April 6, 2010
4/6/10
10 - 6 = 4
10 - 4 = 6
6 + 4 = 10
Habits, small rituals, hidden comforts. I have two small calendars at work that sit on the counter, so I can see them well. One shows a book-a-day. If a book catches my fancy, I’ll first check the library. If it’s not there, I’ll put it in my holding file—an imaginary file, more like a pile of paper tidbits that needs sorting through. The other calendar is much smaller, more intimate, a page of Eastern wisdom for each day. The larger book-a-day calendar has the date more clearly visible, and it is the habit of the boss that has me now looking at the date a little closer—the numbers—in the way he views them. He sees the patterns and sometimes when a certain date is upon us, he says we wont have this one for at least ten more years.
Today is a day that is divisible by two; the subtraction and addition of the numbers expresses today. I’m not a numbers person, but I’m always open to finding little ways—little portals—into the vast array of ways to enter into a space, into another’s world for just a few moments. I am fascinated by how many different ways there are to approach the world and I will always continue adding a dash here, a sprinkle there, to my little suitcase of amazements—the little things. I’m especially still in awe everyday my mind is taken to the fact that all those wonderful planets out there are spinning and held in space. No rational explanations will take away my ability to still be in the mind of wonder and curiosity. I am forever mesmerized by this beautiful and mysterious world we live in.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Holly Hobby Moment
Previously, I posted this to RR (3/28/10), and after reading Vincent's blog: Amber, it made me think of my HH Moment, so I thought I would post it here too. Vincent’s blogs always give me much to ponder...sometimes, it seems like you can ponder forever. What a nice feeling.
As I walk down to deposit the mail in the box, I glance down at what I’m wearing: Black summer wool knit dress, in the shape of a paper doll cutout over light blue jeans, rolled one cuff length because they are too long, a simple tan cotton ¾ sleeve cotton shirt underneath, and turquoise Crocs because they really are comfy. I’m feeling good, and my clothes make me feel like I should be outside in a field of wildflowers with my easel, painting, writing, communing, dancing circles.
**
On this day I feel like Holly Hobby with her big bonnet and colorful patchwork dress, innocent, young at heart, keeping back her smiles because she’s smiling at nothing, yet smiling at everything, smiling at the feeling of her body in this physical plane, smiling at the curves of her lips because she cannot hold it back, smiling at feeling at home in her physical manifestation, and feeling so much a culmination of heaven and earth, all the little speckles floating around—feeling a connection to something in the great beyond that although she feels at home in herself—she also feels that sense of being different, and loving it because it makes her who she is, but also realizing that it is also what keeps her in her aloneness in the most profound and wonderful way—a lone wolf on the outskirts—but that is where home is. It’s not a bad aloneness, but she has always had few that she could be herself around, few that she could be around. It has always been this way—she has never liked being part of the crowd. She has ebbed and flowed in certain friendships, but she has felt most herself in the very few, and especially in her solitariness because when one goes into that solitariness, that is where it all comes together: The A-ha’s and the unfoldings and these moments shared but their secrets never fully revealed, lest they crumble like star dust. Best that can be done is to write the feelings, the emotions—the energy into existence. To be in oneself, to embrace all that that means, to surrender to the path that is discovered more and more each day, to walk into the reasons, to walk into the questions, to walk into the purpose that one is gifted in being amongst the living. To bring a little happiness into the world—laughter, smiles, sharing, in the ways that are etched into the reasons.
It is possible to know aloneness, yet be graced with the riches of connections in the ways that they present themselves—and I am grateful for that. I am grateful to continue finding wonder, passion, zest, curiosity, love, feeling—so much do I feel in life. So much—that all I can do is pour it out right here, pencil in hand racing across the page as fast as it can, to capture this moment because all that we have are these moments and they are everything. They are alive!
As I walk down to deposit the mail in the box, I glance down at what I’m wearing: Black summer wool knit dress, in the shape of a paper doll cutout over light blue jeans, rolled one cuff length because they are too long, a simple tan cotton ¾ sleeve cotton shirt underneath, and turquoise Crocs because they really are comfy. I’m feeling good, and my clothes make me feel like I should be outside in a field of wildflowers with my easel, painting, writing, communing, dancing circles.
**
On this day I feel like Holly Hobby with her big bonnet and colorful patchwork dress, innocent, young at heart, keeping back her smiles because she’s smiling at nothing, yet smiling at everything, smiling at the feeling of her body in this physical plane, smiling at the curves of her lips because she cannot hold it back, smiling at feeling at home in her physical manifestation, and feeling so much a culmination of heaven and earth, all the little speckles floating around—feeling a connection to something in the great beyond that although she feels at home in herself—she also feels that sense of being different, and loving it because it makes her who she is, but also realizing that it is also what keeps her in her aloneness in the most profound and wonderful way—a lone wolf on the outskirts—but that is where home is. It’s not a bad aloneness, but she has always had few that she could be herself around, few that she could be around. It has always been this way—she has never liked being part of the crowd. She has ebbed and flowed in certain friendships, but she has felt most herself in the very few, and especially in her solitariness because when one goes into that solitariness, that is where it all comes together: The A-ha’s and the unfoldings and these moments shared but their secrets never fully revealed, lest they crumble like star dust. Best that can be done is to write the feelings, the emotions—the energy into existence. To be in oneself, to embrace all that that means, to surrender to the path that is discovered more and more each day, to walk into the reasons, to walk into the questions, to walk into the purpose that one is gifted in being amongst the living. To bring a little happiness into the world—laughter, smiles, sharing, in the ways that are etched into the reasons.
It is possible to know aloneness, yet be graced with the riches of connections in the ways that they present themselves—and I am grateful for that. I am grateful to continue finding wonder, passion, zest, curiosity, love, feeling—so much do I feel in life. So much—that all I can do is pour it out right here, pencil in hand racing across the page as fast as it can, to capture this moment because all that we have are these moments and they are everything. They are alive!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Book: Watching the Tree
I recently finished a little book by Adeline Yen Mah called Watching the Tree: A Chinese Daughter Reflects on Happiness, Tradition, and Spiritual Wisdom. I enjoyed this book of reflections very much. The chapters are separated into digestible chunks, eleven in all. What I really appreciate about this book is that Mah provides a glimpse into the Chinese culture from a personal perspective and weaves in insights that allow me to see into her world.
The chapter that I am going to share parts from is titled, “Hidden Logic Within the Shape of Words.”
Since Keiko has heightened my awareness of language, I have become more tuned, more fascinated. I’ve always had an interest in language and culture, but now with Keiko’s help, I am able to find new ways to learn about it that work for my learning style. I lose interest with books that are too dry and that’s why, although this little chapter is not about language from the point of pure linguistics, that this is Mah’s language, what she shares teaches me so much—provides another layer. There is much to be absorbed from this wonderful little book of reflections on Chinese wisdom.
One thing I found extremely fascinating was when Mah tells about how when her grandfather was a boy in the 1880s, numbers were still being written in Chinese characters with a brush. She says, “Besides being cumbersome and time-consuming, the traditional Chinese method of recording numbers lacked two vital components: positional value and the symbol zero” (p. 176). She also discusses the use of the abacus and how zero and positional value were taken into account. She refers to zero as a hero and shares a story about her son and a song he used to recite about zero when he was learning numbers. She reminds and reaffirms: “The symbol zero, invented in India in the ninth century and adopted as part of the Hindu-Arabic number system, is indeed very much a hero” (p. 177).
Mah attributes the lack of zero and positional value to the sluggishness that China demonstrated in keeping up and excelling in math and science. She says, “But like the Roman numerals, the three words yi qian yi possess neither place value nor the symbol for zero. This meant that Chinese mathematicians were unable to transpose numbers on to paper quickly and easily for accurate calculation. Mathematical thought lacked an adequate alphabet for expression, progression or development. As a result, calculus was never invented, the development of science was hindered and China fell behind the West in technology” (p. 183). I have never been very “math” minded, but Mah makes me not only appreciate the numbers that I use every day and take for granted, but how cultures adapt and get by and then need to find and adopt new ways from other cultures.
**
In the next section of the chapter, Mah talks about the Chinese language. I am only going to bullet point certain statements she makes that I found quite fascinating (there are so many).
Mah’s words:
-There are said to be over 50,000 Chinese characters (compared to over 600,000 English words).
-Most Chinese words cannot be classified as nouns, adjectives, verbs or adverbs. The majority are “root words” and can move from one category to another with the greatest flexibility.
-Chinese is a non-inflectional language and its grammar is unique for its lack of rules. There are no tenses, plurals, genders or forms, cases or endings. There are also no prefixes or suffixes in Chinese.
-The Chinese language relies almost entirely on word order (the position of a word in a sentence) and the use of auxiliary words to convey meaning.
-Word inflection in English categorizes each word in a sentence into singular or plural noun; past, present or future verb; quality of a thing or an action. But in Chinese words are uninflected and their meaning cannot be deduced except in relation to other words.
-Chinese sentences do not need to have a verb. “Big house” is a complete sentence in Chinese. In western thought, subject and attribute are separate. But a sentence such as “To be or not to be” is impossible to say in Chinese (I have seen it translated as “Let me live or let me die”).
-In the west, existence is thought of as an independent attribute that can be added to or subtracted from a separate form. The Chinese language does not separate the two. A simple English sentence such as “There is a dog” would be translated into Chinese as “Has dog.”
**
There is so much more of interest in this insightful chapter on language and culture, and this is only a portion of this compact book. Each time I would pick the book up, I felt as though I was entering a quiet meditative space, taking in the book, slowly, like sipping warm tea. I have to return the book to the library; I’ve exceeded my renewal limit. But I think that I’ll eventually buy a copy to write in because I enjoyed the way Mah weaved her own story with that of her ancestors, bringing it to the surface in a way that I could understand and appreciate.
The chapter that I am going to share parts from is titled, “Hidden Logic Within the Shape of Words.”
Since Keiko has heightened my awareness of language, I have become more tuned, more fascinated. I’ve always had an interest in language and culture, but now with Keiko’s help, I am able to find new ways to learn about it that work for my learning style. I lose interest with books that are too dry and that’s why, although this little chapter is not about language from the point of pure linguistics, that this is Mah’s language, what she shares teaches me so much—provides another layer. There is much to be absorbed from this wonderful little book of reflections on Chinese wisdom.
One thing I found extremely fascinating was when Mah tells about how when her grandfather was a boy in the 1880s, numbers were still being written in Chinese characters with a brush. She says, “Besides being cumbersome and time-consuming, the traditional Chinese method of recording numbers lacked two vital components: positional value and the symbol zero” (p. 176). She also discusses the use of the abacus and how zero and positional value were taken into account. She refers to zero as a hero and shares a story about her son and a song he used to recite about zero when he was learning numbers. She reminds and reaffirms: “The symbol zero, invented in India in the ninth century and adopted as part of the Hindu-Arabic number system, is indeed very much a hero” (p. 177).
Mah attributes the lack of zero and positional value to the sluggishness that China demonstrated in keeping up and excelling in math and science. She says, “But like the Roman numerals, the three words yi qian yi possess neither place value nor the symbol for zero. This meant that Chinese mathematicians were unable to transpose numbers on to paper quickly and easily for accurate calculation. Mathematical thought lacked an adequate alphabet for expression, progression or development. As a result, calculus was never invented, the development of science was hindered and China fell behind the West in technology” (p. 183). I have never been very “math” minded, but Mah makes me not only appreciate the numbers that I use every day and take for granted, but how cultures adapt and get by and then need to find and adopt new ways from other cultures.
**
In the next section of the chapter, Mah talks about the Chinese language. I am only going to bullet point certain statements she makes that I found quite fascinating (there are so many).
Mah’s words:
-There are said to be over 50,000 Chinese characters (compared to over 600,000 English words).
-Most Chinese words cannot be classified as nouns, adjectives, verbs or adverbs. The majority are “root words” and can move from one category to another with the greatest flexibility.
-Chinese is a non-inflectional language and its grammar is unique for its lack of rules. There are no tenses, plurals, genders or forms, cases or endings. There are also no prefixes or suffixes in Chinese.
-The Chinese language relies almost entirely on word order (the position of a word in a sentence) and the use of auxiliary words to convey meaning.
-Word inflection in English categorizes each word in a sentence into singular or plural noun; past, present or future verb; quality of a thing or an action. But in Chinese words are uninflected and their meaning cannot be deduced except in relation to other words.
-Chinese sentences do not need to have a verb. “Big house” is a complete sentence in Chinese. In western thought, subject and attribute are separate. But a sentence such as “To be or not to be” is impossible to say in Chinese (I have seen it translated as “Let me live or let me die”).
-In the west, existence is thought of as an independent attribute that can be added to or subtracted from a separate form. The Chinese language does not separate the two. A simple English sentence such as “There is a dog” would be translated into Chinese as “Has dog.”
**
There is so much more of interest in this insightful chapter on language and culture, and this is only a portion of this compact book. Each time I would pick the book up, I felt as though I was entering a quiet meditative space, taking in the book, slowly, like sipping warm tea. I have to return the book to the library; I’ve exceeded my renewal limit. But I think that I’ll eventually buy a copy to write in because I enjoyed the way Mah weaved her own story with that of her ancestors, bringing it to the surface in a way that I could understand and appreciate.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Movie: Memoirs of a Geisha
I recently watched Memoirs of a Geisha, based on the novel by Arthur Golden. Having read the book some years ago, I was looking forward to the film, but only now got around to viewing it. I remember that this was one of the few books that held me. I read from morning until night, devouring the beautiful prose. And that Golden wrote convincingly as the women in this story is impressive.
A line that stood out for me in the movie is in the following clip where Mameha tells Chiyo that “ the very word Geisha means artist and to be a Geisha means to be judged as a moving work of art.” I find this line to be so beautiful and the movie is itself just that.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYzqz3dMBCo
One more very short clip that shows two dance sequences is this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1NL2RzugVE&feature=related
The movie is also very sad at times. I won't say too much more, just in case. I don't know if the movie is accurate in its portrayal of the Geisha, but it is definitely a work of art that makes me realize the many perfected arts and beauty that seem to be a part of the Japanese culture.
A line that stood out for me in the movie is in the following clip where Mameha tells Chiyo that “ the very word Geisha means artist and to be a Geisha means to be judged as a moving work of art.” I find this line to be so beautiful and the movie is itself just that.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYzqz3dMBCo
One more very short clip that shows two dance sequences is this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1NL2RzugVE&feature=related
The movie is also very sad at times. I won't say too much more, just in case. I don't know if the movie is accurate in its portrayal of the Geisha, but it is definitely a work of art that makes me realize the many perfected arts and beauty that seem to be a part of the Japanese culture.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Two Short Videos ~ On Language
Here are Two videos by Red Room author, Mylene Dressler. I thought you might find them interesting, if you haven’t already seen them. In the second short video clip, she speaks a bit about language half-way through.
Dance with Language
Flood Makers and Why I Write
I think I successfully added a link. Thank you Vincent!
Dance with Language
Flood Makers and Why I Write
I think I successfully added a link. Thank you Vincent!
Ice Skating Bliss
Being “present” in the moment is not always an easy task for me. Even when I am out walking, as I breathe in the crisp air, my mind wanders, thinking, turning ideas or worries around, until I realize that I’m passing by the pretty flowers and blue skies. They at least pull me back to the moment for a time, and I try to watch my breathing, in, out, but then it happens again, I’m zipped away into my thoughts.
The first time in along time that I have experienced being fully present was when I went for my first ice skating coaching session last week. I mustered up the courage to meet with a coach for a lesson. I explained to her on the phone that I had previously skated long ago, and that I was interested in taking adult skating classes, but first wanted to see where I was. We set the date and I woke up early that morning, left the house at 6:45 a.m. It felt good to be out of the house early for something other than work.
I arrived early, rented skates, laced up, and sat and watched until it was time for my session. I felt like my mother, as I watched the young skaters out there. I observed that of the handful of girls on the ice, all of them were Asian, except for one Caucasian girl. They were clearly at different levels, some were quite graceful. One girl seemed a little bit heavier than I normally see, short, and her arms were not out straight. She was trying an advanced turn, but she didn’t strike me as graceful, and her coach didn’t seem to correct her flailing arms. I felt so odd, sitting, and in some way critiquing. Who was I to judge? I couldn’t help it, but it would also make me aware of my own body movements.
8:00 a.m. came and I met the coach, we exchanged pleasantries. I got onto the ice and skated along and she watched and we went to the other half of the rink in a corner away from the other skaters. We started back to basics, with the most elementary of strokes. Still quite wobbly, I returned to the starting position until I had at least completed a move without completely losing my balance. She kept encouraging me, “good job, that’s it.” And she said that I was picking it up quickly. As I pushed off, I had to learn to allow my body to wait, and let my shoulders do the turning. And then when I would turn and the coach saw me lose my balance, she kept reminding me, “bring your tummy in, watch that front arm.” Ah, is that why I was so slender in childhood, all this tummy tightening. It was amazing, though, how I had forgotten how important my center is, something I take for granted. So I had to be mindful of my center being pulled in, my shoulders back, which is a chore for me, since I actually have developed somewhat bad posture over the years.
At small points throughout the session, I let go, the movements became familiar, my strokes were smooth, I was one with the ice, the skates, my body. I only realized this later when I drove away, realizing that I was truly in the present, no thoughts tried to intrude my mind while I was on the ice, instead focus was on every little thing the coach said, correcting, redoing, learning, skating. It was bliss.
My mind was completely focused on learning these rudimentary moves—moves that I do not even recall learning as a child. It was so long ago, that my body remembered most of it and began picking it up quite quickly, but my mind had no recollection of any of it. My mind only remembered a small fragment of my past ice skating experience, while my body seemed to remember all that I needed to know. At the end of the session, the coach said that she didn’t think the adult class would be good for me, not challenging enough. She thought I did quite well and that if I wanted to continue, I could test and move on, but I would need to get my own skates because the rentals are so horrible and never the same, and of course I would need to practice.
I asked if many adults skate and she said yes. She even had a 50 year old man she coached who started from scratch and had been practicing and taking lessons for two years. Wow! to learn to skate at 50—that is incredible. It gave me the little extra hope that I needed to hear. She recommended someone for me to get fitted for skates, so I made the trek and did that and am now eagerly awaiting the moment I put on my very own skates and take another coaching session and start practicing on my own. Going back to basics has been both rewarding, revealing, and quite humbling.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Images from Today – Drive to Ice Land
Globe opens, spills light into
shatters, fine splinters blow in the horn,
rumbling.
deep resonance felt in
every membrane.
Today I decided to take myself to go ice skating. Well, actually, when I was flipping through the TV, I happened upon ice skating and got lured in. Memories, I suppose, of when I used to skate and compete as a young one. The irony is that I sometimes dreaded it: Getting up early morning, tired, and my coaches. One in particular; a man, somewhat grouchy, pushed me—pushed and pushed the fun right out of it, and I didn’t get a thrill out of performing in front of so many strangers and my mother. The irony is that now this deep part of me wants to do it again, wants to compete, wants the coach to push me hard, and wants to perform in front of strangers—as for my mom, she will be there in her own way. The irony is I don’t think I really liked ice skating then, but now I have this odd desire to return. I must say, the desire has been there on and off, but now it seems to be tugging stronger. But in reality, it could only be for fun, for I am way past prime in the world of ice skating.
This is only the second time I’ve taken myself ice skating since I first did so about two years ago. The funny thing is it’s not exactly like learning to ride a bicycle. With so much time having lapsed in between, at least 27 years, the body memory is there, but it’s awkward, wobbly, not immediate. There’s also a certain fear of falling or looking foolish. This time I was less wobbly, but I couldn’t just glide right out there or I’d lose my balance.
I feel a giddiness as I tie up my laces and walk with the heavy skates on my feet. I hold the rail as I walk onto the ice. Then I push off slowly, get the feel for my skates on the ice. I begin to pick up speed, but then I have to slow down because there are so many people on the rink, but at least my body can remember how to stop without falling. As I circle the rink several times, I get more confidence and turn to skate backward ever so briefly, and then I try one simple jump—I can’t even remember the name. It feels good and, I wish I had the rink all to myself, so I could push myself and try all that I remember, and just skate and skate and skate.
shatters, fine splinters blow in the horn,
rumbling.
deep resonance felt in
every membrane.
Today I decided to take myself to go ice skating. Well, actually, when I was flipping through the TV, I happened upon ice skating and got lured in. Memories, I suppose, of when I used to skate and compete as a young one. The irony is that I sometimes dreaded it: Getting up early morning, tired, and my coaches. One in particular; a man, somewhat grouchy, pushed me—pushed and pushed the fun right out of it, and I didn’t get a thrill out of performing in front of so many strangers and my mother. The irony is that now this deep part of me wants to do it again, wants to compete, wants the coach to push me hard, and wants to perform in front of strangers—as for my mom, she will be there in her own way. The irony is I don’t think I really liked ice skating then, but now I have this odd desire to return. I must say, the desire has been there on and off, but now it seems to be tugging stronger. But in reality, it could only be for fun, for I am way past prime in the world of ice skating.
This is only the second time I’ve taken myself ice skating since I first did so about two years ago. The funny thing is it’s not exactly like learning to ride a bicycle. With so much time having lapsed in between, at least 27 years, the body memory is there, but it’s awkward, wobbly, not immediate. There’s also a certain fear of falling or looking foolish. This time I was less wobbly, but I couldn’t just glide right out there or I’d lose my balance.
I feel a giddiness as I tie up my laces and walk with the heavy skates on my feet. I hold the rail as I walk onto the ice. Then I push off slowly, get the feel for my skates on the ice. I begin to pick up speed, but then I have to slow down because there are so many people on the rink, but at least my body can remember how to stop without falling. As I circle the rink several times, I get more confidence and turn to skate backward ever so briefly, and then I try one simple jump—I can’t even remember the name. It feels good and, I wish I had the rink all to myself, so I could push myself and try all that I remember, and just skate and skate and skate.
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