Category Archives: make me smile

it’s the little things…

I got my right leg adjusted to be 1/8 of an inch shorter this afternoon.  All of a sudden, everything is feeling easier–and it’s shocking to me that I haven’t realized  that for about six months that I was walking on a limb that was a wee bit too long.

But what an amazing difference.  I feel so ready to take on the world tonite…one step at a time.  🙂

Roll through my chant…

Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat convulsive;
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel;
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating, shuttling at thy sides;
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar—now tapering in the distance;
Thy great protruding head-light, fix’d in front;
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple;
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack;
Thy knitted frame—thy springs and valves—the tremulous twinkle of thy wheels;
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering:
Type of the modern! emblem of motion and power! pulse of the continent!
For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see thee[…]

Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an earthquake, rousing
all!
~from Walt Whitman, “To a Locomotive in Winter”

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One of the best parts of my trip was that I traveled (and traveled and traveled) by train. I took high-speed trains from Brussels to Avignon, from there to Paris, and also to London and back. I’ve said before that I try to make sure that every single journey I take includes a ride on a train, and this one certainly didn’t disappoint! Some of my train trips even included spontaneous cheese-bread-waffle picnics like this one:


(And because I fear that I’ve spoken far too much about my wine-bibbing on this trip already on my blog, the beverage in my glass will remain unmentioned…but were I to mention it, I might note just how strange it felt to be allowed to drink such stuff on public transport…)

And…as a further indulgence for my train fetish, I also had the opportunity to visit and photograph a few antique cars near an old railway-station-turned-coffeehouse. I’m rather embarrassed to admit just how much I enjoyed that part of my adventure…

halfway…

photo

Almost six months ago, I posted about my desire to “fall in love” with new experiences this year.  I just re-read my post and realized that I’ve already accomplished everything on my list for 2011, some of these even more than once!  So here’s that post again, as a refresher (and a reminder of just how good it feels to live in the moment and not with fear of the future):

I hadn’t set any New Year’s resolutions until today. I randomly came across this poem (printed on a fabric flower) and I found my goal for the year (which actually does tie in nicely with Neil Gaiman’s wish for the year that I posted a few weeks ago)…

“I Love, and the World is Mine” by Florence Earle Coates:

For me the jasmine buds unfold
And silver daisies star the lea,
The crocus hoards the sunset gold,
And the wild rose breathes for me.
I feel the sap through the bough returning,
I share the skylark’s transport fine,
I know the fountain’s wayward yearning,
I love, and the world is mine!

I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved,
Still well remembered, grieve not me;
From all that darkened and deceived
Upsoars my spirit free.
For soft the hours repeat one story,
Sings the sea one strain divine;
My clouds arise all flushed with glory,—
I love, and the world is mine!

So in 2011, my goal is to fall in love each and every day.

I’ll fall in love with flowers
fresh bread
and cheese and muscat grapes
the sounds of slow trains on tracks
and the scent of your sun-warmed skin
wizened tree trunks
painting with bold color
and writing final drafts
the sensation of clinging to high cliff walls
and skiing down powdery slopes
my plane landing on unfamiliar runways
smiling
and sand between my toes
bright morning light reflecting off the water
and late-night skies full of stars.

This year I’ll be wholly and completely in love with the present moment, and at the same time in love with every step of the journey that I’m taking to accomplish my long term goals.

This is it, my friends. I’m so excited for what lies ahead….

The image above is taken from a vantage point overlooking one of the Gettysburg battlefields that I saw this past weekend…

signs

After my conference in Washington DC this past week, I had an open afternoon for sightseeing.  A last-minute plan evolved to see a Civil War battlefield–which sounded better than just about any other option available in the area.  And we decided to not just see any old battlefield, but the mother-of-all-battlefields: Gettysburg.

But on the way–just 20 miles shy of G’burg–I spied a sign off the side of the roadway for the National Civil War Medical Museum and I pretty much knew we had to detour.  Anyone who’s brought up Civil War medical practices at a party (and endured my blathering about said topic) knows that simply had to be done.  So we pulled off the road re-charted some GPS coordinates and soon found ourselves in the lobby of the museum, greeted by a man in a hodegpodge of CW regalia who began explaining the basics of medical practice in the era.  I didn’t say a word–just stood there with a silly grin on my face.  And then proceeded to oooo and ahhh over exhibits that featured some of the very same practitioners who frame chapters in my dissertation.  It was this geek-girl’s-dream-come-true (and was even better than the moment when I got to sit on Abe’s lap later that afternoon).

I’ve written before some of the reasons for my attraction to Civil War medicine, the largest being that I feel a kinship with so many of the soldiers because of missing a limb.  Reading their narratives in the museum was not at all unlike reading my own medical histories.  It’s a morbid curiosity, perhaps,…but the sight of the surgeon’s amputation saw and the manuals describing the procedure in detail are so familiar, and I’m terrifically attracted to all of the small details.  As an example: one of the images in the museum showed a kind of traction device that was used to hold down the stump-limbs to keep the tendons from pulling them upwards to the body (a tendency that is all-too-common among leg amputees).  My daily yoga practice accomplishes some of this same thing–including time spent on my stomach to stretch out my hip flexors.  Yesterday I was actually aching quite a bit from having deviated from my typical exercise routine–small muscle spasms radiating from my residual limb a strong sign that my legs and hips were unused to the hours spent sitting on planes and in a conference and needed some attention.  It’s such a small part of my experience as an amputee–these hip issues–that I rarely ever even mention it to anyone–but yet seeing that small mention of it in the exhibit reminded me one more time of why I’m so fascinated by the stories of these soldiers.

But after that I got plenty of exercise as we did the driving tour of the Gettysburg battlefields, eyeing nearly every single one of those 1300(!) markers in the fields telling that important story, and ending with my reading of the Gettysburg Address on the cemetery-spot where Lincoln first shared those words.

All-in-all, a rich afternoon–full of history and memory and story.  And so perfect for this pilgrim-historian-amputee girl.

 

 

mornings

my daily sunshine

For me mornings used to be a blur of getting ready for the day, getting the kids out the door, etc. I was generally bleary-eyed and short-tempered. There was so much rushing here and there and bumping around in a small kitchen with everyone juggling cereal boxes and leftovers and schoolbooks and such.

My mornings now are spent with me in meditation on the soft carpet of my living room. I open the back curtains and let the sunshine pour in. Ellycat typically joins me there, sunbathing. And more often than not, curling up into a soft purry ball in my lap.

Right now, seeing the green leaves on the boughs of the trees overhead makes me feel my own excitement for the promise of spring. There is so much new and interesting and happy in my life. I feel so alive and present to the gifts of this day, and to those in my future.

This morning I realized that it’s been just about 3 years since the injury in the garden that led to my massive leg infection and surgery.  As I told that story to a friend this weekend and showed him my scar, I marveled at the place that used to be sunken in (where the dead tissue and muscle was removed).  It’s now a regularly contoured calf muscle and the scar has faded to a pale pink seam.  There’s such satisfaction in knowing that old wounds do heal and that my leg (and my immune system) is now stronger than it ever was before.  From that experience I found my love for outrigger paddling and began to learn the ways of the ocean.  I never would have guessed then that such a hard time would eventually bring me so much strength, self-knowledge and joy.

catharsis and emergence (through ritual)

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For a long time I’ve wondered what to do with my wedding dress. It had severe mildew stains so it was unwearable. And certainly since the divorce it seemed like something that I would never want to wear again. I kept pulling it out of the closet and looking at it, wondering if I should simply toss it. But I kept thinking that it would work far better to do some sort of art project with it. I loved the dress and its simple lace–a reproduction of an Edwardian garden party dress. The ‘romantic’ within me knew that I couldn’t simply cast it into a trash bin.

At the same time, I’ve been yearning for some sort of ritual to bring closure to my marriage. I had planned some spectacular way to throw my wedding rings into the Back Bay, but it just didn’t feel right. So it seemed more apropos to use the dress for my ritual. And I also knew that it needed to involve the ocean. My ocean. My beach. Near where John proposed and where we created all of our family memories of the Balboa FunZone, kayaking, and bonfires. As these ideas percolated around in my brain, a plan came together. And a photographer-friend was as delighted to be a part of this ritual as I was to perform it.

That we did this the day after the tsunami, when the ocean water was still roiling with storm, was coincidence that turned into something meaningful. The currents came from Japan and touched our shores–just as in my cross-cultural marriage to a Japanese-American man. All of that connecting, all tugging at each of us, all testifying to the sometimes-destructive tide of relationships pulling us towards each other and then apart again…

I thought this might be a somber occasion.  I thought I might cry, or even feel loss and anger.  Instead, I was ebullient. Emerging feeling washed clean of the ugliness that came from the end of my relationship.  Stepping out of the sea alone and full of joy, flower petals scattered along my path…

[flickrslideshow acct_name=”pilgrimgirl” id=”72157626352812872″]

Just doing it…

This weekend I’m going to hit the ski slopes for the first time since 1988.  Nearly every time I’ve gone skiing something dramatically traumatic has occurred (mostly broken bones on my part–a wrist, an ankle, a hip pulled out of the socket).  I can’t even begin to express how excited I am to take this on at time in my life where I’m stronger, more body-aware, more ‘able’ than I ever have been before.  Something tells me that it’s all gonna be smooth sailing.  And if not…you can bet that there will be a great story to tell at the end of this adventure.  🙂

And all from my cup of tea…

afternoon tea

This weekend was filled with a multitude of pleasures (that I’m recalling while sipping my afternoon cuppa):

the thrill of a travel adventure, with places new and old
the Museum of Jurassic Technology, followed by tea and cakes with founder David Hildebrand Wilson
giggling (over and over again)
slurping on kosher dills at Junior’s
sunsets
celebrating a friend’s birthday, full of good fortune(s)
breakfasting on Eggs Benedict (yum, Hollandaise)
driving and singing
learning the secret ingredient for some famous guacamole
decoupage art (and a decoupage artist)
coffee with cardamom, after a morning of paddling in the sunshine

There were moments as I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard where the memories were so potent that I was knocked back and forth in time. I was there. I had been there. When things were different. When people were different. When trajectories were different. The 405 freeway. The familiar landmarks.  The taste of deli food.

And I knew I would always remember, but it would never be the same again. And I didn’t want it to be.

She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called petites madeleines, which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim’s shell. And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake.  No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. … Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? … And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

~Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu