The GIVING THANKS Week, Again

 

Thanksgiving week is upon us.

 

Grateful for my brilliant children, and for good kids everywhere.

 

Grateful for my patient husband, and good husbands of others.

 

Grateful for our beautiful feline housemates, and for good pets all over the globe.

 

Gratitude to my critique group and beta readers, and all who read unpublished works and help to make them publish-worthy.

 

Grateful for all the things that work so well so we give them no mind.

 

My wish is to remain grateful, especially when it’s challenging.

 

Thank you for reading this and have a gratitude-filled Thanksgiving week.

PASS THE PASSPORT(S)

 

For some, 'tis travel time. The other day I discovered yet another ranking list, one I would never have thought of.

 

It’s the ranking of passports. See here, and also here.

 

These rankings have to do with how many countries do not require a visa from the passport holder. The more, the “better” the passport, as in allowing its holder greater travel freedom.

 

Only about a third of Americans have a valid passport at any time, and the feeling of belonging to a good or “best” country has little to do with how many other nations approve of ours. But a good passport is no trifle.

 

I say this, because I know two people who are in the process they hope will eventually give them a US passport, and loving what the country stands for is less than half their impetus to undergo this lengthy and expensive course.

 

Their number one reason is to have a passport that makes travelling easier.

 

From birth I held (or was entitled to hold) two passports. One is ranked 4th in passports, the other 17^th. (Some differences depending on which ranking, but the disparity is the same.) My love for both countries is real. But, trust me, in the days I travelled more the passport ranking did make a difference.  

 

We take so much for granted. Being part of a strong country is yet another thing to appreciate when it comes to life’s fortunes, which in my case I hadn’t had to struggle for.

 

Americans are fortunate in many ways. This is just one more to be grateful for.

SUKKOT was Supposed to be a REMINDER

 

The Sukkot holiday, now upon us, was meant to remind the Jewish people of our time as a homeless nation, living in tents, on the way to the promised land.

I have lived through many Sukkots, and it doesn’t seem to do any such thing.

 

During the Great Depression, large shantytowns popped up all over the land. They were nicknamed “Hoovervilles,” in reverse honor of the then president, Herbert Hoover (1929-1932) whose misfortune was to usher in the economic downturn.  Today, our cities have homeless encampments that don’t even get to be categorized as huts. They are tents stretching for miles.

 

 As such, the commandment to dwell in tents that have porous roof covers (“Sukkot” in Hebrew) could be a reminder of those who do not have solid roofs over their heads. But as I have witnessed all my life, these happy super decorated lovely sukkots are a place to party, leisurely sipping outsized drinks and hors d'oeuvres. They are nothing if not lovely excuses for garden parties.

It’s nice, but no longer serves as it was intended.

 

I’m honoring Sukkot by being grateful for the roof over my head. I’m skipping the party.

Less is MORE

 

SO MUCH MORE

I just finished reading a novel whose author, in the Acknowledgements page, thanked so many people that the page turned into pages, plural.

I’m one of those readers who always reads authors’ Thank Yous. There, I encounter the good feel of gratefulness, and occasionally a deeper glimpse into the writer’s process. I rarely know any of the names being thanked, but it matters not. I like the ambiance; being in the presence of expansiveness and joy, something I feel deeply for my beta readers and anyone who ever helped me be a better person.

But here comes my pet peevishness: when the number of people mentioned goes over, say, ten— it’s diminishing returns multiplied exponentially with every addition.

Like everything else in writing, (and life), curtailing exuberance actually has the effect of giving a statement power. I lamented this in an old post about overuse of exclamation points, here.

I actually went on to count the number of people thanked by name in the above mentioned author’s river of gratitude. As I did so, I wondered if some dark part of me wasn’t envious that she not only had so many people to thank, but even knew this many people. (The number is two-hundred and thirty-six, but who’s counting.😮) I’m sure every one of them is diminished by the size of the crowd.

I don’t have an exact number not to exceed. I just wanted to remind myself (and anyone reading this) that less is more.

©Mark Anderson 2015

GIVING THANKS

 

Thanksgiving, after all

 

This Thanksgiving, rather than think turkey, (i.e. a mass-slaughter time for animal lovers) pumpkin, (why can’t it be Apple or chocolate, say the real dessert fiends) family, (for better and worse, as a plethora of articles on depression have come to flood the media starting holiday season) or national commemoration (as revisionist historians remind us, this day commemorates colonizing) I would like to cast off the darkness for once, and focus on gratitude.

 

“Appreciation is a wonderful thing. It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.” 

— Voltaire

© From THERE’S A TURKEY AT THE DOOR by Mirka Breen/Illustrated by Sonia Hallett

Giving thanks, that’s all. The rest is noise.

What brings JOY?

 

I had one of those epiphanies, where I realized that moments of joy in my life were neither created nor re-created by me.

 

Put another way, I can do things that I think might bring me joy, or repeat things that brought me joy before. But neither guaranties I would have the experience.

 

The mystery of joy, that feeling that things are in place and the place is beautiful, comes when it comes and thus is a moment of grace.

 

I thought about C. S. Lewis’s masterpiece, SURPRISED BY JOY. It's an autobiographical account of his discovery of faith. It mysteriously echoes his finding earthly love and marriage later in life, with his wife Joy Davidman. The book was published before they met.

 

When I read this book many years ago, I focused on the “Joy” in the title. Now I’m meditating on the “Surprised.”

© Margaryta Yermolayeva

HAPPY JEWISH NEW YEAR

 

According to the Jewish calendar, the Jewish New Year began yesterday at sundown.

According to the same, the year is 5782.

By orthodox tradition, the counting began when G-d made the earth. Thus, the earth was created five thousand seven hundred and eighty two Jewish years ago.

What do I think? It doesn’t matter. I celebrate the passing of time by dipping apples in honey and feeling grateful for creation, no matter when it happened.

 Who’s counting? Better not to pass up the opportunity to rejoice 😋

©Illumination by David Moss

Giving Thanks...

Giving Thanks for---

^Friends who stop by^

^Felines who hang out^

^Family, Always^

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone

As Another Year Draws to a Close...

...A reminder to recharge the batteries

Some months ago, I read this article about writerly/creative doldrums. I wasn’t in the depths of such right then, but I recognized the feeling and loved the way Mathina Calliope worded this universal experience.

I’m doing fine, thanks be to G-d. But I also remember that the end of each calendar year brings a sort of self-assessment of all I have done and all I didn’t manage to do. So by way of preparation, I made sure to find this post again so I can repeat the six true affirmations Ms. Calliope listed, beginning with honoring the Muse.

In fact, I begin each day with just such. Each and every one of the affirmations resonates with me. No matter what you do, I bet there’s a version of this just for you.

And so, I wanted to share it. With gratitude to Ms. Calliope, Jane Friedman who published the post on her blog, and most of all the Great Spirit that so generously gifts us our days.

©tubik.arts

Does It Take a Village?

Some months ago, a neighbor posted on the neighborhood board (called NextDoor) that a mother deer had two fawns in her back yard. But only a few days later, the mother and one of the fawns disappeared, likely moved themselves to a more discreet grazing area.

The thing was, they left one fawn behind. Despite not approaching it and waiting for the mother to return for it, the newborn fawn was still there and still alone.

The neighbors mobilized with advice. Call animal control. Don’t call animal control. Call a vet. Follow what the vet says. Get bottles and formula and feed it. Don’t feed it. Do. Don’t. Do.

The neighbor began feeding the fawn. The fawn seemed to gain strength. The neighbor posted pictures. Who doesn’t melt at the sight of Bambi? Turned out Bambi was a she, and we collectively named her Bambina. We looked for daily updates and photos, and cheered for every new morning light that showed Bambina was still there. Donations of blankets and formula and money poured, but mostly it was a steady stream of advice that flowed and made us a village.

And then she began to fail. She was clearly sick. More advice, prayers and tears.

Then one day, Bambina passed away to the great grazing field in the sky, and a whole neighborhood cried.

Only weeks ago, this happened again. Only this was an abandoned newborn feral kitten. This time, it was a he, and the rescuer named him Alfie. Many adoption offers and donations later, and the rescuer has made Alfie, now an energetic love-bug of a cat, part of her household.

There’s a saying that it takes a village to raise a child. These real neighborhood stories made me think of how these children made us a village, but it took one compassionate neighbor to do the work.

The Lunar Year Begins

Living in the San Francisco bay area, the celebrations of the lunar calendar are evident.

The East Asian Lunar New Year celebrations are, or were historically, based on the traditional Chinese lunisolar calendar (occurring in late January or early February)

·         Chinese New Year

·         Japanese New Year (prior to 1873)

·         Korean New Year (Seollal)

·         Mongolian New Year (Tsagaan Sar) – may be celebrated a month later

·         Tibetan New Year (Losar) – celebrated a month later

·         Vietnamese New Year (Tết)

Today, February 5^th  2019, is the first day of the Lunar New Year and this time it’s ...

The year of the PIG.

If you are celebrating, many blessing on you. If you’re not, why not?

!Wishing peace and prosperity to all!

How to Popularize a Blog

Ahm...Not

As one whose blog is not the talk of the town, I am an authority on how not to have a blog that gets attention.

When I began blogging, it was at the urging of the small publisher who contracted my book. I had been following a few blogs, but not faithfully. One of my literate friends huffed that writers who blog are giving away their pearls for free, and another writing friend said it gobbled up precious real writing time. So I dipped my toes in with hesitation and little hope that I could do it right.

I looked at blogs that had many followers, and three things stuck out: they either were –
A. Constantly updated resources of useful information
B. Vociferously political bordering on the trolling side
C. Or they were enormously entertaining.

The resource-rich blogs are still staples of the blogosphere, and require work and dedication, as well as passion for the field they serve as resources for. I had to face that, for me, that sort of time and effort is reserved for writing fiction. What is left at the end of the day is all for family and friends.

A couple of examples of excellent resource blogs:

 the amazing Jane Freidman’s, about the business and the craft of writing —

https://www.janefriedman.com/blog/

And Evelyn Christensen’s, (technically not a blog but a website though a periodical E-zine makes it almost a blog,) about writing for the educational market—

http://www.evelynchristensen.com/markets.html 

[It helps, and gives the blog some gravitas, if the aggregator/editor is an authority in the field. Be it Tech-support, Make-up, travelling or writing.]

The political sorts of blogs are not only unsuitable for me, (I am hopelessly centrist there) but I personally have the impediment of becoming nauseous in their vicinity. This is why I won’t give examples of such, though I doubt you need it.

So that left the enormously entertaining, and there I continue to try with occasional success, (minus the “enormously”) which is where my modest weekly strolls have found me.

The thing is, I have found it pleasant and worthwhile, and that’s the best part of doing anything. That’s a variation of “doing it right,” which is right for me right now.

Christmas Weather

In some places it is---

In some it is---

{Hello, Down under^}

And where I am it is always---

{Even the lights dolphin ^ agrees it's springing spring}

I feel thankful for my Christian friends for sharing their lights with us

Merry Christmas

Remember to BRE---ATHE~~~

When I was a wee one, one of my teachers used to say, and often, “Remember to breathe.”

This struck me as funny. Who forgets to breathe?

I grew up, and with more breathing lessons under my belt, I understood better what she meant.

Many eastern meditation techniques involve focus on one’s breath. But this expression in western context means do something that takes you off the treadmill and allows your mind to clear before you get on again.

Feeling creatively stuck?

Breathe.

Got bad news?

Breathe.

A dear one is in crisis?

Breathe. Help them. Then breathe again.

For some, to breathe means eating chocolate or sipping a glass of Merlot. (And I do mean sipping, not to be confused with gulping.) For others, to breathe means making contact with a close friend and talking.

For me, it has come to mean go for a walk. Not just a leisurely stroll, but one that involves some hill climbing, which necessitates deep breathing. Yup.

The air quality where I live has been seriously unhealthy for almost two weeks. Devastating fires burning almost two hundred miles away have ushered a layer of dense smoke that wouldn’t quit.

Folks are warned to stay indoors and whatever they do, not do anything that requires physical exertion. In other words: Do Not Breathe.

Under such cautions, I re-discovered my childhood “breathing” activity. I didn’t even know back then that it was a form of breathing.

I lie down and read a great book.

I’m getting some fantastic reading done, and my soul is full of oxygen. On this Thanksgiving week, I am thankful for all the wonderful writers who ever lived and the publishing professionals who had the insight to usher their works into the world so we can breathe.

Remember to breathe, everyone.

This Date in History

~November 13~

Indulge me as I reminisce, combining world history with personal.

The year was 2015, and it was Friday. DS had just moved to Paris, France, to attend graduate school. With the help of a Parisian friend, we found him a small studio on an eighth-floor walkup, something a twenty-year-old can manage even if we wouldn’t want to. It was in a central and hipsterish arrondissement #2, on the right bank of the Seine River, next door to a lovely park and a famous patisserie.

I had a weekly skyping “date” with him, which he had set, every Friday at six in the evening, (for him) nine in the morning. (For me.)

We had just spoken, and all was well.

And then it wasn’t.

In a matter of a few hours, terrorist attacked Paris in various locations and when it was over, more than a hundred and thirty people were dead and a hundred more left in critical condition. Two of the attacks were very close to DS’s location, one only blocks away.

Our Parisian friend was able to call him and find him at home. He was not following the news, so she was his source of warning to stay put and not go out to a café or a stroll, something most young folks living where he was would consider a most natural thing on a pleasant night.

I was reminded of my growing up years in Israel, with traumatized American relatives calling every time Jerusalem managed to make the news. Often these relatives were the ones to let us know what had happened before we knew.

I’d be tempted to say that Paris changed forever, but it’s my understanding that it hasn’t. Like Israel, or New York City after 9/11, the city rebounded, and thus the terrorists lost.

And something else came back to my consciousness. It takes very few people making bad choices to wreak havoc, and very many people making good choices to fix it.

When storytellers construct stories, we usually weigh the protagonists and antagonists evenly, at least numerically. My limited experience in real life reveals otherwise.

Which means we, the many, must work harder if we are to make up for destructive impulses of humankind.

Gift from a Beggar

We’d arrived in Berkeley in the late fall of 1978. Little did we know this would be a historically significant time in the San Francisco Bay area. In only a week, the mass murder-suicide in Jonestown (of a cult whose roots were in the East Bay) would permeate the air. That foreshock lasted but nine days, when a supervisor in San Francisco’s city hall would shoot the mayor and the first openly gay supervisor, and the bay area ground would be rattled not by a physical, but an emotional quake.

My then boyfriend and I knew about the danger of earthquakes, and chose to move to the area anyway. We knew about San Francisco and Berkeley’s reputation as a social vanguard. If that included the sort of madness that engulfed and thickened the air everyone breathed, we had to take the good with the bad. We were new, and chucked it to The California Experience.

But that was not what we noticed most. From the very first day, what struck us  was how many people lived on the streets and how many were begging for spare change. We had lived in Ithaca, New York, for four years. We never saw street people there. The climate and the town’s people were inhospitable to such. I had seen beggars before, not only in movies but also in Jerusalem, where I grew up. These were blind, old, broken bodied people. They had their corner in downtown Jerusalem, and anyone could see they could not support themselves any other way. We never passed them without putting change into their tins. 

But Berkeley was full of young seemingly healthy and energetic beggars. This, more than the maddening news, struck us as peculiar. We assumed every one of them was in real need, for who in their right mind would spend their days asking for money if they could work?

And so we gave. And gave. And whenever asked, which was often, we gave again. If we didn’t have spare pocket change, we gave bills from our wallets.

A couple of months later, we had become jaded. New acquaintances informed us that most of the local beggars were drug addicts, and that our giving only perpetuated their habit. We stopped giving. In addition, our own funds were running low. It would be a few more months before we found jobs, and we had rent to pay.

Until one day, when a young beggar approached us on Telegraph Avenue, right by the intersection of Dwight Way, asking for spare change.

“Sorry, Man. We’re broke,” my boyfriend said. That was not literally true, but felt like it was in our near future.

The beggar stuck his hand into his deep pants’ pocket and doled a fistful of change. “Please take that,” he said. “You’re more broke. I had a good day.”

We tried to refuse, but he tried harder. He would not let us leave without taking some of his “spare.”

I don’t know what the answer is. But, forty years later, even as I continue to mostly pass local beggars by without giving, once in a while I see that beggar’s face and pull my pocket change out.

Johnny Tremain

As a way to celebrate the miracle that is our country, one encompassing much of the continent from sea to shining sea where, let’s face it, many wish to come to and few wish to flee from, may I recommend a classic book?

Johnny Tremain, by Esther Forbes, was the first historical novel written for young readers, and a Newbery medal winner. My kid-lit reading group read it some months ago, and saved me with this assignment from missing one of the best ways to appreciate the effort and enterprise that was the founding of the union of states.

I felt I was there, with Johnny, as his focus shifted from his personal struggles to be somebody in a world that did not bless him with privilege to the honor and privilege of fighting for something greater.

And the next time anyone says something about how divided our country is, let them situate themselves in colonial times, where many of the English king’s subjects in the Americas were not the least bit supportive of the colonial rebels.

Because what we have now is a vibrant, imperfect, but astonishingly successful nation, where disagreements are settled by a system of state-by-state voting.

That is something great, and worth celebrating.

Happy July Fourth and happy reading.

Welcome, SUMMER*

*...almost

{June 21^st 9:07 AM, PDT}

So, we are just about to enter official summer.

I was never fond of Summer, until I moved to the SF bay area.

Growing up in Jerusalem, Summer was HOT. I mean, too hot.

Later, in upstate New York, it was hot and muggy, thank you very much.

Growing up, Summer meant a long school-break. It was also a long time of missing my classmates and my home-away-from-home, which is what school was for me. Not a happy thing.

Swimming pool weather meant sunburns. Later, in adolescence, it entailed being self-conscious about my figure and the growing attention it got. I never felt all right about having someone look at my body who didn't bother to look at my face first, or make conversation. This happened a lot more in summer.

So Summer and I were not friends.

Now we made peace, Summer and I. I’ve passed the point of others gawking and I live where the Summers are gentle. I've grown up, and Summer has definitely matured into a mellow fellow. 

©Shelagh Duffett

Welcome, Summer. Happy to be with you again. 

My Only Addiction

It’s too easy to look down on addicts. If you have never experienced such an affliction, you can feel smugly superior to the poor souls who allowed themselves to succumb. How pathetic they are, and how low they descend, risking everything for a fix.

I don’t seem to have the personality or misfortune to have had such challenges.

The first is a matter of propensity over which anyone can make decisions not to risk exposure. Long ago, at the age of five or six, I watched my nicotine-dependent father go out on a stormy, drenching rainy Friday night, hail a cab (expensive) to the outskirts of town, (Jerusalem) where the one and only small kiosk sold cigarettes on the Sabbath. He thought he had stashed an extra pack, but couldn’t find it.

It was a lesson in what not to do. No cigarettes, ever. Don’t want to have to haul that monkey on my back.

The second, the matter of luck, has to do with things that can happen and leave a person dependent. With two herniated discs in my lower back, I remember realizing how addiction to painkillers can start, and how understandable and insidious the process is.
That was two years plus ago. When my doctor prescribed narcotics, I never took them. I chose not to haul that monkey on my miserably aching back, either. But some folks don’t know what the doctor had given them before it’s too late, and the climb out of that hole is steep.

But I don’t feel superior, because I do have a sort of addiction, or maybe it’s closer to a dependence. Can you guess to what?

Yes, I can stop. I did without difficulty while pregnant. Twice.

And, NO, I don’t want to.

So there. Maybe this feeling of "I *need* my coffee" gives me a peek into addiction, and maybe what I really need is that insight and compassion in addition to the caffeine. Because smugness is unattractive and worse.

Oh, and one other thing--

A Sign of Our Times

Or

A Sign for Our Times

Some folks put declarative signs on their lawns or windows. Signs in support of a political initiative/sentiment, or a candidate, or their aunt Ida.

Our public spaces are covered with signs, too. Those tell us what to buy and how much fun we’ll have when we do.

It’s a free country, so put ‘em up if that’s your thing. But it decidedly isn’t mine.

Frankly, I feel inundated. Flooded. Practically choked.

So you will forgive my delight when, while walking with a friend, I spotted this one—

Make of it what you will. That’s part of its beauty.