Denver Impressions Day 41 Y2

Denver Aquarium School of Fish

Nurse Shark

A few Denver impressions:

-Cab drivers here who are taciturn, rude and in other ways unpleasant are not likely to receive generous -- if any - tips from me.  The others, the polite ones, can count on me.

-Powerball tickets in Colorado are at a record high.  The payout is $500 million.  They are generating lots of attention.  I thought of buying one, but didn’t find a store before heading back to my hotel.  

-I visited Capital Hill and took in the historic center of the state.  The air is, indeed, thin. A bit more work is involved in breathing at a mile above sea level -- I, for one, notice the difference. 

-How does Denver boast an aquarium when it is a landlocked state?  I wondered about this, but when I visited it today, I was impressed.  I was thrilled to see sharks and barracudas, groupers and lots and lots of toddlers.  The toddlers were entranced by the fish, but more so by the mermaids that came and did a show in the ginourmous tank.  

-Denver is flat.  Out of downtown Denver rises very tall, reflective residential towers and office buildings.  The population of Denver and environs is 1.2 million, I have been told. This figure is misleading because the population is spread across a large area of open space.

There is plenty of room to explore.

Denver Days Day 40 Y2

Sunset over the Rockies

My impressions of Denver, thus far, are predicated primarily on the view from a cab window and the expert care and handling of my daughter by medical professionals at the National Jewish Hospital.  The weather has shown all the highs and lows of a person diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  Our first day here, with the mountains standing in distant, but stately grace, the temperature was 60 degrees.  The next day, with occasional snow showers, the thermometer dipped below 30 degrees.  Today, my toes refused to warm up.  It’s been chilly  and overcast with blue relief against a stainless steel sky.  If our schedule permits, we hope to explore some of Denver’s wonders.  We had not fully calculated the effect of long days on our energy level.  However, we have mapped out visits to the U.S. Mint, a candy factory, the thirteenth step of the Capitol building (the travel guide reads, “Join the Mile High Club” -- stand on the thirteenth step of our Capitol building which is precisely one mile high), and possibly, visit Boulder.  I have been surprised, on this, my third visit to Colorado, at the changes since my last trip to twenty-five years ago.  It seems there is a little more sprawl, and a lot more vacancies.  The housing market was hit hard here the taxi-drivers tell me.  Those drivers -- from Ethiopia, Ghana, Russia, Pennsylvania (?!) and even Denver -- offer a wealth of statistical, political and social commentary.  However, through all the activities at the hospital, the rides through downtown Denver and my conversations with pleasant strangers, my eyes are drawn to the snow-capped mountains. From just about every vantage point, Pike’s Peaks asserts itself.  We have witnessed the newest in medical technology at the hospital. We have navigated the biways and highways of Denver’s interstates and surface roads. We have scouted the office towers of the downtown district. Through all of this, the Rockies stand constant in their majestic grace.  I believe that the closer we draw to the mountains, the more dwarfed we will be by them. That, of course, remains to be seen.  Tonight, I simply paused to catch the sunset over the mountains.

Denver Days Day 40 Y2

My impressions of Denver, thus far, are predicated primarily on the view from a cab window and the expert care and handling of my daughter by medical professionals at the National Jewish Hospital.  The weather has shown all the highs and lows of a person diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  Our first day here, with the mountains standing in distant, but stately grace, the temperature was 60 degrees.  The next day, with occasional snow showers, the thermometer dipped below 30 degrees.  Today, my toes refused to warm up.  It’s been chilly  and overcast with blue relief against a stainless steel sky.  If our schedule permits, we hope to explore some of Denver’s wonders.  We had not fully calculated the effect of long days on our energy level.  However, we have mapped out visits to the U.S. Mint, a candy factory, the thirteenth step of the Capitol building (the travel guide reads, “Join the Mile High Club” -- stand on the thirteenth step of our Capitol building which is precisely one mile high), and possibly, visit Boulder.  I have been surprised, on this, my third visit to Colorado, at the changes since my last trip to twenty-five years ago.  It seems there is a little more sprawl, and a lot more vacancies.  The housing market was hit hard here the taxi-drivers tell me.  Those drivers -- from Ethiopia, Ghana, Russia, Pennsylvania (?!) and even Denver -- offer a wealth of statistical, political and social commentary.  However, through all the activities at the hospital, the rides through downtown Denver and my conversations with pleasant strangers, my eyes are drawn to the snow-capped mountains. From just about every vantage point, Pike’s Peaks asserts itself.  We have witnessed the newest in medical technology at the hospital. We have navigated the biways and highways of Denver’s interstates and surface roads. We have scouted the office towers of the downtown district. Through all of this, the Rockies stand constant in their majestic grace.  I believe that the closer we draw to the mountains, the more dwarfed we will be by them. That, of course, remains to be seen.  Tonight, I simply paused to catch the sunset over the mountains.

Denver Days Day 40 Y2

Sunset over the distance Rockies

My impressions of Denver, thus far, are predicated primarily on the view from a cab window and the expert care and handling of my daughter by medical professionals at the National Jewish Hospital.  The weather has shown all the highs and lows of a person diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  Our first day here, with the mountains standing in distant, but stately grace, the temperature was 60 degrees.  The next day, with occasional snow showers, the thermometer dipped below 30 degrees.  Today, my toes refused to warm up.  It’s been chilly  and overcast with blue relief against a stainless steel sky.  If our schedule permits, we hope to explore some of Denver’s wonders.  We had not fully calculated the effect of long days on our energy level.  However, we have mapped out visits to the U.S. Mint, a candy factory, the thirteenth step of the Capitol building (the travel guide reads, “Join the Mile High Club” -- stand on the thirteenth step of our Capitol building which is precisely one mile high), and possibly, visit Boulder.  I have been surprised, on this, my third visit to Colorado, at the changes since my last trip to twenty-five years ago.  It seems there is a little more sprawl, and a lot more vacancies.  The housing market was hit hard here the taxi-drivers tell me.  Those drivers -- from Ethiopia, Ghana, Russia, Pennsylvania (?!) and even Denver -- offer a wealth of statistical, political and social commentary.  However, through all the activities at the hospital, the rides through downtown Denver and my conversations with pleasant strangers, my eyes are drawn to the snow-capped mountains. From just about every vantage point, Pike’s Peaks asserts itself.  We have witnessed the newest in medical technology at the hospital. We have navigated the biways and highways of Denver’s interstates and surface roads. We have scouted the office towers of the downtown district. Through all of this, the Rockies stand constant in their majestic grace.  I believe that the closer we draw to the mountains, the more dwarfed we will be by them. That, of course, remains to be seen.  Tonight, I simply paused to catch the sunset over the mountains.

Travel Light Day 39 Y2

Providence Place Mall
Holiday 2012

There was a reason to be there, I reminded myself.  It had to be pretty compelling to convince me that it was necessary to go to the Providence Plaza Mall two days after Thanksgiving.  My willingness to enter the probable melee of sales-hungry holiday shoppers was prompted by my desire to travel light.  My daughter and I had plans to fly to Denver from Boston. For me, a trip of this magnitude happens only every two or three years.  My children are globe-hopping travelers.  I am not.  When my daughter suggested that I would do better to have a lighter hand bag in which to organize my Mac book, Kindle, headphones, camera, wallet and snack bars, I trusted her advice. She suggested I use a Longchamp bag. We tested her hypothesis.  Before we left her apartment, we pared down my belongings to the utmost essentials, then placed them in her medium Longchamp bag. The zipper closed readily and I could hoist the bag on my shoulder easily.  Clearly, a medium Longchamp or a similar nylon bag with 16 inch handles would do the job. She pointed out the added feature that the bag folded flat, and when not in use could be conveniently packed in a suitcase.   

The garage in Providence Plaza mall is not user-friendly.  It is designed for the intrepid, puzzle-hound with superior navigation skills.  Fortunately, that describes my daughter. 

She whipped right into a parking space mere feet from the elevators that would deliver us to Nordstom and its semi-annual sale.   Despite our pledge to head straight to the handbag department, I was the one that pulled us off course.  I was enchanted with everything I saw.  The shoes, the scarves, the earrings...it was exciting to see the things that I am accustomed to perusing online.  Generally, the life I lead -- while not sequestered -- does not include many shopping trips.  A young saleswoman, who, in my father’s era would have been called a sale’s girl -- offered to help us.  I asked if we could see the Longchamp bags, medium sized, please.  She took us over to show us the collection, I picked out a sky grey color and was ready to check out.  Then she broke the news. “The new "Long Champ" medium is smaller than the ones they used to make.”  

“Noooo!!!!!!”  Was our plan foiled?   We unfolded the Longchamp bag I had chosen and found its perimeter at least an inch smaller than my daughter’s. No way would my things all fit.  We talked ourselves out of it.  My daughter and I spent a fruitless twenty minutes searching for an alternative. Nothing was quite right for the money.  I led us back to the Longchamp collection.  I asked the sales clerk about the return policy.  She reassured me that it was very liberal.  Receipt, no receipt, they had a way of making things work out.  I donned an attitude borne of speculation when I reached my decision. With angst and a tightness in my chest because I am unaccustomed to spending that much money on a bag, I handed over my credit card. 

With the purchase securely clutched in my daughter’s hand, we walked through a stretchof the mall in order to visit her favorite frozen yogurt shop -- Go Berry.  I marveled at the holiday decor and the festive atmosphere that permeated the spacious atrium.  My Go-Berry selection was a mini Original with pomegranate seeds, raspberries, pineapple and mixed nuts.  Suddenly, I was on empty; I was out of energy -- hitting the proverbial wall described by long-distance runners.  It was all I could do to make it back to the car. As soon as I was seated in my car seat, I used the recline handle and surrendered to exhaustion. 

The short trip home served to re-enervate me sufficiently to get back to her apartment.  Sprawled out on the floor of my daughter’s apartment, I manipulated my belongings into my new  bag.  Fairly quickly, it became apparent that everything simply would not fit in the new, smaller “medium” bag.  I found the receipt and placed it and the bag into the  Nordstrom bag for its return trip when we return from Denver. 

My immediate concern of what to carry was addressed when my daughter dug out her infrequently used Le Sport carry-on bag that has numerous pockets and is light and compact. It was ideal for my needs and we both wondered why we hadn’t thought of it earlier.  I said, “I guess that was a wasted trip to the mall.”

My daughter, a messenger sent just for me, said, “But Mom, think of all that we did beside the Longchamp bag.  You looked at things you wouldn’t normally see, you appreciated the holiday decorations, we bought your first Go Berry, and we had time together.” I gathered her in my arms and hoped a hug would say all that words couldn’t.  

Learning to Cope Day 38 Y2

One of my friend's hobbies?  Collecting cars.
From his collection.

"You have to give up the life you had planned in order to have the life that is waiting for you"

                                                                                                             Joseph Campbell

My writing has been becalmed; it is as still as a ship in a breezeless sea.  Creative thoughts continue to unroll in my head. I envision a massive supply of bubble wrap with ideas contained within each of the bubbles. Who doesn’t know the pleasure of popping those little bubbles?  The satisfaction is hard to describe. That is exactly how I feel about the ideas that seem to burst into my consciousness during most days.  Usually, I quickly jot them down.  Even if I have to develop them later, they will patiently lay in wait for me. I am fortunate to have a plenitude of ideas all clamoring for expression.  However, since my friend’s recent stroke, I am simply not summoning my usual discipline to write down the words.  The ideas, not lassoed, simply drift away.  Over more than a decade, my friend has had a tremendous influence on how I see the world -- in ways both tangible and intangible.  This  unscheduled, medically-necessitated hiatus from his life is not consistent with the man I have known.  I am trying hard not to let my concern for him to have an overreaching effect on my thoughts, but I am failing.  I move through my activities each day....making Thanksgiving dinner, walking the dog, watching a movie with one daughter, learning to read knitting  instructions from another, listening to music with my son.  Yet, all the while my friend and his family’s well-being are bleeding over into my thoughts.  Each day, I am especially conscious of the blessings that I enjoy and take for granted. To cope with this difficult period, I am trying to cultivate an attitude of thankfulness and a state of mind of detachment. With those tools, I can better appreciate my blessings and leave open the awareness that much of life is outside of my direct control. All I can do is surrender to the life that I am given and celebrate it.  That is all there is. 

Shadows Day 37 Y2

Shadows over Valley

Shadows on Road

I have always had an uncommon fascination for the play of light and darkness.  I see it from the high atop the mountain where I live just as dramatically as on the road I take to my house. I have experienced something akin to rapture after staring at the shadows for prolonged periods. I wondered if I might be having some kind of a seizure; I felt immobilized by the oscillating patterns of light.  This is true not only in western Massachusetts.  On Martha’s Vineyard, the roads are so narrow, that the trees, overreaching in their lacy umbrage, create a tunnel through which cars, bicyclists and pedestrians pass.   When sunlight penetrates that tunnel -- whether the leaves are in tact in summer or the branches are winter-bare, there is a riveting pattern of light and dark shadows that keeps my eyes glued to the road.  I have studied the mesmerizing effect with close attention.  I did the same when my elementary school teacher would use a projector to share overhead slides with the class.  The empty screen was awash in light.  We would make shadow-puppets in the beam of light whenever the teacher turned away from the screen.  Much later, I remember an art lesson I took. The teacher explained we can draw positive or negative space. She challenged us to draw the negative space. “Try drawing the lines of what is not there rather than recreating what is there,” she said.  This flipflop of realities made sense to me.  The world could be a place where light is the norm, and darkness manages to penetrate...or darkness is the standard and somehow, light penetrates it.  Another possibility is that we could simply imagine the world in shades of grey. One hundred shades of grey?  Color is a layer we add on top of the base of black and white and grey.  Color is an entirely different category.

I continue to look for patterns in the shadows. When they emerge, I feel a small thrill.  A hand more powerful than all others seems to be playing with the projector.   

Tinkerbell Day 36 Y2

                   Tinkerbell by Dawn Elise Evans

My computer is out of room. It's a MacBook Air and I have been urging it to be a MacBook Pro.  Unfortunately, my good intentions do not suffice to change it's architecture.  The 8000 photos that I have stored on this laptop are using too much space. I started to transfer photographs to an external hard drive, but ran into a snag when I tried to manipulate them.  To make a long story short, I have been faced with purging as many photos as possible.  By doing so, I will free up my computer to rip ahead with new creative ventures.  As I deleted, I did my best to drag and drop the selected photos into the garbage with as little emotional attachment as possible.  I said to myself, 

"This one is blurry.  This one is a duplicate.   This one is over -exposed,  under-exposed.  Wait!  This one is Tinkerbell!  Without any retouch or revision, the picture snared my immediate attention.  At a time in my life that seems particularly fraught with challenges and grey skies, the unheralded visit of Tinkerbell in a random photo causes me to pause, for just an instant, and smile.  "If you believe in fairies, then clap your hands.  Tinkerbell, will get well, if you clap your hands."  The familiar words from Peter Pan run through my thoughts.   I did not delete this photo.   

A Bridge and a Prayer Day 35 Y2

Light-filled walkway

A close friend of mine had a stroke a few days ago.  His wife, who is one of my dearest friends, is handling the uncertainty with grace and tremendous strength.  I checked into  

a nearby hotel so I could be available if I could be of any help to her or their family. When she called to ask me to come see her, I knew the way.  Past experience taught me that there was a convoluted path to the hospital; by using an interior system of walkways, bridges and tunnels, several Boston area hospitals are connected to each other.  As I wended my way to the hospital, my mind was full of angst and tumult.  I wondered how I would collect myself before I saw my friend. Just then, I glimpsed a sign that directed me to one more walkway before the escalator that would deposit me in the hospital’s main lobby.  It was there that I intended to meet my friend. I rounded the corner to the walkway and I was literally, bathed, simply awash, in sunshine. The light cascaded in through the glass from all directions.  I stood absolutely still for a moment.  Waves of people flowed around me, moving like the tide in, the tide out.  I was overcome by the brilliance of white light that streamed into the area.  Just as my thoughts had gone to a very dark place, light flooded my vision and they disappeared. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil -- 
Thou art with me.

With the comforting words of the Lord’s prayer echoing in my head, I moved forward. 

Cupcake Humor. Day33. Y2

bettycrocker.com

What follows is my most recent email to my former newspaper editor. 

Hi Margot, 

I couldn't let the day go by without sending you a quick email. Over the weekend, I had a brainstorm! My son brought me a bakery box of treats.  Among the morsels was a small cupcake.  I debated how to tackle that chocolate cupcake with all the seriousness of a strategic plan for a Fortune-500 company.  I studied my angle of attack. How best to bite into it so that I could enjoy both cake AND frosting simultaneously?  I have often noticed that I have to wade through a lot of cake in cupcakes.  I seek that   moment of utopia when the amount of cake corresponds with the frosting in a one to one ratio. When that serendipity occurs, each bite is perfection.  Why? Why, I wondered do we make cupcakes so tall that they almost overwhelm the frosting?  I considered one option;  I could bake the cupcakes, cool and slice. The next step would be to sandwich the cake around the frosting.  Still, too much cake. I googled the topic and found nothing relevant to my profound -- and obvious idea.  The answer is simple. Short Cupcakes.

I have not proposed to write a food piece for the newspaper in a long time.  However, my enthusiasm for this idea and my desire to share it with others is quite compelling.  I would present my hypothesis, bring the readers along for a ride as I test it, and, with a little luck, create an entire new industry.  Hey, I was there -- years ago -- espousing the need to sell muffin tops.  Did I have an audience?  NO.  This time, I am not keeping mute.  I think I am on to something here.  How many words would you like me to use to tell you all about it?  

With a good deal of humor and my fondest wishes,

Dawn

I was disappointed when I received a boomerang email that informed that Margot is out of her office for two weeks.  Well, the time can serve to allow me to perfect my recipe for short cupcakes.
Do you suppose I would have any takers?

A Bemation Day 33 Y2

from Shawnsironman.com

Yesterday, I found a bumble bee, dead, on the laundry room floor.  I actually left it smack in the middle of the floor for over an hour before I touched it.  I am highly allergic to bees.  The venom from the sting of one of several stinging insects is sufficient to kill me.  Others cause hives and swelling.  In any event, even armed with my Epipen, and fifteen years of allergy injections, I am cautious.  To be otherwise would be to play Russian Roulette with my safety.  Having confirmed the bee was not moving, I picked it up and placed it on the kitchen counter.  I looked up bumble bees on Wikipedia to learn more about their method of disseminating venom.  I used my magnifying glass to look for the barb tucked under its abdomen. I took note of the velvet like texture on its thorax.  I appreciated the translucent nature of its wings.  This bee was a marvel.  

When my eighteen-year old son, his friend and my niece joined me for breakfast, evidence of my curiosity was on the granite counter....my computer, the magnifier, the bee.  I gave an impromptu lecture.  I was able to answer most of their questions satisfactorily until my son posed this question, “Can we bury it, Mom?”  

How does one go about burying a bee?  As I was sorting through possibilities, he said, “We need an itsy-bitsy box.”

“I know,” I said, “Can you still make an origami box?”  

“Yes!”  I slid him some paper. “Here you go.”

By the time I folded a load of laundry, the three of them had used equal parts creativity, origami techniques and tape to make a box.  

My friend’s son said, “Now what?” -- as if I were the world’s leading authority of burying bees.

Using a well-honed practice that is a carry-over from twenty-two years of experience as a mother, I faked it.  

“Wait, there is no lid,” said my son.

“No problem. First, we have to each say goodbye.” My ability to extemporize impressed even me.  

“I’ll start.  Goodbye and thank you bee for sharing your gifts with us -- for making us honey and for bringing us our vegetables, fruits, grains and flowers.”  Pretty good, right?

My son said, “Yeah, what she said.”

His friend said, “Bye.”

My niece added, “Thank you, little bee.”

“Now what do we do?” my son asked.

“We burn him, “ I stated confidently.

Three excited voices chorused, “We do? Where?”

“In the fireplace.”  

With a firestarter in my outstretched hand, I led the procession to the fireplace.  My son set the burial box on the log holder in the fireplace.  I handed him the starter. He lit two corners of the box.  We stepped back in unison, all standing in a semi-circle watching the flames engulf first the paper, then the bee. A strange, unfamiliar scent wafted into the room. 

I said, “Thank you for attending this bee cremation.” I believe it was my son, but it could have been his friend, who coined the only word possible to describe our little ceremony.

“You mean our bemation.”

Lynn Day 32 Y2

A fading rainbow reminds me of Lynn

On November 11, 1989, my friend, Lynn O'Connell died.  She was 42. Lynn and I became friends because we were two women in a male-dominated workplace.  We were customer service representatives in a highly technical financial consulting firm.  Lynn had a quick wit, a razor tongue and a real zest for life.  She made me laugh whenever we were together -- at work, at yoga, at her house.  Whenever Lynne was nearby, her good-hearted spirit touched me.  It was criminal that her cancer went untreated by her HMO for three years proceeding her diagnosis.  Finally, a doctor in the practice agreed to her demand for a mammogram despite having reservations because “she was too young for breast cancer."  By the time she had the mammogram, the cancer had spread.  The biopsies showed lymph node involvement.  Lynn was not interested in litigation against the HMO; instead, she fought for care at Dana Farber in Boston.  She was far too busy for anything but driving to Boston and back for radiation therapy.  She was robotic in her determination to keep going.  She worked while heaving her insides out from the chemotherapy. Lynn's motivation was her daughter.  Her adolescent daughter was often impatient with her; she wanted a mother who was not sick, a mother who was not on a first name basis with a funeral home director. Lynn’s daughter started acting out in ways unexpected and worrying. As hurtful as the behaviors were, Lynn had extraordinary patience and understanding. Perhaps a counterbalance to those difficulties was Lynn’s ex-husband. When she was too ill to be left alone, he offered that Lynn come live with him. They divorced after a twenty year marriage, but reunited during the last year of her cancer.  I was proud to be Lynn’s friend.  She taught me grace and humor and what it means to be brave.  She wore her wig with pride.  Lynn threw herself a 40th birthday party at the Lord Jeffrey Inn in Amherst, MA.  The party was unusually lavish compared to most of my friends' birthday celebrations, but she had a lot to celebrate.  She was in remission for two years. When the remission was over, the end came quickly.  During Lynn’s last weeks, I was by her hospital bed every morning and every night.  It was hard to say goodbye, but when her time came, I was relieved to let her go. Her suffering had finally ended.  

I carry with me memories of our friendship’s glory days.  As the years roll by, the edges of those memories grow translucent and fade -- just like the refracted light of an ebbing rainbow.  

The Bridges Home Day 31 Y2

The closest metropolis to my house is home to 28,500 souls.   Add the 2500 co-eds at a local women’s college, and that number exceeds 30,000!   The street lights, stop lights and garbage pick-up of the “Big City” lend it the feel of a busy place. There are even parking cops ticketing cars that are in violation of meter rules.  After late afternoon errands, I head home; generally, I pass over three bridges.  The view grows more and more expansive.  The cluster of houses spaces out and they give up encroaching on each other’s territories.  As I leave the City, the bridges channel me away from the hustle and bustle.  The bridges are more than a metaphor; they carry me toward the more tranquil life I lead on a secluded mountain with a view of the night sky and sometimes, the far away city lights.  

Night sky from the mountain.

When Google Fails Day 30 Y2

January 4, 2011
My daughter revisits my house in Verona, NJ.

I have grown so reliant on Google, that it was with a kind of startled feeling of -- “Oh, my!” -- that I realized that there is certain information that is simply not on Google.  It is not available on neither Facebook nor Bing, for that matter.  I become so accustomed to researching just about any question I have by using Google, that I was nearly stymied by the lack of ready answers to my question, "Places Where I Have Lived."  I have started to be lulled into believing that if it has happened, someone has probably written about it.  However, when it comes to one’s personal history, there is no public forum that can fill in the gaps.  

Places Where I Have Lived

Columbus, Georgia

Maramoneck, New York

New Rochelle, New York 

Piscataway, New Jersey

Verona, New Jersey

Rumford, R.I.

Oak Bluffs, MA

South Hadley, MA

Amherst, MA

Sunderland, MA

Whately, MA

Where am I missing?  Can anyone tell me?

Hope Takes Many Shapes Day 29 Y2

I picked these stems today.  The roses that stand sentry on either side of my front door do not seem to notice the frost, snow and sleet that accompany these November days.  They are blossoming with wild abandon.  The hybrid bloom is a vivid reminder that Hope takes many shapes; I did not plant yellow roses.  

Let the Sunshine In Day 28 Y2

dee

Yesterday, I was walking across the wood floor in my living room and I pulled up short.  I raced to get my camera to record the light that spilled across the deck rail and in through the tall windows that face the southeasterly exposure.  It was brilliant and warm.

Today, I found an entirely different kind of light at T.J. Maxx.  

I was reminded that each of us has a story. Each of us has a message.

The woman who cashed out my purchases was someone whom I have seen occasionally over the past five or more years.  In the three minutes we spent together in order to complete the transaction, she told me this:

You can’t make anyone happy but yourself.  Don’t waste your time trying.

You deserve to be happy.  You deserve to be joyful. 

And so, across a counter-top laden with Christmas merchandise placed to encourage impulse-buying, we hugged. She reminded me that each of us carries a bit of our own light.

Being There Day 28 Y2

My son at work (picture taken with permission)

Hurricane Sandy has had a wide-reaching impact on many aspects of life.  The major losses of life and property outweigh all of the other annoying, frustrating and sometimes comical aspects of life after the storm.  There was one unexpected development....some colleges and universities made the decision to delay the due date for Early Action College Applications from November 1st to November 6th.  For my son who is a senior in high school, that was the break he needed; the pressure of keeping up with schoolwork, delivering 100% at his internship, getting a new film project off of the ground and completing his Early Action application has grown increasingly intense.  The changed deadline, like a break in traffic, granted him a reprieve; he used it to put his foot to the pedal, shoot ahead in the small gap between moving cars, cross two lanes of traffic and make it safely to an exit.  For me, it has been a hair-raising, hair-pulling ride.  My son was a “hair’s-width” away from completing his application when I came home to lend my support during the final days before submission.  I had no idea the amount of pleading, cajoling, threatening, rationalizing and finally, writing that could fit into a hair’s width.

We have mountains and hills from which to yell. Not so many rooftops.  However, wherever you are as you read this, I hope you can hear me yell through cyber-space.

HE DID IT!!!  Done, done, done. 

Let the waiting begin. 

Locard's Exchange Principle Day 27 Y2

from spopp17.edu.glogster.com

The first time I heard about Locard’s Exchange Principle, I was reading a detective novel.  The main character was explaining to his less-experienced colleague that 

a French man in the late 1800‘s postulated that, at every crimes scene, there is a transfer of matter between anyone or anything that enters or leaves the scene.  His point is that we all leave -- sometimes, microscopic -- footprints. Locard’s Exchange Principle is taught in beginner’s Forensics classes. When one of my daughters was attending Emma Willard, I saw a reference to Locard in one of the high school forensics textbooks.  What captivated my attention was the possibility that we do not merely exchange matter.   Wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that we exchange parts of our emotional and intellectual selves as well?  It strikes me that, whenever we are in the presence of others, we leave a bit or ourselves and they entrust something of themselves with us.  Once I turned over that particular thought, the idea of placing a virtual bubble around ourselves as suggested by many New Age practitioners made a kind of sense to me. How else to repel someone’s unwanted negativity, anger, depression?  It made me really think about my part in every day situations.  What about the exchange with the cashier at Walmart, or the waitress at the roadside stop, or  person who steps out in front of my car unexpectedly?   What did I want to leave of myself?  What was I willing to pick up from them? I can’t help but wonder what Locard would have to say about that?

Unsaavy Techno-Geek and the Key Day 27 Y2

Locked in

This morning, my daughter was slightly late leaving for work.  I am visiting her in her tidy, clean, studio loft.  It is the kind of place that, when I make my monthly visits, I will notice that there is a substantive change in things when the book on the coffee table is swapped for one on the bookshelf.  There is order here.  

The delay this morning was because she recognized the panic in my eyes when I received an error message on my computer. Start-up Disk is Full  Then, all of my applications - BLINK- disappeared from their place at the bottom of my screen.  Since I have had my MacBook Air, there have been such a lack of “incidents” that when something goes awry, I experience something close to... well.... panic.  I use my computer for ten hours a day on average.  As a lifelong Student of Life, I am curious.  I may want to know about the new tax reform laws and long-term health care.  I may want to look up, once and for all, is it “that” or “which” if you observe grammatical etiquette.  I have to confess that I enjoy watching tons of British detective shows at night.  So many in fact, that my son commented that I seem to be speaking with a British accent. I am very pleased to find essential items of life on sale online that will be shipped for free. That takes some time, let me tell you! My photos, query letters, essays and novels are neatly housed inside this flat piece of plastic, metal and electronics.  Yes, there just may have been panic in my eyes.

Empathetic and enterprising young woman that she is, my daughter used her cell-phone to research the glitch and resolved it with three key strokes.  Tada! Magic!  Meanwhile, the clock kept ticking.

Just as she went out the door, my mobile phone rang. We exchanged quick waves goodbye to each other, and out she went.  I heard the lift doors whoosh closed when I realized that she was leaving with the house keys.  Without the house keys, I would be stranded in her flat until she returned in the evening.  Yet, I had a pressing conversation on the phone and even if I did call her back, she would be later than a little late. 

I reasoned that, if I really had to leave, I could call the concierge, explain the situation, and maybe, with a call from my daughter, she might let me back into the loft.

I rationalized that being home-bound for the day would give me a first hand experience of house arrest.  Truthfully, I frequently do not leave the house all day, anyway. Still, the sense of a no-key, no-return policy has grown in importance as the day has gone on.  I remember the days of having three children under four and being home with them from when my husband left for work in the morning until he returned at night.  It was challenging at times.  Even though I could go for a ride, in the middle of winter, bundling up an infant and two toddlers to take them for a drive was not my idea of fun.  Today, I have been productive - written an essay, edited another.  I wrote a challenging letter... word ....by..... word.  I started dinner, did my exercises, made some phone calls. I have found plenty to keep myself busy.  But since I am telling the bare truth, what I am most thinking about right now is seeing my daughter and getting that KEY!

Farewell my Island Home Day 26 Year 2

dee

 dee

Goodbyes can come at great emotional cost. Goodbyes can be sweet, they can be complicated, they can be fun. In a way, goodbyes can be as difficult to characterize as a kiss.  No matter how you slice it, goodbyes are about separation.
There are the kind of goodbyes that stretch on for an eon. When I was a child, my uncle and my father had a ritual that we always observed at our leave-takings.  We would say "Goodbye, goodbye, it was a wonderful visit." We would kiss and embrace each other, the cousins, the aunts, the uncles. Then we would load into our car if we were visiting their territory or they would all fall into their car.  There was honking, furious cranking down of windows to wave goodbye and to throw kisses until we were out of view.  A pause...
then we would circle back, all get out of the car and repeat our goodbyes. This particular ritual was practiced three or four times every year and it never failed to give us all a lot of laughs, a lot of pleasure, and now, fond memories.
There are goodbyes that are understated and quiet. For example, my 18 year-old son, on his way to school, may remember to say, "See you later."  When I hear the garage door going up, I usually race to that side of the house to wave goodbye from the laundry room window.  Sometimes, he stops me short, causing me to rock back on my heels in surprise.  For no reason that I can detect, he says, "'Bye, Mom. Love you."  My day is made and I know I am the luckiest woman in the world.
There are goodbyes that I don't want to remember. Those fall into two categories; the ones that were awkward or embarrassing or.... the ones that are, in all likelihood, the last.  When I was seventeen, I went to visit my boyfriend of three years at Skidmore College over Columbus Day weekend.  While I was there, I discovered he was seeing someone else.  He introduced his girlfriend to me.  My anger chased my humiliation.  He suggested we might all be friends.  Honestly?  Are you serious?  I demanded a ride to the bus station immediately.  He borrowed her car to get me there.  Now THAT was an awkward goodbye.  Fast forward twenty years when I went to visit my grandfather in Florida.  I brought my newborn infant son with me.  My grandfather wanted to meet his great-grandson before he died.  He was 91.  I wept when I left my grandfather.  I put on a brave face, but as soon as the car was out of sight of his residence, I wept. He died the next year.  As it turned out, it really was the last time I saw him.
My mother was partial to "So longs."  There is a hint of optimism in so long that is not present in a goodbye. In 1923, Walt Whitman's friend William Sloane Kennedy wrote about the use of the words "So long" in one of Whitman's poems.

Walt wrote to me, defining 'so long' thus: "A salutation of departure, greatly used among sailors, sports, & prostitutes -- the sense of it is 'Till we meet again,' -- conveying an inference that somehow they will doubtless so meet, sooner or later." ... It is evidently about equivalent to our 'See you later.' 

Today, I drove my friend's car to the auto-mechanic. Once there, I called a cab to take me to the boat, the Island Home.  I entered the Steamship Authority Ticket Office in order to buy passage and a bus fare.  That done, I headed across the tarmac to the ferry from Vineyard Haven to Woods Hole.  Leaving Martha's Vineyard never fails to cause a slight constriction in my heart.  As I climbed the gangway to enter the boat, I paused for a moment to take in the harbor and to consider my leaving.  At long last, I said, "So long, my friend," and boarded the Island Home. The Island, indeed, feels like Home.