They got me at hello, or the magazine equivalent of it. Just received my first issue of The Sun Magazine and turned to the first article and am hooked. The story of the Mystic and the Warrior former priest Matthew Fox speaks to my soul. It isn’t about original sin and questioning our existence on earth, but about God’s original blessing of life to each of us, at the divine within us, about love and the feminine as well as the masculine, about embracing science and God, about relationship, about a “regrinding of faith in a mystical, prophetic, cosmological worldview.” Beautiful stuff. In the article he quotes David Orr as saying “Hope is a verb with its shirt sleeves rolled up.” Let’s get to work, let’s love God, let’s love life … let’s just exude, bathe in, celebrate and spread love.
Jack & I spent the weekend in Baltimore for his niece’s wedding. The little non-wedding time we had we made the most of, exploring. We stayed in a very cute B&B, the INN at 2920, which comes complete with everything from breakfast to a beta fish. The hosts are thoughtful and there are many nice extra touches to make you feel at home. And it’s just a block from Canton’s Square with a variety of bars and restaurants close enough to easily walk to but far enough away not to create noise.
Below is a photo of the lobby, where there is a cooler filled with fruit and soft drinks. Up a short flight of stairs is the dining area where they serve you a delicious breakfast in the morning, and a small library with some books you can borrow during your trip. It was one more flight up to our room.
We had lunch at Plug Ugly in Canton Square, and I highly recommend it. I had some very hot and crispy fries that hit the spot, and I almost tried the house specialty cocktail because it sounded delicious but also highly dangerous (I counted at least five kinds of alcohol). Maybe next time!
As part of my wedding preparations I also had a manicure at a little salon just off Canton’s Square, which was lovely.
Friday morning we explored the harbor and the Aquarium which, even though I’m not a huge fan of aquariums general, was one of the nicest ones I’ve ever seen (similar to the great one in Monterey, California). There was one area with at least 20 exhibits of different types of jellyfish, from tiny to some with tentacles that could reach as far as 200 feet. And, whatever the size, gorgeous.
I’m not keen on seeing them when I’m in the water WITH them, but when they are safely behind glass I find jellies fascinating.
There were plenty of other fish to see at the Aquarium, of course, including this really cool shrimp …
and a dolphin exhibit that reminded me of SeaWorld.
After our time with the fish we spent some time in another of my favorite activities … shopping! There were plenty of shops from which to choose, and J Crew was having a sale, so I would say the day was a definite success.
The next morning we made it out to Fort McHenry, and we felt fortunate to be there the week after the 200th anniversary celebration. (Apparently there were huge crowds the week prior, for the actual anniversary celebration, which I wasn’t sad to have missed.)
Of course I’ve heard The Star Spangled Banner hundreds of times and have heard the story about the writing of the song as well, and in truth I put Fort McHenry on my “to do” list because I love history, but I wasn’t anticipating much. It exceeded my expectations — you enter into a small room where they show a video retelling the story of the battle Francis Scott Key witnessed and, at the end, the screen disappears and you have a perfectly framed view of the huge American flag just as he saw it “at the dawn’s early light.” It brought out the patriotic bones in my body and if you looked closely you might have seen a tear in my eyes.
To be there and see the relationship between the river and the Fort makes you appreciate the story much more. The tour of the Fort was worthwhile; I hadn’t had any idea that it once served as a prison for captured Confederate soldiers during the Civil War, as well as holding Southern sympathizers and political prisoners. In the rooms of the Fort they have exhibits from the various time periods, including the beds from when prisoners were held here, rooms set up as they were for the officers, etc. From 1917 until 1923 the U.S. Army hospital was housed here to serve WWI veterans, before it eventually became a National Park.
Jack was a little tired of all the touring, so he enjoyed the benches the Fort so thoughtfully scatters around its site.
After that it was all wedding, all the time. So while there are plenty of other sites of interest in Baltimore, we had to save them for a follow-up trip. And our little taste of Baltimore definitely left us interested in exploring more. Until next time!
I want the bad guys put away. I am nervous when a judge reverses a sentence because of some procedural error. After all, how many times do we later find out that someone who should have/would have been in jail had not the overcrowded conditions or “good behavior” or some such thing gotten him out early committed yet another crime, hurting someone else’s life. So I wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about signing up to help the California Innocence Project as my pro bono commitment for the year.
But I went because as the partner in charge of pro bono in my office, responsible for ensuring we have 100% participation in our office this year, I needed to make an appearance. And of course I’d heard the Innocence Project being touted for high-profile victories and was interested to hear their story.
I’m so glad I went. First, it had all the elements of a great lunch. It was over in just under an hour, the sandwiches were from the “good” deli and we had cookies and chips (not so good for my dieting attempt but were yummy), and, to the important stuff, their story was fascinating. It was a combination of CSI and one of the best days of class in Psychology 101 — they had a Powerpoint presentation that included images that caused our minds see things that were not there. Green dots jumped around a circle despite the absence of green dots actually appearing anywhere on the slide (they say), despite what our brains tell us we see. Images that appeared to move around, but in fact did not.
But the last three minutes of the presentation are the reason why I signed up to volunteer. The last three minutes had me blindly and, hopefully, discretely, searching in my purse for tissue.
Earlier in the meeting we had heard the facts about the subject of that last three minutes earlier in the presentation. A scary story about a 16-year-old girl at 11 in the morning in a not-bad part of town walking on a well-traveled street next to the Home Depot on her way to a friend’s home being hemmed in by a white truck with a battered camper shell. Then chased down, dragged into the bushes and almost raped before managing to fight off the thirty-something white male with a goatee attacker and get away. I am totally with that girl, on her side all the way. I, too, thought mornings were safe. I, too, was wearing earphones and walking in a very safe neighborhood at about 10 in the morning, minding my business and just trying to get a little exercise, when my gut told me something was wrong and I looked to my right to see a beat-up VW bug driven by what I can best describe as a huge, muscular, tattooed arm right out of Hell’s Angels attached to a bearded man staring at me as he crept along beside me. He didn’t catch me, but he came close enough that this girl’s story spoke to me. I learned a lesson indelibly printed in my soul by that incident. Mornings are not safe, even in nice neighborhoods. Bad things can happen at any time, and anywhere. All my sympathy is with that 16-year-old girl who was just trying to walk to visit a friend, and the hell some asshole created by attacking her, destroying her sense of safety, causing her nightmares she may never fully escape.
She thought the police found the guy; she was 60% sure in the photo line-up and then, in court, 100% sure that the defendant was the man who had attacked her that day. Except it turns out that it wasn’t. Too many years later DNA testing proved beyond a doubt that the bad guy was a different man who also had access to a white truck with a camper attached and who looked almost exactly like the man who had been wrongly convicted of the crime. This man who had the misfortune of looking like the bad guy had spent eight long years in jail for the crime.
That was all bad enough, but then the presenters showed a short video of the now-released, wrongly accused man who had spent almost all the years of his only son’s childhood wasting away in prison standing at the San Diego Airport awaiting a visit from the son he hasn’t been able to hug all that time. From the time his son was two. And now that boy he barely knows is 11 years old. The video started, and we watched as the man in turn watches the passengers exiting the gate from the flight his son was supposed to take to come for his first visit in many years. As he searches intently for the son he hopes he can recognize, the tension in my stomach starts to grow. I see a boy walk pass, and then another one, but neither one is him. The number of passengers exiting the gate start to dwindle and now my whole body is tense, not knowing how I will be able to stand it if he’s left there at the airport, empty-handed, alone. What if his son doesn’t get off that plane because he decided not to get on it, not to waste his time on this man he doesn’t know?
Finally, I can breathe. The freed man spots his son, and they run to one another, and the boy who is no longer so little is still young enough to be fully enveloped by the longed-for hug from his Dad, who wraps his arms around his son and holds him as if he never, ever wants to let him go. And I don’t know about the rest of the people in the room, since I was trying not to look, but I know that I could not help but cry.
I signed up to help get people who shouldn’t be in prison out. Because the bad guys should absolutely be put away. But not everyone in prison should be there, and the ones who have been wrongly accused, who are the victims of error or revenge or laziness or some injustice in our judicial system — those people need to be home with their sons and their daughters and their wives and their mothers and fathers and everyone that loves them and that they love. I am eternally grateful that I haven’t suffered from that injustice, and that there are people like the people at the Innocence Project who work to help correct those wrongs.
I hope one day only those who deserve to be in prison will be there, and I will do my little part to help make that happen, one person at a time.
Rollerblading along the Pacific Beach/Mission Beach boardwalk was my favorite thing when I found myself at 37 divorced, supporting an ex-husband and two small children by putting in long hours at an international law firm, in search of love … the sense of freedom it gave me was the best thing in my life besides my amazing, beautiful children, and every weekend they spent with their Dad I spent rollerblading along the Bay.
But I haven’t put on my rollerblades for way too many years. And as much as I value the spiritual over the material, the way I spend the time God gave me in this life suggests the opposite. I say I value relationship and service and Things That Really Matter but I spend most of the hours of my day on the things that decidedly do not.
Then a Facebook friend posted this video from the New York Times about Slomo.
Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve been to the Boardwalk that I don’t recall ever having seen him there, and boy have I missed out. Slomo has it right. The freedom and joy of his spirit shines through, as does his bravery, his not caring that instead of the respect the world showed him as a successful doctor he now has people talking about him, wondering if he is a crazy homeless man or just crazy. He doesn’t care, because he is simply enjoying filling each day he has left with wonder and joy, spending it doing what he loves.
Here I sit, 10 minutes from the Boardwalk with my rollerblades packed up who-knows-where with no excuse for not putting them on other than knowing that (i) my feet will ache at first, (ii) I’m very out-of-shape, and (iii) I don’t see where I’ll find the time. What I’d forgotten was not just how much fun it was to rollerblade at the Beach, but also how much rollerblading along the Bay enriched my life.
Thank you, Slomo, for the reminder. I know what I’ll be doing this weekend.
Laura is a beautiful soul and her Winter Soup recipe is a perfect way to start your year by eating right.
January used to be the hardest month. Back to school, back to work, back to cold, intense urban environments. Now January is this: Warm soups on lovely days. Writing. Researching. Planning. Walks on the beach. Morning prayers with the sunrise. Sitting by the fire in the evening. Meals with my beloved.
January. Slow. Mindful. Deep. Days of hope. Days of white: snow, skies, interior scapes. Days of spiced tea and hot soups.
This simple winter soup has been our favorite so far. Made with three basic ingredients: split mung bean, carrots and chard, it’s easy, the way January should be.
It’s easy to make, easy to digest, and easy to love.
Be sure your mung beans are split, otherwise it will require soaking and a longer cooking time, and frankly it just never tastes as good. You can find them at any good Asian or Indian store, or you can order them online here.
A Wintry Dal
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I think we all know that one way to enrich our lives is by eating healthier foods … CounterCrop’s aim is to do just that, by transforming the way the world feeds itself one salad at a time. That’s the mission of CounterCrop, and we’re trying to launch it on Kickstarter. We’re almost 50% of the way to our goal in the first 24 hours — please take a look! http://t.co/EQg2NT6hW4
So many fought so hard so that you and I could vote. Don’t waste it. It’s easy now to forget the value a vote gives you, because it seems as if one vote doesn’t really matter. That it’s only the unions or the Big Business or the lobbyists that count and no one in government listens to you, anyway. But your vote and your voice do count, and so many people in this world still don’t have the right to cast a vote, or to know that a vote cast will be properly counted, that the ballot box won’t be stuffed, that the election isn’t rigged. It took years — decades even — of protests and rallies and hard work by many women to earn women the right to cast a vote, and in their honor I cast my vote. Now if I complain about how government is working (or not) I feel I’ve earned the right to lodge that complaint, because I did my part to participate in the process. Go Vote!
October 25, 1959. That’s the day I arrived, all five pounds of me. Mother only gained five pounds with her pregnancy, she says on Doctor’s orders but I think perhaps also because she liked her figure and feared getting fat. (I gained 45 pounds with my first and 50 with my second. Clearly I didn’t fear looking like I’d swallowed the largest pumpkin grown in any patch.)
October 25, 2014 is only a few days away and if I’m lucky enough to live through them then I’ll celebrate 55 years of being on this earth. I have a feeling this is the year I’m going to start looking old. I’ve been blessed genetically with few wrinkles and cursed with a high, girlish voice and in some ways I’m still surprisingly naive so for that or other reasons most people guess I’m years younger than I am. But in the past few weeks I’ve seen the grey start creeping into my hair and for no reason in the world two weeks ago my lower back started aching so that one afternoon I could barely even make it up the stairs and for some reason my eyes have been feeling tired and irritated lately. So basically I’m apparently falling apart. And I pretty much have to consider myself middle-aged now, unless I’m planning to live a lot longer than 110 years.
But I still have a long way I want to go along the path of my life, into the beautiful unknown, taking the wisdom gathered over all these years, the relationships built, the sorrows and the joys and setting out on this next phase of my life taking more risks, laughing louder, singing, dancing, crying, loving, more, more & more. All in glorious abundance.
So yes, I’m feeling kind of old, but I’m ready for the way ahead whether I get there running or walking or crawling or being carried I look forward to all that lies ahead.
My practice group has its annual retreat at Surf and Sand in Laguna Beach each year, and there is nothing better than having a room overlooking the ocean. They even provide ear plugs in case for some crazy reason you want to block the roar of the surf crashing into the sand below your balcony.
As if. There’s something about hearing the surf pound the sand and then retreat, the sunlight glistening on the waves and melding into the blue of the sky on the horizon that makes it hard not to be at peace. I’m supposed to participate in a scavenger hunt with my team members this afternoon but I can’t drag myself away from the balcony of my room.
Laguna Beach is one of my favorite Orange County spots, with funky boutiques and more art galleries than you have time to visit and, of course, the gorgeous ocean and beaches. It also makes you want to reflect and inspires you … well, inspires me at least … to write.
When there are many other things, including participating in the Scavenger Hunt, that I should be doing. But that’s been my problem as long as I can remember … I feel obligated to do what I should be doing or guilty that I’m not doing what I believe I should be doing and who came up with this “should” anyway? Why is it easier to deny the things my heart and soul want me to do to choose instead the things my head says I must do regardless of whether I enjoy them? No matter how many O Magazine articles I read or TED talks I view or things I know to be true. No matter that my 45-year-old friend was killed at lunch a few days ago and an 18-year-old classmate of my daughter at SDSU who was fine on Monday and thought she had the flu on Tuesday died of meningitis on Saturday — two tragic reminders that I may not live through this evening, so shouldn’t I at least try to live my best life now, today, right this minute and not some vague future year when I’ve got it all figured out — I still keep on plodding along as if I had all the time in the world.
I don’t. But I’m going to enjoy the view from my balcony this afternoon and soak in all the beauty around me without even a tinge of guilt, at least for today.
I’m so hopeless when it comes to anything touching on coding, or requiring any computer skills What So Ever. Eons ago I even took a Fortran programming course in college. Clearly my college counselor who, looking at my background, advised me to include that class on my schedule was inept, and I was even more clearly insane. I had only basic math and that from horrid teachers who hung on only due to the school district’s complete inability to fire anyone. I’d never had calculus and barely any algebra and now I was in a course in which I was to write a program to perform calculus, or some such thing. My Fortran professor was incredibly frustrated that I showed up at every Office Hour, asking what I’m sure were inane questions attempting to figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing.
Why I did not drop the class I will never know. Finally, fortunately, I found a guy who liked me and was willing to help. But he preferred just to do my work rather than attempt the probably hopeless task of actually teaching me how to do it (which of course wasn’t his job, anyway). So yes, I’m embarrassed to say I somehow made it through that class with his help, scraping by with a D. But I learned nothing about programming other than how precise and perfect you must be in writing code if you want to avoid having the entire thing crash and how incredibly frustrating it is to work for hours and then have to start all over because of one typo that it takes forever just to find. I guess I learned one more thing, which is that computer programming is not for me. One possible career choice down, one million more to go!
Although I couldn’t do Fortran programming, the old pre-windows DOS computers communicated with you, giving you, the user, some indication of what was going on. So that I could sometimes figure out what was wrong and, on occasion, even do something about it. But then came Windows and I couldn’t see how things worked and all these years later I have absolutely no idea how to do even the most basic thing. All of which is a long way around to my topic of attempting to add a Blavatar to my blog. Which requires me to find a photo I like and then figure out how to get it into my blog.
So I searched Getty Images which I just learned had images that could be used, except I cannot figure it out. I can’t just download a photo instead I have to “embed this text,” and somehow a photo will appear. But if it isn’t already looking like a photo I can’t figure out how to make it appear as a photo in my “Customize Header” page. There’s no option there for “embed text” it’s just “upload image.” I give up. But I do like the photo and I can figure out how to embed text into the blog itself so it’s not a complete waste. And it created my blog post for the day. Here’s the photo that started it all …Embed from Getty Images
Since “they” say Practice Makes Perfect I won’t give up. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll get the hang of this blogging thing!