A Happy Valentine's Day

Every date should arrive bearing flowers, but especially so on Valentine's Day. This Ken with flowers was in a box in Times Square this afternoon, while our Ken (as usual) was outside the box when he left dinner unannounced and returned with a dozen roses for our sweetie-less waitress. He is a fellow who knows how to make someone's day!

He also made ours when he suggested seeing Mama Mia on Broadway. A lovely way to cap off a day that included a visit to the Guggenheim and a trip into Mood Fabrics (which will not need to be explained to you Project Runway fans out there).

A couple in love, good friends, and the most exciting city in the country - what could be better than that? We hope yours was happy, too.

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Twenty Years?!

Groom and I started our whimsical line of art jewelry in 1991 and by my calculations that’s 20 years! Every February we host an anniversary sale, an open house when we put our jewelry on sale (30 – 75% off) for one day only and invite our loyal customers and friends. It’s this Saturday, February 5th, from 10am – 4pm, so come on down.

We nosh, nibble, sip and kibitz. It’s a fun day to reveal new designs, sell some of last year’s items and prepare for the coming season.

Aah, the house is clean, the yard is spruced up and colorful spring flowers are planted. Groom’s in the kitchen baking away and the aroma of fresh pumpkin bread is wafting to where I am sitting at the computer, teasing my nose. Fortunately, or unfortunately, however you look at it, he made brownies earlier, so I just scarfed one down with a delicious cup of coffee. I asked him to hide them, so I would not be further tempted and he just looked at me and said, “Woman, control yourself.” Funny!

The sky here is blue today with the sun shining and the birds singing. With Valentine’s Day around the corner, I feel compelled to write this blog as a Valentine to life in general, to the beauty that surrounds.

Years ago, my mother began writing every day things that she felt gratitude for and my father, he is one of those (rare?) men who can actually say “I love you,” out loud and he is very forthcoming with his appreciation. I am lucky to be blessed with such examples.

Picking up the tradition, I keep an Alignment Journal. I write down at least eleven things everyday that I am grateful for, appreciative of, and happy about. I chose eleven because it is such a powerful number for me personally, one of my favorites and it also happens to be 20!!

I also write down things that line up, for example, I looked at the clock today at precisely 11:11am. Anytime I notice “coincidences” and synchronicity, I try to make a note of it. In other words, alignment. The more I notice, the more they show up and it’s so much fun to look back, even a few days later, and realize how bountiful life can be.

Pets, friends, loved ones and customers are mainstays in my life and I want to make certain each and every one of them know just how much I love and value them.

Happy 60th Anniversary!

Although it happened exactly one month before Valentine’s Day, it doesn’t make it any less romantic. 60 years ago today, my parents got married. To each other. We tried to buy them a special card, but to our shock and amazement, the store only carried anniversary cards up to the Golden 50th. Apparently, with divorce rates and other considerations, the greeting card companies no longer feel the Diamond wedding anniversary a viable risk.

So we had to shop around. When we finally found a store that carried them, there were precisely two to choose from. But enough about that.

On January 14, 1951, my parents were 19-year old college kids. My dad asked my mom what she was doing for the weekend and when she shrugged, indicating nothing in particular, he asked her what she thought about sitting across the breakfast table from him every morning for the rest of their lives.

Their engagement lasted 29 ½ hours, the length of time it took them to pack my dad’s dark green 1939 Ford coupe and drive from the Bay area to Reno, NV, almost killing themselves and their witness on the wintry, icy roads. Did I mention they were 19-year old kids? Only knowing them as fairly serious adults, it’s difficult to imagine them ever as spontaneous or impetuous.

In fact, I just now learned how they got together in the first place. During an initial conversation, they both expressed interest in visiting New York City. Dad wanted to see the famous landmarks and mom wanted to walk barefoot down Broadway in the rain. They agreed to go together, and that was the beginning of their lifelong romance.

It took them 13 years to make it across country and by then they had three kids, including me, the youngest. I went on my first trip to New York City when I was four months old. And my next one to the Big Apple is planned for, ooops, I’ll write about that later.

For now, I want to wish my parents a very Happy 60th Anniversary and to tell them I love them. And how I appreciate the fact they are still good friends and enjoy each other’s company after all these years.

The ICON

Whoo hoo, it’s my birthday week! I may be turning 46 years old, but there’s still a kid inside me who loves birthdays, whether it’s mine or somebody else’s. I hold a strong belief that for at least one day a year, everyone should have a day unto themselves: To be pampered, adored and showered with cards and gifts. In my opinion, the birthday boy or girl (regardless of age) should not to have to lift a finger. The day is supposed to be filled with pleasant surprises, thoughtful gestures and an overwhelment of love. Maybe even wear a crown or tiara.

This year, however, the University did not consult my calendar before printing the class schedule, so waaaaaah, I have to go to school. What? Usually, Groom and I reserve the week that includes my birthday and Valentine’s Day to sequester ourselves at the beach, renting the same house year after year.

We frolic on the beach, sit outside and read to our heart’s content when Oregon blesses us with our annual faux spring or stay indoors by the fire when the storms rage. Either way, it is one hundred and sixty-eight hours of heaven.

Speaking of heaven, since I’ll be otherwise engaged, I thought this week would be the perfect opportunity to share one of my short stories with you. God’s Minion once told me that I should write what I know and excavate my rich backyard for treasure. Taking her advice, I pulled on a thread of imagination.

My mind meandered one day and while drifting in the daydream, I asked myself, what might Jesus have been like as a child? Did he come with his superpowers intact or did he discover them one by one? What was it like for his mother, Mary, to raise one supernatural child while her other offspring were mere mortals? Did she sit around the playground comparing her eldest child’s development to that of other kids…?

“My son started speaking when he was three days old. He could walk by the time he was a week…” I mean, what did the other mom’s think? So I wrote a short story about a scene I could picture and it made me giggle. So without further ado, I present to you,

THE ICON

“Jesus, stop playing with your food.”

“But look mom, I’m parting the Red Sea.”

Sure enough, Mary watched as her son waved his hand over the bowl Joseph had carved, neatly dividing the contents into walls of lentil soup on both sides without spilling a drop.

In his six-year old voice, Jesus tried to sound dramatic as he quoted the Torah, “And the Lord drove the soup back with a strong east wind - ”

Joseph interrupted the display, “Son, that’s not what the Holy Scripture says, now mind your mother and quickly cover those Egyptians and their chariots back up.”

With a sigh Jesus ceremoniously withdrew his hand from hovering above the Lentil Sea and the soup returned to its normal level.

“I wanna try,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon, and they both started huffing and puffing, trying in vain to imitate their brother. The only thing they achieved was a mess.

“That’s enough of that boys, you all go outside and play.” Joseph kissed his wife on the cheek and headed out back to his shop.

The horseplay outside suddenly became quiet, too quiet. Investigating, Mary caught sight of a new game, one she hadn’t seen before. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Jesus, put your brother down before someone gets hurt.”

“Jude’s alright,” Jesus reassured his mother, patting her gently on the arm. Jude was suspended in mid-air, his arms crossed solemnly over his chest, floating as if asleep.

“Now,” his mother said, trying to sound firm.

“Fine.” Scrunching up his face in serious concentration, Jesus slowly lowered Jude to the ground, soft as a feather landing. Jude stood up and took a bow. The other boys clapped.

“Do me,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon.

Mary shook her head and went back inside to clean up the lunch mess. That Angel Gabriel did not tell her everything, like how difficult it could be sometimes to raise a perfect son.

Scraping the plate of goat cheese baked with herbs, Mary glanced at her wrist and marveled at the memory. Born with a strange birthmark on the inside of her wrist, she’d been taken to a fortune-teller as a baby.

“She’s marked for unbearable heartache, this one is,” the old woman warned her mother. “Don’t let anyone see this sign or you’ll never marry her off.”

Growing up, her mother was adamant about keeping her wrist covered and made her promise she would never, ever show the omen to a living soul.

Covered wrist or no, Mary’s family almost didn’t marry her off anyway.

It was all so complicated.

That Night. Oh yes, that night. Mary still blushed whenever she thought of it. Women all over the world have a night of their own to remember, but hers…

It had happened almost seven years ago. That particular night while alone in her room, Mary began the ritual of unwrapping her wrist in the dark. She was so bored of keeping it hidden, unable to wear the noisy bangles like all the other girls or the fancy bracelet Joseph had given her at their betrothal ceremony.

Without warning, a blinding and terrifying apparition appeared in her room. This Angel, who said his name was Gabriel, told her all sorts of confusing things. What happened next, well, Mary never spoke of it, not even to her fiancé, Joseph.

Especially not to her fiancé.

In the aftermath of the scandal, Mary’s parents reminded her several times a day that a dowry had already been paid to Jacob’s son Joseph, from the House of David.

A reasonable explanation of “how she could have done this to them,” simply did not exist.

But for a fleeting moment, in between the terrifying part and all Sheol breaking loose, Mary felt entirely transformed. What an amazing dream, she thought, savoring the extraordinary feeling.

As that special night caved to the pressures of dawn, Mary started to rewrap her wrist as she’d done each morning, paranoid, lest anyone see her secret marking.

Hold on - Mary couldn’t believe her eyes. The scary birthmark on her wrist, the dark symbol that foretold her unbearable heartache was gone. She rubbed her wrist, yet the skin where the omen had been was perfectly smooth, there was no sign of it anywhere.

Nine months and an arduous camel ride to Bethlehem later, Mary began to suspect there was more to that night than a vivid dream.

Her beloved Joseph stayed true, if not silent, during those torturous months while her flat belly grew into a public bump. His eyes grew kind again after he’d had a visitation of his own. He whispered to her that an angel had revealed what to name the baby.

Whenever Mary felt overwhelmed, she’d think about their impromptu baby shower in the stable, with all those generous gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. They’d had such curious guests, from shell-shocked shepherds to wise kings. Oh, and that star as bright as the sun.

How could she ever forget the Prophetess Anna and that nice old man Simeon who had blessed her infant son in the Temple and said all those nice things about him after his Briss?

“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.” Mary quietly treasured these things in her heart and thought about them often.

“Hey mom,” Jesus yelled. “Look what I can do!”

Mary turned her thoughts back to the moment, just in time to see her eldest child climb onto their rain barrel and stand directly on the water without sinking.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, his arms outstretched.

“Yes, you are, my son. You certainly are.” Mary looked down at her wrist and smiled.

She was so glad that her future of unbearable heartache was over…

“I want to try,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon.

Celebrating The Ordinary Miracle

Groom asked me this morning what I was going to write about. I was mulling over an idea and as if to seal the deal, I was given a beautiful song that sets the tone for today’s entry. Please take a moment, well, three minutes and four seconds, more or less, and click on this address www.youtube.com/watch?v=INCGOrNBexQ to listen and read the lyrics of Sarah McLachlan’s Ordinary Miracle.

For the last several weeks, I’ve been describing the journey we’re taking with our jewelry, writing, photography and University classes and while there’s still more to say on the subject, I’m in the mood for something else.

Every good story begins with Trouble walking onto the scene. At the beginning, readers, viewers and listeners are given a quick glimpse of a character’s life until…Until they lose their job, a spouse runs away with the neighbor, a child gets sick, somebody is kidnapped, or a business partner steals all the cash. Reminds me of that joke about playing a country & western song backwards, the pickup truck starts, the dog comes home and the wife never leaves in the first place.

There’s no story without Trouble. Here, let me show you. Once upon a time, there was a couple and they lived happily ever after.

Once upon a time a rich man won the lottery.

Once upon a time, a person had an idea for a book. She sat down, and without interruption, the words flowed easily. Before “the end” was typed, agents, editors and publishers were knocking down her door. A bidding war ensued and the new author was given the most lucrative contract in literary history and the book became a best seller overnight and she ended up as a frequent guest on Oprah.

Wow, I just told you three stories within a few sentences. Yawn.

Oh, without struggle, conflict or turmoil, there’s no excitement and the characters won’t have a chance to see what they’re made of, or come out the other side changed in some way. So while Trouble is a necessary ingredient to Story, the Ordinary is where the characters are trying to return. While Trouble gets all the attention, Ordinary is often the quiet hero.

It does not matter how boring or mundane aspects of our everyday life might be, it is those same “dull” things human beings crave when they are deprived.

When I was a teenager, I hurt my leg and it required many weeks in a full length cast to heal. Suddenly, all the activities I took for granted were prohibited or significantly altered. Moving about the house on crutches became a challenge as did using the restroom, bathing, or going from here to there. I was a cashier at the local drug store and I can tell you, it was super fun trying to stay upright while totaling everybody’s purchases. Suddenly, I had to work much harder for the same pay rate.

When a beloved pet, friend or relative dies, I think we’d all give anything in the world to have them back, to have our world return to normal. When an earthquake hits, the electricity goes out, snow dumps, rivers flood, life as we know it gets put on hold and sometimes, it does not go back to the way it was.

This then, is about noticing and celebrating the Ordinary while we have it and not waiting for life to grab us by the ankles, hanging us upside down from a twenty-story window begging for mercy.

In our ordinary life, well-intentioned people often ask us, “So what do you do with all your free time?” If I had dentures, I’d probably have swallowed them by now, like my hoary uncle once did, from surprise. Free time?!

But I suppose the idea of living the life of a studio artist might conjure up images that involve sleeping late, consuming copious amounts of coffee and wine, lots of doodling, drooling and daydreaming, watching bad afternoon TV, vacillating between angst and euphoria, and being otherwise fiscally and hygienically irresponsible.

I kept a letter to the Editor from the now famous, at least in certain circles, A. Warren Herrigel. And I quote, “…but never have I seen a more repulsive assemblage of unkempt and unwashed hirsute ragamuffins, laggards, and misfits than I saw at the Saturday Market.”

Ah, the reputation of artists. As members of the Saturday Market since 1991, I bet some folks, A. Warren Herrigel included, might be surprised to discover we set our alarm for 6am most mornings, shower every day, keep the house clean, have a huge tea selection, eat proper meals, take exercise, save all our receipts, claim our income, have an accountant, pay our taxes, wear stylish clothes, and actually work, even if it means commuting to the living room.

Groom and I were taking an early walk this morning and I couldn’t help but notice how many people were climbing into their cars, setting down mugs of steaming coffee on vehicle rooftops while they fumbled bleary-eyed with their keys, the ritual of going to work repeated block after block.

With cameras in tow, I smiled knowing that while I had lots to do, I was not scheduled to be at a job at 8am and could take my break first thing in the morning if I chose and shoot some pictures before settling in to earn my daily bread.

My thoughts, however, drifted from my day toward those of the people climbing into their cars. They did have to be somewhere by 8am and while we usually encounter folks at their jobs, it was a rare glimpse to see how they do it. Every person you encounter throughout the day, had at one point, to climb out of bed whether they wanted to or not, do some kind of morning ritual and actually transport themselves from home to work. For free.

I experienced this huge moment of gratitude. I am so thankful for every person who fights the sleepy monster and shows up to work. If people didn’t make the effort, we couldn’t mail a letter, cook food on our electric stove, or have Internet service. When I ate breakfast, I thought of all the effort it took to plant the food, harvest it, move it, sell it and prepare it.

I am thrilled somebody is willing to get up in the wee hours and haul away my recycling. I love that I can turn on the tap and have water. I like it that I can go to the library and check out a book, go to the theater and be entertained, or know there are plumbers, mechanics, doctors and candle makers a phone call away.

To all of you, thank you. For those of you who stay home, I thank you as well. Our homes and neighborhoods need to be looked after, to have a loving presence felt which keeps us safe. To those of you who write poetry, cook food, garden, paint, play music, mop floors, stock shelves, teach children, thank you. Each person is valuable and your contribution is greatly appreciated.

As this week includes Valentine’s Day, we wish you all a day of feeling truly loved and valued. And what, pray tell, do any of these photos have to do with anything? They are ordinary moments we saw, walking in our neighborhood. Imagine my delight, when I turned a corner this morning and saw a plum tree already blooming! Daffodils are peeking their heads above ground, Daphne’s intoxicating perfume giving me goosebumps, one last leaf clinging for dear life.

Here’s to appreciating the “ordinary miracles” in our lives.

Let Your Fingers do the Talking...

Have I mentioned the pattern that has emerged since writing The Everyday Anthropologist? I begin writing on Monday, save Tuesday for the cooling period, and then edit and post on Wednesday. Bam! Something new arrives on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning and I’m given several days to process the new, usually painful experience by Monday, when the whole process starts again.

Phew! This can be exhausting. Perhaps if I stop writing about energy and healing I can stop inviting it in and having to learn these lessons firsthand. The idea was to write about healing and forgiving, not have to live it and discover how it works on a personal level. Sheesh.

Oh, so you want an example? Fine, I’ll tell you. I woke up Thursday morning and the middle finger on my right hand was covered in red, angry bumps. Hmmm, you’ve heard the expression, “a little bird told me?” Well, what is my little birdy finger trying to tell me? Let’s see if we can suss this one out. Skin, the largest organ in the body, is expressing itself with inflamed, red, swollen bumps.

The right side of the body is said to represent the giving, masculine side compared to the receptive, feminine left side. We hold onto things with our hands, we pick them up, let them go, grasp, clutch, caress. We count with our digits, focusing on details. We gesture, sign, point fingers, make a fist; there’s all kinds of things to do with our hands.

Apparently I’m holding onto something in my energy field that needs releasing. If I had paid closer attention to my feelings, I would have had the opportunity to preview coming attractions, because what goes on inside our heads and hearts is a precursor to what we’ll soon see in the physical realm. I might have been able to express the energy in a healthy manner instead of having it stuck at my fingertips. Well, I suppose that is for me to figure out, but I did learn of a treatment that might fall under the category of “old wives tale.”

Rumor has it if you get a potato (and no, I don’t think it matters if it is a russet, a Yukon gold or a shiny new one), and cut it in half, you can rub what ails you and then bury it in the backyard under a full moon. I told this to somebody on Saturday and she asked if it would work on her mother-in-law? Ha, very funny. It’s a full moon right now, I wonder if she’ll try it!

If she does decide to approach her “loved one” with a half-potato and rub it on her, I hope she has a good excuse handy for her experimental behavior. I was simply mentioning the use of this organic method of healing for something irritating on one’s own body, but as a friend says, who has her own share of charming relatives, “Family, you can’t live with them, you can’t kill ‘em.”

Red is the color of anger, of passion, of the first chakra, otherwise known as the root or Tribal chakra. This is where our family-of-origin stuff hides, I mean resides.

Last night, as the full moon appeared on the night stage, I washed a potato, offered thanks for the situation, gestured fully with my red, bumpy, inflamed middle finger, then rubbed the freshly sliced potato all over it and buried it in the back yard. Uh, the potato, not my finger.

Speaking of red, February is all about red and pink and hearts and candy. Love is in the air. I know this to be true because the Greeting Card Guild and the Chocolate Factory tells us so. But the love I’m interested in riffing about is the much neglected topic of self-love. Group think tells us it’s selfish. But, to quote a local fishwife, “What’s so wrong with being Ish about one’s self?”

When I broached this subject with someone recently, they immediately told me I was vain enough. Wow, ouch. Okay, let’s get that elephant out of the room… Considering how awesome I am and how much I have to work with, I’m actually pretty humble. Wait, that was funny. C’mon, I was joking (was not).

Kidding aside, having genuine love for one’s self is NOT vanity. It occurred to me awhile back, if what the everlasting forecast says is true, then no matter where we go, there we are. According to spiritual traditions, whether you believe in reincarnation, the eternal barbeque or the sweet hereafter, we are the only ones we’re guaranteed to be with for all time. Shiver.

If we are our own perpetual companion, then why all the internal conflict? As much as you might love your sister, sweetheart or Uncle Floyd, there’s no promise that you’ll end up in the same place at the same time. It might happen, but when it all shakes down, we’re stuck with ourselves, so we might as well deal with it and come to terms with ourselves.

We can divorce, fire, ignore, or move away from people who bug us, but what happens when we tire of ourselves? I’m going out on a limb here, but is it possible that the number one cause of health-risking obesity, addictions, illness and other forms of misery is self-abuse? Yes, people have caused other people mountains of hurt, but once that pain stick has been dropped, do we pick it up and continue to beat ourselves? I’ve heard it said that we do not allow anyone to treat us worse than we treat ourselves. Shocking.

In this light, perhaps that bottle of liquid courage, chocolate overdose or layer of belly fat isn’t a barrier protecting us from other people as much as they’re a barrier from ourselves. What do we whisper to ourselves in the dead of night? And what about our pathetic quest for the approval of others? Why do we even need approval from others if we’re cool with who we are? Since we have access to ourselves 24/7, we have the most influence. What’s our self-talk? How do we really treat ourselves when no one is looking? With contempt, disappointment, abuse? It’s written all over us, our secret is out.

Our bodies belong to Mother Earth. When we die, she gets them. But in the meantime, they are the only possession we have that’s guaranteed for a lifetime.

We’re told that our bodies are “temples” for our spirit. What if we substituted the word sanctuary for “temple?” Our bodies were designed to be a safe refuge for our spirits, not a mound of flesh we’re ashamed of and abuse.

Wisdom tells us to love God and others as we love OURSELVES. We are the vessel, the channel through which love flows. If Love is a drug, then what are we cutting ours with? When we are blocked by guilt, fears of not being “good enough,” general disregard, then how genuine will our love be toward the Creator or how good will our love feel to others?

Well, I’ve been on my soapbox long enough. My legs are tired from standing and my voice is going hoarse from trying to convince me. We all know by now, that whatever I’m preaching about, I get to live and experience for myself.

As this week contains Valentine’s Day, how about joining me in a moment of vanity, oops, I mean self-appreciation? Yep, I think that’s what my little birdy is trying to say.