Gratitudes 5: good news, Mexican, and poetry

1. Good news from my sister and friend whom I wrote about a few days ago, with the heart valve issue (though I may not have mentioned that detail): She met with the PA today, and "it seems to go without saying that I would repair this." Well, yeah! Obviously! She won't know for sure until she meets with surgeons, but my fingers are so very crossed that this is a viable option.

2. Dinner at our local Mexican place, Jose's—and as much as I ever want to try something different, I had my usual: a chile relleno and chile verde tamale, no beans, no rice. It's my comfort food.

3. My regular Thursday meeting with one of my two poetry groups. This one is generative: we read (or otherwise interact with) a prompt; usually it's a few selected poems, on some theme—today's was insects. Then we spend half an hour writing. Finally, we share. I am not a poet, not really, but I can't say how much I appreciate being in the embrace of actual poets. I may feel awkward reading my usually rather clichéd attempts, but I learn, and the challenge is good for me. Here's mine from today—and remember, I scratched it out in 30 minutes, it is far from finished; and I'm not a poet—do not judge me. But for a bonus, I also include a few of the paintings by the Dutch painter this attempt is dedicated to. And I will end with a real poem by a real poet, one of today's prompts. So keep scrolling.

Still Life

                    For Jan van Kessel, 1626–1679

When did you notice that first butterfly—
a gaudy swallowtail was it,
or pale chequered skipper?
and decide you had to capture it,
not skewered by a pin,
but in rich oils.

In your garden, in the woods,
among meadows of springtime flowers,
you waited and watched,
sketching the tiny jagged feet,
the furred antennae,
exquisite patterns of crimson
burnt orange
royal blue.

Then, carefully, you arranged
currants, a thistle,
sprigs of rosemary,
on a plain white ground...
and these creatures,
so jewel-like, so briefly
in this world. 

Holding them in your gaze,
you caressed them into being
with the tip of your brush,
as if to keep them
from launching into flight, 

for a moment you, like them,
unaware of death.

Design

                    by Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth—
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth—
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small.

Gratitudes 4: live music and the Carmel mission

Just one today—or rather, a double one—and a day late: 

First: Live music! Last night, the Carmel Bach Festival's Chorale offered a program of "American Hymns, Psalms, and Spiritual Songs." Virgil Thomson, Charles Ives, Vincent Persichetti, Aaron Copland, and others. I'm afraid the Ives went over my nonmusical head—one of his two pieces, Psalm 67, involved mixing C major (the women's voices) and G minor (the men's). Did I discern that? No. All I heard was a chromatic richness. I wish I could have appreciated it more. But I did appreciate Copland's "In the Beginning," and of course the spirituals, especially "Elijah Rock," oh yeah. Here's a version I found that is reminiscent of what we heard last night.

And here's the Copland, because I wouldn't mind hearing it again:

Besides the beautiful music, the concert was held in the old Carmel Mission, decorated with a huge candelabra of actual candles in front of the massive altar. When the lights went down the scene was quite magical. Yay for live music!

So second: the mission itself, formally known as Mission San Carlos de Borromeo de Carmelo, established in 1770 by Franciscan father Junípero Serra (who is buried there). I did not know until just now that the mission fell into ruin in the late 1800s, and was only restored—and beautifully—in the 1910s and 20s.

Here's a colorized lithograph (1839) of a painting by Williim Smyth (1827). Today, the small buildings are gone and the mission is surrounded by houses, a school, roads, etc. 

Here it is in 1880, looking from the altar back:

And here it is today, outside and in. The altar was restored in 1910–30.

And yes, yes, I know all about the awful history of the Spaniards coming here and subjugating the Native peoples. That's a whole other story. For now, for today, I'd just like to note how fortunate we are to have this beautiful venue for hearing beautiful music, especially of the vocal variety: it's the perfect resonating chamber.

Gratitudes 3: my dog, pizza, and Tom Cruise

1. Milo, who always fills my heart: when I see him from the top of the stairs, lying on the fleecy blanket, looking up at me with those expectant brown eyes; when he dashes across the park, or after a bunny, his long legs so eager; when he dances in excitement in the afternoon, as I finally put on some clothes (the dance being for the impending walk, not the jeans). When he smiles at me, and holds my hand (I am not making that up), and we share a moment of the foreverness of our life together. Beginning to end. (Well, ten weeks to, sadly, and hopefully not too soon, end.) I may well gratitudinize Milo in the future, if I keep this list up. There may be repetition. But the gratitude will never not be there. I adore that dog.

2. David's Boboli pizzas. Loaded: tomato sauce and cheese, mozzarella and parmesan, of course; red onion, zucchini, red bell pepper, and spicy chicken sausage. Tonight he had a short performance at the Carmel Bach Festival, so he made the pizza before he left. I heated the oven before he returned, and put it in. Teamwork!

3. A NYT essay I read today about searching for Tom Cruise, because it was funny, and because I've been watching the Mission Impossible movies—just tonight, #4: Ghost Protocol—which themselves have gotten funnier, but also tighter. There really is something disconcertingly fascinating about Cruise. As if he exists only on film, a sort of weird pre-AI AI creation....

And although three is my limit, here's a little essay on gratitude, by the poet David Whyte, via my Howler friend Kim.

Gratitudes 2: sourdough starter, email, and dinner out/branzini

Today a sister and friend wrote with some distressing news: 2–5 years. I truly hope that the doctors will be able to circumvent that prognosis, but what if not? Two to five years? No. I can't believe that. I can't believe ever being without her. We already lost her husband, for god's sake.

Death has been on my mind already lately—because of the flashing red lights outside our house last night (all's well, thankfully), because my Norwegian brother-in-law has Parkinson's, because Milo, our beloved dog, is almost 13. This news just gives me more to worry over.

Another friend asked this morning on our daily WhatsApp chat, three of us, if we do daily gratitudes. She was just at a memorial service, and the fellow being memorialized had gotten in the habit of exchanging gratitudes with a friend of his. The friend shared some of those. She said it was moving, hearing his moments of gratefulness, of noticing. Concrete. "The details!" she said. "The voice!" He had been navigating sobriety. An extra layer. 

So I'm here today with another three. Maybe I'll make it a daily project. Or maybe I'll never get sucked into the "daily" nonsense again. Time will tell.

1. The beautiful bubbling aliveness of the sourdough starter I launched a couple of weeks ago. Soon, I will have enough head space to bake a loaf of bread with it. But even if I never did that, feeding it each day, then seeing the bubbles rise some hours later—it's oddly satisfying.

2. Email. I was spelling out the entire story here, which had to do with a finished editing job and locking files, and different operating systems on different computers, but no, the details aren't important here. Email, however, is: it allowed me to finish my end of the job, and then send the files to the author for her review. (Though email is also how I heard the 2–5 year news...)

3. Dinner out: branzini on a carroty quinoa bed, with asparagus, coconut, Pernod-infused raisins (I kid you not). It's nothing I'd ever even dream of cooking at home. And it was super delicious. Thank you, fish, for the sacrifice of your life.

Gratitudes

I've been looking through old posts—1,464 so far, since April 12, 2009, but really getting going in 2015. It's fun to see my life (recent and going back some) laid out in words. I've done some cool stuff! Been some cool places! Discovered some really interesting things. Spent time with wonderful people.

Lately, though, I've been in a bit of funk, and I've been trying to figure out how to break out of it. 

Pharmaceuticals, maybe? Psilocybin? Coffee doesn't seem to work.

Just kidding, ha ha.

But also not. I feel like I need a shift in perspective. A shift in sensibility. And I don't know how to achieve that. (Psilocybin, my brain whispers... if only it weren't illegal...)

An acquaintance of mine had a health issue recently, and as it was being resolved, she found solace in Icelandic horses. I love the specificity of that: you hurt? go to Iceland, find a horse with your name on it. A grounded place, and someone (preferably with a mane) to hug.

I have always used travel as my something to hug, but that's not working so well anymore. It's not especially huggable, arriving in a foreign place and having to reconnoiter, in a strange language, in a traffic jam, wondering just what I am risking waiving the insurance on the rented Peugeot, why my credit card is being refused at the train station kiosk.

Last year, I traveled to Portugal and France, the Galápagos, Ontario, and Madagscar. This year, so far, to Denmark, Norway, and France. It's been eye-opening and rewarding; I do benefit from the stimulation, the difference, for sure. But centering? grounding? Not so much.

So I find myself growing ever more focused on my leaf-patterned chair upstairs, or the comfy brown couch in front of the TV. 

And that is not good.

It is strange to feel the world shrinking around you. I think some of it comes from Covid (scary virus!) and some—moreso—from the political insanity in this country, and elsewhere as well. I honestly feel that the world I grew up learning about, fitting into, has vanished. Or at least it's contracting, growing ever more conservative, restrictive, rights-bashing, dare I say fascist. Even bastions of open-armed liberalness like Denmark and the Netherlands have closed in on themselves. But this country? Half of it has gone insane. And that scares me. 

Not that I, personally, will be affected by the rightward shift. But this country isn't just about me. It's about an ideal, an idea, yes. But it's also about real, struggling people. Whom the GOP don't seem to give a damn about. If I may generalize. But I think it's a fair generalization.

In any case, I didn't come here to whine about the state of my country. Whining does no good. The other day I posted some tips for dealing with depression, and I think I'll start mining them more.  

One thing that is missing from that list is meditation. I've said before that I'd like to start meditating—as in, regularly. As in, every day. Maybe now's the time to start. (How many times can I say that without acting on it? An infinite number, apparently!) Also, writing some short gratitudes every day. 

Like, today: I am grateful for Lindt caramel milk chocolate truffle bars, which presently are on sale at Safeway (and I'm grateful for that, because it gave me permission to buy four of them, for five bucks). I am grateful to be finished with chapter 4 of the guidebook on swimming in California that I'm editing; only two chapters to go, and then I'll be done with work for a while—like, until (if) I decide to take on a new project. Which at the moment, I strongly do not want to do. But I know how restless I get, how undirected. Work gives me focus. And yet . . . I really do think I'd like to quit. Forever. And put my attention somewhere else more centering, more grounding.

So, gratitude #3: I am grateful for having so many interests and, dare I say, a few skills. I brought home from Europe a couple of books each in Norwegian and French. When I finish improving other people's prose in English, maybe it'll be time to tread some foreign-language waters. I may not be a confident swimmer, but at least I know I can stay afloat. And maybe I can get back to making artist books. And curating photos. And taking new photos, with my new camera. There's always the garage to clean out, books to cull. And I'd like to do more reading—um, in Norwegian or French. Or English! There's so much good literature out there. I don't have all the time in the world, after all. And I have many, many more books than I can read in whatever time I have left. Finally, there's the sourdough starter I've concocted, and that's doing really well. Maybe it's finally time to try making a loaf of bread? So yeah: I should get to it. Honestly, there is no shortage of (personally) worthwhile things I could be doing.

Okay. That was a good pep talk, which I'm putting out here for all the world (or at any rate, my six followers) to see.

But I'm still interested in psylocibin . . . Or what the heck, maybe Icelandic horses.

Or both!

But not at once.

Paul Klee's cats

I first saw Paul Klee's (1879–1940) paintings in person at the art museum in Cleveland. Oh, they were entrancing! I don't recall seeing cat paintings per se there, but today I ran into one on FB (I should just call this blog "My Facebook Encounters," shouldn't I?), and that got me looking for more of his work. And what I happened upon was his cats, and so yes, I just kept going down that rabbit (not cat!) hole. And here is some of what I found.

Cat Staring at the Moon, c. 1920

A Kind of Cat, 1937

Brocard Katze sich leckend, 1905

Tom Cat's Turf, 1919

Cat and Bird, 1928

Where this post started:
The Mountain of the Sacred Cat, 1923

Paul Klee, his wife Lily, and their cat Bimbo

Depression tips

I get down sometimes. I imagine we all do. A friend posted these tips on FB, and I think they make for a lot of good pointers. So I thought I'd keep 'em here.

• Shower. Not a bath, a shower. Use water as hot or cold as you like. You don’t even need to wash. Just get in under the water and let it run over you for a while. Sit on the floor if you gotta.
• Moisturize everything. Use whatever lotion you like. Unscented? Poundland lotion? Fancy 48-hour lotion that makes you smell like a field of wildflowers? Use whatever you want, and use it all over your entire dermis. 
• Put on clean, comfortable clothes. 
• Put on your favorite underwear. Those boxers that are so comfortable and worn out? Cute black lacy panties? Those ridiculous briefs you bought last Christmas with pink love hearts on the butt? Put them on.
• Drink cold water. Use ice. If you want, add some mint or lemon for an extra boost. 
• Clean something. Doesn’t have to be anything big. Organize one drawer of a desk. Wash five dirty dishes. Do a load of laundry. Scrub the bathroom sink. 
• Blast music. Listen to something upbeat and dancey and loud, something that’s got lots of energy. Sing to it, dance to it, even if you suck at both.
• Make food. Don’t just grab a Kit Kat bar to munch. Take the time and make food. Even if it’s beans on toast. Add something special to it, like a soft boiled egg or some veggies. Prepare food, it tastes way better, and you’ll feel like you accomplished something.
• Make something. Write a short story or a poem, draw a picture, color a picture, fold origami, crochet or knit, sculpt something out of clay, anything artistic. Even if you don’t think you’re good at it. Create. 
• Go outside. Take a walk. Sit in the grass. Look at the clouds. Smell flowers. Put your hands in the dirt and feel the soil against your skin.
• Call someone. Call a loved one, a friend, a family member, call a chat service if you have no one else to call. Talk to a stranger on the street. Have a conversation and listen to someone’s voice. If you can’t bring yourself to call, text or email or whatever, just have some social interaction with another person. Even if you don’t say much, listen to them. It helps. 
• Cuddle your pets if you have them/can cuddle them. Take pictures of them. Talk to them. Tell them how you feel, about your favorite movie, a new game coming out, anything. 

May seem small or silly to some, but this list keeps people alive. 

 

*** At your absolute best you won’t be good enough for the wrong people. But at your worst, you’ll still be worth it to the right ones. Remember that. Keep holding on. 

 

*** In case nobody has told you today I love you and you are worth your weight and then some in gold, so be kind to yourself, and most of all, keep pushing on.

 

There is always something to be grateful for. Find it and hold it in your thoughts.