HOW STRANGE, WHAT SYNCHRONICITY, WHAT SERENDIPITY

Almost at the very moment I was lamenting the apparent disappearance (that's a funny phrase) of a beloved blogger, I get a friend request on Facebook from someone in New England (far from that little island in the South China Sea) and discover a compelling blog that goes right to my heart. A Buddhist Mason who loves his Karmann Ghia, I love it. But then I think of myself as a Taoist Episcopalian whose most meditative moments come top down in my Miata. This guy is some kind of yang version of myself.

As Bob says, "Friends will arrive, friends will disappear."

WHERE DO ALL THE BLOGGERS GO?

I've been a little concerned of late because one of my favorite blogs I follow, over on the Yang side, hasn't been updated for a couple of months. I am reluctant to de-link it, partly because I still go there to look at his photos, and I enjoy his music links. He never writes much --pictures being worth a thousand words, to someone somewhere. This guy has a photographic style that is unusual, like you are really looking out of his head, and over time you get a sense of who he might be. (A French socialist with great taste in music, possibly a doctor, but more likely a patient? A lot of photos from pharmacy and outpatient departments. His last photos include a hospital room. Not encouraging. If anyone knows his condition, I would love to know.)

Another blog I find interesting is so sporadic I wonder if he even tries anymore, but once a month or so, he pops up with something. I feel an affinity for him because his blog started just about the time mine did; I discovered his in a mutual link. He is surprising and sensitive and honest, but not very regular. (I suspect he is a very busy man with a family and a demanding job.) Not that I am so daily, but it is a habit you must cultivate just by doing. On the other hand, if you're not COMPELLED to blog, then you're not a blogger.

I recently* read Stephen King's ambiguously* encouraging On Writing book, and have been thinking about someone else's comment --writing isn't about having something interesting to say, it's about making anything you say interesting. A friend once told me in college when I was the school paper's editor, that I "could write with my mind tied behind my back." That's a backhanded compliment, but he thought what I wrote was interesting anyway.

There are a few things about Stephen King's style that bother me, but I've never read one of his books without pretty much barreling through it in just one or two sittings. And I just learned that Anthony Trollope wrote ALL THE TIME with daily quotas. (Stephen King does the same thing.) Not only did Trollope invent the English letterbox, which at the time was a revolution like having email--providing efficient private and direct correspondence--but he also might be credited with an early paradigm of the laptop computer. He built a little portable writing desk that he carried everywhere. He wrote on commuter trains or wherever he had spare time. It was all by hand, and on the road he used a pencil so he didn't have to worry about running out of ink, the equivalent of a battery failure.

But I digress.

I worry about my missing or absent bloggers. In the blogosphere (what a creepy word), we exist only in our posts. To be sure, on the positive yang side, assuming the servers keep working, there's a kind of immortality there. But in the end, we don't even know who cares.

*Mr. King would really like me to edit out these adverbs, feeling they are unnecessary. But I like adverbs, and the passive voice, too, where appropriate. But I think I know how to use them effectively. (Ooops.)

HOT DIGGITY DOG DIGGITY

I have been one to congratulate the Outdoor Circle for defending trees and keeping Hawaii from looking like Florida, where grotesque billboards often block the most gorgeous views, but this protest is downright silly. Big weiner causes big heartburn, I guess.

I am cravin' a hot dog! I know I have a Weinermobile Matchbox Car somewhere, and I think I also have an Oscar Mayer weiner-whistle from 1956 (a choking hazard, to be sure). And now I'm thinking this might be a possible next vehicle after TAO 61 reaches Nirvana.

HOME SICK, HOMESICK

Called in sick today, not something I do very often, and with new presumably more liberal leave policies -- PTO -- which combine sick and vacation time, I must consider if it's real sick or mental health leave I'm requiring.

The trouble with being home sick is that you never (except for those now obsolete mental health days) get to enjoy it. Because you're sick. Mostly I've been sleeping, my malaise punctuated with very odd dreams. On an ordinary well day, you sometimes think, "If only I could stay home today and ... read, paint, cook, clean, create clever ring tones for the cell phone, maybe even sleep." But home sick, and all you can do is sleep. And read maybe, a couple of pages at a time. And I have been reading, Stephen King's On Writing, not a bad memoir and inspiring as I embark on trying to write a whole book. That's probably why my dreams were so odd though, channeling Stephen, I dreamed I was keeping the ashes of two of my friend's children in shoeboxes --this all seemed very necessary. I was taking care of them for her. But they kept falling out and getting mingled with dust bunnies, cat litter, and other floorsweepings, and each other, the horror. King would probably go somewhere with this, and I guess I am, here, in a way.

Sickabed makes me think of childhood. My own memories of such times are illustrated like Jesse Wilcox Smith's image, above, and the one accompanying Robert Louis Stevenson's poem about the little boy and his toy soldiers, below. I would play with bucolic little cows and horses and ballerina dolls in among the bed linens.

When sick, I was well indulged by my parents. My mother would regularly check on me, bringing tea and thermometers and wet rags for the forehead. When he arrived home from work, in that hour that separated day and evening for the family, my father would treat me to a new coloring book, maybe a fat 25 cent comic book "Special." One particular flu was made more bearable when he discovered a forgotten Christmas present in his desk drawer: a crystal radio. (He always treated me a bit like a boy. Who gives a girl a crystal radio kit?) He strung the antenna wire all over my bedroom and I listened to the outside world on a little plastic box that didn't need to be plugged in, with an earphone not so different than the one I use with my cell phone today.

I don't remember my parents ever actually calling in sick, although I'm sure my father must have. Everyone gets the flu sometime, and he was prone to sick headaches. I inherited his tendency to migraine, which used to incapacitate me from working for a day or so every six months. And of course until she returned to the work world when I was 13, my mother could have been sick every day, but she was always home. It is a problem for a housewife and mother; how do you call in sick?

So now, I long to be pampered when I'm under the weather. But my partner's response to illness is "Just leave me alone." Since we tend to treat others in the ways we like to be treated, this causes some issues. I have to demand the cool wet washrags; he has to tell me to stop fussing over him. Not a difference of the sexes, I think it has to do with how we were raised. He was a boy with an older and younger sister; my mother called me her "one and lonely." (I think she was the lonely one.) My mother was not so busy; his was.

Fortunately as adults, we learn how to take care of ourselves. Still, today, I'm just a little homesick.

RE-SETTING GOALS

It may not be obvious to my reader that I am not returning to Wudang, or any other place in China this fall. Circumstances bizarre enough for a novel have caused me to change my plans. So, in a sudden rush of yang, possibly instigated by TAO 61 (the car) reaching 200,000 miles, last night at 3 a.m. I wrote the first chapter of my novel and roughly plotted out what is to follow, something that's been kicking around in my head for quite some time, usually at 3 a.m. So, if I can't go to Wudang, I can at least imagine it! And the fun part about fiction: you can make things up, you can throw all your experiences into a pot, simmer and season, and they come out as a whole new reality. It's also the hard part: things have to work, there has to be continuity, we have to avoid libel, there's supposed to be a theme. How I dreaded that in high school, being required to articulate the theme of a book I was reading. I never believed the authors did when they wrote anyway. It just develops in the outpouring. But I already recognize the theme that I have established. (Not unlike my blogs). I'll leave it to my future reader to articulate it.

I must say, I have been inspired by Ken Follett and that Eat-Pray-Love thing...if they can write such commercially successful drivel, why not me? Now I have lots to do when I wake up in the middle of the night. I have choices! I can meditate. I can read, I can write. (I will not do housework; I know some people who use such sleepless periods to catch up on laundry or cleaning.)

Speaking of Ken Follett and his goofy Gothic-cathedral novels, I spent some time Friday night and yesterday (between Chinese painting class and writing) watching the 7 episodes of "The Barchester Chronicles", BBC's 1982 adaptation of Anthony Trollope's The Warden and Barchester Towers. Newsweek recently named a Trollope novel as number one in the list of must-read timely fiction for the summer. Victorian lit was never my interest in school, but I am compelled by the Brits' ability to translate the stuff to TV. What dialogue, I laughed out loud and wept. It's great fun to watch these things back-to-back on a sultry lazy afternoon, not having to wait a week between installments.

And Alan Rickman as Obadiah Slope! He's right up there with the Tony Leungs (Tiny and Tall), Johnny Depp and Al Pacino. Guys with eyes! In Barchester, Rickman seems to foreshadow his portrayal of Snape in Harry Potter. He is the only reason I have watched those movies; he's my contemporary, and I only hope I have perfected myself as much since 1982. He was perfect then, and (as in the language of the Declaration of Independence) is more perfect now.

If my "to read" pile wasn't so towering, I would add some Trollope to it. But now I am content to enjoy the DVDs I picked up at Costco. Next up: The Way We Live Now, the story Newsweek recommended. Something about its relevance to Bernie Madoff! Time to get my car radio installed for some audio books.

AH, THE IRONY

I was just reading an item in the June 18 Newsweek about a reviewer's conflicted purchase of a Blu-ray player in order to fully enjoy Neil Young's recently released Archives, 10 discs of music, video and extras. Thinking of my rant yesterday about hands-free cell phone paraphernalia, I was amused that not only paying $300 for the discs, but an additional $350 for the player was thought to be worth it. (If you go to that Newsweek link above, note how very much Neil Young resembles House M.D., or the other way around, if you will.)

As I recall it was Neil Young who famously and adamantly whined (or was he singing?) when the CD began to take over recorded music in place of traditional vinyl. It was something about the extra noise you get from the record, missing from the CD. (More likely it was the clarity of the CD which made Neil Young sound even worse than he does...good song writer, but I really can't stand to hear him sing.)

Of course, if it was Bob Dylan (whose voice I know offends lots of people) I would probably pony up for a Blu-ray in a minute.

WE'RE ALL TREKKIES NOW!

Honolulu's "cell phone ban" went into effect yesterday, meaning that you can no longer use a cell phone in your car unless it is totally "hands-free," leaving those hands free to do other things like tune the radio, rummage in the glove box or smack the rambunctious kids in the back seat who should be buckled in anyway. (There's a fine for being unbuckled too.)

There was a booming business in Bluetooth headsets at my cell provider's retail store yesterday where I dropped a hundred bucks just to look like Uhura, the communications officer of the Starship Enterprise; not much of a fashion accessory, I must decorate it with Swarovski crystals or invent an earring that does the same job --THAT'S MY IDEA!

So now I have this thing that no self-respecting baby boomer would wear if it were a hearing aid and am not sure I will ever really use it --top-down in my Miata is pretty noisy for phone calls, although the savvy young sales clerk assures me my earpiece has the best noise reduction technology, although he didn't really say what kind of noise. I mean, most phone calls are noise. I guess I'll get used to the thing, although it means I have to set myself up before I start driving: insert the earpiece, make sure it's connected, become well-practiced in voice-activated dialing and answering. I don't even have a radio in my car; it's become a sanctuary for solitary thinking, and maybe I'll make an effort to keep it that way. I only ever make and receive calls in the car on a sort of emergency basis anyway: to announce how late I will be for work because I'm stuck in a traffic jam caused by the street sweepers on the interstate cleaning the potholes, or to answer my husband's "I'm at the grocery store, do you need anything?" queries.

I've never been an early adopter of new technology (not that this is new, but the REQUIREMENT is) so this seems like an imposition, something new to learn and get used to, against my will. Not that I think banning texting and video games while driving is a bad thing. (It just shows that common sense doesn't always prevail; a Honolulu bus driver was caught texting while driving a bus!) Ah, for the days of being tethered to black Bakelite telephones with cords you could play with while talking to a friend, no call-waiting, no caller ID (well, that IS an improvement).

I saw one animated young woman in a car today, apparently talking wildly to herself, gesturing madly with the hand in which she would ordinarily have been holding her phone. I had the impression she was not paying any more attention to driving -- possibly less --than she would have two days ago.

To be really safe, I should have got the "beam me up" version. I think they were all out.

ONE FINGER POINTING AT THE MOON

Last night I was a grateful guest at a fundraiser for the nature education non-profit with which I have some history of affiliation. At the outset I must say it was a lovely event, catching up with folks I hadn't seen since last year, nice food, wine and margaritas under the stars, and it probably raised more money than was expected in these times.

I was seated as usual with a table of academics, a nice variation from my usual social life with defense contractors. A younger couple was demonstrating the bazillion clever apps on their iPhones: a finger painting program, an easy way to view real estate listings with pictures of bathrooms and kitchens, YouTube searching for a '70s era video of David Bowie and Bing Crosby, ambient sound programs to help you sleep, light sabres, a flashlight! And you can make phone calls! Like a digital Swiss army knife.

At one point I tapped the shoulder of my dinner conversation partner whose eyes had begun to glaze over. I pointed up to the trees where the 98.5 percent waxing gibbous moon had just made its appearance over Diamond Head. It seemed like a Zen moment, because we had been talking about my Wudang meditation retreats and her travel to Ireland and, perhaps, a walking tour in Japan.

I was struck that this event, designed to support nature awareness through education, was going on a little oblivious to the spectacle unfolding above and beyond. The noise of the live auction and the preoccupation with virtual technology seemed alienated from the purpose. And I believe our preoccupation with technology --which I am using right now of course --tends to increase this alienation from nature.

I paid my way at the event; I bid high for a piece of art at the silent auction. But I think more importantly, I pointed my finger at the moon. At least one person noticed.

HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW

I was having a lunchtime chat with the girls the other day when the topic of underarm hair came up. "Who doesn't shave?" was the question, because someone was curious about the visible hair of a friend she had seen. Is it a European thing? An immigrant thing? What? "Gross!" was the general conclusion.

Mostly I was keeping my mouth shut; I have gone through frequent lengthy periods in my life when for ostensibly feminist political reasons (but that I see now as just plain laziness and conveniently living with a man that actually likes hairy women) that I abandoned the blade. And was happier for it.

I had just read an article in Tricycle, the Buddhist journal, about a renegade Roman Catholic priestess (really, that's another topic) who was assisting a Theravada nun in her final vows, which of course included the shaving of her head. The nun received the long black symbols of impermanence, spa-like, in a large lotus leaf. The priestess, I must note had, like me, very short gray hair, which I have been quite content with over the past 20 years. But honestly, I have sometimes entertained the notion of asking my hairdresser to just take it off, take it all off...even though I prefer the Taoist topknots to the Shaolin-style bald heads. (Although that pixie Pema Chodron is pretty cute.)

Funny this preoccupation with hair. I thought the musical had addressed all that. I was at that show in 1970, amidst a lot of tuxedoed folks in the audience feeling underdressed and out of place in my Army field jacket bedecked with bells and my partner in leather pants and a flowered calico shirt. Then I saw some other folks like us wandering in the aisles-- turned out they were in the cast.

What I didn't say at lunch the other day was that I thought shaving of pits and limbs was just a less violent body modification akin to footbinding and female circumcision (FGM), things women have sadly endured to distinguish themselves from the masculine. In some Song Dynasty erotic art, the only way you can tell the males from the females is that the females' feet are bound. (Penises seem to have a life of their own, like third parties in the encounter.) And FGM is said to be practiced to rid the female body of parts that are suggestive of the male's. You can make a case in both instances that these are to restrain women, the feminist case, but there is something to the artifice argument as well (like makeup and fragrance, which I genuinely enjoy as ways to channel my mother and Cleopatra.) Think about this the next time you are having an expensive laser hair removal, a painful wax job, or struggling with a dull and dangerous blade in the shower. (No double entendre intended.)

But again, for me the shaving always seemed to be just a nuisance; though stubble is repulsive, fully grown-out leg or pit hair is not unattractive or dirty. We've just been taught to see it that way. I shaved my legs for the first time at 13; it was such a weird feeling, like a neurological symptom, my truly naked legs against the bed sheets. Two days later I realized I was going to have to maintain this thing endlessly with a scary razor (they have improved). My mother gave me a little pink Schick electric model with a side reserved for each body area; it was never very effective. Then I discovered dark tights. And later, like the rest of us, suffered the messy trials of waxing (not a great DIY exercise) or that electric thing that ripped out your hair by the roots. (Applied to a non-consenting person, could that be considered torture?) Effective, but really, what are we doing? And I'm not even talking about bikini lines!

Today, the only hairs I really make an effort to remove (leg and pit hair diminish with age), are from the follicles that seem to have migrated from above my brow to my chin. They just don't belong there.

In the meantime we might all just step back and think what is so troubling about a little body hair. Kate Winslet looked great in The Reader's sex scenes with hairy pits, but then again maybe not the most convincing example: she was playing an illiterate prison guard. But we don't know that when we first see her. It didn't stop her young lover!

ADDENDUM: I just read that Kate Winslet had a hard time with the grow-out and maintenance phases of the body hair, especially in the bikini area. Somehow given her prediliction for full-frontal displays, I would have thought this was nothing.

MORE TREE WOES

It's not just me who gets upset about tree removal.
http://ilind.net/2009/05/12/tuesday-2an-urgent-plea-on-behalf-of-historic-kailua-trees/

Seems to me judicious pruning is called for. And why can't people just pay attention to avoid tripping over a tree root? My mother-in-law would have a thing or two to say.

HAPPY MOTHERS' DAY

Well, not exactly.  After some months of steady decline into very old age, my wonderful Druid-ish mother-in-law died last Tuesday at 89 in a hospice setting, attended by her husband, son, and daughters.  In a very normal series of events, her last days included one "hallucination," perceiving she was on a train.  In a way she was.  She was probably recalling the long rail trip that was one of the big events of her early life, as a young woman, traveling  with her first daughter and pregnant with my husband to meet her own who was off on an Army training mission in Texas. It must have been early 1945. Not long after reliving the train trip, she told the nurse she knew she was dying and ceased asking to go home, understanding her destination was elsewhere.  In the Anglican prayer book there is a prayer for a "happy death." She was happy on that train, I think.

In this situation, having lost my own mother to cancer nearly 40 years ago, I was caught up thinking about Mothers' Day while having  dialogue with a friend who is having a likely unreconcilable conflict with her own mom.  She has generated many pages of what amounts to testimony to this unfortunate relationship, love lost.  

I took the opportunity to help another friend, incapacitated in Kentucky, whose mother is afflicted with Alzheimer's and resident in a facility just a few minutes from my home.  I took her flowers and a card, on behalf of her daughter, playing surrogate daughter but really paying tribute to all Mothers. Perhaps I am coming under the influence of the Wizard's Marianist colleagues.

The moon is 100 percent full this early morning, 3 o'clock, May 10, which to my surprise is also the so-called "Optional Memorial" day of the already Blessed Father Damien, to be canonized this coming October as Hawaii's first Roman Catholic Saint.  

Ironically, the good Father became a Saint by doing 

the work of a good Mother. His life of dedication and selfless service is the subject of an excellent 1999 film. The effect of Christianity in Hawaii is not limited to those New England Protestant missionaries who invented the mu'umu'u for the sake of the natives' modesty, or more accurately, their own discomfort with the naked body.  Father Damien cared for lepers in a colony on Molokai, in a setting that looks not unlike the place shown here where I spent the afternoon after taking flowers to my friend's mother. I had a little solitary picnic of sushi and chocolate cream puffs near the Century plants in bloom -- those are really the tall flowers of a large kind of agave.  It was a good day for flowers; I appreciated the digital photos my own son sent me of wildflowers in Oregon.  They last, and didn't cost him too much,  and will serve as references for my pathetic Chinese painting efforts.  A good son, he makes me feel like a good mother.

TOO MANY MILESTONES

Nearly a month of milestones just flew by! The colonoscopy must have depleted my energy to have missed commenting on the calendar events surrounding Easter....all those mixed up solar/lunar Hebraic/Christian dates. Work just got in the way. Then I realized last weekend included Day 108, a mystical numerological moment in Taoist, and other spiritual traditions, marking among other things, the conclusion of three cycles of 36; it seemed like an auspicous time to get a haircut, rid myself of accumulated negative energy transferred by stressed running of hands through hair. I feel renewed.

And tomorrow is a new moon. The kolea will have to fly in the dark.

BALANCED?

Well, a little bit off maybe.  The delightful "sedative" I had "just to relax you" before the endoscopy left me just somewhat physically wobbly.  It was great.  After being fully prepped stem-to-stern, with a painless IV inserted by a very beautiful young blonde, the ubiquitous oxygen tube up my nose and draped around the ears, a funny bite pacifier thing in my mouth, the sedator announced she would just give me a little "good medicine to relax you."

 "Ahhhhhhhh..." If I had to swear in court that I actually had this upper GI procedure, I couldn't.  I wanted to say, "Ahhhhhhhh...okay, you can just hold it right there for a few hours," enjoying the feeling that we think we are trying to achieve during deep meditation or possibly after drinking a gallon of actual mai tais in a Waikiki beach bar.  I didn't make it past the third or fourth "h" in "Ahhhhhhhh."  Then I came back like a bodhisattva from my induced nirvana to be confronted with the already-in-progress visual journey through my colon on a high-def screen much much bigger than my laptop's, and with a background commentary that mostly involved the staff comparing notes about their teenaged sons' bad behavior.   (I kept wanting to say that they are all hopeless, but I couldn't do anything but laugh.  I'm not sure they heard me.)

I had been watching a DVD the night before while sloshing down 8-ounce faux mai tais every time the kitchen timer went off, like a really desparate happy hour.  Wong Kar Wai's "Fallen Angels" had more plot, but the visuals of my colon's twists and turns were just as interesting as Chris Doyle's cinematography. (It only lacked a Tony Leung.)  When I had finished drinking (yang?), the action was getting good for the evacuation (yin?) portion of the prep.  Being a little too distracted to follow another subtitled Hong Kong film, I watched "Moonstruck," an old favorite.  The DVD's extra feature about Italian cooking explains why I was craving spaghetti and a meatball on my release from the Endoscopy Unit.

So, speaking after the quick announcement from the doctor, "No polyps, no cancer, no problems from your GERD, just keep doing what you're doing," I must say that if you are of a certain age (50+), and have health insurance (shouldn't everyone?), there is no reason to avoid having a colonoscopy.  If Katie Couric can have it done on TV and Dave Barry can make it sound hilarious even in its apparent horror, you can ENJOY this.  Much in the way we reference root canals, now I can honestly say, when I am in a mind-numbing meeting or during some other tedious waste of my precious time, "I'd rather be having a colonoscopy." Really, I would.

GETTING IN BALANCE

Had a pleasant equinox last weekend (3/21), when everything felt very balanced, warm, dry and sunny, but I am dreading the new moon tomorrow a bit. My TCM* source says spring is a good time for cleansing to unblock stagnant liver qi, but I don't think what they intended was quickly drinking a gallon of salty pineapple-flavored electrolytic fluid until my gut runs as clear and vigorous as a mountain spring. Tomorrow is colonoscopy day! And since I will be all prepared, and have occasionally complained of heartburn (who hasn't?) I get a complimentary endoscopy too. I've never done this before, and it is time. All my friends are saying, "It's horrible, and you won't remember a thing." I hope. Dave Barry's colo-column at least gives me honest encouragement.

So I started this day-before with black coffee, have a can of chicken broth set aside for lunch, and will probably get through a busy day with Monk's tea. Then home to the large faux mai-tai. I can't believe some people do this high-colonic cleansing stuff on purpose, and possibly for fun. On the other hand, I wish we had senior health spas where, while one is getting probed, one might also get a mani-pedicure, maybe a waxing, a facial, even a teeth cleaning, while listening to a nice Hawaiian quartet, with attractive buff attendants in lava lavas and sarongs. At Ka'anapali. That might make it fun, especially if my health plan covered it. Then I could truly face the rising yang of spring as a whole new person.

Why can't they make a gin and-tonic-flavored cleansing solution?

*TCM=traditional Chinese medicine

DUCK ALARM
Some ducks have moved in under the bridge outside our parking lot, having found safe refuge from people, traffic, dogs and whatever else threatens ducks. In this rainy winter, the woodland stream is full and flowing, good duck conditions. But some of our human tenants are complaining about the ducks' morning quacking, a new note in our usual dawn chorus of birds, frogs, a couple roosters and an occasional horny Siamese cat. I like to hear them, the noises of nature waking up. I used to have a telephone shaped like a decoy that quacked instead of rang. It was weird, but less alarming than an ordinary phone ringer. There's something goofy about quacking that just makes me smile.

I'm betting that the complainers are also the same people who have big noisy cars and trucks with car alarms that go off at 2:30 a.m., stereo systems with excessive bass response and loud conversations in public spaces. Give me a duck any day. In fact, I might like a car alarm that quacked.

WHAT IS THIS THING CALLED BLOG?
(Actual date of this post: Feb. 26.)
A considerable few days ago, a blogger to whom I link asked his readers if he should decrease his blogging frequency from every day. And I've been wondering if I should increase my frequency. I'm approaching the first anniversary of the TAO 61's and I am quite aware of how FEW posts I make. Another of my friends has apparently discontinued a blog, I hope because she plans to publish its content in the real print world, although her copy editor will surely throw up hands in despair. There is an advantage in the world of on-line vanity publishing: NO PESKY EDITORS!

As a result of these events, I began thinking about the what and why of this blogging thing, self-publishing in the vast sea of noise that is blogland. I think a blog, being your own private publication (I exclude the sites meant to keep family and friends up with intensely personal activities), finds its nature in frequency and its topic and tone. Are you a daily newspaper (a shopper or the New York Times), a weekly news magazine (Time or People), a monthly review (The Atlantic Monthly or Vogue), a quarterly journal (Granta or Tricycle)? Such distinctions also describe the nature of the subscribers to those publications. My own blogging tendency, it is obvious, tends toward the biweekly essay (partly because of the compulsive copyediting). I admire Anna Quindlen, who turns out a piece for Newsweek about every other issue, alternating space with the more conservative George Will (a yin/yang thing). I'd love to have a gig like that, although I have little interest in politics, sports or the minutiae of current events. I aspire to be an essayist, not a commentator or entertainer, and I write mostly for myself. It's difficult for me to toss off the quick irate and irascible daily posts characteristic of so many bloggers, frequently not well written or edited or thoroughly thought out. (My rants turn up in personal emails.) I am still THINKING about events that happened a year or decades ago which I bring up from time to time to make a point. I am writing history (and possibly a novel).

So it happens that today, while reviewing the events of the past week or so, on the morning after the new moon (and Ash Wednesday) I feel the yang energy rising out of the empty yin. As it has been quite cool in the mornings here I said to the Wizard, "I wish I could go somewhere warm and just bask in the sun and relax." Then I remembered the many folks who are here in Hawaii right now from Minnesota and elsewhere doing exactly that. That's yin/yang relativity.

Later at the elevator (which at my building is outside), impatient to get to work, I was delayed by a small boy wearing hardly anything who came runnning to the door to hit the down button repeatedly. Then two more boys with the same military haircuts, an older and younger brother, the younger in the older's arms, arrived and blocked the door. "We have to wait for our mom," the half-naked one said. I was a little irritated; I needed to GO. But after a few moments she arrived. "Aren't you cold?" I asked the shirtless one. "No," he said, bouncing off the walls of the elevator. "My Dad's coming home today...from Iraq." Mom looked very weary and explained he was returning from a 15-month deployment. The youngest boy couldn't have been 15 months old; his father had never seen him. I abandoned my irritation and wished the family a happy reunion. These rambunctious boys and the weary mom have been in my mind since as a kind of prayer.

Another observation earlier this week, on Mardi Gras, I saw that someone had finally discarded their Christmas tree at the dumpster. So someone else lives season-to-season, event-to-event. Maybe it was the boys' tree. (The poor dry brown thing would surely be depressing for Dad's homecoming.) I bet whoever finally cleared out Christmas probably doesn't blog every day either!

WHO SPEAKS FOR THE TREES?
It's a real heartbreaker when trees become a hazard. The H-2, my parking area and lanai view, and now Waimanalo Beach. And to think that it is because of lack of respect and proper care for the trees. The Outdoor Circle can do a lot for the trees, but overall there has been a loss of the understanding of what trees, in their natural environments do for us to provide health and beauty. (Admittedly, I am speaking as someone who likes a real Christmas tree--that's why it is a kind of sacrifice.) Education is important. But even there, we focus more and more on science and high tech education, but environmental education, the kind that instills love and respect for nature, is a luxury no one wants to pay for anymore. A lot of us were indoctrinated into nature by our grandparents during quiet explorations in the woods and picnics at State Parks. If you can't give money to support organizations that promote these values, at least try to spend time with a young person in nature and pass on proper respect and your love for nature. Leave the handheld electronic devices at home, please. (Except for a cell phone for real emergencies!)

BACK IN THE BURROW
Yesterday, Punxsutawney Phil (was) returned to his burrow from which he (was) emerged, to let us all know it's still winter for a while. Even in Hawaii. PP is a part of my childhood; I have roots in that neighborhood of Pennsylvania Germans. Imagine my surprise when he became a national phenomena (mostly due to the movie), but he is not well understood in Hawaii. So I always bring my plush stuffed Phil to work on Feb. 2 to spread groundhog/whistlepig/marmot/woodchuck/ground squirrel awareness. Everyone in the office insists he's really a rat, a beaver or possibly an overweight mongoose. (You could get a nice one too, although mine is actually a marmot acquired on a trip to Pike's Peak in Colorado. He kept us good company when the transmission on the Explorer went out about a mile from the summit.)

Groundhog Day is co-located in time with the Catholic feast day of candlemas (40 days after Christmas) which celebrates Jesus as a "light to the world." There is a purification after childbirth reference too, and it is supposed to be when Christ was presented at the temple. There's that light thing again, solstices and other pagan seasonal markers, but I never understood why the groundhog would go back in his hole when he saw the sun. He's afraid of his shadow! I guess he would like to live in Seattle. Of course, I tend to pull the blanket over my head when the sun comes in the window in the mornings, especially on days I have early meetings scheduled. I return to the burrow; let me -- and Phil --get up when we want to.

SUFFERING THE NOISE

"Those who love their own noise are impatient of everything else.  They constantly defile the silence of the forests and the mountains and the sea.  ... The urgency of their swift movement seems to ignore the tranquility of nature by pretending to have a purpose. ... It is the silence of the world that is real.  Our noise, our business, our purposes, and all our fatuous statements about our purposes, our business, and our noise: these are the illusion." 

Thomas Merton

After the opera --I know  some people consider THAT noise, but actually this particular Puccini was quite quiet--a company party and the Superbowl. I feel like Punxatawney Phil.  I will try to pop back in my burrow tomorrow!  Six more weeks of winter...and silence.

The opera was indeed peaceful except for the last act in which Manon Lescaut dies in her beloved's arms in the desert of Louisiana. The Wizard remarked that he wasn't aware that anyone ever died in New Orleans for LACK of water.  Puccini's sense of geography seems a bit off.  It was nice to arrive at our seats, just in time after a lovely dinner at Cafe Sistina (perfect opera starting point) to greet last year's season ticket holders to our right.  She and I caught up on the grandchildren...a great-grandchild!...during the intermissions while our husbands paid no attention.  The Wizard was Googling with his Blackberry, her spouse was doing between-act stretches in the aisle.  

Although we were out until midnight, the next night, a company party, was not so easy. These events are always too small-talk, too compulsory, too gamey for our taste...gamey because it was a casino theme, and we don't gamble, even with play money. We left early, after applauding the awards for the more hardworking employees, and before the door prizes.  I might have lingered, but it was too...noisy.

Today I looked for peace and quiet, reading, cooking, painting, but noisy Superbowl revelry was to be heard through the trees.  I'd been invited to a Superbowl party, but one more evening out was too much, though I would like to see the friends.  Another quieter time perhaps.  The only thing I took notice of regarding the Superbowl (football, right?) was a Pepsi ad on the Yahoo homepage which featured Bob Dylan, weaving his "Forever Young" in and out of a more contemporary hip-hop rendition. This gives me mixed feelings.  It just seemed like...noise.

Ah, but as Thomas Merton reminds me...the noise is all illusion.

THE OX ARRIVES

Was awakened this morning, in the first hour of the new year, by a mosquito. I was irritated, and later consulted my feng shui calendar, which indicated that today was mostly auspicous or neutral, but that the hour from 1 to 3 a.m. was very bad. Indeed! I tossed and turned and sprayed DEET and tried breathing exercises. I may have slept, but can't be sure. I was partly disturbed because I started reading that damned "Eat, Pray, Love" book again. At the ashram, she is having all kinds of issues, which might have been more interesting if she'd used the third person in her narrative. More relevant to the present moment though, one evening she meditates to ignore the mosquitoes that are sipping her troubled blood. My mosquito was quite harmless I'm sure, but would you trust mosquitoes in India? Do they have malaria in India? Why am I reading this book? She says all the bites faded quickly. She was lucky: a couple weeks ago when our night visitors were out in large force, my complexion acquired a frightening adolescent appearance for a few days. While she has many interesting observations about meditation and spiritual quest (that's why I'm still reading it!), there are way too many problems of her own. I think I would have avoided her if she were on one of my own recent retreats --speaking of which, while trying to ignore my pathetic buzzing Year of the Ox harbinger by thinking about what to do in the coming year, I made a decision to go back to Wudang in September. Now the year begins to map itself out. I have a vision, a plan, a framework for the next cycle.

What's your plan?