I really admire John Steinbeck's writing but couldn't stomach the evil upon evil upon evil in East of Eden. It read like the six o'clock news on steroids. I took it back to the library and picked up The Secret Garden, which it seems everyone's read but me. I wasn't prepared for Snow White meets Pinocchio meets St. Francis of Assisi ~ a character named Dickon who enters one scene with a crow named Soot on his right shoulder, squirrels named Nut and Shell on his left shoulder and in his coat pocket, a rescued newborn lamb in his arms, and a little red fox trotting by his side. Though it's a bit syrupy, I enjoyed the innocent interlude anyway.
The Secret Garden reminds adults of the healing power of childlike wonder over childhood wounds. The golden nugget of wisdom at the heart of this charming allegory is the Proverb: As a man thinks in his heart, so is he, or the words of Jesus in Luke 6, For out of the overflow of his heart, his mouth speaks.
At the beginning of the novel, cousins Mary Lennox and Colin Craven, both 10 years old, have developed self-defeating attitudes due to parental abandonment. The mystery of a locked garden, also abandoned for 10 years, intrigues them. Nurturing this garden, they nurture their own and each other's hearts. Their transformation brings wonder and delight to the adults around them. Key change agents in the story are members of a local family, Dickon's, who enjoy simple pleasures, are one with nature, and who love giving life.
As if the metaphor of tending a garden (with its need for weeding and seeding to produce beautiful flowers) weren't enough, author Frances Hodgson Burnett plants another strong analogy. Dickon's family speaks a broad Yorkshire dialect, which Mary delights in learning. I especially liked one vocabulary lesson, when she learns that wick means alive or lively. As she abandons her dour outlook, replaces it with newfound purpose and wonder, and reaches out to love others, Mary becomes more wick.
My innocent interlude is over. Next book: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Goodbye, Winter Olympics
Don't know when I've enjoyed the Olympics so much. Past games have been enthralling, certainly. The 2008 Beijing opening ceremony was unequaled. But this winter, the Olympic games in Vancouver seemed to be fresh celebrations of our common humanity. Maybe I'm at an age where I'm more aware of international strife, so the Olympics, for the most part, transcending borders and differences was more meaningful to me this year.
Another refreshing aspect was that I could watch TV not produced by Hollywood. I could see beautiful, glittery, figure-hugging skating costumes not designed to push the boundaries of decency. I could see real life contests, not fake-real life contests.
As always, I could admire and be inspired anew by the physical freedom produced by physical discipline. And I was beginning to be inspired by the bouquets to grow broccoflower in my vegetable garden next year ~ but then I learned the bouquets were NOT broccoflower, but green spider mums, hypericum berries, and loops of monkey grass, along with other greens. Could've fooled me.
Favorite funny moments: a snowboarder adjusting his iPod seconds before beginning his half-pipe run with his head bouncing to whatever he was listening to; and the giant inflated beavers in the closing ceremony.
Another refreshing aspect was that I could watch TV not produced by Hollywood. I could see beautiful, glittery, figure-hugging skating costumes not designed to push the boundaries of decency. I could see real life contests, not fake-real life contests.
As always, I could admire and be inspired anew by the physical freedom produced by physical discipline. And I was beginning to be inspired by the bouquets to grow broccoflower in my vegetable garden next year ~ but then I learned the bouquets were NOT broccoflower, but green spider mums, hypericum berries, and loops of monkey grass, along with other greens. Could've fooled me.
Favorite funny moments: a snowboarder adjusting his iPod seconds before beginning his half-pipe run with his head bouncing to whatever he was listening to; and the giant inflated beavers in the closing ceremony.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Murphy's Law
Two weeks ago, Murphy's Law popped in to say hello. Our microwave and garbage disposer conked out the same week a mysterious water mark seeped across our dining room ceiling. I'm sure these things were unrelated to the almost-flat tire and two feet of snow, which happened last week ~ and the two family surgeries and one emergency room visit, which happened three weeks ago.
The microwave breakdown was by far the most annoying part of our Murphy's Law week. Five times daily I caught myself preparing to zap a dish of butter or noodles or leftover-something-else. Then I'd turn on the real oven instead or pull out a pot to cook stovetop. What I never thought I'd get used to, guess what ~ I not only got used to, but I also found the food more flavorful. Today a new microwave oven is available in my kitchen. Yes, I will use it. Often. But I will think twice about how nice the old-fashioned ways are. And I probably won't be sending Murphy a thank-you note for his visit, since his other "hostess gifts" have not yet been resolved.
The microwave breakdown was by far the most annoying part of our Murphy's Law week. Five times daily I caught myself preparing to zap a dish of butter or noodles or leftover-something-else. Then I'd turn on the real oven instead or pull out a pot to cook stovetop. What I never thought I'd get used to, guess what ~ I not only got used to, but I also found the food more flavorful. Today a new microwave oven is available in my kitchen. Yes, I will use it. Often. But I will think twice about how nice the old-fashioned ways are. And I probably won't be sending Murphy a thank-you note for his visit, since his other "hostess gifts" have not yet been resolved.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Chuckles
Just a few little chuckles on topics neither here nor there ...
The week before Christmas I caught an intestinal flu bug ~ from my doctor.
We're considering trying a new cuisine, so I looked it up online: chiaroscuro. Turns out chiaroscuro is not a cuisine; it's a painting technique that creates dramatic contrasts of darks and lights, made famous by Caravaggio, a painter I just learned about the other day at The Art Institute. It's churrasco that refers to the Brazilian gauchos' barbecued meats, so the place we need to find is a local churrascaria. Hope the food is as much fun to eat as the words are to say.
My husband lasted one week on Facebook. He wanted to know what social networking was all about and to view his brother's vacation photos, so he registered. Immediately, a dozen potential friends popped onto the screen. He wasn't sure which was scarier, that Facebook proposed people he's friends with in real life or that Facebook proposed their friends to him. Then people he hadn't talked with in years sent him messages on Facebook. Every day, Facebook proposed more friends. He "friended" a few folks. My husband then poked around Facebook's links in order to grasp the realities of social networking. He looked at his brother's photos but decided the rest was just way too time-consuming. So yesterday he "unfriended" everyone and set the tightest privacy setting. He whirled around from his computer screen and triumphantly announced, "There! I've set it so that no one can talk to me and I can only talk to myself." LOL
The week before Christmas I caught an intestinal flu bug ~ from my doctor.
We're considering trying a new cuisine, so I looked it up online: chiaroscuro. Turns out chiaroscuro is not a cuisine; it's a painting technique that creates dramatic contrasts of darks and lights, made famous by Caravaggio, a painter I just learned about the other day at The Art Institute. It's churrasco that refers to the Brazilian gauchos' barbecued meats, so the place we need to find is a local churrascaria. Hope the food is as much fun to eat as the words are to say.
My husband lasted one week on Facebook. He wanted to know what social networking was all about and to view his brother's vacation photos, so he registered. Immediately, a dozen potential friends popped onto the screen. He wasn't sure which was scarier, that Facebook proposed people he's friends with in real life or that Facebook proposed their friends to him. Then people he hadn't talked with in years sent him messages on Facebook. Every day, Facebook proposed more friends. He "friended" a few folks. My husband then poked around Facebook's links in order to grasp the realities of social networking. He looked at his brother's photos but decided the rest was just way too time-consuming. So yesterday he "unfriended" everyone and set the tightest privacy setting. He whirled around from his computer screen and triumphantly announced, "There! I've set it so that no one can talk to me and I can only talk to myself." LOL
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Just Tell Me How Many Times to Hit "Popcorn"
Thanks to comedian John Caparulo for my new word for simplifying life. He was talking about his frustration when a frozen dinner instruction adds steps to what should be a one-step process. He said, "Just tell me how many times to hit 'POPCORN.'" Can't you identify? I sure can.
When I'm trimming the Christmas tree, I'm thinking, In two weeks, it will take me four hours to get all this stuff packed up again, and I sure won't be in the mood. Wait, I'll just hit POPCORN. No strands of lights and only a third of all the ornaments later, I'm on my way to other things. And the tree still looks gorgeous.
When I'm wrapping packages, I'm thinking, When will I find time to buy the rest of the gifts and groceries I need to have in a week? I hit POPCORN once, pretty-up the packages with colorful paper, but don't even consider using ribbon, and hop in the Honda to get those errands run.
This time of year, my e-mail inbox clogs with five to seven advertising e-mails every half-day or so. Following my new POPCORN approach to simplifying life, I decide not to be even a little curious about 10% off or free shipping, and I press DELETE, DELETE, DELETE, DELETE, DELETE, then UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE.
Sometimes the popcorn approach doesn't work, like the other day when I thought hey, why dirty a dish and a whisk? I'll just prepare the egg for my omelet by vigorously shaking the egg in the shell. But other times, extra steps just aren't necessary.
When I'm trimming the Christmas tree, I'm thinking, In two weeks, it will take me four hours to get all this stuff packed up again, and I sure won't be in the mood. Wait, I'll just hit POPCORN. No strands of lights and only a third of all the ornaments later, I'm on my way to other things. And the tree still looks gorgeous.
When I'm wrapping packages, I'm thinking, When will I find time to buy the rest of the gifts and groceries I need to have in a week? I hit POPCORN once, pretty-up the packages with colorful paper, but don't even consider using ribbon, and hop in the Honda to get those errands run.
This time of year, my e-mail inbox clogs with five to seven advertising e-mails every half-day or so. Following my new POPCORN approach to simplifying life, I decide not to be even a little curious about 10% off or free shipping, and I press DELETE, DELETE, DELETE, DELETE, DELETE, then UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE, UNSUBSCRIBE.
Sometimes the popcorn approach doesn't work, like the other day when I thought hey, why dirty a dish and a whisk? I'll just prepare the egg for my omelet by vigorously shaking the egg in the shell. But other times, extra steps just aren't necessary.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Life, As Seen From the Examining Table
So I'm sitting up on the examining table in my doctor's office. I'm waiting ... and waiting. Antsy, I try exercising by twisting my torso for a few reps, then raising my legs one at a time. The stiff white paper the nurse rolled out for me (medical version of a red carpet welcome?) crinkles and pops loudly, so I abandon my pursuit of vigor in favor of quieter looking-around-the-room exercise.
The mechanical roars and back-up beeps just outside the window prompt an obligatory peek through the blinds behind me. That noise is just too hard to ignore; when the doctor comes in, she and I will be shouting at each other, I worry. Sure enough, the rumbling, gouging, and scraping machine-creatures are moving enough earth to make a new hospital wing.
Turning back from the big brown mess outside, I study two framed watercolors hanging across from my perch. In contrast to the cacophony of progress, the watercolors hum an old-fashioned lullaby to quiet productivity. Natural birch wood frames meadows of greens and golds gently rolling past sleepy farm houses tinted rose by the setting sun. The clouds are roiling and riotous, tinged with lavender and rose. In one scene, I imagine the curling clouds to be two French poodles having a tete-a-tete. Nose to nose, they appear to be smiling and chatting, perhaps about the French food.
On the third wall, above the sink, are closed cabinets flanked by three open cubicles. The top shelf is empty, and the bottom shelf is cluttered with small boxes covered no doubt with usage instructions for the contents, indications, contraindications, and disclaimers stating no one is legally responsible for mishaps. From atop the examining table, I can't say for sure what the boxes are; I'd have to go over and look, but who wants to read that stuff anyway unless you have to?
The middle shelf is more interesting, in a bland way. This cubbyhole contains someone's decorating attempt, or holding area for items destined for their next garage sale: four clear glass bottles. One is a short, squat empty one; one is an empty Pepsi bottle whose glass ridges spiral up the bottle like a barber pole. Corks stop the other two, one of which is filled with black beans with beige spots on them, the other with beige beans with black spots on them.
Beneath the blank box, the boring boxes, and the bland bottles ~ in the shadow of the shadowboxes, so to speak ~ is a tissue dispenser mounted on the wall. It reminds me of a stone Easter Island head, except a white tissue unfolds from the nostrils like sneeze spray. I smile imagining the noses of the actual Easter Island heads sneezing out huge white sheets to billow in the breeze.
Lastly, the fourth wall. From a molded plastic brochure rack, twelve apparently deliriously happy people beam at me. Do they know they have DIABETES, REFLUX DISEASE, HIGH CHOLESTEROL, OSTEOPOROSIS, and eight other serious problems printed right above their heads? Apparently not. Just behind my head are the blood pressure apparatus and another rack for practical things like cotton balls and gagging sticks that make saying "aaahhh" sound like "agckgck."
It occurs to me my surroundings here are a lot like life ~ some chaos, some placid beauty, some sameness, some change, some emptiness, some fullness, some truth, some lying, some health, some sickness, some aaahhhs, some agckgcks, some just doing what needs to be done, some trying to figure out what to do with the beans.
Well, so far, I've been doing all the examining in this room. The doctor still hasn't shown up to examine me. I glance at my watch. It has stopped. So I make the rounds again. Wall number one ... I lean back to peek through the blinds ...
The mechanical roars and back-up beeps just outside the window prompt an obligatory peek through the blinds behind me. That noise is just too hard to ignore; when the doctor comes in, she and I will be shouting at each other, I worry. Sure enough, the rumbling, gouging, and scraping machine-creatures are moving enough earth to make a new hospital wing.
Turning back from the big brown mess outside, I study two framed watercolors hanging across from my perch. In contrast to the cacophony of progress, the watercolors hum an old-fashioned lullaby to quiet productivity. Natural birch wood frames meadows of greens and golds gently rolling past sleepy farm houses tinted rose by the setting sun. The clouds are roiling and riotous, tinged with lavender and rose. In one scene, I imagine the curling clouds to be two French poodles having a tete-a-tete. Nose to nose, they appear to be smiling and chatting, perhaps about the French food.
On the third wall, above the sink, are closed cabinets flanked by three open cubicles. The top shelf is empty, and the bottom shelf is cluttered with small boxes covered no doubt with usage instructions for the contents, indications, contraindications, and disclaimers stating no one is legally responsible for mishaps. From atop the examining table, I can't say for sure what the boxes are; I'd have to go over and look, but who wants to read that stuff anyway unless you have to?
The middle shelf is more interesting, in a bland way. This cubbyhole contains someone's decorating attempt, or holding area for items destined for their next garage sale: four clear glass bottles. One is a short, squat empty one; one is an empty Pepsi bottle whose glass ridges spiral up the bottle like a barber pole. Corks stop the other two, one of which is filled with black beans with beige spots on them, the other with beige beans with black spots on them.
Beneath the blank box, the boring boxes, and the bland bottles ~ in the shadow of the shadowboxes, so to speak ~ is a tissue dispenser mounted on the wall. It reminds me of a stone Easter Island head, except a white tissue unfolds from the nostrils like sneeze spray. I smile imagining the noses of the actual Easter Island heads sneezing out huge white sheets to billow in the breeze.
Lastly, the fourth wall. From a molded plastic brochure rack, twelve apparently deliriously happy people beam at me. Do they know they have DIABETES, REFLUX DISEASE, HIGH CHOLESTEROL, OSTEOPOROSIS, and eight other serious problems printed right above their heads? Apparently not. Just behind my head are the blood pressure apparatus and another rack for practical things like cotton balls and gagging sticks that make saying "aaahhh" sound like "agckgck."
It occurs to me my surroundings here are a lot like life ~ some chaos, some placid beauty, some sameness, some change, some emptiness, some fullness, some truth, some lying, some health, some sickness, some aaahhhs, some agckgcks, some just doing what needs to be done, some trying to figure out what to do with the beans.
Well, so far, I've been doing all the examining in this room. The doctor still hasn't shown up to examine me. I glance at my watch. It has stopped. So I make the rounds again. Wall number one ... I lean back to peek through the blinds ...
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Humbug
Fiberoptic tinsel twinkles rainbows in our Christmas tree, bedecked with ornaments, each a special memory from Christmases past. I'm already making lists for this Christmas ~ the menu, gifts for each guest, centerpieces, the short devotional to honor Jesus, the reason for the season, and the carol we'll sing together.
Webster's defines a carol as a song of joy or mirth, a popular song or ballad of religious joy. "Oh come to us, abide with us, our Lord, Emmanuel." "He rules the world with truth and grace." These are just a few carol lyrics that make true peace dance in my soul.
Since I'm into Christmas, I went to see A Christmas Carol yesterday thinking I would not have much in common with grouchy old Ebenezer Scrooge. But an unexpected moment brought my handkerchief out to dry my cheeks. During the spectre of Christmas present, old Ebenezer lost himself for a moment and joined the children dancing in a circle. His white nightgown flapped and his long nightcap flopped as he skipped and pranced. Then he eagerly lined up with the other wildly chattering children to receive a small gift. He held the tiny, shiny red box close to his heart as though it were a treasure. Then when he returned to his viewing spot at the edge of the festive scene, he noticed a small girl sitting alone. She had not gotten up to get a present. Slowly, tentatively, Ebenezer gave her his shiny red box. His face registered sadness for his loss until he saw how happy it made the girl. As he returned to invisibility on the outskirts of subsequent scenes, he remembered this joy of giving, which contributed to his grand generosity of spirit at the end of the play.
Since I've had joy in giving for as long as I remember, I didn't expect to identify with Scrooge. But I have to admit, my heart is not all that childlike any more. I seem to be dragging a sack of sadness and responsibility as big and bulgy as Santa's bag of toys. Would I lose myself in undignified dance? Would I squeal in unintelligible delight? Would I line up eagerly to get a gift, or would I hang back pretending it didn't matter? Would a simple gift thrill me? Would I give away my only treasure?
My tears during this scene surprised me enough to ponder these questions of cynicism, hope, sophistication, simplicity, keeping, and giving. If I were musically inclined, I'd write a carol about a little girl shyly giving the humbuggy parts of her heart to Jesus and then closing her eyes and holding out her hands to receive whatever He might put there. Lo and behold, He puts His own hands in hers. The best gift of all.
Webster's defines a carol as a song of joy or mirth, a popular song or ballad of religious joy. "Oh come to us, abide with us, our Lord, Emmanuel." "He rules the world with truth and grace." These are just a few carol lyrics that make true peace dance in my soul.
Since I'm into Christmas, I went to see A Christmas Carol yesterday thinking I would not have much in common with grouchy old Ebenezer Scrooge. But an unexpected moment brought my handkerchief out to dry my cheeks. During the spectre of Christmas present, old Ebenezer lost himself for a moment and joined the children dancing in a circle. His white nightgown flapped and his long nightcap flopped as he skipped and pranced. Then he eagerly lined up with the other wildly chattering children to receive a small gift. He held the tiny, shiny red box close to his heart as though it were a treasure. Then when he returned to his viewing spot at the edge of the festive scene, he noticed a small girl sitting alone. She had not gotten up to get a present. Slowly, tentatively, Ebenezer gave her his shiny red box. His face registered sadness for his loss until he saw how happy it made the girl. As he returned to invisibility on the outskirts of subsequent scenes, he remembered this joy of giving, which contributed to his grand generosity of spirit at the end of the play.
Since I've had joy in giving for as long as I remember, I didn't expect to identify with Scrooge. But I have to admit, my heart is not all that childlike any more. I seem to be dragging a sack of sadness and responsibility as big and bulgy as Santa's bag of toys. Would I lose myself in undignified dance? Would I squeal in unintelligible delight? Would I line up eagerly to get a gift, or would I hang back pretending it didn't matter? Would a simple gift thrill me? Would I give away my only treasure?
My tears during this scene surprised me enough to ponder these questions of cynicism, hope, sophistication, simplicity, keeping, and giving. If I were musically inclined, I'd write a carol about a little girl shyly giving the humbuggy parts of her heart to Jesus and then closing her eyes and holding out her hands to receive whatever He might put there. Lo and behold, He puts His own hands in hers. The best gift of all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
