Spirited
My word for today is spirited. I wanted to run like the wind, like a deer, like a small single engine plane. I want to fly.
Words are my vehicle and I want them to glide across the page, I want to make them transparent wings, with scotch tape and crayoned colored things to take you places you have never seen. In my imagination, the jewels of Babylon are still secured— emeralds, diamonds, jade and gold tucked in my cap and down my neck unfold:
Behold, King Solomon’s Mines—or should I say, Behold the Kitty’s mind!
Spirited—when did I lose that trait? When did I stop hitchhiking across country, joining up with spiritual masters, walking around town at night to see who else was crazy enough to stay up (turns out only the lone cop wondering what the hell I was doing out so late in a snowstorm).
Spirited—today I will swim in the pool, eat good food, drink lots of water and write, write, write!
Today I will be filled with the spirit to inspire, to write and to be whole!
Monday, August 24, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
“Irish” Spanish Rice
My mother could burn water; she was such a bad cook. My grandmother, my father’s mother, was even worse. When I asked my Dad how he had learned to cook so well, he replied: It was self preservation.
Growing up I made dinner many nights for my siblings, and as I gained experience fancied myself quite the chef—perhaps not Gourmet Magazine standard—but I could turn out a well seasoned meatball, a flavorful salad and a terrific blueberry muffin.
I could hold my own in the kitchen; my brother and sisters gobbled up my offerings, always insisting, it was great; even if it was hot dogs and potato salad. Then I moved in with my future husband. Are all Puerto Rican men this spoiled? He did not like leftovers and would turn his nose up at delicious dishes.
One Saturday I thought let’s surprise him with something special—Spanish rice. I pulled out my cookbook and gathered my ingredients which were plentiful and savory.
Sweating in the kitchen for an hour or so, produced, what I thought was a decent Spanish rice. At the time, I had not been paying attention to what this dish should look like—yellow rice with minuscule bits of veggies, along with a tomato broth to cook the rice. My Spanish rice had giant chunks of green pepper and blobs of tomato stuck out here and there.
My husband fell off the dining room chair laughing. This has come to be known in our house as my “Irish” Spanish rice dish.
Since then I have discovered Goya products. Thanks, God!
Growing up I made dinner many nights for my siblings, and as I gained experience fancied myself quite the chef—perhaps not Gourmet Magazine standard—but I could turn out a well seasoned meatball, a flavorful salad and a terrific blueberry muffin.
I could hold my own in the kitchen; my brother and sisters gobbled up my offerings, always insisting, it was great; even if it was hot dogs and potato salad. Then I moved in with my future husband. Are all Puerto Rican men this spoiled? He did not like leftovers and would turn his nose up at delicious dishes.
One Saturday I thought let’s surprise him with something special—Spanish rice. I pulled out my cookbook and gathered my ingredients which were plentiful and savory.
Sweating in the kitchen for an hour or so, produced, what I thought was a decent Spanish rice. At the time, I had not been paying attention to what this dish should look like—yellow rice with minuscule bits of veggies, along with a tomato broth to cook the rice. My Spanish rice had giant chunks of green pepper and blobs of tomato stuck out here and there.
My husband fell off the dining room chair laughing. This has come to be known in our house as my “Irish” Spanish rice dish.
Since then I have discovered Goya products. Thanks, God!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Sugar
My whole life I have loved sugar, particularly candy, and most particularly chocolate. I am able to divine where chocolate is hidden in a coworker’s desk, or where the closest Lindt shop is on Madison Avenue.
Chocolate is the food of kings as far as I am concerned. Hersey Almond bar, M&M peanut, Dove dark chocolate, and anything from the Lindt shop are among my favorites, but just about any piece of chocolate will do. I am no connoisseur, and make no distinction between Lindt and Hersey. I saw a piece on TV that said Hersey had changed its formula and substituted a less expensive ingredient. Could have fooled me, give me a Hersey’s candy bar any day and I am in heaven.
Halloween was always my favorite holiday. Hard candy sat in my trick or treat bag, until Thanksgiving, there was no interest. Give me the Milk Duds, Milky Way and Snickers—even bite size made my day.
What bio-chemicals are in this stuff? Does it raise the serotonin level of my brain? Who cares? All I know is it gives me joy. Oh yeah, I like that too, Almond Joy. Oh boy!
Chocolate is the food of kings as far as I am concerned. Hersey Almond bar, M&M peanut, Dove dark chocolate, and anything from the Lindt shop are among my favorites, but just about any piece of chocolate will do. I am no connoisseur, and make no distinction between Lindt and Hersey. I saw a piece on TV that said Hersey had changed its formula and substituted a less expensive ingredient. Could have fooled me, give me a Hersey’s candy bar any day and I am in heaven.
Halloween was always my favorite holiday. Hard candy sat in my trick or treat bag, until Thanksgiving, there was no interest. Give me the Milk Duds, Milky Way and Snickers—even bite size made my day.
What bio-chemicals are in this stuff? Does it raise the serotonin level of my brain? Who cares? All I know is it gives me joy. Oh yeah, I like that too, Almond Joy. Oh boy!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Predicament
There have been so many times when I have gotten myself deep into it into some down and dirty rough spot. Somehow I always managed to climb back out of whatever big ol’back hole got me.
My Dad was the Master of creating something from nothing, for getting out of tough spots, for triumphing over seemingly impossible odds.
One story, my parents loved to tell, was Dad had just had enough money for carfare to work, and would get paid that next day. It was summertime and the kids all played outside and when the Good Humor truck showed up, the kids would scatter screaming, “Ice cream!” at the top of their lungs. Parents, some living on modest means, always found the change to buy an ice cream cone for their little ones.
This one night, I ran into the house, and could not find my parents.
They had been discussing, how to say no, there was no money for ice cream, when I discovered them hiding in their bedroom closet.
“What are you doing in there?” I giggled.
“Give it to her” My father said to my mother.
“But Phil…”
“Just give it to her.”
They handed me the quarter and I unknowing what was going on, skipped out to get my toasted almond on a stick. My Dad then got the great idea to go through the cushions of the couch, his suit pockets, and winter coats, managing to just find two nickels and a dime.
He was always able to pull the rabbit out of the hat, at just the last minute. It was quite a dramatic childhood—who needed TV?
Here is another story he just told me recently: As a kid, he studied to be an alter boy for a whole year, learning to say the responses to the mass in Latin. After passing the test to be an alter boy, he went home and asked his mother for the $7.50 to buy the cassock needed to assist on the altar. She told him, “We just don’t have the money.” He went outside totally dejected, sulking around the neighborhood.
“What’s wrong, Philip?” Asked one of the older guys from the neighborhood.
He told him his story and how upset he was.
The boy replied, “I have an old cassock that I don’t use any more, you can have it.”
My father must have jumped for joy.
I need to start creating my future from vision. I have just started a vision board and am curious to see how it works. What is your vision for this glorious Summer?
My Dad was the Master of creating something from nothing, for getting out of tough spots, for triumphing over seemingly impossible odds.
One story, my parents loved to tell, was Dad had just had enough money for carfare to work, and would get paid that next day. It was summertime and the kids all played outside and when the Good Humor truck showed up, the kids would scatter screaming, “Ice cream!” at the top of their lungs. Parents, some living on modest means, always found the change to buy an ice cream cone for their little ones.
This one night, I ran into the house, and could not find my parents.
They had been discussing, how to say no, there was no money for ice cream, when I discovered them hiding in their bedroom closet.
“What are you doing in there?” I giggled.
“Give it to her” My father said to my mother.
“But Phil…”
“Just give it to her.”
They handed me the quarter and I unknowing what was going on, skipped out to get my toasted almond on a stick. My Dad then got the great idea to go through the cushions of the couch, his suit pockets, and winter coats, managing to just find two nickels and a dime.
He was always able to pull the rabbit out of the hat, at just the last minute. It was quite a dramatic childhood—who needed TV?
Here is another story he just told me recently: As a kid, he studied to be an alter boy for a whole year, learning to say the responses to the mass in Latin. After passing the test to be an alter boy, he went home and asked his mother for the $7.50 to buy the cassock needed to assist on the altar. She told him, “We just don’t have the money.” He went outside totally dejected, sulking around the neighborhood.
“What’s wrong, Philip?” Asked one of the older guys from the neighborhood.
He told him his story and how upset he was.
The boy replied, “I have an old cassock that I don’t use any more, you can have it.”
My father must have jumped for joy.
I need to start creating my future from vision. I have just started a vision board and am curious to see how it works. What is your vision for this glorious Summer?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Race
There was a time when I took up road racing. Not long races, only 3 or 5k, short hops by the marathon, triathlon standards. Still, it was fun and I enjoyed it. I trained for it and was prepared to go the distance. I felt like an athlete, although in the scheme of things, it was modest.
Fast forward, 30 years, I am now quite unfit, finding it hard to walk more than 20 minutes on the tread mill. I am going to work in the city where I must climb stairs and walk 20 blocks a day. I am working out now in earnest in the hopes of getting a bit more fit before this new job starts. It is a challenge.
I saw there was a fun race at the Bronx Zoo, you got to race through the zoo early in the morning and then could stay the whole day and watch the animals. That sounded like lots of fun. What do I need to do to get in shape to take the Bronx Zoo challenge? Walk everyday, do some kind of weight training, I have that gym membership, got to use it!
My goal is to find other fun forms of exercise: Hike in the woods, ride a bike around the local park, swim in the condo pool. How about playing with the dog? Anything that keeps me moving counts.
When was the last time you took a walk or hit the gym? Just do it!
Fast forward, 30 years, I am now quite unfit, finding it hard to walk more than 20 minutes on the tread mill. I am going to work in the city where I must climb stairs and walk 20 blocks a day. I am working out now in earnest in the hopes of getting a bit more fit before this new job starts. It is a challenge.
I saw there was a fun race at the Bronx Zoo, you got to race through the zoo early in the morning and then could stay the whole day and watch the animals. That sounded like lots of fun. What do I need to do to get in shape to take the Bronx Zoo challenge? Walk everyday, do some kind of weight training, I have that gym membership, got to use it!
My goal is to find other fun forms of exercise: Hike in the woods, ride a bike around the local park, swim in the condo pool. How about playing with the dog? Anything that keeps me moving counts.
When was the last time you took a walk or hit the gym? Just do it!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Respectable
Growing up being respectable meant everything to my mother.
She said things like: Get a good job, always be nice to the people on the way up, because you never know who you will meet on the way down, and the favorite of all mom’s in the ‘60’s—wear clean underwear, you never know when you will be in an accident.
I still strive for respectability and compromise my creativity, work life and friendships to appear ok to family and friends. What if I just blew it off?
Would I dare to live on a beach in Cabo and write murder mysteries (or at least try until the money ran out)? Could I sell off everything and hit the road in a camper with a dozen notebooks, pens and my digital camera and see what I could produce in 90 days? Would I dare publish a scandalous memoir of growing up in Larchmont, where respectability was punctured from time to time by crimes like rape, murder and assault? What about less offenses like teaching young ladies not to sweat, to say please and thank you (when you rather say a four letter equivalent of jack off), and of course to always look presentable. The first tenet of respectability seems to be “presentablity.” Don’t forget—full make up required while running to the store to buy a loaf of bread.
Hog wash. I don’t need to run away to be creative. I want to do my work and be a business woman, and earn the required fortune to stay afloat in NY. And I also want to take the risk, and write the tough stuff. Write the stuff I thought I would take to my grave; write the stuff that is not respectable.
I want to be free to write poems, short stories, letters, and reviews that blow the lid off respectability. I want to be free to be me and to do that I must undo, break free, work hard at recovering my true self. I want to start working out to get stronger physically which I think will also allow me to feel stronger mentally to write the tough stuff.
Why be respectable when you can have fun and just be free?
She said things like: Get a good job, always be nice to the people on the way up, because you never know who you will meet on the way down, and the favorite of all mom’s in the ‘60’s—wear clean underwear, you never know when you will be in an accident.
I still strive for respectability and compromise my creativity, work life and friendships to appear ok to family and friends. What if I just blew it off?
Would I dare to live on a beach in Cabo and write murder mysteries (or at least try until the money ran out)? Could I sell off everything and hit the road in a camper with a dozen notebooks, pens and my digital camera and see what I could produce in 90 days? Would I dare publish a scandalous memoir of growing up in Larchmont, where respectability was punctured from time to time by crimes like rape, murder and assault? What about less offenses like teaching young ladies not to sweat, to say please and thank you (when you rather say a four letter equivalent of jack off), and of course to always look presentable. The first tenet of respectability seems to be “presentablity.” Don’t forget—full make up required while running to the store to buy a loaf of bread.
Hog wash. I don’t need to run away to be creative. I want to do my work and be a business woman, and earn the required fortune to stay afloat in NY. And I also want to take the risk, and write the tough stuff. Write the stuff I thought I would take to my grave; write the stuff that is not respectable.
I want to be free to write poems, short stories, letters, and reviews that blow the lid off respectability. I want to be free to be me and to do that I must undo, break free, work hard at recovering my true self. I want to start working out to get stronger physically which I think will also allow me to feel stronger mentally to write the tough stuff.
Why be respectable when you can have fun and just be free?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
My Myth
Reading a book of daily Celtic Reflections, there was a passage on personal myth yesterday. The page said we have rejected myths to only believe and trust the so called “real.” As if the 10 o’clock news can explain this life to us. We have lost our way.
Some coaches talk about Purpose, but I don’t think that is quite what myth is. Myth is the deeply personal and cultural connection to our history and destiny.
For myself, when I think about my myth, I think of my grandparents who all left Ireland for a better life in America. My grandmother told me, when she was first here, she would go up on the roof and look toward Ireland, she was so lonely. She kept on, and created a new life for herself here. A pioneer!
There is nothing sadder than that Irish music, the longing and hope for return. The Irish feel the West signifies heaven or Paradise. How interesting that is where my ancestor chose to start life again.
What is my myth? I feel it is up to me to cultivate my writing and my spirit. To meditate and put pen to paper is my personal myth. What comes of it, what direction it takes, where I go in meditation and prayer—that is where my myth meets my reality.
What are the myths in your family or tribe? What goes beyond your purpose to the deep inner longing of your soul?
Some coaches talk about Purpose, but I don’t think that is quite what myth is. Myth is the deeply personal and cultural connection to our history and destiny.
For myself, when I think about my myth, I think of my grandparents who all left Ireland for a better life in America. My grandmother told me, when she was first here, she would go up on the roof and look toward Ireland, she was so lonely. She kept on, and created a new life for herself here. A pioneer!
There is nothing sadder than that Irish music, the longing and hope for return. The Irish feel the West signifies heaven or Paradise. How interesting that is where my ancestor chose to start life again.
What is my myth? I feel it is up to me to cultivate my writing and my spirit. To meditate and put pen to paper is my personal myth. What comes of it, what direction it takes, where I go in meditation and prayer—that is where my myth meets my reality.
What are the myths in your family or tribe? What goes beyond your purpose to the deep inner longing of your soul?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
