My Heart is Something

I hope that you had a wonderful Thanksgiving.  My gathering was small but still appreciated.  Two women, an aunt and her niece, put together a fine meal.  But more than anything else I was able to spend time with family.  For this alone, I am thankful.  

Someone posted the video below of a little girl trying to explain what was in her heart to her mother. The little girl wanted desperately for her parents to get along. When she said that she wanted things to be in the middle where her heart was I nearly burst into tears.  Take a couple of minutes and listen to an eloquent child.  

We all have a lot to learn from this beautiful little girl.
Posted by MiNDFOOD on Sunday, November 8, 2015

Wolfpack: A Review

They were secluded in a six room apartment for as long as they could remember.  No one was allowed to go out until one day one of the children bravely turned the knob on the door to enter freedom.  Last night I saw the documentary "Wolfpack." I came away speechless.  I kept trying to imagine how I would be if I were shut up in an apartment for the majority of my life with no way out.

Picture by Larry Busacca\Getty

The Angulo family lived in a housing apartment building in New York City. They were poor. They survived on Welfare and the little bit of money the mother made homeschooling the children. A controlling father kept his family at bay with strict rules and kept the only key to get out. The children's only salvation was their imagination, which I found compelling. Below is an episode from 20\20 reviewing the movie and most of all their lives after the documentary.

Authentically You!

We are surrounded by people, six billion to be exact and counting. And with those people come challenges.  Each one thinks that his way is right and most everyone else is wrong.  Which can lead to frustration. As humans we tend to lead lives that are copies.  Instead of trying to take our own path we seem to follow the same road as everyone else.  Religion is passed down from each generation without thought and to question, well, it is considered sacrilegious or worse. Whatever the next fashion fad is most want that new look.  And yet, we're afraid to wander from the path to individuality. What if a 54 year old woman wanted to wear flowers in her hair?  And I do. People would point at her and say that she is foolish. Or whatever it is that we want to do so that we can speak out our uniqueness to the world. We were not created on an assembly line. So, why then should we live like we were made in a factory? 

I recently came across a poem that Rumi wrote which touched my soul:  

For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself. 
From within, I couldn't decide what to do.
Unable to see, I heard my name being called.
Then I walked outside.


The Rumi Collection by Helminski

Plants, Nails, and missing God

Today, I was at a photo shoot with a client.  We went to the Botanical Gardens on this cold, cloudy day. The wind is blowing steady while the last remnants of lifeless brown leaves hang on till their strength gives way.The days seem short, dark, lifeless. After the session was nearly over my eyes focused on a tree made with nails. In the midst of the nails was a plant of some sort. Blooming, green, and full of life. Among the rust and impenetrable metal a plant was determined to live. Sometimes life is this way. We find ourselves in places so confining that it may seem fruitless to dare to hope for survival. Any yet, we somehow find the strength. 

I had to cross the street to get to my car. The Cathedral was only a few steps away.  It has been a long time since I have gone to worship and I miss it. Maybe it is more the quiet place that I miss. Being still and knowing that I am not alone.  I desperately wanted to sit down and listen to that still quiet voice that speaks to us in times of solitude. The door was locked. Tomorrow I may not have the strength to go... 

The Grasshopper and a needing a new camera

I was cleaning out a flower bed the other day and I noticed a grasshopper watching me.  I like insects, bugs, and especially grasshoppers.  As quickly as I could, I ran into the house to get my camera, asking the grasshopper to please stay until I returned.  He did.  I'm sure that I looked like a one-eyed monster to this tiny creature as I crept up ever so slowly to get the perfect shot.  When I was done, I told him thank you and went inside.  Isn't he lovely?  

My camera has died.  And it did so while I was in the middle of a photo shoot yesterday.  It is time to bit the bullet and get a new one. I tried to see if it could be repaired, but it is very old and the manufacturer said that the model is no longer fixable.  The thing is I didn't want to do it right now.  Things are starting to look up for me with a new job and a raise and I didn't factor a camera into my immediate plans.  But, I cannot go without being able to take pictures. It is something that I absolutely love to do.  I don't mind standing on ladders to get the perfect shot or laying on the ground either. Things look differently now.  I look at the world and all it contains and see a picture, a beautiful picture in my mind. I want to capture the essence of it. I feel driven...I want to create an infinitesimal moment of beauty so that I can leave my mark in this world, even if it is a small one.

Grasshopper
grasshopper
all day long
we hear your scraping
summer song
like
rusty
fiddles
in
the
grass
as through
the meadow
path
we pass
such funny legs
such funny feet
and how we wonder
what you eat
maybe a single blink of dew
sipped from a clover leaf would do
then high in air
once more you spring
to fall in grass again
and sing.

Conrad Potter Aiken

Unnoticed

I see a man sitting in the same chair whenever I go to the bookstore.  He is usually slumped over gently snoring and his prosthetic arm lays stiffly across his torso while the other is cradling a book. He is unnoticed by patrons who pass by him as they busily roam the store in search of the newest popular novel or favorite magazine.  But I see him and I'm wondering what his story is. Why does he come here? I wonder.  How long has he been in this condition? Most of all, does anyone love him? I can almost bet he is homeless. A $20 bill will not solve his problem.  Oh, how I wish that it could! I watched him for a moment or two and then left. But I thought about him all the way home.   

Homeless Man by Grajauskas

When I arrived at home, I sat down and wrote him a short letter.  A love letter of sorts. Saying that I hoped someone loved him. After all, what is life without without being loved? I enclosed a small amount of money then sealed the envelope. I went back to the store hoping to find the man, but by the time I got there someone had told him to leave. A clerk told me that he is there frequently, which I already knew.  "What time of day is he usually here?" I asked. "It varies", replied the clerk. I will deliver the letter eventually.  In the meantime, I will think about his life and I'll pray for an escape. 

60 Minutes: Sir Nicholas Winton "Saving the Children"

Yesterday we celebrated our independence. Flags were displayed proudly all across the country.  Fireworks filled the night sky with brilliant showers of color and light. Any yet, the horrors of war seem to haunt us, especially those from WWII.  The Hitler regime tried to do the unspeakable.

October 23, 2008 - Source: Chris Jackson/Getty Images Europe

All throughout history there are unsung hero's who lived amongst us. Here is a story of one man, a two week vacation, and lives saved from the concentration camps. Nicholas Winton went to Prague on a two week vacation. Nicholas saw that war was eminent. The adults felt that they were stuck in their country, but wanted a way out for the children. Winton set up operation to try to save as many children as he could. 

Afterwards life went on for Winton. He never told a soul what he did. It was something that he just didn't talk about. As an American,I wish that we could have stepped in and helped.  But the "powers that be" didn't feel it was crucial to help the poor unfortunates. This is an enlightening story of how one person can make a difference in so many lives. 

Dancing to my own beat

There was sensuous Arabesque music playing in the background as I watched. Her tiny torso was supported by perfectly formed hips; the ideal combination for a belly dancer.  My eyes followed the line in the middle of her back downward.  Her sumptuous hips moved in slow rhythmic lifts while her arms slithered up and down like a snake. I watched her with bated anticipation that my body would move like hers some day.  I instantly became envious because no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t get my body to move the way that the teacher’s did.  I look like a pumpkin.

I desperately needed my life to change directions. More than anything, I wanted and needed to meet new people. How does one move on after a divorce? I asked myself. My existence revolved around my husband and I didn’t know where to turn when he left. I felt like a non-person. I no longer had value because I didn’t have anyone to fuss over. My life needed validation.  

Many nights I came home and laid on the sofa until it was time for bed.  The energy to do anything physical or mental eluded me. I couldn’t concentrate on the words that I read, so, reading a book was out of the question. Often I would read a paragraph only to go back and read it again and again until I eventually gave up.

 

I took antidepressants for about six months. I didn’t like the way they made me feel.    The pills made me sleepy, lethargic, and dizzy. The constant battle with suicidal thoughts and wanting to kill my soon-to-be-ex-husband was exhausting. But what can I do to get out of this rut?

One day I was looking through the Fun Times booklet that the Community Center sends through the mail.  I noticed that belly dance classes were being offered.  I always wanted to learn how to dance like those exotic women from the East. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself seductively contort my body in sensuously wanton movements. I was thrilled at the thought of it. Besides, the exercise will do me good and maybe help to raise my spirit out of the funk that I was in. So, I enrolled in the class.

We met on Wednesday evenings at 5:30.  I had to rush straight from work to get there and sometimes I was late.  As I walked through the door, I noticed that there were all kinds of shapes, sizes, and ages of women in the class, which was a relief to me. I never tried dancing before, well, not in a class setting. As a girl I would dance around my room while no one was watching and never ventured out lest someone would see me and make fun.

The teacher was a young woman in her early twenties.  Her pale white porcelain face was framed with thick fawn colored hair. She wore a small bolero top to accentuate her breasts, and tight low cut black pants that drew attention to her generous hips. Her bare midriff exposed a tiny waist that Scarlett O’Hara would be envious of. She was sexy and I wanted to be.

The first night of class I arrived in my work clothes. I pulled off my shoes and socks. We began stretching every muscle of our bodies before we danced.   Then we learned the most important thing for a belly dancer. We had to learn to dance with soft knees. Otherwise there would be trouble for the lower regions of our body.  “With knees bent, arms out, chest up, lift your right hip,” the teacher said, “Next, raise the left hip. Now, walk forward and do a hip lift on each side while you are walking.” Our eyes were focused on the backside of the teacher for guidance. With arms extended and toes pointed, I strutted my stuff across the gym floor and felt like a beauty queen. The only thing that was missing was a long flowing veil. 

I was slow at learning the moves. There were times that I would be off dancing by myself while the class moved to the other side of the gym. I really didn’t care.  I was having fun and making new friends. 

By the summer, a few of the ladies from class decided to put together a troupe for the new dancers and then perform at a Halloween show they have every autumn.  We practiced at Barbara’s house for nearly two months until we had the routine down pat.   Each week I forgot the routine and then had to re-learn it all over again.  I was still having memory issues.  But I pressed on until I was able to keep the dance steps in my head.   

Then we had to work on our costumes. Barbara was the seamstress and she coordinated our wardrobe. We decided on gold lame genii pants with wide legs and elastic at the ankles, they reminded me of MC Hammer in the video, You can’t touch this. There were gold bras to match with a bolero top and a black sheer skirt placed on top of the pants.  I looked like a pumpkin in my outfit. My belly is much too large to be seen in front of a group of people. When I noticed that the audience was mostly women, I quickly got over my fear of over exposure.

The night of the performance I was very nervous.  It is one thing to dance in a small room at someone’s home. But to make a mistake in front of an audience is a whole different ballgame. I practiced nearly every night when I got home until I could do the routine without having to look at my cheat sheet. Our routine lasted only two minutes, which seemed like an hour to me.  I made a small mistake at the very beginning and quickly got back in line with the other dancers. I sailed through like a ship on calm seas the rest of the performance.  As soon as I was backstage I covered myself up, never to expose myself again. I often dreamt of going forward with my dancing career, but who really wants to see a middle aged pumpkin dance?

Change I'm sure you can spare

I have been driving by this picture on the side of a building for a few weeks now.  Every night I would tell myself to go take a picture of it.  I think that the message is self explanatory.

The Railway Man: A Review

Today, I finished the book The Railway Man by Eric Lomax. It is a true story based on the life of a Scottish POW captured by the Japanese during WWII.  Lomax carried with him 50 years of hate for the pain and torture that he endured at the hands of his captors, especially by one man in particular. I am not much of a war buff.  Nor do I really read a lot about the subject. However, I am into reading about people's lives.  This is a very moving story of a man, a good one, whose life could have ended in bitterness and hate. He chose to forgive instead.  One of my favorite actors, Colin Firth, is Eric Lomax in the soon to be relased film, The Railway Man in January 2014.  I am very excited that this story is coming to the big screen. When I saw the trailer, I immediately went to the library to borrow the book so that I would be acquainted with Lomax's story.  The books ends with this: "Sometime the hating has to stop."

What is their name in heaven?

 

I've always heard about Jane or John Do, but had never encountered one until just recently.  My friend Jim and I were out photographing tombstones for our project.  After photographing three sections, we decided to finish up and made our way over to Babyland in the cemetery.  As I peered thru the tiny square on my camera my eyes focused on the name. There is no name, no date, only nothingness. An overwhelming feeling of abandonment flooded my being. He was all alone. Still. I nearly lost my composure. I lowered my camera and stepped back. Tears started to well up in my eyes. Then a strange thought ran through my head.  What does God call this little one?  I am sure that he is precious in the eyes of the Creator, even if the parents couldn't see his value. A childless photographer wanted to desperately hold this child and to whisper sweet words of love in his ears. I picked up the camera, snapped the picture of his grave marker, then I moved on. And yet, my thoughts lingered at the tiny grave of this unknown baby boy.

A Memoirs Kind of Summer

In the spring, I bought four memoirs. Each one is very different from the other. Only one of the books is new, the rest have been out for a while. Lately, I have been drawn to real stories about people who are just like you and I. Some stories are about love, others about tragedy, and then there are ones of the strange kind. And yet, we are drawn to them like the moth to the flame.

I watched the movie Running with Scissors not very long ago.  It was recommended by one of my bipolar memoirs classmate to read the book before I saw the movie, but that didn't work out for me.  The book is based on Augusten Burroughs childhood\early manhood part of his life.  His mother is bipolar, the father is alcoholic, and in the middle is Augusten who is trying to find himself amidst all of the chaos.  I once had a counselor tell me that my family was the most dysfunctional family she had ever known. In a strange sort of way, I am comforted in knowing that there are others whose lives have been by far worse than mine.  And yet, Burroughs came out the winner. All of his life people would tell him that he was a writer.  He never thought about it. His journal was his best friend and he often spilled his guts onto the page.  There are five sentences in the book that touched me and I underlined them. He wrote, "And I walked around in a trance, daydreaming about Manhattan.  Trying to see if I could picture myself there among the skyscrapers and hot dog vendors. And I could see it...I threw the meat in my cart. And moved on."  Even though this is a bizarre story of which I really cannot relate to and at times unsettling; I found Burroughs memoir interesting and well worth the read.

My next memoir was The Kiss by Kathryn Harrison. It is the story of a girls loss, the loss of a father's love.  Only to be regained in the most unnatural way.  Kathryn's parents divorced when she was young.  She grew up with an emotionally distant mother. When her father re-enters her life in her teen years, Kathryn's whole existence takes a dramatic turn. Incest is an ugly, depraved act that not only is vile but severely damages the soul.  Both the perpetrator and the victim try to justify in their minds what is happening. I could honestly spit fire at the father regarding the injustice for things like this. People who think solely of themselves and not calculate the damage it will do to the victim. I've yet to figure out if it is sex or power that factors in the scenario. Nonetheless, it is very disturbing. Even if the subject matter was difficult to swallow, I found it hard to put the book down and read it within a few days time.   

 

The third memoir is by Kristy Robinett called Messenger between Worlds. I find anything paranormal fascinating. But I do have my comfort limit when it comes to this subject. I like the way Kristy wrote her memoir. She let the reader into her private life and I felt like I was right there with her. My own life resonated with hers in so many ways. Psychics have been given a very bad reputation because of so much deception.  To have this gift would be fabulous and horrible at the same time. Being open minded is one of the biggest pluses when reading about mediums and all that they do. The fact that many psychics\mediums work with the police department proves that their gift is viable whether we want to embrace this kind of spiritual arena or not. There is so much that I personally don't understand about the unusual goings on which happen so frequently on this vast plane where we live. It is not for me to try and figure it out.  The chapter entitled Voices spooked me a little but it didn't deter me from finishing the book.  Moreover, I am glad that people are stepping up to the plate and sharing their lives with those of us who are open to read about them.  

T

The fourth memoir was The Flying Carpet of Small Miracles by Hala Jaber. This is a deeply moving story of a journalist who is covering war torn Baghdad in 2003.  She came across two children,  three year old Zahra and newborn Hawra, who suddenly become orphans when a missle hits the family vehicle killing everyone except the two girls. Ms. Jaber, a native of Lebanon, is married and living a dream life in the west with her husband Steven. For ten years they try to have children. But it is not meant for her to conceive.  Trying to take her mind off of things, Hala goes into war zones to report on the recent unrest. She wanders from hospital to hospital, looking for just the right little girl that the world will fall in love with and hopefully be willing to help those in desperate need of medical care. This is not a story solely about orphans, war, or the Middleast, but about coming to terms with our lives.  I was deeply touched by the ending of this book.  It was not a fairy tale by no means, but a story of understanding both sides of the matter.  

Memoirs never really existed much until the last century.  What do you think about people who write about the good or the bad things that happen to them and then publish their writing? I agree that some things need to be exposed for what they are. But are we going too far by exposing things of the most intimate part of our lives?  

Getting lost in the World of Jane Austen

The realness of life can drag one's spirit down and trust me, mine has been dragging. We can get into a rut and spin our wheels trying to get back out again. Have you ever wondered what it is all for? I mean our lives. The repetitiveness of our existence, it is like living the same day over and over again.  We get up, we go to work, we come home, and then to bed, only to repeat it all for the next 70 years or so, that is if we are lucky enough to reach 70. 

Sometimes it is good just to get away from it all.  I usually do it by reading a good book if I don't have the time or resources to go somewhere.  Over the past couple of weeks I have been spending time in the land of Austen, Jane Austen to be exact. I watched Persuasion a couple of times and NorthAnger Abbey as well. These stories speak to the romantic in me. Having a bit more romance is the one that I wish was more true to life than any other fantasy.  Oh, he must be handsome and sincere, and don't forget that he must be tall and have a fine figure. She is young, beautiful, and have the grace of a dancer plus be very charming.  But what if that story went wrong?  What if in Pride and Prejudice that Mr. Collins married Jane instead of Charlotte?  Then Mr. Bingley became a drunkard. And Mr. Darcy never married Elizabeth Bennett. Oh My! I watched a video on Youtube that was a spin off of sorts to Pride and Prejudice.  It is called Lost in Austen.  Have you seen it?  I am a Jane Austen fan from way back and never tire of watching these stories unfold over and over again.  If you are an Austen fan, you will enjoy this movie.

From imagining to reality

 

If you can shape it in your mind,

you will find it in your life.

I found this little saying in a fortune cookie.  It is very encouraging, isn't it?  I remember wanting to move to Tennessee so badly a few years back. All I thought about was living there nestled in the Tennessee Valley surrounded by the most beautiful mountains I had ever seen. My roots are there. It was the place of my birth. All of my energy was put into moving to this wonderful place. By faith, I packed up my belongings and lived amongst boxes for a few months. Then magic happened.  I was offered a job and the company moved  my belongings for me. Before I knew it, I had moved.  I know dreams come true. It is in the believing that makes things happen. What are you dreaming of?  Believe.

Silently, a Flower Blooms

Silently, a flower blooms,

In silence it falls away;

Yet, here, now, at this moment, at this place,

the world of the flower, the whole of

the world is blooming.

This is the talk of the flower,

the glory of eternal life is

fully shining here.

Zenkei Shibayama

Illusion of Intimacy

We need to think about the kind of connections we want to have with each other. We are lonely, but afraid of intimacy. Our little electronic and social media devices are so powerful that they not only change what we do but who we are.  They bring the illusion of companionship without the demands of friendship.  I think that we are setting ourselves up for trouble. We are getting used to a new way of being alone together, but, also, be elsewhere at the same time. We want to control where we focus our attention.  People are hiding from each other even though they are constantly connected.  Because of these devices our view of what we consider a relationship has changed.  We have Facebook, Twitter, texting, email, and numerous other social media devices.  People are texting at funerals (seriously?). Talking on the phone in the bathroom. Befriending strangers on Facebook. Yet, where is the intimacy? What has happened to the human touch?

In a recent study, there was an old woman pouring her heart out to a robotic seal (paro). It had white fur with big eyes and long eye lashes.  The seal made comforting sounds when the woman bared her soul to the tiny robot.  Somehow she was comforted by this robot.  It made her feel understood, but the machine understood nothing. The old lady was surrounded by people who could have given her this kind of comfort, but opted not to.  However, they cheered a connection between a human and a machine and they thought about all of the possibilities for those lonely people who have no one to share their innermost thoughts with.  We expect more from technology than from each other.  At end of her life, she deserves to have people around who knows her story and can learn from her.  Can a device do that for anyone? What has become of her value?

By Len Barcousky//Pittsburgh Post Gazette

A couple of years ago, when I was going through my divorce, my brother, his girlfriend, and many friends and relatives were at my side whenever I needed them. My brother came over every day and would cry along with me. Those times were and are priceless. I literally would not have made it through such a dark and lonely time without all of them telling me that I can make it.  It is shameful to imagine a little old lady or man with no one to share their heart and soul with. For that matter anyone can be lonely and in need of companionship. Were we not made to be in pairs?

Romaine lettuce that reproduces itself and spring

Last week we had over ten inches of snow fall here in Indiana, that event really dampened my spirits a bit.   Once winter settles in, I wait patiently for spring.  The long dreadful nights are hard when one's spirit craves sunlight.  I had read somewhere that romaine lettuce reproduces itself when you place it in water. I used a small canning jar and put enough water in to cover the bottom of the lettuce stem. After a few days  look at the wonderful results.  I wonder how much it will grow?  This is very exciting!  Spring is so very close now.

Rebuilding

Painting by Ron Monsma

This past year has been a year of rebuilding for me.  After my divorce, I felt like my whole world was falling down around me, not only figuratively but literally as well.  But with much hard work ( and lots of overtime) and unrelenting support from family, friends, and a counselor, I am nearly back to normal.  I have made great strides with the house too.  There were many days that I would look around me and say, "this is not how I imagined my life."  I had dreams. I had plans.  Both were dashed into pieces.  But this doesn't mean that I can't have new dreams or a new life altogether. The dark cloud has lifted and sunshine is able to beam down its warm rays into my soul. The time for weeping has past. I am no longer feeling sad.  Joy has taken up residence and I am happy once again. For all of this I am thankful. For the next coming year I will make a promise to myself.  I promise that I will live my life fully and without reserve, just as I had loved.  I cannot change what happened, even though I wish that I could.  However, I can change my future and mostly how I look at it.  Today, I see hope.

Polio, Pakistan, and Havoc

PHOTO:AP

In 1994, Pakistan had 20,000 cases of polio.  After a vigorous campaign of immunization, the number of cases dropped down to 56 in 2012.  Several health care workers administering the vaccines were killed this week because the Taliban (they are suspected for doing this) thought it was a western conspiracy to sterilize or spy on muslims.  Apparently, the CIA used a fake vaccination campaign to try and obtain information on Osama Bin Ladin before he was found and killed.  However, the vaccines have been going on for some time. 

It is hard to connect with this kind of thinking.  Culture and religion has caused a great chasm between the east and the west.  We all have to agree that Osama Bin Ladin was not a good man.  By using vaccination as a ploy to get information on him was not a bad thing. The world is free from one more evil man. 

 Polio can paralyze or kill in a very short amount of time passing from one person to the next. This disease has a strong foothold in Pakistan, along with Afghanistan and Nigeria. For this reason world health workers have been working tirelessly.  It is a shame to gun down defenseless women over suspicious thinking. Again, it is a shame.  

To date, the health care workers have stopped with the immunizations until the situation comes under control.  This isn't a case of religion, nor is it about culture, but a healthy future for children.  Children who want to grow up and have normal lives.  Children are the future of this world of ours. They just need a chance.

Children of Paraguay making music from recycled materials



Picture from Paste Magazine

At least 25,000 families in Cateura, Paraguay make a living by rummaging through the garbage dump.  Life is bleak at best for those so impoverished.  Maybe there is a way out of this dire place with music.  Music is said to calm the savage beast.  Poverty can push people into debilitating activities such as alcohol and drug abuse when one feels that their life has no hope.
 

Picture from Paper Blog

Favio Chavez, a social worker and a music teacher, started the chamber orchestra of about 20 children called, "The Orchestra of Instruments Recycled from Cateura." He opened a small music school at the landfill about five years ago.  He wanted to provide a way out of the landfill for the children.  Chavez asked e of the the trash-pickers, Nicholas Gomez, to help with making the instruments.  The instruments are made with cans, forks, bowls, and a myriad of discarded items.  Things that were considered useless became of use again by shaping them into musical instruments.  These children are finding the meaning of life through music. Bringing hope when there didn't seem to be any. It is not material things that matter the most but the knowledge we have gained through our life experiences.  This is a beautiful story.