Eliot and Williams evoke Spring

I'm not a scholar but I admire them. Their ability to relate one thing to something else surpasses stimulus response thinking and weighing that day to day life demands. Scholars think deeply and compare unlike things finding in them the connection, the connectivity between the material and the abstract.

My favorite novel is Middlemarch by George Eliot. Published in 1874 it was Eliot's seventh novel. It impacted literature everywhere. Every year, it is the number one book in England, while two other classics, Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice switch positions for second and third place year after year.

Zadie Smith in her book Changing My Mind writes about Eliot's grand feat in Middlemarch: "What is universal and timeless in literature is need ---we continue to need novelists who seem to know and feel, and who move between these two modes of operation with wondrous fluidity. In Middlemarch love enables knowledge. Love is a kind of knowledge. It's love that enables [Fred] to feel another's pain as if it were his own. For Eliot, in the absence of God, all our moral tests must take place on this earth and have their rewards and punishments here. We are one another's lesson, one another's duty. Middlemarch is a dazzling dramatization of earthly human striving,...satisfaction here, like all the satisfactions Middlemarch offers, is not transcendental, but of the earth. Eliot has replaced metaphysics with human relationships. In doing this she took from ...metaphysics...what she wanted and left what she couldn't use. To make it work, she utilized a cast of saints and princes but also fools and criminals, and every shade of human in between."

If you want a book that intoxicates and nurtures, read Middlemarch....it may take you from now til summer, but that's what spring is for. ...bursting, blossoming, renewing your big project self.

Here's a poem foreshadowing Spring:

This Is Just to Say

by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

& these words evoke newness, too:

"By taking the time each day to check in with ourselves, we begin to rediscover the voice of our instincts, and this is the path to taking charge of our health. By developing daily and seasonal patterns and rhythms based on adding simple drinks, breakfast routines, home food stocks, silence, meditation, and stretching, we can more easily monitor the voice of the body and discover optimal health." Sean Kelly

invitation

invitation |ˌinviˈtā sh ən| noun
a written or verbal request inviting someone to go somewhere or to do something : a wedding invitation.
• the action of inviting someone to go somewhere or to do something : a club with membership by invitation only | an herb garden where guests can go only at the invitation of the chef.
• [in sing. ] a situation or action that tempts someone to do something or makes a particular outcome likely : tactics like those of the colonel would have been an invitation to disaster.
ORIGIN late Middle English : from French, or from Latin invitatio(n-),
from invitare (see invite ).
Thesaurus
invitation noun
1 an invitation to dinner request to attend, call, summons; offer; card, note; informal invite.
2 an open door is an invitation to encouragement, provocation, temptation, lure, magnet, bait, enticement, attraction, allure; informal come-on.
Please consider buying some Granola.

Home again, Heart again

home wherever you go
heart wherever you go

home is where the heart is wherever you go

if you look closely, through what protects the heart, you can see the heart of a person wherever you go

look! the ribs are protecting the heart
look! you can see the heart

new orleans is wonderful
asheville is wonderful
both are home

home is where my heart is everywhere i go

beware the underdog

Who Dat?

I love the Saints. Superbowl winners. Representin' NOLA.

I love who they are as a team, those Saints. Love what they've given to the people of New Orleans. Love how they played last night and who they were while they won. Even enjoyed myself while watching them play.

Geaux Saints!

HA....
underdog |ˈəndərˌdôg; -ˌdäg|
noun
a competitor thought to have little chance of winning a fight or contest.
• a person who has little status in society
• with reference to the beaten dog in a dogfight.
• yesterday's underdog is today's champion long shot, dark horse, weaker one, little guy, David; downtrodden, victim, loser, fall guy.

Underdogs no more. They are now the Top Dogs for a Year. Swell with pride New Orleans, swell.

Who Dat?

New Orleans nicknames include "The Big Easy" & "The City that Care Forgot" ... Amen! Both true.....There's no where I'd rather be sometimes, eatin' a po-boy, a beignet, a king cake; walkin' the Quarter, Audubon Park or the neighborhoods; listenin' to the jazz, the blues, the soul; with my grandmother, an old friend, a familiar stranger.

I watched the game mesmerized and full of energy (hoopin and hollerin'....lettin' myself express the thrill) by the Saints' continued creation of the game. They commanded attention; they played their own game, their own way.....from an on-side kick, to a two point play post-touchdown, to a beautifully smooth interception.

Who Dat?

The Saints played independently of the Colts tactics and plays. They never cowered; they gained confidence play by play, quarter by quarter, point by point. They were sensational!

And if that isn't representing New Orleans I don't know what is.

In fact, I believe their game might well stand as a model for how to win, how to live, how to believe in yourself. Since Katrina that's what New Orleans has done. Since FEMA let my city down, the people of New Orleans have come together playing the game of life. Since the levees broke, nothing's been the same and the years past underdog, over-beaten Saints are no longer who they were. They are now who they are.....Winners.

As ace a player as the Colts' quarterback is, and there's no doubt he's preeminent, and as top-ranking as his team is, the Saints surpassed their game and their professionalism throughout the game.

I say WHO DAT? to that and from now on Beware the Underdog.

Ode to Hera

Dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs. We love them, and they love us. Gods and Goddesses some say, these animals.

Years ago, I found a dog, she found me, and eventually this dog found her way to my Mother who named her Hera. For almost thirteen years, Hera and my Mother have been inseparable. Their independent spirits, their love of life, their generosity and willingness to love has inspired many friends and all our family. Hera's eyes sparkle with life. Her coat of black and white, her neck often tied with a red bandana illuminated a zest for living, eating, sleeping, napping, scratching at the door, running the land at 500 West Beach, chasing vapor trails, barking at thunder, howling with fire engines. . Hera, solid body of a female dog, kept us at her beckoning; we found, and my Mother especially found, there was nothing you wouldn't do for Hera. So we did.

I remember Mom scrambling Hera eggs; fixing hot dogs; bringing home delectable doggy bags for her. Hera stayed with Martha when Mom went out of town. Martha's kennel was several acres for dogs to sniff and dig and play in packs as they do. Martha loved her as well as we did; she often kept Opera playing in the kennel for the dogs.

Hera nursed me back to the living when I was going through tough times years ago. We walked the beach in rhythm, Hera often way in front of me and then turning her head with patience, slowing down for me to catch up. My sister Tina got down on the floor more than anyone else to be near and as close as possible to Hera. Living out of town, the hardest part of going back home for Tina was leaving Hera. Tina on all fours with Hera is a familiar site in my mind's eye. That Tina J loves Hera. She would flirt with and coax Hera to have our pup at the end of her bed.

If you know my Mother, you know Hera, and so many of my Mother's friends, my Grandmother and others have loved and lived through the beauty of Hera.

But today my Mom and Martyn brought Hera to the beach in Pass Christian for her final farewell. The trio walked the beach, touched the waves, felt the horizon, sought the smells of the Gulf, the intricate niches of other beings ever present. This Hera's favorite adventure, the beach, the freedom, all out running and play. This the life she loved. For about a year, despite excellent internal health, great heart and kidney functioning, Hera's physical health deteriorated such that my Mother reached the point of no return, deciding with great Respect for this proud and stoic dog, to release her back into the source from which she came.

Hera, my Mother's heart and body and mind and by way of their relating and love Our family's sweet Hera dog is now laid to rest.

So this writing is for Hera and as Isak Dinesen said of Denys Finchhatten, "We loved her well. She was not ours; she was not mine." Fare thee well, Hoopie.

I share some stories we have shared with each other today.

Mom writes: "My Miss Hera is asleep after yet another romp on the beach at 500 West beach! She is chasing vapor trails and the birds in her own pain-free Paradise. She will be missed by her many friends of many flocks and tribes. Hera was trusting of my judgement until the End and I will so miss her constancy, loyalty and unflagging love. I already miss the love in her eyes that said so much in dog-speak. I know that she loved each of you for your warm affection and understanding and your pats and sweet words of affection. Thank you each one for being a part of Hera's life and specially for sharing Pass Christian with her and us all. Love, Chris

And Mom's sister Cynthia wrote this "Ode to Hera"

The world has been a better place because Hera is in it. Animals have an innate ability to love because they don't have obstacles that block their love like fear or worry as we humans do. They can and do love us unconditionally. They bring us such joy and wonder. They know when we are sick and sit next to us and wait. They are there when we come home from work or play and it's like the first time they ever saw us all over again. They run to us with joy and love in their eyes, and lick us and jump on us. They love us that much even when we think we don't deserve such love they love us anyway and always.

Hera, to me, is the metaphor for paradise because that is where I met her. In Pass Christian, Mississippi I met Hera. She is so beautiful and wise, fun and so loving all at the same time. She barked at the sky and the sea and she swam in the water with me. I got to take her for walks on the lovely gulf coast which was her home. She was born there and she oozed with the spirit of that place, that magical, warm, sunny, home. Christine's home in Pass Christian was my paradise that I came to when my world got too much and I swam, and ate fish and shrimp and floated in the pool in the sun. And, there was Hera with me: a part of my magical experience where the outside world stopped and paradise began. I can see her there by the pool running for the ball that Christine threw and drinking from the water hose. I remember she loved that water and needed it too. She is a part of that gulf coast earth.

Hera made me feel safe there too. She barked at noises and was a great protector. Throughout the years I have loved Hera as she has loved me. She is a guardian angel of mine and many many others. And we all need guardian angels like Hera in our lives to lift us up and comfort us. I know that she will always be with me and love and protect me for that is what guardian angels do.

Thank your God for Hera. She has loved so many. And from her love we will carry on.

With love from your sister,
Cynthia

Here's a favorite image, Tina with Hera

And Beau reminds us to "Hang tough.....Seamus and Binker and Leda and Baby Cakes are all running pardners with Hera now!"

Beautiful Hera



















Now laid to rest, Hera returns to the Earth and the spirit world..........

Self Rule

Rule #6.

Rule #6 is don't take yourself so seriously. That is, according to the authors of The Art of Possibility by the Zanders, a husband and wife 'team', co-authors. Guy gave me this book about two years ago. He gave it to me again (intentionally) this past Christmas, and I'm reading it this time.

Remember levity.



So the book espouses ideas about garnering more and more and more possibilities in life. It's about contributing to ourselves and to each other. It's about successes they have had with students; their successes and the students'. It's about noticing the difference between our calculating self and our central self.
It's an easy read; one you can pick up and put down, flip through and find a nugget to roll around in your heart and mind for a while.

How easy it is to take myself less seriously and not seriously at all! How freeing it is. How useful and how available it is.

Rule #6 is about Letting go, loosening up, laughing at a lack of laughter at ourselves. I'm enjoying the process of not taking myself so seriously. What's so serious anyway?

Sometimes I think poetry is serious, but is it?

Mockingbirds, by Mary Oliver

This morning two mockingbirds
in the green field were spinning
and tossing the white ribbons
of their songs into the air.

I had nothing better to do than listen.
I mean this seriously.

In Greece, a long time ago,
an old couple opened their door
to two strangers who were,
it soon appeared,

not men at all,
but gods.

It is my favorite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing
to give but their willingness
to be attentive--

but for this alone
the gods loved them
and blessed them--
when they rose out
of their mortal bodies,

like a million particles
of water from a fountain,
the light swept into all
the corners of the cottage,

and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--

but still they asked for nothing
but the difficult life
which they had already.

And the gods smiled,
as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.

Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--

whatever it was
I said I would be doing--

I was standing
at the edge of the field--

I was hurrying
through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--

I was leaning out;
I was listening.

Perhaps, it's really not so serious, this life. Perhaps it's all simply beautiful. Like falling snow.



And the Zanders are clear: there are no other rules to remember.
Just Rule #6.

Of nature, on course

I walked into the Ladies locker room at the Y a few days ago and heard a woman crying. A mourning from deep inside her was coming out. The eight or ten women in the locker room were not immune to her crying. Her loss was palpable.

I approached the locker I usually use and saw her on the floor in front of a locker, her stuff sprawled around her like a moat. I knew her to be a yoga instructor. Her head was down just inside her legs---seated indian-style. Another woman was sitting on a bench further down from this crying woman.

She sat as a nest for herself, making a womb of her body. She sat in self-protection. As I reached the locker I would use and took my coat off, a woman approached her, crouched down slowly and hugged her. From this, the crying woman's mourning went deeper, her wail grew in strength. Being touched by a person allowed her sadness more space. She was being heard, being felt, being lived by all of us. This woman's hug strengthened the crying woman's will.

Some women were dressing to leave; some were dressing for working out but I am quite sure we all felt something inside ourselves, identifying with this woman. The loss was hers; but hearing and sensing her, it became ours. For me, now ready to swim, there was nothing to do but feel her pain and then my own.

The winter has been hard for me. I've stayed home a lot this year. I've cried for my loss in relationship. I've cried for the death of a friend's father. I've cried in missing my family, in loving my sister and feeling her fear. I've baked granola, comfort food.

I write and think and think about writing and wonder and listen and watch and email. I tutor and make cards and do the basics of living, making a life, but it's harder than usual this winter.

There is strength in sadness, in giving up, in letting it out. And there is strength in sharing it. I'm quite sure she was heart broken.


Winter breaks nature down for renewal in Spring. I'm convinced we break down, too, being of nature and not immune from any part of nature, think as we might that we aren't. I'm convinced we are always on track, even when we think we aren't. What do you think? Why do we feel such as we do sometimes? How are you feeling?

I'm off to walk, to admire the trees, to see how they do what they do, being such grand models of being, baring it all.