Beach Snippets

2008 Ramblings - New Beginnings

2008-01-28T07:53:00.000-08:00

I am recuperating from a cold/flu after a wonderful three-week trip to Chile. The healing is forcing me to slow down as I regroup in a new direction. My 'work' ended in December. The trip was a good interlude of excitement and variety. Now that I have returned I need to pick up my life and turn it in a new direction:

The book - I will talk today with Lynne to see if we can move forward;
Yoga - I have found 3 sessions a week I can begin;
Writing - I can try to write each day: journey? holiday?
Genealogy - I can finish transcribing the data from one computer to another
Clean up the house - Go through and throw things out - let go!
Relationships - Reconnect with friends; develop new relationships with my grandchildren, creating special occasions; take care of my mother; learn a new relationship with Dennis - after all we are now both retired;
TTN - Explore programs;
Painting - Get out the paints on a regular basis/take a course;
Study - explore local classes and work on Spanish Rosetta Stone;
Projects - finish up all those little mending projects; get Bose equipment fixed.
Explore - try something new.

Right now I am looking for the energy to get started. I feel a bit sluggish. I am not discouraged and do not feel that work is pressing - except the spare change is always nice.

No Longer Belonging

2007-10-12T06:31:00.000-07:00

I walked into the room of people, seeing familiar faces known for over thirty years. Plates of food - cheese cubes, grapes, dip - made an inviting centerpiece on the coffee table. Neighbors clustered around on stools and folding chairs, creating a close conversational circle in the small living area of a summer cottage. We were gathered for the annual rite of a meeting of a small homeowners association at a seasonal beach community.
These events over the years have rarely been free of controversy. Heated discussions have turned a short agenda into a marathon six hour session. Unit owners have turned these meetings into venting opportunities, thinly veiled in civility. The controversies initially were seemingly minor issues, much ado about nothing. There was once a claim of 'stealing a corner of the sky' when a minor renovation altered the view of another. There have been cries of 'light pollution' caused by garish outdoor lights, one fixture defended as a 'nightlight for my granddaughter'. The flagpole controversy pitted two households against each other, feuding about the height and the noise of flapping halyards. Political parties have emerged as a result of landscape decisions: the barren 'I'm allergic to pine' faction; the 'I love the wild, unkempt, natural look' group; and the 'Let's hire a professional landscape design firm' pretty boys. The major result was a $7000 planting of trees along the dirt road where no one could see them, trees now for lack of care are naturally entangled in vines . Discussions have led to motions made and withdrawn; to decisions made with incomplete information, spurred by the emotion of the moment; and to little recollection or documentation of what really occurred - democracy at its messiest. All this pontification ironically often led nowhere, to nothing being done. This group has revisited many a controversy again the next year. While the association ostensibly follows Robert's Rules of Order, the results usually reflect an unruly propensity to emotion, opinion, and inaction.
In the last ten years the stakes have heightened considerably. The real estate value of this seaside community has increased geometrically. Jealous claims of viewscapes now threaten more than visual investments. In 1995 we rebuilt our little shack, winterizing it, making a summer cottage into a modest year round escape. It triggered a volcanic reaction - new controls in height, land use, gardening limits. A board of a few began to introduce strictures and to dictate new rules to hold change in check. My husband sued everyone, including me, claiming abuse of governance. By including me he wanted to make it clear I was not party to his suit, not the way I choose to solve petty problems. Despite this curious situation, we have remained married for 39 years. The dispute was ultimately resolved by arbitration, and the group returned to guarded civility, the early summer memories of shared clam chowder and common biking adventures long gone.
The year's Columbus Day meeting opened on the backdrop of a second lawsuit. This time I joined with my husband. I know all friendship has been lost, so my goal now is to clarify our operations so the next generation has a framework for making decisions. Relationships may mend over time but are more likely to heal with our children when the days of the 'troubles' are more distant memories. Although this step has been painful, my goal is to balance emotion and opinion with legality as we may decisions.
The lawsuit grew out of a decision to deny a modest increase to our home. Since we rebuilt our house, four other families have renovated or restructured their houses. These changes to homes, all bigger than ours, have been approved and resulted to major changes in the overall community. Our attempt to gain a hearing for a minor enhancement to our house fell on deaf ears and was delayed for over six years, not even able to get on the agenda, until it was ultimately denied last fall. Reasons - or emotions - flooded the airwaves: 'Not your turn.' 'Legality.' 'Fairness.' 'Lack of clear ownership.' 'No need.' 'Encroachment.' The message was clear; we would not get a fair hearing, and we sued, not only for a small increase but also for improved governance.
This backdrop of anger and emotion colored the atmosphere of this year's annual meeting. Although we were greeted and seated like old times, the body language of a few who chose to sit apart and outside the circle conveyed the real message. As usual, we debated the mundane, reviewing old minutes, controversial over several years, no one caring about the content but editing the words, as if the correct adjective will correct the wrongs. We deferred the items of major concern, increased well expenditures and insurance anomalies. The central focus of the conversation was a proposal from yet again another house, requesting a reconfiguration and new construction. We had mentally prepared a litany of reasons to object, issues raised against our proposal - footprint, encroachment, bulk - should any of them be considerations? We ultimately voted to support the request because we believe they have the right to make this change, just as we believe we have that right.
The air cleared a little. We were invited to tour the new house under construction. We had brief conversations about fishing and winter plans. I was thanked profusely for work I had done over the past few years, work put on hold by lawyers. This veneer of small talk in no way covers the fissure that divides this group. Regardless of the outcome of negotiation, arbitration, judges or juries, we are now outsiders, shunned by the group. Healing will take a long time.

Huckleberry Finn

2007-03-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

What a delightful adventure to navigate the Mississippi with Huck Finn and Jim. Mark Twain captures the dialogue and the drawl of the south and captivates us with the escapades of the runaways. The language becomes synonymous with the flowing river moving us downstream and more deeply into the story. Twain threads both of these characters and their companion Tom Sawyer through many tight holes. They are always caught in their mischief, knotted in a web of white lies and charades . The magic of character and language are embedded in humor, but often a chuckle leads to the deeper moral question of slavery, of government, and of religion. Twain has created these characters many times over, dressing them in roles to keep their identities hidden. Both Huck and Jim, at one point, are attired as women - none too successfully. We see Huck and Tom charading as others and getting lost in their new family trees - Huck as Tom Sawyer and then Tom as Sid Sawyer. Jim also gets to play a frightening creature to scare others who might find him on the raft; at one point he is pretending to be a runaway slave, which is the truth in disguise. On their journey Huck and Jim encounter the duke and the dauphin, another pair pretending to be what they are not and eventually getting caught up in their make believe. We seem them as rapscallions, then as the royal pair, and ultimately on the stage in Shakespearean roles. There are many layers of this fiction. Twain excels at veiling the reality of his characters with other fictional roles and weaving their fortunes and misfortunes into a lively tale. In the end, we can only, like Jim, accept them all these personae as ghosts who will haunt the world of fiction for a long time to come.

November Interlude

2006-11-07T11:18:00.000-08:00

Perhaps aging is the November interlude of life. At this point in the year the Halloween excitement has passed. Although the holiday decorations are going up earlier and earlier, the Christmas spirit is not in the air. The leaves are still falling, but the thrill of autumn's brilliance has diminished. The weather is cool; the days are solid; the snow has not yet begun to build up its residue along the roads. We who have reached the end-of-career stage have moved beyond the costumes and the resplendent glories of life. The trick or treat bag is put away; we have built whatever nest egg we could. We have walked off the stage of life and put away the dress up. November is a time of honesty. We see the bare branches as the leaves fall away. The cool air demands the jacket; the wind makes the blood flow. The gardens fade, and the earth returns to a state of hibernation. The days are shorter; our time is shorter. We no longer have the leisure of summer. We are ready to hunker down. The message of November is not that life is through but a return to the basics, the essentials of what matters. The ornament is removed. November demands that we turn within and nurture our own fire, one with glowing coals, no longer one of shooting flames.

Negative Space

2006-10-31T12:09:00.000-08:00

In art class we are taught to look not at the object but the space around it. Does negative space apply to other problems in life? I think so. A pressing problem is the decision on Block Island to approve our application for enhancements to the house. The application is cut and dry - an addition around the current footptint and a raised corner with a balcony. The negative space around the application is a sea of emotions, opinions, assumptions, and assertions that make the application stand out. The outcome of the request gets lost in all this sea and bleeds into the swirl like watercolor paint. The application and its attendant fragments lie against a background of controversy, accusation, and insult that has gone on for years. It is difficult to separate it out and isolate it on its merits. As with art the negative spaceof the opposition makes the applciation stand out.

Start of the Year

2006-09-12T08:44:00.000-07:00

September starts the year in many ways. There are the memories of school: new clothes, new books, new classrooms, new teachers, new places, new friends. There is also the edge, the excitement that is associated with something new. The weather changes and moves us from slow energy and sluggish summer days to brisk air and bright leaves. Autumn's arrival is also a reminder of the seasonal cycle. It brings the anticipation of cold, dark days of solitude and shelter. Autumn is the time to harvest for the season ahead. Energy comes in bursts. There is a need to start something new - signing up for a course, committing to exercise, organizing a book group, writing that first book. The autumn of life also brings new energy and excitement. The routines of midlife - career, child-raising, dailiness - give way to new time: unscheduled days, moments for lingering, opportunities to explore new paths. Regardless of financial wherwithal or a healthy body, the mind and spirit know that the fleeting years do not offer many more opportunities for renewal. This seasonal energy becomes far more important at later life than it ever was when the elementary school bus stopped at the corner.

Family Dynamics

2006-08-22T06:31:00.000-07:00

A summer of intense family life reinforces and tempers relationships:

Spouse - we are in the thick together, yet sometimes I feel as if we have a separation agreement. My spouse moves further along the continuum of separation and isolation. I have to let him go. He needs space. When he is surrounded by people, he shuts off the world. I worry because his direction seems to be toward emptiness. It is not a direction I want to go.
Mother - my mother sets the example. She packs her bag and comes along for the ride for two weeks of family vacation. She plays rigorous Scrabble, paints flower bouquets, and wins at bocce. She remains independent and strong despite her 91 years. I try to mother my adult children without smothering them, trying to care for them and listen to them without getting in their way. My children mother their children, attending to hurts and the mind boggling daily demands for love, attention, discipline. My sisters mother their children, launching a son in medical school and struggling with the growth of a fatherless 12 year old. My sister-in-law wears herself out with a wedding for her daughter, who leaves happy - and married.
Grandmother - my mother seeks to relate to each grandchild ranging from the alienated soldier whom she reaches by phone to the older ones with their own children - her greatgrandchildren. I love my own grandparent relationship; there is magic in amusing and playing with these little people who change moods so suddenly.
Sister - my role as the bossy older sister gets in my way. I try not to manage this relationship but enjoy it. Each sister is at a different stage of life. One has almost launched her children; one is struggling with the loss of two of her children to her angry ex-spouse. These relationships strengthen over the years, but we have to work hard at connecting the synapses as our own lives have grown in individual directions. My daughters, whose lives have also grown in different directions, now relate as adults and have found new bonds where they enjoy being together despite their differences. My niece gave a moving toast to her sister at her wedding and demonstrated a real bond despite several years of geographical separation.
Daughter - I accept my mother for who she is and try not to coddle her. My sisters assume different roles, one more protective, one more removed. I respect her independence. My daughters look to me for an unknown. I try to fill a role in their lives but do not always define the target correctly. The gap may be because they must grow independently. I try not to interfere, try to listen. Little Abby and Molly are the new daughters in the family. Abby has clearly established her role, knowing Mommy and Daddy as prime figures in her life. Molly, now the center of attention, has yet to blossom into this knowledge.

All these roles come into play simultaneously as we move through walks to the beach, bike rides, breakfasts, unexpected visits, family events. There is less time for quiet conversation so we depend on our instincts for communication. As the perspectives grow, change, and multiply, there is the risk that lines drawn between people and relationships will break because there is not the right attention. Some lines survive with benign neglect; others need constant cultivation or remedial attention. As we age and these dimensions become more complex, it is not clear if the road map becomes more distinct or more dispersed.

Creativity

2006-05-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

The time has come to examine my own scale of creativity based on Ruth's theory of creativity: c=EM(9).... creativity is available to Everyone and is multiplied by the M factors... magnifying motivation, metamorphosing mentors, manufacturing mindfulness, mixing moods, mining multiple intelligences, mitigating misjudgments, making mistakes, mustering mirth and maximizing memory!!

Magnifying motivation - when one moves into the flow state ( I think where all attention is focused), there is intense motivation to concentrate on the task at hand. I am pretty good at concentration - even at the dullest task, so I guess I can move to the flow state. I need to pause and determine where I want to focus and be more demanding of myself with the selection criteria rather than just doing what is at hand. In other words, I think I must redirect my motivation from what I should be doing but to what is desirable to do.

Metamorphosing mentors - I am not particularly good at this. I tend to rely on myself a la Emerson and not open myself to the guidance of others. I prefer to mentor because I feel better when I am in charge. I need to relax my guard and realize I can learn so much from others. I will never know it all. It is a personality trait that I can consciously offset. As I pursue creative thought and outlets, perhaps I need new mentors or need to mentor in different ways.

Manufacturing mindfulness - a Google search suggests I must live in the moment. I believe that I have begun that transition through 'retirement'. I no longer feel the pressure of schedule and enjoy the moment - whether it ends or extends. A friend is pursuing mindful meditation and suggests there should be a conscious pause to pursue mindfulness. I need to explore to find the benefits and perhaps create that pause for myself.

Mixing moods - this step is a bid perplexing. I can see ensuring joy is intermingled with serious intent. Do I have a need for sadness to offset happiness?I probably need to make sure I do not sustain a single mood. I think I have to examine different types of moods and determine how they affect my productivity and enjoyment and creativity. As I think about it, many artists - Blake and Wyeth - produced great art when focusing on death. Maybe this M means that rather than rejecting moods, we should embrace them/explore them to see where they lead.

Mining multiple intelligences is more clearcut; however, I am so attuned to my own knowledge-based analytical mindset that I have not explored all intelligences. I am aware of the artistic and pursue it periodically; I am aware of physical intelligence and give my muscles and bones due diligence but do not necessarily stretch them to excellence. I need to explore the other facets of intelligence to extend myself.

Mitigating misjudgments - does this mean keeping an open mind? repairing opinions where I am wrong? My stubborn streak does not often forgive or admit when I am wrong. I think this known personality trait can be examined with perhaps a richer outcome in my thinking.

Making mistakes - I've never liked or accepted being wrong. If I am more objective rather than taking mistakes personally, undoubtedly I can turn these errors into learning and maybe 'creating' experiences.

Mustering mirth - laughter is such a wonderful ingredient of life; it balances out so much negativity. My humor tends to be on the sarcastic side so I need to make sure my cutting remarks are not painful.

Maximizing memory - ah, age has reduced a memory that was once able to recall names and faces. I exercise this aspect of my mind. I am not sure how it helps me be creative, but mind games stimulate thinking.

Now, the next steps: clarification, figuring out how to internalize these dimensions in my daily life. I guess I need a gameplan?

My New Commute - Character 5

2006-02-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

I hopped on the full Metro to find myself standing, not a bad situation for four stops, but one where the need to balance the book becomes paramount. I wrapped myself around a pole and braced myself while trying to get through a few pages of text. I looked up when I found someone tugging on my sleeve. A small woman was trying to get my attention to inquire if I wanted the available seat. Since she seemed more in need than I and I had only three more stops, I gestured for her to take the spot. Graying bangs emerged from her colorful blue knit hat. She wore a parka of matching blue and sneakers to get about the slippery streets. She buried her face in the newspaper, having done her good deed for the day.

Why We Fight

2006-02-14T06:30:00.000-08:00

This movie is profound. It looks back over more than 50 years of U.S. history, 50 years of my life, and traces the frightening evolution of the military-industrial-Congressional-think tank actions behind making this country into an arrogant superpower. It looks at all administrations who have participated in the tightly woven fabric of the American economy, stitched tightly together with superior weapons and superiority complexes. Couched in the words of Dwight Eisenhower, it moves through his heritage, both John and Susan Eisenhower, and pits the Republicans of the 1950s against those of today. It provides vignettes of the Johnson and Clinton years, so no party goes unscathed. It moves from Gore Vidal and the suave voices of lobbyists and news commentators to the naive views of the American population, an individual Army recruit, and a retired New York City policeman who lost his son in the World Trade Tower and now feels betrayed by his country's response. The movie was purposefully not released in 2004 so it would not be treated as a screed against the Bush administration. Most powerful in its message is the deception the government has shown in explaining its actions, invading countries and continents on some pretext of defense of freedom when strategic position, the bottom line, or oil pipelines are the raw truth behind the action: Nicaragua, Grenada, Bosnia, Iraq. Such a historical picture demands leadership and individual response, neither of which seems ready to provide a counterpoint to this moral wasteland.

My New Commute - Character 4

2006-02-13T09:20:00.000-08:00

The homeless man at the top of the escalator is a faceless greeting to the day. He stands, or rather leans over, between the up and the down stairs, his graying hair askew, a ragged beard, his clothes in disarray, reeking as the daily commuters pass by. He often clutches a paper cup or a cigarette, but just as often his head lays down on the metal as if on a pillow. He is a test of my humanity. I hold my nose; I turn my eyes away. Yet I wonder - is he alive? how could he assume that posture? He does not beg, and I give him nothing, not even sympathy. He lives in this entry way with overhead shelter and a corner where a blanket is often thrown down. It is complex to understand the motivation and behavior of human beings, especially when they are so far removed from the norm one experiences. He challenges my compassion, but in passing him by I fail in my role as a Good Samaritan. There is a limit to my goodness. I have crossed the line between caring and callousness. My charity has boundaries. While I give him nothing, he gives me a daily reminder the privileges of my life have obligations that I have not met.

Political Fiction

2006-02-08T07:40:00.000-08:00

Reluctantly I have read a series of books categorized as political fiction: Julius Caesar, Democracy, All the Kings Men, Advise and Consent, 1876, and the Plot Against America. Although I have lived in the political center of the world for almost 30 years, I have remained neutral about the actors in the real drama; they run for office, win or lose, and then begin running again. Although I respect the democratic process, I am not inspired by its mechanics. In fact, I have become rather cynical. I have seen one party after another succumb to downfall, including the Nixon and Clinton impeachment hearings, the influence of lobbyists, the shenanigans of our elected leaders. I have become jaded about the good intentions of all involved. These readings, however, have forced me to explore politics more broadly, looking at the concepts, the drive for power and the consequences of reaching the top. My own disdain has been reinforced; political success is a raw form of power, not to do good but to be in control. The readings have opened my eyes in several areas. First, women are not the players in these dramas. They make take on significant roles. Portia is a wise woman, and Lucy Stark proves strong despite her husband's dalliances. Women do not, however, thrive on the undoing of others. Their lives seem to be less focused on the game. Secondly politics seems entirely negative; the word is not used in a complimentary way. Lastly, it appears that I am not alone in being turned off by this field, and it is depressing that new - and good - leadership is not inspired to enter into the fray. Perhaps my surprise in the enjoyment of these politically based works - and all the Kings Men is a work of art - has led me back to the raw facts and a deeper understanding of politics.

Eye Contact - A New Contact Sport

2006-02-07T08:19:00.000-08:00

Years ago when I worked in New York City, I walked from Grand Central Station to Bonwit Teller where I was on the College Board sales staff. I enjoyed the walk of fifteen or so blocks. I recollect that I never mastered the subway system so was probably avoiding the underground. It was a summertime stroll, sometimes leisurely, sometimes rushed to catch the commuter train home for an hour long ride. It was that summer that I began to try to catch the eyes of the busy, impersonal New Yorkers, who were always in a hurry, rushing to catch trains and make appointments. Eye contact was a contest I rarely won then. I now find myself continuing the habit today in Washington. I walk a brisk half mile and have ample opportunity to pass many people, often the same ones day-to-day. There are different reactions to my silent greeting. Many passersby do no know I am there. Some glimpse and do not respond. Others cautiously smile, and, as days pass, acknowledge the recognition. Today one tall man smiled broadly and greeted me with a friendly, "Hello!" For me, the personal exchange with women is more comfortable. Men, particularly when passing in the dark, imply more threats, more dangers where I do not want my glances to be interpreted as invitations. The game is fun and harmless. This habit came to my attention a few years ago. I sat at a table on an hour long ferry ride, a familiar transit, while my husband dozed in the car. I shared my table with another couple, and our conversation led to the discovery of much in common. At journey's end when I left them to wend my way below to the car deck, I was surprised by a driver who popped out of her car. A stranger, she had been watching me during the trip and claimed she had never seen a face so attentive. An unexpected compliment, especially from a stranger, lingers in my memory. The lessons of eye contact go beyond dailiness but can become a lifelong habit of listening.

My New Commute - Character 3

2006-02-01T12:10:00.000-08:00

A small woman appears curbside, even smaller as one looks down and sees a shortened leg in a thick boot. Despite this impediment, she dresses in miniature, a full-length winter coat, a hat, and even matching socks above the regular and the adjusted shoe. She often appears on the corner and navigates across the street while there is still plenty of time left on the crosswalk indicator. She walks to the bus stop. This morning the bus pulled up; she cannot pick up her pace to get to the line, but she makes it. Perhaps, the driver is a regular who knows of her handicap. I continue down the next several blocks, made yet again grateful for my two healthy feet whose flaws of turning out ducklike at a young age and supporting thighs that were not ogle-worth are insignificant. To my surprise, I see the small woman ahead of me, crossing yet again another street. I realize the blocks I have taken in stride are more than a challenge for her. I watch more carefully. Does she work where I work? What is her destination? She walks with an irregular tilt to the door of MacDonald's. Is this her morning routine? A bus ride to breakfast.

Reunion

2006-01-31T07:43:00.000-08:00

Devereaux discovered us. Her simple note on the Christmas card, "Hi, guys, how are you?" was welcome relief after searching the web over the last eight years to find her, her brother or sister. We used any lead - we found an uncle in New Orleans, made contact, asked for addresses, and there was no follow-up. We thought David was a doctor but could not find his name in California, where he was purported to have gone to medical school, or Richmond, where it was rumored he was practicing. We especially wanted to find these three orphans, who had lost their mother in a freak accident in 1993 and their father to cancer just a few years later. Their home in Louisiana had broken up long before Katrina blew through, and the fragments of their lives had scattered as well. Despite our own four children and their families including four grandchildren, we needed to find these offspring and adopt them. Their mother was a roommate; after she married, three of the four roommates continued to get together with too many small children in very small beach houses or on long weekends where we exchanged germs with one family hosting. When we all lived on the east coast, our gatherings were frequent. When this family moved south and was clouded in illness and superstition of family incest, our conversations and meetings were less frequent. Our kids grew up. The news of the unexpected deaths caught us offguard. We gathered for a brief memorial service - the three remaining roommates including the one without children who had lost touch with our chaotic occasions. Our contacts waned except for a few touchpoints, a wedding announcement, a call when in DC. Then we lost touch altogether. Devereaux's note spawned a gathering with most of the focus on the seven of eight in the next generation who gathered as toddlers, unaware of the history. Two of the roomates made it; five of the nine children gathered. We had an opportunity to embrace these children once again and hope to gather them periodically under the large family umbrella.

The Desert Queen

2006-01-30T08:30:00.000-08:00

Gertrude Bell navigated the Iraqi desert almost 100 years before U. S. troops arrived in the land. She went by camel and car to the oases and architectural sites across Mesopotamia. She learned Arabic and conversed over coffee with many a sheik, who otherwise would not share his table with a woman. She cultivated trust and learned of the dynamics of the tribes and peoples who had wandered this land for centuries prior to the discovery of oil. She knew of the Sunnis, Shiites, and Kurds long before they became familiar names in the Washington Post. She broke barriers in the Middle East because she had broken barriers at Oxford, as one woman among many men. She brought excellence to her studies and applied this excellence to her exploration of the Middle East that became her second home. Less recognized by her British peers, she gained prominence during World War I when her geographical, social, and political understanding of this hot spot led her to the Cairo conference following the war. Gertrude became part of the political leadership, not always appreciated, that served to guide the newly emerging Iraqi government. Despite her intellectual breadth and her adventurous spirit, she remained conservative about women's rights, even their right to vote. She retained her cultivated, upper class British presence as a woman despite her keen insights into the Arab world and mind. She reflected a bit of the aura of the British queen while ruling her own desert realm.

Machu Picchu

2006-01-10T10:52:00.000-08:00

The Inca Trail leads through the Andes along the Urubamba River ultimately to the heights of Machu Picchu. In the rainy season, especially after two days of altitude sickness, the alternative to the trail, the train from Cusco is a much more attractive, comfortable route for tracing Incan history. The anticipation created by the early train departure - 6 AM, the four hour trip to Aguas Calientes, the switchback bus ride up the mountain, is satisfied by the first glimpses of the stone city atop the mountain. The city and the site take the breath away; no photograph can do justice to the vista - of terraced walls and structures for living, worshiping, working, punishing - set among high peaks, shrouded in cloud cover. The lively llamas are the only link with the reality of the day - although groups of tourists dutifully follow flagged leaders and absorb the history of several hundred years ago. Machu Pichu is both frozen in time and in constant flux. The walls present a fortification against civilization, but the relentless sky brings mist, rain, sunshine like a kalaidoscope, and the distant peak of Machu Picchu and its sister climb show the tiny crawling people, toiling to get to the top, as their Indian predecessors did - perhaps to pray to the gods or preach to the world or simply to acclaim a new height. The beauty is in the magnificent and the detail. The large sacred stone invites guests for photos; the small, beautiful flower grows along the path. The structures offer solemn amazement as multi-faceted stones bond together seamlessly, confounding understanding, with the knowledge that no iron tools existed. The steps up and down do not seem to wear away under the countless shoes that trespass today. Mystical, Machu Picchu minimizes the accomplishments of modern man and expands personal horizons to eternity.

My New Commute - Character 2

2005-11-21T10:05:00.000-08:00

The street cleaner is often executing his tasks, sweeper in hand. In the heat of summer he wears a hat with an Arabic veil hanging from the back. He looks official but suspiciously spends time in front of different businesses or manicuring different corners. He does a good job: curb stones are free of newspaper and residue; scattered leaves are swept up into the extended dust pan; sidewalks are cleared. He greets those passing by. These conversations alienate him. Walkers pick up their steps. The city looks better because of his work, but he himself is not welcome.

My New Commute - Character 1

2005-11-09T06:54:00.000-08:00

The homeless man may appear on any corner or be sitting in the bus shelter. He has two shopping carts filled with cardboard boxes. He migrates from spot to spot and pushes a considerable set of possessions with him. One day he sat on a wall in the sunshine tearing up paper. (I wondered if it was any less constructive than all the meaningless paper I produce during the day.) One day he pulled out an apple, visibly old and unappetizing. Aged, with graying hair, he is stocky, dressed in worn clothing. He talks to himself, and I can't help hearing... " a fucking shot gun in your asshole..." spoken to no one in particular. He is angry and lives in his own street corne world.

Democracy in America

2005-11-07T10:42:00.000-08:00

The confluence of Democracy in America by Henry Adams (or his wife Clover), The Education of Henry Adams, and Dear Friends puts me in the 18th and 19th century generations of the Adams family. With my own family generations from Boston, Quincy, Braintree and Roxbury, I see shades of my own New England Unitarian upbringing. Democracy is all the more fun because of my years in Washington. The book reinforces my own disengagement from politics, despite my long time in the nation's capital. It is filled with parody of corruption and influence. Washington seems to nothing more than change the names and characters. I did relate to the two characters. Sybil is the down-to-earth practical sort and perhaps the mold for me - not nearly as exciting as Madeline. The story is simple and tastes of the teas and salons of visiting ladies. It mocks the president and senator - Hayes and Blaine - who bring stereotypes to the book that are now more vivid than any other facts of their careers. The feminist in me salutes Abigail Adams and her literary offspring as the women seem more genuine than the men posturing for position.

Beach Snippets

2005-11-07T10:34:00.000-08:00

Aloft

2005-07-07T15:24:00.000-07:00

Aloft by Chang-Rae Lee tells the tale of Jerry Battle who is occasionally physically aloft in his airplane but often personally aloft as he reviews his life: his wife, his mistress, his two children, his father, his jobs, his friends. This detachment unravels a humorous plot recounting loneliness, problems, and tragedy. The four generations of family reveal quirks and prompt sympathies. The light laughter covers up the pain; the underlying tension of family relationships creates a univerality of the human condition ranging from birth to marriage to death. These emotions are wrapped in a run-on style of writing. Sentences run on and lead to stories and memories which run on. The writing takes getting used to but eventually pulls you into the story.

Aging

2005-07-05T11:02:00.000-07:00

There are no rules for growing old. Tracy Kidder suggested in his book Old Friends that in the last stage of life one continues to show the virtues and vices of a lifetime: leadership, activity, independence, whining, self-centeredness. Mom has turned 90 this month. She has gone from the height of celebration to the depth of illness in a short time. While bronchitis has not hospitalized her, it has threatened her equanimity. A month ago she felt strong and energetic; a week ago she was despondent and admitted to depression. She seems to be on the mend, and we have established an additional safety net: occasional visiting nurses, weigh-ins with Virginia, increased availability of Jackie and Betty for cleaning and chores, Meals-on-Wheels (if we get through the bureaucracy). She has lost weight and has been taking the wrong dose of medication. We'll see if we can get her back to feeling good. She seemed to perk up over the weekend. The evaluating nurse thought she looked wonderful. She bounded up the stairs to show her bedroom/bathroom and was cautioned to 'slow down'. She ate '3 squares' and seemed to regain some appetite. A little color returned to her cheeks. She napped and continues to need additional rest. Her change of situation has provided a good opportunity to project 30 years ahead and anticipate my own decline. Wills, living wills, financial management do not provide guidance as to helping in the decisionmaking process. It seems it is important to involve mom in decisions as long as she is able to make them, to explore options, and to continue to assess how she is doing. She has shown a pattern of resisting change and then accepting the suggestion: Lifeline, kitchen floor, Meals-on-Wheels. I am afraid her children have not managed her care as a team. Although one oversees financial decisions and another closely monitors the health care, we tend to rely on 'someone' else stepping in; it is easy for something to fall between the cracks. Perhaps the recent events will put on on better alert and improve our coordination.

July 4

2005-07-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

The time between April and July has taken me across oceans to new worlds: Africa and Asia. We spent a month in Egypt and Jordan, seeing the Middle East through our eyes and ears. We listened to the muezzin several times a day and say the Muslims pray - in the streets, in the desert - men often wearing the mark on their heads developed from touching the ground repeatedly. We saw women apart - on the first car of the Cairo subway, in the front of the Aswan ferries, covered in scarves, sometimes even with veils over their eyes. We enjoyed the generosity and the cordiality of being a visitor in a new culture, overprotected by the security and invited to tea at every turn, welcomed as Americans. We indulged in amazing art and reached back into history in monments, temples, and tombs. We rode faluccas on the Nile and became accustomed to camels and donekys on the roadway. We camped in the White Desert under stars and surrounded by stalagmites of awesome beauty. We walked down into the ancient valley of Petra and wandered through modern Amman. We saw Midaq Alley and the salt cities of the desert. We dined on hummus and sipped khakaday juice. We celebrated the sunshine, explored the oasis, and swam in the Red Sea. What an adventure!

Purple Hibiscus

2005-04-13T15:12:00.000-07:00

I found one blog with book reviews, so I thought I would jot a few notes to remember this novel for discussion.

This Nigerian tale apparently follows an oral tradition. It tells of two Nigerian families, a brother and a sister. The brother, Eugene, is wealthy but treats his wife, son, and daughter strictly, primarily driven by the Catholic church. While he follows its tenets in terms of ritual and charity to the community, he translates its message into abuse of his wife, who has two miscarriages; his son who defies him; and his daughter who is made practically mute by his discipline. The children find freedom in the household of his sister, a widowed professor, raising her children alone. They see her acceptance of her father who follows native spiritual practices and her firm love with her children. While visiting her aunt, the daughter meets and fall in love with a Catholic priest in the community who shares her affection but cannot break his vows. The mother poisons Eugene, and Jaja, the son, goes to jail for the murder to protect his mother. The sister and family get visas to America where she can get a teaching position. The Catholic priest goes to Europe. Formal religion is the evil in this book, evident in the acts of the father and the priest, and in lesser ways as when a Nigerian girl refuses to take an English communion name. The story is haunting. It is sprinkled with Igbo terms which defy translation. It provides a rather ugly view of the impact of white culture on the Nigerian lifestyle.

Co'd

2005-04-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

Why is it when there is so much to do that a sinus infection causes us to succumb? Antibiotics, soup, and sleep seem to rule the day. I cannot give in. I associate illness with a flaw and do not tolerate it well in others or myself. We were to be off to the beach for inhalation of the fresh air and a windy blush to the cheeks. Instead our noses are red from repeated blowing. I wish I could turn this forced slowing down into a positive. At least now I do cut back on exercise, read more frequently, and drink tea. What an unexpected, disappointing start to this next phase of my life!

Seasons

2005-04-08T10:55:00.000-07:00

Beaches have always meant seasons to me. The winter beach in the north is empty; it is a time of hibernation; it is a time of renewal. Often the sand washes away and reveals rocks, only to return for the summertime. The Caribbean beaches do not have this ebb and flow so have provided winter warmth and sunshine more than reflection.
My current 'beach season' is one of endings. My current work life finishes with a contract end today. My current volunteer commitment comes to an end after four years. The next few months will be a time when I seek renewal. As I go to explore the Middle East, I will come back with new views of people and the world - as well as new beaches. I will immerse myself in history; it is daunting to read of Egypt and its thousands of years of civilizations. The rock, stone, gold, pyramids, buildings, sculpture, art that have survived will outlive this blog and all of my other accomplishments. Travel is a timeless experience; days linger but in retrospect pass very quickly. In a sense travel is seasonless. I look forward to new beginnings, to renewing energy.

Other Beaches

2005-04-07T07:27:00.000-07:00

I have enjoyed a life of beach vacations. We started visiting the Caribbean in the 1960's and found pristine places. We visited the island of Bequia and walked daily to the Princess Margaret beach where we had the sands to ourselves. We went to Virgin Gorda and walked down the dirt road to the Baths; a return visit several years ago with our extended family found the rock formations overrun. German tourists lined up in front of us as if we were all watching a movie. We took our first baby to Grenada; people watched with appalled looks as we threw him in the sea. He had survived YWCA swimming lessons, and we were showing him off. He was the last child we subjected to underage underwater; nevertheless they all learned to swim by the time they turned five. We took the next two to St. John's and camped. One has to be young to endure cold showers and two cribs in a tent, but we were adventurous. We sampled a few other east coast beaches with our children; Hilton Head provided a lovely spring break, and Jekyl Island, Georgia, left memories of murky water, toilets backing up, sore throats, and doctor visits. We escaped from parenting responsiblities when we walked the coast of Italy on the Lido; April was too cool for a dip. Once our lives passed from the parent mode, we indulged again. We found the hot Pacific in Mexico; Hualtuco offset our tour of the inland ruins, but the weather effects that year raised the water temperature making the Pacific less attractive. We found the same experience in Costa Rica. There we had a marvelous beach adventure. In our quest we followed the map to a large crescent bay with deep waters. We had to drive over the sand to get there - although crowds of people were enjoying the sunshine. Once we settled in, we delayed our departure as we watched the parasail company extract a paying customer from a nearby tree. When the poor woman had finally found solid earth, we discovered the tide had covered our road in and eliminated ours. We exited the other way and wedged our four-wheel drive vehicle in the sand; fortunately a few English-speaking Costa Ricans ambled by, adjusted our four-wheel mechanism, and helped push us out - international cooperation at its best. We tested the sea in Belize and were turned off by eel grass. In Panama we spent a few days as guests on a small sailboat in the San Blas islands where few other tourists ventured. In Ecuador we spent several days in the Galapagos islands where tour guides march with every step. We spent one day there snorkeling with the sea lions by ourselves, the type of exploration we prefer. In Greece we scouted the island of Paros and settled into a small cove with some chairs and a picnic lunch. We were visiting off-season and discovered a few other bathers in the November waters. We chose to follow the local culture and spent the day skinny dipping in the "wine dark" sea. We look forward to the Red Sea this spring. We always pack our bathing suits.

Other Beaches - Roatan

2005-04-04T15:33:00.000-07:00

While New England has formed my view of beaches, I have explored other coastlines. Most recently, I have spent time on West Bay Beach in Roatan, Honduras. Tourists have this stretch of beach. The cruise lines come in several times a week with braceleted passengers. They sit on beach chairs lined up like deck chairs at one end of this curved sand. At the other end of the crescent is an Italian resort; it used to feature topless ladies until modesty arrived at the island. Here there are dance lessons and water exercise. The local authorities have also banned horses on the beach; they used to walk by with tourists perched on top. The beach scene is lively for people watching although snippets are hard to pick up because of the language Babel - Italian, Spanish, German, Swedish. The sunbathers and swimmers are in the water with snorkel gear, scuba equipment, fishing rods, kayaks, sailboats or on the land with volleyball, fling, running, or just lazing. Low-rise resorts and a few homes provide a backdrop for the beach busy during the day; security guards with flashlights offer isolated mileposts while walking under the black nighttime Caribbean sky. A few piers protrude into the warm sea protected by coral reef. Rays swim in at sunset joining bystanders for the glorious sunset. Water taxis come and go. Beyond the reef extravagant yachts moor, some with helicopters atop, others with tall masts or complete diving decompression chambers. I do not look to find my soul at this beach but rather to warm my heart and indulge in another culture.

The Beach

2005-04-01T15:09:00.000-08:00

The beach has been part of my life ever since I can remember. Although I was born on the east coast, I spent many of my early years in the midwest. We would take annual treks in long car rides to the north shore of Boston. My father would say the air smelled different when we crossed into the New England states.

We stayed in houses where the seacoast was our playground. I learned to swim in icy cold water. I played imaginary games along the rocks, creating playhouses out of crannies. We walked in the mudflats at low tide. We learned to clam, using our feet to burrow into the sand. I would return blond and suntanned after too many hours outdoors. On my return one of my friends thought I was an Indian when she saw me at the door. She saw the dark-skinned girl with braids at the door. The pigtails did not get daily attention and probably did not get rinsed out much. We had a rusty bathtub in the house so avoided bathtime.

These free days, marked by the arrival of the ice cream man, Ipswich fried clams, and jelly doughnuts from some bakery, included afternoons reading comic books on front porch swings and gliders. They also created association of the beach with family. My grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins often joined us. We had Fourth of July games and cookouts. For children it was idyllic. My mother did not necessarily share the sheer enjoyment; she had five children, including babies, no washer or dryer, and all the work of packing up trunks of cloth diapers, sheets and towels in advance.

I have continued that beach journey for over 30 years with my own children. We go to a different beach, an island in New England. We have traveled in stuffed station wagons, children jumbled with dogs and cats, towing boats and carrying bicycles on top. We've stopped and added a cousin or two. My children still come, now with their children. We overflow the house and need another one just too accommodate the growing generations.

The family memories intermingle with the beach, but the sea is the draw. People ask me what we do, and I struggle with the simple response of walking, swimming, biking, picking blackberries. They are not the words of a travel brochure. The beach, however, attracts us to its shore, sometimes sandy, some years covered with rocks. The waves lap the shore or crash in when the sea stirs up. In summer umbrellas and towels dot the landscape, but only the bathing suit style makes this year differ from 1975. We see and hear the chanting seagulls. We hear the children jump in the surf. We taste peanut butter and carry a sleeping child home. The dunes and dune grass frame our view. The old farmhouse in the distance still dominates despite a few trophy home that now dot the shore.

I now understand my father's intake when he returned to New England. The air is fresh and invigorating. My walks along the beach are cleansing, allowing new year resolutions on a different schedule from the calendar. My soul - if I have one - and my spirit are renewed. I feel close to nature, one with the wind and the mist and sunshine on my face. This beach view is a one that stretches back years, a repeated snapshot rather than an amusing snippet.

End of March

2005-03-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

As I exposed myself on a blog to the world, writing felt more public. Since no one has read or commented on my entries, I am beginning to feel a blog is really a very private medium - just an automated journal. Since I have kept a number of travel journals over the last few years, it may be easier to maintain a record of my thoughts in one place. I'll see. I am still uncertain as to the depth of revelation I want in my blog. I am also uncertain about its direction.

Let me continue with the retirement theme. I am about to interview for another contract, this time with my former firm. It will be odd to talk to people I know. I am not sure if I want to 'go back'. I do need to stretch my brain. I have found that the interaction in a contract position frees me from all the internal politics. I do not care as deeply about the work; I only care that I do my best. I have gained some skills mostly in word processing features that I never bothered to learn and in diagramming tools and techniques. I have also had the freedom to observe my dynamic team, watching the interaction, the styles of influencing and leadership, the cultural behavior of many 'green card' technologists, the waning enthusiasm as we move onto to the next steps of our lives. One colleague told me to write a novel, so I guess I can use this time to find characters.

I am reading commentaries about Ann Lamott. I listened to a number of NPR essays on writers and learned about her for the first time. I also heard an interview of May Sarton and have found her poems. I listen to novels and non-fiction in the car and find a voice adds a new dimension to a work. My mother who has macular degeneration can only read through listening. I empathize with her as I look forward to my daily commute stories; some days, in fact, I want to stay in the car rather than get on with the day. Somehow books I listen to remain in my memory more readily than the ones I read. Recently Maniza Naqvi, a Pakistan writer, came to discuss her work Stay With Me with a group at my home. It was not an easy book to understand; when Maniza read, the book took on new coloration. The oral traditions is returning.

I have started over the last few years to read several books at the same time, in addition to those on tape. I am reading Purple Hibiscus, a biography of Mary Elgin, and A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. With them I move through time and geography; I find the contrast creates focus as I pick up a new chapter. I think I felt so deprived of reading when my children were young and I was working that I am trying to make up for lost time. I even look forward to long airplane rides which give me permission to do nothing but read.

Today one daughter turns 29. She was due in early March but prolonged her birth to the very end. (She chose not to be induced on April Fool's Day!) That March was very long as has been the one this year.

Beginning

2005-03-29T16:08:00.000-08:00