Art in the Kitchen

The time is 5:45 AM and I am waking in the dark and slowly heading for the closet to retrieve my striped fuzzy bathrobe. The parquet floors are cold and I head for the light switch to illuminate the room and search under the bed for my cozy bedroom slippers. As I head down the stairs one step at a time (listening with dismay at my creaking knees and ankles) I have one thought in mind...need coffee. My nose leads the way to the kitchen where I mumble a curt "morning" to Otis my bunny, who having had his breakfast of 5 blueberries, is hopping around the dimly lit kitchen. My husband is already out on his morning bike ride and I shudder to think of him in the cold and dark. I reach for a coffee mug and head to the counter where our proud "grind and brew" coffee pot sits perched on the counter. I grab the handle which feels very heavy at this ungodly time of the day and pour my fill. I then retreat to the TV room to see what the day's weather will be and half listen to the NY news, as I sip my coffee. So far, all is within the routine. However, on my next trip to the kitchen I just happen to push the coffee maker back towards the wall and I am awestruck by what I see. There on the counter top is a brown swirl of leaked coffee that is staring back at me from the white corian counter... looking like some prehistoric snow leopard. I stand transfixed and exclaim to Otis, "will you look at that!" Nothing gets me that excited at that time of the day as when I find something that looks like artwork. I head to the foyer and grab my Canon rebel, that lives there waiting for a pretty sunrise or a shot of the moon, and snap my masterpiece. What luck, today is starting out just right, I think to myself. Although it is just coffee that has leaked out of the bottom of the coffee maker, and I should be irritated that this has occurred and is staining the counter top, I can't bring myself to cleaning it up until I feel I have the right angle for my masterpiece. Once I feel that I captured this wild beast, I upload it into the computer to make sure it is for real. Satisfied, I return to the kitchen and wipe up the spill. My kind of art is lurking everywhere, especially when and where I'd least expect it. 

The Lowly Earthworm

Nothing strikes fear in my heart as deeply as the earthworm, who after the night-time rain falls in the softer climates, writhes pink and naked from rugged pavement towards the dark moist safety of the soil. A creature without eyes to see, or ears to hear that breathes through his skin and embraces both genders as one entity (even though they still have to mate with other hermaphodites to have babies). The earthworm is a true anomaly in the land of faces. A skinny sliding body who, if not careful, will be baked to a crisp in the noonday sun or be drowned in the puddles at the edge of the curb. The worm knows no fear and holds no malice; he simply knows without reason what his mission is. It is a very high calling to cultivate the soil for crops and gardens to grow and thrive. She is also in good company as there are about a million of them gliding around in the ground per acre of property. He is preyed upon by birds and mammals, and even man will try to catch him as bait for fish, and his only defense is to try to glide away and wiggle fiercely. It's not that she doesn't have a heart, she has 5-10 aortic arches that function as a heart that allows her little body to swallow mountains of dirt and change it into a nurturing compost. No one thinks much of her as she glides silently through her dark quarters, and gardeners and children alike pull and throw her tender body. But lowly he may be to the visitors who tower above, and unknowingly or unwittingly step upon and squash his very being, he is a true child of the Earth ( an Earth who pets him as he dutifully blesses her bounty). Am I afraid of him, this segmented mantle of flesh whose only defense is a writhing dance? Or am I afraid for her as she meekly seeks her way back home, exposed in a dangerous world of scavengers? Or do I see myself as a lowly worm, crawling for a long forgotten place in the Garden and sense my mission is futile (as the snake has told me)? Since I don't quite know what it is about that worm that frightens me, perhaps I'll just have to watch, learn, and try to understand.

Snow in October

Well, it has been snowing those big lazy flakes that seem to signal, enjoy us now as this won't last too long. It's a 28 degree wind chill according to Weather Channel, and I am happily gazing out the windows with a sweater on and the heat pushed up to 70. I know I'm colder than I normally would be only because of the unannounced appearance of the snow. It's funny but although some snow was predicted this morning for northwestern regions of NJ, I heard of nothing but a possible wind advisory and lots of rain in the forecast. It was just yesterday though, that I spied some cirrocumulus clouds as I went about my walk. Usually these clouds lurk high in the atmosphere at about 20,000 feet and are made of ice crystals. They look like tiny puffs in a pattern, and they reminded me of a snow dusting in the sky. Since it was rather balmy and sunny, I didn't give them too much thought, although it was the first conscious thought of snow in a long time. Frankly, I thought we would already be on the road cruising points south to avoid the cold and snow that will probably be above normal on both accounts, at least according to the Farmers Almanac. My personal opinion is that snow appearing before Halloween is a sure sign of a scary winter (unless, you really like the stuff and then it would be a winter paradise). So, although I couldn't resist hanging out both the front and back doors snapping photos of the weather anomaly, I am now happy to be inside with the heat up, sipping hot tea and trying not to listen to the menacing sound of the cold northwest wind. 

Celebrating Oktoberfest

Yesterday was a perfect autumn day to celebrate what has become a yearly tradition in our family, Oktoberfest. It is hosted by my ex-husband and his lovely wife Heather, and includes the grown children from marriages past and current, and any nieces, nephews and friends who are available to participate. Many of my friends are amazed that my husband and I have become such good friends with my ex and his wife. Normally divorce is a bitter end to a family's way of life, but when two people sincerely put the welfare of their children ahead of negativity and resentment, the rewards are astounding. What you get is a bigger extended family in which the word "step" does not enter into the vocabulary. Heather is a terrific cook and a fabulous entertainer who has a real eye for detail. Both her home and her buffet table look like a page from Country Living magazine. My ex Jay is a grill master extraordinaire and still has the most contagious laugh I ever heard. The food was incredible! There were brats, ribs and london broil, homemade baked beans, and a pear, goat cheese and radicchio salad with walnuts on the side. Heather is so close even to my current husband's children, she knows and corrects recipes for their food allergies. She treats all the kids (including the nieces and nephews) as her own, and in return the kids adore her. I am proud when my own children state that they have two mothers, as she has been there for them right from the start. The only bit of trepidation I had in attending  this year stemmed from the fact that my cooking skills have become a little rusty (generally I'm a baker), and so I labored over a german potato salad recipe right up until party time. Luckily Heather and Jay only live 5 minutes away. You can't really miss with any recipe that calls for a pound of bacon. The kids (all over 21) brought various beers or wine, and our girls contributed appetizers of cheese, crackers and fruit, and desserts of drunken pound cake and apple crisp. There was no shortage of laughter and stories around the fire that burned in the chimenea, as the family enjoyed the last of the outdoor celebrations for the year. Midge, Midas, Lily and Betty (two pit bulls and two bulldogs who are family pets) ran around the yard playing and chasing in their own version of merriment. Even the finches hiding in the nearby bamboo got into the boisterous fun of the party, which carried on well after sun down. Driving home, I thought of our family as a true testament that life can be better after divorce ... once the decision has been made to get along. 

P.S. I am now including all my mentioned recipes from a gadget at the end of my blog. Just scroll and enter the recipe name.

A Necessary Intrusion

Our house has been on the market since May, and although many people have come through to view our labor of love, to date we have not had any serious offers. With the economy in a tailspin, this is probably the worst market to try and sell a 100 year old Victorian micro mansion. So when I received a call at noon today that a local realtor would like to show my house, naturally I was excited. However once he stated that the only time he and his clients could make the viewing was at 1 PM today, my excitement quickly turned to panic. I was having one of those lazy days, when the breakfast dishes were scattered about and last night's pot was still soaking in the sink. Otis my rabbit, had one of his little tantrums and had managed to scatter his litter and droppings all over the kitchen floor. He also pulled apart a napkin that didn't quite make its way to the garbage can. I had been simmering a pot of navy beans on the stove with some chipotle peppers, and although my enchiladas will be delicious later, that beany pungent smell would probably not be that enticing to most people. With as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I told the realtor it would be just fine to come at 1 PM. As soon as I hung up the phone I flew into action. Otis's Italian designer cage was cleaned and he was quickly put into it. I scrubbed the pot and unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, throwing anything that looked dusty in as well. Two vacuum cleaners were pulled out of their hiding places and the litter and the napkin were sucked up into the hand held one, followed by an overall cleaning with the upright. I then continued my frantic vacuuming into the dining room, TV room, living room and foyer and then both vacuums were stowed away in the front hall closet. Next priority was grabbing a plastic bag where garbage cans from 4 floors of the house were emptied and then it was stored in the basement. While there, I put  in a load of laundry that was lying on the floor and then raced up two flights of stairs to check the state of the master bedroom. All the creams, potions and makeup that littered my dresser were thrown into a basket in the closet. A quick wipe of the dressers with a sleeve was all I could spare, and I opened the window to air out the room. Luckily the bed was already made and so I dashed into the bathroom to do a quick polish of the sink and tub, and hid some fern droppings under the bathmat. A second floor office needed the iron and ironing board to be hid in a closet, and the guest bedroom only needed the lights to be flicked on. Sweating and panting I flew up to the third floor and hid my mystical tools in the meditation room, turned on all the lights in the two bedrooms, bathroom, and closets, and sprayed some air freshener around. Like lightening, I flew down to the first floor and put out the brochures and realty calling cards on the dining room table, hid the stacked up mail that was strewn over the table, and dashed to turn all first floor lights on. I had only enough time to sweep the back porch when I heard a knock at the door at 12:4o. I was met by the realtor and a delightful young couple who apologized for their early arrival. Oh well.. it is what it is. I sat on the front porch, breathing heavily and secretly hoping they would be the final takers of the house. Only a quick 10 minutes later they were gone, after making the usual comment that the house was so tastefully appointed ( which has come to mean, it is not really what we are looking for). So now I am completely exhausted and I'm currently cracking a beer to help alleviate the stress. My work is done here.

The Handiwork of Fairies

Today was a a brisk and blustery autumn day as I set out to market. Trudging through the crunchy brown leaves and shuffle kicking them as I have done for as long as I can remember in Autumns past, I looked up and down to admire the work of the fairies. Some of the leaves had been painted red at the tips, others were shiny bright red orange, gold, yellow and countless combinations. Some were were distinctly marked with spots and patterns of beautiful design. As I wee child, I remember asking my grandpa how leaves got they way and his reply was simple. "Why the fairies are busy painting them at night when no one is watching." Grandpa was the smartest man I knew, and he shared his knowledge about great philosophers, poets, mythology, trees and the little people. Although he was schooled by the Jesuits at a boarding school, he never lost the details of his Celtic heritage. I became a tree hugger and magically minded Earth lover under his patient tutelage and my life has grown richer by following his favorite phase, "always keep your sense of wonder." One day, just a few years ago my beliefs were put to a harsh test. I was in a Master's program for information systems management, when one of my professors was lecturing about the logic of software architecture made the statement that there are lots of crazy people who still think leaves are painted by the fairies. Now he was a retired Bell Labs scientist and bit of a logical positivist so I couldn't fault his way of thinking ..... for him. By the comment struck a raw nerve with me and my hand shot up. "Excuse me professor but since the scientific method has not solved all the world's mysteries, don't you think that there is room for alternative beliefs? I happen to believe that the autumn leaves are painted by the fairies." As the class mom, the students were aware of my Earth based philosophy and were respectful, and so all eyes were on the professor. For what seemed like a full minute he stared at me with dropped jaw, momentarily lost his train of thought, and then continued the sober lecture. Needless to say, I passed his course with an A, and I was amazed that on the last day of class as I was leaving, he pulled me aside and told me he learned a lot from me and my convictions, and thanked me for bravely sharing my beliefs. It was a wonderful moment when two people with such differing views shared a common respect. And so while others are thinking about how temperature, light and climate interacts with the chlorophyll, carotenoids and anthocyanins to provide the trees with such beautiful color, I will be thanking the fairies for their glorious handiwork.

Living Greener and Kinder

Now that I am not working, I spend a lot more time outdoors appreciating Nature in all her glory. I always thought I was doing my part in helping the environment by recycling (even when it was not mandatory), but lately I have been thinking of what other measures I could take to go greener and help save the planet. Probably the biggest contribution to the environment that I have made thus far, is giving away my car. Now that I am a domestic house goddess, I have plenty of time to walk to the store for any needed items. The supermarket is only about a half mile away, and I set out on foot with my recycled shopping bag and carry home my purchases. The farmers market, post office, and the pharmacy are about a mile away and although it takes about an hour to get there and back on foot, it benefits both my mental and physical well being (so it's not really that unselfish). I try to conserve energy by using those twirly light bulbs and being very stingy in the use of the air conditioners in the summer and the thermostat in the winter. Once the air conditioners come out of the windows, Ill make sure the storm windows are down. I have to be careful with this one, because the birds make nests in them since they are not used that frequently, and I don't want to disturb eggs or babies. Currently the junk mail (without the glossy ink) is the starter for our backyard bonfires. Now we have always used those black plastic garbage bags for house garbage, and we keep them in the cellar until garbage day morning, as the raccoons have proved to us that they can open any garbage can and make a pretty good mess. But lately I decided that since these bags are polluting the oceans, and since they are made out of petroleum, it's high time to stop using them. I always thought that if I was a garbage man, I would rather pick up a sealed and tidy bag as opposed to hoisting a dirty can of smelly garbage into the truck. I don't know how they stand the fumes in the summer (as the wet garbage rots and then steams).  I still want to be kind to these brave workers, so I have decided to start a compost can for all my wet house garbage and the biodegradable litter and bedding from my rabbit. I use one of the blue recycling cans, and for a lid I place a piece of glass (the kind you buy to protect the table cloth over those little round three legged tables). Once the can is filled, I will drag it to the brook out back, and send the contents down the bank where there has been some erosion going on. The remainder of the house garbage is paper and that can certainly go into a small clean dry garbage can. So far my compost has been kept intact, and as soon as the plastic bags are used up, I will purchase my small paper holding garbage can. It may take a while, as we buy in bulk, but if anyone wants to come get some black bags for your winter clothes storage or a trip to the Goodwill box, please come and help yourself! 

When a Mom's Words Return

Yesterday my son pulled up with his past week's laundry a few hours prior to dinnertime. It's never a problem for last minute dinner guests, as my husband and I still have a hard time cooking for two, and so there are always leftovers in the house. We have tried to hint to the kids to let us know when they are coming in advance, mainly so I can steer my husband away from cooking things that I know the kids don't like ... or are allergic to. I know my son claims to dislike curry and so I was a little concerned when he walked into the house and asked, "is that curry I smell?"  I replied, "yes we are having Chicken Tikka Masala tonight, but don't worry, I have some great leftover brisket that we made for our friends last night." Suddenly I was reminded of long ago dinners when my kids were very young. Friday nights I would get adventurous with cooking, and attempt to treat my "then husband" with something slightly exotic. I would make the kids Kraft Deluxe mac and cheese with peas on the side, as this was their favorite meal. When my husband and I sat down with our "adult" meal, the questions from the kids would begin. " Eww, what is that?" I would always start out by saying "It's adult food and you probably won't like it." That really piqued interest and they would eventually wind up asking for a taste. I would tell them that it's good to try new things, even if you don't like it at first, because your tastebuds are always changing. My daughter, always the lady, would grimace and swallow if she didn't like the offending food, but my son was a bit more dramatic. The face would grimace and get red, the mouth would open displaying the un-chewed contents, and the food would be spit out on his plate (along with a few gags for effect). Then would come the familiar, "YUCK." I wouldn't get mad, but I would always say with encouragement, "that's a big boy who tries new things." To this day, I have kept track of the foods that all my kids like and dislike, only now their reactions have become a bit more subtle. As I prepared the leftover brisket, potatoes and gravy, and carrots, knowing my son's dislike of curry, I heard him say to my husband, "That smells pretty good, I think I'll try a little, you know, your tastebuds are always changing." I had to smile...  it's so heartwarming when you hear your kids repeat your own motherly phrases as if they were their own. Well, he had a little bowl full of the curried stew and said it was pretty good, especially as he imitated my husband eating it with the Naan bread that was served.  I could tell that this was a baby step, and was glad I nuked up the leftovers for him. But knowing my son, I don't think he will continue making the claim that he doesn't like curry, as long as I let him figure it out for himself (like a big boy).

A Toolbox to Beat the Blues

One of the benefits of losing my job and having to seriously downsize, was to realize that I was in a situation that was both depression producing and personally liberating at the same time. Having been on antidepressant medication for almost ten years, I decided that I would choose to explore the personally liberating aspect in favor of the wallowing depression, and decided to wean off my medication completely. Outside of a few annoying withdrawal symptoms, I was drug free in a month. At first, I threw myself into a whirlwind of domestic activity to keep my mind clear of the  negative images that kept surfacing. Painting, scrubbing and yard work are pretty good tools to keep the mind quiet. I continued my daily meditation, and found that sitting in the sun with eyes closed and watching the colors change was the best way to relinquish nagging thoughts.  I also vowed that I would not neglect a personal exercise routine, as there was no legitimate excuse for not having enough time. I chose an alternate schedule of biking, walking, and Pilates to be done at least five times a week without excuse, not only for physical fitness, but mental fitness as well. As I have never been an avid TV watcher, (can't stand the barrage of commercials) books have become a good tool to distract my mind from straying into the dark zone. I also treated myself to fully exploring my photography hobby, and decided that since I always wanted to be a writer, I should find the discipline to do it (hence, this blog). It has been six months since I have been without drugs and I feel terrific! Perhaps, it's because I can look back and see that I wasn't really happy in my previous jobs, but spent a lot of time acting happy  at them (wanted to be an actress too, guess I got my wish).  More importantly though, is I have the time to reflect on what is really going on mentally, and so I make sure I take time to just sit and think. When I feel like a dark cloud starts intruding upon my mind and mood, regardless of the aforementioned tools to distract it, I use the biggest tool in my toolbox... which I call "my Furies." As I sit and think about images or events that bring me down, I give these thoughts my full attention. It's like a huge pity party  where I envision every conceivable mental negativity that I can think of. The rules are that you have to watch every ugly thought and really feel it to it's worst conclusion. What usually happens is that once the mind gets full reign to be dark, it usually peters out rather quickly. Sometimes, as I inwardly watch the thoughts, they become almost humorous and I crack myself up. Most days, my busy schedule keeps me happy and contented, but when I feel the threat of a dark mood coming on, I will invite my Furies and encourage them to the finish.

Why I Love the Turkey Buzzard

As I take my Saturday morning stroll, my favorite site is the beautiful winged flight of my friends the Turkey Buzzards. There are usually three that seem to follow me around the block, circling dipping and gliding high above in the air currents. They are a beauty to behold and often I wish I could join them up there as they play in the wind. Now, as they are my favorite bird, I realize that the proper term is actually Turkey Vulture (a buzzard is really a species of hawk), but I like to think of them buzzing around in the air, and besides, the word Vulture (latin for to tear) seems too dangerous for such a gentle and non-aggressive creature. They do not attack animals or people, but feed primarily on carrion or dead things. Their sense of smell is so keen that they can smell a dead mouse under a forest floor from 200 feet in the air. Turkey Buzzards usually prefer a fresh kill and contrary to popular myth don't enjoy truly rotted meat. They will also eat vegetation and when they do eat dead animals, they seem to prefer herbivores. I like to think of them as Nature's Sanitation Workers as they clean up the road kill so humans don't have to. Their bald red heads are featherless, as a means of avoiding the parasites that surround their food choice, and their own bodily waste is used to sanitize their feet after their feast. Your average adult turkey buzzard is usually 25-32 inches long with a six foot wing span and weights about 6 lbs. They play a mating game that involves a circle of birds that take turns hopping around the perimeter with their wings partially extended to choose their mate. Once chosen, both the mom and the dad stay together to feed the babies until they are launched. Since they are not attack birds, their only defense is to play dead or to vomit at their predator. They are  truly a peaceful bird.  Last year I fell down a flight of stairs while carrying a laundry basket of clothes from the second floor. I cracked my head pretty badly and was quite out of commission for most of the weekend. My husband was truly concerned that I chose not to go to the hospital and lovingly cared for me as I convalesced on the couch. I think he knew what he was doing when he threw the trimmed fat off of the pork roast into the backyard. As I sat on the couch, he called from the kitchen to tell me that my friends had come to visit and were concerned about me... "just look out the window." As I peered out into the yard, I was overwhelmed by the sight of about 25-30 Turkey Buzzards. The younger ones were taking turns tearing and eating the fat, while many more were just perched in the trees waiting patiently for their turn. I laughed so hard to see them hopping around like awkward chickens, but a more wonderful and healing sight I couldn't imagine. So if you see me walking around the block and I am looking to the sky yelling "Hello Friends!" you'll know why. I love those Turkey Buzzards. 

What...Wooo?!

It was a beautiful morning for my daily bike ride, and as I zipped along my usual route around town, I had nothing in mind but the enjoyment of a good ride. While pedaling upgrade to a crossroads, I heard a loud WOOO coming from the parking lot of a tavern. I looked around to see who was the cause of such an excited exclamation as I realized it was a young male truck driver who was unloading his truck. When I looked towards him he waved at me and yelled YEAA. Now I know I have been diligent with my ride and actually have the nerve to wear spandex biking gear, and with my blonde hair flying out of the helmet and dark shades, I'm sure this young guy did not realize that he was "wooing" at a woman old enough to be his mother.  I couldn't help but chuckle and off I rode. For the next few minutes I was distracted with the thought that because I was at such a distance and the poor guy couldn't see the lines on my face or the roll of my belly that would certainly give away my real age, that perhaps it wasn't fair to feel so good. But I felt great.... and it was a long time in coming. As a young girl and well into my teens, I was embarrassed by any form of male attention and it would visibly upset me.  As I got into my 20's and 30's and the world became more politically correct, I didn't have to worry as much about "cat calling" (as my Dad would have called it). When it did occur, I would have produced a disgusted look all the while shaking my head with disdain. Other behaviors I would have used to greet the male call of approval would be to 1) ignore it completely, 2) quickly turn my head away from the offending noise, or 3) speed my pace while staring at my feet. In my forties I was a little bolder. I remember two occasions where young guys in cars pulled up to my little Volvo after spying the long blonde hair. As they got within a good viewing distance by my side, I got a kick out of pulling off my sunglasses and flashing my smile, only to see them visibly realize that I wasn't a young chick as they sped away. But today at 51 I can only feel grateful for that young man's misguided appreciation, and wish I had the nerve to yell back WOO to You too! Perhaps it's something to aspire to when I'm 60. For now, I'll just enjoy the cat call as a well deserved compliment.

A Time for Sadness and Nostalgia

Gazing at a nearby maple tree with all the tinges of autumn colors of red, orange, and olive green, reminds me of the old plaid couch that adorned our living room when I was a child. The couch was rather homely with its worn, lumpy cushions and  itchy material, but it was also a comfy place where the family would gather to watch our favorite shows like Ed Sullivan or Hullaballoo. I remember that as the autumn chill replaced the warmth of late summer, mom would cook her infamous shin-o- beef soup with the dreaded parsnip, celery, turnips and carrots, to be served over the skinny egg noodles that somehow saved the meal. The stringy meat was pulled out of the pot, and with catsup and horseradish as the condiment, it was served between two slices of wonder bread to offer additional nutrition to a hungry family. Although the meal was not a pretty site, the smell was comforting and also a signal of the changing seasons. I thought of my ailing mom, who can no longer cook or care for herself, (but is lovingly cared for by my sister in Florida) and felt a wave of sadness and nostalgia. It is the same feeling that surfaces as I watch the trees change color, knowing that the colors will soon be replaced by brown leaves before the branches lie bare in the cold of the winter. The early autumn is like the stage of life where I find myself, knowing that in time I will be in the winter of my life as my mom is now. Although she is confused, when I phone her and keep her focused on the happy memories of her life, she prattles on with a childlike quality that warms my heart as my sadness mingles with her nostalgia. She is still a beautiful person in the midst of her season, which gives me comfort for my own inevitable change. I think I will call mom this week so I can tell her all about the beauty of the changing leaves. I will ask her if she remembers the recipe for her shin- o- beef soup and tell her just how much I miss that wonderful smell. 

Eye of the Beholder

Tuesday was a nice fall day for a trip to the woods, and so I grabbed my camera and walked to a spot in town that lies on the edge of a stream that feeds into the Raritan River. I love being around trees and water, and had a wonderful time taking photos of Nature, especially as no one else was around. From a distance along the bank I noticed a tree that seemed to be holding on to a blue ribbon-like piece of plastic. It was intricately wrapped in the branches, and on further inspection found that it was indeed a stray piece of litter. In its present state of entanglement, it appeared as if the wind had caught it somewhere and blown it to its current resting spot. For some reason it looked like it belonged and the tree was embracing its presence. I took aim with my camera and shot it just slightly out of focus. I'm certainly not a fan of litter, and was not so intrigued by the discarded soda and beer cans found at this otherwise pristine site, but I couldn't wait to upload this particular photo to see what I could make of it. All of my other photos were splendid enough, and needed very little editing, and so I have uploaded them to the slideshow to the right. However, as I stared at this photo a pattern began to emerge, and so as I often do, I starting manipulating the colors, exposure, saturation and contrast. Suddenly a face emerged that was rich in context and color, and I knew I had found a winner. I call it "unicorn".  I'm so glad that I did not dismiss the shot as just some junk in a tree, as I would have done in past years. I have learned to trust my intuition and inner vision when creating my unique brand of art. Whether or not you share my opinion that the picture is unique and inspiring... it doesn't matter. Beauty as seen from the eye of the beholder is never wrong.

When Blackbirds Sing

For the past two days while riding my bike around town, I have been struck by the sounds of hundreds of blackbirds who have congregated in one of several oak or maple trees as I pass by. I have to stop a moment and gaze up to the trees for a close look at what the bird convention would look like, but unfortunately I don't wear my glasses and I can only see scattered dots among the leaves. The noise is spectacular..a deafening cacophony of tweets, chirps, squeaks and squawks. Although the sound brought to mind the Alfred Hitchcock movie of the 60's, there was nothing scary about the way they sounded, but then again, even as a 10 year old, I thought that "The Birds" was a very silly movie. Who ever heard of birds pecking someone's eye out... well, anyway you can see that I am a bird lover. As I listened, I wondered what was going on; was this a farewell party before the migration, a meeting to discuss bird politics, bird version of gospel singing? How delightful to hear all those birds, with so many different voices and so much to say. I also wondered whether they were all blackbirds, or grackles or starlings or a mix of many, as you could hear distinct differences in the sounds if you really listened. Well, when I returned home from my ride today, I sat on the front porch to rehydrate and thought about how those birds made me wonder. It was very quiet except for a few crickets and an occasional rustle of leaves, but as I looked to the sky I suddenly noticed a flock of blackbirds flying overhead in the distance to a tree in my neighbors' backyard. They seemed to be in groups of seven or eight, and  as I had been thinking of them, it was magical to see them continuously flying within my sight. Before long, there again was the treat of a symphony of sound and fluttering activity, as hundreds continued to land in the nearby tree. Never one to dismiss the opportunity to project my views on to my furry and feathered friends, I knew they were singing a message to the human who would listen... One people, One planet.

Where's the Fun in Fundamentalism

A few news stories caught my attention this week and made me wonder about the origin of the word fundamentalist. One involved a religious sect that demanded that women must now cover up their whole body except for one eye. We have seen the women in this most somber of fashion statements, with two eyes peering out, but some fundamentalist thought that these women still looked too alluring and so this decree was issued. Another religious group announced that it had found it's current goddess (aged 4) who will be whisked away from her family to sit in an old monastery with old fundamentalists, until she starts menstruating, at which time she will be sent packing... only any man that tries to woo or marry her will die a certain early death. Two incidences of fundamentalism ( defined as a strict and literal adherence to a set of principles) that involve anything but fun. Then there is the homegrown version of religious fundamentalists that I remember watching on TV, who spoke of hellfire, damnation, sin and evil, and again there was no semblance of fun, but alot of rules on how not to have any. Sadly, they are still around. By ascribing to these fundamental beliefs, people put their faith in a fear factor that not only discourages fun, but condemns those who life is filled with it. Now call me evil, but I think it is fun to be alluring, child-like, and curious about things I don't understand. But I decided to look up the word fundamental to see how such a good root of a word got so distorted. One of the definitions was as follows: "of or relating to or produced by the lowest component of a complex vibration." Hmm, maybe in some misguided way fundamentalists try to strip down the complexities and diversities and all the wonderful things that life is, to something that is easily defined and followed. Add in verbal bullying without logic and you have a simple recipe for being right. But that didn't solve the fun puzzle until I searched the definition for fun from an online etymology source, and found that the original word meant to "cheat, trick or befool." Now I get it... but I still think the name fundamentalist in this day and age is a misnomer. Maybe the word rudimentalist would be a better substitute, as the root word rude includes the following definitions: "discourteous, not properly developed, of a primitive simplicity." I just wonder who is the knucklehead who first coined the phrase fundamentalist? Probably the same one who put the 'fun' in funeral.

Pumpkin Day Bash

Ah, Pumpkin Day arrived this past Saturday and it was a resounding success. At the crack of dawn I awoke to find my husband at his usual seat in front of his laptop playing Scrabble. He looked up as I entered the room and stated, "Happy Pumpkin Day." Hallelujah.. he not only reads my blog entries, he remembers them! It started out as a usual Saturday, going to Petsmart, Cosco and Shop-Rite, but instead of just the usual staples, we added two big pumpkins, a potted mum, and a 1/2 gallon of apple cider to our grocery cart. Now in years past, we would have made an extra stop to a local country market, but to save the extra cost of a trendy market and the gas to drive there, I found everything I needed to celebrate my holiday at Shop-Rite for under $20. My husband decided the dinner menu (as he does every Saturday), and opted for a curried lamb stew made with apples and bananas. As he did his prep, I made pumpkin cookies for our dessert. Once he got his stew in a slow oven, we retreated to the front porch to enjoy Oktoberfest ale and chips and onion dip (have I previously mentioned that there is no dieting on holidays?) We generally do a lot of laughing on the front porch, as now that the kids are grown and gone, we can get very silly indeed. Just watching my pet bunny Otis hop around the porch, acting all big and bad in front of the squirrels is a hoot. While my husband prepared the oven potatoes for our meal, I went online and found our nighttime "readings". We both enjoy poetry, so I printed about 15 poems about pumpkins. The house smelled incredible as the cookies cooled and the stew slow cooked. Needless to say our dinner was exquisite! At sunset, we retreated to the patio, took Otis to his dog-pen, and read the pumpkin poems to each other. They were very, very funny adult poems (especially as alcohol was involved) about man's failure at growing a prizewinning  pumpkin. At nightfall, we lit a bon-fire in our fire-bowl, played music from our ipod, and I danced around and threw cinnamon into the fire, as my husband gathered sticks from the yard to keep it going. He also played the Rolling Stones, "Satanic Majesty's Request", which was a favorite album from my rebellious youth, and so caterwauling had to be included in the festivities . We laughed and reminisced until bedtime, but the fun continued well into the night. We had so much fun, that we both decided that there will be a new holiday on the first Saturday of every month. So the next holiday after Halloween will be Cornucopia Day, or as my husband would claim...Feast of the Overflowing Cornucopia... only a month away! Yea!

Four Day Work Week

A while back I posted my Presidential platform, and I would like to make another important addition in light of the recent financial crisis. Beginning today, all American workers will only have to report for a 4 day work week...that's right, you all have tomorrow off, with one exception... Wall Street. All those workers will have to work an extra day, even if it means just sitting on the floor on Saturday to think about what they have done (which is pretty shameful). If the rest of the workers who ultimately have to pay for the Wall Street mess got an extra day off, this bailout might not be as tough to swallow. There would be so much money saved in gas reduction, energy costs, medical expenses .... IF the workers who do so much for this country had a real day of rest, recreation, or just plain reflection. Everyone works too hard not to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Currently most people need Saturday just to catch up on their own "home" work ... cleaning, fixing, food shopping and paying bills. Sunday is only a transition day where you have to squeeze in all the fun you can, before preparing for the grind of another work week. My Fridays off policy would bring more shoppers to the stores to buy the goods that boost the economy. Travel might increase, as it would be worthwhile to take the mini-vacation now and again, instead of waiting once a year (that is, if you haven't used the days as sick days). What a great mental heath refresher the 4 day work week would provide and think about all the illegal mental heath days that would be saved. Every hard working person would stand to gain quality time with their loved ones, which might even start a trend of better marriages, stable homes and healthier lifestyles. As far as I can see, the 1 % of the wealthiest Americans, who have all the billions of dollars, can subsidize the cost to small businesses for this leisure. After all, they couldn't possibly spend that much money in a lifetime, and yet they would certainly reap a benefit by the increased productivity shown by the happy workers in their big giant corporations. It would also teach them a lesson about the cost of greed, and the fact that if we are truly one America, then no one wins if anyone loses. So in order to practice what I preach, I am taking every Friday off, and if I am voted President... you can too!

How to Place a Comment

Several of my friends and family members have told me that they wanted to post a comment but are unable to. Now, I am not the most web-savvy person in the world but I'll try to explain how this is done. There will be a series of odd looking letters displayed that you have to type in the place provided as a word verification. This is called a CAPTCHA which stands for Completely Automated Public Tuning-test to tell Computers and Humans Apart. The reason for this is to protect the site from computer generated spam (unnecessary clutter). Once you type your comment, you will see that the little radio button is defaulted to Google blogger. You must use the mouse to click on the button that says name/URL (disregard the URL entry as it is not necessary). You will see  a space to type in your name, OR, if you think the entry really sucks and you don't want me to get mad at you for saying so, you can choose the anonymous button. If you need to edit your comment, then hit the review button and then hit edit and make corrections. If you are satisfied with your comment then remember to hit publish. I will respond to every comment, unless I get a five page tirade unrelated to me or my topic (like I did today). I realize that this is a bit scary at first, but you should have seen me sweating when I had to insert a big piece of programming code into the HTML editor of my blog, so that I can see how many people are reading and where in the world they are reading from. I had to print the instructions and try it several times before it worked...nothing broke or got messed up, and I felt so proud of myself! Now it is your turn. Send me a comment even if it takes several times to do it... my stats will not let me see your errors. Go ahead...I dare you ;>)