100 Word Story: January Child

I've been reading 100 word stories at Mr. London Street this week and was inspired to offer this:

Mother napped me on the porch to be toughened 

by the gales of winter, to cut teeth on New England nor'easters 

and fight the undeclared war against girls. 

Middle child, only girl, small for my age.

I grew to a storm wintered warrior child, 

sight practiced on bare lilac thicket, schooled by wind 

in how the world sounds, cries accompanied 

by jays and blackbirds, layered against the elements.

Perhaps my skirmishes were attempts to win 

that unwinable war but I fought with the fury of calling,

battered brothers' enemies, marshaled anger from hidden fronts 

as I gave birth to myself.

(photo from all-free-download.com)

Where I'm From

I wanted to explore this topic and found this format as a means to say "Where I'm From" in a more specific, tangible way. It has taken many weeks to finish but I deeply appreciated the process.

I'm from a balcony in Italy these days, from a land where south and west horizon meets in mountains frosted with clouds, and the sea beckons from the east with its sunrise sparkled water, a balcony of lavender that scents the air and reminds me of embroidered pillows my mother gave me to perfume dresser drawers and forever encode that fragrance with her.

From an apartment scaled to cocoon that wraps me, but spiced with the reds and golds of this peppery land, a home faced south with granite tiles that cool my feet in summer and warm them in winter when sun slants in. Books flood this home, sorted into topics that tell my story: celtic lore, poetry, women's studies, travel books, children's tales, indigenous spirituality, historical novels; words that witness a journey.

I'm from begonias, a terrestrial species that collude with this warm climate to grow showy flowers of pink and scarlet in the perennial cycle of thriving, dying and waking back that plots my course, too.

From McLellan's and Harvey's, Tierney's and Donovan's, Scottish and Irish who forged strong women, made  strawberry-rhubarb, mince meat and apple pies, grew tomatoes, rhubarb and concord grapes for jelly and jam, read, argued and held strong opinions.  

          I'm from the bossy that struts in when strong is expected in a child, from you don't air 

         your dirty linen in public, from good girls don't get angry, from staunch Catholics on 

         both sides, awash in Catholic doctrine, from family secrets, subliminal, not yet understood.
         I'm from Massachusetts, from corned beef and cabbage, potatoes and turnips.

From the aloneness of grandmother's first born with raging fever at ten months on a remote farm in Nova Scotia while grandfather was out at sea. He felt a strange heaviness in his arms, unable to row, said to his friends that he must go back. The baby boy died in his mother's arms before her husband reached. Grandfather carried the tiny, white casket in his arms for the funeral, the weight just as he had felt it.

From the grandmother born in Irish South Boston who found and married the only protestant around and converted him. From the great grandmother who came from Ireland, lived with her daughter, doted on her only grandson, wanted only to dance at his wedding and died two days later.

I'm from boxes of photos kept on the shelf of mother's bedroom closet, taken down at holidays to remind us of our family story, photos I fought to claim after she died to pass on to my daughter and grandchildren, the record of  ancestors, all who existed to produce these two Dear Ones. 

Develop Curiosity

There’s a common misunderstanding among all the human beings who have ever been born that the best way to live is to try to avoid pain and just try to get comfortable.

A much more interesting, kind, adventurous, and joyful approach to life is to begin to develop our curiosity, not caring whether the object of our inquisitiveness is bitter or sweet.

Pema Chodron
Tibetan Buddhist nun and teacher


A new friend, Christine, visited yesterday and shared a bit about her life journey. She came the day after I received this quote of Pema Chodron. And in a synchronicity, she seemed to me to be a good example of Chodron's ideal of one who has developed her curiosity, not knowing if the results will be bitter or sweet. Christine's been an artist, entrepreneur, furniture maker and wine sales person. She's lived in many places in the US, lost spouses, been seriously ill herself, worries about her sons in the states, relocated alone to the remote village of her ancestors in our region of Abruzzo and experiences all the culture shock that you can imagine that entails. But her attitude is upbeat, positive, and filled with the energy that comes from genuine curiosity. She travels all over Italy drinking it all in. She's fun and interesting to be with.

Chodron praises curiosity, exhorts us to develop it. Then sets up a stark juxtaposition- avoid pain and get comfortable vs taking an interesting, adventurous and joyful approach to life whether it brings us the bitter or the sweet. We just went through the laborious process of renewing our permesso di soggiorno (permission to stay) for another two years and smacked up against the bureaucracy that characterizes Italy. A taste of the bitter. But after five months and two attempts following submission of all documents needed to actually get them, we got them. By ourselves. In Italian. Without the letter we were supposed to have received in the mail setting up our appointment. A sweet outcome.

Our move here 2 1/2 years ago came from a desire to explore Italy and Europe. To experience a different culture, language, environment and history. It has brought in its wake the self-doubt, the uncomfortable, even painful experiences Chodron describes but also the joy that comes from doing something interesting and adventurous that expands curiosity in the process. Chodron uses a strange word in her juxtaposition- kind. Maybe that's her true wisdom, it's kind to ourselves and to others to develop our curiosity. It grows us and enables us to taste the world of another. Sweet.

Friday's Photo - Phone Caddy

Made in Italy and amazingly helpful. I like the color, too.

Where do you put your phone while charging it?

250th Blog Post

This is my 250th blog post and I'm sitting here amazed. When I started this blog to attempt to stay aware  on my journey as an elder, I really didn't think of how many posts I would write or for how long or if I could continue to write. I just wrote a post and another day I wrote a post and another day I wrote a post and so on until today when I write my 250th. In the meanwhile, I've made new and wonderful friends in the blogosphere, been inspired by them, and shared in significant ways with them. Writing has become deeply important to me. My world has expanded in ways I couldn't have predicted.

Running is similar. I started to run in my 60's. After the initial process of getting used to it, working through the kinks, hating it and wanting to stop and eventually, loving it, and not being able to think of my life without it. Now, I run three times a week, every week. At some point my Nike + iPod announced that I had run 250 miles since I started to wear their chip that keeps track of my runs. Then, a while ago, it announced that I had run 500 kilometers and I was surprised. One step at a time. In the meanwhile, I've run races for good causes that matter to me, met fascinating people who are vital and healthy and I have a way to stay fit. Running has become deeply important to me.  My life has been enriched in ways I couldn't have predicted.

Maybe a lot of life IS about showing up. Doing what we say we will do. Doing what we know to be good for us or important or what we love. Until we find that we're writing our 250th blog post or running our 500th kilometer or, in some other significant way, celebrating a milestone that's important to us. And feeling good about ourselves. More in love with our lives. With richer, fuller lives than we could have imagined.

Gimme Shelter | Playing For Change

I saw this on Grandma's Briefs and knew I wanted to play it for you in support of this unifying cause.
Today is the Playing For Change Day for 2011. Playing For Change Foundation is a non-profit organization raising funds for music education programs for children around the world. Listen to musicians from all over the world as they sing "Gimme Shelter" in their communities.
You'll be glad you did.

A great quote shown before the song is an Irish proverb:
"It is in the shelter of each other that people live."

Irish Pasta

When this basil needed pruning, I looked at my husband, "pesto" we said together:

First, take the leaves off the stems:

Add pine nuts with some walnuts:

Add garlic:

Add olive oil from olives we picked. Mix it in the blender. Stand in the kitchen, close your eyes and breathe in the tang of basil that fills the room:

Add freshly grated aged parmesan cheese:

Which altogether becomes this:

Which, because the pesto and beans are green and potatoes are added to the butterfly pasta, becomes what my husband, chef extraordinaire,  has named Irish pasta:

Eat outside and savor the fresh flavor with a glass of crisp, white wine. Add avocado drizzled with lime. Enjoy.

Evening

Slowly evening takes on the garments held for it by a line of ancient trees. You look, and the world recedes from you. Part of it moves heavenward, the rest falls away.

And you are left, belonging to neither fully, not quite so dark as the silent house, not quite so sure of eternity as that shining now in the night sky, a point of light. You are left, for reasons you can't explain, with a life that is anxious and huge, so that, at times confined, at times expanding, 

it becomes in you now stone, now star.

Book of Images

Rilke

Because at times we are confined and at times expanding, 

now stone, now star.

Photos from our next door neighbors' balcony two nights ago 

(thanks Lucia).

Poetry from "A Year With Rilke" kindly hosted by Ruth and Lorenzo.