"I like you; your eyes are full of language." - Anne Sexton
Friday, May 10, 2013
Thursday, May 9, 2013
i went for a walk at night, the way i do when i am clinging to the sweet breezy coolness of spring that lasts only a total of 10 days a year in houston. the sounds of joplin's The Entertainer wafted from one of the houses. the stars were visible, can you believe it?
i thought about the part of my adolescence that was spent playing beethoven, chopin. practicing it over and over. abhoring the practicing and monotony, plotting the best way to murder the metronome and get rid of any evidence. i remember the years later, when it dawned on me that i missed the beauty of it. of making the music. it ran right next to me, passed me by, and i never stopped to listen.
i continue to believe that the universe gives us exactly what we need. today, the first thing in my inbox from someone who thought i would like it, but little did they know that i needed it: this is water. "you get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. THAT, is real freedom."
i thought about the part of my adolescence that was spent playing beethoven, chopin. practicing it over and over. abhoring the practicing and monotony, plotting the best way to murder the metronome and get rid of any evidence. i remember the years later, when it dawned on me that i missed the beauty of it. of making the music. it ran right next to me, passed me by, and i never stopped to listen.
i continue to believe that the universe gives us exactly what we need. today, the first thing in my inbox from someone who thought i would like it, but little did they know that i needed it: this is water. "you get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. THAT, is real freedom."
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Nora was linked by Dooce, and so I found this story:
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.”
“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning. ”
― Louis L'Amour
i can't write fast enough to keep up with the things that i would like to put in words.
it's the endings that make us wake up.
as we walked across rivers and scrambled across tree trunks, M and C were talking about blogging. C said she didn't feel like she is a good writer, and that sometimes she doesn't feel like she can keep up with a blog. "I think a lot, and perhaps no one would ever understand or want to hear all I have to say." but in the end I believe that everyone can use writing for their own purpose. isn't that what writing is about? we create something in solitude for ourselves, and then cast it out in the world with the small hope that it will help someone; make someone else feel less alone; bring people together.
-
- a few weeks ago, i took my first spin class. i walked in, the room was dark and the music was throbbing, like a headache or a heartbeat, depending on the way you listened to it. a guy next to me who was decked out in biking gear helped me to adjust my bike. i was nervous. within 9 minutes i wanted to quit. i stared at the red seconds ticking away on the big digital clock and i wanted to walk out and throw up. the instructor was screaming at me to get my ass down closer to the seat and get off my handlebars. i was panting. i didn't even know what it was supposed to feel like, how do i "get off my handlebars?" it was foreign to me. i clung to the movement in everyone else's legs. i clung to the music, i clung to the feeling of being unable to keep up but trying to. i clung to every minute, and i told myself that i needed to stay the whole hour. i confronted the fact that i run away when things get tough. i confronted the fact that i've had the luxury of running away from things when they get tough. and then i made it, through the runs, through the hills, through the loaded weight, all of it. the guy next to me smiled and said that she is the hardest instructor in all of Houston, and that if it was my first class, i should feel proud to have gotten through it. i left the dark room feeling lighter, like i had dueled with something deeper than the physical exhaustion.
- on the yoga mat, R. talks about letting go of expectations. of smiling, of becoming more childlike. of not being afraid to try new things, to laugh, to dance a little. M reminds me to push myself. i stay comfortable. as I stood in warrior poses, I realized that i cling to the familiar kind of pain. what would it be like to push beyond, and reach a different place? not only in my poses on the mat, but in my heart?
-
and isn't it the way we think about things that matter? isn't it the way we command our thoughts that makes us weak or gives us strength?
“- This wife you have...
- Had. She's dead.
- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up
an unhappy memory.
- I can't remember anything unhappy
about [her]. ”
― Louis L'Amour
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Today, a struggle to occupy the space with something that is not you. It's like the chasm that is empty immediately behind a dam, but I can feel the walls quaking trying to hold onto that emptiness. The walls can't hold forever. Will you flood me again? Will you be the deluge? Sometimes I feel compelled to ask you to be.
Today, a first look at music from Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby via NPR.
Today, waking up from dreams. Vivid dreams make for cloudy realities.
Today, fighting something greater than me. Or fighting alongside it. One of the two. These days, it's been difficult to distinguish.
Today, a first look at music from Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby via NPR.
Today, waking up from dreams. Vivid dreams make for cloudy realities.
Today, fighting something greater than me. Or fighting alongside it. One of the two. These days, it's been difficult to distinguish.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Wall Piece with 200 letters, by Mikko Kuorinki.
"Find a place you trust
try trusting it for awhile"
"Do animals
have less fear
because they
live without
words"
"We must travel
in the direction
of our fear"
"Find a place you trust
try trusting it for awhile"
"Do animals
have less fear
because they
live without
words"
"We must travel
in the direction
of our fear"
Thursday, April 25, 2013
You don’t walk away from a church when there is no other church to go to. But the only way to see if there are demons lurking outside the circle is to crawl over the boundary that protects you. This was the real start of a revelatory life. I can’t take credit for any of the revelations, but a hidden force inside me was invisibly preparing the way.
Bottom line - follow your bliss.
- Deepak Chopra (via)
explosions in the sky filling
the room with the
black marshmallow ceiling
the start of class with, "become more childlike,"
mat is the safe place, and
maybe i am the only one who sits in the dark at the end
holding back the tears
watching the silhouettes of everyone breathing
but
r. saying that
we must believe there is a plan,
that we are exactly where we need to be,
that we should be nowhere else,
that when we believe
that everything is finished
that will be
the beginning.
and all i can think of
is the song title,
"your hand in mine."
the room with the
black marshmallow ceiling
the start of class with, "become more childlike,"
mat is the safe place, and
maybe i am the only one who sits in the dark at the end
holding back the tears
watching the silhouettes of everyone breathing
but
r. saying that
we must believe there is a plan,
that we are exactly where we need to be,
that we should be nowhere else,
that when we believe
that everything is finished
that will be
the beginning.
and all i can think of
is the song title,
"your hand in mine."
“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”
— David Foster Wallace’s The Pale King
"I think it’s so fascinating how human nature (objectively depending on what culture we’re speaking of) has names for everything we have. this is a desk. this is my femur. my tibia. my foramen magnum. this is a mug. we can’t see anything without naming it or else we ignore it because it is too much just to see the essence of something without categorizing it into something that we can just barely understand"
- via commovente
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