And you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, either . . .

Speaking as someone who has never been the mayor of a town of 6,000, and thus has never had the crushing weight of responsibility of telling the town librarian she would be fired unless she did as she was told and pulled the books I personally didn’t like off the shelves, I know that anyone who reads this will take my words with a wee bit of salt–but I am just a teensy weensy bit worried about John McCain’s judgment.  I differ with him on a lot of issues, but I always respected the man, and respected him deeply.  I listened to his speech the other night and thought, the world and the nation would be in better shape if he, and not George W. and his pals, had been in charge these last eight years. 

 But Palin is ridiculous. 

Her speech was ok– lots of high school valedictorians are on to the little trick of echoing the book of Ecclesiastes (a time for this, a time for that.)  So I would rate her right up there with a pretty good high school graduate.  Yes, that is better than George Bush, but that doesn’t mean much, now does it? And she delivered the speech quite nicely– there’s your beauty pageant training.  Because she did not learn her speech and debate skills in philosophy classes–that much is clear. 

She is a liar– she keeps repeating the same line about telling Congress “no thanks” to that bridge to Terabithia, in the face of all the facts that she supported the project until Congress cut off the funding.  Pretty brazen.  Why does she keep saying she cut taxes in Alaska when they don’t even pay state income tax up there?  She’s a liar.  That’s why.  But repeating brazen lies over and over again is a tried and true trick, as proved by Adolph Hitler, himself.  Repeat a lie often enough, and people will believe it is the truth.  She claims she has foreign policy experience because she lives so close to Russia– but geeze, we have more Russians, Ukrainians, Moldovans and Lithuanians on the N-Judah bus line any given day in San Francisco than she has never encountered.  If proximity to a foreign border gives you foreign policy experience, I think most of San Diego county is better qualified than she is. 

How many black folks live in Alaska?  Does she have any plans to go into black neighborhoods and talk to the people who live there?  She hasn’t so far– she only goes to places where white folks holding tupperware jello molds chant “Sara! Sara!”  She was on fire to get her ex brother in law fired because he shot an extra moose during hunting season, using his wife’s permit–but is that really a good reason to fire the guy?  Is that the worst problem they have in Alaska?  What about armed robberies in the neighborhood? 

We have this lady from the middle of nowhere, lying her head off, kissing every evangelical rear in the country, and that’s who they want to put in the number 2 position in our government?  In our beautiful, crazy, freedom- loving,complicated country?  Did my father join the Marines and fight in a foreign war so some small-minded lady in sticky-looking lip gloss and heels can run giddy, mean and rough-shod over librarians?

Today is the seventh anniversary of the terrorist attacks on our people.  Those people died because we believe in freedom of speech and religion in this country–that is the essential reason why they were targeted.  Does Palin really understand what those freedoms mean?  Or does she think freedom means you have a right to be her religion, and nothing else? 

I started off saying I had always respected John McCain– but I have to tell you, I have lost most of it with this “lipstick” soap opera the last few days.  That’s gutter politics they’re practicing.  I guess they broke down and hired Karl Rove– who else would come up with the psycho idea of calling  Obama –Obama of all people!–a sexist? For crying out loud.  No, Senator McCain, you can’t put lipstick on a pig.  And your economic “plan” is the pig we are talking about.  And you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear either. 

You work that one out.

Three Cups of Tea

I love feeling optimistic.  One big problem with my political reading over the last year is that I find very little to promote a feeling of optimism.  We are in the middle of a huge mess.  The people who seem to have the best handle on what is going on in the world don’t seem to see any way out of this handbasket which is carrying us straight to hell.  So I was delighted to read Three Cups of Tea, the story of Greg Mortenson and the East Asia Institute.  Here is a synopsis of the book culled from the book review on the website of the Hindu, and Indian newspaper–this book reviewer captured my feelings about the book perfectly:

 ”This is a crisply written account of the mission of an American mountaineer, Greg Mortenson, who has set himself the task of building schools in very poor villages in the Karakoram Ranges in North Western Pakistan and neighbouring Afghanistan. Starting in 1993, he carries on, 9/11 notwithstanding, school after school; at last count, the number was over 50.  How does a society so alienated from the Muslim world throw up such a person? The son of missionaries in Tanzania, this man, who enters so effortlessly the world of ordinary poor people in those remote regions and, through relationships of affection and trust makes nonsense of the civilizations clash argument, sets an example of human kindness and concern as might make the angels weep for the rest of us. Hearts and minds? Here is how they are won. Mortenson lost his way in 1993 trying to get to the summit of K2, and wandered into the village of Korphe, near Skardu, in Baltistan, in what used to be called the North Western Frontier Province. The warm welcome he receives from the village headman is in sharp contrast with the bitter cold of the elements that lash the children who sit outdoors writing their letters in the mud. He returns to America, and, having no funds of his own, makes desperate efforts to raise money, living in his battered car. The story that follows is one that tells of the money that came in from an industrialist who was once himself a climber; of the struggle to buy the building materials and get them transported to the mountain heights across perilous unfortified roads past Wazir tribesmen wielding AK47s, only to find when he reaches the place that the school cannot be built before a bridge is constructed across the icy Braldu river. He starts all over again. Finally, the school is built; the children learn. Then more villages, more schools. The attacks of 9/11 complicate both his fundraising efforts in America (where he begins to receive hate mail), as well as his safety in the regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan (where he continues his work as if nothing has happened). Tea diplomacy The narrative shuttles between San Francisco and the North West Frontier Provinces as Mortenson crosses and re-crosses continents, gets married, has children, is kidnapped by Taliban militants, set free, cheated by some, and loved by all those for whom he works. When at the end of the book, Jahan, first seen as a little girl and now an attractive young woman, has the courage to face a meeting full of men and declare her determination to learn health management so as to train other women, the measure of his success is clear. Two points may be made about this book. The first is that it is well written with an eye for the telling detail and dazzling image, and an ear for rhythm and sound. David Oliver Relin, the co-author, was formerly teacher at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and it shows.  

The second point is this: how simple it is to enter the life of another people and be at one with them, and yet how impossible it seems unless one does it. Haji Ali, the “nurmadhar” (headman, elder) of Korphe village, tells him that he needs to sit down and drink three cups of tea with them, learn about them, be one of them, and then proceed. These are words that American policy-makers (and all over the world) would do well to follow. But, alas, the good we see and do not.

You can order the book, read reviews and link to the Central Asia Institute through this website–http://www.threecupsoftea.com/.  The book has been out for a while.  For me, it was so reassuring to be reminded that common sense and common decency cross all religious and political boundaries.  I have no idea what Mortenson’s politics are, and I don’t care.  His book makes little mention of his personal religious beliefs.  He has a clear and simple vision.  He has made his share of mistakes, which are detailed in this book, along with the account of how he learned from his mistakes and kept going.   Read it, especially if the season, with all the presidential candidates spouting greeting card philosophy and schoolboy taunts, and the general shambles of our country’s foreign and domestic policies are getting you down.  There is still common sense and common decency to be found.  And light at the end of the tunnel.

Memories

I think one of the reasons this time of year can seem so heavy and difficult is that the days carry a burden of memories, more so than most other days, for most of us.  The wheel of life keeps turning.  If the weight of memories of Christmas past is crushing you, do what Scrooge did.  Break your chains, let go of old patterns, and try to create a day of beautiful memories for the future.  Give it your best shot.  Surprise a homeless person with a hot meal from the nearest fast food restaurant.  Rescue a lost animal.  Donate to Heifer International.  Perform a hit and run kindness.  Create a memory to smile back on, and lighten your load.  Love and peace,

Marymom

The Solstice Approaches

Time– it passes.  I last posted on my little blog when it was summer, baseball season in full swing.  Now, it is winter, the trees finally shedding their leaves here in Oakland, and a few stars are out tonight between the clouds.  The solstice approaches.  Orion is swaggering across the sky, with his jewelled belt and sword, and Mars is shining low on the horizon.  Our family finished the Festival of Lights this past week, marking each night with candles, blessings, songs and presents for the children.  I sneakily shopped for books, toys– I bought exactly what they wanted.  Ironically, the presents they liked best were the ones I saved for the last night, the ones I bought on impulse, with no request at all– two Harry Potter style wands, which light up; one red, one blue, which make the  most elegant swish sound when you flick.  I guess this teaches me that having a wish granted brings joy– but to be surprised with something completely unexpected– now that’s amore’! 

Last year, I had ambitious plans for this blog– to post an East Bay craft festival guide, local recommendations, and so on.  I am so sorry to disappoint my adoring public!  It’s too late to steer you to Auburn or Sonora, for the ohmygosh delightful Fire on the Mountain Festivals.  But for the last minute, local recommendations, here goes :

Last minute Christmas shopping:  Go straight to Potpourri– the craft store which saves you the trouble of going to festivals.  It is located to the right of the Safeway, at Lincoln shopping plaza, off Highway 13, Redwood exit, Oakland.  You don’t have to go anywhere else, they have everything.  Beautiful ceramics, the most delicate colors and interesting shapes– anyone who drinks coffee or tea can use a handmade mug.  Know anyone with a kitchen, or kids?  Then they need a butter bell, to keep butter soft for morning toast, or a tray, with a hand-painted dove of peace.  Beautiful mirrors and elegant scarves for the fashion conscious.  Chimes and sand timer glasses, for those who just need a moment to calm down.  Well, that covers everyone I know.  After you shop at Potpourri, you can relax and read your book at the little cafe in the shopping center– it is comfy and you wonder how the heck it survives there, but it does.  You can even take home inexpensive Chinese food, from the restaurant next door–so you don’t have to cook after you have exhausted yourself at Potpourri.  If you feel extra crafty, buy epsom salts at Long’s–scent them with perfume essences and put them in a glass or ceramic vase from Potpourri–to give along with a beautiful bar of soap and an exquisite votive candle.

Grand Lake Farmer’s Market:  Go there.  Shop for crafts– it is the only venue for a genuine, customized magic potion for children I have ever encountered. The potion is so lovely- the potion lady will coach your child to hold the bottle to his heart, whisper a wish, and add the fragrance, essences and sparkles which seem most delightful. Then you have a potion guaranteed to banish bad dreams and bring on deep sleep, and the very best of dreams.  This market also offers lavender, and blueberries, all kinds of apples, pears, tangerines, nuts, honey, honey sticks, fruits and vegetables.  There is usually a lovely and kind basket vendor.  Everyone loves  fresh fruit and veggies and nuts.  There.  Your shopping is done.  Load it all into your car, and head to the Grand Lake Theatre for the matinee, then grab a veggie burger at the world’s sweetest little place, the Cafe Mimosa.  The veggie burgers are like nothing you have ever eaten by the name.

 Books– Oh my G-d.  You are in luck.  The very best bookstores are right here in Oakland.  On Grand, go to Walden Pond.  Politically, they are leaning so far to the left, they are about to fall over, but that’s ok– the world is round.  On Piedmont Ave- run, don’t walk, to Spectator Books, next to La Myxx Tea bar.  Spectator has such a lovely selection of remainders and gently handled used books.  They also have an incredible selection of videos and books on tape or cd for your family trips.  We have listened to The Hobbit, and are working our way through Lord of the Rings on cassette.  I replaced our ill-advisedly loaned out copy of Old Yeller, and bought Jumanji– the videotapes run about 5 bucks.  The audio tapes are cheap for what you are getting.  Load yourself up, then have a relaxing chai latte at LaMyxx before you head down the street.  You can take the whole family for an outdoor hot tub in the afternoon.  It is so much fun to get naked and really, really warm at Piedmont Hot Tubs.  It is super clean there, and quiet.  You have to try to stifle the giggles and fun of being naked outside.  It gets really hysterical when there is a low flying helicopter.  You get really clean, and drink free herb tea.  Then, you can walk a few doors down and shop for something used but nice at Dress for Less– although they have sort of ruined it in my view–taking the last, best thrift store and re-making it into an “upscale boutique” (attention board members– used clothing from Target is not “upscale”, and Moms, your primary customer base, want the childrens’ toys and clothing to not disappear.)

If you are a Kaiser member, don’t forget the little health conscious store in the tunnel between Piedmont and Howe– there you can buy sweet- scented, microwaveble heating pads, yoga balls, cookbooks, relaxation cds, books for your favorite child approaching puberty– they will pretend to be embarassed, then lock themselves in the bathroom to study that book for the next three hours. 

OK.  Those are my hints.  Give simply.  Buy locally.  Be good to yourself.  May the light shine over you and in your heart, and guide you through this, the darkest time of the year. 

Summer already???

How did that happen?  First, there were the early spring blossoms, now there are the hard little green fruits which will be scrumptious oh, around July for the plums, August for the apples.  It is now officially early June. I heard a baseball announcer proclaim it was an “oh my G-D” beautiful day here in Oakland”, and he was right. It is so beautiful here.

But, not everyone is going to be enjoying the beautiful, multicultural pageant which is Oakland.  Some yahoos are already out there, pulling robberies on Lakeshore, one of the most jewel-like neighborhoods of the state– a little taste of world peace in our back yard– a place where we drink coffee or tea, enjoy meeting and talking to each other, shop for food, clothes, art jewelry, and a few extras.  A place where you don’t have to look like Brad and Angie, and you can smile and talk and be human and real.  Try that in San Francisco– smile and talk to a stranger over there, and like as not the stranger will tuck in his or her chin and cross the street (unless you got your Guccis on).  Yes, except for this little crop of thugs, out thugging, Lakeshore is a slice of heaven.  What can we do?  Here is what I will do.  Keep loving Lakeshore.  Keep my eyes open.  Enjoy life, which is beautiful.   

Monday and forgiveness

Reading the Sunflower, a collection of essays on the concept of forgiveness, subttitled “On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness”.  The context of the book is Simon Wiesenthal’s story of his encounter with an SS officer, while Wiesenthal was still a prisoner.  The SS officer was dying , and had asked to speak with a Jew so that he could confess his crimes– which included setting a building on fire, and watching the building’s occupants– a mother, father, and children –jump to their deaths to escape the flames.  The SS officer wnated to confess to a Jew– any Jew—- and request forgiveness.   Wiesenthal remained silent, but later, after the war, he visited the officer’s mother in Germany.  She, a widow who had lost her only son, spoke of the good child her boy had been, and how it had broken his father’s heart to see him go first into Hitler Youth, then the SS.  Wiesenthal only told her that her son had asked him to bring her greetings.  He did not tell her about the circumstances, and did not tell her what her son had confessed, as he did not want to add to her suffering.  In his book, Wiesenthal has posed the question of whether he should have forgiven the SS officer, and he has gathered a wide range of answers from people like Desmond Tutu, the Dalai Lama, and other politically and socially well known persons.

 Forgiveness is one of my personal philisophical bugaboos– in practice, I have been to both extremes.  I have held certain grudges for.  I have tried too hard to forgive someone who had actively and enthusiastically backstabbed me and caused real emotional and economic harm. 

 I recently had a bit of a dialogue with a friend on the subject of forgiveness.  We were discussing someone who had committed an enormous wrong– but the wrong- doer seemed not only blithely unaware of having done wrong, but had gone further, and blamed his own ugly actions on the person he had most wounded.  My friend told me there was a concept called “radical forgiveness.”    I was taken aback.  What is the purpose of “radically forgiving” someone who was not even willing to admit what he was doing was wrong? The easy answer is, well so, you yourself, the forgiver,  may experience the healing power of forgiveness.

But I don’t think forgiveness is necessarily an end in itself.  Healing the world is the object of my religious, spiritual path.  But healing doesn’t necessarily mean deconstructing experience, or understanding.  Personally, and I struggle with this, I think forgiveness is over-rated and misplaced.  What we need is to let go of recriminations and retributitons.  One of the most powerful things we can do is not to say “I forgive you”, but to say “Let’s start over, from here.”  Can you imagine what the Middle East would be like if today, right now, people of good faith came together at a negotiating table , and said, “Let’s find a way to live together in peace? ”  No more suicide bombings, no more air raids.  Just set the ground rules for tomorrow and the day after.  I am convinced it can be done– Throughout history, enemies have been able to put aside their differences, and live in peace. International relations are not much more complicated than family relations, and can be managed the same way. 

But does that mean all is forgiven?  I don’t think so.  

I once extended normal, human sympathy to a woman who suffered a terrible loss.  She had made a difficult, but absolutley ethical and moral decision, and was suffering deeply.  I told her I had learned what she had done, that I knew she was suffering, and that I knew she had made the best choice available, and that her action was the highest, most loving course she could have taken under the circumstances handed to her.  She looked at me, and said nothing.  This was pretty much what I expected– this woman hated me, and I knew it.  In fact, she had invented extremely creative ways of expressing her hatred for me– she had mocked my physical looks, my manners of speech, and my pathetic lack of athletic ability.  I didn’t forgive her for any of this stuff when I decided to speak words of sympathy to her in her grief.   I just didn’t let it stop me.  A few months later, she approached me, and told me she couldn’t believe what I had done, how I could have chosen to comfort her in when she was in such agony.  She began to detail all the awful things she had said and done over the many years of our acquaintance, and to explain why she had come to despise me so deeply.  I stopped her. 

 ”Look”, I said.  “Let’s just call that water under the bridge.  I don’t need to understand.  We can just go on from here. ”  And we did.   We did not go on to become great friends.  But we were civil, and coexisted quite nicely without all the drama.  It simply wasn’t necessary to  go back, and re-visit every time she felt I had looked at her the wrong way, or parked in her spot, or whatever I had done to prompt her abusive behavior.  I was just relieved that it stopped.  I never said to her “I forgive you.”    The words were unnecessary.   

But, back to Sunflower.  In the book, Wiesenthal poses the question of whether he should have granted the dying SS man the absolution which he begged.  There’s no easy answer.  (Unless you are an idiot.  It’s easy to say– oh yes you should have done this or that.  But if you really reflect on this situation, no one reply is right or wrong.) 

But Wiesenthal went beyond the concept of forgiveness when he showed such sensitiivity and compassion to the SS man’s mother.  She was able to go to her grave, never knowing that her son, her little boy, whom she had raised, taken to Church, and lovingly nurtured, had destroyed another woman’s family with such unspeakable cruelty.  Wiesenthal didn’t have to forgive anyone– when presented with opportunity to do harm, he comforted. 

This is the key to peace– we do not need to turn our hands from the work of justice, but we need to make the choice to live in peace.  We are not innocent beings, we people.  We have the knowledge of good and evil, and every day, we choose.  Over and over again.  Like the rain drops, beating down. 

My writing space . . .

Early Spring

It’s definitely spring time.  Birds are exploring the fruit trees around my yard for likely-looking nesting branches.  The rains came again last night–but it’s no longer freezing.  The plants which suffered a little frostbite are coming back nicley, and the ornamental plums are covered in pink flowers.  The fruiting plum’s white blossoms opened in this morning’s sun, and the wintered-over chard is yielding up bunches of leaves.  Everything is feeling more alive, including me.

The swirly-looking ball on my mammogram looked like nothing but something normal to the radiologist– I e-mailed my wonderful internist to ask about double-checking, and she e-mailed me back that the radiologists were on top of this and I should not worry.  She said if I wanted, I could come in for a thorough exam– if she detected a lump, we would take it from there.  But this little dose of common sense was enough to shake me out of my cancer paranoia, for now, at least. There is no lump.  I’m sure there is no lump.  It’s all sort of lumpy, but no real lump.  Not really.  So we’ll see. 

I just read Frangipani– a novel by a Tahitian woman, Celestine Vaite. It is a loving, personal, intimate book primarily about the relationship between a mother and daughter, from birth to late teens.  It was just what I needed in a novel for the end of winter/beginning of spring– a woman’s voice.  Kindliness.  Love and warmth, and some good laughs.    Talk of plants, cooking.  I am descended from such a long line of country folks– there is a part of me that needs to be able to sit in my best friend’s kitchen, sipping a hot drink, while we talk and laugh and clean out the refrigerator or make soup or something.  This book was very nourishing and healing for that part of my soul–like a good friend stopping by to hold my hand.  I hope Celestine writes another book, and soon. 

I’m going to try to upload a picture of my little writing space, for the benefit of my dear friend Bloglily, who is also bursting forth, like the spring buds.  Welcome back, girlfriend!  If a picture appears above, you’ll know I cracked the code. 

What does that look like to you?

Yesterday, I honored the reminder calls, letters and calendar notes all prompted by my doctor’s automated reminders, and went for my mammogram.  My husband decided to go with me.  I told him I didn’t really need this, but it seemed as good a way to spend a little time together as anything, sort of reminiscent of all those pre-baby check-ups, and so there we were, flipping through magazines and newspapers in the basement of the Fabiola building, waiting for my turn. 

The x-ray tech was the same one who did my first mammogram last year, and we have a friend in common, so we chatted, while she positioned and compressed my breasts in the odd sandwiching device.  Then she brought in the films.

She put them up, same as last time, and started talking amiably about fibrocystic tissue (cloudy) vs. fatty tissue (not so cloudy) but I couldn’t listen.  There, in the picture of my left breast, was very clearly a little ball of white– about the size of one of those superballs the kids get in the vending machines for a quarter.  I interrupted her–”Look!  There’s something!”  She smiled and said,”Don’t interrupt!  I’ll get there in a minute.”  Then she explained how the radiologist would look at the x-rays, decide whether to call me in for more, yadayadayada– I couldn’t really focus on what she was saying.

The little white ball looked sort of swirly, like a satellite picture of a hurricane.  “What does that look like to you?” I whispered to my husband.  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” he said back.  I think, I’m pretty sure, he just meant to be reassuring.  I’m convinced I’ll get a call today, telling me to come in for another look.  I know the odds are that it is nothing, a cyst if anything. 

 But I know what I don’t want it to be.  But I wonder– am I really so paranoid, such a hypochondriac, that my eyes would so clearly see a ball in my mammogram that others don’t see?  I keep thinking about a family we’re fairly close to– the mom was so healthy and strong.  She was helping with the costumes for the school play last May, when she told me she had the flu, and felt lousy.  But it wasn’t the flu.  And now her family must go on without her. 

Whatever the ball is or isn’t– I want to hold my little ones a little closer today.  I don’t want to go to work, but I’m going. I’m going to try not to jump out of my skin every time the phone rings.  I’m going to smile at everyone I see. 

Warming the Hearth

We had our very first fire in our fireplace a few weeks ago.  I have always loved fireplaces, and dreamed of a house where I could build cozy fires, and curl up and gaze at the flames.  My husband, though, grew up in a home with two fireplaces, which were never used, a single time.  He deeply mistrusted the concept of building a fire in the living room, and really didn’t want to use ours.  

When I was little, though, some of the best, most exciting, loving and joyful of family times revolved around Dad building a roaring fire in the huge brick fireplace in our living room.  At least, it seemed huge to me then.  I would sit on the bricks, chin in hand, and ponder why the fire was blue as it emerged from the log, turning to the classic yellow orange fire color.  And of course, the desire to poke. prod and put things in the fire was just about irresistable to the four of us.  One of my brothers even grabbed my Donald Duck bath bubbles bottle, the empty one my Mom had saved to let me play with, and threw it in the fire to see what would happen.  I screamed, as Donald melted, bowed forward in one last, deep, gracious departure, my brother making agonized Donald Duck melting sounds to add to the drama of Donald bowing, then melting, then bursting into vile smelling flame.  This story did not reassure my husband that having fires would actually be good for the family.

But I promised to carefully supervise all fires, and finally called a chimney sweep, who turned out to be someone I knew a long time ago, who won over my husband’s trust.    He swept the chimney, certified it was safe to use, and I bought firewood and laid the fire.  Our children knew exactly what to do–they pulled pillows and blankets up to the hearth, and spent the evening gazing dreamily into the flames, their little cheeks rosy, until they fell asleep.  I know the smoke from a fire is pollution, I know it’s an inefficient way to heat the house, but the pure, primal pleasure of warming your face at the hearth of your home is beyond compare. 

We have made three fires, now– each time, we have repeated the ritual of cuddling in front of the fire, talking softly, falling into deep sleep. As people have done, through the ages.