Man's (sic) life is like a drop of dew on a leaf.
- Socrates
return to daily headspa
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
my personal 9-11 trivia
On the day, I ate breakfast at my kitchen table in Cleveland. The table was a family antique; I had brought it up from Orlando when I separated from my husband and set up my own, new life in Ohio. I wish I could remember what I ate.
The next year, on the anniversary, I woke up and opened the door of the little homemade cabin on a tiny rock island off the coast of Vancouver Island, BC and smelled the Pacific ocean, just a few steps away. I'd found the vacation rental on the internet. A friend had asked, after I'd paid the full payment and not just a deposit, sight unseen, "But how do you know it really exists?" It did and I wrote in the guest book about 9/11.
Another year I stood in the wind looking at the Irish Sea, my feet sinking into the white sand of a small Scottish island.
The next year after that, the person I changed my life with the same year we all realized, like so many people in the world had been forced to know before us, that life is short - well, we were each tethered to an ipod, a dual jack with two sets of headphones. We listened to Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising" and marveled at the way the central Australian desert hills looked like a cityscape, but rounded.
This year, I woke up and made a cup of tea. Organic English breakfast tea, the same tea I drink every morning. I wrote my morning pages. Later I might plant those snake beans someone gave me a couple of days ago. Some gardening would be good.
And at 11:00 a.m., I'll bring some people together for a meeting. A simple lease will be signed, but it's the parties to the lease that have me reflecting this morning. We'll be there, the representatives of the non-aboriginal church. And they will be there, the representatives of the aboriginal corporation. They will sign a lease to use a building on land that was theirs. We will accept their payment for the use of a building that we built on land that was theirs. The terms are generous, well beyond fair and yet. and yet. There is still an element of us and them and a sad inherent irony. My 9-11 anniversary hope is that somehow this is "power over" inching its way towards shared empowerment.
The next year, on the anniversary, I woke up and opened the door of the little homemade cabin on a tiny rock island off the coast of Vancouver Island, BC and smelled the Pacific ocean, just a few steps away. I'd found the vacation rental on the internet. A friend had asked, after I'd paid the full payment and not just a deposit, sight unseen, "But how do you know it really exists?" It did and I wrote in the guest book about 9/11.
Another year I stood in the wind looking at the Irish Sea, my feet sinking into the white sand of a small Scottish island.
The next year after that, the person I changed my life with the same year we all realized, like so many people in the world had been forced to know before us, that life is short - well, we were each tethered to an ipod, a dual jack with two sets of headphones. We listened to Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising" and marveled at the way the central Australian desert hills looked like a cityscape, but rounded.
This year, I woke up and made a cup of tea. Organic English breakfast tea, the same tea I drink every morning. I wrote my morning pages. Later I might plant those snake beans someone gave me a couple of days ago. Some gardening would be good.
And at 11:00 a.m., I'll bring some people together for a meeting. A simple lease will be signed, but it's the parties to the lease that have me reflecting this morning. We'll be there, the representatives of the non-aboriginal church. And they will be there, the representatives of the aboriginal corporation. They will sign a lease to use a building on land that was theirs. We will accept their payment for the use of a building that we built on land that was theirs. The terms are generous, well beyond fair and yet. and yet. There is still an element of us and them and a sad inherent irony. My 9-11 anniversary hope is that somehow this is "power over" inching its way towards shared empowerment.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Happy B'day, PA Lutes
We're talking about trivia on daily headspa so here's a little family trivia.
My grandfather, my mother's dad, was born on September 9, 1909. He didn't live to celebrate this special birthday, but we remember him.
Philip Arthur Lutes, here's to ya.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Routines I have loved
Routine is our topic for this week on daily headspa. I have a love/hate relationship with routine. Some routines make me feel safe and productive. Some make me feel trapped and like a stupid fool who can’t get off the wheel, out of the cage, out of her own head.
And some routines I have truly loved.
I loved the routine of my dad waking me up at 5:30 in the morning every day during my last year of high school so we could go for a run together. I didn’t act like I loved it then, I was down right mean and ornery on those mornings until after the run with the endorphins had kicked in (and I had run circles around the old man). But now that he’s gone and my knees are gone, I look back on that time as one of my favorites.
I loved the routine of washing dishes in the kitchen at Iona. Keeping my hands going while the conversations rambled and ranged from sex to politics to faith to someone’s grandmother’s black forest cake recipe. I loved the routine of calling up the suppliers to the “wee island,” having to chat for a while before placing the order; getting to know the women and men on the other end of the line slowly through a bit of banter and talk about the weather and the ferry crossings.
And right now I love the routine of evenings here in Darwin, when the sun finally stops strangling all of us, dropping us into a breezy patch of shade where we can sigh a survivor’s sigh, “Whew, made it,” and celebrate the fact that our hearts didn’t explode nor our eyeballs pop out in the heat of the day.
Although I would still say that I prefer adventure to routine, these are some of the routines that give life rather than suck it dry. And for that, I am routinely grateful.
And some routines I have truly loved.
I loved the routine of my dad waking me up at 5:30 in the morning every day during my last year of high school so we could go for a run together. I didn’t act like I loved it then, I was down right mean and ornery on those mornings until after the run with the endorphins had kicked in (and I had run circles around the old man). But now that he’s gone and my knees are gone, I look back on that time as one of my favorites.
I loved the routine of washing dishes in the kitchen at Iona. Keeping my hands going while the conversations rambled and ranged from sex to politics to faith to someone’s grandmother’s black forest cake recipe. I loved the routine of calling up the suppliers to the “wee island,” having to chat for a while before placing the order; getting to know the women and men on the other end of the line slowly through a bit of banter and talk about the weather and the ferry crossings.
And right now I love the routine of evenings here in Darwin, when the sun finally stops strangling all of us, dropping us into a breezy patch of shade where we can sigh a survivor’s sigh, “Whew, made it,” and celebrate the fact that our hearts didn’t explode nor our eyeballs pop out in the heat of the day.
Although I would still say that I prefer adventure to routine, these are some of the routines that give life rather than suck it dry. And for that, I am routinely grateful.
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