It’s Wednesday. I like being in the middle of the work week, balancing between Monday and Friday. This last week I felt slightly off balance, though. Before I left home, I crouched down to the lower shelf of the bookcase near the hallway to find a book to take for the BART train ride. I looked, pulled out Celtic Magic by D. J. Conway. I reflected back on when I found this book. I wasn’t looking. It was in a used bookstore and it was only $2, so I decided to buy it. I haven’t read it yet, only peeked inside from time to time. I put the book back on this Wednesday. It wasn’t the right book for the day. The next book I pulled was Thich Nhat Hanh’s Our Appointment with Life: Discourse on Living Happily in the Present Moment. A very slender book. Yes, this was the one I would select. Whenever I feel a little off kilter, I can count on Nhat Hanh to breathe perspective into my life. I looked up and began my walk to the train station, headed for work. As I looked out into the hills and up into the sky, the clouds looked as heavenly as ever. They were splayed out like long strands of love. I had the feeling that God was having a fine day, a light and airy day, filled with grace.
The day felt as though it was off to a good start. I felt calm walking through what to my imagination was the ocean floor, with the brownish red dirt and little weeds and tall weeds with colorful caps, sea creatures, shells and rocks, that were my path. I looked forward to reading on the train. I have read this short discourse before, but it was great to revisit the wisdom, to be reminded about compassion, impermanence—living in the present—without a tight hold on the past or the future. I needed this on this particular day. So many gems in the commentary, one of which says:
“In order to return to the present and to be face to face with what is happening, we must look deeply into the heart of what is and experience its true nature. When we do so, we experience the deep understanding which can release us from suffering and darkness. (pg. 35).
At work, I took the clouds and sun with me. I felt cloaked in peace, smiling more than usual, walking with a lighter, slower gait, compared to my usual quick step. I was in my element with the seaboard, the sunshine, the earth.
The workday came to a close. I grabbed my backpack, said goodbye, and made my journey back home. As I was approaching a stoplight, I had noticed an Asian woman coming from the opposite direction. I stepped up on the pavement to wait for the signal to turn green. I set my backpack down and leaned down to get my cap out because the sun was so strong on my face. As I stood up I heard, “Excuse me.” I turned and it was the Asian woman. I thought she was going to ask me for directions. Instead she held out a coin the size of a fifty cent piece and said, “Would you like this?” I took the coin with writing on it and began reading and then I said, “Oh” out loud. I was thinking, she’s going to want money, which I didn’t have, and she may begin going into a long discourse, but instead, because I stayed fixated on the coin, trying to read the print that reflected the bright light, she said, “Do you read Spanish or English?” That I took so long reading, may have indicated that I couldn’t read the English words. I should have said both, but I said, “English.” On the first side of the coin it says, “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. John 3:16.”I was about to give the coin back to her when the light turned and she said, “Keep it.”
“Thank you.” I stood slightly speechless. I flipped the coin around to the other side and read, “Dear Heavenly Father, I believe that Jesus Christ your Son died on the cross for my sins, was buried for three days and rose again. Thank you for giving me eternal life through him. Amen.”
She hurried along toward the BART station and I trailed slowly behind, turning the coin in my hand and feeling touched, blessed in some way.
There were two other people in the intersection. What made her decide to give the coin to me, I wondered. Did I have a certain look on my face. Did I look in need of the beautiful words on the coin?
On the BART train platform, headed toward home, the clouds—still speaking to me— looked like tufts of cotton that a child has pulled into rays of light; and also they were patches of cotton, smoothed across the sky with a painter’s knife, textured, varied, and then I saw an opening like an eye down the center of this wondrous skyscape.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Zebras and Flowers
When I woke up Saturday morning, I had the desire to visit the Oakland Zoo, a zoo that I have not been to since I was a little girl. When I drove up to the gate to pay the car parking fee, I felt giddy inside and could not remove the smile from my face.
One thing I do appreciate about myself is that I truly have no problem revisiting a place, a time, an experience with the eyes of a child. I hope this never leaves me. My gut tells me I will always have this quality. I will one day be the little old lady, with the same childlike qualities and fine and deep wrinkles with just the right amount of agelessness that is revealed in my smile and in my eyes.
And the little girl says, "Mom, is this the jungle?"
The mom replies, "It's not the jungle. It's just the zoo."
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Audubon Zoo – New Orleans
For one of my excursions, I took a streetcar into the garden district to the Audubon Zoo. It was nice being able to sit back and look at the beautiful homes that we passed. I took pictures, but it was a challenge to capture the beauty of the homes on a moving car. The spot on Canal Street where I hopped on the streetcar felt as though I could have been in San Francisco. The long city road with street cars in both directions, some high rise buildings and hotels, workers and tourists walking--the dizziness of a big city.
Here are a few of the residents of the Audubon Zoo. They seemed happy and well cared for. Since I was there close to closing, I saw some of the animals being taken to their night quarters, and you could tell that they enjoyed their routine and had a good relationship with their keepers. It made me feel good. I felt as though I had the zoo to myself because I got there just as large groups were leaving. I actually only had two and a half hours until closing, so I had to take it in at a medium to fast pace. I wish I had more time. I missed the petting zoo and the carousel, but I had a wonderful time being so close to the animals.
I love flamingos and I don't get to see them often.
I didn't write down the name of this bird, but isn't he cute? I love his hairdo.
Moss covered trees are quite a sight. The moss is so soft like silky seaweed.
A few familiars.
Louisiana Swamp.
Pretty flower and feathered beauties.
**
Happy Parrot Drum Dance. This parrot was so playful and started dancing, so I turned my camera to video.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
French Quarter Photos
These are a few photos around the French Quarter in New Orleans. I stayed in a hotel just steps away from this area, which is called Jackson Square. Street artists would setup around the perimeter of the fence, as well as palm and Tarot readers.
You can't miss the Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis King of France, which overlooks Jackson Square. It is the oldest operating Catholic Cathedral in the United States. It was beautiful inside, but I did not take any photos, as mass was in session.
I loved seeing the horse carriages. The horses looked content. I smiled at them when I walked by. I didn't get a chance to ride in one, but you could take a tour around the French Quarter and the driver would tell you a little history about the different spots. I did get some history in at a couple of other tours. Walking was the best way to get around. Not very car friendly within the quarter, since the streets are so narrow.
Right across the street is the famous Cafe Du Monde. I did have a coffee and an order of Beignets. Delicious! And there are stairs that take you around and across the train tracks to the Moon Walk, which is situated right on the Mississippi River. I plopped myself on a bench and enjoyed the relaxed feeling of not having to be anywhere in particular.
Sunset. This is the left side of Jackson Square facing the Cathedral. You can see the little side streets. In fact, if we keep walking straight, we'll bump right into the infamous Bourbon Street.
This is Royal Street. It was the street I preferred to walk down when I needed to get to some other intersecting street. It's lined with antique shops, arts stores, restaurants, coffee shops, more street artists. Lots to look at.
There were several different street performers scattered around. This one caught my attention because she looked so calm and poised. Can you imagine being in this position for any length of time? I don't know how long before she would move to another location. She made it look so natural to be there.
On my first night, after dinner and a cocktail, I decided to go to Preservation Hall to listen to some music. It's a small hall with performances from 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. every hour with an intermission in between. They don't serve alcohol or food. Just music. There are a few seats up front and to the sides and everyone else stands like matchsticks. I loved it. The bass player must have been in his seventies. All the musicians sounded great. Preservation Hall was created to protect and share Old New Orleans style Jazz.
You'll notice that when you walk down Bourbon Street, there are many variations of Jazz and Blues playing, including some rock. It's interesting to be surrounded by so much music and be able to listen and look in from the outside before deciding to go inside to sit down.
So that's a little taste of my first trip to New Orleans in the French Quarter.
You can't miss the Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis King of France, which overlooks Jackson Square. It is the oldest operating Catholic Cathedral in the United States. It was beautiful inside, but I did not take any photos, as mass was in session.
I loved seeing the horse carriages. The horses looked content. I smiled at them when I walked by. I didn't get a chance to ride in one, but you could take a tour around the French Quarter and the driver would tell you a little history about the different spots. I did get some history in at a couple of other tours. Walking was the best way to get around. Not very car friendly within the quarter, since the streets are so narrow.
Right across the street is the famous Cafe Du Monde. I did have a coffee and an order of Beignets. Delicious! And there are stairs that take you around and across the train tracks to the Moon Walk, which is situated right on the Mississippi River. I plopped myself on a bench and enjoyed the relaxed feeling of not having to be anywhere in particular.
Sunset. This is the left side of Jackson Square facing the Cathedral. You can see the little side streets. In fact, if we keep walking straight, we'll bump right into the infamous Bourbon Street.
This is Royal Street. It was the street I preferred to walk down when I needed to get to some other intersecting street. It's lined with antique shops, arts stores, restaurants, coffee shops, more street artists. Lots to look at.
There were several different street performers scattered around. This one caught my attention because she looked so calm and poised. Can you imagine being in this position for any length of time? I don't know how long before she would move to another location. She made it look so natural to be there.
On my first night, after dinner and a cocktail, I decided to go to Preservation Hall to listen to some music. It's a small hall with performances from 8 p.m. to 11 p.m. every hour with an intermission in between. They don't serve alcohol or food. Just music. There are a few seats up front and to the sides and everyone else stands like matchsticks. I loved it. The bass player must have been in his seventies. All the musicians sounded great. Preservation Hall was created to protect and share Old New Orleans style Jazz.
You'll notice that when you walk down Bourbon Street, there are many variations of Jazz and Blues playing, including some rock. It's interesting to be surrounded by so much music and be able to listen and look in from the outside before deciding to go inside to sit down.
So that's a little taste of my first trip to New Orleans in the French Quarter.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
St. Patrick’s Day Memory
My older brother, one of my guardians growing up, seemed to have a preoccupation with perfection. I suppose that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it became annoying at times.
It was St. Patrick’s Day—junior high school, seventh grade. I enjoyed home economics and shop classes the best. I had my clothes all picked out for this festive day. I pulled on my taffy green stretch pants and wore a white and green candy stripe shirt to match. I was a green candy cane. I felt in the spirit of the day, as I ventured off to school.
After lunch, I head for metal shop to put the finishing touches on a small garden shovel that I made. I tap the circular handle into place so it’s good and tight. I set down the mallet and try to pull the shovel from the wooden work table. It’s stuck. When it will not dislodge, I take both of my hands and pull hard. The next thing I know, I’m feeling a sting near my eye. As I steady myself, I see that blood is beginning to drip down. I calmly walk up to the teacher and wait until he’s done with his conversation, but he takes notice of me out of the corner of his eye. He throws his hands up and says, “What happened?!”
“I’m bleeding. I couldn’t get my shovel out…”
He cuts me off. Asks if I’m ok. He immediately sends another student with me to go down to the nurse’s office. I keep looking down at the red that is mucking up my carefully chosen St. Patrick’s Day outfit, and now I will probably have to go home.
The nurse hands me a tissue. Next thing I remember is my brother has arrived to retrieve me. “Let me see,” he says. “Ah, man! Your gonna have a scar.” He may have asked if I was ok, how was I feeling, but those are the words I remember. All I heard was a reinforcement of his perfectionist ways and preoccupation with a clear surface—perfection taken too far. “We’ll need to stitch it up, but it’s not that bad,” he says.
“I don’t want stitches and no doctor. Can’t you just put a band aid on it?” I say.
He thanks the nurse and takes me home. The car ride home is quiet. I look out the window at the passing trees. I keep my tissue on the cut or did they tape some gauze on? That part is a blur. We deal with it. When we arrive home, my brother butterflies the cut closed with medical tape. If he is saying anything more about the cut, I’ve tuned out. We apply Vitamin E oil to help with scarring during the healing process.
I still have the scar. It’s not visually noticeable to someone else really, unless you look for it. But when I look at it, I feel lucky because it was so close to my eye and it could have been much worse. When the weather heats up, sometimes the scar becomes sensitive, and I can feel it—just a reminder of St. Patrick’s Day; my brother and his funny ways—lucky that he took care of me and loves me; how I don’t like going to doctors, even today—and how I like to handle things my way. It feels as though the spirit is still there, of a girl dressed in green—of a girl who handled the situation pretty well considering—and feels very lucky that on that day, her aim was off a little.
It was St. Patrick’s Day—junior high school, seventh grade. I enjoyed home economics and shop classes the best. I had my clothes all picked out for this festive day. I pulled on my taffy green stretch pants and wore a white and green candy stripe shirt to match. I was a green candy cane. I felt in the spirit of the day, as I ventured off to school.
After lunch, I head for metal shop to put the finishing touches on a small garden shovel that I made. I tap the circular handle into place so it’s good and tight. I set down the mallet and try to pull the shovel from the wooden work table. It’s stuck. When it will not dislodge, I take both of my hands and pull hard. The next thing I know, I’m feeling a sting near my eye. As I steady myself, I see that blood is beginning to drip down. I calmly walk up to the teacher and wait until he’s done with his conversation, but he takes notice of me out of the corner of his eye. He throws his hands up and says, “What happened?!”
“I’m bleeding. I couldn’t get my shovel out…”
He cuts me off. Asks if I’m ok. He immediately sends another student with me to go down to the nurse’s office. I keep looking down at the red that is mucking up my carefully chosen St. Patrick’s Day outfit, and now I will probably have to go home.
The nurse hands me a tissue. Next thing I remember is my brother has arrived to retrieve me. “Let me see,” he says. “Ah, man! Your gonna have a scar.” He may have asked if I was ok, how was I feeling, but those are the words I remember. All I heard was a reinforcement of his perfectionist ways and preoccupation with a clear surface—perfection taken too far. “We’ll need to stitch it up, but it’s not that bad,” he says.
“I don’t want stitches and no doctor. Can’t you just put a band aid on it?” I say.
He thanks the nurse and takes me home. The car ride home is quiet. I look out the window at the passing trees. I keep my tissue on the cut or did they tape some gauze on? That part is a blur. We deal with it. When we arrive home, my brother butterflies the cut closed with medical tape. If he is saying anything more about the cut, I’ve tuned out. We apply Vitamin E oil to help with scarring during the healing process.
I still have the scar. It’s not visually noticeable to someone else really, unless you look for it. But when I look at it, I feel lucky because it was so close to my eye and it could have been much worse. When the weather heats up, sometimes the scar becomes sensitive, and I can feel it—just a reminder of St. Patrick’s Day; my brother and his funny ways—lucky that he took care of me and loves me; how I don’t like going to doctors, even today—and how I like to handle things my way. It feels as though the spirit is still there, of a girl dressed in green—of a girl who handled the situation pretty well considering—and feels very lucky that on that day, her aim was off a little.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
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.
**
Inspired from pulling and viewing the 2 of Cups – Love
-Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot Deck painted by Lady Frieda Harris
**
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.
**
Inspired from pulling and viewing the 2 of Cups – Love
-Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot Deck painted by Lady Frieda Harris
**
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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
New Orleans Sunshine
Already miss the warm wrap of the humid heat, and the mighty Mississippi, miss the sound of the horns, the trot-trot of the horse and buggy carriage escorting the tourists through the quarter, the smell of gumbo cooking, freshly washed streets of the morning. Short stay, yet managed to walk many blocks, getting pleasantly lost and sidetracked and backtracked.
And yet, all of it feels sealed inside, still absorbing it into my veins, yet I feel like a little part of me was at home there, still there. Felt like a local, even with my backpack slung over shoulders. What a pleasure, though, that two locals did in fact take me for one of them. One in particular, that was most friendly…we had a few chuckles, as we saw tourists walk into the tiny bar mid-day. He made a comment about their backpacks, and carrying their cameras in hand, taking pictures right away—it was a good sign of a tourist. I laughed and said, I have my backpack too, but its under my feet, camera’s in there too. But now that they’re taking pictures, I may as well take some too. He laughed. “Don’t forget to get that sign over there,” he said. “Everyone likes to get a picture of that.”
“Hey look at that guy over there. He’s taking a picture of his food,” he said. And this isn’t a fancy bar mind you. He wasn’t being mean in the least, but it was great to be in on his observations and story, and we had many good laughs.
I looked familiar to him. “You have a twin over here,” he said. I smiled. I was about done with my beer. He wanted the next one to be on him. I was in the process of saying no, only because I can be a lightweight, but then I thought, what the heck, I can’t close the door on generosity and kindness. I had my share of gumbos, so I had a platter of potato skins in my system to absorb another light beer.
I felt like I was in a New Orleans equivalent of Cheers. Everyone knew everyone. He shared the ins and outs of some of the other locals that sat nearby, who had left, about his family, etc. I asked him about the resiliency of the people here. He said that, “Sure when his mother lost her home to Katrina they were feeling it. She lost literally everything, but he like some others, said, “You gotta move on.” It was one of the highlights of my trip, Just being a local for a while.
**
A side note/prayer: I pray that they get the oil spill contained—under control. Even though these folks seem to bounce back, this is too huge. It effects so many living creatures, people, etc. I send prayers out from my little world. At this point, it feels as though it’s going to take a miracle to bring this spill under control.
And yet, all of it feels sealed inside, still absorbing it into my veins, yet I feel like a little part of me was at home there, still there. Felt like a local, even with my backpack slung over shoulders. What a pleasure, though, that two locals did in fact take me for one of them. One in particular, that was most friendly…we had a few chuckles, as we saw tourists walk into the tiny bar mid-day. He made a comment about their backpacks, and carrying their cameras in hand, taking pictures right away—it was a good sign of a tourist. I laughed and said, I have my backpack too, but its under my feet, camera’s in there too. But now that they’re taking pictures, I may as well take some too. He laughed. “Don’t forget to get that sign over there,” he said. “Everyone likes to get a picture of that.”
“Hey look at that guy over there. He’s taking a picture of his food,” he said. And this isn’t a fancy bar mind you. He wasn’t being mean in the least, but it was great to be in on his observations and story, and we had many good laughs.
I looked familiar to him. “You have a twin over here,” he said. I smiled. I was about done with my beer. He wanted the next one to be on him. I was in the process of saying no, only because I can be a lightweight, but then I thought, what the heck, I can’t close the door on generosity and kindness. I had my share of gumbos, so I had a platter of potato skins in my system to absorb another light beer.
I felt like I was in a New Orleans equivalent of Cheers. Everyone knew everyone. He shared the ins and outs of some of the other locals that sat nearby, who had left, about his family, etc. I asked him about the resiliency of the people here. He said that, “Sure when his mother lost her home to Katrina they were feeling it. She lost literally everything, but he like some others, said, “You gotta move on.” It was one of the highlights of my trip, Just being a local for a while.
**
A side note/prayer: I pray that they get the oil spill contained—under control. Even though these folks seem to bounce back, this is too huge. It effects so many living creatures, people, etc. I send prayers out from my little world. At this point, it feels as though it’s going to take a miracle to bring this spill under control.
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