Now the holidays are over, and I've got to do all the things I put off for after the holidays! There are two people I promised to fix suppers for, poems to write and send out, and several events. Tonight is Tebot Bach, and I am going to fix and donate some cookie bars to make up for not being able to donate generously to the organization. Sunday is a birthday potluck where I have been requested to make double portions of my savory pie, one of those tomato gallettes I made before and also a mushroom pie to go along with it. I might end up making two tomato gallettes instead since I found lovely heirloom tomatoes at the farmer's market.
I am also studying up on copy-editing, since that's the next direction I'll be looking for work. I am not such a wonderful speller though. That worries me.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
End of Day Reflection
For a day during which we are supposed to reflect on our failings or what we are owed from others in the way of apologies, it was a very very busy time. I was with the choir or the congregation every second, not like usual, when I have time to do some yoga or sit quietly in some forgotten corner.
But I enjoyed the day all the same, particularly the talk by the 103 year old psychotherapist, Hedda Bolger. She was totally amazing.
It wasn't just that she was 103, or that she still practices her profession 4 days per week and teaches on the 5th, though that was something, since she evidently loves doing her work. It was that she is still learning, that she sees no reason to stop doing that and that she spoke about people from her past I have only read about, like Annie Besant and Krishnamurti. Fascinating.
When asked what was her favorite moment in her life, she said, "Right now." We should all be that eager to live.
But I enjoyed the day all the same, particularly the talk by the 103 year old psychotherapist, Hedda Bolger. She was totally amazing.
It wasn't just that she was 103, or that she still practices her profession 4 days per week and teaches on the 5th, though that was something, since she evidently loves doing her work. It was that she is still learning, that she sees no reason to stop doing that and that she spoke about people from her past I have only read about, like Annie Besant and Krishnamurti. Fascinating.
When asked what was her favorite moment in her life, she said, "Right now." We should all be that eager to live.
Finding What's Lost
It's Yom Kippur again today. For those who aren't sure or just don't know, that is the day when Jews mull over all the promises they haven't kept in the past year, the apologies they need to make, the things (like relationships, personal potential, resolutions of the past) they have let slip or the apologies they would like to get from others and try to scratch these off the list by taking action.
Most of notions about the New Year we have in the secular world of the west come from this holiday, New Year's resolutions, for instance. But like Ramadan, the holiday features fasting. We're lucky: in comparison to Ramadan, it's only one 24 hour period, not a whole month, but it's bad enough. You realize just how connected to the body you really are when you let the fuel run down. By the end of the day everyone is dull-eyed and listless, weak, leaning against the seat fighting to keep eyes open.
For me, it's always been a spa-day, to think and sing (I'm in the synagogue choir), to listen to beautiful music, to engage in discussion with others and apologize for the inevitable failings. I'm grateful for it.
But something happened last night at service that seems to me emblematic of my life at this time. It's a tough period for me. I don't know where I am, this late in my life, not feeling or being useful, anxious to find a place for myself where the odd, assorted skills I have gathered will be valued.
As we were preparing for the service to start, sitting up in the choir section on the bimah (the stage of the synagogue), someone drew my attention to a small object on the seat behind me in the tenor's section. It was an iridescent silk kippah (yamika, skullcap). It happened to be the exact mingled tones of the tallis (prayer scarf, with fringes) I wore, which I bought for my bat mitzvah perhaps 7 years ago. I had lost that matching kippah almost immediately, and had gone through a series of various kippot. At the moment though, I was without one. On this holiday, everyone who has a tallis and kippah is required to wear one. In most kinds of synagogues, it's only men who are required to. But in our Reconstructionist shul, women do it as well, if they wish to.
"That looks like yours," said Steve, pointing from the tallis to the kippah.
I shook my head. "No. It's beautiful, but it belongs to someone else."
In answer, Steve picked up the cap and put it on the back of the chair in front of me, where I scooped it up and put it on my head.
I have decided it means something. Maybe all the things I believe I have lost are not gone at all. They are all around me, waiting to be re-found. I will take it as a message from the universe, and I am grateful.
Most of notions about the New Year we have in the secular world of the west come from this holiday, New Year's resolutions, for instance. But like Ramadan, the holiday features fasting. We're lucky: in comparison to Ramadan, it's only one 24 hour period, not a whole month, but it's bad enough. You realize just how connected to the body you really are when you let the fuel run down. By the end of the day everyone is dull-eyed and listless, weak, leaning against the seat fighting to keep eyes open.
For me, it's always been a spa-day, to think and sing (I'm in the synagogue choir), to listen to beautiful music, to engage in discussion with others and apologize for the inevitable failings. I'm grateful for it.
But something happened last night at service that seems to me emblematic of my life at this time. It's a tough period for me. I don't know where I am, this late in my life, not feeling or being useful, anxious to find a place for myself where the odd, assorted skills I have gathered will be valued.
As we were preparing for the service to start, sitting up in the choir section on the bimah (the stage of the synagogue), someone drew my attention to a small object on the seat behind me in the tenor's section. It was an iridescent silk kippah (yamika, skullcap). It happened to be the exact mingled tones of the tallis (prayer scarf, with fringes) I wore, which I bought for my bat mitzvah perhaps 7 years ago. I had lost that matching kippah almost immediately, and had gone through a series of various kippot. At the moment though, I was without one. On this holiday, everyone who has a tallis and kippah is required to wear one. In most kinds of synagogues, it's only men who are required to. But in our Reconstructionist shul, women do it as well, if they wish to.
"That looks like yours," said Steve, pointing from the tallis to the kippah.
I shook my head. "No. It's beautiful, but it belongs to someone else."
In answer, Steve picked up the cap and put it on the back of the chair in front of me, where I scooped it up and put it on my head.
I have decided it means something. Maybe all the things I believe I have lost are not gone at all. They are all around me, waiting to be re-found. I will take it as a message from the universe, and I am grateful.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
It has been a while since I have written in this blog. Today is a good day, since we have entered the new year (at least the Jewish one!) and are about to experience yet another Yom Kipper.
I have been feeling down since my online class ended and nothing else has come up to take its place, but last night, I had an experience that should remind me that the unexpected can happen.
My friends the Genestas have had a run of very bad luck, losing their business, their home, their health insurance, and, unfortunately, their health as well. They are self-employed artists, so that makes things doubly difficult. But it was so amazing to see their community step into the breach, giving a benefit concert and silent auction so that they can pay for the 6 operations that were necessary when John fell off a ladder earlier this summer, breaking his neck and back in several places.
Though he is a Vietnam veteran, the VA didn't pay for his care because they couldn't accommodate him at the VA hospital. John was the person who took the cover photo for my book, so I auctioned off a couple of copies of the book (after hiking the price) and donated the proceeds to the cause.
I don't expect this sort of do, but perhaps the essential decency of many human beings will come through in my case as well. I hope it is soon.
I have been feeling down since my online class ended and nothing else has come up to take its place, but last night, I had an experience that should remind me that the unexpected can happen.
My friends the Genestas have had a run of very bad luck, losing their business, their home, their health insurance, and, unfortunately, their health as well. They are self-employed artists, so that makes things doubly difficult. But it was so amazing to see their community step into the breach, giving a benefit concert and silent auction so that they can pay for the 6 operations that were necessary when John fell off a ladder earlier this summer, breaking his neck and back in several places.
Though he is a Vietnam veteran, the VA didn't pay for his care because they couldn't accommodate him at the VA hospital. John was the person who took the cover photo for my book, so I auctioned off a couple of copies of the book (after hiking the price) and donated the proceeds to the cause.
I don't expect this sort of do, but perhaps the essential decency of many human beings will come through in my case as well. I hope it is soon.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
A lovely Saturday
Today I accompanied Liz on a pre-birthday outing (her birthday, not mine!) to Denise Thibault's studio for her monthly 2 1/2 hour workshop, Pune Daze. It is always a wonderful class, and this was even more special because it consisted of the notes she took from Mr. Iyengar's classes at the Iyengar Institute in Pune India during her most recent trip this summer.
The brand of English spoken by the Iyengars is always interesting and fun. Geeta's command that we must "shoulderize" when we stand on our heads has become de rigeur in the yoga classes I take. How else would one say this, in any sort of an economic fashion, after all? Mr. Iyegnar's latest words of wisdom are more mysterious and quirky. We are constantly reminded to turn back our "knee knobs," to transform the half-moons of our heels into full moons, to make our ankles "sharp." This, according to Mr. Iyengar, must be done "profoundly."
As we endeavor to decipher these frequently repeated instructions, we focus on the pose, which is no doubt Mr. Iyengar's intention to begin with. We forget that our toes are cramping, our legs are tired, or that we are hungry for lunch.
Afterwards, we stopped at the Loving Hut, a vegan joint not far from the studio, for a wonderful vegan lunch. If I knew how to make dishes like the ones I get there everyday at home, I would certainly become a vegan! I have the feeling it wouldn't be so simple though.
Though we went out to eat, I left my teacher Denise with a fresh tomato galette (not vegan but vegetarian) for her own lunch, if her husband hadn't eaten it all up by the time she finishes her pranayama class. I will post a picture of it above.
The brand of English spoken by the Iyengars is always interesting and fun. Geeta's command that we must "shoulderize" when we stand on our heads has become de rigeur in the yoga classes I take. How else would one say this, in any sort of an economic fashion, after all? Mr. Iyegnar's latest words of wisdom are more mysterious and quirky. We are constantly reminded to turn back our "knee knobs," to transform the half-moons of our heels into full moons, to make our ankles "sharp." This, according to Mr. Iyengar, must be done "profoundly."
As we endeavor to decipher these frequently repeated instructions, we focus on the pose, which is no doubt Mr. Iyengar's intention to begin with. We forget that our toes are cramping, our legs are tired, or that we are hungry for lunch.
Afterwards, we stopped at the Loving Hut, a vegan joint not far from the studio, for a wonderful vegan lunch. If I knew how to make dishes like the ones I get there everyday at home, I would certainly become a vegan! I have the feeling it wouldn't be so simple though.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Almost the End
The end of the semester is swiftly approaching in my online class. I have gotten used to the routine of commenting on the discussions and forums and grading the papers online. In fact, I like that sort of online grading quite a lot. It is a lot easier than hard copy, particularly since the posted grades go straight to the grade center without me having to post them, and the comments are easy to edit or to delete if I change my mind before exiting from the program. I also don't have to worry about my awful hand-writing! I hear though that the school is going to institute vocal comments on the papers. I'm not sure that's the best idea. I don't know that if I were a student, I'd like to hear some teacher's snarky comments expressed in her own voice though the tone might communicate shades of regret,irony, or humor that are not possible to discern otherwise.
I have enjoyed working with these graduate students and introducing them to the discipline. It was interesting to recall being in their place when I began graduate school, studying critical theory for the first time. I never thought I'd be teaching that class, but I found it came flooding back, and I was lots more ready to do it than I had imagined. Even those theories I had not read because they only came later, after I had graduated, made lots of sense because of the ones I was already familiar with.
I have enjoyed working with these graduate students and introducing them to the discipline. It was interesting to recall being in their place when I began graduate school, studying critical theory for the first time. I never thought I'd be teaching that class, but I found it came flooding back, and I was lots more ready to do it than I had imagined. Even those theories I had not read because they only came later, after I had graduated, made lots of sense because of the ones I was already familiar with.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Music in the Dark
Last night I went to the Great Park, a would-be future Central Park West, in Irvine. They have a free summer concert series, though admittedly they are now charging a $10. parking fee to boost the fund for completing the park, which is apparently and predictably coming in at way over the estimated cost of construction.
Liz and I went to see Solas, an Irish-American band of some fame. I had never heard of them before, but it was instant engagement for me. I sometimes don't have the patience to sit through concerts. This happens a lot, in fact. But I have always liked traditional Celtic music when it is done well, and it was done well here.
First, the Great Park is at this point a bit more built up than it was last year, but only a tiny bit. There is now an experimental farm, where vegetables and fruits are grown, much of the yield going to local food banks. There were pumpkins, yellow squash, strawberries, and that was only what I could see from behind the fence, in the half dark.
A couple of buildings and a merry-go-round have joined the huge orange hot air balloon that sits beside the outdoor stage where the music was performed. As the band played, the balloon rose up and down, tethered to the ground by guide ropes, taking people on rides to see the world from above. I have never gone on one of these rides. The lines are always too long, and my innate fear of heights probably has something to do with it as well. The band leader remarked on this enormous "red planet" that he no doubt could see and feel in the background as the band performed.
The band is an appealing assortment of personalities, two of whom still live in Ireland (plus the visiting vocalist), while the other two have immigrated to the States. The fiddle player lives in New York (Far Rockaway) while the band leader resides in Philadelphia.
I particularly was interested in the fiddler, a young woman with strong arms and shoulders and a tendency to hop up and down on stage, her bow strings flying like unruly hair, in all directions. She was the only one of the band who did not sing, at least not in the capacity of lead singer, on any of the songs.
I don't remember the band members' names, or I would name them here. They are tremendously energetic, as this style of music requires, and I was amazed by their precision, how the music, in all its variety, stopped and started so sharply, as if the notes were chiseled into rock.
They also write their own music, and the band showcases its members' compositions, which reflect their disparate though harmonious personalities. As a group though, they have recently been engaged in writing a CD about the historical link between Ireland and Montana, where the band leader's great uncle immigrated in the 19th century to work in a copper mine owned by a countryman, and perished a few years later. The family never learned what exactly happened to him.
After some research and help from fans in Montana, they learned how the uncle had died and where he was buried, and they began writing songs to celebrate not only this man's experience but that of thousands of other Irish immigrants who came to Montana to work in the mines.
It was perhaps the most memorable evening of music I can recall.
Liz and I went to see Solas, an Irish-American band of some fame. I had never heard of them before, but it was instant engagement for me. I sometimes don't have the patience to sit through concerts. This happens a lot, in fact. But I have always liked traditional Celtic music when it is done well, and it was done well here.
First, the Great Park is at this point a bit more built up than it was last year, but only a tiny bit. There is now an experimental farm, where vegetables and fruits are grown, much of the yield going to local food banks. There were pumpkins, yellow squash, strawberries, and that was only what I could see from behind the fence, in the half dark.
A couple of buildings and a merry-go-round have joined the huge orange hot air balloon that sits beside the outdoor stage where the music was performed. As the band played, the balloon rose up and down, tethered to the ground by guide ropes, taking people on rides to see the world from above. I have never gone on one of these rides. The lines are always too long, and my innate fear of heights probably has something to do with it as well. The band leader remarked on this enormous "red planet" that he no doubt could see and feel in the background as the band performed.
The band is an appealing assortment of personalities, two of whom still live in Ireland (plus the visiting vocalist), while the other two have immigrated to the States. The fiddle player lives in New York (Far Rockaway) while the band leader resides in Philadelphia.
I particularly was interested in the fiddler, a young woman with strong arms and shoulders and a tendency to hop up and down on stage, her bow strings flying like unruly hair, in all directions. She was the only one of the band who did not sing, at least not in the capacity of lead singer, on any of the songs.
I don't remember the band members' names, or I would name them here. They are tremendously energetic, as this style of music requires, and I was amazed by their precision, how the music, in all its variety, stopped and started so sharply, as if the notes were chiseled into rock.
They also write their own music, and the band showcases its members' compositions, which reflect their disparate though harmonious personalities. As a group though, they have recently been engaged in writing a CD about the historical link between Ireland and Montana, where the band leader's great uncle immigrated in the 19th century to work in a copper mine owned by a countryman, and perished a few years later. The family never learned what exactly happened to him.
After some research and help from fans in Montana, they learned how the uncle had died and where he was buried, and they began writing songs to celebrate not only this man's experience but that of thousands of other Irish immigrants who came to Montana to work in the mines.
It was perhaps the most memorable evening of music I can recall.
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