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.
mardi 2 février 2010
February 3, 2010: A Story of Yesterday: The Pagans and the Angry Pope, a Timid Groundhog and Getting Stuck in Vegas
Bonjour!
Today's is about yesterday, about Groundhog Day in the US and Canada, about the feast La Chandeleur here in France, about an angry Pope, and maybe about getting stuck in Vegas... Wait for it... !
Yesterday Punxsutawny Phil saw his shadow at Gobbler's Knot, PA, so we are evidently in for 6 more weeks of winter. (Or not - his accuracy rate is in the 30-40% range.) Made famous either before or after the great Harold Ramis film of 1993, the groundhog we will hereafter refer to as P-Philly is famous. (Or maybe it is just a relative of P-Philly because groundhogs normally have an expectancy of only 6-10 years, and that film was 17 years ago, ok, ok, I'll let it go!)
Why is he famous? Where does this weird idea come from? The groundhog phenomenon is said to have begun in Pennsylvania, in the 18-19th century (real precise here, I know! ... and I won't even get into WHY the groundhog seeing his shadow gets us more winter, instead of less. If he sees his shadow that means there's SUN, right? But who am I to argue with tradition?) And the tradition here goes way back... In Europe, the Celtic, Scandinavian, and Germanic peoples evidently kept an eye on badgers and bears to see whether Nature would warm up for them or continue to brood. So the Pennsylvania institution can most likely be traced back to Europe.
So let's look at Europe. Yesterday was celebrated here in France also, La Chandeleur, or Crêpe Day. I like the crêpe aspect of course (in Mexico, it is celebrated with tamales). Crêpes, yummy pancake like treats often filled with the sweet or the savory - and tamales too, for that matter - are welcome in my world. It is said that crepes were offered as sustenance to travellers and pilgrims on the original feast day. What was the original feast day, you ask (and bravo for your intellectual curiosity!) Imbolc, the pagan feast day still celebrated by many on February 1: the seasonal turning point of the Celtic pagan calendar, which celebrated the stirring of the earth after its winter slumber toward spring, towards life renewed. Imbolc falls on February 1. The word february comes from the Latin februum meaning purification, stemming from an ancient Roman feast of purification (held in February, of course). So we are going further and further back in time.
THAT ancient feast day also has a relative in ancient Greece as a celebration of the release of Persephone, Goddess of Light and the fertility of Spring, forced to spend the winter in Hades (hence also the Goddess of the Underworld) with her kidnapper/husband. She was released each year under the agreement negotiated by her mother Demeter who was by all standards an excellent Mother/Goddess of Life, squaring off against Zeus himself and descending into Hades with a torch to get her girl back! For another day, that story!
So we see these traditions endure, despite best efforts of institutions like my own Catholic Church to squelch them. For 500, these pagan traditions carried on out in the open as Christianity moved across Europe, which had the Church really annoyed. So somewhere around 495ad, a really pissed-off Pope named Gelase I decided to do something about it. He decided to effectively put pagan ritual celebrations out of business by co-opting them into Catholicism, an incredible sort of "beat 'em by joining 'em."
So to replace Imbolc, the angry Pope came up with not one, but two ideas. The feast day of the now-SAINT-Bridget was set for February 1 (Bridget, or Brigid, was the Celtic goddess of fire and fertility and Imbolc was her feast day.) Good idea.
The second idea was a stroke of brilliance: Pope Gelase created the Catholic feast day of Candlemas (okay, maybe not so successful: who celebrates this?). The idea was to celebrate the purification of the Virgin Mary (effectively stealing Brigid's thunder the day after, and taking care of the Roman pagan feast as well) AND the presentation of baby Jesus at the temple. A two-fer holiday! The firstborn boy of any family back there and then was supposed to be presented at temple 40 days after his birth. Jesus' family followed this custom, according to the Bible, Luke 2, 21-24. So counting back, this Pope decided to back up his story by setting the official Church Christmas Day at December 25. 500 years after Jesus died.
This does not diminish the importance of Christmas for me, and December 25 is as good a day as any to celebrate the wonder. But I wonder now, what were they so afraid of? Imbolc was replaced by the Candlemas-Christmas connection also for celebrating the idea of Mary's purification as a Virgin. So were they afraid of women? Sensuality? What?
This was not the only pagan feast that was suppressed at the time, either! The pagan feast of Lupercian, a feast of love and fertility where women were celebrated and lovemaking was feted in ritual, was also replaced by the Church in 495ad by you-know-who. Lupercian was celebrated - perhaps is still celebrated, I don't know, wouldn't quite be my thing - on February 15. This was also the date of the Roman februa. Guess what replaced it? The Feast of Saint Valentine, on the 14th, also fixed by Gelase (which is starting to sound like the french word for frigid, gelé.)
Back to the point, right: the idea of winter as a season of slumber, of stillness emerging into fertility in spring goes wayyyyyyy back. Before the Church, before memory. It is still celebrated, albeit perhaps unknowingly by people the world over. It permeates our cells, our very being. There is a stirring towards life, an impulse: an urge toward growth that moves through us at this time.
Even when I was too busy to respect the winter hibernation/slowdown time, Nature stepped in and forced me to do it. Many, many flights on trips for business or pleasure (Chicago, SO many times I felt like I lived in O'Hare, and Vegas, one memorable time) were canceled in winter as I made my way about. I had to sit still and deal with it. Nature stopping me in my tracks, forcing me to stop.
These days, I relish the winter and its journey to quiet center. This year, it has been rich, a blessing for which I am grateful. (I shovel no snow as I live in an apt., for which I am also grateful.) But yesterday is yesterday's news.
And today, with love in my heart for the scared and powerful Pope Gelase I, I release the winter and move forward into my spring, regardless of what P-Philly had to say.
Today's is about yesterday, about Groundhog Day in the US and Canada, about the feast La Chandeleur here in France, about an angry Pope, and maybe about getting stuck in Vegas... Wait for it... !
Yesterday Punxsutawny Phil saw his shadow at Gobbler's Knot, PA, so we are evidently in for 6 more weeks of winter. (Or not - his accuracy rate is in the 30-40% range.) Made famous either before or after the great Harold Ramis film of 1993, the groundhog we will hereafter refer to as P-Philly is famous. (Or maybe it is just a relative of P-Philly because groundhogs normally have an expectancy of only 6-10 years, and that film was 17 years ago, ok, ok, I'll let it go!)
Why is he famous? Where does this weird idea come from? The groundhog phenomenon is said to have begun in Pennsylvania, in the 18-19th century (real precise here, I know! ... and I won't even get into WHY the groundhog seeing his shadow gets us more winter, instead of less. If he sees his shadow that means there's SUN, right? But who am I to argue with tradition?) And the tradition here goes way back... In Europe, the Celtic, Scandinavian, and Germanic peoples evidently kept an eye on badgers and bears to see whether Nature would warm up for them or continue to brood. So the Pennsylvania institution can most likely be traced back to Europe.
So let's look at Europe. Yesterday was celebrated here in France also, La Chandeleur, or Crêpe Day. I like the crêpe aspect of course (in Mexico, it is celebrated with tamales). Crêpes, yummy pancake like treats often filled with the sweet or the savory - and tamales too, for that matter - are welcome in my world. It is said that crepes were offered as sustenance to travellers and pilgrims on the original feast day. What was the original feast day, you ask (and bravo for your intellectual curiosity!) Imbolc, the pagan feast day still celebrated by many on February 1: the seasonal turning point of the Celtic pagan calendar, which celebrated the stirring of the earth after its winter slumber toward spring, towards life renewed. Imbolc falls on February 1. The word february comes from the Latin februum meaning purification, stemming from an ancient Roman feast of purification (held in February, of course). So we are going further and further back in time.
THAT ancient feast day also has a relative in ancient Greece as a celebration of the release of Persephone, Goddess of Light and the fertility of Spring, forced to spend the winter in Hades (hence also the Goddess of the Underworld) with her kidnapper/husband. She was released each year under the agreement negotiated by her mother Demeter who was by all standards an excellent Mother/Goddess of Life, squaring off against Zeus himself and descending into Hades with a torch to get her girl back! For another day, that story!
So we see these traditions endure, despite best efforts of institutions like my own Catholic Church to squelch them. For 500, these pagan traditions carried on out in the open as Christianity moved across Europe, which had the Church really annoyed. So somewhere around 495ad, a really pissed-off Pope named Gelase I decided to do something about it. He decided to effectively put pagan ritual celebrations out of business by co-opting them into Catholicism, an incredible sort of "beat 'em by joining 'em."
So to replace Imbolc, the angry Pope came up with not one, but two ideas. The feast day of the now-SAINT-Bridget was set for February 1 (Bridget, or Brigid, was the Celtic goddess of fire and fertility and Imbolc was her feast day.) Good idea.
The second idea was a stroke of brilliance: Pope Gelase created the Catholic feast day of Candlemas (okay, maybe not so successful: who celebrates this?). The idea was to celebrate the purification of the Virgin Mary (effectively stealing Brigid's thunder the day after, and taking care of the Roman pagan feast as well) AND the presentation of baby Jesus at the temple. A two-fer holiday! The firstborn boy of any family back there and then was supposed to be presented at temple 40 days after his birth. Jesus' family followed this custom, according to the Bible, Luke 2, 21-24. So counting back, this Pope decided to back up his story by setting the official Church Christmas Day at December 25. 500 years after Jesus died.
This does not diminish the importance of Christmas for me, and December 25 is as good a day as any to celebrate the wonder. But I wonder now, what were they so afraid of? Imbolc was replaced by the Candlemas-Christmas connection also for celebrating the idea of Mary's purification as a Virgin. So were they afraid of women? Sensuality? What?
This was not the only pagan feast that was suppressed at the time, either! The pagan feast of Lupercian, a feast of love and fertility where women were celebrated and lovemaking was feted in ritual, was also replaced by the Church in 495ad by you-know-who. Lupercian was celebrated - perhaps is still celebrated, I don't know, wouldn't quite be my thing - on February 15. This was also the date of the Roman februa. Guess what replaced it? The Feast of Saint Valentine, on the 14th, also fixed by Gelase (which is starting to sound like the french word for frigid, gelé.)
Back to the point, right: the idea of winter as a season of slumber, of stillness emerging into fertility in spring goes wayyyyyyy back. Before the Church, before memory. It is still celebrated, albeit perhaps unknowingly by people the world over. It permeates our cells, our very being. There is a stirring towards life, an impulse: an urge toward growth that moves through us at this time.
Even when I was too busy to respect the winter hibernation/slowdown time, Nature stepped in and forced me to do it. Many, many flights on trips for business or pleasure (Chicago, SO many times I felt like I lived in O'Hare, and Vegas, one memorable time) were canceled in winter as I made my way about. I had to sit still and deal with it. Nature stopping me in my tracks, forcing me to stop.
These days, I relish the winter and its journey to quiet center. This year, it has been rich, a blessing for which I am grateful. (I shovel no snow as I live in an apt., for which I am also grateful.) But yesterday is yesterday's news.
And today, with love in my heart for the scared and powerful Pope Gelase I, I release the winter and move forward into my spring, regardless of what P-Philly had to say.
lundi 1 février 2010
February 2, 2010: Blocked already?
I knew this would happen! I knew that one morning I would get up and not want to write a blog - and I am not loving that word itself! I knew that one day I would not feel like opening up and sharing my thoughts on what the world presents (the "shows" presents, not the "gifts" presents.)
I knew it would happen, but I thought it would come later, after more than a week, after much longer, after having filled the world with ideas, or laughter, or ... words, anyway!
But no, it is today. Ideas fly past, but there is not one that tickles me, seducing me to grab it and ride it to its conclusion. So what's to do?
Seems to me, there are two choices when things get cloudy, when things are downright obfuscated (now THERE's a word to love!), when I seem to be stuck, with either no choices or too many before me. At those times, times like right now, it is actually really simple. There are two choices.
One: I pick a path, and move ahead, forcing my way through the bushes and brambles, fences with barbed wire and attack dogs, walls, STOP signs, all manner of hurdles and creeks (creeks? okay, maybe big puddles.) This is how I was brought up: you make your way in this world and you don't expect it to be easy. That's just life, and too bad about it, quitcherwhinin'! This is how I lived most of my life, head down, HEADS UP! Keep your eyes on the ball, everyone else is the other team so don't trust anyone, go, go, go, go, GO! Don't think about it, just keep busy, it'll all be over soon, and...
Wait, WHAT??? It'll all be over soon? THAT's the best this choice can offer? Uh-uh! No way, Sanjay! There has GOT to be another way, this life is worth more - I am worth more - than "keep busy, it'll all be over soon." What else ya got?
Okay, then! The other choice! (Sound of horns and trumpets, very dramatic!)
Two: Wait. (What? WAIT? What IS this shit? Waiting is not a choice!) Ah, but it is, grasshopper Kathryn, it is! Waiting is in fact perhaps the hardest choice of all. When things are not clear, perhaps it is because the timing is not right. Perhaps it is because I need to take time, slow down, breathe in and out, just BE...until things become clear again.
And they always do. This is how I live now, and it is true it isn't always easy. It is a lot easier to force things, control freak that I am, to make them happen - half-assed or no - to just move forward. Harder it is to wait (I love Yoda!) and touch base with who I really am and what I really value first.
But when I take the time to be still and wait, there is a moment - a crystal clean clear moment - when I touch who I am. When I feel I Am, truly. And I love that moment, that connection to me and to Me, to Life, to God, the Universe, whatever name you have for it, if you have a name at all; it doesn't matter at that moment what words there are, the words fall away to the Word. That's what I'm talking about!
And after THAT moment, if my next step is not clear, I always know that I can wait until it becomes clear, that I am worth the time it takes. That I can choose otherwise than to (time and again) force myself into action.
And after THAT moment, sometimes, like right now, I know exactly what I should be writing about.
I knew it would happen, but I thought it would come later, after more than a week, after much longer, after having filled the world with ideas, or laughter, or ... words, anyway!
But no, it is today. Ideas fly past, but there is not one that tickles me, seducing me to grab it and ride it to its conclusion. So what's to do?
Seems to me, there are two choices when things get cloudy, when things are downright obfuscated (now THERE's a word to love!), when I seem to be stuck, with either no choices or too many before me. At those times, times like right now, it is actually really simple. There are two choices.
One: I pick a path, and move ahead, forcing my way through the bushes and brambles, fences with barbed wire and attack dogs, walls, STOP signs, all manner of hurdles and creeks (creeks? okay, maybe big puddles.) This is how I was brought up: you make your way in this world and you don't expect it to be easy. That's just life, and too bad about it, quitcherwhinin'! This is how I lived most of my life, head down, HEADS UP! Keep your eyes on the ball, everyone else is the other team so don't trust anyone, go, go, go, go, GO! Don't think about it, just keep busy, it'll all be over soon, and...
Wait, WHAT??? It'll all be over soon? THAT's the best this choice can offer? Uh-uh! No way, Sanjay! There has GOT to be another way, this life is worth more - I am worth more - than "keep busy, it'll all be over soon." What else ya got?
Okay, then! The other choice! (Sound of horns and trumpets, very dramatic!)
Two: Wait. (What? WAIT? What IS this shit? Waiting is not a choice!) Ah, but it is, grasshopper Kathryn, it is! Waiting is in fact perhaps the hardest choice of all. When things are not clear, perhaps it is because the timing is not right. Perhaps it is because I need to take time, slow down, breathe in and out, just BE...until things become clear again.
And they always do. This is how I live now, and it is true it isn't always easy. It is a lot easier to force things, control freak that I am, to make them happen - half-assed or no - to just move forward. Harder it is to wait (I love Yoda!) and touch base with who I really am and what I really value first.
But when I take the time to be still and wait, there is a moment - a crystal clean clear moment - when I touch who I am. When I feel I Am, truly. And I love that moment, that connection to me and to Me, to Life, to God, the Universe, whatever name you have for it, if you have a name at all; it doesn't matter at that moment what words there are, the words fall away to the Word. That's what I'm talking about!
And after THAT moment, if my next step is not clear, I always know that I can wait until it becomes clear, that I am worth the time it takes. That I can choose otherwise than to (time and again) force myself into action.
And after THAT moment, sometimes, like right now, I know exactly what I should be writing about.
dimanche 31 janvier 2010
February 1, 2010 : Happy Anniversary
Bonjour!
It's February, cold as hell but what a month! And it is starting off today with a bang, as it is my sister (and her husband)'s wedding anniversary!
35 years ago today, they were married at St. John's in the Bronx. The church was so full that day, you'd think the Pope himself was saying the Mass. The sun shone, the bride was beautiful and the groom handsome. Kids were hanging off the railings outside and in, like some rock stars were getting married.
It was a week before my thirteenth birthday and my big sister was getting married, leaving me on my own with my 5 brothers. ouch! But I got to wear a gown (mint green though it was - sorry, Dor!) and that was great. And I got to wear (again, mint green) nail polish, which my father was too nervous to comment on (nothing short of a miracle,) so that was cool. But then the hair salon gave me a Patty Duke puffy hairdo and that was definitely NOT cool. It seemed like the whole bridal party was fighting to undo my do... and it was not at all clear at first who would win. In the end, the hair let up a little, and the hat (!) helped also. The wedding was a great success, a beautiful day was enjoyed by all, and something magical had begun.
My sister and her husband went on to have a family...the kind that doesn't happen by accident, the kind that is cultivated and cared for, the intentional kind. Three beautiful children later (her daughter Lauren's wedding shower was this past weekend - sorry I not able to be there physically, at least I was in spirit!), this family is still growing in love. I am lucky to have them, each singly and together as a collective, in my life.
So how the heck are we related? ;-) My sister and I are very different. I am childless, single, and not prone to roots... houses, maybe, but not roots. My sister is stable and solid, the Gibraltar on which her family is founded (actually they form sort of a Team-Gibraltar, she and her husband.)
DNA is a funny thing. Most of our cells would be identically alike if studied in a lab. And yet our lives, the expression of our choices, are literally thousands of miles apart. And thank goodness for it!
I used to tease my sister, saying she grabbed all of the marital-happiness-gift in our family, leaving "the rest" to the rest of us. But maybe how things turned out had nothing to do with DNA, nothing to do with how we were brought up, nothing to do with the circumstances of our stories. Instead, maybe it has everything to do with our choices.
My sister chose what was (and still is) important to her. She placed that at the center of her life and carefully cultivated it, nourished it and valued it. The result is a beautiful family, and a rich life. I congratulate my sister and her husband (my brother, by now - I got over being mad at him some 33 years ago! lol) both on that.
And today, on the occasion of their 35th wedding anniversary, I thank my sister and her husband. Not just for a wonderful memory these many years later. Not just for the beautiful people they are and the beautiful family they have raised, adding to the quality of life of countless others, including me. But also I thank them for showing me that our lives are the sum total of our choices. That there is no accident, that there are no victims, that we each are wonderfully and amazingly responsible for how we "turn out".
Because if that is true, great news! The game is not over until it is over. And I have some choices to make!
It's February, cold as hell but what a month! And it is starting off today with a bang, as it is my sister (and her husband)'s wedding anniversary!
35 years ago today, they were married at St. John's in the Bronx. The church was so full that day, you'd think the Pope himself was saying the Mass. The sun shone, the bride was beautiful and the groom handsome. Kids were hanging off the railings outside and in, like some rock stars were getting married.
It was a week before my thirteenth birthday and my big sister was getting married, leaving me on my own with my 5 brothers. ouch! But I got to wear a gown (mint green though it was - sorry, Dor!) and that was great. And I got to wear (again, mint green) nail polish, which my father was too nervous to comment on (nothing short of a miracle,) so that was cool. But then the hair salon gave me a Patty Duke puffy hairdo and that was definitely NOT cool. It seemed like the whole bridal party was fighting to undo my do... and it was not at all clear at first who would win. In the end, the hair let up a little, and the hat (!) helped also. The wedding was a great success, a beautiful day was enjoyed by all, and something magical had begun.
My sister and her husband went on to have a family...the kind that doesn't happen by accident, the kind that is cultivated and cared for, the intentional kind. Three beautiful children later (her daughter Lauren's wedding shower was this past weekend - sorry I not able to be there physically, at least I was in spirit!), this family is still growing in love. I am lucky to have them, each singly and together as a collective, in my life.
So how the heck are we related? ;-) My sister and I are very different. I am childless, single, and not prone to roots... houses, maybe, but not roots. My sister is stable and solid, the Gibraltar on which her family is founded (actually they form sort of a Team-Gibraltar, she and her husband.)
DNA is a funny thing. Most of our cells would be identically alike if studied in a lab. And yet our lives, the expression of our choices, are literally thousands of miles apart. And thank goodness for it!
I used to tease my sister, saying she grabbed all of the marital-happiness-gift in our family, leaving "the rest" to the rest of us. But maybe how things turned out had nothing to do with DNA, nothing to do with how we were brought up, nothing to do with the circumstances of our stories. Instead, maybe it has everything to do with our choices.
My sister chose what was (and still is) important to her. She placed that at the center of her life and carefully cultivated it, nourished it and valued it. The result is a beautiful family, and a rich life. I congratulate my sister and her husband (my brother, by now - I got over being mad at him some 33 years ago! lol) both on that.
And today, on the occasion of their 35th wedding anniversary, I thank my sister and her husband. Not just for a wonderful memory these many years later. Not just for the beautiful people they are and the beautiful family they have raised, adding to the quality of life of countless others, including me. But also I thank them for showing me that our lives are the sum total of our choices. That there is no accident, that there are no victims, that we each are wonderfully and amazingly responsible for how we "turn out".
Because if that is true, great news! The game is not over until it is over. And I have some choices to make!
January 31, 2010 : Sundays...
Bonjour!
Cold but clear on this very gentle, sleepy Sunday morning. I woke up, oddly, at 2:22 and then at 5:55am, but dove right back in until 9! I found a trick, a way to stay in bed (normally a very early riser - these days at least): I left the window open and the cold air invited me to snuggle under the covers, ahhh, the pleasure!
I love Sunday mornings now. Full of possibilities and promise, this Sunday stretches before me like an invitation. I can create of it what I want. Clearing and cleaning or running outside to play in the sun, the day waits for me to decide. When I do, I know it will conspire with me to be its most perfect self.
This knowing fills me with gratitude... and puts a really big smile on my face!
The past winks at me then, and for a moment reminds me that for many years, Sundays were filled with pain and dread. Dread of going back to work at a job that was not for me, a too-tight shoe that I forced myself to fit in, walk in, dance in, all the while smiling perfunctorily until finally, bruised and bleeding, I bust out. No choice. It had to end. After 22 years.
I remember too that back then Sundays were mostly passed hung over and unmoving on a couch, reaching for the sedative of television after a night of other sedatives. The night seemed always to hold the promise of life: it held friends and laughter, and seemed to be a refuge from the storm. But I can see now that really the point of the exercise had always been simply to quiet that part of me that would not sit still, that wanted something else, something truer. Now that self is singing, freed.
Voilà! I shake off the past, a uniform I no longer wear, and run with scissors towards the new day, laughing. I love Sundays.
Cold but clear on this very gentle, sleepy Sunday morning. I woke up, oddly, at 2:22 and then at 5:55am, but dove right back in until 9! I found a trick, a way to stay in bed (normally a very early riser - these days at least): I left the window open and the cold air invited me to snuggle under the covers, ahhh, the pleasure!
I love Sunday mornings now. Full of possibilities and promise, this Sunday stretches before me like an invitation. I can create of it what I want. Clearing and cleaning or running outside to play in the sun, the day waits for me to decide. When I do, I know it will conspire with me to be its most perfect self.
This knowing fills me with gratitude... and puts a really big smile on my face!
The past winks at me then, and for a moment reminds me that for many years, Sundays were filled with pain and dread. Dread of going back to work at a job that was not for me, a too-tight shoe that I forced myself to fit in, walk in, dance in, all the while smiling perfunctorily until finally, bruised and bleeding, I bust out. No choice. It had to end. After 22 years.
I remember too that back then Sundays were mostly passed hung over and unmoving on a couch, reaching for the sedative of television after a night of other sedatives. The night seemed always to hold the promise of life: it held friends and laughter, and seemed to be a refuge from the storm. But I can see now that really the point of the exercise had always been simply to quiet that part of me that would not sit still, that wanted something else, something truer. Now that self is singing, freed.
Voilà! I shake off the past, a uniform I no longer wear, and run with scissors towards the new day, laughing. I love Sundays.
vendredi 29 janvier 2010
January 30, 2010 : I must be dreaming...
Bonjour!
I hate this. Okay, I hate this but I love it. I woke up at 4:22am this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. It sort of feels like I am still in my last dream though, which is good because it means I may have a shot at getting back to sleep after I write what needs writing. :-)
So, dreams. I bought a book on dreams, how to get your bang for the buck: dreams, what they mean, how to interpret them and then use them in waking life. And I plan on reading that book some day. Really I do!
Until then, I've got theories. Lots and lots of theories. I like the one that says if I wake up tired it is because my soul was up all night helping poor "lost" souls cross over. I like that idea. I like to be cast as the hero. I prefer it to thinking my soul was out all night carousing and so too bad for me, I have to just tough it out today. (Which would be, I admit, a rather ironic form of justice, I suppose...)
I also like the theory that dreams are our most profound self's way of dealing. Of sorting out the overwhelm. Of sifting the wheat from the chaff, sorting out the dross, you get the idea. Of helping the daytime "me" - who is purported to have fewer resources (not sure about that) and less time (strong likelihood) - get a grip in the world of walking around.
And the mystic in me who takes after my mother's mother (who read tea leaves for neighbors, who knew?) likes very much the idea that dreamtime is an in-between time, a neither-here-nor-there place, where almost anything can happen.
So this morning I woke up dreaming about Msgr. Doherty. I was back in the Catholic parish of my youth - St. John's in the Bronx - and Msgr. was the pastor again. He was trying to figure out FaceBook (to which I admit a teeny-tiny addiction), so that he could communicate better with the (young?) people on the parish. He asked me to help him, and I said yes. Then I woke up and wanted to - had to - write this blog on dreaming. At 4:22am.
As I woke up more and more (my laptop takes a while to warm up in the morning, probably saying "why doesn't she #$%^&*@) sleep like normal people?"), I remembered that Msgr. passed away recently. Real recently, like 2 weeks ago, may he RIP. I was sad not to go to the service, held at his last parish, St. Gabe's. He was a man who touched many lives, including mine.
I remember I was sort of afraid of him when I worked answering phones at the rectory - and I wasn't the only one. But though it was true he could give the impression of a rough exterior (when he wanted to, I suspect), and was a hardliner on church teachings (definitely), he was secretly doing good deeds for a lot of families in the parish - something I discovered only a couple of years ago. That impressed me, in an age where no good deed goes unpublished.
He helped my family too, in very personal ways. When I was a student at Georgetown, he was invited to say the opening prayer at Congress and had the right to bring a guest. He contacted me, and took me along with him, picking me up at the center quad in a shiny black car, VIP all the way. He took me to lunch afterward, and then he gave me money after lunch (he knew I was working my way through school), a stipend he had been given by a parishioner. It was greatly needed, and is still greatly appreciated.
Msgr. also helped my Dad when he got sick, when Dad really didn't feel comfortable confiding in to anyone else. And this he kept on doing, well after St. John's, St. Gabe's and after he retired, when his ministry had "ended", through almost to the end, when by "chance" my parents and Msgr. lived only steps from each other in Riverdale. My parents' apartment was right across from the retired priests' residence (now called the John Cardinal O'Connor residence, formerly the John Neumann residence for pre-seminarians).
So I send out a message of gratitude to this man for his service to my family and to all the lives he touched through the years. And then I let my mind wander on that point. "All the lives he touched". Holy crap! (Excuse me, Msgr!) He touched thousands of lives, tens of thousands!
Wasn't Msgr Doherty sort of the first blogger? Stay with me... Msgr wrote a column in the Catholic New York for decades. His was a human interest column, musings on faith and the movement of Spirit around us and through us. Not online, but still doing the blogging thing: a regular running commentary of his thoughts, brilliantly written (I think he added that part! lol), and accessible. What surprised me when I discovered his writing was its freshness, its humanity, no hiding the point behind big words or abstract theology. I think I truly met the man through his writing, and came to love him.
I last saw Msgr. last year when I went through NYC. Hi health had been failing, but he insisted on inviting my mother and I for lunch at the residence, entertaining as ever. He gave us a copy of his latest work, about the life of his immigrant mother "Walking with Gella, " in which traces her journey from Ireland to New York at the turn of the century. It could have been my grandmother's story, or the story of so many immigrants. Perhaps that is why he showed such great compassion - not always to the delight of the parishioners - to the Hispanic community in our parish.
He also showed us a piece he was working on for Catholic New York. And a book he had had published on the history of the place in which he was living. The man was a machine. The man was a writer.
And the man was one of the few who, upon learning that I had left a perfectly good job in a bank to live the life of a dreamer, a writer in Paris (a city he loved) said, "Wonderful!"
Thanks you, Msgr, for your support always, continuing through the inspiration for this piece. I will catch you later, in my dreams.
I hate this. Okay, I hate this but I love it. I woke up at 4:22am this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. It sort of feels like I am still in my last dream though, which is good because it means I may have a shot at getting back to sleep after I write what needs writing. :-)
So, dreams. I bought a book on dreams, how to get your bang for the buck: dreams, what they mean, how to interpret them and then use them in waking life. And I plan on reading that book some day. Really I do!
Until then, I've got theories. Lots and lots of theories. I like the one that says if I wake up tired it is because my soul was up all night helping poor "lost" souls cross over. I like that idea. I like to be cast as the hero. I prefer it to thinking my soul was out all night carousing and so too bad for me, I have to just tough it out today. (Which would be, I admit, a rather ironic form of justice, I suppose...)
I also like the theory that dreams are our most profound self's way of dealing. Of sorting out the overwhelm. Of sifting the wheat from the chaff, sorting out the dross, you get the idea. Of helping the daytime "me" - who is purported to have fewer resources (not sure about that) and less time (strong likelihood) - get a grip in the world of walking around.
And the mystic in me who takes after my mother's mother (who read tea leaves for neighbors, who knew?) likes very much the idea that dreamtime is an in-between time, a neither-here-nor-there place, where almost anything can happen.
So this morning I woke up dreaming about Msgr. Doherty. I was back in the Catholic parish of my youth - St. John's in the Bronx - and Msgr. was the pastor again. He was trying to figure out FaceBook (to which I admit a teeny-tiny addiction), so that he could communicate better with the (young?) people on the parish. He asked me to help him, and I said yes. Then I woke up and wanted to - had to - write this blog on dreaming. At 4:22am.
As I woke up more and more (my laptop takes a while to warm up in the morning, probably saying "why doesn't she #$%^&*@) sleep like normal people?"), I remembered that Msgr. passed away recently. Real recently, like 2 weeks ago, may he RIP. I was sad not to go to the service, held at his last parish, St. Gabe's. He was a man who touched many lives, including mine.
I remember I was sort of afraid of him when I worked answering phones at the rectory - and I wasn't the only one. But though it was true he could give the impression of a rough exterior (when he wanted to, I suspect), and was a hardliner on church teachings (definitely), he was secretly doing good deeds for a lot of families in the parish - something I discovered only a couple of years ago. That impressed me, in an age where no good deed goes unpublished.
He helped my family too, in very personal ways. When I was a student at Georgetown, he was invited to say the opening prayer at Congress and had the right to bring a guest. He contacted me, and took me along with him, picking me up at the center quad in a shiny black car, VIP all the way. He took me to lunch afterward, and then he gave me money after lunch (he knew I was working my way through school), a stipend he had been given by a parishioner. It was greatly needed, and is still greatly appreciated.
Msgr. also helped my Dad when he got sick, when Dad really didn't feel comfortable confiding in to anyone else. And this he kept on doing, well after St. John's, St. Gabe's and after he retired, when his ministry had "ended", through almost to the end, when by "chance" my parents and Msgr. lived only steps from each other in Riverdale. My parents' apartment was right across from the retired priests' residence (now called the John Cardinal O'Connor residence, formerly the John Neumann residence for pre-seminarians).
So I send out a message of gratitude to this man for his service to my family and to all the lives he touched through the years. And then I let my mind wander on that point. "All the lives he touched". Holy crap! (Excuse me, Msgr!) He touched thousands of lives, tens of thousands!
Wasn't Msgr Doherty sort of the first blogger? Stay with me... Msgr wrote a column in the Catholic New York for decades. His was a human interest column, musings on faith and the movement of Spirit around us and through us. Not online, but still doing the blogging thing: a regular running commentary of his thoughts, brilliantly written (I think he added that part! lol), and accessible. What surprised me when I discovered his writing was its freshness, its humanity, no hiding the point behind big words or abstract theology. I think I truly met the man through his writing, and came to love him.
I last saw Msgr. last year when I went through NYC. Hi health had been failing, but he insisted on inviting my mother and I for lunch at the residence, entertaining as ever. He gave us a copy of his latest work, about the life of his immigrant mother "Walking with Gella, " in which traces her journey from Ireland to New York at the turn of the century. It could have been my grandmother's story, or the story of so many immigrants. Perhaps that is why he showed such great compassion - not always to the delight of the parishioners - to the Hispanic community in our parish.
He also showed us a piece he was working on for Catholic New York. And a book he had had published on the history of the place in which he was living. The man was a machine. The man was a writer.
And the man was one of the few who, upon learning that I had left a perfectly good job in a bank to live the life of a dreamer, a writer in Paris (a city he loved) said, "Wonderful!"
Thanks you, Msgr, for your support always, continuing through the inspiration for this piece. I will catch you later, in my dreams.
jeudi 28 janvier 2010
January 29, 2010 : Scars
Hello!
January 29th, already? Mein gott! Got to make this day count!
I am laughing now as I type because I just looked down at my right hand...which is not in itself funny. I look down and see my right hand, which has a scar... also not funny. I look down and see my right hand, my scar, and remember that it is my newest scar, only a few months old, sustained as I did my underwater scuba training last fall in the south of France. Not particularly funny, either, eh? I agree.
What IS funny, is that when I look down at my right hand, and see that scar that tells that story, I feel a rush of pride. I'm not kidding. This scar was borne of completely screwing up (I can promise you, I won't be touching everything when I scuba in the future, not without extreme caution or gloves. And the BLOOD! It didn't start until I had hauled my butt out of the water into the boat, and then when I hit the air, I was looking like of of those Knights who say Nee after their arms get chopped off!), and I realize that some perverse part of myself that maybe never grew up (okay, most of me never grew up) is actually proud of it! A badge of honor, or some such. I am really laughing now, because even as I write, I am still proud of it. Incredible...I thought bringing that into the light would disperse that feeling, but nope.
I think then of the many other scars on this battle-torn body: the scar above my left eyebrow from a metal swing that I ran into (while someone was swinging... lots of blood that day, too - I am a bleeder! I remember my sister was meant to be watching me and so she got into trouble. I remember Mr. O'Toole who took me to the hospital - I think he took us all to the hospital, he was like our neighborhood ambulance, the man who actually had a car. Nice man, RIP. I think about eating ice cream and people saying how I almost lost my eye. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Lots of drama, without the eye loss. Excellent.)
Then I think of the incredible symmetrical scar on my right outer thigh, a badge from walking the fence inside our apartment complex. Or rather from not walking the fence, from trying to walk the fence. I fell. Walking the fence was a particularly interesting exploit designed by older kids, a rite of passage most were smart enough to pass over... The rickety and rusted, sometimes green painted metal fence had a flat part about two feet off the ground that one was to walk on. The walking-on part was about an inch wide, maybe an inch and a half. Normally emminently doable, but on one side of the walking-on part, there were spikes. Metal spikes, not particularly sharp, but spokes nonetheless, which effectively impeded any effort to balance on that inch-and-a-half. And wasn't that the fun of it? So I fell. And my heart's desire carried me the 93 steps up to my apartment, bleeding all of the place again. (I was of course delighted if in pain... I would like to see someone carry me like that now! ;-) Arriving at the apartment, my mother ushered me into the bathroom where she sat me on the sink and pour hydrogen peroxide on my cut to clean it. YOWZER! It got cleaned, and the scar still walks with me.
And then the scar-not-scar of my tattoo. Which I got as part of a longstanding tradition of midlife crisis, apparently, but which I still love. A dolphin jumping over the moon. Never you mind where! I am laughing again, because my behavior in the tattoo parlor, well, it could have been better. And no, I was not drunk. It's just that it hurt. It hurt like a moth- well, you know. And so after the kindly man named Cap'n something - with an eye patch no less - after he started the work, I was wriggling. I knew I couldn't stop him, or I would just have a strange line on my - oh no you don't! - so I stayed, but I really annoyed the man. And my dolphin has a shadow. That's how he fixed my screwup. But I still smile when I think of my dolphin...I can't really see it unless I have a mirror...
Anyway, that was fun. It is fun to look back, to think of the scars and the good times as well. After long enough it really is all good. I look back at the dramas in my life and now I can laugh because I see them differently, like a movie I can enjoy. And it helps, too, when drama arises anew in my life. (And it always does, doesn't it?) It helps because I know that this, too, shall pass.
I've got the scars to prove it.
January 29th, already? Mein gott! Got to make this day count!
I am laughing now as I type because I just looked down at my right hand...which is not in itself funny. I look down and see my right hand, which has a scar... also not funny. I look down and see my right hand, my scar, and remember that it is my newest scar, only a few months old, sustained as I did my underwater scuba training last fall in the south of France. Not particularly funny, either, eh? I agree.
What IS funny, is that when I look down at my right hand, and see that scar that tells that story, I feel a rush of pride. I'm not kidding. This scar was borne of completely screwing up (I can promise you, I won't be touching everything when I scuba in the future, not without extreme caution or gloves. And the BLOOD! It didn't start until I had hauled my butt out of the water into the boat, and then when I hit the air, I was looking like of of those Knights who say Nee after their arms get chopped off!), and I realize that some perverse part of myself that maybe never grew up (okay, most of me never grew up) is actually proud of it! A badge of honor, or some such. I am really laughing now, because even as I write, I am still proud of it. Incredible...I thought bringing that into the light would disperse that feeling, but nope.
I think then of the many other scars on this battle-torn body: the scar above my left eyebrow from a metal swing that I ran into (while someone was swinging... lots of blood that day, too - I am a bleeder! I remember my sister was meant to be watching me and so she got into trouble. I remember Mr. O'Toole who took me to the hospital - I think he took us all to the hospital, he was like our neighborhood ambulance, the man who actually had a car. Nice man, RIP. I think about eating ice cream and people saying how I almost lost my eye. I liked that. I liked that a lot. Lots of drama, without the eye loss. Excellent.)
Then I think of the incredible symmetrical scar on my right outer thigh, a badge from walking the fence inside our apartment complex. Or rather from not walking the fence, from trying to walk the fence. I fell. Walking the fence was a particularly interesting exploit designed by older kids, a rite of passage most were smart enough to pass over... The rickety and rusted, sometimes green painted metal fence had a flat part about two feet off the ground that one was to walk on. The walking-on part was about an inch wide, maybe an inch and a half. Normally emminently doable, but on one side of the walking-on part, there were spikes. Metal spikes, not particularly sharp, but spokes nonetheless, which effectively impeded any effort to balance on that inch-and-a-half. And wasn't that the fun of it? So I fell. And my heart's desire carried me the 93 steps up to my apartment, bleeding all of the place again. (I was of course delighted if in pain... I would like to see someone carry me like that now! ;-) Arriving at the apartment, my mother ushered me into the bathroom where she sat me on the sink and pour hydrogen peroxide on my cut to clean it. YOWZER! It got cleaned, and the scar still walks with me.
And then the scar-not-scar of my tattoo. Which I got as part of a longstanding tradition of midlife crisis, apparently, but which I still love. A dolphin jumping over the moon. Never you mind where! I am laughing again, because my behavior in the tattoo parlor, well, it could have been better. And no, I was not drunk. It's just that it hurt. It hurt like a moth- well, you know. And so after the kindly man named Cap'n something - with an eye patch no less - after he started the work, I was wriggling. I knew I couldn't stop him, or I would just have a strange line on my - oh no you don't! - so I stayed, but I really annoyed the man. And my dolphin has a shadow. That's how he fixed my screwup. But I still smile when I think of my dolphin...I can't really see it unless I have a mirror...
Anyway, that was fun. It is fun to look back, to think of the scars and the good times as well. After long enough it really is all good. I look back at the dramas in my life and now I can laugh because I see them differently, like a movie I can enjoy. And it helps, too, when drama arises anew in my life. (And it always does, doesn't it?) It helps because I know that this, too, shall pass.
I've got the scars to prove it.
January 28, 2010: Late and beat
Hello!
Today I am starting late and I am beat. I love to write in the morning when inspiration fills me and my fingers can't keep up with the words in my head. But tonight I am tired and my eyes are squinting at the screen. I just wanted to say hello, and how glad I am to be here, to sit at this screen and to bitch about the writing, about doing something I love.
Today was weird.
I started the day with an early session of rolfing - structural integration - and it hurt. It hurt like a mothafucka. (When I am tired I revert, apologies to any gentle sensibilities out there. I like this word. I like it spelled as one word, just like that. So sue me.) It hurt like a MF and then it was done. So I guess that means my structure has integrity now. Or my integrity has structure. Or something.
Then I went to see a friend - I'll call him John - who was diagnosed 2 years ago with colon cancer. He is tired. I did a little reflexology on his feet, then we went for a walk and some vegetarian couscous. (And a rhubarb tartelette - I couldn't resist. Who'd'a'thought I would ever eat rhubarb tartelettes?) This is a friend with whom I go way back to my first job out of Georgetown, way back to Wall Street. As we talked he cracked a joke, something to the effect of "You know, when I eat, I get nauseous and am in pain...and when I can't eat, I get nauseous and am in pain." It was way funnier than that, his timing was perfect.
I was - and still am - blown away by his joking, his absolute determination to be on that up frequency. Instinctively I asked myself if I would be able to joke around if I were wearing those shoes. (Probably, they'd be falling off me and sliding all over the place and probably knock something expensive over and break it or knock someone over maybe and that would make me laugh...) I hope so.
I hope so, but really, how often do I find something to bitch about (see the first paragraph of this very blog - you don't have to look far for the answer to that one! ) now, when I have everything I need: health, happiness, blahblahblah? Pretty often, I ruefully admit.
So I am making a resolution. I know, I am a bit late, but I never like to work on other people's schedules. My resolution is the following; it is a baby step. I will not resolve to stop bitching. I will not reolve to be always grateful for everything, all the time. I am a realist. I gotta start someplace feasible, reasonable. So here goes... I resolve to do the gratitude thing at least as much as I do the bitching thing. That is doable. I can do that.
So my friend and to all the "John"s (don't you dare! lol) out there, bravo and bon courage! Thank you for the inspiration... I got a lotta livin' to do too!
"To all that has been: thanks!
To all that shall be: yes!"
- Dag Hammarskjold, former UN head
Today I am starting late and I am beat. I love to write in the morning when inspiration fills me and my fingers can't keep up with the words in my head. But tonight I am tired and my eyes are squinting at the screen. I just wanted to say hello, and how glad I am to be here, to sit at this screen and to bitch about the writing, about doing something I love.
Today was weird.
I started the day with an early session of rolfing - structural integration - and it hurt. It hurt like a mothafucka. (When I am tired I revert, apologies to any gentle sensibilities out there. I like this word. I like it spelled as one word, just like that. So sue me.) It hurt like a MF and then it was done. So I guess that means my structure has integrity now. Or my integrity has structure. Or something.
Then I went to see a friend - I'll call him John - who was diagnosed 2 years ago with colon cancer. He is tired. I did a little reflexology on his feet, then we went for a walk and some vegetarian couscous. (And a rhubarb tartelette - I couldn't resist. Who'd'a'thought I would ever eat rhubarb tartelettes?) This is a friend with whom I go way back to my first job out of Georgetown, way back to Wall Street. As we talked he cracked a joke, something to the effect of "You know, when I eat, I get nauseous and am in pain...and when I can't eat, I get nauseous and am in pain." It was way funnier than that, his timing was perfect.
I was - and still am - blown away by his joking, his absolute determination to be on that up frequency. Instinctively I asked myself if I would be able to joke around if I were wearing those shoes. (Probably, they'd be falling off me and sliding all over the place and probably knock something expensive over and break it or knock someone over maybe and that would make me laugh...) I hope so.
I hope so, but really, how often do I find something to bitch about (see the first paragraph of this very blog - you don't have to look far for the answer to that one! ) now, when I have everything I need: health, happiness, blahblahblah? Pretty often, I ruefully admit.
So I am making a resolution. I know, I am a bit late, but I never like to work on other people's schedules. My resolution is the following; it is a baby step. I will not resolve to stop bitching. I will not reolve to be always grateful for everything, all the time. I am a realist. I gotta start someplace feasible, reasonable. So here goes... I resolve to do the gratitude thing at least as much as I do the bitching thing. That is doable. I can do that.
So my friend and to all the "John"s (don't you dare! lol) out there, bravo and bon courage! Thank you for the inspiration... I got a lotta livin' to do too!
"To all that has been: thanks!
To all that shall be: yes!"
- Dag Hammarskjold, former UN head
mercredi 27 janvier 2010
January 27, 2010: Happy Birthday, Stephen!
Hello!
Today is my "little" brother's birthday and so I start with best wishes going out to him! Flitting through images of the past, my heart warms and this cold January morning loses its chill...
I pass to another anniversary that falls on this day. On this day, about 20 years ago, I made my first and last bet. I was at the time in a relationship with a wild and wonderful but inveterate gambler, and he had insisted. Insisted so much that we got into a fight over it. Insisted so much that I made that bet (with an illegal bookie in a bar in the Inwood section of Manhattan in the early morning hours, no less) and then left, saying, "Never call me again unless I hit that number!"
That afternoon, waking me from a sound sleep, my phone rang. I knew right away. Sure enough, I had hit the number for $800, a whole lot of money for me at that time. The story goes on (for another time, perhaps) but the laughter of the universe still rings in my ears. Great news, $800 from the sky. Bad news, back into a toxic relationship. What will our heroine do with that? I missed the opportunity that day to take the money and run; my growing took many years still after that, before I stood tall enough in my own boots to walk.
These many years later, I sit at my window here in Paris, looking through the branches of the tree outside to the Seine, which is flowing fast today. It feels like time has been flowing just as fast... but for a moment I visit that past, that who-I-was, and send her love. Love and gratitude. Because if I had never been that me, struggling to find my self, my voice (though a haze of work and play and intoxicants and tears and some laughter), I would never have gotten here.
I woke up with the phrase "I pass peacefully though portals", an affirmation my friend Sophie shared with me, one that her friend Tom shared with her (thanks, Tom!) This has truly become my mantra and I now live it with gratitude. Life is SO much easier, SO much more peaceful now. I see now that we have a choice: it is up to us how we pass through the trials of our lives, and through the joys as well.
BIG changes are occurring in my life right now, but diving under the surface, I am no longer tossed about in the waves. It was not always so. I had to swim upstream, to be tossed about on the surface, to swallow whole mouthfuls of turpitude and despair and hope and chaos until I gagged and spit it up, spit it out, willfully ejecting what was pulling me down.
I never could have gotten here without having been there. So I send out my thanks and love to that Kathryn, that Kathy, and ask her to hang in there because at some point, she will pass peacefully through portals. And I wish for you all the same. Peace.
Today is my "little" brother's birthday and so I start with best wishes going out to him! Flitting through images of the past, my heart warms and this cold January morning loses its chill...
I pass to another anniversary that falls on this day. On this day, about 20 years ago, I made my first and last bet. I was at the time in a relationship with a wild and wonderful but inveterate gambler, and he had insisted. Insisted so much that we got into a fight over it. Insisted so much that I made that bet (with an illegal bookie in a bar in the Inwood section of Manhattan in the early morning hours, no less) and then left, saying, "Never call me again unless I hit that number!"
That afternoon, waking me from a sound sleep, my phone rang. I knew right away. Sure enough, I had hit the number for $800, a whole lot of money for me at that time. The story goes on (for another time, perhaps) but the laughter of the universe still rings in my ears. Great news, $800 from the sky. Bad news, back into a toxic relationship. What will our heroine do with that? I missed the opportunity that day to take the money and run; my growing took many years still after that, before I stood tall enough in my own boots to walk.
These many years later, I sit at my window here in Paris, looking through the branches of the tree outside to the Seine, which is flowing fast today. It feels like time has been flowing just as fast... but for a moment I visit that past, that who-I-was, and send her love. Love and gratitude. Because if I had never been that me, struggling to find my self, my voice (though a haze of work and play and intoxicants and tears and some laughter), I would never have gotten here.
I woke up with the phrase "I pass peacefully though portals", an affirmation my friend Sophie shared with me, one that her friend Tom shared with her (thanks, Tom!) This has truly become my mantra and I now live it with gratitude. Life is SO much easier, SO much more peaceful now. I see now that we have a choice: it is up to us how we pass through the trials of our lives, and through the joys as well.
BIG changes are occurring in my life right now, but diving under the surface, I am no longer tossed about in the waves. It was not always so. I had to swim upstream, to be tossed about on the surface, to swallow whole mouthfuls of turpitude and despair and hope and chaos until I gagged and spit it up, spit it out, willfully ejecting what was pulling me down.
I never could have gotten here without having been there. So I send out my thanks and love to that Kathryn, that Kathy, and ask her to hang in there because at some point, she will pass peacefully through portals. And I wish for you all the same. Peace.
lundi 25 janvier 2010
January 26, 2010: I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair...
Hello!
I am not sure why I am up already, the alarm is not going to go off for another hour or so. Then again, I DO know why! I was woken up by a song - I woke up with the song from South Pacific in my head "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair"...
No worries, no hatin' , no denigratin'!
Yes, I think this is about my ex, but more importantly, it is about my bedroom, the state of affairs in said bedroom, the complete and TOtal chaos in my bedroom (and since "as below so above", in my life), and this is about what I can do about it!
Huh?
Well, I am in a Paris apartment and thus space is somewhat limited...at least by American standards! French friends always think I have SO much space, particularly so much space for "rangement" - putting things away, storage. And it is true, by French standards. I have a cave - a storage basement in the building, as well as 4 closets and lots of overhead and built-in nook-and-cranny-type space (will I always think of Thomas' English muffins when I hear ort use that phrase?).
Yes, I have a good bit of space. But I also have a lot of stuff. (So proud I didn't use the phrase that came to my sleepy Bronx-born mind - a lot of shit! Advancing, always advancing... though which is more accurate, stuff or shit, who can tell?... )
Here's the thing: I have one whole half-closet filled with wedding photos, albums etc from my wedding in 2003/4 (two weddings, one civil in Paris and one church event in the Bronx.) On the other hand, I have a no-Feng-shui bedroom with books and stacks of papers everywhere... the chi cannot circulate around the bed, and neither can a human.
Hmmm... seems clear doesn't it?
But to clear out the old wedding stuff is to close a chapter - a chapter that wasn't all bad - and specifically to clear out memories of a day that was a lot of fun. Since my ex is French and not a lot of his people were there, the wedding reception was filled with my people: friends from kindergarten through college, friends from numerous bars and bank jobs (not heists, the other sort), and family. Lots and lots of my Irish Catholic family. (Memory is of course selective. I COULD choose to remember that my miscarriage came to its full denouement that day, or that my Dad found my ex smoking a joint outside, or that a friend gave my soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law a lapdance, oh wait - that was a highlight! )...
Anyway, in clearing this stuff out, I am saying it's okay to leave the past (even the nice choice bits) IN the past. And that makes me kind of sad.
Of course there are other memories in the making even as I write. And in order to have the new rush in, I need to clear out some space for it. (I can feel the fresh air whirring and whirling it's way towards me even as I write...) So maybe it's ok. Maybe I am ready to move on.
Hmmm... I think I will wash my hair today.
I am not sure why I am up already, the alarm is not going to go off for another hour or so. Then again, I DO know why! I was woken up by a song - I woke up with the song from South Pacific in my head "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair"...
No worries, no hatin' , no denigratin'!
Yes, I think this is about my ex, but more importantly, it is about my bedroom, the state of affairs in said bedroom, the complete and TOtal chaos in my bedroom (and since "as below so above", in my life), and this is about what I can do about it!
Huh?
Well, I am in a Paris apartment and thus space is somewhat limited...at least by American standards! French friends always think I have SO much space, particularly so much space for "rangement" - putting things away, storage. And it is true, by French standards. I have a cave - a storage basement in the building, as well as 4 closets and lots of overhead and built-in nook-and-cranny-type space (will I always think of Thomas' English muffins when I hear ort use that phrase?).
Yes, I have a good bit of space. But I also have a lot of stuff. (So proud I didn't use the phrase that came to my sleepy Bronx-born mind - a lot of shit! Advancing, always advancing... though which is more accurate, stuff or shit, who can tell?... )
Here's the thing: I have one whole half-closet filled with wedding photos, albums etc from my wedding in 2003/4 (two weddings, one civil in Paris and one church event in the Bronx.) On the other hand, I have a no-Feng-shui bedroom with books and stacks of papers everywhere... the chi cannot circulate around the bed, and neither can a human.
Hmmm... seems clear doesn't it?
But to clear out the old wedding stuff is to close a chapter - a chapter that wasn't all bad - and specifically to clear out memories of a day that was a lot of fun. Since my ex is French and not a lot of his people were there, the wedding reception was filled with my people: friends from kindergarten through college, friends from numerous bars and bank jobs (not heists, the other sort), and family. Lots and lots of my Irish Catholic family. (Memory is of course selective. I COULD choose to remember that my miscarriage came to its full denouement that day, or that my Dad found my ex smoking a joint outside, or that a friend gave my soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law a lapdance, oh wait - that was a highlight! )...
Anyway, in clearing this stuff out, I am saying it's okay to leave the past (even the nice choice bits) IN the past. And that makes me kind of sad.
Of course there are other memories in the making even as I write. And in order to have the new rush in, I need to clear out some space for it. (I can feel the fresh air whirring and whirling it's way towards me even as I write...) So maybe it's ok. Maybe I am ready to move on.
Hmmm... I think I will wash my hair today.
Today, January 25, 2010: Day One
Hello! I have been thinking about creating a blog-format-type-thingy for sooooo long, and here it happens as if by accident when looking at the blogspot of a friend.
I love when things slide easily into place!
It feels like it doesn't happen so often, but when I think about it, I really am incredibly lucky and life is falling - granted, sometimes in big heavy pieces that just miss my head, but falling nonetheless - into place.
The life of a very happy - ok USUALLY very happy - ex-banker originally from the Bronx living her life in Paris, writing and following a creative and spiritual path in the city of her dreams is the stuff that would have once made me want to barf. (Nice vocabulary, eh? I knew it would impress!) Or maybe it would have been the alcohol or the drugs that would have made me want to throw up. At that time, one could never have known!
But now, I am getting used to things happen fortuitously - the Universe conspiring with a more conscious me, surprising and delighting (or not) as things seem to move inexorably forward. No more need for intoxicants, life has become trippy enough, thank you! And BOY does it feel better to wake up refreshed and feeling good! Sending out a great big bearhug of thanks to the Universe...
And so it goes...the blog starts unsurreptitiously, creeping in on tiny cat's feet (this phrase always provoke an image of the cat's claws scratching across linoleum for me, but whatever) and without fanfare. Happy Monday!
I love when things slide easily into place!
It feels like it doesn't happen so often, but when I think about it, I really am incredibly lucky and life is falling - granted, sometimes in big heavy pieces that just miss my head, but falling nonetheless - into place.
The life of a very happy - ok USUALLY very happy - ex-banker originally from the Bronx living her life in Paris, writing and following a creative and spiritual path in the city of her dreams is the stuff that would have once made me want to barf. (Nice vocabulary, eh? I knew it would impress!) Or maybe it would have been the alcohol or the drugs that would have made me want to throw up. At that time, one could never have known!
But now, I am getting used to things happen fortuitously - the Universe conspiring with a more conscious me, surprising and delighting (or not) as things seem to move inexorably forward. No more need for intoxicants, life has become trippy enough, thank you! And BOY does it feel better to wake up refreshed and feeling good! Sending out a great big bearhug of thanks to the Universe...
And so it goes...the blog starts unsurreptitiously, creeping in on tiny cat's feet (this phrase always provoke an image of the cat's claws scratching across linoleum for me, but whatever) and without fanfare. Happy Monday!
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