War Torn

When we stayed in France for three months in 2007, we lived in a tiny village that had been invaded during WWII, and our apartment and the school that John attended had been some of the buildings taken over by the invading troops.
It was a surreal feeling wandering those ancient streets, passing by the 13th Century church that still has daily services, and greeting the residents; many who were sure to remember war in their town.
Living in a place with people who remember war at their door
is a sobering experience.
Visiting The Netherlands, we discovered a country filled with beautiful canals, spectacular art, and wonderous tulips.  It was also the home of Anne Frank, and touring her home was heartbreaking.
We have our home in the southwest; where the descendents of so many Native Americans struggle and strive to remember the ways of their repressed ancestors, where many elders still remember the Indian Schools that forced them to cut their hair, denied them the use of their languages, and attempted to "civilize" them.
And now we visit Nicaragua, remembered for the 1979 Sandinista Revolution.  We toured a museum yesterday, with a guide who gave one version of the war, while we were painfully aware of the other side of that fight.  The city no longer has a central downtown area, following a major earthquake in 1972, and without a "center-point", I am disoriented being in a city so tough to get my bearings.  Roads wind around residential neighborhoods, passing modern malls, within blocks of street vendors.  Horse-drawn carts are common.  We visited the immigration offices while our host had business, and were able to sit and observe well-dressed families, waiting to complete their tasks; with children playing and running in the cool, shaded courtyard, while under the watchful eye of their families.  There is a definite rush to the streets, but at the government offices, people seemed relaxed.  Nicaragua, like Mexico, (and like New Mexico), is a land of manana.
Time and the idea of appointments are relative. 
And the memory of war is fresh.  Managua is surrounded by still-active volcanos, it is a Capital city with no central point, but rather - is one big heart.  Nicaragua is second to Hati in poverty, but the citizens are family-oriented, and strive to survive.

Ready, Go! #15

I cry at
Hallmark commercials.
Weddings.
Kitten videos.
Funerals.
And graduations:

Happy faces, thoughtful speeches, surrounded by students and their families and friends who are all filled with wonder and excitement for
What
Will
Be.

Off The Island

Last night I got kicked off Facebook,
and subsequently, Instagram.
I had shared a promotional video for a local school, and tagged several alumni in the comments section.
I'm not sure if someone flagged it as spam, or the Facebook gods saw something they didn't like, but instantly I was out; unable to log in.

I went through several stages of grief...

And now I'm at the Orange Zone.
Yes, I can establish new FB and Instagram accounts, but...
Do I Want To?

Will I miss cat videos? Yes.
Bad puns? Yes.
But will I be OK?  Yes.

If I say goodbye to Facebook,
what's in it for me?

Time.
Time no longer wasted; sitting, unmoving, plugged in to the nearest outlet, curled up tight, like a well-armored, slow-moving armadillo avoiding a hungry coyote.

Comfort.
Comfort of moving around, not straining my eyeballs at a tiny, bright white screen.  Comfort of not holding a hot little phone clenched in my numb fingers.  Comfort of holding my head in an upright position, and noticing the world around me.

Freedom.
Freedom to ride my bike, clean my house, putter in my garden, ski down a glorious mountain, go for a roadtrip,
WRITE.

Will I miss
"Liking" and
"Commenting" and
"Emoji-ing"?
I'll be OK.

I'll miss you all.
But we are all still here.

Email me, or call me if you'd like.
Or comment through Blogger.

Ginger Cake

So many spices swirl in autumn.

Every Monday through Friday, 

I meditate to several smells;

filling my senses, as I warm my hands 

with a daily cup of chai tea

before work.

The spices in chai range from Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India, Viet Nam, and Madagascar.  I can only imagine 

harvesting these crops at far-away farms.

Freshly grated ginger, seems the most fulfilling:

It is fruity, almost a cross of lemon and orange, and yet spicy...

It's smell, more than any of the others,

clears my breathing,

and the taste consistently

tingles on my tongue.

About once a year or so,

John bakes a ginger cake from scratch,

for the students who travel 

from all over the world, 

to the private art school 

where he teaches.

He's baking another tonight.

All of the spices,

(much like chai tea),

have traveled from spectacular

corners of the world.

Autumn is a time of change;

a time to release,

a time to begin to seek light 

as the skies darken sooner,

and a time to appreciate

tastes and scents we can only know from farmers far away.

What I Did This Summer

I went for a walk
with John and a friend
and her dog, Luka,
this past weekend.
And we discussed:
"What would you do,
if you re-started your life"?
Swim more.
Write more.
Build a business around Feldenkrais.
Explore more...
So after going for a swim this morning,
after heeding advice;
I'm writing more
"Me Stories"
here, and on Facebook.
And this morning,
I'm also uncovering
Oliver,
my typewriter.

Can I send you
a type-written creation?
Private message me
your address,
and I will!

Near My Heart

When I was 10, I was thrilled to become a horse owner.
Shadow WAS a shadow;
following me around the pasture whenever I checked the fences,
nuzzling the back pockets of the gentleman who trimmed his hooves,
and being constantly gentle and curious around me and my friends as I  cared for him, and learned to ride.
Shadow was with me for 32 years,
and when he died, I saved some of his long tail hair.  He was like most Appaloosas; with a white rump with dark spots, and the rest of his coat shifted from a blonde palmino hue to gray, but his mane and tail always had several shades of brown and gray and blonde; a virtual rainbow of horse colors.
Just recently I found an artisan in Colorado who is a woodworker, she fashions horse-hair tassels into necklaces that are works of art.
And Shadow is next to my heart, again.

For more information:

Oliogoods.com