tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40885854317852252412024-03-19T04:04:29.668-04:00Letters From a Lifeby Mary BastMary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-46036428980889633362023-11-24T22:15:00.003-05:002024-02-01T16:34:46.109-05:00Lost and Found<div data-contents="true"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb09wAQnwvKkuz3af6UCae8PtfSY-jGZ4gQPL0W3K2rAQqeCsRcnVJKaovN4j2HixPavT2jbQFb8RvLNlcQWEbp1CBRUtt9XtqDskaswtwkMIjOJDhteq-PY6neHG0Wy30dawapEVillE9/s781/MaryGuitar.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="781" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb09wAQnwvKkuz3af6UCae8PtfSY-jGZ4gQPL0W3K2rAQqeCsRcnVJKaovN4j2HixPavT2jbQFb8RvLNlcQWEbp1CBRUtt9XtqDskaswtwkMIjOJDhteq-PY6neHG0Wy30dawapEVillE9/s320/MaryGuitar.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In 2005, I sold my guitar; my rosewood Alvarez, my beloved, resonant,
androgynous instrument, its woman-shape touching like a man. Arthritis had
finally ended my ability to embrace or stroke it properly. </span><p></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">When I
was 24 years old, I heard a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3ctrENhfE4" target="_blank">Julian Bream recording of Joaquin Rodrigo’s “Concerto de Aranjuez</a>.” I’d studied piano as a teenager but had not been in love. This
music smoked of passion. Even the composers’ names were transporting: Albinoni,
Carulli, Castelnuovo-Tedesco, and my favorite, Villa-Lobos (<i>vee-yah low-bus</i>, pronounced with a long
caress on the first syllable).</span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The
Alvarez was not my first. I learned on a Martinez
student guitar. Like the piano, it created melody from strings pulled taut and
pressed with precision. But the Martinez
vibrated with more emotion, begged for greater sensitivity. Held properly
against my chest there was no distance between hand and chord. No keys, no
hammer, only the immediate and sensuous rapport between fingers, strings,
heart. I was an avid lover. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My
first husband Dave and I moved from Boston to Indianapolis to San Francisco
and finally to Cincinnati
over the six years of his medical internship and residency. In each city I
found a teacher and a companion with whom I could play duets. Other
relationships were incidental to these musical rendezvous. I was very good for
a beginner. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">By the
time our daughter was a year old, however, I was expected to be socially
gracious, to cook gourmet dinners for guests, to go to teas with other doctors’
wives and chat about potty training, to volunteer for community service. I had
no time for these activities, which bored me. Grateful that our toddler took
substantial naps, I practiced two hours a day, first exercises to limber up my
fingers, then pieces like Carcassi’s “Andantino in G,” even some flamenco
riffs. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I
wanted so much to excel. I’d heard all the masters, knew what was possible, yet
lacked the spontaneity to improvise; my fingers would not fly. My fervor was
admirable, my capability serviceable, my dedication commendable, but I was not
a talented musician. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">At one
of my lessons I was excited to learn not only would Carlos Montoya perform at
Cincinnati’s Music Hall, but—through the society connections of my teacher’s
wife—there would be a reception for Montoya at their home after the concert. My
husband and I were invited. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The
concert was splendid and I was eager to meet the maestro. On our arrival at the
party, however, our hostess ushered us past the living room—where Montoya was
surrounded by more elite guests—to the family room where I took my lessons. We
quickly realized she was not happy her husband had included us. She was
gracious, of course, explained the living room was full, and made sure we had
drinks. She said she was certain the party would spill out soon to the room
where we now stood in front of the fireplace. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">We
talked for about thirty minutes before acknowledging we’d been shunned, and
decided to leave. But I would not accept being so close to Montoya without
meeting him. It was my intention on our way out to walk over to where he sat,
thank him for the concert, shake his hand. But there on the long, U-shaped
couch was an empty space beside Montoya. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Impulsively,
I sat down next to him. He turned immediately, asked who I was and why we
hadn’t been introduced. I told him I was just a student. No one else spoke.
Montoya’s next question made it clear a student of music was to him an honored
guest. “Will you play for me?” he asked. </span></span></p>
<p class="CSP-ChapterBodyText" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Though I’ll never forget his kindness, I
did not perform for Montoya. And I still grieve—for all the false hopes of my
romantic fantasies: the life-long love I thought I would cherish and hold, the rich
talents I dreamed would fully unfold, the sweet recollection of a moment that might
have been, when I played for Carlos Montoya, when he took up his guitar and reveled
with me in the haunting tremolos of Tarrega’s “Recuerdos de la Alhambra.”
</span></span></p><div><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" />
<div id="ftn1">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Published in <i>Shaking Like a Mountain </i>(2007), and in <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/1508669449/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tpbk_p2_i3" target="_blank"><i>Autobiography Passed Through the Sieve of Maya</i></a><i>.</i></span></span></p>
</div>
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<![endif]--></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-32591464824995193372023-11-24T22:15:00.000-05:002023-11-24T22:15:05.025-05:00How Language Can Make Women Invisible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFKPAEHn8-bhdz1vIAmaWLUKgk0JZaisuXmzniFZYXgelgEdHcsmXiwHSgEhvwRFnI1CN3SVPAuiVy07tnTKXMOV2kGedS4-ZIdVf6LTfqM5cWjHA5YqHFsQmrvIs_CdgVzhiUUXjTYkh/s1600/FeministDictionary.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="375" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFKPAEHn8-bhdz1vIAmaWLUKgk0JZaisuXmzniFZYXgelgEdHcsmXiwHSgEhvwRFnI1CN3SVPAuiVy07tnTKXMOV2kGedS4-ZIdVf6LTfqM5cWjHA5YqHFsQmrvIs_CdgVzhiUUXjTYkh/s200/FeministDictionary.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Small acts of linguistic rebellion can change the world. We can only become what we can imagine and we can only imagine what we
can articulate. That’s why language matters to our lives; that’s why
little changes in grammar and vocabulary can affect the entire
architecture of our political imagination. </span></i><span style="font-size: medium;">"<a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/politics/feminism/2015/09/gender-neutral-language-coming-here-s-why-it-matters" target="_blank">Gender-Neutral Language and Why It Matters</a><i>"</i></span></blockquote><p></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few years ago, I read a post by a writer I respect, in a blog for writers, who used masculine pronouns exclusively: “. . . the reader may feel he is being
tricked . . . He may even quit
reading. He will certainly not . . . .” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Technically, I doubt this writer hopes to be read by only one reader, or that the single reader would necessarily be male. More important is the degree to which language affects our
thinking, which then affects our language. We know how women in all
professions, including writers, have been overlooked historically. Sadly, not everyone knows that language affects how human beings think, in this case about women. More succinctly, we as writers have the opportunity to decrease gender bias
by the way we write. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's not simply my wishful thinking
that we can influence readers' views of women by how we write. Such
effects are substantiated by a growing body of research. As indicated by <a href="http://journal.frontiersin.org/article/10.3389/fpsyg.2015.02018/full" target="_blank">one study</a>, “A large body of empirical research
documents that the use of gender-fair forms instead of masculine forms
has a substantial impact on mental representations. Masculine forms
activate more male representations . . . .”</span></span></span><p></p><p>
</p><p>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Since reading <i>A Feminist Dictionary</i>* in 1985, I've written or contributed to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0089YGPJE" target="_blank">a number of books</a> and hundreds of articles and <a href="http://outoftheboxcoaching.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">blog posts</a> without once having to resort to "he/she" or "s/he." </span></p><p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What is now termed <i>gender-fair</i> or <i>gender-neutral</i> language has become <a href="http://writingcenter.unc.edu/handouts/gender-inclusive-language" target="_blank">standard practice</a> in journalistic and academic writing. It's
<a href="http://wmich.edu/writing/genderbias" target="_blank">easy to accomplish</a> and doesn’t require the awkward he/she substitution. Gender-neutral language also extends to everyday verbs such as "manned," when "staffed" is as easy to say or write, and to role titles such as "Chairman" when "Chair" is shorter and equally definitive, when all of us--</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">male, female, bi, trans, or any other gender description-- are "<u>human</u>kind." </span><br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the writer quoted earlier in this post chose not to revise her post, though <a href="http://www.mywritertools.com/gb.asp" target="_blank">it would have been quite easy</a> for her to write, “. . . readers may feel they are being tricked . . . They may even quit reading. They will certainly
not . . . .”<br />
<br />
Nothing would have been lost, everything would have been gained.<br />
<br /><br />
</span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: medium;"> *<i>I myself have never been able to find precisely what
feminism is. I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I
express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat.</i> --Rebecca
West, 1913, quoted in <i>A Feminist Dictionary.</i><br /></span>
<br />Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-14542650932227217162023-08-07T12:29:00.000-04:002023-08-07T12:29:08.820-04:00Driving Uphill<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJliJupJBP-IXzuezPVgGVtbVpSJzpYXexVdUaRYJY7eq_lI_LC2i_36MfbU7F3OEm-SOFbC0q5Sr2mOtnsLjXJ8z_JNcnaDHxwLwprPmxrnUjWNVqD0KXNVlkayw2qFZovxNpQK-qoXHlvua6gHi5N1qDh_Wo3zeQiqnm9ykhDh6v9Ui5KM6e4EQAg/s283/Statistics.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="212" data-original-width="283" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJliJupJBP-IXzuezPVgGVtbVpSJzpYXexVdUaRYJY7eq_lI_LC2i_36MfbU7F3OEm-SOFbC0q5Sr2mOtnsLjXJ8z_JNcnaDHxwLwprPmxrnUjWNVqD0KXNVlkayw2qFZovxNpQK-qoXHlvua6gHi5N1qDh_Wo3zeQiqnm9ykhDh6v9Ui5KM6e4EQAg/s1600/Statistics.jpg" width="283" /></a></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Though my Social Psychology doctoral program at the University of Cincinnati was inter-disciplinary (Sociology and Psychology departments), my academic home was in Sociology, which required that I conquer two courses in statistics--descriptive statistics (understanding the characteristics of a data set) and inferential statistics (coming to conclusions and making predictions based on the data). </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This was early in the use of computers, and we used traditional tools for descriptive statistics to determine such outcomes as "central tendency" (mean, median, mode) and standard deviation. Never a math whiz, I was out of my mind with anxiety before the final exam in descriptive statistics. The night before the exam, a dream seared an image in my brain that's still there fifty years later: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">I'm driving up a steep hill toward the university, with my father in the passenger seat, who says, "You'll never pass this exam."</div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>"Why not?" </p><p>"Because you have no balls." </p></blockquote><p>That was the second time I'd heard that phrase applied to me, both times by men, Beyond the obvious anatomical reality, and the fact that most of the world is controlled by men, it was also true that I was still somewhat passive, not yet clear about my potential and not yet the feminist I would become. Recently divorced, I'd barely realized--after a decade of marriage and two children--that the life I'd been programmed for was not the life I actually wanted. This life that I was moving into was so rich with possibility that I was in constant flux between excitement over entering new intellectual territory and anxiety over its challenges.</p><p>The descriptive statistics final was a pencil-and-paper exam, and by the time the test questions were on the desk in front of me, I was shaking so much I had to bear down to keep the pencil on the paper and not flying across the room; I passed, but not before breaking the points off of two pencils before the exam was over.</p><p>The next obstacle to overcome was inferential statistics, and though we did have a computer center (remember those cards with hole punched in them?), the class itself only required understanding the concepts, and our instructor, Dr. Feinberg, gave us a take-home, open-book exam for our final. We only had to answer one question: "Explain the Analysis of Covariance." Easy, right? </p><p>I'd managed my schedule to complete all my other courses and exams by Monday morning, so I had the whole week to complete the take-home exam, due Friday at noon. Every evening that week, after the children were in bed, I sat at my portable typewriter with the textbook open on the table, not typing a single word. Weeping.</p><p>Finally, at 8:30 on Thursday evening, I began typing, basically summarizing relevant information from the textbook. The children were at their dad's house that night, and would be going directly to school from there, so I had all night, if necessary, to finish the exam. Around 2 a.m. I put a paper clip on the ten pages I'd typed, put the cover on the typewriter and went to bed. By the next morning, I couldn't have told you under oath what was in those ten pages, but I stuck them in an envelope, drove to the university, and left the envelope in Dr. Feinberg's mailbox. </p><p>When the results were announced, I picked up my ten-page exam and was relieved to see an A on the front page. Then a fellow grad student walked up, Sam Sloss. I knew Sam would get an A because he really understood this material, so I looked over at the paper he held in his hand. He'd explained the analysis of covariance in less than half a page!</p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-51709130040586968772023-02-19T22:23:00.000-05:002023-02-19T22:23:29.698-05:00Land of the Birds: Memoir<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRc_EIr-iIjIO1TuQFUMRMymtqwF_4AWCr2nV3lDFfcLVGc6h7ijZ-rr5vH9Mnssa8C6qxFlN_PL9TKHQxVuL45d2WQhts9iLD0Nj06cg0TYbxjEvCHf0VWxdONjqlwVNnMQFbEzq1POYS/s1600/atiu-map.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1348" data-original-width="1600" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRc_EIr-iIjIO1TuQFUMRMymtqwF_4AWCr2nV3lDFfcLVGc6h7ijZ-rr5vH9Mnssa8C6qxFlN_PL9TKHQxVuL45d2WQhts9iLD0Nj06cg0TYbxjEvCHf0VWxdONjqlwVNnMQFbEzq1POYS/s320/atiu-map.jpg" width="320" /></a><i><a href="http://www.atiu.info/about-atiu/maps" target="_blank">Atiu, Cook Islands</a>, is a raised coral atoll with a circumference of about 20 miles and land area</i><i><i> of </i>10.4 square miles. Its 230-foot-high central </i><i>plateau </i><i>is surrounded by </i><i><i>low swamps, beaches, and a 66-foot high coral reef containing many
underground caves. Fertile volcanic soil and freshwater springs in the
valleys allow cultivation and export of citrus fruits, taro, bananas, </i><i><i>copra, </i>and
papayas. Coffee is also grown. Shipping is hampered by the lack of an
adequate lagoon behind the fringing reef but there is an airstrip on the
northeast coast. In the 1980s more than 1200 people lived in the island's five villages (by 2010 there would be only 511).</i></i> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Early in 1988 the corporation I worked for was acquired in a hostile takeover and my department eliminated. My March 50th birthday put me in a "protected" category that increased the size of my severance check, and I found consulting work one week a month for as much income as I'd been making in a full-time job. Suddenly free of traditional work hours and with plenty of money, I could do something I'd been interested in for a long time -- join an <a href="http://www.earthwatch.org/" target="_blank">Earthwatch</a> expedition.</span></div>
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br />
</span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Though tempted by <i>Tracking Orangutans in Borneo</i> (more about this later), I was most intrigued by an archeology/anthropology expedition to <a href="http://www.atiu.info/about" target="_blank">Atiu Island</a> (or <i>Enuamanu</i>, land of the birds) in the Cooks. My friend Nikki joined me. The following and some future posts will cover highlights from the journal I kept during the trip.</span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br />
</span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EAYE_l2Jldc/TfvtpSoK5VI/AAAAAAAADcw/OFskaERw8mQ/s1600/Atiu22.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EAYE_l2Jldc/TfvtpSoK5VI/AAAAAAAADcw/OFskaERw8mQ/s200/Atiu22.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our room in Rarotonga</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Tuesday, July 5, 1988:</b> Nikki and I are sharing a room in Rarotonga before catching the cargo plane to Atiu with the other volunteers. The weather is cool, overcast, and windy. Our back window looks out on jungle and our front window on the ocean, framed by coconut palm trees, hibiscus, orchids, and bougainvillea. <br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FALCbAL4C78/TfvugGU_wLI/AAAAAAAADc0/u8qszdQ_Qt4/s1600/Atiu32.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FALCbAL4C78/TfvugGU_wLI/AAAAAAAADc0/u8qszdQ_Qt4/s200/Atiu32.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dr. Sinoto and Dr. Stephenson</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Our expedition leaders Dr. <a href="http://www.uog.edu/seprs/rebecca-stephenson" target="_blank">Rebecca Stephen-son</a>, <a href="http://www.guampedia.com/hiro-kurashina" target="_blank">Dr. Hiro Kurashina</a>, and the senior investigator, <a href="http://www.uhpress.hawaii.edu/p-9682-9780824866235.aspx" target="_blank">Dr. Yosi Sinoto</a> held a press conference this morning describing our goals -- to trace the route of Polynesian colonization through archeological artifacts and to observe changes in island culture by comparing our journals to similar information collected by Becky in her year on the island for her doctoral study a decade ago.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
At lunch today we were told the difficulty of Earthwatch trips varies a great deal. One woman, on her eighth expedition, said the Borneo trip was the toughest. At times they tracked the orangutans through waist-deep swamp water and afterwards had to pull leeches off each other. Because they moved from place to place, their camp sites and facilities were temporary. At one site, the team leaders were concerned about a wild boar in the area. So their night visits to the latrine -- a wooden plank over a large hole -- required balancing on the plank while holding a flashlight and a club. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMYGT-PnwlhtZXJnuM0Twy8nYzhEfA2zMIPmTDEpJHjX7fCmoJxLgxytaP89-FbcJTio5CP4dWv7sQYxD3oCkq6juw67yiiJvHK9PB-n5rsN52CEauX2eJjci77LZIBc119FEI3ICJx_j/s1600/Atiu48.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMYGT-PnwlhtZXJnuM0Twy8nYzhEfA2zMIPmTDEpJHjX7fCmoJxLgxytaP89-FbcJTio5CP4dWv7sQYxD3oCkq6juw67yiiJvHK9PB-n5rsN52CEauX2eJjci77LZIBc119FEI3ICJx_j/s200/Atiu48.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nikki left front, Mary middle front</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
In contrast, we look forward to a welcome from friendly and loving Māori islanders. Two members of our group have been to Atiu with Earthwatch before. Both are back because they became so attached to their hosts. Each of us will live with a family for two weeks, and those two will stay with the same families as before. </span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
At today's briefing we learned that Māori is a directive language. Technically, "please" and "thank you" do not exist, so we shouldn't be surprised if told "Do this!" Reciprocity is integral to this culture. If you admire something, an Atiuan will feel obligated to give it to you. The same goes for us -- we'll know what gifts to give members of our families by what they admire among our possessions. The Māori have a saying that things "get legs." The children will be curious about jewelry, or small alarm clocks, or watches. If we leave such things lying around, they might disappear.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMhfMS0xhqoaMt8VltOrRj8qmPngN5WDJJqxtsSwqdRiW-T_6TuxDVyyxMpCO76vSJOwPOZQE5Dh_t57TimECdbHKwpS0DfXOvRM_ptCMOs92WqUUrWXBvg9u9VFoYdfYhr42RXiwj_TQs/s1600/Atiu143.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMhfMS0xhqoaMt8VltOrRj8qmPngN5WDJJqxtsSwqdRiW-T_6TuxDVyyxMpCO76vSJOwPOZQE5Dh_t57TimECdbHKwpS0DfXOvRM_ptCMOs92WqUUrWXBvg9u9VFoYdfYhr42RXiwj_TQs/s200/Atiu143.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Umukai (feast)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Because we're guests, we will probably eat alone until our families get to know us, and we will eat with our hands, as they do. Shoes are not worn in the house. Both men and women are affectionate and will hug and kiss on the cheek. When attending the dances, a tap on the knee by a man will be an invitation to dance. After the dance a tap on the rear end will be an unspoken "Thank you."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
There will be a conspicuous display of food, and we'll show our pleasure by eating a lot, though not necessarily everything. We asked a man who was here last year what that really means. He said, "It means six meals a day."<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Thursday, July 7, 1988 </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Nikki
and I awoke early in Rarotonga yesterday from anxious dreams about
being in unfamiliar territory. After two weeks on the island of <a href="http://www.atiu.info/about" target="_blank">Atiu</a>
we'll probably come back to the "civilized" world and wonder why we do
all the things we do. But in these early days we'll have to adapt to a
simpler life. Few Atiuan homes have running water, for example.
Instead, most collect rain water. Becky says "When it's time to wash up
you'll take a pitcher and basin to the bath house. Do it the way
birds do."<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LtzYPcMqRI6sUoOsdc5JXBc23eReKdNc4wnKcGSxSJfwcdCZyFpklGIj4dCKEpG2DF9gQCLlqyBA-Hg_MlBaHGv4jr4EqsbMgw-Vdq-DgLBueedfa565-OWFIekCoy5PYVxrhLCr7VcE/s1600/Atiu117.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LtzYPcMqRI6sUoOsdc5JXBc23eReKdNc4wnKcGSxSJfwcdCZyFpklGIj4dCKEpG2DF9gQCLlqyBA-Hg_MlBaHGv4jr4EqsbMgw-Vdq-DgLBueedfa565-OWFIekCoy5PYVxrhLCr7VcE/s200/Atiu117.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nikki wearing a <i>pareu</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
In
Atiu's traditional Christian culture, women are expected to dress
modestly. Bathing suits, short shorts, or low-cut tops are not
acceptable, although families may have different standards for attire
in the privacy of their homes. For swimming and as a cover-up at
home, Nikki and I each bought a<i> pareu</i> (sarong), two yards of
cloth to wrap around the body in various ways. We chose the same dark
blue and green on white pattern.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7pcbLpmspBUhS5ahuOrcsJJX68-4sqUbDUeB4TAhfHLruRYTOTMfDnpsKp8rBmfpER47hGszvPweErYAVv1rajtcBnFpKhBBwItrNu81-UGozTZUC1VOE_4gVYu0jB-fvzoqUlU8EPjm/s1600/Atiu58.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7pcbLpmspBUhS5ahuOrcsJJX68-4sqUbDUeB4TAhfHLruRYTOTMfDnpsKp8rBmfpER47hGszvPweErYAVv1rajtcBnFpKhBBwItrNu81-UGozTZUC1VOE_4gVYu0jB-fvzoqUlU8EPjm/s200/Atiu58.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My room in Papa Tu's home</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I'm
now sitting in bed in my small room in Atiu at 5:15 a.m. The canopy
is made of white lace, and a gentle cross-breeze flows from the window
to the open hall in the middle of the house on this hot, muggy morning.
Papa drew the plans for this house, and he and his brother built it
from cement block, with a raised tin roof to let the air circulate. I'm
glad I brought a battery-operated book light, because electricity on
the island is turned off between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq28RUhw5kAdHzXZTp3bOSyPI6iaqhI4X_AvwyYMFBTYTiNXSEhgjeTdRo4CBXGugxNjtwPvivd-B7ra7JeWOb3u3DJR9DOb4q7MKq7GzA9afkTLJo87cALfaCRE0YZAynjidVpE6NOSQa/s1600/AtiuOuthouse.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq28RUhw5kAdHzXZTp3bOSyPI6iaqhI4X_AvwyYMFBTYTiNXSEhgjeTdRo4CBXGugxNjtwPvivd-B7ra7JeWOb3u3DJR9DOb4q7MKq7GzA9afkTLJo87cALfaCRE0YZAynjidVpE6NOSQa/s200/AtiuOuthouse.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our outhouse in back</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Washing
up was easier than I expected because the collected rainwater flows
from a spigot in the bath house. Before "doing as the birds do" last
night, I brushed my teeth and rinsed the brush in my bath water I was a
bit nervous using the outdoor toilet in the dark, but found it
flushes with only a little help from a bucket of water kept at the
door of the outhouse. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
So
much is new, some expected because of our briefings, some surprising.
It's certainly true, as we've been told by many people, that families
here are wonderfully generous and caring. I have the good fortune to
live at the home of the mayor, called <i>Papa Tu</i> by everyone because of his position in the village, and his wife <i>Teu Mere</i>, or <i>Mere</i> for short -- a name pronounced like mine: <i>Mare-Ray</i>, though I'm to call her "Mama."</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsy2TTdBRy9NJDnFXDGDIT285WmgPegbfZN-wwFLkW26NOppGREbDU2ZpfhuVNPTM5g_itUGW0EBU9_5aragth8kvCnrLFynnCoqy_kmjoH2aWmaud_46UTboLoNhTqcvVgNlP-Mxz1Nk/s1600/Atiu51.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsy2TTdBRy9NJDnFXDGDIT285WmgPegbfZN-wwFLkW26NOppGREbDU2ZpfhuVNPTM5g_itUGW0EBU9_5aragth8kvCnrLFynnCoqy_kmjoH2aWmaud_46UTboLoNhTqcvVgNlP-Mxz1Nk/s200/Atiu51.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mama (Mere) on the right, in blue</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
As promised, our plane (one of two) was met yesterday by our host families and we were draped with <i>eis</i> (called <i>leis </i>in
Hawaii) and our hair bedecked with garlands of flowers. I went with
Mama right away to our home, where she served me fresh coconut milk (in
a coconut), and two kinds of coconut meat: the nutty, mature meat and
the immature flesh of the sprouting coconut -- fluffy, juicy, and very
tender, similar in flavor but more delicate. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
After the second plane arrived, we were all taken to two <i>umukai</i>s (feasts), the first an official greeting by Papa Tu and the head <i>ariki</i>
(chieftain). Because it's customary for guests to eat first, our hosts
did not join us in this feast of passion fruit juice, chicken,
bananas, cookies, marinated squash, and a staple of the island called <i>taro</i>.
This bland-tasting root looks somewhat like a sweet potato, although it
can be grey or white or pink. Papa Tu says the color varies by where
it's grown and how much moisture surrounds it. <br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bQ2kXKYBNwU/Tf-f7vl_v4I/AAAAAAAADeM/5xD1REsrfnM/s1600/Atiu54.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bQ2kXKYBNwU/Tf-f7vl_v4I/AAAAAAAADeM/5xD1REsrfnM/s200/Atiu54.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Umukai (feast)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
The second <i>umukai</i>
followed a brief religious ceremony at the Sunday School. Papa Tu, who
is also the assistant minister, introduced the minister -- a younger,
quite heavy man with a booming voice, who gave a sermon on love. I taped
the traditional hymn which was sung in Māori, eerie and beautiful, all
the voices clear and joyful.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
My island family is highly religious. Yesterday evening, after I was shown to the bath house and we had coffee, tea, and more <i>taro</i>
with butter, some of the children and Mama's sister Rongo came in for
evening devotion. Papa Tu played the guitar while all sang a folk hymn
in a combination of Māori and English. Mama and the children alternated
reading verses from the Bible in Māori. In my honor, Papa Tu read in
English. Then we had a closing prayer.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Papa Tu and
Mere have raised 21 children; only the two youngest boys still at home.
Newton is 10 years old and very handsome, named after the town in
New Zealand where five of their children lived at one time. Another son
lives in the next village because he has a girlfriend there. I asked
if they are married, and Papa Tu said, "Not yet. It is better that they
know each other first, so they don't divorce right away, as so many
have done." This son and his girlfriend have a two-year-old boy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Papa
Tu is very proud of his family, especially his oldest brother, who has
passed away. In their inside sitting room are photographs on the
walls, decorated with shell necklaces. This brother's picture is
displayed prominently next to one of Papa Tu when he was younger. This
oldest brother, Vainerere Tangatapoto, was Becky Stephenson's "Papa" on
the island -- the one she lived with for a year and a half thirteen
years ago while collecting data for her dissertation in anthropology.
Papa says his brother loved Becky like a daughter and she loved him
like a father.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Clearly, Papa Tu's favorite son is his
namesake, who lives in New Zealand and is very much missed. Papa
recalls with great tenderness Teio Tu's helpfulness as a boy. Mama says
Teio Tu helped Papa put up the kitchen ceiling when he was only 12
years old.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
There
are other children about, mostly nieces, and one granddaughter. Of one
of the nieces, Tau, Papa Tu says her parents are "not good." These
relatives of Mama's, he said, drink a lot and go away at night with
their "gang," leaving the children unattended.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--m0zF5SXxdA/TwvZ7nHAkUI/AAAAAAAADs8/2x6aZQp1nN0/s1600/Atiu53.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--m0zF5SXxdA/TwvZ7nHAkUI/AAAAAAAADs8/2x6aZQp1nN0/s320/Atiu53.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Papa Tu with the children</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Humor is a big part of their lives. Papa Tu teased Mama that only <i>her</i>
relatives are bad. Even his nephew joked with Papa at the feast last
night, saying everyone hoped Papa would keep his speech short.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Mama
speaks English quite well, though not as fluently as Papa. This is, I
suspect, partly due to personality, and partly to roles. Papa Tu does
most of the talking and he's the one who decides what's appropriate
behavior for me. Mama is present, adding comments or laughing.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
In
this morning's briefing we were asked to describe to the Earthwatch
group what we've observed so far, and I found myself tongue-tied, trying
to share how open my family has been and how touched I am by their
stability and spiritual depth. Though many described themselves as happy
with their families, I believe I'm the luckiest to be with mine. I'm
interested in the island's history and traditions, and my family holds
to most of the historical culture.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HeilQ3pk7aw/TwvaYc0-BJI/AAAAAAAADtE/_qmafAIjL7s/s1600/Atiu101.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HeilQ3pk7aw/TwvaYc0-BJI/AAAAAAAADtE/_qmafAIjL7s/s320/Atiu101.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mama dressed me in a traditional costume</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
In contrast, Nikki is with a "modern"
family -- they watch TV (VCR) till midnight, drink Diet Pepsi, and eat
mostly tinned food. I'm sure her "Mama" believes she is serving her
guest especially well, but Nikki isn't experiencing the old ways of the
islanders.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
There was much laughter in my family, for example, when Mama dressed me in this traditional costume.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Friday, July 8, 1988 </b><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I
slept soundly, in spite of some on our team telling me of cockroaches
and other insects in their rooms. Awakened by bird calls, I remembered
being a child on my grandparent's farm and hearing the cocks crow in the
early morning, though the Mynah birds are certainly a new touch.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> </b></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjFatBC54R3SLqxeFV4zuU8c8wn7Yy_b4VMnLEWOLqsKn1MamjFgHZzTfmDS7cs35cDTu1HNh0Dx8jciiqYDjRuHitIL5Of32a_RR9TSn4bzmym58-7oBbPuS7qG7_Cd2WRw7BuxL81_G/s1600/Atiu135.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="869" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjFatBC54R3SLqxeFV4zuU8c8wn7Yy_b4VMnLEWOLqsKn1MamjFgHZzTfmDS7cs35cDTu1HNh0Dx8jciiqYDjRuHitIL5Of32a_RR9TSn4bzmym58-7oBbPuS7qG7_Cd2WRw7BuxL81_G/s200/Atiu135.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mama waiting for me to eat</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
For
breakfast we had shredded coconut, taro, fried eggs, papaya, cabin
bread (a thick cracker), butter, and mashed bananas fried with arrowroot
(looks like a potato pancake)--delicious. And Mama is generous to
ensure there's always hot water for my herb tea. For lunch we had the
same food as at breakfast, with the addition of both fried and fresh
bananas. I think Papa Tu gave Mama this instruction because I said I
love bananas. Mama says grace in Māori before each meal. Papa Tu repeats
it in English.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I've learned to say <a href="http://www.kiaorana.cookislands.travel/" target="_blank"><i>Kia Orana</i></a>
("May you live"), a special greeting that's more than "hello." This
morning, as Papa Tu and I sat outside the house in front, everyone who
passed said "Morning," with an Australian-sounding accent. I learned
this was not for my benefit, but rather a typical greeting. All the <i>Atiu tupu </i>talk and joke in Māori<i> </i>in
my presence. I feel happy rather than excluded, knowing they act
naturally around me, even though I'm sure they're sometimes talking
about me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkKafr59t9_x4-6ZGEMGdvYRAtoswnPOOEYoEtDEaFZMFJm1u3bGWo2luC4rxl6eTMZg2q0CtIdnhZAK0fe0UNzRY5C4Q_SGhA63f2lIyrqP3XwyMji2nYxlBAhg8T7GfpTk0ebqAAhim/s1600/Atiu124.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="956" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkKafr59t9_x4-6ZGEMGdvYRAtoswnPOOEYoEtDEaFZMFJm1u3bGWo2luC4rxl6eTMZg2q0CtIdnhZAK0fe0UNzRY5C4Q_SGhA63f2lIyrqP3XwyMji2nYxlBAhg8T7GfpTk0ebqAAhim/s200/Atiu124.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With Jay at today's dig</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
One
team member, Jay Powell, is staying at the home of Mama's sister, who
sent him over here for lunch because she didn't know we'd take a mid-day
break and hadn't prepared food. Papa was charming and funny, trying to
get Jay to eat more. I said I'd already proven I "eat like a pig." This
is a family joke because the Māori word for papaya, <i>vipuaka</i>, literally means "food for the pigs." Before the Europeans arrived, the Māori never ate papaya; they only fed it to the pigs.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DjEgGljFFdM/WTDFS-09g3I/AAAAAAAAJfo/T0M3Ls2LHxYldDgIM-_hThNLZU9od782gCLcB/s1600/Atiu61.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="902" height="227" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DjEgGljFFdM/WTDFS-09g3I/AAAAAAAAJfo/T0M3Ls2LHxYldDgIM-_hThNLZU9od782gCLcB/s320/Atiu61.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm sitting near the cab, white socks and sneakers</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
On
the way home from the dig today, our truck driver stopped at the harbor
to let off a young German woman and English man who had wandered the
island while their ship unloaded its cargo. On the deck we saw crates
and crates of beer marked <i>Atiu Motel</i>. Papa has told me of
attempts to reduce the amount of drinking in the village, especially
among the young people. He discussed this with all the parents, who
agreed to enforce a curfew. Many wanted to completely ban drinking, but
Papa understood this would simply lead to rebellion, and too many young
people were already leaving the island.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ebphop9Nj8A/WTDG7P6K1BI/AAAAAAAAJfs/bYdPMoECq8sTobT9obhjO1YJNsw5ZTlSgCLcB/s1600/Atiu55a.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="375" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ebphop9Nj8A/WTDG7P6K1BI/AAAAAAAAJfs/bYdPMoECq8sTobT9obhjO1YJNsw5ZTlSgCLcB/s200/Atiu55a.jpg" width="126" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Papa Tu</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
As
Becky has explained, Māori is indeed a directive language, and Papa
Tu's efforts to guide me sound like commands. Even so, he's pretty
flexible. He'll say "Eat more," followed by "You do not have to finish
if you are full." After I returned this afternoon he said, "You should
take a little rest and then a bath before dinner." I asked if I could
take a bath first and he was hesitant, but I think this was more because
Mama wasn't around to find things for me. When I showed him my soap and
told him my towel was in the bath house, he seemed more at ease with my
impertinence. But later when I left my room after writing in my
journal, he said "You go back and rest. I will tell you when Mama is
back and dinner is ready."<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3z6YTQ5Z_feiWnHn1t63VuaFW1ItiLEYYOPQL7TwuAgSlHqftWO17KJkeQZ9uGBjpPGbfIH2hyphenhyphencEGVBTZVD2aUk_rka8VdhgB1j0mRJCK5IwyMGC3je4Ws-qBCNJpXVFFhnwx2d4rz6hA/s1600/AtiuSpiritHouse.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="853" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3z6YTQ5Z_feiWnHn1t63VuaFW1ItiLEYYOPQL7TwuAgSlHqftWO17KJkeQZ9uGBjpPGbfIH2hyphenhyphencEGVBTZVD2aUk_rka8VdhgB1j0mRJCK5IwyMGC3je4Ws-qBCNJpXVFFhnwx2d4rz6hA/s200/AtiuSpiritHouse.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Spirit House (<i>Marae</i>)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Tonight after dinner Papa Tu told me about the <a href="http://www.cookislands.org.uk/gospelday.html#.WTFz4ty1uM8" target="_blank">Cook Islands celebration</a>
held each year to commemorate "the coming of the Gospel." Each island
celebrates according to its own history. On Atiu, villagers prepare and
rehearse a play. Our village, Tengatangi, reenacts the arrival of <a href="http://discerninghistory.com/2017/05/john-williams-the-martyr-missionary-of-polynesia" target="_blank">John Williams</a>.
Before his landing, a woman had foretold the coming of strange men,
their bodies covered from head to toe. They would bring a new god and
all the present gods would be cast away. The islanders had thought her
crazy, but the head <a href="http://maoridictionary.co.nz/word/399" target="_blank"><i>ariki</i></a>
was the first to be convinced. When others protested, he demonstrated
the power of this God by eating sugar cane from a sacred place, a <i>Marae</i>,
to test their belief that doing so would lead to possession by the
devil. When nothing happened to him, he offered this as proof that the
new god had greater power. Soon afterward, everyone accepted the
Christian God.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPD3P-jgcv2d1RZPKJoDZn7XxeeIPHTx3J2Lx8sRk1ZJi4eOTZj-iAEFKrm0HErr2A189VRvX0BxsIQQZjgWUrkbw-uPiAjH0XQU6CVN1tFQpxMqd_DYBnBtl6er0EVxPMGyAO8ywjUDx/s1600/Atiu137.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="910" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPD3P-jgcv2d1RZPKJoDZn7XxeeIPHTx3J2Lx8sRk1ZJi4eOTZj-iAEFKrm0HErr2A189VRvX0BxsIQQZjgWUrkbw-uPiAjH0XQU6CVN1tFQpxMqd_DYBnBtl6er0EVxPMGyAO8ywjUDx/s320/Atiu137.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earthwatch Team and families in front of C.I.C.C. <br />
I'm back row, second from right</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
There are three churches on Atiu: Catholic, Seventh
Day Adventist, and the Cook Islands Christian Church (C.I.C.C.) to which
Papa Tu and his family belong. They and the minister, as well as some
others, are Born Again Christians who want to move their church toward a
more literal interpretation of the Bible, banning musical instruments
in church.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Papa Tu told me today the traditional hymn we heard on our arrival is from Psalm 25:<br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Those
who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be shaken, but
endures forever. As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord
surrounds his people both now and forever more. The sceptre of the
wicked will not remain over the land allotted to the righteous, for then
the righteous might use their hands to do evil.</i></span></blockquote>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwe4bXTTQfGu3CAXVo5Er4yzCS5rfZLl2dnU7qaH9xdK6OZZ17QXugwXd9yZ0IEgIWezJRDWwz9BScZgy00Zk4NjeGhVEgLTbNL6Uy_Nve5BPa7BR-tVWHAgrW7Tju7I3D_BCXk7SXyQcn/s1600/Atiu100.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="902" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwe4bXTTQfGu3CAXVo5Er4yzCS5rfZLl2dnU7qaH9xdK6OZZ17QXugwXd9yZ0IEgIWezJRDWwz9BScZgy00Zk4NjeGhVEgLTbNL6Uy_Nve5BPa7BR-tVWHAgrW7Tju7I3D_BCXk7SXyQcn/s200/Atiu100.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some of the children surrounding me</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
This
sounds very Western and formal, and I couldn't have imagined those
words from the haunting, traditional singing that ushered in our
arrival.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Tonight at evening devotion Papa Tu's family and I sang this song in English, accompanied by Papa Tu on guitar:<i> He
is able, He is able, He is able to carry me through, heal the
brokenhearted, set the captive free, make the lame to walk again, make
the blind to see.</i><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82TUSWOsbpa5GzraWUZTieNqZEIBwp7CBe30R6wEQPHUksbgzeAK4jc5cg8Fyg0XBQbTyXXVx9hCZXnua3mAUgGA23GLaBO94bNt3PK2UDFgfJEcYRbX67_eep0NwrtyyIMG4pkXmGzH7/s1600/Atiu99OldestSon.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="268" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82TUSWOsbpa5GzraWUZTieNqZEIBwp7CBe30R6wEQPHUksbgzeAK4jc5cg8Fyg0XBQbTyXXVx9hCZXnua3mAUgGA23GLaBO94bNt3PK2UDFgfJEcYRbX67_eep0NwrtyyIMG4pkXmGzH7/s200/Atiu99OldestSon.jpg" width="149" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Mama and Papa Tu's son, <i>Ina Ina</i>,
who lives in another village, was here for dinner tonight. We had taro
leaves (somewhat like spinach, but tastier) cooked with corned beef,
fish in coconut sauce, bread, butter, boiled bananas, and a choice of
tea or coffee. The fish was excellent. The boiled bananas take some
getting used to, their taste and texture somewhat like artichoke hearts,
only more dense. We started eating before Papa returned from the bath
house, and Mama taught me to slurp my food as a sign of enjoyment. When
Papa came in we demonstrated, and after that we all ate noisily. I'm
sure they had restrained themselves from this in earlier meals.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
This
led to a story from Papa about a visit to New Zealand, when his older
brother taught him how to use a fork. In one restaurant Papa embarrassed
his brother by asking a member of the staff if he could eat with his
hands. The answer was "Yes." Then lobster was brought in, and Papa felt a
step ahead of everyone.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yXNDiI85Ffw/WTwiWreWTqI/AAAAAAAAJg4/Ppr2nepD8tMkIDiJuQU-QTZVuKTsGoOFACPcB/s1600/Atiu102.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="931" height="228" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yXNDiI85Ffw/WTwiWreWTqI/AAAAAAAAJg4/Ppr2nepD8tMkIDiJuQU-QTZVuKTsGoOFACPcB/s320/Atiu102.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Islanders & Earthwatch team; I'm in red shirt, middle</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Saturday, July 9:</b>
We had our first work day yesterday, but not a long one, only about
five hours. We can walk to this site and cleared off about one-third of
the <i>Marae</i> at <i>Vairokaia</i>, on land next to my family's
plantation. Among the whole team we excavated pig's teeth, a flake, and
what appears to be the top of a fireplace, as well as many shells. The
boys from the village, who helped us clear away the site, climbed up
nearby trees and brought us fresh coconuts to have with our lunch. After
drinking the coconut milk, we were shown how to scrape the fresh
coconut out with our thumb nails.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-LTnRGMr8Pisx82TWqYkC_XaAzxojiPXGp-HLpk-pBYc1-jNy3O6w75dG1Ig2kkvo2Y4mu6SslAEp4gCRIOHSjj16WjUORGWHLnJUjd8Wv_oMTyllWiqrGInhy4mWrsGAVQUm6lpiw4k/s1600/Atiu111.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="906" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-LTnRGMr8Pisx82TWqYkC_XaAzxojiPXGp-HLpk-pBYc1-jNy3O6w75dG1Ig2kkvo2Y4mu6SslAEp4gCRIOHSjj16WjUORGWHLnJUjd8Wv_oMTyllWiqrGInhy4mWrsGAVQUm6lpiw4k/s200/Atiu111.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Musicians at singing competition</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
In
the evening there was a singing competition and dance. Two of the four
finalists, as well as the guest singer, are from Papa Tu's extended
family. It is the custom here to take small coins (10 or 20 cents NZ)
and throw them in a basin in front of the entertainer. Some people show
their pleasure in the music by dancing on their way up to throw a coin.
With only a little coaxing from Mama, I danced my way up with a coin.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceabPUchQ01K5DhgOvwDtMELPwxpuWB5Oe46R6r-W7JjgWdanlqROyFGupCyjDmTjdq0aos6j_MhmpllEVN4LVtk3_9hrIOtIQ4VStkNBE3C8uvYZqvF2E3xBcXM-GyCgQJeWI9lBfoLW/s1600/Atiu43god.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="217" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceabPUchQ01K5DhgOvwDtMELPwxpuWB5Oe46R6r-W7JjgWdanlqROyFGupCyjDmTjdq0aos6j_MhmpllEVN4LVtk3_9hrIOtIQ4VStkNBE3C8uvYZqvF2E3xBcXM-GyCgQJeWI9lBfoLW/s200/Atiu43god.jpg" width="77" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Tangiia</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Today, I learned from Papa Tu the meaning of some names. Our village is <i>Tengatangi</i> after a chief of the old days--<i>Tangiia</i>--who was very popular in the Cook Islands. The village's original name was <i>Taturoa</i> ("standing point that is long"). A village farther toward the coast is <i>Ngatiarua</i>. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Papa Tu's given name is <a href="http://cookislandsnews.com/national/outer-islands/item/62531-atiu-reunion-remembers-papa-teiotu" target="_blank"><i>Teiotu-O-Tangaroa</i></a> ("The Standing Mirror of <i>Tangaroa</i>). <i>Tangaroa</i> was the god of gods, and the "standing mirror" refers to a clear lake where <i>Tangaroa</i> was said to have looked to see if all the other gods were happy.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbh0kmcFc_yCfg4KAaqz3UI8Y6lNrzguO3hsjEFqKxtAmerxN1zMxQYJxghrKNms9oUllR4oLuzP4TiiLLEEeCKGxzYTuwZKe7Nn0MvxxmJB9Ml7MkhJwbwSNvJxjoplEx9D5PsxTgTay/s1600/Atiu133.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="763" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbh0kmcFc_yCfg4KAaqz3UI8Y6lNrzguO3hsjEFqKxtAmerxN1zMxQYJxghrKNms9oUllR4oLuzP4TiiLLEEeCKGxzYTuwZKe7Nn0MvxxmJB9Ml7MkhJwbwSNvJxjoplEx9D5PsxTgTay/s320/Atiu133.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mama and Papa Tu in front area of house</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Mama's name, <i>Teu Mere</i>,
is her wedding name, not the one she was given as a child. Her older
sister was Papa Tu's first wife, who died in her early thirties. Papa Tu
considered moving to New Zealand at that time, but the families got
together and decided he should marry his wife's younger sister, who was
then 18 years old. The name <i>Teu Mere</i> means "something surprising," referring to her sister's sudden death. Their twin sons are named <i>Rouru Ina Ina</i> ("gray hair," after Papa Tu's mother-in-law) and <i>Tangiia</i> (after the famous chief).</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
This
morning, after being notified that our trip to the caves was postponed
due to rain, some of us walked to the Atiu Motel. There are three units,
with a fourth being built. The owner was away, but we met a couple from
Canada staying there who showed us inside their unit. It's an A=frame
with indoor plumbing, a double and a single bed, and a loft that could
sleep two more people. Food is supplied in the small kitchen area, and
guests are charged only for the food or beverages they use. Papa Tu says
the motel owner, Roger, met his Atiuan wife in New Zealand and came
here "to get away from the rat race." The islanders are not happy with
him, some even urging that he be deported. He built a saw mill to
produce the lumber for his motel, which is made almost totally from
materials found on the island. But he charges dear prices in the mill.
Also, while shops in the village are open only in early morning and late
afternoon, he keeps his shop open for long hours, and the <i>Atiu tupu</i>
believe he is trying to steal their money. Finally, he doesn't impress
on guests the ways of the people here. Papa stopped one woman riding by
on a motor bike wearing short shorts, telling her angrily to go back to
the motel and put on some clothes.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBpg_moWtHZDLq5RKAI-g_bqj4SsKkYyWO6kSWyhBG7mnBwObol5qQwW9s456gfseQbK_whIZqKiVsVFDrtmsxtWD_MmgHTli73ASBM-LwvYFLi27NKWWfOkTu8N3QjutyaD_ApHuZP33/s1600/Atiu88.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="932" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNBpg_moWtHZDLq5RKAI-g_bqj4SsKkYyWO6kSWyhBG7mnBwObol5qQwW9s456gfseQbK_whIZqKiVsVFDrtmsxtWD_MmgHTli73ASBM-LwvYFLi27NKWWfOkTu8N3QjutyaD_ApHuZP33/s320/Atiu88.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm ready to walk to the dig site</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
The
women and female children in Papa's family never wear pants. I wore
Bermuda shorts once, but could see from how he looked away that he was
uncomfortable, so I only wear long pants or a skirt at home. The women
here sit with their ankles crossed, and rarely cross their legs. Yet
I've noticed children bathing together outside next to the house. I
asked Papa at what age the boys and girls are separated to bathe, and he
would only say, "When they are older."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Papa
treats "Mommy," as he calls her, gently, and shares decisions and some
tasks with her, though roles are traditionally delineated. She cooks,
cleans, washes clothes. As head of the household, he governs through
participation much the way he governs as mayor. Mama rarely tells me
what to do as he does, but apparently influences his decisions. For
example, I had told her I couldn't eat all the food she sent with me for
lunch, and when Papa was late for dinner she confided in me that she
had told him not to insist on so much food for me. When he is away, she
and I laugh as if we were sisters, and even plan jokes to play on him,
as we did with my noisy slurping of food. They both laughed heartily
with me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Papa Tu's home office is in the front bedroom across from mine. He
says Mama insisted on having a bed where he could sleep when he works
late. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJDcoSpiQlxLycEc-hYzZtJ574zrW_cEzdRp2hTLyYi2SBNEhWRvGpR5w0c-LgtQcCSiadabGS5S79YM3-zK4veAHcxiBYnjj_OpvD7o9I1EO3J1RxAjARSKxYSBYrYwdjmEofUlaDsem/s1600/PapaTuHouse.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1600" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJDcoSpiQlxLycEc-hYzZtJ574zrW_cEzdRp2hTLyYi2SBNEhWRvGpR5w0c-LgtQcCSiadabGS5S79YM3-zK4veAHcxiBYnjj_OpvD7o9I1EO3J1RxAjARSKxYSBYrYwdjmEofUlaDsem/s400/PapaTuHouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n5dsAPvRU44/WTx_Ov2oUKI/AAAAAAAAJhs/mXSorrkRz3gDqILGKUUZU2Ww62xoa8FcQCLcB/s1600/Atiu56.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="930" height="227" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n5dsAPvRU44/WTx_Ov2oUKI/AAAAAAAAJhs/mXSorrkRz3gDqILGKUUZU2Ww62xoa8FcQCLcB/s320/Atiu56.jpg" width="320" /></a>The
children seem to live next door in the second house, where Mama's
sister also lives, and only come here for devotional services. When they
do peek around corners Papa admonishes them to be quiet.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
He told me
they are "too noisy" to live in this house, but I think some of them
sleep here when there are no guests.<b> </b><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Sunday, July 10,1988</b>:<br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Wero ("to cast a spear") is a traditional Māori challenge at a pōhiri, or welcoming ceremony, </i><i>to ensure that visitors come in peace. It also establishes their steadfastness, and the prowess of the challenging warriors.</i></span></blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNj0dSrpcremQCJHXCHC3siT6eNDMJG_dSwZ-P0LDcPwi86DB69CHQzORI1_Xr-CLNjJmDR-nMbmHv9ABMeu4Zr9lGROgTUspbHQ2aGOGH864UcmvopAzaOv4FpvuA3gIXB-Xsf5SWR7xk/s1600/TumunuBarrel.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="199" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNj0dSrpcremQCJHXCHC3siT6eNDMJG_dSwZ-P0LDcPwi86DB69CHQzORI1_Xr-CLNjJmDR-nMbmHv9ABMeu4Zr9lGROgTUspbHQ2aGOGH864UcmvopAzaOv4FpvuA3gIXB-Xsf5SWR7xk/s200/TumunuBarrel.jpg" width="136" /></a>The male members of Nikki's family took her to a <i>tu munu</i>
(brewery) last night, where only women visiting the island
are allowed (for local women it would be considered a disgrace). <i>tu munu</i> sites are in the middle of the jungle, the
beer brewed and stored in the hollowed-out trunk of a coconut tree. The
brew itself is fermented orange, and generally takes about a week to be
ready to drink. Nikki said the beer tasted like fruit punch and she didn't drink much, worried it would be too easy to
get drunk. A recording she made sounded like a noisy bar
anywhere. Singing, music, laughter.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Meanwhile Jay and I
accompanied my family to their Saturday evening prayer meeting, where
everyone in the group was asked to share something. When it was my turn,
I spoke of my pleasure to come half-way around the world and hear
children singing songs I had learned as a child: "Rock my soul in the
bosom of Abraham" and "What a friend we have in Jesus." I could barely
keep my composure when members of the group sang a welcome song, then
filed by, kissing each of us one by one and saying "I love you, in the
name of Jesus." Papa Tu also read Psalm 133 in Māori: "How good and
pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity. . ." </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Mama
has a very clear singing voice, and helped guide me through the hymns
in church today. I was also able to follow the hymnal pretty well. She
told me later that people watched my lips and were happy to know I was
singing in Māori.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu8YobpD5zUoSs5MzsU-qkjTQCbF8nVDwRXWDgKY5rykewzlhyphenhyphenqZ5JFYj5mOJkH_gT8qBLNj2zJgLd80tRcEvJMs2izOMOqIfKUvozUYynQlOmobmskYIOBaunE5w4Uj5A2MAHDh2D2kPf/s1600/MaoriHymn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="1338" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu8YobpD5zUoSs5MzsU-qkjTQCbF8nVDwRXWDgKY5rykewzlhyphenhyphenqZ5JFYj5mOJkH_gT8qBLNj2zJgLd80tRcEvJMs2izOMOqIfKUvozUYynQlOmobmskYIOBaunE5w4Uj5A2MAHDh2D2kPf/s320/MaoriHymn.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
After
church there was a meeting for women only. This involved a combination
of individual responses to today's bible text and spontaneous dancing,
usually started by an older woman. Mama says they call this woman, <i>Mama Mika</i>, their "comic." I was invited to dance, and tried to imitate the hula-like movements, which generated much laughter.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Though some <a href="http://earthwatch.org/" target="_blank">Earthwatch</a>
members modeled traditional island dresses made for them by their
Mamas, most of the local women wore modern dress to church. All them
have brimmed hats, and Mama loaned me a white one with white ribbon
trim. She had hand-woven this hat, heavy enough to withstand today's
strong winds. When I commented on the winds' force, Mama said her
parents were in a hurricane before she was born that was so terrible all
the houses and trees were flattened. People survived only by running
into the valley below.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6Z2zHzdK7F97Ab06krfICXgjBRVMrQH9EO7ZyCEcCHQhzz-2p2hTaImRV1kVYnTwmZSR8hmS1dZH6_UmqlH9l0xwZkFo2YJg6um-h9TkiQXtWUgH_eLVbwsO9ZTEI8bVnfWIGtmQJN_F/s1600/Maru.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="94" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6Z2zHzdK7F97Ab06krfICXgjBRVMrQH9EO7ZyCEcCHQhzz-2p2hTaImRV1kVYnTwmZSR8hmS1dZH6_UmqlH9l0xwZkFo2YJg6um-h9TkiQXtWUgH_eLVbwsO9ZTEI8bVnfWIGtmQJN_F/s1600/Maru.jpg" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maru</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I am slowly learning the names of the children. Today after church, 5-year-old <i>Maru</i> took my hand walking home. Her mother, Mama's sister, is <i>Rongo</i>. In addition to Mama and Papa's son Newton, their daughter is <i>Miimetua</i>, and they have a "feeding child" (adopted) who is actually their niece, named <i>Ngatokorua. </i>Other nieces are <i>Tau </i>and--born in New Zealand--Jennifer and Darlene.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Returning
from a walk after church, I met a young woman from New Zealand as she
was leaving our house. She's here to study local music in preparation
for a Master's degree in music, and was seeking Papa Tu's permission to
tape record his family's traditional <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ffh0P5jjKnE" target="_blank">challenge</a> </i>to
distinguished visitors. Though she'd tried to convince him it might
otherwise be lost to posterity, he would not give permission. I asked
Papa about this, and he said it is a welcome greeting allowed only to
his family. I've seen him willingly agree to other requests, so I know
this is a real family secret.<br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="847" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRrbGqFaQfOX7f0odBJNpgVcUaSGvNAB_1UnTvp5HFk6IoMJZyk0kF6yjy-rsd4DclGvUenuYdtadBcNIrYuJTWdMGYRK5aOhF1l2j-23vbX7uHRYLmK_YZhRk-lVMKQruBxNQEgV8R6G/s200/Atiu59.jpg" width="200" /></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mama making <i>tapa</i> cloth.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">
This afternoon after lunch, our Earthwatch senior investigator <a href="http://lettersfromalife.blogspot.com/2011/06/land-of-birds.html" target="_blank">Yosi Sinoto</a> came by to find out who in Atiu is most skilled at making <a href="http://natural-history.uoregon.edu/collections/web-galleries/tapa-cloth" target="_blank"><i>tapa</i> cloth</a> from <i>ava</i> bark, and Papa pointed to Mama. She showed us a photograph where she is pounding the cloth over a log. Yosi said Hawaiian Air
will pay her airfare and hotel for a week in Honolulu, plus $75 a day.
In return, she will present at a two-day workshop demonstrating and answering questions about this
traditional method.<br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
Papa, trained by his father
in the traditional ways, answered many of Yosi's questions and is
negotiating to accompany Mama. He showed us a hand-knotted fishnet used
to catch flying fish in the old way. Papa is now the only one on Atiu who can make an <i>akeikei</i> (fish-catching basket) in the traditional manner because none of the young ones want to learn how. He also spoke of picking <i>anani</i>
(oranges) as a boy and rowing a thousand cases at a time out to the
ship, because the reef is too dangerous for ships to dock at the wharf.
Mama said the pickers would climb the first orange tree, then leap from
tree to tree by the branches.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Monday, July 11, 1988</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because it's not economical to grow <i>ara</i> (pineapple), Atiu is losing potential trade in <i>taro</i>, <i>nu</i> (sprouting coconut), and <i>akari</i> (mature coconut) that used to be shipped ot New Zealand along with pineapple. Ships will not come unless there is a minimum of 300,000 cartons of pineapple. Coffee production is also slacking because there's been difficulty collecting payment for the coffee beans already shipped. Vanilla beans are now being planted for export, but they won't mature for a couple of years. The freight costs prohibit exporting spices.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Y_zr0_WTpLpfGd6lP6mSq0nvuLqeg79XMTOZCblJYYsqhEvpj5dblZQon2Q7_AbQqV2RN6QC5CLYYqkEfe9WnPDs3s1G5yxPt5trYxea-hc1ZQDl0jXZ7hYVr6dbF5SS08ah4Ipyhcvh/s902/Atiu95.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="902" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Y_zr0_WTpLpfGd6lP6mSq0nvuLqeg79XMTOZCblJYYsqhEvpj5dblZQon2Q7_AbQqV2RN6QC5CLYYqkEfe9WnPDs3s1G5yxPt5trYxea-hc1ZQDl0jXZ7hYVr6dbF5SS08ah4Ipyhcvh/w262-h187/Atiu95.jpg" width="262" /></a></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While Papa and I were discussing exports, Hiro stopped by with a young </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">man who has a brown belt in karate. I had told HIro about my brown belt, and they were here to invite me to their karate class on Wednesday evening. I told him I cannot practice because of my neck injury, but will be delighted to observe. Two of Para Tu's sons (the twins) have black belts.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today, there was much talk about the three nieces and two granddaughters who will return tomorrow from Rarotonga, where they have been attending a conference for the Girls' Brigade.We looked through family photo albums, with pictures of granddaughters Mata Tu and Rima, and nieces Vaine (<i>wah-ee-nay</i>), Ina, and Aketaau. The albums highlighted the 21st birthday of the twins because 1st and 21st birthdays are special events on Atiu (other birthdays are noted, but no gifts).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> </b><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-89169846128516501662023-01-01T22:51:00.011-05:002023-01-07T10:25:47.984-05:00"Somebody" First, Then "Nobody"<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2R0iPfZNdmBLWcDqrB59-M5dHAJZBmWLo8ErSJGWfEKWWuRqTCjzeWFzMH5aeEsVtoEcwaTVebt8PiEwy3DSqo_Bc6Ipf1yNnOw4-4xRHnCyF2i438Pbib6RzAj9hLOJtAdIfW62UzDBV7cehRIjtkXhOHBKxFS6akHou5hFAiO2S9CxVXBIYe4D69Q/s400/QuantumLeapForward30by15.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="196" data-original-width="400" height="98" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2R0iPfZNdmBLWcDqrB59-M5dHAJZBmWLo8ErSJGWfEKWWuRqTCjzeWFzMH5aeEsVtoEcwaTVebt8PiEwy3DSqo_Bc6Ipf1yNnOw4-4xRHnCyF2i438Pbib6RzAj9hLOJtAdIfW62UzDBV7cehRIjtkXhOHBKxFS6akHou5hFAiO2S9CxVXBIYe4D69Q/w200-h98/QuantumLeapForward30by15.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Quantum Leap Forward," Mary Bast</td></tr></tbody></table>In his essay "Becoming Somebody and Nobody" in <i>Paths Beyond Ego</i>, John Engler suggests that the issue in therapy is to r<i>egrow</i> a
sense of self, whereas the issue in Buddhism is to <i>see through </i>the illusion
of self--yet these healing goals are not incompatible. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">He puts it very
simply, “You have to be somebody before you can be nobody.”</span><div><p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I first read Engler’s essay I had an intellectual <i>aha!</i> I'd been wrestling with some differences among people I'd
interviewed about their experience of transformation. Some were recalling a
strengthening of their self-esteem, which could be seen as deepening their
ego-state instead of transforming themselves. But I was uncomfortable with that
judgment. These people were clearly shifting to a new and necessary
self-acceptance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">One woman told me, for example, "I was miserable, even thinking about how
I could take my life. Then I realized, <i>Hey, I've got four children. I cannot
do this, so that means get to a shrink!</i> I did, and that was a wonderful
process, to have that affirmation–I came to realize, 'You're O.K.! There's a
reason to be miserable. Your marriage is terrible.'"</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Clearly, this woman was describing becoming
"somebody." And i</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">t makes sense to me that some experiences
along our spiritual path will prepare us to have a </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">self</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> before we can
let go to </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">no-self</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
For me, the quest involves figuring out where and how I begin to negate my
essential self. I discovered that I have a very subtle voice I thought was a
built-in Buddhist spiritual director. It would ask, "What's the
spiritually correct thing to do here?" when it was just my ego telling me
I had to be <i>nice</i>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The section below is from Chapter Ten of my book with C.J. Fitzsimons, <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/Somebody-Nobody-Enneagram-Mindfulness-Unfolding/dp/3981900006/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Somebody? Nobody? The Enneagram, Mindfulness and Life's Unfolding</a>--<o:p></o:p></span>my own responses to questions I posed earlier in the book to people representing all nine Enneagram points.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span><i>What stimulated your decision to write this book?</i> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>My interest in writing about the process of transformation grew from my own pain, wishing I had models to show the way, and realizing many of us don't know what we're getting into when we commit to greater self-awareness. S</span><span>hortly after an intensive Naranjo workshop I became clinically depressed and looked for insights in Enneagram literature, but the only resources at the time were theoretical.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>Luckily, I found a Jungian psychologist who knew the Enneagram and helped me see my depression as a <i>dark night of the soul</i>. He paralleled Jungian individuation with the process of spiritual discernment, how we feel consoled as things come together and disconsolate when we struggle. Suddenly I had not only the mournful t<i>his hurts </i>view, but also <i>wouldn't it be wonderful if people could read, from an Enneagram perspective, real-life stories of the joys and struggles of awakening?</i> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>It became a calling for me, and a gift, because the people I interviewed were so inspiring as they described their journeys.</span></p><br /><p></p></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-33451147942846932752022-09-22T02:43:00.001-04:002022-09-26T22:02:07.722-04:00My Spirit Animal<p>When I was in my thirties, my friend Bob returned from an Omega Institute Spirit Quest workshop, eager to show me how to connect with my totem animal. I hoped for a rare and swift creature – a gazelle, perhaps.</p><p>We turned the lights low in my living room, and I lay within a circle Bob created by walking around me with burning sage, gently spreading the smoke with his hands.</p><p>In a quiet, hypnotic voice he whispered, “Close your eyes, breathe deeply and slowly, in and out, letting go of all thoughts, all desires. Release any expectations of what you might find on your journey.”</p><p>When I signaled my readiness, he asked me to picture a body of water with a densely grown bit of land in the middle. “Now notice there’s a rowboat waiting for you on shore. Step into the boat, row to the island, where you will find many animals. As you roam the landscape, one of the animals will speak to you. Be open to the message you’re given, then thank your animal spirit guide for the lesson and come back to shore.” </p><p>I saw the body of water, the island, and the rowboat, but there was already a creature in the boat. It was Babar, the children’s storybook elephant. </p><p>With the spats, the bow tie, and the stupid little hat. </p><p>I stepped into the rowboat and said, “No, no. Get out of the boat! I want to find a sleek and beautiful animal on the island, not you!” </p><p>Babar smiled. “We can row there if you wish, and you can walk among the other creatures, but none of them will talk to you. I’m your spirit guide.” </p><p>God, he was so prissy. The last thing I would have imagined on a quest for my personal symbol. </p><p>I remembered Bob’s advice to be open to whatever happened, but I felt certain Babar was a trick of my imagination, a joke my psyche was playing on me. I insisted on rowing to the island. </p><p>Babar very politely agreed but refused to leave the boat. He didn’t help with the rowing, either. </p><p>On the island, I walked through a Rousseau-like jungle among strange flowers, exotic birds, curious apes, hungry lions, and fierce tigers. None of these fascinating creatures showed the slightest interest in me. </p><p>I knew I couldn’t choose my totem, that it must choose me. Even so, I tried to entice a sleek panther to speak to me of lunar power, of death and rebirth, of the gift of shapeshifting. She held me in her unblinking stare, silent. </p><p>Babar waited. </p><p>Finally, I saw the truth of the situation, how my desire to control the quest could only be upended by this unwanted image I couldn’t deny. </p><p>“Babar,” I said, laughing. “What are you here to teach me?” </p><p>He quietly trumpeted.</p><p>I thanked him for the lesson and rowed back to shore. Later, I learned that elephants bestow the ability to have great impact though saying little, to command a situation simply by being.</p><div><br /></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-3034040240954272642022-08-01T22:10:00.003-04:002023-01-05T18:01:41.073-05:00What the "Big Picture" May Miss<p></p><p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1FFrUneu3L2xaqt8i6mojj6UjJ7EHza3KpxFA43I9kd4d4OW3AiJBdPhzFnJj8AeTK63niD44S2ZcZiNO8EjbMI_m1raeGZ1daQanm-XXCW80jmiqp8jADETomwiYS1cFugudq5QSBR_/s540/SensingIntuition.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="540" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1FFrUneu3L2xaqt8i6mojj6UjJ7EHza3KpxFA43I9kd4d4OW3AiJBdPhzFnJj8AeTK63niD44S2ZcZiNO8EjbMI_m1raeGZ1daQanm-XXCW80jmiqp8jADETomwiYS1cFugudq5QSBR_/w346-h192/SensingIntuition.png" width="346" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, drawn from Jungian psychology, groups people by
cognitive function, and the starkest contrast lies in <a href="https://personalitymax.com/personality-types/preferences/sensing-intuition" target="_blank">two broad ways of gathering information</a>: Sensing and Intuition. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sensors―interested
in facts―are good observers,
focusing on the present, on facts, on what can be processed through the
five senses; concrete, literal thinkers who value realism, common sense,
and ideas with practical applications.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Intuitives--</span><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">interested in frameworks--</span><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">are introspective, looking for </span></span>possibilities, patterns, impressions, imagination, reading between the lines. I test as high as possible on Intuition.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Neither
is better than the other; however, the stronger the
difference in cognitive style, the greater the tendency to disparage
such a
different way of seeing the world. I grew up in a family where both my
parents and my older brother had a Sensing preference, so in spite of my
good grades in school and college, I thought I had something missing
until I was in graduate school in my thirties, where big picture
thinking was a great asset and I learned about these cognitive
differences. What a relief!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My
deficit in the cognitive pathways of Sensors, however, continues to
haunt me, most recently in a poetry workshop where we're learning to
model our poems after <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=36723" target="_blank">Sharon Olds</a> and <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/146040/bird-5a8c38e16dd20" target="_blank">Dorianne Laux</a>--"accessible, detail
oriented, image-driven poetry," of course following poetic principles,
but focused in tight on a moment that can be visualized. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As
excited as I've been to be involved again with a critique group, I was
really struggling until I found <a href="https://writingcycle.com/the-writing-process/mbti-personality-type-affects-creative-writers/" target="_blank">an article about the Sensing/Intuition difference in creative writing</a>. Writers and
poets tend to be drawn toward creative work that matches their cognitive preferences and, of course, their own writing reflects their way of perceiving
the world. <br /></span></span></p><p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sensing Poets<span>: </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Intuitive Poets:</span><br /></span></p><p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><p></p><p><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span></p><table border="1" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: medium none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-yfti-tbllook: 1184;">
<tbody><tr style="mso-yfti-firstrow: yes; mso-yfti-irow: 0;">
<td style="border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 215.75pt;" valign="top" width="288">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">are detailed, empirical, and concrete</span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-left: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 251.75pt;" valign="top" width="336">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">are abstract, symbolic, and figurative</span></p>
</td>
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<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 1;">
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 215.75pt;" valign="top" width="288">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">prefer plot-driven themes</span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-color: currentcolor windowtext windowtext currentcolor; border-left-color: initial; border-right-color: windowtext; border-style: none solid solid none; border-top-color: initial; border-width: medium 1pt 1pt medium; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 251.75pt;" valign="top" width="336">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">prefer concept-driven themes</span></p>
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<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 2;">
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 215.75pt;" valign="top" width="288">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">employ similes</span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-color: currentcolor windowtext windowtext currentcolor; border-left-color: initial; border-right-color: windowtext; border-style: none solid solid none; border-top-color: initial; border-width: medium 1pt 1pt medium; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 251.75pt;" valign="top" width="336">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">employ metaphors</span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 3;">
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 215.75pt;" valign="top" width="288">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">like to stay on-topic</span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-color: currentcolor windowtext windowtext currentcolor; border-left-color: initial; border-right-color: windowtext; border-style: none solid solid none; border-top-color: initial; border-width: medium 1pt 1pt medium; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 251.75pt;" valign="top" width="336">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">are comfortable with fracture</span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 4;">
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 215.75pt;" valign="top" width="288">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">tend to be explicit</span></p>
</td>
<td style="border-bottom-color: windowtext; border-color: currentcolor windowtext windowtext currentcolor; border-left-color: initial; border-right-color: windowtext; border-style: none solid solid none; border-top-color: initial; border-width: medium 1pt 1pt medium; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-left-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 251.75pt;" valign="top" width="336">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">tend to be implicit</span></p>
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<tr style="mso-yfti-irow: 5;">
<td style="border-top: none; border: 1pt solid windowtext; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-border-top-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 215.75pt;" valign="top" width="288">
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">prefer scenes to summary exposition</span></p>
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larger themes</span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">point to what’s present to the eye</span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 4;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">bring to mind what’s absent from view</span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They
ask: </span><i><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What happened? Were police
cars light or dark blue in Wichita in 1970? Does this stanza progress
logically line-to-line?</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> They may
be wary of speculative leaps and abstractions in a poem.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They
ask:<i> What larger question about the human experience does this poem
explore? Which opposing forces create tension? </i> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">They may look for hidden patterns between the lines
of a poem.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-transform: uppercase;"></span></p>
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</tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I can't change the wiring of my brain, but I can
develop new neural pathways with practice, and because I want so much to
learn this way of writing poems, I'm determined to give it <a href="https://windingsheets.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">my best effort</a>. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-34350475663980687342022-05-09T12:48:00.004-04:002023-11-17T21:26:47.336-05:00Repast<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>A memoir is not a factual recitation of history, <br />it’s a recollection, a musing and merging of images, <br />dreams, reflections about your life journey. </i><br /><a href="https://memoriesandmemoirs.com/about-linda/" target="_blank">Linda Joy Myers</a> <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because Dad was in the military, I was a gypsy child, moving from South Texas to Alabama, to Virginia, and then to points around the world. But my southern eating habits followed me like ghosts.<br /><br />With scary foods encountered in our travels, like fish-eye soup in Tokyo, I mulishly refused to eat anything new. In Paris, the dreaded special was escargots – no matter how much butter and garlic, they were still snails to me.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8Z_mmgkHc5XFQooGw8qr9R-b2epDnrpIUfRs61R4KuDD-DMlF7UpXcYys36P2CGskECV4fjx-roYoixl4fUQX9Rt8JBclWyZ47hyu9MbASB1DeeUV1aB-SNL6H8Dj6pMNQSdqHYV5Rc8vvHgcnsZ6MlpkdFC5sZWsnM0y_B6AWH3v1z0D6D7aLUI1g/s800/Swordfish.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="800" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8Z_mmgkHc5XFQooGw8qr9R-b2epDnrpIUfRs61R4KuDD-DMlF7UpXcYys36P2CGskECV4fjx-roYoixl4fUQX9Rt8JBclWyZ47hyu9MbASB1DeeUV1aB-SNL6H8Dj6pMNQSdqHYV5Rc8vvHgcnsZ6MlpkdFC5sZWsnM0y_B6AWH3v1z0D6D7aLUI1g/w320-h114/Swordfish.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At 18 I left home for college in Boston. Invited to stay with a classmate over Thanksgiving, I was undone when her mother announced we’d have swordfish steak for dinner. I imagined the fish’s long, wide snout and bill displayed in the marine version of a suckling pig, with God knows what in its mouth instead of an apple. But I’d been taught to be polite and knew I’d have to eat and smile simultaneously.<br /><br />The divine texture and flavor of the fresh grilled swordfish changed my life. <br /><br />I know now that much of taste depends on smell, that beyond sweet, sour, salt, and bitter, flavor is actually odor.<br /><br />Small wonder that standing by the ocean my scent-memories awaken a souped-up palate.<br /> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(From <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/1508669449/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tpbk_p2_i0" target="_blank"><i>Autobiography Passed Through the Sieve of Maya</i></a>)</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-91660861912303198632022-03-19T21:28:00.005-04:002022-08-09T23:41:20.240-04:00A Long Way Down<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfGSFoBMMuy4vyIT7tJ34PS1djMoh1DxhfSb6vphGXPH5uU3XQo5ft1fnQsC3UKBcwTvyez66ZXmjbV4aG8sDwpYVcWdlXfvRebYhppmDsgbWrtbqjWxyKcbThmzcaCLqqpwz-1Z33C7fd3Fp3xXxbK71QybHq0Hap3QQRIwVSOfZgIdDaWwXu18hWlg=s800" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="533" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfGSFoBMMuy4vyIT7tJ34PS1djMoh1DxhfSb6vphGXPH5uU3XQo5ft1fnQsC3UKBcwTvyez66ZXmjbV4aG8sDwpYVcWdlXfvRebYhppmDsgbWrtbqjWxyKcbThmzcaCLqqpwz-1Z33C7fd3Fp3xXxbK71QybHq0Hap3QQRIwVSOfZgIdDaWwXu18hWlg=s320" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray was taller than I
expected from the photos on his book covers, and thinner. He looked me over,
too, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I made small talk while we
waited for my luggage, but he was silent.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">When we were finally in
his truck heading to Whitefish, he cleared his throat. “Well, you’ve had quite
a day, Mary. Twelve hours, three planes. You must be tired.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’d rehearsed my response:
“I would have taken a wagon train if that was the only way to get here.” I
watched his face as he repeated what I’d said with only a slight intake of
breath, no further comment.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">We talked about flying.
I’d read that Ray wouldn’t fly, drove his truck wherever he went to teach or
give a reading.<br />
<br />
He quickly assured me he was not <i>afraid</i> to fly.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, I’m afraid, Ray,
but I do it. Anyway, dying in a plane crash might be the best way to go. You’d
have time for final thoughts the whole way down. The right kind. Not like when
I was sideswiped in my car at rush hour, went into a tailspin, only had time to
think, ‘Oh shit!’”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He kept his eyes on the
road. I shifted toward him on the seat with my left knee up, alert to his profile.
His brows were thatched; his cheekbones might as well have been carved of ice.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Even if you panicked at
the loss of altitude,” I continued, “you’d think the pilot might regain
control. And you wouldn’t be alone, not like being murdered in a back alley.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I could barely swallow, I
was so nervous to finally meet him, but I couldn’t seem to stop talking.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You could hold hands with
the person next to you, reassure each other, keep praying the pilot would pull
out of the nose-dive. But if it crashed, the end would be so quick you wouldn’t
have time to lose hope completely.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray listened, impassive.
Finally I asked, “If you’re not afraid, why don’t you fly?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s a long way down.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Clearly, this was not a
topic he wanted to pursue. And I didn’t know enough about him yet to presume
when, or if, I could push. We had a kind of history but were strangers, really.
His friend Stephen had come across one of Ray’s poems at my web site and
introduced himself by e-mail, informing me that Ray was pleased to know I’d
featured him, but didn’t own a computer. “Since he has no hardware, he
suggested you call him at his mountain retreat in Montana.”</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings 2;">* * * </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’d had no desire to
contact Ray. I did, though, read everything he’d written – poems, short
stories, memoirs, a novel. He was a good story-teller, the first and only poet
whose collections I read from cover to cover, admiring every single poem. In most
interviews, he’d emphasized that he was a purist who wrote everything first in
longhand with a #2 pencil, painstakingly typing his revisions on an
old-fashioned typewriter. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then Ray had phoned,
pitching a slow curve. At first he showed interest in me, asked what role
poetry played in my work as a personal coach, then abruptly said I seemed to be
using his poem for personal gain, and should contact his agent for written
permission. I reverted to a maddening nervous habit – choking, speaking
hoarsely – feeling foolish. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The second time, he called
because he didn’t recognize my number on his phone bill. When I picked up the
receiver, he barked, “Who is this?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I believe you called me.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, you’re the lady who
quoted me without permission.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No. As a matter of fact I
took your poem off my web site.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I didn’t want you to take
it off! I just thought you should get permission.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Fine, Ray. When I have
time, I’ll get around to it.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">A month later, hoping to
allay any future calls, I’d typed a letter to him explaining I’d done as he’d
asked, reinstating his poem at my web site, with written permission. Stephen
had been working on me, telling me Ray, though somewhat gruff, was a good
person and I should not be too hard on him. So I tried to be gracious, but not
too gracious – a little smart-alecky, or funny, maybe.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Dear Ray, I’m writing
instead of calling to try to get on a better footing with you, having found
myself with my foot in my mouth (maybe your foot in my mouth) in our two brief
conversations.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I closed with what I
thought would end our correspondence, “I hope your life continues to be as
rich, amusing, and sentimentally deep as it appears to have been so far.”</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I forgot about Ray over
the next few weeks and was surprised when he replied (in #2 pencil), “Dear
Mary, it seems we are in a story, you and I, connected, as we are, in our own
imaginations. My, my.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I had to sit down.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“But the story is tilted,”
Ray’s letter continued, “since you know much more about me than I know about
you. What can you tell me about yourself?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Writing to him was easier
than talking on the phone. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cued by Stephen, I’d
re-read Ray’s poems with a different eye. <i>I could love a man who writes as
he does</i>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I have Mingus on my
mind,” I responded to his “My, my” letter. “I heard a piece on the radio in Boston in the sixties that
left me flat out in love. Only I thought it was Alice <i>in</i> Wonderland, and couldn’t
track it down. Last week, after searching all these years, I found it – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alice</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">’s </i>Wonderland! It’s less than nine
minutes long, but worth the wait.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Again, there was a
three-week interval, then another letter from Ray. “Good touch, the Mingus,
because of the title of the tune and the nine minutes. I, too, am a Mingus fan
– do you know his autobiography? Wonderful description of Ellington firing
him.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">His writing was
surprisingly formal, almost stilted. <i>I wonder if he’s cautious about letters
that might be published without his consent</i>? He enclosed a newspaper
clipping about one of his readings, which I found both egotistical and
touching.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">When we began talking
regularly by phone, it took a while to find our way. I couldn’t help responding
to his flirtatiousness, and discovered he liked me to be a little cheeky.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I think writing in pencil
works for you,” I said one night, “because you dip it in testosterone.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You’re not the first
woman to tell me that.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">But I had difficulty
reconciling the poetic writer with the exacting man. Remembering my comment
about his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sentimentally deep life</i>,
Ray drummed out a lecture on the difference between <i>sentiment</i> and <i>sentimentality</i>.
“Rod McCuen, that’s <i>sentimentality</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">!</span>”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I wondered what he found
of interest in me. <i>Is it because I’m crazy about his writing?</i></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;">* * * </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray continued to be
abrupt, though in a rough, sexy way. Frankness and earthy humor became our
theme, sometimes with a literary slant. He asked me one night, “What’s the most
screwed-up thing about you?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“My fondness for shoes. I
have forty pairs.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Forty pairs!” He was
astonished, but didn’t miss a beat. “Are any of them red?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I followed this exchange
by sending him a short remake of Hans Christian Andersen’s <i>The Red Shoes</i>,
starring myself and changing the traditional ending. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Now what might you take
to be the moral of this tale? All we know is that our girl is grown up now and
she’s willing to take her chances if there’s a prince of a guy who likes to
dance.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray was amused. Later I’d
note the irony that we were better for each other on paper. At that time I was
beginning to feel an attraction, though not without misgivings. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“There’s a danger for me,”
I wrote to him, “in believing a story that may not be true.” That hadn’t
stopped me, however, from playing out the story. “I’ve been reading Mary Karr’s
<i>The Liar’s Club</i>. Her Daddy described a woman with an ass ‘like two
bulldog pups in a sack.’ Now, don’t expect that from my ass, Ray.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">One night on the phone,
searching for a common thread, we discovered we’d both been single for many
years after an early marriage, and began to joke about our parallel strings of
lovers.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Am I your one and only
writer?” he’d asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dear One and Only,” I wrote. “I think the
approximate count is fifteen, and in review I’m disheartened to note how sadly
underrepresented the arts have been in my life. Yes, Ray, almost everyone
‘writes,’ but you are my only writer. Not surprisingly, there was more than one
psychiatrist, but good God, there were two lawyers and a judge! Strangest of
all, there was a pineapple canning plant manager.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray called that night to
report he’d had sex with a woman in every state of the union except Hawaii. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, there you go,” I
said. “I’ve taken care of Hawaii.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">That went on for a while,
the two of us trying to find out who, really, was on the other end of the line.
He asked me to track down a recording by Norah Jones, “Come Away With Me.” When
I listened to it I suspected another woman had told him about it. Still, I was
touched by the lyrics of Lonestar: </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.3in; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">How far you are I just
don’t know / the distance I’m willing to go. I pick up a stone that I cast to
the sky / hoping for some kind of sign.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was torn between
intrigue and doubt. Ray could be preachy. In response to my questions about his
only novel, he’d written “You’re being a psychologist who wants to figure
things out. To the writer these can never be interesting questions.” Then he’d
relented: “But when you say reading it hurt like hell, I’m rewarded. Part of my
purpose is to make the reader feel – or<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>as Conrad says, ‘see.’’’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">After four months of
letters and phone calls, I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Ray. I wanted to
either end the flirtation or find out if there could be more to the
relationship. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>I need to spend some time with him in person.</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">This was resolved when he
told me about the July 4th celebration in Whitefish. “You would have enjoyed
it, Mary. You should have been here.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Are you asking me to
visit, Ray?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“If I asked you, would you
come?”</span></p>
<span style="text-align: center;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>* * * </span><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now I was on Ray’s
mountain. It was so beautiful, so calm there, I felt almost delirious, hugging
him at every opportunity. In our last conversation before my flight, in fact,
I’d asked him to embrace me as soon as I deplaned on Friday. “Act as if we know
each other.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Of course.” The same
response he’d given when I said I’d like to sleep next to him, not in the guest
bedroom.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m like a mole,” I said.
“I have to sniff and feel my way along.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Are you blind?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No! But if we don’t get
it over with right away, I’ll be edgy.” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Friday night was awkward.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Early on Saturday, I
breathed in the sweet, piney scent from the open window, heard the walls wake
up with creaks and snaps, like a cedar body stretching. A breathing house.<br />
<br />
Next to me, Ray’s lean body felt polite; it did not yield. He let me hold him the
way a small boy might who’s been instructed to accept a stranger’s embrace, who
complies because he should.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Later in the day, when it
was cooler, we drove to the river to fish. I told him I’d been fly-fishing in Wyoming two years
before, but asked him to remind me what to do. He showed me how to hold the rod
and reel, when to wind, when to hold, when to let go. He then moved away
downstream, leaving me to figure out the rest.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Gradually, I felt my right
arm casting into rhythm: <i>hold, release, hold, release</i>. When my line got
caught under a rock in the middle of the river I struggled out against the
current, feeling stubborn, refusing to ask Ray’s help though I knew he was
watching. I fell down twice, had to force my way up.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As we were leaving, Ray
bantered with me about what I was doing out there in the river. “Were you
swimming?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Practicing falling.” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">We both laughed.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">After lunch on Sunday he
asked, “Do you want to watch while I burn some slash? It’s been pretty dry, but
there’s no wind so I don’t think we have to worry about the fire getting out of
hand.” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nodding, I followed him
outdoors, avoiding conversation. I was finding Ray to be an odd mixture of
sweet and abrasive, compliant and remote. In spite of my years of figuring
people out, I couldn’t read him, didn’t know what to say, didn’t feel
spontaneous.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Over breakfast that
morning he’d made a point about <i>Love in the Ruins</i>, then was aggravated
because he couldn’t remember the author. I had felt the name begin to form on
my tongue but was equally frustrated. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As we headed up the back
hill, Ray told me he’d always been a walker, walked to his mailbox and back – a
mile each way – in 30 minutes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Walker</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">, walker.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> “Walker! His name is Walker something.”<br />
<br />
“Walker Percy. Yes!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was rejuvenating to
remember together, to begin gaining balance.<br />
<br />
Ray started the fire in a low pit next to a huge tree stump that could protect
the fire if the wind came up. I saw a molasses-like chunk on the edge of the
stump and quickly put it to my mouth. It was bitter and sticky.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That’s red cedar sap. You
thought it was going to be sweet. You’re lucky you got your fingers unstuck.”</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">We formed a brigade. Ray
brought fallen branches from the back slope of the hill, slippery with pine
needles. I carried the branches from there in bundles, stacking them near the
fire.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">After several hours I was
noticeably tired, and he said, “That’s enough.” As perspiration began to cool
on my bare arms, I shivered. Ray suggested I get his long-sleeved shirt hanging
on a nail in the laundry room inside. I found it, walked back out pulling it
on: a soft, deep red and green flannel. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“That looks good on you.
Keep it if you want.” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He gave me the task of
being the fire-watcher, water hose in hand. I sniffed the wind, brushed
drifting ash from my face. He talked about an acquaintance in town who was a
smoke jumper, told a story of seventeen fire fighters who died because they
tried to run from a raging forest fire. His friend saved himself and three
others by building a bunker. They nose-dived into it, waves of fire washing
over them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As it grew dark, Ray
hissed water on the crisp, hot coals. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">We moved to the front
porch. He went to the kitchen and came back with two Black Star beers from a
local brewery. “It’s double-hopped, full-bodied, the finest.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’m not a beer lover. But
I wanted to savor what he liked, to get a taste of him. As we sipped, Ray
admitted he was lonely on his mountain. I relaxed in my canvas chair, slid out
my legs, stretched my bare feet. His flannel shirt covered me to the bottom of
my shorts.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I’d like to see you in
nothing but that shirt.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Afterward, lying on the
couch inside, I held my legs straight up, waiting for him to bring a towel. He
whistled. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You have great legs for a
senior citizen.” Then he noticed my silence. “Is it OK if I say that?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I smiled and turned toward
him. “Yes.”</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray grew all his own
vegetables in a large garden surrounded by a steel fence. Watering them was a
cherished daily ritual. He liked his occasional encounters with wild animals on
the rest of the property and didn’t interfere if they came close. I felt a
tender rush when he was affectionately profane toward the deer that ate apples
from the tree in front of his house.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">By the third day I’d
fallen into his routines. Every morning he wrote for three hours. Enjoying the
quiet time for myself, I invented yoga postures, meditated, wrote in my
journal, took long walks. In the afternoons, we worked side-by-side in his
flower garden. “Petunias have to be pinched or they’ll become too leggy,” I
told him, “but it hurts me to pinch off life.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s like separating
Siamese twins, Mary. The ultimate sacrifice.’” By this answer I knew he appreciated
my feelings, didn’t consider them to be – in his words – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">frou-frou</i>.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">That was the day he told
me he’d always wanted to say what Robert Duvall says in <i>Lonesome Dove</i> to
his woman in town: “How ‘bout a little poke, darlin’?” I guessed he’d rehearsed
this, just as I’d rehearsed what I would say when we met. But I liked the line
anyway.</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, darlin’, I’d <i>like</i>
a little poke.” I hugged him, and for the first time his hard body
softened. Perhaps caution held him inflexible until I passed some test whose criteria
were never quite clear. I found, though, even after he seemed more comfortable
with me, after daily pokes, he would never kiss me open-mouthed.<br />
<br />
Ray was very particular about how things were done, even washing the outside of
bananas before he peeled them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">
When I offered to help him prepare dinner Sunday night he told me to chop the
garlic, then put it in the small yellow ceramic bowl on the counter.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">As I started to scrape the
garlic bits into the bowl, he paused from stirring the sauce. “You don’t scrape
from a cutting board with the sharp edge of the knife! You turn the knife and
use the blunt edge.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Gee, Ray, it would have
been a lot easier if you’d just sat me down the first morning and given me a
list of all the rules. That way I’d have at least a chance of a passing grade!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, that would take too
long. I’ll teach you as we go.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Though he was joking, this
interaction fed my growing confusion. I had sat on the leather couch in the den
that morning and wept over one of his poems. But I couldn’t reach deep enough
into the man.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">We chatted over dinner – a
pasta of his own invention with anchovies, salad, Pinot Grigio. “The true test
of an interesting woman,” Ray teased, “is if she loves anchovies.” I’d avoided
anchovies my whole life but was damned if I was going to fail this little test.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Suddenly he said, “You’re
lucky, you know. Here you are in this beautiful setting getting the equivalent
of a free workshop with me. There are a lot of women who would pay big bucks
for this.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You’re joking.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“No, I’m serious.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was furious. “This isn’t
free. That last-minute plane ticket cost me almost eight hundred dollars. And I
didn’t come here to worship at your feet, Ray. I came to get to know the person
behind the writing.”‘ </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“They’re one and the same,
Mary.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I told him he was
arrogant. He said he’d been joking but didn’t like the sour look on my face so
kept up the pretense that he was serious. We didn’t speak for hours, until I
broke the silence.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Look, I didn’t know you
were joking and I’m sorry I got so angry.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“It takes a big person to
apologize.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">After breakfast the next
morning, as we watered the vegetables together, he said, “Doesn’t it seem we’ve
known each other forever?” I knew this was as close to an apology as Ray could manage.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The perfect death. That
had been an unexpected theme. Ray admitted he didn’t want to be buried. “I
can’t stand the thought of being underground, dead or alive.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cremation would be good,
we agreed, ashes released on the wind in some memorable place.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t trust my kids to
follow my wishes, though” I told him. “My son would have me buried. I know he
would. He’d want a grave to visit. Anyway, it’s <i>how</i> to die I want to
know. What do you think is the best way?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ray gave me a sober look.
“While dreaming, of course. Just going from one dream to the next.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">We talked about the planet
burning out, the death of animal species, of trees. I was complacent: “I
believe the earth will go on without us. Cockroaches will take over, maybe.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The thing I’d hate is
that all my work would be lost, nobody left to read it.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Then we’ll just have to
make a time capsule, and hope the cockroaches learn how to read.” I was keeping
it light, but sensed this went deep with Ray – his resolute solitude tempered
by the need to be known. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">He’d
cautioned me not to walk into the woods alone, without him and his pistol.
“Cougars wait in trees, could jump on you without warning, snap your neck
instantly.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’d thought about this for
days, liked the idea: <i>When I’m ready, I’ll walk into the deep woods away
from the path until a cougar finds me, where there will be no discussion of
cremation or burial, where I’ll go back to the earth.</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">To Ray I said, “I’ve
changed my mind about planes. I’ll hold out for the cougar death.”</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">One morning while he was
locked in his study, I lay on the ground inside the corral, now unused and
overgrown with grass, though Ray had talked about buying a horse. For a long
time I gazed at the sky, framed by aspen, pine, narrow-leaf cottonwood. At
peace, I slowly sat up, admiring the pale, bluish-lavender wildflowers in the
field below. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Two small does appeared,
walking up the hill behind the corral. One of them looked at me, started to dip
her head to feed, stopped, looked again, then pranced off – full of self, head
high, tail stiff. I was charmed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Eventually, I had the urge
to urinate, went to the far side of the corral, marked my territory, peeing
close to the ground, grazing the wild grass, smelling my own warm, almond
scent. <i>The cougar will know I was here</i>.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Wingdings 2"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;">* * * </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">On my last morning at
Ray’s, I strolled barefoot, saw a dandelion growing tall through a prickly
bush. Only the day before it had been a golden globe, but overnight had changed
into the familiar white seed head. I endured pricks from the bush it had
invaded and snapped it low, tried to capture all its tiny parachutes in my free
hand.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Walking toward the back
hill beyond the vegetable garden, I looked down so I wouldn’t stumble and spill
the seeds before I reached the compost pile. Just past the delphiniums at the
border of the flowerbed, I saw a dead field mouse, dark gray guts torn out. Its
front paws were touching, prayer-like, its rear paws flung back as if jumping
were possible.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Ah!
Divining the future from its entrails.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">I felt tears rising and
turned my head away from the house, in case Ray had paused in his work and was
looking out the front window.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tightening my grip on the
dandelion in my left hand, I picked up the small corpse by its tail with thumb
and index finger of my right hand, carried both past the vegetable garden – the
spinach, mustard greens, sweet peas, lettuce, beans.<br />
<br />
Giving the mouse a proper send-off, I flung it high into the cooling air over
the back hill, where it landed in a nest of pine needles. There it lay, curled,
among the scrubby bushes, the browning grass, the fallen branches now turning
punky. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The dandelion seeds flew
loose, into the wind.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;">(Published online in <i>Connotation Press</i> and later in my collection <i><a href="https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/1508669449/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tpbk_p2_i0" target="_blank">Autobiography Passed through the Sieve of Maya</a>)</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i> </i> <br /></span></p>
Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-62074607991532700952021-12-23T13:02:00.009-05:002022-01-12T15:57:41.310-05:00Bah, Dis Donc, Mama!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOXPUotqoUJVKjj-Sqgw5yzug5-bu_r665xB3iiulBJZvX9evi3wEVqQmg7kIFsZR0xRX9nbRjKWfJ7OA_RmXdxWv8wyE-UbNxxCJ83Coxs_Xz-dZDphh29btZlvI7rUgScvcoUyAQZk32Frdh28FuIqGnprWL3JFDd_fRPZTZ-lCpant_WastDPbX2g=s369" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="246" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOXPUotqoUJVKjj-Sqgw5yzug5-bu_r665xB3iiulBJZvX9evi3wEVqQmg7kIFsZR0xRX9nbRjKWfJ7OA_RmXdxWv8wyE-UbNxxCJ83Coxs_Xz-dZDphh29btZlvI7rUgScvcoUyAQZk32Frdh28FuIqGnprWL3JFDd_fRPZTZ-lCpant_WastDPbX2g=w133-h200" width="133" /></a></div>Johnny Leger, my first "steady" boyfriend. <p></p><p style="text-align: left;">Dad was stationed in Paris, France with SHAPE (Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe) for all four years of my high school, and instead of living on the Army post, my parents rented part of a house in Croissy-sur-Seine outside of Paris. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Our widowed landlady had made a one-room apartment for herself on the ground floor, and Mom, Dad, and I had the rest of the small two-story home (my brother Chuck, four years older, was attending the University of Maryland extension program in Munich the first two years, and then back in the States). </p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJ42o9wPeN0scAd6YA9s0DTDnHt3arr96UJO9gLokRjbC0ZvvY6mrGPZpaScwF6tSB-LQm3aRJ7bkiHB0wypEguAwaS92yJ6lWd6Cop-FA5tbZNSByOqM5s-Yb8Goqsl51GlMSEUz5UbbpzqpNkPE1_pBIDTW1yGnRBGT1hHY2n7E5HoqB1di3aoBUPQ=s686" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="686" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJ42o9wPeN0scAd6YA9s0DTDnHt3arr96UJO9gLokRjbC0ZvvY6mrGPZpaScwF6tSB-LQm3aRJ7bkiHB0wypEguAwaS92yJ6lWd6Cop-FA5tbZNSByOqM5s-Yb8Goqsl51GlMSEUz5UbbpzqpNkPE1_pBIDTW1yGnRBGT1hHY2n7E5HoqB1di3aoBUPQ=w200-h143" width="200" /></a>The grounds were typically French, with a garden, apple tree, and gate in front, a gravel path leading back to the house. Living in this small town was great for immersing ourselves in the French culture, but we didn't have a phone, and it was difficult for me to connect with other Army kids, so I quickly learned enough French to take a bus everywhere, including the activity center at the Army post, where other teens gathered on weekends. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvY_XDAO1qGLa_EwUgZxUOcDnm0RmhZjmAKf9DsK4T-zDwkYWts1gl7lInTikw2pKQFE2ROR_U-YJdhP_bQjQMUDgrQJSROsZpumvX6LhSay8du1m75S1jmGcBq6JHukb9m-QBF8mhufqe0u0UBW6h67bOdoaw3q1csUzlEiT8wNTGO81_Q11jJ94MSw=s535" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="535" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvY_XDAO1qGLa_EwUgZxUOcDnm0RmhZjmAKf9DsK4T-zDwkYWts1gl7lInTikw2pKQFE2ROR_U-YJdhP_bQjQMUDgrQJSROsZpumvX6LhSay8du1m75S1jmGcBq6JHukb9m-QBF8mhufqe0u0UBW6h67bOdoaw3q1csUzlEiT8wNTGO81_Q11jJ94MSw=w200-h143" width="200" /></a>One day my girlfriends and I saw this handsome boy riding around on a motorcycle there, circling by over and over, just looking at us but not stopping. So I walked out to where we could talk, and that was the beginning of a two-year romance. His actual name was Jean (pronounced a bit like the English word <i>want, </i>with a soft "J" in <i>Jean</i>) and his parents were French, but he'd been born in the States while his father worked there, so had dual citizenship and preferred to be called "Johnny.".</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOlk1jdfZZB_-2iUCjZ-wy_gQcZ7aRDI0Hb5MGyUUcX-y8HUJoPO0E9kU2GucCf84pZYJeXXm56b5PHfQFM5U-9Upu2Dx3dVfn7BuDnVEDfzcOryszRdSO6nzSW4a_sM_EDEWSaPKYQLLGU1AtCmpMKEoAS6vaG8LgKWph7s4emOfS2GAy2LrDXyemgA=s641" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="458" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhOlk1jdfZZB_-2iUCjZ-wy_gQcZ7aRDI0Hb5MGyUUcX-y8HUJoPO0E9kU2GucCf84pZYJeXXm56b5PHfQFM5U-9Upu2Dx3dVfn7BuDnVEDfzcOryszRdSO6nzSW4a_sM_EDEWSaPKYQLLGU1AtCmpMKEoAS6vaG8LgKWph7s4emOfS2GAy2LrDXyemgA=w114-h160" width="114" /></a></div>Johnny was a quiet, sweet-natured boy. We never talked about marriage or the future, though we were still a couple at my Junior prom. His motorcycle was our usual transportation, but we took the train that night to protect my formal gown, the train station about a mile from our house. I don't remember who drove us to the station before the dance, but I do remember walking together to my house from the station afterward and our long goodbye at the gate. He would be leaving the next morning to join the U.S. Army. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">To my surprise, I never heard from Johnny again, and my senior year brought tall, handsome Bruce to our school, so I moved on. But after coming to Florida in my early sixties, when the internet was beginning to flourish, I paid a search function to look up "Jean Leger," thinking there couldn't be too many men of that name, near my age, born in the U.S. of French parents, and who'd been in the U.S. Army. I was right--there were only three possibilities and I wrote to all three, explaining who I was and asking if any of them was the Johnny I'd known, and if so, to please write, tell me about his life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5GYzCpm953k59LR_-36Ebuh4BofuMNdZEDEKbWsv4Oevcmg8A6LspvHgPhx5sboJZE8QAY0Pgeqda_5KFLywxc-1nrbl01_HvijNv7iJSoygKTKMwD8Q_pyJL2oyTLFpW9FD5Q7_38EbyMrrXIot8PhHQnHT5or3eafVsF38lyT4RRAOkGYD7C7GB4g=s800" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5GYzCpm953k59LR_-36Ebuh4BofuMNdZEDEKbWsv4Oevcmg8A6LspvHgPhx5sboJZE8QAY0Pgeqda_5KFLywxc-1nrbl01_HvijNv7iJSoygKTKMwD8Q_pyJL2oyTLFpW9FD5Q7_38EbyMrrXIot8PhHQnHT5or3eafVsF38lyT4RRAOkGYD7C7GB4g=w200-h150" width="200" /></a></div>Two weeks later I received a letter and photo. Now "Jean" (rhymes with "queen"), as his American buddies always called him, he'd had an Army career, a long and happy marriage with four children and many grandchildren. I was appalled, however, to learn from his letter that he had, indeed, come back after basic training and spoken to my mother, who said she'd tell me he'd come by. But Mom had not told me. When I asked her about this she apologized, saying she'd been happy that I was fully involved in senior year activities, dating a Colonel's son, and didn't want to disturb that rosy picture! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Bah, di donc, Mama</i>!<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I explained to Jean what had happened, with Mom's apologies, he responded that this lifted a burden he'd carried all those years, not understanding why I wouldn't have wanted to see him. After that we connected on Facebook, and I sent my condolences when his wife Meta died, but there was rarely any other information on his Facebook page, except occasional birthday wishes from his family.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then, the weekend of December 18-19, I suddenly felt a wave of grief, similar to the one I'd experienced in November when <a href="http://lettersfromalife.blogspot.com/2021/11/ring-of-bone.html" target="_blank">my friend Glenn</a> died. Several days later a friend sent me the link to <a href="https://www.dorothyparkersashes.com/current-issue/undertow" target="_blank">Jean L. Kreiling's poem "Undertow</a>," and the poet's first name <i>Jean</i> triggered a memory of Johnny, the <i>undertow</i> of our teenage connection pulling at my heart as I searched for what I knew I would find:<br /></div><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: justify;"><i>Jean Constant Leger, November 14, 1935 - December 6, 2021, service on December 18, 2021. We are sad to announce that Jean Constant Leger of Denver, Colorado passed away </i><i><i>on December 6, 2021</i>. He was predeceased by his wife Meta Fay Leger of Fort Smith. He is survived by his four children, two siblings, eight grandchildren, and two great grandchildren.</i><br /></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-77572310373499269642021-11-07T12:44:00.003-05:002021-11-07T16:30:09.239-05:00Hunch Power<p>I awoke from an amazing dream this morning, no doubt influenced by reading last night from <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/08/03/books/review/breathe-joyce-carol-oates.html" target="_blank">Joyce Carol Oates’ “Breathe</a>” (NYT: <i>. . .“Breathe” is a fever dream of a novel </i>. . . <i>there is no beginning, no end, and “each hour, each day, passes
with excruciating slowness yet it is all happening very quickly"</i>. . .)</p><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_sp"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUCujGS-Zr8ctM-YcNz9WzfXB6hynn_HdRe74h12_GdHOoZkGXZ9TUeKNPqXol-U_VqsMDOf6bl1W1W-YhgN060PppjHhoDTSQtcJKt8BdfiOOyEQUxQS6Pd99X5t0d39h5NPV7b6sBBv/s1200/headstand.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUCujGS-Zr8ctM-YcNz9WzfXB6hynn_HdRe74h12_GdHOoZkGXZ9TUeKNPqXol-U_VqsMDOf6bl1W1W-YhgN060PppjHhoDTSQtcJKt8BdfiOOyEQUxQS6Pd99X5t0d39h5NPV7b6sBBv/w200-h200/headstand.webp" width="200" /></a></div>In my dream I’ve briefly left a workshop and just returned, one of the other women welcoming me back and whispering that the teacher is annoyed with me. The women are sitting in yoga postures, but this gathering seems to be about intuition (see Malcolm Gladwell's <i>Blink</i>, referred to by the New York Times as "Hunch Power").<br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The teacher demonstrates falling headfirst from a ledge about ten feet high and landing on her head in <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/shortcuts/2019/jul/23/in-over-your-head-how-to-master-instagrams-favourite-pose-the-headstand" target="_blank">a perfect headstand pose</a>. She describes to the class how her experience and intuition helped her “see” exactly where the cushioned spot would be. She then points to me and says, “Now you do it.” </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">My friend urges “It's too advanced, please don't do it, she’s challenging you because she’s annoyed with you, please don’t . . .” but I calmly step up to the ledge and fall forward, time slowing down so much that my head reaches the cushioned spot as softly as if laying it down on a bed pillow, landing in a perfect headstand. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">As I was falling, with eyes closed, I “saw” exactly where the cushioned spot would be.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div></span></div></div></div></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-30816629407440174142021-11-06T13:17:00.038-04:002021-11-07T13:38:57.999-05:00Passionate Lives<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6wdOXfDkvI5AeMIaq40wPkjQyB_R_Qk-zvnCyfYdGxPo2sB28sGElbXPQ0Se2nnM66TnDJgy0RR4ene90QwL4lTnBEoL79PpF1rKRy3YwarTtT938gMiKFxbRLzjrhP923tYXb2zcF7x/s744/LoveAndCapital.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6wdOXfDkvI5AeMIaq40wPkjQyB_R_Qk-zvnCyfYdGxPo2sB28sGElbXPQ0Se2nnM66TnDJgy0RR4ene90QwL4lTnBEoL79PpF1rKRy3YwarTtT938gMiKFxbRLzjrhP923tYXb2zcF7x/w129-h200/LoveAndCapital.webp" width="129" /></a></div>Already a fan of her <i>Ninth Street Women, </i>I'm entranced by Mary Gariel's <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/love-and-capital-karl-and-jenny-marx-and-the-birth-of-a-revolution-by-mary-gabriel/2011/08/29/gIQAwSsUkL_story.html?fbclid=IwAR3D3Ek-2JiICPZVFkN7Gz3VwLK-Fb1vnxJT8DPFhRtfDh7c0-tde1eCTa0" target="_blank"><i>Love and Capital: Karl and Jenny Marx and the Story of a Revolution</i></a> (finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award), though it's SO long and detailed, I may take another year to actually finish it. Normally I buzz through a good book almost too quickly, but this biography requires deep study and much reflective thought after reading a section, then perhaps letting it go for a week or so between.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div></span></span><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_kn"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">At the moment I'm relishing how Jenny and Karl's brilliant and multilingual daughters were strong women in full support of Marx's/Engels' ideas, marrying men who also wanted to see changes that many of us currently wish for. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">This and other reviews focus on how Marx's family paid the price of poverty and ill health, etc., but to me that's missing the point that they really LIVED, true to their values, believing passionately in bettering the lives of working people, loving each other dearly, and fighting for their beliefs in spite of ill health, terrible setbacks, and often tragic endings: </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">". . . the story of a group of brilliant, combative, exasperating, funny, passionate, and ultimately tragic figures caught up in the revolutions sweeping nineteenth-century Europe." (<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><a href="https://www.marygabrielauthor.com" target="_blank">Mary Gabriel</a></span></span>)</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></span></span></div></div></div></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-49359024461782768982021-11-05T11:39:00.083-04:002021-12-24T10:41:23.580-05:00Ring of Bone<span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtN8J0eBLxzFNOZ7NyXvqzRa34nHO7OB52NASJ1rPilPDFSruKdo5SgqZTjMsia2jjXjlL1E_VEkDLTPRVb5Q474pSSdzgZ9Ch53NhX9Mv9ltcRHlIHw75tcGG9QLUYkqK9tS8ZxGNNc2U/s875/SweetheartCourtFeb1956.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="875" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtN8J0eBLxzFNOZ7NyXvqzRa34nHO7OB52NASJ1rPilPDFSruKdo5SgqZTjMsia2jjXjlL1E_VEkDLTPRVb5Q474pSSdzgZ9Ch53NhX9Mv9ltcRHlIHw75tcGG9QLUYkqK9tS8ZxGNNc2U/w200-h160/SweetheartCourtFeb1956.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Several weeks ago I was overcome with grief, thinking "it's as if someone I know has died" but saw no news that confirmed it or who it might be. This evening I was browsing among names of my Facebook contacts who'd been absent from my feed for a long time, and found that my old friend Forrest 'Glenn' Rhodes from our Army high school in Paris, France, died on October 15 (Glenn and his date are on the far left in this photo of our senior year's "Sweetheart Court;" I'm on his left next to my senior year boyfriend Bruce). <br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div></div></span><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_g9"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vfTKIl-HkUU/YYlWN5QQvqI/AAAAAAAAK-M/6d6-IBzevDAJRKerAaB9fdukJVMj_M-DgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1112/Wyoming2.1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="795" data-original-width="1112" height="143" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vfTKIl-HkUU/YYlWN5QQvqI/AAAAAAAAK-M/6d6-IBzevDAJRKerAaB9fdukJVMj_M-DgCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h143/Wyoming2.1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Glenn hadn't been able to attend a long-awaited high school reunion in Washington D.C. in 2001, so he invited me for a week's visit to his home in Wapiti, Wyoming that summer.<br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Both in our early sixties, we caught up on our 40+ years since high school graduation, enjoyed fly-casting, horseback riding, beautiful views, poetry, jazz, and Indian flute music. <br /></div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8maNAfE5D4Y/YYlaAYcvamI/AAAAAAAAK-c/F83lp7hymLUtovBm_xWd99_k06F1bJN4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1112/Wyoming13.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="1112" height="143" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8maNAfE5D4Y/YYlaAYcvamI/AAAAAAAAK-c/F83lp7hymLUtovBm_xWd99_k06F1bJN4QCLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h143/Wyoming13.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Retired from his later career as a Pan Am pilot, Glenn was an environmentalist who'd been closely involved with the Blackfeet and Kainai/Blackfoot Nations, and while he loved hunting it was never for sport; he cooked most of our meals while I was there and some of them included meat he'd caught himself. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql lr9zc1uh a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v b1v8xokw oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto">Glenn had played in our high school band and after graduation had spent time as a jazz musician in San
Francisco, made friends with some of the beat poets, especially Lew
Welch, whose work I'd not known about before. </span></span><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">From <i>Ring of Bone: Collected Poems of Lew Welc</i>h:</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">I saw myself</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">a ring of bone <br /></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">in the clear stream</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">of all of it</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">and vowed,</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">always to be open to it</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">that all of it </div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">might flow through</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"> </div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">and then heard</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">"ring of bone"where </div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">ring is what a</div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">bell does<br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Happy Hunting, Glenn Rhodes.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFuPqtdIf8EGOLm0mdlzm3FtlajWUOH51RyCQlPVXlNJTaI6cQWHXlB1XKa0pW6ULqBH81dodWIyTKZW_iOD7ZkNFTxUQxdV7qSlaKZJ-rtJ1ZYrsjj1dQ3BqNeaeUV2J6pQgIwTI2Urb/s1131/Wyoming9.1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="1131" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWFuPqtdIf8EGOLm0mdlzm3FtlajWUOH51RyCQlPVXlNJTaI6cQWHXlB1XKa0pW6ULqBH81dodWIyTKZW_iOD7ZkNFTxUQxdV7qSlaKZJ-rtJ1ZYrsjj1dQ3BqNeaeUV2J6pQgIwTI2Urb/s320/Wyoming9.1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </div></div></span></span></div></div></div></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-35254111473736835752021-09-13T12:18:00.001-04:002021-11-10T02:30:56.387-05:00Making the Most of What We Have<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mother and father met when they were both 14 years old and never
wanted to be apart, but Mom's parents insisted she go to college. After
three years and three colleges, each closer and closer to Texas A&M
where Dad was studying, Mom finally got their permission to marry,
though Dad still had a year until graduation, and this was during "the
Great Depression" (they had only $50 between them).
<span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span><div class="text_exposed_show"><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Mom had always been able to make something out of nothing, but those
early years of their marriage reinforced her natural tendency to
preserve. Her whole life, she washed, saved, and marked with a note
every single item that might possibly be re-used at some future point. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I was pretty much the opposite; being an Army brat and having to leave
so much behind with every move, but when Mom lived with me during her
final 16 years, some of her self-preserving nature rubbed off on me. I'm
so grateful, because her example has helped me think through how to
preserve food, especially, but also how to preserve mental and physical
health during these months of isolation.</span></p><p> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.zazzle.com/mouse_totem_magnet-160536147675115890" target="_blank">Mouse totem teaches us to make the most of what we have, no matter how scarce the resources or how tough the environment</a>.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdv_Yag5eTZklk9OAojiIR5Lrp_Feqcwz2ta_DrA5cnjqBK3eqIdC9OD7aWnaHBvphg7HJ7j2TYQTvAY3DTx0ahC8quLZkyGTVebgSynEDPKJbRDu4In2JZxULo-RWsYlV7R5sUKOSmHE/s324/MouseWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbdv_Yag5eTZklk9OAojiIR5Lrp_Feqcwz2ta_DrA5cnjqBK3eqIdC9OD7aWnaHBvphg7HJ7j2TYQTvAY3DTx0ahC8quLZkyGTVebgSynEDPKJbRDu4In2JZxULo-RWsYlV7R5sUKOSmHE/s0/MouseWithWords.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-56974960301985142762021-09-09T20:21:00.000-04:002022-09-26T04:59:34.440-04:00Who Taught You How to Do the Twist?<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Med student party, I the newest bride, though no one saw my bewilderment except Marty, who came straight toward me. <i>Come on, Mary, Do the Twist</i>.
He knew my Dave, had cautioned me to reconsider. Eager girl, life
folded umbrella-slim by marriage, famished, opened toward this man
and danced all night. My husband never said a word.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Martin E. Plaut, M.D.,</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> died February 17, 2020 </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">at his home in Buffalo, NY. He was 82.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Bless you, Marty, for your brief time in my life, never forgotten. )</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdPO0ssqfrilUo8nq_cMs-X-PxkryNKaEu-MZLfPXvy0e04lvEZ6tV94IHeTJoEqOc79PWe0-IVI2R8DyAa52YhmjdboJCqs_cpUT7XhceGsB5ZccZfMxDAAiIPgA8voNBcmrHA61gwZ3/s346/MartyPlaut.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="320" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdPO0ssqfrilUo8nq_cMs-X-PxkryNKaEu-MZLfPXvy0e04lvEZ6tV94IHeTJoEqOc79PWe0-IVI2R8DyAa52YhmjdboJCqs_cpUT7XhceGsB5ZccZfMxDAAiIPgA8voNBcmrHA61gwZ3/w256-h277/MartyPlaut.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></span></div></div>
Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-69200461088076248102021-09-02T21:32:00.000-04:002023-11-24T22:24:50.439-05:00From the Editor<p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After six years, I've stepped back from my Editor-in-Chief role with <i><a href="https://smile.amazon.com/s?k=Bacopa+Literary+Review&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss" target="_blank">Bacopa Literary Review</a>, </i>and recently found my responses to an interview with a student of one of our former contributors:</span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>How did you
arrive at your job as editor-in-chief of a literary review? Was it something
you always wanted to do, or did you come into it by chance? If you had planned
to become an editor, why did you want to go into that field?</span></b><span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>I did not plan to
be editor-in-chief of a literary review. I have a PhD. in Psychology and had
edited several dissertations as a doctoral committee member. Also, for a year
I promoted myself as an editor of memoir and fiction and edited one of each.
The memoir required massive rewriting and took most of a year. The fiction was
a thesis for an MFA. and required only a small amount of copy-editing
over a weekend. I was good at editing. thought it would be
an interesting additional income stream, but I didn't enjoy
the work as much as I thought I would, and this has come home tenfold during
production of <i>Bacopa Literary Review</i>. I have pretty much of an eagle eye
for errors, but between the staff of editors we kept finding small mistakes, some of
them from the original submitted manuscripts, some of them a lack of
consistency in our use of grammatical rules or technical problems in
transferring a Word document to print-ready form. It's agonizingly detailed
work. <br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Describe your job. </span></b><span> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>For <i>Bacopa
Literary Review</i> the genre editors choose what to accept—sometimes in consultation with the Editor-in-Chief--and are
responsible for key editing decisions in concert with contributors. So my main
responsibility has been to coordinate the efforts of the editorial team: facilitating
creation of a vision, reaching consensus on what kind of writing we seek,
developing marketing statements, setting up an Editors' Blog, Facebook and
Twitter pages (and using these to promote the journal and past prize winners).
I and the Associate Editor worked mostly behind the scenes; particularly
during production, which requires creating the parent document to be readied
for print, as well as copy editing proofs/sample copies before ordering the
print journal in bulk. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>I suspect I was
asked to take this volunteer job because—in
addition to my editing experience—I've written poetry, memoir, and a small bit
of fiction, I had been Nonfiction editor of <i>Bacopa</i> for one year and knew
a little bit about what was required, and I've been a member of a mixed-genre
critique group for more than fifteen years. So, <a href="https://smile.amazon.com/Mary-Bast/e/B0089YGPJE?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1595353503&sr=1-1" target="_blank">my work and capabilities</a> were
known. Others may not have known I also brought experience consulting to
leadership and facilitating small group efforts (first as Bast Consulting and later as Out of the Box Coaching). However, I said "No" the first few
times I was asked because I didn't think I'd have the time. Also, I had more
contemporary preferences in all genres than had typically been true of the past
six annual issues of the journal (2010-2015). I only agreed when I was assured that I could
break the rules. <br /></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>There were five of
us, all new to each other as a team my first year for the 2016 issue, and we pretty much changed
everything that was done in the past. Because of the excitement engendered by this
freedom, I found the energy to step up to what became a 15-hours-a-week
commitment that first year. The former editorial team, by the way, was in
place—more or less—for six consecutive years, and knew that greater use of social
media would be necessary to step up the number and quality of submissions. I
had that experience to bring, having created a phone coaching business via
online marketing, including writing for my own blogs and for online
publications, plus a Facebook and Twitter presence. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Technically, we
had three months to promote the journal and run a cover art contest January
through March (also part of our marketing plan), then three months of open
submissions April 1 - June 30. We wanted to increase our accessibility, so
stayed in close touch with submitters and contributors whose work we accepted.
Because of our marketing efforts, we increased the number of submissions from
about 200 before I took over to more than 1,000 during most of my six years.<br /></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Maybe it's
because of my own interests and background, but I think of a sustainable
literary review, even though nonprofit, as bearing a close resemblance to any
small business. And speaking of "nonprofit," we are sustained
financially by Writers Alliance of Gainesville (WAG) here in Gainesville, Florida.
Because of this we were able to dismiss submission fees and some years have offered small
contributor payments in addition to financial prizes. The cost of publishing a
journal is no small concern. In the past, many journals have charged submission
fees, but writers are rebelling against even a small $2 "processing
fee" as will be evident if you search online. The basic attitude is
that writers can't afford to pay fees to sustain a journal when there's no
guarantee they'll be published.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Why did you
choose to study psychology?</span></b><span> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>B<span style="color: black;">ecause of my fascination with the range of human behavior.
My literary interests are the same</span>—<span style="color: black;">I'm always
attracted to deeply drawn characters and what does or does not change in their
lives. So, I'm drawn to literature and poetry that evoke common psychological
themes. As an undergraduate I was blown away, for example, after reading <i>Justine
</i><span>(t</span>he first in Lawrence
Durrell's <i>Alexandria Quartet</i><span>), </span>to
then read <i>Balthazar</i> and realize it covered the same events as <i>Justine</i>
but from another key character's perspective. When I consulted to organizations,
I discovered exactly the same: talk to three people about what's going on in
the organization and/or with a particular individual, and you'll have three
different perspectives. <span> </span></span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Share a few more
details about your career, interests, and path to becoming the editor-in-chief
of a literary journal: </span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span></span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I had
no conscious path to become editor of a literary journal. My goal was to be a
practicing coach with a psychological bent. My professional interests have been
to show how poetry</span><u><span style="color: blue; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></u><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> and literature</span><u><span style="color: blue; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></u><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> can evoke and/or
illustrate issues of personality. My personal hobby has been writing poetry and
memoir. During my years as an organizational consultant I learned how to market
my business, how to show leadership, and how to facilitate a team meeting or
conflict resolution. These turned out to be very useful skills in pulling
together an editorial team. <br /></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>What genres of
fiction did you personally write? </span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span></span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My
one foray into fiction was in a Wildacres Writers Workshop with a piece that had
originally been memoir about my affair with a fairly well-known poet. I wanted
it to be as compelling as good fiction, so rewrote it as a short story for
critique, then later owned it as memoir, slightly revised to protect the
not-so-innocent (later published in <i>Connotation Press</i>).</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>How is the journal now
different from past issues? </span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span></span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>We've</span><span> had a greater range of ages among contributors and more current topics across
genres—from reactions to a Paris bombing to what it's like to grow up Black in
white America. Also, a greater variety of contemporary forms such as found poetry
or visual poetry and innovative creative nonfiction such as one that conveyed what can be visualized in 1/60th
of a second. Also, more contemporary use of language across genres, including
profanity; not that profanity is a mark of excellence, but work that's
authentic conveys how people actually think and speak.</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Was it difficult
or challenging to revamp <i>Bacopa Literary Review</i>? </span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span></span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Quite the
contrary. It was exciting and not at all difficult. I made sure the new
editorial team was composed of members excited about change and full of ideas
to attract a greater range of readers. Our motto: "Let's break some
rules." As only one example, the previous six annual covers had been
quietly elegant variations of two designs, each in three different color
schemes. There was a third, similar design (with
three different colors schemes) that the former editors suggested we use for
the next three annual issues. But we wanted a cover that would signify we were
revamping and renewing the journal. So before submissions opened, we held a
cover art contest and chose a new and fresh cover design.<br /></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>As an editor, do
you find it's easier to write and publish your own material, since you have
greater understanding of the editing and publishing process? </span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span></span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Most of my
writing has been either blogging related to my business or using my knowledge of personality to help writers deepen their characters. However, if
I do submit, I'll be more understanding of form rejection letters and more
appreciative of personalized rejection letters. I'm also much more aware of the
competition, and more realistic about the quality of my own writing. (I laugh
to remember that I once submitted a poem to <i>The
New Yorker</i>.) So I'm less likely to submit, but if I do, I'll pay closer
attention to the journal's guidelines. As an editor I've been dumbfounded by
how few submissions follow our guidelines. The two that cost us the most time are single-spacing fiction and creative nonfiction instead of double-spacing as
requested, and leaving identifying information on manuscripts when we made it
clear we judge blind. </span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span></span></b></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>How would you
describe your poetry and memoirs?</span></b><span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><a href="https://winningwriters.com/past-winning-entries/whimsy-for-willy" target="_blank">Short, sexy, funny</a>, metaphorical, not prize-winning writing
but okay. <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Autobiography-Passed-Through-Sieve-Maya/dp/1508669449" target="_blank">My memoir pieces</a> tend to be what I call "flash memoir." <a href="http://windingsheets.blogspot.com/2021/04/my-tired-heart.html" target="_blank">Many of my poems are memoir-based</a>. Most of my publications
have been in <a href="http://womenspiritualpoetry.blogspot.com/2014/05/learning-to-drive-by-mary-bast.html" target="_blank">online</a> journals. Some work in print journals responded to calls
for specific work, such as "<a href="https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/1304667618/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tpbk_p1_i8" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Remaking Moby Dick</span></a>"
(my contribution was a found poem drawn from one of the chapters in the book).</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>How
do you handle difficult or challenging submissions</span></b><span>? <b>(Inappropriate content, poor
quality, etc)? </b> <br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>If the writing is poor quality, we reject a submission with a
letter indicating it wasn't a fit for us and "good luck with your
writing." We're pretty broad-minded about viewpoints if the writing is
good, so "inappropriate" isn't a word I'd use. As far as
language, there's pretty much nothing that disturbs us unless it's poorly
written--profanity for profanity's sake, for example, isn't interesting to
read. But we may have topped all six previous issues of <i>Bacopa Literary
Review</i> with the number of times various versions of<i> "fuck" </i>appeared in
the 2016 edition. In every accepted piece that uses profanity, the language is
appropriate to the poem or story and the writing is superior. We did agree from
the beginning that if any one piece we wanted to accept offended anyone on the
editorial team, we would discuss and try to seek consensus, but in the end
would not publish something if even one editor couldn't support its
publication. We have a range of age, gender, politics, and personal
tastes among the editors, but we're mostly left-leaning and have found that the focus on good writing has made
agreement relatively easy.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Stemming
off of that, what criteria do you use to evaluate submissions?</span></b><span> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>I worked with the genre editors to
create statements describing what they were looking for, then clarified
these for each genre in our Editors' blog—for example: experimental poetry ("a weave of poetic language
and technique"), literary fiction ("deep characterization, a
compelling story, beautiful writing"), and truly creative nonfiction ("real-life
stories that meet the standards of literary fiction"). Of course we received
tons of work that came nowhere near our criteria, but the submissions we did
choose are spectacular. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Any
pet peeves when it comes to being an editor</span></b><span>? </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>My main peeve has been the unexpected ire of a few authors who
attacked me/us with profanity or accusations of partiality because their
submissions were rejected. One, for whom English is a second language, misread
the first <i>"Thanks-we've received your submission--and will get back to
you"</i> letter as an acceptance, then had a complete, dramatic meltdown
when he later received a rejection letter. Another—who had not followed the guidelines for one
poem at a time and was asked to resubmit—even implied the threat of a law suit
because of a disability that made submitting difficult. Another, when asked to
resubmit a single-spaced fiction submission according to our guideline to
double-space (I explained that we read the first time online and single-spacing
is really hard on the eyes), sent me this email:</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>G</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>F</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Y</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>!!!</span></span></span></p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span>Finally,
something unrelated to to your role as Editor-in=Chief:</span></b></span></span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b>Who are your influences as a
writer?</b> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I like guts and honesty. Mostly, great women writers -- for
memoir, notably Mary Karr; for fiction Virginia Woolf, and more recently Emma Donoghue and Chimamanda Ngozi
Adichie; for poetry Sylvia Plath, Susan Olds, Maxine Kumin, and new younger
poets like Fatimah Asghar--whose "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58056/pluto-shits-on-the-universe" target="_blank">Pluto Shits on the Universe</a>"
actually inspired my abstract painting, "Realigning the
C</span></span>osmos": <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz8gQufDgOzDsHKB3vTKt2Dl7IUb5zsZu5NdooQ5viE_8JH9ZlrEiQzcynAvYBDkp-40a6E0GQ15rv1mIPRw9j5nD-G9YgnbbRxhEsYsi0T3sJrmsS5XaoCaUoOA5e7fWoMjm2yF0Gy5HKncoS23pzpkuAItWcb5mDaHtRxjohNGK7E4krvtY_2L48TQ=s400" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="314" data-original-width="400" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjz8gQufDgOzDsHKB3vTKt2Dl7IUb5zsZu5NdooQ5viE_8JH9ZlrEiQzcynAvYBDkp-40a6E0GQ15rv1mIPRw9j5nD-G9YgnbbRxhEsYsi0T3sJrmsS5XaoCaUoOA5e7fWoMjm2yF0Gy5HKncoS23pzpkuAItWcb5mDaHtRxjohNGK7E4krvtY_2L48TQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></p>
Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-86742737738803012552021-03-09T01:11:00.003-05:002021-12-11T12:31:01.417-05:00I Got My Mojo Goin' On!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoeu3vQsCd5VwzHBV6UKdsg3tXltBeZqHlZRUm6QC-8y7ICVnrlDCS6vzSk2mqjHYQlkKQ7eaCrWP8vWY7YOmPtYeYUXMvpEfGp5AXbQ1BcK-_pcM8wUZw4lxh3Nb8QCBGB04p9XLAjhJ/s800/canstockphoto938918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="533" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoeu3vQsCd5VwzHBV6UKdsg3tXltBeZqHlZRUm6QC-8y7ICVnrlDCS6vzSk2mqjHYQlkKQ7eaCrWP8vWY7YOmPtYeYUXMvpEfGp5AXbQ1BcK-_pcM8wUZw4lxh3Nb8QCBGB04p9XLAjhJ/s320/canstockphoto938918.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Early on in the 2020 pandemic, I noticed I'd become a nervous driver, missing stop signs, feeling anxious about right turns on red, even on familiar streets with very little traffic. This was in sharp contrast to how driving my car had been a natural and confident experience. I often imagined it must be like riding a beloved horse, not just a way to get from one place to another, but a sense of freedom and happiness.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Two weeks after my second COVID vaccine, I drove across town to the vet to pick up flea medicine for my cats, and half-way there I noticed I had my driving mojo back! I hadn't been thinking at all that I was now "safe." In fact, my friends and I had confirmed the latest news with each other that we should still wear masks and avoid being indoors or in a crowd. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I know how basic and deeply seated a sense of security can be. But I hadn't realized, even with careful steps to keep myself from exposure, how threatened I'd felt. We may have scarier times ahead, but for now I'm grateful to feel safe in my own skin.</span><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-5314744670239524292020-10-18T13:02:00.015-04:002020-10-20T12:14:01.784-04:00This Body's Temple Tarnished and Worn<p style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Knees that danced the twist; legs that swooped into a Taekwondo flying kick;</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></span></span></i><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">hips that settled into </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">classroom
chairs, workshop circles, meditation mats; </span></span></i>arms that lifted children, </span></span>carried luggage through countless airports; </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">fingers that bore rings,
twisted off caps, opened doors, played piano, guitar, dulcimer--mind and
body once transported by lightened gravity now earthbound, turning slowly toward the light, toward the
moment. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This body's temple tarnished and worn, the spirit longing for a greater flight beyond the rooted remains of youth.</span></span></i><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.zazzle.com/peacock_totem_magnet-160717703676873694" target="_blank">Peacock totem</a> helps us through rebirth with integrity: </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ewHrAMxg4uGHpgDFurDXu8vKyZTtlx3mn8hjFyj9QjYeL6WD0aORivF2o0fyoGOlsuB7qpwgTy9YmVrYd52v6My653EL7y7Rb8_A-MZMCjKkOLHnQaxCo8R9bL3LI3iadt_TG8TR4OPx/s324/PeacockWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="239" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ewHrAMxg4uGHpgDFurDXu8vKyZTtlx3mn8hjFyj9QjYeL6WD0aORivF2o0fyoGOlsuB7qpwgTy9YmVrYd52v6My653EL7y7Rb8_A-MZMCjKkOLHnQaxCo8R9bL3LI3iadt_TG8TR4OPx/s320/PeacockWithWords.jpg" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-82655435264055691662020-10-16T14:25:00.015-04:002021-12-11T12:31:44.947-05:00Awaiting a New Beginning<p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"></span></span></span></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto">Here in Gainesville, Florida, we have plenty of gators, including the </span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto">University of Florida's football team. In
1908 merchants Phillip and Austin Miller introduced UF pennants with alligator emblems at
their Gainesville store. Students started buying them and three years
later, in 1911,the Florida football team began calling itself the
"Gators." </span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span>So of course an alligator was destined to appear </span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span><span>among my totems to heal pandemic fears. </span></span></span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span><span>Alligator Medicine heals by embracing and working through
emotions so we can <a href="https://www.zazzle.com/alligator_totem_magnet-160312917880328334" target="_blank">patiently await a new beginning</a></span>:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></div></div><p></p><div dir="auto"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc ihqw7lf3 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_34l"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto"></span></div></div></div></div><p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaov6T2uPnvBg-B4k9oPXglGfbx7GOQ-NSiyNH6JocNf5Y0ZUcRjvKltAU8dNsFWroorLZzEzMGRu-X8Ch2JvYMJkQ1W9YMaRFXk63GFmLVSvbQ1m4nCh951EdG3GnCJdfjF7K2t-ceMVO/s324/AlligatorWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="247" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaov6T2uPnvBg-B4k9oPXglGfbx7GOQ-NSiyNH6JocNf5Y0ZUcRjvKltAU8dNsFWroorLZzEzMGRu-X8Ch2JvYMJkQ1W9YMaRFXk63GFmLVSvbQ1m4nCh951EdG3GnCJdfjF7K2t-ceMVO/s320/AlligatorWithWords.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"></span></span></span></span></span></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span><span><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto">And
Gatorade? A UF football coach asked a group of doctors why the players
were losing weight and having heat strokes during games. Led by Dr.
Robert Cade, the doctors discovered the players' fluids and electrolytes
were not being replaced, and formulated Gatorade, a balanced
carbohydrate-electrolyte beverage, introduced to the team in 1965. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span><span><span><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql rrkovp55 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto">Because they then became so successful (winning the Orange Bowl for the
first time in the school's history), word spread to other teams, and
then to the rest of the world (fifty years after the invention of
Gatorade, the men who developed it, their families and friends have made
more than $1 billion in royalties; <a href="https://www.espn.com/college-football/story/_/id/13789009/royalties-gatorade-inventors-surpass-1-billion?fbclid=IwAR0YUknRoHv5eL5j2K7F8-aBnpCntLcGWrTReV6nVlzWhH5KnZTUwImVIhs" target="_blank">UF receives a 20% cut, now up to $281 million</a>).</span></span></span></span></span></span></span> <br /></span></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-30045370825482786532020-09-03T13:28:00.009-04:002020-09-03T13:57:26.579-04:00Finding Our Way Home<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The most difficult decision I've made since early March was telling my son Dylan he couldn't come to visit from Palm Harbor to celebrate both of our March birthdays (we're almost exactly 30 years apart). He had bought a hanging plant for my patio, and would have risked it, but I knew covid-19 was going to be an S.O.B. and not worth the risk for either of us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So when I first posted about the Pigeon Totem on April 11, I was really missing my son's super hugs, and wrote this: </span></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Pigeon totem represents finding our way home; also caring, understanding, altruism. This totem is carrying a wounded bird home on its back. May we all help each other find 'home,' whatever that means for each of us." </span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, while ordering magnets to make sure the lettering is well-placed on the finished products, I sent Dylan the one that for me represents the emotional 'home' he and I share: "<a href="https://www.zazzle.com/pigeon_totem_magnet-160992168131776140" target="_blank">Pigeon Totem helps us find home</a>."</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqd2lasA1TjiSwzulgwpkrmZoAn4AIKQcby7ZjihY6essDEEq2Wzh80KyVU1l5wZaR7r34G6ixeG7xphYbuDowdHLiaX0AXbyby3BlOYFy-AoMVujQUMI-q17gca49EUGO0o2650uqa5U/s324/PigeonWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqd2lasA1TjiSwzulgwpkrmZoAn4AIKQcby7ZjihY6essDEEq2Wzh80KyVU1l5wZaR7r34G6ixeG7xphYbuDowdHLiaX0AXbyby3BlOYFy-AoMVujQUMI-q17gca49EUGO0o2650uqa5U/s320/PigeonWithWords.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /> </span><p></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-34087195804443624582020-09-01T11:39:00.003-04:002020-10-16T14:43:21.369-04:00Doodem<div>I recently learned the Ojibwe word for <i>totem</i> is <i>doodem</i>, and
love knowing that because <a href="https://marybast.com/section/491194-Totems.html" target="_blank">my own totems</a> grew out of doodling. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I looked at creating card sets of key totem images but couldn't find
an option that allowed a variety of images in one set. So I printed a few
on photo paper and inserted them in 4 x 6" magnetized photo holders. Those were pretty but didn't have the totems' purpose printed on them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I discovered how to create 3 x 4" photo magnets on Zazzle. I've had fun with these. Doesn't matter if
anyone buys them; I just like having them in a concrete form, and
ordered the ones I find appealing for myself. The colorful
ones work especially well.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.zazzle.com/bear_totem_magnet-160470724991193602" target="_blank">Bear ("helps us find our path and journey"</a>) was my very first <i>doodem</i>:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3D-5i5gAPakwfFCR0o1b-0U5k8hsuOM8k_d5zGRUl42lTswNjF8Dc2dMBHORFdZa272PixCHI9Qpim7F0k9EkzCrs6ozW98pJoWCxROGEQ217Bo0_MUb0ZGxkfxktiwYwEDVBzLBOd5l/s216/BearWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="216" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3D-5i5gAPakwfFCR0o1b-0U5k8hsuOM8k_d5zGRUl42lTswNjF8Dc2dMBHORFdZa272PixCHI9Qpim7F0k9EkzCrs6ozW98pJoWCxROGEQ217Bo0_MUb0ZGxkfxktiwYwEDVBzLBOd5l/w338-h338/BearWithWords.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-6575297031934806472020-09-01T11:20:00.005-04:002021-12-11T12:32:35.973-05:00Just Mucking Around<p></p><div class="_5pbx userContent _3576" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-testid="post_message" id="js_6j"><p>The
pig totem pictured below is possibly the least attractive of my spirit
animals, but there is a sweetness about it, and--for me--something
appealing about just mucking around ("<a href="https://www.zazzle.com/pig_totem_magnet-160438102330954098" target="_blank">Pig Totem helps find the gems in a murky situation</a>"). </p><p> It never occurred to me that there might be
an evil pig until I googled it, and discovered there's now a book on
Amazon called "The Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig." Worse, we
now have the Evil Pigs in the Tomba! series ("Tomba! 2: The Evil Swine
Return!").</p><p> Well, I'm going to stick with all my positive
associations about pigs ("This little piggy went to market . . . "). Who
doesn't love Wilbur in "Charlotte's Web," or Loony Tunes' Porky, or the
inimitable Miss Piggy the Muppet?</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFg8Jpqg7qWUcRrxE0XMYCVcBZHrxOmMv7s9BLiBbjosERkVGRk6K6Eu6esvSZu94m6Z790Si5_LbI_DvjBd5QJK_ZySMfM28z1A3g56jFr7sUtqUBkOg4dODnulyhI2OMh_Zg3oseWYgD/s324/PigWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFg8Jpqg7qWUcRrxE0XMYCVcBZHrxOmMv7s9BLiBbjosERkVGRk6K6Eu6esvSZu94m6Z790Si5_LbI_DvjBd5QJK_ZySMfM28z1A3g56jFr7sUtqUBkOg4dODnulyhI2OMh_Zg3oseWYgD/s0/PigWithWords.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-78118222197241533642020-08-31T11:25:00.004-04:002021-11-07T16:35:07.480-05:00Inside Our Shells<p><i>Eunotosaurus africanus</i>, the earliest known turtle, lived 260 million years ago.
Their bony, cartilaginous shell acts as a shield to protect turtles from
predators – some can even tuck their heads up inside their shells for
extra protection. These cold-blooded creatures typically have a long
life span. The oldest ever recorded, <i>Tu'i Malila,</i> of Tonga Island, lived
188 years.</p><p>During my long life span, I've always been a bit tucked inside my shell, but these past six months of isolation have made the shell feel very tight, indeed. So I poke my head out daily on a late evening walk (way past the sun's zenith--which could bake my skin here in Gainesville, Florida), sit on the patio with my two cats several times a day to watch the ducks, birds, squirrels, and lizards, and have a rich life of travel and connection through countless novels. <br /></p><p> I had trouble with the color of this image, drawn
with a bright blue pen that caught the light and showed up spotty in the
photo, so I had to darken it considerably, which darkened the
background, as well. Perhaps the darkness is appropriate, as the <a href="https://www.zazzle.com/turtle_totem_magnet-160628317179144288" target="_blank">Turtle Totem helps us stay grounded in chaotic times</a>.</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIzp0kUdzyq1wK9BVfwkIsBREjzl6inpPtzFCXUmM2MzYi1zy21iYLysD7k19oSDzGKBni7t34nxByyPn0c-3UjZ_GJTQLzDEzG_DOOSBtkWAsCbPHt8Mc2MEIEeYuIScATrSjIjeXbrS/s324/TurtleWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIzp0kUdzyq1wK9BVfwkIsBREjzl6inpPtzFCXUmM2MzYi1zy21iYLysD7k19oSDzGKBni7t34nxByyPn0c-3UjZ_GJTQLzDEzG_DOOSBtkWAsCbPHt8Mc2MEIEeYuIScATrSjIjeXbrS/s0/TurtleWithWords.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-51681455816967114692020-08-30T11:12:00.001-04:002020-08-30T11:14:06.320-04:00Make Room for the New<p>I'm occasionally contacted by Bast "relatives," only to explain that I chose that name with my daughter Katja Amyx's help. </p><p>
I'd kept the married name Schwab while my son and daughter were growing
up, but when starting my own business wanted a name that was meaningful
to me, not my father's name (Ritter), or any other family name that
seemed too conventional at a time when I was completely shifting my
sense of self. </p><p> My daughter suggested we review her book of goddess names an<span class="text_exposed_show">d
we spent a long phone conversation considering the options. I chose the
Egyptian cat goddess Bast because . . . well, cats, but also because
followers prayed to her for deliverance from evil spirits--and that
pretty much encapsulated my consulting work with corporate leadership.</span></p><div class="text_exposed_show"><p>
As far left as I might have moved over the years, Katja has always been
ahead of me, and I so admire how she and her family stand against all
the evil isms. So I've sent her the Duck Totem, which symbolizes what my
daughter represents, <a href="https://www.zazzle.com/duck_totem_magnet-160293891361841344" target="_blank">releasing the old to make room for the new</a>.</p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95XtpqHC6CUpgMl3kIYOlKnzeoGe2rOAn8FcEMnQtT1UFwGOWqizKvOjFczT84MreRUAjLjEmu10J7NCh2cqUY3s_1Y19y0ZTWgn_kfs8xJ_rWpGWbu7VbhQ1NINiKBFFibZVwmrIsUTJ/s324/DuckWithWords.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95XtpqHC6CUpgMl3kIYOlKnzeoGe2rOAn8FcEMnQtT1UFwGOWqizKvOjFczT84MreRUAjLjEmu10J7NCh2cqUY3s_1Y19y0ZTWgn_kfs8xJ_rWpGWbu7VbhQ1NINiKBFFibZVwmrIsUTJ/s0/DuckWithWords.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4088585431785225241.post-3176560937703543152020-08-22T14:26:00.010-04:002020-08-23T21:47:39.606-04:00The Same Old Things<p></p><p>The past 18 months have brought major change to my life; the most
necessary and difficult change has been closing <a href="https://evocativeenneagramstories.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">my coaching business</a>. </p><p>
My first paying job at age 16-18 was playing the organ for military
post church services/choir. I then helped pay for my college expenses by
working 15 hours a week, and--after the ten years of my
first marriage--supported myself through graduate school & two
internal corporate jobs before starting my own business at age 50. </p><p> So even before covid-19 hit, I'd<span class="text_exposed_show">
already begun the process of grieving the loss of connection with
some very fine, intelligent, caring people and moving from extrinsic to
more intrinsic motivations for finding joy in each day. </span></p><div class="text_exposed_show"><p>
It has taken a while to release the old voice telling me I should be
working hard and working fast, letting myself simply BE, and--especially
since isolating in response to the pandemic--appreciating the <a href="https://www.zazzle.com/tapir_totem_magnet-160408315872985237" target="_blank">Tapir Totem, which brings comfort doing the same old things</a> without
self-criticism (tapirs lead almost exclusively solitary lives).</p><div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><blockquote><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbU9D081qDQLydqjSyHRqe3nDeyCTO7fWmHBQpYLf1ZWgwAWid0YGvCRW536VIzspINCFLd48RLoEZtIiAxoubo62nZ1N44364uSvWWlduh23SZ1UxLjoQoT_eK7NJA4FwCxkeCDKuMmv0/s324/TapirWithWords.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbU9D081qDQLydqjSyHRqe3nDeyCTO7fWmHBQpYLf1ZWgwAWid0YGvCRW536VIzspINCFLd48RLoEZtIiAxoubo62nZ1N44364uSvWWlduh23SZ1UxLjoQoT_eK7NJA4FwCxkeCDKuMmv0/s0/TapirWithWords.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p></blockquote></blockquote></div></div>Mary Basthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10209877324040917076noreply@blogger.com0