Luck of the Irish

Top o’ the morning to ya.

Today is St. Patrick’s Day, a day the Irish have been celebrating for over 1,000 years. When I think of March 17th, images of shamrocks, leprechauns, rainbows and pots o’ gold spring to mind. And wearing green of course so as not to get pinched, and kissing the blarney stone for eloquence.

Growing up, Groom thought he was Irish as people were always putting an “O” in front of his name and volunteering him for things. “Oh, Don’ll do this, Oh, Don’ll do that.” Yep, he thought his name was O’Donnell.

In the spirit of the day, here’s a bit of Irish wit and wisdom.

You’ve got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your Grandfather was. – Irish Saying

All money is tainted, tain’t none of it mine. – Thomas Francis McGuire

I spent 90% of my money on women and drink. The rest I wasted. – Soccer superstar George Best

Sign on a Kinsale, Ireland shop: Out for lunch. If not back by five, out for dinner also.

I often take exercise. Only yesterday I had breakfast in bed. - Oscar Wilde

A limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.

I gave up women and alcohol – it was the worst twenty minutes of my life. – George Best (again)

Yes, but do Leprechauns believe in you?

Slainte!

What a Doll!

If I were to sweep up the remnants of my week into a pile, the debris would comprise a colorful mélange, full of odd toddies and beastly bits. Consider this week’s entry as my dustpan and let’s have a sort, shall we?

As my week unfolded, it did not lay dormant as the remains do now like a deflated rainbow but took up full residency and demanded attention. Nothing and everything was pressing. Probably the first thing on my mind is that today, September 22, is the first day of autumn (happy equinox!). It is also the third year since my dear friend Christine La Bean died and I miss her.

In other news, one friend moved to Albuquerque on Saturday for a new job (good luck!) and we were informed that two others have cancer; one with stomach and the other lymph although we were told “nymph.” Admittedly, it is shocking news, but the punch to the gut was momentarily delayed by our minds trying to process that our friend had nymph cancer. Oh the blessing and curse of possessing a dark sense of humor.

While we have expressed our love and support to them privately, we’ll not turn down any prayers, blessings or positive thoughts on their behalf you might have to spare. Thank you.

Okay, enough of the sadness. There are happy occasions, too. After a year and a half of toying with the idea, Groom and I finally made the leap and purchased an Internet phone. I’m not usually a gadgety-girl, but whoa, it’s a mini computer and I think I’m in love.

Groom is usually the technofile as I’m more interested in what other people enjoy reading and watching and eating as consumption appetites are windows to compatibility. You may not care a single whit what we’re temporarily infatuated by, but that won’t stop me from telling you.

Currently, I’m reading Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility while Groom concludes an Alan Gordon medieval mystery. Pausing in the general vicinity of the Middle Ages, we were both googly-eyed over Pillars of the Earth, the book and the recent Starz Original mini-series.

And while the language in Deadwood has the power to curl the hair on a bald head, the story line set in Dakota Territory along with brilliant acting bring the 1870’s, Bill Hickok, Calamity Jane and many other notable characters back to life.

God’s Minion turned us on to Infinite Possibilities by Mike Dooley this week. Following her suggestion, we found it on audible.com and are listening to the downloaded book while making jewelry. In order to design any, we made a trip to Salem last Thursday where a friend introduced us to a gentleman who bids on storage units for a living, so we rummaged around for potential upcycling and repurposing materials.

We played hooky from the Eugene Saturday Market, preferring to stay indoors and work instead of braving the rain. As long-timers, we’ve put in many a shivering day and it feels incredibly luxurious to have a choice in the matter.

Sunday was the semi-annual stamp show at the Masonic Lodge (March and September), and after rooting around for cool postage stamps we jetted over to the Fairgrounds for opening day of the Piccadilly Flea Market. Yep, you guessed it, coffee in one hand, camera in the other, our eyes in training for photo ops and cool jewelry parts.

From there, we hooked up with out-of-town friends and enjoyed Japanese, Italian and Salvadorian cuisine over the course of their visit.

I warned you the dustbin is full of this and that.

Now I’m turning to the topic of quotes. I adore and collect quotes because The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. – Mark Twain

A friend sent me a card a few days ago that says, Charm is the ability to make someone else think that both of you are pretty wonderful. – Kathleen Winsor

While we take photographs of whatever happens to grab our attention in the moment, over time we’ve shot enough images to present certain themes. Apparently our cameras gravitate toward dolls on occasion.

When applicable, we’ve tried to match a quote with a photo, but don’t strain yourself trying to figure it out, keeping in mind it’s a dustpan week.

Here are a couple more I really like.

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken. – Oscar Wilde

To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance. – Oscar Wilde

Thanks for sorting through my dustpan with me. Perhaps next week, I’ll clean out the refrigerator…

Dainty Cuss

Oh happy happy joy joy, it’s officially Spring!

I can’t believe it. Exactly one year ago today, Groom and I were flying home from Japan, having spent two weeks retracing steps of an important journey I made years before. It was a dream come true to take Groom in hand and show him traces of my past.

In our modern culture, it is hip to express oneself through the art of tattoo, but mine are on the inside. I might have been born in the USA, but parts of me are definitely “Made in Japan.” That country has made indelible marks on me, and if I could peel back the layers, you’d see my interior embossed with cherry blossoms, the walls of my heart decorated with temple pagodas, the smell of aged wood and incense buried deep within.

A bittersweet moment was making the sojourn to one of my dearest friend’s grave. The Japanese have a single word to encompass the entire concept called Ohakamairi. It means to visit someone’s grave, to clean it, honor the person’s memory, light candles and incense, and pay one’s respects. Of course, it takes a string of English words to convey a similar meaning, but using one word or many, we made it to his temporal resting place on the 15th anniversary of his death.

I’ve thought of him every one of those days and I still miss him like crazy.

It was a calm spring day as we made the climb up the hill to his tombstone, the sun starting to show its muscle after a wintry rest. As we said our greetings, the wind suddenly kicked up, enough to catch a pile of leaves on fire from the incense ritual.

Interaction with the elements: Earth as in dust-to-dust. Water, I cried an ocean. Fire, spontaneous combustion. And Air. Something knew we were there and I found comfort that his reply arrived on the wind. When we finally said our goodbyes, the wind died down and it became hot and calm as before. Goosebumps.

It is now one year later, and the 16th anniversary of his leaving me behind (yes, I’ve taken his death quite personally), coincided with an especially bad moon-cycle. Aaargh, those nasty hormonal cocktails that the bartender in the sky uses to unleash March Madness.

So it was with prickly nerves that I made a little pre-production drama out of getting up to read my Oscar Wilde material at Poetry Night in Cottage Grove on Tuesday. The theme was “Irish/Green” and I took that directive quite seriously. I duded up in a Kelly-green wig and spent too much energy trying to memorize the whole thing, which served me not at all, because when I finally took the stage in front of the authentic 1970’s psychedelic lightshow, I just read the darmn thing and nobody knew the difference.

And had I only known. The poetry class from the University got wind of it and their professor was giving extra credit to anyone enrolled who would get up and read their original works. Well, first of all, only one other person bothered to dress up at all, and that would be Kimmmm, naturally. She designed a make you weak in the knees outfit that should have gotten air time at the Fashion Show, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

At 7 o’clock, as I was trying not to hyperventilate before my performance, I looked around at the crowd, or should I say, at the sea of flannel. The first poet of the night was a young girl, ever so casually dressed, who shlepped up to the front of the room, took her time ascending the mini-flight of stairs, and then made us wait (and wait) as she thumbed through her notebook, stopping every once in a while to mumble one of her scribbles. Completely monotone, none of us understood what she was saying. I don’t mean we didn’t “get her poetry,” I mean, it was just a jumble of microphone cack.

The second person dressed neither in green nor mentioned anything Irish. She read an uplifting tome about cancer and the burn of chemo. Great, ‘cause next it was me in my stripey stockings, steampunk goggles and giggles pertaining to Oscar Wilde’s emasculated tomb and then a limerick which went like this:

A limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.

Then one of the extra-credit slam poets tossed off this line which I appreciated.

“No one can make you feel less,

Unless,

You have something to address.”

Oh boy, seems like I’m always having something to address…

Kimmmm, in her crazy wild outfit, did her impression of a recording of William Butler Yeats, and my favorite take-away phrase from the evening was “Dainty Cuss.” I think that’s a great description. I told Zolo, who also got up to read two of his originals, that he and I were dainty cusses.

As if one trip in a week to Cabbage Groove wasn’t enough, Groom and I returned Friday night to witness the 4th annual Paradise Fashion Show at Centro del Sol with Kimmmm. We sat front and center, believing our choice of seats would provide ample opportunity to capture couture shots just like real fashion paparazzi. Ha! As you can see, I’ve got a lot to learn.

The models walked the gray catwalk and climbed a few stairs to a higher level, took a spin, and then walked back down. I did my best to represent, but this is what my camera angle managed to reveal. And when I told a few folks what I did over the weekend, the common response was, “Fashion? Cottage Grove? Aren’t those words mutually incompatible?” Well, I’ll let you be the judge of that. (For Kimmmm's photo take on the evening, visit her Flickr page: www.flickr.com/photos/lampadina/ )

On a final note, several of you have asked what song I sang at Karaoke when I did my stretch goal. Ah, it was Shania Twain’s Still the One. I sang it to Groom and it’s a love song about a couple who have been together for a long time and lo, after all these years,

“You're still the one I run to

The one that I belong to

You're the one I want for life

You're still the one that I love
The only one I dream of
You're still the one I kiss good night”

Well, some might consider that a romantic gesture, which was my intention, but as I described, it came out more like a comedy bit.

Yesterday, a street guy begging change told me I dropped something. I stopped and looked back, just in case. He said, “You dropped your smile, don’t step on it.”

To recap, my week has been filled with Japanese memories, the color green, a bit O’ the Irish, hormonal angst, dramedy, comedy, the Vernal Equinox, dainty cusses and smile-stepping fashion.

Oh, and in case you forgot, you can always click on any photo to enlarge, then just hit the back button to return to the blog. Did you notice in photo #2, the one with the statues having their own fashion show, that somewhere hidden in the fabric, it says, "Made in Japan?"

Kampai!

Here Come Da Judge

I have so many things to write about my head is full of gallimaufry, a hodgepodge, a jumble, a confused medley that my fingers can’t type fast enough to keep up. I have no idea how many words will actually end up on the cutting room floor versus which will survive. I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering how this will all turn out.

If it reads like I’m catharting, you’re right. Well, that’s curious. I just looked up cathartic and it means to evacuate the bowels. I was using the word in its purging sense, but I always thought it meant emotionally.

I can tell you right up front that judgment has been the theme of the week. In the last few days:

1) I’ve been accused of judging someone.

2) I’ve been apologized to because someone else judged me.

3) I’ve imagined that other people were judging me and

4) I’ve been paid some righteous compliments.

That being said, I feel like I’m in the middle of a big judge sandwich.

Similar to Howie Mandell and his infectious fist-bump, there’s a new little virus making the circuit. I don’t know its progenitor, but the catch phrase is “let’s put a pin in that.” In context, it seems to get used when something is said that another person doesn’t want to deal with on the one hand, but doesn’t want to appear as though disregarding it on the other.

Acknowledging it on some level , they’ll say, “I hear you, but let’s put a pin in that.” I guess we are to imagine a giant floating cork board and whatever words have been spoken are to be impaled with a large pin “to be dealt with later.”

Phew! I drove you around that little cul de sac just to say I’m going to stick a pin in all that judgment stuff for a moment and introduce a little Hebrew action into my current situation. Can you guess my favorite Old Testament character? If you said the talking Donkey in Numbers 22, you’d be close, as she’s my second choice.

However, for the purpose of sorting out all this judgment energy, I’m calling out Solomon.

Solomon lived a most fascinating life, starting with his movie star parents. Most little boys think of their daddies as heroes, but in Solomon‘s case, his father, King David, was a hero of mythic proportions even in his own lifetime. Not only did he take out Goliath with one fell swoop of his slingshot, but he killed lions with his bare hands and was an epic murderer, “Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands,” (I Samuel 18:7).

In fact, Solomon wouldn’t have drawn a breath if his father hadn’t been driven by lust, both blood and sex. King David satisfied his dual appetites by ravaging a rooftop bather and then killing her husband. Apparently God was none too thrilled with that last detail, so took His revenge on the little love bastard by smiting it. Don’t you judge me.

The second child born of this fornicating couple, although by this time I think they might have exchanged vows, was Solomon. As an aside, wouldn’t you love to be married to a man who “took” you, murdered your husband and then because God was angry at him, caused you to lose your first born?

Anywho, as if growing up under the shadow of the Celebrity King, the stuff of which legends are made wasn’t enough, Solomon had to live with the fact that papa was a man after God’s own heart (1 Samuel 13:14.

How was such a child supposed to grow up and become a man in his own right? Well, he managed somehow, and became known as the wisest person ever to live, “No one before you was your equal, nor shall any arise after you equal to you.”

Receiving many sermons from the pulpit, my little antennae would tune in when Solomon was discussed for his world was lavish, extreme, filled with wine, women, song and plenty of perks. When I heard he had “700 wives, princesses, and 300 concubines,” I actually sat in the pew and worked it out mathematically. Hey, he could make love every day to a different woman for almost three years without repetition.

I sighed over all the booty he was getting, oh wait, I don’t mean all the booty calls, I meant all the treasure troves (like pirate booty) he received for his wisdom. Not only did he have access to all the secrets of the Universe, but he was wealthy beyond measure and was a rock star.

I admit it, that story impressed me in my younger years. Okay, it still does, but my thirst for Wisdom started at a very early age. Hey, just because I like the idea of being connected to God AND financially rewarded for it, don’t you judge me.

Here comes a little personal reveal: I secretly wish to be that wise. I know, the position has already been taken, but a girl can dream, right? I’ve set out to learn the difference between judgment, discernment, tolerance and acceptance since they are all intertwined.

So that we’re on the same page, I’m going briefly define: “Judgment – the ability to judge, make a decision, or form an opinion objectively, authoritatively and wisely.”
“Discernment – acuteness of judgment and understanding.”

“Tolerance – a fair and objective attitude toward those whose opinions, practices, race, religion, nationality differ from one’s own: freedom from bigotry.”

“Acceptance – the act of receiving something offered, favorable reception, approval.”

Now it’s time to take the pin out and address things directly, although not in order. I’m going to begin with #3 — that I’ve imagined other people judging me — and #4, receiving righteous compliments. And by other people, in this case, I’m specifically talking about old high school ghosts.

Suddenly, this week, by the powers vested in FaceBook, I’ve been contacted by a number of high school chums and what they’ve told me has differed wildly than what I had going on in my head. I attended a private Christian high school and graduated with about a dozen kids. It was a very small pond. The school was more of a preacher or preacher’s wife- in- training camp, and as I was not going to become either, I did not fit into the box.

And there was a lot of pressure to fit into the box. I neither rebelled nor conformed, but approached getting into the box with more of a, “No, but thanks for asking,” kind of attitude. I knew at an early age that being myself was more valuable than becoming what they wanted. I was arty then, I’m arty now. I knew I didn’t want to be a baby factory then and I didn’t become one now. I stood up for myself when required, but picked my battles strategically.

This unnerved some. An open rebel was a cause they could understand, or living a life with the lid closed was another familiar path, but choosing to be oneself in the midst of heavy duty conforming pressure without wildly rebelling was something altogether alarming.

The upshot is that several of those I’ve communicated with told me that my path seems like the better option with 20-20 hindsight. In the intervening years, they buckled under so completely, that they’ve had to literally destroy the box — their lives, in order to get out and start living an authentic life.

Even though I had a few early detractors, that only served to reinforce my resolve. Although it’s had a few thorns, my path now holds a new sparkle that I didn’t see before.

I’m not living with a secret. I don’t long to break out and finally live my true self, as I have already committed to that.

Now for a glimpse into this week’s righteous compliments… “I give you props for knowing who you are and being comfortable in your own skin. In a world of conformists, it’s refreshing to know those people who can say ‘This is who I am. I’m not afraid to be a little less conventional and it’s okay.”

From somebody else, “I have so much more respect for you now. I can see that you are comfortable in your own skin.” (Whoa, two different people, two different conversations!)

And another, “You seem like a person who does not go to grouping once a week to get fed, but is constantly connected to God. You don’t seem to compartmentalize your life, but instead approach your art with spirituality, your spirituality with art, your creativity just flows into everything you do.”

Can you stomach one more? “Judgment is simply having an opinion about something, and while you may have your opinions, you are very tolerant and accepting.”

Okay, before you gag, I tell you this to process it, and for your own sakes. Seriously. I had all this judgy stuff built up in my head and as it turns out, it was mostly my imagination. Perhaps there are some of you who feel burdened by judgment. It’s so refreshing to simply ask instead of assume, the answer might surprise you.

How often do we build a case against ourselves and use other people to support it? I had not had contact with these school mates in over twenty years, yet I was accusing them in my head of being judgmental. Turns out I was wrong.

In this week, two other people volunteered heartfelt apologies for judging me. Wow, I told you there was a lot of judgment energy to suss out.

Those apologies were so empowering, I would also like to practice forgiveness. To anyone, past or present, that I have hurt by my words, by less-than-flattering images I’ve carried in my head, for releasing negative thoughts, for unkind words, for energy that made you feel less-than, and for anything that I’ve done to cause you pain, I am truly sorry.

I’d like to leave you with something Oscar Wilde taught me. “Be yourself. Everybody else is already taken.”