Deer Valley Road After Christmas

On the day after Christmas the sun is brilliant on the new snow and the sky is Colorado blue. I dress in numerous layers against the 10-degree chill and pocket my camera. The snow is crisp under my boots and makes that crick-crick sound as I head uphill, across Broadway, up Dartmouth to Deer Valley Road. On the way up an elderly lady ventures carefully down her drive and onto the newly shoveled sidewalk in front of her house, walking stick in hand. We say hello and agree that it is a fine morning if you don’t have to shovel. I tell her of my plan to take some pictures of the snow-covered foothills further up. She is impressed that I have already walked this far up the steep hill from the other side of Broadway. Her son is coming to get her in awhile and they plan to drive around taking pictures.

As she ventures further along the sidewalk I say, “Be careful on the snow.”

She says, “That’s what this is for,” and smiles as she gestures with the walking stick. “Have a good day, my dear.”

And with that benediction from a wise woman, I feel blessed. I wish I could sit down with her over a cup of tea and have a long conversation and learn all she has to tell me. One day will a young woman somewhere wish that about me? I continue to the top, and the foothills are beautiful, covered in thick white. The camera can never capture the sparkle of sunlight on snow but I try anyway.

Joggers and dogwalkers join me in admiring the beauty of the day. I have discarded my sunglasses because I want to soak up every bit of sunlight possible. I walk back down the hill to Caffe Sole and order a skinny latte, double shot, in a real glass. I like Caffe Sole because it is not a chain, so it has little unique touches like a self-serve “express coffee” station with a hand-lettered sign posting prices for various sizes and $1.25 if you have your own cup, with a jar where you leave your money on the honor system. Two guys sit next to me over coffee discussing an on-line business venture. Two women my age at a nearby table are having a heartfelt conversation and seem to be enjoying each other’s company. A very beautiful young woman with long blonde hair wearing a gray knit cap with a bill talks to a besotted young man who wears his hair burr short with several tiny braids sprouting from the back of his head.

I feel very present, and suddenly am sure that any fear or sadness I feel is purely my own doing. If I can just stay awake and remember that one idea, I will be so much happier in 2008. So much more will seem possible. I am getting some perspective with my time off, apparently. Reading “The Four Agreements” again is helping – it still makes a lot of sense, even though the style seems kind of rough around the edges.

The Tinsel Controversy

It is surprisingly hard to get a good picture of a Christmas tree. This year our tree looks perfect to us (more perfect than usual) – just the right balanced shape and very beautiful. It is very fresh, smells wonderful, and soaks up lots of water from the stand each day. We are not proponents of the decorator Christmas tree with all matching ornaments in a single color, but more into the kind with the ornaments dating back many years. Some of the ornaments were handcrafted by us one year with friends on Boulder's Marine Street in a pre-child era; we stirred up a batch of clay-like substance, made our shapes, baked them, and then painted them. We still have several to this day made by friends we see each Christmas at the caroling party.

Other ornaments, each with their memories, were bought over time, or sent by grandparents to our children. Minnie and Mickey Mouse were sent from Indiana by my mother many years ago when my son was still young enough to be so excited on Christmas morning that sleeping late was absolutely not an option, and my daughter was a baby who also frowned upon late mornings. These ornaments still bear my mother’s neat, fifth grade school teacher handwriting on the backs: “From Granny and Grandpa, Christmas 1988.”

My husband likes the kind of ornaments that reflect prismed light, and we all spend a certain amount of time positioning these ornaments near lights on the tree.

This year we had quite a quandary about tinsel. The tree seemed to look very beautiful without it, and we thought long and hard, but in the end we placed the tinsel on the tree once more. Accordingly to tradition and theory it is carefully distributed one strand at a time. In reality there is a wild frenzy of tinsel throwing and messy clumping that must later be straightened out by the compulsive among us.

I learned recently that a good friend of mine also has the tinsel controversy at her house every year, and I suspect it is much more common than can be imagined.

Pandora

I am trying hard to let go of work for a few days and relax my mind. Today I’ve been playing on-line Scrabble (very much against the advice of my chiropractor who says I should be on the computer as little as possible lest I turn into a hobbly hunched old woman). As I play I’ve been listening to the wonderful on-line radio station Pandora, which plays – well, it plays whatever you please. And it never, ever has commercials. And it tells the name of the musician or group and the name of the piece. Oh, heaven. I was turned on to this by my clever son when I was whining once again about commercial radio and how all the stations sound alike. You create your own radio station specifying the name of an artist or song. Or you can choose from a variety of genres. Lately I have been listening to the holiday channels “Peaceful Christmas,” “Folk Christmas,” and “Traditional Christmas.” I have also created a few channels including “Joni Mitchell Radio” and “Bob Dylan Radio.” Songs that match the key words are played, not necessarily always the artist him or herself. You can also give feedback, e.g. “I don't like this song. It's not what this station should play,” or “I'm tired of this song, don't play it for a month,” or “Why is this song playing?” and it is all taken into account the next time you log on. Pandora is provided as part of the Music Genome Project, which collects information on the taxonomy of music and analyzes it based on 400 musical characteristics, then adds to this information over time. Oh, sometimes the Internet and computers are marvelous things...

Christmas Letter 2007

hen a person is expected to come up with a Christmas letter under a strict deadline, that person has to take her inspiration as it comes. As I lay on my back on the family room floor with the Styrofoam tube under my spine doing my chiropractor-recommended exercises, with Emily the cat sitting on my stomach purring loudly and reflexively digging her claws into my chest, inspiration struck.

However, it is not really a blow-by-blow account of our family’s year that I want to write about (although there would certainly be some drama in that), but rather how profoundly grateful I am that we are all still going strong as the year ends. Anne Lamott says the two best prayers she knows are: “Help me, help me, help me” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I’ve said both of these a lot this year.

Okay, I can’t resist a little recap. Happily, Caitlin and Shannon are both living on their own in rentals but attending CU in Boulder now, so I get to see them almost any time I like and they are often over for Sunday dinner. In fact, last weekend Caitlin helped me put up the outdoor lights, including the brand new, politically correct LED lighted doe and stag in brilliant blue. The stag’s antlers are poorly designed and he has trouble consistently standing up straight, whereas the doe is steady, stalwart (i.e. boring), and has not given anyone a lick of trouble. Who knew?

Caitlin is doing quite well with her classes this fall and working hard toward a degree in Biochemistry. Ironically, she's living in a house on another part the same street she grew up on in South Boulder. Shannon turned 21 in July and is pursuing a degree in Integrative Physiology. He also has a new job working at a restaurant on Pearl Street. He’s climbing a lot and really enjoys his membership at a local climbing gym called The Spot.

Mark put up the inside decorations last night and got three poinsettias today, so things are looking pretty festive both inside and out. Mark’s doing great, by the way, watching a Denver Nuggets game as I write this. He is still smarting from a severe trouncing I just gave him at 9-ball in The Foundry, Boulder’s local pool hall. Tonight the hall was packed with people in a billiards tournament, a situation that makes me a little shy as I attempt to take my shots without being in anybody’s way or revealing too blatantly my own inability to consistently make bank shots (although I get lucky once in awhile).

Did I mention I got a digital camera about a year ago and have been trying to figure out how to use it ever since? It has been a lot of fun, actually.

The company where I work is doing very well and shooting for their first $1B year with good prospects. I had the opportunity in September to travel on business to visit two groups that I manage in China and Singapore. The visit was productive and I got to be a tourist one Sunday in Xi’an.

Christmas letters are often not read beyond the first page (or perhaps the first paragraph) and I’ve already exceeded that, so I had better wind this up.

To all of you from all of us we wish you the merriest of holidays and best wishes for a happy and healthy 2008.

Christmas Lights

Cait and I put up the Christmas lights today. The little golden deer were dead on arrival so we had to go buy new stuff. When we got to Target, we found a brilliantly blue stag and doe made with the politically correct LED lights that use much less electricity, so we got those, along with some additional lights for the front bushes.

It is so much fun to have Cait’s help when I put up the lights, and once they are up they always cheer me. We’re a good team. Once we got everything set up we took a few pictures; it’s not so easy to capture Christmas lights but we did our best with my trusty digital camera.

If You Need a Smile on Turkey Day...

Here you go.


Pardoning the Turkey.


Long live West Wing.

Winter is icumen in

I have taken an extra day off from work before the Thanksgiving holiday, and Boulder has received its first real snowfall of the season.

Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Ancient Music, Ezra Pound

M and I had a brief but fervent argument the other day about the author of the above poem. He said it was Robert Frost (hah!); I knew that it was Ezra Pound due to my excellent education in English literature at Indiana University hundreds of years ago. During this discussion at Heidi's Brooklyn Deli on Pearl Street, I ended up proving that I was right with a brief Internet search using my Blackberry. I am particularly proud of this small victory because M has given me no end of grief over the years for somehow earning a degree in English without ever reading Melville's Moby Dick cover to cover (which he believes to be the finest American novel ever written – global before its time, yada yada). I have tried. But I can’t seem to get past the endless chapter in which water flowing from mountain springs, down creeks and streams, into rivers, and eventually into the vastness of the ocean, is described in detail as yet unmatched in all my subsequent literary perusals.

To see the radical difference between the poets, I recommend reading Robert Frost’s wonderful poem, much preferred in tone to Ezra’s, and one I quote frequently:

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

A statue of Robert Frost sits in front of the Old Main building on the University of Colorado campus. Once, CU was doing some construction work around the statue and put up a protective fence to be sure that it would not be damaged. Very quickly a sign appeared on this cage: “Free Bob.”

M has headed out to shovel our sidewalk and buy last-minute Thanksgiving supplies at King Soopers – and I have informed him that I will be blogging about his gross literate error. This has earned me the title “Evil Bloghead.”

I am indeed looking forward to the holiday, and the snow is welcome; it gives me a cozy feeling as I sit here typing away by the window. Oddly enough, "Winter is icumen in" also has always given me a cozy feeling – something about the inevitability, and therefore comfort, of the seasons. Not what Ezra had in mind, I am guessing.

Memory

In the second season of the television show Heroes, a major theme continues to be memories: “Memories are what make us human.” One hero has lost his memory. Another can steal memories. A third character is threatened with the horror of having his happiest memories obliterated: the day he met his wife, his wedding day, the memories of a daughter who has died.

In the movie Vanilla Sky, the main character David, after several perplexing experiences, ends up realizing that he has willingly given up terrible memories to live a “Lucid Dream,” but like any technology, this one is has glitches and he is left to the mercy of “Tech Support.”

Yes, memory is a two-edged sword. You may wish to expunge terrible (or merely mortifying) memories, but what will the unintended consequences be? And who would we be without our memories? One of the greatest fears as we age is that our memory will fade.

Memory and thoughts have an enormous impact on state of mind and well being. As I read more about meditation and mindfulness I’m noticing how much of the time my mind can be seized by images, earworms and whole trains of thinking that are trivial, painful, obsessive, repetitive, unproductive.

It is like suddenly noticing a background sound that has gradually increased to the point of a dull roar; as it finally reaches your consciousness it is suddenly excruciating.

Often my attempts at meditation remind me of a birds trapped indoors, battering themselves against the daylight from outside windows, trying to get free. Past memories that bring sorrow, future fears that bring anxiety. It is amazing how difficult it can be to focus on the here and now.

Hua Qing Hot Springs – China

Another sight I saw while visiting China was the Hua Qing Hot Springs at the foot of Mount Lishan about 40 minutes outside Xi’an. Many stories are told about these hot springs and their usage by emperors throughout China’s history, as well as a more recent altercation in which Chiang Kai-shek was captured there. A young woman who I hired as my guide for a quick tour told the story and pointed out the bullet holes in the window and wall.

During the Li Dynasty, Emperor Li had his Winter Palace at this location so that he could enjoy the hot springs. The hot water with its healing minerals was a great luxury in China. Of his 3,000 concubines (busy guy), Li had a favorite, the Empress Yang Guifei, and her statue still stands in one of the gardens.

The Great Wild Goose Pagoda - Xi'an, China

Another place I had a chance to visit while in Xi’an, China recently was the Great Wild Goose Pagoda. It is surrounded by beautiful gardens and many statues of Buddha. It was built in 652 during China’s Tang Dynasty.

Two white stone lions guarded the entrance to the Pagoda. In the garden nearby was a large golden Buddha and people were waiting in line to kneel before the statue. In a building nearby there were many niches with Buddhas deep inside, shining golden or glowing with blue backlight in the darkness, cushions at each station for those who wished to meditate or pay respects.

People were lighting candles and buying incense to light and burn at one spot.

Beautiful and colorful wall decorations and paintings surrounded the niches containing the various Buddha statues, including this one featuring one of my favorite shades of blue. The Great Wild Goose Pagoda was one of the more exotic sights I saw while in China, and I was glad I made it one of my tour stops.

Imperial Terracotta Warriors - Xi'an

Few people get the opportunity I got this past week. I traveled on business to Xi’an, China and Singapore. My first full day in China was on Sunday so I took a tour.

I hired a car to take me about 45 minutes outside the city of of Xi’an to view the world famous 2,200-year-old archaeological dig with, the Imperial Terracotta Warriors. The ancient Chinese emperor Qin Shi Huang, in an elaborate attempt to preserve his soul forever, had over 6,000 warriors made of clay and fired in kilns to guard his tomb. All of them were larger than life size (for China anyway), and each with distinctly different features and postures. Figures for archers, generals, and other soldiers were made, facing to the east, west, north and south, guarding the emperor’s tomb. A separate area for headquarters has those figures facing inward; the theory is they are strategizing their next battle. Horses were also made, some saddled for the soldiers and some to pull chariots. Bronze arrows, shields, horses and chariots were also buried at the site, as well as other artwork including bronze cranes and other water birds.

Now the Chinese people are unearthing and painstakingly restoring them. They stand in row upon row in the earthen holes. The original statues had color as well, but the Chinese quickly discovered that once they were unearthed and exposed to the air, the color faded. A display shows what some of them looked like before fading.

I spent the extra money to hire a Chinese tour guide who spoke English, Liu Hong Jun, and he took me through the beautiful gardens with pomegranate and persimmon trees surrounding the site and to view the three separate excavation pits in various stages of restoration. It was a chilly fall day in China and the air was clearer here than in Xi’an itself which has quite a thick and murky atmosphere, the kind that makes your chest hurt a little bit after awhile.

The first pit was found in 1974 by a farmer named Yang who was working in a field. He or a relative still signs books about the museum to this day in the gift shop. My colleagues at work later told me that according to the story, this farmer had to stop signing books for awhile because the flash from the tourist’s cameras had made him temporarily blind; he seemed fine on the day I paid 150 Yuan to buy a book which he signed for free. I leave to the reader the question of whether this was really the original farmer or a surrogate standing in for the day.

My guide told stories of the many measures the emperor had taken, using concepts of Feng Shui, to align his palace and tomb correctly for best good fortune near the mystical Li Mountain. Emperor Qin began the work of his mausoleum when he was 13 years old and it took 38 years, using up to 720,000 conscripts at one point. He had the tomb builders buried alive to ensure that the location of the tomb was kept secret. The Qin Dynasty was a relatively short, cruel one and he was actually emperor of China for only fifteen years. His mausoleum, built of earth and wood with grass mats covering the tomb, was burned by a rival, destroying or damaging many of the relics. Emperor Qin was no friend to Confucians, often having them killed. In the end his efforts to live forever were futile. Confucius said:

"All men desire wealth and high status, but if these cannot be achieved in accordance with the moral law, then they should not be accepted. All men hate poverty and low status, but if these cannot be avoided in accordance with the moral law, then they should be accepted. How can anyone who departs from virtue be considered a Chun-Tzu? A Chun-Tzu never departs from virtue, not even for the time of a single meal. When he acts in haste, he acts according to virtue. In times of trouble, he acts according to virtue."

Autumn in Boulder

One of the most beautiful times of year in Boulder is fall. It is mid-October—we took a walk along Mapleton and nearby streets this morning. Even with a cloudy sky there was a certain mysterious, luminous quality to the leaves, especially the orange and red ones. For some reason, despite a couple of freezing nights, many flowers are still going strong and this is heartening. New buds are even forming. Winter is not here yet – it is a beautiful autumn. We ended up circling around to a Pearl Street coffee shop for a little journal writing, or “noodling” as M calls it. A couple of gray- bearded homeless guys sat out front on the low brick walls surrounding the flowerbeds, talking, smoking and reading the newspaper. One of the regulars, the skinny guy with the pirate hat, eye patch, and skull and crossbones flag who often sits with a small entourage at this spot, was not in evidence although his cart and flag were there. It is still reasonably good weather for these guys and they are probably managing okay for now – later in the fall and winter it will be a lot harder to see them outside in all kinds of weather.

Lost Lake Hike

Caitlin suggested a hike up to see the aspens, and Saturday morning she, Shannon and I headed up to Eldora. We took Hessie Townsite Trail to Devil’s Thumb and on up to Lost Lake. The aspens were gloriously gold against the deep green pine and it smelled wonderful.

I told the kids about the last time I had headed up this trail with the two of them; Shannon was riding in a backpack on my back, and Caitlin was still cozy inside me, waiting to be born about a month later. I was hiking with my brother and my husband and people would pass by and look at us curiously, seeing a small very pregnant woman with a kid on her back and two big men hiking beside her, kid free. But Shannon wasn’t comfortable on any back but mine, and so it goes. The picture is from a slightly earlier time, but you get the idea.

It was a glorious blue sky September day in Colorado, and we laughed and talked a lot all the way up, past a rushing stream, big rocks, and many dogs enjoying the trail and especially Lost Lake itself as they sloshed around the banks and fetched sticks thrown out into the lake.

I was glad my kids enjoy my company on a hike like this, and grateful to Caitlin for coming up with the idea. Also I was filled with joy to see again how well Caitlin and Shannon get along with each other and how much they enjoy each other's company.

They are friends, and that is not always the case with brothers and sisters. It is a wonderful memory.

Mitchell to Blue Lake Trail

Yesterday morning Mark and I drove up to Brainard and hiked Mitchell Lake Trail most of the way to Blue Lake. As we had hoped there were plenty of parking places the day after the holiday on a weekday.

It turns out Mark has very fond memories of this trail, recalling a hike he took on it with his Dad and Shannon, when Shannon was about seven years old. He remembers there was a snowfield near the top and the three of them had a snowball fight in summer – a happy memory.

We let two pleasant looking yet chattering women past us, and then headed up the pine-shaded trail, the light dappling the rocks, ferns and fallen logs in that way I love. I took lots of pictures. The smell of pine was deep and delicious. We stopped at one point and stood very still, listening to the peaceful silence in a moment of Zen. Only the rush of wind through the trees and the sound of running water could be heard.

Further up, Mitchell Lake was in a tranquil state, the water glimmering shades of brown, gray and green. As we moved above tree line we could look down below to a series of small lakes and rock formations, while above the clouds moved and reformed and grew as though alive in the blue sky overhead.

We made it far enough to sit on a promontory overlooking walls of talus and a fall of water staining the otherwise sandy-yellow rocks a darker gray. The water tumbled into a small stream below lined with bright green plants and a few alpine flowers. Mark spotted a fat marmot who, startled to see us, hustled away up the talus and was quickly camouflaged by the surrounding terrain. That’s the first time we’ve seen a marmot in the mountains in perhaps fifteen years.

We ate our ham and cheese sandwiches and rested awhile, then headed back down, our bodies protesting the long hike back over rough rocks much of the way. It was a wonderful day, and Mark asked me to send the best pictures to his Dad to help him remember that other happy hike long ago.

Summer Flowers

As the summer ends I want to hold fast to the memory of the beautiful flowers Mark's green thumb has kept blooming in our yard. They have given both him and me hours of joy, even though they are a lot of work. By sharing them here, I give a little past homage to my father's practice of sharing his Indiana garden flowers with friends, neighbors and nursing homes. Even though Mark and I don't pick the flowers and deliver them to others, we share them with the neighborhood and I now share them here.

There can be something calming about watering the garden and keeping it groomed, and at the same time it is a chore that calls to be done over and over again in the hot, dry Colorado summer in order not to lose the flowers to the heat, a chore that makes us ready for Autumn when it comes.

There is an essence of healing in flowers. Mark has created a small garden in the front yard we call the "Yellow Garden," which is one of the first sights I admire in the morning, and one of the first I am glad to see when I return home from work each evening. It always cheers me up.

It has several varieties of yellow flowers including a yellow snapdragon that brings back the memory of my grandfather first showing me how the snapdragon got its name, by holding the flower and squeezing the little jaws to open and close them like a little dragon.

Each year Mark says it was too much work; he will scale back or discontinue the gardening next year! And each year spring comes around and he has new ideas for expanding the yellow garden, or planting more morning glories.

Breathe

I have been working on taking deep breaths that fill my lungs and push out my belly, and then holding for a second and releasing the air in a big whoosh through my mouth. As I practice this, I sometimes relax into a state of well being, and often I yawn. Perhaps it's my imagination, but it seems occasionally I am rewarded with the tiniest rush of endorphin. I think this means I'm doing it right. I practice this several times a day, when walking, stretching, driving, sitting at the computer or bouncing on the ball I now have in my office.

I remember my Dad used to hold his breath, then release it in a rush through pursed lips: pffffff. He did it when he was working hard, concentrating on a delicate task of some sort, or otherwise working with his hands. I used to think he was just forgetting to breath, holding his breath as he concentrated and releasing it all at once when he remembered. However, Dad was stationed in France during World War II and one of his jobs was to defuse bombs. He rarely discussed this so I can only speculate: Could it be that way back then, at age 20, he had instinctively learned a way to breath that was calming and head-clearing, producing focus and mindfulness for a dangerous and delicate task?

Eckhart Tolle had this to say in "A New Earth:

"Someone recently showed me the annual prospectus for a large spiritual organization. When I looked through it, I was impressed by the wide choice of interesting seminars and workshops. It reminded me of a smorgasbord...The person asked me whether I could recommend one or two courses. "I don't know," I said. "They all look so interesting. But I do know this," I added. "Be aware of your breathing as often as you are able, whenever you remember. Do that for one year, and it will be more powerfully transformative than attending all of these courses. And it's free."

He also says:

...Being aware of your breath forces you into the present moment--the key to all inner transformation. Whenever you are conscious of your breath, you are absolutely present. You may also notice that you cannot think and be aware of your breathing. Conscious breathing stops your mind--but you are fully awake and highly alert."

So simple a concept: Remember to Breath.

Wish You Were Here

There is a succinct phrase Mark uses to describe death and one of his philosophies about it; I first heard him mention it when my Mom died and he says it comes from an old movie, although I have never found the reference. The phrase is: “You’re not here, you’re here, you’re not here.”

Somehow this links in with an earworm I’ve had for the past few weeks: the classic Pink Floyd tune circa 1975, “Wish You Were Here, ” by David Gilmour (music) and Roger Waters (lyrics). To me this is a song about the despair and grief you feel when someone you deeply love is not really there anymore—even when they might be right next to you.

The song begins with the sound of a woman’s voice on the radio and what sounds like a twist of the knob, scanning the channels, classical music, a search for a better station. Then strumming begins on a 12-string acoustic guitar, quietly scratchy at first as though over the radio. The sound seems to floating across a lake late at night. It gets a little louder and another guitar joins in with the lead. Finally the song starts:

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears,
Wish you were here.

Listen to it sometime. I swear it is a song about two people together but apart: "Wish You Were Here.” At the end, you can hear the lonely sound of wind scouring a desert or moor (or perhaps the dark side of the moon).

You’re not here, you’re here, you’re not here.

Expecto Patronum

In the celebrated J.K. Rawlings books about Harry Potter, one of the worst villains is the Dementor, a creature who feeds on happiness and positive emotions and sucks all hope and joy out of you, leaving behind only the coldest feelings of hopelessness and despair.

The remedy in the magical world of Harry Potter is a particular spell, Expecto Patronum, which when successfully performed invokes a silvery being call a Patronus filled with happiness and light – but who can feel no unhappiness and can therefore defend against the Dementors. The Patronus is an animal image, unique to each wizard or witch; Harry’s is a stag. The spell is difficult, and only successful if the wizard is strong enough to focus on one of his happiest thoughts or memories. Together the spell caster and the Patronus (Patronus is Latin for patron saint) are able to drive off the Dementors.

In the latest novel of the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, one of the climactic scenes has Harry and his friends Ron and Hermione desperately attempting to cast the Expecto Patronum spell but being overwhelmed with grief and sadness by an army of Dementors. Then three friends show up with new hope and strength, and the six of them together are able to conjure their Patronum and overcome the Dementors. It is a parable about how strength of will and determination to push back thoughts of sadness and hopelessness can win out, sometimes only with the help of friends. Rawlings is said to have suffered from depression, and perhaps this was drawn from her own life.

Lately I've been battling depression and despair myself. I have found that it actually helps to utter the mantra Expecto Patronum from time to time. Mind over mind. Who knew.

A Midsummer's Night Romp in the Woods

Last weekend I went back to Bloomington to see a show my sister put together. It was an amazing combination of dance, music and improvisation, held on a summer night, outside, deep in an Indiana woods and meadow. There was a soiree beforehand for Nell’s supporters and a party late into the night afterwards with a crowd of extremely interesting and creative people. A cabaret-style performance of show tunes was particularly during the soiree was wonderful, especially "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and the song from Porgy and Bess.

As the show started, George the tall troubadour led the audience on a walk through this woods. The theme was our interactions with and conception of God and the gods. A beautifully done folk song performed by Carrie and Krista about the mystical experience possible in the meadow, opened the show. Next was an operatic scene in which a hapless young woman humorously confessed that she had really done it now, and was then exhorted by God for having done it without consulting him first but on the other hand assured by Fate that she had no choice in doing it. We never know quite what “it” is but clearly it has caused a lot of grief. A Greek chorus led by Nell's friend Janiece stood by and chimed in on all the troubles and grief humans can get themselves into and the many plaints that result, not the least of which: "My dog has flees." In the end, a satyr lured the heroine off deep into the woods, and we followed.

We walked down the hill past mysterious lights held by members of the chorus amid thundering sounds of solemnity and tiny bell chimes, and then gathered to observe a quite incredible dance, which began with male and female shapes in shadow behind a red cloth, with chorus and music accompanying. The dance, done first together by Marielle and Robert, showed different aspects of a relationship between two people and perhaps also their relationship with spirituality; ultimately the larger shadow of a god hovered over the vulnerable human outstretched on the ground. Then they parted, and Robert did an amazingly powerful dance by himself with the long red cloth suspended from a tree, that seemed to show the emotion of wanting to reach out to love or be loved, and instead feeling trapped and anguished, but eventually finding one’s way back to the beginning and to life again.

After this we walked further to a hidden alcove in the forest, where we heard another dulcimer-accompanied musical piece by Carrie and Krista and later a drumming dialog deep in the woods, with a distantly heard and humorous argument/dialog/profession of love between a primitive couple.

We walked on to another clearing where the chorus of women stood, singing in a rhythmic African beat with great joy and making us all want to clap and join in. Then they stopped, picked up lights in both hands, and did a mysterious dance in the darkness the reminded me of fireflies. They began singing an old folk song and the audience joined in singing as well as we headed up the hill:

The water is wide,
I cannot get o’er.
Neither have I wings to fly.
Give me a boat
That will carry two.
And both shall row,
My true love and I.

It felt so good to sing along with that song—it soothed the soul. We walked back up and stood by the upper pond, where Scott did a beautifully creative dance from a platform in the middle of the pond, his body reflected in the water, with a blue ball of light that floated away from him and eventually returned to him as, in his dance, he emerged slowly from the water in an awakening, and eventually strode out of the pond toward a vision of a glowing angel on the far shore to whom he handed the ball, which I imagined represented his spirituality or soul.

Finally we walked to a simple stage, where Nell did her improvisational movement theater. This was the first time I had seen her do this particular kind of performance, and I was thrilled to finally see it. She spoke of memories we shared from our childhood, both heartbreaking (memories of my troubled brother) and beautiful. When a freight train and demolition sounds from the county fair threatened to distract her performance, she managed to weave them seamlessly into the storytelling. I especially loved her description of the candle boats on McCormick’s Creek during Y-camp and how magical they looked at night, floating down the stream. She talked about a conversation she had with my father where she asked him whether he believed in God. He replied that he did not believe in God, but believed in good, and that if we did good, he knew that it would come back around. To me this was a great way to end the show, tying back to the theme once more.

Nell is surrounded and helped to do all this each year by a loving group of astounding friends, some quite well known either locally or nationally for their creative work. I was hugely impressed by everything she and the group had accomplished with this show and look forward to seeing others in the future.

On Fern Canyon Trail

Today I hiked up from Devil’s Thumb to Fern Canyon Trail until it became so steep that I had to stop. Along the way I saw many wildflowers and tried to capture them with the still relatively new digital camera, but alas I am an amateur. There were several people on the trail, all friendly and happy to be there. The craggy area to the right of the trail was closed off to preserve wildlife, including eagles said to be nesting there, although the sign was circumspect about this and did not disclose the eagle part, probably to discourage exploration that would disturb the nests. There was also a statement clearly meant for climbers that mentioned a permanent closure of the area to climbing if climbers violated the closure period (I guess the $1,000 fine and 30 days in jail wasn’t enough of a threat).

I kept my eye on the sky but only spotted a chickadee on an upper branch, no big birds. I also spotted a black squirrel with his pointy ears, peering down at me from an upper branch, skittering around the tree trunk in alarm and making a bruck-bruck-bruck sound reminiscent of a chicken. I tried to capture him too with the camera, but was unsuccessful. Oh, well, if you insist, here is my best shot. I haven’t yet learned to click the shutter first and ask questions later. I missed a bee on one of the flowers the same way. I was happy to see a bee, given the dire news about the possibility that cell phones and other interference are confusing the honeybees and preventing them from their usual pollinating flight patterns.

As I spotted species after species of wildflower my thoughts turned to my mother who loved to quote the scientific genus and species for plants as she spotted them on a hike. I have tried to identify a few of the flowers I saw, in memory of her. I think that this one is a Siberian Aster, Aster sibiricus.

I also saw a yellow cactus flower. I think the cactus is a prickly pear, Opuntia phaeacantha, but am not sure. This is the first time I remember seeing a cactus flower in the wild.

Headed back down the trail I noticed some purple thistles, quite beautiful in their varying range, from flowers to fluff. The wildflower book mentions a variety called Hooker's Thistle, Cirsium hookerianum.

Face at Nissi's

On Ginny’s 50th Birthday I had the incredible fortune to be invited back to Nissi’s to hear a Colorado-based a capella men’s singing group called Face. Go here to hear a sample from Face and understand that everything you hear is done with their voices alone, each holding a mike on the stage. There are no instruments.

They were incredible, and I enjoyed every minute of it. They provide all percussion and other instruments via their voices alone (a fact that was dubiously received by at least one member of our party because they were so good at it). They also have a strong musical, choreographic and rhythmic sense with their entire bodies that made their performance a joy to watch. Each of the seven members of this troupe is hugely talented in his own way and contributed strongly to the whole. Additionally, given comments they made they do at least some of their own original arrangements, which lends another angle of creativity.

I especially enjoyed their version of John Lennon’s “Let it Be,” which they said was a brand new arrangement they were only performing for the second time, and also their version of Paul Simon’s “An American Tune,” which they related back to a classic choral piece by Bach, I believe, which they said had been the basis for Simon’s tune. You know this Paul Simon song if you hear the lyrics:

Oh, but I'm all right,
I'm all right
I'm just weary to my bones
Still, you don't expect to be bright and bon vivant
So far away from home
So far away from home

They began with the German classic, sung in (possibly fake?) German with many jokes about their ability to pronounce it, and them morphed it into the Paul Simon piece seamlessly, and with great emotion and insight.

In a rendition of Mancini’s “The Pink Panther,” they requested a random animal sound from the audience before the song began, and then ended up breaking up not only the crowd but the performers, as a hilarious attempt was made toward the end to introduce a donkey to the panther. They said that they had had a request for a monkey the night before, which I can only imagine.

Their percussion expert did a short set of “drum solos” that included a version of “Wipeout,” just to show his virtuosity with the drums, (actually sounds produced entirely with his own voice).

One of the most entertaining things is how the group occupies the entire stage, obviously enjoying the music as they move to it. You have the urge to move also. Try it, you’ll like it. They also make lots of jokes and clearly have an almost improv sense of humor – I laughed several times, which is definitely good for the soul.

This is a group that appears regularly at Nissi’s, so you will have other opportunities to see them. In fact, you can see them there on July 22 and 23 and again in late August. Recommendation: buy your tickets early at Nissi’s because it was a full house tonight. Once again I have to implore the population of Boulder County, and particularly Lafayette for heaven’s sake since they are right in your neighborhood, to check out Nissi’s and give them the support they deserve for their own support of live music in this area.

Face also mentioned they would be at Boulder’s new 29th Street Mall Friday night July 6 at 6:00 pm.

Water

It is hotter than hammering hell in Boulder today, verging on 100 degrees. The nice thing about Boulder is that no matter how hot it is, very cold water from the mountains flows through pipes, out of our faucets, and into our glasses for drinking. A quick cold shower can provide an amazing sense of well-being and refreshment, even in the heat of the noonday sun. Water is the beverage of choice for me, and I can’t seem to get enough of it this time of year.

A few years ago, we had a drought in Colorado and had to save our "gray water" from bathtubs and sinks to keep our flowers and grass alive. It was a bleak time, but I think it resulted in more mindfulness and appreciation of water and how to conserve it. I am grateful for this simple thing--fresh, clear water. We are so very lucky – for many people in many countries of the world clean water is an unobtainable luxury.

Rob Rio Revisited

Twenty-five years ago in South Boulder there was a tavern called La Paz, and in that tavern some nights we had the joy of hearing Rob Rio play boogie woogie piano blues. He was and is amazing - I cannot even describe it except that it makes me smile, laugh, clap and hoot each time I hear it - to understand you've gotta hear it for yourself.

Back then, Rob had long black hair down his back that he wore tied back to keep it out of the way, and often played with a cigarette hanging precariously from his mouth.

Due to the alertness of our friend Ginny, last night we had the unexpected pleasure of hearing him again after all these years, at Nissi’s, a new restaurant in Lafayette that is hosting live music many nights of the week. I walked away a renewed fan of Rob’s – and a new fan of Nissi’s. The local owners have great taste in music, genuinely support it, and also know how to run a high quality restaurant.

Support live music in Boulder County, and check out their calendar! If you want more of Rob, check out this youtube of him playing "Rocket 88"!

Hope for America

During a short hike up Chautauqua Trail in Boulder, and a good look at the Flatirons on this June Sunday morning, I had time to think about two hopeful articles I read recently. Luminescent clouds against a Colorado blue sky framing the Colorado Rockies can do this (give you hope).

The first article was in Newsweek. I have always enjoyed Fareed Zakaria’s analysis of the complex interplay of culture and politics in the Middle East. Last week he wrote an article about hope – the hope we must all hang on to for the future of America. He helps us remember who we are by describing what he saw in the United States when he first arrived here as an 18-year-old from India in 1982, during another period of great challenge and transition for our country with unemployment at 10.8% and interest rates at 15% as well as great unrest in many areas of the world. Despite this there was hope and optimism. Today, he says we are so seized by fear we have forgotten how to believe in ourselves. He says we must stop using our energy to bash W. and get ready to move on:

“To do this we must first tackle the consequences of our foreign policy of fear. Having spooked ourselves into believing that we have no option but to act fast, alone, unilaterally and preemptively, we have managed in six years to destroy decades of international good will, alienate allies, embolden enemies and yet solve few of the major international problems we face.” - Fareed Zakaria

His point is, we do have what it takes to win back the respect of the world and move forward. Fareed says: “What the world needs is an open, confident America.” I agree.

The second article was a column by Garrison Keillor, author and host of the radio show ”A Prairie Home Companion.” He writes about the serenity and simplicity of the Amish and of small towns in a column called “Making the Case for the Simple Life.” He concludes that…

“There are bandits and demagogues and red-eyed zealots and destructive visionaries out working the main roads, but back here in the little towns and hoods, the country survives on steadiness and some innovation.” - Garrison Keillor

Yes. Let us cease the negativity of Bush bashing – and elect a new administration that will lead with hope, optimism, steadiness and innovation.

My daughter Caitlin says that I am a "mombie" when I am playing Scrabble on-line. This is probably because I am totally focused on the game, and less than responsive to queries or comments while I'm playing. The Scrabble site I favor, Scrabulous.com, has timed games. That means I have only about 10 minutes total for all my plays (this is configurable), and my opponent also has 10 minutes for his/her plays. If time runs out, I lose, even if I am ahead. Since I do have a competitive streak, I want to avoid losing and thus the concentration, resulting in my "mombie" behavior. If you want to play a game of Scrabble with me on-line, go to Scrabulous.com and look for my handle: lweather

My favorite rooms are: Auntie's Corner, Bingo Boomers, Coffeehouse and Riverside Cafe

Broken Record

Have you ever found yourself repeating the same story over and over again? If you say no, think again, because I think this tendency is part of the human condition. I’ve caught myself doing this with my closest family members and best friends—people who patiently listen to my stories and vents and are too courteous to tell me that I am repeating myself, again.

So I have a theory on why I (and other people) do this. I believe that in telling and retelling and retelling the story again and again, I am seeking resolution—some way to explain the sorrow or injustice or fear or pain at the center of the story, so that I can move on. But it’s like a broken record—it skips at the very same place and will keep repeating over and over again until I am able to take action by lifting up the needle and setting it down in another groove. (for those of you from generation whatever, see this link for the mechanics of phonograph records and needles.)

How, oh how, do you get to the next groove? That is the question.

You (and others if they get too tired of your repetition) can scream, “Stifle yourself!” at the first sign of broken record syndrome. But this does little or nothing to fix the problem...just as yelling at a skipping record album will not reset it to a new groove.

You have to finish the story. Explain it to yourself in a positive “I can move on now,” sort of way. Cognitive therapy is about this to some degree—hear the distorted thinking in your story (the catastrophic fear, the all-encompassing assumption, the unfounded guilt) and then offer yourself an counter-argument to keep it in perspective.

Suppose one of the repeating stories is about being a mother and making a mistake. Great mothers do make mistakes, because we are talking about on-the-job training here for one of the hardest jobs in the world, and nobody is perfect. Instead of going over and over the mistake you made, think of the ten things you did well as a mother recently—and write them down. Oh yes, you will come up with them once you get started. Because in all likelihood you are a good person, a good mother. Not perfect, but doing the best you can. This is what you would tell yourself if you could step outside and look back in.

And when someone else is being a broken record, help divert that person too—help him or her remember all the good things and finish the story in a positive way. As my Dad would have said, “I’d do it for a dog.”