I stood outside tonight. Under winters canopy I watched the snow fall onto lash and cheek; I felt it melt against my skin. A priceless work, not seen upon museum walls, snowfall under moonlight.
My footprint is slowly vanishing, by morning, erased by fallen snow.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
So much loss
I have yet to share my thoughts on the death of my niece Lilly, thirteen months later and I am unable to think of her without the presence of tears, such a tiny little bundle of pink, so much love shared during such a brief life. Barbara and I were there during Emily’s labor, in fact, Barbara heard Lilly’s heartbeat long before Lilly entered this world. Emily took Barbara to a prenatal office visit, Barbara was so delighted to have heard the heartbeat, she talked to the doctor who was going to deliver Emily’s little baby girl, she understood that Lilly’s birth would be a challenge yet, like Emily, her anticipation and excitement were not thwarted. Barbara was a part of Lilly’s birth.
Two weeks ago Barbara was a part of Ryker’s death. We watched as Emily’s little baby boy took his last breaths of life. Barbara sat in one of a pair of rocking chairs that had been brought into the room; she rocked him, gently kissing his cold little head. Barbara wanted to hold him, to rock him, to tell him she loved him. Barbara wanted to be there. I wanted to run. From the moment we entered the room I struggled to keep my feet firmly planted onto the hard linoleum floor. Each breath I took felt heavier than the last. If I just stood still I would be able to remain standing. I wished in desperation that I could give him my own heart, that he could have life. Yet his was already gone. In thirteen months my sister would bury both her first and second born. The odds of having a child with a rare brain defect followed by a child with such a rare heart defect are one in one million. Almost a million other mothers spared the grief and loss of losing not one, but two of their children. Two tiny white caskets in such a short period of time.
It is much easier for me to recount a part of the experience through Barbara than myself. I too held his cold little body; I too rocked him and kissed his beautiful little head of hair. I did not want to let him out of my arms, if only I could warm his little body. Each breath carefully exhaled to provide a source of warmth.
We buried him in the frozen winter ground on Wednesday. Beside Lilly he now lies. This was my first time to her grave since we placed Lilly beneath the earth. I was angered to find no headstone, no place to leave her a summer bouquet; just a small metal stake with her name. The headstone of a carved angel should lay at her feet, at least a metal urn, perhaps a proper stone with her name, an attestation of her brief life. And now, another needed for her brother as well.
Two weeks ago Barbara was a part of Ryker’s death. We watched as Emily’s little baby boy took his last breaths of life. Barbara sat in one of a pair of rocking chairs that had been brought into the room; she rocked him, gently kissing his cold little head. Barbara wanted to hold him, to rock him, to tell him she loved him. Barbara wanted to be there. I wanted to run. From the moment we entered the room I struggled to keep my feet firmly planted onto the hard linoleum floor. Each breath I took felt heavier than the last. If I just stood still I would be able to remain standing. I wished in desperation that I could give him my own heart, that he could have life. Yet his was already gone. In thirteen months my sister would bury both her first and second born. The odds of having a child with a rare brain defect followed by a child with such a rare heart defect are one in one million. Almost a million other mothers spared the grief and loss of losing not one, but two of their children. Two tiny white caskets in such a short period of time.
It is much easier for me to recount a part of the experience through Barbara than myself. I too held his cold little body; I too rocked him and kissed his beautiful little head of hair. I did not want to let him out of my arms, if only I could warm his little body. Each breath carefully exhaled to provide a source of warmth.
We buried him in the frozen winter ground on Wednesday. Beside Lilly he now lies. This was my first time to her grave since we placed Lilly beneath the earth. I was angered to find no headstone, no place to leave her a summer bouquet; just a small metal stake with her name. The headstone of a carved angel should lay at her feet, at least a metal urn, perhaps a proper stone with her name, an attestation of her brief life. And now, another needed for her brother as well.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Finished at last
The semester is over. I took my last exam earlier this evening. Walking out of the library and into the white of falling snow I thought of CS Lewis’s wardrobe, he walks his main character through a musk filled web of forgotten cloaks, as she disembarks from the wardrobes end she finds herself in a winters wonderland, only this is not familiar snow; her feet tread softly, forward, onto a blanket of white she embarks, an unseen world awaits for her.
In comparison, I thought to myself, school is my wardrobe. And when I find myself at my own wardrobes end, what might I find awaiting me?
In comparison, I thought to myself, school is my wardrobe. And when I find myself at my own wardrobes end, what might I find awaiting me?
Friday, December 7, 2007
I really should try to not be so subtle
I voted against Referendum 1. Had the bill passed, I would be among the hundreds of concerned citizens preparing to take legal action through the Utah Supreme Court. If the Utah Supreme Court failed to uphold the Utah State Constitution, the next stop would be the United States Supreme Court. Why would I join thousands of others in a costly legal battle? I do not have children, how am I even affected by school vouchers? As a citizen of the state of Utah I have a responsibility to uphold the State Constitution. As a citizen of the state of Utah I have a responsibility to ensure that both elected and appointed state officials uphold the Utah State Constitution. And when the Constitution is threatened, when the right of every child to obtain an education is threatened, when corporations seek to amend the State Constitution in efforts to decrease their property taxes - you can be assured that I will raise my voice.
I do not intend for this to be a long explanation on why school vouchers are unconstitutional, why they are funded and driven by those seeking to increase profits for shareholders, I do not need to tell you how school vouchers discriminate and whom they discriminate against. My husband wrote an exceptional paper on school vouchers that covered in detail these topics, any attempt I would make at doing the same would come up short in comparison, and as him and I have talked at great length about this issue it would be difficult for me to avoid plagiarizing some of his ideas. I do not need to convince you that school vouchers have the potential to do irreparable harm, if you look past the propaganda and hype, if you read House Bill 148 for yourself instead of relying on paid commercial actors to explain it, if you take the time to compare it to other school voucher bills, the few that have passed in other states, you will understand why we need to stand up and say NO to Referendum 1. I do not wish to convince you of what I know to be true. It is far more powerful when we seek out the truth ourselves, when we think for ourselves.
So what do we do now? We raise our voice. We share with others the importance of standing up, the importance of defending our State Constitution, the importance of defending the right of every child to receive a good education, not just those chosen for admittance to parochial schools, not only the children who can financially pay for a good education, not only the children deemed bright enough by a school administrator, but all children, regardless of academic ability or religious background. I am convinced that as long as the dollar has value, regardless of what shape it takes, as long as men desire more, as long as the earth revolves around the sun – we will have a need to defend our right to education, our right to life and liberty, our right to live in peace, our right to free speech, there are even those fighting for their right to love. I cannot comprehend how a civilized society could possibly require one to defend the act of loving another. Many of us feel safe and protected. Many of us feel secure in our homes, secure in our jobs, secure that our rights will always be defended. We are so comfortable that we do little to ensure these same rights for others. This is the same security felt by those who had spent their lives attending synagogue with their fathers and mothers, their children and wives; fathers and mothers who never imagined that one day their children would not be allowed the same education as other children because they chose to attend synagogue instead of mass. Parents who never imagined their child could be denied opportunity because of test scores. Yet one powerful campaign of propaganda led a nation to remove the most fundamental rights within its own society; it began with the burning of books, it ended with the burning of bodies.
I am not asking that we lose our sense of security; I am asking that we stop taking it for granted and demand it be offered to all.
It begins with something as seemingly innocent as a school voucher, instead of improving our educational system, a priority that does not profit big business and therefore does not become a bill, we offer the chance of a better education to the few who can afford it or those who present the highest probability of increased test scores or a win for the schools basketball team.
Or, we can just say screw the lower middle class, if they want a good education let their parents get a third or fourth job to pay for it; of course we then run the risk of losing our janitorial staff.
I do not intend for this to be a long explanation on why school vouchers are unconstitutional, why they are funded and driven by those seeking to increase profits for shareholders, I do not need to tell you how school vouchers discriminate and whom they discriminate against. My husband wrote an exceptional paper on school vouchers that covered in detail these topics, any attempt I would make at doing the same would come up short in comparison, and as him and I have talked at great length about this issue it would be difficult for me to avoid plagiarizing some of his ideas. I do not need to convince you that school vouchers have the potential to do irreparable harm, if you look past the propaganda and hype, if you read House Bill 148 for yourself instead of relying on paid commercial actors to explain it, if you take the time to compare it to other school voucher bills, the few that have passed in other states, you will understand why we need to stand up and say NO to Referendum 1. I do not wish to convince you of what I know to be true. It is far more powerful when we seek out the truth ourselves, when we think for ourselves.
So what do we do now? We raise our voice. We share with others the importance of standing up, the importance of defending our State Constitution, the importance of defending the right of every child to receive a good education, not just those chosen for admittance to parochial schools, not only the children who can financially pay for a good education, not only the children deemed bright enough by a school administrator, but all children, regardless of academic ability or religious background. I am convinced that as long as the dollar has value, regardless of what shape it takes, as long as men desire more, as long as the earth revolves around the sun – we will have a need to defend our right to education, our right to life and liberty, our right to live in peace, our right to free speech, there are even those fighting for their right to love. I cannot comprehend how a civilized society could possibly require one to defend the act of loving another. Many of us feel safe and protected. Many of us feel secure in our homes, secure in our jobs, secure that our rights will always be defended. We are so comfortable that we do little to ensure these same rights for others. This is the same security felt by those who had spent their lives attending synagogue with their fathers and mothers, their children and wives; fathers and mothers who never imagined that one day their children would not be allowed the same education as other children because they chose to attend synagogue instead of mass. Parents who never imagined their child could be denied opportunity because of test scores. Yet one powerful campaign of propaganda led a nation to remove the most fundamental rights within its own society; it began with the burning of books, it ended with the burning of bodies.
I am not asking that we lose our sense of security; I am asking that we stop taking it for granted and demand it be offered to all.
It begins with something as seemingly innocent as a school voucher, instead of improving our educational system, a priority that does not profit big business and therefore does not become a bill, we offer the chance of a better education to the few who can afford it or those who present the highest probability of increased test scores or a win for the schools basketball team.
Or, we can just say screw the lower middle class, if they want a good education let their parents get a third or fourth job to pay for it; of course we then run the risk of losing our janitorial staff.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Go see "The Golden Compass"
What the hell is up with religion hating everyone that disagrees with them? I know I am not the only person offended by this, yet we don’t seem to react as a country to explicit examples of hate, we don’t react to obvious attempts made to take away our rights, we don’t react when others misuse positions of power to promote an agenda that does not befit us all.
We don’t react out of fear. Fear of retribution. Fear of harm to ourselves or our family. Fear of the loss of ones job. Fear of losing our friends and our family. Fear of losing the rights we still have.
My friend attended church today with her family. An announcement was made advising parents to NOT take their children to see the film “The Golden Compass”, the announcement warned that the film ‘kills God’. What bullshit. First of all, that someone is so terrified by one film that they feel the need to tell others not to see it is appalling, if you want to see it, go. The controversy only exists because the author of the books which the story is based upon is an atheist. Oh no, heaven forbid we read a book or see a film written by someone who does not believe in deity! Yet we take our children to see countless films about a fucking princess, films produced, developed, and generated in mass numbers by a corporation whose only objective is to increase the profits of its shareholders.
We don’t react out of fear. Fear of retribution. Fear of harm to ourselves or our family. Fear of the loss of ones job. Fear of losing our friends and our family. Fear of losing the rights we still have.
My friend attended church today with her family. An announcement was made advising parents to NOT take their children to see the film “The Golden Compass”, the announcement warned that the film ‘kills God’. What bullshit. First of all, that someone is so terrified by one film that they feel the need to tell others not to see it is appalling, if you want to see it, go. The controversy only exists because the author of the books which the story is based upon is an atheist. Oh no, heaven forbid we read a book or see a film written by someone who does not believe in deity! Yet we take our children to see countless films about a fucking princess, films produced, developed, and generated in mass numbers by a corporation whose only objective is to increase the profits of its shareholders.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Why I write and Why are we here
I write because I am in pain. I write because I am feeling sad. I write because I am feeling loss. I write because I am feeling helpless. I write because I am feeling such an incredible sense of hopeless despair. I write because I have had way too much wine to drink. I write because my cheeks are wet with tears. I write because life is more than I can bear. I write because I feel weak. I write because I do not believe in miracles. I write because I felt my sister’s tears tonight upon my cheek. I write because I can not bear the thought of Emily burying another baby less than twelve months from her first, our sweet sweet Lillie. I write because I do not understand Lillie’s death. I write because I do not understand why a mother would be asked to bury her second child so soon after burying her first. I write because I am angry. I write because I do not know what to do. I write because I am overwhelmed with grief. I write because I can do nothing else. I write with the hopes that my tears will cease, that grief will pass; I write in hopes that I will one day be whole.
Today I sat at the hospital. Thursday I sat at the hospital. My mind is still at the hospital. My grief is everywhere. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here to support Emily. We are here to support Michael. We are here because we should be here. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here because we are loyal to family. We are here because we love my sister. We are here because our feelings can not possibly compare with what Emily and Michael are feeling. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here because I can not be a mother. We are here because I have no child. We are here because I am not worthy to bring a child into this world on my own accord. We are here because I am inadequate. We are here because I love. We are here because I don’t love. We are here because there is no other place to be but in our pain. We are here because the tears are still falling as happiness is calling, yet death surrounds us just the same. We are here because we are frightened by the possibility of not being here. We are here because our chest aches and we need to find the reasons why. We are here because we need straight A’s this semester to receive a scholarship. We are here because we have work to do. We are here because we don’t want to face work. We are here because our tears have not stopped. We are here because the world is cruel. We are here because the sun will rise and bring with it new work to be done. Another day. Another trial. Another hell. Another emptiness that should be filled with child.
Today I sat at the hospital. Thursday I sat at the hospital. My mind is still at the hospital. My grief is everywhere. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here to support Emily. We are here to support Michael. We are here because we should be here. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here because we are loyal to family. We are here because we love my sister. We are here because our feelings can not possibly compare with what Emily and Michael are feeling. What should I say when my heart asks “why are we here?” We are here because I can not be a mother. We are here because I have no child. We are here because I am not worthy to bring a child into this world on my own accord. We are here because I am inadequate. We are here because I love. We are here because I don’t love. We are here because there is no other place to be but in our pain. We are here because the tears are still falling as happiness is calling, yet death surrounds us just the same. We are here because we are frightened by the possibility of not being here. We are here because our chest aches and we need to find the reasons why. We are here because we need straight A’s this semester to receive a scholarship. We are here because we have work to do. We are here because we don’t want to face work. We are here because our tears have not stopped. We are here because the world is cruel. We are here because the sun will rise and bring with it new work to be done. Another day. Another trial. Another hell. Another emptiness that should be filled with child.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Genocide in Darfur
“Why should I be concerned with the death of one child? It happens every day, every hour. Every minute. Why would we get involved? Why would I get involved with genocide occurring on the other side of the world? If they want to kill each other, let them! What could I do? How would I prevent death? We can’t really change the world. I can’t really stop one child from dying. Children may suffer now, villages might burn; a reward awaits them in the next life. We need suffering and death, it puts things in perspective. Death is taking them to a better place.” These statements are but a handful of the excuses spouted off in my direction, burning my ears with apathy. I have stood, listening to others reason to themselves, reason to me. Answer this: your home is on fire, you are one of the few who made it out with your family alive. Your three children have severely charred limbs, you can carry one child and your wife can carry another as you run from the village whilst avoiding gunfire. How do you decide which child to leave behind? There are no ifs, ands, or buts, one of your three children must be left in the burning village or your entire family will burn. You have seconds to decide. If you leave your eldest daughter, she will be raped before being shot or burned. If you leave your youngest, an animal may tear him apart before he succumbs to death. Once the smoke clears, the military will be in the village killing those still alive. This is not a weekend blockbuster. This is not a video game. This is not the History Channel. This is the present moment, reality, daily life for Darfur refugees, over two million displaced and 800 thousand dead (Cheadle 5). These are the faceless that have no voice on the other side of the world; we hear no screams, we smell no burning flesh, we see no ash or smoke moving closer to our homes, we taste no blood as it drips from the forehead of our mothers. When did we stop hearing? When did we stop feeling? When did our nation become apathetic to suffering?
I had planned on providing you with a brief history of genocide, our nation’s lack of involvement, the excuses told by one Congress to another, yet this is irrelevant to your involvement. What congress did or did not do twenty years ago does not save one son today and a daughter tomorrow. The actions we take NOW have the potential to save life and prevent suffering. Few of us understand the suffering of living among a war-torn country; few of us have fled out of our homes as our neighborhood burned; few of us have heard gunshots fired in the direction of our family our friends and our neighbors. Although we have not experienced Hell we cannot ignore its presence.
In my preparations for this paper I read the account of three young boys who have experienced hell, “They Poured Fired on Us from the Sky” is one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. The beauty of the book was its ability to open my eyes to another understanding of humanity, but more importantly, the book provided me with a greater sense of how similar each of us is regardless of color, nationality, or geographic location – we love and we live, and we cannot accomplish either of these alone. Why put forth effort to save the life of a child who knows not of your existence? You only exist because you were first a child.
Do not despair. It is easy to lose sight of what is important when overwhelmed by the big picture. There is much that you can do today . . . tomorrow . . . next week . . . I find that we are often surprised by the little efforts that make a big difference. If I could urge you to do only one thing, I would ask that you check out one of the books listed on the works cited page. The first is the book “Not On Our Watch: The Mission to End Genocide in Darfur and Beyond” by Oscar winner Don Cheadle. The second book is a memoir of three Sudanese refugees, “They Poured Fire on Us From the Sky”. This is the account of three young boys displaced by war; an excellent choice for a book club. Don’t have a book club? Call a friend or neighbor, call your sister or mother, a discussion takes two people – share the book with your partner. If your library does not offer this title I would be happy to supply you with a copy to share with friends and family. Send me an email, my email address is listed at the end of my remarks. The third book is the Pulitzer Prize winner “The Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide” by Samantha Power; I own the latest version printed earlier this year which contains an appendix about the situation in Darfur. I would suggest reading Power’s book if the other two leave you wanting to understand genocide and its origins. You may ask, why would I suggest you read? Shouldn’t I recommend action? Educating yourself may be the first action most suited to end genocide; once you are informed you can educate others. “Not On Our Watch” offers an easy explanation of six things you can do today to help. On page 160, Don Cheadle recommends six steps of action that you and I can take.
· Raise Awareness
· Raise Funds
· Write a Letter
· Call for Divestment
· Join an Organization
· Lobby the Government
Please email me with any questions. I don’t claim to have all the answers but I will do my best to provide you with accurate information. And please, don’t hesitate to contact me:
· If you would like to discuss genocide further
· If you are willing to wear a green “Save Darfur” wristband
· If you would like a list of online sources working to end genocide
· If you would like material on starting a book club
· If you would like more details about what you can do today
· If you have any comments or questions
My email address is meganvanpelt@mail.weber.edu.
Works Cited
Cheadle, Don., and John Prendergast. NOT ON OUR WATCH: The Mission to End
Genocide In Darfur And Beyond. New York: Hyperion, 2007.
Deng, Benson, Alephonsio Deng, Benjamin Ajak, and Judy Bernstein. They Poured Fire
on Us From the Sky. New York: Public, 2005.
Power, Samantha. “A Problem From Hell” America and the Age of Genocide. New
York: Harper, 2007.
I had planned on providing you with a brief history of genocide, our nation’s lack of involvement, the excuses told by one Congress to another, yet this is irrelevant to your involvement. What congress did or did not do twenty years ago does not save one son today and a daughter tomorrow. The actions we take NOW have the potential to save life and prevent suffering. Few of us understand the suffering of living among a war-torn country; few of us have fled out of our homes as our neighborhood burned; few of us have heard gunshots fired in the direction of our family our friends and our neighbors. Although we have not experienced Hell we cannot ignore its presence.
In my preparations for this paper I read the account of three young boys who have experienced hell, “They Poured Fired on Us from the Sky” is one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. The beauty of the book was its ability to open my eyes to another understanding of humanity, but more importantly, the book provided me with a greater sense of how similar each of us is regardless of color, nationality, or geographic location – we love and we live, and we cannot accomplish either of these alone. Why put forth effort to save the life of a child who knows not of your existence? You only exist because you were first a child.
Do not despair. It is easy to lose sight of what is important when overwhelmed by the big picture. There is much that you can do today . . . tomorrow . . . next week . . . I find that we are often surprised by the little efforts that make a big difference. If I could urge you to do only one thing, I would ask that you check out one of the books listed on the works cited page. The first is the book “Not On Our Watch: The Mission to End Genocide in Darfur and Beyond” by Oscar winner Don Cheadle. The second book is a memoir of three Sudanese refugees, “They Poured Fire on Us From the Sky”. This is the account of three young boys displaced by war; an excellent choice for a book club. Don’t have a book club? Call a friend or neighbor, call your sister or mother, a discussion takes two people – share the book with your partner. If your library does not offer this title I would be happy to supply you with a copy to share with friends and family. Send me an email, my email address is listed at the end of my remarks. The third book is the Pulitzer Prize winner “The Problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide” by Samantha Power; I own the latest version printed earlier this year which contains an appendix about the situation in Darfur. I would suggest reading Power’s book if the other two leave you wanting to understand genocide and its origins. You may ask, why would I suggest you read? Shouldn’t I recommend action? Educating yourself may be the first action most suited to end genocide; once you are informed you can educate others. “Not On Our Watch” offers an easy explanation of six things you can do today to help. On page 160, Don Cheadle recommends six steps of action that you and I can take.
· Raise Awareness
· Raise Funds
· Write a Letter
· Call for Divestment
· Join an Organization
· Lobby the Government
Please email me with any questions. I don’t claim to have all the answers but I will do my best to provide you with accurate information. And please, don’t hesitate to contact me:
· If you would like to discuss genocide further
· If you are willing to wear a green “Save Darfur” wristband
· If you would like a list of online sources working to end genocide
· If you would like material on starting a book club
· If you would like more details about what you can do today
· If you have any comments or questions
My email address is meganvanpelt@mail.weber.edu.
Works Cited
Cheadle, Don., and John Prendergast. NOT ON OUR WATCH: The Mission to End
Genocide In Darfur And Beyond. New York: Hyperion, 2007.
Deng, Benson, Alephonsio Deng, Benjamin Ajak, and Judy Bernstein. They Poured Fire
on Us From the Sky. New York: Public, 2005.
Power, Samantha. “A Problem From Hell” America and the Age of Genocide. New
York: Harper, 2007.
Feeling Bereft...and the loss of one's Tiara
Departing for vacation is never quite like the departure one takes to return home. Anticipation and excitement flow through my body as a river to a gorge. Like the early days of a new romance the thrill is in the newness of the unexpected. This is especially true when traveling to a new destination. This past week I had my first romance with Disneyland…cliché isn’t it? As a child I dreamt of the magic kingdom, but as I matured the destinations I longed to see matured with me - it’s much more sophisticated to think of traveling to Paris or Monaco. To my surprise, a mouse and his house filled my heart with wonderment, more than I imagined even as a child. I credit this to two things: first, the company I was in; and second, a ten dollar tiara that transformed me into a princess, if only for a few days. I took my youngest sister Amelia, my best friend Clarissa, and Perrie. In fact, the entire purpose of the trip was to fulfill a goal that Perrie has had for years; as long as I have known Perrie she has talked of going to see Walt Disney. I have been planning to take Perrie for the last two years, always finding a reason to delay the trip for another season. We were planning to finally go this fall when I said, why wait, let’s go now. Traveling with Perrie can be both physically and mentally challenging; Amelia and Clarissa went as reinforcements. Even more important than the support they provided for Perrie was the perspective I gained in their presence. I have the tendency to be so focused on providing everyone with what I interpret as their needs that I forget to enjoy the moment. I feel the need to maintain the role of adult and parent, forgoing fun for the appearance of maturity. Amelia and Clarissa forced me to live in the present without fear of embarrassment, embracing the possibility of laugh lines as proof that I indeed could laugh at myself.
Disneyland, albeit highly commercial and overpriced, is enchanting. The smells of the park are a fragrant bouquet of childhood treats and fantasy. As if traveling outside of the city and seeing the stars for the first time...I felt the magic from head to toe, this was of course made easier by the tiara I wore on my head. Where else can a grown woman wear a tiara without chagrin? For those few days I believed I could be a princess. I felt beautiful, gracious and self-assured, as any true princess would. The presence of the tiara bewitched me; I was all at once Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. But as fast as the euphoria of my own fairy tale came, it vanished…one does not wear a tiara upon her departure for home, what would the gas station attendant think and what might the neighbors say? So for now my tiara will glisten upon a shelf as a reminder of the few days I spent returning to the wonderment of childhood, my personal Neverland.
Disneyland, albeit highly commercial and overpriced, is enchanting. The smells of the park are a fragrant bouquet of childhood treats and fantasy. As if traveling outside of the city and seeing the stars for the first time...I felt the magic from head to toe, this was of course made easier by the tiara I wore on my head. Where else can a grown woman wear a tiara without chagrin? For those few days I believed I could be a princess. I felt beautiful, gracious and self-assured, as any true princess would. The presence of the tiara bewitched me; I was all at once Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. But as fast as the euphoria of my own fairy tale came, it vanished…one does not wear a tiara upon her departure for home, what would the gas station attendant think and what might the neighbors say? So for now my tiara will glisten upon a shelf as a reminder of the few days I spent returning to the wonderment of childhood, my personal Neverland.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Rambling on inside my mind . . .
I do not wish to feel. Scratch that. I do not wish to feel the pain of others . . . yet it is inescapable. I have prayed to stop feeling, at a time in my life when I held a belief in prayer. I have meditated to stop feeling, knowing that I rarely (if ever) have reached that state of mindfulness. I have painted to stop feeling. I have read to stop feeling. I have indulged in chocolate to stop feeling. I have not turned to drugs for fear it may actually stop me from feeling, albeit briefly. I should clarify what I wish to numb myself from as the word ‘pain’ is quite vague. I tend to view the position of others in 360 degrees; I view a picture of the individual as a whole instead of parts. My tendency to see others from this vantage point has made me successful in my work, although it has often left me exhausted. In this light you see the needs of others, my fault lies in feeling the emotion behind the suffering of others. I have yet to sit through “Schindler’s List” in its entirety; during my first viewing in the spring of 1994 I ran from the theater and hung my head over the toilet as my body wretched uncontrollably. I feared leaving the stall in my embarrassment; I now recognize that this is what our reaction to genocide should be. I had the same reaction to “Hotel Rwanda” which I have only attempted to watch once. Many of us are moved, we are human. Yet I seem unable to separate myself from the emotions I perceive others to be feeling. I don’t know if I’m making any sense, perhaps I am not as adept at describing my thoughts as I had hoped. My desire not to feel pain has extended to my own pain, pain which I need to experience and process; not allowing myself to feel has often required me to distance myself from others in order to distance myself from pain. This has resulted in few close relationships which, at best, are strained.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Shel Silverstein
Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”
Shel Silverstein is my favorite author from childhood. When you saw him you just wanted to reach out and rub his big bald head! His poetry was more than imagination, it was enlightenment. His intent - to teach the parents a lesson - not the child. A Light in the Attic is brilliant.
Shel Silverstein is my favorite author from childhood. When you saw him you just wanted to reach out and rub his big bald head! His poetry was more than imagination, it was enlightenment. His intent - to teach the parents a lesson - not the child. A Light in the Attic is brilliant.
once beloved . . . now disgusted
For what purpose does the library serve? I have spent my entire life believing that the library was a catalyst for understanding and growth. Perhaps my expectations of four walls enclosing a forest full of trees fall not far enough from the parting of the sea. Once a beloved world of fantasy and unbeknownst possibility, the library has become little more than disappointment. Every book I search for is not available, not only are these titles not in the library where I am physically standing at that moment – but the books I am searching for are not in the Utah state library catalogue, period. The first couple of times this happened I made the assumption it was purely coincidental. I would inevitably come home from visiting a friend in the East and in my pocketbook would be a list of books to read – books she recommended- book titles from her once ever growing bookshelves -books recommended in the Washington Post – books from the shelves of the Hirshhorn Museum gift shop – more recently books from the Phillips Collection – for years I have made little lists of books. I excused the library’s lack of books on human sexuality as an example of Utah culture. I told myself that titles recommended by the Washington Post were not of interest to the average Utah resident. Art books can be expensive, and often book titles carried at the museum are from small publishing houses. Other books for which I have searched the library catalogue come from my ever growing Amazon wish list; books on incorporating beeswax into collage, books concerned with painting techniques, the content of these books can be very specific, making it understandable that a library would not include them in their purchase order. But enough is enough. I am done making excuses. Autobiographies of American Women: An Anthology by Jill Ker Conway is a book I began reading in August while visiting my friend, she picked it up at the Arlington Virginia library. My local library does not carry this title; not a single library in the state of Utah carries this title. This is not a manual on safe sex - therefore it should not pose a threat to those open-minded individuals who feel endangered by such titles as “She Comes First” or “He Comes Next”. This is not a book professing one religion over another. This book has no political agenda. To my knowledge its author is not an enemy of the state of Utah. Why is this title not available? I can personally attest that the half of this book which I have already read is profound and beautiful; short biographies of 25 American women, women who illustrate the meaning of womanhood – these women are strong, intelligent, resourceful, independent, courageous…these 25 women emulate those qualities which are rarely seen in the best possible versions of ourselves. In this decade, perhaps more than any other, we need their example; we need their leadership. Am I asking too much? You can walk into the library and find numerous titles on making a pot roast, yet few (if any) on making peace. Disturbing.
I could not find this book on eBay, too cherished to part with; nor could I find it in the used book store. I will end up buying a new copy – which will go directly to the library after I have finished reading it.
I could not find this book on eBay, too cherished to part with; nor could I find it in the used book store. I will end up buying a new copy – which will go directly to the library after I have finished reading it.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Loss of a Mother
I only know what I have experienced, and that is the love between a mother and a daughter; I do not know the love between a mother and a son, nor can I pretend to understand. This is why I feel of little use to my husband. I have met death, I have felt death in the room, I have seen what death destroys, I have seen what death fosters, I have screamed at death, I have forbid it come, I have heard death delay and I have seen it rush. Yet death does not hear me nor see me nor feel me; for this should I be thankful?
I do not know that first breaths pain inhaled after losing mother. I have not walked upon this earth without her presence; I have not awakened to the silencing of her voice. Do you hear her still small voice as you shiver under cover? Do you feel her soft cool breath as you bandage up a knee? Do you see a glimpse of her as you stand affront the mirror? Do you recognize her in your child as some distant memory?
I do not know that first breaths pain inhaled after losing mother. I have not walked upon this earth without her presence; I have not awakened to the silencing of her voice. Do you hear her still small voice as you shiver under cover? Do you feel her soft cool breath as you bandage up a knee? Do you see a glimpse of her as you stand affront the mirror? Do you recognize her in your child as some distant memory?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Why?
Why the hell are children starving when the earth has provided us with so much damn food?Why aren’t we outraged? Why aren’t we feeding them? Why are we throwing food away when there is someone who needs a sandwich? Why aren’t we clothing those who need a coat for winter? Why are we allowing men to rape women with rifles and worse, why? Why are mothers losing children to shrapnel while we drive our own children to music and tap and soccer and orchestra? Why… Why… Why… do we see the atrocities and horror on TV yet we go on making dinner? Why aren’t we protecting our sisters and mothers? Why do we allow a bomb to go off in a playground full of children? The next time it may be the playground where our children play.
Van Gogh Starry Night
Anyone so fortunate as to reach the age of puberty has heard the adage ‘mile high club’, it needs no explanation. I never understood its appeal – the broom closet at home is twice as wide, and the value per square foot…what is all the hype about? Then I recognized my own reverie – quiet whispers down another hall, long leather benches, soft lights – my own mile high club – a museum, perhaps after close, maybe under Starry Night.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Vietnam
I asked my father about Vietnam. I told him that one of the few things I knew about his life was that he had gone to Vietnam. I explained to him that I used to visit the Vietnam Memorial and stand where his name would have been, thankful that I never found those letters engraved in the cold black stone, knowing that I would not be standing there if they had. I asked him how you shoot in the direction of a child. He cried. He told me that you hear a comrade shot, watch him land at your feet with his guts spilling out yet you don’t think, you move your body forward while shooting into the dark. He said the jungle is always dark. He told me that most of the men in his unit stayed numb using drugs and women, he was often sent into the villages to pull men out of huts and back into the jungle.
Strange to refer to him as father, I found myself hesitating before using his first name, yet unable to stammer out dad; I spent the week calling him none of the above, opting instead to speak face to face.
Strange to refer to him as father, I found myself hesitating before using his first name, yet unable to stammer out dad; I spent the week calling him none of the above, opting instead to speak face to face.
My letter to the editor
I am writing to ask for more media coverage of the genocide occurring in the Darfur region of Sudan. At least a quarter of a million people have been murdered; over two million people have been displaced from their homes; villages have been burned; thousands of women have been raped. Yet six men who die in a mine receive ongoing media coverage for weeks, when hundreds are dying daily - lives we have the resources to save. Are their lives too insignificant to receive 30 seconds on the 6 o’clock news or a 2” x 6” article in the newspaper? If I drove into the next town and murdered one individual based on the color of their skin I would probably headline Channel 5 News for a week; yet a nation killing men, women, children, fathers, sisters, brothers, mothers, because of their ethnic background, does not warrant media coverage.
Even more disturbing than the lack of media coverage is the lack of public outrage at such atrocities. We have evolved into a nation more knowledgeable about the underwear deficit of a celebrity than the national deficit of our country. We need to show concern for someone other than ourselves. The front page of CNN.com gives no mention of Darfur although it has multiple articles posted about the Emmy’s. MSN.com has photos of OJ Simpson, the Emmy awards, and a plethora of articles on everything from finance to football, yet it offers no links to the genocide in Darfur. FOXnews.com has no mention of the increasing death toll or rising number of displaced refugees; it does, however, dedicate several lines to the ongoing custody battle of a has-been music starlet.
We cannot effect change unless we have an awareness of the problem. That leaves the lives of those still living in our hands. What can we do? According to the Committee on Conscience (http://www.ushmm.org/conscience/) created by the Presidential Commission, there are five things that we can do to fight genocide. The first is to educate ourselves about genocide. Information is available at the Committee on Conscience website; if you are fortunate enough to be in Washington D.C. the Holocaust Memorial has an entire library dedicated to Darfur as well as other regions of the world where genocide has taken lives. Second, write to the media and ask for an increase in their coverage of Darfur. This includes radio, newspaper, and television. Third, contact your leaders in government, both local and national; let your elected officials know that you expect them to take action against the violence in Darfur. Fourth, make Darfur a topic of conversation; many of my friends and family believed that genocide ended with WWII. Use your voice and educate others about the importance of ending genocide. And fifth, help sustain groups and individuals who are working towards ending genocide.
We can denounce genocide with words.
Even more disturbing than the lack of media coverage is the lack of public outrage at such atrocities. We have evolved into a nation more knowledgeable about the underwear deficit of a celebrity than the national deficit of our country. We need to show concern for someone other than ourselves. The front page of CNN.com gives no mention of Darfur although it has multiple articles posted about the Emmy’s. MSN.com has photos of OJ Simpson, the Emmy awards, and a plethora of articles on everything from finance to football, yet it offers no links to the genocide in Darfur. FOXnews.com has no mention of the increasing death toll or rising number of displaced refugees; it does, however, dedicate several lines to the ongoing custody battle of a has-been music starlet.
We cannot effect change unless we have an awareness of the problem. That leaves the lives of those still living in our hands. What can we do? According to the Committee on Conscience (http://www.ushmm.org/conscience/) created by the Presidential Commission, there are five things that we can do to fight genocide. The first is to educate ourselves about genocide. Information is available at the Committee on Conscience website; if you are fortunate enough to be in Washington D.C. the Holocaust Memorial has an entire library dedicated to Darfur as well as other regions of the world where genocide has taken lives. Second, write to the media and ask for an increase in their coverage of Darfur. This includes radio, newspaper, and television. Third, contact your leaders in government, both local and national; let your elected officials know that you expect them to take action against the violence in Darfur. Fourth, make Darfur a topic of conversation; many of my friends and family believed that genocide ended with WWII. Use your voice and educate others about the importance of ending genocide. And fifth, help sustain groups and individuals who are working towards ending genocide.
We can denounce genocide with words.
We cannot save lives without action.
Megan Van Pelt
Duncan Phillips
I found my rainbows end. Whether I stumbled upon it a third of the way into life or yesterday, my footsteps carried me, desire led me. Gently moving doors of glass proffered a glimpse of the treasure waiting for me inside. Mine did not take the shape expected, no round or oval object, no golden pot or kettle. Mine was a room, a perfect room of perfect proportions – a room of Rothko’s. Rainbows are unpredictable by nature, some guide us forward while others direct us left or right. Of course all of this is dependent upon where we are standing at the time. I happened to be standing at the Dupont metro station; early autumn hues led me up Massachusetts and 21st and into the Phillips Gallery. I had been meaning to come here for years, Duncan Phillips, the museums founder, is perhaps my favorite collector, choosing works that I would choose for myself, had I been born at the right time with the right resources. Unlike so many collectors who view art as an investment, Phillips saw art as life, as history, as expression....Duncan Phillips believed in the art of creating, he lived for it, as do I.
The room - intensely saturated with color. It felt deeply intimate. Alone I sat, in the center of the room, on a bench placed there as an afterthought, at the suggestion of Rothko himself. I am alone in this part of the museum, hearing only the faint sound of footsteps in the distance. The Rothko’s are mine. My heart is full.
The room - intensely saturated with color. It felt deeply intimate. Alone I sat, in the center of the room, on a bench placed there as an afterthought, at the suggestion of Rothko himself. I am alone in this part of the museum, hearing only the faint sound of footsteps in the distance. The Rothko’s are mine. My heart is full.
Monday, October 1, 2007
A few words from last week...
I have been painting more frequently. My schedule has not changed, with two exams last week and a paper due next week my time is more limited than before – seconds are lost into minutes that turn into hours with haste. Time incessantly stumbles forward, yet I uncover the occasion to paint. Perhaps it’s a matter of self-preservation; perhaps its inspiration from others who seek their passions daily (Perrie’s piano melodies, Clarissa’s travels through the pages of a book). Perhaps it is nothing more than having the materials available at my fingertips; I have acquired quite a bit of canvas and oils recently, even splurging on a roll of un-stretched canvas and a half dozen frames on their second or third life.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
happiness
What makes one happy? Do we simply choose happiness in place of regret or loss or disappointment or guilt? Do we need to choose happiness at all? Perhaps it’s a point of perspective; rather than choosing to be happy we simply need to change the lens through which we view our own lives.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Painting Under Stars
Sneaking out in the middle of the night, in lieu of candles, stars. Darkness proffers moonlight. Armed with easel and brush, canvas and oil, I lie in the grass; let the brush move my hand. The movement, fluid. The colors acquiesce. A woman in red emerges.
Last night I found time, time to be alone, time to create, time to express, time under the stars in mindfulness. My body lies under sky. I finish two canvases. The passion dripped from fingertips.
Last night I found time, time to be alone, time to create, time to express, time under the stars in mindfulness. My body lies under sky. I finish two canvases. The passion dripped from fingertips.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
So Much For Promises
There are two subjects of which I self advised to never plague upon my blog. The first is infertility. The second is politics and religion (as a demonstration of my patriotism I treat them as one and the same). I found it imperative to avoid these subjects as their discussion has the tendency to bring out my bitter bitch; every woman has an inner bitch (if you disagree you are: A. not a man B. not a man married to a woman or C. not a man who has ever met a woman). I, however, have replaced my inner bitch with a bitter one.
So much for promises made to thy self . . .
I hate pregnant women. Is that statement too biting? My teeth seethe when I walk in front of a maternity store, its patrons’ rosy with anticipation “oh how wonderful, my genitalia will stretch to accommodate an un-ripened cantaloupe, what wonderment, my nipples suckled till raw and red, losing all resemblance of their former shape!” Much worse than the maternity store is the never-ending parade of pregnancy walking down my block; these are the women announcing with each step forward their refusal to gain a pregnancy pound, electing instead to move fat from their ass to their firm round belly. Is my bitter bitch beginning to show herself? In the presence of the expecting I am expected to give up my seat and preferred parking; I’ve been carrying around an extra 20 lbs far longer than nine months, where is my reserved parking spot?
Living ‘childfree’ in Utah has frequently made me a target for questioning. No-orgasm Nancy’s feel it their God ordained duty to “be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth”. Amazing they even find the time to cast judgments. Questioned in the lobby of my doctor’s office I responded . . . why my husband says my pussy is far too pretty to go through childbirth . . . at once Nancy shut her mouth, in fact, every mouth in the lobby shut . . . or fell open . . . as if I were watching synchronized swimming.
So much for promises made to thy self . . .
I hate pregnant women. Is that statement too biting? My teeth seethe when I walk in front of a maternity store, its patrons’ rosy with anticipation “oh how wonderful, my genitalia will stretch to accommodate an un-ripened cantaloupe, what wonderment, my nipples suckled till raw and red, losing all resemblance of their former shape!” Much worse than the maternity store is the never-ending parade of pregnancy walking down my block; these are the women announcing with each step forward their refusal to gain a pregnancy pound, electing instead to move fat from their ass to their firm round belly. Is my bitter bitch beginning to show herself? In the presence of the expecting I am expected to give up my seat and preferred parking; I’ve been carrying around an extra 20 lbs far longer than nine months, where is my reserved parking spot?
Living ‘childfree’ in Utah has frequently made me a target for questioning. No-orgasm Nancy’s feel it their God ordained duty to “be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth”. Amazing they even find the time to cast judgments. Questioned in the lobby of my doctor’s office I responded . . . why my husband says my pussy is far too pretty to go through childbirth . . . at once Nancy shut her mouth, in fact, every mouth in the lobby shut . . . or fell open . . . as if I were watching synchronized swimming.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Into the wood...
I have spent the last two weekends amidst a castle of trees. The Manti La Sal mountain range lies two hours south of here, its forest dense with life untouched, unharmed. At home there is nothing to suspect that I am anything other than a city girl…painted toes and silken scarves perfume behind my ear…but in the forest I am Ianthe, a river nymph come home to her wood. Lain back, my eyes are captivated in the luminosity of the night sky, falling forward as the background darkens the stars appear as night has given birth. The flames begin to smolder; the glowing red ash casts obscure shadows at my feet. River rushes over rock, my lullaby into sleep. Thoreau went into the woods to inhale life; I go into the woods and exhale.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
I have more than a dozen blogs to post. During my trip to the DC area as well as NYC I scrawled my thoughts and ideas onto small steno pads, their little yellow pages now everywhere... my purse, wallet, coat pocket, book jacket, luggage...there were even a few in my toiletries bag! I would also like to post excerpts from the Me Book I compiled last spring for a class. So maybe, just maybe, I can overcome the fear that prevents me from posting my thoughts...better to wait and see before making any promises.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
On Solace
I am never alone. And on the very rare occasion that I selfishly insist on being alone, I find myself in the presence of guilt and thereby am still not alone.
I keep listening to the same song…something one can choose to do in solitary while hurting those that we love. Here I sit, at last, alone in my own home, repeating the Foo Fighter’s song “Razor” over and over and over again, all the while asking myself… how did I get here? At this very moment there are thousands that await to be fed, emaciated for lack of companionship, while I, undeservedly I assure you, I am in the presence of at least one other 24 hours a day seven days a week. Where one soul finds isolation another finds solace; how strange that both should occur in the same place.
Maybe the desire one has to be alone is merely an illusion; I question myself, do I yearn for quiet moments that I may hear the sound of my own heart beat...or do I need to hear the beat of another in order to recognize my own?
I keep listening to the same song…something one can choose to do in solitary while hurting those that we love. Here I sit, at last, alone in my own home, repeating the Foo Fighter’s song “Razor” over and over and over again, all the while asking myself… how did I get here? At this very moment there are thousands that await to be fed, emaciated for lack of companionship, while I, undeservedly I assure you, I am in the presence of at least one other 24 hours a day seven days a week. Where one soul finds isolation another finds solace; how strange that both should occur in the same place.
Maybe the desire one has to be alone is merely an illusion; I question myself, do I yearn for quiet moments that I may hear the sound of my own heart beat...or do I need to hear the beat of another in order to recognize my own?
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Saturday, July 7, 2007
untitled
I am living in my own private hell. A place I have created, a space I alone fill. My voice is not heard, each word not projected. My thoughts are mere whispers on a far away hill.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
The Gift
Jim surprised me yesterday with a very early birthday present. Neither one of us has the ability to hold back a present until the approaching holiday; the excitement of seeing another’s expression as they open a gift to which you gave so much thought always wins out! Everyone who knows me is aware that my favorite book is “To Kill A Mockingbird”; I read it every year. This summer I am reading it page by page to Perrie, at the end of each page illustrating with words the scene that just took place and emphasizing what I believe Perrie will find the most joy and familiarity with. This summer I am seeing the book for the first time through Perrie’s eyes. Befittingly, Jim surprised me with a copy of the 40th Anniversary edition, signed by Harper Lee. I was stunned; to know that Harper Lee held my book and it bore her signature made me feel giddy, it was Christmas morning and I am looking at my shiny new bike, it’s pink and white streamers glistening in the sun’s reflection off the snow.
Neglect
I have been neglecting Perrie’s blog, and my own; it feels as though there is always something impending, something more that I have to, need to, should, must, ought to be doing; cognitive distortions race through my mind as if flipping through the pages of a dictionary. There is so much I desire to write down, countless ideas and thoughts and ramblings; some of importance, but these are few. The same desires I have for writing engage my need to paint; the same feelings and distortions prevent me from accomplishing both.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Summer Reading
This summer I have made reading a priority; not my first priority, but nonetheless it has proved fruitful. I began the school break with the Pulitzer Prize winning “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides. I was astonished at my reaction, joining the world of Eugenides characters was swift, easily facilitated by his beautiful prose and superb character development. I felt despondent at the books end; I longed to keep the characters alive, their journeys going forward beyond the turn of the last page.
“The Memory Keepers Daughter” was not what I had expected. This book, more than anything, is about the unravelling of a relationship between husband and wife.
I next read Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. This book was a light read into the vanities of women, spun through the memoirs of Nora Ephron. I could not understand who the author was writing too; she claimed to be writing to ‘everyday women’ (you and I) however, I do not personally know anyone who does not wash her own hair, yet alone travels to Paris to purchase a $3000 purse!
I read “The Hours” last week after watching the movie version of Michael Cunningham’s Pulitzer Prize winning book. Both the movie and the book were exceptional. I felt such a strong connection to the character Laura Brown, played by Julianne Moore in the film. The heaviness of waking and fulfilling the role of wife, mother, housekeeper; the burial of dreams and aspirations; as Laura Brown I too feel heavy and burdened, and ungrateful for having these feelings at all.
"Stumbling Upon Happiness", "What's Worth Knowing", and a collection of short stories were enjoyable to read, but not good literature.
"Tender at the Bone" was surprisingly delightful! A memoir of a childhood reminiscent of mine - life that surrounds the kitchen table.
This past week I finished, "The Madonna's of Leningrad". I would recommend this book to anyone who has a friend or loved one with Alzheimers, or the art lover who enjoys a good period piece. To hear a narrative from a character with Alzheimers stunned me, it was lovely and sad and terribly real. As the Alzheimers progresses the early memories of the narrator's life become more clear while the more recent memories all but dissapear. The narrator lived in the lower vaults of the Hermitage museum in Leningrad for the long cold winter months during the war with two thousand other refugees in her late teens, it is here where much of the story takes place.
I just finished reading "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan". It is a period piece - 19th century China - from footbinding and the secret written language of nu-shu to the eating of the pigs penis and sharing of the chamber pot - the author transported me into the room with Snow Flower and Lily, I partook of their customs, felt their joys and sorrows, I sang their daughters laments; through the writers purposeful scribe I became woven into the lives of these two remarkable women. This is what a good book does after all; it offers its reader the opportunity to take up temporary residence in a foreign land with a brand new pair of eyes. I know that I've read a great book when I arrive at the last few pages and desire to go no further, I stall, not wanting to say goodbye.
I am now reading "Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf; Perrie and I are reading "To Kill A Mockingbird".
“The Memory Keepers Daughter” was not what I had expected. This book, more than anything, is about the unravelling of a relationship between husband and wife.
I next read Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. This book was a light read into the vanities of women, spun through the memoirs of Nora Ephron. I could not understand who the author was writing too; she claimed to be writing to ‘everyday women’ (you and I) however, I do not personally know anyone who does not wash her own hair, yet alone travels to Paris to purchase a $3000 purse!
I read “The Hours” last week after watching the movie version of Michael Cunningham’s Pulitzer Prize winning book. Both the movie and the book were exceptional. I felt such a strong connection to the character Laura Brown, played by Julianne Moore in the film. The heaviness of waking and fulfilling the role of wife, mother, housekeeper; the burial of dreams and aspirations; as Laura Brown I too feel heavy and burdened, and ungrateful for having these feelings at all.
"Stumbling Upon Happiness", "What's Worth Knowing", and a collection of short stories were enjoyable to read, but not good literature.
"Tender at the Bone" was surprisingly delightful! A memoir of a childhood reminiscent of mine - life that surrounds the kitchen table.
This past week I finished, "The Madonna's of Leningrad". I would recommend this book to anyone who has a friend or loved one with Alzheimers, or the art lover who enjoys a good period piece. To hear a narrative from a character with Alzheimers stunned me, it was lovely and sad and terribly real. As the Alzheimers progresses the early memories of the narrator's life become more clear while the more recent memories all but dissapear. The narrator lived in the lower vaults of the Hermitage museum in Leningrad for the long cold winter months during the war with two thousand other refugees in her late teens, it is here where much of the story takes place.
I just finished reading "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan". It is a period piece - 19th century China - from footbinding and the secret written language of nu-shu to the eating of the pigs penis and sharing of the chamber pot - the author transported me into the room with Snow Flower and Lily, I partook of their customs, felt their joys and sorrows, I sang their daughters laments; through the writers purposeful scribe I became woven into the lives of these two remarkable women. This is what a good book does after all; it offers its reader the opportunity to take up temporary residence in a foreign land with a brand new pair of eyes. I know that I've read a great book when I arrive at the last few pages and desire to go no further, I stall, not wanting to say goodbye.
I am now reading "Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf; Perrie and I are reading "To Kill A Mockingbird".
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Early Morning
I love the quiet of early Saturday mornings, it is just after 7am and the neighborhood is still in slumber…by 8:00 the sound of children and lawnmowers and golf carts on the green will signal the beginning of another day. It is then that I retreat back to bed, early morning clatter resonates its lullaby as I drift once again into sleep. It is Saturday – I have no responsibilities until half past noon, this time is my own…how lovely it feels to type those five little words.
Friday, May 25, 2007
So I Begin
I have been contemplating the process of blogging...overthinking everything in my usual way. I am not sure what I hope to gain from releasing my thoughts and hopes, dreams and memories, into this vastness called universe. Lightness perhaps? I received the most beautiful letter from a friend and her words have had me thinking for days. In the letter she mentions "...expressing yourself is where the real joy lies...". I wonder what truths these eight words hold. There is a large part of me that greatly desires to be heard, to be seen, to be understood...this is in high contrast with the little girl who lies within and hides, fearing her inadequacies and imperfections will be noticed if someone were to look her way. Or maybe it is the other way around, perhaps it is the little girl that wants to be heard and I have neglected her voice...
Thursday, May 24, 2007
My favorite photo...
This is my sister Emily at age two. Now married with her second baby on the way she no longer makes a habit of snorting glass doors - but we have this picture to prove she once did!
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