Forty years since "The Big Snow"....

Chicagoans my age and older will very likely recall "The Big Snow" of 1967 that hit the city on the morning of January 26th. It holds the record as Chicago's worst snow storm. By noon on the 26th, an alarming eight inches had already come down. By 8:00 the next morning, a whopping twenty three inches had fallen! Gusty winds complicated the situation causing drifts six feet high in places.

Cars were left hopelessly stuck and abandoned. Store shelves were emptied as people came on foot to stock up. At least a dozen babies were born at home. (I wonder how many were conceived!) Workers were stranded, unable to get transportation home. Airports were closed. Expressways were impassable. In short, the city came to a grinding halt. It took four days for Chicago to dig itself out.

The picture below shows the Edens Expressway during the storm, something we're used to seeing with bumper-to-bumper traffic!

In 1967 I was a kid, twelve years old, and to see all the chaos surrounding the storm was more exciting than frightening. That fateful day I did not want to miss my drama class after school, so I trudged the mile to 59th and Kedzie. It took longer, but that only increased my sense of adventure. Class ended early, as most did not make it, as weather worsened. Back I walked, with ice caked around the tops of my boots.

My father had always insisted we carry a dime in our pockets, "in case of emergency", so we could call home for a ride. Even if I wanted a ride, no car could get through. Sidewalks, doorways, parked cars and streets were snowed over. I made my way by walking in trenches left by car tires in the street.

At home, as Mom made pots of steamy hot chocolate, Dad was shoveling out our house and every other house on the street. Men gathered to talk and assess the situation. A neighbor's garage had collapsed, caving in on both family cars. It was a mess.

Another neighbor had her car stranded a block away. A young man had been driving around in his big tow truck, looking for cars to tow. He offered to help this woman get out, but for a price, a BIG price. She refused. He got mad and tried to speed off. Instead his tires were spinning deep ruts in the snow as we all stood and watched. No one gave him the finger, and no one lifted a finger to help him. Maybe he deserved his humiliation. Eventually he got himself out. The next day we all went over and used our muscle to dig and push that woman's car back home. But it did surprise me back then, that someone would try to cash in and exploit the woman's situation. Today it doesn't surprise me. Tough times bring out the worst and the best in people.

As a kid the snow storm was great fun. No school! And there was a wonderland to explore outside. We had forts, snowball fights and snowmen everywhere. Our dog couldn't walk, she'd leap and sink, leap and sink. It never occurred to us that we should stay in and watch TV. Never, no, we had the chance of a lifetime to play in snow taller than we were.

I made a huge igloo in our yard, next to Mom's tomato patch. I never seemed to get cold. Hours would pass and I'd get hungry, or sleepy, but never cold. I remember crawling inside the igloo, feeling downright WARM, wanting to nap right there inside. I also remember polishing the walls with my glove, making the ice smooth, glistening and hard.

By Tuesday, roads were cleared and the city was back up and running. We went back to school. The city lost something like sixty million dollars in revenue in the storm, and sixty people had died. Now forty years later, we still remember "The Big Snow" of 1967. I enjoyed reminiscing with my father, who helped me recall some of the things I've written here.

Anyone else have memories of "The Big Snow"?

(Thanks to my sister, Sue, who sent me an email about The Big Snow, including the pictures I've posted here!)

The art and mystery of tai chi...

About a year ago, my sister, Sue, asked if I was interested in joining her in practicing tai chi every week with two of her friends. I'd never done tai chi before in my life, in fact I didn't really know what tai chi was. All I knew was that it was some kind of exercise or dance that was done in slow motion. But since it was winter and I knew I should be more active, I agreed to go with her.

Let me say here that I'm not the "gym" type... and the exercises I do enjoy are walking, swimming and belly dancing. I am not athletic and tend to be rather clumsy and bumbling. The idea of something disciplined like tai chi was completely new for me.

The weekly practices were held in Diane's basement. That first night Diane, Sue and Sharon patiently taught me the "tai chi walk"... a series of angled steps, short and long, forward and back. Then they added the first hand movement, "parting the wild horse's mane". I was clumsy and off balance as I tried the moves. They looked so easy! But they actually required a lot of concentration and control. By the end of our practice I felt energized, loose and limber, and completely relaxed. The morning after, I felt even better, with a spring in my step and a mental alertness I'd not felt in quite a long time. It was a little bit like that dewey-faced glow and inner radiance one feels after an erotic interlude. I was hooked! I've been going back ever since.

Tai Chi IS a martial art, and it uses many of the same slaps, punches, kicks and blocks. The difference is that it's done slowly, gently, with fluid low-impact motions. In tai chi, each movement flows into the next. The entire body is always in motion, with the movements performed gently and at uniform speed. Most of the movements are modeled after animals who are especially adept at defending themselves in the wild with wit, strategy and agility.

I wanted to master the routine we did each week, called "The 24 Forms". It can be done almost anywhere by almost anyone, no matter what age or physical condition. The health benefits are many. It takes five minutes to complete the entire routine. And it is said that it takes a lifetime to "master" it. In China, a "master" has attained at least thirty years of instruction in the discipline and art of tai chi.

(In thirty years I will be 82. Hmmmmmmm.... )

This month I began my formal tai chi training, given by Xiaoping Xu, MD, PhD with her accomplished, elderly mother, here in our Woodridge park district. Instruction is held in a wonderful room that overlooks our little Lake Harriet. In our class are men and women, of all ages and all levels of experience. Dr. Xu exudes grace and calmness as she softly guides us, move by move. She tells us that even if we do it wrong, it's still better than not doing it at all. And to watch HER do the "24 Forms" is like observing a spun cocoon of silk, threads slowly unfurling.

Could that one day be me?

Come what may, with my clumsy chunk of a body, I'll continue with tai chi because I enjoy it enormously and love how I feel after I've done it. Dr. Xu's mother, who speaks only a few words of English, smiles broadly when she sees me and taps her finger on my forehead, right between the eyes as she tells me "Heng Hao" which means "very good" in Chinese. I thank her... in my pitiful attempt at Chinese, saying "Shie shie" (pronounced see see) as I smile back. And each time she does it I wonder... what does it mean? All that tapping between the eyes! She doesn't do it to the others. Not sure, but really, it doesn't matter. Language barrier or not, I understand a smile...

Zai Jian! (That's goodbye!)

Self-expression, two people, two powerful forms...

Originally posted in my old blog on November 15, 2006...

My anticipation reached its peak this week... the day we finally went to the Chicago History Museum to see Ed Paschke's exhibit of paintings, grouped by decade on the second floor. A video ran in the first room of the gallery, haunting to watch. It was filmed by Art Beat just twelve hours before the artist would die in his sleep of heart failure on Thanksgiving Day in 2004. It portrayed a man who appeared healthy, vibrant, calm, animated, enthusiastic about his current project, appreciative of the chance to talk about it. No hint of what was to come. And yet, what a wonderful thought to consider he lived doing what he loved until the day he died... painting.

Our view of the paintings was perfect, the pieces were not crowded. There were other people there, but nothing that interfered with our liesurely pace in thoughtfully letting our eyes rest on each incredible canvas. I absorbed each one, like enjoying a fabulous meal, bite by heavenly bite.

On Wednesday I went with Monica to get the tattoo she's been planning for two years.

Personally, I have no tattoos and prefer my body au naturale! But... if someone wishes to use tattoos to express who they are, by all means go for it! Monica has several tattoos, but this one was to be the most elaborate and biographical. She asked my help in designing it about two years ago while she lived in Austin. After several revisions and brain storming with Monica, here's my final sketch.

The final design features Chicago's Sears Tower, the Adler Planetarium, the U of I bell tower (stylized) and the London Gherkin, among other symbolic elements.... with a rocket ship zooming off to its next destination.

The artist was Harlan Thompson, who did an amazing job! Monica chose him after searching for just the right one for the job.

After all the planning, this is the final result! She loves it!

I feel so blessed tonight...:::sigh:::.... grateful that my work allows me to be flexible enough to enjoy these times with my daughter. Who knows when we'll have time together again after she returns to London. Part of me goes with her now, wherever she goes... on that tattoo... as if we needed an outward expression of what already exists inside us.

Tuning the heart strings, two high notes....

Originally posted on 12/5/06...

Growing up, had you asked me, I'd not have listed "being a mother" as one of my top five aspirations in life. It would have been... if I knew then what I know now. And I thank God every day that I did have children. I didn't know how tightly these two daughters would wind themselves into my very heart strings. And I could never have guessed all the ways they'd come to pluck them.

The years have flown by... in a blink, a twinkle and a flinch, sparking every emotion under the sun. Now they are 27 and 23, one living in another state, the other living in another country. Yet... never have I felt closer to each of them, more connected to them.

Each is going through times of change, challenges known, outcomes unknown... and these things feel every bit my own.


Monica and Stephanie... I love you more than words could ever say.

Baccarat hearts, crashing waves, and an old friend...

Originally posted December 6, 2006, on my old blog....

Chicago has a fabulous lake front. Lake Michigan feels like an ocean, waves can reach two stories high or more! Up at the northeast corner of the city, I once had a friend named David who had an apartment that was bordered by the lake on three sides. Great place! And decorated to the nines. We'd met through work, both of us are interior designers. He was delightful, about ten years younger than I, full of color and dripping charm and personality. He loved good conversation and probing for secret treasures lurking hidden inside a person. We were an unlikely combination, he was gay and I was a married mother of two, but we enjoyed each other's company.

One night, David invited me over to his place "to talk". It was an hour's drive for me, but I was intriqued and more than willing, for times spent with David were full of adventure and surprises. It was a cool, crisp night, with high winds... winter was making a dramatic entrance.

At David's place I was enchanted to see a fire raging in his fireplace and candlelight all around. "Do you like Michael Feinstein's music?" he asked me. I didn't know it. So David put one of his albums on to play... "I would MARRY Michael Feinstein in a hearbeat!" he told me with a sigh. He patted his sofa (which had about two hundred pillows scattered across it!)... and urged me to sit beside him. So we leaned back and listened to the music. Love songs... sad songs...

David reached for a bowl of colored crystal hearts and held it on his lap. "Each Baccarat heart is for a lover who broke my heart." he told me, with misty eyes. One in particular he held longer than the others in his hand, almost reluctant to put it back in the bowl. I knew why I was there.... David was lonely.

We were like girlfriends... sharing secrets, confessing deep dark dreams seldom brought to light. He told me tales from childhood and sad stories of loves lost. He was a hopeless romantic, and I must admit I am too.

"I want to show you something!" he suddenly said with a big grin. He was so cute, looked a little like a young Tom Hanks. He took me by the hand and led me through the arched doorway into his bedroom. It had windows on two sides, a fireplace on the other... the same roaring fire faced the bed.

"I want you to experience something amazing." he said... "Lay down on the bed." He walked around opening all the windows and placed another log on the fire. All the lights were off except for the flickering firelight to illuminate the room.

"Close your eyes." he told me. The room was quickly becoming VERY cold and breezy, and the heat from the fireplace felt fabulous. We laid there side by side, faces toward the ceiling. He reached for my hand.... "Listen... " It took a moment for me to settle in and relax... so many sensations were fighting for attention... the cold air, the warmth of the fire, the scent of firewood burning, the comforting warmth of a friend's hand.... but then I heard it... outside the window.

Waves were crashing against the rocks, wind was blowing, and the roar of water rose three stories up to where we were. And listening to the water splashing, laying there with David's stories from that night fresh in my mind, I felt warmed from the inside out, no longer cold. Yes, it was an amazing magical experience.

About an hour passed as we laid there quietly, sometimes talking or giggling. It reminded me of childhood... sleepovers with girlfriends... nights of transparency and letting go of fears, and feeling music seep so deep inside that reality became another friend with us in the room .

A few years later, David and I drifted out of contact. It was just one of those things I suppose... but I'll remember him always. I'll remember his generousity, too.... the times he'd treat me to dinner, or say things like "let me see your new watch" and he'd tuck a folded twenty dollar bill under the face of it. (In those days ... early 90's... I was struggling financially and he loved to be Santa.) It gave him so much joy to do it. His thougthful gestures taught me about kindness in a world that seemed to grow more cruel by the day.

David, wherever you are, I wish you peace and happiness... and a bowl of Baccarat hearts that never overflows.

Are we programmed?

I will be reposting several things posted on the blog I had prior to this one. When I experienced technical problems with my old blog, I was forced to find another, and here I am.

Originally posted December 8, 2006....

We have "On Demand" cable... it's nice to be able to watch certain shows when the urge strikes. I never had HBO until moving back here almost two years ago, and for the first time I've been able to catch the unedited version of "Sex and the City".

Tonight I watched Episode 63 - "A Change of a Dress" , and had to agree with Steve when he told me how much like Carrie I can be. She struggles with pressures to get married, feels duty bound to marry yet questions why she is different from most on this topic, and becomes physically becomes ill when she tries on a wedding gown. She wears her engagement ring around her neck, not on her finger. In the end, her fiance', Aidan, leaves her because he realizes she's not ready and may never be.

If you've noticed, I don't write much about marriage, my own in particular. After 29 years you'd think I'd have settled into the way of life most women embrace so naturally. What's wrong with me, I ask myself often. I dearly love my family life, I love being a mother, I thoroughly enjoy the company of men, I love to "nest"... fuss with my home, cook hearty meals, make things special for my loved ones. But I've never worn a wedding ring or quite adjusted to marriage. I haven't shared a check book or a credit card in 15 years. I never check the "married" box when filling out a form.

I kept my maiden name professionally back when I was doing editorial illustration. When the time would come to select a greeting card for my husband I found myself avoiding any card that had the word "husband" on it. And I always introduced Steve to others this way... "This is Steve", never "This is my husband, Steve". Over the years I have lost both my engagement ring AND my wedding ring... (probably since I seldom wore them) ... very odd for a woman who is as sentimental as I am and saves some of the smallest little keepsakes.

I have left him three times and lived apart from him almost six years during our 29 year marriage.

I'm sure I've come to be thought of as the nut that fell far from the family tree. (People in my family stay together no matter what.) It matters not to me how others see it. My very survival depended upon leaving. To stay meant I was risking the loss of "me".... if that makes any sense at all.

I met Steve when I was seventeen. I was a devout Catholic girl who was very active in the neighborhood parish. Saint Rita Church, south side Chicago...

The first time I saw him was in our church walking near the main aisle, and I swear this is true... I heard a "voice" say to me "This is the man you will marry." Imagine my shock when ten minutes later I saw him on the altar wearing a chasibule and stole, as the priest saying Mass! This is the very place....

Intimidating, isn't it!

I thought I was going insane. Seniors in highschool don't have things like this happen to them... but six years later, after many twists and turns, we DID get married. Part of me fought it tooth and nail, prayed my heart out, yet struggled to believe it was my destiny. He didn't force it upon me in any shape or form. There is nothing forceful or demanding about Steve. It felt like the right thing to do, the right place to be in life.

In the "Sex and the City" episode, Carrie asks... "Are we programmed?" Maybe that was part of it. I was merely doing what generations of women had done before me... you meet a good man, get married, settle down, have kids...

He wasn't driven by hormones by any means, he was quiet and slow paced. He was incredibly kind, selfless, giving, gentle and patient. He'd come to the house and do my chores for me, believe it or not.... wash dishes, especially. Later I learned he was drawn to our wild, crazy house full of people, our warmth and caring and laughter. What a contrast he was... reserved, proper, dignified, lofty, remote. We were always very down to earth. He astonished me with his intellect and the simplicity he applied toward his life. He wanted to teach. He wanted to be married and have children. That was it. (Yet, he had become a priest!)

Fast forward, six years... we married. He taught in a Catholic high school and loved it. He never objected when I hopped church to church, always spiritually searching, dabbling in various activities. He never complained when I went off to do things with my own friends, or when I followed my own drummer. I was puzzled when he quit his job one day to enroll in grad school, without ever discussing it with me. I was freelancing and teaching art part time, hardly enough for us to live on without his pay check. I had to forgo my own career and get a "real day job", so that he could complete his doctorate. It was the first of many concessions I was to make. I didn't mind at the time, afterall it's what a good wife does.

I dabbled in various creative ways to make money, in addition to the "real" jobs I held to pay bills. Part of me starves when I'm not creating. I sewed wedding gowns and clothing for others, I did display art for a jewelry company, did odd illustration jobs and a few art projects for hire including a mural for an elementary school entrance. I babysat. I also made dolls and teddy bears and eventually taught lessons at Marshall Field's downtown, designing an exclusive bear only Field's customers could learn to make. My endeavors were never main stream. Steve didn't take an active interest, but he didn't interfere either. I felt he was proud of me and a bit bewildered. Slowly these side gigs gave way to practical necessity. I had to focus more and more on making money for my family. But always I put his desires first, his goals, his dreams and worked around those.

He wanted to teach. He was born to teach. He was the kind of teacher that touched and impacted students' lives... I saw it happen over and over. I come from a long line of teachers... my mother, my sister and my aunt (godmother)... all teachers... and I'd grown to revere this underappreciated, woefully underpaid, hardworking, dedicated group of professionals. It made me happy to see him happy... to see how his work bettered this world of ours. My own dreams seemed small and selfish in comparison. Weren't the needs of my family what mattered most?
What happened over time is that a long habit of conceding gave way to resentment, and that gave way to me asserting myself, taking back some control over things important to me in life. Mind you, he never asked me to give up a thing. I did it because it felt as if it was my duty to do so. Sometimes I did it with joy, sometimes I did it because it was the right thing to do, not because I wanted to do it.

Fast forward another 25 years... older, wiser, things came full circle, it was MY TURN... I could not silence the calls of my soul. I took time for my interests once again, and felt the power forging my bones, the fire igniting in my tummy, the stirrings opening windows in my heart... the fresh, clear, soothing air bringing sweetness back to my soul.

It was never a good thing, to deprive myself of the very things that make me who I am.
Nothing had changed, but everything had changed.

Today we live very different, separate lives... it's family we share. We respect each other, treat each other well, support each other's interests and give each other space.

He is an academic and functions best on the level of brain and information. There's nothing wrong with that. This world needs people who can remain level, without letting emotions influence what they say and do. He still loves to teach, still enjoys being married and being a father. Very little about him has changed in all these years. He reveals nothing of who he is inside, his feelings, his beliefs, his fears... aren't these the very things that reveal a person? Who is he? And how can I fully love someone who can't let me know him? Does he even know himself? I wonder....

Me, in some ways I'm a different person today... I wear my restlessness and constant spiritualality like a glove that knows each contour of my hand. And yet, in so many ways I've never been happier. I have myself again... and I love the qualities God gave me and want to use them. When God gives (this I believe) it's not just a gift for me (or you) alone, but one for all the world to have... through me (or you).

What of the gifts I have as a woman... of the love I have to give... of the capacity I have for real intimacy? It's the last frontier... but I stay grounded, even as I dream of flight.

Yes, Carrie... "Are we programmed?"

Business or personal... ?

"It's not personal, it's business." ~ Donald Trump

At this stage in my life, I think I know who I am, what my values are and how I want to live. But I am struggling today with a situation that I can't quite resolve in my mind.

I'm an interior designer, self employed, and am quite fortunate to have a good solid client base. Some of my clients have been with me through several houses, a couple of marriages, a few jobs and all kinds of life changes... one is a client for eighteen years now and counting.

Sometimes there seems to be a fine line between "business" and "personal" however. And I struggle to keep my business mindset when it feels so much more personal.

About a year and a half ago a new client found me, through her daughter. For the sake of her anonymity, I'll call her Sophia. From our very first meeting, I knew she'd be high maintenance. And the first thing she did was ask for a special discount on my hourly rate. My rate is my rate, and all my other clients pay it without blinking an eye. It's a fair rate, mid-range. Do we play "let's make a deal" when we go to the grocery store or to the doctor? No, but this is how Sophia does business.

In all my years in this business, I've never had a client like Sophia. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself, but this woman makes my head spin, causes me to bolt awake in the middle of the night, and has managed to leave me dreading every phone call.

She calls me almost daily with a design question, with panic in her voice, with apologies up and down for bothering me once again, but she doesn't know what to do and it's something that cannot wait until our next meeting. These calls go on and on, often half an hour or longer. She borders on hysteria at times. She's cried, she's ranted, she's moaned and groaned. I am polite, professional, tell her I have only a few minutes, but she can't seem to stay on the subject or keep calm.

She's placed a few orders with me, for custom window treatments and an area rug. I've done floral arrangements for her. I've given her ideas galore. She does not trust her decisions, always thinks she's being cheated, insists on bargaining to get the lowest possible price. She worries and frets over every little detail. She hems and haws, goes back and forth, complains constantly about the poor quality and workmanship in everything these days, moans that she's always getting ripped off, says people don't return her calls, cries about the rising cost of everything, gripes about terrible service she gets everywhere she goes, goes over everything twenty times and still can't make up her mind, obsesses about every fiber content, every color, every penny, endlessly. Every time, bar none.

After an extended tirade, she will meekly tell me how I'm different, that there's no one like me, that I'm so patient, so talented, so nice to work with. Normally a compliment gives us a boost, makes us feel good about what we do. But inwardly I sigh deeply, it takes every ounce of energy I can muster to deal with these things. I don't feel proud of what I'm thinking at that moment... how I'd love to tell her, "Sophia, you're impatient, needy, unreasonable, demanding, impossible and a nightmare to work with!" Isn't that horrible?

Ten minutes with Sophia feels like ten hours. It is physically taxing, mentally exhausting, emotionally unsettling. It wears down everything in me, down to the very marrow in my bones, piercing every brain cell, gnawing at every nerve ending. And when I leave (or hang up) I feel as if I can't deal with another person, project or thought for the rest of the day. Total burn out.

I know I have to end this. At this point I am losing money and my very soul to keep her. We can't seem to ever finish anything, she keeps finding flaws, needing more and more service, "this isn't straight, this isn't right". Come back out and adjust this, do that.

Deep down, I know this woman has deep seated psychological issues and perhaps a spiritual void, for nothing makes her happy. Nothing. She is never satisfied, always miserable. She's truly ill, mentally. She's lonely, having driven everyone away, personal and professional. She's created a toxic environment for herself and doesn't seem to realize it. Everyone and everything else is to blame. She is one of the saddest, unhappiest, neediest, most desperate people I've ever known. And therein I find my conflict.

My spiritual belief is that all of us are created in God's image. Somewhere, someplace, it's there to be found and revered. We share in the responsibility to nurture and care for others, especially those in need. We're taught to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, care for the sick. Isn't Sophia starving for patience, attention and nurturing? Isn't she naked without the comforting warmth of self love and the love of others? Isn't she suffering with an illness of head and heart? Isn't she blind to all that's beautiful and good around her?

What am I supposed to do? What's the "right" thing to do? Will she learn anything from losing me, or will it only feed and reinforce her beliefs that no one can be trusted.

I know when she goes off on one of her tantrums that it's really not about me, it goes much deeper, a response to something deeper, something that's festered all her life. Sometimes I want to strangle her, other times I want to just hold her awhile and see if she can find a moment's comfort.

I leave there with my head askew, the ugliest parts of me rearing, bucking, growing horns. I may as well hold a pitchfork in my hand. Where's the lesson in this? What's the best way to solve this situation? I know I can't continue this way anymore.

How I long to hear the words from her....

"You're FIRED!"

Hailing "The Queen"...

Last night we saw "The Queen". It's been praised in reviews and I was intrigued by the story. The film focuses on the queen's reactions to the untimely, tragic death of "Princess" Diana.

It's common knowledge that the queen and Diana were never chums and did not see eye to eye. It came as no surprise that the movie reflected that. What I did appreciate was the glimpse into the mindset and character of the queen, how her role as queen determined every thought. She had been groomed to respond a certain way, she had done so all her life, saw it as her duty to the people to project the image of a strong, dignified, proper, level-headed, non-emotional queen, believing that is what her people needed and wanted. Protocol was never suspended. The queen truly believed Diana's death ought be a private family matter, never anticipating the world-wide outpouring of grief and affection that occurred.

I like when films are able capture the good qualities hidden inside the bad guy, and the bad hidden inside the good guy. This film accomplishes this very thing.

The older I get, the less I view things as black and white. Sometimes it seems people act out the roles society has prepared for them.

When it's a poor child, one of many, born to a single welfare mother, growing up in the projects, getting an education on the streets where he finds the only "family" who will accept him and value him, why would we be surprised when his life turns to crime, gangs, addictions and other destructive behaviors? Does it make him a bad person because he's been conditioned for the life he's living?

And when it's a wealthy child, born to royalty, growing up separated from the rest of society, taught from day one that emotions show weakness, that expressions of heart expose vulnerability, that the future of a country rests upon her ability to be tough and powerful, why would we be surprised when she responds to a tragic loss with stiff aloofness and firm resolve. Does it make her a bad person because she's been groomed in traditions thousands of years old to respond exactly this way?

A lot of good people, born with good ingredients and all the potential in the world to do great things, end up making serious mistakes in judgement. Sometimes the course we're set upon in life is difficult to leave because it's all we know, all we can see at the time. Growth comes from thinking "outside the box"... sometimes we forget we have that luxury.

I appreciate that this film was able to show the demons and angels in every major figure in the story, Diana, the queen, Charles and prime minister Tony Blair. As outsiders we can't possibly ever know the full story, but it's nice to see a film that will open minds, stretch perceptions and perhaps prompt less judgement inside us. Better still, it manages to replace judgement with compassion.

A midday Mediterranean detour...

This week I met with two brand new clients, a mother and daughter. They are Assyrian. And instantly upon meeting them, I felt transported to another place and time. It was a wonderful place, full of warmth, sweetness, kindness and hospitality... and place where phrases like "bless your heart" happened naturally, a place where food and drinks flowed freely, a place where children crawled up on Nana's lap to hear a story and everyone smiled freely, genuinely.

And let me tell you.... I felt changed. It felt as if some of the hard edges life's carved upon my demeanor became softened, as if my emotional pillows were fluffed and freshened, as if the energy flowing through my veins was pure and strong, neither swift nor sluggish. I felt as if fresh sweet breezes brushed my soul, leaving a sparkling, clear dustless, glittering light. To put it simply... I felt nothing but love there.

What a powerful thing love is. It DID truly change me. I felt less in a rush, I felt as if all the petty details that suck up my time and clutter my desk could wait. Suddenly I had a sense of what was most important about life, and that was to let its divine richness fill me, spill over my brim and in doing so, fill others as I was being filled. Within, I couldn't stop thanking God, for He was very much present with us there. I felt nothing but abundance. Fears, worries, annoyances... these all ceased to exist.

I stayed far longer than I normally would at a first meeting with a new client. They seemed to want me to stay. We sat and talked about all kinds of things. "Nana" told me about life in Europe, about the wonderful Mediterranean cooking she learned growing up. (It's one of my favorite cuisines!) I learned more about cooking and life in that afternoon than a whole year watching television or reading books could ever teach me. They served me lunch and I was touched when they paused to say grace first. (How I love that.) It was a meeting I will long remember.... and hope to repeat in months to come as I help them with their home.

It's interesting... clearly they are affluent. But affluence is a quiet, waiting servant there. They have a joyful spirit of generosity about them in all they say and do. It reinforced two things I've come to believe. One, in giving, and in extending good will in all areas of life, it returns many, many times over. And secondly, there is a wealth that has nothing to do with money or possessions, and that is where our most precious treasures lie.... in Love that surrounds us and fills us.

Saving a concept from drowning...

Just finished this month's book club selection, Saving Fish from Drowning, by Amy Tan who is best known for another novel, The Joy Luck Club. As I worked my way through chapter after chapter I found myself feeling very small, very naive and quite disconnected from the ways of rural Asians living on the other side of the world. It was quite the opposite of what I often experience when reading. Most of the time, I am able to find a point of connection, certain qualities that endear me to a character, or help me place myself inside the story. It did not happen in this novel. But it was still worth reading.

I was intrigued with the premise behind this book, from the start. Amy Tan bases her story upon the automatic writings of a certain prominent San Francisco icon and socialite who has died a mysterious death. Automatic writing might be considered a paranormal occurrence. The spirit of a dead person produces written messages through the subconscious of a living person, sometimes in a trance-like state. There are documented instances of this throughout history. Automatic writings reflect the time period, the language, the dialect and personality of the one who "dictated" them. At times even the handwriting matches, indistinguishable to experts from actual documents written during the person's lifetime!

In Saving Fish from Drowning, the writings expose the untold story of 11 travelers who disappear without a trace in Burma. The book is based upon a true event. Amy Tan was so impressed by what she discovered in her research, she built her novel around it. The book might have captured more of my interest had it explored more deeply, this phenomenon called "automatic writing". I wanted the author to explore the motives of the story teller. What was so urgent, so essential, that she had to use such unconvential methods to tell the story of what happened to the travelers? Who was this woman, and what did she believe and why did it matter now to her that the story be told?

Instead, the novel really was a book about the travelers. They do find themselves in some incredibly complicated situations, where cultures clash and the world as we know it ceases to exist. In my mind, as fascinating as the story was, it still left me wanting something different.

It's like going to a wonderful restaurant, ordering a dish that sounded so unique and delicious, only to be served something else instead. It was tasty, just not what I expected.

Nature girl... a mother's pride (and envy)....

It's funny that I should have just written about my daughter's love for hiking and camping. Monica wrote from New Zealand, where she is visiting Tim's family. Here's a photo from one of her hiking adventures with Tim.

Can you imagine? She's in her glory, I can tell. I believe that is an active volcano in the background, with the ocean peeking low on the horizon.

.....::::sigh::::..... I must confess, I'm a bit jealous....

Brussels Sprouts - with a twist!

Vegetables seduce me. And resistance is futile. Sometimes I want the simplicity of a simple steamed or raw vegetable. But I also love to try vegetables prepared with exotic spices or unexpected ingredients.

Last week I happened to stumble upon a cooking TV show I'd never seen before. A man and woman host it, but for the life of me I can't recall the name. They were preparing brussels sprouts three different ways.

Brussels sprouts! I love them! I love all the vegetables in the cabbage family. And my favorite way of preparing these tiny little cabbages has been to roast them in the oven. The leaves become papery and crispy on the outside, while the insides become tender and almost sweet.

The recipe given on the television show surprised me. After tossing the brussels sprouts lightly in olive oil and crushed garlic, sprinkling with salt and pepper, the sprouts were roasted until nicely browned. Before serving, they were tossed with a dressing consisting of a couple of teaspoonfuls of balsamic vinegar, a teaspoon of olive oil, and about a tablespoon of grated orange zest. It sounded odd to me, but I decided to try it. I went very light with the olive oil, and used canola spray for the roasting, but this was a DELICIOUS way to prepare brussels sprouts!

The orange gave the most wonderful sweetness and tang, complimenting the taste of the sprouts perfectly. The vinegar added a lot of flavor without tartness.

Most definitely, I will be making this again! Yummy!

Stooping low, raising champagne glasses high....

Happy New Year, to all!

My little "cabin" in the woods called to me the weekend of the new year... I needed the peace and quiet after such a hectic holiday! My place there is not much, believe me, but when I'm there the rest of the world tip toes away and I can hear the whisperings of my soul. It takes me to wonderful places, places of pure heart, genuine joy and deep relaxation. This is the winter view from my deck....
The trouble is that the place isn't set up to be year-round. So in winter there is no plumbing. There is propane heat and electricity, and there is a lodge with bathrooms and showers a mile away. Even so, who wants to get into the car and drive a mile every time nature calls? Now and then it won't be convenient.

Solution? Pee in the woods.

It's my third winter owning the place and I've never stooped that low... ha ha, pardon the pun. We were campers growing up, but my parents took us places that always had outhouses or plumbing. We never roughed it. I loved camping, loved being around nature, loved the black skies that glistened with starlight, loved the wildlife that graciously allowed us to intrude, loved the special kind of bond that formed sitting around the campfire. But the bathroom issue was never part of the fun. Especially, if you were like my sister, and dropped your flashlight INTO the hole at the outhouse and had to see it glow every time you returned there. The batteries lasted for days! Nasty!

My daughter, Monica, is a big-time camper and hiker... and she takes off into the wilderness. Here's one of her photos.... (Tim is in the tent!)
She gave me some pointers on the womanly art of peeing in the woods. Squat down as low to the ground as possible. Hold pants or clothes to the front. Lean forward. And ladies, let me say, it works like a charm. I'd add a fourth and fifth tip. Hold onto a tree! And carry Kleenex and wet wipes. This method will work in a pinch, but nothing beats the comforts of plumbing.

For those who might be wondering, Jack Frost nipped at more than my nose over the weekend!!! Tee hee...

(Guys have it made.)

Steve drove down to share a new year's eve's champagne toast at Sue and Augie's cabin. He was quiet, as is his way, but cordial. It was simple, relaxing and wonderful to bring in the new year with them all. Augie started the new year with a few digs and jabs at his sister-in-law, me. What else is new? (Why do ALL my brother-in-laws pick on me so?) At least he popped his cork without shattering a window! Sue is a natural hostess, always. Full of smiles, she kept the champagne flowing! "This one is from Spain, guaranteed to not give headaches!" she promised.

After sleeping in late, I enjoyed New Year's Day in the tranquil woodland setting, watching birds come to my feeder and shadows grow long.... wondering what this new year will bring.

Time shall tell....