Putting the Old Year to Bed

Here we are again, putting the old year to bed, like a mother tucking in her sick child—lovingly yet firmly—hoping that all her caring actions and soothing remedies will result in a good night’s rest and a healthier tomorrow. As we pull the sheets taut, fluff the pillows, and add another blanket, we wonder when the fever will break and the laughter return. As the child sleeps, we stroke her forehead and hold her hand, watching her breath rise and fall. Memories form, float, and pop like magic bubbles from an invisible wand. In time, we let go, backing out of the room into an uncertain future; then, turning our back to the past, we step down the hallway and turn on the light.

Light in the Darkness

Celebrating the Festival of Lights

Lamp or candle lighting near the time of the winter solstice is not culturally bound; neither is our desire to light the winter darkness. Whatever our belief system or tradition, a festival of lights reminds us to embrace light, and be light. In that sprit, I have written the following "service" for Hanukah, the Jewish Festival of Lights.

When your calendar says “First Day of Hanukah,” the first night has already passed.

In the Jewish tradition, day begins at sundown and continues to the next sundown.

The first night’s date changes every year with the cycle of the Jewish, not the Roman calendar.

It has been celebrated for over two-thousand one-hundred and seventy-five years.

The eight-night celebration is one of commemoration and re-enactment,

reminding us of a miracle that brought holy light to a time of darkness.

After the Jews’ temple was destroyed, its perpetual light extinguished, and its altar defiled

by their enemies, many Jews fled, others capitulated, but a small band defied the new order.

The Maccabees, a band of brothers, eventually led a successful revolt of courageous Jews.

Following victory, the people cleansed the temple of all desecration, and sought to dedicate the altar.

A near-empty jar of consecrated oil was discovered. With prayers, they lit the sacred lamp in 164 BC.

Miraculously, the one-day supply burned brightly for 8 days, time for more oil to be prepared.

To commemorate the miracle, it was decreed that the eight lights be lit in every Jewish home,

one light the first night, two the second, and so on for eight days. The lights are lit with a servant candle.

To celebrate The Festival of Lights, also known as The Feast of Dedication, you will need a menorah,

a special candelabra to hold 9 candles. You will also need one box of 44 Hanukah candles.

               (Why 44? Children should be encouraged to do the math!)

Each night, you will light the servant candle (the shamash) from the center of the menorah.

Use it to light the other Hanukah candles in the menorah, one the first night, two the second, and so on.

Some of what follows has been adapted from a folded, creased, and tattered goldenrod paper titled "Hanukah Service for the Home," passed down from my grandmother, to my mother, to me. There is no date, author, or temple to credit. I have focused on ecumenical, spiritual values, not religion.

Blessings accompany the lighting of all the candles. A special blessing is recited on the first night only.

The shamash explanation is recited each night, followed by a few words about that day’s light.

The Blessing (every night)

Praise to the Creator of the Universe, who makes us whole, and brings light into darkness.

Praise and thanks we offer for all wondrous things done for us at this season.

Additional Blessing (first night only)

Praise to the Creator who has granted us life, sustained us, and permitted us to celebrate together this joyous festival.

The Servant Light (Shamash)

As one candle may kindle many others and yet lose none of its own light, so may we kindle the light of peace and shine brightly in our communities. Light the shamash and pray for peace. Use the shamash to light each day’s candle before returning the servant candle to its place in the center of the menorah.

The First Day – place 1 candle in the menorah, in the last holder to the right. Light it with the servant candle, then return the servant to its place in the center of the menorah. The first light tells of the light itself at the beginning of the Cosmos. The darkness scattered at the moment of radiance. Watch the flames and pray for light.

The Second Day – place 2 candles in the menorah, from right to left. Light them left to right. The second light is the light of learning and truth. Through sacred teachings passed down by our elders, our path is well lit. Watch the flames and pray for truth.

The Third Day – 3 candles, placed right to left, and kindled left to right. The third light is the light of justice. No nation can endure which is unjust to the weak. “Let justice roll down like mighty waters.” Watch the flames and pray for justice.

The Fourth Day – 4 candles, as above. The fourth light is the light of mercy. Cruelty hardens the heart and destroys friendships. “Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly." Watch the flames and pray for mercy.

The Fifth Day – 5 candles (skipping the shamash holder). The fifth light is the light of holiness. All of life is sacred. May we honor the sacred with pure thoughts and noble actions. Watch the flames and pray for holiness and purity.

The Sixth Day – 6 candles, as above. The sixth light is the light of love. When we have learned to love ourselves, and can accept the love of others, we can love family, friends, neighbors, and strangers in a way that makes life beautiful. Watch the flames and pray for love.

The Seventh Day – 7 candles, as above. The seventh light is the calm light of patience. Nothing can be achieved in haste. The spreading tree and the human soul grow slowly to perfection. Watch the flames and pray for patience.

The Eighth Day – all 8 candles, as above. The eighth light is the light of courage. Let truth and justice protect you. Fear not. Be strong and of good courage. Watch the flames and pray for courage.

Whether or not you are Jewish or affirm any other faith, I believe this Hanukah service is a timely antidote to American holiday frenzy, winter depression, and global violence. It is an opportunity to slow down, breathe, reflect, and meditate. By lighting the candles and reciting the blessings each night, you affirm and embrace the ancient proposition that light overcomes darkness and creates a better world.

Tonight, Dec. 15, 2012, is the eighth night of Hanukah. I will be lighting the 9 candles for the families in Connecticut, for my friends and family around the world, and for my community. Shalom.

©2012 Andrea M. Penner

"Synchrodestiny": From Painting to Poetry

Long before I had ever heard of the term “synchrodestiny,” Deepak Chopra’s label for life’s “intricate dance of coincidences,” I knew it was possible to move through experience and relationship in such a way that good things seemed to magically happen, if I were open and aware. Sometimes the eventual unfolding would have begun with a still, small voice saying, “turn left here,” or “wear those earrings today”; other times, I might have been unaware of any such prompting, yet suddenly in front of me would appear exactly what I needed at that moment, or from behind me I would hear, “Andi?” and turn around to see someone I had not seen for twenty years.

I have learned both to expect and not expect these moments, to make decisions with or without them, and to be delighted and amazed (yet not amazed) whenever they happen. Here I offer a recent example:

During a very busy recent period of deliberate, self-imposed unemployment, I was training for a 60-mile fundraising walk. My walking partner and I spent our training time together talking about how we could use our gifts and skills, time and talents to improve other people’s lives, to make money, and to add meaning and value to our own lives. On one walk, the topic was creativity. As I began to recall the creative media I have experimented with (colored pencil, pastels, charcoal, watercolor, acrylic, collage, embroidery, calligraphy, ballet, flamenco, poetry, etc.), I realized that in recent years my work as a technical writer, curriculum developer, project manager, and executive director, while challenging and fulfilling, has been much more about my skills as an efficient, organized thinker and planner, and less about creativity. Not bad, just fact.

About an hour after returning home from our 12-mile walk, I received an email forwarded from my walking partner, a notice of an Intuitive Painting workshop which she had just received via a listerv to which she, as a certified Counselor, belongs. I read the description of the one-day workshop on an upcoming Saturday in Santa Fe for a reasonable fee, and thought, “why not?!” (I later found out that because Nina Ross had posted her notice to the Counseling listserv only an hour before I responded, I was the first participant to sign up.)

Arriving at Nina's studio on October 20, I had little idea what to expect. I was welcomed into a little room with 5 chairs, 4 large sheets of watercolor paper (each taped to the wall—2 on one side of the room, 2 on the other), and two tables of all things “painting” – coffee cans full of brushes of every width and varying lengths, sponges, stirring sticks, scrapers…. Plastic squeeze bottles of brightly colored paints, little plastic pallets, small cups of paint, rags… and cans of water. The four participants and Nina sat first in a circle, while she introduced us to each other, to the workshop, and to a reading from a book by Byron Katie (whose name I recognized only because a few weeks prior I had read one of her books while staying at a friend's house). Then we moved the chairs out of the way, and quietly began to paint.

I used a wide brush at first, making large sweeping strokes from bottom to top, in deep turquoise blue. From there I added purple, then green, and then progressed to trying different colors, brushes, and strokes. Nina suggested I try painting with my left hand, for a change. I did, and a kind of black calligraphy resulted, approximating Chinese characters which I then accented with red dots. She then suggested I turn the canvas, so I worked with it “upside down” and then “sideways,” adding layers of texture, color, line. The result was an abstract painting that made me happy. It was colorful, exuberant, and seemed to say “See? You can paint! You can create!”

I took the painting home, observing it in a variety of lights and orientations. Finally, I put it down flat on the kitchen floor, stood above it, and snapped a picture of it with my cell phone camera, filling the frame. The next day, I sent it to some friends, and posted it here on the blog, calling it "Intuition."

Fast forward a week. I was at my little rented office, working on a few projects, when I decided to walk over to the hair salon in the shopping center across the street. It was not time for a haircut, but I wanted to leave a flyer about The Walk, hoping the salon would be willing to post it for me and help me do the last of my fundraising. As I walked to my destination, I passed an art gallery that I’d never noticed before, and made a mental note to stop there on my way back to my office. The gallery was fairly large, with many different artists’ works, and types of art, showcased. As I browsed, one of the women at the desk approached me to tell me about the gallery (a co-op) and her own watercolors. Then she said, “Are you an artist?” I said, “Well, that’s a really interesting question!” I was thinking of my one and only painting, the evidence right there on my cell phone. “No,” I said, “I’m really more of a poet.”

As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I wondered why I had said them. True, I have more poetry to my name than paintings, collages, and calligraphy combined, but I have rarely, if ever, said “I am a poet.” I've written poetry for decades, read it aloud at poetry readings, but never claimed the identity, "poet."

The artist responded, “Oh! Do you know Joanne?” Joanne, apparently, was the other woman at the desk. They had been chatting as I walked in. Joanne and I introduced ourselves; then she said, “I am the vice president of the New Mexico State Poetry Society” and asked me if I had a book. I told her that I had a file-folder manuscript of about 65 poems, but had never published a book—just a few individual selections here and there. She shared with me that her first collection of poems had just been published, locally. We went out to her car; I happened to have just enough cash with me to buy a copy. She then told me about her publisher, Mercury Heartlink, and recommended I contact them (the web site address was on the back of the book).

I walked back to my office, went online, found Mercury Heartlink's “Contact Us” link, and sent an email introduction to Stewart Warren, the man behind the site. Short version of what transpired next: we spoke on the phone the next day, and agreed that synchrodestiny was at work. He would publish my poetry. I cleaned up the manuscript per his instructions and sent it to him. We agreed to meet the next week, on 10/31, Hallowe’en. He spent the next few weeks working on the book, and meanwhile I collected blurbs and author photos, and completed the 60-mile Walk. By November 19, my book, When East Was North, was available on Amazon, not as an e-book, but a real, live book with a beautiful cover, published by Mercury Heartlink. Less than one month from the date of the painting workshop.

Call it what you will....but for me, Chopra's "intricate dance of coincidences" works just fine. I think I shall rename the painting "Dance of Coincidence."

Andi's NEW BOOK: Now Available!

My new collection of poetry, When East Was North, is now available for purchase on Amazon at the following link (click below):

When East Was North

 

Please consider getting a copy for yourself or someone you love! Or buy one for a stranger! And after you read it, please write a review on Amazon. Thank you for your interest.

Meg Leonard is a Placitas, New Mexico artist whose work graces the book's cover. Please visit her site at:
 www.megleonard.com 

Team Dory: Just Keep Walking

Here we are at the end of Day 3 of the Komen 3Day 60-mile Walk through parts of Chandler, Phoenix, Tempe, Guadalupe, and Scottsdale. From left to right: Andi, Fehrunissa, Kathy, and Jeanie (our team captain). Collectively, we were Team Dory, as in the fish in Finding Nemo whose motto was "just keep swimming." Our refrain was similar: just keep walking, step after step, mile after mile. We all walked the full mileage each day, and avoided serious injury. Thank you to all those who supported me and my "crazy walk" (as one former colleague put it!).

The Writer's Asana

I find myself embarked on two creative projects simultaneously. One involves yoga, the other, poetry. As I mentioned in the last blog post, I am working on a book of poetry -- my original work -- that I have been writing and revising and updating for several years. In the process of getting the manuscript ready for publication, I am learning a lot about myself, the world of publishing, and what it means to set my sights on the goal and apply myself energetically to its completion. I'm not going to talk about the yoga project right now, nor give away too much about the book, except to say that if you like the blog, I think you will appreciate the poetry even more. Here is another poem from the upcoming book:

I Write

I write

short

            loose lines

because my hand goes numb

if I grip

            too tightly

or type for too long.

I write in snapshots

because my mind

photographs

its memories

for Anne Lamott’s

one-inch picture

frame that holds only

so much color, line

and shadow.

I write myself

into a corner

with nowhere

else to go but

there

where

I must stay

until I write

myself out

again

again because

out of things to say

or else to go nowhere

but there

here.

I write beneath the flannel night

and into the denim pocket of the afternoon.

I write

sideways in my journal with an unquiet mind in child pose

the writer’s asana.

For Erin: Poetry, Finally (but not Final)

Until now, this space has been devoted to non-fiction musings. But I am a poet (a spectrum writer -- everything from technical communication to poetry), and I have recently embarked on a book-publishing journey. [Recognize a "hook" when you read one?] Last night, in the manila file folder with my 65+-page poetry manuscript, I re-discovered scraps of paper with a poem in my scribbled and crossed-out handwriting, ready for typing and editing. Here is the result.

The Franchise

Before I make the long drive home in early autumn darkness,

My daughter and I meet between her classes for afternoon coffee.

While she digs for dollar bills and comes up empty,

I watch the cash register item-display

                        ...Tall Latte $2.95

                        Pumpkin Bread $1.85…

WAIT, I protest to the cashier.

That should be one-SEVENTY-five.

No, she says. The computer rang it up for one-EIGHTY-five.

I see that, but the bakery case sign clearly reads

                        Seasonally Delicious Pumpkin Bread $1.75

There’s nothing I can do, she says. We had a price increase,

but we haven’t received new signs from Corporate.

            (Toothy, vacuous smile followed by hair toss.)

Appealing to her moral center, I suggest

You can make a new sign yourself to avoid future false advertising.

We’re not allowed to alter their signs,

So there’s really nothing I can do.

While my brain tries to calculate the Corporate profit

earned when every customer

who celebrates the delicious pumpkin season

is overcharged ten cents,

            Erin glides away from me,

toward the Pick-Up Order Here counter,

distancing herself again from my principal-of-the-thing outrage.

I can’t resist one last attempt as I hand over my cash.

You CAN do something, I assert.

You can give me an extra dime.

The register drawer pops open –

She counts back the change for my ten dollar bill

exactly as the computer tells her to

Plus ten cents more.

I smile, tossing the dime into the tip jar.

There is something

I can do.

From One Dog Person to Another

Clarification: I am not a dog person. I am a 3-dog person.

My first dog actually belonged to my sister. Though Fritz was her dachshund, I loved him, too. He was a playful dog – spoiled, but not fat or lazy. He ran after us kids as fast as his little legs would carry him. He licked my face, I squealed. We hid milk-bone treats for him, and he raced around the house trying to find them. He pooped in the back yard; we cleaned it up. We had a nice back yard with lots of grass, ornamental plants, and fruit trees. Fritzi-poo was not particular about where he did his business, but my dad paid particular attention to how well it was disposed of by all of us kids.  Dad, mechanical engineer that he was, made a Super-Duper-Pooper-Scooper to facilitate the clean-up. It was a long-handled, 2-part device (broom and dustpan, perhaps?) that helped us deliver the contents to the trash can without having to touch it. I may have received some small compensation for scooping poop, but more likely I just had to do my duty after Fritz did his.

After Fritz died, there was a period of doglessness in our household before I got my own puppy, a beagle-terrier mutt with long legs and classic beagle coloring. I chose the name Ajax, after the Greek god I’d read about in Bullfinch’s Mythology, but my sister said people would think my dog was a cleaning product. So I named him Oliver, instead, for the high school musical in which my brother had a starring role as the Artful Dodger (not a good dog name). I fancied myself a puppy whisperer and tried to teach him tricks; I also imagined myself an artist, so I observed Oli from the vantage point of a tree branch, and drew him, in pastel pencil, while he slept. Like Fritz, he pooped in the yard, but he was my dog, and my siblings were older and busier by then. Thus the poop was my responsibility, until my mother and I moved to an apartment and Oliver went begging for another home.

The third dog joined our little family shortly after our daughter was born. He was a gift from dear friends who bred AKC yellow Labradors and had a litter of 10 puppies. They “tithed” one of these pedigreed puppies to us. We named him Erin’s Bonnie Prince Charles, and called him Prince. He was a beautiful broad-chested dog with boundless tail-wagging energy. When not playing with Erin or any number of our visitors, he roamed for miles in the open country of the Navajo reservation where we were then living. He came home several times a day, and spent every night in a fenced rabbit or chicken pen (Doug had transformed it into a suitable dog domain), and some of the day in our sort-of fenced “yard” – a dirt area with a shade tree. We raked, scooped, burned or buried his doo-doo (I’m guessing that’s what Erin may have called it); there was no such thing as municipal trash pick-up.

And that is why, today, many years later and with no dog, I am writing this piece about dog shit. I live in a community that not only has regular waste management services (trash and recycling), but also has convenient little green dispensers throughout the neighborhood (including walking trails) from which citizens can obtain a green plastic bag with which to clean up their dogs’ waste. We also have many reminders, from stern official County Ordinance placards to friendly, hand-made “If you walk our loop, please scoop the poop!” signs.

Why is it, then, that on every one of my walks within a 10-mile radius of my home, I find dog poop? True, I also see deer and rabbit pellets, coyote and bear scat, horse and cow dung…. But none of those offend me as much as the dog crap, especially when it is already encased in a little green bag and left behind a rock or in a bush. I try to imagine what the dog owner is thinking. Her dog stops to do his business; she stands nearby, waiting. Then she does the right thing, pulling the little green bag out of her fanny pack. She puts her hand inside the bag, gently grabs the fresh feces, pulls her hand back out, and knots the bag. So far, so good. But then she leaves the bag on the sidewalk or behind a rock for someone else to pick up and dispose of! [New grammar rule: ranters are allowed to end sentences with prepositions.] There are often trash bins nearby where I spy these green baglets, so there is no excuse for the dog walker not to take the final step in the circle of good citizenship. But even if there is no bin, it is still her responsibility to take the bag with her until she locates a receptacle. Tie it to your dog’s leash! (You DO have your dog on a leash, right?)

If you are a Dog Person, especially one who lives in my neighborhood, please have the decency to clean up after your beloved pet. Or as we say in New Mexico: "Keep the Rio Grand. Scoop the Poop!"

The Finger

Two café tables away sits an impeccably dressed older gentleman in a gray suit of subtlely striped fabric, light shirt and tie, and an orange – soft, burnt orange – knit beret. I cannot see his face because he is holding his forehead in his left hand. With his right hand, he alternates between spoon and fork to eat his meal, one small bite at a time. Sometimes he changes the position of his left hand – instead of an open palm propping up his brow, he uses his fist against his left cheek. Without such support, his head falls very far left and forward – just like my mother’s did in the years of illness before she died.

She never used her hands as head-supports, however, at least not that I remember. When she was still able to sit up in a wheelchair or in bed, she would sometimes ask for a pillow to be placed between her shoulder and her left ear, particularly when she was trying to eat or drink what was being offered to her. But her hands had become rigid, except for The Finger.

Her right index finger remained in her control long after her torso and limbs, neck and voice ceased cooperating with her brain. When we would take her to the mall, a favorite outing, she would direct us from her wheelchair, pointing the finger toward her desired destination.  Despite her multiple disabilities, she could point her way to the perfume counter, the bed & bath store, or the lingerie department. At the food court, the finger made it clear that she wanted a dish of ice cream and a cup of water (for taking pills). The finger also knew the location of the candy shop, and could select the perfect piece of chocolate (for pure pleasure).

The man in the orange beret has finished his meal. His chin rests on his chest as he folds his napkin and places it on top of his plate. He scoots out his chair, and fumbles for something in his suit pockets, eventually producing a handkerchief. As he walks past me, I notice that he’s also dropped a blue card, but by the time I retrieve it – a printed schedule of High Holy Day services at the local temple – he has gone. The waiter told me that she regularly serves him during her evening shift. She promises to give him his card the next time he appears. I hope to see him again, as my new office is located conveniently closeby.

What do Albuquerque and NOLA have in Common? Hurricanes

When Avi was a child during my graduate school years, he and I had a weekend breakfast date at a local dive called Hurricanes. At least once or twice a month, we would find ourselves seated in a red Naugahyde booth across the metal-trimmed formica tabletop from each other. If it was crowded and we were hungry, we might park at the counter on red swivel barstools to expedite the meal. We celebrated the day we became regulars and the waiter brought my coffee with creamers and Avi’s orange juice without asking for our order.  Sometimes we ate pancakes or French toast, but more often than not, Avi ordered huevos rancheros—Christmas style (red and green chile) with hashed browns, and I got the burrito supreme with bacon, smothered with cheese and red chile. While waiting for Frank to bring us our meal, we played "football" with the empty single-serving creamer containers, shooting them across the table through the goal posts of the other’s upright fingers. And we talked. Sometimes about school, sometimes about family, sometimes about the future.

Avi was born in August 1987. At 17, he was done with high school and ready to leave home for college.  He landed at the New Orleans airport in time to head to Tulane University for his Freshman Orientation. Instead, he had to evacuate with his girlfriend and her mother to Arkansas to escape the incoming hurricane. Tulane said “we’ll reopen on Wednesday.” But on that Monday, Avi’s 18th birthday, he awoke to newscasts of Category 5 Hurricane Katrina plowing into New Orleans. He called from Arkansas – “Mom, WTF am I supposed to do now?!” With Tulane closed, he returned to Albuquerque, attended UNM for a semester, and then went back to Tulane.

Fast-forward to 2012 and you will find Avi, a Tulane graduate, still in New Orleans, now the CFO of the Broadmoor Development Corporation, a post-Katrina housing recovery effort in the Broadmoor neighborhood. (See link at the top of this blog, left side.)

During the recent slow passage of Hurricane Isaac, Avi hunkered down in his landlady's house, upstairs from his own basement unit (not a good place to be during a hurricane/flood!). They lost power, sleep, and, briefly, perspective. He also lost many of his books and other belongings to mold and water damage. But I think his crockpot still works, and you can bet he’ll be making some good New Mexico green and red chile stews this fall. And if the Saints cannot get their act together, there are always Mimosas, and creamer football.

Just Say Hello.....

We invited a long-time but seldom-seen friend to come over for dinner the other night. We spent the afternoon preparing a small feast for the three of us: barbecued salmon, chicken, and pork; roasted corn and green chiles; coleslaw with bleu cheese and cashews; greens with sliced avocado, and cilantro dressing; and steamed brown rice. When he arrived, we opened a bottle of California Pinot Noir, filled every inch of the table with food, and sat down to eat and share stories.

Laughing our way through accounts of university politics and the perils of Internet dating, we somehow landed on the subject of the common courtesies missing from human interactions.  In the 1960s, as an undergraduate at a Franciscan college, our friend was taught at freshman orientation that students, faculty, and staff were to say hello to everyone. No matter who, or what their job, class, race, gender, or standing in the college community – greet everyone.

The next day, I set out with the intention of walking 10 miles (I’d done almost 8 the day before) and experimenting with saying hello. Equipped with “camel,” granola bar, hat, sunglasses, cell phone, and pedometer, I left the house. The Beatles’ refrain, “hello, hello…. I don’t know why you say good-bye, I say hello” suddenly played in my head (I have no iPod!) as I rounded a curve in the road and saw another walker coming toward me. “Hello,” I said. She greeted me, also, and told me that she had just seen 2 coyotes, a little further down. I told her about the desiccated but very recognizable rattlesnake carcass I had almost stepped on, a few yards back.

I waved hello to passing cars and bicyclists, and said hello to blue-tailed skinks, white-tailed bunnies, plume-crested quails. I greeted the man walking his golden retriever, and the woman in a large straw hat and long white sleeves. As I passed through a nearly empty parking lot on my way to the main road, I said “Hello! How was your run?” to two African distance runners who were toweling off and changing shirts. They smiled. One said, “Very good. We just finished. Are you starting your run now?” I laughed. "No, only walking." “Well, that’s good, too” said the other.  “I am getting ready for a 60-mile walk,” I said. “Sixty miles?! I could run maybe half that far,” said the second. “It’s 20 miles a day, for 3 days,” I explained. The first runner tapped his head, saying “it’s all mental.” We waved and grinned our good-byes.

By the time I returned home with an empty camel, I had walked 9.78 miles and greeted the gas station attendant (“thanks for the clean restroom!”), the vendor selling a cord of split wood out of his pick-up truck by the side of the road, several bicyclists, a few pedestrians, and the sun that kept disappearing into the clouds and reappearing in a blaze of light and heat. It felt good to connect. Hello, world!

Walking for Wellness: 400-miles & 90%

I have  walked over 440 miles since July 18 to train for the 60-mile 3-Day Susan G. Komen walk in Phoenix next month with thousands of other walkers. Every participant raises funds while raising awareness about breast cancer. Net proceeds from the 3-Day are invested in breast cancer research and community programs.

More daunting than the 60 miles is the $2300 I must raise by Nov. 5th in order to be able to participate in the walk. I am currently at 90%, having raised $2080. Hooray! But not quite there....  If you would like to learn more about the event and how to support me and the cause, you can go to my personal page: http://www.the3day.org/goto/andipenner  Please donate, if you haven't done so already. Any affordable amount would be greatly appreciated.

Where East was North

During childhood, my mental map of my home town centered on my family's home, a cul-de-sac residence which I placed squarely in the center of the orange grove suburb, even though I knew that another city was just a few streets away. We had no directional landmarks -- no mountains to the north, no river to the east, no ocean to the west, no desert to the south -- only the Disneyland fireworks, every night at 9:00 p.m. lighting up the sky above. So when I left my house to walk to the school bus stop, I walked up the street. And up, as we all know, is North.

Recently, I had the opportunity to spend several days in the same house where I used to "spend the night" with my best friend. Her father still lives there, and he extended his hospitality so that I could visit my dad, affordably. Almost every day, I took a walk in the neighborhoods I had once called home.

Each morning was overcast and almost cool; the sun cast no shadows through the thick grayness, and the air was still. I relied on memory to take me past each of my schools and homes: the Methodist pre-school, three elementary schools -- all still there; two junior high schools, now with different names; and, of course, the public high school, which I was pleased to discover had been named a California Distinguished School. I also located each house and apartment I had lived in, amazed that all were within walking distance of each other. Had my world really been so small?

Much of the foliage I knew as a child -- sticky lantana, oleander, thick dark ivy, dichondra -- has been replaced by pygmy date palms and other plants I cannot yet name. Jesus and Mary front yard figurines are few and far between. More common are stone elephants, buddhas, and even large lions guarding huge homes on small lots. (Although in one yard, I did see an arms-outstretched Jesus statue on one side of the front walkway, and a stone lion fountain on the other.)

The grocery store where all the football players worked as checkers and bag boys is now part of a shopping complex that could be on any Orange County street. A United Nations of culinary options graces the intersection: Korean, Mexican, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, and French cuisine, in addition to the standard American fast food franchises. A few streets down (south? east?) I even found a cafe that served beignets!

On foot, I saw the scenes of my childhood in ways I had not expected. I am looking forward to my next visit.

Only in New Mexico

I was on a mission: buying gifts for an upcoming baby shower. Just as I was pulling out of the parking lot of Bed, Bath, and Beyond, I heard someone say, "excuse me, ma'am." I turned around and looked out my window; there was a young man leaning out of the passenger side of a mini-van, pointing at my car. At first I thought maybe he was indicating I had a flat tire, but then I noticed he was pointing to the unsightly scrape and dent above the back wheel-well.

"I do body work, ma'am, and I can fix that for you."
"Really? Where do you do your work?" I asked him.
"I work for a body shop in the South Valley, but I can fix cars anywhere. If you want, I can give you an estimate, and I can even fix it today."

As you can imagine--especially if you are a Breaking Bad fan--several scenarios were running through my head, but something about him and the unlikely nature of the situation, made me say, "Okay - at least name your price." Whoever was driving the minivan then parked the vehicle, but stayed inside. My new body-repairman examined the damage (that I had inflicted when I backed into a truck bumper in a parking lot about a month ago), and another scrape on the front bumper from when I misjudged a parking space barrier and pulled up too close. He said, "I can fix both for $175.00. It will take about an hour. I can do it right here, or wherever you want, because I have all the tools in my car." "Really??!" I said. "What about the paint and matching the color?"

"No problem. While I'm fixing the dent and priming the surface, my guy will go get the paint. We match the paint using the make/model and the last 4 digits of the VIN number. You don't pay me anthing until the work is done, and then only if you're satisfied."

"Okay, I said, but I was on my way to Target to get a few more things. Can we do it there?" "Sure," he said. "Just park away from other cars so I don't get any paint on them."

So I hopped into my car; the van followed for the mile or more until we parked at the edge of the Target lot. Out hopped a little girl, about 6 or 7 years old -- the body man's daughter. His pregnant wife stayed in the car, looking very hot and uncomfortable. The van driver (brother-in-law?) got out the tools, and body man got to work immediately. I asked his wife if she needed anything in Target; she asked for some water. I went inside and bought 2 large bottles of cold water; as soon as I got back, the van-load left to go buy the paint. Meanwhile, the car was already sanded--the dent was gone. By then I was feeling more confident that this really was going to work out, so I finished my baby-shower shopping inside Target.

When I returned to my car, the van was still gone, so the Body Man and I talked for awhile. He told me of his dream to have his own shop some day, but for now he is just trying to make it as an employee, and doing odd jobs on the side. He told me he thinks many body shops and mechanics rip people off, and that makes him uncomfortable. Finally the van returned, with the paint can. About 5 minutes later, it was all done and my car was restored to its former glory!

One last step: the van followed me to an ATM where I got enough cash to pay for the work. I gave him $180.00, about 90 minutes after we had met. I drove east, he drove west. I have his name and phone number in case anyone I know is looking for some honest labor.

The First Serving

Years ago, on a beach in northern Spain, the Scientist and I came across an inviting cafe in the sand, overlooking a quiet bay. Hungry and thirsty for local cuisine, we ordered the special of the day: Chipirones en su Tinta, with Txakoli. Squid in its own Ink, accompanied by a glass of sparkling white wine. The dish was delicious, as was the whole experience of traveling together through the Basque country.

Ever since then, I have been considering that phrase--"in its own ink"--rolling it around on my tongue, tasting the metaphor. Like the squid, we are sometimes cooked in our own ink -- caught in a net, stained by our words, marked by our fears -- served up on a platter for others' pleasure.

Unlike the squid, however, I offer this blog not for the purspose of obfuscation but for clarity. I am experimenting with what it means for me to publish my musings, to challenge myself with a weekly writing practice that will result in something worth reading.