At First They Didn't See the Need

She’s reading a book, cozy in her cocoon. He comes in to the room; she looks up, half an eye still on the fictional world inside those pages.

“Can we play the question game,” he asks.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

They had been reading a book….and in it the author set aside time for the couples to get to know each other, to talk about other things besides work and the usual banter.

Then he gets a look on his face, and she sets her book down. “What is it,” she asks, “I thought we were playing the question game."

“Well, I wanted to talk to you. We’re not getting any younger...when we were in Carmel a few weeks back, I was going to propose to you on the beach.”

They had talked about marriage before and it was all over the map. They didn’t see a need. Then they thought, it’s possible. They already felt married in soul and spirit, in body and mind.

“I’m glad you didn’t she said. I mean, I would have felt self-conscious, put on the spot. Let’s do it, of course! But what changed your mind. Just the other day when we were at the wine bar, talking to that fellow, we agreed there wasn’t a need to be married.”

“I just know. It’s time.”

“Yes, It is time.”

She knew she didn’t want a big to do. She wanted to elope. She wanted to get married right away at City Hall and then let those that needed to know, know. Eventually they could have a celebration, but for now, this was their moment and she was happy that he was able to concede to having it a private ceremony with only his parents as witnesses. She thought it would have been romantic to have perfect strangers stand in because in some way they could feel special to witness a special moment. But, it would still be secret, except for his parents who would be the first to know anyway.

At first, she figured she would wear her normal clothes, but as they began talking, he said he would wear his suit and that he’d like her to wear a dress. She began planning and searching. What date? Let it fall to chance? Pick a date that had some symbolism, some significance?

It was ironic too that just recently she had gotten together with a friend and marriage came up and she said, no, we don’t see the need. It was only a week later that this change of events was upon her.

The first thing they decided to do was to find rings. He had told her that that was part of what held him back on the proposal—he didn’t know what ring she would like. She was happy that he waited. At first she thought they could both have silver bands; later she would learn about the different types of metal and why silver was not used. She saw a band with Celtic knots that she liked for both of them to wear. Then she saw some white-gold bands. She had never been drawn to yellow-gold. She didn’t want diamonds—at first. But at the second jewelry store they went to, she finally decided to look at the rings with diamonds. She didn’t want anything big. She pointed at a slender white-gold band with understated diamonds. He said to her that he was glad she was beginning to look at the diamond rings. He wanted her to have one, and he liked the ones she was looking at. She tried it on; it was perfect.

And so on this day, Monday, December 9, 2013, they sealed their commitment to each other and look forward to their new journey together as husband and wife. 

Mother and Daughter

When I was a young girl, I was, in a way, my mother's doll. I was an extension of herself–an extension of all of her hopes and dreams; it wasn't always easy for many reasons, for the choices she made in life long before I was born and had to live with, for the anger she held inside and acted out on. I think she felt trapped; in many ways, I became the only thing that made her feel free, so all of her time went into me, even if it was haphazard at times.

When I search and search for words...I don't remember heart-to-hearts, except once in the conveyance of a smile from her being at her most uncomfortable hour awaiting her exit from this world. I remember going to her sickbed at my grandmother's home, two houses up. She could no longer care for herself; the pain was worsening, life was escaping her.

I had just shaved my legs for the first time ever. I was 13. The other girls were doing it. I showed my older brother; proud I was. He was 33. He yelled at me as if I had committed a crime, trying to stuff my womanhood back down into a black box. It was too much for him to bear seeing his baby sister grow up too fast.

I ran out of the house and up to my grandmother's house to my mother's side and told her what I had done and explained about my brother's reaction.

All I remember is the loving smile that spread upon her face and made it glow, as she lay in bed, reaching her hand out to bring me closer. This moment seemed to make the pain go away. I had never seen her look as radiant and peaceful as in that hour.

It wasn't until my adult-self had the opportunity to look back. I imagined that she somehow knew her girl would be all right without her mother; that in a way, she was at peace knowing she would not be here to watch her girl blossom into a woman.

That look–the love and tenderness in her eyes–is one of my fondest memories of mother and daughter communicating, not through words, but pure emotion, through the windows of our souls, as she lay on her deathbed.

I cannot be certain of the exact timing, but her cancer did worsen; she had given in to it. I believe she was ready to take leave, to end her pain and suffering.

She had to be taken to the hospital soon after that day. I had seen her in the days after with an unfamiliar and painful look in her eyes, and I don't think she wanted me to see her–but this other peaceful look, it brought balance and far outshines the pain in my memory.

I remember being in my brother's room, watching television late at night while he was talking to someone in the other room. When the phone rang, right as I heard my brother pick it up, I knew. She had died.

I know she continues to smile down upon me; and she was right–that look in her eyes, the way I read it now–she knew her girl would be fine.

My Grandmother's Garden

Driving down the road, I peer over at the progress of the new retail building. A man on his hands and knees tends to the soil, where the grass and flowers will be. He has a garden pick in his hand, that I see as he raises it, before bringing it down to the earth.

I was transported in that instant to my grandmother's garden.

When I visited my uncle this past week–like a child–I asked if I could go outside. I took the dog with me. He went his way; I went mine. I walked over to where my grandmother's garden would have been, nestled in the corner near the fence dividing the neighbor's yard, past the rabbit cage where Sylvester used to live. I took notice of how wild all the trees had grown, how the almond tree and walnut tree had been taken down, along with the clothes line that spun. I remember waiting for the almonds, the soft fuzzy skin that would eventually yield, revealing a beautiful almond, and how I would sit at my grandparent's kitchen table cracking open almonds and walnuts that grew from their trees.

I remembered how much fun I had exploring in this backyard, playing hide and seek and running around like cowboys with my cousin and swinging on the swing set. And I remember the pool table that used to be in another large house-like shed where my grandfather kept his heavy duty carpentry tools and machines; and the pool table that we would play on and how I was told that when I was little–I had my own mini pool stick–I would hop up on the pool table and try to whack my cousin on the head because I seemed to think it was funny. I don't remember this, but I can imagine this curious and mischievous side of me.

When I got older, I'd rummage through the far back shed, looking through my mother's old clothes that my grandfather had stored for her. And I remembered those tall eucalyptus trees that I adored, that had burned down because of some careless kids playing with fire. My grandfather was lucky the fire didn't reach his house. How my heart sank when I arrived on that day to find his home surrounded by fire trucks.

How I love the memory of my grandmother in her garden, tending to the soil, as she tended to all of her children and grandchildren, how she loved us and nourished us and provided sustenance for our bodies and our souls.

And now she nourishes me still, from up above, always with me.

Finger Painting ~ Small gift to my Mother

Yesterday I went to my bookshelves and selected The Nine Muses: A Mythological Path to Creativity by Angeles Arrien. I opened to a random page and landed on Erato: Muse of Love Poetry.

 

I love this quote that she has in the margin of the page to begin this section:

 

Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination

—Voltaire

 

Nature’s canvas is stenciled into my being, and if I could wander the hills everyday for hours and lose myself in Nature and my imagination, I would turn into a bumblebee or a butterfly. But I take every bit I can stuff into my imaginary pockets. The long slender pods that hang from trees that I don’t know the name of; the bees buzzing from flower to flower in search of nectar; the small cracks in the street where small lakes of grass have nestled themselves into the pavement. This isn’t just a regular linear crack. It’s a miniature square patch and it could easily be a pendant for a necklace. When the rains come, I know just where that particular crack is and I will be sure to walk to where it is near the gas station at the intersection. It’s not my usual path any longer, so I’ll have to make a special trip. And last night I heard the honk of the Canadian Geese. I don’t usually hear them at night. It was the most comforting sound, like a church bell that had caused me to take pause, to breathe, to smile, to feel at home.

 

I’ve had a desire to make an “artist’s date”—a paint date—with myself for several months now. I’ve wanted to take the acrylic paints out of their box, buy a new canvas, and paint away. I want to feel the brush in my hands, squeeze the paints out of their tubes, smell them, feel the textures from the brush to the canvas, and watch the colors interact. I want to become the paint.

 

When I was a little girl, I always wanted to play with my finger paints. Mother wouldn’t let me finger paint as often as I would have liked. I understand that it was probably a bother, the process of setting up the paper, watching that I didn’t make a mess and then she would have to help me clean up.

 

The combination of landing on Erato, thinking of painting, and my memory of finger painting as a child, this morning I was pulled to doodle a finger drawing using an App called Doodle Buddy. That’s the photo that you see here.

 

A small gift to my mother, filled with love, sent to her during the month of October, the anniversary month of her death.

At the Stop Sign

At the stop sign she sees an older couple.

The man is on the woman’s left, and with the subdued colors of his clothing, it seems he is the canvas for the woman—his beloved—in her turquoise shirt. She holds his right hand in her left as her right hand rests on her cane with firmness and grace. The woman watching is glad there is no one behind her at this stop sign, and the couple so dearly attentive to each other, aren’t aware they have a witness.

She stays watching the couple for just a few extra moments—a pause to the day.

The couple continues looking, standing on a walkway that overlooks the mountain and the highway. They stay there looking; she, holding onto her cane, her white hair blowing in the breeze. They watch the cars pass by—a finger points to the mountain in the distance, the sun shining brightly on them.

There are still no cars behind on this back road, at this stop sign. She must move on, though, from admiring the love she sees from a distance, in the moment, and into the future.

Yesterday & A Handful of Books

This is a different little bird taken at Jack London Square.

Yesterday I finally took a fresh air walk to the library at just the right time. I was beginning to become frazzled. My destination was the library to pick up several books I had on hold. When I went downstairs I was greeted by a sparrow nibbling on a morsel. I immediately felt calmer. Sparrows have a way of being there when I need a reminder to relax. Sparrows remind me of my grandmother—her spirit is present wherever they are. As I walked by slowly with my bag of books to return on one shoulder, I noticed a young man had given the Sparrow the morsel, and he was watching the sparrow. How sweet, I thought. My whole being grew even more calm and happy.

When I arrived at the library, I was excited to collect the stack of books that were waiting for me. I most likely will not read each from cover to cover, but I will meet their contents as best I can by reading the inside flaps, introductions, examining the table of contents carefully, and flipping to the sections that call to me most. I may even flip randomly and see where I land.

I’m excited about this collection and am going to list the titles here with my small reactions so far:

The Japanese Haiku: Its Essential Nature, History, and Possibilities in English with Selected Examples (1957) by Kenneth Yasuda.

The Bamboo Broom: An Introduction to Japanese Haiku (1934) by Harold Gould Henderson.

I am eager to learn more about the history and cultural aspects of the Haiku. I’m glad that the first author, Kenneth Yasuda, is Japanese. In his introduction he says that many questions are posed to him about the status of the haiku in English by interested Japanese each time he went to Japan and he lists a few:

“Do the English-speaking people understand haiku?”

“Do they write haiku in English?”

“Do the English haiku have form?”

I look forward to reading Yasuda’s exploration of these questions.

What We Eat when We Eat Alone: Stories and 100 Recipes (2009) by Deborah Madison and Patrick McFarlin.

I stumbled upon this one by chance when I was looking through the online library catalog. It piqued my curiosity and made me think about how I approach eating differently when I’m eating alone, but I had never given it much thought until seeing the title of this book. Now that I have the book, it has a fun feel about it with color illustrations throughout. Maybe I’ll find a few recipes that I can double for two.

OK: The Improbable Story of America’s Greatest Word (2011) by Allan Metcalf.

I was looking up another book on my Kindle when I saw this. I clicked the book, eager to find out more. I read the description and checked the library and that’s how it ended up in my hold list. I have tried to stop myself when I use OK in my writing because, frankly, I don’t always feel comfortable with how I am spelling it: Is it OK, O.K., Ok, or Okay? I’ve reverted to all right—probably not much better. But also because I realized that perhaps I was relying and overusing this two-letter word that was starting to look a little odd to me staring back from the page.

I was intrigued to learn in the introduction that these letters, OK, “were born as a lame joke perpetrated by a newspaper editor in 1839.” How interesting. I’m eager to read through this small book of about 200 pages.

Fish! A Remarkable Way to Boost Morale and Improve Results (2000) by Stephen C. Lundin, Ph.D., Harry Paul, and John Christensen.

There was a time when I enjoyed reading business books related to human relations and it was partially because of the work environment I was a part of. I loved the learning aspect of that job. I still like to browse through business books here and there, but not as much as I used to. It has been a long time since I read this small book and I came across it again when we helped my significant other’s cousin move. That’s when I became curious to revisit Seattle’s Pike Place Fish Market and the lessons learned in this book, which are succinctly captured in the book’s inner flap: “A powerful parable that will help you love the work you do—even if you can’t always do work that you love.” Seeing that book re-reminded me of how much I gained when I worked at that job of long ago and how I carried the spirit of it and this book with me. It focused me in on how I try to bring a little fun to my current job, while still working hard. Fish! truly is a gem of a book.

Group practice (2004) by Claudia Puchta and Jonathan Potter. I’m not sure what I was expecting—inspiration, ideas? This wasn’t the book, so it’s going back to the library right away.

Motherless Daughters: The Legacy of Loss (1994) by Hope Edelman.

I learned about this book from Keiko when she left a comment on one of my blog’s and said that I might appreciate this book. Although the book is available as an e-book, I will probably buy a paper copy of the book so that I can underline and make comments in a way that is easier for me to go back to. I am looking forward to reading this book slowly. I’ve always known that there was something unique to my way of looking at the world because of losing my mother early in life, and the book talks about later loss also. But the little bit that I’ve read so far makes me feel that I will gain a new understanding of how I’ve reacted to the loss, feelings that I’ve felt, and offer a new perspective. Thanks to Keiko for the recommendation!

The Use and Abuse of Literature (2011) by Marjorie Garber. I came across this book through my daily book lover’s calendar. A few chapters are especially calling to me, “Use and Abuse,” “What Isn’t Literature,” and “Why Literature is Always Contemporary.”

There are also several books I’m pecking away at on my Kindle. One is by Red Room writer, Kaui Hart Hemmings. Several weeks ago I saw the congratulations to her for the movie The Descendants that is based on her debut novel of the same title. I was excited because it was a Red Room author and thought she must feel very proud and good inside that her debut novel had been made into a movie.

Since then I recognized her name when I noticed that one of the Kindle Daily Deals was her book of short stories called House of Thieves (original copy right 2005, eBook copyright 2011). The first story in the collection is The Minor Wars and this, Kaui Hart Hemmings tells in the beginning of the collection, is the story that was expanded into her first novel, The Descendants.  Often times, I am disappointed with how short stories conclude, but The Minor Wars does not disappoint. I look forward to reading the rest of the collection in House of Thieves and later moving onto her novel before seeing the movie. Her writing is refreshing, her dialogue is to be admired—it has a natural and real quality, and though her writing seems to have a quick beat, she weaves in just the right amount of metaphor and beauty that add pause—not too much, not too little. Her writing is crisp, clean, and lovely. Belated congratulations to Kaui Hart Hemmings!

**

Yesterday…Yesterday is today. Today is yesterday. Today is Today. When I stepped away to take my walk yesterday, I didn’t realize that the winter day would cheer me up as it did. Last week was spring and this week it’s winter. Books—though—such magical creatures full of so much. The mere title of a book sometimes will take me to an imagined world. I like questions. I need to ask myself more questions and answer them.

For the love of nature, walking, breathing—and for the love of books, sharing, writing—it is all love.





Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day was always one of my favorites. As a kid in school, I looked forward to selecting Valentine’s Day cards, not individual cards, but the boxed variety with miniature envelopes and a selection of Valentine messages. I remember in elementary school making the pouches and decorating them with stickers and our art, hearts, lots of hearts and lots of red and pink. These would be our Valentine’s Day school mailboxes for the day.

It’s a little bit last minute, but I’m going to try and get a few Valentine’s Day decorations for the apartment. My significant other and I were going to go out for a special Valentine’s Day dinner, but at the last moment—yesterday—, I suggested we save a little money and have it at home in our cozy apartment. I would cook something—what I didn’t know. “Any requests,” I asked. “All that matters is that I’m here with you,” he said. I kissed him and told him that I feel the same and that I would think of something.

I see hearts wherever I can find them—in leaves, in the clouds, in the cement. I don’t necessarily look hard for them, but I do find them. The photo I posted is a heart I found in February a few weeks ago on one of my walks. I had my camera with me, prepared this time. As soon as I saw the image, I was taken. I knew that I would post it today, Valentine’s Day. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a heart in a tree before. What a treat.

I wanted to prepare something different for dinner than the usual and I saw a soup recipe in Cooking Light that I’m leaning toward. I’m nervous because it will be the first time, but I think I’ll take a chance. It’s Spicy Thai Coconut Chicken Soup. The photo in the magazine looks delicious.

“No flowers or chocolate.” That’s what I told my significant other as he was leaving for work this morning—meaning that I don’t want a Valentine gift—because we have each other and we’ll be cozy at home this time, instead of in a restaurant. Even though I said no flowers, I think I will pick a small bunch of freesia or other fragrant flower to put on the table, if I have time. If I lived near a field of pretty wildflowers, I’d rather pick those for our table.

So in my mind’s eye, I’ve set the table with red placemats and fragrant flowers in the center; a few chocolate kisses spread like rose petals; a tall candle, to dine by candlelight, and a little sugar and spice offered by the soup on this Valentine’s Day.

Cozy, loving simplicity, with a dash of pizzazz: A perfect recipe for an intimate Valentine’s Day celebration.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Morning Relaxation

It was a stiff morning, and though my body is still young-ish, it sometimes creaks. It seemed a good day for Yoga. Slow down. Center yourself. Invite peace. Offer peace.

The same CD always brings an instant calm—more than any of the other meditative CDs. Why is that? Was it the one that I used from the very early stages?

And so I begin with the poses that I’m familiar with and that my body yearns for. It’s a brief session; next time, perhaps longer. As I lay there, transitioning toward the end of my session, body face down, head to the side, fully relaxed, the music washes over me, the plucking of the sitar lulls my body deeper into relaxation, punctuated by the ting, ting, of the chimes, a deep breath exits my mouth. I feel all the muscles loosen—a deep calm permeates the tight muscles of my bodily container. I hear the rain outside through the bedroom window. It snuck in—wheels driving by on wet pavement turns to the swish of waterfalls.

I rise out of this pose slowly, carefully, in small stages. After a few more poses, my body decides that my next to last pose will be the warrior and my mind decides it will be for strength.

The last, how I always end, is to give thanks. Today, I turn to the North, East, South, and West, and bow with my hands in prayer, held close together, like angel wings surrounding a beating heart. I then kiss my palms and blow a kiss of love into our home and out into the universe.

Love Stories

We keep interacting with each other, connecting—The elements and I. As I drove down the open road, lined with colorful, rustic homes, plentiful with trees and flowers, I felt that same goose bump feeling I felt the other day. I could feel the sun on my bare arm hanging out the window, while I handled the steering wheel with my right. I could feel the little hairs on my arms, not quite at a goose bump, but right before, a tingling sensation, as the sun warmed me.

I was on my way to the library to check out a few books. I arrived a few moments before they opened and noticed a book sale was going on. I usually get excited when I see library book sales, but not this time. I walked in to a crowd of people swarming, with their bags in hand, stuffing books inside, filling to the brim for only $5. I quickly peeked and saw familiar titles, but after unloading lots of books of my own these past, months, weeks—I am trying to utilize the library and my Kindle more, rather than going hog wild whenever I see cheap books. I know now that if I do that, they will only collect dust and I’m tired of collecting dust. I love library books anyway and I especially enjoy a trip to the independent bookstore or perusing the back issues of Bookmarks magazine from the library. The current issue is usually checked out.

I miss the way the old temporary library was set up while they were building the new one. It seemed that there was a more personal touch. I miss the books that they would pull out and display. It seemed that someone put great care into selecting those books, books they felt worthy of someone bumping into and reading. I found a few books that were just right for me that way.

One book I did find in the “New” section of the library last week was Love in Mid Air by Kim Wright. Another debut novel. I was intrigued with how the story would unfold. It’s about a married woman who is on a flight back home and she meets a married man on this flight. She wasn’t supposed to be in the seat next to him, and he wasn’t even supposed to be on this flight. Neither of them is exactly happy with their marriage. You can imagine what could happen, what does happen. I appreciated the insights the author brought to the story about marriage and friendship. She adds fine details that made it feel real. But some of those details, I can see not settling well with some readers. I didn’t mind. I gobbled the novel up and finished it quick—I was so curious about whether she could save her marriage and how. I don’t usually read these types of books, but the suspense of it and the reality of it was enough. What I mean by I don’t usually read these types of books is that I usually shy away from ‘love stories,’ but perhaps it’s because I feel in a more open and balanced place that I am able to dive in; perhaps because I have opened my heart and jumped long and wide into this great chasm—this great ocean of mystery and feeling and...

Eugene O'Neill: Tao House ~ Reflection

Fitting that I should struggle with where to begin, how to go about capturing my visit to Eugene O’Neill’s Tao House. Fitting that this page would be the house itself: Which room to visit first, how do I feel, what impressions am I experiencing?

A year ago or so, I hadn’t heard of the American playwright, Eugene O’Neill. I first was introduced to him by a co-worker and second by an acquaintance who knew my love of writing. She said I would probably appreciate a visit to the home, and so a seed was planted—two seeds—a third, and then, I found myself there.

When my co-worker pal mentioned O’Neill and his autobiographical play, “Long Day’s Journey into Night,” way back then, I decided that before I visited the Tao House, I wanted to first read that play, which was written in that very house. The play flowed easily and the descriptions were visual, so that I could see and hear everything. I was right there. It is really a sad autobiographic picture of O’Neill’s life injected, sometimes, with black humor. Though at its core, it is pure pain turned to art. I found myself laughing and crying. “Long Day’s Journey into Night” held my attention and pulled me along into O’Neill’s subterranean world, into the characters—the real people there on those pages. And though it was autobiographical, it was also relatable and it reemphasized for me how the best material does come from deep inside of us—it comes from our pains, our truths—as we know them—then shaped into a so called fiction; and at other times, laid out there in all their truth.

It’s been about two month’s now since my visit to Eugene O’Neill National Historic Site, The Tao House, located in Danville, California.

There were many surprises because I didn’t know much other than what I read on the visitor’s website. By the very name of the house, one can conjure an image of what may be encountered, but I went with no vision.

The shuttle wound through the neighborhood up to the home of Eugene O’Neill. He lived here with his third wife, Carlotta. She found the property and worked with the architects to build this house, to bring East and West together into this abode where O’Neill, The Master, as they called him would write several plays. All understood, under no circumstances, was The Master to be disturbed when he was busy at work writing.

Nestled away in the wilderness, The Tao House, is but a short drive to town, yet one feels a sense of personal wilderness, of being tucked far away. The exterior of the home is of a Spanish style, white brick and some terracotta, met with Chinese elements seen in the tiling of the roof and pieces set around the exterior of the home and throughout the interior.

Upon entering the home, one is greeted with Asian masks of Chinese and Japanese origins. Much of the house has been arranged with Feng Shui principles. The Park Ranger Educator points out the mirrors of different shades, the Chinese Fu Lions that adorn each side of the stairs to the second floor of the home, and blue ceilings and brown tiled floors for the water and earth elements.

The room that made the most lasting impression upon me was O’Neill’s bedroom. Several  rooms had tinted inset mirrors of yellow, blue, or green , but his room was the only one that had a black mirror set into the wall. I couldn’t really see my reflection very well. It beckoned me to come closer though, to keep looking, and I felt as though I was looking into nothingness, into the dark, as though, I could slip right through. It made me feel a slight shutter, at seeing a black mirror that almost made me forget the rest of the room. Something about this mirror made me think and made me feel that each viewer, especially with this particular mirror, would most definitely feel something very different or maybe the same?

O’Neill loved the sea and his writing room was a reflection of that love, as well as a stark contrast to the feel of his bedroom. Besides the kitchen, his writing room was one room in the home that did not seem to have a heavy Chinese element to it. He also loved his beloved Dalmatian, Blemie. Of all the photos displayed in the home, only one shows O’Neill with a beaming smile on his face, and that is the one with his beloved Blemie by his side in a side embrace.

I am glad that I finally entered Eugene O’Neill and Carlotta’s Tao House—glad to have visited their world reflected in their home, and experience their sacred space, where O’Neill wrote for the last time.

**

Eugene O’Neill (1889-1953)

American Playwright

“Father of American Drama”

**

Information on how to visit the Tao House.

http://www.nps.gov/euon/

Eugene O’Neill Foundation ~ Learn and see about O’Neill’s time at the Tao House.

http://www.eoneill.com/eof/tao_house/tour.htm

An Electronic Eugene O’Neill Archive

http://www.eoneill.com/index.htm

Eugene O'Neill quote from:

http://www.corsinet.com/braincandy/dying.html

**

I wanted to share some photos that I took, to show you what I saw through my lens on that day.

Views from around the house

Exterior views of Tao House

Entryway

 Can you tell which Fu Lion is female and which is male?

Upstairs

Carlotta's bedroom

 O'Neill's study - Carlotta typed all of his work from this most tiniest of writing. I couldn't even read it with that magnifying glass.

This is a closet in the hallway. I was struck by the efficient use of space done in an aesthetically appealing way. Those white drawers are perfect for keeping everything in order and out of site and then, as you can see, the red door closes, so that it all becomes one beautiful concealed piece. There were also many book nooks built into the walls. Books, books, everywhere!

Back downstairs

The living room

Front yard

Blemie's grave site.

O'Neill's beloved dog, Blemie, rests about 100 feet from the front of the house amongst the trees and critters.

Though O'Neill did not pass away at the Tao House, his spirit is very much there, and he did write his last works there. The docent educator shared the famous quote that O'Neill uttered while on his death bed:

"I knew it. I knew it. Born in a hotel room - and God damn it - died in a hotel room."
~~ Eugene O'Neill, writer, d. November 27, 1953

** 



What is Love?

What is Love?

Love.
Love.
Love. What is love to me today? Am I in love with the idea of love? Do I relish in those early moments, of being on the brink—of lightness and dazzlement and suspending that moment with a locked gaze?

What is love to me today? What does it represent? I have a newfound independence and I have turned the page, have been gradually letting the pages fall back, have made my intentions clear to the universe, that I invite the type of union with a partner that is right for me where I am now and I know I have blessings—I feel it—a good sending off into this adventure should it be meant to be in this life. Today, I felt ready and I walked to the store that I sensed would have what I was looking for. I chose three to look at, all handmade of wood from Indonesia. The one I chose: Two lovers entwined, as one, side by side. Her breasts lay bare, her hand up and around to reach the back of her lover’s neck. Rather than face each other, they are side by side, they are individuals and they are one. I felt a certain feeling of the wind inside of me as I left the store, hair thrown back by the breeze, sun beaming brightly upon me, as I walked with a gait of happiness.

Currently, in Feng Shui terms, the relationship corner of my room has lone images of a dreamy woman, books, a corkboard of wisdom and images collected through the years. After first lighting incense in the stillness, I placed the loving couple here upon the shelf, as an additional intention to invite love. It represents for me a love that is free and conducive to love, exploration, freedom, depth, understanding, openness, learning—the list could go on, does go on. This feels good and strange. I’ve never stated my intention in quite this way—aloud yes—but I seal it here in my newfound lovers and my words. I kiss it to the wind and carry on.

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Mostly recorded in my notebook yesterday.

Love

Love is two dolphins entwined, held securely in place by their tailfins, bodies enveloped in sun rays, around the stem of a lotus blossom, one growing into the other. Water flows from the top of the blossom, from the mouths of the dolphins, into and out of the two golden chalices below. We are surrounded in a Neapolitan backdrop of angel blue sky into yellow sun into blue green water, reflected back into the sky—above and below. Love. Balance.

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Inspired from pulling and viewing the 2 of Cups – Love
-Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot Deck painted by Lady Frieda Harris

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I must say I was quite pleased to see this card. I haven’t pulled it in some time. I immediately felt gladness and wanted to share.