Finding Our Way

Waking Up With the Knee-pain Fairy

Carrie — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 17:12:00 GMT

I have been visited by the Knee-pain Fairy.

People I have known who have complained of knee pain seem to me to have had it for years, a kind of annoyance, nagging them and getting progressively worse over time. Even though I have been overweight for years, I knew I was fortunate to not be plagued by knee pain. Until this year.

I think it started with Wii Fit. (rft*##!gr@) I had been using it for yoga and step aerobics and stuff and being very careful and conservative, and doing very well. But, I got bored with the same-old, same-old and one fateful day, I decided to try the jogging exercise. I was ever so gentle and jogged a little around my living room. This was a bad idea for the knees. It was after that that I felt twinges and aches in my right knee.

I babied it, iced it, took pain reliever and then ignored it, figuring it would eventually go away. It was a little annoying, but I still got off the commuter bus 5 blocks early in the morning and walked several blocks out of my way in the afternoon, just to get in 25 minutes of brisk walking a day. It was something I could live with and I wasn’t going to let it slow me down. (To be sure, I’d never try jogging again, but walking is something we must do.)

I didn’t go to a doctor about it because it would get better, and then flare up, then get better, and so forth. Then, after several months, it didn’t get better any more, just less worse. I gotta get this checked out, I thought.

So, I called the orthopedist’s office and wanted to make an appointment with the nice young man who treated me when I messed up the tendons in my ankle years ago playing volley ball at my sister’s house, and then again a few years later when I had that infernal plantar fasciitis. He works in a group of doctors that together own the practice. So I call his office and tell them I want an appointment with Dr. P. “Oh, let me give you to his secretary Bonita.” I get transferred to Bonita but she does not answer her phone. It goes directly to voice-mail where she tells me to leave her a message. Geez. I leave her a message saying I want to make an appointment with Dr. P and I give her my work phone number to reach me. My work phone number has the benefit of ringing on my desk, and, ringing on my cell phone simultaneously.   I keep my cell phone with me at all times at work but I do not hear from her that day. I get home and there is a message from her in the middle of the day on my HOME phone. Geez Louise why can’t “Bonita” just do what I asked? And why is this so hard? Pissed off, I leave it alone. For several weeks.

The knee still is not right. I ice it. It does not seem to help. Weeks later, I call the orthopedists’ group again and, thinking I can make my way through some red tape, immediately ask for Bonita. “Oh, Bonita doesn’t work here anymore.” Grrr. I tell the lady I want to make an appointment with Dr. P. “I’ll transfer you to his secretary.” At which point, I get, you guessed it: voice-mail. This time it's for "Linda." I leave a message. She calls me back at some inconvenient time and gets my voice-mail and asks me to call her. Gimme a break. I’m not going through that again.

A few weeks later, I’m still having three bad days to every one good day with the knee, so I call again. I stop the lady before she transfers me to “his secretary” and I beg her to just put me on his calendar because this voice-mail-leave-a-message-crap is driving me crazy and this is my third attempt. She takes pity on me and acquiesces. As she peruses the schedule, she says, “He’s getting married this weekend you know.” I did not know. “And then he’ll be on his honeymoon…”. She puts me on his calendar for a date four weeks later – July 26. I tell her I will be suffering until then so she will feel bad for me but I hang up thinking, well, at least I got an appointment. Maybe I will have some good days and maybe it won’t be too bad for my upcoming trip to our daughter’s college for a full day of student and parent orientation, and maybe it won’t be so bad going on the family trip to Minnesota for a week. I have been dealing with this mostly with denial and positive thinking which in this case are one in the same. There’s also drugs. Four ibuprofen at a time, and we have left over Vicodin from Mary’s car accident….

Enter the Knee-pain Fairy to whack me with her wand and tell me to stop messing around. Whereas I could manage, limping around with a little pain in the front of my right knee, all of a sudden, out of the blue, I got this explosion of pain in the back of my left knee. Completely different in nature from the one that has annoyed me for months, this one was a debilitating rod of fiery torture that made me gasp and made the knee collapse when I tried to walk. WTF??? !!

This appeared the night before our not-to-be-rescheduled, exciting and happy visit to our baby’s new college. Well. Denial went with me in the car, wedged in next to the Knee-pain Fairy. It hurts the worst after sitting for a long time. Like a 2-hour car ride. Four ibuprofen at a time also went with me.   The meds did not touch the pain. I got out of the car and the Fairy assaulted me – BAM! – right in the back of the knee. YOWZA! I cried. I leaned on Gil for support as we started up the hill (goddammit) toward the campus. I had not squeezed his hand that hard since I was in labor with this same daughter 18 years ago. I was so amazed and shocked by the assault that it was all I could do to not cry out and embarrass Seattle as we proceeded to the school. Well, truth be told, I did not entirely keep quiet. I seem to remember shouts of Holy Moly! and something about fireworks. I couldn’t help it. But people couldn’t tell whether I was laughing or crying, so I think it was okay.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to walk too much during the day of meetings and presentations. When I did, it was pure, unadulterated torture. I would get up in my denial-best mind frame, ready to just walk, dammit, and whoa...! there it was again. Grab Gil’s arm, limp slowly, breathe. I was really grateful that Seattle’s day of orientation was separate from ours so that I wouldn’t completely ruin it for her. I did that at the end though, I’m pretty sure, when we joined up again for some last activities (like visiting dorm rooms) before heading home. By that time at the end of the day, the stress of fighting against the pain had worn me down completely. I was exhausted. I was tearful. I was desperate. Mostly, I was just in shock, not understanding where this came from.

I struggled through the next day, a Sunday. I even tried the Vicodin. It made me feel warm and loopy, but didn't help the pain a lot. I called in to work Monday and said I had something to take care of, namely, my ability to walk, and I would not be in. Then, I steeled myself to call the orthopedists’ group again. I called and told them my sob story and that I need to come in right away. Give me any doctor with an opening if Dr. P is on his honeymoon. “Oh, no – he’s back in the office now,” they said. Let me give you his assistant. Before I could yell, “Noooooo!” I was talking to Linda, (she actually picked up the phone!!) and explaining to her my needs. She said she saw an opening and could I come today at 2:30? “YES,” I said emphatically, and arranged to take Seattle with me.

I arrived at their offices with all my paperwork pre-filled-in, and using Seattle as my crutch. I held her hand in a vice grip and as beads of sweat collected on my brow, I approached the front desk and told them I had an appointment to see Dr. P at 2:30. The front desk chickie starts the “I’m looking through this computer screen full of colors and timeslots and dates” look and says, “Did you make this appointment today?” “YES.” “Did you have another appointment…?” “Yes, I did, on the 26th” I interrupt her. Gasp, groan, sweat. “Well, the 2:30 appointment is not for today, it is for Thursday.” “THAT IS A MISTAKE,” I assert, leaning forward, gripping the marble counter top. No way in HELL am I leaving this office without seeing a doctor. “Well, you’ll have to go back through that door and talk to his assistant, Linda.” Seattle assists me as I struggle through the door. I throw myself on Linda’s mercy, tell her I can’t walk, tell her she TOLD me it was today. More excuses and confusion ensued and I leaned on the counter looking pitiful. Finally another nurse-in-charge said they could “work me in” but Dr. P was already an hour behind schedule. I didn’t see as I had any other choice so I went to the waiting room to wait. I only waited a half hour and then I went in and saw Dr. P.

I was really worried that after all this, he too would treat me like a number, or only give me 5 minutes of time. But he was not like that. He was wonderful. He listened to my whole sad story, all my symptoms, my fears, my questions. He took x-rays, explained them to me, gave me treatment choices and let me decide how I wanted to handle the fact that I was leaving on vacation for a week. We decided on a 5-day treatment of oral steroids to calm down the inflammation and that I would schedule an MRI when I got back from Minnesota.

I filled the prescription and started to feel better the first day. The steroids knocked out the debilitating flame of pain behind my left knee, which meant that I could walk again -- with a serious limp from the pain in the other knee, but still, walking like Fred Sanford or Quasimoto was better than not walking at all.

People who see me say, Oh, that must be terrible. I’m sorry to hear you are in so much pain. However, since the steroids calmed down the acute inflammation, I gotta say, I know it could be worse. I don’t have sharp pain or even very, very strong pain. But my body still experiences all the “side effects” you’d think would come along with that kind of severe pain, meaning, I feel weakness, shaking, nausea, out of breath sometimes. It’s more like, if I were hanging off the side of a building just holding onto a knot at the end of a rope, and after awhile, my muscles just couldn’t hold on any more, and they started to hurt and weaken and shake and then I’m feeling like I want to scream a desperate, “Ahhhhhhh. Oh my God!” before I fall off the building to my death – THAT’S what it feels like. Only, that’s all going on inside of me just standing at the bus stop, or in the elevator, or next to someone’s desk. It’s ridiculous.

And, that’s my overarching reaction to all this – surprise, astonishment, confusion. You’d think I’d get used to it. My mom said that some people refer to their constant pain as “an old friend” that they’ve become accustomed to carrying around with them. I don’t think of this so much as an old friend as an unexpected house guest who wouldn’t leave. Because it’s part of my own body, it feels like the house guest is perhaps a relative, at least not someone I can get angry with or deny accommodations. But this guest has invaded me, is messy, unpredictable, loud, rude and really inconsiderate; it clamors for attention and hangs on me, to the point that if my own children or husband go to rest their arm around my shoulder, old visitor Pain, shrugs them off, saying, “Oh no! That puts too much pressure on her.” I am not fond of this guest. I don’t think I invited her, I really don’t. I know I’m overweight, but my doctor says this would have probably happened regardless. And I know that both parents and several siblings suffer from the same thing and have had knee replacements. So, maybe this is just a family tradition for this guest to come set up house in the family’s lives and it is my turn. But I am still reeling at her arrival and still shocked every day that I wake up and she’s still here.

Getting up in the morning is one of the worst times. I do still have the plantar fasciitis, which is most painful on the heel and foot first thing in the morning. Add to that the extreme stiffness and puffy feeling in the knee joints and I wonder why I have not yet bought a cane. I know why: it’s because the foot pain I’ve had before and I know it can go away. And the knee pain I feel sure can go away too.

If the conditions are right, I set to walking and it feels pretty good. It gets better as I take a few steps and loosen up. “Yay,” I think, “I’m walking! Look at me walk. This is great.” And I find I have about 32 good steps in me before it all starts to dissolve in there. If I ignore it and pick up the pace to a normal stride for me, the knees start to protest and wail as if to say, “W-w-w-wait a minute here! What do you think you’re DOING? You’re not trying to walk, are you? Are you crazy or something?!!” And, like two gears whose grease has worn down to nothing, I push, but pretty soon there’s no lubrication at all and the gears grind to a halt. This is not helpful to just stop walking in the middle of the hallway, an intersection or the street. (This is what I referred to in Minnesota as my “minus 5 mph speed” which inconveniently engaged in the Mall of America and down stretches of Nicollet Mall). So I keep going, with an astonished limp, confused and frustrated again. After repeating this nonsense all day, by the end of the day I just want to cry.

I write all this publicly because I bet that there are a lot of folks who can relate, seeing as knee-pain is the most common complaint in an orthopedist’s office.   I want to let you know that I too have a Knee-pain Fairy in my family tree and have had to deal with her moving in and all her rudeness. But this crisis has not been without opportunity and blessing.

At my worst, I was fortunate to read an article in a monthly magazine to which I subscribe. (Shambhala Sun, July 2010, article Questions That Help Us Wake Up, by Ezra Bayda, page 51.) The author told about his visit to Alcatraz prison.

“…it kept all its prisoners isolated in solitary cells. I heard the story of one prisoner, who when put into a pitch-black solitary cell as punishment, ripped a button off his shirt and threw it in the air. He would then get on his knees and look for it, then throw it again – just to avoid going crazy in the dark.

This example may sound like it has nothing to do with us, but the fact is we all have our own ways of avoiding the dark, and our own strategies for throwing buttons. They may look more sane and more productive, but they’re still attempts to push away our difficulties.”

I recognized the “button thrower” in me right away. Other times, I have described it as the “plate spinner” from the Ed Sullivan Show. But, there is certainly a component of my busy, productive, East-Coast paced life that keeps me distracted and unbalanced, throwing buttons in the dark, making busy work I say is to keep up with obligations, but is also to distract me from unbalance and dis-ease.

The article goes on to say that even though we know how to meditate, to bring peace and calm and an “awakened” state to our minds, when we are under severe emotional distress a different part of the brain kicks into gear as we go into cognitive shock. “Cognitive shock” – that’s a good way to describe my state of shock and astonishment concerning the pain that clings to my existence.    He goes on to say,

“During cognitive shock, the “old” brain, which is based on survival and defense, takes over. At this point we’re likely to attack, withdraw, or go numb, none of which is conducive to awareness… we’re fortunate if we can even remember that we want to be awake.

When clarity becomes obscured by the dark and swirling energy of emotional distress, it is useful to have some concise reminders to bring us back to reality…

…It is absolutely fundamental for us to realize that difficult situations and feelings are our opportunity to awaken into a more genuine way of living.”

So, he lists some questions as “concise reminders” to help us apply our conscious, awake brains to the desperate, pain-filled one, to try to bring us into better balance. Questions like, “What is going on right now?” which is an objective, dispassionate look at what’s happening in my life. My answer went something like this:

I’m suffering a breakdown of my knees and my energy and my attention as the pain drags me into a deliberate slowness of both mind and body. This is happening in the context of a life of busy-ness and business. Rising before dawn, 3-hour daily commute, full, crusher-busy days which leave little time or energy for attention to some of the things I value most. Values that are getting short-changed in this busy-ness: healthful eating to lose excess weight; dates and visits and appointments with friends; focused time writing; watching and planning my budget better.

Another clarifying question he poses is, “Can I see this as my path?” Can we see that this pain is “exactly what we need to work with in order to be free”? My answer went something like this:

Well, yeah. I see that, I do. The press and pressure of my daily life is too densely packed to give way to my good intentions. To make headway on those intentions, those neglected values, I have to BREAK the whole apparatus. I have to deconstruct, take apart, chip away, break away and let fall apart, so that there is light between the pieces, so that I can identify elements and be able to shape and move them into a better balanced whole. This pain is completely consistent with the disassembling of my life. I feel like with every limping, stumbling, trembling painful step I take through what was my fast-paced existence, I throw a stick into the spokes of my life wheel. It sputters, it bends, it chokes, it stops. It’s not pretty and it is painful, but it is a glorious path and an answer to prayer. How else would I have penetrated the dense material of my work-a-day existence? This is the way my soul chose, as an answer to my pitiful prayers of desire and good intentions. As I painfully fall apart, and my brain lapses into defensiveness, pity and tears, sometimes I remember that this IS my path, and I think of how beautifully this is breaking all the things that need to be broken in my life. And then I feel really grateful. And happy, and strong.

Another question he asks us to ask ourselves is, “Can I let this experience just BE?” One of the central outcomes of meditation is the ability to let things just be, without layering on our own prejudicial judgments that something is good or bad, worthy or not. We allow ourselves to just see the situation as it is. He says that letting this experience just be

“… also allows the quality of mercy or loving-kindness to come forth, because we’re no longer judging ourselves or our experience as defective. We’re finally willing to experience our life within the spaciousness of the heart, rather than through the self-limiting judgments of the mind.”

To which, I answer, “Of course.” Of course I can let this experience just be. I can let this be my path. It continues to be an effective dismantling of my life. I move slower; I ask for help; I listen more, because I’m too exhausted and distracted to be thinking about what I need to say; my routine is broken. This is all good.

So, when I have mentioned to you, in the midst of my whining and complaining and huffing and puffing against this pain, that I know that this is not without opportunity and blessing and good, well, this is what I meant. I am awake. So be it.

Copyright (c) 2010

Minneapolis Vacation Diary

Carrie — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 13:59:00 GMT

Saturday

Our flight to Minnesota was via Southwest airlines. It had been years since we sang our way into the number one priority boarding position in Southwest’s interesting model of non-assigned seating. It had changed a bit. They now had rows of pillars with numbers like 1-6, 7-10, etc., where you were supposed to line up in number order according to your boarding group A, B, C. We did our best to cooperate. Since our little family of 4 adults had sequential numbers 5, 6, 7, 8, at least that gave us the opportunity to board the plane together and choose the seats we wanted from what was left over after the dozens of people in group A had finished boarding. I was surprised when a wise-guy interloper comes up to Gil and says, “So, what number you got?” “5,” Gil tells him. Wiseguy doesn’t tell him what number he has. This is probably because he has number 56. He just uses this ruse to cut in line, stand next to Gil, and board early with us. So, we walk onto the jetway and there’s me and Gil, Wiseguy, then Seattle and Mary. This will not do. Wiseguy did not know he was sandwiching himself in between family members. I look back and call to my daughters, “Hey, you come up here with me… I want to know where you are.” Mission accomplished. I don’t know where Wiseguy sat, but, our family boarded together, with our choice of seats unmolested by the interloper.

This flight only got us as far as Chicago’s Midway airport where we had a two-hour layover. Because we had been up since 4:00 a.m., left without breakfast, and it was now 10:00 our time, we were hungry. Chicago was serving breakfast and we went to “Miller’s Pub, Serving Chicago Since 1935” in the airport where we ordered a bacon egg and cheese sandwich, French toast, pancakes and an omelet. All looked fabulous, freshly home-cooked. Too bad there was a rancid taste of some kind of bad cooking oil that pervaded each bite. I was very grateful later when I realized none of us got sick from it.

The flight into Bloomington, MN arrived early. It was sunny and uneventful. It was also hot when we arrived. Mary rented a Mitsubishi Gallant for us. There’s a first time for everything and this was her first exposure to how damn expensive it can be to rent a car for a week. She was kind of shell-shocked. When we explained that we should check out the body of the car for damage before leaving the parking lot so she didn’t get charged for a pre-existing scratch or something, she took it very seriously, got out of the car, inspected it carefully, and announced that there was indeed a 4 inch scratch on the passenger door. We waited in the air-conditioned vehicle while she schlepped back into the terminal to tell the rental car people to note this scratch on the record for the car so she didn’t have any trouble when returning it. It all went well, even though it was a hassle – more glitchy adult stuff she was learning to deal with.

Since more drivers meant more expense, she decided she would be the only driver for the trip. Which was fine for her because she has just a teeny “control problem” when she is forced to be a passenger in a car driven by either of her parents. And her 18-year old sister is useless since she hasn’t gotten her license, but if she did have one, she would, like the parents, “do everything wrong,” so this was the best arrangement for all.

We brought “Lee” – the Australian voice of our Garmin GPS system. This was a very good idea, and he guided us nicely to our hotel and then later to Lois & Rich’s elegant townhome in the heart of Minneapolis. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, it started to rain and we made a happy dash to the garage to the waiting embraces of our hosts.

We spent the next couple hours kibitzing and catching up on life and travels. They, having just been on a 4 week trip to Europe and us, having just been… well, living, for the past couple years since we’d seen them. They were solicitous about my ravaged knees as we planned our activities. I was on methylprednisone steroids to calm down the spectacular and debilitating pain that was my surprise visitor a week before. The doctor also gave me Vicodin, a narcotic, for pain. I strategically avoided the Vicodin so I would be free to enjoy some alcoholic treat Lois might have. Good decision, as Lois had a delightful “brandy slush” she made for us.

Dinner is always an adventure with this couple ‘cause they are both very good cooks, well-traveled, well-read and well-experienced in the fine points of nutrition and dining. For Saturday night, they decided to give us something Rich had with one of his friends in Quebec – make-your-own spring rolls. So they brought out a bowl of boiling water in which to dip clear paper rice pancakes and then all the stuff you would put on the rice paper before rolling it up: first, what Mary calls “spider web noodles” – these were clear (no color) gummy noodles in a bowl. When you tried to take some with tongs, they clung together like thick spider webs. I am guessing the taste would pretty much match spider webs too, although I am guessing because I haven’t tasted wet spider webs before. But, Gil said they gave the roll-ups some substance and made them hang together better and he liked them a lot. Other “stuffings” for the spring rolls were chopped dry-roasted peanuts, bean sprouts, tangy sauces, shrimp, pork, and sliced green onions. This was a great deal of fun, creative and adventurous. Lois added black cherries and cantaloupe to the table for good measure. And she followed up with a decadent homemade mud pie which she served with steak knives, the better to cut through the chocolate topping and Oreo bottom. In between was maple ice cream, peanuts, and gooey caramel.

After dinner, we went to visit a couple of almost-newlyweds in their new hundred-year-old house. It was charming and well-preserved with lots of wood trim, a few stained glass windows, high ceilings and custom appointments of trim, shelving, countertops and a serene backyard with perennials, an old tree and a small stone patio. They each had rooms for their creative outlets – his extra room held his drawing table and implements for his art; her extra room held her stomping board and dvd sound for her flamenco practice. It was great to see their youthful, progressive, creative values and personalities threaded through the elements of their home as they are building their life there together.

The evening together with fresh made mint tea and catch-up conversation was punctuated by loud sirens. “What’s that?” we asked. “Oh, that sound is a tornado warning.” A little later, “And that sound is the one for when it’s actually touched down somewhere.” Well, heck, guess we’d better turn on the radio. The radio play-by-play buzzed in the background of our living room conversation while we enjoyed each other’s company, waiting for the words that would send us to the basement, but instead, hearing reports that the activity was far enough North that we would be undisturbed.

Except for the rain, that is. When we thought the peril had passed, and that the rains had calmed down, we decided to head to our cars and make our way back to the hotel. We were wrong about the rains calming down part. Buckets of fire-hose spraying water tumbled from the dark sky as we dashed to the car. Sopping and giddy, we headed out. Lois and Rich had told us “the direct way” to get out of town and back on the road toward the hotel and said they would lead us in their car to Cedar Avenue, at which point we were supposed to turn left and they would turn right. We followed Lois & Rich and got stopped in front of a train crossing. Everyone bailed and made a U-turn to get out of there. Rich found his way back to the appointed Cedar Avenue turn. We had mounted in the car Lee, our GPS-dude and programmed in our destination, while still following Rich's car. Every time Lee said, “Turn right,” Rich would turn left, and vice verse. Monsoon-heavy, downpour rain flooded the streets. One ramp had us in water almost as deep as the tires. Because it was night and covered in water, Mary couldn’t see the lines on road. There was just glare, like driving on ice. She was driving on the shoulder, careening across the middle and back, all over the place! We made it back to the hotel. The rain stopped. Inside the hotel, we peeled off wet clothes and collapsed into bed.

Sunday

We went to cousin Rich and Alyssa's for lunch. Time to meet the newest member of the family, baby girl Zoie. Almost-newlyweds Adam and Andrea were there with their vegetarian brats (that's brats as in "bratwurst", not bratty vegetarian children). We also had fabulous home-made salads and burgers, with regular brats. Lois brought lemon bars and Adam brought what tasted like rhubarb chess pie – yum.

'Walked around the lake with the baby in a stroller. We were all kinda wishing someone was pushing us around in a stroller. 'Sat under old trees next to the lake with a breeze and watched as Zoie and her Gramma toddled all around a playground park.

MarSea stayed behind at Rich’s house to play the Wii. They chose Mario Party. They got through 2 games. Mary won both.

Back at Lois & Rich's house we said we wanted to play games, so Rich rummaged around in old boxes and cupboards. More brandy slush. Rich slayed Carrie, then Mary, in a game of Twixt. There was Connect Four (Mary always wins) and Scopa! which is the most fun because you get to play it with Italian accents. Then it was time for spaghetti dinner with texas toast and mixed greens salad and red wine.

After dinner was a walk along the GreenWay, a lush stone and treed pedestrian street that wends through the houses. 'Saw the playground, the dandelion fountain, the community pool and herb garden. While we were walking, sitting and talking, the girls were playing on a sandbox playground, Mary creating obstacle course runs for Seattle and videotaping her antics on a tire swing. It was dark by the time we got home.

Monday

We all went down to the Staybridge breakfast buffet, where, Seattle, who is not a breakfast person because she doesn’t like “breakfast food,” proceeded to get what she does consider to be adequate breakfast fare: Froot Loops and a chocolate muffin. Oh, and for good measure, when she finished those, she ate a hard-boiled egg. Looks to me like she's ready for college.

Next was a trip to the Mall of America. We had no illusions about how much we would be able to do there. The MoM has 2.5 milliion square feet of retail space, over 520 stores on three levels and four zones, each with its own styling, including a Nickelodean Theme Park complete with roller coasters.

We just wanted to get Seattle’s hair cut. The Mall staff raved about Progressions Salon, so we went there. We arrived around 11:00 a.m. and were greeted by Danni, the loquacious receptionist and then Tom, who, with practiced pretentiousness meant to convey to us walk-in customers that the salon is booked and in-demand so we should be grateful for any appointment, says, “Let’s see what we have open here…”.

I’m looking at two rows of about 12 empty salon chairs and holding back my comment of, “Gee, what about one of one of those openings there?” Finally, he says, “Ah, yes…". And he “finds” Chris for Seattle and Andy for Mary, who decided to get her hair cut too. Well, the Mall folks were right, Progressions was great. The girls each had a personal consultation, followed by the application of oil for a head massage, a shoulder massage, then shampoo, cut, and blow-dry. Chris was personable and kind, and even though Seattle’s bangs ended up too short, they will grow. Mary enjoyed conversation and styling with Andy, who reminded her of Adam Lambert. Afterwards, they both got a fun complimentary makeup touch-up by Tom. Mary bought some salon products to take with her.

While they were getting their hair done, Gil and I went to Johnston and Murphy and bought him new sandals which were so welcome for this trip. We found a leather kiosk with a nice purse for Carrie. We bought gourmet doggie cookie treats to take back to Lara as a thank you for keeping Valcor for the week. The treats are for Kako and Roxie, not for Lara. And Gil bought Seattle a number 18 Vikings jersey in honor of her 18th birthday this month.

Mary wanted a little adventure for lunch so we went to the Rainforest Café. Mary asked to get a table next to a fish tank, please and they were able to oblige. While we waited for our food, we watched the fish. There were unicorn/pinnochio fish, puffer fish and other brightly colored types that were mesmerizing to watch. One we wished we could figure out was the polkadot fish who seemed to be on a never ending repetitive loop. I wonder if fish can have obsessive-compulsive disorder? This guy would sprint to the upper left corner of the tank, back off, then go back slowly to the right bottom of the tank, turn around and make a running start to lunge toward the top left of the tank again. And again, and so on. The whole hour we were there, this dude did not change his well-worn path through the tank. We never figured out what was so interesting in the top left corner, or why he did not change his swimming pattern, while all the other fish were swirling around. Well, actually, several of them seemed to have their own particular paths and obsessions in the tank. The food was good, and there were two thunderstorms while we were there.

Since we had taken a hotel shuttle to get there, we were stuck with the schedule and had to catch the 2:45 shuttle back. As we were headed toward the exits, we passed a stage with a long queue of screaming girls and a camera crew. They were waiting for the appearance of Zac Efron, star of High School Musical, who was promoting his current movie, Charlie St. Cloud. Zac is the decade’s true teen heart throb, and Seattle, being a true teen, was maintaining a thinly veiled freak-out at the possibility of being so close to him. The mall police did not let us or anyone else stand around and gawk unless you committed yourself to the roped queue, which of course we couldn’t do because we had to catch the hotel shuttle. It took the girls hours to calm down and get over the trauma of being so close and yet so far from the fetching Zac.

The big event of the night was the Indians/Twins baseball game. Gil donned his official Indians jersey, which, thankfully, was the exact same colors as the Twins jerseys so we didn’t stick out too much. It was a night game and Rich kindly drove us over to the stadium and dropped us off. Gil had procured tickets for each of the three games that were the Indians’ engagement here in Minneapolis. He got Club Level, which was so cool, because it has tony restaurants and air conditioning and nice bathrooms and a very nice vantage point to the field. The Minneapolis city skyline was beautiful as a backdrop. The weather was balmy wiht a little breeze. Our seats were on the third base line and we could see everything with great clarity – fabulous.

The four of us enjoyed the game, Mary was particularly appreciative of all the sights, including the nice looking legs of a guy sitting next to us.

Gil says “the pitching was awful” because there were a total of 31 hits for the game which is very high. For someone like me, it was great because it meant lots of action. There were tons of foul balls in the stands, and Jim Thome, a former beloved Indian now playing for the Twins, hit a crushing 444 foot home run. The Indians continued to rack up the runs, many of which were in the never-ending 5th inning. I don’t know how long the 5th inning lasted, maybe an hour or more, most of which was played with 2 outs. Those poor Twins just couldn’t get the third out, and in the meantime the Indians were hitting, and walking and loading bases. The Indians won 10-4, holy cow! Gil left on cloud 9 and he restrained his rival team gloating so we did not get beat up on the way out of the stadium.

Rich picked us up and took us back to our car, where we fired up Lee, our GPS-dude, who led us to a highway entrance clearly marked 35W, and told us to “take ramp to MN-65.” This confused our driver Mary, who remembers several “recalculating” turns as we made our way home that night. Turns out 35W is the same as 65-MN. This is apparently a well-kept secret, but we figured it out during the week. We got home after midnight.

Tuesday

We went to the Mall of America to see the Underwater Adventures Aquarium. We paid for 4 adult all-day passes, the behind-the-scenes tour and “the Plunge” ride. Inside, we walked through a glass tunnel of water with large salt-water fish swimming above and all around us. Then we went for the behind the scenes tour with Heidi. We saw the “deck” which was the work area floor above the “fish tunnel.” Highlights were a batfish, a fish with two mouths and the quarantine tanks. She then took us to kitchen where we saw the detailed feeding schedule, which covered an entire wall, for all the fish in the tunnel tank. Heidi mentioned that inspectors often rate this kitchen higher for cleanliness than most of Minneapolis’s restaurant kitchens. They spend $1500-$3,000 a month on food, which is restaurant grade.
From this little tour of fish food, we learned that squid are handy food cause they have a little pocket they use to stuff in pills for fish who need meds, or to hide broccoli for the turtles who don’t want to eat their veggies. As I scanned the pails, I also saw an inhaler labeled “X’s Inhaler.” Apparently one of the shark’s, named X, had a breathing condition that required an inhaler. So, for those of you who have ever had to put a pill in a pocket just to have your dog eat around it and spit out the pill, or have had to try to stuff meds down a cat’s throat, just think of administering an inhaler to a shark.

They don’t feed them every day because they wouldn’t normally eat daily in the wild. Octopuses get the most creative diet because otherwise they would get bored. They also put their food in a jar and make them figure out how to open it for the same reaso - so they don't get bored.

Since sea turtles are a protected species, the government requires them to give them an annual physical. This involves hoisting the turtle out of the aquarium (the biggest one they have there is 350 pounds, smallest 80) and putting it onto a scale. I assume there’s blood tests and such, just like our physical exams. Heidi also took us to a jelly fish lab where we learned about what they eat and how deadly they are. Jelly fish that are dead on the shore will still sting you, so don’t touch.

When we were done we went back to the fish tunnel to watch them feed the rays and the sharks from long tong-like tools.

We proceeded to their amazing jellyfish exhibit. It was dark in there, and the walls were mirrors. It had several columns tanks of water; each tank had jelly fish in it and the tank was lit up with different colors of light which made the translucent graceful jelly fish look so beautiful. The end of the jelly fish exhibit was the gift store and, mercifully, a bench for Carrie and Gil. We sat there while Seattle and Mary took, oh, 45 minutes looking at all the gift store kitsch and finally buying a box of aquatic puzzles, pretty fish to hang on Mary’s wall and her “free gift with purchase” was a fishy refrigerator magnet.

Then we had to use our Plunge tickets. Plunge is one of those metal pods you get into, with a screen on the front inside. The pod moves, and jerks and plunges, on hydraulic springs to match up with whatever tormenting, death-defying video you are watching on the screen. You got to choose your “adventure” video. There were rides through canyons of fire, one involving dinosaurs, and one with two happy dolphins in blue water. The little lady who ran the thing said, “I give you best ride (this would be the way-too-long pit of fire ride)! We said, “No, no – we want the dolphin one.” She gave us the dolphin one. It was not a bucolic romp through the ocean with happy dolphins. It was a perilous repeated plunge through pirate coves and dangerous places I can’t really describe adequately, because, sitting in the front row as I was, I had my eyes closed, or mostly closed, much of the time, sucking in air and breathing out slowly, so that I would not hurl. There was a red panic STOP button right above me, but I didn’t want to be the one who ruined it for everyone else. Mercifully, the dolphin ride, one of the mildest and shortest, ended. When the hatch opened, the little lady apologized for this, saying it was way too short and she was going to let us go again on a “better” one. “NOOOO!" we all said in unison. And "Uh, thank you so much. That was great. Buh-bye now.” We all tripped our way out and just wanted fresh air and stable ground.

Next thing on the agenda was the second baseball game. We wanted to bring Rich, so Mary and Lois went over to take care of Zoie while Rich came to the ball game with Gil, Carrie, and Seattle. This was great fun because this is a new stadium for Minneapolis and Rich was getting out of the house and doing something special on a work night! The guys kibitzed about the game and Seattle and I enjoyed the experience. Highlights were that during the in-between inning videos of fans, the camera man would frame a man and a woman he thought were “together” and when they saw their face on the huge stadium screen, they were supposed to kiss. It was fun to read the lips of some of them, like the lady who would say, “Oh, I’m not doing that,” and then the guy would wrestle her into a kiss for the camera. Oh-so-romantic was one where the camera landed on a young couple, and the guy, Tony, pulled out an engagement ring and asked Edie to marry him. She gasped and cried and she said “Yes.” Another highlight was that the Indians won, 4-3. This, after the night before’s 10-3 win, or rather, route. This second win in a row did not endear us to the rabid Twins fans all around us as we cheered every pick-off and high-fly catch. The Indians after all, are in last place in the league and the Twins are in 4th, so this was just embarrassing. But Gil took it as just great hospitality for his trip to Minneapolis. While we were enjoying the game, Lois and Mary were playing with Zoie. Mary taught her twirlyball, and "head, shoulder knees and toes." They fed her dinner of toast and Pedialite, and Lois put her to bed. Then they watched TV and talked. We were all ready for bed when we finally rolled in at about midnight.

Wednesday

The girls and we split up. Girls went to Valley Fair amusement park. Carrie and Gil went to Target Stadium with Lois & Rich for the third game. Before the game, as I watched him get dressed, I just had to ask Gil, “Dear, is your not showering for 3 days part of, uh, the ritual to make sure the Indians win?” He said "Yes, of course." But then he realized, I guess, that he would be more pleasant to be near if he showered, so he did. This was treading on dangerous territory. He had showered off the winning sweat and grease from the previous two games and even changed his Indians game shirt. Oh, my. “No, matter. You are my good luck charm, Carrie.” No pressure here.

The group for game 3 was the ‘rents: Gil, Carrie, Lois and Rich. This was the noon game, different from the night games. We got there and our seats on the club level were in row 1. The club level food was amazing for a ball park. I decided I wanted authentic Minneapolis Polish food, so I got a Polish brat with saurkraut, sauteed onions and yellow peppers and a squirt of deli mustard. Classic and delicious!
Moving to our seats, the temperature reported for Minnneapolis on my Droid weather app was only 84, but in the direct noonday sun in it felt at least 88. The flags from the stadium show how much of a breeze there was – almost none. Lois was there in her baseball stylin', very excited to be at a game in her new stadium. Lois & Rich are not much for baseball, but she thoroughly enjoyed the sites and sounds and knew enough of the game to keep up. Like any good mom, she liked it when anybody (for either team) hit the ball or made a great catch and clapped and bounced up and down in her seat with glee. The Twins came out blazing. They scored in the first inning.

It wasn’t long before it was clear that I was simply going to bake in the sun. In inning two, I asked Gil to go get me a hat or visor and some more sun screen and water. He left and the Twins scored again. Not good. It was painful for Gil to go spend money on a Twins hat for me. I tried to soften the blow by asking for one that just had "TC" on it, for Twin Cities, pretty neutral. He brought me back the hat and some SPF 30 sunscreen and I was good to go for the next 5 innings. Unfortunately, so were the Twins. The damage had been done. Here was Gil, with his showered body, fluffy clean hair, fresh Indians shirt and me in a Minnesota Twin Cities cap for godsake. WHAT were we thinking?? The Twins were “stealin’ fools,” and manufactured more runs. Their hometown hero, catcher Joe Mauer, who the night before had made a devastatingly bad "executive decision" to bunt when he should have been "swinging away," did not even play in this game three. The Twins ended up winning 6-0. Lois said she thought she had been a very good Twin Cities Host, arranging for the Indians to win two games already, and this win for the Twins was just being fair. This was the game she was attending, after all. I had to agree.

We repaired to their lovely city-center townhome at Yale Place for conversation, more brandy slush, air conditioning, and naps. The girls were getting home from Valley Fair and were totally wrung out from the rides and the heat, so they stayed at the hotel while the ‘rents went to a Minneapolis restaurant in the ‘hood, Manning’s. It was two-for-one burger night, so we feasted on 8 ounce burgers, chips and fries. Gil and Rich had the mushroom Swiss burger and Lois and I had the California cheeseburger – terrific, all. After dinner, Rich took us on a driving tour of Minneapolis, meandering through the campus of Minnesota University and to a vantage point where we could see the Weisman Art Museum across the Mississippi River. Minneapolis has a lively and rich combination of buildings, parks and architectures with a lot of history and cache. It was a treat to get a tour. The girls missed all this. But then again, we missed all the roller coasters and funky shows at the amusement park. We were all tired and ready for sleep when we got back to our hotel.

Thursday

We slept in, barely making it to the hotel free breakfast buffet in time to choose something to eat before 9:30. Seattle didn’t even try; we left her in bed with the covers over her head. When we were finished with breakfast, we retrieved the laptop and Mary and I tried to fill in vacation diary details while Gil read USA Today.

Finally, around 1:00, we met up with Lois and Rich at their place for a day of touring more of Minneapolis. We set out on foot to wander Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis. This is basically a couple blocks from their back door, which is so cool. Nicollet is a spicy conglomeration of fresh farm-market produce, flower-sellers and vendors of homemade salsas and pickles and hummus. It runs down the middle of downtown, surrounded by office buildings, including Target, whose headquarters is in Minneapolis.

We walked past headquarters and to a Target store, which was two stories and whose fun feature was a double escalator, one for you and one for your cart: when you had your big red Target shopping cart with you and you wanted to go to the second floor, you approached the escalators, put your cart on one and you step on the one next to it. You both arrive at the second floor together.

While in Target, the girls went off and did girly shopping. Mary bought Seattle some beautiful tunic sweaters and an unbelievably cute sundress with pockets. What a great sister. They also bought firecracker lip gloss (which we all sampled, except for the guys), ibuprofen and granola bars. The granola bars were to tide them over till dinner because they were getting hungry. I figured since we ate so late (9:30) and left to go to Minneapolis and meet up with folks at 1:00, we could just wait till a 6:00 dinner to eat. (Eating on vacation tends to get out of hand, and I figured a little planned fasting wouldn’t hurt us.) Turns out the girls did not agree with my plan and when we got back to Lois & Rich’s at 4:00, sat down and made ham sandwiches for which Lois and Rich kindly provided the makings. Geez.

The parents took off to see the Guthrie Theater, an inspiring combination of angles and light and ghosts of performances past. Its observation hall juts way out, suspended over a highway, with views of the river and parks and cityscape. The windows were cut to frame and reflect scenes outside and all the surfaces were strategically shiny or matte to reflect the surrounding beauty of the building, sky and nature. Up on the 9th floor was the Amber Room, a “room” affixed to the outside of the building, made of amber glass so that you looked down through the floor to the streets 9 stories below and looked out to the same vistas through the sunny lenses of amber glass.

We went back home, anticipating Adam’s visit for dinner. He arrived shortly after Lois and Rich came home from Buca de Beppo’s with eggplant parmigiana, roast chicken, and salads. We feasted together on these plus spaghetti with homemade marinara sauce, fresh warm bread and corn on the cob. Lois likes to spoil her brother so she had also brought home a lemon meringue pie from Perkins. After dinner, Adam and I messed around on the computer researching honeymoon destinations for him and Andrea. Then we saw a slide show of Lois & Rich’s 3-week driving tour through France. We got back to our hotel and were glad to get into PJs and putter around – Mary with a puzzle, Seattle with a good book and a phone call with The Boy, Gil catching up on sports news on the telly and me doing this diary.

Friday

Our host family gave us four free passes into any of the Minnesota Historical Society museums. In the late morning we went to the Mill City Museum on 2nd Street. It was a museum hewn from the shell of a burned out flour mill. Inside we learned about Minneapolis’s heyday as a flour mill town. We learned about the armies of people who were part of the harvest – the men doing the field and machinery work and the women preparing food for the armies that traveled on trains. It was a pretty amazing life of manual labor back then, and people were so proud of the work they did in the mills. I liked that many of the voices were of people who lived and worked in the mills when they were young, and who were still around to narrate the photos and films. They left a lot of the abandoned machinery around so we could see how it worked, and an elevator took us to see the city from atop the mill, overlooking St. Anthony Falls on the Mississippi, the water that generated the power for the industry that built Minneapolis. We also learned that the city got its name from the convergence of the Native American word Minnehaha and the Greek word for city, polis. We saw all the generations of Betty Crocker, different kinds of wheat grains and the flour they produced, a kitchen with all the 1950’s measuring cups and blenders and such that Gil remembered with clarity. The girls played with dough and rolling pins and puzzles. We watched a great 19 minute history of the city. In several of these historical narrations, we encountered the Polish immigrants who occupied a ghetto they called Bohemian Flats. Seattle’s ears perked up because I am always calling her a Bohemian because of the slovenly life she loves. Now she sees she comes by the title honestly – it must be in her Polish genes. Unfortunately, that is my side of the family!

From there, we went to the Mall again with the idea to get Seattle’s phone. We visited the Verizon store on the 2nd floor but “Austin,” the sales guy who was apparently very helpful for 45 seconds last time Seattle went in, wasn’t there. The dude there said Austin was working in the 3rd floor Verizon store (MoM is so big, it has two of many stores). So, we walked half way around the mall and to the next floor only to be greeted by Patrick who said Austin wasn’t working today. Patrick was also very helpful, and after explaining our needs of sending the girl off to college with an appropriate phone that wouldn’t break us financially (that meant no data plan) and that would keep peace in the family concerning her ridiculous text messaging overages with The Boy, who is on a different wireless network, found us the right phone with a kicky teal blue skin, fun features, a full texting keyboard, and an unlimited text plan that even includes other wireless networks. Once I knew everything was on track, I went out to sit on a bench because these things take about as long to purchase as a car.

We next went to see the premier of the movie Salt, the new Angelina Jolie thriller. We liked it. I for one am glad they changed their minds and re-wrote it for a female heroine, otherwise we would have had to watch Tom Cruise in another one of these. Seeing Angelina as the bad-ass was fun. Very stressful and tense, though.

We all decided that for old times’ sake (memories of our Orlando vacation ) we would eat dinner at Bubba Gump’s. Gil and I got lemonade with flavored vodka, and we each had a good seafood dinner. For dessert, we ordered the large warm chocolate chip cookie with ice cream, caramel and whipped cream on top, with four forks. By the time Chrissy our waitress came by to see if we were enjoying the cookie, it was gone! We felt like saying, “Excuse me, miss, but there was supposed to be a cookie in this dessert, and as you can see, there is no cookie here. Please take it back and get us the right dessert.” We don’t think she would have fallen for it though, what with the ice cream and crumbs clinging to the corners of our mouths.

We came back to the hotel where Gil checked his work e-mail and the girls played Phase 10. Mary won.

Saturday

We got up and Gil went to the business center to print boarding passes. He gave them to Mary for safekeeping because she is the one who brought “the Mama bag,” which denotes a purse that is big enough to carry the various and sundry crap a family might need when traveling together. I myself preferred to travel light with my Cambodian 6x8” cloth bag slung diagonally across my body for security and no-hands convenience. Coincidentally, I bought this bag right here in Minneapolis in Loring Park years ago, the last time I was here.

We proceeded to Lois & Rich’s for Rich’s famous crepes breakfast. “The Boys,” – Adam and Richard – had come too, and though I know they were being kind and thoughtful and indulging us to let us see them one more time and say good-bye, I also know that any old Saturday or Sunday when dad says he’s doing crepes, those boys will show up for the feast. Lois had set the table in lovely fashion (her Mom Loretta would have been proud). Rich makes stacks of crepes and Lois provides all manner of building materials for you to create your own delectable wrapped treat. There was fresh pineapple, cherries, blueberries, bananas and strawberries. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, peanut butter, maple syrup, cream cheese, jams, jellys, cheese spread and lemon curd. I made one with cream cheese, lemon curd and blueberries. My second one had peanut butter, bacon, bananas and maple syrup. Really. Yum! Fresh coffee too.

After some more visiting, and downloading Minnesota photos from my camera to Lois’s laptop, we set out for the airport. Lee, the GPS-dude, filled in the necessary details missing from the Enterprise Rent-a-Car Minneapolis-to-airport printed directions. Thank God. I remember when travel was much more stressful while using folded paper maps with tiny print and colored squiggles representing roads. I could do it, but for someone like me who is somewhat geographically challenged, finding the starting point was always a challenge. Being sure you had a current-enough map was critical. Finding ways around unexpected detours was an adventure and it was particularly tricky to be reading the tiny map legend icons, labels and roads while at the same time trying to match my spoken directions to the road signs flying by – “I said SOUTH! Not North! There goes the sign... You just passed it!” If I looked up, then I couldn't find my place on the map I was juggling on my lap when I looked down again. Our genteel "Lee" in his amusing Aussie accent tells us exactly where we are going to turn. He announces it .7 or .5 miles ahead, then 500 feet ahead, then again while you’re on top of the turn, and into the turn. He stays in control when the lanes are all splitting up and tells you when you need to be in the left or right lane. When we don’t make a turn or run into a detour he didn’t know about (let’s say, a train crossing for instance) he always keeps his cool and calmly says, “Recalculating.” This is so much more civilized and allows us to enjoy the trip more with him guiding.

We had a couple hours to kill so we had lunch at a dusty restaurant with dusty, soapy food. Lois had sent with us our dessert – the last of the Keebler fudge stripe cookies and the chocolate frosted choco-cherry cake bars that she made. The latter made a fairly gooey mess in their plastic bag, but Gil and I were brave and risked ending up looking like a three-year-old with chocolate ice cream on a 90 degree day. It was delicious and they had a rest room to wash up.

On the SouthWest flight things were going along fine, but we were, after all, headed for a connecting flight stop in Chicago, so we knew anything could happen. We are used to being delayed because of the raucous weather in Chicago. So, no, the flight was not uneventful. About 20 minutes in, the plane started to pitch hard and a chorus of “WHOA!!” erupted from all the passengers at once. The flight attendant who was collecting trash was there one second, and boom, on the floor the next. The lady to Gil’s right asked if she could hang on to him, cause she “really didn’t like this and didn’t deal with this kind of thing very well.” And I breathed slowly in through the nose and out the mouth trying to keep my stomach from following the pitching and rolling of the plane. Gil said the clouds out the window were intimidating columns of storm. Well, we barreled on through, and approached the runway finally, “way too fast,” Gil declared. It was 4:40 p.m.

At Chicago’s Midway, we had a 7:20 connecting flight that would take us to Dulles. We found out quickly that it had been delayed till 7:35. Eh. 15 minutes, no big deal. I sent Gil on a hunt for ice cream. He reported back and I went to a place where he said I could get roasted pecans – mmm! As I headed for that store, Seattle picked up the scent of ice cream and followed right on my heels. When I got there, the lady said, “No, we don’t have roasted pecans, we don't have peanuts; we don't have any nuts. We don’t have any of the stuff listed on the board there. Except sauces. We got strawberry, caramel and chocolate.” Astonished and disappointed, I looked at her wide-eyed, then looked toward the board where I saw milk shakes listed. A malted would taste good, I thought. “Do you have malt for a malted milkshake?” “Malt? No.” As I glanced at the other specialties listed, she said, “And we don’t have the blueberry or raspberry either.” Good God, woman. Seattle, scanning the six tubs of ice cream, undeterred, said, “Is that chocolate?” It was. “I’ll have two scoops of chocolate with both chocolate and caramel syrups!" Then she added whipped cream, which the lady spritzed on unceremoniously as if it were ribbons of shaving cream or cake icing, not the lovely dolloped mounds of whipped cream you would normally see on top of two scoops of chocolate in a boat-shaped bowl. I had vanilla with some caramel. Interesting: Seattle and I sat on opposite sides of the terminal, and we commenced eating our ice cream at the same time. And, although I had one scoop with one syrup and she had two scoops with two syrups, we finished the last lick at precisely the same moment. Okay, so maybe this observation does not exactly qualify as “interesting.” But you have to consider the boredom of waiting in an airport terminal for hours….

So it turns out that 15 minute delay was to accommodate a Kansas City flight with 15 passengers who needed to make this flight as a connection to D.C. However, after boarding us, they announced the storms were too dangerous and we’d have to wait. At about 8:45 we took off, and after a couple hours of fairly uneventful flight unless you count the surly asshole behind us who abused the flight attendant while demanding more orange juice and gin, we arrived at Dulles around 11:30 p.m. Got home by 1:00 a.m. Sunday.

Great trip! A few miscellaneous items we didn’t mention that we liked about Minneapolis:

Mary liked all the scented soaps she encountered, like Nectarine Mint, Warm Cinnamon Sugar, Kiwi Melon, and Ginseng Wild Mint.

Mary also appreciated that they knew how to stack ladders on their trucks, unlike in Virginia, where she would see this same truck with six ladders all in one lopsided column on the left side of the van roof (at which point, she would literally have to pass the van on the road because she couldn’t drive behind it and look at the asymmetry without having conniptions).

The girls had never seen, and were impressed by, the water conservation in the public toilets – “Push the lever up for ‘number 1’ and down for ‘number 2.’”

We liked the creative and beautiful mix of architecture, old, new, industrial, business, arts. Also, all the green and water throughout the city.

And, I decided that Minneapolis had just about the prettiest container gardens anywhere!

The Keys to Enjoying Mulberries

Carrie — Sat, 29 May 2010 16:34:00 GMT

The keys to ENJOYING mulberries from your back yard tree are as follows.

DON'T get hung up on -

Inspecting every berry before you put it in your mouth.
This is counter-productive. It slows down the thrill of gobbling. And you are bound to find some * teeny weeny tiny * bugs on one at some point and that will make you think twice, and ruin the whole thing. The bugs won't hurt you if you eat them.
Pulling out the little green stem before putting it in your mouth.
Eat the stem for godsakes. If you try to pull it out, you will find yourself with dark, staining, purple mulberry juice all over your fingers. It will stay there for days, if not weeks.
Trying to catch the big fat juicy ones that fall off while you're trying to pick the other big fat juicy ones.
Don't be greedy. They will fall. That's more for the deer, who can't reach as high as you can.

DO -

Only eat the dark, black ones.
This may sound obvious, but some of us are so suburbanized that we may not actually know these things.
Bend the branch low and bite the berry right off the branch if you can.
Watch out for the others that may fall into your eyes or onto your head, but that is part of the fun.
Wear dark pants or shirt that you don't mind getting dirty.
This is for wiping your hands on when you get the inevitable berry juice on your fingers.
Wear your berry juice stains with honor.
Not everyone has the opportunity to partake of such delights.
Savor the sweetness in your mouth and thank Mother Nature for the treat.

NOTE: If you have any trouble, bring along a child, I'd say under the age of 6 or 7. They are typically VERY good at this.

Copyright (c) 2010

Good Enough

Carrie — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 21:33:00 GMT

“…now that he had entered into the final active stages of his life, he was beginning to understand that, barring accidents, life did not change.

He had been deluded. He had always assumed that a time would come in adulthood, a kind of plateau, when he would have learned all the tricks of managing, of simply being. All mails and e-mails answered, all papers in order, books alphabetically on the shelves, clothes and shoes in good repair in the wardrobes, and all his stuff where he could find it, with the past, including its letters and photographs, sorted into boxes and files. The private life settled and serene. Accommodation and finances likewise. In all these years, this settlement, the calm plateau, had never appeared. And yet, he had continued to assume, without reflecting on the matter, that it was just around the next turn, when he would exert himself and reach it, that moment when his life became clear, his mind free, when his grown-up existence would properly begin.” from Ian McEwen’s 2010 book Solar.

I love this passage. It speaks to the implicit mindset of so many of us, including me. I have had conversations with my daughter along these lines. I remember when she was in college “waiting to start her life,” as if her day-to-day student existence didn’t qualify as “real” life. Well. Given the squalor and debauchery of college campuses, I can see her point. But that just highlights the fallacy of our assumption that “this doesn’t count,” or, “when this or that happens, then I will be okay.” The choices we make, regardless of age or station in life, matter. You can’t just abdicate because you are young, or overweight, or pregnant, or old.

It’s tough, because if you can’t give yourself a break because of certain conditions, the alternative is to say that this is as good as it gets, or, this ineptitude or dissatisfaction against which you fight with your denial and wishful thinking, this is your life – own it. This is hard on some people.

The rest of my McKewan litany of assumptions would be that someday I would finally have a decluttered home, keeping only what I need, or what I preserve to pass down to next generations. I would have very manageable debt so that I may have more freedom in my lifestyle decisions. I would eat healthfully out of instinct, because it is what my body craved and so never have to diet or deny myself any culinary treat. I would be naturally active enough through gardening and other activities I enjoy to keep a healthy heart and set of lungs going. I would write and publish things that people enjoy. I would keep in touch with my friends so that we were a delight and comfort to each other instead of missing the opportunity to enrich our later years with the golden thread of friendship and shared experience.

There’s probably more. But, unlike McKewan, I feel hopeful. I do think I have finally gotten the hang of “simply being.” Here’s his character’s conclusion:

“But not long after … , he thought he saw for the first time: on the day he died, he would be wearing un-matching socks, there would be unanswered e-mails, and in the hovel he called home, there would still be shirts missing cuff buttons, a malfunctioning light in the hall, and unpaid bills, un-cleared attics, dead flies, friends waiting for a reply and lovers he had not owned up to. Oblivion, the last word in organization, would be his only consolation.”

See, with all this I am fine. I already know this, and its acceptance is part of the gift of my already getting the hang of “simply being.” But “oblivion” would not be my only consolation - far from it. My consolation would be that I loved. I loved deeply. I may die overweight, with bills to pay and a yard-sale’s worth of junk in my garage, but I don’t care. The key to “simply being” is to recognize myself as a blessed being, a holy being. This may sound arrogant, given that I am only human, after all. But, that’s just the point: my being is holy, and it inhabits this body, which was good enough for Jesus, for Siddhartha, for the Dalai Lama. Humanity, in all its ruddy contradictions and spice, is the vehicle for the communication of love and kindness in the world. When you carry that around inside you as your animating energy, then “simply being” is enough.

I remember kneeling at my dad’s coffin, and touching his cold, hard hands, as I whispered a last good-bye. I pondered the meaning and mark of his life – he was not wealthy, nor renown; he was man of few words spoken, even fewer written; he worked in the mines or a factory all his life to provide for 5 kids with whom he had varying depths of relationship – he wasn’t the kind of dad you’d go to and cry on his shoulder or look to for words of approval. So, what was his accomplishment? The answer whispered back to me: he lived his life, he loved you all, and that was enough. Did he know he was “holy?” He’d never say that. Does it matter? No.

This human condition, this hand of cards we are dealt, this body and mind and set of choices we make, it’s all good, and good enough.

One last thing: choice. I think we always have choice. No matter what our station or lot in life, if nothing else, we have a choice about how we will look at it, what attitude we will hold. Winston Churchill said, “For myself, I am an optimist - it does not seem to be much use being anything else.” I agree.

Where I Am From

Carrie — Sat, 27 Mar 2010 20:08:00 GMT

I am from parents who thought they were finished having babies.

I am from one of the great wonders of the world.

I am from happy and carefree and from destitute and depressed.

I am from the Earth.

I am from strength.

I am from freedom.

I am from choices and consequences on a humble and glorious path.

I am from the same stuff that the moon and black walnuts and striped heaving mountains and flashing bright fish in the river are from.

I am from mercy.

And kindness.

And always forgiveness.

I am from the love given freely from my siblings and parents, from my husband, son and daughters who make me feel like I am one of the great wonders of the world.

I am from heaven. And heaven on Earth.

Virginia, March 2010

(c) Copyright 2010

The Elusive Joy of Clean

Carrie — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 02:37:00 GMT

Two weekends ago, my live Christmas tree and wreaths were gone, burnt in a lovely Epiphany bonfire.

But the rest of the Christmas kitsch remained – garlands of evergreen and poinsettia on the mantles and stairways, antique and new figurines, crèches, more wreaths, mistletoe, candles, bows and ornaments that adorned doorways, shelves and walls. During the Christmas season the kitsch is festive and warm; afterward, it’s just clutter. I wilted at the level of lugging and packing and organizing it would take to find the boxes in the shed and properly take down and stow away all these items.

One week ago, to release pent up anxiety and sorrow at losing our beautiful dog to cancer, I threw myself into “putting away Christmas” and also to cleaning away obvious traces of dog hair, food, dog vitamins and medications. I scrubbed, I vacuumed, I de-cluttered, I threw away stuff; I gave away stuff. “Mom, the house hasn’t looked this clear and clean in a while. It looks great.” I know, I thought, with a happy, satisfied smile.

Isn’t it a great feeling to sit down and not have weeks’ old clutter tugging at you? Isn’t it beautiful to see a hardwood floor gleaming around and under furniture, with no trace of dust bunnies or stray crumbs or socks or hubby’s stray newspaper clippings? Organization and clean surfaces on the outside make me feel stronger and cleaner on the inside. It’s like I have cleared away any excuse that keeps me from spending time on other more valuable things. And I could invite folks over and feel comfortable and free.

This pleasant condition lasted oh, about 12 hours as far as I could tell. It was a grand 12 hours, but my deep need to get control of a messy life went a step further. I told my 17-year-old that she had to clean her room. You have to understand the breadth and depth of this request. If you’ve ever seen the Friends episode called Dirty Girl, well, my daughter’s room is what we would imagine Dirty Girl’s bedroom was like – “a pile of garbage,” live vermin included. Truly.

We have lived in this adorable house for seven years. Teen Daughter has an over-sized room with big windows overlooking the front gardens and the Short Hills mountain range. For the seven years we’ve been here, she has cleaned her room, oh, maybe once or twice. And I think it was I who did the cleaning. I remember finding a whole melted Fudgesicle on the top shelf of her closet under a box. She confessed that years before, when she was “younger” she heard us come home from work and thought she shouldn’t have the treat before dinner so she threw it in her closet. Her closet is a delightful, large walk-in closet. But there was no walking in it because it was packed solid with … oh god, who knows? Clothes, toys, papers, anything she didn’t want to show on the other side of the door.

She didn’t use her dresser either. So, all her clothes were on the floor. You could not see any surface in her room – not the dresser, the desk, the book shelves, the floor, the bedside table, or even the walls, which are covered inch to inch in posters. The posters don’t bother me – cute guys! But the rest… .

Over the years I have tried to tell her to clean it up. But, I am not the kind of mother to blackmail my kids or get into arguments with them over things that are not life-threatening. I did try to make the point that it was unsanitary and therefore could indeed compromise her health. Eh. 'Didn’t matter.

Her father was no help because his den across the hall is a bona fide disaster area with no surfaces visible either (gee, ya think this is hereditary??). Seven years. There were years I begged. Years I ignored it and figured she’d grow out of it. Very early (like when she was 10 years old) I stopped doing her laundry because I couldn’t stand bringing down a laundry basket full of stinky clothes, unloading them to put in the washer, only to find clean, folded clothes under the pile of dirty ones, still in the basket!! Aurgh. So, even having to do her own laundry for the past seven years has had no effect. For some years I tried to guilt her into cleaning, telling her how unhappy it made me that she ignored my “orders” or requests. Nothing worked, and again, it’s her life and her room. It’s a pretty stupid thing for me to be unhappy about (that’s probably why the guilt angle didn’t work - she probably saw through it and knew it was stupid). I love her and if she and I were going to come to blows, it was going to be about something substantial and worth fighting about. A messy room didn’t qualify.

So, back to my need to purge during my anxiety and sorrow. About a week before our dog died, I was already feeling “too messy.” It was a new year, after all, a new decade. Teen Daughter would be going away to college this year. Something had to change. So one morning, certainly “out of the blue” for her, I went into her bedroom, carefully choosing where I stepped so I wouldn’t twist an ankle. Teen Daughter was still in bed. First, she was surprised to see me enter her room at all; then she was fairly alarmed by seeing me walk through the garbage and to her bedside. When I started talking, the look on her face went from surprise to quizzical to OMG to true alarm. I said,

"My dear, I have been waiting and waiting for some big blow-up. For something awful to happen between us or for you to do something really bad so that I would have a reason to yell at you and say what I have to say.” She’s perplexed and getting nervous. I see her eyebrows knit.

“But that hasn’t happened. And I love you so much. I have tried so many ways in the past to get across to you what I have to tell you, and none of them has worked. But this just can’t go on any longer.” I see her gulp. She’s ready to cry and is getting scared.

“This is going to have to be the way I tell you.” I sit on her bed, reach down and scoop her into my arms in a big hug. She probably thinks I’m going to tell her I have a terminal disease or that mom and dad are divorcing.

In a loving voice, I say, “Darling, you HAVE to clean your room. Really. For real. You have to clean it. All of it. No, ‘yes, mom,’ and then doing nothing. I know it is going to be hard, but, we can’t go on this way. You must clean your room. Do you understand?” She lets out a sigh of relief and disbelief.
She said she understood, and that was that. But she didn’t clean her room - until this past week, when I was doing my “sorrow cleaning.”

“My part” of the house was looking and feeling and smelling so good. All the Christmas stuff was gone and neatly packed into the shed. Rugs and floors and stairs were vacuumed. Kitchen counters were wiped squeaky clean as were the sinks. It was great. And I thought, well, I will be cleaning so she may as well get busy. I told her that was the day. We had a 3-day holiday weekend. At first there were deflation and worry and quiet tears. Then there was me and her sister trying to give her advice as to how to get started and tackle the layers of squalor. She did not appreciate the advice. She finally stopped crying and we all agreed to let her approach it her own way. Well.

In the next 12 hours what was my clean house became the dumping ground for the stuff that was in her closet and in her room. There were about 5 large black trash bags she filled; one was so heavy she couldn’t even lift it. One small trash bag she brought downstairs holding out in front of her. “Mom, I’m fairly certain there is a live mouse in this bag. What should I do with it??” But there was more. There were about a hundred stuffed animals and toys – stuff from the size of a pea to the size of a breadbox. In my front hall are two big white trash bags full of stuffed animals. There were crafts and notebooks and books, books and more books. There are four boxes of books, some “keepers,” some “not sure,” and some throw away or give away in my front hall. There was a table that held her printer that smashed into pieces when she tried to move it, and a lamp, a globe, a chair and draped over it a toga made from a bedsheet for toga-day which was months ago, and other equipment that got shoved out into the upstairs hall. It’s all still there. There are musical instruments and a huge box of craft supplies, and small boxes of other treasures sitting on the front room sofa, floor and each chair. There are two reams of lined notebook paper teetering on a shelf in the family room, and a big box of old cassette tapes on the floor. There are miscellaneous items on the stairs - sneakers, a notebook, a hairy ball, a fancy beach theme wall hook. I don’t know where all the outgrown clothes are.

To clean a room like Teen Daughter’s, you do have to remove the things that you don’t need any more, and you have to organize all that stuff she’s had since we moved in when she was 10 years old, so that we can appropriately inspect and evaluate and decide what to do with it. After removing so much, she vacuumed her room, glory be.

The pretty, welcoming “surfaces” in my clean home – the hardwood floors and vacuumed rug in the front hall, the comforting chairs and sofa in the front room, the comfy family room carpet – are now largely covered with toys, boxes and various other crap. Her room is clean now. My house is … a mess.

“Clean” is delightful and elusive. Love is delightful and pervasive. It's also substantive and persistent and transcendent. I wouldn’t trade the Daughter even with all her mess for anything in the world.

Copyright (c) 2010

Today's the Day

Carrie — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 19:43:00 GMT

5:45 a.m. Today’s the Day, I think. We’ll have to summon the mercy and courage to say good-bye to Bou.

It was just Sunday, two days ago, I was remarking to a friend that he was still so vigorous and happy that you’d never know he had a time bomb in him (the aggressive blood-born cancer we found in March) – he still climbed stairs, jumped into my car for a ride, played with his squeak toys, jumped straight up in the air with enthusiasm when he saw us preparing his food. The vet I saw last said that if a dog had to have a terminal illness, this is the one to have, because it is painless and when they go, they go quickly. Painless until the end, I guess. That’s one of the ways you know that “it is time,” when he’s too weak to rise, to eat, to move much.

He was great yesterday morning. Normal. But by yesterday afternoon he was languishing and couldn’t eat dinner. We stayed near and gently stroked his soft hair. At three o’clock this morning I got him to take some water. I told him Thank You, for coming to be with us, for taking such good care of us, guarding us with his impressive throaty barking whenever someone even neared our property line. Of course, once inside the house, there were no “strangers” – he was a big soft bear of a lovable dog. I told him we would miss him and softly stroked his back. Now it is just a matter of sitting near him so he has the comfort of our presence.

I’ll have to call the vet this morning and figure out how to move him so we can take him in.

10:35 a.m. When I called the busy vet’s office, the third person who picked up the phone was just trying to serve as many people as possible… “Hi, I want to confirm that I am bringing in Bou at 1:00.”
“OK. And… you’re bringing him in for what?”
“Ahh…euthanizing.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, me too.” Pause. Pause.
“Wait a minute! Bou?? Bou the Bouvier? Bou-boy? OH NO. Oh no. This is so sad. I love that dog! Oh, I’m going to cry now.” And she did. And I did.

This something for which I’m grateful – that Bou touched so many lives and was loved so well by those who had the pleasure to know him. You, all of you, you’ll never know how much that means to us, especially to Bou. Thank you for loving him.

I sit by him in the kitchen. I moved my laptop in here and pivoted his body around so he can see me. A half hour ago I sat on the floor next to him, stroking him gently, in what I hoped was a comforting touch. I tried to see his eyes, which were mostly closed. I told him he didn’t have to wait till 1:00. If he wanted to go now, he could. He didn’t respond; he didn’t move; he didn’t stir or blink or shift. He continued to breathe. After some time I finally got up and there it was – eyes flashed wide open, head came up and he looked at me as if to say, “Hey. Where you goin’?” At least I know my presence is a comfort to him. As his has been for me.

Any given day, he would follow me to where I settled, and then lay down nearby – on a pretty pillow in my office, on the fireplace hearth in the TV room, on the rug by our bed. And now, we move to be with him where he is settled here, his last spot until we somehow move him into my car and take him to the vet’s.

2:00 p.m. He’s gone.
What a sweetheart. He was so docile and calm. The caretakers at the vet fed him a Mrs. Fields brownie, which he ate up. But, as he lay there in the doctor’s office, with the various attendants petting him, prepping him, and whispering sweet blessings to him, we could tell: He was ready. That in itself is a comfort.

We will miss you, Bou! Bou was great. His previous mama told us that he was like the big silent guy who sits in the corner of the bar, not bothering anyone or looking for a fight. But, step out of line to threaten one of his own and you’ll feel just how strong he is. A cattle-herding breed, “Bou the Bouvier” was built square and broad with strong legs and hips. He was appropriately territorial – the herds of deer who wander through our yard found that out. We all enjoyed letting him chase them down to the woods – never did catch them, but boy, he liked trying!

Bou was a big, soft, curly-haired lovable 95 pound bear of a dog. He was so gentle, we never had to worry about him around the grandchildren. He was spunky and joyful and, well, healthful – right up until he wasn’t! Like my Mom . We had him longer than we were “supposed to” when he got a 3-6 month prognosis at the beginning of April.

Before I let him go, I told him that when he gets to the other side, if he sees a big German shepherd named Noah, he should say hello from us. Maybe my Mom could find Noah and bring him to meet Bou. So, I told him to look for my Mom over there too. He’ll be in good company.

Thanks Barbara and all the rest of the gang, for sharing him with us. We enjoyed each other a lot, and he was a very happy boy during his year with us!

Good-bye, sweet Bou. We'll miss your enthusiastic greetings when we arrive home, we'll miss our long walks with you in the beauty of the Virginia countryside. But you will never be far from our thoughts.

(Many people knew and loved Bou for longer than we did. If you have stories about him, or comments to add, please do!)

Copyright (c) 2010

Gratitude

Carrie — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 15:10:00 GMT

“To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble, but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.” - Johannes A. Gaertner

Today, I am exceedingly grateful for –

My husband, companion, partner, lover, sweetheart, friend… "still the one" after all these years.

The inestimable satisfaction and joy of having launched children who are now grown and each of whom

has strong integrity and passion and a well-formed conscience
is devoted to each other in great affection, care and selflessness
loves me and their Dad

Children who felt empowered and loved and giving enough to produce children of their own, giving me grandchildren whom I will discover and learn from for years to come.

Siblings who are “my biggest fans” no matter how many miles and years of expanse there are between us.

The stability and care, steadfast strength and blessings on my siblings’ lives.

The gift of more siblings and children through marriage. I have already gained another sister, a daughter and a son.

The ability to fly, as a strong, steady arrow, having been launched from my parents’ bow long ago, feeling their strength even now as support beneath my wings.

My mother allowing me and my sister to hold her hands and usher her to the threshold of her Welcome Home party on the other side, and that I felt her joy at crashing through the gates that bound her on Earth.

Seasons that support passages of death, birth, struggle, freedom, courage and growth.

The fact that I can walk, sit, stand, use my hands to grasp another’s, to type, to cook, to bathe, to turn the soil, to sew, to wipe away tears, to love.

A home that is shelter from the heat and cold, the wind and rain and balm for those who come to celebrate and to rest.

A spot for my desk with a view of mountains and the trees who share the sustenance of this patch of land with us – redbud, willow, dogwood, pear, apple, spruce, pine, maple, and more whose names I don’t know yet.

Running water, electricity, blankets, slippers, boots, hat, gloves, tools for the jobs at hand.

Dark-eyed juncos who visit in winter, cardinals and blue jays who bring flashes of color to the white snowy landscape, sparrows, mourning doves, tufted titmice, wrens, finches, hawks.

Music. Everywhere – through cds and satellite, through glorious voices and instruments, and the songs of crickets, peepers, geese, birds, children and wind chimes.

Friends who write, call, visit, reach out, care and pray for me.

Peace and confidence in God’s work in us, and the work I’ve been given to do.

The ability to feel the Spirit of the One who creates, animates and sustains all, to see myself reflected in and part of it all – from the striped heaved rocks on a Pennsylvania mountainside to the sap and buds, flowering and leafing of the trees, to the wind that lifts flower petals and birds’ wings, to the devoted, warm presence of the family dog asleep at my feet.

Teachers and prophets throughout the ages who have left a path, pointed the Way, tried to translate what is ineffable and transcendent so that we might listen and hear and live as we were meant to and so heal the world.

Happy Thanksgiving Day

Carrie — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 17:06:00 GMT

Dear Family and Friends,

Here it is Monday of Thanksgiving week already, and I have not sent out any cards via the US Mail to you, which means that it is pretty much too late to send them now, so I will send you my words electronically. Is it any wonder the USPS is posting a $3.8 billion dollar loss this year??

So, this is me saying, "Happy Thanksgiving!" and I love you and I miss you. I am thankful for you - all that you are and all that you will be. You are a blessing to this world. You embody a gift only you can give to the Earth.

I pray for your happiness of mind and heart.
I pray you have enough food to keep you healthy and warm clothes to comfort you in the coming chilly days and nights.
I pray you have meaningful work and a welcoming home.
I pray you have enough challenges and good friends to help you grow, and that you rejoice with every new wrinkle or scar and wear them as badges of honor.

This Thanksgiving, when my family is together (13 of us!), we will gather and hold hands around the table. We'll feel the love and warmth in those hands and we'll thank God as we gaze at a feast that's a delight to the eyes and inhale the richness of the bounty we have been given. We will remember you. We will remember those we've lost this year. We will remember the poor who don't have hands to hold or food to eat. And we'll ask for God's mercy and that, somehow, we may use the riches we have to heal the world.

God bless you all!

Carrie

Cricketsong and the End of a Season

Carrie — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 10:30:00 GMT

I drove up the driveway and shut off the car engine.

That's when I heard it.

My ears snapped to attention. Oh my God, I thought.

I wrestled my purse and bag into the house.

Listened to the answering machine.

Started dinner.

Fed the dog.

Then finally got outside.

I sat on the front porch in the dusky dark of a November evening.

It’s so late. I would expect they’d be gone!

I smiled, and shook my head at the unlikely sound,

then relaxed and luxuriated in the gift

of the harmonies of crickets.

This sound says

summer.

solitude.

moon dance.

dreaming.

sweethearts stealing away in the season of warmth, growth and freedom.

serenade of a happy summer sleep.

holy activity – singing in the dark.

happiness and contentment.

wonder.

quiet.

Even the air on my skin added to the poignancy of the moment

- too balmy for a November night.

It was like being caught up in a sweet dream.

But I knew I’d wake, that this was temporary.

It felt like a good-bye.

I have felt this wistfulness before:

The devastatingly sweet pull of longing

that follows my departed mother’s spirit

to a threshold I cannot cross.

Watching my son’s first dance with his new bride,

each turn twirling him away from me

to affix firmly to another life.

Seeing my fresh-faced daughter

in the rearview mirror

as we drive away, leaving her at college.

It’s hard when one season ends,

because we give up and have to let go of beauty

and a full heart,

letting it all pour out so that it can be filled again.

Book Reviews

Carrie — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 16:28:00 GMT

I was a little aghast when I looked at my blog and it said "70 days since last post."

NOT TRUE! I thought.

Here's why it's not true - I post to my Books I Read in 2009 more frequently than to the regular pages. The "book reviews" are not just "I liked / disliked this book." Usually, I write about what the book meant to me and what I valued, so I am hoping that these "reviews" are an interesting read too.

Recent ones over the summer pretty much reflect the discernment process I've been going through - all good stuff:

New Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton

Womenomics by Claire Shipman and Katy Kay

Do What You Are

and

Difficult Conversations

Sleeping in Today

Carrie — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 13:13:00 GMT

When a very hot, muggy August day gives way to a very cool night, moisture from the steamy earth rises into that cool air and makes ground fog. It’s a pretty effect of “clouds on the ground” that I enjoy. I observed this effect one morning this month as I drove past fields and mountains on the way to work in the early morning, and this is what I thought:

Usually, she’d be up by now, bright-eyed and stretching wide over the expanse of Earth.

But Mother Nature’s sleeping in today.

I’ve seen her fluffy white blankets covering the fields and hollows where she snuggles against the warmth of the Earth.

She doesn’t seem to mind that we commuters catch a glimpse of her in her bed clothes or thrill to the lace of her petticoats brushing over the mountains as she rises for the day.