While not a professional bird watcher, I think each of my friends is remarkably like the bird species I watch each day. A myriad of birds gather on branches outside of my window in unusual combinations of color, size, and voice; very much like my circle of friends. Though they are clearly different species, they join together in a cacophony of sound, bird to bird, much like woman to woman.
The mockingbird, which is personally one of my favorites, is so full of life that her voice radiates delight wherever she goes. Her social concentration is so keen that her initial greeting makes you believe that you are the most important person alive.
The mockingbird is drawn to anything shiny and she never leaves home without armfuls of silver bangles, sequined skirts, and silver earrings hanging long from her ears. Eyes darting and chattering rapidly, she twirls amongst the crowd and without knowing, draws the attention of every man in the room. Her shoulders often languish above a wide boat neck sweater and her short blonde hair darts in every direction. With her sparkling attire and swift movements, she often looks like a fast traveling comet. Her trail of stardust leaves most guests sorry for her early evening departures.
She’s as beautiful as a peacock and as charming as a lovebird. Quick to chatter, easy to charm, my friend the mockingbird has turned me into an avid bird watcher.
©2007
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
little prayers
The world is a sight to behold. Each day as I read current events on CNN, I hold my breath. Things are considerably more complicated now. I’m thankful that I’m not trying to figure out the never-ending puzzle of world politics. It’s a difficult task.
I am amused that the daily news has forced a new habit on me. When I read through articles, I have begun to say little prayers. When the young men of war are counted as numbers, I close my eyes and whisper “go in peace.” When kidnapped children are found, I say “thank you,” and when foolish people do foolish things I say, “it takes all kinds to make an interesting world. Thank you for the variety.”
I don’t know when it started. I’m not even sure where it comes from. Growing up my family rarely – if ever – attended church. I have no desire for affiliation or religious community and yet, a new and simple belief has entered my life. I imagine that my prayer is the intention of warmth that pushes at the back of those traveling to parts unknown. I want them to know that another is wishing them well on their way.
People talk about world consciousness. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t. I’m not sure, but just in case, I want to do my part. It’s not much, but each day, as I read the news, I whisper my little prayers.
©2007
I am amused that the daily news has forced a new habit on me. When I read through articles, I have begun to say little prayers. When the young men of war are counted as numbers, I close my eyes and whisper “go in peace.” When kidnapped children are found, I say “thank you,” and when foolish people do foolish things I say, “it takes all kinds to make an interesting world. Thank you for the variety.”
I don’t know when it started. I’m not even sure where it comes from. Growing up my family rarely – if ever – attended church. I have no desire for affiliation or religious community and yet, a new and simple belief has entered my life. I imagine that my prayer is the intention of warmth that pushes at the back of those traveling to parts unknown. I want them to know that another is wishing them well on their way.
People talk about world consciousness. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t. I’m not sure, but just in case, I want to do my part. It’s not much, but each day, as I read the news, I whisper my little prayers.
©2007
Friday, January 5, 2007
i never wanted to be pretty
When I was a child, I’d look at myself in the bathroom mirror and wonder about my blank looking face. As I watched Anna Magnani and Sophia Loren on black and white TV, I’d think to myself, I want to be handsome like THAT. I never wanted to be pretty. I’d manipulate my face with my hands, trying to imagine what I’d look like as an older woman. I thought sexy was having laugh lines and sad eyes, round hips, and an attitude. Being blonde and blue-eyed I knew I’d never have the earthy look of the Italians I loved, and I spent hours wondering about that.
Forty-five years later, I see I finally have a “face.” Years of work, family and experiences have created a very public roadmap. Being single at 55 has added more laugh lines.
Some friends have chosen plastic surgery. Others are seriously considering. It puzzles me. Does lifting your eyelids, sucking fat, and inserting plastic implants make your life different? Personally, I’m not convinced. I’ve clearly had a life – and it shows. After all that, why would I erase it?
Attitude and intellect have their benefits and a confident woman is formidable. Yes, my eyelids now resemble Simone de Beauvoir…but I always thought she was one sexy woman. She probably wouldn’t play well to the plastic surgery crowd, but I’m not a member. Perception is everything. I’m not pretty, but I’m still working on handsome.
©2007
Forty-five years later, I see I finally have a “face.” Years of work, family and experiences have created a very public roadmap. Being single at 55 has added more laugh lines.
Some friends have chosen plastic surgery. Others are seriously considering. It puzzles me. Does lifting your eyelids, sucking fat, and inserting plastic implants make your life different? Personally, I’m not convinced. I’ve clearly had a life – and it shows. After all that, why would I erase it?
Attitude and intellect have their benefits and a confident woman is formidable. Yes, my eyelids now resemble Simone de Beauvoir…but I always thought she was one sexy woman. She probably wouldn’t play well to the plastic surgery crowd, but I’m not a member. Perception is everything. I’m not pretty, but I’m still working on handsome.
©2007
in the night
She felt like a woman who'd been told she was loved, by a man she didn't know. It had been years they’d been together and more years they’d been apart. She’d never understood how the silence had grown between them. The burning of her cigarette was often the only sound in the room heavy with night. Some evenings when she woke, she could see his outline against the glass of the windowpanes and knew that he had not slept.
He pulled her close as they walked on the cobblestone streets, fog dampening the sounds of their boots on the stones. She kept with his quick pace. With steps taken in time, they hurried towards the town center, hoping to arrive before dawn. She slowed as they turned the corner and saw the lights through the thickening fog. It wouldn’t be long now.
Muffled voices came from the alleyways as they moved closer to the cars. Lights became brighter but those standing in the darkness did not move. She could hear the tires roll across the wet pavement as the fog turned to rain.
With a firm hand he guided her towards the door of the black limousine. With no sound, the back door swung open. Without a glance, she ducked in and quickly pulled the door closed. He stood and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, when he remembered it had been years since he’d smoked. She had always had that effect on him.
©2007
He pulled her close as they walked on the cobblestone streets, fog dampening the sounds of their boots on the stones. She kept with his quick pace. With steps taken in time, they hurried towards the town center, hoping to arrive before dawn. She slowed as they turned the corner and saw the lights through the thickening fog. It wouldn’t be long now.
Muffled voices came from the alleyways as they moved closer to the cars. Lights became brighter but those standing in the darkness did not move. She could hear the tires roll across the wet pavement as the fog turned to rain.
With a firm hand he guided her towards the door of the black limousine. With no sound, the back door swung open. Without a glance, she ducked in and quickly pulled the door closed. He stood and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, when he remembered it had been years since he’d smoked. She had always had that effect on him.
©2007
the birdcage
Francis was 96 years old when he fell in his house. They placed him in a convalescent hospital, which he named “The Birdcage.” Staff said he had to gain back his strength, and once he did, they still didn’t want him to leave. But Francis had his champions and those neighborhood women fought to bring Francis home. He’d often joke about how he’d “flown the coop” and how he was never going back.
Caring for the elderly can be a fulltime job, but Francis was fiercely independent. Neighbors joined together and delivered his meal each evening. As his eyesight dimmed and he could no longer read the newspaper, he’d listen to the radio. Occasionally he’d turn on his TV, which provided a snowy screen, but to someone with limited eyesight, he thought his rabbit ears were working just fine.
Francis was married for 56 years the first time. He never dreamed he’d find love again, but at 97 years old, Francis fell in love. Each day, he’d make his way to the laundry room and there his arthritic hands would slowly iron his shirt and trousers. Nobody can remember a time when Francis wasn’t perfectly dressed – ever.
Francis died this week at 98 years old. Quick in mind and generous of spirit, he was the quintessential gentleman. As we stood at his grave, I could not help but smile as I thought to myself, he’s really flown the coop this time.
©2007
Caring for the elderly can be a fulltime job, but Francis was fiercely independent. Neighbors joined together and delivered his meal each evening. As his eyesight dimmed and he could no longer read the newspaper, he’d listen to the radio. Occasionally he’d turn on his TV, which provided a snowy screen, but to someone with limited eyesight, he thought his rabbit ears were working just fine.
Francis was married for 56 years the first time. He never dreamed he’d find love again, but at 97 years old, Francis fell in love. Each day, he’d make his way to the laundry room and there his arthritic hands would slowly iron his shirt and trousers. Nobody can remember a time when Francis wasn’t perfectly dressed – ever.
Francis died this week at 98 years old. Quick in mind and generous of spirit, he was the quintessential gentleman. As we stood at his grave, I could not help but smile as I thought to myself, he’s really flown the coop this time.
©2007
a new discussion
He cried the first time he read his story out loud. She said it was because he was "sensitive”. I'm not sure that's true. Death is a topic that brings many to tears and most Americans are busy practicing "active denial". Though all of us are headed there, the journey is the only thing people want to talk about. Bring up death at your next dinner party – or over your next beer – and see what I mean. You'll be branded depressed, moody, and dark. Your next invitation will take awhile.
Death is the unspoken surprise we are all waiting for. Maybe each of us believes that by not talking about it, our most certain destiny will be altered. The superstitious refuse to say the word out loud. They fear that "death" will hear its name and suddenly appear. Close calls, accidents, and family deaths are all reminders of our own mortality – and of all those we love.
The fear of death robs us all. By not integrating this experience into our being, we rob ourselves and each other, of an awareness that will encourage lives well lived. By making the word and the discussion part of our everyday experience, we honor that we are here for a spell and understand that one day we won’t be. Nobody knows what happens next, but knowing that one day it will all be over makes every sunset you see, just that much brighter.
©2007
Death is the unspoken surprise we are all waiting for. Maybe each of us believes that by not talking about it, our most certain destiny will be altered. The superstitious refuse to say the word out loud. They fear that "death" will hear its name and suddenly appear. Close calls, accidents, and family deaths are all reminders of our own mortality – and of all those we love.
The fear of death robs us all. By not integrating this experience into our being, we rob ourselves and each other, of an awareness that will encourage lives well lived. By making the word and the discussion part of our everyday experience, we honor that we are here for a spell and understand that one day we won’t be. Nobody knows what happens next, but knowing that one day it will all be over makes every sunset you see, just that much brighter.
©2007
the cube
I’ve always been interested in how people think, and I sometimes daydream about having dinner with interesting characters. What do they feel was their greatest achievement? How did their families change them? Who had they loved? Though I have many possibilities, my first guest would be the designer of the infamous gray corporate cube.
If you have escaped the talons of corporate America, bravo. If you live 60+ hours a week in a gray cube, then you know that of which I speak. You arrive at work refreshed, enter the building, turn into your aisle and immediately join the drones in the “gray zone.” Gray is the standard – and dull is the workforce. Inspiration leaves in a flood. What the hell was that designer thinking?
People need a rich environment for inspiration and creativity. High-level executives do not hold strategic sessions in cafeterias in Detroit. They hold them in Aspen or Santa Fe. Executives clearly recognize their creative thinking is inspired by environment. They just don’t believe in the cost of inspiring their workforce.
I say revolt. Choose a Friday, stack ‘em up in the parking lot and burn baby, burn. On Monday, put your laptop on an apple crate, decorate your imaginary 6 x 6 foot space with your goldfish and make it your own. Nod at your co-conspirators. Remember why the hell you were hired in the first place and then write the best piece you have ever written.
©2007
If you have escaped the talons of corporate America, bravo. If you live 60+ hours a week in a gray cube, then you know that of which I speak. You arrive at work refreshed, enter the building, turn into your aisle and immediately join the drones in the “gray zone.” Gray is the standard – and dull is the workforce. Inspiration leaves in a flood. What the hell was that designer thinking?
People need a rich environment for inspiration and creativity. High-level executives do not hold strategic sessions in cafeterias in Detroit. They hold them in Aspen or Santa Fe. Executives clearly recognize their creative thinking is inspired by environment. They just don’t believe in the cost of inspiring their workforce.
I say revolt. Choose a Friday, stack ‘em up in the parking lot and burn baby, burn. On Monday, put your laptop on an apple crate, decorate your imaginary 6 x 6 foot space with your goldfish and make it your own. Nod at your co-conspirators. Remember why the hell you were hired in the first place and then write the best piece you have ever written.
©2007
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