Pennies Everywhere

you have stayed too long

2010-04-16T12:03:00.000-07:00

You have stayed too long in the realm of silence, old stories locked away in a box and new ones locked in your head, your heart, your whole body. You have stayed too long and the new stories cease to pile up & gather dust—they cease breathing.

"You have stayed too long," she warned me, the sun behind her illuminating her golden hair and blinding me as I sought to read her expression. It was time to go, time to leave, but I had become comfortable there in the silence, savoring the safety.

The journey begins with a new blank book and a pen. Each word is a step forward in a new direction, a pilgrimage to the center of my own soul, a journey I wasn't prepared to make alone. Each word a stepping stone, a glimmering path through an unknown and terrifying land but leading to that magical realm—like Oz—like Paradise—like all the magical realms the heroes of the great stories have sought to enter.

"You have stayed too long" and she handed me the book and the pen and I had no other choice but to take them and begin the journey.

thanks giving

2009-11-26T09:30:00.004-07:00

I woke up this morning to an ethereal fog outside enveloping the trees and drifting just above the earth. It's a quiet gloom that makes me miss the desert sun. It has been nearly four months since we moved to the northern California coast. Life here has been busy and quiet, filled with laundry and ocean sunsets and wood smoke and wild turkeys on the meadows every morning. I am thankful for many things, though I don't express my gratitude to others or to the universe often enough. I will do so here. I give thanks for:

...my parents who have supported and encouraged me, even when my choices haven't always made sense to them.

...my mother's courage and strength in her struggle to conquer the symptoms of Lyme disease.

...my father's, grandfather's, father-in-law's, and friends' financial help when we needed it.

...my sister, who understands me better than anybody and knows how to listen.

...my friends who I don't see as often as I'd like, but whose energy remains a steady presence in my life.

...my husband, who gives me so much so selflessly and is the best partner in ways I'm still discovering.

...my sister-in-law, who treated us to a perfect mini-vacation down the road and whose spirit I got to really see for the first time.

...the universe, for providing us with this fabulous opportunity to live and work in northern California, and for always taking care of our needs.

...two wonderful years of living in Luna Rica, one of the most amazing homes I've ever seen. May the right people find and appreciate that space as we were lucky enough to do.

...the healing ocean that's just across the highway from us.

...mushrooms, flowers, deer, stars, and all the beauty that surrounds our humble home.

...Clara, who makes this place sparkle.

...sunshine after the fog.

...Thanksgiving dinner tonight with Adriana & Kevin & Nela.

...pennies everywhere.

new directions

2009-06-03T08:26:00.003-07:00

It's funny how when you wish for something and the opportunity presents itself for that wish to be realized, suddenly the possibility is terrifying. I have been wanting change, hoping for it, imagining ways to make it happen. But the idea of change has always been something that would happen later, somewhere down the road. Not now.

The possibility of living in a new town, doing something completely new, starting all over from scratch exhilarates me and scares the bejeebers out of me at the same time. There are so many what ifs running through my head. What if we can't sell our house? What if the weather is terrible? What if we can't make enough money? What if it's too rural and lonely?

On the other hand are visions of living in a small northern California town in a cottage by the sea with an ocean view and a woodstove for heat, living simply, eating locally-grown organic veggies, being 2-4 hours away from some of my dearest friends, and having more time to write and play and explore. My pulse quickens just thinking about it.

I have learned all too well that a dream realized never quite turns out the way I hoped. There are all sorts of unforeseen consequences (positive and negative) that come bundled along with the package. You realize that everything has a price and you make the best of it. And then you wish a little more carefully next time and keep your fingers crossed.

So there is a possibility of a new direction. I approach it with trepidation and anticipation. Deep down, I know change is good. It's time. The what ifs I imagine are never the ones I really had to worry about anyway. It has been quite awhile since I faced a crossroads. And there is a certain dread I feel in having to choose; one choice precludes the possibility of the other. Each choice leads down an entirely new path that will change how my life unfolds. I think of The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

for evelyn...

2009-05-28T06:45:00.000-07:00

Buddha Healed Me

Willing to experience aloneness,
I discover connection everywhere;
Turning to face my fear,
I meet the warrior who lives within;
Opening to my loss,
I gain the embrace of the universe;
Surrendering into emptiness,
I find fullness without end.
Each condition I flee from pursues me,
Each condition I welcome transforms me...

~ copied from an art piece by an unknown artist
found at Herland Book Café in Santa Cruz, CA
January 1998 ~

reunion

2009-05-26T08:11:00.008-07:00

I remember these family gatherings with the Harders, Eitzens, and Roes, with me and Evelyn and cousins Chris and Carl the newest green sprouts on the family tree. We were the ones scrounging in Aunt Ruth's TV room closet, seeking the Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs to spill on the floor and assemble tottering creations. We were the ones chasing each other screaming around the yard. Now our generation has grown into parents; our parents and aunts and uncles have become the grandparents and great aunts & uncles. Most of my grandparents' generation have passed on, back to the mysterious source of creation.

Grandpa Harder reigns as the last living member of his generation in our family. We celebrated his 92nd birthday this Memorial Day weekend, as well as a reunion with a long-lost family member, my father's son, Heinz. Much of the focus was on Heinz and his lovely wife and three beautiful daughters, a branch of the tree that had been a severed limb until this weekend. My grandfather, patient as ever, sat amidst the hullaballoo without complaint. I quietly observed him thinking, Someday, I will be sitting in his place, seeing through his eyes. I may be the last of my generation, sitting with a great grandniece on my knee for the family photo, my body tired and marked by years of living, my mind packed with memories of other times.

I wondered if he felt lonely, surrounded by generations he could not relate to anymore. What was it was like for him as a kid, sitting for a family photo in the 1920s, being the youngest of the bunch? Now he is the only one in our family who remembers a time before computers and space shuttles and instant gratification. He has lived through enormous changes. And now in his 93rd year, he meets a grandson and great granddaughters he hadn't known existed.

Evelyn and I both felt an easy connection with our brother. He is authentic and funny, open-minded and gentle, and has an integrity of spirit that I think all three of us share. I only regret that we hadn't found each other sooner. I wonder what it would have been like to have a big brother when I was growing up. I wonder how our dad might have been different if he had had his son in his life?

Perhaps this is the way it was meant to happen. I am just so thankful that it finally has.

[More reunion pictures here.]

owl medicine

2009-05-17T07:52:00.006-07:00

I was walking back to the house from the storage shed when something caught my eye in a patch of prickly pear cactus. I saw a small block of wood wedged beneath (which isn't so unusual, given that Michael often cuts lumber and wood scraps linger in the landscape where he has cut them.) I noticed something else, though. There seemed to be something attached to it: a piece of metal.

I carefully twisted my body and snaked my arm between the prickly pear paddles to get to it. I pulled it out and shook off some of the dirt. I almost couldn't believe what I saw. It was an owl.
I ran to the house to get Michael.

"You are not going to believe what I just found!" I held up the owl.
"Where did you find that?" he asked, his eyes widening.

I showed him. In all the times he has worked outside just beside that spot, he had never seen it. It was right beside our driveway. We have lived in this house for nearly two years.

When I first met Michael, he had just finished building a magical little casita which he called the Turtle House. Every unit in the little community we lived in had a totem animal that the resident chose for the space. When I moved into the Turtle House (which I called Casa de la Tortuga), there were turtle totems everywhere. Ceramic turtles. Metal turtles. Stone turtles. A turtle tile mosaic in the floor. My friends and family started giving me turtles while I lived there. The casita had a turtle quality to it. It was cave-like and introspective. Safe and solitary. I felt like I had receded into my own shell, which at the time I desperately needed. It was healing for me.

Nine months later, I was ready to move on. Another unit had opened up, one facing north and filled with light. I christened it the Butterfly House (Casa de la Mariposa). Here was a space that swirled with the energy of transformation and rebirth. Again, it was exactly what I needed. I filled the space with butterflies made of glass and paper and wood.

Michael's homesite in Cascabel was dubbed the Raven House (Casa del Cuervo) in honor of the majestic black-feathered visitors who frequently graced the hilltop when he was working or eating dinner there.

When we moved into this home, we weren't sure what animal totem belonged to this place, if there even was one. Soon we heard the mystical call of an owl late at night and saw his giant form perched atop the saguaro outside our bedroom window. On another evening, we had three or four owls perched on nearby saguaros and one of our chimneys. One night Michael woke me to see an owl sitting on the patio wall, not 10 feet from where we slept, staring into our bedroom. There was no doubt what animal totem belonged here.

We had already been drawn to owl figures. My sister found a small ceramic owl, I found a green stained glass owl, and Michael found a painted stone owl all in the same thrift store. Before we even bought our house, I had fallen in love with an abstract owl sculpture that was for sale at our favorite antique store but was too expensive at $475. When the price dropped significantly and my dad sent me some money for Christmas, we bought it.

Lately, we've been experiencing some anxiety about our financial situation. Michael lost most of the money he invested in real estate when the housing market crashed. We've both been feeling eager to make some changes in our lives: new scenery, new work, new adventures. Then yesterday, I found an owl that had been here all along.

Of course I had to research owl's symbolism. Owl is wisdom and a keeper of spirits. Owl reveals what is hidden and can see what others cannot. Owl is magic.

Once again, a simple discovery leads to a flash of revelation. God—or the universe or whatever you choose to call that which is greater than these mere bodies we inhabit—is present and lighting the way along the path we have chosen to follow.

querida mami

2009-05-10T16:25:00.000-07:00

I remember the smell of you and falling asleep in your arms, the vibration of your voice in your chest lulling me to sleep. It was the warmest, safest feeling in the world. When I lived far away from you (whether in New York, Italy, or China) you would send me letters that smelled of your favorite perfume. That scent would nearly always bring me to tears and fill me with an indescribable homesickness.

You have always been a fun person to be with. I have many great memories of us getting into trouble together. There was that that time we ventured down a steep embankment to swim in a lake and had to be rescued by Papi when we realized that the slope was too slippery with loose shale and stones to climb up again. He had to toss us a rope and pull us up. And there was that time we hiked the finca in Colombia, only to be chased down the hill by that raging bull. Or the time we went for a little stroll in the snowy mountains of New Mexico and almost couldn't get back to the car because the trail was icy and we had to climb uphill. You have always inspired me to take risks in my life, to "follow my bliss," and to be brave. It's because of your encouragement that I was able to go to Italy for a year when I was 15, to join the Peace Corps at 25, and to travel solo in foreign countries.

I inherited your curiosity, love of nature, and an eagerness to explore this world and its mysteries. We have enjoyed many adventures hiking and camping and taking long walks together, admiring the birds or the sunset or the way the light hit the leaves on a certain tree.

You taught me to love the outdoors and the beauty and serenity I always find there. You taught me about God and spirit and surrendering myself to something greater than myself. Sometimes I wonder if I am alive (despite some of the dangerous risks I have taken) only because your fervent prayers have kept me out of harm's way.

You have a hard time with the whole aging thing. I know I can't fully understand it until I'm there myself. But I want you to know that you truly are beautiful. And wise. And brave. You really have made a difference in the life of each person who has been fortunate enough to know you. I love you so much. Thank you for being my mom.

love,
Monica (your baby monkey)

unstuck that rut

2009-05-06T13:28:00.008-07:00

A few months ago I cracked open a fortune cookie after lunch and found this fortune inside. I had been feeling stifled for far too long by the inertia of my own life. I missed my friends, missed writing, missed adventure, missed feeling alive. I was so utterly bored and frustrated with the daily grind. And then I got this fortune.

Um...hello? Universe? Is that you? Giving me a little nudge towards the light? Yes, I believe so.

I so often forget that I am the biggest barrier to my own happiness. And what is the answer in times of stuckness? Movement. Just doing something, no matter how simple or small. Taking a step in a new direction. Waking up a little earlier. Going for a walk outdoors. Turning off the computer. Picking up the pen. Putting down the fork. Playing some music. Dancing in the living room. Helping someone out. Listening. Creating a list of dreams. Drawing a picture. Saying thank you. Taking the long way home.

I had been stuck for a long time. Then I got sick three times in four months and decided, Enough! It's time to break out of that corner, unstuck that rut!

So I started eating better and taking more walks in the evening with my husband. I started writing three pages in my journal in the morning, despite the resistance. I started photographing flowers, shadows, colors, and faces.

I stopped some things, too. I took a leave of absence from my bellydance troupe because I was feeling more drained than inspired. I stopped eating dairy. (No more cheese or half & half in my morning coffee!) And I stopped berating myself for not being as self-disciplined as I would like.

Each day, I'm feeling a little more alive and a little less stuck. If I get stuck again (which I inevitably will) I just need to remind myself to unstuck that rut.

my new favorite breakfast

2009-05-05T07:29:00.007-07:00

Poached egg à la Ruby

I am a closet foodie, though certainly not a food snob. Like my stepdad, Sam, I enjoy reading cookbooks for pleasure, though our taste in cookbooks is wildly different. He likes to read the gourmet fat-and-flavor stuff: Julia Child, James Beard, Jeff Smith, M.F.K. Fisher. My favorite cookbook author at the moment is Mark Bittman, of How to Cook Everything fame. I like to cook simple food. Easy food. Thus, I read cookbooks to get ideas and rarely follow the recipe exactly, preferring to add or substitute ingredients as needed.

Of course I love to eat the fancy stuff, but I'd rather have someone else slave in the kitchen for twelve hours to make it, thank you very much. It's too much work to make Pad Thai or dolmas. And it tastes so much better when someone who actually knows what they are doing makes the dishes that require going to a specialty market for obscure ingredients.

That being said, this dish was inspired by my mom who reintroduced me to the joys of spinach on her last visit out here. I have been making this for breakfast at least three times a week, if not every day, for the past month. YUM!

Poached Eggs à la Ruby

ingredients (per person): 1-2 eggs, 1-2 slices of whole grain bread (toasted), 1 tbsp olive oil, 1-2 cloves garlic (chopped), 1-2 small tomatos (chopped), 1-2 generous handfuls baby spinach leaves, salt & pepper to taste.

preparation: poach the eggs in simmering water for 5 minutes. (I love these poaching cups to make this step easier.) Toast the bread. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a small skillet on medium heat. Sauté the garlic for a minute or so, till it starts to turn golden. Add the chopped tomato and cook for another minute or so till the tomato softens and becomes "saucy." Add the spinach and stir constantly till wilted but not overcooked. Scoop the spinach onto the toast and top with a poached egg. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

That's it. Easy peasy and packed with nutrients.

the boy next door

2009-04-29T06:43:00.008-07:00

The first thing I do when I walk into my office in the morning is raise the blinds and open the window to let in the fresh air and the sounds of the neighborhood: the birds and cars and the neighbors' wind chimes.

Yesterday, as I was getting ready to leave work, I heard a little boy's laughter. I looked out my window and saw him standing on the trellis in his yard. I had never seen him or the neighbors before, only heard their dog bark on occasion.

He was so cute, playing in that way kids do that is entirely conducted by their imaginations. I happened to bring my camera with me and I couldn't resist taking a few pictures and a short video clip when I heard his mom's voice calling to him to "Get down from there!"

Things took a strange turn when I got home from work. Michael has his truck for sale and a couple had made an appointment to come see it. Their names were Scott and Anna and they brought their little boy Nico along. They were in their 30s and appeared to be members of the alternative/hippie/artist tribe. He was a former architect who did funky home remodeling projects for a living. She was a stay-at-home mom.

Michael went outside to show them the truck and when he came back inside he said, "You'll never guess where they live!"

"Where? Fort Lowell? Bellevue?" I asked.

"No. They live right next door to your office. On Dodge."

When they came back inside, I had to tell them that just a couple hours before, I was watching their son playing on the trellis in their yard and had taken some pictures because he was irresistibly adorable. I took out my camera and showed them the pictures. We were all baffled by the coincidence. What are the odds that on this day these people would be coming over to our house to look at Michael's truck?

Is it coincidence? Serendipity? Does it mean anything at all?

I felt a kind of settling inside me, the acknowledgment of a sign from the universe that everything is going as it needs to go and it's all going to be all right.

my sleeping curmudgeon

2009-02-14T08:59:00.007-07:00

It is rare for me to have a chance to watch him sleep. I am usually the first to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow at night. In the morning, I am awakened by the aroma of steaming hot coffee in a mug beside me, just the way I like it: strong, with cream and sugar. He has usually been up for a few hours by then.

Often, he does not sleep well and gets up in the wee hours of the night to snack or pee or write down some ideas for the book he's writing. If he does manage to sleep in, he likely will suffer the consequences of a raging headache from lying down too long.

But this morning, I managed to slip out of bed without waking him and watch him sleep. There is something about watching one's beloved as he sleeps...an innocence and vulnerability that swells the heart.

This man does so much for me in so many ways. He inspires me with his creativity, determination and focus. He does little things every day to show me he cares (like bringing me coffee in bed or letting me have the last bite of ice cream.) He is considerate and selfless and generous and kind. He ungrudgingly allows me my freedom and space for solitude, as he needs his, too. He has integrity and a boyish sense of humor. He is tender with me. And his face lights up when I get home from work in the evening.

I couldn't help snapping some pictures of him as he slept, his hands beautiful and strange beside each other on the bed--one open in a gesture of offering; the other gently closed as if he were holding a treasure there: my heart.

change has come

2008-11-05T19:26:00.008-07:00

Today I feel the same relentless surge of emotions that I felt after 9/11. Something equally unimaginable has occurred here in America, only this time it is deep pride and amazed awe that move me to tears. My tears are tears of joy. For the first time in my life I can say I am truly proud to be an American. I want to pledge allegiance to my flag again. I want to sing the Star Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs. Thank you, America, for finally choosing someone based on his promise and not on the color of his skin. Thank you for choosing hope over fear, words over war, and inspiration over desperation. I get tears in my eyes all over again when I see Obama's soft, glittering eyes on the cover of today's Arizona Daily Star.

Last night Michael said that he has not seen this kind fervor for a leader and his ideals since Bobby Kennedy in 1968. I have never had any faith in a political leader in my lifetime. Martin Luther King, Jr., JFK, Bobby Kennedy...they are all pages in a history I took no part in. What heros have there been for my generation? My heros have all been writers who have challenged the myths of our America, who have inspired me to open my eyes, to question my own judgments, and to view others with more compassion and empathy. Now we will actually have a president who will, I believe, do the same. He symbolizes balance and a return to rational discourse. He represents us, a nation of mixed races, cultures, religions, and creeds.

I am inspired to write again. I am inspired to give back to my country again. Mr. Obama, you are the hero of my generation. May you be guided to serve as you have promised. May you fulfill that promise of change. May you and your family be protected from harm. I will be so proud to call you my president in 76 days.

one art

2008-10-30T09:16:00.009-07:00

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, bit it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

~ Elizabeth Bishop, 1976 ~

Loss is swirling through my head these days. How many things have I lost in my lifetime? And how much do I really miss those things? I have been fortunate thus far not to lose someone I love dearly, aside from the loss of my first love and my grandmother who died at 84. Those losses were inevitable and perhaps expected.

Right now I face the loss of a home I love dearly. I have always known that I would not live here forever yet I wasn't prepared to leave this home so soon. I keep reminding myself to feel gratitude for having been able to live here at all, for having my health and my family and a job that puts food on the table. There are worse losses than this. There are people who are suffering deeper losses: safety, freedom, shelter, ability to take care of oneself and one's family, nourishment, health. What are my losses in comparison?

I am thankful and I am grieving, too. I am grieving a loss that hasn't happened yet, thus I am not living in the present moment. Waves of fear are tossing me about like a raft on a turbulent sea. I have lost my equanimity. Perhaps my greatest comfort right now is knowing that this, too, shall pass.

autumn leaves

2008-10-26T07:19:00.013-07:00

Yesterday, Michael and I drove up to Summerhaven on Mt. Lemmon to see the only bit of fall foliage that we get in Tucson. We hiked the ski lift trail and asked the ski lift operator at the top if we could pay him for a half-trip down the mountain. He shook his head and told us he'd let us ride for free. So we had a quiet 7-minute ride down the mountain and a gorgeous view of the cleft of Redfield Canyon and the Galiuro mountains in the distance.

We missed the major autumn colors by about two weeks. We saw mostly lemon-yellow aspens and a few red oak leaves littering the trail. We were quietly celebrating the completion of the remodeling and upgrades to our house while at the same time mourning the fact that it is going up for sale today. It's appropriate that the house is going up for sale in autumn, the season of change and letting go.

villa luna rica

2008-06-15T15:44:00.006-07:00

Villa Luna Rica, June 2007

I started a new blog a few weeks ago. I know that I rarely post to this one as it is, but I wanted something separate and new to chronicle the life of our home, which is rather special. You can read about it here.

my two fathers

2008-06-15T07:26:00.008-07:00

Papi & Sam at happy hour

Here are my two fathers, enjoying a ritual happy hour together which entails sitting outside at dusk with a stiff drink in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other and watching the world quiet down as the sun sinks below the horizon.

These two men have next to nothing in common, aside from my mother (the fiery Colombian woman who ensnared both their hearts for different reasons), their shared role of father to my sister and me, and their daily anticipation of happy hour.

My biological father is Paul, aka Papi or Pito. I inherited from him certain verbal mannerisms, a love of photography and the night sky, the way I walk, and an anxiety about money that tranlates into stinginess. As a child, I dreaded asking him questions because I would either get: A) a bewildering far-fetched answer that was made up on the spot or B) some long-winded explanation which included an unrelated history of something else and only confused me more. He is also something of a McGyver, always able to think of a solution outside the box. He carries with him at all times about a half a pound of keys and tools on his keychain. I think he took the Boy Scout motto "Be Prepared" to heart, because he's pretty much prepared for anything at all times. I remember him pulling a mini can opener out of his pocket once at a school event, when my teacher realized there was no way to open the cans of juice one of the parents had brought. I was proud then of my father's foresight.

My stepfather is Sam. I inherited from him a love of books and good food, my liberal politics, a passion for travel, and a lack of desire to work very hard which translates into an appreciation for loafing. We had many fierce arguments at the dinner table about world events and he frequently prodded me to learn more about the topic at hand before opening my mouth. He made a pittance working for the city government but he made sure that his family never felt the pinch. I marvel now that we went so many places and experienced so many things on his shoestring budget. He would never skimp on good food and one of the pleasures of my childhood was being treated to a fine meal at the restaurant of my choice, whether to celebrate my birthday or a good report card.

There is so much more I can say about these two men who shaped who I am by their example. I suppose the only thing more I can say today is this: Happy Father's Day, Papi and Sam. I love you both.

new every morning

2008-01-10T11:17:00.005-07:00

Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain.
And, spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain,
Take heart with the day and begin again.

~ Susan Coolidge ~

the way of the typewriter

2007-07-06T16:02:00.003-07:00

Booboo the Prius & Lulu the Bug

I've finally given in. I've pulled my last stubborn and trailing limb into the 21st century with the rest of me. I bought a new car. And not just any new car, but a hybrid.

I hadn't intended for this to happen—not yet anyway. Michael and I left home one Saturday morning for our usual ritual of coffee, breakfast, and driving around town scoping real estate, except this time we decided to change course and head to the car dealerships instead. Just for fun. Just to test drive a few cars and see what was out there. We came home hours later, exhausted, in two separate blue cars.

I had mixed feelings about buying a brand new car. On the one hand, Lulu (my '73 VW Bug) is a great car. She's fully paid for, runs great, is cheap to insure and maintain, and gives me little grief. She has air conditioning and a brand new CD/MP3 stereo system. And she's really cute. I feel that she accurately reflects my own identity: playful, adventurous, and outside-the-box.

The new Prius is great, too. It requires very little maintenance, gets great gas mileage, has lots of room and a usable cargo space, is eerily quiet, and everything works. She's basically the opposite of a classic VW. I've traded in personality for reliability and fuel-efficiency (as well as a big car payment!)

At the end of the first week with the Prius, I came home from work, threw myself on the couch and burst into tears. I had been wondering all week if I was doing the right thing. I had seen numerous blue Priuses all over town. One of them was even parked next to mine at the movie theater and it took me a second to figure out which was which. I realized I was now driving a rather unremarkable "normal" car. Then there was the hefty car payment and the fact that now I was actually in debt for something. (I've been 100% debt-free ever since I paid off my student loan last year.) Every day I would come home from work and see Lulu parked in the "guest parking" area, looking abandoned and forlorn. My fabulous little vintage car was going the way of the typewriter in a computer-filled world. I never thought a car could break my heart.

Michael was all patience and understanding. He let me cry and assured me that we could sell the Prius whenever we wanted. We could keep Lulu, too. He joked that we should name the Prius Booboo as in "Oops! What were we thinking?!"

In spite of my sentimentality, I'm very practical; it doesn't make sense to keep Lulu if I'm rarely going to drive her and I don't need her. It would be better for her to be with someone who would drive her and love her as I have.

I know it's time for a "real" car. A car that I can drive over mountains without wondering if she'll overheat. A car that lets me hear myself think. A car that doesn't smell like gas fumes and scorched dust. A car that is safe. A car with room. A car that will maybe carry kids someday.

I'm keeping the Prius and my identity and selling Lulu. I hope I can find her a good home.

epitaph

2007-05-04T08:29:00.003-07:00

Or, she did nothing.

Yesterday, I read this post by Keri Smith, and thought YES! This is what I've meant all along.

I believe in doing nothing. Not doing nothing, as in vegetating on the couch with a bag of chips in front of the TV all day, but doing nothing, as in slowing down, savoring, experiencing, and not pushing to control, compete, manipulate and succeed in the American sense of the word.

As a child I was always very competitive and had everything mapped out for my future. I was an excellent student, usually getting straight A's on my report cards and liked by my teachers. When I grew up, I planned to become a marine biologist (so I could scuba dive all day), a pyschologist (so I could help people with their problems), an Olympic swimmer, and a writer.

I began swimming competitively at the age of 10, which required 6-8 hours of practice a week. Practices were fun at first, but then they became repetitive and gruelling. When I didn't place in the top three at several swim meets, I gave up. What did I want to be a champion swimmer for? What I loved was the feel of gliding through the water, the freedom of movement and weightlessness of it. I felt like a mermaid. I always loved being in the water, but once swimming became work, something I needed to do in order to win, I lost interest in swimming competitively. It wasn't fun.

When I went to college and told my advisor I planned to major in biology, she came up with an outline of courses I would need to take my first semester: chemistry, biology, calculus, and the required freshman humanities course. I balked, but gave it a try. After the first week of sitting through excruciatingly dull classes about numbers and chemical compositions and data, I dropped chemistry and calculus and signed up for a third-year Spanish literature class. I kept biology because I needed to study a science for one year, but I quickly discovered that I hated sitting in a lab for four hours and looking at squirmy blobs under a microscope.

My junior year, I declared myself a Literature major. I loved reading stories and I loved talking about them and interpreting them. I loved writing but didn't really love writing term papers. The idea of pressing forward with my studies to become an academic horrified me. I had no desire to narrow my focus to a specific genre or writer or theory. I didn't want to have to compete for a job in academia or deal with university politics and committees. Ugh. Too much hassle. Too much work.

I was drawn to jobs that allowed me to earn a living while creating a life. I had time to do the things I loved: explore my environment, discover beauty, write in my journal, take classes, laugh with friends, go hiking, read novels, ride my bike, paint, meet people, take photographs, dance, travel. I had no desire for jobs that would allow me to climb some kind of ladder to "success." Those jobs usually meant I would have to work long hours, wear a suit, write reports and sit in meetings for hours. For what? More money? More things? A sense of security?

It is so easy in our culture to get caught up in the drive for money and success. This is the way of capitalism, the way we have been taught and the way we teach our children. We believe that more is better, so we sacrifice being in the name of having. Our national past-times are shopping and watching television. In spite of advanced technologies that allow us to instantly connect with people anywhere in the world, we are so utterly disconnected from the people right next to us and the patch of earth we inhabit in any given moment.

This is something I struggle with: how do I live in this culture and not be a part of the rat race? How can I live simply, maintain my integrity, give back to my community, and be more attuned to nature and its cycles?

time for beauty

2007-04-18T08:26:00.003-07:00

birthday bouquet from my sister

Today is my 33rd birthday and all is well in my world if not in the world at large.

I found this article by chance and it resonated with me and how I try to live my life. The simple but profound question--Do you have time for beauty?--is one that I try to answer YES! to on a daily basis, but too often, I think I fail.

I think about how much I take for granted, how all too often I miss what is right before my eyes. This is why the Annie Dillard quote is one of the most inspiring for me; it's a reminder to keep my eyes open, to see the beauty in each moment, and the gifts the universe is offering for free.

Today I am 33. I am blessed with a husband, family, and friends who love me deeply. I am blessed with sunshine and flowers and cats yowling outside my window at 5:00 a.m. I am blessed with work that is meaningful. I am blessed with another day of living and seeing.

happiness is...

2007-03-16T20:34:00.004-07:00

...saying I do.

March 3, 2007

[click here for more wedding pictures]

sisters

2007-02-01T19:28:00.003-07:00

Today I found this photo of me and my sister in my dad's digital family album. It captures the essence of the word sisters for me.

It is 1981 and we are living in Boulder, Colorado, in the biggest and coldest house we've ever lived in. It has three floors and a cavernous basement. Our parents don't have enough furniture to fill it and can barely afford to heat it.

My sister is wading deeper into the choppy waters of adolescence. She lines her eyes with thick, black eyeliner and shuts herself in her room to daydream and listen to records. I am in the second grade. In spite of our age difference, we still play Barbies and Office. Though we argue and torment each other as siblings do, we are close. We get up early Saturday mornings to watch cartoons, tucked beneath my grandmother's afghan. We are rumpled from sleep. My sister twists her body sideways to make room for me on the couch.

It amazes me how close we are, in spite of the fact that we we are five years apart and have spent most of our lives living in different states. Still, we grew up together from scratch. We've witnessed each other's journeys. In spite of time and distance, this is how it always is between us.

unraveling

2007-01-29T21:03:00.003-07:00

The sweater piece I spent
three weeks knitting with care
was three sizes too big

I had no choice but to unravel it
that single thread of yarn
for yards and yards

untangling
unwinding
undoing

All of that work for this:
a lump of frizzled yarn
what's left of my heart

I think of those years spent
weaving my life with another's
stitching days into the fabric of years
only to discover
it doesn't fit

snow in the desert

2007-01-22T21:20:00.003-07:00

Photo by Brandye Ferguson

Last night during troupe practice, the studio manager came in to tell us that it was snowing outside and she thought we might want to see it. We all scrambled for our coats and headed to the studio up front with giant windows looking out over Sixth Avenue. The snow was coming down in enormous flurries. Brandye brought her camera and took this photo of my Bug, Lulu, which happened to be parked just below. I got to drive home in slush with an inch of snow on my hood and foggy windows.

The last time it snowed this hard in Tucson, it was 1986 and I was in the 7th grade. It is so rare to get snow in the Sonoran desert. How surreal to see saguaros and palo verde trees dusted with white. We complain of the brutal heat of summer so much that it is jarring to experience the bitter cold of winter. I had to laugh when I saw today's Tucson Citizen headline: "Snow Paralyzes City." The headline photo showed two children laughing and playing in the snow. One of them was wearing shorts. Although it only snowed an inch or so, apparently a lot of people were "snowed in" this morning and the local school districts gave the kids a snow day.

I love how a little snow in the desert can turn things upside down. Unfortunately, I did not get a snow day.

a day with snizzle

2007-01-20T22:27:00.003-07:00

Today I spent the day with my friend Lise and her nearly-three-year-old son, who she affectionately calls her snizzle. Lise and I have been friends since she was 12 and I was 11. We used to laugh hysterically at the things her 5-year-old brother would do. Now we laugh at Joshua. In a good way.

Joshua is the main subject of my photographic endeavors. I could follow him all day with the camera, capturing his expressions and moments of discovery. I have been photographing him since he was a day old. It's amazing to see how he's grown into himself. He loves the camera and starts showing off whenever it comes out.

Today I photographed him jumping on the bed, getting tickled, fingerpainting, eating an orange, running around butt naked (except for his socks), and

falling asleep in the midst of eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This little snizzle is too much for me sometimes.