Chaos and second chances

A month.

Carl has be hospitalized for a month with a head injury and as the month has proceeded, two things have happened. I have had dreams of counting, or trying to count, specific things. Like cards. And other dreams of a world in disorder and disarray. It doesn't seem that these dreams fit with the theory that our nightime fantasies are simply the brain's way of file checking. Mine clearly reflect the relative disorder and uncertainty that now govern my life and Carl's.

Fortunately, today there seems to be progress. He was sitting up and his eyes were open and he squeezed my hand. Still, there seems to be something in his eyes that is wild and fearful. He cannot speak because of a trachea tube, yet his lips move, trying to make words that I cannot read. He can nod in what I think is understanding of my words. And his hands, restrained, sometimes move to scratch an itch, but sometimes to aim at tubes in need of pulling out. I think I would be wild and fearful, too, if I was at that edge of consciousness.

I hope what comes out of this is a way for us to be better together. Better than we have been for some time. I have missed him, a surprise to me because I have for a long time felt being alone would be best for me. Now, I am not so sure.

Chaos, it seems, has turned everything about us upside down and inside out. A second chance is more than many have a shot at. Can we make the best of it? More than ever, I hope so.

A good omen, I suppose for tomorrow, is this: After a day of gray and snow, the sky is in a deep winter-night slate blue; silver clouds, like puffs of velvet, skim across. The chill has turned inside air into drops of moisture on the windows by the front door, making my fingers damp as I press to look out at the midnight sky.

The wind is blowing, but not harshly. And the greyhounds are snoring at the bottom of the bed.

Here's to tomorrow and a better day.

Quiet time

It has been almost a month since my husband and I have spoken. He has been in the hospital, unconscious mostly (not comatose) after a fall and head injury on Dec. 1.

I can't imagine what the experience is like for him, what is going on in his brain. For me, it has been three weeks of frustration, confusion and tears. Of trying to keep track of tests, results, infections, prognoses, drug dosages and more tests.

Coworkers and friends have been tremendously supportive with offers of help, food and expressions of concern. I am beginning to dread, though, each day, seeing someone approach with the look in their eye of "I wonder how she is doing. I should ask." I am exhausted with answering questions about his progress and mine, yet how can I not? They are all well-meant and heart-felt.

Several people have offered to walk the dogs for me, but that is my therapy. A little bit of routine to keep things seeming normal.

And the dogs are happy to oblige.

Blue sky and night rain

The night rain pattering on my window heralds, according to the weather report, some wintry weather with its attendant traffic jams, school closings, panicked grocery store crowds, etc.

I'm not thinking or worrying about any of that. I am just enjoying the soothing sound that will very shortly lull me to sleep.

The day began with clear skies; as the dogs and I walked out of the house I looked up to see dissolving pale white contrails from the day's earliest flights.

A crow flapped into my line of sight and landed in a neighbor's big honey locust, gripping a piece of food in its talons. It pecked away for a few moments before a brother crow -- showing off the species' thieving DNA -- swooped in and stole the morsel. I think it was a pizza crust. Victim crow clucked harshly and hopped to another branch and I watched their black shapes bob against that pale, but still saturated, December-blue sky.

We walked on and I noticed in a protected area by a neighbor's house, right at the entrance to the park, a forsythia bush that had been fooled by the warm fall weather into pushing out a few bright yellow flowers. They were frozen, but even in their limp shape their color stood out against the red brick wall behind them. I have seen this before. A few years ago, in the street level parking lot behind the Carnegie Museum of Art in Oakland, some ornamental cherry trees lining a sidewalk had decided it was time to bloom, although it was only February. I couldn't resist. I snipped a few branches on our way out and took them home to enjoy in a vase. It was such a tiny thrill to find them there, warm rose centers and pink-white petals, blooming in the February gray.

We pushed on through the park, dogs sniffing, me listening and watching. As we headed down the slope that leads over a little bridge, one of my neighbors' kids was walking up, headed to the middle school on the other side.

He is so cute, I don't know his name but he is very serious, very earnest and quite intelligent. He was wearing a jacket covered by the ubiquitous kid backpack and a cap with the earflaps pulled down and carrying a banjo in a black case.

Holli and Twist pulled toward him and he asked if we were members of the greyhound society. He has asked me this before, so to make things easy, I just said yes. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces and said: "Apparently they are enticed by the alluring scent of my banjo. I have to bring it today for a sound project." And, I didn't quiet get this part, but then he added, "and to prove to some doctors (?) that, yes, there are still people who play the banjo."

I wanted to tell him about Steve Martin, but figured there would be too much explanation involved, for which I did not have time. So I just smiled and then he said: "Well! Enjoy the rest of your walk!" And turned to head up to school.

I had to smile, a big smile. I wonder what it is like to be so young and so smart? So.... almost grownup. He can't be in more than fourth grade or so, but so droll and composed!

Thanks for the smile, sweetheart. You topped off a lovely morning walk that engaged nearly all of my senses. And the memory of you has me smiling again as I listen to the rain against my window.

Keeping normal

My husband and I have often asked each other, since August 2001, when we adopted our first greyhound, Anni, how we ever lived without dogs.

Without, for example, the lovely yellow dog, Holli.

Well, for one thing, there was a bit more

sleep. And a bit more money. We also didn't know the fun, pleasure and joy we were missing. And the new rhythms they would bring to our lives.

I can't say I get a lot of exercise walking my dogs. I'm often a scarecrow, arms spread and lengthened by leashes, with one dog sniffing in one direction, one in another. We stop, go, stop, go. I sometimes try to imagine the worlds they bring into their brains through their noses. But I like focusing on them, on what fascinating things they see, smell and hear. I've learned to go at their pace (Cesar Millan would not approve) and as they investigate their world, I take the opportunity to ponder and observe mine.

My husband has been in the hospital this week. Family, friends and coworkers have been tremendously supportive, offering comfort, coffee dates, dinner, prayers and pet care.

I've turned down the generous offers of dog-walking because it's one thing I can do that is normal and routine.

Tonight I came home late after being at the hospital. It was dark and I made a phone call to my sister Elizabeth before bundling up and heading out with Twist and Holli.

Finally night has become cold -- my finger tips were chilled even through my thick gloves. The moon was a watery white disk faded among slate black clouds streaked with silver. There was a sharp scent of chimney smoke in the air, and, for a change, no owl could be heard hooting.

I like listening to the dogs as much as I enjoy their company. Twist likes to make the occasional snort into a pile of leaves. Holli has a deep-into-her-chest pant. As we walk, their toenails click click along the asphalt of the street.

Home again, both expectantly wait for their post-walk, pre-dinner treat. Inside, we all still wear, ever-so-briefly, the pungent drift of smoke from the cold night air.

Hawk with squirrel

I can't imagine what it was like to live without dogs and without a park just steps from my door.

If I did not live by a park, I never would have learned to recognize the beautiful shagbark hickory, or the gorgeous flowers of the tulip poplar.

In the winter, Carl and I love to sit in the living room and look out over the dense black spread of tree canopy across the street, sometimes covered with snow, sometimes so black against a deep, deep sapphire gray evening sky, sometimes lit by lightning.

I love that the dogs and I can wander in and kick dry leaves, listen to the sounds of jays, nuthatches, thrushes, owls, woodpeckers and yes, crows, because the even the raucous caws of crows tell a story.

I love that water from somewhere deep underground makes a permanent, tiny little stream at one end of the park, just a drizzle really, from the top of one treed slope down to the bottom. It's barely there, now, because it is so covered in leaves, but the flow still ripples, creating a tiny pool that the dogs like to lap from.

I love the contrast between the traffic that zips along the street, always rushing, oblivious and too fast to a destination, and the life in the park, equally oblivious but somehow more ... purposeful?

On Thursday, the dogs and I walked down into the park and immediately off to my left a motion caught my attention. I turned and into my full field of vision a hawk lifted up, a small creature in its talons. Off it flapped, but not too far and I thought if we walked quietly enough we might get close enough to see what it had caught.

Then I heard what sounded like, very far away, a baby crying. It wasn't though, of course not.

Also to my left, in a bare tree, was a squirrel, looking down at us and quietly making that chattering sound that angry squirrels make. Except it was not a rat-a-tat chatter, it was more like the single notes, repeated slowly, over and over.

The squirrel saw us, flipped head up quickly and dived into a hole in the tree. The head poked out and watched us, now silent.

I had to wonder if the small creature had seen its companion taken by the hawk, which we saw, again, lift up from the leaf litter with a lifeless shape in its grip, and flap away to another end of the park.

Another hawk glided behind it.

I though about how days start and end, with the expectation that life will continue on as normal, uneventful. Thankfully, most days, it does.

We continued on our way, kicking the dry leaves and smelling the cinnamon scent of fall.

Short

As in, the weekend is too... short.

A Saturday morning wasted was balanced by a lovely Sunday morning breakfast with friends in Fineview, high about Heinz Field.

The neighborhood's name is utterly self-descriptive.

Good girlfriend Ellen lives there and invited a bunch up for pancakes. We all supplied the rest: Mimosas, quiche, turkey bacon, salad and company. Ellen's house is a couple doors up from this charming cottage.

The day was gorgeous initially, then turned cloudy, but we all had a fine time chatting and noshing.

My friend Maria picked me up with another friend, Margi, in tow and as we drove in we started complaining about Steelers traffic and how getting up early had caused us to miss our morning ritual of coffee and the Sunday newspaper.

Maria told a funny story about her mom, who disliked a particular sister-in-law. Said sister-in-law once invited Maria's family for a weekend visit. Maria's mom, not shy abaout stating her opinions, said "She wants us to come up? Well she can go to hell!"

We had a laugh over that and then as soon as the complaints about Ellen making us miss the Sunday paper bubbled up, immediately we all said, "Well, she can go to hell!"

;)

Looking forward to snow

Yes, it's true. I want snow.

I have been coming around to fall as my life heads in that direction itself. There is nothing more deeply, brilliantly azure than the afternoon sky of a fall day in Western Pennsylvania.

The reds and golds of dying leaves are even more vivid for having, as they assemble in a flyaway carpet on the ground, the rich smell of cinnamon and nutmeg.

The slanting light of a low sun warms less powerfully than the rays of mid July, yet the light feels just as good on your skin.

All that said, I am lookig forward to the quiet of snow. I want how it muffles sound and sparkles in the sunlight. I want it because the noise of the snowplows is a background hum, like the buzz of a lawnmower on a summer afternoon.

Right now, now, my back yard is decorated with leaves. The pin oak on the slope likes to hold to a few, even, through the winter, and sprinkle them down in the spring. They get raked up a few times in the fall and dumped under the rhododendrons. In the spring, they get raked into the garden beds and blanketed with mulch.

I like the contrast of the gold and brown leaves against the grass, still green. And I enjoy kicking my feet through piles of leaves, listening to them rustle. Twist has been known to fearlessly wade into a pile of leaves and jump five feet in the air because something in said pile startled her greyhound brain. Snow never startles her though. She loves it an dives right in.

The leaf-filled picture is from the park by my house.

And yes, shortly after first snow, I will be looking forward to spring.

Time

There is, among many, a great scene in the movie "Blade Runner," toward the end. Rutger Hauer's character is dying as Harrison Ford's character watches. Its in a deep, depressingly rainy, decaying and dark city. Hauer's character, as a replicant who has developed human emotions, aches to think that all he has felt, learned, touched, loved and experienced, will be lost "as tears, in the rain."

It's hard to describe what those words mean to me. They mean everything.

Today, the day broke to a turquoise sky, to carpets of gold and bronze, to the sounds of .... leaf blowers. (We interrupt this reverie! Attention: Please put on your noise-cancelling headphones!)

Yet, it was all my morning, my day. I watched the dogs put their noses to piles of leaves, I listened to leaf blowers and to football games on TV. I sat outside in the slanting afternoon sun and picked a November bouquet out of herbs and flowers luckily untouched by frost.

A tear to remember. Holli, evening walk in the park. She wades into the stream, into a small pool, dips her needle nose down and drinks.

She finishes and a few drops fall from her nose. The pond's surface ripples and I see dark shapes, linear and uneven. The ripples lose energy and the surface becomes still, the reflected images clearer. The still mirror becomes a canvas for the bare trees.

I think this is the meaning of tears in the rain. To notice, and to remember, the beauty of the most ordinary of moments.

Music of the days of the week

Finally, we are in Indian summer.

The moon tonight was a misty crescent sliver and I listened to the slick whoosh of traffic on a rare evening walk. Then kids and parents cheering, screaming and laughing at school ballfields, the "poom!" of foot hitting soccer ball, owl who-whoing and me enjoying being alone with my thoughts, emptying my brain of the day's tension.

Walking down Mayfair at the end of the walk, dusk descending and the traffic noise gone was as good as taking a very deep breath, closing eyes and just leaning back.

This week, half over, has been a good one for recording sights and sounds.

Monday, I experienced the doctor's office shuffle. I sat, slightly dozing, in the waiting room. Office in a new building with lovely light and view. All patients spoke to the receptionist in quiet tones, she responding cheerfully.

What impressed on my brain was the shuffling kind of sound feet make at the doctor's office. No one moves fast, no one has the expectation of speed or efficiency (tho my doctor's practice is a model for both) and so the rather forlorn attitude of supplicants, hoping for attention sooner rather than later. All conversation, with the exception of the banter among the office staff in their fortress, is muted.

Tuesday, early, I turned off the beeping alarm, pulled on a bathrobe and began the morning's light chores. Pick up paper, turn on coffee, fill pets' dishes. Get ready to walk the greyhounds.

I had just gotten up and was peering outside from the front door to scope out the newspaper's location on the driveway. A house sparrow perched on the railing around the front stoop, chirping away in the grey morning. Twist heard it, too, ears perched forward, nose close to the window.

The little bird chittered away for a few seconds, then flitted off. In the grey morning, it sounded so clear, so sweet.

I like those moments, especially to start the day. They are like anchors. When you feel as if you are flailing in the demands of the moment, it is lovely to have a calming place to check in to.

Flat butt day

Today was a flat butt day.

What, inquiring minds may or may not wish to know, is a flat butt day? (Clever, perceptive minds may already have a clue.)

A flat butt day is a work day whose end finds your butt having been, for seven or eight hours, in near-continuous intimate contact with your desk chair, or other chairs your butt was required to kiss. Followed by a three-hour computer class. I believe the picture is clear here.

Not good for butt, body or soul.

I took the T home and walked the 1.3 miles home to move blood in my veins, air deep into my lungs and shake the overload from my brain.

I like the pleasant distraction of walking past the shops, peering into windows at bridal dresses, purses, fabric bolts, jewelry, purses, late evening coffee drinkers, garden pretties and people chatting in bars and restaurants. 

As I leave the business district, there is still the busy rush of traffic and white brightness of streetlights against the night sky.

Down a hill, I can hear the high school band practicing.

Pretty soon, I'm striding down my street and the night gets quiet. There is a stray sound of piano being practiced, a dog barking, the sound of my own feet, encased in thick tennis shoes, thudding softly against asphalt.

Finally, a deep breath.

Home.

Owl, again

My neighbor Masha, a young native of Ukraine, met up with me a the 36A stop from Downtown to Mt. Lebanon late this afternoon.

She had been off for a few weeks for a trip to Paris with her husband and then on to Ukraine to visit her parents. We talked about her trip, (her first time to Paris and she adored it) and other things, including whether I had any book recommendations.

Sadly, having checked out Jayne Anne Phillips' "Lark and Termite," I could only report that I had started it a couple times and had been unable to finish. Not for lack of interest, but for lack of time. I returned it, overdue. I hope to get back to it someday.

When I am bereft of meaty reading material, and bereft of time, I return to old favorites that do not require a lot of concentration.

My "Peanuts" collection is a great source of non heavy-duty-brain-cell-sucking-energy-before-bedtime-reading-if-I-don't-have-anything-else-going-on reading. I love Charlie Brown!

I like to retreat, too, to old favorites. This week I have been re-reading "Owl," by William Service. It is a lovely story of a small wild creature, never a human pet, living its life within a human family.

I like it, in part, because I have been listening to the Owl(s) in the park by our house. Two weeks ago, at 3 a.m., I woke up (being past 50, that happens a lot). In fact, an owl woke me up, Who-Who-Who-Who-Who-ing. I crawled out of bed, poured some milk or wine, crawled back in and just listened for about a half hour in deep night.

Tonight, at dusk, the dogs and I went out for our evening walk. As we strolled in the gathering gray, Owl hooted and I spotted him, high up in the park canopy, a dark, distinctive shape in the fading light.

He hooted, his horned head bobbing forward and back, forward and back.

We stood below, me (at least) very attentive. He saw us; the tilt of that horned head changed and then wings extended and he flapped, slowly, away.

As we walked up the street out of the park, I listed to his call, and not much further away in the park soccer field, the hooting of parents cheering on their kids with calls of "good game."

And all the while in the background, the crickets chirred, really softly, marking the end of the season.

Life and art

Art.

You know it when you see it. You could "do" it too, if all it meant was splashing paint on a canvas that you called "untitled number 12."

Hard to teach. In fact, not teachable. It's only possible to send the artists down a path, or suggest one to them.

Life, experience, practice, repetition, experience (again) define the rest.

So, now that I am in art school classes for Web Design, I am at the beginning of art with people who could be my grandchildren.

After a long day (of noncreative activity) at work, another three hours of crowded class, here is my definition of art.

Sitting on the front porch. Watching the trees, black silhouettes against a deep grey sky. Listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets. A wind bringing rain. Breathing in and remembering that I have the control and the power (both such wrong words) to make my day(s) more creative and less reactive.

The trick is to remember that it is you, not the job, that, who, has value.

Closer to Heaven?

In the Downtown Pittsburgh ghost town that is G-20, there were still a few civilians, clued in and clueless alike, populating the streets.

Police, police cars and security officers were everywhere. Sidewalks were blocked and shops were closed.

And yet! Starbucks in ripped-up Market Square was open. As I walked back to the office with my small skim latte, a passed a tiny old woman walking hesitantly across the Boulevard of the Allies. When I reached the office door, the security guards asked me if I knew where 21 West Park was.

It's not a where, it's a what. It's a bus route. Tiny old woman had asked them, and they, not knowing, sent her along without an answer. I left my latte and wallet in their hands, sprinted after her and brought her back -- turns out she could barely speak -- scribbling to her on her pad that the buses had been rerouted and I would take her to her stop, once I knew where it was.

Well, the guards ushered her into the lobby, I went upstairs, found the route, came back down, explained to her it was up the street only to learn from her hand motions that she expected me to drive her.

Much pointing and gesticulating ensued, including her mouthing that I was crazy. I kept trying to explain that her stop was just up the street but she was having none of it.

Finally I wrote on her pad: "Do you want me to walk you to the bus stop or not?"

She agreed. By the time we had gotten halfway up the block, I pointed out to her where the buses were stopping. She had a flash of recognition, waved me off and trotted ahead.

Hope she figured out the stops for the rest of the weekend.

Anyway tiny old woman. You're welcome.

Sights to see

Earlier this year I posted a list of online sites that are beautifully designed, gorgeous all around and last, but most definitely not least, easy to navigate.

In the course of doing class homework last night, I was introduced to another one, Core77. It skews too young for me but a quick skim really had me interested. I love the idea of industrial design, because I am always looking at things that we use and dreaming up ways I could make them better.

Yet there are other sights to see. The entire world is not online. This morning walking the dogs, I saw a young, antlered buck in a neighbor's front yard. He saw us, the dogs had their noses to the ground and so there we were. I hustled us all along and turned to see him, in the morning sunlight, treading down the street, toward the park. Thank goodness for the lightness of early morning traffic. We consider them pests because they eat our plants, but still, they share the planet with us.

The September sky is another sight to see. The light is starting to turn toward its "opposite of February" slant, that is to say, waning. In February, the same light is "waxing," you can feel when it is on your face that it is young light, growing more vibrant with each day to the brightness we will enjoy in summer.

It was beautiful tonight when I got off the bus. Deep midnight blue scattered with stars and thin silver gray clouds. The only thing February light is missing is the sleepy buzz of September crickets.

Summer night

I love the sounds of late summer.

Nights have been so cool and, oddly, the days seem to be getting shorter much earlier than normal.

Here's what I heard in Bird Park tonight and last night: Two owls, hooting at each other. Drowsy crickets. A blue jay, flapping above in the twilight, singing. Chirps and chatters all around.

Summer gets so quiet as it winds down. In fact, it matches the beginning of the season, quiet. Late June, July and through mid -August are the noisiest times of the season, but living creatures seem to know that as the light changes, the days grow short, as does their time as well.

Is there a human analogy? I think so. We all wind down and make less noise as our seasons on this planet circle to a close. But we pay so little attention to each other in these matters, so that when those near us are winding down, we are distracted, frustrated, rarely present to the moment.

Life is so busy, so stressful. I'm glad I have the chance, everyday, to walk outside and listen to the other creatures of the world going through the circles of their time here.

Wisdom

My friend Sharon and I went out for wine and appetizers after work today, talking, along the way to the bar, about family, work, life.

Sharon and I have known each other for more than 20 years. And have been working together for the same amount of time.

So we share a history, reference points that need no explaining. We each know what the other is talking about.

In that way we are like family, which is nothing more than groups of people who share a history, except it's on the basis of blood relation, not life circumstance.

It's interesting to think about that kind of relationship in the context of the where Sharon and I work. A newspaper called the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

A newspaper, more than most businesses, relies on the institutional wisdom, the family wisdom, if you will, that is shared among the reporters, editors and photographers who tell the stories for it each day.

As you tell stories about a place over the years, you acquire a knowledge of people. People who have influence, people who simply know things, people who are empathetic enough or opinionated enough that they can talk about many things.

This is good and it is bad. Good, because this knowledge gives your reporting breadth, bad, because after a time, you begin to rely on the same people. You end up with boilerplate.

No matter. If you live in a community and read a newspaper, in print or online, think about the work of the people whose names are attached to the stories, the photographs, the videos. They are repositories of received, conventional and family wisdom. And they have value because they are associated with a newspaper, something that has a cachet as a place for information.

A place where people call people. Ask questions. Call more people. Ask more questions. Sit. Think. Talk to others face to face. Condense information. Write. Re-write. Make more phone calls. Answer an editor's questions.

Then, and only then. Tell a story.

And then:

Think about it overnight. Come up with a follow up story idea asking all the questions you missed the first time.

If newspapers could download their reporters' and photographers' brains, that would be so much more valuable than keeping their contacts.

A contact to a new person is just a phone number or an e-mail address. Not a relationship.

And relationships are formed in families, of blood or circumstance, whose essential component is the rich medium of human contact.

Eyes, mouths, ears, noses, fingers, sharing contact, has got to be the finest technology of all. Because, pretty much, there's not much room for miscommunication.

Around the block

Late Monday night, after a late dinner.

I can't go to bed on a full stomach and it's a perfectly cool and lovely night for a walk. Around the block I go.

Starting with a pink hoodie around my shoulders, ending with the hoodie wrapped around my waist in the perfectly lovely, cool summer night.

Cicadas and crickets chirping and thrumming and an ethereal crescent moon, Mars red, sliding down out of my view behind trees, teasing me with its sublime shape and color, in the northwestern sky. I am so distracted by the mystery of it that the night's constellations elude my gaze entirely.

Around the block. There is a home that recently sold that has a stunning elm tree in the front yard; it's dripline must be at least 100 feet in diameter. To even be in this tree's vicinity, in full summer leaf, is to feel as if you are under the roof of a church. The real estate sign is gone, windows open to show bare rooms and as I walk past, I hope to myself that the new owners will keep the tree, not cut it down.

Home again and the dogs and I go out. 10 p.m. Time for bed. The best part of late summer is being sung to sleep by the insects, cooled by the fresh air, sheltered by the night's stars.

In fact, I think night time is the best part of late summer days.

August, after

Thank you, Counting Crows, for the inspiration for the title of this post.

I love August.

The crickets and cicadas buzz and sing at night, having taken over the night air from the fireflies of June and July. The sun is moving lower in the sky and there is a sense of gathering in the world. A gathering of last enjoyments of summer -- even though the warm days will last another six to eight weeks or so. A gathering up in the mind of preparation for winter's dark months. A gathering up of all that has been enjoyed -- quiet talks at dusk, dogs snoozing on the summer lawn, the pleasures (and frustrations) of the summer garden, the sun on bare skin, the cool sparkle of a clear pool-- and the anticipation of enjoying it all again next year.

August.

I think the year should be counted by halves. March to August and September to February. It is a richer way of marking time, and more subtle too, than the artificial observance of a calendar year's passing.


A musical ending. Some years ago, my sister Suzanne presented Carl with a CD by Pete Yorn. It rested, unlistened to, for a while. We have recently pulled it out of the pile, and have been enjoying it so much. He has a new release coming out in September with Scarlett Johansson.

So, we're late to the party, but thanks Pete Yorn. "Music for the Morning After" is tremendous.

Rhythms

There's a small bird's nest, fallen from its perch, sitting in a neighbor's yard up the street. It's been resting there for a few days this week, tiny branches woven into a tiny brown wreath and studded with tufts of white fur. I think it could be Holli's fur, she's shedding so much these days.

I noticed the nest at the beginning of the week, lying on the neighbors' lawn, with a soft indentation for eggs. The dogs sniffed and we walked on.

The weather has been tumultuous, so the nest must have been blown out of a tree during a storm. I thought about it. A home. Parents. Babies, fledglings, new families.

Life on earth. The smallest things reveal how splendid and beautiful it is.

What you want

Today's picture: Bags of basmati rice at Par Ganj market in New Delhi, taken on my last day in India this spring. Lots more food vendors here than in Chandni Chowk. Veggies spread out under tents, but so many flies, and hot. Vendors sitting among their mangoes and everything else. I like how they are sitting on what look like old tins of olive oil. That is so India. In making do, appearance becomes special. Basmati is a staple and it was good: light and a toothy texture. I haven't bought it yet here, but in the fall I'll try some Indian dishes to keep us warm.

Talked to my mother-in-law this evening, who related the slightly sad story of a very dear friend who is living in an assisted living community. Joanne, mom's friend, had not wanted to leave her home of 50 years, but clearly couldn't keep living there either.

Joanne had a stroke a few years ago, and, as you can imagine, her health didn't improve much. She's overweight, widowed and, after the stroke isolated. But she's hale enough not to need to be in a nursing home.

Joanne's story made me think of how passively some people lead their lives, always waiting for something to happen, for someone to help them. Joanne had my mother-in-law as a friend because they were neighbors who had babies at the same time. They stayed in touch after Mom moved (not far) and were part of a larger extended family of neighbors and friends. Yet Joanne still managed to be isolated after her husband's death. She seemed to have no skills for active socializing. Neighbors became friends, but that had nothing to do with any initial effort on her part.

When her husband was still alive and their kids were grown, their leisure activity was to go on cruises and eat a lot. A lot. Ray was tremendously overweight.

I'm sure they enjoyed the vacations, but I never remember hearing anything else from Mom about them except that they went on cruises.

Everyone ages differently. My mother-in-law still travels to family reunions, walks at the mall, has friends from church and from the old neighborhoods (like Joanne). She lives alone but close to my sister-in-law. Tends to mention people who have died a little more than I'd like to hear when we visit, but that happens when you get old. She does have her limits. At 79, she won't travel by plane anymore, though she talks about how she'd like to visit Europe again.

So between two women, you have different paths, though even Mom, I think, is of a generation whose members didn't push, because it was unseemly. You accepted whatever answer you were given and that was that. I'm generalizing, I'm sure, but I wonder if the Boomer generation, with its "Don't trust anyone over 30" mantra may have long ago been on to something. I don't entirely agree with the lack of respect for authority implied in that mantra, but I do believe more and more as I grow older that things that our elders would have taken on faith were set in stone don't necessarily have to be.

It's funny to be writing about what Mom had to say. This afternoon, Carl and I went to see "Julie & Julia." And Julia Child turns out to be just the kind of woman and wife who wouldn't settle for just being a wife, or just a woman without any passions. She didn't set out to be a great cook, but she wanted to do SOMETHING and in searching for what interested her, she fell in love with cooking. But she did the searching. She didn't wait for that passion to come to her.

After the movie, we stopped at Mitchell's Fish Market for drinks and appetizers. Carl wanted Oysters Rockefeller, recently taken off the menu (at a seafood restaurant? Why?!?) and was grousing.

"Why don't you just ask if they'll make them for you?" I told him. He did, and the chef did.

So how hard is it to go after what you want? You just have to know that you can.

I Wish

I wish life had a Control Z.

If life did, I would study French and Art History in college.

I would find a job in New York, love it and love living there.

I would go for my Master's degree right after my Bachelor's.

I would have kept up with ballet and been a dancer.

I would learn a LOT earlier to disregard worrying. To not stress. To not care, mostly at all, about what others think about me. (Side story: Job interview, 1978, after graduation from Ohio State University J-school. Some newspaper editor type. Asks me what I want to do. Me, I say, I think I'd like to try the Foreign Service. Newspaper editor type: Well, that concerns me. Blah blah, can I be committed to journalism? Me: Fumbling and embarrassed for not seeming committed to SOMEONE ELSE'S career path. "Well, uh, I, uh, oh, um." Thanks pal. Nice life lesson and way to just have your cake and eat it too at the expense of a naive 21-year-old.

Jerk.

However, no Control Z on life. So, I decided tonight, while walking the greyhounds, no more wanting something else, as in some vague "What I want from life."

I think I am going to stop wanting. It is too tiring. Rather, I accept that opportunities were missed (how is that for the weasel-i-est of phrasing: my fault? parents fault? advisors' fault?) and now is the time to just be prepared for opportunity. Be prepared in all of the things that I wanted (except dance, too old) and if opportunity arises, great. If not, I like what I do, am paid well for it and shall be satisfied with that.

And that, I think, is a real feat.

Half a mushroom, or, expectations, great and otherwise

Vacation. My husband and I visited my Mom for a few days earlier this month. Quiet, except for the rattle of turnpike noise nearby, and relaxing. Sister-in-law Edye joined us for an afternoon and dinner and told a funny story about her son, Stephen.

He was home, she left out the ingredients for a new meatloaf recipe and suggested he put it together. It had more than the usual amount of veggies.

So, Steve makes the meatloaf, it's delish and then Edye looks in the fridge and sees a package of mushrooms torn open. Recipe called for half a cup but there's barely a dent made in the package. Plastic shrink wrap ripped open and maybe a couple mushrooms removed.

Edye asks Steve about it. Sure, he says. Recipe called for "half a mushroom."

Mom asks son to cook. Mom's been cooking for years and knows how to read a recipe. Young-brained male son willing to try, maybe not so careful reading recipe.

Result? Open package of mushrooms in the fridge with a half a mushroom taken out, Mom totally amused by the whole thing and a family who gets to hear the story over again, and laugh along with her.

Family lore is born.

We ask others to do things for us all the time, or ask questions, or make gestures, based on what WE know. Disappointment, frustration, or best of all, humor, results when requests are responded to based on what the other person knows.

As I've gone through life, and been disappointed by my own expectations and how I've perceived they should have been responded to, (apologies for the clunky syntax), I've also learned that expectations need to be moderated. Especially if you don't have too much control over how your requests or directions will be followed. Or, maybe more important, sometimes people just do things differently. It's not better, not worse, just different.

Really, what's the diff between half a mushroom and half a cup of them? In regards to meatloaf, that is.

The picture, and I hope I haven't repeated it, is of a tiny little courtyard fountain in Pittsburgh, between Boulevard of the Allies and First Avenue. There are Japanese maples and hostas and a few hanging baskets and contemporary wire benches. It is a narrow place, between a parking garage and an historic building. And nicely unexpected. I love walking through it on my summer fountain walks. It is cool, quiet and quite peaceful.

Right here in Downtown Pittsburgh.

Nanny States

I have been reading about the turmoil in Tehran and throughout Iran following the recent election in the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. I have also seen the video of the young woman shot by the paramilitaries in Tehran.

Tehran is supposed to be a beautiful city. And Iran, a complicated place in Asia. Muslim, but not Arab. I would love to visit someday.

I don't know anyone from Iran. In fact, I have no aquaintances whatsoever in Iran, Iraq and/or all points in that direction.

I admire the idea behind the protests. What is the point of an election if the results are not fair, transparent and public? What is the point of an election with hanging chads?

Tough to be an American and criticize the results when our own recent history is not so stellar.

Yet

As one single American, I wish for a peaceful and just resolution to the turmoil in Iran.

Turning guns and batons on your own people is wrong, and, if you take it to its logical conclusion, quite stupid. That goes for North Korea, Zimbabwe, Myanmar and others.

Don't kill your citizens. Let them speak. If you cannot do that, your silence speaks volumes.

Pittsburgh and G-20

The Group of 20 will meet here in September. I guess the buzz-o-sphere has been all a-twitter about it. There were letters to the editor in the Post-Gazette shortly after the announcement from local readers complaining about the snickering in the Washington press corps after the announcement was made.

How boring.

When I first moved to Pittsburgh in the early 1980s, and then moved back in the mid 1980s, the city was exiting its first Renaissance. It was much more beautiful than it had been 20 years previously. The air was cleaner, new buildings had gone up (unfortunately at the expense of some beautiful old ones) the sports teams (except for the Penguins) were winning.

Cleveland, on the other hand, was just starting to see a boost in development in the Flats, but Downtown was dying. Higbees, Halles, May Co. were dying and/or about to disappear. The Browns and Indians were losers and played in drafty Municipal Stadium, which at least had the cachet of having been built as an Olympic venue, rather than an ugly cookie cutter multi-use stadium like Three Rivers here or Riverfront in Cincinnati.

Cleveland had the Rapid. Pittsburgh still had creaky trolleys. Cleveland had a dirty river, Pittsburgh had three of them.

For all the similarities, there was a lot of snide comparison in Pittsburgh about the Mistake on the Lake, and then, in the mid to late 80s, Pittsburgh was named one of America's most livable cities, which prompted tons of provincial crowing. Cleveland, feeling inferior, began a thankfully brief, and incredibly embarrassing PR campaign that had this slogan to offer:

"If New York's the Big Apple, Cleveland's a Plum."

Why? There was and is no basis for comparison. Why would you put yourself in that ridiculous position? Pittsburgh is the same, provincial and insecure and hence all the crowing, and indignation about being dissed, over G-20.

I like it here. I've lived in a lot of places and I think the near-Midwest, I guess you could call it, really has a lot going for it. Low cost of living, proximity to the East Coast. Good pro and college sports for the most part. Museums, bike trails, lots of great state and local parks. Nice, if underused, airports. If we had good inter-city train service, we'd be set. And Pittsburgh really needs light rail transit from the airport to downtown and from Downtown to the university center in Oakland. That's been talked about for at least as long as I've lived here, if not longer.

Still though, pretty here and pretty in Cleveland. We should support each other, not snicker. We both have a lot of great amenities and truthfully, it's a lot nicer living in a smaller city than a larger one. People are friendly and mostly more laid back than those who live amid the crowds of New York, Washington and Boston. Mostly.

I think the world and the Washington press corps will be impressed with Pittsburgh. If we did have a light rail from the airport to Downtown, the Romare Bearden mural at the top of this post is the first thing they would see once they got off the train Downtown.

I never fail to be absorbed by how it shows history, the passage of time and beautifully uses the repetition of shapes and patterns to make its point.

This station will be closed soon for two years as construction continues on a light-rail spur to the North Side and the mural will be taken down for repairs. I'll be looking forward to seeing it again in its old spot. And hoping that new eyes will see it, too.

Memorial Day 2009

Two things related to remembering.

Carl and I drove to Elyria this weekend to visit Mom and Mary. Arrived late afternoon on Friday and got up early Saturday morning to go to the West Side Market in Cleveland. What a place! So old world.

The main market building, with beautiful convex tiled ceilings, a minaret type post at one corner and crowds bustling about, is an adventure in crowds, sights and smells. Meat vendors sell sausage, pigs feet, apple cured bacon, seafood, pasties and sandwiches. Each shop inside is marked by a glazed terra cotta marker. G12, H6.

We all split up, C and I right off stopped for a brat with sauerkraut after strolling through the produce market. It was all too tempting. Bought too much and so overstuffed the car on the way home today. Berries, melon, pineapple, chiles rellenos, fried rice. Dangerous, dangerous! We also bought fixings for a delicious dinner last night. Fresh pasta, sauce and sausage. Edye came over and we had a lovely meal.

On the way out of the market, I noticed a small group of demonstrators, standing vigil against the wars -- if that's what you can call them -- in Iraq and Afghanistan. One was a Vietnam vet. I took some video but what I emailed from my cell phone  is about two seconds long. Basically, they are there every day, to remind people of the sacrifices and cost of our efforts in those places.

Second thing. Listening to the radio on the way home, in range of Pittsburgh's WDVE FM station, the DJ played a request for Richie Havens' "Handsome Johnny," anthem to young soldiers who go to fight old mens' wars. I had never heard it before.

A third thing. I remember my Dad and my brother, Chris. Dad was gone just before Memorial Day in 1995 and Chris not too long after in 2005.

 Your loss always makes me melancholy this time of year. We had a wonderful dinner out with Dad at Jim's before he died and a great Memorial Day party with Chris and Edye six weeks before Chris, too was gone. I miss both of you more than I can say.

And to all others: Thank you. And I wish you all were home and had never been away.

Pix and places

India photo first: I have so many, I'm just going to keep inserting them. This is me with Kim's friend Deepa Shah, during our outing to the fascinating Chandni Chowk bazaar in Delhi. I have my Flip camera, the better to film Kim, who was in the rickshaw behind us. Deepa was a great guide! She negotiated the rickshaw fares, took us in to the Sikh temple and found a hole in the wall snack shop for us to grab a delicious bite in. As we ate, I asked her for the name of the place. She looked around, shrugged and said (with a laugh) "I don't know, but it's in all the guidebooks." All I can say is, as you enter Chandni Chowk from the Red Fort, it's not too far in, and on your left. Good luck!

Onward

I work with creative people and we like to share links to cool sites. Most, if not all, are design oriented and I hope to become more adept at finding well written and edited sites. Here is a compilation of design, writing and quirkiness (in no particular order, except the first one, Mysterion, which I just came across today, is most definitely quirky).  Maggie Taylor is awesome! And the Ron Morgan site is truly elegant.

Mysterion

Maggie Taylor

Sappi

Ron Morgan 

And here are two Amy sites: Fabric artist Amy Butler and photographer Amy Parrish. AB is in Granville, Ohio (beautiful home of Denison University) and AP is not too far away, about 30? miles to the west in Columbus, (home of my alma mater, The Ohio State University). 

Amy Butler

Amy Parrish

Finally, this is the What is Blik site, where you can buy neat, fun, elegant, playful and cheesy decals for the walls in your home. Cheaper than painting! And, speaking as someone whose dining room has been a mess for months because I've taken on a painting project that I only get back too  intermittently: FASTER!

On the bus

By way of prelude, I am trying to start every morning with a deep, centering breath – not when I wake up, because that's usually "Oh crap, I slept past the alarm" – but when the girls and I finally get out into the park for our morning walk. This time of year, the centering breath is easy because all is fresh and green and birds are singing and the park is, but for the bird song, quiet. So we walk and I listen and breathe and try to prepare myself for the day. Do your best. Be kind and patient. Listen and be thoughtful. And try to keep that cranky, critical, judgmental person that I live with on the sidelines.

It's a good exercise. It doesn't always work fully, but it does have the effect of making me a mindful person for the day. I'm learning to shake off crankiness (mostly, some crankiness is good, and after all part of who I am!) and remember that when irritation creeps in that's a good signal to stop and think.

So, why the prelude?

Took the bus to work today; it leaves the bottom of Mayfair at about 7:50 and gets Downtown 30 minutes later. Plenty of time to ready the paper, watch people or drowse. Usually I start reading the Wall Street Journal but if I haven't had enough sleep, I put my head against the window.

Today I had good coffee and despite sleeping late, wasn't sleepy. I sat in the back of the bus, higher up than the front seats, and watched the traffic inch alongside us on Banksville Road. I saw these drivers (A lot of them in Honda Civics):

One woman steering with her knees and filing her nails.

One man in a crisp white shirt and tan khakis and tie talking on a cellphone.

One man in blue scrubs going over a stapled report.

One woman driving and holding a Starbucks cup talking to her passenger, also holding a Starbucks cup.

One woman eating Yoplait yogurt.

One woman with a cell phone in her lap.

Another man in scrubs, just driving.

All I could see was from shoulders to laps to knees.

So, what I'm getting back to is, my first immediate reaction is: "Why is no one paying attention? Why so many cars with only one person in them? Why aren't you people on the bus (where passengers also are variously occupied, but at least the driver isn't)?

Then, well, it's none of my business. I wish it weren't so, but, not my call.

Is that wimpy? Pragmatic?

Perhaps the better question is why is there  not a better public transportation system in the United States. And what, besides using the one I have, can I do about it.

How's that for 180 degrees from start to finish? 

A last word, I hope to have a new camera soon. This blog seems so incomplete without photographs. There are some especially beautiful flowers, leaves and fungus in the park. Not to mention two beautiful greyhounds.

Spring quarter snapshots

May has been exceptionally beautiful this year. Azaleas, tulips, iris, daffodils all have been brilliant. And such cool weather. The season has been more fall than spring with grey skies, chilly days and rain, or at least the promise of it and garish white,slanting sunlight

I'm bereft without my camera. This evening in the park, I saw an elegant, plate-like fungus growing in a rotted-out hole in a tree. It had broadly ruffled edges and a creamy white concave surface speckled with brown. I wanted to photograph it.

Why? I have digital volumes of photographs of beautiful flowers and scenes that sit, unopened, unexamined, uncaptioned mostly forgotten, on my computer, on Shutterfly, on Picasa.

I am a digital hoarder. Perhaps the best camera is my mind. There, I can sum up any image at will, caption and context included.  Truthfulness is a whole other matter, given the unreliability of memory. But, it's all I've got.

The Ohio State alumni magazine came the other day, and it included a package on memories of High Street. Horrible, ugly layout. But so fun to read the descriptions of places that once were so alive to me. Pearl Alley. Oar House. The Castle. Quisno's (the original, and I worked there). The student union, in its beautiful mid-century terrazo floor and bronze stair rail glory, before being uglified. I remember a gyro place  and a record store on North High, plus a really tiny hole-in-the-wall jewelry store near where Lane Pharmacy was. (I still have a necklace I bought there.) The Blue Danube. Larry's. Thirsty I. Can't believe some of those places are still around. 

My best memory is of my best friend, Heidi, and I, sitting on a curb one spring quarter not too long before graduation, watching High Street traffic go by, elbows on our knees and just talking talking talking. Somewhere by where the movie theater was.

We had our whole lives ahead of us. It was so lovely to be young.

Humble Pie

OK, before we get to tonight's subject matter, can I (and I am sure I write for so many!) just say how utterly exhausted I am by having to join a site seemingly every time I want information on the Web? This is where the Internet will fail. I have index cards, thickly covered with scribbled user names and passwords, that are my online life. What if I ever lose them? (Reason for rant: Found an old friend on Spoke. Can I just email her from there? No, have to join, download Outlook, blah blah. Joined, then remembered. I have Heidi's phone number. Easy. Pick up phone. Dial. Talk. Or leave message.)

Screw you, Spoke and all your ilk!

Oh, and my password?

Its: p29rsdfanr9q9qq8ds87t233s;vjss/fldgnqhzh;a/rmtrgaroty.

In case anyone asks.

Deep breaths.

What was driven home to me in India, and which I did not address nearly enough, was, and is, an awareness of the poverty of my knowledge about the history of the rest of the world. I did mention it briefly in an earlier post, and have found, now that I am back, I have a real interest and desire to learn India's history.

But it isn't just travel that opens your eyes to your own ignorance. It takes only a bit of observation of the world around you.

One example. Dogs and I are walking this evening, and, now that the days are longer, we dally, to make up for all those short strolls in the dead of winter. A miniscule glint of spring-leaf green, swaying, catches my eyes as we enter the park. Hanging by an invisible thread is an iridescent, tiny caterpillar, trying, I think, to pull itself up along this invisible thread, swaying all the while in the most delicate breath of a breeze. 

This creature curls and pulls itself up, again and again, then stops, seemingly exhausted. Being human, I stop to watch (eyeglasses resting down at the bottom of my nose). Then, again being human, I interfere. I pick up a small twig and touch it to the green swayer.

No. Get away, its body language says. I drop the twig, watch for a few more moments and the girls (most patient beasts!) and I walk away, leaving this beautiful small creation to its task.

What was this little creature and what was it doing? I have no idea, and multiply that by so much and the sum is both awe-inspiring and embarrassing. More math: Multiply me by billions and you have a sum that must be quite a negative number for our planet. The beasts and the bugs live only as nature programs them. They have no greed, lust or passion. Only an imperative to continue on. Blessedly, they have no capacity for questioning it.

And here we are, living among these survivors, not questioning, but demanding accommodation. With our wonderful brains, I would think that we would be the ones who could accommodate our habits to our planet-mates.

If you've read along this far, you might appreciate this article by Leon Kreitzman that appeared recently in The New York Times. He (much as I dislike the word) deconstructs how warming changes the food chain from bottom to top, in a very small section of it.

Observe and report. If we all pay more attention, perhaps we all will take more care.

Welcome back!

Well. I have been busy catching up to "la vie quotiedienne" while frenzying myself at work writing a main piece and sidebar for the paper's Sunday Magazine section about my trip to India. I wrote it, then rewrote it and somehow felt I was not capturing the essence of my adventure as well as I did here. After a last rewrite, I think it turned out well, but the process was exhausting. (Update: Published articles on May 2. Got good feedback and only a couple negative emails. Had a voicemail from a woman who called from India  to thank my for  capturing her country so well. Wow. Thank you! And I wish you had left a phone number or email). But only an OK job. I wrote what I saw, with benefit of tour book prep work, not good background.

Here is the link

Should I have the opportunity for such a trip again, (and I plan to) I would work harder at my photography. Kim and I talked about this a bit while I was there. Digital cameras make it almost too easy; you don't have to pay as much attention to lighting, framing, composition. Just snap, review and if you've got it wrong, delete and try again. About my old Canon SLR, which began acting up on the trip Mom and I took to Paris in 2006: I miss the solid chunk kind of sound it made when the shutter button is pressed. I could feel it, so solid and firm, like the sound of a door in a well-made car slamming shut. The sound of every tiny part fitting together solidly.

I still have the Canon. Carl bought it for me years ago as a present and I have enjoyed using it, if not lugging it around, for all that time. I took it to a repair shop on the North Side after the Paris trip and, at first, it appeared that the only remedy needed was new batteries. It worked fine after that for a while, but then the shutter button again began to refuse to engage.

I hate the thought of giving it up, but I will take it back for one more shot at repairs. It's a dying technology (no doubt to be resurrected in 20 years, just like vinyl records and turntables are being resurrected today) but I grew up with it, loved it, and for a while took some pretty good photographs with it. In the pantheon of great gifts, it has a nice high place.

I had thought I would miss so much of spring by being gone at the end of March and the beginning of April, but there were still daffodils to greet me when I came home and pretty tulips that came up a week later. The lilacs are in their full, fragrant glory, but I am going to have them taken down this year. They are in a prominent place in front of the house and, while they are lovely now, for the rest of the year they will look raggedy, with mildewy leaves and not much structural presence. For as many tear sheets in notebooks that I have, depicting beautiful, serene gardens, I haven't matched that look on my own property. I fall victim to instant enthusiasm in plants, buying shrubs and flowers that are beautiful, but that I have no place for. So my garden, such as it is, is a hodge-podge.

Am trying to change that this year. Fewer flowers, green shrubs for screens. We will buy an umbrella for our now exposed patio, the porch covering it having been removed in February. The garden redo will be a summer-long process, of course. I shall look at it this way: Excellent cardio opportunity!

Mind images

I take great pleasure -- and sometimes grief -- in revisiting events that I have seen over my life. They may be insignificant or of great meaning, but they have been captured equally by the camera and the audio recorder in my brain.

As in: Sunday the dogs and I were in the park for our long morning walk. There is a play area; it has a slide, monkey bars and one of those short plank bridges for kids to balance on. There was a young dad there with two kids. A baby and a toddler, a little girl.

 The dogs had paused to read a page in that day's doggie newspaper, so we were stopped on the slope just above the play area. I gazed around and my glance fell on them. I saw Dad scoop up the baby and trot off, with the toddler in bouncing pursuit. It's so funny to watch the movements of kids who have only just learned to walk. They seem to progress forward in a bouncy side to side motion that has very little control of itself. At any moment, they could go tumbling forward. Little one chased Dad and baby, bouncing along with Dad slowing down, then finally stopping. I couldn't hear, but the happiness of an unencumbered moment in a sunny park on a Sunday morning was unmistakable.

Dad and kids moved on, and so did we.

I've also noticed how often I've heard the red-bellied woodpecker this spring; usually he is much more noisy in the fall. I've also missed hearing a wood thrush that I have heard consistently each spring for at least the past four or five years. Perhaps I am missing that because we have been walking in to the park a different way. The thrush, which has the song of an angel, always has been in the same place.

The red-bellied, though, he is another story. In the fall, the air seems clearer, lonelier. Many birds are gone, but this big woodpecker sings on, in a high-pitched, sharp warble that echoes in the quiet park. I keep hearing him now, though, confusing me into thinking it is fall.

It isn't. As lovely as the season is, now, especially, with petal snow covering deep green spring grass, it is changing and moving on. The red-bellied woodpecker's stage season will be here soon enough.

Back down to earth

So. I have been home for a week and sleep patterns are finally getting back to normal. By next week, the jet lag questions (all well meaning :) ) will go away and I will be back to my daily struggle of getting up, working, working out, walking dogs and squeezing the rest of life in before and after work. Good problem to have.

I have been thinking a lot about my trip and realizing more and more the depths of my ignorance.

In John Kennedy Toole's excellent, wonderful, biting, delightful, hilarious and insightful "Confederacy of Dunces" the main characer, Ignatius Reilly, complains constantly about inferiors who cannot comprehend his "world view." If you have read it, you know the feeling of recoiling in hilarious horror at the thought of sharing such frightening, bizarre and ludicrous views. Looking at it another way, though, you realize how Toole was using an exaggerated character to mock a general lack of cultural knowledge among, maybe Americans, maybe anyone group of people that lives in such a distinct, unique, community as the New Orleans of his novel was.

Visiting India for such a brief time made me understand that there is much more to traveling than standing by monuments and visiting gardens. It is a chance to understand a different point of view. That view may not be so different if you are Western and traveling in another Western culture. West-to-East is where the viewpoints really diverge.

My view of the world is totally Western, and culturally young. If you are from Asia or even Europe, I think you tend to take a much longer, more tempered, cynical and not-so-excitable view of things.

So now I have this story that I have been part of, and that is now part of me, to adjust the way I view the world.

And to remind me of how little I know. Ignatius Reilly would not stand for it!

Pittsburgh, last day in Delhi in review

How does the time fly so quickly?
Monday, today, is my last day in India. One of the (many!) fascinating things to me about "India" (since I am only in a tiny patch of the subcontinent) is how comfortable I feel here. Not that I enjoy the poverty, the racism, or the ignorance, but I do not feel scared off. And no doubt my comfort level has a great deal to do with the fact that I have been welcome in a home, and have had the extraordinary luxury of, a local travel guide (Kim) and driver. Still, I am fascinated by this place. It is beautiful and ugly all at the same time.

My flight home was scheduled for 10:50 Monday evening, so we had the whole day to sight-see and shop.

I did not want to miss Humayan's Tomb, a beautiful pre-cursor to the Taj Mahal right in Delhi and not far from Kim's place in New Friends' Colony. To put it boringly, it is a crypt, but less boringly, the symmetry of the place, much like the Taj and Lodi garden, remind the visitor of the many elements of Persian/Islamic design involved in creating such a harmonious place. Truthfully, I liked it almost as much, if not more, than the Taj Mahal. (Photos in transit, Camera lost!)

Shopping followed, first in a fly-, stink- infested open air market called Par Ganjh in New Delhi near Connaught Place. Such tight quarters. You walk along the lane; beggars follow you (Hello, hello), rickshaw drivers wheel in and out, horns honk, the occasional (no, I did not get a photo, story of my trip) cow wanders through. You go into a shop, beautiful shoes, purses and outside filth, poverty, crowds, flies, smells (some good), men surround you trying to sell.
After Suresh dropped us off, I asked Kim, "Are we going inside?" We weren't. This was it. This open air market is the place to buy shoes, purses, textiles, you name it.
Kim has got the bargaining down. Whatever the price is, she negotiates down further. And the ridiculous thing is, the prices are so low already. i came home with two pairs of shoes that, here in the U.S, would have set me back $100 (with markup, transport, etc) for $20.
Par Ganjh was fascinating. Bargains amid flies, dogs, chicken vendors, motorbikes, beggars (the familiar woman with baby racket was too much); all shop owners men lounging around under their fabric awnings.
Amazing to think of such lovely shopping in such overwhelmingness, for lack of a better word.
More to follow, but mostly, I am sad to be leaving. After Humayan's Tomb and Par Ganjh, we had a quick lunch at KFC in Connaught Place *(safe food, cooked to death). Beggars outside, small brown child splayed on the walkway, mother figure bent tiredly over him, yet, only tourists around. A constant problem.
More to come on my last day in Delhi (lots of shopping!). Nicest part? Back at Kim's place, Leila and Zola goofing and Kim and I clinking our wine glasses.
We had a lovely connection, even having not seen each other for three years. I felt so at home and so welcome. Maybe that's why India felt so comfortable to me.
Namaste!

Delhi, weekend recovery, April 4 and 5

After our long short trip to Jaipur, I took Saturday off. Kim had an Easter egg hunt and reading for kids in Lodi garden and was up at 8:30 a.m. I slept in, updated the blog and in the evening we went to a gathering hosted by some of her friends whom I had met previously. Nadia, who is Moroccan, served a couscous that was one of the best meals I have eaten.

Sunday after brunch we went shopping in Kahn Market, near Kim's house, at a place called fabIndia. Purses, pillowcases, a vase. I am determined to only carry back my suitcase, so this will be a lesson in packing tight!

I am going to leave this as a short entry. This has been a brief trip and I want to sit back and reflect and write a bit more about my sense of the experience, rather than just transcribe a day-to-day recap of activities.

I have seen just a tiny bit of this country: There is a lot that is sad and repulsive and a lot that is beautiful. The thing that is important to me is that I have met so many people from all walks of life, people who live in all over the world and consider it as normal as any American citizen would consider moving from place to place in the States. So even a short trip truly broadens your perspective on the world. In India, what's news is what happens here, what happens in Pakistan and Afghanistan, the States and then the rest of the world. It makes you realize that the American perspective on the world is by far not the only one.

One of the sad things you see everywhere is people begging; sadder still is some do it for a living and appear to be perfectly healthy. This woman does not look like she has missed many meals and the child may not even be hers.

Jaipur, Rajasthan, Day Six

Hot.
We had buffet-style breakfast on the roof of the hotel under a billowing, bright yellow canopy. There was a little bit of a breeze occasionally, but not enough to entice me to have anything hot to drink. I made myself some tea, but could only manage a couple sips. Kim made a request of one of the staff behind the buffet and I saw a reaction that I've been seeing a lot here. The head waggle.

I'm not sure what to make of it. Does it mean I'll do this even though I don't want to? Does it mean I've told you all I know? There's never a smile with it and it has the sense of being a grudging response. The waggler's head goes left-right-left. Seth Stevenson wrote about it in a series  he did for Slate magazine in 2004, "Trying really hard to like India." Great reading; a coworker forwarded it to me before I left. His description of it as a bobble-head doll motion is absolutely dead-on.

After breakfast, we all piled into cars for a visit to the City Palace, the Jaipur residence of the descendants of Raja Man Singh I, the giant. I got an audio with with my foreigner's entrance ticket, plus and extra set of headphones. Leilah used them sporadically. Deepa got an audio tour, too, and we were off. As a foreigner, I also did not have to pay an extra photography fee (they've got the fee thing down here in India) but I was out of gas on taking pictures of buildings. Photography inside was not allowed, possibly because flash could damage the artifacts, but truthfully, the armour and weapons collection, though extensive, was dull-looking as if no restoration of the metals had ever been done. A display of chain mail on a mannequin was dusty and worn. In the display of textiles, some of the gold threading on a beautiful, rust-colored wedding gown for a maharana was peeling out of the fabric. Some of the other textiles were in better shape and, to be fair, those are not easy to preserve.

We didn't stay too long. Kim and Deepa wanted to get the kids back to the hotel so they could have a swim before we checked out, so they went back in one car with the nannies in Deepa's car and Suresh drove us to a place called the Rajasthan Cottage Emporium for some shopping. As we waited in the the City Palace lot for Suresh to pay the parking, a pig-tailed little girl in a dirty yellow dress approached the car on Deepa's side in the back seat. Something about her face was not right; she had a blank smile showing some teeth missing. Her eyes were set far apart and one appeared to be wandering. She had some bit of something in her hands that she appeared to be eating. She banged on the window, made the mouth-to-stomach gesture, and, though you aren't supposed to give to beggars (you won't get rid of them that way, or more will show up, or both) Deepa relented, rolled down her window, gave the girl a trail mix bar and rolled the window back up.

Response? The girl banged on the window for more. "Tell her you'll take it away from," Kim ordered and sure enough, when Deepa did that, the little girl wandered back to where she had been sitting. From the back, I could see she had a plum-sized red lump growing at the base of her skull. Multiply that little girl by a few million, plus or minus the deformities, and you get an idea of the enormous human problems facing India.

Cottage Emporium is a three-story building that leases space to vendors from Rajasthan. There is one in Delhi, too, with all the states of India represented. I had in mind to buy some jewelry while I was here, but, boy, the shopping mood was not with me, at least for something that would require the decision-making involved in designing a custom piece for myself on the spot. I did buy some pillow covers, a few scarves and beaded boxes. Most will go for gifts.

One of the other things I've seen here, by reason of being with Kim, is racism. On the second floor, two of the vendors saw Kim and began whispering and nodding. She strode over to them: "Do you know who the President of the United States is? Do you know?" One of them finally stuttered out Obama. "That's right! And do you know where I'm from?" One guessed Africa, because "there had been some Africans in here before."

"Do you think you could guess where my friend here is from by the color of her skin? Italy? Spain? France? So why would you make a judgment about me based on the color of my skin?!" The were cowed.

According to Kim, a common reaction among Indians to her skin color is to laugh. Whether that response reflects racism, ignorance, some twisted form or classism or all three, isn't clear. But it certainly isn't pleasant.

After we were done shopping, Suresh drove us back to the hotel. We packed up, checked out, found someplace to eat and got on the road around 4 or 5. Before we even got out of Jaipur, a cop pulled us over because Suresh ran a red light. (People actually do stop for traffic lights.)

He then directed us to pull out of the way of traffic, to a spot in front of some shops. It took about 15 minutes to clear this up and while we were waiting, another cop came by and eyeballed the car. As soon as Suresh got in and started up, this guy shows up and tells us we are in a no parking zone. No matter the the first cop told us to park there. Suresh and Deepa tried explaining but this guy wasn't having any of it.

Suresh had to get back out of the car, pull out his driver's license and give it to the cop. More arguing ensued and finally Suresh came back around to the front. Deepa pulled out a bill and gave it to him. For 50 rupees, Suresh got his license back and we were on our way. That's equal to $1. We had to pay a $1 bribe to be on our way. Why even bother with the pretext of upholding the law? For this cop, it was just an opportunity to squeeze some small fish.

It was still daylight for a few hours of our drive. Rajasthan, despite the trash, the mini-slums, the garish road-side refreshment stands, is beautiful, if forbidding, with its nearly treeless landscape and scrub-covered hills. The colors the women, and even some men, wear here are almost as blinding as the sun. My photography does not do these colors justice, but I've posted one at the top of this entry.

Jaipur, Rajasthan, Day Five

One of the things I’ve decided is that, after this trip, I am not spending any more traveling time seeing monuments. I have seen enough fortresses, battlefields, pieces of armour, bullets, arrowheads and dusty documents to last me a lifetime.

Thursday, the plan was to be up by 6 a.m. out of the house by 7 a.m. and in Jaipur by 10. We overslept, traffic was of course bad and, once we got in to Jaipur, Suresh got lost. So, not into our hotel, Umaid Bhawan, until 2 p.m. Deepa Shah and her two kids, Anjur and Amar, and her driver accompanied us in their car, plus two nannies (ayahs).

Jaipur was laid out on a geometric grid with nine sectors, but, as in Delhi, decay and entropy have set in and whatever structure and beauty lives here is hidden behind trash, grape sellers, corrugated tin, general disorder, haze and noise. By 3 p.m., we headed out to Jaigarh, the Amer, or Amber, Fort which overlooks the old capital of Amer. Sitting on a high hill above a lake, it was begun in 1592, by Raja Man Singh I. It was the capital for many centuries of the Kachhawah ruling dynasty, along with the nearby Amer Palace. These rulers later moved down into Jaipur into what's now called the City Palace. To give you an idea of location, from the fort, the border of Pakistan is just over 400 miles away.

I am proud that I ended up with no fingernail marks in my palms on the way to the fort. The road up to Jaigarh is a series of steep switchbacks and I do not do heights well. At all. At first I was happy because I was on the wall side, but with every turn my position changed so that I would be looking into an abyss. Yet, here I am, alive to write about it. Thank you Suresh.

We did not see the opportunity, but you can take an elephant ride up the hill to the fort, however tourists are advised not to. The elephants are not native to Rajahsthan and suffer from abscesses on their feet from walking on tarmac, often are poorly treated and malnourished to top it all off.

Looking down from Jaigargh, every single spine of hill bristles with protective, crenellated walls -- as if the terrain isn't hostile enough. The fort also is home to tribes of capuchin monkeys, and, outside, flocks of peacocks and the occasional pig. The monkeys are great sport, flinging themselves from rampart to rampart with their black tails curled up high, but they will attack if you come close. I contented myself with watching, since Kim said no one would help if they attack. A fascinating aspect of the fort is the water storage system. There is a watercourse that starts in the mountains above, a wide, deep spillway. During the rainy season, this structure filled a well with enough fresh water to last the inhabitants of the fort for two years. And, there were two wells for waste water. Rajasthan has long been known for its creative ways of wringing the most out of every drop of water.

We had arrived just before closing, made it out by about 5:15 and drove down to Amer Palace.

Again, a beautiful, elaborate structure, with a central pleasure garden, the Aram Bagh, quartered and wedged by watercourses (now dry); winter sleeping quarters on one side of the garden, summer on the other and a separate area for the harem of the aforementioned Man Singh, a very large man (reputed to be 7 feet tall and 500 pounds; we later saw one of his gowns, very likely true) who had 12 wives. Secret passageways for the king to visit each wife, guard towers manned, if that is the word, by eunuchs, a central gazebo for all the wives that was, in its day, hung with curtains (the hooks are still there).

The beauty of these places, when you think about the stark contrast there must have been long ago between the mirrors, the marble, the water, the court and the drama, is amazing to imagine.

We had a nice guide who took his time, took pictures of the children, and, at the end of the tour, as the kids were in the bathroom, told me that in a nearby courtyard the festival honoring the goddess Kali was going on. (There is a temple to Kali too.) When everyone came out, he trooped us out into the courtyard and we saw the descendant of Sawai Jai Singh (himself a descendant of the big guy and there's a story about the Sawai title, but I'll save it for later), who still is the holder of the property. Not too kingly looking: an old man with gray hair a light blue shirt and a garland of red flowers around his neck getting back into his fancy Toyota, surrounded by guards. More like a grandpa.

The courtyard wasn’t to crowded and our guide told us if we wanted to go up and give an offering to Kali, we could. Maria, Kim's ayah, stayed behind with cameras and to guard our shoes and we crowded up some stairs (after having the contents of our purses examined by India’s finest. They missed my camera.) So many people, saris in magenta, turquoise, gold, green. Dark hair everywhere. Men in white shirts, little kids, babies on shoulders, all crowded into a cramped marble stairway up from the festival courtyard, everyone bearing offerings for Kali. Mostly garlands of flowers that you could buy on the way up.
What a parental nightmare. The kids aren’t even mine and my eyes were everywhere. At the top of the stairs was Kali’s altar, though you could not see it. Too many people. Behind the altar was a priest and his assistant. Deepa found a place by one corner and hoisted up her son Arjun, who handed over his garland and received a treat in return. Kim's daughter Leilah was with me so I lifted her up, she handed over her garland and received a red/gold swatch of fabric and a treat as well. The idea is that a gift given is returned with a gift the goddess already has. Oh, and by the way, Kali is the goddess of destruction. Deepa explained later that you pick you gods and honor them.

Off to one side of the altar was a smiling young man in a blue uniform with a tin of red dye. He was anointing everyone and I finally let him dab me between the brows. Result? Staring! Why is this white woman anointed with a bindi between her brows? We got in the car and I caught Suresh staring. Washed off as soon as we got back to the hotel.

What a hot hectic day. I was so tired after Amber Fort that I couldn’t believe were were going to do one more thing, but the consensus was “We’re here, might as well.” Which is exactly right. I can sleep later.

One of the lovely structures I photographed in Jaipur was the Hawa Mahal, or Palace of the Winds. Pittsburgh connection? The Skinny building at Fifth and Wood. Except much grander. The Hawa Mahal was built in 1799, and designed by a poet philosopher named Sawai Pratap Singh. Five stories high, one room deep, it was built for ladies of the harem to be able to watch the street scene below.
That's today's picture. Slideshow to come.

A lazy day and and a crazy day. Taj Mahal (updated)

Tuesday was a deadline day for Kim and I was exhausted from Chandni Chowk, so she worked and I finished putting together slide shows. Despite the traffic racket, it was pleasant to sit on on her garden patio with my laptop.
Wednesday, April 1, we went to the Taj Majal, which is in Agra somewhere around 80 miles from here. But it took four hours because of traffic, which Kim planned for, so we left about 6:30 in the morning.
There are no rules on Indian highways. Trucks that look too tall to have a safe center of gravity, motor rickshaws built for three crammed with thirteen, scooters, bikes even pedestrians all share space. At about 8 a.m., Suresh had to weave us through a mile of stopped trucks. Stopped on the road, off, half on and half off. All with the words "Honk please" hand lettered on the back of the bumper. At least its one admonition the Indians obey.
The road to Agra passes through a rural area. There are shacks along the highway, juice stands, schoolkids, very old people, dogs, cows, water buffalo, monkeys, dust, dirt and trash everywhere.
Kim explained that the trucks ostensibly were stopped for weigh-ins (how in that disordered fashion I have no idea. I saw no station) but the real reason was likelier to be the collection of bribes. The first of the month is pay day for police and other government workers. They don't make enough so they squeeze the smaller fish down the food chain. The long delays for truckers also are on reason for the country's AIDS rate. You can have sex with a prostitute, or with another trucker, to pass the time. She also predicted we would get pulled over. Stopped at a McDonald's for a bathroom break (chains and franchises often recommended for this purpose).
At 10:30 we got to the Taj parking lot. Suresh dropped us off the hawkers descended. "Madam, you come with me. Look. Special pictures, 10 rupees." "Hello. Madam. Look, special tour, can't get inside. I give to you for (however many) rupees."
Little kids. "Madam, please, keychain please? Only 10 rupees." And on and on. Everyone had the same stuff. Really. Except for the guy selling the bullwhips "Very fine leather, Madam." Did they sell a lot of bullwhips when the Taj was built?
Then we had to walk through a "security gate" that was nothing more than a hole in a fence "guarded" by 10 or 15 lounging uniformed officers.
We walked to the ticket gate and Kim bought her ticket then had to elbow away a guy pushing in front of her as she tried to by mine. Even as she was getting change, he was still trying to push his money in past her.

Overall, the Taj was a discouraging experience. Not because this monument to love is not supremely beautiful and serene, but because of what surrounds it. I’ve mentioned the hawkers and drivers who descend upon you. As you walk to the entrance on a sidewalk by a wooded area, you are overpowered by the stench from an open sewer next to the walkway. Trash is everywhere. Guards lounge, guarding nothing. If you didn’t know better, you would not know you were approaching one of the seven wonders of the world.
Once you enter the grounds (and this is not exclusive to the Taj Mahal) men stare and whisper if you are not Indian (as we were leaving, Kim called out a man who was surreptiously taking pictures of a female tourist, a Western woman, doing the familiar “pinching the top of the Taj Mahal pose.” Kim has enough of a command of Hindi to know the comments the man was making to his companions weren’t nice. She dressed him down and later we saw him examining a bullwhip. Character definitely will out.)
It was crowded, but not so much so that we had to elbow our way around. There are unofficial guides inside the main chamber, which houses the mausoleum of the favorite wife of Shah Jahan, Mumtaz Mahal, who died in childbirth. Later, when the Shah was imprisoned by his paranoid son, Aurangzeb, he requested a prison with a view to his creation, so he could see it every day before he died.
The whiteness of the Taj, iconic as it may be, is not how it looked originally. It was encrusted with precious stones, most of them later looted.
One of the unofficial guides snared us as we came in. It is cool and dark inside the main chamber -- photography is forbidden, so they carry small flashlights to illuminate the semi-precious stones including onyx, lapis lazuli, malachite and so many others that make up the intricate marble inlays, in the design of flowers, inside the chamber. The dome rises to 144 feet. Inside, the chamber is acoustically structured so that a call from the floor takes 10 seconds before it echoes back to you from above. Our guide demonstrated; it was disconcerting to hear his voice bounce back 10 seconds later.
The dome is doubled, with a chamber of air between the upper and lower layers for cooling purposes.
The queen’s body is not in the mausoleum, but in a chamber below. You can look down to it through a screen as you come in, but there is nothing to see and the screen is used primarily as a catch for offerings of paper bills.
Behind the Taj is the Yamuna River, dry when we were there, which once irrigated the water courses. Off in the distance in the river bed, we saw oxen.
On one side of the Taj is a mosque, still used for prayers on Fridays and on the other an almost identical structure once used as the guest house.
As you catch your first glimpse of the Taj Mahal, you are struck by the long fountained canal that, if it continued, would intersect the entrance of the shrine on a vertical. The fountains are on, but not dramatically so. One of the principles of architecture in the ancient Islamic world was of the water feature to create a point of view. I’ve never been to the Alhambra in Spain, but it is a prime example of the use of water as a symbol of power in an arid environment and, for example, in the long watercourses, as a way to draw the eye more dramatically to a focal point. The Taj would not be as impressive if there was no cool water with splashing fountains directing the eye to it. The long course is intersected by a horizontal one, extending toward the mosque on one side and the guest house on the other. There are gardens along the course on the guest house side. The principle of symmetry must apply on the other side.
As we walked out, I thought about how hot and serene and shimmering the Taj Mahal must have been in earlier times. I’ve been here only a few days, but I’ve seen enough to wonder why better care isn’t taken of treasures like these. The Qutab Minar in Delhi, the tallest free-standing minaret in the Islamic world, is closed to visitors because it is in such poor shape. Once you could climb to the top.
The Taj Mahal is a world treasure, like so many wonders of the ancient world conceived by vanity, love or both, designed and built by intelligence, mathematics and the hard labor of unremembered thousands. Today, it is surrounded by trash, sewage and sellers of junk.
Outside the gates, one of these vendors, a young man, started to make vulgar noises at us. Being around Kim had soaked in, because out of my mouth came “Shut up, asshole.” He didn’t understand the words, but my tone was unmistakable. Why should I be speaking like that at the Taj Mahal?
As Kim predicted, we got stopped by the police on our way out. There is a press sticker in the window of Kim’s car, since her husband is a journalist. The cop’s excuse? Foreigners in an India press car. Suresh got the papers out and Kim was out in a split second with her camera.
“What’s the problem here? I have kids in Delhi who are hungry!” The cop, stunned by her anger, waved us along but, embarrassed, immediately gave chase to car behind us. We pulled up and stopped next to them and Kim gave the cop attitude for a few seconds before we pulled away. I felt very sorry for the people in that car.
We snoozed most of the way back home. It was a long day.