Volcano (Jimmy Buffett)

Last night Sarah and her five-year-old son were watching Floor Is Lava, "a game show in which contestants strive to reach a goal while traversing booby-trapped rooms filled with "lava", and Colin yelled out, "There's Uncle Eric!"... and she had to call me right away and share the pics she snapped from her TV to my phone... and d*mn if he's not right.  The guy on the blocK looks *so* much like E.  What a big fat f*cking metaphor... 🌋

It was a hugely productive day, as well as a wrenching one. I know I compared this process to Candyland in a previous post, but the experience also conjures Whack-A-Mole and Dominoes as well as the children's book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie (see BOOK: below).  Every line item you pursue has a possible answer, followed by one or more questions.  Ripple Effect on steroids.  My phone is like a convenience store... DING DING DING DING DING, all well-intentioned... but multi-tasking is not my strong suit and I feel as if I'm doing many things badly, rather than one thing at a time to completion.

Hey, there are wedding planners; how about funeral planners?  The amount of details that have to be attended to are overwhelming, exhausting, and never-ending... especially when the next of kin (us) are in a different state from where the accident occurred.  

I was actually going to make a List of everything we've dealt with (and still have to) but... nah.  I think it will just make me more anxious than I already am (and I do not think of myself as an anxious person).  So... I'll continue with Get 'Er Done Mode.

Everything is fucking automated; just let me speak to a real person, please!

And... I have come to the conclusion that Eric's tendency to "make everything harder than it has to be" was inherited from my husband... 😏

Okay, here are some positives:

Even in my 1170 sq. ft. condo, I have been getting in my steps (ha!); all the walking back and forth between where I have set up "a command post" in the guest room/office... and Chico, who is ensconced in our bedroom, equally hard at work with phone calls, e-mails, and texts... as we traipse up and down the hallway, asking for clarification, editing, opinions (define Casual Attire; really, sweetie?!?)

I would venture to say that every one of the professionals we've dealt with so far have been comprehensive as well as compassionate... from Officer Z at the police department, to Angie at the insurance company, to William at the funeral home.  My default for the last week has been Gratitude.  These people are, for the moment, softening the sharp edges of my pain so I can move forward.

I, one of those Live to Eat people, have completely lost my appetite.  I pendulum from can't-even-think-about-putting-anything-in-my-mouth  to a 3 p.m. "oh my god, I am starving, my blood sugar is dropping, I need sustenance ASAP" meltdown.  Again, thanks to those who have delivered food such that we have a full pantry/fridge/freezer and I can grab something quickly that I know is also going to be healthy.

Today a box filled with various types of Yogi teas arrived at my front door, no note inside, but of course it had to be from my Caring Community... literally... 🤗

More baby steps which, I responded to a commenter, might have to be my next tattoo... 👣👣👣

SONG:  Volcano by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK:  If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura Numeroff, Felicia Bond (Illustrator)

POEM:  A still — Volcano — Life — by Emily Dickinson

A still — Volcano — Life —

That flickered in the night —

When it was dark enough to do

Without erasing sight —

A quiet — Earthquake Style —

Too subtle to suspect

By natures this side Naples —

The North cannot detect

The Solemn — Torrid — Symbol —

The lips that never lie —

Whose hissing Corals part — and shut —

And Cities — ooze away —

QUOTE:  “None of us is getting out of here alive, so please stop treating yourself like an afterthought. Eat the delicious food. Walk in the sunshine. Jump in the ocean. Say the truth you’re carrying in your heart like hidden treasure. Be silly. Be kind. Be weird. There’s no time for anything else.” ~ Nanea Hoffman

Trip Around the Sun (Jimmy Buffett & Martina McBride)

Posting this at 12:10 a.m., August 5; today is my 67th birthday!  What a boring, nondescript number/age but, hey, I'm just glad to still be on this planet, not only doing well but Doing Good, as evidenced by my new ventures (elaborated on in my last few blog posts).

It's actually been a good year since August 2020 (of course the bar was low from last year's sh*tshow), as we celebrated the election of a new President and Vice President (Joe and Kamala!), and are having regular press conferences again (Jen Psaki!)... most of us have chosen to get the COVID vaccine (if only we could convince the hold-outs to step it up, as their hesitation has allowed the Delta variant to run rampant)... we're watching the year-delayed Olympics... we're in process of auditioning a replacement for Jeopardy's Alex Trebek (I have some favorites, of course, including this week's David Faber, who I'd never even heard of before Monday)... live music and hugs are back in my life, although cautiously, given the aforementioned outbreak... my grandson Colin has only gotten funnier, more verbal, cuter (as if that were even possible!).

Doing my first volunteer stint this morning from 9-11 a.m. in the community outreach garden (so excited!), have plans to get together with Rob and Sarah for lunch (the new vegan wrap at Pollo Tropical), and not a clue what's in store for the rest of the day, but I have no doubt I'll be pleasantly surprised with well-wishes of all types.

I am still without social media so, I would love to ask, as I did last year that, at some point, if you are reading this, could you please wish me a Happy Birthday in the Comments box below (moderated, so it might not show up right away!) and let me know what you're reading (or not... 😍 )

Thanks in advance for celebrating with me, and much love always... 💖

My NR:  My Autobiography of Carson McCullers: A Memoir by Jenn Shapland

Also, bonus horoscope overview; interesting reflections/predictions, and some of it is already happening!

Leo has a reputation for being self-focused, but this year you will feel as if the self you've so carefully constructed is being unraveled. The people you feel closest to will offer you reflections about who you are, and the truth may bring about a shift of radical proportions. 

New people will come into your life to assist you in uncovering more of your uniqueness and even eccentricities. Allow yourself to become a wilder, stranger version of yourself. 

With partners and close friends, there may be challenges as you learn more about what you need in order to feel loved. The key to success this year involves letting go of stubborn tendencies with regard to your significant others, and instead allowing more freedom and space between you and your beloveds. 

if you set love free, it could lead to even more security. 

Take time in late spring and summer to reevaluate your own aspirations and dreams for your life. Is the universe urging you to take on more of a leadership role in your community? Are you striving to live up to ideals that are unrealistic?

Are you too scattered to come up with a plan for the future? 

You are learning how to balance your desire for social stimulation with the need to make a lasting contribution to the world. 

Rather than than over-relying on yourself, listen to your chosen family and the broader community to see how your creative gifts may be best utilized. 

~ Rhea Wolf © Mother Tongue Ink 2020

SONG:  Trip Around the Sun by Jimmy Buffett (with Martina McBride)

BOOK(S):  Heart Talk: Poetic Wisdom for a Better Life by Cleo Wade

Shit I Can't Remember: Organizer, Log Book & Notebook for Passwords and Shit by Phil D. Organizers

POEM:  A Whole Other Stage by Judith Viorst

I've reached the stage where my lawyer, my broker, my allergist, and my president are all significantly younger than I.

I've reached the stage where I recognize, when I'm buying new living-room drapes or a new set of dishes, that they're likely to be the last ones that I'll ever buy.

And when I'm starting to tell my friends some really terrific story, and I ask them whether I've told them this story before, and no matter what story I've started to tell, they say yes,

I know I have reached a whole other stage.

I've reached the stage where I find that most of the spaces I used to park in are now too small for my car.

I've reached the stage where I'm no longer able to call myself middle-aged because that's what my children are.

And when going to see two movies at two separate theaters on the same day, followed by eating a sausage-and-anchovy pizza, is what I'm defining as orgiastic excess,

I know that I have reached a whole other stage.

I've reached the stage where a lot of the reading I'm doing is at the market checking salt-free and fat-free and expiration dates.

I've reached the stage where nobody bothers to look at my driver's license when I want to purchase tickets at senior rates.

And when I'm out of town and I phone my husband at six A.M., and I ring and ring but he doesn't answer the phone, and my first thought is not infidelity but cardiac arrest,

I know that I have reached a whole other stage.

I've reached the stage where the people with whom I once discussed Marcel Proust are discussing inheritance taxes and living wills.

I've reached the stage where I couldn't leave my house for twenty-four hours unaccompanied by eight different kinds of pills.

And when I have to admit that, offered the choice, I'd - unhesitatingly - give up a night of wild rapture with Denzel Washington for a nice report on my next bone density test,

I know that I have reached a whole other stage.

QUOTE(S):  "And so it is of human life the goal to seek, forever seek, the kindred soul." ~ José Martí

"To find what you seek in the road of life, the best proverb of all is that which says:  Leave no stone unturned." ~ Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Pacing the Cage (Bruce Cockburn)

Bravo. Now be yourself.
By Garrison Keillor
November 5, 2008

A golden November day under a blue sky and an air of sweet amiability at the polls and at the end of the day, we elected the right guy, no doubt about it. Yes, we can and we did. A nation spread its wings and achieved altitude.

Bravo, Barack, Mr. Steady, who cheerfully did the rope lines, made the phone calls, answered the same questions 15,000 times, bounded up the stairs, delivered his lines with warmth and wit, ran a tight disciplined army, and that, plus $700 million and an 80 mile-per-hour wind at your back, is all you need to win the prize.

One is electrified by the historic moment, of course, but I will let Great Minds chew on that, and simply wish him and his marvelous lady all the best as they bear up under the tsunami of adoration from Democrats whom he has led out of Egypt. His picture goes up in the kitchen shrine alongside FDR and JFK — BHO elevated to sainthood and now expected to walk on water and turn it into wine. Meanwhile, everything he said about the national mess is utterly true and a lot more. And now it is Barack’s mess. Yikes.

A good shingle for the new administration to hang out, rather than The New Covenant or A Fair Exchange or English Spoken Here, would be Keep Seat Belt Buckled. Happy days are not here and the sky above is not clear.

One bright light in the marquee is Michelle Obama, that witty, jumpy woman with the quick­silver smile who said, "How does Barack prepare for a debate? He just talks to me and he’s ready." The good mother who said, "People ask me how I am, and I say, I’m only as good as my most sad child." Come January, we will have a president whose wife calls him Baby. Good for you, Mama. And now she becomes America’s No. 2 celebrity, the object of giddy curiosity.
Enjoy the people’s house, Michelle, and cruise along gently and do not read anything written about you, and don’t watch the news. Enjoy the pageantry (you look good, Baby), bring up the family, and don’t take the show too seriously. Don’t do too many interviews. Think Laura Bush, a cool First Lady. People like Laura Bush a lot, a Texas Democrat who married a Republican and stuck with him through thin and thinner. She’s smart and we know that because she never tried to show how smart she is. Do not let the mister put you in charge of health-care legislation. Your great challenge is to make a genuine life in the midst of the heavy surf of publicity. God willing, be happy and live your life. When life gets too unreal, sit down with a good book.

As for President-elect Obama, he can now stop dancing, which he’s been doing for 20 months — in a democracy we want candidates to really, really, really want to be president — and get down to the business of patient, focused, rational deliberation and calculation, starting with the formulation of a Cabinet and a White House staff. Have them write up a presidential order for Jan. 20 saying that America will not employ torture, and maybe issue a blanket presidential pardon for your predecessor and his vice, and then set about the business of disappointing your followers and astonishing your enemies and doing what is right for our country.

Be good to yourself. Hire smart, stable people who can tell you things you need to know and not copy Bob Woodward. Keep some Republicans around. You’re the man. You make us proud. You let us get to know you. You have the gift of speaking clearly and forcefully, whole sentences and paragraphs, while thinking at the same time, a good gift. You don’t need a staff of writers to create a persona for you. You need engineers. Problem solvers. You’re inheriting a raft of them.

Get on that treadmill every morning. Keep a daily journal. Let us see those darling girls once in a while. Please don’t play golf. Don’t get a dog. Enjoy Camp David. Be happy. Don’t hire people to tell you how to dress or who to be; you’re a grown-up. Don’t do crap that someday you’d have to go on TV and make cheesy apologies for. This job is one you were cut out to do and a big part of the job is to keep up the national morale and you are already doing that big-time. And thank you, sir. All those cheap motels, all those flights, all of that chip dip. We are deeply grateful.

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

In my 30 minutes of first-thing-in-the-morning, e-mail-check/web-browsing session (before I went out for my walk), I ran across a new-to-me link on another blog... and had to do some research - it appears to be the official homepage of our new president, where you can apply for a job in the new administration, read the presidential blog, post your opinions about what’s important, send emails detailing your vision for America, monitor the agenda and transition, etc. Impressive!

Change.gov provides resources to better understand the transition process and the decisions being made as part of it. It also offers an opportunity to be heard about the challenges our country faces and your ideas for tackling them. The Obama Administration will reflect an essential lesson from the success of the Obama campaign: that people united around a common purpose can achieve great things.

P.S. Another SMM post...

SONG: Pacing the Cage by Bruce Cockburn (for boyhowdy: this tune was nicely covered by Jimmy Buffett... :-)

BOOK: The American Journey of Barack Obama by The Editors of Life Magazine

POEM: 3 by John Berryman

Sole watchman of the flying stars, guard me

against my flicker of impulse lust: teach me

to see them as sisters & daughters. Sustain

my grand endeavours: husbandship & crafting.

Forsake me not when my wild hours come;

grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;

achieve in me patience till the thing be done,

a careful view of my achievement come.

Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.

When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.

Empty my heart toward Thee.

Let me pace without fear the common path of death.

Cross am I sometimes with my little daughter:

fill her eyes with tears. Forgive me, Lord.

Unite my various soul,

sole watchman of the wide & single stars.

QUOTE: "I reject a politics that is based solely on racial identity, gender identity, sexual orientation or victimhood generally. I think much of what ails the inner city involves a breakdown in culture that will not be cured by money alone, and that our values and spiritual life matter at least as much as our GDP." ~ Barack Obama

Can't Complain (Todd Snider)

So... two blogger friends posted yesterday about worrying... and I commented to each... among other things suggesting using The Serenity Prayer as a benchmark (serenely accepting, courageously changing, wisely differentiating) - today, I will struggle to take my own advice... :-)

See yesterday's post regarding my home leak - see potential panic and dollar signs in my eyes. The leak detector guy came this morning, surveyed the whole house (headphones and sonar equipment and beeping, oh my!) for the routing of the pipes... and determined the leak is in our master bathroom under the floor - it appears the toilet will have to come up, as well as the gorgeous cobalt blue tile that was one of the features attracting me to the house 16 years ago...

The plumbing company is coming *back* tomorrow to give me an estimate on exactly how much this is all going to cost - there is bad and good news: it is unlikely my homeowner's insurance will pay for this since there is no visible damage and the pipe is under the house, therefore no threat to structural integrity. The other good news is that, since this is in the *hot* water system, I am keeping the hot water off, but we still have water throughout the house (to flush toilets, make tea, wash hands, etc.) - when I want to shower, I can turn the hot water back on long enough to accomplish... and then back off again (a pain... but nowhere near as inconvenient as it *could* be).

Trying trying trying to keep my wits (ha!) until I *know* what I am facing - received an e-mail from my husband traveling on business to Mexico, stating: I am okay. Thinking of you. All my love. Part of me would love to respond: I am not okay. Wishing you were here to help deal with this mess. Don't ever leave me alone again. (He doesn't have a clue yet as to all this stuff - I'm waiting until I know "the big picture" before I share details.) Then I remember how much he traveled in the past, and I know I'm lucky to have him around as much as I do these days - I pat myself on my back (tight with tension knots) that I am strong, capable and a good decision-maker.

The money will come from somewhere... that particular pipe will not bother us again for a while... and maybe it's time for a tile choice that reflects me and not the previous owners - how's that for sugarcoating?... :-)

Plus... thankyoujesus tonight is water aerobics class (I've been going twice a week for the last two months), I've been eating much healthier (loving the fruits and vegetables from the food co-op), my mom's health seems to have stabilized a bit, two of my three kids are doing well (and I'm handling the other with equal amounts love and boundaries), I know I'm voting for Barack Obama and will be volunteering at their headquarters over the next few weeks, I'm reading an old Ann Patchett and listening to a new Todd Snider.... and last night's jacuzzi soak was under a full moon - still thinking positive thoughts (and urging those around me to continue as well)... but I didn't cause this problem and I have the wherewithall to fix it.

As my friend sharon is fond of quoting her dad: "if a problem can be fixed with money, it's not a problem" - so true, so true...

For my previous posts on Worry, click here...

Worried? 10 Ways to Soothe Your Fears
Whether you worry about your career, your kids, or your personal safety, here are effective ways to ease your mind
Written by Susan Freinkel

Real Simple, December 2002/January 2003

Think Constructively

Worrywarts tend to automatically assume the worst will happen in any situation. You can head off the cascade of negative thoughts by challenging them with logic, says psychiatrist Edward Hallowell. Ask yourself questions like How do I know the situation is bad? What are other possible outcomes? Is there a more positive way to see the situation? Say you have a falling-out with your fiancé. Instead of spending the rest of the day in a panic, convinced your relationship is doomed, remind yourself that the two of you have fought many times before, that your fiancé loves you, and that fights are a normal part of all relationships.

Make a Plan

Action is a powerful antidote to anxiety. After that argument with your fiance, make a list of what went wrong and how you could deal with it better the next time, or call a friend to discuss the spat. Likewise, you'll have less fodder for worry if you start addressing the situations that cause you stress. Hallowell suggests you come up with three specific changes you want to make that address specific worries, such as making a will if you're concerned about your estate, seeing your dentist if you fear gum disease, or cleaning out the attic if you're afraid it has become a fire hazard. Next to each item write down how and when you are going to tackle it. Once these are done, give yourself three more tasks.

Get Organized

Many everyday worries grow out of disorganization. Every bit of structure you add can reduce the time spent in useless worry. For example, get in the habit of making lists or keeping a daily schedule, or set a basket by the door to hold your keys so you can avoid that frantic morning search.

Distract Yourself

If you can't shake a worrisome thought, take a brisk walk or play a game with your kids, pull a few weeds or read the paper. Anything that requires some concentration is helpful, says psychologist Susan Nolen-Hoeksema. A 10-minute break is all it takes to shut off the negative cycle of rumination. Another trick: Wear a rubber band around your wrist and when the train of "what ifs" starts gathering steam, snap the band hard and tell yourself to stop. The experts say such thought-stopping techniques really work.

Schedule Your Worries

Set aside a time and place — not the bedroom or anywhere else you like to relax — where you can spend 10 to 30 minutes every day worrying. That's right, just worrying. During that time, let all your worst fears rip. For the rest of the day, if a concern pops up, tell yourself to set it aside until your worry time. "When you worry without resistance, it tends to lose its power," says Wilson. Over time you'll find those troubling thoughts are less intrusive.You can also postpone worrying into the future. If you're nervous about giving a presentation that you've been preparing for days, tell yourself to set those fears on the back burner for 20 minutes to two hours. When that time comes, either let yourself worry about it or postpone it again. This technique will help keep you more relaxed and in the moment.

Write Your Worries Away

Keep a pad by your bed to jot down that vexing problem that jolts you awake at 2 A.M. You'll be able to get back to sleep knowing you won't forget about it. A worry journal can also help, though be sure to use it as a dumping ground and not a place to endlessly recycle the same concerns. You can also use a journal to work out answers to troubling problems.

Worry with a Friend

Nothing brings your troubles down to size more quickly than sharing your concerns with someone else. Along with sympathy, you'll get a clearer perspective and help in brainstorming possible solutions.

Tame Your Tension

As psychologist Beverly Potter points out in The Worrywart's Companion, tension and worrying go hand in hand, but if you can relax your body, your mind will follow. Try deep breathing to unwind and root yourself in the present. (Your abdomen should go out when you breathe in, and in when you breathe out.) Or practice tightening and then releasing your muscles from head to toe to teach yourself the difference between feeling tense and feeling relaxed. Seek calm through prayer, meditation, or yoga.

Treat Yourself Well

You know the drill — a good night's sleep, a warm bath, regular exercise, healthy eating, limited caffeine. Add them all up and your anxiety decreases.Although some of these techniques may feel awkward or artificial, stick with them and you'll find they work. Just ask psychological researcher Evelyn Behar. When she was writing her master's thesis, she found herself up night after night, consumed with worry: How would she finish on time? Would her professors think she had done a good job? She knew she needed to get an adequate amount of sleep, so she gave herself a scheduled time and place to worry. Every night at eight, she gave herself 20 minutes of "worry time" on the living-room sofa. "I finally forced myself," she recalls, "and it saved a lot of time during the day, time I would have spent worrying. Overall, my anxiety level went down."

Let Go

Easier said than done. However, many people who make a habit of worrying often become convinced their vigilance is keeping bad things at bay — like the white-knuckle flyer who is certain her anxiety is keeping the plane aloft. The truth is, we don't have control over many situations in our lives — whether it's the safety of the airplane we're riding in our ability to have children. Hallowell suggests you try turning your worry over to God, or to fate if you don't believe in God. Accept that your worries won't make the world any different; they will only make you more unhappy. How? Try praying; try writing the worry down and putting it in a box; try anything that helps you let the worry go.

SONG: Can't Complain by Todd Snider

BOOK: Trouble Dolls by Jimmy Buffett, Savannah Jane Buffett (authors), Lambert Davis (illustrator)

POEM: Against Pleasure by Robin Becker

Worry stole the kayaks and soured the milk.
Now, it’s jellyfish for the rest of the summer
and the ozone layer full of holes.
Worry beats me to the phone.
Worry beats me to the kitchen,
and all the food is sorry. Worry calcifies
my ears against music; it stoppers my nose
against barbecue. All films end badly.
Paintings taunt with their smug convictions.
In the dark, Worry wraps her long legs
around me, promises to be mine forever.

Thugs hijacked all the good parking spaces.
There’s never a good time for lunch.
And why, my mother asks, must you track
beach sand into the apartment?
No, don’t bother with books,
not reading much these days.
And who wants to walk the boardwalk anyway,
with scam artists who steal your home and savings?
Watch out for talk that sounds too good to be true.
You, she says pointing at me,
don’t worry so much.

QUOTE: "We can easily manage if we will only take, each day, the burden appointed to it. But the load will be too heavy for us if we carry yesterday's burden over again today, and then add the burden of the morrow before we are required to bear it." ~ John Newton

Love in the Library (Jimmy Buffett)

You are not reading enough
Has the Internet killed the joys of sitting down with a good book?
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Wednesday, July 9, 2008

The pile is waiting. The pile is getting higher. The pile looks impressive, probably isn't, still feels slightly overwhelming, vaguely threatening, even as it sighs, waits, drums its fingers on the inside of my skull, promising all manner of wonder and insight and syntactical bliss if I'd just, please, maybe, right now, even for just an hour or three, pay it some serious, focused attention. Please? It's a bit of a problem. More than that, it's a moral, ethical, personal issue, a deep indignity of the soul, a painful twist to the nipple of my id.

See, I love books. Admire and appreciate and adore. Was a lit major at Berkeley, read voraciously, still love to read, still like to consider myself a big consumer of books and deep thinker about bookish issues and ideas and authoralia.

And yet, if I'm painfully honest, I have to admit it: I barely read books anymore. Not nearly like I used to, anyway. Not for a long, long time. And chances are, if you're at all addicted to the new media vortex, neither do you.

It's become a social conundrum, a cultural sore spot, a morose sign of the times. The question has been posed by agents and writers and a confused, hyperconsolidating publishing industry: What happened to all the readers? What happened to the culture of books? And the hint of fatalism, just underneath: If few truly read anymore, what of the state of the American mind? How much more dumbing down can we possibly stand?

Oh sure, books still sell, product is moving like crazy, but by and large it's truckloads of self-help and how-to flooding over a precious handful of sure-hit novelists, topped off with the grand cherry that is Oprah, single handedly keeping the tepid melodramatic coming-of-age family saga alive. In between, 18 zillion copies of "Eat, Pray, Love."

But overall, the message is bleak: Fewer writers of real talent are being discovered, fewer publishers are willing to take any sort of risk, and serious, literary-minded reading, that glorious pastime, that fine personal art, the immersive and transportive and beautiful intellectual fertilizer, appears to be giving way to the more addictive but far less nourishing hellbeast of new media and the Net.

It's an easy beast to blame. I skimmed through Nicholas Carr's fascinating and depressing piece in the recent Atlantic Monthly ("Is Google Making Us Stupid?"), which talks up, among other things, the downfall of deep reading, of spending uninterrupted hours immersed in a literary tome or even a long essay, a victim to modern media's vicious ADD, short-attention-span approach to engaging the world of ideas.

Carr's upshot: The Net might actually be rewiring our brains, changing the way we read because it's changing the way we think, forcibly adapting us to tolerate only bite-sized summations and simplified blips at the expense of deeper thought, of the ability to parse ideas, to sink in for a long, committed intellectual journey.

Proof? That's easy: Just try to sit down with that dense copy of W.G. Sebald or Haruki Murakami after spending any portion of your week online, and watch as your Net-addled brain becomes almost instantly anxious and frustrated, eager after just a couple thousand words to jump away, ogle pictures, watch dumb teens humiliate themselves on YouTube, buy some shoes.
Christ, if TV numbs you out, encourages a passive, flaccid state of intellectual disengagement, the Net does the opposite, slamming so many tiny shots of pseudo-meaning and media and nothingness into your brain over the course of a few hours, it's like getting stung by a swarm of horny bees.

It seems all dour and dreary and unfortunate because not a week goes by that you don't hear about some gloomy book fair or publishing industry merger or the death of a legendary independent bookstore that just couldn't compete not only with Amazon, but with a generation trained to read nothing more challenging or lengthy than grammatically mangled e-mails or snarky text messages or snide 300-word pop culture takedowns on Gawker.

Ah, but I do believe all is not lost. There is lingering hope. I am moderately sure a brain thusly amped on the wicked energy drink of the Web can, through honest time spent, through forcibly yanking the Ethernet cable out of one's cerebral cortex, be re-rewired, untrained, re-addicted to the deeper juice. In fact, it isn't that difficult, really. We just like to think it is.

I can personally attest. About a year ago the most astounding thing happened: The hard drive on my MacBook suffered a rare and painful meltdown when I was away on vacation. I was, much to my initial horror, to be e-mail/Net-free for over a week. What was I missing? Who was e-mailing? What about all the blogs and the news and the Significant Global Happenings? What of all the salacious offerings of nubile flesh and social wonderment stroking my in-box as I sat there, entirely cut off and adrift?

Mercifully, the yoga kicked in and I quickly shrugged, sighed, noted the incredible opportunity, the gods trying to tell me to unplug. I hit the bookstore and bought three thick, sticky literary novels like a misguided vegan buys some grass-fed steaks for the first time, and devoured them whole.

As I did so, an amazing thing happened. Time slowed down. The brain quickly returned to its normal breathing. The mental seizures and the near-constant desire to click away and leap to something different, faded and soon vanished. And the books I so loved suddenly moved from the bottom of the intellectual priority list straight back to their original, top-tiered state of grace.
I vowed to never let them drop so low again.

Even though, right now, they have. Even though, right now, even as I add to the glorious pile of must-reads on my desk, I realize I've been sucked back into Net-time again, back to the world of instant feedback and clickable everything, as the pile grows heavy and scornful and lonely. Ah but here again, an opportunity. For it is here that I remember the most wonderfully humbling lesson of all ...

When I finally got my precious MacBook back, when all e-mail was restored and all Net access was re-granted and I was able to dive back into the perky digital maelstrom, when I spent a few hours and got all caught up, it finally hit me: I'd missed exactly nothing. The world was exactly the same. The beautiful churn continued, same as it ever was, with or without me. Isn't that fantastic? Someone should write a book about it.

SONG: Love in the Library by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: The Most Beautiful Libraries in the World by Guillaume de Laubier, James H. Billington (photographer)

POEM: In the Library by Charles Simic

for Octavio

There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.

QUOTE: "To those with ears to hear, libraries are really very noisy places. On their shelves we hear the captured voices of the centuries-old conversation that makes up our civilization." ~ Timothy Healy

Fruitcakes (Jimmy Buffett)

SONG: Fruitcakes by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: It's All Too Much: An Easy Plan for Living a Richer Life with Less Stuff by Peter Walsh






POEM: Temple by Tammy Burns

May I know peace
in the sacred space of my body.
May I find awe
in its tapestry of cells,
towers of bones,
and rivers of fluids.
May I behold treasure
in each tessellated organ-
and cradle my heart and liver
as nurslings.

May I walk, stretch,
and choose food that has been
nourished by light and earth
to imbue each limb
with power

May I treat this body as a guest-
here to visit briefly
considering its needs first…
taking it where it wants to go
even if I’d rather watch Oprah.

May I see aging as a perfect progression
of journey
and float on its current,
exalting its wrinkles
bowing down
before its eyes that don’t focus
like they used to.

May I gather up false notions of aging
and blow them from my palm,
as chaff,into the wind-
knowing …all is well.

May I trust my body’s Creator
and know that he who mixed the elixirs
from which it was formed
created it
with a lifetime guarantee.

May I fall to my knees in honor of this sacred home of Spirit
never perceiving one cubic centimeter
as anything
but perfect…
This temple
of God
come to Earth.

QUOTE: "Giving up doesn't always mean you are weak. Sometimes it means that you are strong enough to let go." ~ Author Unknown

An Attitude of Gratitude (Jimmy Buffett)

Thanksgiving is almost upon us (zippity!) - it is my favorite holiday, for the sheer non-commerciality/no-agenda-ness of it. As much as I love Christmas, the retail industry has pushed it up so far as to completely overwhelm the month of November and all its lovely attributes and offerings - let's enjoy the present, the here-and-now, before we rush right through to the next holiday, month or celebration.

I always make the turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes (one year I made wild rice instead and, to hear my family tell it, you would have thought I'd ordered them to take off their clothes at the dinner table and worship Satan!), green bean casserole (yes, with mushroom soup/onion rings), creamed onions (my mom's recipe), corn, squash casserole, baby carrots with dill, crescent rolls, a pumpkin pie, an apple pie, chocolate cake... and of course massive amounts of wine, red and white. Our friends Buck and Kathy are coming for dinner - they've been assigned the sweet potato casserole, a dish my husband loves but, since I don't, I never make it...

I adore bringing out the Thanksgiving tablecloth in shades of rust, forest green and brown, and the cloth napkins (with assorted napkin holders) that blend with the color scheme - my silk fall leaves in an earthenware pitcher, along with cinnamon candles in the fruit candle rings, will make a lovely holiday table. One of the best parts of this celebration to me is that before we actually lift our forks, we hold hands and, going around the table, everyone is encouraged to share what they are thankful for - as much as my family professes to be embarrassed by this tradition, they always come up with something wonderful to say, and it is a heartwarming and teary moment.

So... I got all of my laundry done today, will do my food shopping tomorrow and clean house on Wednesday - Thursday is reserved for cooking, eating and bonding (did I say I love Thanksgiving?... :-)

SONG: An Attitude of Gratitude by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: Thanks & Giving: All Year Long by Marlo Thomas, Christopher Cerf

POEM: Grace by Rafael Jesus Gonzalez

Thanks & blessings be

to the Sun & the Earth

for this bread & this wine,

this fruit, this meat, this salt,

this food;

thanks be & blessing to them

who prepare it, who serve it;

thanks & blessings to them

who share it

(& also the absent & the dead).

Thanks & Blessing to them who bring it

(may they not want),

to them who plant & tend it,

harvest & gather it

(may they not want);

thanks & blessing to them who work

& blessing to them who cannot;

may they not want - for their hunger

sours the wine & robs

the taste from the salt.

Thanks be for the sustenance & strength

for our dance & work of justice, of peace.

QUOTE: "Grace isn't a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal. It's a way to live." ~ Jackie Windspear

Vampires, Mummies and the Holy Ghost (Jimmy Buffett)

Halloween's origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in).

The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom, and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth. In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.

To commemorate the event, Druids built huge sacred bonfires, where the people gathered to burn crops and animals as sacrifices to the Celtic deities.

During the celebration, the Celts wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each other's fortunes. When the celebration was over, they re-lit their hearth fires, which they had extinguished earlier that evening, from the sacred bonfire to help protect them during the coming winter.

By A.D. 43, Romans had conquered the majority of Celtic territory. In the course of the four hundred years that they ruled the Celtic lands, two festivals of Roman origin were combined with the traditional Celtic celebration of Samhain.

The first was Feralia, a day in late October when the Romans traditionally commemorated the passing of the dead. The second was a day to honor Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees. The symbol of Pomona is the apple and the incorporation of this celebration into Samhain probably explains the tradition of "bobbing" for apples that is practiced today on Halloween.

By the 800s, the influence of Christianity had spread into Celtic lands. In the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 All Saints' Day, a time to honor saints and martyrs. It is widely believed today that the pope was attempting to replace the Celtic festival of the dead with a related, but church-sanctioned holiday. The celebration was also called All-hallows or All-hallowmas (from Middle English Alholowmesse meaning All Saints' Day) and the night before it, the night of Samhain, began to be called All-hallows Eve and, eventually, Halloween. Even later, in A.D. 1000, the church would make November 2 All Souls' Day, a day to honor the dead. It was celebrated similarly to Samhain, with big bonfires, parades, and dressing up in costumes as saints, angels, and devils. Together, the three celebrations, the eve of All Saints', All Saints', and All Souls', were called Hallowmas.

SONG: Vampires, Mummies and the Holy Ghost by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: 2oth Century Ghosts by Joe Hill

POEM: Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun,
A-listenin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, -
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: -
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'for she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'bugs in dew is all squenched away, -
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you Don't Watch Out!

QUOTE: "A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently; there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window, the latch rises. Ghosts were created when the first man awoke in the night." ~ J.M. Barrie

Lone Palm (Jimmy Buffett)

Eight years in a row, after we moved to South Florida from Atlanta, my family of five vacationed in the same spot every year - friends of ours turned us on to the Sandpiper Gulf Resort at Ft. Myers Beach (on the west coast of our state) and we so looked forward to the annual ritual of our week-long mid-August getaway, rolling our deposit over from one year to the next to reserve the same ground-floor, oceanfront room. The name sounds substantially more upscale than the place actually was, thank goodness - we loved the mom-and-pop operation, the laid-back atmosphere and the family-friendly vibe.

Unfortunately four summers ago, management from the hotel called us in June, said they would be doing renovations on the hotel and were going to have to cancel our stay - we were devastated but, when Hurricane Charley came through the area on August 13, 2004 (the week we would have been there), it felt like an opportunistic meant-to-be we were safe at home. For a variety of reasons (scheduling/financial), we never resurrected the routine and we haven't been back to Ft. Myers Beach since - this week got me thinking how much I've missed the tradition. A memory stream-of-consciousness follows:

I adore my husband and three children and we certainly made a point to cross paths and spend time together during this very special week - they also acknowledged and respected my desire for alone time (as opposed to my normal cycle of nuturing and giving, whether to family members, friends, work or civic organizations).

I packed a totebag full of books and read in my lounge chair by the pool or ocean during the day... and on the patio until the wee hours - as I drank my morning coffee on the very same patio, I watched the pelicans and gulls and sandpipers do their little beach dances, whether it was with flying swoops in the water or graceful arcs over land or tiny footprints in the sand.

I meandered down the shoreline in the early a.m., for shell- and thought-gathering, searching the glassy sea for dolphin sightings or a surfside stingray migration - I took another, faster walk in the afternoon, usually with my walkperson, for exercise...

I loved the taste of salt on my lips, the smell of pina-colada sunscreen and the feel of the warmth on my skin, transforming it to glorious shades of mixed copper/bronze - I made a point to be showered and seated on the seawall to celebrate the sunset each evening... and I awarded this amazing feat (and feast) of nature with a round of applause (yay, god!), and swore never to take it for granted.

Some nights found us savoring ice cream from a local vendor in town (enough said!) and we enjoyed at least one family miniature golf excursion - we saw the same families at the hotel year after year... and I ate and drank my weight in seafood and Coronas (put de lime in de bottle and drink it all up... :-)

This became our way of marking time - some people chart the year by the last day of summer or January 1 but, to us, it was always that particular week in August. We went there to regroup and replenish and refill... as a couple, as a family and individually... and we left, knowing we had gathered enough inner resources of love and comfort and serenity to last us another year. Some of it we did holding tightly to each other and some of it we did side by side and some of it we did alone, but mission was accomplished all the same - as long as we all still considered this special time a "vacation", in some way, shape or form, it continued to fulfill our needs, in warm and secure and sometimes unpredictable ways... and I am now vowing, despite obstacles and difficulties, to make it happen in August 2008...

SONG: Lone Palm by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: The Shell Seekers by Rosamunde Pilcher

POEM: Beach Glass by Amy Clampitt

While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning. The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.
It behaves
toward the permutations of novelty--
driftwood and shipwreck, last night's
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of plastic--with random
impartiality, playing catch or tag
or touch-last like a terrier,
turning the same thing over and over,
over and over. For the ocean, nothing
is beneath consideration.
The houses
of so many mussels and periwinkles
have been abandoned here, it's hopeless
to know which to salvage. Instead
I keep a lookout for beach glass--
amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase
of Almadén and Gallo, lapis
by way of (no getting around it,
I'm afraid) Phillips'
Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare
translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst
of no known origin.
The process
goes on forever: they came from sand,
they go back to gravel,
along with treasuries
of Murano, the buttressed
astonishments of Chartres,
which even now are readying
for being turned over and over as gravely
and gradually as an intellect
engaged in the hazardous
redefinition of structures
no one has yet looked at.

QUOTE: "Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war." ~ Loren Eiseley

A Frenchman for the Night (Jimmy Buffett)

For a friend recently returned from Paris - loved the postcard (ooh la la... :-)

SONG: A Frenchman for the Night by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

POEM: Monet Refuses the Operation by Lisel Mueller

Doctor, you say that there are no haloes

around the streetlights in Paris

and what I see is an aberration

caused by old age, an affliction.

I tell you it has taken me all my life

to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,

to soften and blur and finally banish

the edges you regret I don't see,

to learn that the line I called the horizon

does not exist and sky and water,

so long apart, are the same state of being.

Fifty-four years before I could see

Rouen cathedral is built

of parallel shafts of sun,

and now you want to restore

my youthful errors: fixed

notions of top and bottom,

the illusion of three-dimensional space,

wisteria separate

from the bridge it covers.

What can I say to convince you

the Houses of Parliament dissolve

night after night to become

the fluid dream of the Thames?

I will not return to a universe

of objects that don't know each other,

as if islands were not the lost children

of one great continent. The world

is flux, and light becomes what it touches,

becomes water, lilies on water,

above and below water,

becomes lilac and mauve and yellow

and white and cerulean lamps,

small fists passing sunlight

so quickly to one another

that it would take long, streaming hair

inside my brush to catch it.

To paint the speed of light!

Our weighted shapes, these verticals,

burn to mix with air

and changes our bones, skin, clothes

to gases. Doctor,

if only you could see

how heaven pulls earth into its arms

and how infinitely the heart expands

to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

QUOTE: "You may wonder, 'How can I leave it all behind if I am just coming back to it? How can I make a new beginning if I simply return to the old?' The answer lies in the return. You will not come back to the 'same old thing.' What you return to has changed because you have changed. Your perceptions will be altered. You will not incorporate into the same body, status or world you left behind. The river has been flowing while you were gone. Now it does not look like the same river." ~ Steven Foster

Coconut Telegraph (Jimmy Buffett)

Lately I have been thinking strongly about my dear friend K who lives about an hour north of me, but who I only see about three or four times a year - we e-mail and we phone chat, but we both lead crazy, busy lives. I arrived home from work today to find a package from her... and inside the box was a delightful card and one of her famous coconut cakes... just because - how unbelievably sweet (pun semi-intended... :-)

I met K through the Dave-and-Tracy discussion list quite a few years back - she lived in Portland at the time (where Dave's music began to flourish) and then posted to the list she was moving to Florida to live with her boyfriend. I dropped her a note welcoming her to my state - we found/made occasions to connect. Dave Carter died the following year (more about this in my upcoming July 19 blog), a huge loss to the folk music community and to those who knew him, me somewhat and K very well. We vowed to get together annually on or near the anniversary of his death - this will be the fourth year we'll meet halfway, at a labyrinth in Delray Beach, to walk, meditate, reminisce, catch up and then go someplace to eat, drink and laugh. Dave would love this - actually, wherever he is, I am sure Dave *does* love this!

Naturally I've already cut into the cake and of course it's delicious... as well as testament to a strong friendship that has survived time, distance and tragedy - I am a lucky woman to have such special people in my life... <3

SONG: Coconut Telegraph by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: The Chocolate Cake Sutra: Ingredients for a Sweet Life by Geri Larkin

POEM: Coming Home ~ Mary Oliver

When we're driving, in the car,

on the long road

to Provincetown, which lies empty

for miles, when we're weary,

when the buildings

and the scrub pines lose

their familiar look,

I imagine us rising

from the speeding car,

I imagine us seeing

everything from another place—the top

of one of the pale dunes

or the deep and nameless

fields of the sea—

and what we see is the world

that cannot cherish us

but which we cherish,

and what we see is our life

moving like that,

along the dark edges

of everything—the headlights

like lanterns

sweeping the blackness—

believing in a thousand

fragile and unprovable things,

looking out for sorrow,

slowing down for happiness,

making all the right turns

right down to the thumping

barriers to the sea,

the swirling waves,

the narrow streets, the houses,

the past, the future,

the doorway that belongs

to you and me.

QUOTE: "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You, too? I thought I was the only one." " ~ C. S. Lewis

The Night I Painted the Sky (Jimmy Buffett)

Tonight I'll be going over to N's house - she lives a half-block from the Rec Center so we'll park in her driveway, walk down to the major boulevard, set up our chairs on the sidewalk and watch the "big deal" fireworks (zippity!).

SONG: The Night I Painted the Sky by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: Don't Stop the Carnival by Herman Wouk

POEM: Fireworks Accompanying Galaxy Collisions (Haiku) by Sue Barton

Jellyfish floating
Luminescent tentacles
Electrical sting

QUOTE: "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" " ~ Jack Kerouac