned me onto the song in the first place... because I am a big fan of this polypedal freak... The Screaming Thing reminds me so much of me: What the hey?
The Muppets are just so smart... but, that's another entry for another day.
Why does this remind me of myself? Can't I just get in line? Aren't most of us semi-normal people more terrifying on the inside than on the outside?
Thing is, I feel like I think like this green and pink creature... in strands of awkward, somewhat disjointed poetry. While many of us have thoughts that are, more or less, all over the place, rarely settling down to a stable, single thought. All my thoughts sort of sound like this. I can't just make lists or cuss people out or long for the seductive peace of the past... I mean, I do all of that, too, but in bursts of haiku or song lyrics.
Let's look at the lyrics to explain what I mean...
The Windmill of Your Mind
(Music by Michel Legrand, Words by Alan and Marilyn Bergman)
Round, Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel,
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain,
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Is the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
and the fragment of a song,
half-remembered names and faces
but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
You were suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of his hair?
Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
(Music by Michel Legrand, Words by Alan and Marilyn Bergman)
Round, Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel,
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain,
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Is the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
and the fragment of a song,
half-remembered names and faces
but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
You were suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of his hair?
Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
As you can see, it's not these thoughts are not all referring to the craziness we humans are lucky enough to experience in our brains, but there are so many different ways in which the song describes this condition. I am the same way... always thinking of more and more accurate ways to think of a person, place, situation. And more accurate descriptions inevitably turn to other thoughts that, maybe, if you're me, relate.
This has been so much fun for me... it's not everyday that you come across a song that causes that feeling... and you have to listen to it all the time for a month or two until the people who live with you threaten to break your computer. Anya and I found maybe a handful of songs like that in high school, when your emotions are heightened and sensitive from the naivety of youth. I don't think I've connected to a song in this way since... Hmmm... I guess it's either Lena Horne's version of I Concentrate on You or Tori Amos' Beekeeper album from 2005.
Music is infectious and esoteric in this way... for whatever reason, it gets inside you and makes more sense to you than you can say. It can't be one aspect of the song... we don't connect in this urgent sort of way with songs that just have a good melody, or if we just like the lyrics. It's a whole sensation. You can't really describe it... because the song does it for you, better than you can, though you very well may be the only person you know of who can hear what you hear.
Perhaps most of us are like this... pieces of music, unique and indescribable save only to be that which it is...
Yeah. Chew on that for a minute. If you're a song, how do you sound? It reminds me of a meditation I read... that you strip away all the "I am" labels. Statements like, "I am a teacher," "I am a bad parent," "I am a good cook," etc. After removing all those statements, whatever is left over, is pure You. Reminds me of a Fraggle Rock episode (yeah, got Muppets on the brain). Cantus, the mysterious minstrel comes to the Rock to inspire a Medley. Each Fraggle must take some and time and "find his/her song," the sound of You. Each Fraggle finds a tune in his or her head that echos who they really are. The result, when you're honest and true to your Self, is something like this: Just listen... it's amusing. Click Me!
For fun, and for my few French-speaking readers, here are the lyrics again as performed by the original composer of the music:
Les moulins de mon coeur
(Translated by Eddy Marnay; Click Title to hear it.)
Comme une pierre que l'on jette
Dans l'eau vive d'un ruisseau
Et qui laisse derrière elle
Des milliers de ronds dans l'eau
Comme un manège de lune
Avec ses chevaux d'étoiles
Comme un anneau de Saturne
Un ballon de carnaval
Comme le chemin de ronde
Que font sans cesse les heures
Le voyage autour du monde
D'un tournesol dans sa fleur
Tu fais tourner de ton nom
Tous les moulins de mon cœur
Comme un écheveau de laine
Entre les mains d'un enfant
Ou les mots d'une rengaine
Pris dans les harpes du vent
Comme un tourbillon de neige
Comme un vol de goélands
Sur des forêts de Norvège
Sur des moutons d'océan
Comme le chemin de ronde
Que font sans cesse les heures
Le voyage autour du monde
D'un tournesol dans sa fleur
Tu fais tourner de ton nom
Tous les moulins de mon cœur
Ce jour-là près de la source
Dieu sait ce que tu m'as dit
Mais l'été finit sa course
L'oiseau tomba de son nid
Et voila que sur le sable
Nos pas s'effacent déjà
Et je suis seul à la table
Qui résonne sous mes doigts
Comme un tambourin qui pleure
Sous les gouttes de la pluie
Comme les chansons qui meurent
Aussitôt qu'on les oublie
Et les feuilles de l'automne
Rencontre des ciels moins bleus
Et ton absence leur donne
La couleur de tes cheveux
Une pierre que l'on jette
Dans l'eau vive d'un ruisseau
Et qui laisse derrière elle
Des milliers de ronds dans l'eau
Au vent des quatre saisons
Tu fais tourner de ton nom
Tous les moulins de mon cœur
If you get what I'm saying, and feel free to articulate, I'd be curious to know what songs are infecting the rest of you lately... What do You sound like these days?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday Kitchen: Tea Time
(from www.lucasart.net)When the weather turns cold, it's a warm beverage that makes it worth it to face the day. While I enjoy my morning cup of green tea, the afternoon coffee, maybe some mulled wine or cider at night, I miss my tea times...
Several teas after that brilliant first, we made an impressive blunder. We made a pot of peach tea, different brand, and went about preparing the proper cup. As we poured the milk, something happened... tiny worm strands began to form. The milk was curdling. Neither of us knew what we were seeing, and I think we were too embarassed to say anything, so we drank it anyway. This is how we learned to read tea boxes: If it says Herbal, you don't want to add milk.
I couldn't talk about tea without remembering a thermos in the back row of a boring French class... or in the teacher's lounge of the English department of W&M when it was still in Tucker Hall. Johanna and I shared more tea together than anyone else I know. It helps that she's not a coffee person, so that was always our beverage of choice. Even in summer we would just make iced tea. I could not even begin to count how many tea times we spent together... it is, quite possibly, the foundation our association with one another... tea time.
I have a favorite cup for tea at home. It's thin and tall and wrapped in the solar system. I don't use it often. It doesn't come out at dinners when I might serve tea to warm up my guests. It's only used when I finally have that cozy moment with a book, a blanket, my cat, and time to spare. It's like that sweater that's too big for you, but you like it, it's warm, and you only wear it at home. It's reserved for tea, so it's never stained by coffee; if I ever mixed the beverages, that would change the way tea tastes in that particular cup. I don't want to use it all the time... that would take away from how special it is...
...which goes for the beverage, too. Proper tea is not an everyday drink, an every day feeling. It's not casual like coffee... it's not a getting-to-know-you date option (Though I did have one guy ask me out on our first date by saying, "Would like to have tea with me next week?" Of course, I accepted... how often does a guy ask you to have tea?) Instead, tea works for a slow sipping conversation. An honest discussion. A safe place to be yourself. You can't have that all the time, but it's so readily available when you need it. Put the kettle on. Wait for the whistle. Add it to a pot of your chosen tea. Give it enough time to steep. Pour generously. The rest of the teapot is right there if you would like some more tea, some more time to talk, some more space.
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