The snow fell on Saturday evening.
It was a shower at best, but as whatever did fall has stuck around until today, it counts as the first official snowfall of the season. Following a day filled with a strange mix of charity, commercialism and the arts, Princesita, Young Prince and I decided to don our Santa hats, bundle up warm, and walk a mile downtown to the noodle restaurant for dinner.
The experience was glorious.
The air was cold, but hearts were warm as we held hands, sang songs and marvelled at the fact that we were the only ones perhaps crazy enough to be out walking in the cold, wintry night. Heated by the purest warmth of the company of those we love most, even my four year old never once complained of the two mile round-trip distance in the chill.
*---*
A pipe has broken on my street. There is a consequential calm on what is normally a known shortcut from one major street to another as Town workers are braving the sub-freezing temperatures to fix the problem. The water is frozen all over the street a few houses down.
What cracks me up, though, is that there are these two huge flourescent orange signs blocking off the street entrance, which actually state that the street is closed to traffic. You would not believe the number of cars that enter on the opposite lane of traffic, choosing to ignore the signs strategically placed right in their lane to (futilely) attempt to stop them from entering the street in the first place, then having to “lose time” by actually turning around and leaving the way they came in--right in front of my house.
I could sit and watch that all day. I wonder what it is that makes people not see big orange signs? Just coming down the street because they saw someone enter who happens to live on the street and thus has permission to come down the street? The mentality of “Well, if s/he can break the rules, so can I” (when, in reality, those of us living on this street are not breaking any rules)? The idea that, “But I’m different…I have to get to work and this is the only way I ever go, so why should I let a water main break my stride”?
What makes people around here feel above the rules? Or is this a universal truth that I only see as being so blatantly obvious here? Do we feel invincible, that whatever danger is posed can’t in any way hurt us? Then, if we do get into an accident from the ice covering the street, we can turn around and sue the Town…even if they had signs and road blocks up telling us to stay off the street?
Human nature can be so fun to ponder sometimes.
*---*
He is gone for a week for hearings regarding the Alaskan fishing boat disaster of a month ago. I feel so calm when I am alone here, much less lonely than when I am feeling forced into my solitude. He’ll be back for his weekend with the children, which is fine as I have other plans for the weekend. It is funny to me to think that, in all the Christmases had together, I feel more empowered in this one merely because I no longer feel like I’m doing everything alone as I had always felt before. I feel that I am teaching the children about the spirit of the season in a very holistic fashion, and am working hard to keep negative feelings away. This is already one of the most fulfilling Christmas seasons I have had in a decade simply because I am not caving to anyone else’s expectations nor fulfilling gift obligations for a side of the family that I hardly even know.
The resulting stress release is unparalleled!
I’ll get to the Christmas cards when I get to them. I will get my family’s gifts sent out sometime this week. It will be a simpler Christmas for my children with fewer gifts in quantity but the quality will be noted. The gift of the Nutcracker Ballet this past Saturday was the talk out of my children’s mouths all day on Sunday, when we graciously received another gift of food, warmth, laughter and company at a friend’s home for the afternoon. My children are learning about the magic of gifts that are not the touchable, playable type. Of course my children will receive some toys. But I want them to receive so much more--the traditions and the memories that we are establishing together are what cannot be bought by point-and-click shopping…
…and on these gifts, the shipping is always free.
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta mantras. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta mantras. Mostrar todas las entradas
lunes, 8 de diciembre de 2008
lunes, 27 de octubre de 2008
Part II: Animalistic sense
My second entry this week on yesterday's theme (don't worry ladies, I'm merely writing as the Spirit moves me--I do not have a planned writing for each day of the week!) has to do with what not only I but most women I have experienced when either bearing or having been a caregiver of young.
A heightened sense of awareness surrounds us when pregnant, as if our modern selves have assimilated a past trait, dormant until released by hormones, that creates in us an almost animalistic sense of who we are, what surrounds us and how we must protect that which grows deep inside of us. Some of us develop a very acute sense of smell, while others' hearing becomes extremely sensitive. I found myself wondering, at various points throughout my 2 1/3 pregnancies, how much of this was part of evolutionary design; just as our ancient relatives had to constantly be aware, sense danger, protect themselves from nature, flora and fauna that we present-day homo sapiens likewise have an innate sense of survival unlocked while childbearing. It was, in fact, the disappearance of this heightened sensitivity that signalled for me the end of the pregnancy I miscarried; my body told me it was over before modern medicine did.
My husband could not seem to comprehend this heightened sense of smell, as he would bring the stinkiest gyro sandwiches filled with onions, peppers and garlic; or organ meats grilled to perfection by his African classmates, and then wonder why I would run from the room with my hand over my mouth.
Just protecting me and my baby.
The basic senses return to normalcy following pregnancy, only to be replaced by learning to discern need from want from the tone of a cry, to be able to spot a lost child in a crowd of people and assist appropriately, and to become more patient toward children who cannot be quiet when inopportune to be, well, noisy children! Remember how loud we thought our newborns cried? Now we hear a newborn and think their cry is so tiny and precious, while we reassure the new parents that we are not bothered and that such a sound is so incomparable to what we now live with!
Our senses have adapted and evolved with our experiences.
I was reminded of this last night, when dining with my children in a small restaurant. A young child had cried out, squealing with what I heard was delight--I never even turned to look, as I didn't want the parents to feel they were bothering me. It was a family place, not a formal adult restaurant--taking setting into account, I could choose to go to a different place had I not wanted to be bothered by children's squeals. Yet my children had other opinions. Young Prince remarked, "Gee, it sure is noisy in here. Why is it so noisy in here?" while La Princesita, trained by her Mama Llama in tolerance etiquette, merely looked at her plate and continued eating silently ("When nothing nice to say, say nothing at all."). I explained with a siloloquy of reasons of which I am certain my 4 year old understood (or rather, listened to) 25%. However I knew, without even having to turn my head to look, that these were happy sounds.
This is not a gender-defined issue, but rather a skill that we all possess, some more inclined than others, and it is our choice to learn to hone this skill or not. We sense and, consequently, we learn and grow. Sometimes that is the key to survival.
A heightened sense of awareness surrounds us when pregnant, as if our modern selves have assimilated a past trait, dormant until released by hormones, that creates in us an almost animalistic sense of who we are, what surrounds us and how we must protect that which grows deep inside of us. Some of us develop a very acute sense of smell, while others' hearing becomes extremely sensitive. I found myself wondering, at various points throughout my 2 1/3 pregnancies, how much of this was part of evolutionary design; just as our ancient relatives had to constantly be aware, sense danger, protect themselves from nature, flora and fauna that we present-day homo sapiens likewise have an innate sense of survival unlocked while childbearing. It was, in fact, the disappearance of this heightened sensitivity that signalled for me the end of the pregnancy I miscarried; my body told me it was over before modern medicine did.
My husband could not seem to comprehend this heightened sense of smell, as he would bring the stinkiest gyro sandwiches filled with onions, peppers and garlic; or organ meats grilled to perfection by his African classmates, and then wonder why I would run from the room with my hand over my mouth.
Just protecting me and my baby.
The basic senses return to normalcy following pregnancy, only to be replaced by learning to discern need from want from the tone of a cry, to be able to spot a lost child in a crowd of people and assist appropriately, and to become more patient toward children who cannot be quiet when inopportune to be, well, noisy children! Remember how loud we thought our newborns cried? Now we hear a newborn and think their cry is so tiny and precious, while we reassure the new parents that we are not bothered and that such a sound is so incomparable to what we now live with!
Our senses have adapted and evolved with our experiences.
I was reminded of this last night, when dining with my children in a small restaurant. A young child had cried out, squealing with what I heard was delight--I never even turned to look, as I didn't want the parents to feel they were bothering me. It was a family place, not a formal adult restaurant--taking setting into account, I could choose to go to a different place had I not wanted to be bothered by children's squeals. Yet my children had other opinions. Young Prince remarked, "Gee, it sure is noisy in here. Why is it so noisy in here?" while La Princesita, trained by her Mama Llama in tolerance etiquette, merely looked at her plate and continued eating silently ("When nothing nice to say, say nothing at all."). I explained with a siloloquy of reasons of which I am certain my 4 year old understood (or rather, listened to) 25%. However I knew, without even having to turn my head to look, that these were happy sounds.
This is not a gender-defined issue, but rather a skill that we all possess, some more inclined than others, and it is our choice to learn to hone this skill or not. We sense and, consequently, we learn and grow. Sometimes that is the key to survival.
domingo, 26 de octubre de 2008
The ability to sense and learn new ways
The diamond-shaped girdle of Venus prominent on my right palm says that I have a very highly developed sixth sense. My Mars line is also prominent on both hands, dictating a high degree of sensitivity to my surroundings that is not only innate (left hand) but that I am living up to my potential (right hand).
I am sensing and sensitive, and sensibly so.
Open to new ideas but with my code of ethics intact, I enjoy stepping out of my comfort zone to stretch my senses, to experience all of that which Life has to offer and to discover ways of keeping that spark lit. I have allowed that spark to be extinguished once, and I suffered a complete breakdown. Never again will I permit my spirit to be dampened by another. Yet that agreement with myself comes with a comprehension that only I have the power to maintain, nourish and permit that spark to grow into a fire that pushes me into new experiences and out of comfortable complacency.
I cannot depend on any other to make me sense Life; others can only strengthen or discourage this power, depending on the positive or negative influence they exert over me.
I can give pages of examples of when my sixth sense has told me that somebody close was in grave danger, or has saved my life. Some stories I have to tell I may, one day, weave into a perhaps rather narcisstic short story collection. I can experience physical manifestations of pain and the great trials of my loved ones, those with whom I share a multi-leveled bond. In my musician days, I permitted that the music would enter my being and carry me; indeed I was not a master of technique but instead it was my ability to sense and learn to make others feel the music I could offer that made me a good musician.
I allowed my senses to empower me rather than to hold me back. Yet there is a certain degree of maturity and being open to learning new ways that must accompany this sensing. And I cannot speak for all here, as we are all following different paths, but the numbing of my senses through medication or a dictatorial brainwashing of right vs wrong that does not jive with my inner being creates in me conflict so great that I feel forced into hiding, away from that which I feel is a true danger to the good in my soul, to the marvelous and unique creation that I am.
If I inhibit, or allow the inhibition of, my power to sense, how will I be capable of feeling?
Trusting my senses guides me, most often than not, toward a path that I might not normally have taken. The free will of decision still exists, but that intuition exerts great influence over which steps I take next. This often is the fabled "road less traveled" so alluded to by Frost, but I have seen from an early age how that does, in fact, make all the difference.
*---*
In a combined thematic writing effort shared with The Quest for T and The Exception, this is the first theme put forth. I had so many thoughts I first typed, then deleted, then tried again. Some of those thoughts might come forth later--we shall see. This topic will be discussed throughout the week, I am sure, in posts and comments; for any parties interested in becoming involved or posting on this same topic, please link in so we all can derive the maximum benefit from each other's points of view.
I am sensing and sensitive, and sensibly so.
Open to new ideas but with my code of ethics intact, I enjoy stepping out of my comfort zone to stretch my senses, to experience all of that which Life has to offer and to discover ways of keeping that spark lit. I have allowed that spark to be extinguished once, and I suffered a complete breakdown. Never again will I permit my spirit to be dampened by another. Yet that agreement with myself comes with a comprehension that only I have the power to maintain, nourish and permit that spark to grow into a fire that pushes me into new experiences and out of comfortable complacency.
I cannot depend on any other to make me sense Life; others can only strengthen or discourage this power, depending on the positive or negative influence they exert over me.
I can give pages of examples of when my sixth sense has told me that somebody close was in grave danger, or has saved my life. Some stories I have to tell I may, one day, weave into a perhaps rather narcisstic short story collection. I can experience physical manifestations of pain and the great trials of my loved ones, those with whom I share a multi-leveled bond. In my musician days, I permitted that the music would enter my being and carry me; indeed I was not a master of technique but instead it was my ability to sense and learn to make others feel the music I could offer that made me a good musician.
I allowed my senses to empower me rather than to hold me back. Yet there is a certain degree of maturity and being open to learning new ways that must accompany this sensing. And I cannot speak for all here, as we are all following different paths, but the numbing of my senses through medication or a dictatorial brainwashing of right vs wrong that does not jive with my inner being creates in me conflict so great that I feel forced into hiding, away from that which I feel is a true danger to the good in my soul, to the marvelous and unique creation that I am.
If I inhibit, or allow the inhibition of, my power to sense, how will I be capable of feeling?
Trusting my senses guides me, most often than not, toward a path that I might not normally have taken. The free will of decision still exists, but that intuition exerts great influence over which steps I take next. This often is the fabled "road less traveled" so alluded to by Frost, but I have seen from an early age how that does, in fact, make all the difference.
*---*
In a combined thematic writing effort shared with The Quest for T and The Exception, this is the first theme put forth. I had so many thoughts I first typed, then deleted, then tried again. Some of those thoughts might come forth later--we shall see. This topic will be discussed throughout the week, I am sure, in posts and comments; for any parties interested in becoming involved or posting on this same topic, please link in so we all can derive the maximum benefit from each other's points of view.
viernes, 12 de septiembre de 2008
passion
Passion is important in every part of our lives. I am a particularly passionate person, very opinionated with strong points of view regarding how I live my life and what I believe to be good and true for me, my family, my country, and my world.
I am a passionate mother, much like many parents are. I could be a passionate wife and lover when with one who can bring that out in me--challenge that passion and match it.
Part of my fabric, which I have learned to be true in my adult life, is my passion for teaching. I am a language teacher, but the first time I taught was violin. I had a student while I was in high school, then had a few while in university. I thought music was my greatest passion; my violin and choral work would evoke such emotions that would bring me to my knees. I had never known such joy or such melancholy as I did when expressing myself with music.
In the second grade I remember answering that I was going to be a teacher. Teaching was always a part of me; Daddy was a math teacher, Mom was an English teacher, my grandmother had a teaching degree from OSU, my uncle retired relatively recently from teaching in Sacramento. I always held all my teachers in highest regard. Clearly I had my favorites, but I respected all my teachers for all they did for me. I can remember every single teacher I have ever had.
Now I am teaching in my own right. Fifteen years of teaching while affiliated with an institution of some sort has given me the confidence to branch out on my own; my teaching evaluations always came back stellar and I resented old-school professors who wouldn't allow me to teach the way I do (student-centered rather than egocentrically me-centered).
Today an ex-student from the uni contacted me. He is an African man about to finish his Ph.D coursework and embark on his dissertation. He needs Spanish to help him fulfill his doctorate in nationality and ethnicity, but is unwilling to continue with the University's program due to the lack of, in his words, 'qualified professors like you who know what they are doing and can actually teach well.' So now, two years after he first took my course, he would rather study with me than earn any credits through the University.
Tonight I met with two new students, both from Iran. These young men are extremely interested in learning Spanish--and with me. One told me today, "Do you know why I contacted you? Let me tell you. I took two advanced courses at the local uni. The professors could not captivate my interest nor keep my attention. They didn't seem to care. So then I went through Spanish Black Belt. Great website, only native speakers teach. But they offer absolutely no substance to back up their marketing. I was surfing around on CraigsList, ready to give up but then saw your ad. I checked out your website and you know what got me? Your enthusiasm. It comes through in your words and in your testimonials. You obviously love what you do. So I figured I should try you out and see if I can complete my goals through you, and here you are meeting with us, letting us get to know you and ask questions all on your time."
Enthusiasm. Passion.
When creating my website, upon deciding to go independent, I struggled with how to market myself without coming across as a braggart. Tonight's feedback told me that, to at least a couple choosey customers, I have succeeded in that quest.
Now I only hope not to let anybody down.
I am a passionate mother, much like many parents are. I could be a passionate wife and lover when with one who can bring that out in me--challenge that passion and match it.
Part of my fabric, which I have learned to be true in my adult life, is my passion for teaching. I am a language teacher, but the first time I taught was violin. I had a student while I was in high school, then had a few while in university. I thought music was my greatest passion; my violin and choral work would evoke such emotions that would bring me to my knees. I had never known such joy or such melancholy as I did when expressing myself with music.
In the second grade I remember answering that I was going to be a teacher. Teaching was always a part of me; Daddy was a math teacher, Mom was an English teacher, my grandmother had a teaching degree from OSU, my uncle retired relatively recently from teaching in Sacramento. I always held all my teachers in highest regard. Clearly I had my favorites, but I respected all my teachers for all they did for me. I can remember every single teacher I have ever had.
Now I am teaching in my own right. Fifteen years of teaching while affiliated with an institution of some sort has given me the confidence to branch out on my own; my teaching evaluations always came back stellar and I resented old-school professors who wouldn't allow me to teach the way I do (student-centered rather than egocentrically me-centered).
Today an ex-student from the uni contacted me. He is an African man about to finish his Ph.D coursework and embark on his dissertation. He needs Spanish to help him fulfill his doctorate in nationality and ethnicity, but is unwilling to continue with the University's program due to the lack of, in his words, 'qualified professors like you who know what they are doing and can actually teach well.' So now, two years after he first took my course, he would rather study with me than earn any credits through the University.
Tonight I met with two new students, both from Iran. These young men are extremely interested in learning Spanish--and with me. One told me today, "Do you know why I contacted you? Let me tell you. I took two advanced courses at the local uni. The professors could not captivate my interest nor keep my attention. They didn't seem to care. So then I went through Spanish Black Belt. Great website, only native speakers teach. But they offer absolutely no substance to back up their marketing. I was surfing around on CraigsList, ready to give up but then saw your ad. I checked out your website and you know what got me? Your enthusiasm. It comes through in your words and in your testimonials. You obviously love what you do. So I figured I should try you out and see if I can complete my goals through you, and here you are meeting with us, letting us get to know you and ask questions all on your time."
Enthusiasm. Passion.
When creating my website, upon deciding to go independent, I struggled with how to market myself without coming across as a braggart. Tonight's feedback told me that, to at least a couple choosey customers, I have succeeded in that quest.
Now I only hope not to let anybody down.
domingo, 27 de julio de 2008
the first monarch
We have had Tiger Swallowtails, Cabbage, Baltimores, and various Skipper butterflies gracing my garden--but not one monarch until today!
Tickling my purple Butterfly Bush, taking in the sweet nectar was a solitary Monarch. Even a few passers-by stopped to admire the sight. My children were thrilled.
As was I.
The joy does, indeed, lie in the details.
Tickling my purple Butterfly Bush, taking in the sweet nectar was a solitary Monarch. Even a few passers-by stopped to admire the sight. My children were thrilled.
As was I.
The joy does, indeed, lie in the details.
jueves, 1 de noviembre de 2007
All Saints
This is the day that normally seems to begin my downward spiral into my personal abyss of profound sadness each year. Halloween is over, my favorite "hallowed-day" of the year. This leaves me with my darling daughter's birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Getting to Christmas is the hardest part for me, as my father died one week before Christmas, eight years ago (gasp) this year. Once I get to Christmas Eve, singing the carols and rejoicing in Christ's Birth, I am fine again for another year.
I prepared a mini-lesson on El día de los muertos, the Mexican celebration of the Day of the Dead, celebrated not only one day but in reality throughout the month of November. It was interesting in reflecting on this celebration with my student this morning (no--wait, yesterday morning. Damn this insomnia screws with my internal time settings) and drawing comparisons to the Shinto tradition of maintaining the shrine to one's antepasados with ofrendas maintained daily: the rice, the sake, the photos, the embracing of this person who contributed so much to the lives of those still living under that roof. (I need to get back to my Nakanojo furusato blog!) Making this person a part of our daily lives. Creating a space. Paying attention. Learning from the past and creating a present from this past. The Mexican holiday is cast in much the same light, a mixture of the aztec traditions and Catholic belief; indeed, no ofrenda is complete without a cross, mole, often tequila and the cempazuchitl, the yellow marigold believed to be the flower of death (much like the chrysanthemum in Japan). El día de los muertos is a perfect illustration of the Catholic church's need to compromise with the indigenous people of the Americas in post-Conquest times so as to gain followers; an "indigenous Catholicism", in a way. Rooted deeply in the traditions native to the peoples, one traveling throughout Latin America, and even in various parts of the United States, will see a very a Roman Catholicism that is very distinct from that which is seen in Rome, filled with idolatry and accepted sacrifice and celebrations that stem from Inca, Maya, Aztec and even, as illustrated below, Afro-creole and a wide host of other external influences.
Interestingly, I also learned today--no, sorry, yesterday--that the Jewish faith does not look at death in the same way. Instead, Jewish followers turn down the photos of their deceased loved ones for a mourning period of a year. There is no open-casket velorio and the burial occurs one day after the death. Mirrors are turned away or avoided so as not to witness our suffering due to the loss...or perhaps due to the not wanting to see the memory of the antepasado still alive in our eyes, our facial details, our expressions. I am not well-versed enough in that tradition to know or to expertly present, but the comparisons and the contrasts deeply fascinate me and create in me a deep desire to learn more.
I live next to a cemetery now. I grew up across the street from a cemetery in Oregon. I have always found peace in death around me and could respect the idea of embracing the life of the one who has left us behind. My life was turned upside down with my father's death and yet I embraced him. My choice in profession is due to having a marvelous, patient public school teacher for a father, and I believe his spirit lives on in me, in allowing me to at least strive be the best teacher I can be, both in and out of the classroom. Each year I have so longed for my mourning to be different, feeling by this point that I have reached the acceptance of his death and the readiness to move on, but a deep emptiness remains in my soul. Perhaps the darkness of the year and the pointless commercialism of the season drags my spirit down as instead, each year presents me with a battle. I want to move on and not feel so sad...but I can't. There are other (rather huge) reasons as well, which I suppose I will write about, now that I seem to have found a bit of relief in writing, come December. I don't want to start to dwell too early.
Today, the mantra in my mind will run, over and over, for my dear father, for the innocence lost, for all the loss I have had to endure,
St. Michael, pray for us...
I prepared a mini-lesson on El día de los muertos, the Mexican celebration of the Day of the Dead, celebrated not only one day but in reality throughout the month of November. It was interesting in reflecting on this celebration with my student this morning (no--wait, yesterday morning. Damn this insomnia screws with my internal time settings) and drawing comparisons to the Shinto tradition of maintaining the shrine to one's antepasados with ofrendas maintained daily: the rice, the sake, the photos, the embracing of this person who contributed so much to the lives of those still living under that roof. (I need to get back to my Nakanojo furusato blog!) Making this person a part of our daily lives. Creating a space. Paying attention. Learning from the past and creating a present from this past. The Mexican holiday is cast in much the same light, a mixture of the aztec traditions and Catholic belief; indeed, no ofrenda is complete without a cross, mole, often tequila and the cempazuchitl, the yellow marigold believed to be the flower of death (much like the chrysanthemum in Japan). El día de los muertos is a perfect illustration of the Catholic church's need to compromise with the indigenous people of the Americas in post-Conquest times so as to gain followers; an "indigenous Catholicism", in a way. Rooted deeply in the traditions native to the peoples, one traveling throughout Latin America, and even in various parts of the United States, will see a very a Roman Catholicism that is very distinct from that which is seen in Rome, filled with idolatry and accepted sacrifice and celebrations that stem from Inca, Maya, Aztec and even, as illustrated below, Afro-creole and a wide host of other external influences.
Interestingly, I also learned today--no, sorry, yesterday--that the Jewish faith does not look at death in the same way. Instead, Jewish followers turn down the photos of their deceased loved ones for a mourning period of a year. There is no open-casket velorio and the burial occurs one day after the death. Mirrors are turned away or avoided so as not to witness our suffering due to the loss...or perhaps due to the not wanting to see the memory of the antepasado still alive in our eyes, our facial details, our expressions. I am not well-versed enough in that tradition to know or to expertly present, but the comparisons and the contrasts deeply fascinate me and create in me a deep desire to learn more.
I live next to a cemetery now. I grew up across the street from a cemetery in Oregon. I have always found peace in death around me and could respect the idea of embracing the life of the one who has left us behind. My life was turned upside down with my father's death and yet I embraced him. My choice in profession is due to having a marvelous, patient public school teacher for a father, and I believe his spirit lives on in me, in allowing me to at least strive be the best teacher I can be, both in and out of the classroom. Each year I have so longed for my mourning to be different, feeling by this point that I have reached the acceptance of his death and the readiness to move on, but a deep emptiness remains in my soul. Perhaps the darkness of the year and the pointless commercialism of the season drags my spirit down as instead, each year presents me with a battle. I want to move on and not feel so sad...but I can't. There are other (rather huge) reasons as well, which I suppose I will write about, now that I seem to have found a bit of relief in writing, come December. I don't want to start to dwell too early.
Today, the mantra in my mind will run, over and over, for my dear father, for the innocence lost, for all the loss I have had to endure,
St. Michael, pray for us...
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