A thunderstorm rolled over me at 2:30 in the morning.
True, it rolled over the entire area, but I am usually the only one I know who is awakened by the thunder, the flashes, the energy, the rain, the gloriously wet smell that fills and freshens the air.
I find thunderstorms, especially those that surprise me in the middle of the night, to be extremely exciting and invigorating. The energy is undeniable; I feel connected to so much around me with senses heightened during such storms.
Last night I allowed myself to remain in a semi-dream state during the storm. I felt a deep longing pulling at my soul, an almost primal need for connection that has not been fulfilled in so long. I have never made love during any storm, which surprises me because, although I feel so alive I never could awaken my partner or the opportunity was simply unavailable to me for whatever reason. My passionate soul has found great disappointment, sadness and loneliness in a marriage lacking in desire to share any form of spontaneous, stormy pleasure; indeed, "give-give-give" does breed resentment among the giver when there is no reciprocity involved nor any desire demonstrated in learning how to reciprocate.
As my muscles reacted in the anticipation of each thunder clap that would follow each brilliant flash I tried to remain floating above the pleasant sensations, the draw back to Earth attempting to awaken me further but I resisted the gravitational seduction...
...and then came the rain.
In squalls, the sky would open for about thirty seconds, then cease suddenly to a trickle with a very zen-esque quality to the drip-drops from the leaves of the dogwood outside my bedroom window to the wet mulch below. This cycle repeated about three times until the rain continued steady, lulling me back into my dreams. I could taste the water in the air, I could smell the delicious humidity and, in closing my eyes, I could sense the water bringing calm to all fires caused by the lightning.
Is this my oft-joked druid side? Or is this me being Woman?
Gravity then won its seduction when the pitter-patter of almost-four year-old feet came from his room into mine, and a little cuddle ball climbed up to put his cold feet against his mother's warm thighs.
Back to my sweet reality.
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta myths. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta myths. Mostrar todas las entradas
sábado, 21 de junio de 2008
domingo, 25 de mayo de 2008
bird droppings and corresponding good fortune
I have found myself at three different points in my life, the most recent being yesterday, wondering if the belief that, when shat upon by a bird you are to be graced with good luck, is a semi-truth with roots in wives' tales...or a huge crock of, well, guano.
(By the way, etymology of the word guano dictates droppings not exclusive to bats but rather, with roots in Quechua--the Language of the Incas--to indicate any bird dropping, usually that of sea-living birds--sorry, nerd moment...but I did learn something out in the Ballestas of Paracas, see???)
Yeppers...just outside Buckies. Shat upon again. Right on the right shoulder.
Rather than this destiny being met with the dreaded "Ew, gross, Mom!" or the more infantile (and fitting for a three year-old), "HA HA HA HA HA!!!!" responses I was expecting, I was instead the object of great fascination by my children.
Oh, Mom, does this mean you are really lucky? How many times has a bird pooped on you? I wish a bird would poop on me. Did you see it coming? Did you see the bird? I wonder what the bird ate...
You get the picture.
After rushing into the Buckies baño to wash off this Mark of Distinction from my newly tie-dyed-by-hand-thank-you-very-much t-shirt I proceeded to place our order, then we sat outside and ate our Buckies treats that we, yes, biked downtown to enjoy (yeah, I'm still trying to save gas even if others have given up the fight. I'm stubborn like that.).
A lady we know then stopped to say hi, then invited us to swim today (we didn't end up having time, unfortunately). Then said that we could come at any time during the summer that we wanted, because she owns (not rents) in the complex where the pool is located and all we have to do is sign in saying we are her guests.
Dude. Major score.
And all occuring within nano-um-minutes of having been shat upon.
My honest side then kicked me in the ribs and I asked, "Well, isn't that a violation of some sort of ethical code or rules or something?" "No," she responded. "I own there, so I can say who goes on my name and who doesn't."
Oh. Okie dokie then.
Pros: It would save a lot of gas while giving us something cool to do--less than a mile from home and the kids can easily bike there. The closest pool is almost 2 miles down the major street--which isn't bad getting there but the operating term there is down. Which means going uphill all the way home is a completely different story with the Youn 3.75 year old Prince riding his own, um, self-propelled chariot.
And it would save a lot of moo-lah as well, even for an August-only membership at that pool.
Cons: We would be the only ones we would know there and I would not take advantage of this extension of kindness to "invite" others on my invitation. I just am too guilt-ridden (can you tell, born and bred Catholic?!) to consider that. And I would still feel like I was completely taking advantage of an invitation that perhaps was simply made in kind; it can be very, very hard for me to discern sincerity from niceties. I have an inbuilt defensive side, always cautious, always wary of fully trusting. This inhibits my very well-developed sixth sense, so much so that my sixth sense has been put on the back burner lately.
Anyway, digressing to the bird poop.
Was this all coinki-dink? I also succeeded in getting two screen doors installed yesterday, completing the front door this morning. The little monkeys and I had a glorious day filled with joy and togetherness at the Town festival with La Princesita demonstrating some really beautiful facets of her personality (no, I am not being facetious). I am so truly blessed...
...or just bird-sh*t lucky.
(By the way, etymology of the word guano dictates droppings not exclusive to bats but rather, with roots in Quechua--the Language of the Incas--to indicate any bird dropping, usually that of sea-living birds--sorry, nerd moment...but I did learn something out in the Ballestas of Paracas, see???)
Yeppers...just outside Buckies. Shat upon again. Right on the right shoulder.
Rather than this destiny being met with the dreaded "Ew, gross, Mom!" or the more infantile (and fitting for a three year-old), "HA HA HA HA HA!!!!" responses I was expecting, I was instead the object of great fascination by my children.
Oh, Mom, does this mean you are really lucky? How many times has a bird pooped on you? I wish a bird would poop on me. Did you see it coming? Did you see the bird? I wonder what the bird ate...
You get the picture.
After rushing into the Buckies baño to wash off this Mark of Distinction from my newly tie-dyed-by-hand-thank-you-very-much t-shirt I proceeded to place our order, then we sat outside and ate our Buckies treats that we, yes, biked downtown to enjoy (yeah, I'm still trying to save gas even if others have given up the fight. I'm stubborn like that.).
A lady we know then stopped to say hi, then invited us to swim today (we didn't end up having time, unfortunately). Then said that we could come at any time during the summer that we wanted, because she owns (not rents) in the complex where the pool is located and all we have to do is sign in saying we are her guests.
Dude. Major score.
And all occuring within nano-um-minutes of having been shat upon.
My honest side then kicked me in the ribs and I asked, "Well, isn't that a violation of some sort of ethical code or rules or something?" "No," she responded. "I own there, so I can say who goes on my name and who doesn't."
Oh. Okie dokie then.
Pros: It would save a lot of gas while giving us something cool to do--less than a mile from home and the kids can easily bike there. The closest pool is almost 2 miles down the major street--which isn't bad getting there but the operating term there is down. Which means going uphill all the way home is a completely different story with the Youn 3.75 year old Prince riding his own, um, self-propelled chariot.
And it would save a lot of moo-lah as well, even for an August-only membership at that pool.
Cons: We would be the only ones we would know there and I would not take advantage of this extension of kindness to "invite" others on my invitation. I just am too guilt-ridden (can you tell, born and bred Catholic?!) to consider that. And I would still feel like I was completely taking advantage of an invitation that perhaps was simply made in kind; it can be very, very hard for me to discern sincerity from niceties. I have an inbuilt defensive side, always cautious, always wary of fully trusting. This inhibits my very well-developed sixth sense, so much so that my sixth sense has been put on the back burner lately.
Anyway, digressing to the bird poop.
Was this all coinki-dink? I also succeeded in getting two screen doors installed yesterday, completing the front door this morning. The little monkeys and I had a glorious day filled with joy and togetherness at the Town festival with La Princesita demonstrating some really beautiful facets of her personality (no, I am not being facetious). I am so truly blessed...
...or just bird-sh*t lucky.
viernes, 23 de mayo de 2008
our drinks
I went to dinner about a year ago with an ex-student. She had asked me for a few recommendations upon her graduation, and I had done some Spanish brush-up sessions for her for some teaching interviews she needed to prep for.
There is a local chain that serves really good quality food in the different restaurants that are located in the region. The one we chose, as my ex-student is vegetarian, is the more fish-menued restaurant. Being a Friday night in Suburbia, there was quite a wait even for two people so, after getting our names listed, going down to Black House-White Market to shop then returning to find we still had yet to be called, we opted to sit at the bar and chat.
She ordered a beer, I ordered a glass of Clos du Bois. Pinot noir, I do believe.
She looked at me, and said, "That says a lot about you."
Immediately I jumped to the defensive (of course--after all, I'm Me). "I hope that doesn't mean I'm a snob!"
"No, just that you have refined taste and that you know what you like."
Oh.
My drink choices have evolved greatly since my days of a bottle of rum in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other, chasing the rum with the Coke in a sort of free-style Cuba Libre. I used to go for the piña coladas, the daiquiris--the fruitier the better. Kahlúa and creme was also a favorite. Beer has never been a biggee for me, but a Corona con limón could never do me wrong, and Sapporo right from the brewery in Japan rocked my world.
I like drier drinks now, preferring a margarita to the fruities anytime, and reds to whites. True Spanish sangría is a treat, but that does not really count due to the cultural plug.
So what does that say about me?
Does a certain type of beverage make a statement about its recipient?
What is your social beverage (alcoholic or otherwise) of preference? I admit to loving my water, but when out socially I do tend to drink other things besides water...so discount water here, please, as that is a basic necessity for life on Earth.
And what do you believe your choice says, if anything, about you?
Excuse me, my glass of Spanish tempranillo awaits...
There is a local chain that serves really good quality food in the different restaurants that are located in the region. The one we chose, as my ex-student is vegetarian, is the more fish-menued restaurant. Being a Friday night in Suburbia, there was quite a wait even for two people so, after getting our names listed, going down to Black House-White Market to shop then returning to find we still had yet to be called, we opted to sit at the bar and chat.
She ordered a beer, I ordered a glass of Clos du Bois. Pinot noir, I do believe.
She looked at me, and said, "That says a lot about you."
Immediately I jumped to the defensive (of course--after all, I'm Me). "I hope that doesn't mean I'm a snob!"
"No, just that you have refined taste and that you know what you like."
Oh.
My drink choices have evolved greatly since my days of a bottle of rum in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other, chasing the rum with the Coke in a sort of free-style Cuba Libre. I used to go for the piña coladas, the daiquiris--the fruitier the better. Kahlúa and creme was also a favorite. Beer has never been a biggee for me, but a Corona con limón could never do me wrong, and Sapporo right from the brewery in Japan rocked my world.
I like drier drinks now, preferring a margarita to the fruities anytime, and reds to whites. True Spanish sangría is a treat, but that does not really count due to the cultural plug.
So what does that say about me?
Does a certain type of beverage make a statement about its recipient?
What is your social beverage (alcoholic or otherwise) of preference? I admit to loving my water, but when out socially I do tend to drink other things besides water...so discount water here, please, as that is a basic necessity for life on Earth.
And what do you believe your choice says, if anything, about you?
Excuse me, my glass of Spanish tempranillo awaits...
martes, 26 de febrero de 2008
the human barometer
We have a low that moved over last night and brought us some rain. Possibly some snow as it moves out and the cold north winds come back in overnight, but nothing that would cancel or postpone school.
As the Human Barometer, I feel every passage of these lows almost as if being a personal attack. The headache starts--sometimes, as in yesterday, very low and gradually builds. Other times, depending on the intensity of the low, it hits so hard I can almost fall down with the pure force. How do I know that this is caused by my sensitivity to meteorological events? Two reasons: one, as soon as the low passes, the headache disappears completely, and two, my palms say so.
Yes, I do know Basic Palm Reading. I could say I have passed 101 level and can operate more on the 200-level. Not advanced, but I found it a great way to teach verb tenses expressing future, probablility (subjunctive) and even use of the imperative (commands) in some of my intermediate Spanish classes that was different and a lot of fun for my adult students. So I learned how to read palms, put some general diagrams together with general Spanish terms and voila! a new class activity.
Anyhow, my Mercury line is extremely well-defined. It stretches from the inner palm of my hand outwards and upwards toward my pinkie finger. Some people have it, some do not. Some have a weak line, some have strong lines. The stronger the line, the more “affected by one’s environment” one tends to be…and this extends to sensitivity to emotional states, allergies, foods…not merely weather.
Interesting. Want me to read your palm? Scan me a copy of your palm. We’ll see what I can do! ☺ Couple that with my dream analysis, and I can add an entirely new realm to my language business…
hmmm…the Language of the Past, Present and Future….
I like it!
As the Human Barometer, I feel every passage of these lows almost as if being a personal attack. The headache starts--sometimes, as in yesterday, very low and gradually builds. Other times, depending on the intensity of the low, it hits so hard I can almost fall down with the pure force. How do I know that this is caused by my sensitivity to meteorological events? Two reasons: one, as soon as the low passes, the headache disappears completely, and two, my palms say so.
Yes, I do know Basic Palm Reading. I could say I have passed 101 level and can operate more on the 200-level. Not advanced, but I found it a great way to teach verb tenses expressing future, probablility (subjunctive) and even use of the imperative (commands) in some of my intermediate Spanish classes that was different and a lot of fun for my adult students. So I learned how to read palms, put some general diagrams together with general Spanish terms and voila! a new class activity.
Anyhow, my Mercury line is extremely well-defined. It stretches from the inner palm of my hand outwards and upwards toward my pinkie finger. Some people have it, some do not. Some have a weak line, some have strong lines. The stronger the line, the more “affected by one’s environment” one tends to be…and this extends to sensitivity to emotional states, allergies, foods…not merely weather.
Interesting. Want me to read your palm? Scan me a copy of your palm. We’ll see what I can do! ☺ Couple that with my dream analysis, and I can add an entirely new realm to my language business…
hmmm…the Language of the Past, Present and Future….
I like it!
jueves, 14 de febrero de 2008
Does this year seem early to you?
It does to me.
Everything is happening so early. Easter is celebrated very early this year. Mardi Gras was extremely early. My mother even said that her birthday is NEVER the same week as Easter.
So I researched the question a little bit.
The Christian celebrations of Lent and Easter are determined by the lunar year; Easter traditionally falls the first Sunday following the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. I did know that. This year, all of these occurances take place during the same week in March, with Easter falling on the 23rd. This is a rare occurance, I learned; indeed, Easter has not fallen so early as March 23rd since 1913. Woodrow Wilson was President. Lent that year began on February 5 (this year February 6 due to it being a leap year).
Easter will not occur this early again until we are all gone from this Earth, in the year 2160.
In case Alex ever were to ask that on Jeopardy!, you are now prepared.
Everything is happening so early. Easter is celebrated very early this year. Mardi Gras was extremely early. My mother even said that her birthday is NEVER the same week as Easter.
So I researched the question a little bit.
The Christian celebrations of Lent and Easter are determined by the lunar year; Easter traditionally falls the first Sunday following the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. I did know that. This year, all of these occurances take place during the same week in March, with Easter falling on the 23rd. This is a rare occurance, I learned; indeed, Easter has not fallen so early as March 23rd since 1913. Woodrow Wilson was President. Lent that year began on February 5 (this year February 6 due to it being a leap year).
Easter will not occur this early again until we are all gone from this Earth, in the year 2160.
In case Alex ever were to ask that on Jeopardy!, you are now prepared.
miércoles, 23 de enero de 2008
for some reason...
A lot of what I have read in many blogs this week has revolved around the idea of the pursuit of being happy with one's own self and about finding one's place and purpose in this world and in this life. For some reason all of these ideas reminded me of this song. He's one my favorites in a very trippy-sort of way, and sings in French, Spanish and English. This one is in English, with French repeating the last minute and a half or so at the end.
King of Bongo Bong-Manu Chao
Mama was queen of the mambo
Papa was king of the Congo
Deep down in a jungle
Last up banging life has Bongo
Every monkey like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
I went to the big town
Where there is a lot of sound
From the jungle to the city
Looking for a bigger crown
So I play my Bongee
For the people of this city
But they don't go crazy
When I'm banging all my boogie
I´m the
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Nobody like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause nobody go crazy
When I'm banging all my boogie
I'm a king without a crown
And I'm losing a big town
But I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
They said that I'm a clown
Making too much dirty sound
They said there is no place
For little monkey in this town
Nobody like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause nobody go crazy
When I'm banging all my boogie
I'm the
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
Banging all my boogie
All that swing belongs to me
I'm so happy there's nobody
In my place instead of me
I'm a king without a crown
And losing a big town
But I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
Mama was queen of the mambo
Papa was king of the Congo
Deep down in a jungle
Last up banging life has Bongo
Every monkey like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
Hear me when I come
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
King of Bongo Bong-Manu Chao
Mama was queen of the mambo
Papa was king of the Congo
Deep down in a jungle
Last up banging life has Bongo
Every monkey like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
I went to the big town
Where there is a lot of sound
From the jungle to the city
Looking for a bigger crown
So I play my Bongee
For the people of this city
But they don't go crazy
When I'm banging all my boogie
I´m the
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Nobody like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause nobody go crazy
When I'm banging all my boogie
I'm a king without a crown
And I'm losing a big town
But I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
They said that I'm a clown
Making too much dirty sound
They said there is no place
For little monkey in this town
Nobody like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause nobody go crazy
When I'm banging all my boogie
I'm the
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
Banging all my boogie
All that swing belongs to me
I'm so happy there's nobody
In my place instead of me
I'm a king without a crown
And losing a big town
But I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
Mama was queen of the mambo
Papa was king of the Congo
Deep down in a jungle
Last up banging life has Bongo
Every monkey like to be
In my place instead of me
Cause I'm the king of Bongo
Baby I'm the king of Bongo bong
Hear me when I come
Hear me when I come, baby
King of the Bongo
King of the Bongo
Hear me when I come
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
Je ne t'aime plus mon amour
Je ne t'aime plus tout le jour
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...
sábado, 27 de octubre de 2007
Something to spook your socks off
A public figure in a port town, he constantly was faced with decisions. Whether or not to close the port. Whether or not to stand up for principles over corruption, in a country and culture operating under the thick influence of corruption. Whether or not to call off search and rescue efforts due to inclement weather conditions. Such decisions can create strong allies with those respectful of one’s commitment to humanity and justice. Even more powerful are the enemies that inevitably form once their interests are violated.
In 2005, serving the first of a two-year mandate in the Town, he opted to follow the law and ignore several bribery attempts in various scandals that shook the area. One exemplary case revolved around medical professionals fraudulently filling forms required for law enforcement officials’ proof of eligibility to serve. He turned all evidence over to the Powers that Be, and several were brought to justice, some currently serving prison sentences.
His position often called him out of full nights’ sleep. He had to live separated from his family, his wife and his young children. He had to travel frequently to the capital for legal proceedings in which he was tried under money laundering charges stemming from service under a past president’s regime. He had to constantly deal with the press, especially when there would be a death at sea. He had to answer to fishermen or tourist agencies that depended on the sea to grant them their daily bread each time he closed the port. Once every so often he would be able to get out for a run; he enjoyed running and could easily run the length of the shore between the fishing and the tourist ports, a distance of about ten miles. However, as his daily decisions continued to garner him both the strongest of supporters and the worst of critiques, threats began to reach his ears and he felt he must only leave his quarters either accompanied or packing heat, usually both.
In the next year his health began to deteriorate. He began to experience intense stomach pains. Having always led a rather stressful existence, ulcers were a normal health consideration, and his doctors continued with the same diagnosis for the new pain. He stopped smoking, he stopped drinking and he began to eat well. His physique radically improved, yet the pain only continued to increase. Toward the end of his two-year charge in the Town, he underwent a gall bladder removal. Soon thereafter he returned to his home, leaving the Town and all those issues, optimistically, behind. Three weeks later he fell deathly ill with vertigo while out running and was admitted for a two-week stay in the hospital. He was found not guilty on the money laundering charges, although many others tried alongside him were sent to prison. He recovered from the vertigo, but the stomach pain ensued. Endoscopy after endoscopy, blood test after blood test followed, with a diagnosis of metaplasia--pre-stomach cancer.
The stressful life continued, as work continued to drain him of positive energies. He was held at gunpoint as a thug attempted a robbery on his car. Both he and his wife were involved in minor car accidents within the City. Legal proceedings revolving around the possible interception of telephone calls then took precedence and, although the hearings still have yet to begin the stress of pure anticipation eroded his soul.
It seemed that one bad thing after another continued to occur and, all the meanwhile his stomach pain increased, to the point of barely being able to eat. Bowel movements became problematically loose and he was beginning to lose hope that he, at 39 years of age, had much time left on Earth.
An old friend, of whose daughter he happened to be named godfather, approached him one day and mentioned the possibility of a hex having been placed on him. Both being Catholics, living in an extremely Catholic country, he laughed off that extremely Nancy Drew-esque possibility yet his companion persisted. Over the course of a month he continued to press him to visit a special doctor, a shaman, one who is known for being able to see what is wrong, beyond that which traditional Western medicine will, in what can be its limited scientific scope, be capable of identifying. Finally convinced that he had absolutely nothing to lose, he allowed himself to be taken to this doctor. In a very short time he was told that he had been stricken with powerful curses and was to be sent immediately to visit a type of a sage, a seer, a priest--the appropriate title is elusive but this man had the ability not to cure, as the shaman would, but instead to define and to cast out or undo spells, tasks that fall beyond the scope of a shaman's abilities.
Extremely dubious but feeling, again, that there was nothing to lose he found himself at 6:30 a.m. the next morning at the steps of this seer. There were five others already awaiting his attentions, and there was nothing he could do but wait. He was invited in at 6:30 p.m. and the sage spent two and a half frightfully irrational hours with him.
The region in which he served his two years is one of great Afro-creole influence. Witchcraft is famously practiced there; world-famously, individuals have been known to travel to this area in search of cures for maladies which Western medicine had written off as terminal. White witchcraft invoking the Christian God, Biblical study, love and natural remedies acts as a powerful antidote to black magic that calls up diabolical powers to act in pure hatred against its victims, and both are actively and naturally sought by the population of this area; indeed, the embracing of such powers is as natural as breathing and as accepted as eating.
It was discovered that three different individuals, on three completely separate occasions and in three different locations had created powerful spells of hate toward him. The sage presented him with three bags in which a doll, hand-printed hatred chants on evidently-aged paper, and various “charms” were enclosed. Among these charms were dead frogs, snakes, bullets, items collected from what had been a meeting between him and each of these individuals, and one bag even included a photo of him that was a couple of years old, taken of him when he had assumed his position in the Town in 2005.
He was dumbfounded. His rational mind refused to comprehend the pure quantity of items that were laid in front of him, the demonstrated hatred toward him. How could he, a well-educated Catholic believer and a moral man, fall victim to or even believe that such witchery could do such damage, let alone exist? He logically determined there was no way this photo could have been obtained by this sage or by anybody merely working with him. His identity was unknown to this man previous to the visit. How could he have been so hated? He was presented with evidences of identity of those who created these black death wishes, who are indeed currently serving prison sentences for crimes committed. Also spoken of were explicit details of his life that are not public knowledge and with such detail that he left, two and a half hours later, completely stupefied.
Somebody wanted him to die. Three people wished him to die. The curses varied, but in common they all attacked his gut, with snakes in the entrails of the dolls. There were written desires for him to die in an accident or to be shot. The priest undid these curses and told him that he could only undo that which was the Devil’s work. Any naturally caused bodily degradation would require medical attention and treatment. Homework readings of Bible Scripture were assigned for mental cleansing. The sage said that any other person would be dead already after trying to fight the power of this hatred already for two full years; he did not see how this individual had thus far overcome the evil working over his being. The human body and soul cannot tolerate the manifestation of so much pure evil.
This which I relate above occurred this past Wednesday and Thursday. He was reported on Friday to feel at about 75% less abdominal pain than he had felt in recent months, without any production of gas whatsoever in digestion, also a rarity now, and he purportedly could eat chicken that day.
Believe it…or not.
Happy Halloween!
In 2005, serving the first of a two-year mandate in the Town, he opted to follow the law and ignore several bribery attempts in various scandals that shook the area. One exemplary case revolved around medical professionals fraudulently filling forms required for law enforcement officials’ proof of eligibility to serve. He turned all evidence over to the Powers that Be, and several were brought to justice, some currently serving prison sentences.
His position often called him out of full nights’ sleep. He had to live separated from his family, his wife and his young children. He had to travel frequently to the capital for legal proceedings in which he was tried under money laundering charges stemming from service under a past president’s regime. He had to constantly deal with the press, especially when there would be a death at sea. He had to answer to fishermen or tourist agencies that depended on the sea to grant them their daily bread each time he closed the port. Once every so often he would be able to get out for a run; he enjoyed running and could easily run the length of the shore between the fishing and the tourist ports, a distance of about ten miles. However, as his daily decisions continued to garner him both the strongest of supporters and the worst of critiques, threats began to reach his ears and he felt he must only leave his quarters either accompanied or packing heat, usually both.
In the next year his health began to deteriorate. He began to experience intense stomach pains. Having always led a rather stressful existence, ulcers were a normal health consideration, and his doctors continued with the same diagnosis for the new pain. He stopped smoking, he stopped drinking and he began to eat well. His physique radically improved, yet the pain only continued to increase. Toward the end of his two-year charge in the Town, he underwent a gall bladder removal. Soon thereafter he returned to his home, leaving the Town and all those issues, optimistically, behind. Three weeks later he fell deathly ill with vertigo while out running and was admitted for a two-week stay in the hospital. He was found not guilty on the money laundering charges, although many others tried alongside him were sent to prison. He recovered from the vertigo, but the stomach pain ensued. Endoscopy after endoscopy, blood test after blood test followed, with a diagnosis of metaplasia--pre-stomach cancer.
The stressful life continued, as work continued to drain him of positive energies. He was held at gunpoint as a thug attempted a robbery on his car. Both he and his wife were involved in minor car accidents within the City. Legal proceedings revolving around the possible interception of telephone calls then took precedence and, although the hearings still have yet to begin the stress of pure anticipation eroded his soul.
It seemed that one bad thing after another continued to occur and, all the meanwhile his stomach pain increased, to the point of barely being able to eat. Bowel movements became problematically loose and he was beginning to lose hope that he, at 39 years of age, had much time left on Earth.
An old friend, of whose daughter he happened to be named godfather, approached him one day and mentioned the possibility of a hex having been placed on him. Both being Catholics, living in an extremely Catholic country, he laughed off that extremely Nancy Drew-esque possibility yet his companion persisted. Over the course of a month he continued to press him to visit a special doctor, a shaman, one who is known for being able to see what is wrong, beyond that which traditional Western medicine will, in what can be its limited scientific scope, be capable of identifying. Finally convinced that he had absolutely nothing to lose, he allowed himself to be taken to this doctor. In a very short time he was told that he had been stricken with powerful curses and was to be sent immediately to visit a type of a sage, a seer, a priest--the appropriate title is elusive but this man had the ability not to cure, as the shaman would, but instead to define and to cast out or undo spells, tasks that fall beyond the scope of a shaman's abilities.
Extremely dubious but feeling, again, that there was nothing to lose he found himself at 6:30 a.m. the next morning at the steps of this seer. There were five others already awaiting his attentions, and there was nothing he could do but wait. He was invited in at 6:30 p.m. and the sage spent two and a half frightfully irrational hours with him.
The region in which he served his two years is one of great Afro-creole influence. Witchcraft is famously practiced there; world-famously, individuals have been known to travel to this area in search of cures for maladies which Western medicine had written off as terminal. White witchcraft invoking the Christian God, Biblical study, love and natural remedies acts as a powerful antidote to black magic that calls up diabolical powers to act in pure hatred against its victims, and both are actively and naturally sought by the population of this area; indeed, the embracing of such powers is as natural as breathing and as accepted as eating.
It was discovered that three different individuals, on three completely separate occasions and in three different locations had created powerful spells of hate toward him. The sage presented him with three bags in which a doll, hand-printed hatred chants on evidently-aged paper, and various “charms” were enclosed. Among these charms were dead frogs, snakes, bullets, items collected from what had been a meeting between him and each of these individuals, and one bag even included a photo of him that was a couple of years old, taken of him when he had assumed his position in the Town in 2005.
He was dumbfounded. His rational mind refused to comprehend the pure quantity of items that were laid in front of him, the demonstrated hatred toward him. How could he, a well-educated Catholic believer and a moral man, fall victim to or even believe that such witchery could do such damage, let alone exist? He logically determined there was no way this photo could have been obtained by this sage or by anybody merely working with him. His identity was unknown to this man previous to the visit. How could he have been so hated? He was presented with evidences of identity of those who created these black death wishes, who are indeed currently serving prison sentences for crimes committed. Also spoken of were explicit details of his life that are not public knowledge and with such detail that he left, two and a half hours later, completely stupefied.
Somebody wanted him to die. Three people wished him to die. The curses varied, but in common they all attacked his gut, with snakes in the entrails of the dolls. There were written desires for him to die in an accident or to be shot. The priest undid these curses and told him that he could only undo that which was the Devil’s work. Any naturally caused bodily degradation would require medical attention and treatment. Homework readings of Bible Scripture were assigned for mental cleansing. The sage said that any other person would be dead already after trying to fight the power of this hatred already for two full years; he did not see how this individual had thus far overcome the evil working over his being. The human body and soul cannot tolerate the manifestation of so much pure evil.
This which I relate above occurred this past Wednesday and Thursday. He was reported on Friday to feel at about 75% less abdominal pain than he had felt in recent months, without any production of gas whatsoever in digestion, also a rarity now, and he purportedly could eat chicken that day.
Believe it…or not.
Happy Halloween!
viernes, 21 de septiembre de 2007
Econ 101
Last night's dinner conversation revolved around the library books that K had checked out from the school library since beginning Kindergarten three weeks ago. Last week she brought home a wonderful book titled Pictures from Our Vacation, a Newberry Award winner. I was telling her how proud I was of her that she could read so many words, even some of the big words, all by herself.
We then got onto the topic of motels.
The family in the story stayed in a motel called the Shangri-La. The sign out front said it had a pool, which I am certain the children in the backseat were very excited to see, but they soon found out that there was no water in the pool.
This talk about a motel began our Econ 101 lesson for the evening.
-What's a motel?
-Well, it's a place you stay when you aren't camping but you aren't at home. We stayed in a motel in Oregon when we went back to visit 'Amma this summer.
-Oh, that wasn't a hotel? I thought that was a hotel.
-No, that was a motel. It was a nice motel but it was still a motel.
-Well, then, what's a hotel?
-Well, a hotel is where you go and a person is there to take you luggage to your room and there is food that you can order room service and it is all fancy-schmancy and everything.
-Oh, well, what happens if that person takes your things and doesn't bring them to your room?
-Oh, that person is paid to bring our things to our room, and usually we give them a tip, a little extra money, to make sure that our things get to our room safely. But I don't like to go to hotels because only rich people can afford to stay at hotels and I don't feel very comfortable around rich people.
-Yeah, we're not rich, are we?
-No, we're not rich.
Then K stopped, thought a moment, and said,
-Boy, Sheila is rich.
I looked at K and asked, -Why do you say that?
-Because they have all those toys.
-Oh.
-Yeah, I bet if we were rich we'd have a lot more toys than we do.
Instead of immediately jumping to the defensive as I would normally do, I simply let the issue lie with that basic economic observation. Personal choice versus economics--how could she possibly understand that I might not actually buy her all that her little heart desires even if I had the monetary resources to do so? I hope she might come to understand so as not to feel deprived. She has toys, she has books, and she has a fantastic imagination that permits her to discover fun inside or outside without necessarily having any toys with which to play. That was a parenting choice that I made, and every single parent makes different choices. The respect for the different choices is important, but my hope is that she can look back on her childhood and see riches of a different kind that she was given.
We then got onto the topic of motels.
The family in the story stayed in a motel called the Shangri-La. The sign out front said it had a pool, which I am certain the children in the backseat were very excited to see, but they soon found out that there was no water in the pool.
This talk about a motel began our Econ 101 lesson for the evening.
-What's a motel?
-Well, it's a place you stay when you aren't camping but you aren't at home. We stayed in a motel in Oregon when we went back to visit 'Amma this summer.
-Oh, that wasn't a hotel? I thought that was a hotel.
-No, that was a motel. It was a nice motel but it was still a motel.
-Well, then, what's a hotel?
-Well, a hotel is where you go and a person is there to take you luggage to your room and there is food that you can order room service and it is all fancy-schmancy and everything.
-Oh, well, what happens if that person takes your things and doesn't bring them to your room?
-Oh, that person is paid to bring our things to our room, and usually we give them a tip, a little extra money, to make sure that our things get to our room safely. But I don't like to go to hotels because only rich people can afford to stay at hotels and I don't feel very comfortable around rich people.
-Yeah, we're not rich, are we?
-No, we're not rich.
Then K stopped, thought a moment, and said,
-Boy, Sheila is rich.
I looked at K and asked, -Why do you say that?
-Because they have all those toys.
-Oh.
-Yeah, I bet if we were rich we'd have a lot more toys than we do.
Instead of immediately jumping to the defensive as I would normally do, I simply let the issue lie with that basic economic observation. Personal choice versus economics--how could she possibly understand that I might not actually buy her all that her little heart desires even if I had the monetary resources to do so? I hope she might come to understand so as not to feel deprived. She has toys, she has books, and she has a fantastic imagination that permits her to discover fun inside or outside without necessarily having any toys with which to play. That was a parenting choice that I made, and every single parent makes different choices. The respect for the different choices is important, but my hope is that she can look back on her childhood and see riches of a different kind that she was given.
sábado, 1 de septiembre de 2007
September in God's time
Today was the first of September. It felt like a September day. The sky was a brilliant blue, that which we only see as an autumn sky.
I spent the day in the garden--more God time. I am finding God in so many more places that God made and less so in places man-made in God's name. I'm not sure why that is, but as I have always been drawn to nature, perhaps that is where God is calling me to find him now.
This is a difficult issue for me as I have been raised Catholic and in a firm, church-going household. I believe in God. I love my God. I want my children to grow up with a respect and a love for God as well, and believe they should be educated so as to be able to make their decisions as to how they must individually pay respect to God in their lives. I try to teach them in my home the importance of God in our lives, and how we can be God-like in how we treat ourselves and how we treat others. I try to teach as well a respect for all life, even the lives of the bothersome crickets currently invading our home.
I used to believe that my rather antisystemic point of view stemmed from a fundamental insecurity in my beliefs; that indeed, God would strike me down if I didn't attend Mass each week. I have come to see that, contrary to the point of view of many, instead I am extremely secure in my faith and am willing to stretch my relationship with God and question instead of being a mere blind follower...
So I, in the past 10 months, have made some realizations and some decisions based on these realizations. One great realization is that I have always done what others believe I should do for their approbation. That is not necessarily what is correct for me to do, but I do. I want people to be proud of me and to see me as doing what they define to be as right, even if it does not feel right in my heart. Some of this has to do with my manner of practicing my faith. There are other subjects that fall under this idea as well. However, God is the theme for today.
And I enjoyed the first day of September fully today--and in God's time!
I spent the day in the garden--more God time. I am finding God in so many more places that God made and less so in places man-made in God's name. I'm not sure why that is, but as I have always been drawn to nature, perhaps that is where God is calling me to find him now.
This is a difficult issue for me as I have been raised Catholic and in a firm, church-going household. I believe in God. I love my God. I want my children to grow up with a respect and a love for God as well, and believe they should be educated so as to be able to make their decisions as to how they must individually pay respect to God in their lives. I try to teach them in my home the importance of God in our lives, and how we can be God-like in how we treat ourselves and how we treat others. I try to teach as well a respect for all life, even the lives of the bothersome crickets currently invading our home.
I used to believe that my rather antisystemic point of view stemmed from a fundamental insecurity in my beliefs; that indeed, God would strike me down if I didn't attend Mass each week. I have come to see that, contrary to the point of view of many, instead I am extremely secure in my faith and am willing to stretch my relationship with God and question instead of being a mere blind follower...
So I, in the past 10 months, have made some realizations and some decisions based on these realizations. One great realization is that I have always done what others believe I should do for their approbation. That is not necessarily what is correct for me to do, but I do. I want people to be proud of me and to see me as doing what they define to be as right, even if it does not feel right in my heart. Some of this has to do with my manner of practicing my faith. There are other subjects that fall under this idea as well. However, God is the theme for today.
And I enjoyed the first day of September fully today--and in God's time!
jueves, 5 de octubre de 2006
hitting me over the head...
It is so funny how, when God wants me to see something, He can make it so blatantly obvious as to what path I am supposed to take. Maybe He just does not want me missing this clue...and then again, maybe it is just My Time to have finally figured it out. I wonder often what takes
Over the past two weeks I have had various people in various situations, both knowing I am a language teacher and not, approach me in different ways about teaching courses outside of the University setting...a setting which has, by the way, offered great security of a job and a paycheck, as well as a way to keep my foot in my profession while being a mother and to get me out of the house for some sanity time each week while school is in session. One woman offered me a position teaching young children after school in a local primary school. I had to turn that down as I have no time for that now--also being that I, personally, don't particularly enjoy teaching children. Another woman, a Korean lady with whom I was speaking Japanese at the time wanted to know on behalf of herself and another friend if I teach any Spanish classes outside of the University, just for adults. Not two minutes later my daughter greeted a lady in Spanish and the lady responded back to her, then just opened up to me about how she is taking a class through the local Parks and Recreation program with somebody retired who obviously speaks the language but who does not know how to teach the language. She about flipped when I mentioned I teach at the local university.
Then it hit me while driving my children home.
Why don't I go independent?
I can develop courses, plans, for 10 classes over a 5 week period for adults. Easily. Of any level...beginning, intermediate, a reading club, a film group...anything, without the pressure of University politics, without the need to give exams...teaching FOR THE LOVE OF TEACHING, to THOSE WHO WANT TO LEARN.
I would need to maintain myself professionally, perhaps with two weeks a year abroad in an intensive language program, as such access would be limited to me, since I get that now as faculty at the University. MQE said that, if I can make enough to afford it, then sure.
Why I never thought of this before I have no idea...perhaps because it wasn't the right time. I have now over 15 years of teaching experience under my belt, in various disciplines, the majority of which is language, and can completely see myself succeeding with a plan like this. I am so enthusiastic about this that I would love to take the next term off and start to develop my business.
This thought has completely reignited a fire that was starting to burn out with the University teaching and the feeling that I was treading water and no longer going anywhere. Perhaps this is the direction in which I am meant to go...
...right???? I will gladly take any suggestions, advice or opinions...
Over the past two weeks I have had various people in various situations, both knowing I am a language teacher and not, approach me in different ways about teaching courses outside of the University setting...a setting which has, by the way, offered great security of a job and a paycheck, as well as a way to keep my foot in my profession while being a mother and to get me out of the house for some sanity time each week while school is in session. One woman offered me a position teaching young children after school in a local primary school. I had to turn that down as I have no time for that now--also being that I, personally, don't particularly enjoy teaching children. Another woman, a Korean lady with whom I was speaking Japanese at the time wanted to know on behalf of herself and another friend if I teach any Spanish classes outside of the University, just for adults. Not two minutes later my daughter greeted a lady in Spanish and the lady responded back to her, then just opened up to me about how she is taking a class through the local Parks and Recreation program with somebody retired who obviously speaks the language but who does not know how to teach the language. She about flipped when I mentioned I teach at the local university.
Then it hit me while driving my children home.
Why don't I go independent?
I can develop courses, plans, for 10 classes over a 5 week period for adults. Easily. Of any level...beginning, intermediate, a reading club, a film group...anything, without the pressure of University politics, without the need to give exams...teaching FOR THE LOVE OF TEACHING, to THOSE WHO WANT TO LEARN.
I would need to maintain myself professionally, perhaps with two weeks a year abroad in an intensive language program, as such access would be limited to me, since I get that now as faculty at the University. MQE said that, if I can make enough to afford it, then sure.
Why I never thought of this before I have no idea...perhaps because it wasn't the right time. I have now over 15 years of teaching experience under my belt, in various disciplines, the majority of which is language, and can completely see myself succeeding with a plan like this. I am so enthusiastic about this that I would love to take the next term off and start to develop my business.
This thought has completely reignited a fire that was starting to burn out with the University teaching and the feeling that I was treading water and no longer going anywhere. Perhaps this is the direction in which I am meant to go...
...right???? I will gladly take any suggestions, advice or opinions...
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