Arts & Loops

Red-Footed Tortoise

Photo Credit: ReptilesWeb.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've never been one who wanted to time travel. It seemed too much like looking at the last page of a mystery to see how the plot turned out. There is a banner at Central Park with a drawing of a large tortoise with the caption, "Try our fast lane" (may not be exact). Time and letters are favorite topics of mine perhaps because time is flying and letters can be held and re-read. Some of the books I like best were written in letter form. Fair and Tender Ladies. A Bloomin' Bouquet. I could write my autobiography that way I'm sure. The first letter I ever wrote was when I was six. I even addressed it and used my best stationery. I wrote, "I am truly sorry I haven't written. I have been so busy." I had painstakingly copied the words from my mother's example. I laugh when I think of how long it took. This was written to my former kindergarten teacher in Tuckahoe, New York whom I idolized because she was the first to understand just what she had for a student. I remember an art project day. Several pots of paint were put in front of us would-be artists and a small glass bowl with a puckered decorative lip. The idea was to slowly drip different colored paints onto the bowl. Most of the other students were done in less than a minute but Miss whatever-her-name-was allowed me to take as long as I wanted. She told my mother later that curiosity had led her to grant me this permission. She was not surprised that it took me three hours. Time for me has long been something I could suspend. I asked my mother once if she thought it was because as a baby I had been put out for my naps in the jungle garden and watched the sloths for my entertainment when I awoke. She said it was possible but really, she had to believe that if I had watched car races I would still be the slow-paced intense person that I am. After that first letter, I felt my oats so to speak and began a hobby of fan letters. When my daughter was two, she was sitting on the cover of a Chad Mitchell lp which had fallen to the floor as we listened to "Blowin' in the Wind." The scene prompted me to write a fan letter to Chad Mitchell. He replied in his own hand with a Christopher Street address in New York City. I was thrilled and answered with a thank-you. He wrote one more time and signed it, "From a fan of a fan." I wrote many letters after but kept only that one and the postcard from Fred Rogers and notes from Winston Graham. I wrote a poem about my theory of time and explored the Hopi circular theory. I don't have it handy here but will post it some time when I go through my bits and scraps in the Shire. It will take awhile to find because, like Fred Rogers, "I like to take my time." Did I mention that although I saved only those few missives from the famous, I have a huge box full labeled, "Helpers" that are letters all the way from Campus Mail days to the present from friends? I think you guessed that.

...may you find the tweeny moments, the in between spaces, which lengthen very good days and bring you blessings...

Past, Present, and Future in the Subjunctive

~~~~~~~~~

"When I think upon my God, my heart is so full of joy that the notes dance and leap from my pen; and since God has given me a cheerful heart, it will be pardoned me that I serve Him with a cheerful spirit."--Franz Joseph Haydn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture the '60s. San Francisco. A network called PBS featured Lilias, the yoga instructor. Hippies tossed daisy bouquets onto the hoods of cars or through the windows. Gurus with peaceful, "drop out" messages proliferated. I loved the outfits made up of the "layered look" for chilly walks in Golden Gate Park. I watched Lilias faithfully knowing she wouldn't care if I ever stood on my head or not. I did my Salute to the Fog and mastered The Plough. I was wary when I heard high praise of rockers I considered bad examples because they encouraged drugs and free love orgies. Nothing free about that to my mind. Lots of searing consequences if you asked me. I bought a $3 "moo moo" at Woolworth's and passed easily as a flower child which I am to this day while at the same time I was shedding tears at the wasted huddled on steps, in alcoves, who would later be called The Homeless. They not only lacked shelter but their delusion of being at home on the planet grieved me. I read the popular new age books. I liked the optimism while being cautious of living in the moment. Catholic convent school had taught me that what I sowed, I reaped.The laws of physics were aligned along cause and effect. However, I certainly agreed with "mindfulness." I pay attention all the time. My brain is a whirligig of noticing. So this summer while walking along Lexington Avenue I was delighted to see a small eatery named EAT HERE NOW. I thought, "Perfect! The U. leadeth and I followeth." It has become part of my Sunday morning routine: EAT HERE NOW; then the #4 bus out to Riverside Church. The waitress (not the latest in lingo I know but still a word I prefer) is from Romania. I will not publish her name as I didn't ask her permission. She is trim, conscientious, efficient, with beautiful eyes which seem set on a future dream. She has an incredible memory. She knows exactly how I like my eggs and toast. The place is packed with tourists and regulars. How can she do this? I'm lucky to remember the details myself. This past Sunday I was wearing the "Friend of an Immigrant" tee Will ordered from Sojourners and the Sunday best skirt Stephanie had given me. I realized that among my immigrant friends must be the sweet wistful waitress. It was, as Ram Dass said, the time to be here now or as Jesus said long before I entered the world, "Be anxious for nothing." Listening to the sermon, I understood the "now part" revealed in the the lesson of the "bent-over woman." What I had been missing in Ram Dass' message became clear. It was as though he didn't complete the sentence for me. The guest preacher talked about the Sabbath and what it meant that Jesus had healed the bent-over woman who had been bent-over for 18 years, maybe from back breaking work, maybe from psychological weariness, on the Sabbath. "Sabbath is not only about rest," Rev.Dr. Rita Root said. "He turns Sabbath into a symbol of resistance." The higher-ups who declared that Jesus was not obeying The Law were using the law to keep others out. She went on to say the Sabbath goes beyond the sanctuary. So the "now" part is the preparation, not the destination. In the same way I eat my breakfast on Lexington, I am preparing for the day of going forth. l loved how the sermon ended, "Like the bent-over woman, we are set free to speak out, to pursue a life of justice and peace, to stand up, show up, speak up." EAT HERE NOW is now "for short" (one of my favorite phrases of my Czech son-in-law). It is a prelude, a preparation, "to be the voice of peace, of justice, to be the people of God."

~~~~~~~~

...may you be here, eat here, enjoy here and be showered with the blessings of setting forth on your journeys...

Horses d'Oovers, Scarecrows, and Canopies

Bay Bread

Photo Credit: Cheryl Dolby

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a coincidence of streets where if I cross on the north side, I will be given a set of coupons for Pax Wholesome Food (healthy soups and salads plus pressetta variations). If I continue south one block, there will be a congenial hander-outer of Cafe Europa discounts. I can cross back over at that point and instead of coupons, I will be enticed by a 5 page (both sides) menu from Green Cafe. Unfortunately for my mother, these would have been trendy falling into highbrow. Not her thing. On the Green Cafe list, the word "fresh" pops up frequently as in the BBQ Quesadilla with its fresh cilantro in red pepper tortilla. And fresh basil/fresh mozzarella for the Sunset Turkey Panini. At breakfast, one can order a Grilled Cheese Sandwich, no ingredients specified but hey! the choice of a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast is pure gourmet. The Vegetarian Delight Premium Wrap is bathed in Herbal Mayo. My mother would have passed this place up. She was disaster oriented. "It's best not to learn how to cook," she advised withh hand motions, "because it will spoil you. You won't be able to stomach the greasy spoons on the back roads with the quirky customers and the restroom doors held together by those thick,large dangling nails." She was big on car adventures which she considered the sole reason for my learning to drive. I remember driving her from Phoenix to Wickenburg to go to a bakery. I asked if the highly recommended Peoria Bakery wouldn't be just as good and a lot handier. "Oh no, " she replied, The Wickenburg bakery is much worse." Well, it did have characters, my mother being one of them. At her top weight, she weighed in at 110. As far as nutrition went, fudge contained all the food groups she ever needed, She would probably know what the Green Cafe's Bruschettas are about but any place with white chocolate chip cookies was a downright downer. There would be no living with her if the cookies were baked with anything not your basic Hershey's milk chocolate. Personally, I could go for the tea sandwiches, "mini English Tea Sandwiches (4 pcs/person) $4.95" but she would have insisted I take them to go so we could find a nice diner as retro as possible. The definition of nice would be along the lines of a ratty but genteel family run business on the verge of bankruptcy with ties to the Old Country. As for collecting recipes, she had one cookbook. The cover illustration was done by a New Yorker cartoonist which is likely why my dad bought it for her. One thing is certain: she never read it. Yesterday, I happened to be at 42nd and 3rd Avenue after an outing to the Mid-Manhattan Library. To my surprise I was handed Pax Wholesome Food coupons. I asked, "Is there a Pax around here?" It turns out I was standing right in front of it. I decided to risk being spoiled. I took one of the $1 coupons and indulged in a Zesto. Folks, my mother was right. Now I am TOTALLY SPOILED.

~~~~~~~~~~

...May you have the blessing of fine memories, conventional or otherwise...

"Do Not Be Afraid, Little Flock"

The Aviary at Central Park Zoo

Photo Credit: Henry Hobbs

~~~~~~~~

"We are at work in more than 50 nations across Africa, Asia, Latin America and North America,

protecting wild landscapes that are home to a vast variety of species from butterflies to baboons."

WCS

~~~~~~~~~

Some people are very anti-zoo. They talk knowledgeably about the early death rate and the apathy of the corralled animals. They compare the cooped-upness to the loss of freedom human counterparts experience in old age homes with overworked attendants. I'm more of an, "I know why the caged bird sings" type. I'm not out to convince anybody. I'm simply telling my experiences and why my, "You belong in a zoo" decal was my favorite on my little white Justy side window. I love going to the zoo on days packed with school field trips. Recently at the Bronx Zoo, I thought it was wonderful how small peacocks strolled like guest hosts around the picnic tables. I wondered if any of the youngsters would have an opportunity to travel to places where they could see peacocks in the wild. The best scene that day, though, was up the trail aways. I was planning to watch the giraffes, so elegant, so graceful, when suddenly I came upon a hilly field of flowers reminiscent of Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite. Frolicking in a game of catch-me-if-you-can with more peacocks were dazzling zebras. The children and I were struck breathless by the sight of these playful zebras. Teachers were explaining how zebras have stripes right on their skin, not just on the fur. Later, at the giraffe section, I was reminded of the San Francisco Zoo where the giraffes have a large barn style house. Watching them chew on the eaves in a tooth cleaning activity was a delight. The lofty serenity of these creatures has always appealed to me. In the Charm Department, I would put the Mill Mountain Zoo which overlooks the city of Roanoke, Virginia on the same Blue Ridge with the Roanoke Star. I used to look up at the star at night and think about the animals bedded down, protected from nocturnal predators. At the Sequoia Zoo in Eureka, a long-time resident, Bill the Chimp, was visited by Jane Goodall. It was known how he disliked women with designer handbags and often threw you know what at them. He was extra special nice to Jane and she to him. At the North Carolina Zoo, I never tired of the polar bears diving. And at the Prospect Park Zoo, my new friend for life is an alpaca.Such colors and textures, far better than any photo! Here is what the website says of her home: "Welcome to the farm! Barbados sheep, pygmy goats, and alpacas are some of the friendly animals you’ll find here. Beside the barn, a picturesque garden with a waterfall, wooden bridge, and pond attracts local ducks and butterflies." The Wildlife Conservation Society is in charge of the zoos and aquarium. I am grateful to the Society for bringing us all this beauty and surprising facts. Maybe some of the children will grow up to be wildlife advocates. Maybe some will become virulently anti-zoo. It's certain that no one leaves unmoved. The "City that never sleeps" has a plenitude of domesticated pets. "Mine" are given a bit more room with wildflowers as their carpeting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

,,,may you have the touch of a tiny or large beast in your day today...

Provisions, the Universe Way

Photo credit and art courtesy of Linda Blalock

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At Riverside Church in New York City, there is a poster with a quote from William Sloane Coffin, Jr. "I love the recklessness of faith. First you leap; then you grow wings." I'll like to add, "About those wings? Don't try to grow them yourself. They will be provided for you." My way of looking at the world is to see the Unseen Friendlies as actively pulling the curtains, setting the stage, and delighting in those who can't quite figure it all out but can still suddenly be taken aback by an event that could only come from a long chain of events happening behind the scenes. The blob has certainly been an instrument of example of this kind of action. I was only going to do one post so that I could show a friend how to do a blog. The first thing that transpired was a typographical error. I typed blob instead of blog. Instantly I knew it was the right thing. Some unseen hand had jumped in and brought my fingers down one line. No doubt about it. That intrigued me. There was going to be more to this blog business than I had thought! I might have known. At that time I had been living in Lucille's basement one month. It is located by a creek right out of a magical woodland painting. My imagination went into high gear and I decided the blob should come from the "Shire." My Lord of the Rings theme was arranged that very day. I hadn't looked for a long range project but a fiery feeling came over me that I was going to keep at it for awhile because something Good would be arriving from a faraway place, totally unexpected, which I then could show to all as being a True Story of Behind the Scenes.Years ago, for a writing class I wrote a short story called "The Night Shift Gang" about how my brain works. It was part humor, part science fiction, and part my philosophy of life. It is my belief the cosmos is alive with characters and forces trying to make our days one big surprise parcel wrapped in radiance if only we pay attention. I learned very young to spot the signs of, "something great is coming! Who knows? It's only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Maybe tonight ..." Sure enough. My friend Cheryl Dolby in Roanoke, Virginia started a blog, too. Hers was spectacular from the start and on her sidebar were links to many artists from the entire globe. I picked one by LInda Blalock( http://atclindab.blogspot.com/) at random (ha!) to read and fell right into a wonderland of crafted art that was beautiful in every respect. Wonderland was a fitting word as I had that afternoon gone to the 34th Street (how could I pass up a movie house where the Miracle on 3th Street happened?)cinema's matinee showing of Alice in Wonderland. I was taken by the line, "She's the Wrong Alice!" Linda's art blog was having a contest to win a ring. I didn't realize that by making a comment I was entered into the contest under my e-mail moniker, Mimja. I was stunned when the winner was posted. It was Mimja! I really couldn't fathom this so I replied, "I hope I am not the Wrong MImja!" And I wasn't. In distant Australia, my name had been picked at random (!) for something that was so Shire (a ring) and beautiful (my cosmology) it took my breath away. Last week the ring arrived in the Big Apple more magnificent in real life than in the photo, larger, more glisteny. It gave new meaning to the phrase "the dance of the wild faeries...in a magical circle of faerie ring," a piece I play often in the Shire. In "proving" my faith, I often use statistical probabilities to sway an unbeliever. What are the odds that I would help start a blob for someone I only knew a few months online in Eureka, CA and step by step without any hint or knowledge I would this day hold in my hand this evidence of my cosmic helpers? Unbeknownst is in my ten top favorite words list along with serendipity, foreshadowing, and coincidence. On the Chapel Hill buses, there is an announcement which advocates seeking mental health counseling. There is a list of symptoms. One clearly caught me in the act: frequent and unusual coincidences. I gather from this that the UNC mental health people consider me totally bonkers. Well, hey, Mental Health Experts! When did you last have a ring come winging your way out fo the blue? I'm sticking with bonkers any ol' day.

Riverside Church on the First Day of August 2010

Long time gone,

I heard the name, "Riverside Church"

on a Voice of America broadcast.

The words lodged in my mind

as a piece of an imaginary

jigsaw puzzle I worked daily

to be completed in years ahead.

"Home" was its simple title

and included many things

which differed from

my overseas "home away from home"

lad chapels in cathedral alcoves.

Oh, those homes were not lacking;

they simply were not my primary residence,

my true homeplace.

This morning, I am here, journey's end,

as the summer choir practices with tips

from the director on pronouncing Alleluia.

The whole picture puzzle is now revealed.

The final little crooked slot is filled.

The circle begun in childhood drawn to a close.

No wonder the Alleluias.

~~~~~~~~~

...may you notice today something slightly off your peripheral vision that looks to be a sign in the making...

Quo Vadis (Where Y'all Goin'?)

Many of the wonderful words in the English language have roots in Latin: celestial navigation, conservatory gardens, unknown quantity, madrigal feast, desert isle. It occurred to me that Latin is also the precursor of text messaging. For instance, take the phrase e pluribus unum. "Out of many, one." e frees up space that "out" would need. That makes me think of, "Three strikes, you're e." Fiat Lux could be shorthand for, "Turn on the light!" (Not an exact translation). Then there's amo, amas, amat, one word verbs which include who is verbing. Quo vadis could easily replace, "Where are you going, dude?" Personally, I don't favor text messaging. It took too long for me to learn how to spell perambulator, vermilion, participle, and ridiculous. I'm still learning. Recently, I misspelled adviser. I wrote, "Advisor." Now-- I'd like to know why we can have tutors, authors, senators but not advisors. I'm guessing it's one of those, "I before E except after C" tricks of the grammarians' trade. It's interesting how the original crop of Latin seeds spread across the world to become the romance lingoes of Portuguese (which my mother called Spanish with a French accent) French, Italian, Spanish and Esperanto. This leads me to a poem I wrote in the days before i-anything. It's about summer and homework and theories:

~~~~~~~~~~

California, 1979

Jenny is at the picnic table doing her homework.

She has taken the birdcage out

and set it next to her book.

Although she is leaning over her papers

busily sorting,

her head almost touches the side

of the cage where Sanctuary sings.

The snowy finch, unaccustomed to

a change of location,

eloquently expresses gratitude

with exotic new trills.

I like to think it's gratitude, anyway.

According to Erik, the equator is responsible

for the warm winds converging in our yard.

The Amazon, too, is hovering somehow

in the trade of sparkling humidity.

It's all got to do with an arc of heat

coming up from South America.

There is also an arc of time.

As I watch Jenny, I remember my childhood

in a tropical garden.

When I was little, I use to think

that someone was minding me

when actually I was alone.

I'd often turn quickly, a friendly greeting

half spoken,

to see who it was.

Looking at Jenny now, I see myself then,

listening to bird calls

and tilting my head,

trying to catch a glimpse

of the future hurrying by.

~~~~~~~~

...may the via dolorosa not appear on your map this day...

Two's Company

My friends are into oceanography, the origins of faith, tectonic plates, spaceship conspiracy theories, aromatherapy, and all sorts of worthy areas of study. My fascination lies with the mind of a child. I was fortunate to be sitting in the sparsely populated Café car of the Carolinian when a girl I estimated to be two hopped onto the seat across the table. Pulling on one of her eight tight braids, she gave me a big grin. I had overheard the conversation she had been having with her grandmother full of Sits and Don'ts. This was one live wire tot. The Café car is a good place to read as the windows are large and for long stretches the scenery never varies so I had brought along a paperback version of Prodigal Summer. This edition is unusual because there is also an inner cover I can only describe as a Hallmark moment. Since the author, Barbara Kingsolver, was a biology major her book is rich in the proper names of Biology World. The illustrations on this extra cover, however, simply had unlabeled standard greeting card drawings. The girl climbed on the table, grabbed the book, sat, and began to "read" to me. When she turned to the drawings, I told her what each one was. Big Butterfly. Baby Butterfly. Moth. Baby Moth. Beetle. Baby Beetle. I was astonished when she repeated them quickly and correctly. I asked the grandmother who hadn't moved from the table opposite to join us, "How old is she?" The grandmother answered, "Two. The Terrible Two's." Well, there was nothing terrible about this Two. We discussed thoroughly the possibilities of Baby Moth getting together for an ice cream social with Baby Beetle. We played a shadow game when a stripe of sunshine hit the table. Some ladies looking for white wine saw my book and exclaimed that they had read it. They started in on some hackneyed imitation of a blurb critic. Spare me. I was polite but I had to get back to Big Butterfly. I wished Barbara Kingsolver could have watched us, she who specializes in minute observation. What would she make of this delightful wunderkind? The Café closed for a break and the grandmother thanked me for my patience. Patience had naught to do with it. It was the sheer joy of connecting to the electricity of Fledgling Sapiens. Coincidentally, while at Riverside Church on Sunday, I noticed prominently displayed on the Summer Reading poster at the library adjacent to the sanctuary, the beautiful green colorations of Prodigal Summer. I will always remember the "reader" of that book during the summer of 2010 on a day when Two was the best of company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may a little one's commentary bless your life today...