Archive for family
walking in my neighborhood
Last night I went walking in my neighborhood after the sun had set. We have odd-looking street lamps that cast a soft orange glow on the sidewalks but they cast this glow sporadically. Some streets are well-lit and others are dark and spooky. I remembered playing a game as a kids where I would force myself to walk in the dark and imagine all the scary things that were there hiding and ready to jump out and get me.For some reason children like to be scared hence the invention of the roller coaster. I don’t like to be scared anymore. I have really had enough of fear and don’t like it when it appears in my life. Fear is bad for your body anyway. Think about it. When you are afraid you feel a terrible feeling in the pit of your stomach and an almost sickening sense comes over you. Your heartbeat speeds up and your skin becomes clammy. There are a lot of people in the world who are in this state most of the time. Say soldiers, for instance, or some cops, abused women or children, and small animals who have no place to hide. Fear is an ugly and dangerous force as it debilitates both humans and animals and makes their lives different from those who have little fear. We go into the state of fear so rapidly in todays’ world. One minute we are outside having fun and the next we are terrified as the war is escalating, the market is falling, our house is being foreclosed or our children are in danger. I think life was easier a generation ago. There was a lot to lose then too but not as much fear. People had their families to count on and to shelter them. You could go home to your wife who wore a Betty Crocker apron and have a nice dinner, watch the evening news and go to sleep. You could do this all across America.That’s why I like to walk in the newly dark evening. I started this habit as a child. In our neighborhood there was a lot of land around the houses so in order to see into them you had to walk up very close and peer into windows. I used to take evening walks when our Dad was out-of-town as then we had an early dinner and were supposed to be doing our homework. I liked some houses better than others as they were cozier and more interesting. The smaller the house was , the more apt I was to see a whole family sitting together. This was what I liked to find as it made me happy. Looking into the window of a happy family was and is infinitely comforting to me as it reassures me people still can find a place to live without fear. The house size correlation seems to be still as true as it was 50 years ago. Last night I saw a house that was smaller than all the rest and inside the window I could see an older couple watching TV. The house looked comfortably used and had a slouchy sofa with an old fashioned TV. For a moment I thought they were watching a DVD of Walter Cronkite but then I saw it was Animal Kingdom. I would like to be watching Animal Kingdom on a slouchy sofa with some guy I loved. in a cozy house with drapes instead of Levelour shades.
ah the cactus…
I think I used to be like a cactus but I have changed. I don’t mind so much being touched now and actually can hold hands at will.Coming upon a cactus is a bit like coming upon a rattlesnake: lovely to look at but deadly to touch. Having a cactus on your sink under the winter sun is a good thing. You don’t even have to remember to water it. If you look at the cactus and remember where it came from you can imagine leaving your own desert for an oasis. Creating your own mystical oasis is a good thing. If you have one you can go there any time without using frequent flyer miles. It doesn’t involve waiting in security lines or endless travel to and from airports. You can also create mystical relationships where you never actually see or touch the person you love. This is a safer way to live and love another. If you do this in place of real and present love, however, you may end out forgetting what it feels like to actually hold a hand when you want to. If you forget this you may forget how to breathe.
Braid
Sometimes I wonder what my braid looks like and so I had a friend take a picture of it. I was surprised to see there were some gray hairs running through it. I have no idea why this surprised me as I am 60 and should have a few gray hairs. When my mother got cancer the chemo treatment made her hair fall out. I could see her hair was not completely gray and she was 87 years old so perhaps I have inherited a “saving money on hair color gene”.I don’t really mind about the gray hair which concerns my hairdresser. It seems most people who color their hair want to completely remove the gray hair. I have no desire to do that as I feel the gray strands are like the silver threads in poems: I like the feel of them. Rougher to the touch than colored hair, they remind me of the hard times I have been through. Each time I go to see my hairdresser she spends some time pulling up the many layers of my hair and clucking in a low and concerned voice. LAst time I saw her she commented on the fact there was a lot more gray in there.I guess that’s why I wanted my braid photographed. I wanted to see. I like the feel of this braid as it has stayed constant over the years. The weight of it has lightened but the complicated and bumpy feel of it on the back of my head soothes me. Sometimes I don’t comb it out for a couple of days as I like the messy way it looks after a good night’s rest. I am slightly shocked at my behavior when I do this as it seems very naughty. Something an old hippie might do…I find hair interesting . Once you decide to let it do what it really wants to do your life is infinitely easier.
Santa Fe Door
I love Santa Fe…there are a lot of places there where one can get lost in images. I forgot how I loved to take pictures when I was young. I forgot all the time spent in a darkroom and remembered only the long days in a dark room in a hospital where I developed only cancer cells. This was my first job.I think that was what made me less interested in complicated cameras. I was the family photographer when my family was young and once my daughter asked me why there were no pictures of me in the scrapbooks. I was an invisible mother behind a lense. I think I was also an invisible mother some of the time. I wanted to be present with my children but I didn’t know how to be present with myself. I think for many years I was depressed and lacked knowledge on how to find help for this. I think many of us are depressed and can’t admit to this condition as it seems somehow shameful to the world. I know now there are may people with serious emotional issues who feel this way: as if they hold a dark secret from the world. It is interesting to me that having cancer is more acceptable than having depression. If you have cancer you also are likely to get more emotional support as other folks are not frightened of you. In any case my experience in Santa Fe made me understand the importance of solitude and the creative process. I am also beginning to understand the nature of competition in life and the importance of knowing how to handle it. I will never forget my friend, Steve, telling me to try harder when I felt uncertain about my photography class. I went back to class that day with a different approach and did try harder. I produced some of my best shots during the afternoon outing to Madrid and came back to my hotel feeling happy and relaxed. It was a great journey to a different place inside myself. I ma happy to be in a state of mind these days that allows me to make these journeys.
where is my path?
- path
I have been remiss about writing in my blog because my personal GPS seemed to be broken. As much as I tried I could not see a direction and therefore I had little to write. The path is clearer today and I am happy about that. I have been reading about “Intentional Communities” which are communities formed by those who want to live in a social group. These groups are often based on spirituality, common interests, or economic purpose. I am finding more and more people who do not want to live alone any longer. The American ideal of self-sufficiency is no longer as appealing to many single people and we are looking for alternatives. This concept is not new but one which has been tried a few times in the past some more successfully than others. Imagine living with a group of people who were all connected with purpose and love. I think that would be a wonderful way to enjoy life and have the support of friends.
day by day love
Sometimes it takes a cold fall day in the hospital with a friend to realize what matters is the fact you are breathing. People all over Boston are going to work, eating meals, laughing, crying, but none of them are consciously thinking thank God I am breathing. I think we should think about that. I often forget that the air I breathe is gift just as the smile of my niece tonight as we have dinner and hang is a gift.The phone call from my friend, Peter , is a gift and the email from Marion is a gift. I am grateful for my life and my friends and the fact I am still breathing.
What’s Important
The morning
coffee
the affection of dogs
sunshine
honesty
paying your bills especially when the payee needs the money
breathing
remembering to breathe
smiling
making others smile
being truthful
being faithful
taking yourself out to where you want to go
knowing where you want to go
admiring other people who are smarter than you
admiring other people for any reason
listening without adding your own experience
learning to just sit there and listen to nothing
giving away a lot of stuff you find you really don’t need.
feeling like you don’t need a lot of stuff
giving away dollar bills to kids for their UNICEF boxes
not reacting when people act in ways that are inappropriate
not reacting to any bad behavior
not looking to see what is in the hand outstretched towards you
still thinking…
It has been a while now since I returned from Painted Post and the birthplace of my grandfather and I am still mulling over what I discovered on the trip. Someone asked me today what I had learned from the experience and I replied I had gained compassion for my grandfather and an understanding of his character.I hadn’t realized what I had learned until the moment I replied to the question. Sometimes in life we go on journeys and have no idea what we are looking for nor what we hope to find. That’s what my visit to Painted Post was for me: an odyssey. I think I wanted to find an explanation as to why we had all but forgotten my grandfather once he was dead. We didn’t honor his birthday or his day of death. We didn’t visit his grave. No one seemed to want to tell stories about him. There were no photo’s in our house of him, only a large painting which was eventually placed under a white wooly blanket in the attic. Nope, nothing…Once he was dead he was forgotten for the most part. Strangely enough, stories about him were missing in our childhood lore. In my original family we tell stories all the time about my father and my children are very familiar with his past and some of the funny or unusual things he did. We often tell them again when we are reminded of him in some way. We do this because we want to keep his memory alive and he was an interesting and funny man. I don’t think my grandfather was very funny or even a tiny bit funny. As a matter of fact I don’t remember my father telling one funny story about my grandfather.
Once I saw the farm where Grandfather had grown up I understood his character better as I could imagine the routine life held for his family in Painted Post. The land is extremely beautiful and I am certain the farm required a lot of constant work. I think a farmer’s life is soothing in its routine and stressful in the rigors of raising crops and tending animals. My grandfather was a man of strict discipline and dedication to every detail of starting a company. He kept up a schedule most of his life that any person would have trouble following for one week. I like to think every now and again he stopped, sat down, and enjoyed himself but somehow I doubt it. He was a child of rather new immigrants to this country who had changed their name from “Wasson” to “Watson”. The original name of Wasson was still on the deed to the farm which was displayed inside a glass case in the front hall of the homestead. I find this name change endearing and wish I could have been a part of the family discussion around this issue. I wonder who thought of the name change first?
It is interesting to wonder why certain families hold their history close to their heart, nurturing and protecting the stories through careful retelling and remembering ,while others let them die a quiet death.
Homestead Happenings…
I spent the morning at the Homestead with Dawn and Neil and was given a tour of the place. I saw the one room schoolhouse where my Grandfather went to school located on the property. I imagined him walking there each day probably under the supervision of one of his older sisters holding leather strapped books and maybe a lunch pail. I can’t imagine him with hair. I wish I had been able to find a picture of him as a young man. The only ones I have see are when he was in his 70’s and one that showed a younger man probably about 30. Of course people in that day looked older than we do today and they never smiled in photographs. They stared solemnly at the camera as if they were afraid of moving one inch.
There was a picture of my Grandfather with Grandma Moses in the old schoolhouse and I remember that he owned a few of her paintings. I have always wondered if he was a chauvinist as many men of that generation but have the feeling my Grandmother kept him on the straight and narrow. There is a story about how during the war IBM lacked enough factory employees and my Grandmother suggested hiring more women which they did. IBM also had some of the first female executives in the business world. Everything I saw made me want to know more about his childhood in this peaceful valley where he was raised.
Why, I wondered, did he decide at the end of his life to buy his childhood home and create this place where people might gather and enjoy the spiritual nature of life? He left specific covenants as to how it should be used and a generous amount of money to support it. I am grappling with the very strange idea that none of my family cared to visit after his death? Why is this? Why didn’t my father bring us here to show us the farm, the schoolhouse and what had been created?
I am going to think about why the death of my grandfather was a true death in that his memory was not perpetuated by his offspring. Some years ago I was driving around with my daughter in an attempt to entertain her as she had suffered a head injury and wasn’t supposed to do anything strenuous. We were on a highway driving rather aimlessly when I saw a sign for the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and I remembered my grandparents were buried there.
We exited the freeway and drove to the cemetery parking in the small lot outside the caretaker’s cottage. The caretaker let us know we had only a half hour to see the graves as the place was closing for the day. He took us inside and looked up the correct plot in a thick, dusty book finally showing us on a map where my grandparents graves were located. Annabel and I got back into the car and with Annabel as the navigator we drove through flower beds, shade trees and many leaves still unable to find the right plot. The caretaker had noticed our lost path and came down to guide us correctly to the plot. He told us it was “right down the path from Carnegie.”
The plot was untidy with overgrown trees and a lot of weeds covering the stones. I asked him why it wasn’t in better shape and he replied the endowment had been for $10,000 in 1957 and that had almost run out. There was a lot of room for others to be buried there as my Grandfather was an optimist. His wife was buried about 6 inches lower than he and there was a small headstone for my baby brother. None of my grandparent’s children had chosen to be buried here. The plot seemed enormously sad to me .I imagined my grandparents choosing it and making sure their plot was equal if not grander than those around it. Believing they were creating a place for their family to come to and remember them. Believing they were creating a final resting place for a large clan. Imagine how they would feel should they be able to see what remained of their dream and how lonely a sight it was. What happened?
