Running Commentary: 5
June 26, 2012, Tuesday
Hottest day, ever, for the month of June: 109
Laura got the job! Starting this fall, she will teach social studies and math.
We did a Watusi dance right in the street...plus, the jumping up and down was a great pre-run, cardio workout!
Seems like, 'It just doesn't matter,' is not used only for 2012 hill running inspiration. I told Laura that Al emailed last night. A Vietnam War memory returned to him after reading Running Commentary: 4. Murray's chant took him back for a revisit to Southeast Asia: Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand. "We would say ["It just doesn't matter"] from time to time...mutter it to ourselves and close buds."
Al went on to explain that Murray's summer camp yell, to the soldiers, meant that whatever the military asked them to do, in the grand scheme of things, did not contribute to anything of real importance. Sort of like the government. No matter who is at the helm, the career bureaucrats are destined to screw it up. Then again maybe, Al's email mused, it does matter in our own private worlds--our psyches.
Laura and I were quiet while running the next block, thinking about the information shared and the shaded meanings of Al's words. Laura broke the silence.
Passing a just-cut lawn, Laura told me her grandfather was a barber. Actually, her father, grandfather, great-grandfather, were all barbers. Polish barbers. My mother was Polish, and my sister and I were the first to marry outsiders, she added.
Laura continued with her story; one time, I took a pair of my grandfather's hair cutting scissors and practiced cutting grass. Then came a non sequitur: my father was mean. It wasn't that he drank; he was just physically abusive. Laura told me she left home as a young teenager to get away from him. But then, he finally left home to get away from us. We didn't even know when he died. Someone read it in a paper and called us.
After a couple of double takes, to blance the running talk, I said, "See, we have something in common. My grandfather was a barber, too...my little White mother's father. He was a big bear of a man, with hands to match. I watched those hands like a hawk, though, because the first thing I'd do when visiting my grandparents is fling open the screen door and run into the house. My grandfather would be sitting in his rocking chair, and I'd jump into his lap for a hug. I learned that his definition of a hug and mine were not the same. He would always take my hands into his large ones, squeeze them into tight fists, look at me, and smile--squeeze hard. It hurt.
When I was ten years old and walked down the long center aisle of the church, I stopped, stood on tiptoes and looked into the casket, eyes going stright to my grandfather's huge hands. They were still, and I thought, 'good.' I remember running back to my seat.
First water break; sucking ice cubes; cold water poured on necks. Laura mentioned her right foot wasn't working right; her hip kind of hurt; "Look! I'm limping."
"Come on," I said. "Time's up. Let's hit it."
Solo time the next morning. On our break days from running, Laura goes and does what Laura does. I walk and listen to a train load of thoughts passing by. They keep me company along with the sounds of Pink, Lady GaGa, Exile, Katy Perry, the Steve Miller Band, or whatever 'keep-it-moving' sounds Joel downloaded for me.
A few thoughts hop off and stay; most fade away to the land of the lost.
I didn't tell Laura my grandfather story to be a 'show me yours and I'll show you mine'-- completing a tidy pattern to make a cutsie story. Rather, it was shared to underline an old lesson. Stored secrets aren't too special when they are given a bit of light. They are always familiar to someone. Messy, maybe--but, familiar.
The grandfather-to-father story reminds me of what Harry Truman once said: "The only thing new in this world is the history you don't know." I think Harry was a smart guy, even though he got to be an American President.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Running Commentaries:4
June 24th, 2012, Sunday
Will be: 102 degrees
Katydids and Rolly Pollies seem to be out. All other creatures are in hiding
Quite a kaleidoscope of happenings these past few days. One topic that's been dropping in and out of conversations all week is a feeling of exhaustion, caused mainly, everyone thinks, by the newly formed habit of daily trying to hear, read, process, and understand all the information bombarding us by our tech gadgets. There's no time to learn the lesson of the story.
Laura fell down a cliff last Thursday. I was certain the 'Running Commentaries' were doomed. She had taken her two youngest daughters and family dog for an afternoon of splashing around in Bull Creek. Climbing a hill back to their car, Laura slipped, assumed a facedown, spread-eagle, and slid the short distance to the bottom; she banged her head and landed in the creek. The EMS and fire department came to the rescue--seven guys in uniform strapped her on a board and carted her off to the hospital. Unplanned, Laura engineered all the elements of a summer afternoon blue-ribbon drama. All hospital tests cleared. Running was back on the schedule.
During Laura's two days of recovery, I queued up, Bill Murray's, 1979, Meatballs. On the morning run, the day before the creek tumble, Laura asked me if I'd ever seen Murray's rant, 'It Just Doesn't Matter,' which he gave to a group of summer campers, and, which, in her opinion, was the core of the movie. "You haven't?! Gotta see it!" Friday afternoon, I settled in to find out just what I'd missed.
Surprise! Before the 'It Just Doesn't Matter' scene came onto the screen and could then become a memory, buried memories of the times, in the 60's, at summer camp--Southern Baptist camp--Falls Creek, which was around Turner Falls in the Arbuckle Mountains of sourth-central Oklahoma, sprouted into real time. Three times a day, young Baptist campers gathered to eat, sing, and pray. Left over hours, were spent sitting around on limestone rocks practicing boy kissing. Cognitive dissonance lurks among Southern Baptists.
My little White mother's insistence of Sunday church, morning and night, Sunday school, Bible study on Wednesday's, vacation Bible schools, and summer camps, did allow a peek into cross-angled adult behavior. Recently, reading Massie's, Catherine The Great, page after page was filled with stories of eighteenth-century power lusting and material greed. Those Russians could have taken a few lessons from Oklahoma Southern Baptists. When I left home for college, at age sixteen, I never walked through the doors of another church until I was thirty-six years old.
Karen read my last three blogs and emailed that she "would like to read more thoughts about cross-generational friendships, why there are so few and, in your case, why this friendship works [with Laura]." After checking Laura's scrapes and bruises, this was the first topic of the morning run. Laura told me she would have to think about the question.
For me, those in the older category, teach about the past; keeping an eye on the younger generation provides glimpses of the future; peers provide the mirror to the present. This generational mirror reflects how we are, how we were, and how we can be. This thought offering (worth about 10%) was given to Laura; but, she continued to think.
After the first water break, Laura tackled Karen's question. To Laura, it seemed like most of the elementary school teachers she was around were 50 years of age, or older; the other age group were in their twenty's. Thirty and forty year olds were missing. She hypothesized that maybe this middle age group had just gotten tired of all the bureaucratic crap, or were having babies. She told me that one time she did go to Happy Hour with a group of 20 year olds. All they talked about was drinking and who they were chasing after. She thought them shallow. When they ran out of drinking and guy stories, they were on their cell phones and Facebook. Here they are, supposedly with these great lives, Laura continued, and they are taking pictures of their food and friends and posting this nonsense to each other. Laura was quick to say her comments were only representations of her experiences. She paused a second and then added that she preferred older people because they were more in the 'present;' better listeners; better conversationalists. Frankly, I was solely concentrating on trying to breathe and wasn't able to ask for her definition of 'present.'
I remember a UTX professor telling his class one time--keep friendships in your own age group, those older, and those younger. You will lead a richer life.
After yells of , 'It just doesn't matter; it just doesn't matter,' to get us up a pretty long neighborhood hill, the question of just what is metaphysics was put out there for discussion. Laura suggested it meant everything outside the physical. That's what meta means, doesn't it--above? Or, beyond, I added. But, I think it's more than that, was my second chime.
"Meaning what?" asked Laura.
Well, taking all the physical and the meta into consideration, you've got to think about the different ways people think. Whites, for example, think from straight line to straight line. What you see is what you get. Indians will take this straight line and add all living things in the environment, along with outer voices--those 6th senses we talked about a couple of weeks ago. The more information you've added, the more you've got to stir--round and round. Indian thinking is circular.
We laughed at the heavy running talk. Time for a water break.
Will be: 102 degrees
Katydids and Rolly Pollies seem to be out. All other creatures are in hiding
Quite a kaleidoscope of happenings these past few days. One topic that's been dropping in and out of conversations all week is a feeling of exhaustion, caused mainly, everyone thinks, by the newly formed habit of daily trying to hear, read, process, and understand all the information bombarding us by our tech gadgets. There's no time to learn the lesson of the story.
Laura fell down a cliff last Thursday. I was certain the 'Running Commentaries' were doomed. She had taken her two youngest daughters and family dog for an afternoon of splashing around in Bull Creek. Climbing a hill back to their car, Laura slipped, assumed a facedown, spread-eagle, and slid the short distance to the bottom; she banged her head and landed in the creek. The EMS and fire department came to the rescue--seven guys in uniform strapped her on a board and carted her off to the hospital. Unplanned, Laura engineered all the elements of a summer afternoon blue-ribbon drama. All hospital tests cleared. Running was back on the schedule.
During Laura's two days of recovery, I queued up, Bill Murray's, 1979, Meatballs. On the morning run, the day before the creek tumble, Laura asked me if I'd ever seen Murray's rant, 'It Just Doesn't Matter,' which he gave to a group of summer campers, and, which, in her opinion, was the core of the movie. "You haven't?! Gotta see it!" Friday afternoon, I settled in to find out just what I'd missed.
Surprise! Before the 'It Just Doesn't Matter' scene came onto the screen and could then become a memory, buried memories of the times, in the 60's, at summer camp--Southern Baptist camp--Falls Creek, which was around Turner Falls in the Arbuckle Mountains of sourth-central Oklahoma, sprouted into real time. Three times a day, young Baptist campers gathered to eat, sing, and pray. Left over hours, were spent sitting around on limestone rocks practicing boy kissing. Cognitive dissonance lurks among Southern Baptists.
My little White mother's insistence of Sunday church, morning and night, Sunday school, Bible study on Wednesday's, vacation Bible schools, and summer camps, did allow a peek into cross-angled adult behavior. Recently, reading Massie's, Catherine The Great, page after page was filled with stories of eighteenth-century power lusting and material greed. Those Russians could have taken a few lessons from Oklahoma Southern Baptists. When I left home for college, at age sixteen, I never walked through the doors of another church until I was thirty-six years old.
Karen read my last three blogs and emailed that she "would like to read more thoughts about cross-generational friendships, why there are so few and, in your case, why this friendship works [with Laura]." After checking Laura's scrapes and bruises, this was the first topic of the morning run. Laura told me she would have to think about the question.
For me, those in the older category, teach about the past; keeping an eye on the younger generation provides glimpses of the future; peers provide the mirror to the present. This generational mirror reflects how we are, how we were, and how we can be. This thought offering (worth about 10%) was given to Laura; but, she continued to think.
After the first water break, Laura tackled Karen's question. To Laura, it seemed like most of the elementary school teachers she was around were 50 years of age, or older; the other age group were in their twenty's. Thirty and forty year olds were missing. She hypothesized that maybe this middle age group had just gotten tired of all the bureaucratic crap, or were having babies. She told me that one time she did go to Happy Hour with a group of 20 year olds. All they talked about was drinking and who they were chasing after. She thought them shallow. When they ran out of drinking and guy stories, they were on their cell phones and Facebook. Here they are, supposedly with these great lives, Laura continued, and they are taking pictures of their food and friends and posting this nonsense to each other. Laura was quick to say her comments were only representations of her experiences. She paused a second and then added that she preferred older people because they were more in the 'present;' better listeners; better conversationalists. Frankly, I was solely concentrating on trying to breathe and wasn't able to ask for her definition of 'present.'
I remember a UTX professor telling his class one time--keep friendships in your own age group, those older, and those younger. You will lead a richer life.
After yells of , 'It just doesn't matter; it just doesn't matter,' to get us up a pretty long neighborhood hill, the question of just what is metaphysics was put out there for discussion. Laura suggested it meant everything outside the physical. That's what meta means, doesn't it--above? Or, beyond, I added. But, I think it's more than that, was my second chime.
"Meaning what?" asked Laura.
Well, taking all the physical and the meta into consideration, you've got to think about the different ways people think. Whites, for example, think from straight line to straight line. What you see is what you get. Indians will take this straight line and add all living things in the environment, along with outer voices--those 6th senses we talked about a couple of weeks ago. The more information you've added, the more you've got to stir--round and round. Indian thinking is circular.
We laughed at the heavy running talk. Time for a water break.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Running Commentary: 3
June 17th, Sunday, Father's Day
Laura held verbal court this morning.
Sentences can break apart; words evaporated and carried away by gusts of wind. To counter nature, for this morning's run, I brought a small spiral notebook to capture key ideas before they floated away. Later, when I opened the little 3" x 5," I saw I'd written a single word--Indian.
I've been trying to figure out a way to mention I'm Indian--American Indian--Citizen of the Cherokee Nation.
My friends don't care, or half-way believe it, as I am fair skinned, light haired, green eyed, and sport a fair share of freckles. If they could only see me in a line-up with my Indian cousins, I'd be picked out as the suspect, for sure. And, then as far as the State of Texas is concerned, they believe they got rid of all the Indians years ago.
Now, I know over the past five hundred years, the dominant White society in America has chosen to imagine the Indian has vanished. The myth of the noble, but savage Indian, is allowed to live in books, and movies, but has been carefully faded into the glory of the Western sunset. Since they've vanished, I, as an Indian, am not supposed to be here. The Indian part of me is ignored; never acknowledged.
At our first stop for water, Laura was pulling at the legs of her three-quarter length running pants. Between gulps, she admitted the pants were hot because they didn't breathe. But, she couldn't wear shorts; they would give her the 'Indian Creep.' She got a funny look on her face, then told me, this was what her mother always called shorts, covering legs that were a little too chubby--"Indian pants that creep up on you." I laughed. I can do that. I'm Indian.
Running by a busy lawn sprinkler, out came a flush of summer time memories. "Water coming out of a hose or sprinkler, smelling mossy when it hits the grass always makes me think of summer. That's the first thing," said Laura; "Second, coconut butter tanning lotion--the Coppertone kind; Third, charring meat on a grill. These are the important smells of my childhood summers."
"We were feral kids. Mom and dad left early for work and we were left alone. Our neighborhood didn't have a single fence separating houses; we had a whole range to roam; trails to carve; plenty of space to be free. I think it was when I was twelve, people moved into the house behind ours and put up a fence. From then on, summers were never as fun."
The first summers of my childhood were different from Laura's. I knew the smell of mossy, too, but, I didn't tell Laura of these things. My childhood summers were spent in the hills of Northeastern Oklahoma and in the Piute Allen canyon of Utah. My playthings were the sky, the stars, the rocky hills, and the grapevines. I was a feral child of the woods. I lay on the wonderful mossed ground, looking up to the heavens through the frame of green, ferny leafed branches, stretching higher than my imagination. This was my art; the space, the animals of the woods and those of the rivers and streams, my childhood friends. Even if they are now gone, they live in me. Those were my summers before moving to the land of the fences.
June 17th, Sunday, Father's Day
Laura held verbal court this morning.
Sentences can break apart; words evaporated and carried away by gusts of wind. To counter nature, for this morning's run, I brought a small spiral notebook to capture key ideas before they floated away. Later, when I opened the little 3" x 5," I saw I'd written a single word--Indian.
I've been trying to figure out a way to mention I'm Indian--American Indian--Citizen of the Cherokee Nation.
My friends don't care, or half-way believe it, as I am fair skinned, light haired, green eyed, and sport a fair share of freckles. If they could only see me in a line-up with my Indian cousins, I'd be picked out as the suspect, for sure. And, then as far as the State of Texas is concerned, they believe they got rid of all the Indians years ago.
Now, I know over the past five hundred years, the dominant White society in America has chosen to imagine the Indian has vanished. The myth of the noble, but savage Indian, is allowed to live in books, and movies, but has been carefully faded into the glory of the Western sunset. Since they've vanished, I, as an Indian, am not supposed to be here. The Indian part of me is ignored; never acknowledged.
At our first stop for water, Laura was pulling at the legs of her three-quarter length running pants. Between gulps, she admitted the pants were hot because they didn't breathe. But, she couldn't wear shorts; they would give her the 'Indian Creep.' She got a funny look on her face, then told me, this was what her mother always called shorts, covering legs that were a little too chubby--"Indian pants that creep up on you." I laughed. I can do that. I'm Indian.
Running by a busy lawn sprinkler, out came a flush of summer time memories. "Water coming out of a hose or sprinkler, smelling mossy when it hits the grass always makes me think of summer. That's the first thing," said Laura; "Second, coconut butter tanning lotion--the Coppertone kind; Third, charring meat on a grill. These are the important smells of my childhood summers."
"We were feral kids. Mom and dad left early for work and we were left alone. Our neighborhood didn't have a single fence separating houses; we had a whole range to roam; trails to carve; plenty of space to be free. I think it was when I was twelve, people moved into the house behind ours and put up a fence. From then on, summers were never as fun."
The first summers of my childhood were different from Laura's. I knew the smell of mossy, too, but, I didn't tell Laura of these things. My childhood summers were spent in the hills of Northeastern Oklahoma and in the Piute Allen canyon of Utah. My playthings were the sky, the stars, the rocky hills, and the grapevines. I was a feral child of the woods. I lay on the wonderful mossed ground, looking up to the heavens through the frame of green, ferny leafed branches, stretching higher than my imagination. This was my art; the space, the animals of the woods and those of the rivers and streams, my childhood friends. Even if they are now gone, they live in me. Those were my summers before moving to the land of the fences.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Running Commentary: 2
June 14, 2012
Yike-A-Doodles! Linda, the world class sentry, informed me this morning that yesterday's ramblings appeared on Facebook. The technology lessons keep on coming in a heap.
Early morning newspaper (hard copy) news line: ""Study: Cougars spreading across Midwest." If this meant, foxy, older women, I agree.
I bought a great purse last Sunday--a Sherpani. This bit of news doesn't have a thing to do with running, except every girl needs a feel good purchase now and then.
Laura said, "I can hardly breathe!"
"My chest hurts," I responded.
Can't you just feel the sympathy?
Currently (Noon): 86 degrees; 59% humidity. Readings not nearly north enough for legitimate whining.
At least this short exchange almost got us through the initial, very brief stay of emotional heavy rain.
All of these early morning wet clouds came from two causes: 1) Laura's carting around and delivering resumes and not finding instant employment. This letting go of one job was an act of choice. It's just that she's run smack-dab into the realities of today's marketplace. So far, the 'over-the-rainbow' job has been promised or filled. But, Laura's not a 'giver-upper.' 2) Laura and her handsome husband had an early morning tiff. At that bit of news, I laughed. From my perch, marital spats mostly fall into a category of funny.
Subject changed; laughing stopped; the sun came out. Running will do that to you. It robs time of heavy rain.
Joel didn't like the first blog. He said my writing voice had gone missing. Besides that, he told me he knew all those old family stories. Do I have to tell everything? Shouldn't mothers be allowed a couple of secrets? Even those jangled out of the deep memory universe, where the web lives, covering and holding dark, painful, and dangerous deeds of the past? No doubt about it; running's a jungle of untold, hidden stories. Maybe that's what the newspaper headline meant--older, wiser, cougars of the run (not on the run), are spreading these stories across the Midwest.
June 14, 2012
Yike-A-Doodles! Linda, the world class sentry, informed me this morning that yesterday's ramblings appeared on Facebook. The technology lessons keep on coming in a heap.
Early morning newspaper (hard copy) news line: ""Study: Cougars spreading across Midwest." If this meant, foxy, older women, I agree.
I bought a great purse last Sunday--a Sherpani. This bit of news doesn't have a thing to do with running, except every girl needs a feel good purchase now and then.
Laura said, "I can hardly breathe!"
"My chest hurts," I responded.
Can't you just feel the sympathy?
Currently (Noon): 86 degrees; 59% humidity. Readings not nearly north enough for legitimate whining.
At least this short exchange almost got us through the initial, very brief stay of emotional heavy rain.
All of these early morning wet clouds came from two causes: 1) Laura's carting around and delivering resumes and not finding instant employment. This letting go of one job was an act of choice. It's just that she's run smack-dab into the realities of today's marketplace. So far, the 'over-the-rainbow' job has been promised or filled. But, Laura's not a 'giver-upper.' 2) Laura and her handsome husband had an early morning tiff. At that bit of news, I laughed. From my perch, marital spats mostly fall into a category of funny.
Subject changed; laughing stopped; the sun came out. Running will do that to you. It robs time of heavy rain.
Joel didn't like the first blog. He said my writing voice had gone missing. Besides that, he told me he knew all those old family stories. Do I have to tell everything? Shouldn't mothers be allowed a couple of secrets? Even those jangled out of the deep memory universe, where the web lives, covering and holding dark, painful, and dangerous deeds of the past? No doubt about it; running's a jungle of untold, hidden stories. Maybe that's what the newspaper headline meant--older, wiser, cougars of the run (not on the run), are spreading these stories across the Midwest.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Running Commentary: 1
June 10, 2012
Laura is a terrific educator. Her dedication to teaching causes me to wish I had a son or daughter sitting in her classroom. Of course, mine are long gone, having marched through a public school system, many years before the time spent in school buildings was given over to the mundaneness of measuring what's learned by drilling into kids the answers to standardized tests. I think of Laura as a 'Kick-Ass' teacher. Full of creativity, dedication, and hard work. It's only the mean rules of bureaucracy holding back the implementation of her great teaching skills. The losers: the students.
This is only a fractional element of the Laura I've come to know, and this is the beauty of a running partner. Running provides the freedom to talk--to share--to listen--and often, not remember a damn thing the other person has said. From here on, though, I'm going to try and remember the topics touched and share with you. Your feedback is welcomed.
First, I'm just thankful Laura will run with me, as she is 32 years my junior. My running group trickled away over the years, mainly succumbing to bad knees and a preference for late afternoon wine. "Run by yourself," you say. Well, you try making it up a steep hill all alone in 100 degree Texas heat, with equally high humidity. Can only be done with a Laura behind you yelling, "Iron Will! Iron Will!" These words, of course are what got the young, Will Stoneman, through the fierceness of the 1917 Iditarod.
I'll admit it. I am a competitive person--but, only with myself. However, I am not the braggy kind. Though, I don't mind telling people my running partner, now, is the daughter-in-law of my former, long-time, running partner. In all fairness, she dropped out due to a debilitating illness; not knees or wine.
Second, I like to believe, given the age difference, Laura and I have lessons to teach each other and lessons to learn. We represent different generations. Although there are no distinct, agreed upon, definitional boundaries, Laura seems to be a Generation Xer; I am a Silent Generation baby.
So, what did we talk about Sunday morning? I was the babbler, verbally pushing Laura out of the way. I'd just come back from a visit with my 84 year-old aunt in Oklahoma, filled with tales of the increasing dangers of driving IH35 between Austin and Dallas. Highway 75, and then 69 into Tulsa, is no picnic. Trying to stake out the right to be on the road with all the semi-tractors is highway madness.
Laura and I brushed by the dangers of keeping family secrets. Out of the blue, I told Laura about my grandfather missing a curve on a lonesome road and running into a tree, dying instantly. No one saw the accident. He was alone. I've always thought he killed himself. Did you know my uncle, his son, was murdered? He was the only son and eldest to four sisters. Two of these sisters died of Alzheimer's. My mother, one of the four girls, did not. It was the baby sister, the survivor, I'd made the trip to visit. Their mother, my maternal grandmother, was known as a healer. People knocked on her door, late at night, for help. The family said she had 'the 6th sense.' She told my mother I did, too, but my mother was told to discourage the ability. I then told Laura, my younger sister, when she was about three years old, drew a very accurate picture of a naked man, showed it to my grandmother, who tore the drawing into pieces. I then stopped the ramble and told Laura that I didn't know why I'd blurted out all these stories.. I'd never shared them with anyone before. Twenty minutes down. Time for a a quick water break.
Talk slid along into the importance of maintaining friendships in different age groups; school being out and what Laura's two grade-schooler's and one junior-higher would do during the summer; how to lose weight; how to keep from gaining weight; Laura considering a goal of training for a marathon--eventually; cultural differences between small towns and cities; and, our old stand-by, what exactly was pop culture. We settled this week on a distinction of the battle between the Kardashians and the Shakespearians. Or, we supposed, some people, paying attention to these things, would say, the battle has been won. There is no difference. Mass media has total control of the minds of the masses and dictates thought.
Before we finished the 2nd twenty minutes of running, the question of why people have headaches was brought out for Sunday morning examination. Laura's explanation--we American's focus too much on ourselves--what's on the inside--our inner space. We spend too much time on 'I' and 'Me.' It's dark in there, stress filled, mucking around in that inner space. Gotta get the self out into the light.
Laura decided on a repeat loop for the final twenty minutes. We paid more attention to the neighborhood. Any new houses on the market? What freshly planted bushes and flowers had the deer eaten during the week. What oaks needed trimming and saying 'Hi' to neighbors. That was it. Run finished; a final drink. I felt good and at peace. "See ya Wednesday!"
June 10, 2012
Laura is a terrific educator. Her dedication to teaching causes me to wish I had a son or daughter sitting in her classroom. Of course, mine are long gone, having marched through a public school system, many years before the time spent in school buildings was given over to the mundaneness of measuring what's learned by drilling into kids the answers to standardized tests. I think of Laura as a 'Kick-Ass' teacher. Full of creativity, dedication, and hard work. It's only the mean rules of bureaucracy holding back the implementation of her great teaching skills. The losers: the students.
This is only a fractional element of the Laura I've come to know, and this is the beauty of a running partner. Running provides the freedom to talk--to share--to listen--and often, not remember a damn thing the other person has said. From here on, though, I'm going to try and remember the topics touched and share with you. Your feedback is welcomed.
First, I'm just thankful Laura will run with me, as she is 32 years my junior. My running group trickled away over the years, mainly succumbing to bad knees and a preference for late afternoon wine. "Run by yourself," you say. Well, you try making it up a steep hill all alone in 100 degree Texas heat, with equally high humidity. Can only be done with a Laura behind you yelling, "Iron Will! Iron Will!" These words, of course are what got the young, Will Stoneman, through the fierceness of the 1917 Iditarod.
I'll admit it. I am a competitive person--but, only with myself. However, I am not the braggy kind. Though, I don't mind telling people my running partner, now, is the daughter-in-law of my former, long-time, running partner. In all fairness, she dropped out due to a debilitating illness; not knees or wine.
Second, I like to believe, given the age difference, Laura and I have lessons to teach each other and lessons to learn. We represent different generations. Although there are no distinct, agreed upon, definitional boundaries, Laura seems to be a Generation Xer; I am a Silent Generation baby.
So, what did we talk about Sunday morning? I was the babbler, verbally pushing Laura out of the way. I'd just come back from a visit with my 84 year-old aunt in Oklahoma, filled with tales of the increasing dangers of driving IH35 between Austin and Dallas. Highway 75, and then 69 into Tulsa, is no picnic. Trying to stake out the right to be on the road with all the semi-tractors is highway madness.
Laura and I brushed by the dangers of keeping family secrets. Out of the blue, I told Laura about my grandfather missing a curve on a lonesome road and running into a tree, dying instantly. No one saw the accident. He was alone. I've always thought he killed himself. Did you know my uncle, his son, was murdered? He was the only son and eldest to four sisters. Two of these sisters died of Alzheimer's. My mother, one of the four girls, did not. It was the baby sister, the survivor, I'd made the trip to visit. Their mother, my maternal grandmother, was known as a healer. People knocked on her door, late at night, for help. The family said she had 'the 6th sense.' She told my mother I did, too, but my mother was told to discourage the ability. I then told Laura, my younger sister, when she was about three years old, drew a very accurate picture of a naked man, showed it to my grandmother, who tore the drawing into pieces. I then stopped the ramble and told Laura that I didn't know why I'd blurted out all these stories.. I'd never shared them with anyone before. Twenty minutes down. Time for a a quick water break.
Talk slid along into the importance of maintaining friendships in different age groups; school being out and what Laura's two grade-schooler's and one junior-higher would do during the summer; how to lose weight; how to keep from gaining weight; Laura considering a goal of training for a marathon--eventually; cultural differences between small towns and cities; and, our old stand-by, what exactly was pop culture. We settled this week on a distinction of the battle between the Kardashians and the Shakespearians. Or, we supposed, some people, paying attention to these things, would say, the battle has been won. There is no difference. Mass media has total control of the minds of the masses and dictates thought.
Before we finished the 2nd twenty minutes of running, the question of why people have headaches was brought out for Sunday morning examination. Laura's explanation--we American's focus too much on ourselves--what's on the inside--our inner space. We spend too much time on 'I' and 'Me.' It's dark in there, stress filled, mucking around in that inner space. Gotta get the self out into the light.
Laura decided on a repeat loop for the final twenty minutes. We paid more attention to the neighborhood. Any new houses on the market? What freshly planted bushes and flowers had the deer eaten during the week. What oaks needed trimming and saying 'Hi' to neighbors. That was it. Run finished; a final drink. I felt good and at peace. "See ya Wednesday!"
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Did I Ever Tell You The Story About Mama John?
Funeral services for Mana John were held, 1984, in a Checotah, Oklahoma cemetery. It was a hard scrabble place. No trees. Just tombstones planted to hold down the dirt. Rather like the people who lived in this small town. No frills. Those Checotahtans knew their jobs and they did them. Hard working folks. Expecting nothing from the government.
The day was cloudless, unusually hot for a February, the air still. A tent was set up to shield the small number of family members from the sun. Everyone was seated in a folding chair when The Reverend Charles McCarty began the service. He talked along, saying the usual niceties. Not too short, not too long, the number of words were sounding just right. The Reverend moved into the closing of Mama John's service by reading a poem by Henry Van Dyke, an American preacher, poet, and philosopher.
"I am standing upon the seashore, A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, 'There she goes!'"
Just as The Reverend McCarty said, 'There she goes,' I was startled by the feel of a light breeze brush across the skin of my arms, followed by a slight puff of wind, every so slightly, lifting the tent top. Time stopped. I looked up. The tent settled. Everyone else stared straight ahead. The preacher never paused and continued reading.
"Gone where? Gone from my sight...that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, 'There she goes!'"
The wind came again. A little stronger. Goose bumps ran up and down both of my arms. Hair stood. The tent puffed again and lifted higher as the last sentence of the poem was being spoken.
"There are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, 'there she comes!'"
For the third and final time, the tent lifted. Mama John was gone. Not only did I see her leave, I felt her spirit.
In the last years of her long life, several strokes weakened Mana John's little body. But, this tiny, sturdy, woman, my maternal grandmother, worked as hard as she knew how, facing the sorrows in her life and the challenges heaped upon her by the times in which she lived. With little education, a never ending wellspring of common sense, and fortitude, tested and conquered on a daily basis, she braved 91 years of service to her family.
People said Mana John had the healing power. Folks knocked on her door and with the eyes of those with no money to pay, asked her to cure their aches and pains. Not too often discussed in the family was her highly tuned sixth sense about things that had happened, or eerily, her 'sights' of events to come.
How I know this, I do not know. Perhaps, I overheard the grown-ups talking at night when I would crawl out of the big feather bed where her grandchildren slept, often, together, and I would lay by myself on the linoleum floor, at a half-opened door, listening.
My mother once told me that Mama John said I had the same gift of 'sight' and it shouldn't be encouraged. Mother later denied ever having said such a thing. Mother? That's another story.
The day was cloudless, unusually hot for a February, the air still. A tent was set up to shield the small number of family members from the sun. Everyone was seated in a folding chair when The Reverend Charles McCarty began the service. He talked along, saying the usual niceties. Not too short, not too long, the number of words were sounding just right. The Reverend moved into the closing of Mama John's service by reading a poem by Henry Van Dyke, an American preacher, poet, and philosopher.
"I am standing upon the seashore, A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, 'There she goes!'"
Just as The Reverend McCarty said, 'There she goes,' I was startled by the feel of a light breeze brush across the skin of my arms, followed by a slight puff of wind, every so slightly, lifting the tent top. Time stopped. I looked up. The tent settled. Everyone else stared straight ahead. The preacher never paused and continued reading.
"Gone where? Gone from my sight...that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, 'There she goes!'"
The wind came again. A little stronger. Goose bumps ran up and down both of my arms. Hair stood. The tent puffed again and lifted higher as the last sentence of the poem was being spoken.
"There are other eyes watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, 'there she comes!'"
For the third and final time, the tent lifted. Mama John was gone. Not only did I see her leave, I felt her spirit.
In the last years of her long life, several strokes weakened Mana John's little body. But, this tiny, sturdy, woman, my maternal grandmother, worked as hard as she knew how, facing the sorrows in her life and the challenges heaped upon her by the times in which she lived. With little education, a never ending wellspring of common sense, and fortitude, tested and conquered on a daily basis, she braved 91 years of service to her family.
People said Mana John had the healing power. Folks knocked on her door and with the eyes of those with no money to pay, asked her to cure their aches and pains. Not too often discussed in the family was her highly tuned sixth sense about things that had happened, or eerily, her 'sights' of events to come.
How I know this, I do not know. Perhaps, I overheard the grown-ups talking at night when I would crawl out of the big feather bed where her grandchildren slept, often, together, and I would lay by myself on the linoleum floor, at a half-opened door, listening.
My mother once told me that Mama John said I had the same gift of 'sight' and it shouldn't be encouraged. Mother later denied ever having said such a thing. Mother? That's another story.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
First Marathon
Joel Kehle found this story in his archieves and requested a posting. Jody Kehle has run four marathons since and is currently training for her sixth.
Monday, February 17, 1997 (the day after)
It's over! After six months of training. Ran the Motorola Marathon! Finished the Marathon! Four hours and 55 minutes. Placed fifth in my age group. Beaten by ladies from Round Rock, TX, Watonga, OK, Lexington, KY, and a lady from a place I've never heard of. There was one other person in my age group from Austin that placed. Normally, she beats me. Not this time, by golly! Everything from my waist down is so sore and walks very strangely. Peter said I looked like I was continually doing the "Funky Chicken," when in motion today.
Joel just called (on his way to a meeting), from somewhere on a highway in California, to see if I was still alive. He got so excited when I told him the news and said he would call later this evening.
I hadn't been up too long this morning when the phone rang and this young male voice said, "this is so-and-so and I'm with KXWxyg radio and we noticed you'd placed fifth in your age group in the marathon and we would like to interview you in five to 10 minutes. Would you be willing?" I said, "Now who is this? What radio station?" I thought it was a joke. When I understood he wasn't kidding, I told him to look at Judy Hitt's name listed in the 50-54 yr. old age category and pointed out that not only had she placed seventh, but that she was my training partner. He told me that he'd been trying to call her but apparently had an incorrect telephone number, which I quickly corrected for him. Anyway, about three minutes later, the phone rang, and both Judy and I had a fun five minute interview--three-way phone call. (In Judy's age group, there were three other winners from Austin). Then about 9:15 this morning, a radio station called the office asking for another interview. What a hoot! (Judy, 'the dog,' did both of these interviews from her bed).
One of the smartest things we did was to drive the race course Saturday morning, the day before the race. It was very helpful because I knew exactly what to expect during the race-- where the next hill was--where each mile point was--where the finish was. There were no surprises. Also, have you ever listened to stories about, or read stories about, marathon running and heard or read the expression, 'hitting the wall?' That means at just about 20 miles, the body shuts down (particularly your legs and says, "I don't want to do this anymore." From there on, it's simply mental toughness. Since I had not had the 20 mile experience, I didn't want to take any chances and for insurance, asked Ted Reynolds, who works in the office, to please be at the 20 mile mark and run me in (Unfortunately, Peter was in Houston).
They are true. All of those stories are no lie! I ran without stopping until the twentieth mile. I was by myself, losing Judy at around the 11th mile. I was so tired. Thirsty. Dispirited. My feet were a blistered mess! I kept looking for the mile water stop and saw a policeman waving us on. "Just around the next corner," he said. I rounded the corner. No water stop in sight. At the next corner was a volunteer. "Just around the corner," she said. I rounded that corner. No water stop, but I could see another curve in the road ahead. I thought, if it's not there, Ted's not there, that's it. I quit! Running around the third corner, there it was--at the top of a hill. And, I stopped for the first time and walked the short distance to water. Surprise! Lo and Behold! There was Ted Reynolds, fresh as a daisy, yelling, "Let's go, let's go!!" I told Ted to get right in front of me for the next 6.2 miles. We started out and a burning pain appeared deep in the front muscles of both legs. It felt like they'd been hit, hard, with a sledge hammer. It was very weird. My legs just wouldn't go. Ted and I started a pattern. Run until the next water station was in sight and then stop and walk. I talked to my legs for these last miles. "Come on legs, let's move it. Pick 'em up." Every time we stopped, I'd have to give them encouragement to get them moving forward again.
Mother gave me a very wonderful phone call the evening before the race. This was her message: "Just remember, when you run, Eric's by your side, and I'm not too far behind." Eric, mother, and Ted, got me through those last 6.2 miles. They were not the fastest of the marathon, but I wouldn't have finished without all three of them. By the way, Ted got such a 'high' from the experience, he'll probably enter Austin's Capitol 10,000.
The day was perfect for a 7:00 a.m. race. Cold to start. No wind. I had done everything possible to prepare correctly. Except--drank three cups of coffee, starting at 4:30 a.m. You're not supposed to have any. But, maybe that's advice for 20 year olds. Also, two cigarettes. Bad!!
At about eight miles into the raace, I looked down and spied a couple of cigarette butts in the street. "Boy! what I wouldn't give to stop and pick one of those up and smoke it," I shouted at Judy. I heard a couple of guys laugh and looked up to see two policemen--sympathetic, smoking comrads, I was certain. When I told this story to Peter, he said, "You didn't say THAT out loud did you?" Of course I did. There is nothing you can't or don't say out loud on a race run. Nothing is sacred. Anything to keep self and everyone else psyched up.
I discovered GU. This is a one oz packet of gelatin-like substance you can take along the run for energy. It's a pure and instantaneous shot of carbohydrates. I pinned the packets to my side, ripped them off, opened one at each hour along the run and when I was at a water stop, slurped some down. By the way, I grabbed a cup of water to drink at each mile water station. We were definitely lectured a lot about the potential problem of dehydration.
Judy and I stayed together until about the 11th mile. Then she stopped because her knee was hurting. While I've had foot/blister/bunion problems throughout this training, Judy's difficulty has been her knees. I saw her later on a route double-back; I think she was probably a mile behind me at that point. Then about the 15th or 16th mile, I saw Jeff, her son, and told him she was having problems and to run her the rest of the way in. From that point on, he did for his mon what Ted did for me. Jeff walked and ran and encouraged her over the finishh line. Judy came in about 20 minutes behind me. But, she made it!! We both reached our goal.
What crazy thing will we come up with next? Do stay tuned. I never thought I would even think the following, let along actually say it, but I really beleive that if I ran another marathon, I now know how to do it better.
Monday, February 17, 1997 (the day after)
It's over! After six months of training. Ran the Motorola Marathon! Finished the Marathon! Four hours and 55 minutes. Placed fifth in my age group. Beaten by ladies from Round Rock, TX, Watonga, OK, Lexington, KY, and a lady from a place I've never heard of. There was one other person in my age group from Austin that placed. Normally, she beats me. Not this time, by golly! Everything from my waist down is so sore and walks very strangely. Peter said I looked like I was continually doing the "Funky Chicken," when in motion today.
Joel just called (on his way to a meeting), from somewhere on a highway in California, to see if I was still alive. He got so excited when I told him the news and said he would call later this evening.
I hadn't been up too long this morning when the phone rang and this young male voice said, "this is so-and-so and I'm with KXWxyg radio and we noticed you'd placed fifth in your age group in the marathon and we would like to interview you in five to 10 minutes. Would you be willing?" I said, "Now who is this? What radio station?" I thought it was a joke. When I understood he wasn't kidding, I told him to look at Judy Hitt's name listed in the 50-54 yr. old age category and pointed out that not only had she placed seventh, but that she was my training partner. He told me that he'd been trying to call her but apparently had an incorrect telephone number, which I quickly corrected for him. Anyway, about three minutes later, the phone rang, and both Judy and I had a fun five minute interview--three-way phone call. (In Judy's age group, there were three other winners from Austin). Then about 9:15 this morning, a radio station called the office asking for another interview. What a hoot! (Judy, 'the dog,' did both of these interviews from her bed).
One of the smartest things we did was to drive the race course Saturday morning, the day before the race. It was very helpful because I knew exactly what to expect during the race-- where the next hill was--where each mile point was--where the finish was. There were no surprises. Also, have you ever listened to stories about, or read stories about, marathon running and heard or read the expression, 'hitting the wall?' That means at just about 20 miles, the body shuts down (particularly your legs and says, "I don't want to do this anymore." From there on, it's simply mental toughness. Since I had not had the 20 mile experience, I didn't want to take any chances and for insurance, asked Ted Reynolds, who works in the office, to please be at the 20 mile mark and run me in (Unfortunately, Peter was in Houston).
They are true. All of those stories are no lie! I ran without stopping until the twentieth mile. I was by myself, losing Judy at around the 11th mile. I was so tired. Thirsty. Dispirited. My feet were a blistered mess! I kept looking for the mile water stop and saw a policeman waving us on. "Just around the next corner," he said. I rounded the corner. No water stop in sight. At the next corner was a volunteer. "Just around the corner," she said. I rounded that corner. No water stop, but I could see another curve in the road ahead. I thought, if it's not there, Ted's not there, that's it. I quit! Running around the third corner, there it was--at the top of a hill. And, I stopped for the first time and walked the short distance to water. Surprise! Lo and Behold! There was Ted Reynolds, fresh as a daisy, yelling, "Let's go, let's go!!" I told Ted to get right in front of me for the next 6.2 miles. We started out and a burning pain appeared deep in the front muscles of both legs. It felt like they'd been hit, hard, with a sledge hammer. It was very weird. My legs just wouldn't go. Ted and I started a pattern. Run until the next water station was in sight and then stop and walk. I talked to my legs for these last miles. "Come on legs, let's move it. Pick 'em up." Every time we stopped, I'd have to give them encouragement to get them moving forward again.
Mother gave me a very wonderful phone call the evening before the race. This was her message: "Just remember, when you run, Eric's by your side, and I'm not too far behind." Eric, mother, and Ted, got me through those last 6.2 miles. They were not the fastest of the marathon, but I wouldn't have finished without all three of them. By the way, Ted got such a 'high' from the experience, he'll probably enter Austin's Capitol 10,000.
The day was perfect for a 7:00 a.m. race. Cold to start. No wind. I had done everything possible to prepare correctly. Except--drank three cups of coffee, starting at 4:30 a.m. You're not supposed to have any. But, maybe that's advice for 20 year olds. Also, two cigarettes. Bad!!
At about eight miles into the raace, I looked down and spied a couple of cigarette butts in the street. "Boy! what I wouldn't give to stop and pick one of those up and smoke it," I shouted at Judy. I heard a couple of guys laugh and looked up to see two policemen--sympathetic, smoking comrads, I was certain. When I told this story to Peter, he said, "You didn't say THAT out loud did you?" Of course I did. There is nothing you can't or don't say out loud on a race run. Nothing is sacred. Anything to keep self and everyone else psyched up.
I discovered GU. This is a one oz packet of gelatin-like substance you can take along the run for energy. It's a pure and instantaneous shot of carbohydrates. I pinned the packets to my side, ripped them off, opened one at each hour along the run and when I was at a water stop, slurped some down. By the way, I grabbed a cup of water to drink at each mile water station. We were definitely lectured a lot about the potential problem of dehydration.
Judy and I stayed together until about the 11th mile. Then she stopped because her knee was hurting. While I've had foot/blister/bunion problems throughout this training, Judy's difficulty has been her knees. I saw her later on a route double-back; I think she was probably a mile behind me at that point. Then about the 15th or 16th mile, I saw Jeff, her son, and told him she was having problems and to run her the rest of the way in. From that point on, he did for his mon what Ted did for me. Jeff walked and ran and encouraged her over the finishh line. Judy came in about 20 minutes behind me. But, she made it!! We both reached our goal.
What crazy thing will we come up with next? Do stay tuned. I never thought I would even think the following, let along actually say it, but I really beleive that if I ran another marathon, I now know how to do it better.
Monday, April 07, 2008
"Blog It Mom!"
"Blog It Mon!" Yep, that's exactly what he said to me. My son and I were talking the other night. I'm in Austin and he's in LA -- just a little left of me as the map goes. Now, that I'm thinking about it, he's also left handed and he might be a little left of me politically. But, that's beside the point and I'm getting off track.
Joel is coming for a visit this Friday and he called to tell me he might be on another one of his peculiar diets and not to stock up on regular groceries. I told him I am eating a little strangely these days, too, so meals would not be a problem. For instance, I went on, I had just finished supper and eaten four apricots, one toast with honey, a bowl of jell-o with canned peaches, chased down by two cups of green tea. After he finished laughing, I heard, "Blog It Mom!"
Joel is coming for a visit this Friday and he called to tell me he might be on another one of his peculiar diets and not to stock up on regular groceries. I told him I am eating a little strangely these days, too, so meals would not be a problem. For instance, I went on, I had just finished supper and eaten four apricots, one toast with honey, a bowl of jell-o with canned peaches, chased down by two cups of green tea. After he finished laughing, I heard, "Blog It Mom!"
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Badger, the Boa constrictor, and the Unicorn
After rolling out of bed this morning at my normal, unnatural hour of 5 a.m., the first addictive switch of the day triggered and off I went to check whatever emails magically found their way to me overnight. First in the batch was Joel and his dream.
"The night before Christmas I had a dream: I was running/walking down a trail to get to the old lake house. There were several wild animals on the way there -- some of them chasing me, some of them just there. I remember a badger type animal and then a large boa constrictor that I had to step over. At the very end of the trail, right before the lake house, one miniature white unicorn the size of a large dog or a goat came running up to me. I held it in my arms and it licked my face affectionately. This was very vivid. What does it mean?"
After the first sleepy read, I realized this dream required some cogitating boosted by a cup of coffee. There were just too many animals to think about this early in the morning.
By 6:00 a.m., I was on to my next addiction -- early morning running. Lucky me, I can still claim a running partner. And, double lucky for me, Laura is about 25 years younger than me. but, I decided, long ago, it's a trade-off. I learn from Laura and somehow or another, I manage to say a few things that elicit an "Oh, I didn't know that!" from her. For example, we were talking about some subject a couple of days ago, and Sheena came to mind -- Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. Imagine! Laura had never heard of her. I have to bring Sheena out occasionally, grab her shield and hold it in front of me to help fight off the foes and forces of whatever. As we start the New Year, it's the Whatever's I'm getting ready for, I told Laura and she laughed with joy.
As for my daily dose of education, Laura tried to explain to me how she got those family pictures into a Christmas card and managed to send it by email to her crowd of family and friends. So, you see, Laura teaches me the concepts and basic vocabulary used by the wizardry of technology and I try to remember to share lessons I learned -- far before Laura ever imagined she would be running the streets of Austin, in the dark, listening to Sheena, tales of animal dreams, and bits and pieces of wisdom learned, joggled into my memory by the fresh air of the morning from a childhood lived in another time. I call it the forward running and backward running time of the day.
Yesterday morning we were running -- Laura and I. The streets were unusually vacant. Not many runners, early morning walkers, bicyclers, or cars. The couple of people we met or passed and said a "Good Morning" to, didn't respond. One man we passed was just standing with a Thursday morning glum look on his face. Laura mentioned that what we were seeing and not hearing was certainly peculiar. I told her the last time that I could remember experiencing such non-responsiveness from people and not understanding why, was the morning I learned that President Kennedy had been assassinated. Back home, and turning on the T.V. to catch the morning headlines, an eerie reminder of, although we live with such rapid change, there is some enduring sameness after all -- Benazir Bhutto of Pakistan had been assassinated.
I wonder if Laura even remembers my Kennedy comment. I will have to ask her. this is a time tested given with running -- although there is talk, talk, talk, and many personal secrets shared, as soon as the run is over, much of what is said, is forgotten. What if the streets and trails could talk? The animals? Back to the animals again -- The dream. In this story, it's time to close the circle.
Joel knows I have this old, thick, thumbed through, dream book. From A to Z, 10,000 dreams are interpreted. It's been grabbed many a morning, as both Joel and I seem to have dreams a few ticks off center. Take this morning for instance, my dream memory was of oatmeal. Now really, how many people usually dream of oatmeal? There were a couple of individual oats in my bowl with dark, unwanted flicks. In my dream, I simply picked them out, threw them away, and went on about my merry business.
New knowing what I am going to read about a particular dream, and not wanting to be, 'three strikes and you're out' with the Badger, Boa Constrictor and the Unicorn, I picked up the book, blew the dust off the cover, closed one eye and squinted with the other, and turned to the U's -- Unicorn. I know it's silly, but the pace of my heartbeat picked up a tad. "To dream of a unicorn, signifies good fortune and happy circumstance." Whew! This is what the G. H. Miller book said. Right there on page 529.
On to the B's -- Boa Constrictor. Whoops! "To dream of this, is just about the same as to dream of the devil." Joel would have been better off to have killed the darn snake according to Miller. I hesitate. Oh, the confusion of coming from and mixing two worldviews. But, there is a lesson here. The Cherokee have a great reverence for snakes. They are ghosts that occasionally visit us in dreams with reminders of caution. They can be regarded as prophesies. And, as it is said, the devil is in the details -- such as being on the lookout for how and what we are eating, whether or not we have forgotten to schedule our days with regularity in reference to food and sleep. The devil can be a good little reminding tap on the shoulder.
Last comes the B's -- Badger. "to dream of a badger, is a sign of good luck after battles with hardship." Thank you Mr. Miller. After the third swing, I'd say Joel hit a home run. The devil, the Lord, and his mother, only know the battles of life he has fought and survived. I've even thrown Sheena's shield in front of him more than once. But, for the moment, if Joel remembers the lesson of the Boa Constrictor, I would say he jumped the devil and had a double-dose of good luck. Oh-me-oh-my. Third addiction coming on.
"The night before Christmas I had a dream: I was running/walking down a trail to get to the old lake house. There were several wild animals on the way there -- some of them chasing me, some of them just there. I remember a badger type animal and then a large boa constrictor that I had to step over. At the very end of the trail, right before the lake house, one miniature white unicorn the size of a large dog or a goat came running up to me. I held it in my arms and it licked my face affectionately. This was very vivid. What does it mean?"
After the first sleepy read, I realized this dream required some cogitating boosted by a cup of coffee. There were just too many animals to think about this early in the morning.
By 6:00 a.m., I was on to my next addiction -- early morning running. Lucky me, I can still claim a running partner. And, double lucky for me, Laura is about 25 years younger than me. but, I decided, long ago, it's a trade-off. I learn from Laura and somehow or another, I manage to say a few things that elicit an "Oh, I didn't know that!" from her. For example, we were talking about some subject a couple of days ago, and Sheena came to mind -- Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. Imagine! Laura had never heard of her. I have to bring Sheena out occasionally, grab her shield and hold it in front of me to help fight off the foes and forces of whatever. As we start the New Year, it's the Whatever's I'm getting ready for, I told Laura and she laughed with joy.
As for my daily dose of education, Laura tried to explain to me how she got those family pictures into a Christmas card and managed to send it by email to her crowd of family and friends. So, you see, Laura teaches me the concepts and basic vocabulary used by the wizardry of technology and I try to remember to share lessons I learned -- far before Laura ever imagined she would be running the streets of Austin, in the dark, listening to Sheena, tales of animal dreams, and bits and pieces of wisdom learned, joggled into my memory by the fresh air of the morning from a childhood lived in another time. I call it the forward running and backward running time of the day.
Yesterday morning we were running -- Laura and I. The streets were unusually vacant. Not many runners, early morning walkers, bicyclers, or cars. The couple of people we met or passed and said a "Good Morning" to, didn't respond. One man we passed was just standing with a Thursday morning glum look on his face. Laura mentioned that what we were seeing and not hearing was certainly peculiar. I told her the last time that I could remember experiencing such non-responsiveness from people and not understanding why, was the morning I learned that President Kennedy had been assassinated. Back home, and turning on the T.V. to catch the morning headlines, an eerie reminder of, although we live with such rapid change, there is some enduring sameness after all -- Benazir Bhutto of Pakistan had been assassinated.
I wonder if Laura even remembers my Kennedy comment. I will have to ask her. this is a time tested given with running -- although there is talk, talk, talk, and many personal secrets shared, as soon as the run is over, much of what is said, is forgotten. What if the streets and trails could talk? The animals? Back to the animals again -- The dream. In this story, it's time to close the circle.
Joel knows I have this old, thick, thumbed through, dream book. From A to Z, 10,000 dreams are interpreted. It's been grabbed many a morning, as both Joel and I seem to have dreams a few ticks off center. Take this morning for instance, my dream memory was of oatmeal. Now really, how many people usually dream of oatmeal? There were a couple of individual oats in my bowl with dark, unwanted flicks. In my dream, I simply picked them out, threw them away, and went on about my merry business.
New knowing what I am going to read about a particular dream, and not wanting to be, 'three strikes and you're out' with the Badger, Boa Constrictor and the Unicorn, I picked up the book, blew the dust off the cover, closed one eye and squinted with the other, and turned to the U's -- Unicorn. I know it's silly, but the pace of my heartbeat picked up a tad. "To dream of a unicorn, signifies good fortune and happy circumstance." Whew! This is what the G. H. Miller book said. Right there on page 529.
On to the B's -- Boa Constrictor. Whoops! "To dream of this, is just about the same as to dream of the devil." Joel would have been better off to have killed the darn snake according to Miller. I hesitate. Oh, the confusion of coming from and mixing two worldviews. But, there is a lesson here. The Cherokee have a great reverence for snakes. They are ghosts that occasionally visit us in dreams with reminders of caution. They can be regarded as prophesies. And, as it is said, the devil is in the details -- such as being on the lookout for how and what we are eating, whether or not we have forgotten to schedule our days with regularity in reference to food and sleep. The devil can be a good little reminding tap on the shoulder.
Last comes the B's -- Badger. "to dream of a badger, is a sign of good luck after battles with hardship." Thank you Mr. Miller. After the third swing, I'd say Joel hit a home run. The devil, the Lord, and his mother, only know the battles of life he has fought and survived. I've even thrown Sheena's shield in front of him more than once. But, for the moment, if Joel remembers the lesson of the Boa Constrictor, I would say he jumped the devil and had a double-dose of good luck. Oh-me-oh-my. Third addiction coming on.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
semester over -- I'll never get to big for my britches!
Last Sunday, 10:00 in the morning, I declared the semester over! Finished!! Completed!!! It is now Tuesday morning and I am wondering what to do with myself. The ending of it all wan't without its own brand of terror, though. All computer/software related. It is really irritating to know that all these little steps of getting the computer to do what it is supposed to do, are already mastered by elementary school children. I mean, it is really, really irritating. My level of understanding is very evident in my voacbulary. I am still at/with -- "it," and, primarily, "thingamajig."
Anyway, the current frustration all started with my having finished the last semester's paper -- the one for Qualitative Analysis. We were supposed to post our paper on Blackboard, number the pages, but leave off #1 on the first page. Well! I didn't know how to do that so I called Linda Fernandez to help. She said, "No problem," just email my paper to her and we would get it fixed on the spot. So, I did -- and, we did. Or, rather, Linda did. All I needed to do then, was create my Table of Contents, which would show up with a #2 on its page.
Following Linda's instructions, I could then post my paper. This was Saturday night. Well! The final product, remember, was captured in the email to Linda. The original unfinished, non-numbered paper was in "My Documents." It is when the paper is in this spot -- where it is supposed to be -- that I know how to post from Blackboard. Somehow or another, I was supposed to get the finished paper that was captured in Linda's email to "My Documents." Well! I couldn't do that. "It" kept telling me "it" was already there. When I tried to trick the computer and rename the file, "it" still kept telling me "it" was already there. Now it was both the computer and elementary school children that are smarter than me.
As it got later and I got more tired and frustrated, I became fearful that I would, not-so-very-gently, hit the wrong button and erase my paper. So, I made the decision to call it a night, emailed Linda that we did not have lift-off, and I would call her in the morning again seeking help. Well! That computer kept me awake until after mid-night.
O.K. It is Sunday. New day and new attitude. Actually, it is what you might call, fake it until you make it. Went for a long run, came home, bathed, shampooed my hair, and got into my "fighting-I'm-gonna-win-this-round," clothes. Called Linda. She led me throught the steps of getting "it" over to "there." I had added a paragraph to the original, non-finished paper that was sitting in "My Documents," which also required an addition to the reference page. I just can't stop fiddling with my writing. It is never finished and I can always think of new and different ways of saying things. Anyway, this required Linda leading me through the process of "copy and paste." Well! By 10:00, it was a done deal. Posted. You would think one by-product of all this intense stress would be loss of appetite with the reward of weight loss. No way, Jimmy Joe. It was munchy, munchy, munchy, until the end of the ordeal.
This is the end of the story. You would think I would feel better with mission accomplished. But, that state of well-being can't quite come over me because I can't remember anything Linda taught me. That's what anxiety will do to you. It's a memory stealer -- that's for sure.
Anyway, the current frustration all started with my having finished the last semester's paper -- the one for Qualitative Analysis. We were supposed to post our paper on Blackboard, number the pages, but leave off #1 on the first page. Well! I didn't know how to do that so I called Linda Fernandez to help. She said, "No problem," just email my paper to her and we would get it fixed on the spot. So, I did -- and, we did. Or, rather, Linda did. All I needed to do then, was create my Table of Contents, which would show up with a #2 on its page.
Following Linda's instructions, I could then post my paper. This was Saturday night. Well! The final product, remember, was captured in the email to Linda. The original unfinished, non-numbered paper was in "My Documents." It is when the paper is in this spot -- where it is supposed to be -- that I know how to post from Blackboard. Somehow or another, I was supposed to get the finished paper that was captured in Linda's email to "My Documents." Well! I couldn't do that. "It" kept telling me "it" was already there. When I tried to trick the computer and rename the file, "it" still kept telling me "it" was already there. Now it was both the computer and elementary school children that are smarter than me.
As it got later and I got more tired and frustrated, I became fearful that I would, not-so-very-gently, hit the wrong button and erase my paper. So, I made the decision to call it a night, emailed Linda that we did not have lift-off, and I would call her in the morning again seeking help. Well! That computer kept me awake until after mid-night.
O.K. It is Sunday. New day and new attitude. Actually, it is what you might call, fake it until you make it. Went for a long run, came home, bathed, shampooed my hair, and got into my "fighting-I'm-gonna-win-this-round," clothes. Called Linda. She led me throught the steps of getting "it" over to "there." I had added a paragraph to the original, non-finished paper that was sitting in "My Documents," which also required an addition to the reference page. I just can't stop fiddling with my writing. It is never finished and I can always think of new and different ways of saying things. Anyway, this required Linda leading me through the process of "copy and paste." Well! By 10:00, it was a done deal. Posted. You would think one by-product of all this intense stress would be loss of appetite with the reward of weight loss. No way, Jimmy Joe. It was munchy, munchy, munchy, until the end of the ordeal.
This is the end of the story. You would think I would feel better with mission accomplished. But, that state of well-being can't quite come over me because I can't remember anything Linda taught me. That's what anxiety will do to you. It's a memory stealer -- that's for sure.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Conversations with Karen
Why, Oh Why, have I been resisting writing journals these past few days. Two reasons really. Sometimes I just get plain tired and bored talking about myself. The second, when I roll out of bed in the mornings, my mind starts thinking and coding my dreams and letting free thoughts float to the surface. Some are often surprises, having been stuck back in the shadows for quite some time.
By the time I've packed the car, driven down Mesa to my running spot and finished, driven to the office, unloaded books and the day's lunch on my chair, I would guess a couple of jounal stories have been mentally written. Here are a couple of thoughts I've been meaning to mention.
When we were in Albuquerque, Karen watched me throw away a half smoked cigarette. "Why did you do that? she asked. "Isn't that expensive?" I rationalized to her that smoking half was better than smoking the whole thing. Besides, my pharmacognocist friend, Jerry, told me that the worst part of the nicotine and tar were in the last half of the cigarette. And, remember, Jerry is a PhD. He should know what he's talking about -- shouldn't he? Also, he smoked years ago when he was in the military. I really am running out of smoking excuses, aren't I?
A couple of weeks ago, I emailed Karen that I'd just tapped the computer "send" key and emailed a paper due for my quantitative class. She asked, "Were you please with it? Or, just glad to get it done?" Probably more the latter. As I get closer and closer to finishing the "programs" course work, I can't deny that I am getting mentally tired. Stoking up the energy to read and write is becoming more of a chore. Then, was I pleased with it? I'm truly never completely pleased with my writing as I think of the exercise as putting a puzzle together. Your've got ideas, you've done research, and there are all of these words that need to be put together to make a story. I take all of those words, toss them in the air and look at them, where they fell and then start picking up the pieces to fit them together. The thing is, you can do this a hundred times. Throw them in the air, watch them fall, reach down, pick up, and put them together again for the story. Only this time, it can be told a different way. The writer in me always wonders if there was a better way to tell it.
By the time I've packed the car, driven down Mesa to my running spot and finished, driven to the office, unloaded books and the day's lunch on my chair, I would guess a couple of jounal stories have been mentally written. Here are a couple of thoughts I've been meaning to mention.
When we were in Albuquerque, Karen watched me throw away a half smoked cigarette. "Why did you do that? she asked. "Isn't that expensive?" I rationalized to her that smoking half was better than smoking the whole thing. Besides, my pharmacognocist friend, Jerry, told me that the worst part of the nicotine and tar were in the last half of the cigarette. And, remember, Jerry is a PhD. He should know what he's talking about -- shouldn't he? Also, he smoked years ago when he was in the military. I really am running out of smoking excuses, aren't I?
A couple of weeks ago, I emailed Karen that I'd just tapped the computer "send" key and emailed a paper due for my quantitative class. She asked, "Were you please with it? Or, just glad to get it done?" Probably more the latter. As I get closer and closer to finishing the "programs" course work, I can't deny that I am getting mentally tired. Stoking up the energy to read and write is becoming more of a chore. Then, was I pleased with it? I'm truly never completely pleased with my writing as I think of the exercise as putting a puzzle together. Your've got ideas, you've done research, and there are all of these words that need to be put together to make a story. I take all of those words, toss them in the air and look at them, where they fell and then start picking up the pieces to fit them together. The thing is, you can do this a hundred times. Throw them in the air, watch them fall, reach down, pick up, and put them together again for the story. Only this time, it can be told a different way. The writer in me always wonders if there was a better way to tell it.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
On The Path To Wisdon....and Other Thought Fragments
The moon is too full this evening. It doesn't feel right. The "spirits" of the universe are distrubed. This is what I believe.
I really do pay attention to astrology -- what happens in the heavens -- the positioning and action between the planets and the stars does have bearing on our Earth and therefore, our lives. Also, I believe in my dreams. They tell me stories with their own signs and symbols. They create my private dream language. Most of the time I listen to what they are saying because I've learned to do so.
On windy days, like today, it's prudent to take notice. Messages are carried on the wind.
Vine Deloria, Jr. in "God Is Red (2003, p. 144) talks about Carl Jung's suggestion of the existence of the archetypes and symbols of the universal human experience found in a collective unconscious. As Jung studied human spiritual problems, he further suggested that the unconscious presented dreams to us, using these various symbols as stories, so we would be able to work through various psychological difficulties. Generally, stories do hold a lesson. Some are buried a little deeper than others.
Peter came by this afternoon for a visit. I've done a disservice to my sons as I protected them too much after Eric's death. I kept them children too long. Now I can see the mistakes of my ways but there was not too much I could do about it during the years of time past. As they grew to manhood, I was always there to help -- never letting them solve their own problems -- learn from their own mistakes that are the inevitabilities of a life. And, of course, this is the only way character and soul depth and internal strength are developed.
Recognizing what I'd done, this last peck of trouble Peter got himself into, I stood aside. And, oh, it has been so painful to watch him these past four years -- learning how to solve his own problems -- a process I should have allowed to begin years ago. Often I feared for his emotional health. But, he is finding his way through. He is getting his "game" back. And, most importantly, he is doing the work by himself. I will always be there as a safety net. I think everyone has to believe they have this fall back, even if it's never asked to be used.
Listening to him this afternoon I can tell that heh is different. It's apparent he has become a little wiser having learned from past mistakes. This is good.
A new month is beginning. March. My Cherokee calendar says this is the "Month of the Windy Moon." The featured "Herb" Wild Onions relieve dizzy spells, aid digestive process & lower blood pressure."
Love to Everyone.
Jody
I really do pay attention to astrology -- what happens in the heavens -- the positioning and action between the planets and the stars does have bearing on our Earth and therefore, our lives. Also, I believe in my dreams. They tell me stories with their own signs and symbols. They create my private dream language. Most of the time I listen to what they are saying because I've learned to do so.
On windy days, like today, it's prudent to take notice. Messages are carried on the wind.
Vine Deloria, Jr. in "God Is Red (2003, p. 144) talks about Carl Jung's suggestion of the existence of the archetypes and symbols of the universal human experience found in a collective unconscious. As Jung studied human spiritual problems, he further suggested that the unconscious presented dreams to us, using these various symbols as stories, so we would be able to work through various psychological difficulties. Generally, stories do hold a lesson. Some are buried a little deeper than others.
Peter came by this afternoon for a visit. I've done a disservice to my sons as I protected them too much after Eric's death. I kept them children too long. Now I can see the mistakes of my ways but there was not too much I could do about it during the years of time past. As they grew to manhood, I was always there to help -- never letting them solve their own problems -- learn from their own mistakes that are the inevitabilities of a life. And, of course, this is the only way character and soul depth and internal strength are developed.
Recognizing what I'd done, this last peck of trouble Peter got himself into, I stood aside. And, oh, it has been so painful to watch him these past four years -- learning how to solve his own problems -- a process I should have allowed to begin years ago. Often I feared for his emotional health. But, he is finding his way through. He is getting his "game" back. And, most importantly, he is doing the work by himself. I will always be there as a safety net. I think everyone has to believe they have this fall back, even if it's never asked to be used.
Listening to him this afternoon I can tell that heh is different. It's apparent he has become a little wiser having learned from past mistakes. This is good.
A new month is beginning. March. My Cherokee calendar says this is the "Month of the Windy Moon." The featured "Herb" Wild Onions relieve dizzy spells, aid digestive process & lower blood pressure."
Love to Everyone.
Jody
Sunday, February 18, 2007
coded gates
Why is it called "The Holler With No Name?" It all started out as a joke between friends -- Cherokee friends. there's "Pumkin Holler," Skunk Holler," and "Flat Creek Holler," just to give you a few examples. These are places where the People live. There're hard to find though. No doubt about that. More than likely you'd miss the turn off driving along a highway or a twisty, dusty road. They are private and protected by their own gates. Much like the locked wrought iron gates of today that sit on their sturdy wheels, locked and not to be opened until given the secret code by one of the big house owners protected by the tall iron rolling fence. It keep out the "Others." But, they can still look between the bars to see what they are missing.
The Holler's are different. You can't see inside. You can't even find the gate as mainly it is just a thicket, intertwined with a mixture of overgrown native trees, bushes, and vines. But, no one would ever accuse the hollers of not being protected.
How the joke started was Les would talk about his Pumkin Holler and I listened to John one day tell a story about his "Miller Flats Holler." Later in the storytelling, for the first time ever, I wondered why our family holler had no name. Were we so poor we couldn't even afford a name? There evolved the joke.
No name perhaps. But, the place where we grew up, the place on #10 highway that cannot be found unless you know the key to unlock it's hiding place, opens the gate to a world of riches. They are not material, I'll grant you that. Rather, a treasury of childhood memories. I wouldn't trade for any of those things locked behind the iron gates of code for my memory holler on #10.
The Holler's are different. You can't see inside. You can't even find the gate as mainly it is just a thicket, intertwined with a mixture of overgrown native trees, bushes, and vines. But, no one would ever accuse the hollers of not being protected.
How the joke started was Les would talk about his Pumkin Holler and I listened to John one day tell a story about his "Miller Flats Holler." Later in the storytelling, for the first time ever, I wondered why our family holler had no name. Were we so poor we couldn't even afford a name? There evolved the joke.
No name perhaps. But, the place where we grew up, the place on #10 highway that cannot be found unless you know the key to unlock it's hiding place, opens the gate to a world of riches. They are not material, I'll grant you that. Rather, a treasury of childhood memories. I wouldn't trade for any of those things locked behind the iron gates of code for my memory holler on #10.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
mixed blood identity and agency
Well, Betty Jo, I don't have the answer either -- where the energy comes from. Why Karen and I can do all of the things we do. I've finally decided it is either a miracle or a touch of mental illness. I can't speak for sister Karen, only myself, but, in these later years of life, I've always had an image of a ladder in front of me and I want to see how many rungs I can climb. Hearing the word, "No," or being told "You can't do that, " or "Why are you doing that?" "You're too old to do that," is just like waving a red flag in front of me. It is a "Go" signal.
Often, the picture of Elmer, the bull, in the backyard hollow, getting a look at the red gown mother had penned to the clothes line comes to mind. As the family story goes, when he got that good look and with whatever his purpose in mind, he bore down, went on the attack and got his mission accomplished. I always think of Elmer, by the sight of the red gown, was told "No." And, he would have none of it. He was just climbing another rung of his ladder.
It is rare a book disappoints me. However, I found this to be the case when reading Daniel Levinson's, The Seasons of a Woman's Life. The life stages of development he discusses in the book, I've been through. I want a model - a blueprint for what comes next in the here and now. Turning to life past sixty years of age, the what to do and how it's going to be is missing in The Seasons. I'm in brand new territory, forming my own new identities. The process has not been without problems.
First it was "the runner." Then along came the "grad student." How many time have I heard from men and women I've known for years -- "How are your knees holding up?" "What do you do that for?" "It's not good for people to run so far at your age!" I had pictures of myself being the lone lobster in the barrel trying to crawl out and the other lobsters reaching up to pull me back in. No encouragement. Only negativism. generally, I could flip my thoughts into a positive frame. But, occasionally, lack of support just gets you down. Doubt creeps in.
I climbed the ladder of age-group running. First 3.2 miles. Then 6.2 miles. Then the half-marathon. Finally, the scariest of all, the full marathon. So far, I've completed five. In the over all scheme of a runner's life, that's not that many, but, oh my goodness, the number of rungs I've climbed up my ladder have been so rewarding. I didn't read a thing about this in the book. It was just something I wanted to see if I could do. But, why aren't people more encouraging? What do they consider "climbing up the ladder" of life, instead of crawling back down such strange behavior.
It is not as if I were "Little Miss Goodie Two Shoes." I smoke and run. I've dragged myself out of bed of early mornings to run after one too many glasses wine the night before. There was no shining halo over my head the last time I looked in a mirror. Maybe these are all addiction behaviors. Maybe they are methods of trying to sneak around corners to hide from death. Personally, I don't think so. It's just a drive to see what's out there inside the self. What more can I do? How many more's can I be? Whenever I look up, I see more rungs. What do they hold? It is a mystery.
Being a late-age graduate student is a whole other story. While the people in my age group are still in a discouraging mode adding, "Why are you doing that?" "Your wasting your time?" "Nobody is ever going to hire you at your age."
Surprisingly, I have found a common characteristic between "the runner" and the "grad student." The younger agers seem to show admiration and respect. Initially, I can see the questions in their eyes. But, given my persistence, their silent questioning turns to invitations. My running partners are younger than my children. My younger graduate colleagues ask me to meet them for "thought bouncing" at Starbucks.
So, Betty Jo, I'm still searching for the answer. I've got a feeling though. I think it's going to be found somewhere in the complexity of mixed-blood identity which has resulted in a high dose of agency.
Often, the picture of Elmer, the bull, in the backyard hollow, getting a look at the red gown mother had penned to the clothes line comes to mind. As the family story goes, when he got that good look and with whatever his purpose in mind, he bore down, went on the attack and got his mission accomplished. I always think of Elmer, by the sight of the red gown, was told "No." And, he would have none of it. He was just climbing another rung of his ladder.
It is rare a book disappoints me. However, I found this to be the case when reading Daniel Levinson's, The Seasons of a Woman's Life. The life stages of development he discusses in the book, I've been through. I want a model - a blueprint for what comes next in the here and now. Turning to life past sixty years of age, the what to do and how it's going to be is missing in The Seasons. I'm in brand new territory, forming my own new identities. The process has not been without problems.
First it was "the runner." Then along came the "grad student." How many time have I heard from men and women I've known for years -- "How are your knees holding up?" "What do you do that for?" "It's not good for people to run so far at your age!" I had pictures of myself being the lone lobster in the barrel trying to crawl out and the other lobsters reaching up to pull me back in. No encouragement. Only negativism. generally, I could flip my thoughts into a positive frame. But, occasionally, lack of support just gets you down. Doubt creeps in.
I climbed the ladder of age-group running. First 3.2 miles. Then 6.2 miles. Then the half-marathon. Finally, the scariest of all, the full marathon. So far, I've completed five. In the over all scheme of a runner's life, that's not that many, but, oh my goodness, the number of rungs I've climbed up my ladder have been so rewarding. I didn't read a thing about this in the book. It was just something I wanted to see if I could do. But, why aren't people more encouraging? What do they consider "climbing up the ladder" of life, instead of crawling back down such strange behavior.
It is not as if I were "Little Miss Goodie Two Shoes." I smoke and run. I've dragged myself out of bed of early mornings to run after one too many glasses wine the night before. There was no shining halo over my head the last time I looked in a mirror. Maybe these are all addiction behaviors. Maybe they are methods of trying to sneak around corners to hide from death. Personally, I don't think so. It's just a drive to see what's out there inside the self. What more can I do? How many more's can I be? Whenever I look up, I see more rungs. What do they hold? It is a mystery.
Being a late-age graduate student is a whole other story. While the people in my age group are still in a discouraging mode adding, "Why are you doing that?" "Your wasting your time?" "Nobody is ever going to hire you at your age."
Surprisingly, I have found a common characteristic between "the runner" and the "grad student." The younger agers seem to show admiration and respect. Initially, I can see the questions in their eyes. But, given my persistence, their silent questioning turns to invitations. My running partners are younger than my children. My younger graduate colleagues ask me to meet them for "thought bouncing" at Starbucks.
So, Betty Jo, I'm still searching for the answer. I've got a feeling though. I think it's going to be found somewhere in the complexity of mixed-blood identity which has resulted in a high dose of agency.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Ballet of the Birds
Morning Thoughts. Thoughts at Noon. Late afternoon thinking: Ballet of the Birds
Long time personal beliefs:
1. A new day is always a wonder because you never know what's going to happen when you get up of a morning.
2. Never make assumptions and judgments based on what you think is going on in my mind. More than likely, you are way off the mark.
3. Belief number two is applied to every person. There are too many worldviews in operation - different perspectives - complexity of "The Rule of Diversity."
President Bush dominated my dreams last night. He flitted in and out of several vignettes. I awakened remembering only the last one. G. W. and Laura were being introduced before walking onto an auditorium stage to make an opening statement, which would start the regional finals of a ballet competition. I was part of a group of parents with children participating in the competition.
The seating arrangement called for the contestant spectators to be separated. The director of our group asked us to sit in a single row, starting at the top of the auditorium and ending at the bottom seats closet to the stage -- forming a long single line. I couldn't find a way to be part of the determined seating map as every empty seat I found was "being saved." So, I jumped the aisle into a different seating section.
After I found a seat, I ran back up the steps to wait in the stage wings for G. W. to appear. I was curious to see what he would wear as he'd been to so many events during the day, I wondered how he would have time to change into proper dress for the ballet.
I was surprised. He walked onto the stage with Laura wearing a red and white sports shirt. He looked like he'd just come from a barbeque. On his way to the microphone, he began his famous hand wave -- one of his symbolic actions for the public and the camera. I wondered if these "G. W. friendlies" disappeared in private.
I could see the Velcro straps of a black protective flak jacket. He and Laura turned their heads to the side where I was standing and I could see checkered bandana's covering half of their faces. Only their eyes were showing. They took them off, looked at the crowd and smiled. I wondered what the joke was?
Later in the day, an email arrived from iced in Columbia, MO. One of my sister's colleagues, along with her husband had been stuck in their house over the weekend because of "two inches of ice coating everything and frigid temperatures." They were, however, thankful to have the basics of electricity and food. Bored with the enforced hibernation, they pulled up a couple of chairs in front of their kitchen windows and entertained themselves by watching the birds in their backyard. The subject of the movie in play was bird's trying to get to food.
Since their birdfeeders were all iced-up, Peggy and her husband had scattered seeds on the ice for quick and easy frozen meals. What they didn't figure on was when the birds flew in for a food-landing, they slid all over the place. Peggy said it "looked lik a birdie ski resort." My imagination pictured a bird ballet. According to Peggy, the birds soon figured out how to choreograph their timing and moves to slide gracefully in to successfully feed on the seeds.
The connectivity in a day never ceases to amaze me. It begins drawing the circle and ends with its powerful closure. Today, it was the three B's: Bush, the birds, and the ballet.
Long time personal beliefs:
1. A new day is always a wonder because you never know what's going to happen when you get up of a morning.
2. Never make assumptions and judgments based on what you think is going on in my mind. More than likely, you are way off the mark.
3. Belief number two is applied to every person. There are too many worldviews in operation - different perspectives - complexity of "The Rule of Diversity."
President Bush dominated my dreams last night. He flitted in and out of several vignettes. I awakened remembering only the last one. G. W. and Laura were being introduced before walking onto an auditorium stage to make an opening statement, which would start the regional finals of a ballet competition. I was part of a group of parents with children participating in the competition.
The seating arrangement called for the contestant spectators to be separated. The director of our group asked us to sit in a single row, starting at the top of the auditorium and ending at the bottom seats closet to the stage -- forming a long single line. I couldn't find a way to be part of the determined seating map as every empty seat I found was "being saved." So, I jumped the aisle into a different seating section.
After I found a seat, I ran back up the steps to wait in the stage wings for G. W. to appear. I was curious to see what he would wear as he'd been to so many events during the day, I wondered how he would have time to change into proper dress for the ballet.
I was surprised. He walked onto the stage with Laura wearing a red and white sports shirt. He looked like he'd just come from a barbeque. On his way to the microphone, he began his famous hand wave -- one of his symbolic actions for the public and the camera. I wondered if these "G. W. friendlies" disappeared in private.
I could see the Velcro straps of a black protective flak jacket. He and Laura turned their heads to the side where I was standing and I could see checkered bandana's covering half of their faces. Only their eyes were showing. They took them off, looked at the crowd and smiled. I wondered what the joke was?
Later in the day, an email arrived from iced in Columbia, MO. One of my sister's colleagues, along with her husband had been stuck in their house over the weekend because of "two inches of ice coating everything and frigid temperatures." They were, however, thankful to have the basics of electricity and food. Bored with the enforced hibernation, they pulled up a couple of chairs in front of their kitchen windows and entertained themselves by watching the birds in their backyard. The subject of the movie in play was bird's trying to get to food.
Since their birdfeeders were all iced-up, Peggy and her husband had scattered seeds on the ice for quick and easy frozen meals. What they didn't figure on was when the birds flew in for a food-landing, they slid all over the place. Peggy said it "looked lik a birdie ski resort." My imagination pictured a bird ballet. According to Peggy, the birds soon figured out how to choreograph their timing and moves to slide gracefully in to successfully feed on the seeds.
The connectivity in a day never ceases to amaze me. It begins drawing the circle and ends with its powerful closure. Today, it was the three B's: Bush, the birds, and the ballet.
Friday, January 19, 2007
elementary epistomology and ontology
January 19, 2007 - Friday -- Mother Letter #5
(written 1-17-Wednesday)
Stir craziness is taking over. The city has been iced in for three days. I've not budged from the house since Monday. The physical inactivity has started to affect me. Hyperness and a pervasive feeling of restless has taken over. Up, down. Up, down. It's hard to sit still. Jumping jacks have provided intermittent relief. In my first venture outside, I slipped and almost fell. Every time since then, I've bundled up as a caution. In case I did slip and fall, at least I'd be warm laying on the ground waiting for rescue.
Last evening, tired of serious reading, finding nothing of interest on T.V., and bored with videos, I crawled into bed with my latest "grocery-store-tranquilizer-mystery-paperback-novel." The sleep-charm worked. I was asleep within fifteen minutes; both glasses and bedside lamp still on. I know this because I woke up thirty minutes later. And, I know this, because for some reason I looked at my watch. It seemed important at the time. Was it the dream that awakened me?
I could see myself standing in a sterile room in the middle of a complex grid of lazerbeams emitting white light. The beams were running parallel and perpendicular to each other, almost in perfect squares. The horizontal lines had hatch marks. Instinctively, I knew I needed to be still. I was watching myself like a hall-monitor. My back was to me in the dream as I was facing a large, secure door. It was then I awakened, wondered why it was so light, and the dream faded. But, as all my dreams go, I knew what I saw before the image faded.
Mid-morning, I thought about the dream again and compared its similarity to my almost every morning ritual of watching the sun start its journey over the horizon. First it alerts the clouds and they signal the coming of the new day with expressions of color. This sight is fleeting. One second the cloud-color-mixes of the morning are there, and in the next second the exact artful vision is gone. But, I know what I saw. This early morning experience is like the dream. How I see the sunrises and my dreams are esthetically mine and mine alone. It is in how I see them that I tell you about them.
(written 1-17-Wednesday)
Stir craziness is taking over. The city has been iced in for three days. I've not budged from the house since Monday. The physical inactivity has started to affect me. Hyperness and a pervasive feeling of restless has taken over. Up, down. Up, down. It's hard to sit still. Jumping jacks have provided intermittent relief. In my first venture outside, I slipped and almost fell. Every time since then, I've bundled up as a caution. In case I did slip and fall, at least I'd be warm laying on the ground waiting for rescue.
Last evening, tired of serious reading, finding nothing of interest on T.V., and bored with videos, I crawled into bed with my latest "grocery-store-tranquilizer-mystery-paperback-novel." The sleep-charm worked. I was asleep within fifteen minutes; both glasses and bedside lamp still on. I know this because I woke up thirty minutes later. And, I know this, because for some reason I looked at my watch. It seemed important at the time. Was it the dream that awakened me?
I could see myself standing in a sterile room in the middle of a complex grid of lazerbeams emitting white light. The beams were running parallel and perpendicular to each other, almost in perfect squares. The horizontal lines had hatch marks. Instinctively, I knew I needed to be still. I was watching myself like a hall-monitor. My back was to me in the dream as I was facing a large, secure door. It was then I awakened, wondered why it was so light, and the dream faded. But, as all my dreams go, I knew what I saw before the image faded.
Mid-morning, I thought about the dream again and compared its similarity to my almost every morning ritual of watching the sun start its journey over the horizon. First it alerts the clouds and they signal the coming of the new day with expressions of color. This sight is fleeting. One second the cloud-color-mixes of the morning are there, and in the next second the exact artful vision is gone. But, I know what I saw. This early morning experience is like the dream. How I see the sunrises and my dreams are esthetically mine and mine alone. It is in how I see them that I tell you about them.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Thoughts on Words and Nature
4th Mother Letter of 2007. It is the 13th of January. Wintry day in Austin
Dear Mother,
Lean over and bend your ear close to the paper. I want to whisper something to you. i've had no headaches in over a week. Hallelujah! If they've ended, this will be a record. The 2nd shortest Cluster time - ever.
Ever since using the word, omphaloskepsis, in your 2nd Mother Letter, Brother-in-Law Dan and I have been parleying back and forth on word meanings. In a recent email he suggested that in this technologically, every-changing, fast-paced world we are living in, "We are in danger of losing the ability to connect with our past and our people who lived in those times" by corrupting meanings of many old words and re-arranging meanings to suit modern demand and fashion. If this is the case, "It is possible that the language we use to convey our thoughts may not carry the ideas originally intended by those people from our past who generated the ideas." As an example, Dan dug through his old files and shared an expression sent to him at one time by his brother, Ernest -- one that with the passage of time just "slipped-slided" into a current idiom.
"Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled that Gentlemen
Only could play the game. Ladies Forbidden. Thus, the word GOLF entered into the
English language."
Among all the little points unfolding in this story, there is also, one of synchronicity. Wednesday morning on my early drive down Mesa to go meet Judy and Laura for our early run, rounding the first corner from the house, I slowed to let a squirrel cross the street. Usually, It's deer. This morning, a lone squirrel had the right-of-way. A couple of hours and couple of cups of coffee later, I remembered the second part of Dan's email and his story of the squirrel. That we'd have two instances of meaningful squirrel stories so close together is the wonder of synchronicity.
Brother-in-Law Dan, is very proud of the deck he added onto his and Karen's Columbia home. He calls it their, three-seasons room. It's outfitted with indoor-outdoor carpeting and has eight, fairly sizable windows opening on the front and sides of this covered porch to bring closer to them the beauty of their treed, woods-like, backyard. Deck project finished, here came the winter storms their part of the country withstood this past year.
While scraping up and sweeping out almost a foot of snow that had blown in through the open windows, Dan mentioned that during a couple of work breaks, he noticed a squirrel running down one of the large oak trees in the backyard. Curious, he stood and patiently watched. The squirrel ran down the tree until it was almost six feet from the ground and then took a diving jump right into the middle of a snow pile leaving a hole of about three inches in diameter. "About 30 seconds later, the squirrel popped its head up out of the hole and, in fits and starts, made a 360 degree check of its surroundings. Then back in the hole the squirrel went. After it repeated these various maneuvers 4 times, the squirrel re-emerged with an acron in its mouth."
Dan told me that it was at this point he got hit with the "duh" bolt of memory. "Growing up, I remembered watching squirrels find acorns in the winter, no matter how cold or wet the weather happened to be." However, he'd never had the experience of watching squirrels high-dive from trees into banks of snow to food hunt as the part of Oklahoma he grew up in didn't see snow too often. Then, right behind his first memory jog, quickly came another thought and then another.
First Dan thought, "those squirrels will probably be finding acorns or whatever passes for food eons after humans become a piece of archeology." Second thought coming to Dan and shared with me -- "Maybe being viewed as "Squirrelly" is not such a bad thing. Maybe I should not have been so upset with the fellow who once arrogantly told me that my ancestors must have lived in trees. If the squirrels can survive, perhaps my people really do have a chance."
Patience and observing nature really do provide opportunity for profound lessons. Getting a chance look at the survival techniques of the winter squirrel, Dan's follow-through on his curiousness, synchronized nicely with how many would dub his time spent as eccentric or "Squirrelly." Lessons from the animals can take racist words and spin them into hope.
(Squirrel story provided by Dan Cockrell, Master deck-builder and Professor Emeritus, University of Missouri-Columbia)
Dear Mother,
Lean over and bend your ear close to the paper. I want to whisper something to you. i've had no headaches in over a week. Hallelujah! If they've ended, this will be a record. The 2nd shortest Cluster time - ever.
Ever since using the word, omphaloskepsis, in your 2nd Mother Letter, Brother-in-Law Dan and I have been parleying back and forth on word meanings. In a recent email he suggested that in this technologically, every-changing, fast-paced world we are living in, "We are in danger of losing the ability to connect with our past and our people who lived in those times" by corrupting meanings of many old words and re-arranging meanings to suit modern demand and fashion. If this is the case, "It is possible that the language we use to convey our thoughts may not carry the ideas originally intended by those people from our past who generated the ideas." As an example, Dan dug through his old files and shared an expression sent to him at one time by his brother, Ernest -- one that with the passage of time just "slipped-slided" into a current idiom.
"Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled that Gentlemen
Only could play the game. Ladies Forbidden. Thus, the word GOLF entered into the
English language."
Among all the little points unfolding in this story, there is also, one of synchronicity. Wednesday morning on my early drive down Mesa to go meet Judy and Laura for our early run, rounding the first corner from the house, I slowed to let a squirrel cross the street. Usually, It's deer. This morning, a lone squirrel had the right-of-way. A couple of hours and couple of cups of coffee later, I remembered the second part of Dan's email and his story of the squirrel. That we'd have two instances of meaningful squirrel stories so close together is the wonder of synchronicity.
Brother-in-Law Dan, is very proud of the deck he added onto his and Karen's Columbia home. He calls it their, three-seasons room. It's outfitted with indoor-outdoor carpeting and has eight, fairly sizable windows opening on the front and sides of this covered porch to bring closer to them the beauty of their treed, woods-like, backyard. Deck project finished, here came the winter storms their part of the country withstood this past year.
While scraping up and sweeping out almost a foot of snow that had blown in through the open windows, Dan mentioned that during a couple of work breaks, he noticed a squirrel running down one of the large oak trees in the backyard. Curious, he stood and patiently watched. The squirrel ran down the tree until it was almost six feet from the ground and then took a diving jump right into the middle of a snow pile leaving a hole of about three inches in diameter. "About 30 seconds later, the squirrel popped its head up out of the hole and, in fits and starts, made a 360 degree check of its surroundings. Then back in the hole the squirrel went. After it repeated these various maneuvers 4 times, the squirrel re-emerged with an acron in its mouth."
Dan told me that it was at this point he got hit with the "duh" bolt of memory. "Growing up, I remembered watching squirrels find acorns in the winter, no matter how cold or wet the weather happened to be." However, he'd never had the experience of watching squirrels high-dive from trees into banks of snow to food hunt as the part of Oklahoma he grew up in didn't see snow too often. Then, right behind his first memory jog, quickly came another thought and then another.
First Dan thought, "those squirrels will probably be finding acorns or whatever passes for food eons after humans become a piece of archeology." Second thought coming to Dan and shared with me -- "Maybe being viewed as "Squirrelly" is not such a bad thing. Maybe I should not have been so upset with the fellow who once arrogantly told me that my ancestors must have lived in trees. If the squirrels can survive, perhaps my people really do have a chance."
Patience and observing nature really do provide opportunity for profound lessons. Getting a chance look at the survival techniques of the winter squirrel, Dan's follow-through on his curiousness, synchronized nicely with how many would dub his time spent as eccentric or "Squirrelly." Lessons from the animals can take racist words and spin them into hope.
(Squirrel story provided by Dan Cockrell, Master deck-builder and Professor Emeritus, University of Missouri-Columbia)
Saturday, January 06, 2007
3rd mother letter of 2007 - finding holes in the fence
Dear Mother,
Do you remember -- I think it was a couple of years ago -- when I was driving a loop around Tulsa, lost as usual, trying to find Matt's house for the family Thanksgiving gathering and the two pieces of metal flew off of a car passing me at a high rate of speed and they hit my old Camry in the middle of the driver's door. It all happened so fast. I thought I'd been shot at by a speeding motorist. Since then, I've been asked many times what caused those two large dents in the door, followed by the next question: "Why don't you have them fixed? My response has always been the same. "No way. Those two dents in the car door keep me reminded of the time I was almost killed in Tulsa, Oklahoma." It's a pretty good living story.
When I was running the neighborhood Christmas morning, tripped, and fell face forward on the street, skinning the palms of my hands, left knee and ripping a hole in my favorite running pants, the Tulsa time of two years ago reappeared. People now want to know, "Why are you wearing running pants with a hole in the knee? Why don't you go buy a new pair?" Well, "No way." The new hole in the pants reminds me of the fall, the pain of it all, and feeling alive, Another pretty good living story.
Over the years, with every inch of separation I've made from No. 10 highway in Tahlequah and then, 133 N. E. in Bartlesville, it seems that as the distance increases it matches the inability of people to understand the way I think.
It's like being out exploring on a Saturday morning and finding yourself standing at the forefront of a large meadow with a fence stretching across the whole expanse, blocked from going forward, straight ahead, to find out what is in the far distance. Sometimes you are lucky enough to find a small hole in the fence to get through and sometimes, you've just got to buck up and walk around the whole dang thing to get where you are going. It may take a little longer, but you can get there.
The farther away I've gotten from Indian Country, the fewer holes I've found in the thinking of folks to maneuver through. The time it takes to walk around the whole dang outside of the Indian-Country-mind can get pretty tiring at times.
Friday, January 5th
Here's a good early morning story for you -- driving down Mesa this morning, by the light of a full moon, on my way to hook up with Judy and Laura for the early morning run, I slowed, as I could see in the distance flashing lights from police cars.
Getting to the scene of the "accident,' I crept by three police cars trying to get a good look at what was causing all the commotion. What I saw didn't make any sense at the time. There seemed to be a golf cart surrounded by three "blue and whites." all of a sudden one of the police cars, lights flashing, sped off.
Almost a mile down the street, I could see flashing lights again. Passing by, there was a repeat of my earlier vision -- a golf cart, sitting half in the street, half on the curb.
When I got to the Hitt's house, I asked Judy and Laura if they minded running back to the first police car to find out what was going on and I could check out my eye-sight. Off we went. Everything was still in place. The police car and the second spotted golf cart. It really was a golf cart!! The policeman told us that a group of teenagers had stolen several carts from a tennis club, located about four miles away. So far, they had caught two of the teenagers. The others ran. Well, actually, according to the policeman, they all ran, but there were two slow ones.
I mentioned to the policman that they would probably use "the full moon" defense. But, he told me he thought that was a myth and didn't believe people acted out a little more strangely under the light of a full moon.
Saturday Morning -- January 6, 2007
Rare opportunity missed this day. No alarm clock needed last night. I could have slept as long as I wanted. Instead, "up with the chickens." My last dream remembered was chauffeuring around the Queen of England. No joke! Thoughtfully, she gave me pretty earrings to wear so that I would be dressed in a proper manner. HA!
Being mindful of the full moon again -- times of stormy weather and earthquakes. I love my 2007 Cherokee Heritage calendar. January is the "Month of the Cold Moon," and it features the herb, Mullein, suggesting its leaves be used to make a tea for congestion.
Well, daylight has finally appeared. I think I'm going to go get out of my jammies and locate the place on the street that caused me to fall Christmas morning and give it a good talking to. Then I'm going to walk the neighborhood looking for holes in the fences. There was no workout this morning as Emil went to San Antonio for a training seminar.
Love,
Jody
Do you remember -- I think it was a couple of years ago -- when I was driving a loop around Tulsa, lost as usual, trying to find Matt's house for the family Thanksgiving gathering and the two pieces of metal flew off of a car passing me at a high rate of speed and they hit my old Camry in the middle of the driver's door. It all happened so fast. I thought I'd been shot at by a speeding motorist. Since then, I've been asked many times what caused those two large dents in the door, followed by the next question: "Why don't you have them fixed? My response has always been the same. "No way. Those two dents in the car door keep me reminded of the time I was almost killed in Tulsa, Oklahoma." It's a pretty good living story.
When I was running the neighborhood Christmas morning, tripped, and fell face forward on the street, skinning the palms of my hands, left knee and ripping a hole in my favorite running pants, the Tulsa time of two years ago reappeared. People now want to know, "Why are you wearing running pants with a hole in the knee? Why don't you go buy a new pair?" Well, "No way." The new hole in the pants reminds me of the fall, the pain of it all, and feeling alive, Another pretty good living story.
Over the years, with every inch of separation I've made from No. 10 highway in Tahlequah and then, 133 N. E. in Bartlesville, it seems that as the distance increases it matches the inability of people to understand the way I think.
It's like being out exploring on a Saturday morning and finding yourself standing at the forefront of a large meadow with a fence stretching across the whole expanse, blocked from going forward, straight ahead, to find out what is in the far distance. Sometimes you are lucky enough to find a small hole in the fence to get through and sometimes, you've just got to buck up and walk around the whole dang thing to get where you are going. It may take a little longer, but you can get there.
The farther away I've gotten from Indian Country, the fewer holes I've found in the thinking of folks to maneuver through. The time it takes to walk around the whole dang outside of the Indian-Country-mind can get pretty tiring at times.
Friday, January 5th
Here's a good early morning story for you -- driving down Mesa this morning, by the light of a full moon, on my way to hook up with Judy and Laura for the early morning run, I slowed, as I could see in the distance flashing lights from police cars.
Getting to the scene of the "accident,' I crept by three police cars trying to get a good look at what was causing all the commotion. What I saw didn't make any sense at the time. There seemed to be a golf cart surrounded by three "blue and whites." all of a sudden one of the police cars, lights flashing, sped off.
Almost a mile down the street, I could see flashing lights again. Passing by, there was a repeat of my earlier vision -- a golf cart, sitting half in the street, half on the curb.
When I got to the Hitt's house, I asked Judy and Laura if they minded running back to the first police car to find out what was going on and I could check out my eye-sight. Off we went. Everything was still in place. The police car and the second spotted golf cart. It really was a golf cart!! The policeman told us that a group of teenagers had stolen several carts from a tennis club, located about four miles away. So far, they had caught two of the teenagers. The others ran. Well, actually, according to the policeman, they all ran, but there were two slow ones.
I mentioned to the policman that they would probably use "the full moon" defense. But, he told me he thought that was a myth and didn't believe people acted out a little more strangely under the light of a full moon.
Saturday Morning -- January 6, 2007
Rare opportunity missed this day. No alarm clock needed last night. I could have slept as long as I wanted. Instead, "up with the chickens." My last dream remembered was chauffeuring around the Queen of England. No joke! Thoughtfully, she gave me pretty earrings to wear so that I would be dressed in a proper manner. HA!
Being mindful of the full moon again -- times of stormy weather and earthquakes. I love my 2007 Cherokee Heritage calendar. January is the "Month of the Cold Moon," and it features the herb, Mullein, suggesting its leaves be used to make a tea for congestion.
Well, daylight has finally appeared. I think I'm going to go get out of my jammies and locate the place on the street that caused me to fall Christmas morning and give it a good talking to. Then I'm going to walk the neighborhood looking for holes in the fences. There was no workout this morning as Emil went to San Antonio for a training seminar.
Love,
Jody
Saturday, December 30, 2006
writings from the "holler" - 2nd mother letter
It's Saturday. Half time of Texas/Iowa game.
These are days of carefully watching and listening. Practice for registering in the
consciousness many of the things that people do and the comments they make. All on the search
for new material to make the Mother Letters. This new alert sent my mind flittering off to
memories of Grandmother Sunday's backyard. The countless evenings and afternoons of
childhood spent in exploring. One of the magical treats was just being still. Watching by day and
listening by night. The longer you could be still, the higher the possible reward of the backyard
neighborhood living things revealing themselves to you -- coming out to enjoy the new company
with sights and sounds never before imagined. I'm kind of comparing this memory with the
almost lost art today of not stopping to carefully watch and listen for the truly magical messages
and sights of daily life.
Karen and I were talking Christmas Day after she'd just read the first blogged Mother Letter.
She asked me if I had fun writing them -- the letters. Hmmm. I've had to think about that one.
Early in life, I started my collection of words. I remember the year, 1959, when I discovered
and added the word, omphaloskepsis (that's sitting around and thinking about your belly-
button) to my vocabulary. Was I cool, or what?! To me, words are like the multi-colored
marbles I pushed around as a child, hour-after-hour, making unique arrangements on a
hexagram board game. I could and would with time, take words and roll them around in my
mind until they fit shapes and patterns of meaning. Then I would play with them, put them on
paper to say something or take a "marble" away, add a couple more, to change completely the
perspective of what I was saying. Using words to illustrate or create pieces of verbal art is
pleasing to me. So, yes, the Mother Letter is a form of fun. But, word marble playing is not such
an easy game.
Judy Hitt and I ran this morning and talked over each other on the same topic -- eating too
much and gaining a little too much. Laura was missing and couldn't add her two cents worth as
she has strep throat. We tackled the "stress test" hill. That's a neighborhood street with a
continuous, almost one mile gradual incline. Since Peter and I saw the Rocky Balboa movie
Christmas day and Judy and Curtis caught the afternoon show yesterday, this morning, 6:00
a.m., we hummed the Rocky song all the way up to the top. No arms pumping in the air when
finished though. Just the noise of strange sounds that can only come from breath catching.
I tell you what. Every time George Bush opened his mouth earlier this week to Hallelujah
praise the memory and reputation of former President Gerald Ford, he just shined a light back
into his own face, illuminating that he's the exact opposite of every single word he spoke. True to
form, I don't even think he realized what he was doing. One remembered example was Bush's
crediting Ford with being the healer of a divided Nation when he assumed the office of the
President. Doesn't G. W. realize he's the "decider-divider" of the Nation?
Respect for the President of the United States is one of those childhood "learnings" embedded
deep inside of me. Throughout my life, as our Presidents have come along, I've been able to
apply this particular teaching -- until G. W. The man simply stirs up such a negative visceral
reaction inside of me, the old deeply buried learning is violently disturbed and I have to leave
the room when I hear his voice.
Update on the neighborhood deer -- Abel from the office was helping his dad on a recent
weekend. His dad owns an air-conditioning/heating company and Abel often volunteers as his
"helper." Abel was telling me that he was on his way to the work-order-place, came around a
corner and stopped his truck to look at these two life-sized bucks that some silly people with a
little extra money had stationed in the front yard of their house. And, the longer he looked, he
realized they weren't statues, but real. What he didn't know was this was my neighborhood and
he was seeing part of the herd I always talk about. Mentioning his sighting to the customer, they
told him about the unusual twin black deer that appeared this season. Good to have the story
about the herd addition verified because I don't think Abel believed me when I'd told him about
those two babies earlier in the year. He just blew it off as "girl talk."
Do you think we are going to be molecularly changed by eating the meat of cloned animals?
Mercy! When I first heard this story last week, my appetite vanished. Score one point in the
positive column. With a molecule tweaking, the G. W. tendency to bash might vanish, though.
Score two. Government help is on the way. Heck of a job, John Wayne.
And, with that last thought, I'll let you be for another week.
Love,
Jody
These are days of carefully watching and listening. Practice for registering in the
consciousness many of the things that people do and the comments they make. All on the search
for new material to make the Mother Letters. This new alert sent my mind flittering off to
memories of Grandmother Sunday's backyard. The countless evenings and afternoons of
childhood spent in exploring. One of the magical treats was just being still. Watching by day and
listening by night. The longer you could be still, the higher the possible reward of the backyard
neighborhood living things revealing themselves to you -- coming out to enjoy the new company
with sights and sounds never before imagined. I'm kind of comparing this memory with the
almost lost art today of not stopping to carefully watch and listen for the truly magical messages
and sights of daily life.
Karen and I were talking Christmas Day after she'd just read the first blogged Mother Letter.
She asked me if I had fun writing them -- the letters. Hmmm. I've had to think about that one.
Early in life, I started my collection of words. I remember the year, 1959, when I discovered
and added the word, omphaloskepsis (that's sitting around and thinking about your belly-
button) to my vocabulary. Was I cool, or what?! To me, words are like the multi-colored
marbles I pushed around as a child, hour-after-hour, making unique arrangements on a
hexagram board game. I could and would with time, take words and roll them around in my
mind until they fit shapes and patterns of meaning. Then I would play with them, put them on
paper to say something or take a "marble" away, add a couple more, to change completely the
perspective of what I was saying. Using words to illustrate or create pieces of verbal art is
pleasing to me. So, yes, the Mother Letter is a form of fun. But, word marble playing is not such
an easy game.
Judy Hitt and I ran this morning and talked over each other on the same topic -- eating too
much and gaining a little too much. Laura was missing and couldn't add her two cents worth as
she has strep throat. We tackled the "stress test" hill. That's a neighborhood street with a
continuous, almost one mile gradual incline. Since Peter and I saw the Rocky Balboa movie
Christmas day and Judy and Curtis caught the afternoon show yesterday, this morning, 6:00
a.m., we hummed the Rocky song all the way up to the top. No arms pumping in the air when
finished though. Just the noise of strange sounds that can only come from breath catching.
I tell you what. Every time George Bush opened his mouth earlier this week to Hallelujah
praise the memory and reputation of former President Gerald Ford, he just shined a light back
into his own face, illuminating that he's the exact opposite of every single word he spoke. True to
form, I don't even think he realized what he was doing. One remembered example was Bush's
crediting Ford with being the healer of a divided Nation when he assumed the office of the
President. Doesn't G. W. realize he's the "decider-divider" of the Nation?
Respect for the President of the United States is one of those childhood "learnings" embedded
deep inside of me. Throughout my life, as our Presidents have come along, I've been able to
apply this particular teaching -- until G. W. The man simply stirs up such a negative visceral
reaction inside of me, the old deeply buried learning is violently disturbed and I have to leave
the room when I hear his voice.
Update on the neighborhood deer -- Abel from the office was helping his dad on a recent
weekend. His dad owns an air-conditioning/heating company and Abel often volunteers as his
"helper." Abel was telling me that he was on his way to the work-order-place, came around a
corner and stopped his truck to look at these two life-sized bucks that some silly people with a
little extra money had stationed in the front yard of their house. And, the longer he looked, he
realized they weren't statues, but real. What he didn't know was this was my neighborhood and
he was seeing part of the herd I always talk about. Mentioning his sighting to the customer, they
told him about the unusual twin black deer that appeared this season. Good to have the story
about the herd addition verified because I don't think Abel believed me when I'd told him about
those two babies earlier in the year. He just blew it off as "girl talk."
Do you think we are going to be molecularly changed by eating the meat of cloned animals?
Mercy! When I first heard this story last week, my appetite vanished. Score one point in the
positive column. With a molecule tweaking, the G. W. tendency to bash might vanish, though.
Score two. Government help is on the way. Heck of a job, John Wayne.
And, with that last thought, I'll let you be for another week.
Love,
Jody
Monday, December 25, 2006
2007 mother letters
Dear Mother,
That was supposed to be the last "mother letter" of the year. The one mailed to you a couple of days ago. But - but - but....this morning, Christmas morning, I woke up with some "tag along" thoughts and yesterday happenings I wanted to share with you before the day gets along and they are gone -- gone to the attic of things I wished I'd remembered to say.
Peter and Lucky watched a couple of movies last night and good time to do it as Christmas Eve in Austin proved the weatherman right -- it was a rainy one. Joel called earlier in the day and I told him about listening to Jon Meacham, the Editor of Newsweek magazine and Dr. Rick Warren, author of, A Purpose Driven Life, talk about religion on Meet The Press. It was all kind of timely as yesterday, Joel was concerned about making money and Warren talked about his internal tug-of-war with making money on the sale of this new book and how he finally resolved it. Turns out, it all depends on what you do and how you use the money. Nothing new here. This is an old lesson. It kind of shoved its way into other things I was hearing, realizing, and considering yesterday and this morning.
Before I forget, Tim Russert's, Meet The Press, ended the program with a "tip-of-the-hat-nod" to Robert Frost by playing old clips of the Nobel Laureat's reading of his famous poem, "The Gift Outright". It begins: "The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years before we were her people. She was ours in Massachusetts, in Virginia." Now maybe I didn't understand exactly what Robert Frost meant, but, my ears clamped down after listening to those first words. The land wasn't "ours"! Listen to the words of George Hicks, Cherokee leader on the Trail of Tears in 1838. Coincidentally, I was reading his "poem" in Wilma's autobiography yesterday..."we are now about to take our leave and kind farewell to our native land, the country that the great spirit gave our Fathers, we are on the eve of leaving that country that gave us birth...it is with sorrow that we are forced by the authority of the white man to quit the scenes of our childhood...we bid a final farewell to it and all we hold dear." "The land was ours," my ass.
The Pope told the world this morning that we should not worship technology. But, with Time magazine's focus on "You" as the person of the year and the whole world becoming more interactive, is there time and space for the "old lessons" any longer. Are they becoming irrelevant. Is speed and the immediacy of "now" going to rule and dominate everything. Will my spending time reading about, thinking about and writing about how the Cherokee Chiefs of yesterday have any meaning and lessons in this fast moving world we're living in today. Will anyone care. After all, this is old stuff.
Peter and Lucky watched, Kingdom of Heaven last night, a movie about the Crusades and battles for control of Jerusalem between the Muslim and secular worlds. The time was a thousand years ago. Turn on the T.V., though, and you're watching a re-play. compliments of G. W. Bush. I think he could have used a little relevance by opening a history book. So, that's enough "proof in the pudding" to me that some of the "old lessons" still count.
What can I tell you about Lucky, your grandson's new "rescue" dog. Peter says he just had the bejeebers beaten out of him as a pup and has lost all of his spunk and personality. I'm not so sure about this. That dog doesn't miss a thing as he sleeps with his eyes open. And, if he happens to forget and close them for a second or two, his ears are cocked so as to catch all sounds roaming around the room. It's possible that old Lucky has lots of personality but for the moment, he's just keeping close council until he gets everything figured out.
Well, mother, clean out your closet as you are getting ready to fill your 92nd year. And, don't forget one of Betty Jo's elementary catechism's..."keep one foot on the sidealk at all times." That one often times gets me through a hard day.
Love,
Jody
That was supposed to be the last "mother letter" of the year. The one mailed to you a couple of days ago. But - but - but....this morning, Christmas morning, I woke up with some "tag along" thoughts and yesterday happenings I wanted to share with you before the day gets along and they are gone -- gone to the attic of things I wished I'd remembered to say.
Peter and Lucky watched a couple of movies last night and good time to do it as Christmas Eve in Austin proved the weatherman right -- it was a rainy one. Joel called earlier in the day and I told him about listening to Jon Meacham, the Editor of Newsweek magazine and Dr. Rick Warren, author of, A Purpose Driven Life, talk about religion on Meet The Press. It was all kind of timely as yesterday, Joel was concerned about making money and Warren talked about his internal tug-of-war with making money on the sale of this new book and how he finally resolved it. Turns out, it all depends on what you do and how you use the money. Nothing new here. This is an old lesson. It kind of shoved its way into other things I was hearing, realizing, and considering yesterday and this morning.
Before I forget, Tim Russert's, Meet The Press, ended the program with a "tip-of-the-hat-nod" to Robert Frost by playing old clips of the Nobel Laureat's reading of his famous poem, "The Gift Outright". It begins: "The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years before we were her people. She was ours in Massachusetts, in Virginia." Now maybe I didn't understand exactly what Robert Frost meant, but, my ears clamped down after listening to those first words. The land wasn't "ours"! Listen to the words of George Hicks, Cherokee leader on the Trail of Tears in 1838. Coincidentally, I was reading his "poem" in Wilma's autobiography yesterday..."we are now about to take our leave and kind farewell to our native land, the country that the great spirit gave our Fathers, we are on the eve of leaving that country that gave us birth...it is with sorrow that we are forced by the authority of the white man to quit the scenes of our childhood...we bid a final farewell to it and all we hold dear." "The land was ours," my ass.
The Pope told the world this morning that we should not worship technology. But, with Time magazine's focus on "You" as the person of the year and the whole world becoming more interactive, is there time and space for the "old lessons" any longer. Are they becoming irrelevant. Is speed and the immediacy of "now" going to rule and dominate everything. Will my spending time reading about, thinking about and writing about how the Cherokee Chiefs of yesterday have any meaning and lessons in this fast moving world we're living in today. Will anyone care. After all, this is old stuff.
Peter and Lucky watched, Kingdom of Heaven last night, a movie about the Crusades and battles for control of Jerusalem between the Muslim and secular worlds. The time was a thousand years ago. Turn on the T.V., though, and you're watching a re-play. compliments of G. W. Bush. I think he could have used a little relevance by opening a history book. So, that's enough "proof in the pudding" to me that some of the "old lessons" still count.
What can I tell you about Lucky, your grandson's new "rescue" dog. Peter says he just had the bejeebers beaten out of him as a pup and has lost all of his spunk and personality. I'm not so sure about this. That dog doesn't miss a thing as he sleeps with his eyes open. And, if he happens to forget and close them for a second or two, his ears are cocked so as to catch all sounds roaming around the room. It's possible that old Lucky has lots of personality but for the moment, he's just keeping close council until he gets everything figured out.
Well, mother, clean out your closet as you are getting ready to fill your 92nd year. And, don't forget one of Betty Jo's elementary catechism's..."keep one foot on the sidealk at all times." That one often times gets me through a hard day.
Love,
Jody
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
