My husband and I are sitting at a small table, one among many, in a packed pizza restaurant. We are listening to a panel discussion concerning the Occupy Movement. Most in the room are supportive of the issues being raised by this devoted and diverse sampling of America. The media has, of course, painted these pre-revolutionaries as on the outer societal edge, hippies, having-nothing-better-to-do vagrants, lower-class homeless. But on the stage in front of me are a young female civil rights lawyer, a university graduate student, a non-profit program coordinator and another university student. These Occupy Eugene representatives are articulate, worldly, both practical and idealistic, and dedicated to the cause. I am overwhelmed, in a good way, by their youthful zeal and their hope for a more egalitarian, “for the people” non-corporate government.
I feel terribly proud to be living in Oregon and to be in Eugene...the home of the Oregon Country Fair, the home to a number of anarchists, the home to a large older yet still idealistic group of 60's rebels. In my predominantly white, striving-to-attract-more-minorities town, we think, we question, we diversify our opinions, rather than accept the norm. The norm resides here in spades, but the striving for justice element in this room resides here too. The Eugene Occupy Site has become a beacon of safety for the homeless in our community. This is a main issue that the movement has brought to the foreground. Several hundred are being fed daily at the Eugene Occupy Protest Site and this evening, up on the restaurant stage, many individual stories of help and healing are being shared. Here in Eugene homeless are cited and issued tickets with expensive fines for living in their trucks or trying to camp on city property. The movement is giving voice to these voiceless.
While I empathically and intently listen, lately I have become a walking contradiction. Dan and I have always lived simply: one car for the whole family, a small by “normal” American standards one bath, one and a half bedroom house with no microwave, dishwasher, or big screen television. But I realize to many here in the United States and abroad, we live in abundant luxury. At times I feel completely selfish. Though I live in deepest gratitude and give to the causes I believe in, my aging has also given me a live-now splurge surge. For most of my existence, I have watched my money like a hawk scanning dinner. I'd forgo luxuries to save; I'd have an arrogant judgmental attitude about my sister's designer clothes and upscale lifestyle. Instead, I would buy at used clothing stores and only occasionally buy a house or garden item. The frugal me is there but a you are worth it, buy what you want before you die me has surfaced.
So I'm hearing stories of hardship while sitting on a pile of guilty purchases: since the daughter's flying of the coop, we have partially refurnished our cozy abode, but still no huge screened t.v., still no dishwasher or microwave, still no iPhone! And my taste in clothes has graduated. My mind tells me how superficial I am, but my heart leaps forward towards a wool jacket or tall leather boots or a warm sweater. These items are not found in used clothing stores. They are mostly practical, but more expensive than in my past. I could give that money to the homeless, I reflect, as I sit eating my pizza and salad and sipping Dan's beer. And with each bite and sip, another contradiction pops in my brain. Dan and I can eat out and if we so choose we can occasionally go to a fancy restaurant. Our house is nearly paid for and we do have the means to fix it up as we wish. We have a car (going for 150,000 miles) and we can buy gas. We have the means to travel.
Also a result of both aging and the empty nest, I buy symphony and opera tickets, while Dan buys rock, folk and first-run movie tickets. Our lower income says we are among the 99 percent, but since the recession began, I feel as though I am living in the lap of luxury. In the winter I am warm, dry and comfortable. The camping in the mud and freezing weather Occupy Movement is in stark contrast to how we survive. We may not be typical American consumers (no Black Friday, no present giving for the holidays) but we are consumers. This is my conundrum: how to follow the creed of living with less, while allowing for that once in awhile giving and splash of luxury. I want to be a returning to the land, communal purist. I want to cut my shopping, beyond food and necessities , to zero. The contradictions arise when I realize that shopping and the malls, eating out and attending movies, are the American answers to the town square and the sometimes human need of seeking people contact in a crowd.
The media portrays the Occupy Movement as one without purpose or goals. But I am here to attest that, if one listens, their goals are clearly defined: They are encouraging Americans to think, to reflect on how we live and why we live the lives we do. As I sit eating my pizza and listening to the discussion, I wonder how I can wrestle out a solution in my own life between the superficial and the profound, the crass commercial and the intangible higher moral values I want to live by. Shopping is my addiction: a getting out of the house socializing and a temporary fix for my being lonely, insecure, in the middle of a life transition. Like all addictions, I must first acknowledge my weakness aloud: I too am an American consumer. The Occupy Movement has given me, a member of the 99 percent, the gift of seeing my abundance and telling myself, I have enough, we have enough!
© 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
1 of the 99 Percent
It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man [or woman] stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, s/he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.
~~Robert Kennedy, 1965
My dad would be fascinated with the Occupy Movement. During his short sixty-six year life span, he evolved from Nixon patriot to Kennedy supporter, from a World War II Veteran devotee of war films to a pontificator of war's carnage and psychological damage, from a critic of his daughter's liberal politics to a man who simply loved his oldest offspring. I am grateful he missed the absurdity of the Afghanistan and Iraqi Wars, but I know he would want to get those “bastard terrorists,” especially that “Goddamned Gadhafi.”
As a college student, I evolved from a 50's kid raised in a white-only neighborhood to an embracer of diversity and fairness. As a teenager, I never argued with my father; I made up for this in my twenties. I remember at the end of one of our knockdown, dragout verbal battles, my dad called me a hippie and a communist. My dad's misunderstanding of who I was hurt me deeply, at the time. Now I can laugh, for as a young woman I was as straight and naïve as they come, never delving into pot, way too organized and nerdy, a virgin until I was twenty-three. Ironically, I married a true hippie of the sixties: a then yoga practicing, vegetarian, war pacifist, politically concerned pot smoker.
But I digress. Coming from upper class, German immigrant stock, my father lived a comfortable childhood in Seattle and the Bay Area. Then his father lost everything through bad business decisions and the Thirties'Depression. Thus my father understood early in his life the differences between the rich and the poor. With the help of the G.I. Bill, my dad, newly married and a father himself, was able to buy our small home up in the California foothills of the San Fernando Valley. As can be imagined home and family were the top priorities of the creators of this generation. We were on our way to being a traditional middle class family, with a stay-at-home mom, when Dad lost his job. This sent us into a tailspin, ending in a spell of church-food-box-poverty until Mom found full-time employment at a savings and loan. And this became my childhood: my mother staying over thirty years at the savings and loan while simultaneously being a mother and housewife, and my dad being made over into a working class, self-employed, curmudgeon gardener.
My father took to the working class like a fish takes to water. Growing up, I would have never guessed my father came from wealth. Though racist in conversations, my dad hung out with Hispanic gardeners and befriended Black custodians. A preacher of philosophical sermons by inclination, my father held tirades concerning the inequities of the rich and the downtrodden. His eyes would be riveted to the t.v. from the beginning of the Occupy Wall Street Movement. Oh, he'd bring out his epitaphs concerning hippies and near-do-wells and we'd be having lively conversations about what the goals of the Occupy Movement seem to be, but down deep in his hidden, huge heart, he'd understand, he'd admire and he'd agree: many of the hardworking 99 percent do not find America the land of milk and honey.
And here would be the key for my dad. Most of the working class are just that: people who put in a hell of a lot of working hours with a smaller-than-deserved amount of compensation, to simply feed their families. As he would say, we in the working class don't want to shirk our share of taxes and most of the time circumstances, luck, including backgrounds, culture and education, have not made it easy for us to become wealthy. We admire those who have found the honey. But goddamn it, people need to share and support each other in this great nation of ours, and tax fairness and better financial regulation would be a good start.
I am beginning to sound like my dad, especially when I know that he, too, would see simple solutions to our overwhelming debt crisis: get out of the wars we are in, bring the soldiers home, create jobs by rebuilding our infrastructure and emphasizing alternative sources of energy, increase rather than reduce our funds to education. My father would be appalled at the dumbing down of the American culture. He might be lured by the biased tirades of Fox News and the conservative talk show hosts, but he'd soon find his working class voice. He would not be fooled into thinking the Republican Party and these right-wingers were going have his welfare in mind.
As a young, impressionable, trying-to-find-herself, twenty year old, I was brought tears and frustration by the many social political arguments with my dad. I never thought that he understood where I was coming from. And maybe I was the one who didn't understand him. I saw his blowhard, bigoted inheritance and thought I would never be able to teach an old dog new tricks. But I forgot about my father's huge compassion for what he might label “the common man.” He would see immediately the increased inequities our society has been living with. He would remember the tent cities of the thirties' unemployed and he'd come to praise the Occupiers for their courage and their determination. “They're camping in the mud and the freezing cold for god's sake...they're putting themselves and their beliefs/our beliefs for a more humane America on the line...” Then my dad might be off running on about his muddy and cold trench living experiences during The War.
I miss my dad. I miss the arguments between an elder man who might have mellowed, but still been a fighter, and an aging daughter who is finding her philosophical footing beyond the black and the white, the right and the left, the rich and the poor. There were harsh words and walls built between us. There was the push and pull of a young woman refusing to be told what to do. But I knew all along there was love, and I knew all along I had been and would always be my father's devoted daughter! I have absorbed his truer values and made them my own: Have respect for all humans and creatures of the earth; Be kind and civil; Own a simple home filled with books and music and a garden; Be happy.
Early in our lives, my father, who was not a traditionally religious man and never attended church, gave each of his children a Bible with our individual names lettered in gold on the front. Inside he inscribed a personal message: Dear Girl – Remain securely happy, growing in love – interest – peacefully alert, respect forever greater mental satisfactions up ahead in life – regardless what others choose to do – you can find them (right at home) – Dad
Is this not basically what the Occupiers are trying to say?
© 2011
~~Robert Kennedy, 1965
My dad would be fascinated with the Occupy Movement. During his short sixty-six year life span, he evolved from Nixon patriot to Kennedy supporter, from a World War II Veteran devotee of war films to a pontificator of war's carnage and psychological damage, from a critic of his daughter's liberal politics to a man who simply loved his oldest offspring. I am grateful he missed the absurdity of the Afghanistan and Iraqi Wars, but I know he would want to get those “bastard terrorists,” especially that “Goddamned Gadhafi.”
As a college student, I evolved from a 50's kid raised in a white-only neighborhood to an embracer of diversity and fairness. As a teenager, I never argued with my father; I made up for this in my twenties. I remember at the end of one of our knockdown, dragout verbal battles, my dad called me a hippie and a communist. My dad's misunderstanding of who I was hurt me deeply, at the time. Now I can laugh, for as a young woman I was as straight and naïve as they come, never delving into pot, way too organized and nerdy, a virgin until I was twenty-three. Ironically, I married a true hippie of the sixties: a then yoga practicing, vegetarian, war pacifist, politically concerned pot smoker.
But I digress. Coming from upper class, German immigrant stock, my father lived a comfortable childhood in Seattle and the Bay Area. Then his father lost everything through bad business decisions and the Thirties'Depression. Thus my father understood early in his life the differences between the rich and the poor. With the help of the G.I. Bill, my dad, newly married and a father himself, was able to buy our small home up in the California foothills of the San Fernando Valley. As can be imagined home and family were the top priorities of the creators of this generation. We were on our way to being a traditional middle class family, with a stay-at-home mom, when Dad lost his job. This sent us into a tailspin, ending in a spell of church-food-box-poverty until Mom found full-time employment at a savings and loan. And this became my childhood: my mother staying over thirty years at the savings and loan while simultaneously being a mother and housewife, and my dad being made over into a working class, self-employed, curmudgeon gardener.
My father took to the working class like a fish takes to water. Growing up, I would have never guessed my father came from wealth. Though racist in conversations, my dad hung out with Hispanic gardeners and befriended Black custodians. A preacher of philosophical sermons by inclination, my father held tirades concerning the inequities of the rich and the downtrodden. His eyes would be riveted to the t.v. from the beginning of the Occupy Wall Street Movement. Oh, he'd bring out his epitaphs concerning hippies and near-do-wells and we'd be having lively conversations about what the goals of the Occupy Movement seem to be, but down deep in his hidden, huge heart, he'd understand, he'd admire and he'd agree: many of the hardworking 99 percent do not find America the land of milk and honey.
And here would be the key for my dad. Most of the working class are just that: people who put in a hell of a lot of working hours with a smaller-than-deserved amount of compensation, to simply feed their families. As he would say, we in the working class don't want to shirk our share of taxes and most of the time circumstances, luck, including backgrounds, culture and education, have not made it easy for us to become wealthy. We admire those who have found the honey. But goddamn it, people need to share and support each other in this great nation of ours, and tax fairness and better financial regulation would be a good start.
I am beginning to sound like my dad, especially when I know that he, too, would see simple solutions to our overwhelming debt crisis: get out of the wars we are in, bring the soldiers home, create jobs by rebuilding our infrastructure and emphasizing alternative sources of energy, increase rather than reduce our funds to education. My father would be appalled at the dumbing down of the American culture. He might be lured by the biased tirades of Fox News and the conservative talk show hosts, but he'd soon find his working class voice. He would not be fooled into thinking the Republican Party and these right-wingers were going have his welfare in mind.
As a young, impressionable, trying-to-find-herself, twenty year old, I was brought tears and frustration by the many social political arguments with my dad. I never thought that he understood where I was coming from. And maybe I was the one who didn't understand him. I saw his blowhard, bigoted inheritance and thought I would never be able to teach an old dog new tricks. But I forgot about my father's huge compassion for what he might label “the common man.” He would see immediately the increased inequities our society has been living with. He would remember the tent cities of the thirties' unemployed and he'd come to praise the Occupiers for their courage and their determination. “They're camping in the mud and the freezing cold for god's sake...they're putting themselves and their beliefs/our beliefs for a more humane America on the line...” Then my dad might be off running on about his muddy and cold trench living experiences during The War.
I miss my dad. I miss the arguments between an elder man who might have mellowed, but still been a fighter, and an aging daughter who is finding her philosophical footing beyond the black and the white, the right and the left, the rich and the poor. There were harsh words and walls built between us. There was the push and pull of a young woman refusing to be told what to do. But I knew all along there was love, and I knew all along I had been and would always be my father's devoted daughter! I have absorbed his truer values and made them my own: Have respect for all humans and creatures of the earth; Be kind and civil; Own a simple home filled with books and music and a garden; Be happy.
Early in our lives, my father, who was not a traditionally religious man and never attended church, gave each of his children a Bible with our individual names lettered in gold on the front. Inside he inscribed a personal message: Dear Girl – Remain securely happy, growing in love – interest – peacefully alert, respect forever greater mental satisfactions up ahead in life – regardless what others choose to do – you can find them (right at home) – Dad
Is this not basically what the Occupiers are trying to say?
© 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Ecstasy
Had I not seen the Sun
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made -
#1249 Emily Dickinson
I tend to wake up on Mondays feeling like I have to climb up and over the mountain of despair. I know I've been reading entirely too much Dickinson. My Emily Dickinson/Walt Whitman poetry class ended this last Saturday to a mixture of sadness (for the incredible gifts of insights from the mature participants and the scholarly and skilled teaching of the devoted poetry professor) and relief. Both poets eulogized aging and death. These are subjects I'm deeply interested in, but also subjects I now want to spend less of my precious time digesting. Dickinson had reasons for despair: being a 19th century woman, under the thumb of her patriarchal father and the century's predominantly male Christian philosophy, she decided to seek seclusion from this outer domination by pouring her soul into her poems. Emily was an amazingly sensitive, brave woman who faced her demons by attempting to carve out an opposing feminine, dare I say pagan, paradigm through the writing of her nearly 1800 poetic statements.
But I want to move beyond my Monday morning blues. Beginnings need to be celebrated, and not cursed. If I erase the labels and see only this day, I have deep gratitude for my blessings and feel wealthy beyond measure. The sun is shining away my dark mood by lighting up the last of autumn's brilliance. Earlier I stepped out on our garden deck and reeled at the beauty of the surrounding, colorful trees. According to my poetry professor, Autumn's October was Dickinson's favorite season, and I can understand why. It is the perfect antidote to winter's impending cold gloom. Take one dose of autumn color every day for at least thirty days. As Dickinson pointed out to her visiting niece as she entered Dickinson's window-surrounded, cozy, upstairs bedroom and study, “Here lies all the wealth in the world.” Even though creative solitude can conjure up desperate emotions, Emily knew it could also conjure up the highest bliss.
It is this bliss I am after when I write and more often than not it is this bliss I find. Even winter's dreary weather can be eased by intertwining spring remembrances with the verbalization of my fears and anxieties; by using words to describe those moments of existential anguish, a hidden, healing beauty surfaces. Being a slow learner in my sixties, I am only beginning to comprehend the complexity of human emotions and the human spirit. To truly understand joy and ecstasy, I find I have to also experience the sadness and the dark. Writing these words makes it all sound so simple. Write about the negative and the opposite will appear. Unfortunately, it's all caught in a tangle. This is what Dickinson and every other daring to be creative soul knows and this is what Dickinson labeled wealth: Going below the surface of our given times, our given human vulnerabilities, our human mortality.
Sometimes, as I look out on this miraculous, golden-red-leaf morning, I consider what I'm trying to say as total bullshit. Can words, art, or dance give us more joy than rushing outside and feeling the crunch of broken twigs under our feet, smelling the last faint whiff of rose perfume, feasting on the vision of dew glistening colors before the grays and naked trees are born? I'm always struggling between sitting here at my kitchen table with my overflowing, introspective brain and my itchy, trembling feet that want to explore the world beyond. Try as I might, for I have sporadically given up on my writing, I am unhappy unless I have both my inner and outer worlds. They feed each other and the two feed me and keep me alive.
What nourishes me even more is being able to discover, through my introspection, through my writing, a universal connection to other humans. During the last poetry class, I realized that Dickinson spoke beyond inner despair and found both hope and ecstasy in her outer, natural surroundings. My heart started beating faster as Dickinson's experiences with ecstasy led me to Virginia Woolf's “Moments of Being” - a time she described when the thick wool veil of life's dour reality is briefly removed to reveal an underlying, uplifting, universal, artistic beauty. Somehow, according to Woolf, no matter who or where we are, whether an unknown, down to earth farmer or a known, elegant composer, we each have the seeds of all other humans' potentials inside us.
Walking home from campus that afternoon, the vision of two of my own unforgotten, unveiled moments of being appeared: I am a serious and overly sensitive-to-my-surroundings college student living in Santa Barbara, California. One evening I am taking a solitary walk along a creaky harbor structure overlooking the ocean. The waves are breaking up against the wooden pilings and the fog is thickening. There is a glow to the hidden, evening sky and I am a twenty-something young woman trying to figure out her place in this soupy mystery. Just as I step down off the elevated, man-made path and my feet hit the smooth, white sands, a huge flock of seagulls rise from their standing positions and fill the sky above me. Standing in the midst of this wing fluttering whirlwind, I feel captivated by an ever-expanding magical experience. It is my answer to the mystery: right here, right now, I am being told I am simply another part of this miraculous cosmos. I am the sole person seeing the gulls soar and I am the sole person the seagulls see below.
At the same college, my residential dorm is located within a short distance of an enchanting lagoon. On another evening stroll, climbing over crumbling crags, hearing the roar of the ocean's waves behind my back, sensing a pre-storm stillness, I see a vivid, rainbow coming out of the night sky. An elderly gentleman, who is also walking the lagoon, whispers barely loud enough for me to hear: “We two are the only people here, witnessing this unusual natural phenomenon. What a gift we have been given.”
My Monday morning, which began with the blues, laced with thoughts of despair, took an ecstatic flight with remembrances of nature's wonders. How complex, blessed and rich a day of living can be! And for being there as observer and participant, for however long, I will be ever grateful.
© 2011
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made -
#1249 Emily Dickinson
I tend to wake up on Mondays feeling like I have to climb up and over the mountain of despair. I know I've been reading entirely too much Dickinson. My Emily Dickinson/Walt Whitman poetry class ended this last Saturday to a mixture of sadness (for the incredible gifts of insights from the mature participants and the scholarly and skilled teaching of the devoted poetry professor) and relief. Both poets eulogized aging and death. These are subjects I'm deeply interested in, but also subjects I now want to spend less of my precious time digesting. Dickinson had reasons for despair: being a 19th century woman, under the thumb of her patriarchal father and the century's predominantly male Christian philosophy, she decided to seek seclusion from this outer domination by pouring her soul into her poems. Emily was an amazingly sensitive, brave woman who faced her demons by attempting to carve out an opposing feminine, dare I say pagan, paradigm through the writing of her nearly 1800 poetic statements.
But I want to move beyond my Monday morning blues. Beginnings need to be celebrated, and not cursed. If I erase the labels and see only this day, I have deep gratitude for my blessings and feel wealthy beyond measure. The sun is shining away my dark mood by lighting up the last of autumn's brilliance. Earlier I stepped out on our garden deck and reeled at the beauty of the surrounding, colorful trees. According to my poetry professor, Autumn's October was Dickinson's favorite season, and I can understand why. It is the perfect antidote to winter's impending cold gloom. Take one dose of autumn color every day for at least thirty days. As Dickinson pointed out to her visiting niece as she entered Dickinson's window-surrounded, cozy, upstairs bedroom and study, “Here lies all the wealth in the world.” Even though creative solitude can conjure up desperate emotions, Emily knew it could also conjure up the highest bliss.
It is this bliss I am after when I write and more often than not it is this bliss I find. Even winter's dreary weather can be eased by intertwining spring remembrances with the verbalization of my fears and anxieties; by using words to describe those moments of existential anguish, a hidden, healing beauty surfaces. Being a slow learner in my sixties, I am only beginning to comprehend the complexity of human emotions and the human spirit. To truly understand joy and ecstasy, I find I have to also experience the sadness and the dark. Writing these words makes it all sound so simple. Write about the negative and the opposite will appear. Unfortunately, it's all caught in a tangle. This is what Dickinson and every other daring to be creative soul knows and this is what Dickinson labeled wealth: Going below the surface of our given times, our given human vulnerabilities, our human mortality.
Sometimes, as I look out on this miraculous, golden-red-leaf morning, I consider what I'm trying to say as total bullshit. Can words, art, or dance give us more joy than rushing outside and feeling the crunch of broken twigs under our feet, smelling the last faint whiff of rose perfume, feasting on the vision of dew glistening colors before the grays and naked trees are born? I'm always struggling between sitting here at my kitchen table with my overflowing, introspective brain and my itchy, trembling feet that want to explore the world beyond. Try as I might, for I have sporadically given up on my writing, I am unhappy unless I have both my inner and outer worlds. They feed each other and the two feed me and keep me alive.
What nourishes me even more is being able to discover, through my introspection, through my writing, a universal connection to other humans. During the last poetry class, I realized that Dickinson spoke beyond inner despair and found both hope and ecstasy in her outer, natural surroundings. My heart started beating faster as Dickinson's experiences with ecstasy led me to Virginia Woolf's “Moments of Being” - a time she described when the thick wool veil of life's dour reality is briefly removed to reveal an underlying, uplifting, universal, artistic beauty. Somehow, according to Woolf, no matter who or where we are, whether an unknown, down to earth farmer or a known, elegant composer, we each have the seeds of all other humans' potentials inside us.
Walking home from campus that afternoon, the vision of two of my own unforgotten, unveiled moments of being appeared: I am a serious and overly sensitive-to-my-surroundings college student living in Santa Barbara, California. One evening I am taking a solitary walk along a creaky harbor structure overlooking the ocean. The waves are breaking up against the wooden pilings and the fog is thickening. There is a glow to the hidden, evening sky and I am a twenty-something young woman trying to figure out her place in this soupy mystery. Just as I step down off the elevated, man-made path and my feet hit the smooth, white sands, a huge flock of seagulls rise from their standing positions and fill the sky above me. Standing in the midst of this wing fluttering whirlwind, I feel captivated by an ever-expanding magical experience. It is my answer to the mystery: right here, right now, I am being told I am simply another part of this miraculous cosmos. I am the sole person seeing the gulls soar and I am the sole person the seagulls see below.
At the same college, my residential dorm is located within a short distance of an enchanting lagoon. On another evening stroll, climbing over crumbling crags, hearing the roar of the ocean's waves behind my back, sensing a pre-storm stillness, I see a vivid, rainbow coming out of the night sky. An elderly gentleman, who is also walking the lagoon, whispers barely loud enough for me to hear: “We two are the only people here, witnessing this unusual natural phenomenon. What a gift we have been given.”
My Monday morning, which began with the blues, laced with thoughts of despair, took an ecstatic flight with remembrances of nature's wonders. How complex, blessed and rich a day of living can be! And for being there as observer and participant, for however long, I will be ever grateful.
© 2011
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