tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20378804790771706962024-03-17T22:03:02.949-05:00One Man's WonderReclaiming Curiosity in a "Ho-hum" WorldJeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.comBlogger566125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-26654781100175240442024-02-10T14:03:00.002-06:002024-02-10T14:04:36.731-06:00 FINAL GIFTS – Negotiating Life’s Ultimate Transition<p>Charlotte’s sister had been contending with cancer for some time. Sally and I would ask about her whenever we ran into Charlotte in the neighborhood. After several of those updates—reports of points made and lost—we learned that, after all, she’d lost the argument. <br /><br />Soon after Charlotte returned from the funeral in Michigan, she gave us a book called <i>Final Gifts</i>. She explained that a friend had given it to her, and that it had helped her and her family get through those last painful months. The book was a blessing, she said, one she wanted to pay forward.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRG1zECBiZtLSzyWKHQenSdzKjbBoZfM680BQbgeRBQF3sVdtOrhb_KlXEyx5EFp9wcnk5_8A1Yc9JF6Hn02ddiWD9DHwdg6qVsLTzGUAypFGRt5fWgTQeas0_ThshPBjZL0G-R4Pr2D1j2fvJgx3poX1Ew-DRZea9Guyle27YVgX6HoPaS5jsf4jsyCw/s399/FinalGiftsCover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="259" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRG1zECBiZtLSzyWKHQenSdzKjbBoZfM680BQbgeRBQF3sVdtOrhb_KlXEyx5EFp9wcnk5_8A1Yc9JF6Hn02ddiWD9DHwdg6qVsLTzGUAypFGRt5fWgTQeas0_ThshPBjZL0G-R4Pr2D1j2fvJgx3poX1Ew-DRZea9Guyle27YVgX6HoPaS5jsf4jsyCw/s320/FinalGiftsCover.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><p><i>Final Gifts</i> was written by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelley, two veteran hospice nurses who not only care for the medical and emotional needs of patients who are dying, but help them and their families understand and grow from the end-of-life experience. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #e69138;">What makes this so relevant to the theme of </span></i><span style="color: #e69138;">One Man’s Wonder</span><i><span style="color: #e69138;"> is that these wishes often aren’t immediately apparent on the surface.</span></i></b><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">NEARING-DEATH AWARENESS</span></b></span></span><br />A Kirkus review of the book says, “The ‘final gifts’ of the title are the comfort and enlightenment offered by the dying to those attending them, and in return, the peace and reassurance offered to the dying by those who hear their needs.”<br /><br />In one example after another, the authors describe how the fear and grief associated with death are buffered by the dying person’s deep-seated need to reconcile relationships, settle accounts, spare loved ones’ feelings and leave a meaningful legacy. <br /><br />What makes this so relevant to the theme of <i>One Man’s Wonder</i> is that these wishes often aren’t immediately apparent on the surface. Understanding them involves curiosity and open-mindedness. <br /><br />Instead of using conventional words or actions, a dying person, especially when they’ve entered the stage the authors call “Nearing Death Awareness,” may describe what they’re going through or ask for things they need using apparently inane symbolism. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">THRESHOLD OF FOREVER</span></b></span></span><br />A reference to a map or packing a suitcase, for example, might indicate the patient’s fear of the unknown or of not being prepared for death. Talk of a balance sheet or I.O.U. might represent scores to settle or amends to be made. Or the mention of having received an invitation might signal the patient’s peaceful acceptance of death.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFExEOxCZKD1rcgAKjGh3pZbHCDmzTGoikDgMWoX4USxb8TwKl4n6wH-97jaH_SDgqZXWtGP-aBRzWBIezAQAQYw7gH9jPnkax9WUWIuBSc8-l-dgVpgZv8QWGVNKaZQZqh7HyXwyraNL4eu-XbE4cj8AMju4pzbDXrKL6Zk40CELHE8M6PkFJx8opu0S/s1600/Suitcase-OldPacked-B.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFExEOxCZKD1rcgAKjGh3pZbHCDmzTGoikDgMWoX4USxb8TwKl4n6wH-97jaH_SDgqZXWtGP-aBRzWBIezAQAQYw7gH9jPnkax9WUWIuBSc8-l-dgVpgZv8QWGVNKaZQZqh7HyXwyraNL4eu-XbE4cj8AMju4pzbDXrKL6Zk40CELHE8M6PkFJx8opu0S/w400-h266/Suitcase-OldPacked-B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>In all their cases, Kelley and Callanan help families of the dying to do emotionally and spiritually what many of us already know how to do with our physical sensing: to appreciate the wonder of life, discover new ways of looking and seeing, give voice to deeply-held faith and, ultimately, to embrace the unfathomable.<br /><br />Like all of Nature, death has more to teach us when we appreciate its many layers. For one dying person it might be the opportunity for caretakers and loved ones to look under the surface of spoken words to discover his or her ultimate needs. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGM8X4Fd-_zzj75gpN4rXzyWWpKziLp9cv5QlHQgQcjJuSHPs_Xg4w45uQs3QDoTYfuw7Yg3se2MarNNDk8sqp5l4wPBPrH9zHqCHleUzkaZ1jQycVduYpcjuxqisjCR_twACzB5GAWn3N1s_1ZjVPbnkxKVxkmhyphenhyphenSpwdKTb-OLk-nZ6Clsmm5yDL9BaWK/s584/ReconciliationHeart.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="584" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGM8X4Fd-_zzj75gpN4rXzyWWpKziLp9cv5QlHQgQcjJuSHPs_Xg4w45uQs3QDoTYfuw7Yg3se2MarNNDk8sqp5l4wPBPrH9zHqCHleUzkaZ1jQycVduYpcjuxqisjCR_twACzB5GAWn3N1s_1ZjVPbnkxKVxkmhyphenhyphenSpwdKTb-OLk-nZ6Clsmm5yDL9BaWK/w200-h184/ReconciliationHeart.jpeg" width="200" /></a>It might compel another patient to reach back through layers of time, asking someone long estranged to come back and share the letting go of resentment, hurt or blame—often for a disagreement whose reasons have long since been forgotten. In many cases, patients are able to hold on just long enough to reconcile with that person before passing away.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his bed, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere <br />well beyond the upper corner of the room.</span></i></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">WELCOME TO HEAVEN</span></b></span></span><br />Sometimes the end of life even enables a dying person to reach across death’s threshold and sense the welcoming spirits of previously-departed loved ones. <br /><br />Sally and I had no way of knowing how soon the things we learned from reading <i>Final Gifts</i> would apply to our own lives. But within months after Sally finished the book, her friend, Mary, after decades living with recurring cancer, finally was succumbing. <br /><br />One evening near the end, Sally was sitting with her. Mary’s eyes seemed to drift away from Sally to something in the empty corner of her bedroom. “Who are they?” Mary asked. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3eoCbi1fKkt0BP-w3LR-kOmYL7lY-nZP1vEE-Q0PeOvJTgCYDsi6rk6sifb3w-bK4RUEQ7st5Fq4-mxC-eypIUQD8qHvDX9uEEFugXJJYmIPwwTHFE8zuVzEYX9Z6rrQUvrnpUypSxaZu3qRwVH1yd_kHEYn90cCsArt25BvwGAnW3x85weLIxEHfgn0/s531/VisionOfAncestors.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="531" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3eoCbi1fKkt0BP-w3LR-kOmYL7lY-nZP1vEE-Q0PeOvJTgCYDsi6rk6sifb3w-bK4RUEQ7st5Fq4-mxC-eypIUQD8qHvDX9uEEFugXJJYmIPwwTHFE8zuVzEYX9Z6rrQUvrnpUypSxaZu3qRwVH1yd_kHEYn90cCsArt25BvwGAnW3x85weLIxEHfgn0/w400-h279/VisionOfAncestors.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Sally admitted later that her normal reaction would have been to try talking Mary out of her “confusion.” But, having read about this behavior in the book, she was able to embrace Mary’s experience and help her make sense of it. “Tell me more about them,” she prompted. <br /><br />That simple acknowledgment helped Mary realize that the figures were those of her long-departed sister and uncle, and that joining them might not be as fearful as she’d imagined. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">THE RAPTURE</span></b></span></span><br />Those who experience Nearing Death Awareness often talk about seeing an indescribably beautiful place, one that moves them to wonder and awe. When my dad was dying (at the age of 91), we knew death was imminent. After being knocked to the floor several times by jolts from his defibrillator, he’d decided to have it turned off. <br /><br />The doctor advised us he’d almost surely die within a couple of days. My brother, Dan, and I decided to keep vigil with him for whatever time remained. We let him know of our sadness and our hope that he’d change his mind. Ultimately, all we could do was to support him, talk with him, advocate for him, and make sure he was comfortable. <br /><br />It was my shift. Dad was in deep sleep, his breathing so thin that I feared each time his chest rose and fell might be the last. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide open, his gaze turned upward, fixed on a point somewhere well beyond the upper corner of the room.<br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj615sKSbMnL-Ttq-iiLoQ7uZuIl-7Zzuj1hH_IHSdynBYhZALE6kieqD5nXUwpgai3M2gGF4LRtEen6UVcblJjuhD8bFpHAKRiHu7mxIhkop-xumYeoJzL-AB3MH-XvDczp9qrX7-IfG7FeJBLCK6EoJphhHV8GzClgy9O-xrvJfE_m35aZfEF5mVvlP1O/s1200/Rapture-C.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj615sKSbMnL-Ttq-iiLoQ7uZuIl-7Zzuj1hH_IHSdynBYhZALE6kieqD5nXUwpgai3M2gGF4LRtEen6UVcblJjuhD8bFpHAKRiHu7mxIhkop-xumYeoJzL-AB3MH-XvDczp9qrX7-IfG7FeJBLCK6EoJphhHV8GzClgy9O-xrvJfE_m35aZfEF5mVvlP1O/w400-h225/Rapture-C.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>His expression was one of pure rapture. It was as if he were witnessing something stunningly beautiful. Even though the wonder, whatever it was, was visible to me only in his eyes, I too was struck dumb. After about 20 seconds, he lay back down, closed his eyes and resumed his sporadic breathing. <br /><br />He died the next morning.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">SPIRITUAL TRANSFORMATION</span></b></span></span><br />Does all of this mean that death’s a wonderful thing? It depends. For my dad, I think it was. He was ready. On the other hand, I can barely imagine what it must be like to lose a child. Or a young family’s loss of a parent. Or anyone dying alone and scared…just the thought brings tears to my eyes. <br /><br />Nonetheless, <i>Final Gifts</i> reminded me that the pain, fear and grief surrounding death are not evil; they’re part of the human condition, part of the Creator’s plan. When I view death in that context, through eyes unclouded by all the value judgments and taboos our culture imposes on it, I can’t help feeling that, somewhere under those folds, there’s the potential for it to be an awesome, even beautiful, thing. <br /><br />The patients and families depicted in the book struggled with the apparent contradiction between that possibility and the stark reality of their own loss.<br /><br /> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #800180;">~</span> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #f1c232;">•</span> </span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #800180;">~</span> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #f1c232;">•</span> </span> <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #800180;">~</span> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #bf9000;">PASS IT ON!</span></i></b></span></span><br />I’ve given away that copy of the <i>Final Gifts</i> that Charlotte gave us, as well as several others I’ve bought. The initial reaction I’ve gotten from some recipients, especially those under 40—from whom thoughts of death and dying are still far removed—has fallen a bit short of gratitude: “What a downer!” “Why such a creepy gift?” “Are you dying?” <br /><br />Most, nonetheless, have dutifully read it. Everyone who’s done so has thanked me for the discoveries and the comfort it’s brought them. I hope you’ll read it too—and then continue the sequence by passing it forward.<br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Final-Gifts-Understanding-Awareness-Communications/dp/1451667256/ref=monarch_sidesheet"><br /><b><i>Final Gifts</i> – link to Amazon</b></a><br /><br /><i>(</i>Final Gifts<i> and a few other books and articles I’ve read about death and dying have led me to become a hospice volunteer—with Health Partners Hospice—which has deepened my understanding and appreciation of the end-of-life experience.)</i><br /><br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-68138602319060980902024-02-03T23:09:00.003-06:002024-02-04T20:29:19.506-06:00 AS IF FOR THE FIRST TIME: Balance<p><i> In my </i>As If For the First Time <i>series I pick some common observation or activity—one so ubiquitous as
to easily escape one’s full appreciation—and describe it as if I’d never
seen or done it before.<br /></i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">~</span> </span> <span style="color: #f1c232;">•</span> <span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">~</span> </span> <span style="color: #f1c232;">• </span><span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">~</span> </span> <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOASdYAob1455b1LfLZhVsk3OjreT_SY32e7Xz6C8gfY_F78pXMYbpsvAClhvkY22C8Kg8iyGpeLj9r5T6ziXzYVmrPiloUn8l1RP2H_XYUaPnfg8BOoAY7p_Zy3sGdL2e0BaWihFK2DPAfwW4h-1rgTedY8WM3eoCEevgUcfIJTB2IVoFlW0yLKYJ2eGz/s352/ToddlerFirstSteps-Pic.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="328" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOASdYAob1455b1LfLZhVsk3OjreT_SY32e7Xz6C8gfY_F78pXMYbpsvAClhvkY22C8Kg8iyGpeLj9r5T6ziXzYVmrPiloUn8l1RP2H_XYUaPnfg8BOoAY7p_Zy3sGdL2e0BaWihFK2DPAfwW4h-1rgTedY8WM3eoCEevgUcfIJTB2IVoFlW0yLKYJ2eGz/w186-h200/ToddlerFirstSteps-Pic.jpg" width="186" /></a>I toddled before my first birthday, and I’ve been on my feet ever since. Never doubting my ability to stand up, put one foot in front of the other and walk across the room. <br /><br />Until late last summer.<br /><br />That morning—it was September 13—I’d gotten up as usual, brushed my teeth, done my stretches. I’d just opened the refrigerator door to grab the orange juice when I felt a twinge of wooziness. Odd, I thought, as possible causes sifted through my mind.<br /><br />Stroke? Heart attack? Brain tumor? Before entertaining any of these awful prospects, I decided just to sit down, relax and see if the dizziness might pass. But ten minutes later, as the dog barked to go outside, I just knew I wouldn’t be able to stand up. I tried, and I was right.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_M1FgEfOWYDJfILjJKc8kzGzPJtbJHjQrMhiy7iGT2WQP7_jd3tWWfrj7GWo1oVt3_BOOPnHdanRP8t-GPx9vKNV2cjZF-BB8sj8MEAoa7uBZUd5ifKynfc7r0An-TSKHe_9c59v-P4KK0zyPIdTRoWbettoIdpUvmdY0gFPckNyH2ty67AA_uVEMEZBb/s1293/EMTs-Blur.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="1293" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_M1FgEfOWYDJfILjJKc8kzGzPJtbJHjQrMhiy7iGT2WQP7_jd3tWWfrj7GWo1oVt3_BOOPnHdanRP8t-GPx9vKNV2cjZF-BB8sj8MEAoa7uBZUd5ifKynfc7r0An-TSKHe_9c59v-P4KK0zyPIdTRoWbettoIdpUvmdY0gFPckNyH2ty67AA_uVEMEZBb/w400-h324/EMTs-Blur.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">WHAT IT’S NOT</span></b></span></span><br />Quite the saga unfolded from there. Staggering to the door, vomiting, an ambulance ride, and an eye-opening night in the ER where they did every imaginable image and test to rule out the obvious culprits. Thank God, about 24 hours after whatever it was stole my balance, I was finally able to walk out of there.<br /><br />The diagnosis after all that: dehydration. Ha! I knew that wasn’t the case. (Ever since having passed a couple of kidney stones years ago I’ve been quite conscientious about my water intake.) So if that wasn’t it, what was it, this mysterious, vertigo-like case of the swirlies? I just hoped and prayed it would be a one-and-done.<br /><br />Then, just over three months later, while I was visiting my daughter and her family in Maine for Christmas, it happened again. Roughly the same time of day, same circumstances, same debilitation. Only this time, realizing that all the most dire causes had been ruled out, I worried less. <br /><br />Sure enough, twenty-four hours later it was gone. But not without leaving me mystified again and feeling more vulnerable than ever.<br /><b><span style="color: #e69138;"><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"> As far as walking, you might as well <br /> be aboard a tiny boat on rough seas.</span></i></span></b><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">ON ROUGH SEAS</span></b></span></span><br />While researching my new disorder, I’ve been reminded of the fascinating workings of the human body’s balance center, the inner ear. Among its components are thousands of little calcium carbonate crystals that sit on a gelatinous bed inlaid with tiny vertical hairs.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzOIbjv6LqZObmXUPEkOtIAlrnbad_PsHa-Q-DMAVwPHX3o0v6yBuoHvUIVeb92BlMWlMUpDFywW0TceSk1E-qbTc57yjvISGBTS0f_jpfs1opHZslVVqSWG-Mv1CPhIqGaZyfjXzVVzmcSQmFZRMOdaAtT5v60bkP6kS__O05mjGThH7gEprWgo7Uxn2/s632/InnerEar-Mayo.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="632" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzOIbjv6LqZObmXUPEkOtIAlrnbad_PsHa-Q-DMAVwPHX3o0v6yBuoHvUIVeb92BlMWlMUpDFywW0TceSk1E-qbTc57yjvISGBTS0f_jpfs1opHZslVVqSWG-Mv1CPhIqGaZyfjXzVVzmcSQmFZRMOdaAtT5v60bkP6kS__O05mjGThH7gEprWgo7Uxn2/w400-h228/InnerEar-Mayo.webp" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMyq4UGOH20grFdT4_EW8mvmVIo71pOE-zXlEJjow8Cqut4Yk_UCi8akwg67Cw2yvxis9NpKtseDcQqKJvRzRBxF9r9m36-WssSyzWlDLuM2G5sUMG3nBYqiG6ErUH3beck0WdK31Zr4YpJImNiMjJkRcqKmiGVDawGFtjF1k06qlBkGmwehds9YKZT1m/s663/VertigoCrystals-PhysioVive.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="663" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMyq4UGOH20grFdT4_EW8mvmVIo71pOE-zXlEJjow8Cqut4Yk_UCi8akwg67Cw2yvxis9NpKtseDcQqKJvRzRBxF9r9m36-WssSyzWlDLuM2G5sUMG3nBYqiG6ErUH3beck0WdK31Zr4YpJImNiMjJkRcqKmiGVDawGFtjF1k06qlBkGmwehds9YKZT1m/s320/VertigoCrystals-PhysioVive.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>Normally, the crystals' condition and position signal to the brain where your body is in space. And they coordinate with your muscles to keep you…well…vertical.<br /><br />But if those little crystals get jostled and some get tipped into the semicircular canals, that can be a problem. The errant crystals are supposed to dissolve, but certain positions can hinder that process, and then all bets are off. As far as walking, you might as well be trying to stand in a tiny boat on rough seas.<br /><br />If it is vertigo there’s a remedy. The Epley Maneuver—a series of specific head and torso movements—can help satisfy the inner ear that you’re not really aboard a storm-tossed dinghy. I tried it three or four times without success.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbLQQweOvYIbJLIgw2V9QfcdK_LRFhq1LjhKSBIPYNYOQdd4PBRbZ5B2B1HUhl5sgs2Y88XJFBQAmfZl5PYUuBBidg7S8BeN_Ijl4l0LuXqv_KmuRrr39yfeVr0edixJrzUWAUybd4vWPW7c7a7GI3Pcodn342EY5VAfLJOxxdmROdv1ymZzyBJ6sWxeR/s469/EpleyManeuver.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="428" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqbLQQweOvYIbJLIgw2V9QfcdK_LRFhq1LjhKSBIPYNYOQdd4PBRbZ5B2B1HUhl5sgs2Y88XJFBQAmfZl5PYUuBBidg7S8BeN_Ijl4l0LuXqv_KmuRrr39yfeVr0edixJrzUWAUybd4vWPW7c7a7GI3Pcodn342EY5VAfLJOxxdmROdv1ymZzyBJ6sWxeR/w365-h400/EpleyManeuver.jpeg" width="365" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">LIKE FATHER…</span></b></span></span><br />This is one of those junctures in my life where I wish I could talk to my dad. He was a good-natured stickler for good posture. He’d see my brother or me slouched over our oatmeal and, without saying a word, demonstrate what sitting up straight looks like. Robot-like, he’d lift a spoonful straight up to the level of his face and then execute the precise 90-degree turn into his mouth.<br /><br />Dad must have been taught the same thing growing up, that posture’s not just good for one’s spine, but is also an expression of one’s character. He walked steadily—and even played cartless golf—until just a couple of weeks before his death at age 91. No one would have been more profoundly bothered by the inability to stand.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCxlRLXWAusebZTyrorp0XOE04t7xek7hQjw9iYVPFItP9gT-HSHzU8DQtPnvkYlaBY1aOmRG8QnjjzPecvb9Xr9wwxnkainka8WpbhvYAsiuCM3EU9Ta0KITUDkRx0PwWD9oCIrSWIlV7CU31mPX_cYiMfgyzXn82ASMk1eW9xll7rq4mSXKAe3mEXRr/s529/PostureGraphic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="529" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCxlRLXWAusebZTyrorp0XOE04t7xek7hQjw9iYVPFItP9gT-HSHzU8DQtPnvkYlaBY1aOmRG8QnjjzPecvb9Xr9wwxnkainka8WpbhvYAsiuCM3EU9Ta0KITUDkRx0PwWD9oCIrSWIlV7CU31mPX_cYiMfgyzXn82ASMk1eW9xll7rq4mSXKAe3mEXRr/w400-h244/PostureGraphic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Maybe that’s why this vertigo thing has hit me so hard. I’d like to ask my dad if he ever had an episode of this vertigo-like disorder. And if so, how he felt and what he might have learned about it.</div></div><p>From here on out, I guess all I can do is keep exploring possible causes…and hope it doesn’t happen again. I’ve made an appointment at the National Center For Dizziness and Balance, located here in Minneapolis, so maybe I can get some answers about causes, prevention and, I hope, a remedy.<br /><br />And I’ll never again take simply standing for granted.<br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-29122970941849300382024-01-19T12:21:00.000-06:002024-01-19T12:21:19.727-06:00 ARTICULATE SILENCE – The Power of Presence<p><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: medium;">“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing...not healing, not curing...that is a friend who cares.”</span></i></b><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">HENRI NOUWEN</span></span><br /> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">~</span> <span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• </span></span><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">~</span> <span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="font-size: medium;">•. </span></span><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">~</span> . <span></span> <br /><br />It’s taken me a very long time to realize that just sitting, with no task, no agenda, no expectations, isn’t necessarily a waste of time. <br /><br />“Just being” is something babies and old folks do very well. I suppose you could say that’s because they can’t walk and their hands don’t work very well. But more important than how they might have come to be so acutely in the present moment is the fact that only the most cynical observer would ever conclude from their lack of “productiveness” that they’re wasting their time.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgl3foTCh1ImkwDtMNd2DizaXRarH-DHuUICX7Wih77oJu8vTOBx_vU0hu1yM5Guq6clCY5GthnwNBlZAGscsnlM8obaGuJ_gW4N7HJwB1URnd_X5J44Q1ageUS_V0d68KUZdFqsArbtfBKjF57hv2EOSt32EYYCMBCKN9czzA8ZjqMFv7TIGW4OYgDBftI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="750" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgl3foTCh1ImkwDtMNd2DizaXRarH-DHuUICX7Wih77oJu8vTOBx_vU0hu1yM5Guq6clCY5GthnwNBlZAGscsnlM8obaGuJ_gW4N7HJwB1URnd_X5J44Q1ageUS_V0d68KUZdFqsArbtfBKjF57hv2EOSt32EYYCMBCKN9czzA8ZjqMFv7TIGW4OYgDBftI=w400-h288" width="400" /></a></div><br />It’s a shame the art of just being is so lost on the rest of us. For it’s in that state, devoid of ambition and guile, liberated from expectations of any kind, that we’re best able to experience what I’d argue are the human pursuits of the highest order: curiosity, compassion and wonder.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: medium;">NOT THEN OR WHEN, BUT NOW</span></b></span><br />By the time we’re in grade school, most of us have already been indoctrinated with the familiar mantras: <i>Keep your nose to the grindstone; Idle hands make for the devil’s work; Work hard enough and everything will be fine. </i>You know, the good old American dream. Trouble is, there are some worthwhile goals that don’t fall within the reach of anyone who’s reaching. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> There are some worthwhile goals that <br /> don’t fall within the reach of anyone <br /> who’s reaching. </span></i></b></span><br /><br />We’re all conditioned to place enormous value on the past and the future. We think the past, the sum total of all our life experiences to date, defines who we are. We think the future is where all our hopes, dreams and fears will play out. In fact, we tend to focus so much of our mental and emotional energy on the “then” and the “when” that we fail to fully experience the “now.” As much as we’d like to think we can do it, no one can be in two places at the same time.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8Lix30O9th1fOPoHzGlphvBTnSql6UkNtrO5-EZ_cQwUPqc_XLlHKD11oa1KMqyEUZEyY2CMYEBQAQ34j-ChKKzUkhn3IBsGg0tcYI7KW00-nGdheyhsszKUtEUb0SDBhEaMWoGTALM6eRaTaTPePmVA29I8kI10Vq0wWbb-L37iYHjduJbqDpTKC0xd/s320/JustBeing-Hospice.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="273" data-original-width="320" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8Lix30O9th1fOPoHzGlphvBTnSql6UkNtrO5-EZ_cQwUPqc_XLlHKD11oa1KMqyEUZEyY2CMYEBQAQ34j-ChKKzUkhn3IBsGg0tcYI7KW00-nGdheyhsszKUtEUb0SDBhEaMWoGTALM6eRaTaTPePmVA29I8kI10Vq0wWbb-L37iYHjduJbqDpTKC0xd/w200-h171/JustBeing-Hospice.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I learned a lot about just being during my parents’ last days in this life. These lessons come naturally when you’re with someone who can no longer communicate with words. You sit there. Maybe you talk a little, hoping the person understands you at some level. But mostly, you just sit. <br /><br />Simply sitting with someone may seem like an old-fashioned idea, like visiting or court-<br />ing. These are things no one used to think much about; there were fewer options, fewer distractions, so they just did them. But now that we’re all wired in, on call, connected 24/7 wherever we go, it’s gotten harder and harder not to feel we should be “productive” at some level nearly all the time.<br /><br />Yet it’s precisely in such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled. That’s when we let go of any notion that, somehow, we’re “in control,” that there’s something we should be doing or thinking, or that anything but our presence matters. <br /><br />When our consciousness is full of stuff from the past and future, there’s no room for what’s happening now. It’s only by clearing the decks of these preoccupations that we can be open to a communion with the present, whether with our own true spirit, the soul of a loved one, or the astounding beauty of Nature’s gifts that surround and fill us.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufrgyRq5kuHCusSdrNnGnIT-XajS6gDni0bsTdevcX2p_Iyc5DEVcWsqqoblBYHuDY1GuBVcl8kYpkt_-QwHjUerBZd96puXmzv5e5RTxp29jKBdpP5vv3O_MvnKERONN3KUfIkyUE1mCcIqK9sG_4A-vlZISrarE8qQrQ4U_z4Ta3-s9jtz9xkuzVhul/s1200/JustBeing-BlackMan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufrgyRq5kuHCusSdrNnGnIT-XajS6gDni0bsTdevcX2p_Iyc5DEVcWsqqoblBYHuDY1GuBVcl8kYpkt_-QwHjUerBZd96puXmzv5e5RTxp29jKBdpP5vv3O_MvnKERONN3KUfIkyUE1mCcIqK9sG_4A-vlZISrarE8qQrQ4U_z4Ta3-s9jtz9xkuzVhul/w400-h210/JustBeing-BlackMan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /><b><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">We focus so much of our mental and <br /> emotional energy on the “then” and the <br /> “when” that we fail to fully experience <br /> the “now.”</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">FINDING SOMETHING NEVER LOST</span></b></span></span><br />To be truly in the moment is a difficult concept for some people to grasp. After all, how can you achieve something that’s accessible only to those who don’t try to achieve it? Is it really possible to notice the absence of everything? <br /><br />Can you really hear silence, feel emptiness? You can if you’re ready. Just as a sponge can’t absorb a spill until it’s wrung out, you can’t understand these things without first wringing from your consciousness the concerns and constructs that saturate your mind. <br /><br />Perhaps the one mental construct that clashes most with just being is our notion of time. We imagine our lives as linear paths; we move along a time line. Each day, each experience we have, becomes another part of our past, that which defines who we are. <br /><br />And the line extending in front of us, the future, holds all the experiences we will have from now on, illuminated by our hopes and dreams. It’s precisely in such moments of “emptiness” that we are most apt to be fulfilled.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEdzP-rNqSbfgsku8lgy61nKFp5eFItRgRhoVmlKmArxWVaRrsWHyvt7g_SVhsnVAT7fl1v48RDtcapmc55wBqwZwgklPgMRS9kyKnZi_AdSKecYQDTB9HbljiBiM08DuzqM1Wm2Do2dIbgnAcOy5tT08nKxz026-L_CvXc3-sereGwFVVhouIBVRVez2W/s1200/illusion-of-time.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEdzP-rNqSbfgsku8lgy61nKFp5eFItRgRhoVmlKmArxWVaRrsWHyvt7g_SVhsnVAT7fl1v48RDtcapmc55wBqwZwgklPgMRS9kyKnZi_AdSKecYQDTB9HbljiBiM08DuzqM1Wm2Do2dIbgnAcOy5tT08nKxz026-L_CvXc3-sereGwFVVhouIBVRVez2W/w400-h225/illusion-of-time.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br />Curiously, we even tend to see the spatial aspect of our existence as linear, imagining, again, that only those places where we’ve been and where we’re to go delineate the sphere of our existence. Imagine walking through a Costa Rican rain forest, touring the Musee D’Orsay or even riding the bus home from work, looking nowhere else but straight ahead or straight behind you. Would anyone consider this a whole experience?<br /><br />As Eckhart Tolle says in his wonderful book, <i>The Power of Now</i>, these linear paradigms are just illusions we’ve invented to help us deal with the incomprehensible reality of the infinite. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTYStdwAnIMiLZIcwVebLcCKXAr1hByUQinFKSB33hYPMGfLvpWrxlS4Gkeqe97mO7zyv9lY6f24hwCy5MqZd9iqQdlCjb21jOQ9rk66ReGDOn2EL9dYVBOtZZ28uwVXsfSiOwtE-aO_gjjJtGWvwC5FJKwgevvyIYyWBotUxSs0EmKt3YfzcD_8-18XN/s524/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-18%20at%2010.24.36%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="398" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTYStdwAnIMiLZIcwVebLcCKXAr1hByUQinFKSB33hYPMGfLvpWrxlS4Gkeqe97mO7zyv9lY6f24hwCy5MqZd9iqQdlCjb21jOQ9rk66ReGDOn2EL9dYVBOtZZ28uwVXsfSiOwtE-aO_gjjJtGWvwC5FJKwgevvyIYyWBotUxSs0EmKt3YfzcD_8-18XN/w155-h200/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-18%20at%2010.24.36%20PM.png" width="155" /></a>If you're looking to the past, the future or a change <br />of scene for the secret of happiness, you're looking <br />in the wrong place. If fact, it makes no sense to be looking at all, because you already possess it; it’s already inside of you. It is part of you; you are part <br />of it.<br /><br />This is why just being is such a powerful, articulate force. Notwithstanding its utter simplicity—or, perhaps, because of it—it is a most eloquent expression of a reality few of us are ready to grasp. That, outside of the present moment, nothing—literally, nothing—exists. <br /><br />Even the most defining moments of your past exist only as you interpret and apply their lessons <i>now</i>. Even your fondest wish, your most compelling goal, exists only in the work you begin <i>now</i> to realize it.<br /><br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-51593816651222939032024-01-15T21:12:00.001-06:002024-01-15T21:23:49.826-06:00ANGELS AMONG US – A New Year’s Tradition Takes Wing<p>For the past decade or so, Sally and I have spent every New Years Eve in Scandia with my brother, Dan, his wife, Ruth Ann, and two other couples we’ve gotten to know through them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDf_ebUVmwIyNBjsOO6iBg6tiSmfdXZY6xJLlfiMeO6OC162Uu7HpRfO_5qMwgTCm-9A2qQrdDq9M4vzS0xhejx73U6sLHUhrGm32LvrrYnExitNDsQOASKBbYLY3al5WvORxmixblUAO1vxv_shavzwmkhfUlqTvUqu3pZK3Sc0p9t9iRRRiOX-v0Q5g/s259/NewYearsToast.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHDf_ebUVmwIyNBjsOO6iBg6tiSmfdXZY6xJLlfiMeO6OC162Uu7HpRfO_5qMwgTCm-9A2qQrdDq9M4vzS0xhejx73U6sLHUhrGm32LvrrYnExitNDsQOASKBbYLY3al5WvORxmixblUAO1vxv_shavzwmkhfUlqTvUqu3pZK3Sc0p9t9iRRRiOX-v0Q5g/w400-h300/NewYearsToast.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSXJBRl3a3k_OtbgurblndF4koZYEk-DgWLe4m0zqZkf1h-1OzJt12ldX3kdLrEz7LF_ww0LDUsfRorWMwj0JNhe9kG26V9RoCXLUCF2hyphenhyphenmKfT-QmL1sbLIi_XsKgBXqAyA6hOnqI1Se0X8iVCVO7vP-LEFwAWiaieRmq8ofWb2h8JfCNH56A419X8jyFt/s400/St.Crx-WinterView.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="400" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSXJBRl3a3k_OtbgurblndF4koZYEk-DgWLe4m0zqZkf1h-1OzJt12ldX3kdLrEz7LF_ww0LDUsfRorWMwj0JNhe9kG26V9RoCXLUCF2hyphenhyphenmKfT-QmL1sbLIi_XsKgBXqAyA6hOnqI1Se0X8iVCVO7vP-LEFwAWiaieRmq8ofWb2h8JfCNH56A419X8jyFt/w200-h138/St.Crx-WinterView.jpg" width="200" /></a>Of course, there’s always good food—Ruth Ann’s an excellent cook—and wine—Dan is a fine sommelier. And everyone contributes an appetizer, side or dessert. The setting is incredible; their beautiful home sits atop a bluff overlooking a stretch of the scenic St. Croix River. <br /><br />All these people are, each in their own way, smart, funny, talented and kind, and we share many interests. So conversation and laughter come easily.<br /><br />Nonetheless, every year Dan, a week or two beforehand, throws out a theme for that year’s celebration. Everyone’s to bring something creative, their own or borrowed, that somehow expresses that theme. A reading, a hand-made craft item, a work of art or musical piece, or a group activity. <br /><br />New Year’s 2023’s theme was “Angels,” and, as usual, everyone responded with something thoughtful and expressive of who they are. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-family: verdana;">YEAR OF THE HALO</span></b><br />It was heartwarming seeing and hearing all the interpretations of “angels,” ranging from silly to solemn, plainspoken to poetic. Some were quite touching.<br /><br />While most saw their angels manifest in other people or things that have happened to them, Sally’s offering, typically, turned that on its head: First she handed out halo garlands. Then, once they floated above our heads, she asked each of us to share an experience in which <i>we</i> had been the angel. <br /><br />Some were reticent to pretend to that status. Still, I think everyone walked a little taller after being urged to claim it. I mentioned my hospice volunteering.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRzLMXMjpLQhwUCxokgoAOEzJWF8qv2MVk77Kd4rSUqddeWQ6-GNQtPaUGqggkckqglrZWK7nK-vXSGrt7kyADz2XUouEcMH28f3tXXbMck29qgBiShMTUk2JPPUbNuXRrSp_Eu1G720vgwz1d2FFYdM8ov02gFrwYnbzSSdhQTwMGA_Crw36kKGakowpo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRzLMXMjpLQhwUCxokgoAOEzJWF8qv2MVk77Kd4rSUqddeWQ6-GNQtPaUGqggkckqglrZWK7nK-vXSGrt7kyADz2XUouEcMH28f3tXXbMck29qgBiShMTUk2JPPUbNuXRrSp_Eu1G720vgwz1d2FFYdM8ov02gFrwYnbzSSdhQTwMGA_Crw36kKGakowpo=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br />The influence of the angel theme didn’t stop there. For the rest of the evening it kept popping up in the conversation. There was even talk of folks showing up Sunday at church next Sunday wearing those fuzzy halos.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizXF9R2ivHSwtJ4pL2CNYv_HRcUF7rzHssIhoWXJP4CZ4Sz8XeKZPLDDBlJOO-OfgvlFtpwFbIXZUiLTJ7RMWH_30ULhw0el-QPRlFfPRgsnkRuTCCzcf-C6ll0Xnp6LpWMrMd2Qxje_5yW5IWW--dvbnFID7rVi_EcW9NxmhGPubnaTcXO1gWS0xfC1CH" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="663" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizXF9R2ivHSwtJ4pL2CNYv_HRcUF7rzHssIhoWXJP4CZ4Sz8XeKZPLDDBlJOO-OfgvlFtpwFbIXZUiLTJ7RMWH_30ULhw0el-QPRlFfPRgsnkRuTCCzcf-C6ll0Xnp6LpWMrMd2Qxje_5yW5IWW--dvbnFID7rVi_EcW9NxmhGPubnaTcXO1gWS0xfC1CH" width="220" /></a></div>And I won't be surprised if the evening's effects extend well into the new year <br />for some of us—maybe in the form of resolutions. Twenty-twenty-four: year of <br />the halo?<br /><br />(In case you might be interested, here’s what I shared as my take on “angels”):<br /><br /><p></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><b>JUST WHEN I NEEDED YOU</b><br /><br />Once, they hovered, haloed<br />Revealed by none less than God, <br />A bridge from divine to human.<br /><br />I’ve not seen such angels,<br />Not that they don’t exist,<br />Just that I don’t believe they do. <br /><br />The kind I like are real, and I’ve met a few:<br />People, animals, trees…even experiences<br />That showed me the way, saved my hide…or soul.<br /><br />My angels are like my god; they’re everywhere.<br />In me, around me, beyond me,<br />They show up exactly when I need them. <br /><br />As mortals, though, we miss more than we see.<br />For angels don’t just happen to us; they happen from us. <br />From love, from presence, from faith.<br /><br />We discern what we expect.<br />So with angels, as with other wonders, <br />Believing is seeing.<br /><br />And that same generosity of sight, belief and spirit <br />That allows us to <i><b>see</b></i> angels prompts us to <i><b>be</b></i> angels.<br /></p><br />Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-74000695030676124972023-10-12T22:47:00.002-05:002023-10-12T23:04:49.565-05:00THANK YOU, LEAF!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJeNLs2LVJaLkqdzjhZzZDYv2gFc0S_gdXDUy7WdvqLE4U1IYcWCao5qfN_zKyAkCqdvCdexxADjQRZIB2TqOxFN7VSgGHYsn9XwWm4HWk9hnjudYcfXIZdk-d4kDBl2bMfo1iavm8_dEikoPdWZSBlyTTLJvt0JIxcwwX5vYWOEjaXngPcg5Ezgi3cff/s864/Leaf-SingleRed.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="864" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJeNLs2LVJaLkqdzjhZzZDYv2gFc0S_gdXDUy7WdvqLE4U1IYcWCao5qfN_zKyAkCqdvCdexxADjQRZIB2TqOxFN7VSgGHYsn9XwWm4HWk9hnjudYcfXIZdk-d4kDBl2bMfo1iavm8_dEikoPdWZSBlyTTLJvt0JIxcwwX5vYWOEjaXngPcg5Ezgi3cff/w400-h299/Leaf-SingleRed.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you, leaf.<br /><br />Thank you for your one thread in the tapestry of a hundred greens that forms the backdrop of my every summer glance;</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9psG2pgurh8_Xc0JJb0VCTtvCR4ht8Nsqi766Vm1Hig-UYLOzZ00nblBAkiAT7LJdvhoBlQogRUID1vIJFt3ZwDNMh0Ojy-b1VeQ5tm8LN7FLcknDGEBr4Ks0OHArBGfgv3SzPCNHlFqR3Qv_uzl7dG9IdknEsjVRUoaasGU7uhGQwM7Baxhpa8n-6HxE/s300/GreenShadesForest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="300" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9psG2pgurh8_Xc0JJb0VCTtvCR4ht8Nsqi766Vm1Hig-UYLOzZ00nblBAkiAT7LJdvhoBlQogRUID1vIJFt3ZwDNMh0Ojy-b1VeQ5tm8LN7FLcknDGEBr4Ks0OHArBGfgv3SzPCNHlFqR3Qv_uzl7dG9IdknEsjVRUoaasGU7uhGQwM7Baxhpa8n-6HxE/w400-h360/GreenShadesForest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: large;">For being my breath’s inverse, exhaling exactly what I need, inhaling what I don’t;<br /><br />For your microcosmic demonstration of how watersheds feed rivers...though in reverse;</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_xothlsURX80XkkwQaV2dzyayJLCYgNxI5OrqJxmjPlHKIp-ILdoVhLHdWFJIvqot3XnFA4-kL6kEGgqgNEyne2JRnTLF7ek4mAPX0lErH_uzZXb3SJzE0oT76T3j3fCV96MO7J-tvZkePmEYp7jPTxWqfaOLGzoi-ThVa5DOhUljQkDoACTrS_csO6QF" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="288" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_xothlsURX80XkkwQaV2dzyayJLCYgNxI5OrqJxmjPlHKIp-ILdoVhLHdWFJIvqot3XnFA4-kL6kEGgqgNEyne2JRnTLF7ek4mAPX0lErH_uzZXb3SJzE0oT76T3j3fCV96MO7J-tvZkePmEYp7jPTxWqfaOLGzoi-ThVa5DOhUljQkDoACTrS_csO6QF=w400-h286" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For helping cleanse the mess we make of air and soil;<br /><br />For your voice in the whispered chorus stirred by wind…and for dancing to the music;</span></p><p> <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dycZHSGIp5hMuaIg7iUAPAbcSASj4vXISsod_Gl6-s-OilMB_Wxu155lILgEO5FWjVJSYOoFKXhx9DgfsRvQQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">For laying one tile in a living roof that shelters a community, from bacteria to bugs, to bears, to beings;<br /><br />For thriving on the very rays that would hurt me, for shade that cools whole forests and neighborhoods;<br /><br />For nourishing my hungry eyes with works of color, form, texture and pattern;</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifCovLS_i5zdlUp16vU3cIl7a2MpbxehHWtd6bYnUXIIkDqrE4PHjXrWljnEEMbqUfPhKa5KT9CPVgGilPuzpgrbvD_yXOYCQI_XLhC3v-Gjfm1ZJl24j5Z3MocaIDnbzGckwbX5P4r9-uaT5-ArGFYQeGMEvSE2LJ-Wtm7OGujvAFIwg2NPEP-sazBCjG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvQWSBBKHxsDrFZ89LTUsZPcLsLSeyMgg_JBkZBOeMBk5zBOP2MX3R4pNJ2T8x12ArQsHWe9X0KKY1GGsuGSWP_7o9LO--6661CCqgaY2iNbnRCOM6HMaDPk77kzF3qKyO0zOygc8z8Xk_iqstermMLyzJ8QedwVvtAP2dTCARJ1qimbgm7TMHSDgwVnpu" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1581" data-original-width="2048" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvQWSBBKHxsDrFZ89LTUsZPcLsLSeyMgg_JBkZBOeMBk5zBOP2MX3R4pNJ2T8x12ArQsHWe9X0KKY1GGsuGSWP_7o9LO--6661CCqgaY2iNbnRCOM6HMaDPk77kzF3qKyO0zOygc8z8Xk_iqstermMLyzJ8QedwVvtAP2dTCARJ1qimbgm7TMHSDgwVnpu=w400-h309" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">For your showy translucence that begged me to make lampshades of you; <br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4W9hfhaF3L-I7VpU9mp6INnxpvbOOg3Nmi56IGADo3yyqtmXANI0-rU_KLB4zGDMjupjZQ_0420Cg4m7hTAZJSTOeUOim20HyyPCkA68U8HipDCfP6IP5BFnt3qArbejZJsRrxm3p6eVAAAx86lYzSlHkVXKXJH6joJu4Lrq0MORB3ztVMNcBdAGPb2nD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="864" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4W9hfhaF3L-I7VpU9mp6INnxpvbOOg3Nmi56IGADo3yyqtmXANI0-rU_KLB4zGDMjupjZQ_0420Cg4m7hTAZJSTOeUOim20HyyPCkA68U8HipDCfP6IP5BFnt3qArbejZJsRrxm3p6eVAAAx86lYzSlHkVXKXJH6joJu4Lrq0MORB3ztVMNcBdAGPb2nD=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">For your gracious surrender to winter, your spent crisps falling to blanket yards and delight young hearts;</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqd6stKLlaFYGyaCLfiDzifWX4QozJFHkeSGP6SRGEyVDPa7ppdCCkSYXu3KBkZEd2gHZ23AqPxr5WTd3mRq3_2vWy_o1eUZ-avyFiQYNSrf2m05RfUBSDtFPQbbIE4Fev61ZGnr1yLFiKTFHVCZufpg1VK5KLK8th1sxZ1c7w5ja1oXymkJbzlzVHBfHj" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="570" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqd6stKLlaFYGyaCLfiDzifWX4QozJFHkeSGP6SRGEyVDPa7ppdCCkSYXu3KBkZEd2gHZ23AqPxr5WTd3mRq3_2vWy_o1eUZ-avyFiQYNSrf2m05RfUBSDtFPQbbIE4Fev61ZGnr1yLFiKTFHVCZufpg1VK5KLK8th1sxZ1c7w5ja1oXymkJbzlzVHBfHj=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />For your elegant testament to the inevitable cycle of life, fed by, then feeding the soil beneath your feet;<br /><br />For teaching me that this promise of renewal is more real than many folks’ futile hope for permanence;</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilPEKBlWIdpFtTYVYQ-aaoI7mI0Fa-S_XwPYulxPxorkhAHFr520d4RTCAjcFBZ0pr4Uqoy9chEfNVPuoojUX8W_X6dQHKTPR9scDsQWAHe65B58R4jsOpIRizCYO1pIEbX6iPjV7WsuiTCT1UUnG-cCuoRHqgsL8n9hamBcV6IM3si8FwtYls0H35md3X" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilPEKBlWIdpFtTYVYQ-aaoI7mI0Fa-S_XwPYulxPxorkhAHFr520d4RTCAjcFBZ0pr4Uqoy9chEfNVPuoojUX8W_X6dQHKTPR9scDsQWAHe65B58R4jsOpIRizCYO1pIEbX6iPjV7WsuiTCT1UUnG-cCuoRHqgsL8n9hamBcV6IM3si8FwtYls0H35md3X=w400-h320" width="400" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifCovLS_i5zdlUp16vU3cIl7a2MpbxehHWtd6bYnUXIIkDqrE4PHjXrWljnEEMbqUfPhKa5KT9CPVgGilPuzpgrbvD_yXOYCQI_XLhC3v-Gjfm1ZJl24j5Z3MocaIDnbzGckwbX5P4r9-uaT5-ArGFYQeGMEvSE2LJ-Wtm7OGujvAFIwg2NPEP-sazBCjG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">For all these gifts—and those of your earthly kin—<b>three-hundred quadrillion</b>*<b> thank yous, leaf!</b></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSANXIKkvn4Ukcxv-qky2qJvCF34U3oKGBsqAeSo1NdmpzauZzmhk1jTKUGtKEooE5lMMrQ79wDlB1YWyuAgpwKj_jkXOH1Nb1hgfHQe7v78ztMS7bzDoXqF4lHjHl15fo6A6DC3XZgJqnPW2fFb7ZLTGHZUuZEKLKtip5T9fW50sJY8Xq5UOd0SbpmOoC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="922" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSANXIKkvn4Ukcxv-qky2qJvCF34U3oKGBsqAeSo1NdmpzauZzmhk1jTKUGtKEooE5lMMrQ79wDlB1YWyuAgpwKj_jkXOH1Nb1hgfHQe7v78ztMS7bzDoXqF4lHjHl15fo6A6DC3XZgJqnPW2fFb7ZLTGHZUuZEKLKtip5T9fW50sJY8Xq5UOd0SbpmOoC=w400-h238" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>* Three-hundred quadrillion (300,000,000,000,000,000): the approximate number of leaves on all our planet's trees—based on the journal </i>Science<i>'s estimate of three trillion trees, and using half of </i>Quora<i>'s estimate of 200,000 leaves per mature tree. </i></span><br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-60637754541308928362023-09-11T22:21:00.000-05:002023-09-11T22:21:59.586-05:00 WATER MUSIC – The Complex Song of a Cascade<p>If you follow me here at <i>OMW</i> or on Facebook, you know I’ve been volunteering to visit a delightful 108-year-old woman twice a week at her nursing home. She loves it when we head outdoors to the gardens and sit in front of the largest of three cascading waterfalls there.<br /><br />She’s often characterized the sound of that tumbling water as musical, as having a voice. And that’s got me thinking.<br /><br />How would you describe the sound of this kind of rushing water? Not a waterfall, where it does a free-fall and kind of explodes when it hits bottom; not a flume, where it’s fast, but more soft-spoken; but more of a steep, rocky rapids. That, my aquaphile friend and I have observed, is where this quicksilver element’s at its musical best.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdwwJYtiVlcNwFDi5IwLkqmoXQ1kR9jRdmc1k_OaaCnHq-bKXvA3ogEYFy6Mn7_a2f97vah_QG9aYJxq1ok7fMSKA_TObqzB_xRatNk6n_Y3T_fvfmR1vUx7xWBF4M-OqKdQWTSRX68fHS-obKaAEOWxmylxeM0VBJbT_nK-V_e-oDXBGr8z8Xkr1vbn_H" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="647" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdwwJYtiVlcNwFDi5IwLkqmoXQ1kR9jRdmc1k_OaaCnHq-bKXvA3ogEYFy6Mn7_a2f97vah_QG9aYJxq1ok7fMSKA_TObqzB_xRatNk6n_Y3T_fvfmR1vUx7xWBF4M-OqKdQWTSRX68fHS-obKaAEOWxmylxeM0VBJbT_nK-V_e-oDXBGr8z8Xkr1vbn_H=w400-h305" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> What we heard is not a homogeneous sound, <br /> not a solo, but a chorus of many voices.</span></b></i></span><br /><br />What is it about that sound that we find so calming, so enchanting? So much so that nearly every “white noise machine” on the market features it as one of its tracks.<br /><br />At this morning’s visit I did with the cascade’s voice what I so often suggest we all do with Nature’s small wonders: I experienced it as if for the very first time.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIutp4Pv5epykZa5yJ-FHLqFXSKxpaOCe34nRnlugaLI39Y7KHZ2Vkgu4azb4rXrUlwnAtzKPvCb7fJ_N2zoMjsHtaqEn3bGXZZ3eq4hhwUmHqmx-Q3OvE7QdAYTq_aB6gyuVBcYtRITPfBpDlU4Hiy2wBWn-I4Joz88q9r0zcvRvHm7KwLZBFHEcJqZg/s472/UnderwaterChorus.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="472" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIutp4Pv5epykZa5yJ-FHLqFXSKxpaOCe34nRnlugaLI39Y7KHZ2Vkgu4azb4rXrUlwnAtzKPvCb7fJ_N2zoMjsHtaqEn3bGXZZ3eq4hhwUmHqmx-Q3OvE7QdAYTq_aB6gyuVBcYtRITPfBpDlU4Hiy2wBWn-I4Joz88q9r0zcvRvHm7KwLZBFHEcJqZg/w200-h200/UnderwaterChorus.jpg" width="200" /></a>What we heard this morning is not a homogeneous sound, not a solo, but a chorus of many voices. I tried to separate those parts and appreciate each for its unique contribution to the harmony.<p>There aren’t even words—not in English anyway—for some of the sounds. But those our language can approximate with single words include: <br /><br />Rush, gurgle, swish, splash, titter, slap—they’re all there. And when you think about those verbs you realize each connotes a very distinct sound. (In fact, most of these words are onomatopoeic; they sound like what they describe.) <br /><br /><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">What
do you think? Have I missed some intonations of water that you’ve
discerned? Do you have a favorite type and scale of water music? We’d
love <br />to hear from you. </span></i></b> </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivv94kdmjvdl_r4C-U3HignlypouhM1I9VWccKTGU80dv4BfI9ANoSreGznaJptlJnr5MIm-VWV7nZ5cWTTMLUdYex_DmMtBbKl8pI1HpEgiqBLSoFkrOvlU_Y43AWERQWJ5JPDhOp23xBvO6J5PqeB3qw7twtpXWVkDR93TnfJB2h7kpPGf-o439REpd/s678/WaterA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="678" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivv94kdmjvdl_r4C-U3HignlypouhM1I9VWccKTGU80dv4BfI9ANoSreGznaJptlJnr5MIm-VWV7nZ5cWTTMLUdYex_DmMtBbKl8pI1HpEgiqBLSoFkrOvlU_Y43AWERQWJ5JPDhOp23xBvO6J5PqeB3qw7twtpXWVkDR93TnfJB2h7kpPGf-o439REpd/w200-h200/WaterA.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcBAk6UtNoiW3Zd9gPieBLPN7VBATDUH9eFfh92sN3SZBP-zl37n-b9AY8_w6Ro6l-GcbGJdlERBweG54nMmtUGK9GCi8YK2zI5tgk4l8cmJ8KdDMxTSgA8rX8U44FubteE1G8OmH3lfgz9M8Sr6hSRBuSwm3X5SI_cBKWkDcXBQBelZmC5Q7KUei3hANr/s601/WaterE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="601" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcBAk6UtNoiW3Zd9gPieBLPN7VBATDUH9eFfh92sN3SZBP-zl37n-b9AY8_w6Ro6l-GcbGJdlERBweG54nMmtUGK9GCi8YK2zI5tgk4l8cmJ8KdDMxTSgA8rX8U44FubteE1G8OmH3lfgz9M8Sr6hSRBuSwm3X5SI_cBKWkDcXBQBelZmC5Q7KUei3hANr/w200-h200/WaterE.jpg" width="200" /></a></p><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiooVkcr_q4Ymd2Bhp5IcDecncS_W2nRncNafxIDSDlVLl19srvTCybKv9lRqCpreSmgWitQOZEy-4eVRQlmARFDjrQoYxcC2c7AxxXip4lznQ-LBdhBrlF5RDi-AipASAyMUXHXI-G-kdJqxY0hi9dXlF80wc4THg0PMcMFqO_HLo2wSurGBVoPSJN_LzA/s191/WaterC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="191" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiooVkcr_q4Ymd2Bhp5IcDecncS_W2nRncNafxIDSDlVLl19srvTCybKv9lRqCpreSmgWitQOZEy-4eVRQlmARFDjrQoYxcC2c7AxxXip4lznQ-LBdhBrlF5RDi-AipASAyMUXHXI-G-kdJqxY0hi9dXlF80wc4THg0PMcMFqO_HLo2wSurGBVoPSJN_LzA/w200-h200/WaterC.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtN8h9uhWd-uynbVCinhYNR_j60LfeBiyAVz5SO2OvL0tceqJu5dG55AY37VQl6AoLReTLSrA4MxhysWgJHI3sLMR_KM70Ee4xTU7WmzqhLI32_qfHLzl9cNQf1YqlXQUIrnG4s9FAkt1Jy3PQc8KdQkOfm7TBTzT744lH7BN9VRIaSnp1PkIP9JrhAhw7/s360/WaterD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtN8h9uhWd-uynbVCinhYNR_j60LfeBiyAVz5SO2OvL0tceqJu5dG55AY37VQl6AoLReTLSrA4MxhysWgJHI3sLMR_KM70Ee4xTU7WmzqhLI32_qfHLzl9cNQf1YqlXQUIrnG4s9FAkt1Jy3PQc8KdQkOfm7TBTzT744lH7BN9VRIaSnp1PkIP9JrhAhw7/w200-h200/WaterD.jpg" width="200" /></a><p></p><p><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"> They both listened silently to the water, which to them was not <br /> just water, but the voice of life, the voice of Being, the voice of <br /> perpetual Becoming.</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"> </span></i></b>~ <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">HERMANN HESSE</span></span><br /></p><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-26395821776078938022023-09-08T14:57:00.000-05:002023-09-08T14:57:15.199-05:00SCARS OF SUMMER – The Perfect Beauty of Decay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhYgBev11-KaZgT2qep7t_-lvIcF-JCZDo8q8_3bVc3XbNTcI8qV6JET-8p84KsylTK74E1igy0GvK6fVaPBGIltTIzG-6qt6A7rrQpV8k3GZaqf6ILWAGsXBwIz5z7yS14NDZ05ENMzD4l6GKipDRNSb2IGV9SG-w69vXCYvS__wJ1frfMYbuw5dn6Ye/s1008/BrownEyeSusan-Fading.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhYgBev11-KaZgT2qep7t_-lvIcF-JCZDo8q8_3bVc3XbNTcI8qV6JET-8p84KsylTK74E1igy0GvK6fVaPBGIltTIzG-6qt6A7rrQpV8k3GZaqf6ILWAGsXBwIz5z7yS14NDZ05ENMzD4l6GKipDRNSb2IGV9SG-w69vXCYvS__wJ1frfMYbuw5dn6Ye/w400-h300/BrownEyeSusan-Fading.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We’re so accustomed, aren’t we, to equating beauty with symmetry, with youth…with perfection. I’m as guilty as anyone, I guess. But isn’t autumn the most persuasive invitation to revisit that bias?<br /><br />Couldn’t we learn to see the fallen petals, the droops, curls, crimps and ragged seed heads not as flaws, but words in a poem about the patina of character? <br /><br />I want to see those blemishes as emblems of the joy each bloom has lent the eye, the food and nectar they’ve served up, the progeny borne, the artists inspired.<br /><br />And, after all, as a lesson offered us older, equally-imperfect human beings on the meaning, the true value, of a life well lived? <br /></span></p><div class="css-a0s83h e1tmud0h6"><div class="css-1o4bqdf e1tmud0h7"><p class="css-aeyldl et3p2gv0"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #bf9000;">"Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light."</span></i></b></span> ~ <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">THEODORE ROETHKE</span></span><br /></p></div></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-61001109466361438602023-09-06T12:37:00.000-05:002023-09-06T12:37:19.141-05:00 MY WORD! – False Cognates and Other Slips of the Second-Language Tongue<p>Some 20 years ago, back when I was still trying to boost my Spanish from beginner’s level to intermediate, I got a priceless lesson on what are called false cognates—words that sound like they’d mean the same thing in different languages…but, sometimes tragically, don’t.<br /><br />I was attending a big wedding reception in La Trinidad, a tiny village just outside of Puebla, Mexico. Sitting at the dining room table in the home of the bride’s parents, along with other members of the family, I needed a break and asked where to find the <i>baño</i>. Following the directions upstairs, I found myself in a small foyer surrounded by several rooms, each separated from the hall by a thick curtain.<br /><br />For no particular reason I picked door number two and swept open the curtain. The young woman sitting on the toilet five feet in front of me scrambled to cover herself with a handful of toilet paper, but the damage was done. Backing gingerly away, I blurted some form of “Oops!” and waited nervously across the hall.<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyrap2o09qtOeIaXVXd96W09QaqQlcKAc9NH-RvGjSlNF8lQn_zj5oqGCA9EEVnIY-7g-nfxKe1tY1LmoAKHVOZ-ncdYnTjylj5vSqtH6lj0Yby8H2wCfduCpvE2yCPJDK6u4S-y076Jg_I0QNEKVUPjBrE7d5AG9eSHagQABP3iNhzrAdNqO1Y0FqHS4/s541/WomanOnToilet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="541" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyrap2o09qtOeIaXVXd96W09QaqQlcKAc9NH-RvGjSlNF8lQn_zj5oqGCA9EEVnIY-7g-nfxKe1tY1LmoAKHVOZ-ncdYnTjylj5vSqtH6lj0Yby8H2wCfduCpvE2yCPJDK6u4S-y076Jg_I0QNEKVUPjBrE7d5AG9eSHagQABP3iNhzrAdNqO1Y0FqHS4/w400-h266/WomanOnToilet.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p>When she emerged, I clasped both hands to my heart and said earnestly: <i>¡Estoy tan embarasado!</i> She seemed to accept my apology graciously, which must have been hard for her, since—as I later found out—I'd just managed to forget about one of the most notorious English-to-Spanish false cognates, and exclaimed “I’m so very pregnant!”<br /><br />You can bet I learned the real word for “embarrassed,” (It’s <i>avergonzado</i>) and it has stayed learned. There are quite a few other potential slip-ups in Spanish; let’s hope I’ve learned them the easy way.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY</span></b></span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uQR0Fvns3mbBc4ioUQYSWC658DABtrF1SXW8ukkJIOV57jSbfyL37s3qm7ZrKfDL9xXy3gBQ695xRU8UlTXiuzROeJyhA7Gn82a7tJPMihWEZ78TXOxH0LzR9JkijaXmr1Sh04sl68mbQkR8s7Z8DleAEtVKYqRVHbjIZWWopMoOP6IupomE1ZSYnbLc/s1015/SilverioFaceCrop.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1015" data-original-width="864" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4uQR0Fvns3mbBc4ioUQYSWC658DABtrF1SXW8ukkJIOV57jSbfyL37s3qm7ZrKfDL9xXy3gBQ695xRU8UlTXiuzROeJyhA7Gn82a7tJPMihWEZ78TXOxH0LzR9JkijaXmr1Sh04sl68mbQkR8s7Z8DleAEtVKYqRVHbjIZWWopMoOP6IupomE1ZSYnbLc/w170-h200/SilverioFaceCrop.jpg" width="170" /></a>I recently asked my dear friend and one-time Spanish teacher, Silverio, who moved from Mexico City to Minneapolis about 25 years ago speaking very little English, what some of his most memorable gaffes have been. He recalled many, but these two stand out:<br /><br />Having dinner with some co-workers, Silverio noticed that the guy across from him had a bit of French fry stuck just above his right eyebrow. Since the Spanish word for that part of one’s face—<i>frente</i>—wasn’t going to work with these all-American boys, he wracked his brain for the right term in English.<br /><br /><i>Let’s see…fore-…something or other. Oh yeah, got it. </i>Pointing at the spot on his own face, Silverio shouted across the table, “Hey Larry, you’ve got something on your foreskin.”<br /><br />Silverio, like me with my “pregnancy,” learned that vocabulary word the hard way. (And he’s still <i>avergonzado</i> to this day.)<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3sAXO5bFBVMFCNxo-oFX06U-C3sM4VFiMudi_Vx2OiKQPY_ix3e4cJq1AJDQg2B7dXTC2VdPdQ-r0osJBGyBGQpfNtkMgIgmNPcLDVbofdDfcSUpco2RZBT7hsmoVjSgtF7X5BA7yLBZSYIFOYfMBZ_9AVT6s6RNbxRuxGw1PUPKjQZTRjW2OzSL6RWr/s291/OfferCantRefuse.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="291" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3sAXO5bFBVMFCNxo-oFX06U-C3sM4VFiMudi_Vx2OiKQPY_ix3e4cJq1AJDQg2B7dXTC2VdPdQ-r0osJBGyBGQpfNtkMgIgmNPcLDVbofdDfcSUpco2RZBT7hsmoVjSgtF7X5BA7yLBZSYIFOYfMBZ_9AVT6s6RNbxRuxGw1PUPKjQZTRjW2OzSL6RWr/w200-h185/OfferCantRefuse.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>One day at work he was on the phone with an important prospective customer. When the woman asked him how many people would be assigned to her account, Silverio knew he’d have to discuss the matter with his boss. But his nascent grasp of English word order turned his intended promise into a threat: <br />“I’ll get you back.”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">THE PINEAPPLE OF POLITENESS</span></b></span></span><br />I can’t address false cognates without thinking of their cousins, malapropisms.* Malapropisms are words—in your own, first language—that don’t quite sound the same as the word you’re grasping for, but are close enough to be funny—and might even slip by unnoticed. Unlike false cognates, there’s no translation involved; you just blurt out the wrong word. Like this classic, from Mrs Malaprop herself: “He is the very pineapple of politeness!” Or this one from Aunt Sally in Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer: “I was most putrified with astonishment.”<br /><b><br /><i>What are some of your—or others’—funniest or most mortifying slips of the tongue? We’d love to hear from you!</i></b><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6UEWLdEh62yGISyoXTXuaTtUBFs_SxGY93MUZ4Q1aTjj3RSBS7Wo6xCg9sPBlEWEDu8sCfBout407TDOw-A6nT_OmrK3wzcht9qE1nDU54wlDZT5hrjdESMCjcycYz1K52pueTYPvVSa9wreGKcCZ98k1q7AAr0WEbDIu07mmvTezQhBgkJrnKg4m8Az-/s695/MrsMalaprop.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="689" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6UEWLdEh62yGISyoXTXuaTtUBFs_SxGY93MUZ4Q1aTjj3RSBS7Wo6xCg9sPBlEWEDu8sCfBout407TDOw-A6nT_OmrK3wzcht9qE1nDU54wlDZT5hrjdESMCjcycYz1K52pueTYPvVSa9wreGKcCZ98k1q7AAr0WEbDIu07mmvTezQhBgkJrnKg4m8Az-/w198-h200/MrsMalaprop.jpg" width="198" /></a><i>* The term “malapropism” comes from a character called Mrs. Malaprop, from </i>The Rivals<i>, a 1775 five-act comedy by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Mrs. Malaprop did, in fact, use words incorrectly as a funny quirk of her character. Her name became the default term for misusing a word. Her name, in turn, comes from the French </i>mal à propos<i>, or “inappropriate.”</i><br /><br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-4898979077244733642023-08-30T22:55:00.003-05:002023-08-30T22:55:34.454-05:00BENCHED – Taking a Walk Sitting Down<p>Every summer, it seems, opens Sally’s and my hearts to a few new discoveries, new experiences. This waning summer has been no exception. Some of these new finds are things most folks wouldn’t find the slightest bit stirring. Yet for us they’ve become treasured parts of our daily routine.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqf1SQJbobJVP69OZVQlFsaJeNz65TZ0KHgCJ3zBcp-5AUG7SBYDoCj7hMylg-IsSkBNdVIXpfjqp0saEW1LMVVXzq0lgQUb2dbj5PdBMEOqMJ-PrP_vRvFsMIqSS7UtmdfDsSZXWx81yzPZLVq1cUwRLX0YwAETPQgBu_bVxqLVh3ZYUfQHYbrsSJWJfq" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="517" data-original-width="516" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqf1SQJbobJVP69OZVQlFsaJeNz65TZ0KHgCJ3zBcp-5AUG7SBYDoCj7hMylg-IsSkBNdVIXpfjqp0saEW1LMVVXzq0lgQUb2dbj5PdBMEOqMJ-PrP_vRvFsMIqSS7UtmdfDsSZXWx81yzPZLVq1cUwRLX0YwAETPQgBu_bVxqLVh3ZYUfQHYbrsSJWJfq" width="240" /></a>A block and a half down East River Parkway one of our neighbors has installed a bench in their front yard, at the edge of the public sidewalk. Quite unlike the occasional bench the city built along the walking/biking path across the street—some of them dilapidated and facing neither passersby nor any view but the thick stands of invasive buckthorn right in front of them—our neighbors' seating is placed very thoughtfully.<br /><br /> <span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #38761d;"> It’s under the leafy umbrella <br /> of a mature horse chestnut tree.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><b>LOCATION, LOCATION, etc.</b></span></span><br />They could have put it on the ample boulevard, between the sidewalk and the street. That would have set sitters a bit closer to the steep, wooded slope down to the Mississippi flowing below. But it would have given priority to views of soulless sedans and SUVs passing by. <br /><br />They could have placed the bench ten or twelve yards further west, in more or less the center of their stretch of sidewalk. But that would have put it in full sun during some parts of the day.<br /><br />No, these thoughtful folks put their gift to pedestrians right next to the sidewalk, where one can interact with neighbors—and their social-lubricant dogs—walking past. And it’s way over in one corner of the yard, under the leafy umbrella of a mature horse chestnut tree. (Amazing, isn’t it, how cozy and sheltered a tree can render the space it overspreads.) The bench is also right next to a flower bed.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJR9VKAKrTWmg1li8m_OqGkAi7dGD-rxjdsP6dcvYGe7MsoUkJSypx9WUYKfYB_sJch573J7e02AP3c8sRrZQAUXRtdi5BbFNbFIsjWLZLn3WkHmLLqjQKflp5BqnWkXM4hx-dzOMtJt0j8nozMpZmLVWlHaMIjAZbIvpt7-AIhSeAMS8PbIZ_WfcsW7I/s864/OurBench.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMJR9VKAKrTWmg1li8m_OqGkAi7dGD-rxjdsP6dcvYGe7MsoUkJSypx9WUYKfYB_sJch573J7e02AP3c8sRrZQAUXRtdi5BbFNbFIsjWLZLn3WkHmLLqjQKflp5BqnWkXM4hx-dzOMtJt0j8nozMpZmLVWlHaMIjAZbIvpt7-AIhSeAMS8PbIZ_WfcsW7I/w400-h300/OurBench.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #e06666;"> If it takes being an old man to value such <br /> languor, I must be aging faster than I thought!</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">SOUL BENEFICIARY</span></b></span></span><br />“Our” bench has become kind of a focal point of our daily walk. Even though its location falls far short of what should be the terminus for a healthy, two- or three-mile walk, what it affords our souls outweighs what a longer walk might do for our hearts.<br /><br />We love stopping there. (Sylvia’s now learned the word “bench,” and automatically stops and lies down next to it.) We sit, she jumps up in Sally’s lap, and we just chill and observe the usually lazy pace of life as it flows past us. And, since we’re both fairly busy most days, it’s also one of the few occasions where we get to enjoy each other’s full attention.<br /><br />“Benching it” has become another of what seems like an ever-greater number of our activities that stand out for their sheer simplicity. Hey, if it takes being an old man to value such languor, I must be aging faster than I thought!<br /><br />Nearly as pleasant as the well-placed bench and Sally’s and my conversation is meeting our “hosts,” Lynn and Rahul, who’ve happened out to visit with us a couple of times. They’re very nice, and are among the few people we ever meet these days who actually seem to care who we are as much as they expect us to care who they are. <br /><br />We’re trying to think of an appropriate gift we could leave for Rahul and Lynn to say thanks for their putting out “our” bench. What do you think? A small coffee table? Maybe a footrest?<br /><br /><b><i>Do you have a special place or activity, one that might seem ridiculously simple, where you can pass a little time just quietly observing, allowing Nature and neighbors—and perhaps a dear friend or partner—to nourish your spirit? </i></b><br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-18152529375750149332023-08-25T13:48:00.003-05:002023-08-27T12:14:41.196-05:00HOWLIN’ HARMONY – Sylvia Sings With Coyotes<p>So Sally and I are just down the block, sitting on our favorite bench along East River Parkway. Our mini-schnauzer, Sylvia, is sitting in Sally’s lap, her keen senses piqued by every movement, sound and smell within a hundred yards. Walkers, bikers, squirrels, a few cars.<br /><br />Then the relative quiet is pierced by the wail of sirens, and Sylvia’s ears perk up. The emergency vehicles are headed our way, and sure enough we spot a couple of fire trucks tearing down the street right toward us. <br /><br />Sylvie’s getting agitated now, and when they’re about a block away, she points her nose toward the sky, purses her lips and starts belting out her demure version of a full-throated, primal wolf howl. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rSQhLT9sJDvqW7BeijymsOy6jiWCMB0sWYajiBRHzMz1I1K1yp6uTobydVz_AYbq8MM2sS_NH1cxLZTh2nb-qXMz08ciCn1UYBnL_nFEtayXj_re5SsRtxcjHIhS26MxR_86EWw28i821vj0Eg9hgEfSksBe581FuMI3qyuS9apFofR8HTjaaatf9rkb/s934/SylviaHowling.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="864" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rSQhLT9sJDvqW7BeijymsOy6jiWCMB0sWYajiBRHzMz1I1K1yp6uTobydVz_AYbq8MM2sS_NH1cxLZTh2nb-qXMz08ciCn1UYBnL_nFEtayXj_re5SsRtxcjHIhS26MxR_86EWw28i821vj0Eg9hgEfSksBe581FuMI3qyuS9apFofR8HTjaaatf9rkb/w370-h400/SylviaHowling.jpeg" width="370" /></a></div><p>I cover my ears as the trucks scream past and Sylvie keeps howling for another <br />ten seconds.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU681ykMBfko7cLX6anrpUBJ6an2CVXaXTqRzxhF3_CbDzZUADkJKqGW6IKfsW8ILAS8aCxyW1CeJbnwLqrX7z-Kau8jE6rFhuHPagzygDDROnmP9uHhAW692maaabSLLvdsHhUtp3LnFhPQWi6r7h4QEV4gtGPBO3YAj7q62bzoF6UAOBKEBO0ImIyM9h/s720/CoyoteFamilyHowl.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU681ykMBfko7cLX6anrpUBJ6an2CVXaXTqRzxhF3_CbDzZUADkJKqGW6IKfsW8ILAS8aCxyW1CeJbnwLqrX7z-Kau8jE6rFhuHPagzygDDROnmP9uHhAW692maaabSLLvdsHhUtp3LnFhPQWi6r7h4QEV4gtGPBO3YAj7q62bzoF6UAOBKEBO0ImIyM9h/w200-h200/CoyoteFamilyHowl.jpg" width="200" /></a>As the sirens fade into the distance, Silvia catches her breath, and a new sound emerges from the din. Right across the parkway, somewhere on the steep, wooded slope down to the Mississippi—and no more than 50 yards away—a pack of coyotes is still performing their unique, siren-provoked medley of howls and high-pitched barking. And it’s not just one or two; it sounds like the whole, extended family.<br /><br /><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;"> It is a profound reminder of the timeless <br /> connection between all creatures.</span></i></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">A CHORUS OF COMMUNION</span></b></span></span> <br />Coyotes may be the most populous, yet reclusive, wild animal in the U.S. It’s hard to believe how many there are, even right here in the city.* And when you run into one face to face—as I have occasionally—blocking your way on the foot path, or hear them sounding off en masse as we just did, it touches a nerve.<br /><br />That’s because few people, especially those of us who live in the city, ever come face to face with a wild, free carnivore. The rare privilege of doing so is essential to our understanding that the natural world does not—or at least should not—revolve entirely around <i>homo sapiens</i>.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkL120EuWbe2bRL6elqng_4CXNXk1IhAR-MEgy-KYs-rjOazpbC2FX2vHnjAVlJQBheplp25KyMyUji1HT7M8qb9vW_S0L79hRC3X_1sn4FGHcfsemP7EZVVK6_DpiNXNvoDPk9gssTE9ND20M6DrCoMIhq6LJrOoxozlxL4_CMbjeNjROQ2eGO4QBrc6t/s635/CoyoteCouple.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="635" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkL120EuWbe2bRL6elqng_4CXNXk1IhAR-MEgy-KYs-rjOazpbC2FX2vHnjAVlJQBheplp25KyMyUji1HT7M8qb9vW_S0L79hRC3X_1sn4FGHcfsemP7EZVVK6_DpiNXNvoDPk9gssTE9ND20M6DrCoMIhq6LJrOoxozlxL4_CMbjeNjROQ2eGO4QBrc6t/w400-h266/CoyoteCouple.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Our arresting encounter today is a profound reminder of the timeless connection between all creatures— in fact, the oneness of…everything.<br /><br />One is seldom moved to contemplate the scope of such awareness. But this communing between our little dog and those coyotes, the stirring consonance of their common ancestry, brings it home for me as few experiences have.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4g-PsInomQ7elEVFX6vRGjQrLvc4n-OuWCfJVc7-ep3xTkKWJLmKcSPtQ7Kv1XGKLxSVGfUmAMa3tUBK7STsUhhpQTEwmlfpUAmrnCVpKaTBTH-PsDF038opyrRz1hcL4giy5PrgfBQt3jOHgecKJOsvyzusSYgd62_yLZ2SaiyzS_J2jvAXhyyIqPzYG/s439/WolfEyes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="244" data-original-width="439" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4g-PsInomQ7elEVFX6vRGjQrLvc4n-OuWCfJVc7-ep3xTkKWJLmKcSPtQ7Kv1XGKLxSVGfUmAMa3tUBK7STsUhhpQTEwmlfpUAmrnCVpKaTBTH-PsDF038opyrRz1hcL4giy5PrgfBQt3jOHgecKJOsvyzusSYgd62_yLZ2SaiyzS_J2jvAXhyyIqPzYG/w400-h223/WolfEyes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />* <span style="font-size: small;"><i>There are significant populations of coyotes (canis latrans) in every U.S. state except Hawaii. The U.S. total has been estimated at between 3,000,000 and 5,000,000.</i></span><br /><br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-47892145857969506802023-07-19T17:02:00.002-05:002023-07-19T17:02:55.924-05:00THE OLD LADY WHO LOVES FALLS<p>This morning I visited my 108-year-old friend at her nursing home. (To guard her privacy, I’ll call her Fran). I think it’s safe to say that, during each of my twice-weekly visits over the past year—as we’ve chatted, as I’ve read the newspaper to her or played her favorite music—she’s never once remained awake for more than ten minutes at a time. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM4JsbWqtiR726STQywccKwu0oU4hERDeBvGIg4HxdbLr5JIx1osC43lOV1S4u_w3QDs22c0KQ_3oCTFPtvZNsPK3BbujYrxY4goVX7I6irkswMjdP2aFbpStWm9_Z-b04j6cm9emFvffrFrgp-0_fjibdwWvFRVhCBv1z3V7lgvFzkuTh8vSvWm2h452/s445/OldWomanHandsC.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="445" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKM4JsbWqtiR726STQywccKwu0oU4hERDeBvGIg4HxdbLr5JIx1osC43lOV1S4u_w3QDs22c0KQ_3oCTFPtvZNsPK3BbujYrxY4goVX7I6irkswMjdP2aFbpStWm9_Z-b04j6cm9emFvffrFrgp-0_fjibdwWvFRVhCBv1z3V7lgvFzkuTh8vSvWm2h452/w200-h200/OldWomanHandsC.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><p>Today was very different. She likes going outdoors, but between days too cool or hot and those with air quality alerts, we haven’t had many chances to do so. Today’s nearly perfect, so I wheeled her down five floors and out into the residence’s beautiful inner garden courtyard. <br /><br />Her favorite place to stop and sit is right in front of the first of the gardens’ three waterfalls. That spot was in full, early-July sun, so I was concerned she might get too warm, but she said it felt good.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTY23Biq5pDfaZyYE7xwM3mPUExqcVGRIx9vfwrk6aLPHiViJLq2bNLSB_hTyN_2MRxG14UOTNpv3ccA6yL_xSCT04ndF9FvFXkOjHsSfDGoLJiFBLtf2PZvIvh7iRoGDiMzlhuqH64DzEFPgHilbRYRW-dVfDQAd-5v31goKRBzuBttFtkfkoAVNrY2a/s335/Cascade.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="335" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTY23Biq5pDfaZyYE7xwM3mPUExqcVGRIx9vfwrk6aLPHiViJLq2bNLSB_hTyN_2MRxG14UOTNpv3ccA6yL_xSCT04ndF9FvFXkOjHsSfDGoLJiFBLtf2PZvIvh7iRoGDiMzlhuqH64DzEFPgHilbRYRW-dVfDQAd-5v31goKRBzuBttFtkfkoAVNrY2a/w400-h299/Cascade.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Fran’s hearing relies on one temperamental hearing aid, and she has trouble speaking clearly, but today she could hear both the waterfall and me, and we fell into an easy conversation.<br /><br />We started talking about water, about seeing it as if for the very first time. Its stunning clarity, the way it feels on one’s skin, and, as Fran put it, the music it makes as it trips and tottles its way over rocks.<br /><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-large;"><b><i> "</i></b></span><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>I’m so glad you brought me out here!” <br /> Her eyes welled up with tears.</i></b></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgt8dBySu2xDGDU5ULnRe29p_l-_dzOQLjplbqzkNhvcuRw2Abfr8rxUunl67OU9T9ZmhkJRMHbdzBLpMdkuGvCRLwrkUcTk2ebB6TT11U9zsCZUcY2_8O9icRXICRw4MYfMCUrGGdiMpOab-kOwix-noEdNZUu4pwPxHRe66S7NVUxDl4pDUNsjLbUQTML" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="492" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgt8dBySu2xDGDU5ULnRe29p_l-_dzOQLjplbqzkNhvcuRw2Abfr8rxUunl67OU9T9ZmhkJRMHbdzBLpMdkuGvCRLwrkUcTk2ebB6TT11U9zsCZUcY2_8O9icRXICRw4MYfMCUrGGdiMpOab-kOwix-noEdNZUu4pwPxHRe66S7NVUxDl4pDUNsjLbUQTML=w200-h200" width="200" /></a>She noticed some purple liatris whose spikes of sunlit color managed to penetrate the veil of her failing eyesight. A monarch butterfly kept circling us, fluttering ever-closer. It declined my invitation to alight on Fran’s hand, but just kept flying back and forth right in front of her…until she saw it.<br /><br />At one point, after a brief silence. Fran turned to me and said haltingly, “I just love this; I’m so glad you brought me out here!” Her eyes welled up with tears as she said it, and I realized what a gift this little outing must have been for one whose day-in, day-out confinement starves her of Nature’s wonders. <br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">MIRROR IMAGE </span></b></span></span> <br />In the U.S and many other cultures of the developed world, childhood brings us as close to Nature as we’ll ever get. Then we grow up, tie ourselves to our education, careers and homes, and many of us forget what it was like to be one with the natural world.<br /><br />I’ve always felt that the end of a human being’s life should be more like a mirror image of its beginning. Specifically, wouldn’t it make sense that Nature play as big a role in our health and happiness when we’re old as when we were young?<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqwqa4v1Zq4MLm1rEqEVL5iUmJ9xT_zTsKRyagMNv9-3Nrxs2Mea2cXPVDRG6XnFFN7KeAxuM-30Ub5PYCRJcPsg-jDt5rMqXZU9PbeCY8AC_BPzwSKXyullgnacIG-TW_p-PKYK8IYtuuc-xkWOc4OU5o0MicB_1_hPGRkRkha8Xm79wJfN_BMevV8O-/s864/OldMan-Boy-Mirror-yonimindel.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="766" data-original-width="864" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqwqa4v1Zq4MLm1rEqEVL5iUmJ9xT_zTsKRyagMNv9-3Nrxs2Mea2cXPVDRG6XnFFN7KeAxuM-30Ub5PYCRJcPsg-jDt5rMqXZU9PbeCY8AC_BPzwSKXyullgnacIG-TW_p-PKYK8IYtuuc-xkWOc4OU5o0MicB_1_hPGRkRkha8Xm79wJfN_BMevV8O-/w400-h355/OldMan-Boy-Mirror-yonimindel.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>This is one of the reasons I originally signed up for visiting Fran and other old folks in nursing homes. I imagined myself in those well-worn shoes and how diminished mobility and the realities of institutional living can lead to one’s estrangement from Nature. I thought I could change that.<br /><br />This morning Fran more than affirmed that hope.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;"> The most important implement I can <br /> bring is the turning of a door handle.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">BELONGING</span></b></span></span><br />I always bring with me to my visits with Fran my “tool kit” of things to read, pictures to look at, music to listen to, perhaps a few games to play. So, whatever diversion she’s in the mood for, I’ll have what we need. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRDHnUWnuR_AYMabCGtnNbNywEAkehBgyz5lAAgLQ6p8KXA54r826j-ItnJRxsXyY8ZYuHWXyeV5lIp3kyaRhpM7ralgPjoQQXNQLXVBYhwXPalVaysBitu6qcUAxgPWyMuOQyN7qlCqp4OJfe3Wxu8FjvIQ9JjoTuAR7YWHASFT2UlBHakIzWU1MvTVQ1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="500" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRDHnUWnuR_AYMabCGtnNbNywEAkehBgyz5lAAgLQ6p8KXA54r826j-ItnJRxsXyY8ZYuHWXyeV5lIp3kyaRhpM7ralgPjoQQXNQLXVBYhwXPalVaysBitu6qcUAxgPWyMuOQyN7qlCqp4OJfe3Wxu8FjvIQ9JjoTuAR7YWHASFT2UlBHakIzWU1MvTVQ1=w200-h161" width="200" /></a></div>But the most important activity I can bring, as Fran has reminded me, is the turning of a door handle. For it is only outdoors where all of one’s senses are brought to life at the same time, where a person whose horizon draws near is assured of not just an escape from their four walls with bad art, but a sense of essential belonging—today, tomorrow, forever.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsYFeQLFk80qzv4ZYVsifsIajH9WCGTKsfmhiZHuiRuTBeH9Uhp8HmTNOoWhrm17gBAetz7Vm9X7B8KQZsLdbKQo4thI8r7cGIIxRqO2aFQRAXxPMAaLvvTMs9GLYyp5EIuoDpVjSu-M1Jl6Vb8S-mtqiUe_9C82g2yBPqD4HmeNL0wgtNVqDUIP9IJRd9" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1151" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsYFeQLFk80qzv4ZYVsifsIajH9WCGTKsfmhiZHuiRuTBeH9Uhp8HmTNOoWhrm17gBAetz7Vm9X7B8KQZsLdbKQo4thI8r7cGIIxRqO2aFQRAXxPMAaLvvTMs9GLYyp5EIuoDpVjSu-M1Jl6Vb8S-mtqiUe_9C82g2yBPqD4HmeNL0wgtNVqDUIP9IJRd9=w400-h231" width="400" /></a></div><br />I hope with all my heart that this will be the case for me. That when I’ve lost my precious abilities to walk and climb and paddle…and see, someone will be kind enough to lend me those capacities. Take me outdoors with the animals and plants, the moving air and singing water, and let Nature replenish my soul with her perfect, timeless beauty and wisdom.<br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-51150179426565843882023-07-13T13:42:00.006-05:002023-07-15T14:47:57.002-05:00MY BRAIN ON DRUGS (REDUX) – A Little More Fun With "Pharmanyms"<p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>This is an update of one of my most popular posts, originally published in 2015. Whole new list of drug names, both real and made up.</i></span><br /><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHuZOdeduj39Ocl33HxILHY16TropKplfykB_5U7IkdXPYpDjPhzY6ueaf3Qw7kYI7MlOytqdTr6oHFrC60h2jWopKBvtLKGBE3sNXypQ4YdFQWeXyI27Z-bpG-VNTQhfULJbFOHl24MO/s1600/LunestaStill.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuHuZOdeduj39Ocl33HxILHY16TropKplfykB_5U7IkdXPYpDjPhzY6ueaf3Qw7kYI7MlOytqdTr6oHFrC60h2jWopKBvtLKGBE3sNXypQ4YdFQWeXyI27Z-bpG-VNTQhfULJbFOHl24MO/s1600/LunestaStill.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">IMAGE: Sunovion Pharmaceuticals Inc.</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">THE CURE-ALL COME-ON</span></span></b></span><br />
If you’re one of the few folks still watching original, seen-when-aired
TV—as opposed to streamed or some on-demand stuff where you can skip the
commercials — then you’ve seen these incessant commercials for drugs. You
can’t watch for ten minutes without seeing one.<br />
<br />
Advertisers of everything from hair growers to testosterone boosters to
toenail fungus fighters try to convince you, despite the long,
speed-read list of sometimes dire side effects, to demand their potion
from your doctor.<br />
<br />
For starters, the insidiously oblique tactic of getting you to ask for
something your doc may not know much more about than what the culprits
themselves have told her seems like it should be illegal.<br />
<br />
And, even if you’re not as cynical as I am, you’ve got to agree there’s
something else that's just patently ludicrous about many of these ads:
the brand names.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> I challenge you to tell me which are real </span></b></i></span><br />
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> brands and which are the impostors.</span></b></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">THE CHIMP TEST</span></span></b></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEije2FIWp5IxyCEQVRVAfEkXxzXv9qDr0JHTJdKoTuG0UBBZ8CGUoT5IEFAx72QjZKYxXpAQ3_9zc76yF-pKi6P_oegMXzdYO1VtGotJ6zQifSpH-q6zVV2lVhouX8HHvxu8DbUBvmlDdmn/s1600/ChimpTyping.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEije2FIWp5IxyCEQVRVAfEkXxzXv9qDr0JHTJdKoTuG0UBBZ8CGUoT5IEFAx72QjZKYxXpAQ3_9zc76yF-pKi6P_oegMXzdYO1VtGotJ6zQifSpH-q6zVV2lVhouX8HHvxu8DbUBvmlDdmn/s1600/ChimpTyping.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">PHOTO: NY Zoological Society</span></span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Does anyone else think, as I do, that you could sit a chimp down in
front of a two- or three-column list of random syllables, train it to
pick one from each column, and come up with a better name for an
arthritis drug than <i>Xeljanz?</i>* C’mon!<br />
<br />
Now, lest you think I’m just ranting—perhaps resentful that some
branding hot shots out there are making a small fortune dreaming up
these absurd monikers—here’s a little test.<br />
<br />
Below is a list of 20 drug brands. (I’ve left out ones so pervasive, like <i>Cialis</i> or <i>Prednisone</i>, that they’ve muscled their way into the vernacular, and I've spared those which at least try to suggest what they do—like <i>Flonase</i>. )<br />
<br />
Ten of the names are real—the result, one would assume, of exhaustive research, brainstorming and focus group testing. <br />
<br />
The other ten are pure gibberish; I created them in about five minutes
using the chimp method—randomly combining nonsense syllables from three columns. I challenge you to tell me which are real brands and
which are the impostors. (<i>Answers below</i>)<br />
<br />
1. <i>Delozca</i><br />
2. <i>Lybalvi</i><br />
3. <i>Steruvia</i><br />
4. <i>Qulypta</i><br />
5. <i>Ektravos</i><br />
6. <i>Vabysmo</i><br />
7. <i>Cydirna</i><br />
8. <i>Farxiga</i><br />
9. <i>Zufuima</i><br />
10. <i>Verzenio</i><br />
11. <i>Tarjavic</i><br />
12. <i>Xyfaxan</i><br />
13. <i>Quibala</i><br />
14. <i>Leqvio</i><br />
15. <i>Semplavid</i><br />
16. <i>Sotyktu</i><br />
17. <i>Belsuvu</i><br />
18. <i>Quviviq</i><br />
19. <i>Cymtavic</i><br />
20. <i>Ubrelvy</i><br />
<br />
Absolutely insane, right? But then what would you expect from folks who think you’re dumb enough to want something called <i>Revatio?</i>** How about <b><i>Dumrite?</i> <i>Ufelferit?</i><br /></b>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> * <i>Xeljanz</i> is a JAK inhibitor, claimed to disrupt the nerve pathways that lead to the inflammation <br /> associated with RA.<br />** <i>Revatio</i>, from Pfizer, is the same drug as <i>Viagra</i>, but marketed to treat hypertension (high blood <br /> pressure).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: xx-small;">ANSWERS: Starting with number 2, every other brand is real. Starting with number 1, every other brand is fake.</span><br />Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-13536553427544296812023-07-11T16:09:00.000-05:002023-07-11T16:09:29.061-05:00BRAIN STRAINER – To Push or Pardon My Porous Memory<p>At a recent meeting of my men’s group I got this rude awakening about my memory. <br /><br />We’d gone around the circle and each done our “check-in,” where we briefly report on our ups and downs during the last two weeks. I thought everyone had taken his turn to do so, except Dick. So I prompted him. “How ‘bout you, Dick?” I asked. He responded with a look of surprise and everyone reminded me that he’d been the first to check in. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY30AKN7vtUjg1HGTaM_TzxGSM7a-9POzB8KIUMbwnZlsig8YXKo_mMTXmO720Lb9YzTx1KdU29FORAyNFXwt99TY4R-ZZr3EMIuTJOPXl7Zpl4UzbN3O4zCOMqV-iPitzmjSX-WjwMqeAKW7bZWDahuDyJO6yh5DJBXhcB0UIo1kr4Gd1Z0rITfr9BU5v/s640/MenOnAHighBeam.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="640" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY30AKN7vtUjg1HGTaM_TzxGSM7a-9POzB8KIUMbwnZlsig8YXKo_mMTXmO720Lb9YzTx1KdU29FORAyNFXwt99TY4R-ZZr3EMIuTJOPXl7Zpl4UzbN3O4zCOMqV-iPitzmjSX-WjwMqeAKW7bZWDahuDyJO6yh5DJBXhcB0UIo1kr4Gd1Z0rITfr9BU5v/w400-h309/MenOnAHighBeam.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>How embarrassing. Not only had I forgotten the few updates Dick had shared; I forgot that he’d even shared them. I babbled some kind of excuse, but then he added that I’d done this about something else barely a week before.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: #990000;"><i> My dad had a term for folks like this: </i><br /> He has a mind like a steel trap.</span></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: medium;">FOLLOW-UP</span></b></span><br />I like to think of myself as a good listener. I make a real effort to hear what people say. I follow up with a question or two and remember enough of it to perhaps ask about it the next time we get together.<br /><br />So what’s going on with me and Dick? Or maybe I should say with me and my memory? Do its lapses mean I don't care?<br /><br />I raised the question at our next men’s group meeting, where I at least got the consolation of hearing that a couple of the other guys share the problem.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqzHTGy7jWUDyR_p31JwOeGUgwGZLaAwfZTmx_rqHGm0MwLDCduDB6_m7x29AlajPYw3_aA1N_6xxdl0U5Fp9OTmNcDLzrRRutimSl6adNOAN3SPSBSe4ufx1Caw4Igt9c5wuo_jGEce9d6LE8hcuk6YSpmAc3IJadPU0eLVASS_-MQsTF5IAOyes81F5A" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="460" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqzHTGy7jWUDyR_p31JwOeGUgwGZLaAwfZTmx_rqHGm0MwLDCduDB6_m7x29AlajPYw3_aA1N_6xxdl0U5Fp9OTmNcDLzrRRutimSl6adNOAN3SPSBSe4ufx1Caw4Igt9c5wuo_jGEce9d6LE8hcuk6YSpmAc3IJadPU0eLVASS_-MQsTF5IAOyes81F5A=w187-h200" width="187" /></a>That discussion also supported my assertion that my leaky memory is not—as are many of the maladies we share now that we’re all in our seventies—simply a factor of age. I was this way even in my twenties. <br /><br />(I should note that, of all the people I’ve ever called friends, Dick stands out as the one with the best memory. You can tell him several things you’re doing, how your relatives are and even a couple of happenings you just read about, and the next time you speak with him he asks you about every one of them.)<br /><br />My dad had a term for folks like this: <i>His mind’s like a steel trap</i>. That’s Dick. So my memory shortcomings seem all the worse by comparison. <br /><br /><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i> My memory, I now realize, is <br /> a rather large-holed colander.</i></b></span></span><br /><br />I’ve always had trouble with things most people seem to remember, like the plot elements—or even the title—of the movie I just watched last week. Or what my wife’s plans are for the day…oh, and don’t get me going on people’s names.<br /><br />What does stick with me, it seems, are far more subtle, often sensory, details—like how much Dick's wife loves waterfalls; the way another friend wrings his hands while he talks; or the sense that great pain lurks just beneath one acquaintance's cheery façade.<br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGCKafa60ZvMa8lJQ0itWGfrMBnYz-sHE2YofqTcXwq9rIX3DOBXEBHviSHpnblr9RSm1Eq40tJ3AzQe6qQy2T-R-WVvPiizR6gGEPlmqHQAGSCfw9aocdZe6wEDGtFmWSMCLpNG67jbGX3rZulUfr-3DGvxyqLfc-a4CUAxh4B9HoDqQXzo-Vrl4G1f1G/s1600/MemoryArt-NYT.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGCKafa60ZvMa8lJQ0itWGfrMBnYz-sHE2YofqTcXwq9rIX3DOBXEBHviSHpnblr9RSm1Eq40tJ3AzQe6qQy2T-R-WVvPiizR6gGEPlmqHQAGSCfw9aocdZe6wEDGtFmWSMCLpNG67jbGX3rZulUfr-3DGvxyqLfc-a4CUAxh4B9HoDqQXzo-Vrl4G1f1G/w400-h225/MemoryArt-NYT.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">IMAGE: New York Times</span></i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">ANOTHER FINE MESH</span></b></span></span><br />So, is my brain just wired differently? And if that’s the case, should I just accept it? Maybe rationalize that memory’s a zero-sum game and my brain's simply decided to excel at some other task?<br /><br />I wonder if there isn't a better metaphor for memory than a steel trap. Maybe a strainer. A very few people—like my friend Dick—have filters, which grab and hold the smallest details. Others have sieves. They miss a few details, but latch <br />onto most. <br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXoETZdHOaAhqRRn94GwnD6ntgL1GWI-H7LPLilk0uwUct_bSWgDkEakhZ5ReQyWQG7YMHteMoUEwGWPyg_qUl_fii-ftVCwZbnRRhzZbx96rVsG5n8OnuQ_hsUM1JeA2kKRhX0DwXKVDrOY1DOkKgrSZOFeg6cmnpOP9U-YsyjW8ibKeG9JF7udSVlRug/s2000/Colander.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXoETZdHOaAhqRRn94GwnD6ntgL1GWI-H7LPLilk0uwUct_bSWgDkEakhZ5ReQyWQG7YMHteMoUEwGWPyg_qUl_fii-ftVCwZbnRRhzZbx96rVsG5n8OnuQ_hsUM1JeA2kKRhX0DwXKVDrOY1DOkKgrSZOFeg6cmnpOP9U-YsyjW8ibKeG9JF7udSVlRug/w200-h200/Colander.jpeg" width="200" /></a>My memory, I now realize, is a rather large-holed colander. I remember the important stuff, like “How’s your recovery from that heart attack coming?” “When do you get back from Uzbekistan?” Or “How’s prison life treating you.” I forget the stuff like the skinned knee, the day trip to Zumbrota or a friend of a friend’s divorce.<br /><br />I suppose I could fight it. I could drive myself to listen to those I love as if there’ll be a pop quiz. I could take notes. (Actually, I’ve been trying this with some success.)<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIiWGma2AWHvFm8nYwSI4L9g4M6zdA8bbC6eAkUfwZxGHxiIWL5qU08H6ByOJkd6WapuqJzQAJ4jKyZdK8oG6WowmDy6hIKCuhPYw0Afdz7m-Anp-fxDdN746CGEBCUh4jc3lrZkEUKz-PMi4JWTt98eZH959i1RfMNXcQgfzmdj3YugRXtozLK78I9-xP/s864/ShockTherapyNicholson.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="864" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIiWGma2AWHvFm8nYwSI4L9g4M6zdA8bbC6eAkUfwZxGHxiIWL5qU08H6ByOJkd6WapuqJzQAJ4jKyZdK8oG6WowmDy6hIKCuhPYw0Afdz7m-Anp-fxDdN746CGEBCUh4jc3lrZkEUKz-PMi4JWTt98eZH959i1RfMNXcQgfzmdj3YugRXtozLK78I9-xP/s320/ShockTherapyNicholson.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>But I’ve also listened to the advice of another men’s group friend, Ken, who told me I’m being too hard on myself. We’re all different. Lighten up.<br /><br />What do you think? Should I keep twisting my memory’s arm? Is remembering details essential for a real friendship? If so, do you have any tips on how to do so? <br /><br />Or should I just forgive myself and move on? What would you do?<br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-5796088452821238742023-06-03T22:38:00.001-05:002023-06-04T12:27:28.829-05:00MIXED BLESSING – The Fortunate Yin and Yang of My Upbringing<p><b><i>This luxuriant, unfurling season between Mothers Day and Fathers Day seems <br />a perfect time to reflect on the honorees of both.</i></b><br /> <span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">~</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: medium;">•. </span><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">~</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: medium;">•. </span><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">~</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />The more time that's passed since my parents died, the better I understand them. The more I appreciate the many gifts they’ve bestowed on me. Their respective influences, though often seeming polar opposites, have actually turned out to complement each other. And that, I believe, is a good thing.<br /><br />My father, like most men of his generation—or, for that matter, any generation—was a problem solver. He relished a challenge, whether that meant fixing a leaking this or a squeaky that, reglazing a window or mastering some mental exercise. He’d apply every milligram of his engineer alter ego to analyzing the problem, planning a solution, and then methodically executing it. (He desperately wanted the process to be a point of connection with me and my brother—an invitation we too often spurned.)<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEL92CZNnq5EBz_DYUmybD97COMLR6kKES1YlD1CIDEagy8vbCs5vuZkOjdOQTWLcp4PcsHwE4O9xNOkETsBGatNiePDKZeQeq0lQnQEsfP4xa5WwJ_Kzf9GFYsEJ3uh8mbAx1NMmyXit6KGkz7831dj-ydvS2E-SaHE4DuGMpnPbIKdTK5STavOoOgA/s416/Toolbelt.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="416" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEL92CZNnq5EBz_DYUmybD97COMLR6kKES1YlD1CIDEagy8vbCs5vuZkOjdOQTWLcp4PcsHwE4O9xNOkETsBGatNiePDKZeQeq0lQnQEsfP4xa5WwJ_Kzf9GFYsEJ3uh8mbAx1NMmyXit6KGkz7831dj-ydvS2E-SaHE4DuGMpnPbIKdTK5STavOoOgA/s320/Toolbelt.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I’m sure Dad was just emulating the role models who’d guided him in his growing up—his father, his friends, perhaps a couple of teachers, a boss or a Scoutmaster. These were competencies reinforced by cultural norms; cleverness, resourceful-<br />ness, focus, all were essential both to his successful career as a restaurateur and to his role as a homeowner.<br /><br /><b><i><span style="color: #45818e; font-size: x-large;"> Mom’s response was not to fix it. <br /> It was to outlast it.</span></i></b><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-family: verdana;">LET IT BE</span></b></span><br />To Dad’s yang, my mother was definitely the yin.<br /><br />When Mom would face a challenge, her response was not to fix it; it was to outlast it. She never said it in so many words, but she evidently embraced that old saw, <i>This too shall pass. </i>You have a lump or a pain somewhere, you keep an eye on it and chances are it will eventually disappear all by itself.<br /><br />It’s possible that, having grown up as the only girl among four brothers, that stoicism was a coping mechanism, perhaps one way to distinguish herself. And, just as Dad’s fix-it disposition proved an asset in his career, Mom’s let-it-percolate makeup must have equipped her well for her career as an artist. (She was a commercial fashion illustrator.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBfgpa_eriT1xJI2AhFPaiDjlX8Ull4-g9tWIihuEKaCVRSIDWdzAubx-mPLLn9LcosrnlTIUdcovtHau50jiBzZmV5V-RlnOcnEoq5vpfFQy2nXerG7RJDgk_ys0q-ocoKgVxfR5ufDQuajzHWqxxI8z6S7KuAzHpEE8sbu55UFlhr0HQFBpTOdqUA/s864/MomsArt-1920s.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="864" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilBfgpa_eriT1xJI2AhFPaiDjlX8Ull4-g9tWIihuEKaCVRSIDWdzAubx-mPLLn9LcosrnlTIUdcovtHau50jiBzZmV5V-RlnOcnEoq5vpfFQy2nXerG7RJDgk_ys0q-ocoKgVxfR5ufDQuajzHWqxxI8z6S7KuAzHpEE8sbu55UFlhr0HQFBpTOdqUA/w400-h400/MomsArt-1920s.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">PUTTING ON HEIRS</span></b></span></span> <br />Both Mom and Dad radiated definite, and quite different, vibes. He, while often serious and businesslike at home, also had a much lighter side. Once in a long while, I’d overhear him laughing and joking with friends. I’ll never forget the good-natured bonhomie he showed at work, an air of competence and warmth that surrounded him as he walked around his cafeteria chatting with customers.<br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgn2s1TFcI3NOCZ4Y8BAVAG7lo7o633YMtxyK1KY-xQE5JZiPZi11gKqaSLTO1VTt5VDJeaKw1hNqQu_4fkI87FKZBjfy_FqerurkRA6b54I_4fHrQlU-1NSW125jTyFzt-xcizna47vWlOv0tXsB7cvXrMBdDPOKtEROxwgKjqiKfbLz-4tNoWZQEg/s976/ZenSandGarden.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgn2s1TFcI3NOCZ4Y8BAVAG7lo7o633YMtxyK1KY-xQE5JZiPZi11gKqaSLTO1VTt5VDJeaKw1hNqQu_4fkI87FKZBjfy_FqerurkRA6b54I_4fHrQlU-1NSW125jTyFzt-xcizna47vWlOv0tXsB7cvXrMBdDPOKtEROxwgKjqiKfbLz-4tNoWZQEg/w200-h113/ZenSandGarden.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>Mom’s temperament was more homogeneous; she was a total introvert. Quiet, shy, slow to speak, reluctant to act, but much of her reticence was simply shyness. I’m sure some people thought she was a snob. More chari- table folks described it as a sort of regal aura. <br /><br />The older we both got, the more I felt there was a philosophical or spiritual angle to my mother’s demure disposition. I started seeing it as kind of Zen-like.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #bf9000;"> Sometimes it suited one better to simply relax <br /> and let things happen.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">OMEGA MALE?</span></b></span></span><br />I inherited parts of both of these distinct MOs. Like my mother I was the gardener, the artist. I too was quite reserved and a bit of an introvert.<br /><br />But I also had to be a businessman. So, in some aspects of my life I, like Dad, had to plan, anticipate challenges if possible and be methodical in taking them on. I had to meet deadlines. I also learned that, when it came to courting new clients, I had to at least act like I enjoyed schmoozing.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4aJo0t3XQUKrKSUGoRsi8WfHeboZzU9koBLOmMMvQmP1pYEeM04LeSUvMMLf4rIqr0DKQgSYDcCgp03QPW9gH1QvVNYg2JMSjzWA3qV6ZN7nR3BF0pLfqED_pU6ZHBYEfVQz4qT648cyqJwrV868kGC_eOK7hTuzH1KvEPmHDz8ufC-_d1R14g3okIA/s1870/SchmoozingArt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="1870" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4aJo0t3XQUKrKSUGoRsi8WfHeboZzU9koBLOmMMvQmP1pYEeM04LeSUvMMLf4rIqr0DKQgSYDcCgp03QPW9gH1QvVNYg2JMSjzWA3qV6ZN7nR3BF0pLfqED_pU6ZHBYEfVQz4qT648cyqJwrV868kGC_eOK7hTuzH1KvEPmHDz8ufC-_d1R14g3okIA/w400-h120/SchmoozingArt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>As for ambition, though, I definitely came down toward Mom’s end of the spectrum, adopting much of her long-suffering patience and her faith that every-<br />thing eventually turns out okay. I managed to eschew stress and striving, opting for <br />a sort of subsistence career, never leveraging my one-man free-lance marketing communications practice into anything grander.<br /><br />I was gradually learning what Mom always seemed to know instinctively: that in Western culture folks expend an awful lot of energy struggling to <i>make</i> things happen, and that sometimes it suited one better to simply relax and <i>let</i> things happen.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1HdHceiwPMtNI-tjApxXJU50-kovZ7WZAiXxiytKKJlLg8Vwyg9hQuabZEs2zqW_e6hC0vWdQKKV9ZK-LE1CntorBJ4ZV1W03hBjt2LdgJdPxHMvOUsEZ2pJv7t8KnAvABXPUW9ot5_Vg5Bd-8PcBDJudfXiohltiugGqLooM7DgdA_wdpHx2n_3YQ/s2252/RapidsMossy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1014" data-original-width="2252" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1HdHceiwPMtNI-tjApxXJU50-kovZ7WZAiXxiytKKJlLg8Vwyg9hQuabZEs2zqW_e6hC0vWdQKKV9ZK-LE1CntorBJ4ZV1W03hBjt2LdgJdPxHMvOUsEZ2pJv7t8KnAvABXPUW9ot5_Vg5Bd-8PcBDJudfXiohltiugGqLooM7DgdA_wdpHx2n_3YQ/w400-h180/RapidsMossy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">MOTHER NATURE</span></b></span></span><br />My spiritual life—most of it involving experiences in Nature—has been more like my mother’s. I’m ravenously curious, very much in the moment, comfortable just sitting and being. And, like Mom, I long to commune, if not with people, certainly with animals, plants and places.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yJ9LDoPef4dbeX6kqQiGRyvGi3Squqm87LyOoqy9jifJn-X4RIu50dzte7hn3flmI06SlxRFQ4OrJL4k0ie9hkHGR4Db5vu2OmuzJvgv3UzLIcmyMtJoA_scSvFUlUnsw4BCznX2ZTzW71XJWQk5t80nLXWvUt3131WJedCFzVOEAyP5BJEunOG6eA/s568/OFW-Scouts.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="547" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yJ9LDoPef4dbeX6kqQiGRyvGi3Squqm87LyOoqy9jifJn-X4RIu50dzte7hn3flmI06SlxRFQ4OrJL4k0ie9hkHGR4Db5vu2OmuzJvgv3UzLIcmyMtJoA_scSvFUlUnsw4BCznX2ZTzW71XJWQk5t80nLXWvUt3131WJedCFzVOEAyP5BJEunOG6eA/w193-h200/OFW-Scouts.jpg" width="193" /></a></div><p>I know I got some of my love of Nature from Dad too, more specifically his sense of adventure. As a boy he was quite involved in the Boy Scouts, and in his teens and early twenties went on several extended wilderness canoe trips with a friend in the Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Wilderness and Ontario’s Quetico National Park. <br /><br />In that way, I did follow in Dad’s wake, paddling nearly half of all the canoe routes crisscrossing the Boundary Waters—until my responsibilities as father, husband and breadwinner made the Nature Boy get down to business. I’m so happy that my career path allowed me to continue both exploring and writing about it.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Rh0-mBLJa7greakMEWEI_pVocVE0SdA_beeT3J76zZXvwN_aFDX-Igyar_xq8YEjkbNKr8fPJSGdgwEPxW_UrYMB0g1d1Y0ri3QwHvQpFNRFa5F2Fc5X2s5KoDfvDixOi-qgAWmAjZW4JGzhUKiGgfjmAj6Cunhpcw0UgnSHszTjvQpvPz7nMtwl2w/s800/YinYangB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Rh0-mBLJa7greakMEWEI_pVocVE0SdA_beeT3J76zZXvwN_aFDX-Igyar_xq8YEjkbNKr8fPJSGdgwEPxW_UrYMB0g1d1Y0ri3QwHvQpFNRFa5F2Fc5X2s5KoDfvDixOi-qgAWmAjZW4JGzhUKiGgfjmAj6Cunhpcw0UgnSHszTjvQpvPz7nMtwl2w/w200-h200/YinYangB.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>So here I stand, straddling that graceful S-curve boundary that separates the black yin from the white yang in the celebrated symbol. Since there is no gray, perhaps it’s the infinity of that line—its continual return to itself—that’s the aptest metaphor for blending of influences, the fortunate abundance and integrity of my life. My parents—both of them in their wildly different ways—made this possible. I am eternally grateful.<br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-91499161247327382832023-05-07T18:23:00.005-05:002023-05-08T09:48:50.284-05:00 THREADS OF INTIMACY – How Our Clothes Reveal... and Conceal Us<p></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn78Gb_hh0WWz0150Xw5R78jGhHXc_HdNJHCCWLsJa9tyC9Kzo5jDfNtfQeOmSdamPExj05nKTK_lqEv6J2-gXJ1-vRaboa4ieGzudE9YWPMnom9qcdrFwfPcW1skIv6f9lfk1pmjvMoWs8Mc2lloP7oxLDoHHvDfBTGaGzxVrGtrzAu1iHSSPNaySNA/s1600/Hand-Me-DownCords.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn78Gb_hh0WWz0150Xw5R78jGhHXc_HdNJHCCWLsJa9tyC9Kzo5jDfNtfQeOmSdamPExj05nKTK_lqEv6J2-gXJ1-vRaboa4ieGzudE9YWPMnom9qcdrFwfPcW1skIv6f9lfk1pmjvMoWs8Mc2lloP7oxLDoHHvDfBTGaGzxVrGtrzAu1iHSSPNaySNA/w150-h200/Hand-Me-DownCords.jpg" width="150" /></a>Like many postwar, middle-class kids with older siblings, I seldom had any clothes of my own. What I got were my brother’s hand-me-downs. I never questioned the practice; it made perfect sense. But as I reflect on it now, I realize I was robbed.<br /><br />The problem—a first-world problem to be sure—was that my clothes didn’t serve, as those of most older or only children did, as a way to express myself. I wore what my brother had picked out to express <i>him</i>-self.<br /><br />I don’t think that’s had any lasting effect on me, but it’s got me thinking about clothes and becoming more aware of my own and others’ relationship with them.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06;"> We live in them. We sleep in them. <br /> We’re buried in them.</span></i></b></span><br /><br />This theme has been tentatively poking its head into my consciousness for years, but because it resides at the blurry nexus of the pedestrian and the sublime I’ve never gotten a good look at it. <br /><br />The pedestrian part: it’s about clothing, stuff most of us totally take for granted. That we put on every day of our lives; that gets wrinkled and dirty; that shrinks and fades and ends up in the garage sale. <br /><br />The sublime part: the fact that these garments are our most personal of possessions, the items closest to us for more of our lives than anything else we have or even anyone we love. We’re swaddled in them at birth. We live in them. We sleep in them. We’re buried in them.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc9DFSSVD9nHWMWoLntVeLGGYMDdmLii357hVTA7CTt2U-EEzUDQUdOxBvm5DOh3nQYbl16xwxJLUPEp1rriKikzBJV5WNS0cu4Dl1GT5L_PKNCvpeq_f9rJn1tV6VGL-OlrTMBl5pfd8NPVmfbTQYp2OBB6evt-Ri0fE58iMUBk_kcyePZgYStkxa-w/s212/SwaddledNewborns2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="212" data-original-width="207" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc9DFSSVD9nHWMWoLntVeLGGYMDdmLii357hVTA7CTt2U-EEzUDQUdOxBvm5DOh3nQYbl16xwxJLUPEp1rriKikzBJV5WNS0cu4Dl1GT5L_PKNCvpeq_f9rJn1tV6VGL-OlrTMBl5pfd8NPVmfbTQYp2OBB6evt-Ri0fE58iMUBk_kcyePZgYStkxa-w/w195-h200/SwaddledNewborns2.jpg" width="195" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOI0A2e96EjkJk_TatCOC_M5-iQEgP8ca8PDdEfkp4HZ_24WBoNL2IJOd4YI59u1WH0CCFsvGTmmTcfSMv7gYcces_JcwQw2sDxuKiDYSStXS7ncnFArfH39dXO6hQiJm9RNbFLan9pD4pGJWBNk28qx9eG66Z99NYbg_YmDCJ_1t4RaKHSYofzHngg/s635/BodyWomanCasket.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="635" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOI0A2e96EjkJk_TatCOC_M5-iQEgP8ca8PDdEfkp4HZ_24WBoNL2IJOd4YI59u1WH0CCFsvGTmmTcfSMv7gYcces_JcwQw2sDxuKiDYSStXS7ncnFArfH39dXO6hQiJm9RNbFLan9pD4pGJWBNk28qx9eG66Z99NYbg_YmDCJ_1t4RaKHSYofzHngg/w200-h200/BodyWomanCasket.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">INSIDE OUT</span></b></span></span><br />Clothes are not just close to us physically; there’s this emotional intimacy we share with them. Often making up about 90 percent of the countenance we present to the world, they’re one of the most telling ways we express ourselves.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-HpXh08d76xauoFuEuoBv7p038tushhIleKasyUXAHfaYMHGw31pzEBioj9adcXhRR6xGKlpJ4jF9oYyaxxthTRCJEYR7NH45a3ca8H23DUcWhcsuslNxdMYVSQyFAonOsgBNbOw47mpgLfI3PqNrpj5S3Cn0GTVlD8qx0hdLizHRojXdBiPauJWbw/s763/Bloodhound.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="763" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-HpXh08d76xauoFuEuoBv7p038tushhIleKasyUXAHfaYMHGw31pzEBioj9adcXhRR6xGKlpJ4jF9oYyaxxthTRCJEYR7NH45a3ca8H23DUcWhcsuslNxdMYVSQyFAonOsgBNbOw47mpgLfI3PqNrpj5S3Cn0GTVlD8qx0hdLizHRojXdBiPauJWbw/w189-h200/Bloodhound.jpg" width="189" /></a>Another way our clothes emanate who we are is our infusing them with our own unique scent. It’s why bloodhounds can track down fugitives and missing children; it’s why grieving survivors treasure a garment worn by a departed loved one. <br /><br />But clothing doesn’t just express who we are; it can disguise who we are. Sometimes we dress outside our comfort zone to please someone else. We might don a costume to play a role or fulfill a fantasy. Some days we just don’t want anyone to recognize us.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">POOR JUDGEMENT</span></b></span></span><br />What happens when you see someone in an outfit you find really unflattering or just plain ugly? Are you aware of what’s going through your mind? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4zzdjfsjasdADEqH_a9vyvmitLVbNcMPmN2sT8_XYJlhnVqfplKYfhXOtdTKYZap49nBnmvJhPbOZ4Wb72l5yY3CFYbe4SdTdcd3Vk_-fPHKNkctIGZuH9E-8Q9ZjiCs_fZ0kSN-zycuRmNbq4-a5NoR5T2Y_XywVS1cPYQND2a4orUebfTu8Kem1g/s879/DropCrotchPants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4zzdjfsjasdADEqH_a9vyvmitLVbNcMPmN2sT8_XYJlhnVqfplKYfhXOtdTKYZap49nBnmvJhPbOZ4Wb72l5yY3CFYbe4SdTdcd3Vk_-fPHKNkctIGZuH9E-8Q9ZjiCs_fZ0kSN-zycuRmNbq4-a5NoR5T2Y_XywVS1cPYQND2a4orUebfTu8Kem1g/s320/DropCrotchPants.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><p>I notice such things all the time. After all, I’m a designer; it affects me when colors clash, when patterns get too busy, when things are out of proportion. But I know there are other factors prompting such criticism. Prejudice, stereotyping, class-consciousness…<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #674ea7;"> Whether they’re wearing Gucci or Goodwill, <br /> everyone’s simply doing the best they can.</span></i></b><br /></span><br />Part of my effort to be a kinder human being is to put aside the judgements and see my fellow human beings in light not of my point of view, but theirs. Of their own life stories, their own dreams, the utter innocence of their efforts to be who they are. And to realize deep down that, whether they’re wearing Goodwill or Gucci, everyone’s just doing the best they can.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CKUxMMmXj4lhi_4kQ9eQUlfrkpjZC2yJdYv5WAyXINUmFH5I25BvUM49o5isXXoUVh0XdAuTZm1g2CBcn7-MMgEEmqbfBW4hyyqWYTdXNIx-scANyKXhfXTwoeQS5eaCJPYBbnkoo3gPAUoqiN9kp6pDh02NGVwXudzgxD7UCT9G1FLbR3XlAy9M3Q/s1200/GoodwillRacksOfClothes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CKUxMMmXj4lhi_4kQ9eQUlfrkpjZC2yJdYv5WAyXINUmFH5I25BvUM49o5isXXoUVh0XdAuTZm1g2CBcn7-MMgEEmqbfBW4hyyqWYTdXNIx-scANyKXhfXTwoeQS5eaCJPYBbnkoo3gPAUoqiN9kp6pDh02NGVwXudzgxD7UCT9G1FLbR3XlAy9M3Q/s320/GoodwillRacksOfClothes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>It takes an extra measure of what I call seeing generously, but I know I can do better. I can look at folks whose clothing choices might at first elicit a shudder, and coax that response into a nod of understanding and compassion. Here are a few examples from my own experience.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">SUNDAY BEST</span></b></span></span><br />I’m always moved by those local-interest news stories we see now and then about high school girls from low-income families choosing from racks of donated prom dresses. It’s just so sweet to see one young lady’s expression when she holds up a dress she’d never allowed herself to even dream of. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRq1XXhpkMtuRAFt-SXGsTwo2zdL4SZ_ArzEUzTfq1L5wrF139aDpXwRkIv3qn-Hv_vgvGXYbBjIKI70Sqd43HiE7-c_Q64E79T8Kdj4I184Zx6iCDzh5Bt_Gfcg4pro_LYz1wIUhBFIdZXGghqAb-6gVdttOUQg3pZ8vFsj96bE7qpgAWW3GpYi55w/s1866/FreePromDressesCrop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1336" data-original-width="1866" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRq1XXhpkMtuRAFt-SXGsTwo2zdL4SZ_ArzEUzTfq1L5wrF139aDpXwRkIv3qn-Hv_vgvGXYbBjIKI70Sqd43HiE7-c_Q64E79T8Kdj4I184Zx6iCDzh5Bt_Gfcg4pro_LYz1wIUhBFIdZXGghqAb-6gVdttOUQg3pZ8vFsj96bE7qpgAWW3GpYi55w/w400-h286/FreePromDressesCrop.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>While I might not understand her tastes, here’s a way for her to show off what she considers her best self for a very special night. Maybe it’s a favorite color, a cut that makes the most of her figure, a pattern, perhaps, that reminds her of her <i>abuela</i>. She just wants to look pretty.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2k9dOefAZojDRvHQEUvkNkMeI3yBT3IS1pPvgSliIJNbjpfGchJAvNXAp-AG0Ni7EzwsMJAhTK3MzWlg54qvzSZNrQh4BcY_t4TZilqnJ65BO1_VSI_vdgAzDEfOFiCZJu2x5P0ELs0rGFz-ubQ-gyzXxRE7ua9j7_7a6XryhBdF5P1wFNyHHAZKfA/s720/OldManDressedUp-B.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2k9dOefAZojDRvHQEUvkNkMeI3yBT3IS1pPvgSliIJNbjpfGchJAvNXAp-AG0Ni7EzwsMJAhTK3MzWlg54qvzSZNrQh4BcY_t4TZilqnJ65BO1_VSI_vdgAzDEfOFiCZJu2x5P0ELs0rGFz-ubQ-gyzXxRE7ua9j7_7a6XryhBdF5P1wFNyHHAZKfA/w133-h200/OldManDressedUp-B.jpg" width="133" /></a>Then there’s the aging widower who’s lost or given up on—or perhaps never had—what you could call a wardrobe, but still keeps the one Sunday-best outfit he’s ever owned. Trousers, jacket, tie and maybe even a spiffy hat. And always a pair of well worn but nicely polished shoes. <br /><br />It doesn’t have to be a marry-‘em or bury-‘em occasion; he dresses up even if he’s just walking down the street to the park. Whether that reflects some life lesson or just basic self-respect, the practice always touches me.<br /><br />Or the thirty-something dude I keep seeing at the coffee shop, whose ruddy, pock-marked face belies the meticulous, bright-colored suit he’s always sporting. He’s got several: royal blue, marigold, cherry red. All of them double-breasted, with wide lapels, a style that reminds me of the kind of depression-era zoot suits sported by Jim Carrey in <i>The Mask</i>.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHawCfti4VFzloQDCJ8kHoh1kXSYtFhonFB6UB2pbc5sOoohOVkVzZRLz_Dc1l9vviek1g4jzASIW4xmrAsIQGCIZcJD_xXqCBOAp9F9JtUT5CxAqbdJEcuywnWnPvs_pj2Z0oPWEVOx3jGQWUl5zo-W2EDem0ofZIP8_UmKMwhWuElOKTrIII2NLLVA/s768/ZootSuit-TheMask.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="768" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHawCfti4VFzloQDCJ8kHoh1kXSYtFhonFB6UB2pbc5sOoohOVkVzZRLz_Dc1l9vviek1g4jzASIW4xmrAsIQGCIZcJD_xXqCBOAp9F9JtUT5CxAqbdJEcuywnWnPvs_pj2Z0oPWEVOx3jGQWUl5zo-W2EDem0ofZIP8_UmKMwhWuElOKTrIII2NLLVA/s320/ZootSuit-TheMask.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I know I could never get away with that look, but for him…well, it seems to animate him. Standin' tall; lookin' good.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i> <span style="color: #f1c232;">Hundreds of millions...live in
the kind of poverty <br /> that renders obscene the luxury of changing one’s
<br /> clothes to suit one’s mood. </span></i></b><br /></span><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">HEART ON THE SLEEVE</span></b></span></span><br />I guess the point is this: Every one of these people got up that morning and pulled from their closet the duds, however modest or flamboyant, they thought would look and feel best.<br /><br />And, while these characters had some sartorial choice, there are hundreds of millions <span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span> of our fellow human beings who don’t. Who live in the kind of poverty that renders obscene the luxury of changing one’s clothes to suit one’s mood. And yet they don what they have with dignity.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2eMMlh4F2jR22eoK25yAD5KxhwV3a3NHhREiz9U7b3zw5mT68amWLxjs3hCGWPrIXUccoqK10j4pYF6s8JQrKOqxdaasFZVXoqlb7OlPn5Sjqr5xRu72w5xhtMT8Inr9mUtkau1R84uleT1_U-wGI8oEGzD-GXq4g4ZV-TQ7R_0v8hSFXNwaJ9tIxLg/s480/AfricanKidsInRags.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="431" data-original-width="480" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2eMMlh4F2jR22eoK25yAD5KxhwV3a3NHhREiz9U7b3zw5mT68amWLxjs3hCGWPrIXUccoqK10j4pYF6s8JQrKOqxdaasFZVXoqlb7OlPn5Sjqr5xRu72w5xhtMT8Inr9mUtkau1R84uleT1_U-wGI8oEGzD-GXq4g4ZV-TQ7R_0v8hSFXNwaJ9tIxLg/s320/AfricanKidsInRags.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I want to remember that everyone, whether prince or pauper, whether or not their look suits my taste, ultimately wears the fabric of their own unique, deeply intimate life story.<br /></p><div style="left: -99999px; position: absolute;">Some of you say, “It is the north wind
who has woven the clothes we wear.”
And I say, Ay, it was the north wind,
But shame was his loom, and the soften-
ing of the sinews was his thread.
And when his work was done he laughed
in the forest.<br /><br /> Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/on-clothes-by-khalil-gibran/ </div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;"></span></i></b></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i><span style="color: #990000;">Some of you say, “It is the north wind <br />who has woven the clothes we wear.”<br />And I say, Ay, it was the north wind,<br />but shame was his loom, and the soften-<br />ing of the sinews was his thread.<br />And when his work was done he laughed<br />in the forest.</span></i></b></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://pickmeuppoetry.org/on-clothes-by-khalil-gibran/"><br />KHALIL GIBRAN</a></span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://pickmeuppoetry.org/on-clothes-by-khalil-gibran/"></a></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span> <span style="font-size: x-small;">According to World Vision 9.2% of the world's population—approximately 719 million people—live on a daily income <br /> of less than $2.15.</span><br /><br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-81802787857703350202023-04-23T16:43:00.002-05:002023-04-23T21:44:04.634-05:00 ON MY TOES – The Unexpected Soundtrack of a Pedicure<p><i>I always try to appreciate life’s experiences with all my senses, not just the obvious ones. You know, feeling music, seeing flavors, hearing color. So when I went to this typically touch-oriented spa session, I was primed to take it in with all my faculties.<br /></i><br /> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> <b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: large;">~</span></b> <span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="font-size: medium;">•</span></span> <b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: large;">~</span></b> <span style="color: #f1c232;"><span style="font-size: medium;">•</span></span> <b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: large;">~</span></b> <br /><br />For the past couple of years Sally’s been inviting me to join her for her occasional pedicure.<br /><br />At first, I was reluctant. You know, the whole macho thing; guys don’t get pedicures. But once I tried it—and survived the good-natured ribbing I got for giggling as they used their small version of a power sander on my callouses—I’ve come to love the experience.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzajzM_7q7PYjDgfIr7JTxgge6yqaHQUeD07p1HEERb01DIbklLSsLd819xYH4pVjYDKUh2EVMOruzmTIZvjiOWxwudtK7m43TAGiXYGQ-f6_L5V-Iex10D5FRlN2r_yWI__QscweyaDMOTu_82w7Kul_-7pQ0yHSMeKNUh1XLyKrkdj8Zy9m0ylohYg/s602/PedicureHotWax.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="446" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzajzM_7q7PYjDgfIr7JTxgge6yqaHQUeD07p1HEERb01DIbklLSsLd819xYH4pVjYDKUh2EVMOruzmTIZvjiOWxwudtK7m43TAGiXYGQ-f6_L5V-Iex10D5FRlN2r_yWI__QscweyaDMOTu_82w7Kul_-7pQ0yHSMeKNUh1XLyKrkdj8Zy9m0ylohYg/w148-h200/PedicureHotWax.jpg" width="148" /></a></div><p>A pedicure, I’ve discovered, is a trip for all one’s senses. And each time I go it seems I come away having especially appreciated a different sensation. One time it might be the toes massage; the next, maybe the gritty exfoliant; or the immersion of my feet in bags of hot wax.<br /><br />So many delights—not just of touch, but the fragrance of the various soaking solutions and lotions, watching the fish swimming around in the salon’s big aquarium, taking in the Asian-kitsch art on the walls. <br /><br />Among my favorites every time is the cushy, full-featured massaging chair. Like some hefty Nordic masseuse, the chair’s four rolling, kneading, pummeling fists work tirelessly up and down my back. And I can set it to any combination of massage styles and intensities. (I’d gladly pay the $55 for just an hour’s worth of that.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVa0ZR5eXuyz0h-eK7CJsvimXjDbAd9D0o_qXLwf_qD7n5XKoy0xoOf0bC78X9G3dW6ljbVJz6m_xMYaYzWh9oyCajotUlGpK0NPFCFuqayBh2h1PoJ6HRpa-D9WZx5Zfkfm4DyV8tROz7zxj93KwsGa7AwF4L8KchYUWuSlcUTbpoJAlo4WbVkjfjQ/s1152/MassageChairsRedNails.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="864" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVa0ZR5eXuyz0h-eK7CJsvimXjDbAd9D0o_qXLwf_qD7n5XKoy0xoOf0bC78X9G3dW6ljbVJz6m_xMYaYzWh9oyCajotUlGpK0NPFCFuqayBh2h1PoJ6HRpa-D9WZx5Zfkfm4DyV8tROz7zxj93KwsGa7AwF4L8KchYUWuSlcUTbpoJAlo4WbVkjfjQ/w300-h400/MassageChairsRedNails.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p><b><i><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-large;"> What I found so pleasant, so hypnotic <br /> about her voice was the music of it.</span></i></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">BEGUILING BABBLE</span></b></span></span><br />And this last time, just today, I found myself transported into a new dimension of sensory delight, one of sound. I know, of all places to get lost in sound: a spa.<br /><br />The young lady who administered my pedicure is very good at what she does. And, shall we say, quite easy on the eyes. Maybe it was that my eyes were blissfully closed much of the time, but what my senses kept focusing on was her voice. <br /><br />She talked incessantly for the entire hour. Not to me, but to her counterpart working on Sally’s feet right next to us. I don’t know how she kept it up; aside from her co-worker’s occasional word in edgewise, it was a monologue.<br /><br />That may sound annoying, but I didn’t find it so. They were both speaking Vietnamese, so I couldn’t understand a word of it. And even if it had been English, most of the time my manicurist spoke so softly that I couldn’t have made out much of it anyway. But that wasn’t the point.<br /><br />What I found so pleasant, so beguiling about her voice was <b>the music of it</b>. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #0b5394;"> Vietnamese is a contour tone language, <br /> where two or more accents might occur <br /> in a single syllable.</span> </i></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">CONTOUR TONES</span></b></span></span><br />Vietnamese is a tonal language. That is, it employs varying, often subtle, voice modulations which can lend two identically-spelled words completely different meanings. And those vocal ups and downs start from a significantly higher pitch than the baseline tone we’re accustomed to in English. <br /><br />From that key, the tones jump or slide around, often more dramatically than the tonal variations in English. For example, the basic syllable <i>ma</i> can be pronounced with any of six intonations. *<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRbuYwx_SJ22kXn5AvvWcCFlcnQqAFmrrNDR9WRRpErrsq-GNXSb2wDSUgEFoV627kDHY6JlK7eJFLryfCwZ7chL7ucSUnK9kUIugF0oEgWQDP5BOe3pdkfovpwHZ2modG6vIzOLlWF2CwvaCbsh22q9d-P9gBCDLSNTCz_35lAYcNphh4RUy18S0Gg/s1434/Vietn.Accents-Rtch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1434" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRbuYwx_SJ22kXn5AvvWcCFlcnQqAFmrrNDR9WRRpErrsq-GNXSb2wDSUgEFoV627kDHY6JlK7eJFLryfCwZ7chL7ucSUnK9kUIugF0oEgWQDP5BOe3pdkfovpwHZ2modG6vIzOLlWF2CwvaCbsh22q9d-P9gBCDLSNTCz_35lAYcNphh4RUy18S0Gg/w400-h226/Vietn.Accents-Rtch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Most of the accents give shape to sounds we’re not accustomed to in English. Like the many nasaly tones, and syllables that get suddenly cropped off at the end. <br /><br />There’s also a different rhythm to Vietnamese. English is what is called a stressed-timed language whose syllables vary in spoken length and emphasis, with accentuated syllables occurring at quite regular intervals. Vietnamese is a syllable-timed or contour tone language, where syllables are all the same spoken length and where two or more accents might occur in a single syllable. **<br /><br />My manicurist has a very pleasant, soft-spoken voice to start with. But then hearing it adorned with all these subtleties of her first language turned it into the lilting, hypnotic song I enjoyed while getting my feet done. Another of the many reasons why I’ll be back.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHPxtZeecFQj4sIkDWroGSczYqUNjctMieZ0QTFSeGexCOARzMBDwQncICgF2A0LzJMdjk_Lr2QNwdhLITh8pNP_94lSmI9NXhozKe2CRkQglqRha5t2FcD_aRQgwzfurWwYfiatxa7oyxNpWUQTWv4xTU8h35T9wnnfVJz-MwfPEYidWED9SWnqeQg/s626/Vietnamee-Music.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="179" data-original-width="626" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHPxtZeecFQj4sIkDWroGSczYqUNjctMieZ0QTFSeGexCOARzMBDwQncICgF2A0LzJMdjk_Lr2QNwdhLITh8pNP_94lSmI9NXhozKe2CRkQglqRha5t2FcD_aRQgwzfurWwYfiatxa7oyxNpWUQTWv4xTU8h35T9wnnfVJz-MwfPEYidWED9SWnqeQg/w400-h115/Vietnamee-Music.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>The lesson from all this: Life’s just too rich, too precious, for us not to be fully present. So with any experience, try calling on more than the obvious sense. At <br />the symphony, notice the smells. At dinner, relish the colors. At a hockey game, feel the beat of the pep band. And, yes, at your next salon, barber or massage parlor visit, bask in the sounds.<br /><br />* <a href="https://ling-app.com/vi/vietnamese-tones/">Six Vietnamese Tones</a><br /></p>** <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXHxtpvRacc">Stress-timed vs. Syllable-timed languages</a><br /><br />Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-72519238449215197492023-04-12T12:56:00.003-05:002023-04-12T16:06:10.653-05:00SLIME, SPARKS & SLUDGE – And Other Wonders Grandpa Showed Me<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOanvSzHwPQhNNIal3YuVzPBcvSmOMXy8vDXUJbluEJFoZ8ZoFv-gcDqXGhU8OWUjyrpzfNbjVTuxs4gugNrjqLTIUzq436WfMvE16aOrDM7zyg_CxV_QozLGsfO5gCpXjDKmRm_-BcO06MnptIa2tpUi2iTDt1cA4X-JZ_AJRIzwLW5uLi9JDsYp8w/s864/GrandpaJanssen-Crop.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="722" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOanvSzHwPQhNNIal3YuVzPBcvSmOMXy8vDXUJbluEJFoZ8ZoFv-gcDqXGhU8OWUjyrpzfNbjVTuxs4gugNrjqLTIUzq436WfMvE16aOrDM7zyg_CxV_QozLGsfO5gCpXjDKmRm_-BcO06MnptIa2tpUi2iTDt1cA4X-JZ_AJRIzwLW5uLi9JDsYp8w/s320/GrandpaJanssen-Crop.jpg" width="267" /></a>When Sally asked me recently about my relationship with my grandfather, the first thought that came to mind was that I’d never had much of a relationship with him. He was a very busy man, often traveling for business, and of an age where children were “to be seen and not heard.” I didn’t recall right away having fun with him nor getting much from him in the way of affection. <br /><br />But Sally primed the pump just a bit, reminding me of a memory of Grandpa Janssen I’d once shared with her. Then, as I thought about it, more and more images emerged from remote corners of my mind of ways he opened the doors to wonder for me.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">SLIME TIME</span></b></span></span><br />When I was about ten, Grandpa took me fishing a few times. Before we left home, though, he’d put me in charge of catching our bait. He'd take the garden hose, turn the water on to a low flow, set the end down in the middle of the back yard and instruct me to wait and watch. Sure enough, after about ten minutes, big, fat night crawlers, their digs thoroughly flooded, would emerge, clambering for higher ground.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrEa8kxyBapWCuGe7OkGa37j_qhyeqB4WBpzpvAR7umfGQmdumrMbKo3YYA6tMZKCK1DeXwaZba7cs18VDhhSwyQ2nKsl4i7g18nUKStXrljeDRwOutF8Ls0ulv3c-k4BJ4OZEpuy2hW4CoN53Xf8Lo1AMMjb8Sa3E1_-X0gbFfD255kY12a4z3aD4g/s648/NightCrawler.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdrEa8kxyBapWCuGe7OkGa37j_qhyeqB4WBpzpvAR7umfGQmdumrMbKo3YYA6tMZKCK1DeXwaZba7cs18VDhhSwyQ2nKsl4i7g18nUKStXrljeDRwOutF8Ls0ulv3c-k4BJ4OZEpuy2hW4CoN53Xf8Lo1AMMjb8Sa3E1_-X0gbFfD255kY12a4z3aD4g/w400-h300/NightCrawler.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Nothing’s easy to spot when it’s slithering along the ground under half an inch of water and layers of grass and thatch, but I soon learned to watch for telltale bubbles or movement of the grass. (Little did I realize that it was a test of the same kind of patience I’d need once we started fishing.) <br /><br />By the way, if you try to grab a night crawler before it’s at least 90 percent out of its hole, you’re in for a mighty, slimy tug-of-war. They’re fast, and, to my dismay, some of those muscular varmints would break in two before they’d let go.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvZLMoBa3MTLAkL0tv9CsWAnUW9iGYqvifCwGA8t1mc4MAmPwW0IWUbF0iXA3tck1DfrSYD9RWVcfMPNUdDjItBLyfd06gYNFobNrvcv_-9x8ICivlMSOfcfohDTRLSGaBasDbEpngO9iLIS3lstMO4YY539ihH5cFAYE6sdWuhsSh5pjNiLjwCGmtA/s274/PeonyBud-TimMcCormack.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="268" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvZLMoBa3MTLAkL0tv9CsWAnUW9iGYqvifCwGA8t1mc4MAmPwW0IWUbF0iXA3tck1DfrSYD9RWVcfMPNUdDjItBLyfd06gYNFobNrvcv_-9x8ICivlMSOfcfohDTRLSGaBasDbEpngO9iLIS3lstMO4YY539ihH5cFAYE6sdWuhsSh5pjNiLjwCGmtA/s1600/PeonyBud-TimMcCormack.jpeg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>PHOTO: Tim McCormack</i></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">FLOWER POWER<br /></span></b></span></span>There was a peony bush just outside Grandpa and Grandma’s back door. I barely knew what a peony was—I thought the name was kind of icky, though. I knew they were beautiful and that the flowers smelled amazing, but I needed Grandpa to show me about the plant’s intimate, symbiotic relationship with ants.<br /><br />I could see that each big, dewy bud was crawling with the little critters—black ones, somewhat smaller than carpenter ants. Grandpa explained that the peony buds exude a sweet nectar for the ants in exchange for their defense against harmful insects like aphids.<br /><br />Speaking of plants, my grandparents also had a couple of bleeding heart plants in their garden. One summer evening, Grandpa plucked one of the blossoms and sat me down on the porch steps. He pulled apart the flower and used the various parts—resembling two pink rabbits, two white slippers, a trumpet and, of course, the heart—to illustrate a little fairy tale.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIlYjwDQMT4DB9zfH_zBz0pEOVLNZaU1RRTSrNIWZyX_WJXAgmf2no2L8NNS37beoeoy3sVcs9eWW6PlsmW6nyWg72nj1ddFp9knwxouQdl3eCc7_82u_9GDmVSQKxucw7tzvNcxdwfglKU-i6JEXZg_ziPNyGWyMlMV25teQpCAwSh41j7dW3bZjN5Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiIlYjwDQMT4DB9zfH_zBz0pEOVLNZaU1RRTSrNIWZyX_WJXAgmf2no2L8NNS37beoeoy3sVcs9eWW6PlsmW6nyWg72nj1ddFp9knwxouQdl3eCc7_82u_9GDmVSQKxucw7tzvNcxdwfglKU-i6JEXZg_ziPNyGWyMlMV25teQpCAwSh41j7dW3bZjN5Q=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #e06666;"> I’ve never forgotten those lessons, <br /> and have passed them down to my <br /> own kids and grandkids.</span></i></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br />CHANTS ENCOUNTER</span></b></span></span><br />I used to sneak part-way down the basement stairs to where Grandpa was playing cribbage with a few of his pals. I peered around the corner between balusters. Through a haze of cigar smoke I could see the men sitting around a card table, their faces intent on this beautiful little wooden board riddled with little holes that marched up and back in neat ranks. And in some of those holes, chasing each other around the track, were little pegs, two each in gold, silver and copper.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNSoB5kHFwwrab2yr2pZufjxS0SveqcmHyAZLuWB6-x2iYMKjg0KkHSRQ31EUFJ6Vrfh0f8oCBO53H0oXG2hLYLitjWofH57RixvBUl93QxAn9IMni-LWrxUulVnBQ2raT4v6SkPwffZ8iQ45GYJISpk2fZRfKjemTP5jF3P4pxgiNOL9Ki6aAWhrA4A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="800" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNSoB5kHFwwrab2yr2pZufjxS0SveqcmHyAZLuWB6-x2iYMKjg0KkHSRQ31EUFJ6Vrfh0f8oCBO53H0oXG2hLYLitjWofH57RixvBUl93QxAn9IMni-LWrxUulVnBQ2raT4v6SkPwffZ8iQ45GYJISpk2fZRfKjemTP5jF3P4pxgiNOL9Ki6aAWhrA4A=w400-h255" width="400" /></a></div><br />But what intrigued me most was what the men were saying. It was like some solemn, mystical chant intoned by each in turn: "Fifteen-two, fifteen-four and eight is twelve…and nobs for thirteen<i>.</i>" Apparently each man had fifteens, but the other numbers varied. One man looked kind of disgusted when at his turn he mumbled simply “Nineteen.”<br /><br />At one point, Grandpa spotted me and called me down, where he and the others taught me the basics of the game. I’ve never forgotten those lessons, and have passed them down to my own kids and grandkids. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #e69138;"> When Grandpa presented
Grandma a bag of <br /> the new product, yours truly happily provided <br /> the elbow
grease to test it.</span></i></b><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: medium;">MAKING A POINT</span></b></span><br />Grandpa Janssen’s garage was wonder central. There I soaked up the sights, sounds and smells of all the knowledge a kid could possibly want—and probably would never learn in school. Stacked on shelves and hanging from pegboard was stuff for his blue ’54 Buick; implements for lawn and garden work; tools for every conceivable do-it-yourself task; and coffee cans full of nuts, bolts, screws and nails.<br /><br />And there was the dart board. As with the cribbage, I learned most of what I’ve ever known about darts from Grandpa and his buddies. He was pretty good, and I’m sure he collected on his share of small-change bets. This made a big impression on me, especially given his unorthodox style: he threw his darts underhand.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1zNc-0h4wcWxFMGBKhLjQVWBSazcfNqtjjZg5xeVtbulCMbyF7DL4Y6Faqzs_NtcekZ6JZDDZLY93paHEhqefPDdC3hJfz2dq4v4xqpU5ZyRhvXtt4IIPeoItf0013_0tPzt5wVEQSP7SOjPGvbReWPv0p8Mz2Ne0dsTPGtEJydSpItY3j2dOPcIpCw" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1zNc-0h4wcWxFMGBKhLjQVWBSazcfNqtjjZg5xeVtbulCMbyF7DL4Y6Faqzs_NtcekZ6JZDDZLY93paHEhqefPDdC3hJfz2dq4v4xqpU5ZyRhvXtt4IIPeoItf0013_0tPzt5wVEQSP7SOjPGvbReWPv0p8Mz2Ne0dsTPGtEJydSpItY3j2dOPcIpCw=w320-h181" width="320" /></a></div>Every so often a dart that missed the board or failed to stick would drop to the concrete floor, dulling the point. And Grandpa showed me how to hone it sharp again on his hand-powered grinding wheel.<br /><br />I loved the job so much—especially the shower of sparks it produced—that I’d sometimes grind an eighth of an inch off the point. It wasn’t long before I got busted and, instead of extinguishing the spark of wonder, Grandpa switched me from darts to nails held in a Vice-Grip.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">LIKE BUTTAH</span></b></span></span><br />Grandpa represented the retail grocery industry, both in Minnesota and nationally. This led to his role as Secretary-Manager of the National Margarine Institute. When manufacturers started adding color to the white beef-fat or vegetable-oil based spread, the dairy industry objected, worried about colored “oleo’s” impact on butter sales.<br /><br />The debate led to a compromise: the margarine would still be white, but it would be sold in a clear plastic bag with a little capsule of yellow-orange food coloring. The consumer would pop the capsule and then hand knead the sludge until it resembled the color of butter.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hRL4Pafw5EGclQzLuRbGIjYWJhlwxK-l-HjUBjz7nTuRuwArCEq1Pq-MSfHhcuciPdrxUNu1GmRTeB3WpHGtqRyEOSQZFtwqMbVBVrvrsRi1X1_kk-MQ7dLvxnBbmAIGe7Mn57u5QgKB_Eutes_pXM0v83vAAN6x5A4L4-32Kt9CMjfgbcQJBSzPBQ/s438/OleoPkg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="438" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hRL4Pafw5EGclQzLuRbGIjYWJhlwxK-l-HjUBjz7nTuRuwArCEq1Pq-MSfHhcuciPdrxUNu1GmRTeB3WpHGtqRyEOSQZFtwqMbVBVrvrsRi1X1_kk-MQ7dLvxnBbmAIGe7Mn57u5QgKB_Eutes_pXM0v83vAAN6x5A4L4-32Kt9CMjfgbcQJBSzPBQ/w400-h210/OleoPkg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I’ll bet you knew where this was headed. Indeed, when Grandpa returned from the next convention proudly presenting Grandma a bag of the new product, yours truly happily provided the elbow grease to test it, delighting in how that way-too-dark burst of color first marbled through the margarine and eventually looked good enough to spread on toast.<br /><br />So I’m sorry, Grandpa, for selling you short, for forgetting what a big part you played in my awakening to wonder. Now I remember. Thank you!<br /><br /><b><i>Can you remember how your grandparents—or other adults in your childhood—opened doors of wonder to you? We’d love to hear about it!</i></b><br /><br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-85721333444324750852023-04-05T12:30:00.005-05:002023-04-05T12:44:18.264-05:00A BLIGHT ON THE CERROS – The Blue-mination Of ZihuatanejoSally and I love this charming town on the Pacific coast of Guerrero,
Mexico called Zihuatanejo. Some 15 years ago, having visited nearly all
of Mexico’s coastal resort towns, we found Zihua’s history as a small
fishing village and its apparent commitment to growing in thoughtful,
human-scale ways really appealing.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG4aOSVXtRqst9Hp_f7XTXyjWJO5_BdPTpuLzkNbZvssA6nOL8d-LEsK3uUBwFWepRqoz8wexKdmGPgKRq-y_qNEjY5I1LOlEs6vrmEt7jCXZNVoPjvlXTgE7C_amuHgVYYa10GfoBfv0_8I6lsHCQRPB4aqd17z-WzxLqWrKzfahwpY3VqRo_DMwZmQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="1008" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgG4aOSVXtRqst9Hp_f7XTXyjWJO5_BdPTpuLzkNbZvssA6nOL8d-LEsK3uUBwFWepRqoz8wexKdmGPgKRq-y_qNEjY5I1LOlEs6vrmEt7jCXZNVoPjvlXTgE7C_amuHgVYYa10GfoBfv0_8I6lsHCQRPB4aqd17z-WzxLqWrKzfahwpY3VqRo_DMwZmQ=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br />But since then controversy has grown over the pace and style of development in Zihua. We understand that those issues must be debated and decided by the citizens and their representatives, not tourists. <br /><br />But there’s no denying that this town’s lifeblood is tourism. So when locals weigh the costs and benefits of development decisions made by government officials, we listen. And they should know we listen.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> Another transfiguration has been occurring <br /> in this town that only shows its face at night.</span></i></b></span><br /><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjravAFNJvr6B2uPCqeRIXdtyebY-xaOKo4lVXHUpWf17UkVZ1BJII0VpigMqlzRypQZyy_E9hyWLQbLPTfmlbHTri_Lpu-Ew7OD5tHgDdpld9dvb94L4rHGj9whzLyj-f2GxlvXPaw2VBI6Q-bNdWlYyOTxEMZR3JveR9CwLVPKoIDMQ3IQmy3u-Mi7Q/s2048/TrashyBeach-Magdeleno.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1825" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjravAFNJvr6B2uPCqeRIXdtyebY-xaOKo4lVXHUpWf17UkVZ1BJII0VpigMqlzRypQZyy_E9hyWLQbLPTfmlbHTri_Lpu-Ew7OD5tHgDdpld9dvb94L4rHGj9whzLyj-f2GxlvXPaw2VBI6Q-bNdWlYyOTxEMZR3JveR9CwLVPKoIDMQ3IQmy3u-Mi7Q/w178-h200/TrashyBeach-Magdeleno.jpg" width="178" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">PHOTO: Magdaleno Flores</span></i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Of course, many business people, especially those in the hospitality business, are anxious to see the area grow. Those I’ve spoken with want to discourage the visitors who leave behind more trash than pesos—most of them Mexicans—and attract more affluent guests from abroad. <br /><br />How to accomplish that is where locals differ. Some want to assure that Mexicans, including citizens of Zihua, don’t get steamrollered by politicians’—and their pals’—big ambitions. And that the not so glamorous day-to-day needs of folks who actually live here year-round don’t get ignored.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0B0GeXoThtUy82sdcbFTnJBC7EREeu-dL9cuG784rHn9wLfh8snyC2ADtSwVbJDdtnGcwSSytBhWtRPEd9sJDJAxtcgUuP5K_pniVIa5wC-Y8VGH0H0tLtf23NaWSCOYziFZGFdQQ3piy2Uz1TrqXRop6mYlZhk3qB3UveAPkm9B8EiyZbqTf6hVOxg/s864/PaseoWide.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0B0GeXoThtUy82sdcbFTnJBC7EREeu-dL9cuG784rHn9wLfh8snyC2ADtSwVbJDdtnGcwSSytBhWtRPEd9sJDJAxtcgUuP5K_pniVIa5wC-Y8VGH0H0tLtf23NaWSCOYziFZGFdQQ3piy2Uz1TrqXRop6mYlZhk3qB3UveAPkm9B8EiyZbqTf6hVOxg/w400-h300/PaseoWide.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEja_R3qEvKmXjCIEAH_r7v1A_6Hycv_RuvFkW-kz-hvNX_I3AafT3r6y9pyQHiJu39Jm_SgD4plxwiwP6JWEKsHAz7AZ54vKXgPYj7l9X9dGUgg9IHaxQa5HG6KwnatEWqlEbOPB6FibUn6R57mW6_qO62C-BgZbZOfbXrNsvoBpjiUCuUT1ouk4Q9Sdg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEja_R3qEvKmXjCIEAH_r7v1A_6Hycv_RuvFkW-kz-hvNX_I3AafT3r6y9pyQHiJu39Jm_SgD4plxwiwP6JWEKsHAz7AZ54vKXgPYj7l9X9dGUgg9IHaxQa5HG6KwnatEWqlEbOPB6FibUn6R57mW6_qO62C-BgZbZOfbXrNsvoBpjiUCuUT1ouk4Q9Sdg=w299-h320" width="299" /></a>There are concerns about the spread of shanty neighbor- hoods up the flanks of the <i>cerros</i>, or hills, with no commensurate upgrades to infrastructure. And the removal of mature, healthy trees and swaths of clean, sandy beach to broaden already ample walkways into forty-foot-wide boulevards. <br /><br />Also debated is the pursuit of “Blue Flag” designation for Zihua’s five main beaches—an international standard town officials have adopted, and which many feel imposes unnecessary restrictions on how both visitors and locals can use the beaches.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #38761d;"> Apparently every single person installing <br /> a light in
those hillside neighborhoods has <br /> decided on bulbs that
have no heart.</span></i></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br />HOME FIRES BURNING</span></b></span></span><br />As controversial changes like these have come to see the light of day, another transfiguration has been occurring in this town that only shows its face at night.<br /><br />During our stay this March, as Sally and I dined at some of the cliffside restaurants in La Madera after dark, I observed how much the nightscape—more specifically, the <i>lightscape</i>—has changed in this charming town we’ve come to love. <br /><br />Most restaurants and lodgings along the beaches are illuminated with an inviting glow, a quality of lighting their owners and managers are smart enough to know evokes warmth, safety and comfort—as light in the range of 1,000 to 3,000 on the Kelvin color temperature scale has since our Neanderthal forebears huddled around campfires.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJZHK4iwPGRoW17WDTf7R5VNlPXpqDPZcazev9XjyBZLokogtnBX1SYEOYqZ6a35ajGRqIiKPMDA2CFZ8dmOFiRTocpTEl6WrEnAVGKSvvAGHHVB1MJFs4iXkqoR65QjPrRDUTGYDXrtBFI-y90Qv7NXMeSNb8xDVRQVyXFK23d0XE9z-MDEE7c26yA/s360/ZihuaWarmLightA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="360" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJZHK4iwPGRoW17WDTf7R5VNlPXpqDPZcazev9XjyBZLokogtnBX1SYEOYqZ6a35ajGRqIiKPMDA2CFZ8dmOFiRTocpTEl6WrEnAVGKSvvAGHHVB1MJFs4iXkqoR65QjPrRDUTGYDXrtBFI-y90Qv7NXMeSNb8xDVRQVyXFK23d0XE9z-MDEE7c26yA/w400-h230/ZihuaWarmLightA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>But as the eye starts climbing the cerros that form the backdrop of the town center, the lightscape changes. And not for the better.<br /><br />Maybe folks haven’t noticed; some may not care. But apparently every single person installing or replacing a light in those hillside neighborhoods in recent years has decided on bulbs that have no heart.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #e69138;"> Nice, warm LED lights are just as available <br /> and just as cheap as cold ones.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">INFECTION</span></b></span></span><br />What I’m seeing is that nearly 100 percent of those bulbs are emitting light of around 5,000 Kelvin—what’s billed in the lighting business as akin to daylight. Sounds innocuous enough, but against a backdrop of darkness this rather blueish hue of light looks far from inviting.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE3X2ct_2xSon8AwWgQ6Kffv8vG5wvQFnUUU7JedmQ6O1ngDBDwaekBGToU8xqPal5lbG5TsTIMCZxIA21UrHGK9hdFnmVX7TmB1IBbY4RS89pD0-FftznNQHbgR-0PgKYtoQRAr71VKzLBgsoZKIaQ2MniqFmNzUPJB7KobgUTqFrdIvCKfueb3CyYg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1188" data-original-width="1200" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE3X2ct_2xSon8AwWgQ6Kffv8vG5wvQFnUUU7JedmQ6O1ngDBDwaekBGToU8xqPal5lbG5TsTIMCZxIA21UrHGK9hdFnmVX7TmB1IBbY4RS89pD0-FftznNQHbgR-0PgKYtoQRAr71VKzLBgsoZKIaQ2MniqFmNzUPJB7KobgUTqFrdIvCKfueb3CyYg=w400-h397" width="400" /></a></div><br />It’s the kind of light people choose for one of three reasons. First, because they’re scared. Maybe they figure that, like having a vicious guard dog chained up outside the back door, the more uninviting you can make your lighting, the fewer burglaries you’ll have.<br /><br />Or, they may want it for the same reason some folks choose blue headlights for their cars: as a statement of attitude, a form of intimidation.<br /><br />The third and more likely reason is that the decision isn’t the homeowners’ or landlords’ to make. Maybe it’s city or <i>barrio</i> officials understandably out to save a buck with cheaper LED lighting, who either don’t know or don’t care that nice, warm LED lights are just as available and just as cheap as cold ones.<br /><br />Either way, the pall of cool, lifeless lighting is spreading up the shoulders of the hills behind El Centro like an infection. And I’m now seeing outbreaks of it popping out lower down, including in a few spots along the south end of Playa <br />La Ropa.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #0b5394;"> People don’t come here to see just a small <br /> slice of exactly what we’re seeing in parts <br /> of every big city back home.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: medium;"><b>WHAT WOULD ANDY THINK?</b></span></span><br />While Zihua’s “blue-mination” may be good for the city’s—or some officials’—bottom line, or some <i>Zankas’</i> sense of security, it sure as hell is not good for tourism, the economic lifeblood of this area. Nor, by the way, is it good for people’s health.*<br /><br />Accepting it is a de facto rejection of what visitors consistently say they find so appealing about Zihua, its warmth, its color, its uniquely human scale. People—at least people like me and my wife—don’t come here to see just a small slice of exactly what we’re seeing in the sketchier parts of just about every big city back home.<br /><br />I mean is this the enchanting former fishing village of Zihuatanejo, the magical Eden Andy Dufresne dreamed of in <i>The Shawshank Redemption</i>…or some sketchy alley in Detroit or St. Louis?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPO7kxAxcZd9FTjyTRZJ1EmScFQsKJp9LTdWzCgs4aWSCfFE6EmnG4F-gEWZgsVZQl3l71NGHcbZbCDe2EO2JZiRtb2j8USYx_OKf4c9HhuGloxmClnIdbvvOr-bzJSVGb_KIw7lDAnO77P84nt3Npx6yNfOYuXLquBgC2dcJD3BwUqPTr8iRRbaS_w/s508/DarkAlley-BlueLight.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="508" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPO7kxAxcZd9FTjyTRZJ1EmScFQsKJp9LTdWzCgs4aWSCfFE6EmnG4F-gEWZgsVZQl3l71NGHcbZbCDe2EO2JZiRtb2j8USYx_OKf4c9HhuGloxmClnIdbvvOr-bzJSVGb_KIw7lDAnO77P84nt3Npx6yNfOYuXLquBgC2dcJD3BwUqPTr8iRRbaS_w/w400-h268/DarkAlley-BlueLight.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><i>* Numerous studies have shown that regular exposure to bluish light can stir depression, increase stress and interfere with healthy sleep.</i><br /><br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-32450450441755938082023-04-01T14:26:00.002-05:002023-04-04T11:02:00.766-05:00THROWN BY A CURVE – The Fluid Architecture of Villas San Sebastian<p>As anyone who reads my blogs or Facebook posts knows, Sally and I have a thing for Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico. We’ve been coming here annually—but for a COVID break—for fifteen years now.<br /><br />We love the reliably warm, sunny climate this time of year—a brief, but spectacular respite from the last month of winter back home. We love the colors, the flavors, the language and the kind, gracious, hardworking people who live here. <br /><br />And we love Villas San Sebastian (VSS), our home away from home every March, and where we’ve lodged many of our loved ones when they’ve visited. Our hosts all these years, Luis Valle Rodriguez and his lovely wife Marissa, have become our dear friends.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhniLip2WYGfgmaIAU38f6pnmQDkPip4AvjQ8Sp7b_CKd7tuUArFyXvuYN2gkJBLutvwRVk8_uAd5NZzWNjkncZlGr5x6dwwXr86wd3R0_AYW1FjzhFWjF8y2PVB6qIfHGAwgQb3gM2Y8_IAvRUWZZ7K4cwOSEW-1JIsiXm2eoJRouObM_DyXjIbz9Ywg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhniLip2WYGfgmaIAU38f6pnmQDkPip4AvjQ8Sp7b_CKd7tuUArFyXvuYN2gkJBLutvwRVk8_uAd5NZzWNjkncZlGr5x6dwwXr86wd3R0_AYW1FjzhFWjF8y2PVB6qIfHGAwgQb3gM2Y8_IAvRUWZZ7K4cwOSEW-1JIsiXm2eoJRouObM_DyXjIbz9Ywg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">IXTAPA IT'S NOT</span></b></span></span><br />As vital as the personal relationships are, they aren’t the only reason we find VSS so appealing. There’s also the architecture, the physical and esthetic character of the place.<br /><br />It’s the way these buildings respect and celebrate their breathtaking natural surroundings. All open on at least one side, the villas seem to invite the embrace <br />of Nature—the sounds and smells, the mild Pacific breezes, the spectacular view<br /> of Zihuatanejo Bay. <br /><br />It could not look or feel more different from most of the accommodations in Zihua’s neighbor up the road, Ixtapa, with its rampart of high-rise hotels.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLMMAKVWhZAd_qfNkMGhVSugomLLf7mk5Amn6mESO8jQb4kPyoSWezc1OoFsywbPeYUAEKSlOziXGC_OKTenyyDOx3lHrmJ0iPol1symPEfrek_YkMXjiw9i5_4DllZO7aiRxW72Pf-_O7r6-x-whqc852GRTaB-uO_QdKaEDkVx5dKTnZawOItOJqng" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="780" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLMMAKVWhZAd_qfNkMGhVSugomLLf7mk5Amn6mESO8jQb4kPyoSWezc1OoFsywbPeYUAEKSlOziXGC_OKTenyyDOx3lHrmJ0iPol1symPEfrek_YkMXjiw9i5_4DllZO7aiRxW72Pf-_O7r6-x-whqc852GRTaB-uO_QdKaEDkVx5dKTnZawOItOJqng=w400-h224" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #0b5394;"> It’s really hard to find a sharp, right-<br /> angle corner or edge in whole place.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">HUMAN SCALE</span></b></span></span><br />While many of the higher-end boutique hotels that dot the perimeter of Zihua Bay are doused in gold, salmon, sage, even purple, VSS is not especially colorful; in fact, but for the plantings and some beautiful, decorative tiled floors, everything here is white and off-white. <br /><br />If some buildings make their statement with massive shapes or vibrant color, this complex makes it with form and line and proportion.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeUjXU2N_fANYbhedvbXXpz-jRJ3l13ID7gVniskmqDj0Ki8jMOB9RKy3Z5Oyh4khfnq9ygsCaMKY1sLOWN87MaBuOfMLKeShHdFBEiylAi0xsX-csM-9Dt-ZSMrvFcyUBlgnX1gx47MaYKdps7jO4df_2SlVCUo4gbVmTjdeB7FJJilxsBEHS6zSF-g" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeUjXU2N_fANYbhedvbXXpz-jRJ3l13ID7gVniskmqDj0Ki8jMOB9RKy3Z5Oyh4khfnq9ygsCaMKY1sLOWN87MaBuOfMLKeShHdFBEiylAi0xsX-csM-9Dt-ZSMrvFcyUBlgnX1gx47MaYKdps7jO4df_2SlVCUo4gbVmTjdeB7FJJilxsBEHS6zSF-g" width="320" /></a>The word “organic” gets used to death, but that’s exactly what this architecture is. It’s the comfortable, human scale of the place, the way the villas, each with its own unique layout, stair-step up the steep side of the <i>cerro</i>. Connected by winding stairways and sculpted half-walls, each space flows gracefully into the next. <br /><br />And the details. Everything’s built in as if part of a single work of sculptured stone—counters, sofas, planters, even beds. And nearly everything is curved. I mean it’s really hard to find a sharp, right-angle corner or edge in this whole place. Even stair edges are beautifully rounded off.<br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNfErLDT_UpZxu9OnhHOiAjLlKnhA0Lw0wvgOcatuZxkdPQ01mAKj-DP0YxakUa1rTzHJssg5hcF5NMyGmHLQGxLv7F7lLxsMkxevNKtK0nNIRVQHSCHTFoOzSwT4Fpsp_GCbZE_NPyc4c8P4gS9gr-zYG2mjHWjyJtUdSNl1Y8y_oByqGL8DlLEJaxw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="878" data-original-width="648" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNfErLDT_UpZxu9OnhHOiAjLlKnhA0Lw0wvgOcatuZxkdPQ01mAKj-DP0YxakUa1rTzHJssg5hcF5NMyGmHLQGxLv7F7lLxsMkxevNKtK0nNIRVQHSCHTFoOzSwT4Fpsp_GCbZE_NPyc4c8P4gS9gr-zYG2mjHWjyJtUdSNl1Y8y_oByqGL8DlLEJaxw=w295-h400" width="295" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrrJ47zLsjF-wJExuMagfIOSMMO0PAaOVPQHZDsfpvoxk5TVXpFuV-CckPEpxNJpGAJOvMZow3hm2foxj3OAhN3dWm1R1PmngCFPBR1IEPoyT9yXyuAXoUlLMbz_nDT97CFOoJOzycG0BX4KxEWg8y9gtDU9SQ_uSrwKvQTpxc4315kF9axxm4_dcGEQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrrJ47zLsjF-wJExuMagfIOSMMO0PAaOVPQHZDsfpvoxk5TVXpFuV-CckPEpxNJpGAJOvMZow3hm2foxj3OAhN3dWm1R1PmngCFPBR1IEPoyT9yXyuAXoUlLMbz_nDT97CFOoJOzycG0BX4KxEWg8y9gtDU9SQ_uSrwKvQTpxc4315kF9axxm4_dcGEQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjANgiGGmOcNE5em-ynfjlv9SH_-MqjZfFBV9UmpLeQkzPUl7Xz89pbAMtlIQXDb1ydivKKzubQuzyrFPTM6fEYTMx9hGY7Uv9TInAXcOTX3lVWLYYuXKiVUw5IZ32RHgQZKnTV7Wcoe9GSgNQyf6RWDGF1OntKqX7sxroEJd_P7Ji8jm2b9XTaLB97EQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="864" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjANgiGGmOcNE5em-ynfjlv9SH_-MqjZfFBV9UmpLeQkzPUl7Xz89pbAMtlIQXDb1ydivKKzubQuzyrFPTM6fEYTMx9hGY7Uv9TInAXcOTX3lVWLYYuXKiVUw5IZ32RHgQZKnTV7Wcoe9GSgNQyf6RWDGF1OntKqX7sxroEJd_P7Ji8jm2b9XTaLB97EQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVkHQ0Ty7CskMOwrGwjfrjrIW802YxJV4kE5FY0CABW33OXHBpa8P9UXURzQzxrgZlpF8SGWXa5EDtJYwbLiuIt6u2gBHTZDhP-0BerDUht7qSvM4DztA_qswgEpsC-2VrludoMHmT5kA_QkcpZxrO9uTrie3BC9JOCYVjHM_D6c9c2_-gNAd9CxbsgA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="654" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVkHQ0Ty7CskMOwrGwjfrjrIW802YxJV4kE5FY0CABW33OXHBpa8P9UXURzQzxrgZlpF8SGWXa5EDtJYwbLiuIt6u2gBHTZDhP-0BerDUht7qSvM4DztA_qswgEpsC-2VrludoMHmT5kA_QkcpZxrO9uTrie3BC9JOCYVjHM_D6c9c2_-gNAd9CxbsgA=w303-h400" width="303" /></a></div></div></span></b></span></span> <br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06;"> The place...is so graceful, yet grounded, <br /> so comfortable to both the eye and spirit.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">A COOPERATIVE EFFORT</span></b></span></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTWJ8M7iGASTj3qVwY6q1VFSTQ6ivDDC0ij-xMJ5_Kl9qlFqJjstsBfQ1193Qonv3KJDmnzDZynwtWLIhEmzZ4MkGfTAlabnmdZOT-5E69ELC51rp7KPP6SS2_6uuzLe_8aro-nazteZ9jzDODoHhMcjINE-yUaYWLB6RMrvJbKztNC_P6J6Qg6oFY9w" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="654" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTWJ8M7iGASTj3qVwY6q1VFSTQ6ivDDC0ij-xMJ5_Kl9qlFqJjstsBfQ1193Qonv3KJDmnzDZynwtWLIhEmzZ4MkGfTAlabnmdZOT-5E69ELC51rp7KPP6SS2_6uuzLe_8aro-nazteZ9jzDODoHhMcjINE-yUaYWLB6RMrvJbKztNC_P6J6Qg6oFY9w" width="182" /></a>Owner Valle describes this style as a blend, but it's primarily what’s known as Santa Fe style. Starting with what was originally a very old house, Valle, working with acclaimed architect <span><span class="ll4r2nl dir dir-ltr">Carlos Desormeaux</span></span>, created VSS’s first two villas, with the first guests arriving in 1993. <br /><br />Several other architects, including Hector Palacios, Javier Renteria and Jose Luis Rodriguez have contributed over the years to the gradual addition of ten more units. (And more, including more amenities, are in the works.)<br /><br />But Valle is quick to point out that the design process has been truly a cooperative effort, one fueled by his own aesthetic as well as contributions from his wife, Marissa, and key staff members.<br /><br />There are many qualities that make Villas San Sebastian so appealing: its location, its management and employees, the thoughtful, unobtrusive service. I would keep coming back for those assets alone. <br /><br />But what really sets the place apart for me is the esthetics. So graceful, yet grounded, so comfortable to both the eye and spirit. (And such a good workout climbing down and up some 90 steps to our villa number nine—near the top of the stack—at least once each day.) <br /><br />There are certainly trendier, more luxurious places to stay in Zihuatanejo. But, from our first booking at Villas San Sebastian in 2008, this warm, luscious, highly traditional architecture has captivated us. <br /><br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-57325189327295893162023-03-25T11:48:00.001-05:002023-03-25T11:48:35.205-05:00 DOS ROCAS – My Quest For the Best Margarita in Zihuatanejo<p>Whenever I spend any time in Mexico—or anywhere for that matter—I’m always on a quest for the perfect margarita.<br /><br />I guess I’m spoiled. You see, I’ve come up with a margarita recipe of my own that I like a lot. So when Sally and I are home, no problem. But when I’m out, I hope to find a drink I'll enjoy at least as much as the one I can make at home. Is that too much to ask?<br /><br />Right now I’m in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico once again for our annual month-long stay, and I’ve already had 23 of those days to, shall we say, drink around for this town’s, this year’s, best margarita. Here’s what I’ve found.<br /><br /><i>(I realize how vital reviews can be for restaurants, and that they’re subjective. Even the four-star places get panned now and then by someone who was just having a bad day. Or maybe the restaurant was just having a bad day. So, the only contestant I’ll actually name will be my winner.) </i><br /><br /><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;"> You’ll see me scoping out the nearest <br /> deck edge or potted plant to catch my <br /> jettisoned excess ice.</span></i></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">NICE TRY</span></b></span><br />One might expect, at a super-high-end restaurant, a decent margarita. Right? Well, we’ve dined at two of them here this year, where that cocktail—priced at $220-260 mx ($12-14 usd)—is made, I'd assume, with only the best and freshest ingredients and by an experienced bartender.<br /><br />At both, I got what I expected, a <i>decent</i> margarita; not great. The one at <b>Restaurant A</b> was nicely balanced—maybe just a tad on the sour side; definitely nice, fresh lime flavor; a good, unobtrusive tequila—but something was missing. Maybe it was the proportions; it just tasted a bit flat. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1a-aiI1DbHw0rZZypnUrP6nnWNkydWHDNnfNFQcv0BZCWLmhgJWDy4BcDV2Kgkvk0dRdM_EjYqbXT6DroYjm5lYXiGlp338V4pA3-T_6-r827pn_F90FQmmfbszpgVc1EFqxr1bS6MxCXboPhLCsLt2khayrXBAgFoCc-fMyXLxRz1GCNknG-5HrGQ/s491/MargaritasDarkRtch.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="491" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1a-aiI1DbHw0rZZypnUrP6nnWNkydWHDNnfNFQcv0BZCWLmhgJWDy4BcDV2Kgkvk0dRdM_EjYqbXT6DroYjm5lYXiGlp338V4pA3-T_6-r827pn_F90FQmmfbszpgVc1EFqxr1bS6MxCXboPhLCsLt2khayrXBAgFoCc-fMyXLxRz1GCNknG-5HrGQ/w200-h178/MargaritasDarkRtch.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>Fancy <b>Restaurant B</b>’s margarita, billed on the drink list as the “Best Margarita In the Universe!", was unusually dark in color. It, too, had a nice blending of flavors, but there was a bitter, sort of funky note in there. Like maybe the bartender threw in some foo-foo Bulgarian orange liqueur. <br /><br />This pricey cocktail also violated one of my cardinal rules for margaritas: If I order my drink <i>sin sal</i>—without salt—don’t bring me one where the bartender mistakenly dipped the rim in salt and then, alerted to the error, simply wiped it off. Because I can taste the part that fell into my drink as he did it.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJm0lkRXZEiKKRlNYBu1jB6-8SxiH2mH6dLL2ba1hwrsFOJ139vKzEIUHwOw6P7eG_vdX7Mgj43xHuIMZIsE1CSAgoyWHqtJzli7Om7I9Rlv2GTRjIXDjQeNmSMnQLeJB15iqt0i6h7kDhr8NYd536Gf6GazUhenYwq_0yR3bSsVBCTnz5ceAwHs1xg/s1080/MargaritaTooIcy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="864" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJm0lkRXZEiKKRlNYBu1jB6-8SxiH2mH6dLL2ba1hwrsFOJ139vKzEIUHwOw6P7eG_vdX7Mgj43xHuIMZIsE1CSAgoyWHqtJzli7Om7I9Rlv2GTRjIXDjQeNmSMnQLeJB15iqt0i6h7kDhr8NYd536Gf6GazUhenYwq_0yR3bSsVBCTnz5ceAwHs1xg/w256-h258/MargaritaTooIcy.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p>While I’m at it, here’s another pet peeve: Packing the glass solid with ice may taste good on the bar’s bottom line, but not to a customer who likes his margaritas bold. When I ask for just <i>dos rocas</i>—two ice cubes—it’s because a margarita recipe does not call for a couple of ounces of water, which is exactly what you get—in the tropics, it happens in minutes—when there’s so much more ice than drink. <br /><br />If the portion served over two cubes ends up filling only a third of the glass, at least the place scores a point for honesty. Otherwise, you’ll see me scoping out the nearest deck edge or potted plant to catch my jettisoned excess ice…and then nursing the precious few sips of liquid that are left.<br /><br /><b><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <span style="color: #38761d;">This restaurant’s bartender honors my <br /></span></span></i><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-large;"> dos rocas</span><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"> request and still manages to <br /> give me a nearly full drink.</span></i></span></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: medium;">CRAPPY HOUR</span></b></span><br />The next contestant for <i>Best Margarita in Zihuatanejo, 2023:</i> <b>Restaurant C</b>. <br />Sally and I have this standing joke about this place: What’s worse than a truly abysmal margarita? Two-for-one. I don’t know why I keep trying them, but the margaritas there are just wrong…and have been for years. I guess I keep hoping they’ll change.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVqIn7rB-HWM4Kg20QZK-wrd-neWbv60QtDBZu_22m_SCGEcT91uzb6mj221cwNszsEoh4y_g4i08ZDQj5n0LxORjP6A0HkL5ddtYM_qZq1EkaHNMWg797j0QI4L7QLgB-eANcuzo_tiMv2OwvUgy5dw5R2K3C-KzjiL3zOvJIDeJSZ9blooC5j1HR3A/s768/Margaritas2for1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="768" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVqIn7rB-HWM4Kg20QZK-wrd-neWbv60QtDBZu_22m_SCGEcT91uzb6mj221cwNszsEoh4y_g4i08ZDQj5n0LxORjP6A0HkL5ddtYM_qZq1EkaHNMWg797j0QI4L7QLgB-eANcuzo_tiMv2OwvUgy5dw5R2K3C-KzjiL3zOvJIDeJSZ9blooC5j1HR3A/w400-h225/Margaritas2for1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Heavy on lime and light on orange, the drink’s foundation is obviously a pre-made mix—one that no one's ever bothered to taste. And the tequila responsible for the caustic burn as each sip claws its way down my throat has got be the very cheapest, the very worst, available. So, is that a “no?” It is.<br /><br />Curiously, <b>Restaurant D</b>, just down the street from the booby prize winner, was my winner last year. That 2022 version was outstanding, well balanced, a perfect blend of sweet and tart, and featured a nice tequila that was smooth, yet let you know you were having a cocktail. Add to this the fact that this is a very modestly priced restaurant, and I left anxious to return this year.<br /><br />Alas, this year either the recipe or the bartender—or both—have changed. The margarita isn’t bad at all, just not a champion. But I should add that this restaurant’s bartender—both last year’s and this—honors my <i>dos rocas</i> request and still manages to give me a serious drink.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCIOYSbxfc9FwyEapq0L_rrZ0aBH_ZREAVsQHW80VuBsuwv_E2KkVo_-m0Sk0jqH8OUBtlqsNItUxRJIAPVP_XnIIg-LkkA45bGlaiMpPF-rSFNLPZYBvU79qHkq3P_At8B6oWWyLORqYpeqfxne3aXiza5fnSYEI442k5JUH8XsWhfx5godDH9fbSRg/s709/PizzaSlice.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="709" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCIOYSbxfc9FwyEapq0L_rrZ0aBH_ZREAVsQHW80VuBsuwv_E2KkVo_-m0Sk0jqH8OUBtlqsNItUxRJIAPVP_XnIIg-LkkA45bGlaiMpPF-rSFNLPZYBvU79qHkq3P_At8B6oWWyLORqYpeqfxne3aXiza5fnSYEI442k5JUH8XsWhfx5godDH9fbSRg/w200-h169/PizzaSlice.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>Sneaking into the competition at the last minute is, of all places, a pizza joint. As I’m wrapping up this post, I just went there to order a pizza to go. They said twenty minutes, so I ordered a margarita…you know, just to pass the time. I didn't expect much.<br /><br />Considering my <i>dos rocas</i> rule, it was an honest presentation. The glass had <i>tres rocas</i>—an acceptable margin of error—which resulted in a glass just half full of liquid. Even so, I’m pretty sure it was a double, and <b>Restaurant E</b> proved a contender worthy of <b>Honorable Mention</b>. The most pleasant time I’ve ever spent waiting for a pizza.<br /><b><br /><span style="color: #a64d79; font-family: verdana;">AND THE WINNER IS…</span></b><br />This year’s winner of the <b>One Man's Wonder <i>Best Margarita in Zihuatanejo</i></b> is <b>DANIEL'S</b>, located in El Centro along the Paseo del Pescador. Sally and I met a friend under their <i>palapa</i> for dinner last week. I asked the waiter how their margaritas are. He said, “The best in town.” <i>We’ll see</i>, I thought. <br /><br />My <b>DANIEL'S</b> margarita arrived in a substantial, blue-rimmed, stemmed goblet. There was no salt on the rim nor in the drink; and there were exactly <i>dos rocas</i>.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hYbBhXplGPd_CUld51yihlNju9KcwscXpxjBJKv_7dgHeTVzBypC1rMxjCLilHfq5ZKHGPiDUQBgYKEwEVMKqEwTviKgn-6i_EePszsGruiImhBcZPZdtcKFqXa9Bp2k_jsDj9ncI9PRjKwVO9Keg877BFD4gPel3YvDmobF1edtPZoadMW-xsuHaw/s1500/MargaritaGobletSinSal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hYbBhXplGPd_CUld51yihlNju9KcwscXpxjBJKv_7dgHeTVzBypC1rMxjCLilHfq5ZKHGPiDUQBgYKEwEVMKqEwTviKgn-6i_EePszsGruiImhBcZPZdtcKFqXa9Bp2k_jsDj9ncI9PRjKwVO9Keg877BFD4gPel3YvDmobF1edtPZoadMW-xsuHaw/w400-h266/MargaritaGobletSinSal.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>To this wannabe aficionado’s taste, this cocktail had a perfect balance between sweet and tart; a quality and amount of tequila that I found delicious and satisfying; and the portion didn't look like it had been poured with an eye dropper. The kicker: the slice-of-lime garnish exuded that oily essence of lime that makes only the best margaritas a treat for the nose as well as the palate.<br /><br />The waiter was right. I ordered another. And it wasn’t even two-for one.<br /><br /><i><b>¡Salud!</b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_fD4yfys7lIaHeDu9erTFwowNvocVpwSkRTZaMoAWSQ27T0BYjSpopK0npohE1ATkMMkaU5xae14IkGwpgZxstG7i6RPeCSxDjxPV6EAHRlcTVrMhtxWtPbcp5iQ0op_KZQ3kFar_DYzJs7lPSG9ZZOJcfAUujchjBwY40LpIOuLzfEnJK9is9ghVA/s612/MargaritasToastA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj_fD4yfys7lIaHeDu9erTFwowNvocVpwSkRTZaMoAWSQ27T0BYjSpopK0npohE1ATkMMkaU5xae14IkGwpgZxstG7i6RPeCSxDjxPV6EAHRlcTVrMhtxWtPbcp5iQ0op_KZQ3kFar_DYzJs7lPSG9ZZOJcfAUujchjBwY40LpIOuLzfEnJK9is9ghVA/w400-h266/MargaritasToastA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-21986071825001056622023-03-22T19:44:00.000-05:002023-03-22T19:44:11.662-05:00MAS QUE SALTA A LA VISTA – The Sounds of Zihuatanejo<p>Beautiful Zihuatanejo, this enchanting Pacific Coast town in the Mexican state of Guerrero, inspires a rush of sensory impressions. What always hits me first are the visual ones, the colors, patterns, forms and textures of a place that’s not afraid to flaunt them all. <br /><br />I’ve often likened these visual excitements to a feast for a starving man, and this year, having just escaped a monochromatic, snowier-than-usual Minnesota winter for a while, I’m snarfing down the sights even more eagerly than usual.<br /><br /><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;"> Their embellishment—the weft, if you <br /> will—is an array of softer, more </span></i></b><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;">colorful </span></i></b><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;"><br /> and richly </span></i></b><b><i><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-large;">textured fibers.</span></i></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">HEARD AND NOT SEEN</span></b></span></span><br />But we possess, after all, five senses. I derive great pleasure from exploring them all. So let me feature another with some praise for the winsome <i>sounds</i> of this place. <br /><br />Many are those one might hear in any developed-world town: the chatter of people’s comings and goings, the clack and clang of light industry, the hum of traffic. Sounds I don’t consider especially pleasant. <br /><br />But that’s where the sound tapestry of Zihuatanejo takes a turn to the exotic. If the warp of the cloth, its strength, is those workaday strands of noise, their embellishment—the weft, if you will—is an extraordinary array of softer, more colorful and richly textured fibers. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NzRDpyIjiogKVcdUZUnZK_Gcu--Gl8v2yAF15cYhdlSm7JCbpYY6CDjWnVIZaEehIuq6VQ7kFgwVK3qfd8b-VTYeCUtOm9hmZmb7HHAmXv3uRQk0aNqN_9I0kgmKaYHt4IepO7DvxejN1BJnaqhdlMai6HHiRoYwKWPtAplJk9Ym8YvbluGuMseX1w/s800/WarpWeftC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NzRDpyIjiogKVcdUZUnZK_Gcu--Gl8v2yAF15cYhdlSm7JCbpYY6CDjWnVIZaEehIuq6VQ7kFgwVK3qfd8b-VTYeCUtOm9hmZmb7HHAmXv3uRQk0aNqN_9I0kgmKaYHt4IepO7DvxejN1BJnaqhdlMai6HHiRoYwKWPtAplJk9Ym8YvbluGuMseX1w/w400-h300/WarpWeftC.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1inPS-q02XmSkO7J-lUG2R4dD3W6fewwaHc-oFDt5tV3r-Ybw0uUg6l9FEPYNopmHxNdvnaaqP17hosj5e1gBhrecwtKo7UKRaoZzrU13QUBhuX5jnfZYPKs_V6asUrcGu14ygdLI3oPATEDoLlbNFSmZYdxs7nRxnb9i5k6rhh2YWkdw8cTZdWKHg/s504/IncaDove.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="504" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1inPS-q02XmSkO7J-lUG2R4dD3W6fewwaHc-oFDt5tV3r-Ybw0uUg6l9FEPYNopmHxNdvnaaqP17hosj5e1gBhrecwtKo7UKRaoZzrU13QUBhuX5jnfZYPKs_V6asUrcGu14ygdLI3oPATEDoLlbNFSmZYdxs7nRxnb9i5k6rhh2YWkdw8cTZdWKHg/w200-h198/IncaDove.png" width="200" /></a></div><p> </p><p>The soft breath of the Pacific surf; the shy coos of Inca doves; the haunting little flute ditty of the itinerant knife sharpener; strains of <i>ranchero</i> music animating the work of painters and carpenters.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIsjcoehb9jCnxwS3xGSrIxV6ofM8JbPdnZEwoHw5VFkLT-alflli79-HHvyMOT3S2va1OD-cHl3CEJY9fFC4gM3fKOYAqvEtfuZP0SOOSZx6TkcHrbCOynNPcABs3oNNszBAc5q6lJx_sczt6CG3BNxe8C9Gbo-tMbxVVWH51tHzXvbwGGN8kbp7SQ/s303/Guitarista-SmCropFlop.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="303" data-original-width="297" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtIsjcoehb9jCnxwS3xGSrIxV6ofM8JbPdnZEwoHw5VFkLT-alflli79-HHvyMOT3S2va1OD-cHl3CEJY9fFC4gM3fKOYAqvEtfuZP0SOOSZx6TkcHrbCOynNPcABs3oNNszBAc5q6lJx_sczt6CG3BNxe8C9Gbo-tMbxVVWH51tHzXvbwGGN8kbp7SQ/w196-h200/Guitarista-SmCropFlop.jpeg" width="196" /></a></div> <p></p><p>There’s also the laughter of kids splashing in the surf along Playa La Ropa; the traditional <i>música costeña</i> of strolling musicians; the “Peta, Peta, Peta” call of the young attendant hanging out the door of the rickety bus to Petatlan.<br /><br /><br /><br />And the rustle of palm fronds; the barely perceptible whirr of a ceiling fan; and the bird-like chirps of geckos as they stalk bugs on the ceiling.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZ-KZQrfhHu8ugurfVs4bfl7MUHB9_4rjOS2W5JKWBwGmekmq9v_GmLydEsD3tvbb9IPjEeNra_SZdcDOvldUoSiiwb1kqkSsIZ3Vw1cmbJHnZ_EgTHyPfwxbNwLN9FQkHxg9_aQ2HyL9DyaXHIfG8o40QkJJwj0JM6F6vRIg_yy-lXzZ54g1ZhdNFg/s1800/ClothA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1356" data-original-width="1800" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZ-KZQrfhHu8ugurfVs4bfl7MUHB9_4rjOS2W5JKWBwGmekmq9v_GmLydEsD3tvbb9IPjEeNra_SZdcDOvldUoSiiwb1kqkSsIZ3Vw1cmbJHnZ_EgTHyPfwxbNwLN9FQkHxg9_aQ2HyL9DyaXHIfG8o40QkJJwj0JM6F6vRIg_yy-lXzZ54g1ZhdNFg/w400-h301/ClothA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><span style="color: #38761d;"> Even the Spanish word for German makes <br /> the German word for it sound severe.</span></i></b></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">DEUTSCH IT’S NOT</span></b></span></span><br />And then, of course, there’s the language. <br /><br />My family roots are German. Naturally, offered the choice of just French or German in high school, I took German. I’m sure that made my parents and perhaps the spirits of a few long-gone ancestors very happy.<br /><br />But in my mid-50s I decided I’d been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life, and that “Ich bin ein Fischer” just wouldn’t sound right coming out of that character’s mouth. So I took up Spanish, and have become, if not a great fisherman, a passable <i>hispanohablante</i>.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMI4HqHwAlo5MpLtq3EIeb3lvuaAvCLRAvpEARG-wa4t-KM_Nrbuz2PLlSQD44fHuWDECesQwJi4ktaVDZYnYPbL0rRMXjDGJzDVbuV5zEIuKHBHnNHDYOEWXYpleL4XQVHvE4sIneXYEALkqFpVp6Rqxy-mp33GafHLi_5tn3EkirfnARhUv5lg9CLQ/s864/Mex.FishermanNet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="864" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMI4HqHwAlo5MpLtq3EIeb3lvuaAvCLRAvpEARG-wa4t-KM_Nrbuz2PLlSQD44fHuWDECesQwJi4ktaVDZYnYPbL0rRMXjDGJzDVbuV5zEIuKHBHnNHDYOEWXYpleL4XQVHvE4sIneXYEALkqFpVp6Rqxy-mp33GafHLi_5tn3EkirfnARhUv5lg9CLQ/w400-h296/Mex.FishermanNet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Spanish, with its softer, romance-language color and lilt, is another of those weft strands that make the tapestry of sound here in Zihuatenejo so rich and vibrant. I mean even the Spanish word for German—<i>aleman</i>—makes the German word for it—<i>deutsch</i>—sound severe.<br /><br />So, while I still think of Zihuatanejo’s visual blessings as good enough to eat, I think I’ll digest them wrapped in the fine <i>serape</i> of its audible ones.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilfwOHfzfd6rJT49mttIHJbndkgEA_hS_C5m0wPDbe9QSg4vADQcnILjQotLkvE1nNO9h6RNG8gQbIJSZS_i9PSPpqbYPUAGcybkUb4oSjmopene4MQj34oLyY0bldjkGbqBLYlh27IdyDD9P0W2DfzDlr5uNHkCQCIfVBUyXZoveKD9LxHtpi89HLQ/s864/ManInSerape.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="864" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjilfwOHfzfd6rJT49mttIHJbndkgEA_hS_C5m0wPDbe9QSg4vADQcnILjQotLkvE1nNO9h6RNG8gQbIJSZS_i9PSPpqbYPUAGcybkUb4oSjmopene4MQj34oLyY0bldjkGbqBLYlh27IdyDD9P0W2DfzDlr5uNHkCQCIfVBUyXZoveKD9LxHtpi89HLQ/w400-h266/ManInSerape.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-62183933093422781802023-02-27T16:04:00.000-06:002023-02-27T16:04:34.209-06:00OFF TO MEXICO – Yum-m-m!<p> I'm like a hungry man about to sit down to a hearty four-course meal.
That's how I'm feeling on the eve of what I reckon is my 38th trip to Mexico. <br />
<br />
As beautiful as Minnesota winters can be, they starve us of sensation.
Against this backdrop of bland whites and grays and taupes, we're
challenged to find the sustenance of color in detail and nuance—like a
rosy cheek or a tenacious crabapple. Smells are served unseasoned,
frozen in midair. Sound, too, seems squeezed of its luscious fullness
like dried fruit. Even touch is blunted by layers of nylon, feathers and
fleece.<br />
<br />
In most of Mexico, including Zihuatanejo, Guerrero where I'm headed,
climate and culture collaborate to nourish one with colors, sounds,
smells and flavors. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqcDt19996UQtwXl_Ptq3fX4IoJtHbhhYFxy0z01-Z5PZYLJsSO6-KjExfcnVkigcfO9MSGznl5mk0f5wzJ-23rrlJTAMU391yUss87Vwwkk0BARW2LEt6van8IvcF_xhX1Vgr9ccIOFq/s1600/Z.ColorWalls-JWs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqcDt19996UQtwXl_Ptq3fX4IoJtHbhhYFxy0z01-Z5PZYLJsSO6-KjExfcnVkigcfO9MSGznl5mk0f5wzJ-23rrlJTAMU391yUss87Vwwkk0BARW2LEt6van8IvcF_xhX1Vgr9ccIOFq/s400/Z.ColorWalls-JWs.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
<br />
The colors: a Minnesotan would be dragged before the neighborhood
association for painting his house these vivid shades of pink, blue or
gold. The smells: so often they reveal, where sights may not, the real
life that's going on beyond the sphere of one's sanitized tourist
experience. The tastes: there's nothing dried or preserved about them;
they're fresh and true and sometimes surprising. And the touch, oh, the
caress of that soft, delicious air pouring in over the Pacific!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> The sensations of Mexico stir in me <br /> a subtle sense of urgency. </span></b></i></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgcOsCJc_MgUnfIcJsjm99N8jpvXK7_4sy8tyH91TVuJcuHUU3z_iWnCfSfEkOzjPECvMDDwtoBdtDIAt0fNboMv-r73rDl04H1B_-pZ6kFPqxZ5QoqqdoMSFoTM9k_7PPy1XJRwlCqp0/s1600/Z.DonkeyCart-JWs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgcOsCJc_MgUnfIcJsjm99N8jpvXK7_4sy8tyH91TVuJcuHUU3z_iWnCfSfEkOzjPECvMDDwtoBdtDIAt0fNboMv-r73rDl04H1B_-pZ6kFPqxZ5QoqqdoMSFoTM9k_7PPy1XJRwlCqp0/s400/Z.DonkeyCart-JWs.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
<br />
Maybe that's it; maybe it's the warmth that unlocks both stimuli and
senses. Belying the laid back, unhurried lifestyle, the sensations of
Mexico stir in me a subtle sense of urgency. A mango, for example, just
picked from the tree outside our villa door, is such a beautiful form
just to look at. But no sooner than it begins to blush with full color
you have to eat it or it loses its tang and turns to mush. So many
beautiful things are transient.<br />
<br />
And Zihuatanejo's a place of seamless flow between indoor and outdoor
life. With little notion of that confinement we Minnesotans suffer
during winter, you sense everything going on —in El Centro, down at
Playa La Ropa out on Zihuatanejo Bay—and want to be a part of it all.
But it's okay; anything you do—even nothing at all—feels completely
satisfying, completely nourishing of body and spirit.<br />
</p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-90322064274568433312023-02-13T13:08:00.001-06:002023-02-13T13:08:24.551-06:00SLEEPING AROUND – My Gradual Turn From Back Sleeper to Stomach<p>Ever since my back problems began—sometime in my 40s if memory serves—I’ve heard and read that sleeping in any position other than on one’s back is asking for trouble. And I pretty much heeded that advice.<br /><br />Yet my recurrent back pain persisted, the payback, I assume, for all those years of contact sports—and likely a head butt or two from genetics.<br /><br />By 2013, things were getting pretty bad. It wasn’t just poor sleep; now I was experiencing phantom pain radiating out to my hip and down my leg. Walking more than a hundred yards was too much to bear. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBW9phr8kMxnjiCRxOiIx3w1F5F8RsaDsX_PP2GRG9j3hlefbGJ0otIExCNNL2MyoXSHCj5tCpsObCfVhrQX1eKxi9V0j-7gBmeYR2DeiKygxv-_Dt7NghdJz_IVI3uZyLTHcdNmMQwv9F5HethCmetp0Gnri5p6ENZAjU4JwPq7pLOpzLUtmbUBDxxg/s778/SpineCurveB.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBW9phr8kMxnjiCRxOiIx3w1F5F8RsaDsX_PP2GRG9j3hlefbGJ0otIExCNNL2MyoXSHCj5tCpsObCfVhrQX1eKxi9V0j-7gBmeYR2DeiKygxv-_Dt7NghdJz_IVI3uZyLTHcdNmMQwv9F5HethCmetp0Gnri5p6ENZAjU4JwPq7pLOpzLUtmbUBDxxg/w206-h400/SpineCurveB.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><p>So in 2015 I had surgery at the Mayo Clinic to remove parts of one lumbar disk pressing on a nerve, and to stabilize a few malaligned vertebrae with four three-inch titanium screws. I walked away from that surgery a new man. But, as my surgeon cautioned me, even though I’d be free of the referred hip pain I’d still be a guy with a bad back.<br /><br />After that, back sleeping seemed more sensible than ever. In fact, due to this surgery and a previous fusion in my cervical spine, any other position was quite uncomfortable.<br /><br /><span style="color: #b45f06;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Has something changed with my anatomy? <br /> Or do I just have a screw loose?</span></b></i></span><br /><br /><span style="color: #a64d79;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">DONE TO A TURN</span></span></b></span><br />Flash forward to 2022. For some inexplicable reason, I was starting to wake up quite often during the night with an urgent need to change position from back to side. As the year went along, the trend continued: less time on my back; more on my sides.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM0eWJ3D210Ums0M34bVDoijE89aJtofl4DiQtQAMAC2x0mpGniHqh1Llp_qkjFPgTGF8jWHC0DfX1r-ZeN_-cdLdjSTs2_xR9oXyec0fxMFbyct25rvm6eHir3HKnmm83vgmVBYPS6gjiwXY9RP3NvhKPRuWLV-rhkJyStkY4oErmR1gB-qDHVxJGfw/s1024/Rotisserie.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM0eWJ3D210Ums0M34bVDoijE89aJtofl4DiQtQAMAC2x0mpGniHqh1Llp_qkjFPgTGF8jWHC0DfX1r-ZeN_-cdLdjSTs2_xR9oXyec0fxMFbyct25rvm6eHir3HKnmm83vgmVBYPS6gjiwXY9RP3NvhKPRuWLV-rhkJyStkY4oErmR1gB-qDHVxJGfw/w200-h150/Rotisserie.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>Then, just in the past few months, while I’m still spending most of the night side-sleeping, the “rotisserie” has been turning me another 90 degrees. I now find myself on my stomach several times every night. To my surprise, that’s now become the most comfortable position for me—at least for a few minutes until that yearn to turn sets in again.<br /><br />I’m baffled. Has something changed with my anatomy? Is it my mattress going soft on me? Or do I just have a screw loose? What do you think? We'd love to hear of your tossings and turnings.<br /><br /></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-86841902385835946292023-02-08T23:01:00.000-06:002023-02-08T23:01:24.427-06:00ON THE LEVEL – The Truth About Cross-country Skiing<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNU3x6y0PhluoY1SyMph9mYLqkM2gmq14T4ijaguQGNMYE3oT37v9aeo-J049nEwv7nYVEgQ1dns8hXqbg7fqo3HtxH3pDE4bDmdpJxKKidcIFVh8AClWwC1ZvZN1_hkzxzgEOQ8nTy0l35EPHHs5q_hNKD1jugtWetaPRE3UcBQJQf1xnmch15KG0XQ" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="550" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiNU3x6y0PhluoY1SyMph9mYLqkM2gmq14T4ijaguQGNMYE3oT37v9aeo-J049nEwv7nYVEgQ1dns8hXqbg7fqo3HtxH3pDE4bDmdpJxKKidcIFVh8AClWwC1ZvZN1_hkzxzgEOQ8nTy0l35EPHHs5q_hNKD1jugtWetaPRE3UcBQJQf1xnmch15KG0XQ=w184-h200" width="184" /></a>One of my all-time favorite posters—one I saw 40 years ago and can no longer find—depicted a little Viking gnome character on skis. We see him in profile, knees bent, leaning forward at the waist, poles planted. <br /><br />He’s the picture of concentration and resolve, ready for action.<br /><br />But the ground the little skier stands on is depicted by a prominent horizontal line across the bottom of the scene. Except at one point where just the tips of his skis hang out over a moderately steep, one-foot drop-off.<br /><br />The headline reads: <b><i>Ski Minnesota!</i></b><br /><span style="color: #a64d79;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />GRAVITY, SCHMAVITY</span></span></b></span><br />The problem with alpine—downhill—skiing in Minnesota is that there’s just too much gravity and no place for it to go. For a decent run, you need at least 500 feet of vertical drop, which very few slopes in the state have. (By comparison, better ski resorts in Vermont boast of a couple thousand feet of drop; in the Canadian and U.S. Rockies, some have nearly a vertical mile.)<br /><br />That’s just one of the reasons I love Nordic—cross-country—skiing. You don’t need no stinking’ mountain. And there are also the facts that it’s kinder to one’s body, costs far less and provides its own kind of patient, level-headed beauty. <br /><br />In downhill ninety-five percent of the effort goes into controlling the force of gravity. In cross-country, nearly all your energy’s devoted to creating your own force, propelling yourself, mostly horizontally, from point A to point B. <br /><br />It’s like the difference between skydiving and flying, white-water rafting and lake canoeing, an eagle and a swan.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY-vRqj-tZKZhVWdTVgMFOFzh39qQLYZNq1HGK4jrqAU_Q2vYYHg-R2x1YU72l7Jpfw_pVKJd7scspYl8X3s-cAzlHXk9X_j8n_0O471P11cY-UJ5QXd8ofx9z7V2PAnuubOq-w0vkbvy9bTaXDja4IzCEZNGT56MUEjqobMWjsCUTCaradO-QlfJRQQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY-vRqj-tZKZhVWdTVgMFOFzh39qQLYZNq1HGK4jrqAU_Q2vYYHg-R2x1YU72l7Jpfw_pVKJd7scspYl8X3s-cAzlHXk9X_j8n_0O471P11cY-UJ5QXd8ofx9z7V2PAnuubOq-w0vkbvy9bTaXDja4IzCEZNGT56MUEjqobMWjsCUTCaradO-QlfJRQQ=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>GET A GRIP</b></span></span></span><br />Alpine skis are designed essentially to do two things: slide on snow with as little friction as possible, and carve turns. Nordic skis—specifically classic-style cross-country skis—also have to glide, but only in one direction. They employ one of several devices to make them slide forward easily, but grip going backward. <br /><br />That grip is achieved in one of several ways: One is the application of special waxes, each formulated to grab the snow under certain temperature and snow texture conditions. There are also a couple of mechanical devices to accomplish the same grip-and-glide. They entail either a fish-scale texture embossed into the middle third of the skis’ bottoms, or “skins,” strips of real or synthetic mohair, which has a distinct grain.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib44x-h6httcQZ9Na-S859pTul3sIKP-u7fPujqm8ffBW0hzYCSdn08uWJC9EMP5SjgiglQaRfymnZmpWu_yBXgwhrc6hZzFb5A0VCf_87MDo8EaT0ZRsOX5VTMn_cFMnquFbwpJT9AFBgzlvlKyQSdBdWZLswav1PacCObwaWTXKE1t7caDZRkf6snQ" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="425" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib44x-h6httcQZ9Na-S859pTul3sIKP-u7fPujqm8ffBW0hzYCSdn08uWJC9EMP5SjgiglQaRfymnZmpWu_yBXgwhrc6hZzFb5A0VCf_87MDo8EaT0ZRsOX5VTMn_cFMnquFbwpJT9AFBgzlvlKyQSdBdWZLswav1PacCObwaWTXKE1t7caDZRkf6snQ=w200-h200" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1ZSIJvCQL-stG9BxNUL24niR6RyGZD2aJCcTVUk4PWIZQaob8qT8-7-Mp-soTvQkvmV6wYr5EJiZSixiohNXK9NOqsZC9648Iss35UlwChToWKHMXYT5gLAet3Ep_vuaFkt6ixCAX659voEPRZ6HKw-TIVMjgB6j8jdxsKPoWFyAa_5XiO9p-49iBVw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="411" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1ZSIJvCQL-stG9BxNUL24niR6RyGZD2aJCcTVUk4PWIZQaob8qT8-7-Mp-soTvQkvmV6wYr5EJiZSixiohNXK9NOqsZC9648Iss35UlwChToWKHMXYT5gLAet3Ep_vuaFkt6ixCAX659voEPRZ6HKw-TIVMjgB6j8jdxsKPoWFyAa_5XiO9p-49iBVw=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div></div><p></p><p>For a classic-style cross-country skier the motion is very much like that of walking; there are distinct strides. As you extend one ski in front of you, you transfer your weight to the other ski and push it back. To maximize the amount of grip you get on the snow with that pushing ski, you add a downward force with a subtle stomp or “kick” off the toe of your boot. That makes whatever grip device you’re using bite into the snow.<br /><br />That constant heel-toe alternation means cross-country ski boots have to be very different from the rigid, cast-like grip of alpine boots. Cross-country boots are much lighter and more flexible, their only point of attachment to the skis at the <br />very toe.</p><p><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b> Cross-country’s more constant, repetitive nature <br /> allows one to escape into the rhythms of one’s <br /> own breathing and heartbeat.</b></i></span></span><br /> <span style="color: #a64d79;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />RHYTHM METHOD</span></span></b></span><br />Downhill skiing employs the large muscles of the thighs and buttocks primarily as shock absorbers. There are G forces involved. And the poles are used mostly for balance and pivoting.<br /><br />But classic-style Nordic skiing actually employs more muscle groups and burns more calories than downhill.* One reason for this is that the poles, driven by one’s arms and shoulders, are vital to providing propulsion with every stride. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFl6_3GIMSoCX6kAwhu_pXsqKASOqIw5PXdvn6EXg5gZeOowNS1XqbYPgmmhiDCK7THp559a8NS5rioy3lUAQnancUa0KUtpeJ63TTj7EJP0rsCtusorekcbKJN4VnHAe_l_Mhir8ZX6VKcjHHFlB_Vf2X0C4oD8Ee9iGCNGBniNpLJ4kd11Or4ic0-Q/s1200/XC-ColdFace.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1200" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFl6_3GIMSoCX6kAwhu_pXsqKASOqIw5PXdvn6EXg5gZeOowNS1XqbYPgmmhiDCK7THp559a8NS5rioy3lUAQnancUa0KUtpeJ63TTj7EJP0rsCtusorekcbKJN4VnHAe_l_Mhir8ZX6VKcjHHFlB_Vf2X0C4oD8Ee9iGCNGBniNpLJ4kd11Or4ic0-Q/w200-h199/XC-ColdFace.jpg" width="200" /></a>Besides the physical aspects of the two types of skiing, there are important mental/spiritual differences. While alpine skiing may give one more of an adrenaline rush, Nordic skiing’s benefit, the regular pulse of push and glide, and the whispery sounds, is more of a meditative or spiritual one. <br /><br />Skiing downhill, you’re constantly navigating around obstacles and changes in terrain. Cross-country’s more constant, repetitive nature allows one to escape into the rhythms of one’s own breathing and heartbeat. <br /><br />The older I get, the brittler my bones, the more I love the sport’s serenity. There’s nothing quite like the sense of oneness with one’s body and with Nature when you’ve skied far ahead of your group and stop to wait for them. You feel fully alive, in perfect balance, fully immersed in wonder.<br /><br /><span style="color: #a64d79;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A GOOD WINTER</span></span></b></span> <br />If the trail is groomed, you have nice, neat grooves to guide those long, narrow skis. So most hills are a breeze, at least going down. But if there happens to be a tight curve at the bottom, or if, God forbid, folks have decided your ski track is a nice place to snowshoe or walk their St. Bernard, all bets are off. If you’re out of practice, your skis can easily jump the tracks and send you careening into the woods.<br /><br />If there are no groomed tracks, you have to break trail, and that’s a whole different animal. Kind of a combination between skiing and snowshoeing, it’s a challenge to one’s stamina, balance and patience. But the reward is knowing that each subsequent skier who comes along will benefit from your labors.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbYDytHnjS5VnB_XSgR8PkKco4IbKrNSLpqvRu-eGrsPi0os35I1kLSd5hgDJP5oNC7wb-y5RGx1x7D86TWQoAZ4hBKg1BG166YYduA4zQB8hX_LbN9PfJWsDSuoJQErrcbTK4BtG5ljJ4KrIHg8KDFWw_F9eHC5el2hMHJlt2OpIK9L0hZ1NCENV8Bg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1320" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbYDytHnjS5VnB_XSgR8PkKco4IbKrNSLpqvRu-eGrsPi0os35I1kLSd5hgDJP5oNC7wb-y5RGx1x7D86TWQoAZ4hBKg1BG166YYduA4zQB8hX_LbN9PfJWsDSuoJQErrcbTK4BtG5ljJ4KrIHg8KDFWw_F9eHC5el2hMHJlt2OpIK9L0hZ1NCENV8Bg=w400-h250" width="400" /></a></div><br />It’s all part of sport of Nordic—cross-country—skiing. If you haven’t tried it this is a good winter for it, at least here in Minnesota. With over a foot of accumulated base and an inch or two of new snow every few days, and very few below-zero days, conditions have been ideal. <br /><br />If you’re ready to jump—or should I say slide—in, local ski shops should be discounting their cross-country ski gear soon. If you’re not ready, equipment’s available to rent at many ski areas, public parks and ski shops. Either way, <i><b>I hope to see you out there soon!</b></i><br /><br />* <i>DOWNHILL SKIING – A person weighing 150 pounds can expect to burn 360-570 calories in an hour of skiing. Downhill can be an intense workout for your core and legs, especially as you hit moguls, deeper powder, or jumps.<br />CROSS-COUNTRY SKIING – A 150-pound person will burn 500-650 calories per hour. Cross-country is a slow but constant burn, keeping your body working every step of the way.<br /><br /></i>“Downhill vs. Cross Country: The Ski-Booted Battle” – by Brian Hanford, Nov. 30, 2015 – EatFitFuel.com<i><br /></i><br /><p></p><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037880479077170696.post-19342704678331137432023-01-25T22:41:00.000-06:002023-01-25T22:41:37.758-06:00RED FELT SLIPPERS<p>Marie (not her real name) is in the bathroom when I arrive for my weekly visit. The door’s open, so I peer cautiously around the door frame. There she is, rocking slowly back and forth in her wheelchair, bumping repeatedly against the full-length mirror on the wall.<br /><br />I announce my presence and ask if she’d like to come out and have a chat. With her usual positive intonation, she replies, “Oh, my, yes!”<br /><br />Marie is a nursing home resident I visit as a volunteer. I’ve been seeing her every Thursday morning for over a month now. She’s a lovely person. Bright, sociable, interested in people and the world. <br /><br />Oh, and she’s 107 years old.</p><p><span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b> I explain that I can play virtually any <br /> music from any era, and ask her what <br /> she’d like to hear.</b></i></span></span><br /><br />Marie needs hearing aids in both ears. But one’s gotten lost, so I have to sit facing her right side and speak quite loudly so she can hear me. <br /><br />We’ve settled into a nice routine which Marie seems to like: first, we just chat for a while. Then, since I know she used to love reading the newspaper every morning, but now can barely make out the headlines, I read her a few articles from that morning’s Minneapolis <i>Star Tribune</i>.<br /><br />By that time, after nearly shouting for half an hour, my voice has given out. So from my tote bag full of activity gear I pull out my compact, Bluetooth speaker and open Spotify on my phone. I explain that I can play virtually any music from any era, and ask her what she’d like to hear.<br /><br /><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>THE LIGHT FANTASTIC</b></span></span></span><br />As I’m navigating to a Frank Sinatra playlist, I idly ask her what were some of her favorite pastimes in her prime. Without hesitation she replies, “Dancing!” And then adds, almost under her breath, “…until my injuries put an end to that.”<br /><br />I decide not to pursue something that must have been so painful for her. But I switch my music selection from Ol’ Blue Eyes to some big band favorites. You know, the Glenn Miller, the Duke Ellington, the Tommy Dorsey. I play it a bit louder than I would for myself.<br /><br />At first, Marie's staring kind of distantly as the music plays. But then her eyes close and her head nods forward. Well, I figure, I guess I’ve lost her…but that’s okay.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN1BMWFBi544iHPwCGy3BzAE5X3c6pyEWiEAnXKwABfhI1QjmqwK12zStfoRP1F5e7IBWsrg27Va-P4OseYKyESHSQtS9xLfyxE7Mpi3la_5Nx7jmi5dHTtW9wAECWcO7fOEkCczNFYRT7YZu4_KEA3L-20U-7eT5vNaVQAQWTux4BjKA35zZqwJZ60A" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="258" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN1BMWFBi544iHPwCGy3BzAE5X3c6pyEWiEAnXKwABfhI1QjmqwK12zStfoRP1F5e7IBWsrg27Va-P4OseYKyESHSQtS9xLfyxE7Mpi3la_5Nx7jmi5dHTtW9wAECWcO7fOEkCczNFYRT7YZu4_KEA3L-20U-7eT5vNaVQAQWTux4BjKA35zZqwJZ60A=w200-h173" width="200" /></a><i>In the Mood</i> ends and Artie Shaw’s <i>Dancing In the Dark</i> starts playing. I happen to lower my eyes to the floor and see that Marie’s feet, adorned in red felt slippers, are moving to the music—one at a time, forward and back, side to side.<br /><br />When it’s time for me to go I take Marie’s hand in mine, lean down toward her right ear and say “You haven’t lost a step.” I‘m not sure if she knows what I mean, but I detect a little smile that starts in her eyes and spreads like a blush across her face.<br /><br />You can bet I’ll be dancing with Marie again next week.<br /><p></p>Jeffrey Williushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02748080134354732541noreply@blogger.com2