Sassyangelac
Weekend Wander
Where did this week go? Friday already. Race weekend again already. Springtime already. Yesterday it was 82 degrees at The Jesus Crack House. I guess winter is gone, such as it was. As much as everyone else seems to long for spring I am always sad to see winter go. No more running on my lunch hour (too warm not to shower). No more open windows at the office. No more sleeping in on the weekends (too hot to run at midday). No more mosquito-free cocktail hours, coffee breaks, or hot tea interludes on the deck. No more sassy wooly hats and magic scarves. No more scraggly, craggly monochrome photos. Stuff is already blooming and greening and budding and the morning humidity will only climb higher and higher. The tornados will be here soon too. The flooding will come after that. Of course we will get flowers and lush lawns and baby wildlife as well, but still, no one really appreciates what winter was when spring is already seducing us. As the sun was setting yesterday I saw this battered moldy piece of cardboard blowing across grass that already has green roots showing. I hated to see winter blown away so soon with it. Bye bye gray days. Bye bye bare branches. See you again in nine months or so.
Tomorrow is a trail race (my favorite) and then a full day of adventure and exploring (more favorites) so I am packing up Peaco for his first day trip of the year and planning to enjoy an unstructured excursion in a city I usually just coast through. Kind of exciting to just go with no plan and see what happens; my kind of vibe. AppleJack and I did this in Dallas one day when we first started dating. We started out on foot with no map and no plan and happened across the most amazing little underground chapel. There was a weird white stucco bubble above ground but below there was a tiny little honeywood cove where people could go to pray or meditate or just escape the pressures of the city. It was completely soundproofed. There was softly filtered sunlight from a skylight and it operated completely independent of a parent religious organization. It was a blissfully calm all-comer's haven tucked right in between the highrise life of downtown Dallas. I doubt we would have found it unless we were wandering.
In St. Louis we found the coolest little French bistro that had more varieties of Bloody Marys than there were seats in the place. In Eureka Springs we went for a run and found a writer's colony tucked into the side of a mountain. In Oregon we found the gravesite of an unknown person that had died on the beach and been buried by Good Samaritans. In Fayetteville we found an odd little bookstore in which we assumed foot massages were being given in the front window. Remember the episode of Seinfeld in which George goes to see Tor, the holistic healer? It was that kind of place. Those massages turned out to be reflexology treatments going on in the front window. The staff was very condescending. We assumed it was because we didn't look New Age enough to be serious customers (we weren't!) so when AppleJack picked up a Buddhist dorje and joked, "Hey look! A miniature double egg beater!" the clerk rolled his eyes and turned his back on us.
Oh, and then there was the time we found Mitchell's Folly (shudder), a very disturbing curio shop that sold only creepy and macabre items in varying stages of rot and decay. It was manned by a freaky dude who refused to acknowledge us at first because AppleJack whispered to me that he looked like a serial killer (he looked worse than a serial killer). When he did speak to us he gave us a serious case of the willies and sent us upstairs to see an "art gallery." We obliged just to be polite and remove ourselves from his presence but at the top of the stairs we discovered that the art gallery was really just a bunch of headless baby dolls, taxidermy projects, and old dentist chairs. We had no idea that old man Mitchell had followed us and cornered us up there until we turned around to find him standing behind us and telling us to step out onto the balcony where there was a hidden staircase to a second gallery. The second gallery was full of sun-bleached skulls, some ratty old rugs and a French horn. We wanted out but quickly realized that there was no way out except back the way we came and old man Mitchell was on the balcony blocking our path. We ended up bailing out through a garden alley to the street below with goosebumps and hearts pounding.
Tomorrow we will wander again. I'm not expecting any chapels but that's the great thing about wandering--you don't really expect anything. You can't be disappointed if you have no expectations. It is time for me to go get it started with one of my birthday massages so I will leave you all with wishes for bliss and adventure for your weekends too.
(c) 2012, ACG
The Anti-Summit
Still plugging away on editing the novel. It’s funny. Now that I’ve more or less written it I don’t have that feeling of monumental accomplishment that I imagined. I spent my whole life up to this point wanting to write this book and now that I have written it I have to admit that it doesn’t really feel like a life’s work. This is not because I’m unhappy or dissatisfied with the work; I’m not. I like it. I think it’s good. But it just doesn’t feel like the artistic summit I imagined it would after so many years of wanting it so badly. It still feels like something I needed to do and I’m really glad I did. I’m going to see it through to completion but I have to be honest and say that there really aren’t any feelings of catharsis or epiphany. I am happy to have turned a wish into reality but now that it’s done (in terms of the writing) I guess it just no longer seems like such a big deal. I’ll still publish it but I think my emotional investment in it has changed. Even if it is well received I have the feeling that it was a milestone on a longer journey and not a finish line. Perhaps I was supposed to write it so that I would become a writer and then…well, that remains to be discovered, now doesn’t it? Maybe I was supposed to write a book so that I would grow into being comfortable and assertive with a gift but the book itself wasn’t necessarily the grand purpose of the gift. Perhaps it was a learning tool, like training wheels.
I’ve said at least a hundred times that it was never going to be about making money and it still isn’t. I wrote it for me. Only now that I’ve written it I guess I no longer feel like I need it. I’m pleased and proud and all that jazz but I’m just sort of over it, as odd as that may sound. As I am re-reading it and editing it I see how I put my heart into it but now my heart feels ready for something else. Ironically, this feeling of detachment seems to help the editing process quite a bit in terms of objectivity. I’m told most artists find it impossible to be objective about their work. I guess it gets easier once you outgrow the work (if that’s what I’ve done here). So now the motivation to get it all edited and tidied up is so that I can be free for whatever comes next. I have no clue what that might be. Maybe there is another book waiting; maybe something completely different. I don’t know. The joy of doing what I do is still as strong as ever but I guess I have just begun to measure it differently. It isn’t measured in novels anymore, if it ever was. Come to think of it, why measure it at all?
I always loved that line in the movie Frida when Diego Rivera tells Frida that his opinion of her work shouldn’t matter because, “If you’re a real painter, you’ll paint because you can’t live without painting.” I guess I no longer need to have Write A Novel out there as an impetus to write. Now that I have done it I can see that it never was a good reason to be writer. Being a writer because I don’t want to live without writing is the reason I’m doing it now. Whether it turns into books or something else or nothing else, the joy of letting myself write didn’t change when I checked the Write A Novel box. I am no happier and no sadder as a writer so it wasn’t the promise or the fruition of the novel making the magic. My old yoga teacher used to coax me not to practice goal-oriented yoga but to practice process-oriented yoga if I wanted it to be more than simply a performance. Perhaps that’s why I don’t seem particularly elated that I wrote a novel. At some point I began practicing process-oriented writing and stopped worrying about the outcome of it all. I know it must sound terribly anti-climactic but I’m not disappointed. I’m satisfied that I finally did what I meant to do but now that it’s done I feel that it wasn’t ALL I was meant to do.
I don’t know what else. I don’t have to know right now. It will come to me. I’ve still got lots of editing to finish in the meantime.
The Burning Truth About Being Right
Danielle LaPorte has a Burning Question series going on over at her site in which she has asked her readers to name one dumb thing they used to believe in. Wow, just one? I've got a metric ton of dumb things I used to believe in. Hell, half of them got me started as a blogger! The hours I used to waste blogging about the way things ought to be and the ways people ought to behave are staggering to remember. Did I really ever waste all that energy being irritated by everyday dumbassity? Yes, I did. I did it because one of the biggest dumb things I ever believed was that I was right.
That's not to say I decided I was wrong. I just finally wised up about the notion that my choices were right and someone else's were wrong. There is no such thing as a right choice or a wrong choice. Choice cannot be right or wrong; good or bad. Choices can be made from healthy places of good intentions or they can be made from dark places of ignorance and pain but it isn't the choice that is right or wrong. The choices we are make for our lives are directly relative to either the truths we admit to ourselves or the lies we tell ourselves. When those things influence our choices then our choices cannot help but be indicative of what motivated them. That doesn't make them right or wrong, it only makes them symptomatic of their root cause.
I'm not right and you aren't wrong; we simply have different needs we are nursing with our truths and untruths. Your choices will change when you embrace your truths, as do/have/will my choices. It's the same with our untruths. When we stop feeding ourselves illusions we stop making choices that support them. It makes no sense to assign qualities of right or wrong to choices simply because they differ from ours because at any given time we are all at different phases of living our real truths--maybe just living them a little, maybe not liiving them at all. Just like everyone assimilates to potty training at different speeds and via different motivations, so we all come to face our truths at different paces and via different paths. You aren't right just because you are a little further along and neither am I.
(c) 2012, ACG
Horsehead Tea And Birth Control
The raging debate over the birth control/health insurance issue strikes me as yet another ridiculous way we have dreamed up to divide ourselves into classes of right and wrong. Should employers be required to provide insurance benefits for medications or procedures they find morally objectionable? Yes. Yes, they should. The reason why has nothing to do with what is or isn't moral. It doesn't really matter whether or not your employer opposes or supports birth control. What matters is that your employer cannot impose her/his moral code or religion upon you.
If you give your employers the power to decide which health benefits they will or won't cover based upon their religions or their moral codes you are also giving them the power to manipulate your health care choices to suit criteria which do not necessarily include your health care needs. You give them the power to decide that you should just pray for deliverance rather than take an allergy medication or that you should just live with a disfigurement rather than have reconstructive surgery. It is much too slippery a slope when you consider how many religions there are in this country and many of them disagree about what is or isn't morally objectionable.
Do you really want to give someone else jurisdiction over your prenatal care or your child's immunizations based upon their religion? Suppose their religion opposes treating diabetes? What if their moral code found pace makers or organ transplants objectionable? Imagine you are the victim of a terrible car accident. I know of at least one branch of Christianity that prohibits its followers from receiving donor blood; meaning that they can bleed to death and be morally right or stay alive after a blood transfusion and be morally wrong. Start chipping away at the separation between how much another person's religion is allowed to dictate your choices--especially regarding your own health--and you slowly surrender whatever it is YOU believe just to remain employed. Isn't that just a passive form of slavery?
It only takes the voluntary relinquishment of one covered health benefit--such as birth control--to open the door for an employer to say no to coverage of anything. It needn't even be something as controversial as birth control; it could be eyeglasses or root canals. The larger point is that you don't want your boss making these decisions based on a faith or morality you may not share. Our employers are prohibited from discriminating against us based upon our religions to the extent that they cannot even ask our religions before deciding to employ us. Changing the existing laws would allow these same employers to withhold covered health benefits from us based upon not sharing their religions, which is discrimination. It baffles me that this is even up for debate.
There are 118 million women registered to vote in this country who risk losing covered health benefits simply by virtue of not sharing the same faith as their lawmakers. How could a voting force that is 118 million strong submit to something so unconstitutional and still stand idly by while we are gouged for the full cost of tampons and sanitary napkins? I'll tell you how; because it's not about birth control, it's about our juvenile need to classify the sinners from the saints, the good from the bad, and the saved from the damned so that we can take satisfaction that we are on the right team. We are so busy pointing and judging and quoting scripture at each other over our hymnals that we can't even see that we are being used as pawns to serve someone else's agenda. Who would reap the benefits of denying coverage for birth control? Who would get to recoup hundreds of thousands of dollars a year? Think about it. Women who were smart enough to demand their reproductive rights over the last century are smart enough to figure out who stands to profit from eroding them.
(c) 2012, ACG
Write On In February
My photo for week one is a bit of double entendre and deliberately mottled/muddled. I placed a heart over my freckled heart. You can choose your interpretation: Listen with your heart or speak from a listening heart.
My photo for week two is indicative of my love of living, eating, working, and buying local. As much as I adore travel and field trips I am a great believer in rebuilding sustainable communities. This ice cream was consumed on 2/10. How is this possible? It only had to travel down the street to get to my favorite organic market, not across the country. Bourdeaux Chocolate with a tiny carbon footprint. It is held by an arm which is held by a promise. I am aware that the promise looks like a gold bracelet but it's not exactly that. I'm not even wearing it as one would a treasure. It is holding me like a treasure. The promise is embracing my arm, which embraces everything else. Every gesture begins with that promise.
My photo for week three is permanent writing on my body. This is not just one of my tattoos, it is also the area surrounding one of my tattoos. I guess it's also one of my first experiments with negative space. The symbol is ancient, yet eternal; the forever learning and forever forgetting cycle of human existence.
Week four got away from me so just three this time!
(c) 2012, ACG
Light Fantastic
For the purposes of giving Bella an answer I had to choose one thing but I suppose it is still an intanglible. It's the way the light changes when the seasons do. You can't really touch ambient light, can you? You can feel it it touching you but can you touch it yourself? Voila--inspiration. On the heels of succumbing to the early darkness of winter comes the lengthening light. I caught myself sighing contendedly and pointing out to AppleJack that it was not dark as we approached the dinner hour. I pointed to reflected light on the wall in the next room and drew his attention to how much light was still coming in the window on that side of the house. I couldn't help it. I had to get up and go outside if only to acknowledge that I could do so without turning on the exterior lights. As I sat on the lowest step of the back deck and silently honored the sun's lingering gift my dog leaned against me and for just a moment was also silent and still.
(c) 2012, ACG
Dare I Say It? Fondling The Romance
This, my friends, is exactly how I feel on this warm Sunday evening. Tired puppy. I have droop. I have weary ache. I have good reason. Three days of hard running, spring cleaning & yard work, at least three big somethings crossed off the To Do list and four--count 'em!--FOUR chapters of The Book edited! This blond baby photo was taken by my friend Stacy and then glamorized (Sassorized?) by me. There is a place right between my shoulder blades that feels just like those puppy eyes melting closed. Did you know that one of the definitions of cuddle is to fondle in the arms? Oooooooh yeah. Fondle in the arms. I could use some of that right now. And right between the shoulder blades. Got a massage booked for Friday. Gonna get myself fondled in all the hurty places. I'm already moaning in advance.
My affinity for crowns has not abated in the slightest yet a new enchantment has settled in. Skeleton keys. There is something romantic that occurs to me when I encounter a skeleton key. It must be because they are nearly obsolete and it is their obsolescence that is romantic. Think about the reason you might a need a key and then think of the reasons you no longer need it. It is the release of the need to keep something locked up that sets the key and the lock and the treasure free. No secrets. Free admittance. Come in. Go out. See it all. Skeleton keys become separated from their locks because someone becomes separated from their need to maintain a barrier. This is more romantic to me than the things kept by keys and locks.
I only see the old fashioned skeleton keys this way because it is only these keys that symbolize old locks. Old doors. Old strongholds. I used to look at an old key and wonder to what sort of door or chest or drawer it belonged. I imagined mysteries. Now I look at an old skeleton key lost in the modern world and see that because it no longer has a companion door or chest or drawer it is a symbol of freedom and not mystery. It can never again lock anything away or lock anyone out. Old locks become sprung by some means even if their keys are lost so one way or another the things that get locked away are eventually liberated. No one saves these broken locks or doors yet curiously, the keys remain. They seem to be turning up everywhere these days.
An encounter with a skeleton key is an encounter with someone else's desire for privacy or protection. The key may have once been the tool of that desire but with time's passing it ultimately becomes the symbol of privacy or protection surrendered. That's the romance. All keepers of keys surrender them sooner or later. Someone gave up a stronghold, whether it happened by choice or death or some other event. The giving up of the need to retain the key is the enchantment for me. The richer mystery is not the treasure or the property or the boundary; it is whatever may have compelled that gesture of surrender. These old skeleton keys are the talismans of the romance. As unusual as it is for me say such a thing (maybe just because I am too tired to resist), right now I am fondling that romance.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fake Forsaken
I came home from yoga class tonight to find love in my carport. It was waiting for me right on the cement, easily as big as my head, on my path from the Rocket Ship to The Jesus Crack House. Must be more of that love I sent out coming back to me. I accept!
It's been a rowdy week. Interoffice revolutions, travel bookings, birthday parties, unpredictable weather, ass-kicking substitute teachers, and even a serenade of the whole damn town. It's true. Hell was raised. The Bohemian Rhapsody was raised. The College Girl got a tattoo. The full moon waned. Wolves appeared and disappeared. Sausage was made. Livers were eaten. Plants died. I once again dreamed someone's real life, completely unknown to me. Rowdy. Messy. Real. Life.
If I had even the smallest amount of pretention left in me I lost it this week. I said No at great professional risk and said Yes to compassionate singing in public. The No was to break a precedent that needed to be broken for a long time now. Could have easily backfired. Internal earthquakes. Deep breaths. It worked out. It was worth it. Rowdy. Uncomfortable. Real. Life.
The Yes was a rescue effort for a well-meaning kid who took on way too much karaoke and needed to be bailed out. At the critical moment of failure a posse was formed to lend him voice and the chutzpah to deliver it. Verse by verse, what began as a sympathetic back-up choir became a gradual bulldozing of the poor kid's song into rock 'n roll oblivion. It was a spontaneous act of kindness that flared up and burned so brightly that it's all a blur now. Spectators were cursing that their shock and awe prevented anyone from getting it all on video. Performers were thankful that no one did. Rowdy. Uninhibited. Real. Life.
Here we are at the end of this dreamy, creamy, screamy week. Everything attached to my bones quivers with exertion and the passing of adrenaline. One girl turned to me and said "I will never look at you the same way again." Another girl said "You are my hero. You don't do fake." Embarrassing or empowering--either way, fake is over. Fake exhausted me until I exhausted fake and found it completely unfulfilling. Empty. Chalky. There is no more wading in the shallows for the sake of appearances. There is now going under for the sake of authentic experiences. Not just having the experiences but providing experiences, too. What am I really giving if what I offer isn't genuine? Chalk. Ash. Smoke. Fake.
Fake has been publicly forsaken. Fatigue now comes from a cessation of half measures. Let it be ripe and rowdy now. Let it be real. Let it be life.
(c) 2012, ACG
Howling Wolf Tea
It was a passionate meal last night at The Jesus Crack House. The chef worked hard. We got the best table in the place with no waiting. I wore my hair up.
Wild mushroom salad
Oysters
Pan seared duck breast
Indian Bayou rice
Red wine
German chocolate cake
Coffee
It was good. A great inspiration to writers of novels, readers of magical women, and lovers of poetry. The inner sanctuaries of light and music were stirred. Simple. Genuine. Free from expectation and therefore free of limitation.
Today is one of those days I call a Bonus Day. Bonus Days are the days in which your best laid plans are supplanted by something else, such as weather. When your day doesn't go (or at least start) the way you intended you get a bonus day of something you didn't intend. I knew it was supposed to rain in the afternoon so I got up early to run before work. Rain came early--about seven hours early! Thunder and lightning with it. So I get a Bonus Morning to sip tea and read good things and write a little. Devil Cat looks angelic curled up beside me and the earth is getting a good long drink in the dark. My plans didn't get ruined. They just got changed.
Since today is the day I work on my novel I am going to resist the urge to write on in this philosophical mood and leave that work to another kind of day--rainy or otherwise. I will find another way to run today and another day to write but before I go must pass along The Magic Tea Cup's message this morning. It is either a canine with his jaws open or the letter K in script. I can't decide. If it's a wolf, as I think it is, he seems to be more jovial than scary so I'm going to assume he's got a song to sing. If it's a K, well I assume it's a clue to something that isn't immediately obvious to me now. And that's O...K...
(c) 2012, ACG
Snaggletoothed Sage
Chill Monsters know the measure of love.
It ain't Valentine's Day.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Alternative
I have learned the lessons of history well enough to know that no matter how staunchly I hold out for Valentine purity I am likely to remain on the losing team. Therefore I propose a treaty with the Inclusionists. You can have your Valentines Day for everyone. Valentine it up! Spend! Share! Shower! Have a good time with yourselves. We will shut up and look the other way. I propose that in exchange for a cessation of our resistance you allow the Purists to have another day and then leave it the hell alone! Keep Valentines Day but let us have another one that is ONLY for the lovers, sweethearts, and spouses. Do your thing on your day and let us do ours on our day.
As for the Venomists, I think you deserve a day too. Pick yourselves a holiday to celebrate and promote your singleness and then demand that the rest of us leave it the hell alone! It won't make Valentines Day or the proposed alternative go away but at least you could have a day of counterbalance. I know there are way more of you out there than there are Purists! Unite! The greeting card companies will back you, I swear. Invent a new holiday and they will invent a way for folks to spend money on it, guaranteed! You could put an R & D team on this and leak just the tiniest bit to the general public and before you know it the card/candy/jewelry/stuffed animal conglomerates will come to you. All you really have to do is pick a day. And a name.
Of course, the only way the Purists are going get a holiday that the Inclusionists won't pervert is to make it sound like something you don't want to share with your nieces, nephews, or Sunday School class. We need to call it something that separates it distinctly from just "Love" and makes it specific to yonder or the intention/hope of going yonder. Otherwise we will have people including their mothers and aunts and BFFs and on and on and on until it becomes just a second Valentines Day. What do you say Purists? Are you out there? Am I reaching you? Don't our lovers deserve a day of their own? Aren't the people who see us naked entitled to a holiday they don't have to share with your sister's kids?
We are smart people. We know that nookie is better than candy. Even if we aren't aspiring to nookie in our relationships yet we are capable and willing to separate and elevate romance and intimacy for one day all its own, aren't we? Let them have Christmas, Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Thanksgiving, and even Valentines Day if that's what they need. Let us declare a day with connotations so passionate they would consider it vulgar and distasteful to extend it to their daughters' gymnastics class. What do you say Purists? Help me think of a name? Venomists? We welcome your input too! The suggestion box is open.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Pink Parts
My Language Art today is a pink statement of seduction.
Don't you just want to slide your hand into these crevices? Don't you want to know what lies between these pages? Aren't your eyes drawn to the deeper pink gaps between them? There are curves and undulations. There are layers and gentle puckers. You're sure they must feel warm to the touch, aren't you? Of course you are. The pink spaces between beckon and insinuate, don't they? It's not just a stack of paper anymore. It's an interest, a compulsion, maybe even a need. If it was white it would just be a stack of paper and probably wouldn't spark the same interest. That's why pink is a power color. It hints and conjures. Yes, like a woman but also like other things of the earth that linger in between two colors. Just enough red to beguile. Just enough white or yellow or brown to relate.
The Magic Tea Cup showed me a tropical fish this morning but it was too faint to photograph well. The type of tea I drink seems to affect how dark the leavings are in the bottom of the cup. The stronger the tea, the lighter the image. The more floral and herbal the tea, the darker the image. I'm having Lady Grey this morning because the bergamot tingles my pink tongue. I wish I had something pink to wear as I run through the woods tomorrow. I always wear black when I race because my juiciness is so photogenic. Maybe it's time for some creativity in this arena. I swear if I had a pink superhero cape or a tutu I would consider it. I want there to be flashes of something pink through the trees that observers might not be sure they really saw. It's not about the costume. It's about creating something intriguing in the dark, cold, muddy woods that will catch the eyes of someone who thinks his/her eyes must be playing tricks. Did you see that? I could have sworn I saw something pink through the trees. Must be seeing things. Mmhmm. Exactly. I want you to think you saw some pink parts beckoning from deep in the forest. Come investigate. Get wet and cold and dirty and leave the trail looking for that pink. Get a little confused and a little scared but be sure you smell something and then there it is again! Something pink--over there, see it? What is that? Go deeper. Find it.
Sirens, mermaids, woodland fairies, ladies in the lake, crones in caves, bearers of scarlet letters and gypsies with mysteries. Sorceress, temptress, goddess. Don't fool yourselves that we aren't werewolves too, ladies. It's all the same appetite in prettier packaging. Last night as I slept I vanquished the bad guy without ever touching him and then went out for pizza. The power of pink needs no bravado.
(c) 2012, ACG
Love Note
This may not seem like a big deal to those of you still in practice but it was a significant deal for me because I've gotten spoiled by The Chef. Unless he asks for one of my Sassy Classics AppleJack does all of the meal planning, all of the shopping, and just about all of the cooking these days. I haven't cooked on the fly in a long, long time. I made some pies at Christmas and a meatloaf for The Zombie during his holiday break but both of those were planned events. This was a spontaneous meal. I can't remember the last time I had to pull a soup out of thin air on a random Sunday.
Actually, it was not a random Sunday. It was the biggest Sunday of the year and I was determined NOT to go to the supermarket on Superbowl Sunday in a small town. Hell no. I might still be in line if I did! This meant that I to use whatever ingredients we already had in stock and therefore couldn't follow my classic tried-and-true recipe. I was forced to improvise in the kitchen and I haven't done that in probably five years. Plus he is a chef now. How do you cook better or at least as good as a chef when you only cook a few times a year?
But this post is not about the soup. This is about the love note on the onion; my little get well stink doodle. Who writes a love note on an onion? Sassy. Who would think a love note on an onion is romantic? A sick chef.
I know at least one Steeple is bound to ask , so yes, the soup turned out great. In the end I guess the combination of watching him in the kitchen or watching a gazillion cooking shows with him imparted some knowledge of what not to do. Soup is not that difficult anyway so how bad could it be even if it was bad? It wasn't bad though. I was proud of myself for making it and he went to work feeling better. Must have been the secret ingredient: love.
(c) 2012, ACG
Puzzling Tea
The Magic Tea Cup spoke again over the weekend.
I don't know what this is. Looks sort of feline to me.
It's just too distinctive and well defined to dismiss as another blob.
But I don't know what else it is. Puzzle pieces maybe? A map?
I still think I see some kind of big cat face/head, so I dunno.
What do you see?
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling The Stink
This yoga model thing is turning into a regular gig. I just love saying it; I'm a yoga model. That's right, I'm a yoga model. I wish someone would ask me what I do so that I could answer, "I'm a writer, a runner, and a yoga model." It's enough to make me want to go to a high school reunion just for the chance to say it aloud and watch the reactions. Oh I'm doing well. I'm a yoga model now.
Our teacher has been begging for yoga self-portraits from the class each week but she isn't getting enough to satisfy her needs. Thursday night after class she asked three of us to stay and model some poses--a slender spiced chai goddess, a long statuesque classic goddess, and the short sassy goddess. This is one of my poses taken by the chai goddess but artistically dramatized by me for Language Art purposes. You would never know we were sweaty and flushed under the unflattering fluorescent glare of a dingy rackeball court, would you? I called it Yoga in the Shadows. I'm a yoga model. Hello, I'm a yoga model. Fondling...fondling...
Aaaahhh...the exquisiteness of being sore after a long race. I wonder if non-athletes can relate to this? Yes it hurts, but in a good way. It's an acknowledgement kind of pain; an affirmation kind of pain. I guess pain isn't even a good way to express it. Discomfort would be a better choice but the discomfort produces smiles of satisfaction because it affirms that you did something amazing with your body the day before. It doesn't hurt in the way that stubbing your toe hurts or throwing out your back hurts; it's a sweet hurt. That may not make sense to some folks but Sassy likes that creaky song that comes from her muscles the next day. It extends the joy of the activity just a little bit longer.
It did rain but only lightly at the beginning. After that it was just warm and humid and muddy for the 9.3 miles along the foggy river banks. Since the last five years have featured thunderstorms, flooding, ice/snow, or 50 mph wind gusts, this was the best weather for this race yet. I made three new friends along the course--two new club members I hadn't met before and a woman from another club who introduced herself because she always seems to be chasing me in to the finish throughout the year. When she asked my name I answered, "My name is Angela but everyone calls me Sassy." She exclaimed, "Oh! So you are SASSY!" I guess my reputation preceded me. (giggle) I like that song of recognition too.
I didn't race this race. I ran it as a long run with friends but since it was my longest run of the year so far it served as hard training nonetheless. It is generally my favorite race of the year so it also served as a rainy day adventure and of course socializing with that unique breed of people who think it's fun to go play in mud puddles. By the time I got home I had schmutz splattered halfway up my sore calves but that tends to also make me smile. Getting dirty is fun. When it is earned this way it is fun to stink. My only regret is that I had to leave a sick AppleJack at home. We usually stink it up all the way home together. Solo funk is cool but the double funk of two wet filthy river runners is even better. This is something that is just as difficult to explain as the good soreness--the good stink.
I think a kind of chemical communion happens to people who sweat joyfully together. The scent of dirt and exertion turns into an organic fragrance when it is shared. Somehow the sharing of the production of the stink makes it less of a stink. It magically stops being foul or repulsive and becomes familial and funny. Your brain says less "Get away!" and more "He/she is one of us!" Just like the day-after pain is a signal that you rocked your physical prowess, the just-after reek is a signal that you and the others you are smelling rocked a social boundary together. You dared to be gross together for a common goal. Using your bodies to do something amazing together created that stink. It may be difficult to understand but that sort of, well, smells good.
However, the stink does have an expiration. The magic of it being pleasant is relatively short. Right about the time the adrenaline high wears off and the body begins to cool and the belly begins to growl with hunger, the stink starts to stink again and it's time to tidy up. The stink being a hallmark of badassity will quickly turn to being just a hallmark of the unwashed past a certain point. The nose knows that point and then Poof! the spell is broken. Perhaps the fact that it is so short-lived is what makes it magical, just like The Blue Hour just before sunrise and just after sunset. It is a fleeting fondle.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling Fun Friday
I'm keeping it light today. I have a race in the morning and it is supposed to rain buckets, as it usually does. My running buddies are taking me out for a belated birthday dinner tonight too so I just feel like playing today. I didn't have an Ugly Doll on hand but I did have my Chill Monster so we did a little office yoga. Here are the highlights of our desktop practice:
Ardha Matsyendrasana (Seated Twist)
Vasisthasana (Side Plank)
Ananda Balasana (Happy Baby)
Chaturanga (Staff Pose)
Adho Mukha Vrkasana (Headstand)
And a final relaxation with a cup of tea! Have a great weekend!
(c)2012, ACG
Fondling 40
The dawn of my 40th year was foggy and overcast. AppleJack and I rose early for a birthday run in the dark and woke every dog in the neighborhood. Hellraising seemed appropriate for the occasion even if it was unintentional. Cousin Leigha asked me yesterday if I was going to go out and do something young and dumb to celebrate the end of my youth. As I passed a sleeping house with about five yapping dogs throwing a fit in the living room window I figured I did something old and mean instead.
The first gift of the day was that AppleJack took the week off. The family texts started coming in as I got ready for work. When I got to work I found that my office had been converted to a temple. Black streamers hung from the doorway and the ceiling. The door bore signs heralding 40 and wishing me happiness. One sign read “With Age Comes Wisdom. That’s why we love our Sassyisms!” I thought this reference was just a clue that the decorators had been reading them and liked them. Well, yes and no. They had definitely read them but there was more to come on that.
I was given a pink sparkling tiara with marabou feathers to wear and a black ribbon to pin over my breast advertising my age. The floor was completely covered with balloons—black, yellow, and sassy grass green. My office chair had been converted into a silver throne. An altar was set up on one wall under banners wishing me more happiness. More black streamers hung in a canopy over my desk. On every wall were giant 40 signs and pithy sayings such as “OLD AS MOLD, “ “OLDER THAN DIRT,” “OVER THE HILL,” “If you were a car you’d be an antique!” and “What doesn’t hurt doesn’t work.” Everywhere the eye could rest was festooned with such a black sign and in the middle of my desk, spelled out in cupcakes with black icing letters, “Sassy is 40!.” This is why I didn’t notice the Sassyisms at first.
Then it hit me. There were white signs on the walls too. Holey buckets. The white signs were pieces of my writing! My coworkers had printed out the long list of my Sassyisms and passed it around. Everyone chose their favorites and then they were printed as signs and hung like pop art all around my desk. As soon as I noticed the first one I saw them all at once and my jaw dropped to my collarbone. For two heartbeats I thought I might cry but the glowing faces of my friends as they said “We picked our favorites!” was such a rush I quickly moved on to elation.
Then the parade began. One by one our clients came to my office and placed offerings on the altar. Packets of tea, candy, snacks, roses, and more cupcakes. Coworkers continued to bring in signs declaring me fierce and fabulous and 14,600 days old. Ugly Doll photos began to show up, including this one from my Dad.
The parade continued throughout the morning as clients came by with offerings for the altar and a hug. AppleJack had apparently been consulted for a list of my favorites so a basket on the altar slowly filled up with all my favorite things as the hours went by.
Then a parade of gifts began. A carrot cake to accompany the carrot cupcakes. A funny card. A magic wand. A suncatcher for my yoga room. A blessing ring. Vintage jewels from my co-dreamer’s grandmother. A tiny piece of handcrafted art that reads “A true friend hears the song in your heart and sings it back to you when you’ve forgotten it.” A one hour massage.
Just when I thought it was all slowing down came a bottle of Sassafras tea and a pink t-shirt with the proclamation Fine and Forty on one side and One Hot Mama on the other. Following that came the Top 40 hits of 1972 and palm-sized art prints tossed onto my desk like confetti. There was barely time to recover from that when a bouquet of paper daffodils arrived bearing a gift card for more tea.
When I came back from lunch even more clip art had been applied to my office, including a long list of celebrities born on my birthday and an exhaustive reference work all about the number 40. By the end of the day the basket on the altar was overflowing with treats as the clients kept pouring in one at a time with their offerings. One sang Happy Birthday to me and one brought me a handmade card with a house, a sun, her name, and the words Love You. On and on the parade went until it was time for the clients to board their buses and I was sure the festivities were finally over. Nope, not over.
As if all of that was not enough, my coworkers had all scoured the internet for inspirational quotes and pictures related to art, running, and yoga, and then made a handmade collage of them. They each chose pictures and quotes that said “Sassy” to them and then fastened them all to a board with vintage buttons. The entire collage was then framed for hanging and given to me as one final collaboration celebration. Or so I thought. After the clients had gone home for the day we cut the carrot cake and everyone came to sit crosslegged on the floor and have a little estrogen fest. Keep in mind that the entire floor was still covered with balloons.
After the cake was consumed we played a frenzied game of balloon volleyball with all the balloons at once until we were sweating and laughing and drawing a crowd in the hallway. To finish it off we all grabbed plastic forks and knives and then got down on our hands and knees to stab the balloons to death. It was an incredible day. I felt like I had been through some kind of Love Boot Camp. My face hurt from smiling so much. My brain could hardly hold it all. I drove home completely saturated with happy fatigue.
AppleJack had of course put his superior chef skills on display with a thai chili scallop crudo and fennel crusted ahi tuna with garlic aoli over lemon couscous. For dessert he made toasted coconut macaroons. Swoon. Wiggle. Swoon. Following dessert I learned that another massage had been procured for me and some seriously exotic gourmet tea from overseas had just cleared customs in the nick of time. After I was comfortably sated with an after-yonder glass of wine on the sofa the day was capped with calls from The Apples. The College Girl has just moved into her first apartment. The Zombie sent an Ugly Doll birthday-gram. I have said it before and I’ll say it again; Groundhog Eve is the absolute coolest birthday in the world.
As for turning 40 I am blown away by how much fun it all was. This was way more fun than turning 16, 18, 21, or 30. 40 feels delicious. It feels easier somehow; less angst, less crap, fewer ridiculous expectations of how things should be. It feels more appreciative and more intuitive. This feels much more “prime” than 25 or 35 did. I definitely feel less burdened and restricted than ever before. I have so much more satisfaction in life and with myself than ever before. The list of things that truly matter at 40 is a much shorter list and the items on that list are of a much higher quality. Friendships at 40 far exceed the frivolities of the younger years. Oh and by the way, sex is better at 40 than it was at 20, as is the food, the music, and the humor. As I said to a 35 year old woman who came by to see how I was dealing with turning 40, “I highly recommend it.”
© 2012, ACG
Fondling The Collective
Today's image in the Magic Tea Cup was a fish. Yesterday it was either a butterfly or a small horse, depending on which way I turned the cup. Both images are were too faint to bother photographing.
Did I mention that you and I share the same DNA even though we are not related by blood? Yes you. Our DNA, yours and mine, is 99.99% identical. Did I also mention that your genetic code is 99.99% identical to everyone else's code? Our cells--all of us--are 99.99% the same. The girl you love to hate, the boy who broke your heart, the criminal, the martyr, the celebrity, the nameless person you just passed in traffic, everyone with whom you've ever shaken hands; all 99.99% identical to you at a cellular level.
There is no Us and Them. We are all Us and we are all Them, down to 99.99% exactly the same. If you map our genetic code you find out there is more about us the same than different--overwhelmingly more. We are 99.99% the same and only .01% different.
Ancient philosophers say that we are only capable of recognizing faults or character flaws in other people because we bear those same flaws. The people we hate are actually mirroring what is already within us and our repulsion is our recognition of those ugly things. Otherwise we don't notice or at least don't have a strong emotional reaction them. In that vein, what you hate about someone else you only hate because that same thing exists within you. Same with the people you love or the things about people you love--you recognize and admire what is already within you. Since we are 99.99% identical under the hood it would seem a huge waste of time to bother singling out someone else for something we all share. Yet we do, and then think ourselves better for it.
Turns out we aren't better. We are the same.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Monday Doodle
It's been awhile since the doodle muse struck at The Jesus Crack House but when it does it makes things like this happen. Strange Fingerprints. Two versions, as usual; a simple one and a dramatic one. Toying with the idea that when something or someone touches your heart it usually leaves behind am imprint of some kind. Sometimes we forget where the fingerprints came from; sometimes they show up before we have their origins figured out but in either case it can only happen if our hearts are accessible.
(c) 2012, ACG
Fondling Contrast
When I left the law firm and entered the non-profit world I discovered that one of my friends is also a relative. She started out as a running buddy and fellow yogini, then a close friend and confidante, and after all that connecting of our lives she turns out to be a cousin by marriage. I know, I know--way cool and probably no accident. We had no idea when we met years ago that one day we would be sharing so much: workplace, yoga class, running club, heart space, adoptive mothers of Ugly Dolls, and then the same family. When Christmas rolled around she lowered yet another blow to the mind. She's also an artist. Two painted canvases appeared in her office window in December. When inquiries were made regarding the charming artist she admitted to being the culprit behind our collective amazement. I bought one of her paintings to give as a gift and then before we broke for Christmas vacation she gave me a gift certificate for a commissioned painting of anything I wanted.
What I wanted was a yoga goddess for the pedestal in my home yoga studio. I gave her a starter design, specified how I wanted it customized, and then gave her all the time in the world to make it real. Last Thursday she finished that reality. The original design was so detail-rich that I thought I might be lucky to see half of it all rendered on the canvas she presented me. With a second blow to the mind she managed to include every detail--even my custom requests. I immediately went strong in the heart and weak in the knees with Wow. Art is such a powerful gift to receive. All I could think to do besides thank her and fawn over the exquisiteness of it was to share it so I took the painting to our yoga class that evening. I presented the painting to the class and encouraged all of our yoginis still practicing without a dedicated home space to use my painter/cousin/friend as an inspiration source, even if all they could find was a corner. Then I took my goddess home and placed her on her pedestal.
The very next day my neighbors cut down a huge tree that grew on our adjoining property line. While it was a gorgeous tulip magnolia that littered our lawns with pale pink confetti in the spring and shaded my house in the summer, it had to come down to facilitate the repair of some devastating drainage problems over on their property. The result is that my yoga room is now flooded with sunlight that used to be blocked by the tree. The windows on either side of the painting now blaze with fire in the afternoons as if the power of My Happy is emanating from all around her. You'll also notice she wears a divine crown. She has a starry leg and water leg indicative of her dream travels through time and she is equally balanced between earth (this world) and sky (spirit world), with life flowing like a conduit thriving on her connection between the two worlds. One light arm and one dark arm carry the gifts of embracing a sorrowed past and a fertile future. She sits calmly, casting a feminine pink aura, and then rests against a background of an even paler pink; the color it took me half a lifetime to accept.
Although I felt an instant Zing when I saw it, I didn't create this design. I found it while I was kicking over some rocks on the internet and she sang to me, one goddess to another. The artist of the original design is Nancy Vala and her design included a lotus blossom below the figure where mine says "My Happy." Nancy has a collection of designs over at Cafe Press that can be applied to lots of products like t-shirts, tote bags, and coffee mugs. This design was not available as a painting so it is actually the collaborative work of two artists--Nancy for the original digital work and my cousin for the reproduction by hand on canvas.
I asked to have the words "My Happy" included on my painting to remind me from where happiness comes--from me, from within, from the same place as my sadness and everything else I feel. It's a deep sentiment wrapped up in just those two words. If I meditated upon nothing else for the rest of my life this concept alone would be enough to keep me busy. Here is my perpetual reminder home on her pedestal draped with a vintage scarf from my mother-in-law's bottomless cedar chest and accompanied by my favorite empty vessels and Kathryn's crown. This is the west wall of my yoga room. You can see the bright new light through the windows reflected in the vessels and even a hint of my reflection as I photographed her. Eventually I will paint this room but for now there is plenty of color to stimulate me. Quintessential sassy.
Although I informed my cousin that I would be blogging about her painting I did not ask permission to use her real name. If you would like to commission a painting from my cousin I can put you in touch with her. I am obviously thrilled with the results and I feel confident that you would be too.
The energy return may be largely due to getting some rest and getting inspired by art but I would be remiss if I didn't also give credit to the wild game that was prepared as an offering to me by AppleJack. His creativity and resourcefulness in the culinary arts is surging. Growing his own produce and making pasta from scratch just wasn't enough. He is now curing his own meats and making his own sausage.
You know my big brown hairy weakness for wild game; it stands between me and vegetarianism like a hot wild streak running through my genetic code. There are indigenous ancestors somewhere back along my train track dancing around a fire and singing in lusty voices demanding my meaty attention. Last night I was given a wild duck sausage to fortify my energies. Over the last few months I have also been presented with homecured duck pancetta and proscuitto that dried on a nail in my pantry like a disembodied arm. He has also been pickling and brining and smoking everything under the winter sun. Tonight it was a spatchcocked native bird smoked over flame and I can feel my joints grow juicy with it.
Wild native food gives me a primitive kind of satisfaction. They spark all kinds of compulsions that include nakedness and moonlight and throaty calls in the night. Must be the Skystalker in me. Remember the Skystalker? I bet she has dirty bare feet and bruises just below her knees from jumping and landing and rolling over in the darkness. I bet she sometimes loses her voice and her fingernails and finds bent twigs in her hair. I bet her neck smells like salty feathers and the insides of her elbows are dusted with silt and pollen. I bet her hands are cold but the small of her back is warm and sweaty. I bet she paints the curves of her thighs with mud that swirls and runs abstract with the splashes of green river water and the press of evening dew. I remember the Skystalker. Kind of an interesting contrast to the yoga painting serenity I conjured up above, now isn't it? Well that's Sassy for ya.
Welcome to a new week, my friends. Fondle it--all of it.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Sassyism To Fondle
My latest Sassyism becomes my latest Language Art. Believe it or not this started out as a photo of my living room ceiling while I was laying on the floor stretching the fascia around my hipbones and experimenting with a new camera lens. The words came weeks and weeks later when I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open to type just one single sentence. But look at them together--my words and my art, born to be joined. I told you people if I could just get a little rest I could give you something special!
(c) 2012, ACG
Moon Tea
The Magic Tea Cup has delivered a new image today--the moon. Upon longer review I decided it could also be a fat dolphin. Moon feels most right though. Seems kind of comforting in light of how much I am craving rest this week!
A theory about why I am so exhausted this week surfaced over a morning meeting of what I like to call the Estrogen Cloister (a closed circle of familial women). It was suggested that I am tired because I am so tuned in to the folks around me who have had a particularly rough emotional week. While my week was hard in terms of physical labor those around me had to endure above-average stress and anxiety. I'm tired by association to them because my connections to them are so strong. Even if I am not directly involved in their problems I am affected by them by virtue of my constant spiritual connection (which is apparently involuntary now). Interesting theory. I hadn't considered that when I was mentally calculating what else might be wearing me out. So I guess this would be an appropriate time to resurrect the old Sassyism "You people make me tired."
Whatever the reason for my malaise I am keeping it short today in the interest of recharging and being able to bring you better blogging over the weekend. I have a big art feature to show you and I want to feel perky before I tackle it, so I'm off to fondle moderation for a few hours. Ta Ta.
(c) 2012, ACG
Sassy Lassate
For the second day in a row I am hitting the sheets feeling like a boiled noodle. Despite my heavy head I was compelled to check in and let you know that I'm too beat to write anything of substance but all is well. I've just worn myself completely out this week, that's all. At least there is a sense of accomplishment to make the fatigue worthwhile. I have been particularly productive, so pat, pat, pat on my tired back.
I'll be back as soon as I muster up some vim. Now I must fondle weariness.
(c) 2012, ACG
The Place To Be (Just Be)
Bella asked me to show her the place where I put my head down to rest, to sleep, to dream. She asked me to show her where I go to renew my spirit. Ironically, I find that I need to do all of these things in the mornings rather than the evenings so I have not actually shown a place where I sleep. I do, however, do all of those other things here. I have tea and light candles and greet the morning in my sock feet. I journal my dreams and treat myself well. I need to ease into the day so I practice being kind to myself first thing in the morning. Then I practice sunrise yoga to build inspiration for the day before I ever leave the house.
These old-school pillows were made from more of the fabric that came out of my mother-in-law's cedar chest after she died. My dear friend who finished off all of those ancient quilts crafted some bonus pillows out of this surplus fabric. Their soothing comfort cradles me awake as I slowly transition from sleep to yoga mat to bath and finally to work.
This is the first place I come as soon as I leave the bed in the morning and the last place I stay before returning to the bed at night. In the evenings I meditate here and read good things over chamomile and more candlelight. I put my College Girl to sleep here when she visits. I listen to the neighbor's dog barking good mornings or good evenings to my dog. I hear the morning and evening chimes from the belfry at the Catholic Church. I see the soft glow of daylight blooming or fading away. Sometimes I listen to Garth Stevenson and enjoy the sweetness of doing nothing. Renewing my spirit is an uncomplicated affair. There is no television or clock in the room; just four big pillows, a window, and the landscape of my mind.
(c) 2012, ACG
A Piece of Me in January
Since I played with the idea off and on through the month of November last year I decided to join Urban Muser's self-portrait journey in 2012. The theme for January is " a piece of me." All portraits have to include at least one part of my body. I can take as many self-portraits as I like in January with this theme. I've decided to try one a week and see how that goes. Then at the end of the month I share 'em all with the rest of the class.
Here's my starter portrait for Week 1:
Beautiful Shoulder
My portrait for Week 2:
Beautiful Thigh
My portrait for Week 3:
Beautiful Hand
My portrait for Week4:
Beautiful Neck
(c) 2012, ACG
Drinking From The Square Cup
Drinking from the square cup taught me something new. Sipping from the straight sides caused tiny bits of spillage where my round lips pursed against long edge. I found it difficult to drink so I turned the corner against my mouth and tried again.
Sipping from the corner wasn’t sipping at all. It was pouring. It was pouring the tea into me. It ceased to be me drinking a beverage from a vessel. I became the vessel and tea was poured to me as an offering--an offering to me, from me.
Now I see the act of eating and drinking as nurturing, not simply maintenance. I am no longer eating food. I am serving myself food. I am being filled with food. Each spoonful is a tiny offering from the part of me that supports my work to the part of me that performs my work. When I prepare the food or the tea I become an instrument of my work’s sustenance. When the food or tea is prepared for me I become a vessel to receive and be inspired by the offering—the work—of someone else.
I don’t see it as simple fuel for living anymore. I see it as one divine act supporting another. As we become willing vessels for offerings from ourselves or from others we may continue to fill others with our own unique offerings to them, and so on and so on. I offer myself tea to comfort and inspire so that you may be comforted and inspired by my words. As such, I become comforted and inspired by your appreciation, and so it goes.
It was just a sip of tea from a square cup—an avenue of wisdom that feels as old as the ritual of tea itself, yet freshly relevant to me as the grateful new bearer.
(c) 2012, ACG
Skinny Finger Tree
The angle of the earth to the sun has finally shifted enough that I make it home just before the sun sets. When I leave my office the sun is flirting with the horizon and making a spectacle of sinking out of sight. Instead of photographing yet another breathtaking sunset mural I have begun to turn away from the sun and look at the face of other things in the fading light; sort of watching the rest of the earth watch the sun set. It's similar to watching someone's face as they are watching something else. Observing the observer, if you will. I used to love to do this as a kid in church. I would wait until deep into the sermon to turn around and take a peek at the congregation behind me. I used to do it in movie theatres too but folks find it a bit unnerving when they catch me.
It's not really the same as watching someone sleep; that's a completely different observance. Watching someone watching/listening without seeing me do it is immeasurably intriguing to me. I've seen things in their faces and body language that surprised me. Anyway, as I was leaving work the other night I was doing my usual turnabout from the sunset and saw this tree at the edge of the parking lot. I had already started the car but the image of the skinny little fingers of this tree against the sky made me turn the engine off, get out, grab the camera, and make it art.
The sunset that day was lavender. As many times as I had noticed the sun setting I had never noticed this funky little tree though I pass it every day. Instead of having many branches it just has these few but then there all these tendril branches covering them like reef coral or twining veins. They are very stiff and wiry but in silhouette against the sky they look almost wispy. It is also one of those trees that grew up right on the fence line so it has slowly become part of the fence. Without its leaves it looks like a skinny evening sentinel at his post. Every day since I took these pictures my eyes now seek out the funny tree first when I leave for the evening. The sunset comes after.
I called it The Skinny Finger Tree because I imagined it reaching out in the dwindling sunlight to catch the last bit of warmth the way we extend our hands toward a fire to warm them. Today The Skinny Finger Tree is wearing a cape of fog and we can't feel the sun at all. Yesterday I was sweating through my dress after my lunch hour run but not today. Today the cold is seeping up through the concrete to clutch at my feet while my back and shoulders pulse with the effort of last night's yoga. I feel as stiff as The Skinny Finger Tree but there is a warm core beneath that is longing to be stoked with bowls of beans and silky cheese. I am resting today and pressing fluffy things against me with skinny tree fingers until I can feel those veins of heat reaching down to my feet and hands. Enjoy your weekend, my friends.
(c) 2012, ACG
Pointy Arrow Tea
The Magic Tea Cup delivered a new image this morning after two days of blobs. My first thought was Arrow, as in keep going, move forward, or maybe even look up. I suppose it could also be a mushroom or a tree, or maybe it's nothing at all.
Another dream connection to the real world occured yesterday. I dreamed a worry that a woman I know would commit suicide on the same night she woke up with a medical problem that made her afraid she was going to die. See the Dream Diary for the details. I am not going to divulge the nature of her medical problem for privacy reasons but I will say that if I woke up to similar conditions I would probably also fear for my life. There were also three occurrences of the number three involved. Now that I think about it, the Ugly Doll that I have her is Pointy Max--an arrow-shaped doll. Click to see him. Interesting connections here.
(c) 2012, ACG
The Palette of Release
It is Wednesday and that means Work On My Novel day. If there is extra time for extra writing I will be supplementing with more sass this evening but for now I will get the day started by fulfilling Bella's request for a photo of color that stirs up emotion. This was irresistible to me! You can be white with fright or white in a blinding rage--take your pick. Either way, this little Chill Monster makes me grin back at his snaggle-toothed stitches because for me, he evokes mirth.
He was a Christmas gift. Since he came with an icicle-covered coffee mug, I think he was supposed to chase away the chill. I prefer to think of him as chasing away stress when I need to chill the hell out. That's why he lives at work, just over my shoulder. He reminds of how I must look or even how I might be acting when I'm stressed out--like a monster. Alternatively, he prevents me from getting that far by signaling that it's time to chill now. So if "chilling out" has a color, I am calling it white. Calm before storm white. Calm after venting white. Like the kind of tired you are after laughing really, really hard or throwing a tantrum. Like the kind of drained you are after dealing gracefully with really hairy day. Like the kind of serenity you seek before letting things get out of hand. Get it?
(c) 2012, ACG
Black Arts and Yoga Farts
Now then, regarding me being a devil worshipper by virtue of practicing yoga, I am channeling a Monty Python level of disdain and snort in your general direction. Trust me, you don't want the full Monty (that's fart, for those of you who didn't get it.)
I have a friend who recently tried yoga. She has been bothered by recurring shoulder pain and was on the fast track to some major surgery for pain relief. She decided to try a yoga class and was delighted to find that after only one class she experienced immediate pain relief and improved range of motion. When she mentioned it the next day at church (to thank and praise God for the relief) she was strongly cautioned by her fellow church members not to mess around with "that yoga stuff" because it is a cult in disguise and eventually leads to devil worship. Sigh. So sitting in church and praying for 35 years didn't help her shoulder but one yoga class did? Hmm...not supposed to work that way, now is it? I guess that's why it must be something evil.
A cult of non-violent, non-judgmental, barefoot people who bend and breathe; that's absolutely genius. I wish I had thought of it first. We sucker them in with pain relief. We trick them into a joining a cult by relieving their pain, boosting overall health, improving flexibility, and making them feel more peaceful and balanced. Nailed us cold. We are now fully exposed as a cult of--what?--happy people? God forbid. One thing is for sure though--when you go to a yoga class you'll never hear anyone tell you to stop attending your church. We must be a truly subversive cult if we are willing to let you keep your traditional faith while concurrently trying to turn you into--what?--a healthier person? It never gets old; the only folks who find church and the benefits of yoga mutually exclusive are the church folk, yet yoga is the cult. Sigh.
People are afraid of what they don't understand so everything unknown gets lumped together with the known dangers. I guess it's better to be safe than smart (or at least better informed), and while we are at it we might as well condemn what we don't understand just to be extra safe. It's also easier to spread rumors and misinformation than it is to do some actual research, and as all church ladies know, the juicier the gossip the better it spreads. Devil worshippers get better press than peace mongers and all religions can agree that thin/healthy/fit people are way more fun to hate anyway, right?
I've got a news flash for all of the Redeemed: Yoga has no end game. There is no benefit to "converting" you to yoga except your own improved health and well-being. We get nothing if you start practicing, except maybe happier and healthier friends. You breathe, you bend, you repeat. That's it. You practice, you get better, you bend further and breathe deeper. That's it. In a clinic it's called physical therapy. In an aerobics class it's called warming up or cooling down. Isn't it interesting that your soul is never in jeopardy in either of those venues but move the same activity to a yoga studio and suddenly it's a cult? Why? Misinformation--the church ladies might have been well-meaning but they were wrong.
Feeling better doesn't change your religion any more than catching a cold changes your religion. It is completely possible to be a church-going, tithe-paying, prayer-saying Christian and still practice yoga. My current yoga class is full of them (Christians), including my Baptist instructor. In fact, I'm probably the only one in class who isn't a Christian and as I have said many times, I have been outnumbered by Christians in every yoga class I've taken for the last ten years. No one worships anything in my yoga class. If they did you can bet that I--the nonbeliever--would leave. Imagine that. This must be one dandy cult if even the heathens would leave at the first sign of devil worship.
I've met Satan. (It's true.) He doesn't practice yoga. If he did practice yoga the Christian churches would probably find themselves out of an adversary. As it is, yoga is counter-productive for Satan because it promotes all the wrong things for a Satanic agenda. Even without being a devil I know that it is super-difficult to cause mass suffering and worldwide damnation while promoting/practicing peace, gratitude, and harmony in a judgment-free non-competitive environment. Maybe it can be done but I doubt Satan would bother with the yogis. Odds are your soul is safer in yoga class than just about anywhere outside your church. That is, unless you insist on bringing him with you.
(c) 2012, ACG
Number Three Tea
I won't have to time to blog about this until later in the day but I wanted you all to see what appeared in the Magic Tea Cup this morning. I have a meeting coming up and need a cup of tea before it begins, so I snapped this quickly before the day starts rolling. No imagination required for this one--clearly a Number Three! Don't know what it means (if anything) but I'm delighted to find another clear image! Happy Monday all, I'll be back later!
(c) 2012, ACG
Tidy Little Adventures
AppleJack was kind. He didn't complain, though I know it must have been hard to follow the story. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't stop singing along, which normally wouldn't have bothered me, but it was already so hard to hear the cast that she further compromised the experience. I didn't pay to listen to her sing; I paid to listen to the performers rush through it so fast it sounded like gibberish! Plus, she laughed out loud every time they made a mistake, which was often. There was still plenty to like though, in spite of her redneck manners, such as getting to see such young performers embracing the craft so earnestly. I went home, had a cocktail, and moved on to other tidy little adventures with satisfaction that I got my $12 worth of entertainment out of it.
I gave away three Ugly Dolls as special limited edition adoptions over the holidays and this weekend was their first public excursion with their respective new families. I got to watch the hilarious and adorable pictures light up my cell phone one after the other after the other like an Ugly Doll godmother getting telegrams from all over the world. This never stops being fun for me; watching grown-ups embrace play again! In full view of other grown folks who don't get it! And then showcased worldwide on social media! Watching the Beautiful Ugly spread far and wide--sigh--it makes me feel as giddy and reckless as a redneck at a Broadway play! (Gasp! Bad Sassy!)
Other adventures this weekend included AppleJack passing his personal chef certification. Yep, it's true. I now have a personal chef at home. With the added benefit of a fresh set of credentials to go with my own opinion, I fully plan to rub this in at every opportunity. Be prepared for the excruciating detail of the fine dining that is/was/will be going on at The Jesus Crack House that can no longer be dismissed as Sassy's overblown gushing. Now it's certified.
I also got to see my dear friend and running buddy participate in the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials along with the fastest women in the country and--as I said in my rant to the local newspaper reporter who discredited her performance--breathed, sweated, and cried along with her. It was a lifetime achievement to qualify for the Olympic Trials and run with our nation's elite whether she made the Olympic team or not. It literally took years just to qualify for the Trials--that effort alone was stellar!
Half a bajillion of our mutual friends and hometown fans made the trip to Houston to watch her run and the only idiot in the state who didn't think it was a brave and amazing feat to hold her own admirably among Olympians was the hometown reporter who implied that she was a failure. Oooooooo...Sassy mad!! Sassy smash!! Rooaaarrr!! Godzilla pooped his pants when Sassy read that tripe and started locking down cattle prods worldwide. Obviously dealing with this required changing into a different crown and magic wand--the kind that shoots flying monkeys out of a cannon and drops plagues of frogs and screech owls that can only scream "Asshole!" from the heavens. Failure? Considering the number of newspaper subscription cancelations to follow this feeble-minded stunt, failure is about to be redefined for at least one journalist in town.
I also tried buttermilk ice cream this weekend, sampled local honey, and rescued a set of vintage dolls with healthy body images from a thrift store to return my little world to unicorns and butterflies once again. Tra la la...tea and crumpets, rainbows and white cotton panties. This is going to be an interesting week. I can feel it. I am eagerly anticipating peering into my dirty magic tea cup first thing in the morning to see who has come to greet me. Of course, it will tickle me just as much if I get there and find nothing but an undefined blob. Sometimes magic tricks are exactly that--tricks! Goodnight readers.
(c) 2012, ACG
Crying Man Tea
I really thought the first and even the second hearts were a fluke but nearly every day there is new image left after I finish my tea. This cup of tea was consumed late yesterday. I typically don't wash out the cup until I get ready for another tea. So as usual I left it sitting overnight after my late afternoon sip and when I grabbed it this morning to rinse it I found the crying man's head. The reason I am explaining all of that is to highlight the possibility that the head formed overnight while I was dreaming about the rescuer man. Other than that I'm not sure who this might be (if it is anyone at all).
Since I only use The Magic Tea Cup at work those of you uninterested in this phenomenon won't have to read about it again until Monday, providing something appears.
(c) 2012, ACG
Mouse Tea
Just for fun I looked up "mouse" among the folklore guides. According to the tea leaf reading folks (and their lore), a mouse means danger of poverty, theft or swindling, the need to set a trap, or domestic worries. It isn't hard to see that these interpretations are based on the prejudices that humans associate with mice being vermin, so linear thinkers would see it as a warning or bad omen. I don't get that feeling looking at this mouse.
If mice have a talent or "good trait" it is that they can and do adapt to almost any environment. Mice can survive just about anything. They can make a home out of just about anything. They can find avenues to food and shelter that other mammals will not. Few mammals are as frugal, resourceful, or industrious as mice. In this regard they are much more successful at life on Earth than humans are. Yes, they can spread disease but so do we. Yes, they are destructive but so are we. Yes, they multiply exponentially but so do we.
When I look at this little mouse I feel...well...
...amused and a little excited. When I super-enlarge the upper picture the little mouse seems to be smiling at me with a cartoony little face, as if he snuck in to see if I would notice. I get a White Rabbit from the Alice in Wonderland stories feeling from it. Maybe he's a messenger or just a test to see if I would shun the image so he knows whether or not to bother coming back? Maybe he's a she? Maybe it's just my imagination? I'm willing to consider all possibilities, I suppose, or maybe none of them, but this tea cup is certainly the most animated vessel I've known.
Stay tuned; no telling what might turn up next!
(c) 2012, ACG
Looking Closer
As you know, Wednesday is Work On My Novel Day, so I'm concentrating my efforts on that today. If there is time for extra writing or other creative fun, I'll post it up promptly. However, I just had to show you this. My new crown is so succulent that its juice is oozing out through it buttonholes with glistening SassaKath brilliance. The fringe! The texture! The message! Every time I look at it I see something new, which of course means you have to see it too.
(If this is new to you, see the crown's full glory on Monday's post!)
Liar, Liar
Since then I have suspected that The Liar continued lying in future encounters but I have done nothing but wait and watch. I continued to be kind and do favors, watching and waiting, and avoided conflict with The Liar. Over the years I have learned (and repeatedly blogged) that sometimes justice comes without a battle. Those that cultivate negative consequences in the lives of others will eventually experience those consequences themselves even if the victims do nothing to retaliate. Every religion/philosophy in the world has a different name for it. The truth always comes out, one way or another, and liars are always proven false, one way or another. Lying is just another form of theft--theft of trust, theft of confidence, theft of intimacy, etc. Sooner or later an unknown auditor is going to expose the shortfall. If this has happened to you, be assured that is not always necessary for you to be part of the comeuppance. It will happen with or without you.
Today I discovered that karma retrieved my pizza dough from the trash and served up a consequence pie to The Liar. It was extra large. It was blazing hot. It was dripping with volcanic ingredients and The Liar had to eat it while those who had suffered the original lie watched. This included me and I was blindsided by it; never saw it coming. The instant heartburn, bloating, and overall discomfort that immediately befell The Liar was unmistakable. Once again the universal truth rang true--if it was done with bad intentions it always comes back around to bite you in the ass. At first I thought my involvement in this scenario was simply a reinforcement of that truth. I thought perhaps I was supposed to see all this as a refresher course in See What Happens When You Lie? Yes, but only in part.
This encounter also served as a refresher course in See What You Used To Be? I knew the depth of The Liar's consequential anxiety because I had been there myself as a younger Sassy. I remembered what it was like to be so twisted internally that lying was a reflex. Nothing was worse than telling the truth. I didn't have the courage to live in truth so when I got caught I just told more lies. I remembered what it was like to steal from people's trust and confidence remorselessly. I also remembered the justifications I invented for that behavior and therefore couldn't be smug about The Liar finally getting caught. Most people would think I had every right to celebrate the bitch-slap that karma delivered to The Liar because I had been wronged. I believe the deeper lesson is rooted in compassion, as it always is. Something terrible made The Liar behave this way. I remember that terrible.
What must The Liar be going through to become someone who does this (and earns this kind of rebuke)? I already know the answer to that, don't I? I know because I used to be the same way. If the suffering The Liar is enduring is anything like my past suffering then I can't take a stance of smug satisfaction. I know what twists people into this level of deceit because I lived it. I can't celebrate that. I know how one becomes a thief. I know how one dares to torture innocent people, good people, and even people who are deeply loved with lies. It gets bad enough over time that you almost can't help it anymore and the only way you can stop it is to finally screw up badly enough that the consequences become unbearable. No way can I judge The Liar when I was once broken the same way. Pretending otherwise and taking pleasure in the snare of The Liar would be the same as lying.
How could I wear my crown(s) if I did that? I couldn't. I can't. I also can't condone or support The Liar's actions and the destruction those lies caused. That's all still very wrong no matter what kind of muck and mire has befallen The Liar. I don't think it was any kind of coincidence that the universe sent me a crown and then the very next day tests me to see if I will live up to it. Clapping my hands in applause over The Liar's fate is not regal behavior, especially when I once earned myself the same fate. We don't get to consider ourselves above reproach simply because we have reformed. We don't get to revel in the unfortunate retribution of others simply because we now make better choices. Perpetual liars are simply people who are suffering. We do nothing toward alleviating their suffering by crowing over their continued suffering as if they deserve it. No one may be able to escape suffering but no one "deserves" it either, so don't tell yourself that lie.
My hope is that The Liar's discomfort will prompt the beginnings of change. This is the only acceptable response that feels truthful. I read in another blog yesterday that kindness changes everything. Kindness is a crown. Compassion is a crown. Truth is a crown. Earn them. Wear them.
(c) 2012, ACG
Sassy's Surprise Regalia
So you know what happens when you confess to being obsessed with crowns in front of the entire universe? The universe sends you a crown. Yep. You know what else? The universe can address the box to My Town, Arizona (instead of Arkansas) and somehow that crown will still land your door step! Yep. Apparently this crown and I were not to be separated. It is the work of Kathryn Steeple, both the crafting of the crown and the sending of the crown, and I am dazzled by it.
How Sassy is this? How talented is this friend of mine? The beautiful gift, the thoughtful gesture? The hilarious way my cat freaked out and ran down the hallway when I put it on? Oh I wish you could have seen it! I put it on and walked toward the mirror and the kitty took one look at me in the crown and became unhinged. His tail inflated to three times its normal size and then he did that fraidy-crab walk thing as the hair on his back stood straight up. The awesomeness of me in my new crown was just too much for him. He couldn't handle so much fabulosity all in one woman with the new addition of such a spectacular accessory. It must have been like staring into the sun or accidently squirting lemon juice up your nose. Too much charisma! Too much genius!
I will have to acclimate him to it a little at a time. As for me, no acclimation will be necessary. This felt right for me straight out of the box. Thank you, Kathryn. To say that I love it is to say too little. To say that I want to be buried in it is to say too much. To say that my heart instantly surged with that squealy snorty key lime chiffon lettuce-edged yesness is to say it nearly right. It is everything I adore about knowing you people. When I expose myself in front of you (hee!) just for the reward of doing it to my own satisfaction, things like this happen to me. I am grateful, make no mistake, but I shall not wear this crown humbly. I shall wear it with a complete lack of modesty. You know, fondle it.
(c) 2012, ACG
Strange Sensations
Ahem, we are also fondling the ongoing ghost story at The Jesus Crack House because I had my first actual encounter yesterday. Strangely enough I wasn't alone in the house. AppleJack was in the kitchen cleaning out the pantry (we are fondling reduction and organization) and I was down the hall, cleaning the bathroom. I was standing up scrubbing the shower wall with my back to the doorway. I didn't hear or see anything but felt something touch me on the back of the head. It felt like a hand sort of cupped the lower right side of my head. It startled me the way it does when someone sneaks up behind me so I jumped a little. But I naturally assumed it was AppleJack so I turned to look and actually had a half-smile ready. Nothing (or no one) was there. AppleJack was still in the kitchen. The part of my head that I thought had been touched broke out in tingly goosebumps. It was localized on the right side of the base of the skull up toward my right ear. I turned back to finish the shower with an elevated pulse rate and it went away.
I had this sensation only once before, a long time ago, in my townhouse in Maryland. I was alone that time and I was standing at the top of the stairs outside the bathroom. I think I was hanging something on the wall near the landing. My back was turned to all the doorways. Again I felt as if I was being touched from behind, on the back of my head, shoulders, and upper back. It startled me so much that I was afraid I might fall down the stairs so the sensation was almost like that of being pushed though it wasn't forceful. That one actually frightened me because of my proximity to the stairs and the instant disorientation it caused so close to the edge. I felt a sense of danger but I couldn't be sure that it wasn't just a reaction to the possibility of falling. I never figured out an explanation for what it was that might have touched me but shortly after that something terrible happened to me there. Don't know if the two events were related or not.
Today's event wasn't scary like the one in Maryland but it did jog that memory lose. Today it didn't feel like a push and I didn't feel like I was in danger; it just felt like a touch. I didn't hear anything or see anything and it didn't happen again yesterday or today. So I don't know what else to say about it other than just to make a record of it in case it happens again. I'll let you know if it does.
(c) 2012, ACG
New Sassyisms
It's not a secret; it's just that no one believes it. Happiness is the absence of need.
There you have it. Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote about my epiphany in the dentist's chair--no one heals alone? I guess I should also acknowledge that no one writes alone either. In the great mythical book of karmic statistics Scarlett just got credit for the assist. I am grateful.
While I am at it, I should also mention that I wrote another Sassyism last week but this one was inspired by a commercial for one of those steamy carpet cleaners that promises to make your family want to sit in the floor, laughing and hugging, and play board games if you will just buy it and use it on the snow white carpet you installed for a bustling family of five and two indoor dogs. Tsk, tsk.
There is no such thing as clean carpet.
It's true. Somewhere in the great mythical book of karmic statistics that company is getting two demerits--one for perpetuating the illusion that any carpet over a month old can ever truly be clean again, and one for perpetuating the illusion that clean carpet equals domestic harmony. I didn't feel like announcing this one with blog post at the time but truth is truth and we are fondling it, aren't we?
Another dose of truth is that since the beginning of the year I have become obsessed with crowns. Right before the endof 2011 I was in Hot Springs having a birthday celebration with a group of running friends. One of my friends was turning 40 and I was sitting at the table giving her a speech about how she should to embrace the uniqueness of the middle of her life with passion and gusto. Instead of lamenting the proverbial end of her youth I told her to celebrate it and "wear that crown." The idea was that turning 40 joyfully is an accomplishment and she should coronate herself accordingly. I picked up an invisible crown from the middle of the table and imitated putting it on my head as I said it. Then I gestured to the group of her friends sitting around her at the circular table and told her to take a look at the collection of extraordinary souls that were orbiting around her. Why would this caliber of individuals be present at her birthday court if she was not something special? So drop the cloak of deprecation and Wear That Crown.
It was a divine moment that was not about me but since it happened I have had this latent penchant to seek out crowns--specifically handmade crowns--and I keep putting giant flower clips and headbands into my hair. I can't seem to stop searching for images of crowns when I have unstructured time. Last week I was home alone and made a big fuzzy purple crown to wear while I worked on my novel. The next night I made a one out of a golden scarf to wear during my meditation. Yesterday I made one out of a length of black cotton and wore it to work all day. I'll be turning 40 myself at the end of the month and I can only guess that as I watched my speech seep into my friend's eyes it must have pooled in my wineglass as well. Somehow it found its way into my own bloodstream because I am obviously looking for my crown too. Months ago I sought and found my throne (remember my green writing chair?) so even if that speech was meant for my friend this still makes some sense.
I also keep seeing hidden crowns all around me. Every day I'm seeing a crown somewhere, like this one, around the base of a lamp I don't even like. In my mind I'm seeing this as a shabby chic topknot with a huge veil of russet tulle attached to it and giant burgundy roses with blue-black cockscombs. Amber crinkly vines come down at the temples and tiny violet dragonflies perch on the billows of the tulle. Yesterday a coworkers engagement ring brought to mind a halo crown made of pale peach peonies with spikes of forsythia. See what I mean?
So as we fondle our friendships and ourselves and our truth we also fondle what is calling out to us. My crown must be calling out to me. When I find it I shall fondle it too.
(c) 2012, ACG
Time To Grow Again
(c) 2011, ACG
Fondling The Space Between
Today is this blog's two year anniversary, by the way. Or maybe it's a birthday? I didn't marry it; I made it. Instead of candles and cake I did sparkles and light in the photo above. I'm fondling, remember? This is my first week of fondling life so I celebrated two years of domain ownership with a light/color/shadow drama in a glass phallus filled with pierced nipples. I'm kidding. I didn't even think of it that way until after I'd taken the photo. But fondling will do that to you--make you see things you didn't notice before in a thermometer.
This one is actually a Galileo thermoscope and although I have admired it for it's charm for the past five years I never bothered to learn how it worked until today. These days we fondle knowledge around here. As it turns out, the answer is not in the globes themselves but in the spaces between them. Oh my Galileo, how true this was 500 years ago. Oh my readers, how true this is now. Our answers always float in the gap between the last word and the next, waiting for us to notice.
(c) 2011, ACG
Thanking Mrs. Markwell
The strangest memory came back to me today and it was so out of place that it almost came across as some kind of signal. Right about the time my mother took off for good and my dad was working three jobs to pay the rent, my siblings and I were being shuffled among some volunteer babysitters from our church over a summer. We went to a different house each day of the week. We had to get up very early for the 90 minute drive to one good Christian home or another and then spend the day there until Dad came to collect us. He couldn't afford to pay anyone day care rates for four children so there was usually a trade negotiation involved, such as chores or food in exchange for child care, but the system always failed within a few weeks.
The sitters couldn't tolerate us very long because we either exhausted them, broke too many things in their homes, fought with their children, stole from them, or caused enough general mayhem to guarantee swift rejection. I didn't realize it at the time (being only 12 years old) that we were always acting out because we were in too much pain that we couldn't process. We felt completely worthless and the shuffling from one house to another to be tended by yet another person who was not our mother only seemed to exacerbate our collective pain. It was a daily reminder that we were a blighted, broken brood dependent upon charity because we couldn't depend on anything else. We knew the difference between love and pity. We behaved horribly because we felt horrible. We hated the sympathy that the kind-hearted folks tried to extend to us because we hated the fact that it was necessary. We were unwanted children and the burden of being unwanted was just too heavy for children that young so we did what chronically damaged children do; we cried out with destruction and sabotage.
During this summer there was a house in our weekly rotation that was governed by a finely mannered old lady with textbook good taste. Her name was Mrs. Markwell and she was the classically elegant church lady, perfectly coiffed and expertly tailored. She wore heels and pearls every day at home. She had a beautifully appointed home, a large expensive car, and a grand piano. To us, her house was a palace and she was the richest lady we had ever known. She served us real food like ham and cheese for lunch on real plates not made of plastic. There were sofas with gold threads in them and dark green carpets so thick that you could press your big toes down and completely submerge them. We didn't watch cartoons at Mrs. Markwell's house; we watched old black and white movies or musicals. Everything smelled good all the time. It was a luxurious place for dirty poor white trash kids to spend one or two days a week but of course we ruined it somehow and forced her to have the I'm Sorry But I Can't Do This Anymore Talk with our father just as we did in every place we were deposited. Before we ruined it though, she taught me an old-fashioned craft--quilling. I had forgotten it until this morning.
I wanted Mrs. Markwell to give me piano lessons but instead she took me into a sunny room and handed me a small silver tool and some strips of paper. Within an hour or two she had taught me a sort of folk art--paper quilling or paper filigree. Mrs. Markwell had a passion for quilling on a grand scale. She created window-sized masterpieces as gifts to friends and family and even at my age I could see the genius and artistry of the intricate tapestries she made of coiled colored paper. After I embraced the craft with teenage enthusiasm she told me that she would pay me to quill some small stock pieces. I was adept enough that I could produce a supply of the basic shapes in various colors for her to use in her designs. She would pay me a nickel for basic swirls, fifteen cents for teardrops, and a quarter for marquis flowers and leaves. She even gave me a quilling tool to take home so I could practice when I wasn't at her house. I plunged into it cheerfully, curling and pinching and folding and gluing for her approval, which was given with perfect grace, of course. It was a sweet interlude for me that summer.
Our tenure at Mrs. Markwell's house ended the same way it did at every other house. Something went missing or got broken or the cost of our care exceeded whatever service or commodity was being offered as compensation. Soon enough we were sent packing with her prayers for the Lord's mercy to start all over again somewhere else. Quilling paper and glue cost money so you can guess what happened to my summer skill. It died off and I forgot all about it for a couple of decades until on a Monday in middle age I saw that an artist had quilled a version of Van Gogh's Starry Night. (You can Google it if you like, just add the word quilling to your search.) I stumbled upon it by accident but when I did the memory of Mrs. Markwell's patience and lavender loveliness bubbled up from a place I still keep 12 year old things. I never knew it but Mrs. Markwell had soothed me.
Through this subtle folksy art form Mrs. Markwell nurtured me without me knowing it. She reached me. She bumped me out of my orbit of loathing and fury with just a simple nudge, and likely changed my collision course by coaxing me toward creativity. The time I spent at her work table was meditative--quiet, focused, and filled with good intentions. Those tiny teardrops I made for her gentle approval were the earliest and most primitive of my transformations from raging wounded child to analytical self-aware woman but they were probably the birth of a healing process that would take half a lifetime to realize. I can still smell her perfume coming back to me on a conduit of compassion though I doubt she is still alive. If I trace the lifeline of my survival back to her kindness I feel the connection to that conduit. I never realized it was there yet it still pulses with her tenderness and now, finally, with mine. My life is my thanks.
(c) 2011, ACG
Surfing Earth
I started 2012 the same way I have started every year for at least the last 15 years--with a run, of course, but this time I tried to do it with Bella's prompt in mind and see it for the first time. This wasn't easy since I know these hills so well. Up, down, back, forth, here, there, gone, home, mile after mile after mile. Grey asphalt with cracks, sometimes a pothole, always a smattering of pebbles and leaves, corners patched and painted by public utilities. Today I stood at the bottom of the first hill and wondered what it was I wasn't seeing that wouldn't look like grey asphalt to me and Bella. Well, nothing at first because the only way I ever looked at the path was to look down on it from 64 inches about the earth. This time I got down on my belly and looked out at the path ahead from three inches above the earth instead of down at it as usual. It turns out that asphalt isn't grey at all. It is blue, golden, chocolate, rose, cream, russet, purple, and it works like a mirror of shadow and light. It also doesn't lay upon the earth. It rises and falls like waves and at each crest more of the distant horizon is revealed. All these years have passed and I never noticed I wasn't running the hills; I was riding them.
A Novel Idea
I think I've figured out why this novel finishing business is so unsatisfying. I've determined that there is no joy in it for me if the writing is not released at the end of the writing session and therefore I would rather write something new than return to something I didn't release. It is not that I mind the editing; I've learned a lot through that process. The problem is that I have no motivation to do it if it is not going to be published immediately or at least soon. Since the whole enchilada has to wait for publication until I'm finished editing it I find myself not wanting to bother with it. Keeping all the chapters to myself as I work on the next one is just uninspiring.
Releasing the work into the world seems to be an important component that I didn't pick up on as this last year has dragged on with the novel still unfinished. If I don't get to open my hand to release it then it just isn't fulfilling and the prospect of it all being worth it in the end to have a traditional book to release all at once isn't really enough to motivate me. There is something about the giving of the work that matters more. I am struggling to explain it but the flow of the writing--as in the flow through me and then away from me--is integral to wanting to write at all. Keeping those finished chapters in abeyance until the entire book is finished breaks the flow and I can't seem to overcome how flat and lifeless it all feels once that happens. Believe it or not it is actually more fulfilling to write this blog about my unfinished novel than it is to spend the morning editing a chapter in my unfinished novel simply because the writing won't go anywhere after I edit that chapter.
It is not strictly a gratification thing. I've taken some time to honestly examine that and I can truthfully say it's not that I need someone to comment upon it before I'm happy with it. The gratification doesn't come from the comments; it comes from the release. There are things in this blog I've written believing fervently were among my greatest work. Ironically they have never generated a comment from readers and I am still just as pleased with them. I thrill myself all time rereading something I wrote two years ago that never prompted commentary from the public. I don't need the gratification of a positive review. I seem to need the gratification of giving.
About six months ago I was doing some research about meditation and I stumbled across a blog by a practitioner who wrote a book on the subject online. He published each chapter on his website as he wrote it and then bravely allowed his blog readers to provide feedback before it was professionally edited. The interaction stimulated the writing in the way I imagine a focus group provides insight to writers of television shows. Folks got to tell him in real time what they thought of the chapter at hand and in a sense helped him edit it to the point that he never had it professionally edited. I can't decide if this is brilliant or insane. With the help of his readers he finished and published his book and writes joyfully about how this unique process changed his perspective of authorship.
So I feel like I am at a crossroads looking at three choices: a) not finish the novel, b) consider something radical like this guy's idea, or c) stop blogging and finish the novel the traditional way. All three choices have merit. Choice A--The bulk of the book came from this blog anyway so most of my readers have already read the content at least once before. Why spend my time reformulating what has already been released and received? Choice B--the online choice would undoubtedly motivate me and keep me on task to at least facilitate completion. Choice C--I'm probably not going to devote myself to the novel as long as there is an alternative.
All three choices also have downsides. Choice A--I spent most of my life wanting to write a book and it seems like a waste to chuck all the effort just because it got hard and wasn't fun anymore. Choice B--I will open up the work to premature criticism and lose the climax of a debut of the long awaited finished product. Choice C--Blogging on the side is a creative outlet I know I would desperately miss and without it I could cripple the very flow that got the manuscript this far. I confess I am leaning toward the scariest option of Choice B. Even though it is the most frightening and least traditional route it is really the only option appealing to me right now. Choice A is the safest option that also feels like a cop out. Choice C is the most dangerous option that feels doomed to fail. Choice B is the unpredictable option that feels like a giant unknown outcome.
With the new year just two days away I feel strongly that it is time to get off my ass and pick a direction. It's time to either make this happen or throw in the towel but enough with the languishing unfinished business. If I do this online I know I would dedicate my time to it even if it was only one day a week. Just as I used to do Poetry Wednesday I could pick one day a week and commit to publishing something, even if it was only one paragraph. I already have an editor on staff--Jo Steeple emails me my typos and omissions all the time. The only reasons not to do it are fear and hypothetical lost revenue if the book was a success. Fear I can embrace (and thereby conquer) and money is the last reason I do or don't do anything in life. This is not about money; never has been and never will be. So what the hell? Why not? I've got a couple of days left to kick it around. I'll let you know what I decide.
(c) 2011, ACG
Divinity In The Grass
Remember how I kept finding love in the bottom of my tea cup at work? Last week I found love on the ground. On Christmas Eve AppleJack, The Zombie, and I decided to saddle up the dog and walk a few blocks to the historic square to see the Christmas lights. This is an annual event here--the Griswalding of the courthouse and the block upon which it resides. It is a foursquare light show with life-size holiday dioramas all over the lawn. Families come from all over the county to see it and meet Santa in the gazebo. It is usually frosty cold but somehow it seems more pleasant seeing the line of tykes bundled up in their coats across the courthouse lawn than standing in a stuffy irritable line in a shopping mall.
Santa was long gone by the time we got there; it was Christmas Eve after all, but there were still plenty of revelers running around under the lights. The dog got some pedestrian love. We got a brisk walk in the cold night air. Then as we were rounding one corner of the block I saw this red heart blazing on the ground beneath a miniature grove of red light trees. I instantly thought of my tea cup love and wondered "Does love follow me everywhere I go?"
No. No it doesn't. Love precedes me wherever I go. I'm finding it everywhere because I sent it out before me, remember? It keeps showing up because I launched it from home base over and over and over again. It should come as no surprise that I keep finding it. These are the footprints, fingerprints, and lip prints of the love I have spent a year deploying with words, with whispers, with meditative thoughts, and with Ugly Dolls. Of course I am going to see the evidence of that love wherever I look--I put it there.
It has been said many different ways that what we put out into the world comes back to us. The Bible says it, Buddha said it, even The Beatles said it. We will eventually see the fruits of our intentions in the world around us, both good and bad. If you want to stumble across love in the grass or glimpse love in the bottom of a cup, you can't keep it for yourself. You have to release it. You have to send it out. Yesterday I met a woman obsessed with celebrating love but the only thing keeping her blog and her life from being truly transcendent is the fact that she seems to hoard love all to herself. Like most people, her focus is always on getting (and proving) love. The deeper glory of love is in releasing it. If you send it out you'll find it everywhere--not just in the arms of your lover and the eyes of your children--but everywhere.
As I was in the middle of writing this a FedEx delivery man came to my door. Since his company took such a massive black eye with that viral video last week I'd like to highlight the fact that he was polite and friendly and offered me a genuine smile when I answered the door in my pajamas.
Anyway, the nice fellow handed me a box that began its journey to me last summer. I made an investment in a small company with the idea to put inspirational messages inside the linings of women's shoes. Buyers of the shoes get to choose the messages that go into their new shoes. When they wear the shoes they simultaneously don the message inside and walk within the power of the words they chose. With every step they affirm their own message and therefore influence the interactions of their day while wearing them. I thought it was a brilliant idea--shrine worthy, investment worthy--so I gave the designer some money to get the idea off the ground and helped spread the project around the internet for her. It worked. Inside the box I received this morning was a pair of those shoes--knee high rain boots with a message inside. Even without the telltale heart symbol I saw it coming back to me again; the love I sent out to touch the feet of other women.
Whatever it is you resolve to do in 2012 I hope you realize that there is no act of love too small to change the world or at least change the way you see the world around you. Even a kind thought is an act of love. It matters. It works. Whatever it is you do, know that it's not just a blog or just a job or just basic good manners. It's a ministry.
(c) 2011, ACG
Bubbles Across Time
The last thing he said to me before he died comes back to me every time soap bubbles are carried close to me on a breeze. The small children in the waiting room were emptying the diaper bag and scattering toys across the floor. A nurse gave them some bubbles and as I said goodbye to him a few bubbles floated in through the open doorway that he refused to allow closed.
Don't let my grandchildren grow up afraid of death, he said. Don't let them live out their lives frightened of losing people or things. The Depression broke us of that. We learned the reality of impermanence. It didn't make us detached; it made us better judges of our how we invested our lives. It taught us what was truly important and what truly wasn't.
There is nothing in this world that is given to them that will not eventually be lost. Do not let them grow up clinging in desperation to the belief that anything lasts forever. Don't feed those fantasies. Every living thing on this earth is here for only a time as every person they meet remains in their lives only for a time. Every person they love will die… as they will die… and as we all end our time by dying. Every thing they love can be lost or broken or stolen or given away. Teach them that this is natural. Teach them not be afraid of it.
Don't make them wait until someone dies to start teaching them to deal with loss and grief. Don't wait until they are adults. Prepare them for a life lived bravely and intelligently. Don't shield them from death or they will grow fearful and weak when they face it. How they face it and how they survive it depends on what you teach them now. Prepare them and you will go to your death some day knowing that it will not cripple them. Let them celebrate my death day after I'm gone as they celebrated my birth day while I was here.
I promised him. He died four days later and I gathered my children to me and told them that our family had a new holiday to celebrate; and so we did. We celebrated his day, and Uncle Conrad's day, and Grandma Turley's day, and at every funeral thereafter, for friends or family or pets, my children and their children's children would stand at the grave side and blow bubbles into the air, to remind of us of his words and of his vision of continuing generations of his blood that would grow up undaunted and unbroken by his death or any other.
I always thought the bubbles a fitting metaphor for his transitory message and when I see them I think of him and miss him still. When I overheard my granddaughter's friends in slumber party confession speaking of what frightened them the most, I listened to one girl say that she was terrified of losing her family. My granddaughter's voice followed after, with her great-grandfather's words carried upon it, and they floated along in the space between me and her and the memory of him like bubbles being blown across time.
© 2010, ACG
A Brighter Light
I should be asleep right now but I am on vacation and there are no shoulds on vacation. I'm too pumped up from an epic grumpy cat battle that involved me and The Zombie extracting an angry kitty with a broom and pillows and then locking ourselves in our bedrooms. We have no idea what set the cat off. We were just chilling on the sofa and out of nowhere the cat freaks. No noises, no activity, nothing out of the ordinary but suddenly we have one of those cats from every scary movie you've ever seen on our hands. We were just hanging out; all quiet and cozy. The Zombie thinks it was the house ghosts. I think a stray female must have sprayed outside the house. But it is raining and it has been raining for hours so if my theory is the correct one this would have be one desperately heated kitty. She must want it badly if she's willing to prowl for it in the cold rain. We really don't know but in any case neither of us wanted to sleep with the crazy devil cat now pacing up and down the hall.
So here I am awake on the night after Christmas listening to the rain. The Triad Christmas never made it to completion; the College Boy didn't come so we only got two out of the three Apples here. The Zombie will be with us through the New Year and the College Girl has already come and gone. The non-traditional holiday turned out to be so peaceful and stressless by comparison to the big production. AppleJack did a simple leg of lamb and roasted root vegetables. I handed out the quilts from Grandma's cedar chest. Then we gave the dog a bone, made a pot of coffee, and declared it all jolly. The entire family was able to relax and just enjoy the day without a crapload of must-dos and have-to-haves. Even the kiddos remarked that it was much more fun keeping things small and simple this year, which made it even better that they "got it". Usually around this time on the 26th I'm saying how glad I am to have it all over for another year but strangely enough I don't feel that way at all. It was nice and easy this Christmas.
I am resisting the urge to sum up 2011 because I just don't feel like picking it all apart to determine whether or not it was an overall good year or a bad year. Of course it was both. Of course there were high highs and low lows. Of course there was both bliss and misery. People died. Cars were crashed. Bills were paid. Bridges were burned and later rebuilt. Miles were run. Love was made. Mistakes were made. It was all just a tumultuous mishmash of things real and raw and resilient. I feel certain that I am closing this year having become a better person than I opened this year so whether it all qualifies as good or bad, the end result is that I feel satisfied that none of it was wasted. At the very least I ran from nothing this year; I faced it all and learned to sit with the realities of life as opposed to the fantasies of life. I had to make my life a little smaller in order to handle that level of learning. I don't regret it; the decisions I made in the interest of plumbing a deeper depth of truth about myself and the life I am responsible for creating were crucial. It doesn't matter how tidily it does or doesn't fit into a seasonal anecdote.
I decided against the timeline project leading up to my birthday because it ended up shining a brighter light into the storage room than what was sufficient just to organize all those memories and changes. I realized that the strength that was forged in the process of perpetually starting over wasn't meant to make me proficient at starting over. It was meant to train me to move past everyone's greatest fear of losing it all and live life from a different centerpoint. Someday I was going to wake up and stop living my life defensively. Someday I was going to have to make decisions from a landmark well past the point of losing everything. I was going to be required to go the distance past the barricades and No Trespassing signs and the only way I would ever have the resources to do it was to keep going and NOT start over again.
Perhaps the point of 2011 was to not do the thing that now came easily to me. Just as in marathon training, you repeatedly train up to the threshold of diminishing returns without crossing it until race day. Most marathoners only train up to 20 miles even though the race is 26.2 miles because training longer than that breaks down the body too much to facilitate adequate recovery before the race. On race day you have to finish well past the point of your longest run so you lose the luxury of telling yourself "It's okay. I've been here before. I know what to do." So it seems to be for me in life. I am past the 20 mile mark now and have lost the luxury of familiarity but it is now a circumstance of my choosing instead of the feared result. However admirably or terribly I handled it over the last year the satisfaction of recognizing the learning is enough of a summation for me. I don't need to rehash what I could have/should have/would have done differently. It worked out the way it needed to work out. My old yoga teacher Cliff used to say "Everything is always already okay." I think that's a lesson you have to live to learn.
(c) 2011, ACG
Making Merry
Chuckle. Nothing quite compares to the unique energy of the day before Christmas break. The law firms were always ghost towns on this day; a day of clock watching and guerilla traffic. My current environment is a circus--a riot of noise and color and glee. Yesterday I spent the morning helping volunteers wrap Christmas presents for all of the clients. A Santa Claus impersonator is now hiding out in the Home Ec classroom to distribute them so the excitement is wildly pinballing off the cinder block walls. First the preschool, then the adults, though it's a toss-up which wing will be most delighted.
I didn't have an ugly Christmas sweater to wear so I wore a regular sweater and pinned all of my mother-in-law's vintage broaches upon it. Everytime a breast moves there is a Shing! of tacky brilliance. There seem to cookies resting upon every horizontal surface. Each office is holding a different Christmas concert; the Three Tenors in one, a Charlie Brown Christmas in another, and Elvis in yet another. Food for the needy families is piled up desk high in my office. The woody citrus scent of stuffed turkey and glazed ham is wafting in from the giant smokers outside behind the kitchen. No one will stay in class today. Furniture is being moved to make room for extra wheelchairs. School is out so everyone's kiddos are running around squealing and knocking things over.
My boss has unwrapped his gift--an Ugly Doll of course. So now I'm drinking tea while listening and watching merrily as the frenzy perpetually parades up and down the hallway outside my office. I was trying to prep paperwork to work from home next week but now it is impossible to focus with a kooky new calendar sitting on my desk featuring dogs and cats in yoga poses. Santa arrives in T minus 15 minutes so I've given up trying to concentrate. The most I could manage was a sassy little Christmas card with a little coaxing from my word for 2012! After that the best thing I can do at this point is surrender to the gaiety.
(c) 2011, ACG
A Postcard From Another Season
An abstract delight; these strong slender blades of ornamental grass! Don't forget that this isn't possible without the dormancy of winter. We runners have a saying that the most important part of our training is not the running; it's the recovery. Fitness gains are only realized when muscles are allowed to recover. So it is with all of the earth's live beauty. Let it recover. Don't rush winter away. We need it to facilitate spring bloom, summer growth, and fall harvest. Every living thing must rest in order to sustain life. Winter is the sacred part of the cycle that creates rejuvenation so tread lightly as the flora sleeps beneath the tightly closed ground. Welcome winter with reverence for the pending miracles being produced at lower frequencies. How ever long it takes, let winter's quiet work be honored.
(c) 2011, ACG
One Ugly Picture
Bella asked me to choose one of my favorite photos taken this year and tell the story behind the picture. I chose an Ugly Doll photo because yet again last night at a party someone asked me "What's the deal with these Ugly Dolls?" We had an Ugly Doll family reunion at the party. The group picture featured the entire cast of the party grouped around the Uglies in a chair on a stage. So here is the story once again.
A few Valentine's Days ago I was given Peaco, the green Ugly Doll shown above. I began taking Peaco to races and other travel adventures with me and then posting photos of his escapades on Facebook. This was so much fun that before long the Peaco photo gallery was over 100 pictures and still growing in just a few months. Peaco developed his own fan following among my running buddies and other assorted friends and therefore all Ugly Dolls became known as "Peacos" in the beginning. "Hey, I think I saw one of those Peaco things the other day" or "Where do you get those Peacos?"
When the next important birthday came around I gave an Ugly Doll to a close friend. Everyone exclaimed, "Oh she gave her a Peaco!" Soon I gave one to each of the rest of her family and they followed suit and began taking their dolls on photo excursions too. Facebook again filled up with Ugly Doll adventures and before long all of our mutual friends were clamoring for an Ugly Doll of their own. So I began holding Ugly Doll adoptions. I acquired a few Ugly Dolls at a time and let anyone who wanted to adopt one take it home with the stipulation that they must take the Ugly Dolls on adventures and post the pictures. By the time the project wound down at the end of two years I had given away over 200 Ugly Dolls. Some were even adopted out of state and internationally. Ugly Dolls are now circling the globe having grand times.
This was one of the last adoption photos, Peaco and Brip, at the end of the summer. They are saying their goodbyes in the garden among the black-eyed Susans just before Brip leaves for his new home. The full Peaco gallery can be viewed in a photo album titled Sassy's Sidekick under the Gaze tab near the top of this page. See how beautiful ugly can be.
(c) 2011, ACG
