Things that go bust in my head

I have a massive technology headache. From my laptop to my dryer, I've been consigned to the third rung of technology hell. That's the rung where you race in infinite circles and get nowhere, one rung above emptying the ocean with a bucket. A leaky bucket. The loaner dryer (the only stackable set we can order here that fits our space is not in the country) that was finally delivered today does not work. Nor does the clothesline that broke from the outside wall last night. But who needs a clothesline when it rains EVERY day? If there was a smidgeon of room left in my head beyond completing urgent tasks which, now that I think of it, rival that ocean emptying manuever, something might go bump in there. As it is, a nickel couldn't drop.

Whew!

We moved from a city of 5 million to a town of 200, actually to outside of a town of 200, hoping to slow it down a bit. How is it then that I still find myself running around at 90 mph, trying desperately to capture and savor the present moments and hours ever retreating in my wake? Oh, but spring has come, or is coming. And I squeezed in a lovely visit from my parents over the weekend. These are some of the moments that went whirling by...

I bought some flats of flowers and herbs, forgetting it's not safe to plant before Mother's Day. Last year, I lost a whole heartbreaking round of beautiful blooms I'd planted and resolved to wait this year. Oops.

A trip to the St. Louis airport is a great excuse to stop in St. Charles for lunch and a trip to the luscious Rock, Paper, Scissors shop. Last December, Wayne wrapped my anniversary gifts in handmade paper from this shop and I've been dying to go there ever since. I can report it's the best paper shop I've seen and now I'm fantasizing about opening a paper shop of my own. How about a books/paper/coffee shop? I'd call it entry to heaven without requiring last rites.

When I heard that Jeremy Casella was going to perform in Columbia I knew the name rang a bell--I'd read about Jeremy on Jenni Simmons blog. We really enjoyed hearing/meeting him and now his songs have edged out Justin Timberlake on my ipod. Yes, I confess I bought a JT song I'd gotten hooked on in Jazzercise before I knew who sang it, proving I can still surprise my kids (and myself.)

On Sunday, we drove to Hannibal, Missouri, home of Mark Twain, in case you didn't know. Here is one of the only items, signs or otherwise, that wasn't named after Mark Twain, Samuel Clements, Tom, Becky, Huck or one of the other myriad places or peoples that populate his stories. I tried reading the first chapter of Tom Sawyer to the girls last night. I might as well have been speaking Scottish.



We had lunch at the Mark Twain Diner (I can safely recommend the strawberry shortcake, but thats about it) just a stone's throw from Tom Sawyer's House (and white picket fence) and around the corner from the Mark Twain Museum which housed a number of original Norman Rockwell illustrations of Tom Sawyer. Even if you are not a fan of Norman Rockwell's images, these paintings, exhibited beside their black and white studies, were stunning.



Back home Monday night after the return trip to STL, the dryer broke and my plants, still awaiting new homes, had frostbite. But the azaleas are in full bloom, the clothes on the line are infused with the scents of spring and tonight I attempted to resusitate any plants still semi conscious. We might have rescued the geraniums, rosemary and mint, but I think the tomatoes are goners.

Mug shot of the day

This old soul was spied crossing our lane today. It was clear who had been in the neighborhood longer and thus who had the right-of-way.

ArtRageous Fridays II

This is the second of the series of posters I designed for Columbia's quarterly artcrawl. The first poster appears here.

horses

horse dreams, originally uploaded by wizmo.

A few years ago I stumbled upon a poem that stopped me in my tracks. I found it online in the Missouri Review archive, though I cannot now remember how I ended up there. Tomorrow Jude Nutter will read here as the poetry winner of the MR's Jeffrey E. Smith Editors' Prize. And here is the poem that made me a fan:

Horses

Still, the horses are beautiful and their grace keeps me occupied.
—Linda Hogan

We pass them being wheedled
and cajoled around small corrals, a confetti
of spit across each wide breast and the sweat
between their legs worried up into foam.
Their hooves flash in the dirt like polished bells.
We pass them as they sleep, standing up,
among the dandelions and tasseled grasses
gone to seed. They enter our lives
like fragments of Eden: the place that's always been
our most difficult, elaborate dream; and once seen—
even from a freeway when you're doing sixty,
aware of your own peril—it's an effort of will
to take your eyes from a horse
in a field. Grace is like that. No other animal

occupies its skin so precisely, or walks forward
so carefully, as if pushing through great hauls
of dark water, chest deep in a stiff current.
I don't believe we are meant to think about death,

even on those evenings
when a thin mist rides on the fields and their hooves
waver beneath them like votive flames. A horse

becomes its own myth and religion: out from the dark
machinery of its body something better,
and more beautiful, is always about to begin;
and if you ever need proof that it's good
to have a physical body, touching
a horse in this life is the closest you will get to it.
To catch grace off guard: a lone horse
dozing in a field with the long reach of its neck
presented to the world, its thick
bottom lip fallen away from the fence of its teeth
and there, beguiling as god's empty pocket,
pale skin of the inner mouth. Before you die look
into the eyes of a horse at least once
and discover how each is an immense, empty room
lit by a single candle. The emptiness of waiting.
Because if the gods ever come down to walk among us,
this is where they'll live. And so when a horse,
seeing nothing about us it can recognize, lowers
its soft, deep mouth to the grass, and when that grass,
appearing wet in the sunlight, rises to greet it,
as if the lips of the dead were puckered skyward
for its kiss, it should be no surprise. How can we not
love an animal that spends so much of its life
with its mouth so close to the dirt. That they take,
with such tenderness, the mints
and the carrots we offer—as if the world

were ours to give—is the miracle; that they let us
slip on the sky-blue halter and lead them
through the cool of the evening.

When it rains

This morning brought yet another wet, cold, not-spring-yet day in Columbia. After my jazzercise class I met Wayne at the coffee shop where he jumped in the car out of the rain and presented me with an exquisite white rose. What a way to perk up a day. Later I found a small gift wrapped on my desk...a tin of bird stamps by Cavelli. I think he's gotten me every bird item they make (and that is not a few) but this item had just come out, at least where we are. So tonight I couldn't resist trying out a few stamps and ended up making a new batch of cards.

Eureka!

As in Springs. As in spring break, half of which we spent in Arkansas. My 9 year old wondered why we don't pronounce the "s" at the end. Hence she called it "Arkansauce" all weekend.
We peeled off layer after layer as we got closer to the sound of my complaint that although I'd checked in with weather.com that very morning I still managed to pack all the wrong things. The car thermometer read 82 degrees. However, the next day the temps had dropped to the 30s - 40's and the day was cold and wet. Again I complained I packed all the wrong things as we donned layer after layer of clothing in efforts to get warm. Not to worry: we were staying in a cozy little cottage made all the cozier by the inclement weather. We had fresh coffee, thick comforters, a stack of DVDs we replenished daily and, best of all, no agenda.


Eureka Springs in its heyday was home to something like 30,000 people and is now down to just above 2000. Nestled between green hills, the charming and historic little town is dotted with gingerbread houses, B&Bs, shops and quite an entertaining cast of characters.

A few miles down the road is a 450 acre refuge for rescued exotic animals--it's amazing how many people have procured baby tigers, lions, cougars and bears and attempted to raise them in basements, bedrooms and backyards before becoming confounded by how big and uncontrollable these animals inevitably grew. Many of these majestic animals became permanently handicapped due to owners who had no idea how to take care of them before they eventually offloaded them at the refuge.

One afternoon while carting some heavy ceramics we'd purchased up the very long hill to our cottage we were offered a ride by a car we'd spotted earlier with delight. Covered with fishing paraphernalia, it reminded us of Houston's art car parade which we loved to attend each spring. Turns out that not only did the woman driving the car know of the Art Car Parade, she'd participated in it for the last two years. It's an artsy little place.

And, to top it off, the largest sculpture in North America, Christ of the Ozarks.

Night on Cherry

Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it all will your heart survive.

Rainer Maria Rilke from "The Sonnets of Orpheus XIII"

Happy Easter!

I've just finished a so-so novel called "Best Friends," having been drawn to the book by its title which is significantly better than the book turned out to be. The top cover blurb said, "A valentine to the staying power of women's friendships." That's all it took for me to part with my fourteen bucks. And spend 483 pages waiting for my Valentine. Thank you Cleveland Plain Dealer.

Anyhoo, Clare, the main character, an AIDS doctor, argues a couple of times in the book against Sister Mary Klein's belief that things always turn out okay, that things work for the greater good. Claire doesn't "have that kind of faith," believing herself a "realist" and that tragedy is worthless. I wouldn't argue that things always work out okay OR that tragedy is worthless. Things don't always work out okay. People get sick, people die. Terrible, ugly, wicked things happen. The story (as far as we can see) does not always have a happy, or even bearable, ending.
BUT.
But Easter. The redemption story, God reconciling the world to himself. It doesn't matter if you believe it, it's truth is neither propelled nor hindered by our acceptance, denial or even awareness of it. Without Easter, tragedy IS worthless. Pain and suffering, evil and death are not illusions, they are material realities, but realities that are subject to redemption. And therein lies hope. Easter is how God threw his arms around the world and promised, "It is going to be alright."

Girls noticing boys

"Mommy, why does it seem like boys are more special in this world than girls are?"
As we drove to her after school guitar lesson, my eight year old daughter (my mud princess) who is generously endowed with astute observations expressed frustration with this one.
"What makes you say that?" I tentatively inquired.
"Why do they talk about the 'first woman doctor'? Why did it take so long for a woman to be a doctor? Why is that a big deal? Why are there men's faces on all the money, except for maybe the queen or something? Why does everything seem to be about boys?"
Those simple questions were a reality check for me as I began to try to explain the "whys." She sees both a woman and an African-American male running for president and has no idea that that is the least bit extraordinary. I had to explain to her why it is. She has no idea how many "firsts" preceded this first or that she'll probably be paid significantly less for doing the same work as a boy. But that she should thank her lucky stars because she's still light-years ahead, rights-wise, of every woman who preceded her generation and most of the rest of the women around the world at this moment. Which is good news. Which is bad news. Which is hard to explain to my daughter.

The Tide of March

Melancholy Part 2

Not to obsess or anything, but these unyieldingly leaden, cold, introverted weeks on end have taken their toll. I'm not the only one clawing at the walls and jonesing for spring. A lot of people I know are hanging on by their fingernails.
Today we had temps of over 70 with clear skies and bright sun. I felt like superwoman. On the way back from a meeting today, knowing tomorrow promises rain and falling temps, I hijacked my sweetie and took the very long road home. We had the windows down and music up, winding around the backroads till we ran across Ray's BBQ where we stopped for a late lunch. Need I say "bliss?" However, winter is not finished with us yet so here is another take (see Jan. 22 for "In Praise of Melancholy") on melancholy to cheer us all up as we endure its last hurrah: The Miracle of Melancholia

Post Aftershock

Over eggs and toast at Ernie's diner today, Hayley asked if Libbles was going to have any more kittens. "No, we think she's done." Three kittens, one already spoken for. Famous last words. We got home and discovered kitten #4, 39 hours after her big brother introduced himself. Are we finished NOW?

New Mama

Last night we had a surprise. Only hours after learning our cat's sister who lives down the street had been confirmed pregnant by the vet (as opposed to having a bad case of worms) and therefore surmised our thick around the middle feline probably was too, she dropped two kittens. I now understand the "ow" of "meow" as that was our signal another kitty was about to appear. Libbles had two within an hour. She delivered the placenta and cleaned them up as we got used to the idea our cat ownership had just tripled. Then, today at noon, 12 hrs. after the first kitten emerged, another series of loud, sharp meOWS and another one popped out. Hayley named it "Aftershock."
Anyone want a kitten?

State of Mind

I don't know if this explains it or if I've merely lost mine. But I hope to post again before spring. Of '08.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

I meant to post earlier about this film which I'd greatly anticipated for months. Wayne took me for a pre-Valentines Day night out which proved fortuitous since I was so sick on the actual holiday I didn't even know it was Valentines Day. The chocolate covered strawberries I'd saved for the day went to sludge in the fridge and the gifts I'd bought the week prior were weakly handed to my valentine in plastic shopping bags. He hates plastic shopping bags.
Suffice it to say that after almost a full week on the rack (was that really a mattress?), a second week that kept the girls home from school with two snow days and one holiday, and nasty weather that has trapped us indoors I've gotten a little stir crazy. In comparison to Jean-Dominique Bauby's "locked-in syndrome," my life is a rose garden, if currently a frozen one. And as much as I feel I could go mad with cabin fever, I can't imagine being locked inside my own body with only my left eye still functioning. But that's not true: I did imagine it, so convincing was Julian Schnabel's portrayal of Bauby's plight. You can't leave after seeing the movie without feeling tremendous gratitude for your life, your limbs, the physical freedom you take for granted. The ability to kiss your kids' cheeks, to feel your love's hand in your hair.
The film, based on the memoir Bauby tapped out with his one working eyelid in gorgeous prose is visually and philosophically stunning. There seems to be no level of human diminishment from which some measure of beauty and redemption cannot be wrung. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a beautiful film--go see it, especially if you too dwell in a land of long winter and feel the walls are closing in. You can sometimes see the heavens reflected in the pupil of an eye. But only in the eye that's open.

Down with Flu

Four days captive at the Bone Crusher Inn. Will return once I make an escape.

Nature vs. Nurture (or Moses and Your DNA)

And he hewed two tables of stone like unto the first; and Moses rose up early in the morning, and went up unto mount Sinai, as the LORD had commanded him, and took in his hand the two tables of stone. And the LORD descended in the cloud, and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of the LORD. And the LORD passed by before him, and proclaimed, The LORD, The LORD God, merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children's children, unto the third and to the fourth generation. (Exodus 34: 4-7)

If it wasn't bad enough to have bestowed on you the 10 commandments chiseled in stone (the origin of the phrase "you do the math") it must have been daunting to find out that failure to perfectly comply would impact not only your own sorry ass, but also your children's and your children's children and your children's children's children (the origin of multiplication tables.) Having been expelled from the garden before we passed GO and in the knowledge of subsequent generations' ingenious variations on a theme (death,) this information could conceivably have struck one, in the moment, as redundant.

A few millenium later we were rescued by the notion of tabula rasa, that we arrive as blank slates and have perfect freedom to chisel whatever we want to upon them. We author our own souls. This idea endured until the rise of the nature (innate qualities/DNA) vs. nurture (environment) debate where it was finally determined that these two influences work together to form us and that both contribute to the state of our health, abilities, dispositions and talents. While our genes ("genes as fate") determine such things as eye color, personality and whether or not we'll ever excel at the tango, we know our DNA can be altered by such things as exposure to radiation and alterations in the environment of the womb.

What we are now finding, as Ethan Watters writes in "DNA Is Not Destiny":

"a growing body of evidence suggesting that the epigenic [chemical switches and markers that help switch on or off the expression of particular genes] changes wrought by one's diet, behavior, or surroundings can work their way into the germ line and echo far into the future. Put simply, and as bizarre as it may sound, what you eat or smoke today could affect the health an behavior of your great-grandchildren."

He then quotes Randy Jirtle of Duke University (whose experiments in 2000 with agouti mice lead to this discovery,) "Epigenics is proving we have some responsibility for the integrity of our genome. Before, genes predetermined outcomes. Now everything we do...can effect our gene expression and that of future generations. Epigenics introduces the concept of free will into our idea of genetics."

It appears now that although our slates do not come blank, we do, indeed, write on them. And what we write will not only make a difference in our own lives, but for generations to come. We will bless our offspring or curse them. Perhaps if we could find the exact spot on Mt. Sinai where Moses stood we might find someone had traced a double helix in the sand.

Reprieve

Brain Freeze

Sometimes the idea of putting something new on paper seems as impossible as suddenly speaking fluent Mandarin. How do I write? I look at something I've written in the past and wonder where did that come from? Nothing inspires. Perhaps it's because I'm in the thick of hibernation season and my thoughts, rather than being coaxed out by the luxury of weather enforced seclusion, are on strike for a warm ray of sun. That, and the raging sore throat that has had me working in my pjs for the last two days, my throat feeling like it's been raked by the claws of a mad cat. It seems the whole world has contracted to the point it could fit on the head of a pin. I'm even bored of reading (that is a VERY bad sign) and it's only the first day of February. Note to self: next trip in for provisions, buy travel mags!