Saturday Speaks: Resonance

Power is of two kinds. One is obtained by fear of punishment and the other by acts of love. Power based on love is a thousand times more effective and permanent than the one derived from fear of punishment.
-Mahatma Ghandi

Friday Sabbath: Food for the Soul, Part Two

Thoughts on my Sabbatical

Day One

It only took five miles to feel free. I knew I was on my way to solitude, to myself.

Don't be mistaken... I took pretty much everyone with me... What is it that he said? It is in solitude where we are least alone...

That's what happens when you sit in one place for five hours. Just about everyone that has ever meant anything to you comes to mind. I conjured memories I hadn't considered in some time... there was no reason to remember these things before...

When I still visited my biological father, after the death of his mother, we used to ride in her old car. The back seat was turned away from the driver, so my sisters and I could look at the faces of the people in cars behind us. I used to tell them I knew the names of everyone in the world... so, I would say something stupid like, "Hi, Eileen!" and wave at the car behind us. Now, I was betting on the general humor adults have for cute little girls, and the drivers always waved back.
What brought this back was a moment beyond Richmond where I made the signal to a truck driver to honk the big horn. I had not done that since I was about 8 years old when my sisters and I would all make the signal and giggle with girlish delight when a truck driver complied with our request. It was a weird impulse... not sure why it occurred to me to do this, but I waved to a truck driver and a friendly tooting of the horn followed my gesture.

I also thought of an old friend that I haven't spoken to in a couple of years... I'll call him Seth. He attended a class with me at TNCC and we often talked on our way into the parking lot. More often than I'd like to admit, he would stop me from absentmindedly walking in front of moving vehicles. I have no idea what turns me into such an idiot when it comes to walking out into traffic... I have been hit by a car before, but, that hasn't made enough of an impression on me.
Nearing Rte. 81, I pulled into a rest stop, thinking my thoughts and remembering my sisters and a road trip I took with Tristan a while back. Tristan had left some articles of clothing in a hotel somewhere and we took a day trip to retrieve his belongings. As I reminisced, I suddenly noticed a boxy yellow car coming towards me. He didn't honk, he just slowed down and shook his head when I realized he was there. I mouthed the phrase, "I'm sorry" and waved as I walked quickly to the sidewalk. We caught up with each other on my way to the vending machine. "I'm sorry," my apology was audible this time. "I guess I'm just in my own world today."
"Didn't your mother tell you to look both ways before crossing the street?" he laughed warmly.
"Yes... in fact, she mentioned that tip before and after I was hit by a car." I smiled and went in search for water.

I had no idea how emotional the rest of the trip would be. After these initial pleasant thoughts came and went, I started remembering the events that drove me towards the mountains... the region in which I am most pleased, most connected to myself and the world around me. I actually did a great deal of working through my emotions in the car... considered pulling over a few times, but I was predominantly successful about pulling it together... reminding myself that the Inn was still an hour or two away. I realized how intensely I loved people... separate from themselves, their failures, their favors, their position in my world... I felt overwhelmed with the actual feelings... feelings that, I fear, I don't allow myself to experience fully within those relationships. I work so hard at being useful, at being available and reliable, that I worry people, even the ones I call friends, might not know me that well... that I'm not a full participant in my relationships. It was as relieving to see this as it was disturbing... how many miles does one need to drive before she can see where she's been?

Dora Jane has a soft, guarded voice. Her smile, however, is breathtaking. She reminds me strongly of my Russian mother... one of the most beautiful faces I've ever seen. She showed me my room, where other amenities were located in this gorgeous renovated farmhouse, and asked me when I wanted my wine and cheese basket. I almost burst in front of her... this perfect stranger... because someone was demonstrating such kindness to me. Obviously, I was paying her to do this, but in my state of mind upon checking in, I felt a pinprick hole poking into the dam.

I sat on my bed. I looked around. I listened to the night bugs singing, calling to one another, communicating without insecurity in the dark. I sipped my wine, ate a cracker, and gazed at the hummingbirds buzzing at the feeder in front of my window. I started to write down the thoughts that had attacked my brain in the car on the way down. I began to feel tired... more tired than I had been despite the events of the past couple of months. I slept the hard, dreamless sleep of the exhausted, the brokenheartedly lost, the dead.

Day Two

No matter what sort of night you've had, you perk up when a friendly voice calls up to let you know that your breakfast has been made and is on its way to you. Dora Jane's husband walked into my room and brought me a cold glass of cranberry pomegranate juice to wake up the senses. I popped in Alice in Wonderland in the DVD player and sipped my juice. Thoughts swirled in my glass, making funny shapes during my grogginess. I considered my grand plan to write until my hand fell off... but realized there was no room for review just then. My breakfast came in on a pretty wooden bed tray with a bud vase of flowers from Dora Jane's garden. I felt grateful, swallowed the homespun warmth, and prepared for an outing.

Mabry Mill seemed smaller to me. My parents took me there when I was about 3 or 4, but I have no direct memories of the place. Something about going back meant a lot to me... as though their early love might still be in the dirt, still flowing in the waters of the running Mill... that by going there, I might make contact with their youth, their true love, their rescued innocence from ending doomed first marriages. I breathed the air, I stepped on the stones, sat on the fence that must have been built a handful of years after my parents had visited. I didn't write anything at the Mill... just wanted to be with the spirits of my parents.

Up the Parkway I came to the winery I mentioned yesterday. I took a tour learning about the founder, the recycled wood that created the elaborate pillars holding up the building, the process of making the wine. While there, a few people on the tour with me learned I was from Williamsburg... come to find that they lived around Fort Eustis for some time and wanted me to say Hi to some people I would likely come across at some point... Dallas sends his regards.

I wrote while drinking a glass of a very decent Pinot Noir. The thoughts that had overwhelmed me the day before took concrete shapes... certain conclusions were less terrifying, less sad. Walls that I had created to protect myself from my feelings were not burned down, but I think I carved a doorway... prepared for me whenever I'm ready to walk on the other side. I thought of my deepest loves, my loves that needed to be lost, my weaknesses that perpetuated certain circumstances, my strengths that would allow me to let some things go forever...

The drive back was complicated, dinner was a challenge, but I watched Spirited Away as I fell asleep... crying softly, as I always do, when Lin tells No Face that if he puts one scratch on that girl that he's in big trouble...

Day Three

I realized too late that the clock in my room is about 25 minutes slow. I wanted to go downstairs and have breakfast in the dining room. I hurriedly showered and put on clothes. My heels started hitting the steep hardwood stairs right at 9AM. Two couples were already there and talking to one another as I sat at a table by the window set for one person. My journal and I mused over the trip as the coffee brewed, the strangers made small talk, and Dora Jane came out with the announcement of this morning's menu.

I saw their pet, Cat, lazing on the porch opening one eye when he sensed I was looking at him. He looked me over, then closed the eye and went back to sleep. More hummingbirds buzzed at the feeder. When you listened, you could hear the nearby brook gurgling enthusiastically as water gushed between the rocks.

Filled and satisfied, I escaped conversation and went upstairs to pack. I played Contact as I loaded up my suitcase. This story speaks to the deepest part of what makes me Me... a girl making her way through life as logically as possible and struggling when logic won't solve the issue... a girl who loves passionately and with true terror of loss holding her inside herself...

Checking out was sad. I was ready to get the drive over with, but not to leave the serenity of the farmhouse. I had already thought of bringing my immediate family with me someday... would be our kind of place, for certain. I checked out, took my things out to my car, and sat by the brook looking longingly into the lively waters. Dora Jane came to talk to me... we had an unexpected chat about life and death, our pets, adoption of children, and life in the mountains. She remained soft spoken... not much noise from a town or city with which to compete... but she listened, spoke when she needed to agree or express a thought... we parted two women with some quiet understanding of what it means to be Us...

After a long drive, I ended up with Beth in her apartment near the UVA campus in Charlottesville. We ordered Chinese and talked until 2AM about my findings while on sabbatical.

I haven't figured everything out... I haven't fixed all the damage. What I think I have done is, perhaps, some trimming, some weeding, so that new growth may perpetuate or something better can be planted. It's easier to be calm, clear-headed, and at peace. I'm at a fork in the road trying to see if the middle road is safe... and loving the adventure, even if it turns out I make a bad choice.

I'll still make one.

Sabbatical Soundtrack
(I was in the car about 10/11 hours after all)

My Stupid Mouth, John Mayer
Neon, John Mayer
Are you the one, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
Lonesome Tears, Beck
Gratitude, Paul McCartney
Driving Rain, Paul McCartney
Ireland, Tori Amos
Parasol, Tori Amos
Sweet the Sting, Tori Amos
On the coasts of High Barbary, John Langstaff
He's Watching, Peter Cincotti
Up on the Roof, Peter Cincotti
Have a little faith in me, John Hiatt

Thank you for bringing me home...

Thursday Kitchen: Food for the Soul, Part One

So, I made it back in one piece from my sabbatical. I drove about five hours out to the southwest of the state and had my first experience driving around mountains... My bones are still rattling from the whiplash I gave myself flipping around those corners.

Before I talk about the logistics, what it was like, etc... for tonight, I wanted to talk about my food experiences at the Inn and in town.

Part of why I chose this place, aside from its breathtaking location (in more ways than one), was for the Innkeepers' spin on breakfast. They serve a four course spread in the morning and you have a few options: For people on business, they make a to-go package for you with a travel mug of cocoa, tea, or their house blend (their coffee is earthy, nutty, and reminds me of Thanksgiving). For people who need to sleep in (like me the first morning), they will bring you a breakfast-in-bed tray. If you can get downstairs by nine, you sit in the glow of little oil lamps looking out on the grounds... immersed in the smell of reliable old wood and ancient leather from the sitting room.

The first course is cold juice and cereal. I didn't ask if it was homemade, but it has that taste to it. I tried a honey-cinnamon cereal that was pretty decent with milk from a local creamery (in the glass bottles and everything). The second course is either a fruit dish or a selection of biscuits. The first morning, I asked for biscuits on my tray. They were simple milk biscuits with mild shreds of cheese in the batter. The next morning, when I went downstairs, she made this fresh peach with tapioca pudding sort of... parfait? She delicately sprinkled sliced almonds on top of this creation glittering in a pretty glass bowl.

The main entreé and third course is the main attraction. The first morning, she made me blueberry stuffed pancakes with maple syrup and sausage. It was so cozy... I mean, I never would bother to make blueberry pancakes myself, but here's this woman who got up early to whip up a fresh batch just for me. There's something mothering and wonderful about getting warm, fruit stuffed pancakes late in the morning in a farm house in the mountains. She got a little more adventurous the next morning. She placed scrambled eggs in a tortilla bowl and added potatoes, red pepper slices, cheese, and "shrimp sausage" (or at least, I think that's what she said... tastes like most sausage).

The fourth course is always a dessert of some kind. The one I had the first morning was a perfect summer offering... puffed pastry filled with a lemon cream. Raspberry sauce was drizzled on top. The second morning, she made a dark chocolate mousse with which to fill tiny pastry bowls.

What makes this Bed and Breakfast stand out from all the rest, I think, is this philosophy behind the morning meal. While the Innkeepers have no culinary training whatsoever, they feel that breakfast should be treated like a great meal... especially in this setting. That's why they insist on the dessert course... to give an elegant night out feeling to the first meal of the day. They serve their offerings on fine china, so, all the bowls, plates, etc, are beautiful but moderately sized. Their portions are completely reasonable. You feel satisfied rather than bloated under coffee and bacon.

The rest of the mountain was slightly less accommodating.

If you ever plan on visiting that Floyd, Woolwine, Meadows of Dan area (you should... at least for the view and they have an interesting winery or two), remember this bit of wisdom I acquired from my sabbatical:

The Mountain Region of Virginia has got SOMETHING against Tuesdays.

Seriously... most restaurants are fine with Mondays and they take advantage of the church crowd on Wednesdays. But, I had a quite a difficult time finding food on the one full day I spent in the region. I wanted to visit this winery that appears to be run by immigrants or descendants of an Italian family. They have this GORGEOUS, looks like something out of Tuscany, sort of estate complete with an outdoor tasting area guarded by elaborately twisted wrought iron fences. The building was painted coral... they had a devastatingly beautiful garden...

...but, no matter... it was closed.

So, I settled for Château Morisette (You know? Their wine is everywhere... Blue dog, Black dog, etc.) since I had read that they have a great restaurant. What I didn't read was that they had this prejudice against Tuesday. Monday is fine, Wednesday is great, but no Tuesday. Still, the winery was open and I had a good, long tasting of about 13 different wines. Considering how far I had come to find the place, I ordered some cheese and crackers with a decent glass of Pinot Noir for lunch... Not smartest midday meal for the weary traveller.

I knew I have to find something more substantial than that, so the search began. I made a Point of Interests search on the GPS to led me to about three different restaurants... which is when the mountains shared their wisdom to me once more:

The Mountains and your GPS have it out for you.

The first place I found... Closed on Tuesdays. The second place I was led to... all that was there was half a wooden shack and a duck. The third place... Closed for good.

Finally, and probably 50 miles later, I just set the stupid thing for Floyd and found a little diner willing to make some takeout for me. I wanted something I could start eating in the car (The time was now about 7:20) since it would be another 18 miles back to Woolwine. I ordered a BLT with fries. I chewed on some (pretty good) fries in between the sharp turns going back around the mountain... hands a little shaky, headache starting to brew, getting tired... Finally I return to the Inn. I hear some voices, but I walk straight up to my room. I come out on the porch to tell the Innkeepers about my box of wine downstairs... they're sitting down to what looks like a family meal.

That's when they offered me some spaghetti.

Just thinking about it makes me a little tired again.

All in all though, the breakfast was amazing, comforting, and worth a day of getting turned around a dozen times on a Tuesday.

Wednesday Valuables: Moment Messiah

There have been random moments in my life, during which I could not have known I would need someone, when a kind stranger saved me. This happened in small ways, big ways, ways that seemed pretty large at the time...

The very first time I can remember occurred in my own neighborhood when I was about 6 years old. I don't know whose bright idea it was to have me get off at a different bus stop after school, but those were my instructions. My grandmother was supposed to pick me up at that other stop. I did as I was told, but when I left my seat and stepped on the curb, I couldn't find my grandmother's car. The bus drove away, and I was the only one standing there. I took off my pack, sat down on the sidewalk, and chewed on my tears. I was completely bewildered and had know idea where I was... then this older woman tapped my shoulder. She asked if I was lost and when I confirmed it, she took me into her home across the street. She gave me something to drink and asked if I knew my address (Thank goodness for public elementary education in which a student's first spelling test involves her name and address). As I sniffled and drank, she looked me up in the phone book. She asked my father's name. She discovered quickly that I lived right up the street about two blocks. After I finished my cup, she took my hand and started walking me towards my house. Just as we came to the end of my parents' street, my grandmother arrived and we drove away.

I don't even know that lady's name. I never saw her again. I don't remember why my parents weren't home and I forget why my grandmother failed to get me earlier (I think she followed the wrong bus... this was before there was a system for other relatives to pick you up at school). I do recall, however, the overwhelming feeling of being little and lost and how I worried about things I knew nothing about yet (a kid this day in age probably would get into more trouble than I did being abandoned at a bus stop). I also remember feeling rescued when that kind older woman took me in. She didn't frighten me in the least and went out of her way to take me back home.

Skip ahead to a summer... maybe the following year. I was at Vacation Bible School and it was a particularly hot day. I don't remember anything about the morning, anything or about what we were doing outside. All I remember is a weird, bad feeling. Something wasn't right. My head was spinning, my knees were buckling, I couldn't focus on any of the kids around me... I actually remember very little of how I was even noticed, or how I got across the street. Maybe I had turned too many shades of red or maybe I even fell down... whatever happened, I do remember sitting inside, the air conditioning whipping around my aching head. A man, probably one of the several young pastors working that summer, came to me with some sort of pound cake and lemonade. He told me to eat and drink, so I did. I was shocked at how, almost instantly, I started to feel normal again. I could focus on faces, my head stopped swimming, my stomach growled with satisfaction.

The mid-morning snack that pastor offered me was more effective than any communion I've ever taken. I felt that new life had been transferred to me so I didn't have to die. That's awfully dramatic, but I was 7 or 8, so, I couldn't understand that the intense feeling that swept over me could ever sweep its way off of me. As far as I was concerned, that man saved my life... I think I'd recall his face if I saw it again, but I'm almost certain he moved a summer or two later to another church outside of our community.

I've been rescued in minor ways as well. I remember during college I was working on a scarf for my mother's birthday. It was my first project interweaving two different colored and textured threads together. I was sitting outside of Lenny's near Aroma's, and as I pulled my yarn out of the bag, I saw that I had managed to get it all tangled together. I had hoped to finish it that afternoon, so I was pretty upset. My mother is really good with knots, but I couldn't ask her to help me with her own scarf! I sat there and struggled on my own. Just like the kind lady at the bus stop, a woman with a friend walking down the sidewalk spied me and gasped, "Oh! What a terrible mess!" She didn't even ask me before she took her spider-thin fingers to my yarn and began working magic with the threads. We started talking during the half hour she stood there helping me. I found out that she was a professional weaver and had a great deal of experience untangling and arranging long pieces of thread.

I love when odd things like that happen... I almost never work outside and on a whim I went to Lenny's. The same day, a professional weaver comes by and saves me! I began to knit as quickly as I could and then three other little saviors helped me with the rest... my roommate at the time worked on the tassels at one end while I worked on them at the other and Jo and her brother helped make a very special card for my mom. It was a day a significant and compassionate collaboration.

When I went to France, with my enormous suitcase, I had been forewarned by my French friend that all I needed to do to lug that thing off the plane, on the train, up the stairs of my hotel, was to bat my eyes at the nearest European man. As silly as this sounds, my little broken back was particularly grateful that this was true. There is a small army of French, English, and Italian men (and even two French women!) who helped me move my suitcase around from train to train.

I had a chance to be a miniature messiah myself. I had my French friend pre-approve my wardrobe before leaving, so most people assumed I was French or at least European. I was walking away from the famous Paris opera house when a girl came towards me. I can't explain it, but I could tell she was American before she even opened her mouth. It might have been something she was wearing or the way she carried herself (You'd be surprised... there's a big difference in the air to see women of different countries just walk). She asked me in broken French where a certain place was... and I smiled and told her in plain, American English where she needed to go. She seemed pretty relieved, though mentioned that she was surprised to find that I was also American. She had a better bounce in her step when we parted ways... as if she could conquer this City of Light after all...

One of the best moments of feeling rescued was an ordinary morning at school. I had performed a special, private ceremony (known to few) and went off to class. I was about an hour early. This class assigned some of the most dreadful reading, and since I hadn't finished it all the night before, I decided I'd rush through it while waiting for class to start. When I arrived, there was actually another student already there. After getting past why the hell anyone would come to this class so early, we discovered that we had read opposite stories. I had read the two stories he had not, he had read the two stories I failed to read. I told him what happened in the portion I had read, and he reciprocated. It was this awesome moment of unnecessary human kindness... an act I believe I will treasure always since it led to my friendship with his wife, Caro.

Moments like all of these, it can be harder to believe that someone in the void is not watching over you... these strange benevolent circumstances that could have been worse, maybe threatening, had these momentary messiahs not been present...

Tuesday Hobbies: What's in a star sign?

(from www.lcsd.gov.hk)

It's no secret to those who know me that I have my own pseudo-science when it comes to the zodiac. I have an annoying habit of listening to stories, asking for birth dates, and then nodding as if I knew it was possible all along... of course So-and-So did this or that... he/she is a (insert relevant star sign).

Some people just smile and nod when I say this... others start asking me questions that are hard to answer. My least favorite is, "So, what am I like?" You obviously know what you're like... and you could be many things that are similar or nothing like your sign.

I've narrowed it down to a handful of characteristics exhibited in limitless ways across the zodiac. Again, this is my pseudo-science, so it's not exact and it's not infallible. If anything. I find it amusing and often uncanny.

I used to roll my eyes at this sort of talk... I am a skeptical sort. But then my French friend was able to look up a certain event for which I was waiting... that I would get an answer to an emotional question on a certain date... and I did. Obviously, that could be a coincidence, but it was spot-on enough that I started to pay closer attention to people's signs and what makes them tick.

My theory behind why star signs are valid involves environmental factors that influence personalities. Just like growing up in the city rather than the sticks or with a conventional family rather than temporary foster care, I think that the celestial climate may have subtle effects on your personality. People who grow up in North America and then move here to the Virginian peninsula tend to complain a lot about humidity and heat. As a Virginian, I tend to wilt in the cold air of New York City in winter (whereas these New Yorkers are stopped by nothing)! Your living arrangements influence you in ways of which you're not always conscious...

There are legends, plays, stories about people born under good or bad stars. The particularly bad one, if memory serves... I think it's in the constellation Perseus... called Algol, The Demon Star. It's associated with some dastardly characters from mythology and folklore spanning the major Fertile Crescent cultures of the Hebrews, Christians, and Arabs. Even in Chinese astronomy, the star's name is Tseih She (meaning Piled Up Corpses). In Greek mythology, Algol represents the head of the Medusa. This star is associated with the birth of Lilith, Adam's first wife who ran off with the devil. Obviously these are just stories, but I tend to think there's usually a grain of truth somewhere in these tales that helped them to thrive over the centuries. Some mothers were encouraged to hold their children in during the rising of this star to avoid evil personality traits passing to the infant.

What made this star stick out to men studying the heavens is that... well... it resembles a winking eye. Algol is a special type of binary star. A dimmer star revolves around a brighter one causing the illusion of a winking eye down here on Earth. This revolution happens every two and a half days or so. If you'd like to see what this roughly looks like, click here: ALGOL

So, clearly there was some ignorance involved when giving negative attributes to this truly remarkable star... but there may have been an occurrence here and there that lined up with the births of those born on the dreaded winking hour to get the rumor going.

With this handful of wonderment in my pocket, I simply pay attention to people of like signs to see what they have in common. I am frequently right when I guess in my head after observing someone, but I've guessed incorrectly as well. The dominant factor that lines up with the times when I'm wrong, however, are guessing for people born on the cusp (meaning they exhibit personality traits of more than one sign) or people with stronger rising signs. You have your star sign, that's the date and month in which you're born, but the time of day is also relevant to determine your rising sign. For example, I was born right smack in the middle of Libra and my rising sign is also Libra because I was born in my first house (6ish AM). All the signs over a 24 hour period correspond with the signs of the zodiac. So, if I had been born the following hour (I think) I would have been born in my second house, which is Scorpio.

I don't have this perfectly worked out. I'd actually love to read a book on the original dissections of the horoscope and compare notes. The crap you find in the New Age section of B&N is usually inaccurate (though that Linda Goodman seems to have it figured out similarly to the way I later would). The stuff you read in the paper is made up, too. They might know where the planets are, but they don't know what it means. Don't get me wrong - I don't either, but I don't believe everything I read. I just pay attention to people.

I tend to use what I find loosely... perhaps just to adjust my behavior to create the most amiable atmosphere that I can. For a loose example, without being specific, there is one sign that, hands down, if I'm being myself, the feminine of a certain sign will despise me. It's instantaneously irrational, but there it is. Unless I adjust accordingly, I'm doomed to be disliked by women of this sign. So, I make my comments short, sparse, and always in a complimentary tone when addressing this particular female. If I remain somewhat overly complimentary, I can escape our interaction unscathed. Again, this is a loose assumption, but I've seen the results and I'm convinced I've figured out how to deal with these people. It's just like adjusting to anything else... like don't pick on sensitive people or don't make crude jokes in front of a nun. I just seem to have consistent luck with evaluating my interactions based on sign.

I've been asked by some about dating advice... like, what signs to avoid. This is one of the hardest astrological topics for me because I've seen certain human elements beat the tar out of compatibility. In this case, I feel like the sign of a person is lumped in with several other aspects of eligible people... look for someone who is educated, kind to his mother, has goals and ambitions, what have you. I can tell you until I'm blue in the face who you should consider, but we all seem to love whoever it is that we love... like it or not.

So, it's not that I think there is any divining magic in the stars. Even though it's that sort of trait that spurned my study, I only see my astrology as another way to understand people a little better...

Monday Review: Ponyo

I'm definitely a sucker for Myazaki films. One of my all-time favorite movies is still Spirited Away... aside from the beautiful memories I have surrounding its USA release, I still think it's Myazaki's best film... just so incredibly gorgeous.

Last week I went to see his latest film, Ponyo. It's about a little fish who wants to become a human after a little boy saves her from the litter that almost killed her (Myazaki is big on environmental themes). She has to defy her father, a former human who helps maintain the balance of the waters on earth, who would prefer she remain in the sea with him. After causing a huge upheaval in the structure of the planetary functions, the little boy accepts the charge to truly love Ponyo as she is (fish or human) granting her the power to stay human and grow up with him.

That is pretty much all that happens.

But, that is the Myazaki way. He gives you a very simple story and makes it as real as possible. He wants you to be able to relate despite the fantastic elements of the story. He'll add little details to every scene... the way a little kid likes to hoard and loot their stuff, the crazy way some people drive, the way a disappointed mother and wife of a man in the service sometimes loses it, the relief a mother feels when she has a smart, sensitive little boy to cheer her up, etc. One of my favorite of these moments happens when Ponyo has turned into a human and has her first meal. Sosuke's mother makes noodle soup in these bowls that looked a lot like the ones my grandmother used. She poured hot water over the hard noodles and covered the bowls with the matching lids. Sosuke instructed Ponyo that it takes three minutes and he smiles as he waits while Ponyo fidgets with impatience. These sorts of human realities run rampant in all of Myazaki's films so that you feel as though you are in the same position as these people (or have been at one point or another).

In the beginning, Ponyo is a red goldfish who just wants some time to herself sunning on the top of a jellyfish... now, for those of you who have been stung by jellyfish, I don't mean to rub it in... but I have been fascinated with jellyfish for years. There's something about the way they glisten and dance in the water... such a peaceful image for something so potentially harmful. The very start of the movie is this amazing display of all kinds of fish. Gigantic ones, tiny ones, squids, octopi, crustaceans... it's a visual feast of sea life. I could probably watch the beginning of the film over and over again just to see the mini universe of fish.

Ponyo gets in over her head. Almost literally. As a fishing boat is collecting fish, it also drags up the litter, the pollution, that humans have dumped into the waters. Ponyo gets her head stuck in a glass jar as the net drags along the shallow sea floor. She helplessly floats to shore where a little boy named Sosuke sees her limp body dangling from the jar. He takes off his shoes and wades into the shallow water to pull her out. He's unable to simply pull her from the jar, so he breaks the glass with a rock cutting his finger. He realizes two things after this incident: Ponyo licks his bleeding finger, so Sosuke is relieved to see that she is alive. Later, after he takes her home and places her in a bucket of water, he notices that his wound had healed completely.... which is the first thing to alert him to the idea that Ponyo is a magical creature.

While Myazaki has added elements of fantasy to this scenario, it feels very familiar to me. As young children, I bet a lot of us believed that our first pets needed us, loved us, and perhaps had powers known only to us. This is going to sound absurd, because it is, but I had a tarantula that I believed had feelings for me based on "our dance". I would place my two pointer fingers on the glass aquarium, and he would lift his two front legs to meet them. If I moved one finger, he moved his leg with it. If I moved the other finger, the other leg moved with it... and so on. He was probably agitated or hoping I was a part of a flesh-toned bug he could eat... but at the time, I thought we had this mystical connection that I didn't even understand.

Ponyo sees a whole new world with Sosuke... and vice versa. Outside the vastness of the ocean, she prefers the delicate, domestic details (and food) of human living. Her father manages to steal her away and lectures her about the humans... what they've done to the planet... and how she would have to give up her magic powers if she decides to join their race. He subdues her temporarily, but her determination results in her learning to grow legs, arms, feet, and hands. She departs from the waters looking like a human and goes in search for her friend on the surface.

Problem is, her departure from the sea disturbs the serene equilibrium her father works hard to maintain. The moon moves closer to earth and the waters grow taller, wilder, and more violent. Soon, most of the island is covered in water. Sosuke worries for his mother who has gone to help the elderly in a care center across town (Myazaki probably reminding us of the value of the elderly). He and Ponyo go in search for the mother, after the storms calm down, using Ponyo's magic and Sosuke's practical skills (brave little man lets her sleep after the motor in their magically grown boat dies and gets in the water kicking his legs to propel the kid-sized vessel forward). Each of them show each other portions of one another's world... as though only by combining their knowledge would they be able to find Sosuke's mother.

It's a happy ending with the order restored and Ponyo receiving her wish to become human and grow up with her friend. Maybe this sounds like a light version of The Little Mermaid... if it is, I like this better. My only complaint, I think, is that Myazaki sort of lets a signifcant theme go. His advocating for being kinder to the planet gets left behind in a few grumbling lines from Ponyo's father. It might have tied it up better if there was some deal proposed... if Ponyo were given some task maybe to teach people to clean up their messes or restore health to the waters. Then the ends would be neatly tied. But, as it is, the little girl fish gets her way and keeps her feet... and whatever. That's cute, uplifting, and something I can feel comfortable showing to children.

(Images from www.newyork-tokyo.com, www.chinapost.com, http://wearemoviegeeks.com, http://moviesmedia.ign.com)

Sunday Reflections: When the going gets tough, the tough get going...

...and I'll be going as far as I can without leaving Virginia.

Maybe you're familiar with this point in time: You can't put your finger on why you're so regularly dissatisfied. You get preoccupied easily with ridiculous thoughts. Weird things ignite rage inside you... rage that, somewhere in your brain, you know is irrational. You are constantly tired with no direct correlation to activity level. You feel like nothing is going the way it should. You can't blame anyone or anything for why you're so... so very... UGH.

Well, I think I've been sitting in that place for well over a month now. It's finally piled up on itself to the point where I know I need to sort this out. While I have some amazing, attentive friends and family members who have demonstrated their interest in helping me work through this... I feel like this is crossroads... A growing pain whose kinks I need to press out on my own.

So, I've made a reservation at a Bed and Breakfast in southwestern Virginia. People have wished me a good trip... I've been asked if I'm looking forward to it... It's a weird thing for me, really. Though I've picked a beautiful spot, I know what I'll be doing there... why I picked such a pretty place. I want to be somewhere that gives me the room to do what I need to do...

Which means I'll spend some time crying, writing, sighing, and being quiet.

I'm bringing a picture of my grandmother, Luke, my journal, and my favorite movie. I usually bring about three books and five magazines when I travel... I don't want to distract myself from combing the core of my emotions.

I think that we could all use a little time to ourselves at least once every other year or so. I'm both grateful and nervous for this experience. France was very much a sabbatical for me... though I was with people, I was outside of my regular life in a perfect position to reevaluate myself and discover the person I would become after the experience. That was nearly three years ago.

While I'm gone, my entries will still appear on this blog. I've pre-written articles for Monday through Wednesday. Just because I need to go away for a little while, it doesn't mean I'm going to fall behind on my blog project.

I'll write what I can when I get back.