My Times

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Laguna Beach Nursery and Garden Center, California
Don't let anyone tell you that autumn doesn't come to Southern California!
These are without a doubt the most amazing pumpkins and
the most beautiful harvest displays that I've seen all season!

"Ada had tried to love all the year equally . . .
Nevertheless, she could not get over loving autumn best . . . "
~ Cold Mountain ~ Charles Frazier ~

**********************
Only three days 'til Halloween, that mystical half - way point between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice. Like Frazier's Ada, I too have a heart that favors fall. In fact, one of my favorite poets, Lee Perron, claims that even Time loves autumn best:

Fall Arrives
Fall arrives, time’s most favored season—
at last the heart, the mind loosens its fist
so that I no longer need to know who I am

I return to the hills and the great presences—
light, heat, clouds, the bull pines—
to recover for myself the purity of the falling world
to enfold it like a pearl in the mind’s silence

I read the calligraphy of the oaks against
the fading skies, the grass bending in the meadow,
the last robins— I’m a circle reaching
the first place for the first time

for in youth among fall leaves I refused
to acknowledge the ancient writing—
that the basket of summer empties, that
the hours of men are as wind-driven clouds—
and yet among fall leaves
I was overjoyed with the beauty of loss

now I stand on autumn’s wooded knoll
that my life too may vanish,
that night may fall into the earth’s arms

time is calling her trout
from their playgrounds in the sea
to river mouth, and redemption, and fury

it is by means of the long delay
that we come to the righteousness of passion.

by Lee Perron
Contemporary American Poet & Antiquarian Bookseller

Fall: a season that sets the heart free! The end and the beginning of everything: "the falling world . . . a circle reaching / the first place for the first time." Perron's seasonal poem shows us that Life is what we do with Time. I'm also thinking of these philosophical lyrics from Janis Ian, appropriate to any time of year:

These aren't the best times
These aren't the worst times
But these are my times
I never asked for more
~ Janis Ian ~
Ummm, okay, maybe there were a few times when I asked for more -- maybe for a longer "fall than in these parts a man is apt to see." However, in retrospect I can see that Janis Ian is right. More is not necessary. Just enough is plenty. As I remember telling our neighbors when we moved from the city: Thanks for the good times, sorry for the bad (there were some bad). Maybe not the best times, maybe not the worst, but they were our times. In those days, the Eagles were our team, and the Schuylkill was our river. Now, it's the Boilermakers and the Wabash. As Stephen Stills recommended back in the 70s, "Love the One You're With":

Don't be angry - don't be sad
Don't sit crying over good times you've had . . .
Love the one you're with
This song came to mind a couple of weeks ago when Michael Lipsey, who kindly shares his daily epigrams and fanciful collages, posted this one (also 2025):

Why does the Little Prince love the Rose? Because she's his rose, on his planet. I guess it's the inverse of "bloom where you are planted" -- something along the lines of "wherever you are, love what blooms." In Philadelphia, we loved our youthful side - street ginkgo trees; in West Lafayette, we love our aged front - yard oak tree. Love the one you're with! Even the Bible says so:

"These are the words of the letter that Jeremiah the prophet sent from Jerusalem to the surviving elders of the exiles, and to the priests, the prophets, and all the people, whom Nebuchadnezzar had taken into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon. . . . Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare" (Jeremiah 29:1, 5-7; English Standard Version).

These are your times; you needn't ask for more. Not the best times; not the worst times; but your times. Current rock lyrics by Green Day offer similar advice, with a creative twist and a memorable tune, encouraging the listener to make the best of this "test" . . . don't ask why . . . have the time of your life:

Time of Your Life
Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right,
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs, and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it's worth it was worth all the while

It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right,
I hope you had the time of your life.

song by Billie Joe Armstrong

One final connection. As with all of the other readings posted here -- Charles Frazier, Lee Perron, Janis Ian, Stephen Stills, Michael Lipsey, the Little Prince, the prophet Jeremiah, and Green Day -- this Desiderata - like meditation on the "secret of contentment" again started me humming, "Love the one you're with." Want what you have . . . make do:

How To Make A Beautiful Life
Love yourself.
Make peace with who you are
and where you are at this moment in time.

Listen to your heart.
If you can't hear what it's saying in this noisy world,
make time for yourself. Enjoy your own company.
Let your mind wander among the stars.

Try. Take chances. Make mistakes.
Life can be messy and confusing, but it's also full of surprises.
The next rock in your path may be a stepping stone.

Be happy. When you don't have what you want,
want what you have. Make do.
That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.
You have to make your own day.
To know where you're going is only part of it.
You need to know where you've been too.
And if you get lost, don't worry.
The people who love you will find you.
Count on it.

Life isn't days and years.
It's what you do with time
and with all the goodness and grace
that's inside of you.
Make a beautiful life...
The kind of life you deserve.

by Unknown Author
Posted on facebook by The Optimism Revolution
[Thanks to Jason Dufair for sharing this link!]

The Little Prince, Tending His Rose

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, November 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Be As Brave As Sharon Olds

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

The Fear of Oneself
As we get near the house, taking off our gloves,
the air forming a fine casing of
ice around each hand,
you say you believe I would hold up under torture
for the sake of our children. You say you think I have
courage. I lean against the door and weep,
the tears freezing on my cheeks with brittle
clicking sounds.
I think of the women standing naked
on the frozen river, the guards pouring
buckets of water over their bodies till they
glisten like trees in an ice storm.

I have never thought I could take it, not even
for the children. It is all I have wanted to do,
to stand between them and pain. But I come from a
long line
of women
who put themselves
first. I lean against the huge dark
cold door, my face glittering with
glare ice like a dangerous road,
and think about hot pokers, and goads,
and the skin of my children, the delicate, tight,
thin top layer of it,
covering their whole bodies, softly
glimmering.

by American Poet, Sharon Olds (b 1942)
Recipient of the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, 2013
[interview, 2009]

While I cannot claim to have endured the unspeakable tortures of fire and ice described here by Sharon Olds, I can say that an unexpected experience once taught me that, whether I knew it or not, I would take a hatchet in the back without hesitation for the sake of my children. The day I learned that "I could take it" was the day, eighteen years ago, when my five - year - old son Ben and I put two - year - old Sam into his stroller and rolled him to the babysitter a few blocks away, then returned home to pick up our swim bags and walk to the pool, just a few blocks away in the other direction. It was a happy sunny day on our block, the Tuesday after Labor Day, 1995.

. . . around this time . . .

Only one little glitch marred the scene, but I had pushed that to the back of my mind: the two young men sauntering down our side street as I hoisted the baby stroller down the front steps. Just the tiniest alarm bell went off in my head. Should I cross the street, where contractors were erecting scaffolding to repair the Tiffany windows of the large old church that stood there, comforting men in white overalls and caps; should I ask them to please keep an eye on my house for the short while that I would be gone? But maybe, no.

I didn't want to be the woman who panicked because the passersby were African American and she was not. Though clearly this was not the case. Yes, I did feel a twinge of anxiety at the sight of those two strangers, but not because of their race. No, it was the slowness of their step, their observation of my exit, their sideways glance at the long thin side of my house, extending down the block on the corner. It was just an instinctive worrisome "Hmmmmm," followed by an instinctive urge to ask the men across the road, also African American, for help. So I know it was not race that caused the fear. Besides, if I stopped in my tracks every time someone or something in the city gave me the creeps, I'd never get anywhere.

Turns out I should have paid a little more attention to my fear. Instead, I glanced at their backs as they walked on -- one in white jeans and tee - shirt, one in green Army pants and red sweatshirt -- gave a shrug, fastened the baby bag onto the stroller, pushed on with the children, delivered Sam to the sitter, and was back in front of the house well within thirty minutes. All seemed as we had left it, the contractors across the street working quietly on the church.

Calvary United Methodist ~ Center for Culture & Community

Ben and I called out "Hello!" to the UPS man who was rounding the corner; waved up to a neighbor who was leaning out of his third - floor window to touch up the paint on his sill and shutters; stopped for a moment to chat with our neighbor Mark who was on his way to the trolley stop at the next corner. Our minds had already turned toward our morning at the pool as we bounded up the steps, unlocked the front door, then locked it behind us; unlocked the inner foyer door, locked it behind us. I had no more than placed the keys on the hall table when I noticed that the swinging door into the kitchen was closed -- odd, since we always kept this door propped open. A split second later the door swang ever so slightly, and I saw, with no mistake, the green trousers, the red sweatshirt.

Now, this is the moment in dreams when I try to scream but cannot, when I wrap my arms around my head and hunker down, cowardly. I always feared I might behave similarly, uselessly, in real life; but this day my fears were put to rest.

I grabbed the keys back up, screamed louder than ever before: "There's someone in there," and lurched toward little Ben, knowing intuitively that I had to keep my body between him and that kitchen door. I did not look over my shoulder to see if they were following; I did not think, "Do they have a gun?" My mind raced alternately between two thoughts only: "Keep Ben in front of me" / "Get out the front door." Keep Ben in front of me" / "Get out the front door." I fumbled through the two locks, wishing now that I had not closed up quite so securely; and I screamed without stopping -- "There's someone in there! Mark, Mark, Mark!" -- hoping to summon our neighbor before he got on the trolley. He returned immediately, sat us down on the porch swing, calmed our nerves, called the police, said, "Don't go back inside."

Simultaneously, another kind neighbor named Darryl (African American, I might add) ran up from the other direction saying, "Not to worry, not to worry," he'd just seen the two intruders leap from our steep back porch and run away, down the side street where I had first seen them less than an hour before. Mark and Darryl sat outside with Ben and me while the police inspected the house and my mind ranged over every door and window. Where had been the weak spot? Darryl also shared the disturbing detail that he had seen the two earlier, ringing my front doorbell! In retrospect, yes, they had been sauntering slowly, scoping the side of the house, watching me leave. And, no, they had not proceeded on their way after the boys and I rounded the corner. Instead they had returned, ringing the doorbell on the assumption that if no one answered, no one was home (a risky assumption, if you ask me; what if someone else had been home but in the shower? or home but ignoring the bell?).

When no one answered, they took the opportunity to return to what they had seen on the side of the house -- a very high kitchen window, open, protected only by a screen. My fault. One must have boosted the other, who then dislodged the screen, and both jumped in unnoticed. Voila! Entry! And all this while, out in the open, neighbors, painters, delivery people, and contractors went about their business. I guess it takes only a few seconds when all eyes are elsewhere. How strange to think that as I stood out on the porch glibly waving and chatting, these two men were inside, shifting our belongings about.

The police were patient. After a thorough check, they allowed me to go inside, with the gentle warning not to be too upset if the place seemed a mess. But, in fact, it wasn't too bad. There was no indication that our closets or dressers had been opened, so we were spared that horrible sense of violation that many break - in victims are left with. It's true, our living room floor was strewn with clothes and books and papers, but, as I explained to the police officer, Ben, Sam and I were responsible for that particular disorder -- a massive summer sorting project.

Our only electronics at the time were a couple of out - dated stereo systems and televisions from college days. We had not yet acquired anything of value. Yet, rather pathetically, all of this rummage had been carried down from our second floor and piled by the back door. These burglars had gone to a lot of trouble and heavy lifting without noticing that the back door opened onto a steep brick stairwell enclosed by a locked wrought - iron gate, requiring a key for exit. They could not possibly have gotten very far with their contraband. Without it, however, they were able to jump to the ground with whatever they had stuffed into their pockets (a handful of change, a $20 bill, my Visa card, and a remote control for one of the abandoned televisions) and make a run for it.

Our back gate and kitchen windows in beautiful West Philly

After an hour or so, the officers' work was done, the neighbors went on their way, and we were left to regain our bearings and restore order, custom, and ceremony to our upset home. Ben and I, and our friendly cat Josef, wandered from room to room calling out "911!" -- a game we devised on the spot to make ourselves feel strong and safe. We searched the house from top to bottom, finding all as it should be -- except for no sign of Marcus, our cautious cat. It was possible that he had slipped out an open door in all the chaos, but -- I kept telling myself -- more likely that he was hidden away somewhere in a very good secret hiding spot and would soon creep out quietly and surprise us (which he did).

Ben had a different idea: "Mommy do you think they took Marcus?" I tried to assure Ben that the robbers would not take our cat, but he remained troubled, "Well, you kept calling his name!" Awww, poor little guy! Now I understood the depth of his concern. What he had heard, when I was shouting for our neighbor "Mark!" to return from the trolley stop, was a cry of distress for our shy little pet. As a way of putting everything back into perspective, Ben made an excellent connection that afternoon: "Let's watch 101 Dalmations! What a wise child -- there's art informing life: the bad guys are vanquished; the pets are safe!

Lost to a later theft: our Fearsome Garden Snake!

When we moved in, the previous owners had left this snake behind, up in the attic, wearing a cowboy hat -- too bad I didn't take a picture of it that way! After three years or so, we brought in down one spring for a yard ornament. It was there all summer, until about this time of year. I drove up one Monday morning, after grocery shopping, and thought, "What's different here?" Oh -- no snake! Well, since it was leaf - raking season and all, I thought maybe Gerry had put it away in the basement for the winter. But, no. The poor thing had just been kidnapped, never to be seen again! Alas!

**********also by Sharon Olds:

The Forms
I always had the feeling my mother would
die for us, jump into a fire
to pull us out, her hair burning like
a halo, jump into water, her white
body going down and turning slowly,
the astronaut whose hose is cut
falling
into
blackness. She would have
covered us with her body, thrust her
breasts between our chests and the knife,
slipped us into her coat pocket
outside the showers. In disaster, an animal
mother, she would have died for us,

but in life as it was
she had to put herself
first.
She had to do whatever he
told her to do to the children, she had to
protect herself. In war, she would have
died for us, I tell you she would,
and I know: I am a student of war,
of gas ovens, smothering, knives,
drowning, burning, all the forms
in which I have experienced her love.

both poems found in The Dead and the Living (pp 55 & 35)

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, October 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

September Travels Slow

A PLACE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Hillsdale - Possum Bridge
Indiana photo by Marsha Williamson Mohr

**************

"Because September travels slow
I catch it when I can
and hold it over for another month or two."

by Rod McKuen
from the poem "True Holly"
found in Twelve Years of Christmas
[for more Rod McKuen Christmas Poems]

************

"It was a day of exceeding and almost unmatched beauty,
one of those perfectly lovely afternoons
that we seldom get but in September or October.
A warm delicious calm and sweet peace brooded breathless
over the mellow sunny autumn afternoon
and the happy stillness was broken only by the voices of children
blackberry gathering in an adjoining meadow
and the sweet solitary singing of a robin."

Entry for Thursday, 24 September 1874
from A Wiltshire Diary: English Journies
by Clergyman & diarist, Robert Francis Kilvert, 1840 - 1879
Kilvert wrote these words one hundred and thirty - nine years ago, but it could have been this very week! How reassuring to feel so seasonally connected to the writers of yore, to know that the 24th of September in 1874 was precisely the kind of day that we experienced just a few days ago on the 24th of September in 2013! Is it that way every year?

As another sunny September draws to a close -- can it really be the 28th already? -- Rod McKuen's appealing suggestion seems the only way to go. No matter how slowly this beautiful month travels, it still goes by too quickly. Can we maybe hold September over for another month or two? Of course we know the answer. Not possible. Every year, I ask the very same question at the end of October -- Can we please turn back the calendar and have it all over again? It is not a question I ask at the end of every month. Just September and October, and, of course, June. For "what is so rare as a day in June? / Then, if ever, come perfect days" (as American Romantic James Russell Lowell points out in "The Vision of Sir Launfal").

It's true, only a few things are so rare as a day in June, and one of those things is a day in September, especially when it's that improbably fabulous Pleasantville weather: " . . . another sunny day - high 72, low 72, and not a cloud in the sky," so perfect, so beautiful that it would almost break your heart, though hearts don't break in Pleasantville, where perfection is unrelenting. In our world, however, such a sublime day is a reminder that the season doesn't last and that it is ever tinged with melancholy -- a sadness due in part to the fading light and the inability to say just what we mean or to pin down what is slipping away even as we speak.

Someone You Love is Far Away
but Near a Telephone

Twilight, and the maples outside the windows
Of this $95 - a - month room where I live alone
Are turning black with the time of day and time of year,
September. "It's sunset," I'd say if you called,
"And the trees are turning into shadows of themselves."

But it's too late for that, the sun is gone,
It's night here, and what I wanted to tell you

Is a lie already. Maybe, though, where you are, in the next
Time zone west, it's becoming true, taking shape
In the sky, the air, the shadow
You cast against whatever wall keeps you
There, in autumn, in twilight, on the other side

Of the telephone, where suddenly you are wanting to say
Something to someone about leaves, about light,

Not knowing what, or to whom, or why, or how far away
Anything is, while the day goes on changing
Slowly into the same night I wait in
Alone in the darkness, in love, watching the dial
Of the stars move, knowing we are both in the world.

T. R. Hummer
from The Angelic Orders

Phone Booth Near the Lake
painting by Scott Prior

For T. R. Hummer ,"the trees are turning into shadows of themselves," and for Thomas Hood, Autumn stands "shadowless like Silence, listening / To silence." I can't help wondering if, in the end, the two sensations are one and the same: Shadows to shadows. Silence to silence.

Autumn

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—
The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?—
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.

Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drownèd past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;—
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,—and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

Thomas Hood, 1798–1845

Pumpkin Bales
Photographer Jay Beets says,
"Tilt screen up . . . lean back . . . color gets better!
I liked the color the hay cast this morning . . . that pumpkin hue!"
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, October 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Do Not Worry, Do Not Hurry, Just Eat Curry!

A PLACE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

A quiet spot for coffee, tea, curry, rice pudding
and inspiration:
"No. No, we are not satisfied
and we will not be satisfied
until 'justice rolls down like water
and righteousness like a mighty stream.' "
~ Martin Luther King, Jr. ~
Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Fountain & Waterfall
in the lovely Yerba Buena Gardens, San Francisco
Last year, when I flew out to San Francisco for the first time, I was stressing about the trip and asked my friend Eileen to send me some anti - worry mantras. She had already shared many; but, of course, when I needed them most -- when I was worrying! -- I couldn't remember them.

She e-mailed back with a simple mantra, easy to keep in mind while traveling or anytime:
"Do Not Worry, Do Not Hurry, Just Eat Curry!"
Okay! I could remember that advice and, even better, I could follow it! She added some additional words of wisdom that I continue to find both intriguing and useful: "Just breathe. And remember that anxiety and excitement are in fact the same sensations physiologically speaking, just with either fear stories or looking - forward stories attached. I think that's an oversimplification, but it can help." Yes, it does help! Anxious or excited? Choose your story, determine your mood! The power of narrative! Or, better yet, Nostalgic Narrative Therapy!

At the Samovar Tea Lounge
Unhurried, not worried, ordered curry!

We also discussed worry and perfection. Will we ever be able to stop second guessing that life should be other than it is -- or to accept that, in the words of Toby Maguire's character David, the twin brother in Pleasantville: "It. Is. Not. Supposed. To. Be. Any. Way."

"A great way to feel that comes and goes," Eileen said, supplying the following anecdote: San Francisco Zen Chef "Ed Brown tells a wonderful story about making his first from - scratch biscuits when he began baking at Tassajara. He kept being upset because they didn't taste like or have the same texture as the real biscuits that he remembered from childhood -- 'til he realized that what he was Proustifyin' about were those Pillsbury cartons that you crack and extract the crescents & pop in. He used to do a kickass dharma talk, extrapolating to advertisements, etc., on all the ways we imagine we are not 'measuring up.' Nothing one doesn't already know, intellectually, but to really take it in, receive and accept -- aaahhh!"

We interrupt this blog post
for an unexpected connection!
The best kind, of course! A surprise telephone call from dear Cate, who it certainly seems should know Eileen, although they are each from a different phase of my life (i.e., Cate ~ Philly; Eileen ~ facebook) and have yet to become acquainted. Maybe after this blog post they will!

When I told Cate what I was working on, she jumped right in and told me all about Edward Espe Brown's Tassajara Bread Book and Deborah Madison's Greens Cook Book, and their celebrated San Francisco restaurant Greens. Okay, I know where we're eating next time we visit!

My thanks to Cate
~ talented cook and student of Zen ~
for these cookery eatery references!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now, back to Eileen for further annotation
and explication of our brief new mantra:
"Do Not Worry, Do Not Hurry, Just Eat Curry!"
"I wonder if I even answered the simple question? She tends to leave out the obvious and important. That flurry of 'explain yourself, sir' (it feels more 'sir' than 'ma'am') that can overrun a thoughtful calm, 'Here is what I care about, and here are some ways I have earned a living at it.' So interesting, that wanting to be known for / as who you actually are, whilst resisting naming it; feeling like saying anything will somehow distort what might be 'felt - into' from just exposure over time. I remember when I decided to stop asking people that directly, like at parties, and began experimenting with other indirect probes [as I've heard they do in France]. But especially now, we are curious and wonder how others are putting it together / keeping body and soul together, and making sense and cents (that last word was corny, I just hadda end /stop). Also, facebook tends to just be verbal. I already know I am making a picture of my interests and concerns, in colors and shapes, for someone who wants to pay for my services. Doesn't even feel 'brave,' just feels obvious, easier, more relatable. From two phone calls I am intuiting what this person will enjoy. Quien sabe?"

Another nice lunch ~ this time at Cafe de la Presse

"Maybe it's a self-selection thing (big superego sorts), or maybe it's the scholarly crucible itself, but I can feel the 'military neck' want to happen. I so wanna be / have FUN. & ENUF (ha! I know u c that near - anagram). You know how in the Feldenkrais Method [similar to the Alexander Technique], you can 'visualize' a movement -- even if your body cannot or can no longer execute -- and it will have the same effect, neuro-howeverly? So then, can we not say that metabolizing insights is not doing nothing -- for the greater social organism, I mean. Is that what the Buddha meant by with our thoughts we make the world? All that time spent doubting the value of my natural way of doing my life? And, yes, I'll still do the odd 'motivational discussion,' but it will sound more like quietly coexisting and then 'reporting out to the group.' And inhale. And exhale."
Thanks Eileen!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Try to remember:

1. "Do Not Worry, Do Not Hurry, Just Eat Curry!

2. "It. Is. Not. Supposed. To. Be. Any. Way."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Parting Words of Wisdom

from StoryPeople by Brian Andreas

Things to know about the future.
#1:
It doesn't have to look any particular way,
but around here, if it doesn't,
a lot of people will never speak to you again
[well, just don't worry about those people!]

deciding everything is falling into place perfectly
as long as you don't get too picky
about what you mean by place.
Or perfectly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

and from the movie Pleasantville, 1998
script by Gary Ross
David, the previously nerdy teen - aged son has returned from "Pleasantville," wiser in his newfound knowledge that there's no such thing as a perfect life, not even over the rainbow. He finds his mother crying and gently asks her what is wrong.

"MOM: Oh, I don't know. It's all so f---ed up. . . .
You know, when your father was here I thought well this is it.
It's always gonna be like this.
I have the right house and the right car and the right life.

DAVID: There is no right house. There is no right car.

MOM: Oh, God. It's not supposed to be like this. . . .

DAVID: It's not supposed to be anything.

MOM: How'd you get so smart all of a sudden?

DAVID: (stops for a second, smiles to himself, shrugs): I had a good day."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, September 28th

Between now and then,

feel free to take a look at my
San Francisco Photo Albums: October 2012 & September 2013

and read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Every Chocolate Flake

ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Highland Wedding at Blair Atholl, 1780
by Scottish painter and illustrator of historical subjects,
David Allan, 1744 - 96
[learn more about this painting and the ceilidh dance]
This Fortnight's chain of connections began ten days ago when my friend Tammy came across a back - to - school quotation on my book blog:

"It has always seemed strange to me that in our endless discussions
about education so little stress is laid on the pleasure of becoming
an educated person, the enormous interest it adds to life. To be able
to be caught up into the world of thought -- that is to be educated."
Edith Hamilton
Tammy wrote to tell me that she had recently re-bought for herself copy of Hamilton's book [where I first learned about Echo & Narcissus] that so many of us loved back in high school:

She went on the say that "All the back to school vibes, plus a few stories relayed to me of summer travel and study abroad have brought to the surface my own memories of Scotland, where I studied for a year about a million years ago. I had to write about it. . . . Yes, I wrote this weekend, for some reason the words decided to burst forth as I drove my car and then tried desperately to catch them, remember them for my keyboard. . . . You will get some of the UK references, and even when you don't, I think you will get the sense of joy in being able to just go LEARN."

[click to hear samples on amazon]
strip the willow

I keep going back
to Scotland
which I can only always describe
if people know and care to ask
as Magic

Here’s how you get there:

First,
Journey many hours in the air
then more on a train
where people speak your language
and if you listen hard
you can almost understand

Ride your train through towns
with ancient names
that bloom on your tongue
as you try to roll Glaswegian R’s

Pass sheep inside a stacked stone fence
sometimes a dog running herd
or a shepherd with a staff
and Scottish temper
hurling the staff at fast cars who spook the flock

Other men on this trip nod and tip their hats
like Texas cowboys at the VFW,
wanting nothing but to help you
find your way

The air smells of peat and hops
but you won’t know that yet

You arrive in the dark and sleep late
waking up to a gardener whistling
“Cracklin’ Rosie”
happy tune to welcome
a bright new day

Your clean your teeth
with water so icy it must be pure
and take breakfast
with a lovely girl,
your first Louise

You call home at a decent hour
from a plexiglass phone booth
repeating the numbers twice
distracted by the purring Irish accent
in the booth next door
assuring your parent-loves that you are safe and happy
and you are

You are here to LIVE
to dig in, drink deep
soak up every scrap of knowledge from class
and country and Meadowlark
(even the pub name sounds pretty)

What will happen next?

You cross a small bridge
with other students travelling
one single path to class,
swans swim on the loch below
a castle shimmers beyond
seriously

You search their faces
want to know them, their accent and fashion
and you open yourself like a daisy
bringing all you can to the surface
to be shared straight away
so you can meet them, eat them all

You ride horses with Norwegians
study marketing with the French,
opera with the English,
and share coffee with the professor
who turns out to have a different idea
of cultural exchange
well, that’s experience, too

You walk in the drizzle
noticing patterns,
join the old women limping their way
to worship in an old stone kirk
kneel to strolling Westies
who pause a moment before trotting
back to their master

You take a job on Thursdays
noticing rhythms,
serving single malt to blokes
who take squinting measure of their glass
and American-you
discussing their politics and futbol
and once, the mystical power to heal

Finally convinced of successful outreach
you let in some other Yanks
just a few
who prove as interesting and layered
as Mumford & Sons
modern gospel
yearning, jubilant
triumphant horns over bluegrass over bass;
their family stories and characters
draw you in,
warm your belly
and inspire

They teach you the accent and fashion
of your home country
that magnificent, arrogant one
that you alternately hold tight and apologize for

And some teach you by learning with you
jumping in to Strip the Willow
whirling ceilidh dance of
laughter in a big wide barn
celebration of freedom and joy and youth

Tall and rangy Montana
gathers you up like hay
gives you a greater sense of yourself
of your power and insecurity
the way a mirror reflects the beauty and the flaws

A person can do this
just like a place

So in Scotland, you meet
music from voices past
ideas of future film
words
all of which you somehow already know;
a boy climbs through your window with the moon
stretches his long limbs over yours and
helps you weave a blanket of duvet, wool, and sky

Now
When I remember who I am sometimes
it’s that girl in Scotland
that long-walk every day girl who sought out the wonder,
the soul behind the eyes
who was blessed to have beginner’s mind
come easily

I still see all the shades of mist
and I’m never ever certain of any one thing, for sure
except for love and magic

In Scotland
there were vignettes of simple, stunning beauty
all the time
I climbed Dumyat and
took communion with a lab,
found the heather
and tasted every chocolate Flake;
I knew ‘rapture from an orange
and ecstasy from a blade of grass’*
and it never went away

Why does it happen when it happens?
How’d I get a gift like that?

Is it a specific place we must find,
a person we must know, or
the ripening of our own body inside our skin?
all those things, or none of them
and a commitment to saying yes

I heard bagpipes in the distance
and was completed,
or transformed,
or maybe just returned with gentle magic
to myself.

tammy l. knox sandel, 8/17/13

* Leo Buscaglia, who is (also) not Scottish


Part memoir, part travelogue, part reflection. The magical year that Tammy describes in "strip the willow" reminds me so much of the summer that I was in Oxford (1979), with the exception, as I confessed to Tammy, that my coming of age sojourn included no dance partners or cowboys or amorous scholars of any nationality. Always a slow starter, I was just a little too dull and backward for an off - shore romance. Sweetly, Tammy offered a more generous reinterpretation of my girlish dullness: "No! Of course you were never a dull girl. . . . You just weren't there long enough." Ah - ha! Maybe that was it!

Romance notwithstanding, Tammy's poem brought back all the exhilaration of that summer abroad -- the currency and the accents; the planes, trains and tour buses; the dorms, dining halls, and quadrangles; the china shops and bookstores; the occasional crabby strangers, more than offset by the unexpected friendliness; the cathedrals and literary landmarks.

Another connection that intensified my reading of "strip the willow" was that only a couple of days before reading it, I had re - connected for the first time in ten years or so with my friend Kathryn whom I met on that first trip to England back in 1979. We shared many adventures, including getting lost more than once -- as you can see in this old photo (disregard stray marks of red ink). "Folly Lane" -- the name on that road sign pretty much says it all! But we survived and learned as much from each misstep as we did from each successful outing. As Tammy says in her poem, it's all experience! Right?

Even Tammy's reference to "every chocolate Flake" spoke to my heart. I was not in 1979 a fan of the Flake, though I have since become one, as it is a favorite of my English relatives, including my husband and sons. Back then, however, what Kathryn and I loved to buy at the British Rail newsstands were Twix Bars and Mini Babybel cheeses, two novelty snacks not widely available in the United States at the time. Somehow I knew exactly what Tammy meant about the memory of a chocolate treat that comes to symbolize everything new and unique and untried about "a specific place we must find." Or perhaps a place that we have actually found; or an old, exciting time when there was just so much to learn!

Tammy's poem led to a day spent thinking about Flakes and Twix; old friends, new friends, children of friends, and young womanhood. At the close of that day, I was looking in the pantry for some chocolate chips to add to a batch of zucchini bread ('tis the season), and -- to perfectly round out a series of connections and coincidences -- what did I discover and use instead? A package of very crumbly (even more so than usual) Flake Bars, no doubt left over from Gerry's parents' last visit.

Believe it or not, Tammy is not the first author I know to have incorporated a reference to Flakes in her writing! In Gladys Reunited: A Personal American Journey, Sandi Toksvig -- herself a master of the literary coincidence -- describes bringing a friend in the United States a package of Flakes from England:

I had brought her a gift of Cadbury's Flake -- a chocolate bar
that crumbles the minute you unwrap it. She was thrilled.
'We don't have it here. Your mom actually turned me on to them.
The first time, I said, "It comes like this?" It's a mess.
You have to work at them. Great when you're cooking.'

(109; see also
"Birds of Pray" and "Opal: In Love with the World")
Turns out I'm not the only one who uses Flakes when baking! I like it that Sandi's friend had the same idea; and she's right -- they do make a mess and you have to "work at them." Yet, Tammy's advice is undoubtedly the best of all: forget the mess, go for the experience, learn all you can, jump in to "strip the willow" and taste "every chocolate Flake." Just say Yes!

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, September 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts: "Two Gazed Into a Pool:
Echo & Narcissus"
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading: "Girls of Summer"
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

At Least Eleven

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

"The Long Road Home"
Painting by my talented cousin and mixed media artist
Pam Carriker
who lives art at the speed of life and vice versa!
Thanks Pam!
I can't say I was ever a huge fan of The Divine Secrets of the Ya - Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells, but I always smile in sympathy when recalling Sidda's trip home (at age thirty - something) to introduce her fiance to her mother. As they pull into the driveway and her mother comes out, Sidda "tried not to feel five years old. She tried to feel at least eleven" (336).

Nearly fifteen years have passed since I first read those words back in 1999, yet they are still ringing true! How accurately that phrase -- "at least eleven" -- captures my own experience of trying to feel (and act) like an adult when the family gathers and it suddenly becomes so difficult to feel twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, even sixty. Just ask my oldest brother Dave or my younger sister Di, who heard me quoting the phrase more than once this past weekend.

Family Reunion
with my sister Di (left) and cousin Alicia (center)

Girls Together ~ Women Together
When my oldest brother referred to himself as "a sixty year old man just trying to stand up and say enough," I couldn't help thinking of my favorite story -- "The Third and Final Continent" -- in Jhumpa Lahiri's Pulitzer Prize winning collection Interpreter of Maladies. In this story, a young, twenty - something, male student from India comes to work at MIT and rents an upstairs room in the home of a very elderly woman. After a few days, the landlady's daughter, also elderly, comes by to check that everything is okay for the new renter.

Here's what happens:

On Sunday there was a knock on my door. An elderly woman introduced herself: she was Mrs. Croft's daughter, Helen. She walked into the room and looked at each of the walls as if for signs of change, glancing at the shirts that hung in the closet, the neckties draped over the doorknob, the box of cornflakes on the chest of drawers, the dirty bowl and spoon in the basin. She was short and thickwaisted, with cropped silver hair and bright pink lipstick. She wore a sleeveless summer dress, a necklace of white plastic beads, and spectacles on a chain that hung like a swing against her chest. The backs of her legs were mapped with dark-blue veins, and her upper arms sagged like the flesh of a roasted eggplant. She told me she lived in Arlington, a town farther up Massachusetts Avenue. "I come once a week to bring Mother groceries. Has she sent you packing yet?"

"It is very well, Madam."

"Some of the boys run screaming. But I think she likes you. You're the first boarder she's ever referred to as a gentleman.

"She looked at me, noticing my bare feet. (I still felt strange wearing shoes indoors, and always removed them before entering my room.) "Are you new to Boston?"

"New to America, Madam."

"From?" She raised her eyebrows.

"I am from Calcutta, India."

"Is that right? We had a Brazilian fellow, about a year ago. You'll find Cambridge a very international city."

I nodded, and began to wonder how long our conversation would last. But at that moment we heard Mrs. Croft's electrifying voice rising up the stairs.

"You are to come downstairs immediately!"

"What is it?" Helen cried back.

"Immediately!"

I put on my shoes. Helen sighed.

I followed Helen down the staircase. She seemed to be in no hurry, and complained at one point that she had a bad knee. "Have you been walking without your cane?" Helen called out. "You know you're not supposed to walk without that cane." She paused, resting her hand on the bannister, and looked back at me. "She slips sometimes."

For the first time Mrs. Croft seemed vulnerable. I pictured her on the floor in front of the bench, flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, her feet pointing in opposite directions. But when we reached the bottom of the staircase she was sitting there as usual, her hands folded together in her lap. Two grocery bags were at her feet. She did not slap the bench, or ask us to sit down. She glared.

"What is it, Mother?"

"It's improper!"

"What's improper?"

"It is improper for a lady and gentleman who are not married to one another to hold a private conversation without a chaperone!"

Helen said she was sixty-eight years old, old enough to be my mother, but Mrs. Croft insisted that Helen and I speak to each other downstairs, in the parlor. She added that it was also improper for a lady of Helen's station to reveal her age, and to wear a dress so high above the ankle.

"For your information, Mother, it's 1969. What would you do if you actually left the house one day and saw a girl in a miniskirt?"

Mrs. Croft sniffed. "I'd have her arrested."

Helen shook her head . . .

***********************************
Even after sixty - eight years, poor Helen is still struggling to feel "at least eleven" in the presence of her mother. I don't want that to be my fate; and I understand exactly what my brother meant when he wrote that sixty years old is old enough!
~ Additional Connections ~
1. My dear friend Cate provided me with this excellent mantra to carry in my heart and in my head when traveling to see the family (or anyone else for that matter):No appointments; no disapppointments.
C. K. Ramaswamy Gounder, 1914 - 2002
aka, Swami Satchidananda Saraswati
2. Words of Wisdom from Brian Andreas at StoryPeople:

Why do they treat us like children? they said
& I said why do you treat them like adults?
& their eyes opened wide
& they began to laugh & talk all at once
& suddenly everything looked possible again.
Sign up for Story of the Day
3. Favorite dialogue from The Office:

Michael: This is where I belong.
This is my home,
and home is where the hardest.
Oscar: Home is where the heart is.
Michael: Heart is. That makes a lot more sense.
Actually, as is so often the case, I think Michael might have had it right the first time; for indeed, so / too many times, "Home is where the hardest."

Home for Christmas Card from Pam

4. As I wrote earlier in the summer about my "Ancestors":

"We have all rejected our beginnings and
become something our parents could not have foreseen."
from the novel Fifth Business (248)
by Robertson Davies
5. Apparently, even the gods must struggle at times to feel "at least eleven":

I wonder now about Demeter and Persephone. Maybe Persephone was glad to run off with the king of death to his underground realm, maybe it was the only way she could break away from her mother, maybe Demeter was a bad parent the way Lear was a bad parent, denying nature, including the nature of children to leave their parents. Maybe Persephone thought Hades was the infinitely cool older man who held the knowledge she sought, maybe she loved the darkness, the six months of winter, the sharp taste of pomegranates, the freedom from her mother, maybe she knew that to be truly alive death had to be part of the picture just as winter must. It was as the queen of hell that she became an adult and came into power. Hades’s realm is called the underworld, and so are the urban realms of everything outside the law. And as in Hopi creation myths, where humans and other beings emerge from underground, so it’s from the underground that culture emerges in this civilization.
from A Field Guide to Getting Lost
by Rebecca Solnit
The Return of Persephone, 1891
(Hermes helping Persephone to return to her mother
Demeter after Zeus forced Hades to return Persepone.)

by English artist, Frederic Leighton, 1830 - 1896
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, August 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading: "Girls of Summer"
www.kittislist.blogspot.com