Alas, poor blogspot, I knew him well!
Because this site has not proved very English-speaking user-friendly, I begin with today's blog at my new blog address: http://today.kathrynhudson.fr
Come and play! :-)
Peace from Paris...
mardi 9 février 2010
February 9, 2010 : About yesterday...
Bonjour!
I am always relieved when February 9 arrives. On my birthday, February 8, I never seem to behave like an adult. There is something about that day, some expectations that bloom from seeds planted long ago, that resurface on that one day a year to plague me, and anyone around me.
I'd like to blame my Dad. At one point, he devised a great system for our large Bronx Irish Catholic family: the birthday girl/boy chooses the dinner menu. Ever since then, it's been downhill.
I chose cow's tongue and succotash. I was a strange kid, but there was method to it. I remember my brothers cajoling, threatening, punching, all to get me to change my choice. But no dice. This eclectic dinner was my revenge for a whole year's worth of bullying, so with glee I watched those brothers still in the house at that time force their way through lima beans and corn in a milky sauce and cow's tongue. Sometimes the tongue was very visibly a tongue: a tongue with tastebuds, enormous cow tastebuds that stood up to be counted. Sweet revenge!
In a family of seven children, you can feel lost. Unseen, unheard, sometimes. Invisible, maybe. But at dinner time once a year, I was seen, alright! Yeah, yeah, there was trauma - the wishing for the bike that never came and the promising gifts that tune out to be another pair of pajamas, sure ... ah, but the cow's tongue and succotash! :-)
Now, adult, I still expect my birthday to be special. I expect, reasonably or no, to be seen, to be feted (even though it was my mother and not me that deserves celebrating for what happened on the day I was born). I awake in the morning with hopes.
You might say that it is ridiculous, that birthdays are for children, that hope sets us up for disappointment. And if you asked me early yesterday afternoon, I would have said that it had been exactly that: a big fat disappointment. But I believe that in each of us there is still a child that needs feting, that ought to be celebrated. And being a child means having hope, reasonable or not.
Yesterday, a friend here left me a birthday note, mysteriously saying to be ready for a promenade in the afternoon. Damn, I said to myself (already very positive, no?) The weather is crap, I have lines to memorize and I don't want to go on a promenade - whatever the hell that is - in rainy freezing weather when I need to memorize my lines. (Prone to hyperbole, I ignored the fact that it was actually not raining.)
So I asked for more info, hinting that an outing on such a day might not be a good idea, hoping that we would change the plans. When I heard that changing the rendezvous was not possible (hopes crashing), I knew that reservations had to be involved. So I played the guessing game, asking "Do I have to dress warmly?", finding another hope: that perhaps it was lunch on one of the bateaux mouches - the boats that ply their trade lazily - and cozily - up and down the Seine. Very touristy, but warm, good food and service, and two hours, tops, so time to memorize lines.
"Yes, dress warmly." (Hopes crash.) You see, not only was it NOT a bateaux mouches ride, but I was going to be cold. I am "frileuse" - what the French say for folks who can't stand the cold. I would just rather be warm. So you don't catching me skiing, anymore, for example; I would rather go to wherever it is warm and do the water thing, or the exploration thing, there, anywhere where it's warm. So I remind this thoughtful person of who I am, of all the evidence that reveals me to be this "cold sissy". Also, that I can be a volatile personality. Did it matter?
No. At 12:30, I was embarking on a small house boat with lawn furniture on the deck under a canvas canopy. It was a very charming wooden boat, waiting for us just steps away from my apartment. "This is very thoughtful," I thought, "This is thoughtful and charming and he put a lot of thought and effort into it." I was just about to vocalize these words, trying to say something nice, when I heard Kathy from the Bronx, little Kathy with big brothers who hate succotash, yell, "You aren't going to LIE to him, are you? Because I for one am already freezing my &*^^ off! I get to choose the succotash! Where's the succotash?!" I tried to explain to her then that this is what adults do: adults play nice; adults lie, quite often even, to keep the peace. She would have none of it, though, so we compromised and I said nothing, arranging my lips in a smile that I hoped gave the impression that I found the boat charming.
It was freezing on that boat. Yesterday was windy, with a cutting wind wet inside. And the beauty of Paris was hiding yesterday, at least from me. The river was swirling and mud-brown, and to our left and right passed the big barges with their cargoes of different-colored dirt. I wrapped myself in blankets and tried to stop myself from complaining, but it was a shipwreck. I couldn't help myself. Kathy was pissed: "Yes, it is true that I love the Seine and boats, but in June, maybe, or July, not in February!" Once I started, I couldn't stop, and though the words were softened by adult Kathryn they were lanced by Kathy. To interrupt the scene, I suggested we go inside to warm up.
The inside of the boat was cozy, all wood, a charming houseboat with a history, no doubt... a history I was trying not to add myself to. The cabin with the windows was small, so we squeezed in at a table next to the boat's captain, who was wrestling to keep us straight. I knew the feeling. It was cozy, yes, but private, no... and definitely not healthy. The smell of diesel was overpowering. I get sick from gas stations, much less this diesel smell, and my friend knows this. He looked at me nervously, as if I were a deer that might bolt. Maybe we should go back outside, he suggested. Good idea.
We got more blankets and went outside. I was wrapped in 4 of them, then, underneath, above, all around, until I was a red cocoon with only my eyes visible. My eyes darted this way and that, and I said soft, barbless banal things like, "I love Paris' bridges." or "Aren't these blankets a lovely color red?" But I had already shown my true colors, and the efforts at softness made the contrast all the more painful, I think. We passed under bridge after bridge (Paris truly has magnificent bridges) and I imagined that the hardy (foolhardy?) tourists who had braved the elements looked at me, curious. I tried to see me as they would, a red-wrapped figure huddled on the ships deck, anonymous. Maybe someone famous? No, Michael Jackson gone and as there was no impression of comfort, the riddle no doubt lay unsolved.
It seemed then that there were cormorants following us, or one persistent cormorant, and that was good. I am writing an inspirational book with cormorants in it (Okay one cormorant, mostly their cousins the pelicans, actually) and the sight of them comforted me. I saw a cormorant riding the waves with a dignity and an agility that I was not evincing, as I messed about with my own cold-wet-boat-waves. I felt guilty. Deep breaths.
I asked then if we could cut the journey short and not do the whole 4 hours. They said okay, all of them, and I was relieved. It had felt that they were against me, my friend and the crew of this iceboat, laughing at the one who was cold. But now there was ever renewed hope. Again my friend suggested that we go underneath for something warm to drink, and I gladly accepted, asking for hot chocolate, a Parisian specialty. Alas, no hot chocolate (crash!). Nonetheless off to the kitchen for some hot tea (though the French do not as a rule know tea, and I recognized another crash in the making.) Nonetheless, I agreed, anything to get warm, for the cold had got into my fleece-lined warmest boots and now gripped my toes hard, squeezing the ends.
Paris disappeared from the windowless deck below. I gritted my teeth and reached for my tea, a namby-pamby blend, but hot. I looked around, but did not see the milk. My friend cleared his throat and said, hesitating, "There is no milk. I already asked and and they don't have any." (CRASH!).
"No hot chocolate in PARIS, no milk, no tea, I hope this isn't something you paid for, because this is unacceptable!" Kathy had taken over and was now on a roll. "This would never happen in the US, they know service in the US, I should just go back there, what the hell am I doing here, what the hell am I doing on this boat, what were you THINKing?" Hoping to stave off the flow, Kathryn then interjects, acknowledging, "It was a very thoughtful idea, just such a shame about the weather," but she is interrupted by Kathy, who snorts, "Oh, yeah! Cold weather is not foreseeable in early FEBRUARY!" Kathryn of course apologized right away, "It is a shame Kathy doesn't know how to behave when someone has been so very thoughtful." In retrospect I am surprised that he did not simply plunge off the boat into the waters, sure to be warmer than it was within, with this crazy schizophrenic birthday girl/woman.
Even I knew I needed a time out, so we went back outside with ever more blankets (I was up to 6 by now) and we sat. There was only a bit of time left and so I waited for it to end, hopeful, waited to get warm, waited as I saw our dock go right past us.
Hey, didn't they say we could get off a bit early? My friend went to see what was up. Some story ensues, and ten minutes later the boat turns. As we turn to head back to the dock, during the last fifteen minutes of our trip, the hail comes. We are outside on the deck, and there is a canopy, but these big-bricks-of-ice hail stones are bouncing off the roof of the cabin onto my grouchy head. (er - crash?)
No. It was too much. I started to laugh. My friend, wary now, looked to see if I was being ironic.
But no, I was really laughing, laughing hard now, laughing with the hailstones on the deck of that houseboat on the Seine in February. Laughing because I finally got it. My old demons were back taunting me, and in force. The idea was to see if this time I could rise above it, get past my anger, get past my succotash power trip, stay present in face of circumstances that tweak my especially soft spot: submitting to the will of others, "playing nice", looking outward for confirmation rather than finding it within. I got it, so I laughed.
I laughed also because BOY had I blown it, at least in part. On the positive side, I realized also that I had tried: I fought the good fight, stayed conscious of the fact when I was losing it, tried to get past the anger rooted in past events, past the cold and the dismal day, past the ill-prepared and uncaring staff and the diesel fuel, past the victim I was painting myself to be... to see that underneath nothing was threatened. No one had died. Nothing, in fact, had changed. And I finally saw humor in the thing.
Thanks to my friend who gave me such a marvelous birthday gift... who needs succotash?
Peace from Paris.
I am always relieved when February 9 arrives. On my birthday, February 8, I never seem to behave like an adult. There is something about that day, some expectations that bloom from seeds planted long ago, that resurface on that one day a year to plague me, and anyone around me.
I'd like to blame my Dad. At one point, he devised a great system for our large Bronx Irish Catholic family: the birthday girl/boy chooses the dinner menu. Ever since then, it's been downhill.
I chose cow's tongue and succotash. I was a strange kid, but there was method to it. I remember my brothers cajoling, threatening, punching, all to get me to change my choice. But no dice. This eclectic dinner was my revenge for a whole year's worth of bullying, so with glee I watched those brothers still in the house at that time force their way through lima beans and corn in a milky sauce and cow's tongue. Sometimes the tongue was very visibly a tongue: a tongue with tastebuds, enormous cow tastebuds that stood up to be counted. Sweet revenge!
In a family of seven children, you can feel lost. Unseen, unheard, sometimes. Invisible, maybe. But at dinner time once a year, I was seen, alright! Yeah, yeah, there was trauma - the wishing for the bike that never came and the promising gifts that tune out to be another pair of pajamas, sure ... ah, but the cow's tongue and succotash! :-)
Now, adult, I still expect my birthday to be special. I expect, reasonably or no, to be seen, to be feted (even though it was my mother and not me that deserves celebrating for what happened on the day I was born). I awake in the morning with hopes.
You might say that it is ridiculous, that birthdays are for children, that hope sets us up for disappointment. And if you asked me early yesterday afternoon, I would have said that it had been exactly that: a big fat disappointment. But I believe that in each of us there is still a child that needs feting, that ought to be celebrated. And being a child means having hope, reasonable or not.
Yesterday, a friend here left me a birthday note, mysteriously saying to be ready for a promenade in the afternoon. Damn, I said to myself (already very positive, no?) The weather is crap, I have lines to memorize and I don't want to go on a promenade - whatever the hell that is - in rainy freezing weather when I need to memorize my lines. (Prone to hyperbole, I ignored the fact that it was actually not raining.)
So I asked for more info, hinting that an outing on such a day might not be a good idea, hoping that we would change the plans. When I heard that changing the rendezvous was not possible (hopes crashing), I knew that reservations had to be involved. So I played the guessing game, asking "Do I have to dress warmly?", finding another hope: that perhaps it was lunch on one of the bateaux mouches - the boats that ply their trade lazily - and cozily - up and down the Seine. Very touristy, but warm, good food and service, and two hours, tops, so time to memorize lines.
"Yes, dress warmly." (Hopes crash.) You see, not only was it NOT a bateaux mouches ride, but I was going to be cold. I am "frileuse" - what the French say for folks who can't stand the cold. I would just rather be warm. So you don't catching me skiing, anymore, for example; I would rather go to wherever it is warm and do the water thing, or the exploration thing, there, anywhere where it's warm. So I remind this thoughtful person of who I am, of all the evidence that reveals me to be this "cold sissy". Also, that I can be a volatile personality. Did it matter?
No. At 12:30, I was embarking on a small house boat with lawn furniture on the deck under a canvas canopy. It was a very charming wooden boat, waiting for us just steps away from my apartment. "This is very thoughtful," I thought, "This is thoughtful and charming and he put a lot of thought and effort into it." I was just about to vocalize these words, trying to say something nice, when I heard Kathy from the Bronx, little Kathy with big brothers who hate succotash, yell, "You aren't going to LIE to him, are you? Because I for one am already freezing my &*^^ off! I get to choose the succotash! Where's the succotash?!" I tried to explain to her then that this is what adults do: adults play nice; adults lie, quite often even, to keep the peace. She would have none of it, though, so we compromised and I said nothing, arranging my lips in a smile that I hoped gave the impression that I found the boat charming.
It was freezing on that boat. Yesterday was windy, with a cutting wind wet inside. And the beauty of Paris was hiding yesterday, at least from me. The river was swirling and mud-brown, and to our left and right passed the big barges with their cargoes of different-colored dirt. I wrapped myself in blankets and tried to stop myself from complaining, but it was a shipwreck. I couldn't help myself. Kathy was pissed: "Yes, it is true that I love the Seine and boats, but in June, maybe, or July, not in February!" Once I started, I couldn't stop, and though the words were softened by adult Kathryn they were lanced by Kathy. To interrupt the scene, I suggested we go inside to warm up.
The inside of the boat was cozy, all wood, a charming houseboat with a history, no doubt... a history I was trying not to add myself to. The cabin with the windows was small, so we squeezed in at a table next to the boat's captain, who was wrestling to keep us straight. I knew the feeling. It was cozy, yes, but private, no... and definitely not healthy. The smell of diesel was overpowering. I get sick from gas stations, much less this diesel smell, and my friend knows this. He looked at me nervously, as if I were a deer that might bolt. Maybe we should go back outside, he suggested. Good idea.
We got more blankets and went outside. I was wrapped in 4 of them, then, underneath, above, all around, until I was a red cocoon with only my eyes visible. My eyes darted this way and that, and I said soft, barbless banal things like, "I love Paris' bridges." or "Aren't these blankets a lovely color red?" But I had already shown my true colors, and the efforts at softness made the contrast all the more painful, I think. We passed under bridge after bridge (Paris truly has magnificent bridges) and I imagined that the hardy (foolhardy?) tourists who had braved the elements looked at me, curious. I tried to see me as they would, a red-wrapped figure huddled on the ships deck, anonymous. Maybe someone famous? No, Michael Jackson gone and as there was no impression of comfort, the riddle no doubt lay unsolved.
It seemed then that there were cormorants following us, or one persistent cormorant, and that was good. I am writing an inspirational book with cormorants in it (Okay one cormorant, mostly their cousins the pelicans, actually) and the sight of them comforted me. I saw a cormorant riding the waves with a dignity and an agility that I was not evincing, as I messed about with my own cold-wet-boat-waves. I felt guilty. Deep breaths.
I asked then if we could cut the journey short and not do the whole 4 hours. They said okay, all of them, and I was relieved. It had felt that they were against me, my friend and the crew of this iceboat, laughing at the one who was cold. But now there was ever renewed hope. Again my friend suggested that we go underneath for something warm to drink, and I gladly accepted, asking for hot chocolate, a Parisian specialty. Alas, no hot chocolate (crash!). Nonetheless off to the kitchen for some hot tea (though the French do not as a rule know tea, and I recognized another crash in the making.) Nonetheless, I agreed, anything to get warm, for the cold had got into my fleece-lined warmest boots and now gripped my toes hard, squeezing the ends.
Paris disappeared from the windowless deck below. I gritted my teeth and reached for my tea, a namby-pamby blend, but hot. I looked around, but did not see the milk. My friend cleared his throat and said, hesitating, "There is no milk. I already asked and and they don't have any." (CRASH!).
"No hot chocolate in PARIS, no milk, no tea, I hope this isn't something you paid for, because this is unacceptable!" Kathy had taken over and was now on a roll. "This would never happen in the US, they know service in the US, I should just go back there, what the hell am I doing here, what the hell am I doing on this boat, what were you THINKing?" Hoping to stave off the flow, Kathryn then interjects, acknowledging, "It was a very thoughtful idea, just such a shame about the weather," but she is interrupted by Kathy, who snorts, "Oh, yeah! Cold weather is not foreseeable in early FEBRUARY!" Kathryn of course apologized right away, "It is a shame Kathy doesn't know how to behave when someone has been so very thoughtful." In retrospect I am surprised that he did not simply plunge off the boat into the waters, sure to be warmer than it was within, with this crazy schizophrenic birthday girl/woman.
Even I knew I needed a time out, so we went back outside with ever more blankets (I was up to 6 by now) and we sat. There was only a bit of time left and so I waited for it to end, hopeful, waited to get warm, waited as I saw our dock go right past us.
Hey, didn't they say we could get off a bit early? My friend went to see what was up. Some story ensues, and ten minutes later the boat turns. As we turn to head back to the dock, during the last fifteen minutes of our trip, the hail comes. We are outside on the deck, and there is a canopy, but these big-bricks-of-ice hail stones are bouncing off the roof of the cabin onto my grouchy head. (er - crash?)
No. It was too much. I started to laugh. My friend, wary now, looked to see if I was being ironic.
But no, I was really laughing, laughing hard now, laughing with the hailstones on the deck of that houseboat on the Seine in February. Laughing because I finally got it. My old demons were back taunting me, and in force. The idea was to see if this time I could rise above it, get past my anger, get past my succotash power trip, stay present in face of circumstances that tweak my especially soft spot: submitting to the will of others, "playing nice", looking outward for confirmation rather than finding it within. I got it, so I laughed.
I laughed also because BOY had I blown it, at least in part. On the positive side, I realized also that I had tried: I fought the good fight, stayed conscious of the fact when I was losing it, tried to get past the anger rooted in past events, past the cold and the dismal day, past the ill-prepared and uncaring staff and the diesel fuel, past the victim I was painting myself to be... to see that underneath nothing was threatened. No one had died. Nothing, in fact, had changed. And I finally saw humor in the thing.
Thanks to my friend who gave me such a marvelous birthday gift... who needs succotash?
Peace from Paris.
dimanche 7 février 2010
February 8, 2010 : Happy Birthday to me
Bonjour!
Today is my birthday (never you mind which one!) and so, a fresh start. A brand new year stretches out in front of me. I can't see it all from here; I can only see the next few weeks, the next few steps. Truth be told, that makes me a wee bit nervous. The part of me that wants to be in control is definitely complaining... I just tell her to hush, gently. I tell her that I am operating on good information.
You see, it used to be that I controlled my life. Or so I thought.
When I left the Bronx the first time, I went to Georgetown's School of Foreign Service to be a spy...and became more of a pacifist. (Support our troops, persuade their leaders!) ;-)
When I left Georgetown, I became a banker in order to get to live in Paris, thinking it would happen very fast...and it took me 20 years.
I tried to live my life in three-year plans. What a joke! At one point, I bought a house in Bradley Beach, a cute town on the Jersey shore, 7 blocks from the beach. It was my summer place, my weekend retreat, and my plan was to move a block closer to the beach every three years, retiring when I got to beachfront. Well, today my house is still 7 blocks from the beach rented out to a lovely family, and that's not too bad. Retirement? Now I don't want to retire! That was a dream when I was unhappy with my life's work....
And then there was the marriage-and-kids thing: I started late, but figured I still had time to be a wife and mother. That crashed and burned too... (I have to remember that other people's dreams are not necessarily mine.)
Finally in 2003, I was sent here to Paris to open an investment banking office of a well-known US bank. That institution is now defunct. 'Nuff said.
So, how much more evidence do I need to remind me that control is a figment of my imagination? When I thought I was in control, the gods were giggling. I am sure of it.
So now I have decided to get the thing out into the open: shine some light on it. If "they" are going to be in charge, let "them" be in charge from the outset. That means the planning and the worrying : they can have it! Clearly my past efforts in that area have been energy wasted. So I hereby hand it over.
Do not mistake me: I will do my part. As the plan unfolds, I will be fully present and actively participate. Opportunities presented will received a resounding "YES!", and my full attention and energy. When I catch the whiff of a project in the air, I will work at it. And I can work, by God; work is something I know!
But as to the planning and predicting the future, and the ensuing fretting and worrying, I now recognize that this is not my area of expertise. So this year I am going to leave it to the experts, to the Universe, in the hands of God, shall we say. And so I can really enjoy my birthday.
Peace from Paris.
Today is my birthday (never you mind which one!) and so, a fresh start. A brand new year stretches out in front of me. I can't see it all from here; I can only see the next few weeks, the next few steps. Truth be told, that makes me a wee bit nervous. The part of me that wants to be in control is definitely complaining... I just tell her to hush, gently. I tell her that I am operating on good information.
You see, it used to be that I controlled my life. Or so I thought.
When I left the Bronx the first time, I went to Georgetown's School of Foreign Service to be a spy...and became more of a pacifist. (Support our troops, persuade their leaders!) ;-)
When I left Georgetown, I became a banker in order to get to live in Paris, thinking it would happen very fast...and it took me 20 years.
I tried to live my life in three-year plans. What a joke! At one point, I bought a house in Bradley Beach, a cute town on the Jersey shore, 7 blocks from the beach. It was my summer place, my weekend retreat, and my plan was to move a block closer to the beach every three years, retiring when I got to beachfront. Well, today my house is still 7 blocks from the beach rented out to a lovely family, and that's not too bad. Retirement? Now I don't want to retire! That was a dream when I was unhappy with my life's work....
And then there was the marriage-and-kids thing: I started late, but figured I still had time to be a wife and mother. That crashed and burned too... (I have to remember that other people's dreams are not necessarily mine.)
Finally in 2003, I was sent here to Paris to open an investment banking office of a well-known US bank. That institution is now defunct. 'Nuff said.
So, how much more evidence do I need to remind me that control is a figment of my imagination? When I thought I was in control, the gods were giggling. I am sure of it.
So now I have decided to get the thing out into the open: shine some light on it. If "they" are going to be in charge, let "them" be in charge from the outset. That means the planning and the worrying : they can have it! Clearly my past efforts in that area have been energy wasted. So I hereby hand it over.
Do not mistake me: I will do my part. As the plan unfolds, I will be fully present and actively participate. Opportunities presented will received a resounding "YES!", and my full attention and energy. When I catch the whiff of a project in the air, I will work at it. And I can work, by God; work is something I know!
But as to the planning and predicting the future, and the ensuing fretting and worrying, I now recognize that this is not my area of expertise. So this year I am going to leave it to the experts, to the Universe, in the hands of God, shall we say. And so I can really enjoy my birthday.
Peace from Paris.
samedi 6 février 2010
February 7, 2010 : Superbowl Sunday
Bonjour!
Go Saints!
Ok, I lied. This blog is not about the Superbowl. I am too far away, too disconnected to write ably about today's game, so I won't even try. But though far away and completely distracted (I will be returning to a writing conference today), I am with you in spirit.
I used to do the Superbowl... used to even do one half at one party then rush to another party for the second half! (Thinking of Sue D's wonderful Superbowl parties... JC's... and more!) :-) It was always a fun day...and I was always one who knew how to have fun!
So why am I having such trouble letting go and having fun with this writing business? Why do I have to put the pressure on? Why, when surrounded by professionals in the field, do I feel like I have to "measure up"? THEY don't put the pressure on me...they realize that most of us here are looking to learn, most are not well- or even a bit-established.
So it's ME putting the pressure on, racing and circling voraciously around me, ready to eat me for dinner if I don't get published immediately!
HA! Screw you! It's Superbowl Sunday, and I just remembered that I know how to have FUN! I am exceedingly well-trained in FUN, actually, having spent the better part of my life in search of it. So, using that part of me that knows how to have fun, I can enjoy today, I can enjoy the writing, and put NO pressure on myself to "do something practical" with it! Big Bronx cheer! ;-D
So thanks to Superbowl Sunday for reminding me to lighten up. And since I've got no money on the game, that'll be easy! Go Saints! ;-)
Go Saints!
Ok, I lied. This blog is not about the Superbowl. I am too far away, too disconnected to write ably about today's game, so I won't even try. But though far away and completely distracted (I will be returning to a writing conference today), I am with you in spirit.
I used to do the Superbowl... used to even do one half at one party then rush to another party for the second half! (Thinking of Sue D's wonderful Superbowl parties... JC's... and more!) :-) It was always a fun day...and I was always one who knew how to have fun!
So why am I having such trouble letting go and having fun with this writing business? Why do I have to put the pressure on? Why, when surrounded by professionals in the field, do I feel like I have to "measure up"? THEY don't put the pressure on me...they realize that most of us here are looking to learn, most are not well- or even a bit-established.
So it's ME putting the pressure on, racing and circling voraciously around me, ready to eat me for dinner if I don't get published immediately!
HA! Screw you! It's Superbowl Sunday, and I just remembered that I know how to have FUN! I am exceedingly well-trained in FUN, actually, having spent the better part of my life in search of it. So, using that part of me that knows how to have fun, I can enjoy today, I can enjoy the writing, and put NO pressure on myself to "do something practical" with it! Big Bronx cheer! ;-D
So thanks to Superbowl Sunday for reminding me to lighten up. And since I've got no money on the game, that'll be easy! Go Saints! ;-)
February 6, 2010 : Can't miss a day!
Bonsoir!
Okay, I hope this isn't going to become a compulsive-obsessive thing-y, but I am dead beat tired after 12 hours of writing and conferencing, and all I can think of is "I have to get my blog done!"
It's kind of neat, because since I stopped being a banker (I have to add a smiley face - every time I say those words or think that thought, my face smiles BIG!) :-), I have been dabbling at so many things I started to worry I had A.D.D. or something, but with this blog I am finding myself completely focused.
Granted, it would be nice to be so dedicated to something that I could earn a living at, but baby steps, Kath, baby steps!
So I am trying to become a writer. No, wait, that's wrong. I AM a writer. I have been writing all my life. I have volumes to prove it, notebook after notebook written since I was in grammar school, chronicling highs and lows since I was able to pick up a pen. It is fun to look back sometimes, in fact. For example, I really like one of my first poems, a haiku, really, when I was nine or ten:
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Just Wondering
K. Hudson
I sometimes think that others don't.
But if they don't, what do they do?
I don't know; do you?
++++++++++++++++++++++++
So, you can see, it is very clear I am already a writer. So the question is: what KIND of a writer do I want to be?
"A published and paid writer!", comes the howling response from the depths of my being.
"But I got paid last year for those three short film screenplays", I respond, daring to cross the insistent voice.
"A published and WELL-paid writer!" corrects the being.
But I am not buying it. Somehow I know it is something other than that. Never mind the being; the Being in me knows that there is something else I want to do with my writing.
To that end, I will share my most recent poem. I hope you like it.
(Thanks to Barb, Sophie and Stephen for your critiques!)
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Stillness
K. Hudson
Let me let the stillness be
Let me let the me be Me.
In face of You sometimes I flee,
Rushing, doing, busily.
Let me let the stillness be.
Let me slow, and breathe and see.
Let my hand reach and touch Me.
Let my heart rise and break free.
Just who is it that must allow?
Who bars the way, the path, the how?
Who uses fear to bend and bow?
Is it me who blocks the Now?
Let me let the stillness be.
I choose then now to trust to see.
accept the fear, embrace that me,
I choose to let You work in Me.
And when I let You work in me,
I finally let the stillness be.
And in that Being I can see
in the stillness You are Me.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I get it now, I don't write for money. I write for love.
Peace from Geneva.
Okay, I hope this isn't going to become a compulsive-obsessive thing-y, but I am dead beat tired after 12 hours of writing and conferencing, and all I can think of is "I have to get my blog done!"
It's kind of neat, because since I stopped being a banker (I have to add a smiley face - every time I say those words or think that thought, my face smiles BIG!) :-), I have been dabbling at so many things I started to worry I had A.D.D. or something, but with this blog I am finding myself completely focused.
Granted, it would be nice to be so dedicated to something that I could earn a living at, but baby steps, Kath, baby steps!
So I am trying to become a writer. No, wait, that's wrong. I AM a writer. I have been writing all my life. I have volumes to prove it, notebook after notebook written since I was in grammar school, chronicling highs and lows since I was able to pick up a pen. It is fun to look back sometimes, in fact. For example, I really like one of my first poems, a haiku, really, when I was nine or ten:
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Just Wondering
K. Hudson
I sometimes think that others don't.
But if they don't, what do they do?
I don't know; do you?
++++++++++++++++++++++++
So, you can see, it is very clear I am already a writer. So the question is: what KIND of a writer do I want to be?
"A published and paid writer!", comes the howling response from the depths of my being.
"But I got paid last year for those three short film screenplays", I respond, daring to cross the insistent voice.
"A published and WELL-paid writer!" corrects the being.
But I am not buying it. Somehow I know it is something other than that. Never mind the being; the Being in me knows that there is something else I want to do with my writing.
To that end, I will share my most recent poem. I hope you like it.
(Thanks to Barb, Sophie and Stephen for your critiques!)
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Stillness
K. Hudson
Let me let the stillness be
Let me let the me be Me.
In face of You sometimes I flee,
Rushing, doing, busily.
Let me let the stillness be.
Let me slow, and breathe and see.
Let my hand reach and touch Me.
Let my heart rise and break free.
Just who is it that must allow?
Who bars the way, the path, the how?
Who uses fear to bend and bow?
Is it me who blocks the Now?
Let me let the stillness be.
I choose then now to trust to see.
accept the fear, embrace that me,
I choose to let You work in Me.
And when I let You work in me,
I finally let the stillness be.
And in that Being I can see
in the stillness You are Me.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I get it now, I don't write for money. I write for love.
Peace from Geneva.
jeudi 4 février 2010
February 5, 2010 : Switzerland!!
Bonjour!
I woke up obscenely early yet again today (4:44am) and tried to roll over and get back to sleep but then I had to pee and I saw the time and as I was deciding whether to stay up and write what was on my mind or try my hand at sleeping again, something caught my eye: in the half-dark, one word from the title of a book I am reading: "NOW". Well, I can take a hint as well as the next person (when you hit me over the head with it) and so I headed for my computer.
I checked my messages first, as always, and there in the Inbox was a message from one of my current favorite authors, James Twyman. Seems there is a competition for spiritual authors going on, and the top prize is a book deal. So of course I had to sign up for that right away (more to come...)
With all of this plus what I have in front of me today, I am pretty excited, so rolling over and going back undercover is pretty much out of the question, at least until I excise some of this energy!
Today I am headed to Geneva, Switzerland for the 7th annual Geneva Writers' Convention. It may be their 7th, but it's my first! I signed up late, but know the organizer so she got me in, and I got 3 out of my 4 top picks for courses! The Conference mixes aspiring writers with well-established ones, and puts writers together with agents and publishing industry people too. Hmmm, all things are pointing to my goal for this year. :-)
I am excited about returning to Geneva. I worked there for a bit when I was 23 or 24 (!), heading an internal credit audit for a major bank, my employer at the time. The audit was about measuring credit risk in a portfolio (which is not rocket science, don't even get me started about the current greed - er, financial - crisis.) The audit was focused on the risk in the bank's exposure to commodities companies, trading companies, companies who trade in raw materials: oil, wood, oranges, copper, coffee, you get the picture. I actually enjoyed this type of analysis: you take the biggest bet (you could also call them gambling companies) a trading company can make with its internal setup, then you assume that bet will tank immediately, and figure out what the damage would be. Then you see how much money they have to withstand the loss, and how many times they could make such a bad bet and still go on. Cool stuff, very logical. Sort of "How much money can I lose and still be able to pay the rent?" stuff... I get that.
It strikes me now that I maybe could have used that logic for myself, looking at how many bad "bets" I could make, how many times things could go belly-up before I was no longer viable, way back. But then, I am not a company. I have no employees and thus no fiduciary responsibility. (Huh?) I alone bore the brunt of any "bad" decisions I have made, no creditors or innocent bystanders were hurt (okay some collateral damage perhaps but all of that is in the past...) ;-)
So thank goodness I didn't. If I clearly assessed the risk of what I was doing at almost any given time, I probably wouldn't have done it. Fear can freeze us, and that logical part of us that worries about risk can keep us right in our seat, instead of allowing us to be the first one to get up and dance. So I am glad that I didn't (often) do that sort of analysis myself.
I am especially glad because now I see that all my "bets", the directions I took and things I tried - as well as the people I met while doing all of that taking and trying - all of them created the person who I am right now. And I like that person, I like hanging out with her and seeing what she'll get up to each day. So instead of bitching about whatever I perhaps did not do perfectly in the past (remembering my big January 28th resolution to balance the bitching with the gratitude), today I am starting my weekend adventure with a big "Thank You!" to the Kathy of the past who tried lots and lots of new things, crazy new things all the time (seeming sometimes pretty unstable to some friends and family that weren't afraid to tell her so!)
From Georgetown to Wall Street to Dykman Street, from Kingsbridge to Inwood to Rye, to Philly to Paris, from partying and running marathons to scuba and acting and poetry, all the good times and less-good times, and the people, the glorious people, the wild and whacky, wonder-ful people, still here or who have left us - for all these fortuitous events and elements and people that brought me to right here and right now: thank you!
Because today I am heading back to Geneva as a writer. During THIS visit, I can stop and appreciate the beauty of that city, and celebrate it with words. And for that, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
Bon weekend!
I woke up obscenely early yet again today (4:44am) and tried to roll over and get back to sleep but then I had to pee and I saw the time and as I was deciding whether to stay up and write what was on my mind or try my hand at sleeping again, something caught my eye: in the half-dark, one word from the title of a book I am reading: "NOW". Well, I can take a hint as well as the next person (when you hit me over the head with it) and so I headed for my computer.
I checked my messages first, as always, and there in the Inbox was a message from one of my current favorite authors, James Twyman. Seems there is a competition for spiritual authors going on, and the top prize is a book deal. So of course I had to sign up for that right away (more to come...)
With all of this plus what I have in front of me today, I am pretty excited, so rolling over and going back undercover is pretty much out of the question, at least until I excise some of this energy!
Today I am headed to Geneva, Switzerland for the 7th annual Geneva Writers' Convention. It may be their 7th, but it's my first! I signed up late, but know the organizer so she got me in, and I got 3 out of my 4 top picks for courses! The Conference mixes aspiring writers with well-established ones, and puts writers together with agents and publishing industry people too. Hmmm, all things are pointing to my goal for this year. :-)
I am excited about returning to Geneva. I worked there for a bit when I was 23 or 24 (!), heading an internal credit audit for a major bank, my employer at the time. The audit was about measuring credit risk in a portfolio (which is not rocket science, don't even get me started about the current greed - er, financial - crisis.) The audit was focused on the risk in the bank's exposure to commodities companies, trading companies, companies who trade in raw materials: oil, wood, oranges, copper, coffee, you get the picture. I actually enjoyed this type of analysis: you take the biggest bet (you could also call them gambling companies) a trading company can make with its internal setup, then you assume that bet will tank immediately, and figure out what the damage would be. Then you see how much money they have to withstand the loss, and how many times they could make such a bad bet and still go on. Cool stuff, very logical. Sort of "How much money can I lose and still be able to pay the rent?" stuff... I get that.
It strikes me now that I maybe could have used that logic for myself, looking at how many bad "bets" I could make, how many times things could go belly-up before I was no longer viable, way back. But then, I am not a company. I have no employees and thus no fiduciary responsibility. (Huh?) I alone bore the brunt of any "bad" decisions I have made, no creditors or innocent bystanders were hurt (okay some collateral damage perhaps but all of that is in the past...) ;-)
So thank goodness I didn't. If I clearly assessed the risk of what I was doing at almost any given time, I probably wouldn't have done it. Fear can freeze us, and that logical part of us that worries about risk can keep us right in our seat, instead of allowing us to be the first one to get up and dance. So I am glad that I didn't (often) do that sort of analysis myself.
I am especially glad because now I see that all my "bets", the directions I took and things I tried - as well as the people I met while doing all of that taking and trying - all of them created the person who I am right now. And I like that person, I like hanging out with her and seeing what she'll get up to each day. So instead of bitching about whatever I perhaps did not do perfectly in the past (remembering my big January 28th resolution to balance the bitching with the gratitude), today I am starting my weekend adventure with a big "Thank You!" to the Kathy of the past who tried lots and lots of new things, crazy new things all the time (seeming sometimes pretty unstable to some friends and family that weren't afraid to tell her so!)
From Georgetown to Wall Street to Dykman Street, from Kingsbridge to Inwood to Rye, to Philly to Paris, from partying and running marathons to scuba and acting and poetry, all the good times and less-good times, and the people, the glorious people, the wild and whacky, wonder-ful people, still here or who have left us - for all these fortuitous events and elements and people that brought me to right here and right now: thank you!
Because today I am heading back to Geneva as a writer. During THIS visit, I can stop and appreciate the beauty of that city, and celebrate it with words. And for that, I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
Bon weekend!
February 4, 2010 : Angry, me? Nahhhhh....
Bonjour!
I am tired today, was in my acting workshop exploring anger until late last night. Anger is tiring.
Many traditions tell us that anger is illusion. If so, great! Because I don't seem to support it very well. Every cell of my body is aching, and that's just from the practice of anger on the stage, not from the true living of it in Real Life.
I used to be very, very good at anger. I mastered in it, or so I thought, but it mastered me. I was so angry that I didn't even realize how angry I was. My anger was driving the car, and the car was all over the road. Which made me even angrier.
I was seriously pissed off. The world had done me wrong, wrong, wrong, and I didn't care who knew or felt my wrath. Mostly I hid it pretty well. I only left clues: some cool distance, a cutting word jabbed or a not-so-careless word dropped, and radio silence were my weapons of choice. I honed the craft to perfection, or so I thought... but in fact my anger was honing me. Anger did its job so well I never saw its attack, identifying with it so completely that I never felt its barbs, its cuts, slices, its hacks. But it WAS hacking, trying to get to the very root of me.
To be angry is like swallowing poison and waiting for the other person to die. Someone said that, maybe Buddha, I wiki'd it and ten different people were credited for it, so I will find out and get back to you. Until then, there is the point. And it is true. Those who "did me wrong" were going on with their lives completely or mostly unaware of my seething, bubbling anger that I had been carefully tending and cultivating all those years. The tending of that particular garden sucked up so much of my energy, I was creating nothing but darkness. And that darkness got under my skin, flowed into my bloodstream and took over my "me", until it tried to overthrow my soul.
That is where it made its mistake. That shit was just not gonna happen. Call it chance, call it luck, coincidence, divine intervention, call it late for dinner, call it whatever you want, but something in me woke up.
I woke up. And I was not gonna take it anymore. Once I could see how that uninvited bastard Anger (oops! am I slipping? ;-), er, how that negatively-charged energy called anger, had crept into bed with me (or I with it), I had tools.
Oh, yeah, I got tools! They are not easy to handle, but they are really effective. So I got to work.
Forgiveness is the main tool, of course... not a tool that is easy to handle, though. I guess it could be easy for some, but I chose the hard way. I chose to wrestle with it live instead of setting up and THEN plugging it in. No surprise there.
What WAS a surprise was that the biggest hardest forgiveness was to pardon myself. Ever listen to the interior dialogue? How we talk to ourselves? When I started to listen to what I was saying to myself, the running commentary some angry part of me was making on my life, I was absolutely shocked. I would say things to myself that I would never say even to my worst enemy! Rotten things like, It's too late, you missed the boat! Might as well give up now, you'll never succeed! Could you BE more clumsy? Just who do you think you are? Go ahead and eat that hero sandwich, it doesn't matter, you've lost the figure anyway, the bloom is off the rose, etc etc etc.) Just recounting some of that old interior crap commentary makes me uncomfortable. And then it makes me laugh.
Because I took over the steering wheel after that. Now I'm driving the car (with a little help from my friends, maybe). Oh, sure, sometimes the backseat driver (the part of me that does that running commentary never actually leaves the car, apparently) has a comment to make here and there but mostly I don't fall into the trap of believing it. Mostly I laugh, and say, okay, whatever. But I am going to go ahead and live this life anyway.
And I won't be swallowing any poison today.
I am tired today, was in my acting workshop exploring anger until late last night. Anger is tiring.
Many traditions tell us that anger is illusion. If so, great! Because I don't seem to support it very well. Every cell of my body is aching, and that's just from the practice of anger on the stage, not from the true living of it in Real Life.
I used to be very, very good at anger. I mastered in it, or so I thought, but it mastered me. I was so angry that I didn't even realize how angry I was. My anger was driving the car, and the car was all over the road. Which made me even angrier.
I was seriously pissed off. The world had done me wrong, wrong, wrong, and I didn't care who knew or felt my wrath. Mostly I hid it pretty well. I only left clues: some cool distance, a cutting word jabbed or a not-so-careless word dropped, and radio silence were my weapons of choice. I honed the craft to perfection, or so I thought... but in fact my anger was honing me. Anger did its job so well I never saw its attack, identifying with it so completely that I never felt its barbs, its cuts, slices, its hacks. But it WAS hacking, trying to get to the very root of me.
To be angry is like swallowing poison and waiting for the other person to die. Someone said that, maybe Buddha, I wiki'd it and ten different people were credited for it, so I will find out and get back to you. Until then, there is the point. And it is true. Those who "did me wrong" were going on with their lives completely or mostly unaware of my seething, bubbling anger that I had been carefully tending and cultivating all those years. The tending of that particular garden sucked up so much of my energy, I was creating nothing but darkness. And that darkness got under my skin, flowed into my bloodstream and took over my "me", until it tried to overthrow my soul.
That is where it made its mistake. That shit was just not gonna happen. Call it chance, call it luck, coincidence, divine intervention, call it late for dinner, call it whatever you want, but something in me woke up.
I woke up. And I was not gonna take it anymore. Once I could see how that uninvited bastard Anger (oops! am I slipping? ;-), er, how that negatively-charged energy called anger, had crept into bed with me (or I with it), I had tools.
Oh, yeah, I got tools! They are not easy to handle, but they are really effective. So I got to work.
Forgiveness is the main tool, of course... not a tool that is easy to handle, though. I guess it could be easy for some, but I chose the hard way. I chose to wrestle with it live instead of setting up and THEN plugging it in. No surprise there.
What WAS a surprise was that the biggest hardest forgiveness was to pardon myself. Ever listen to the interior dialogue? How we talk to ourselves? When I started to listen to what I was saying to myself, the running commentary some angry part of me was making on my life, I was absolutely shocked. I would say things to myself that I would never say even to my worst enemy! Rotten things like, It's too late, you missed the boat! Might as well give up now, you'll never succeed! Could you BE more clumsy? Just who do you think you are? Go ahead and eat that hero sandwich, it doesn't matter, you've lost the figure anyway, the bloom is off the rose, etc etc etc.) Just recounting some of that old interior crap commentary makes me uncomfortable. And then it makes me laugh.
Because I took over the steering wheel after that. Now I'm driving the car (with a little help from my friends, maybe). Oh, sure, sometimes the backseat driver (the part of me that does that running commentary never actually leaves the car, apparently) has a comment to make here and there but mostly I don't fall into the trap of believing it. Mostly I laugh, and say, okay, whatever. But I am going to go ahead and live this life anyway.
And I won't be swallowing any poison today.
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