Reflections - and Resolutions

The generic list of resolutions reads something like this: 

eat less, exercise more, get organized, be happy.

Come on! Be honest - is there anyone that hasn't promised themselves

at least one of these resolutions sometime in their life!

I have a counter proposal.

Why not make New Year reflections?

Think about this past year of your life. What have you learned?

What are you grateful for? What changes did you make in your life?

And who has given you gifts of love and encouragement?

Then, what are your hopes for this next year?

Not your resolutions - your hopes for yourself and the world in which you live.

What kind of list have you made?

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

And What Would I Say?

Reading the news online, I said to my husband that the fiscal cliff was all over the news and everyone and their cousin was being quoted.

He said : They haven't called me.

I laughed. But as I continued to peruse the news, the serious and the ridiculous - I thought about what he said.

They haven't called me either. And what would I say if "they" did? Get it fixed pronto? Lock 'em in a room  until they can come out with a solution? Think about it and all the people's lives that will be affected if the Congress elected to serve all the people continues to draw lines in the sand?

Democracy is not about perfection. It is about approximation. There are no perfect solutions - and heavens, what would I do if it were all up to me. Move one piece in the complexity and hundreds of other pieces shift. Some good shifts and some not good.

We take so much for granted. Streets cleared of snow, clean water running from the tap, police and fireman to show up when they are needed. Support for people who have less, children that are hungry, folks caught in a rapidly changing technological world and needing new skills to be employed. Retirement income and Medicare. And the arts and education. All this stuff is not delivered by a Santa sliding down a chimney - or by the tooth fairy.

Oh - gotta go. I hear the phone ringing . . .

Not Finding Words

I was all ready to post something cheerful when I heard the news about the school shooting in Connecticut. The words in me left and I still have not found them.

How does a person write about such a tragedy - or write about anything else. This Advent has been a dark, dark time. Those children now gone - and their families. There are the families of children who were spared. And adults so committed to children gone from this world.

Fiscal cliffs, monster storms and multiple vehicles collisions, continued warfare - if anyone has any shred of innocence left in them, it must be gone by now. Yes, the world has ended, the world where winter meant ice skates and the smell of the wood stove in the warming house. Christmas caroling and gift-giving. Cheering the snow falling softly because it meant the soft of cross-country skiing and the prospective of sledding down long hills on toboggans. An innocent life that had spaces for laughter and faith that tomorrow would be better than yesterday.

Of course, this century is not the first for warfare and violence. But the instant global connections we now have means the Connecticuts and the Syrias are right there before us. It is said that it took months for word to reach Ben Franklin to learn about events in this country when he served as the first US Ambassador in France . When I was young, letters as the only means of communication to someone living elsewhere used to take several days to arrive. And calling long distance was reserved for emergencies - and folks talked loud because the other person was far away.

Now I can text family and get instant responses from wherever they are. And I can follow the news as it is happening.

So the faces of children in Syria and Connecticut are right there - closer to me than the faces of my neighbors who stay inside out of the cold wintertime weather.

Words? How do you describe terror - horror - unspeakable grief? Or fear, anger, and despair?

Feeling a Little Grinch-y

Must just be me . . .

Or is it? It seems as though, as one online columnist put it, the last 50 years never happened. Girl-gifts are hot on intense pink - and the same sexist connotations that were common fifty years ago before the women's movement roared into being. Pink frilly dresses hang on racks in Targe' - suggestive stuff I'd never would have let my two daughters wear when they were small. The girl ,who has taken on the makers of Easy-Bake Ovens, on behalf of her four-year old brother, who wants one for Christmas - after she discovered that the popular toy only comes in pink and purple.

 Then I read that folks can rent the Pope Mobile for special occasions such as weddings (the Vatican must be hard-up for cash - no comment why that might be so - that's another rant). And the article writer in the morning paper said that it means renting for good purposes - like "undefiled girls." That's right - undefiled - does that mean virgins only? And girls? I remember at the start of the women's movement, I still considered myself a girl rather than a woman. And that it took a bit of understanding on my part to learn how the word girl was used to keep women as the second class gender. When adult men did not refer to themselves as boys, other than as good-old-boys.

The other night, the PBS options were all fund-raising efforts - God bless them and their continued existence. Other than an occasional evening watching Dancing With the Stars, the only commercial TV we watch is the news. Perusing TV schedules, we decided to watch the annual Victoria's Secret show. After all, it started at 8pm CST, and thus couldn't be too risque - and since it is a world neither of us inhabit, it should be an interesting slice of culture. 

Unbelievable! Just one step short of what I'd call porn. Lots of navels and bare skin, and strutting around. One model had only a string up her otherwise naked butt to hold up the little thingy in the front. Commercials deemed too naughty for prime-time TV (thought this was TV we were watching, not something ordered from the nearest sex shop). Justin Bieber singing away among almost naked women (is he moving "up?")  And plenty of push-up bras - which we renamed pop-ups in honor of the pop-up ads selling stuff. After all, weren't these bras "selling stuff?"

I couldn't help wondering how many children of both genders were watching?

Don't get me wrong - these were beautiful women. And I don't think I'm a prude. It was the glorification of women as sexual objects that stunned me. All this after 50 years-worth of changing images of woman and enabling them to gain their rightful places as respected and contributing members of society. That women have brains, not just boobs and butts. I will constrain myself  from going on and on . . .

We become distressed, at least some of us, about conservative Islamist wars being fought in the Middle East. And horrified at the school girls in Afghanistan and Pakistan being killed over their being educated. But we need to take a serious look at our own culture and see what kind of messages we are sending regarding women.

As the saying goes: point your finger at another and three other fingers point back at you.

What Is Wrong With This Picture?

Reading the morning paper always provides a little something in the cultural realm. This morning was no exception. I read that there is now an app for parents who are bored with reading the beloved book, Good Night Moon, to their children at bedtime. Just turn it on, it "reads the story" to the child -  and the parent can leave the room to engage with more important things, things that are not boring.

Bored? Bored with the nightly ritual of ending a child's day with a story? The comfort of your child tucked safely into bed and snuggled down with Mom or Dad's full attention? What can be more important?

Bedtime stories were an important part of our children's growing up years - even after they learned to read the squiggles on the pages themselves. Their Dad was the story-reader in our family. And this time together with a child tucked under each arm was an loving act. How can that be boring?

And I remember my father reading to me when I was small. Honey the Bear was my favorite. And Honey on a Raft became an important theme in my life. Honey riding a raft through a flood, standing on his hind-legs "to see what he could see." Even in a disaster, Honey, who had been well-cared for by his loving keeper, had his eyes wide open to feed his curiosity.

When I was an adult, I wanted a copy of my favorite book - the original having been tossed or given away a long time ago. The best I could with eBay was another Honey book, another story about Honey by the same author. But it did have pictures of Honey, my hero, engaged in another adventure in his small bear's life. My generation's Good Night Moon - being loved and therefore "safe" even when the world was a scary place.

Boredom with parenting and having an app comfort your child with your love? Now tell me, what is wrong with this picture?

MOST UNUSUAL !

Here it is, almost Thanksgiving and not a drop of rain . . . not a flake of snow. Temps in the 60's.
Grass is greening up and the azalea buds are swelling. Two perennials are still in bloom along our
driveway. I see them each time I come or go. There presence gives me pause. How long will they
last?  This is what prompted the prose poem of a conversation between the two flowers. Years ago
I saw my first Scabiosa on a remote western island of Ireland. I never thought I would see one again.
And then they appeared in a retail garden center where I was working. I couldn't believe my eyes.
I bought one of the beautiful blue-flowering plants and planted it along our driveway.


And Thus Spoke Scabiosa

Nearly Thanksgiving in Minnesota - and still no snow . . . or rain
for that matter. Does that strike you as a little strange, Rose?

         It sure does, Scabiosa. One thing is for sure - this Thanksgiving
         I'm grateful for whoever that is that comes around and pours a
         pitcher of water on me once a week or so. Without that, I'm not
         at all sure I could make it through to see spring . . .

Me either Rose!  I think I heard that same water-bearer say that he 
had once seen one of my relatives in Ireland!

         Yes, Scabiosa. I heard that same comment. That it was somewhere
         on Inishbofin Island. (I'm pretty sure that is how it is pronounced.)

You've got it right, Rose!  Yes - that does make sense. I do have relatives
in Ireland and I've heard that Inishbofin is a beautiful place to live.

I wonder if they got any rain this fall?                     -Clem J. Nagel

It Is Over As a Nation Breathes Deep

As our entire country moves from election mode, its people breathe deep and slowly settle down to Earth. The historians and political analysts are busy, buried in mountains of data and trying to make some sense of what it all means.Op-ed writers are churning out opinions. And folks gathered over lunch or coffee are dissecting the turn of events.

It is hard to step far enough back to gain some perspective! However, a few things do stand out. Most parents lag behind their children's growth - still seeing grade-schoolers when their kids have moved on to middle school. Likewise, our country is changing rapidly - and like being parents, most people do not fully comprehend those changes.

The rapidity of technological change coupled with demographic changes are moving us faster and faster into some version of a new, more complex culture. But what we can name are the feelings each of us has that are generated in the aftermath of this election.

The 2008 election was called historic with election of a mixed-racial man to the presidency. How could anything top that! But as we reflect on this 2012 election, I suspect this year will be considered even more historic. Unexpectedly.

Feelings? Perhaps, just perhaps we have sloughed through years of paralysis to possibilities of hope. To be able to work together by bringing our differences to the table - to create solutions to tough problems.

Perhaps it is the strong visual images of the monster storm called Sandy. I think of the NYC I know and cannot imagine how some kind of semi-permanent shelter can be found for so many people left homeless. Yet, it will happen - somehow. Smart people working together will do the impossible. In the process, they won't all agree, they may argue some, but in the end New Yorkers will not spend a long cold winter huddled over bonfires in the streets.

The weeks and months ahead will not be easy. Smart people will not all agree - and they certainly will argue. But somehow, just maybe there is hope in the air.

We Is Ready!

We're ready for election evening. My dear love has bought microwave popcorn. We have crisp Haraldson apples and a supply of dark chocolate. Our plan is to vote in the morning - after those who vote before going to work. And then hunker down in the evening in front of the TV to watch it all unfold. For whatever happens.

To tell the truth, I am scared. Scared that too many American people are basing their votes on false information. Certainly I am a passionate person, but I have learned to temper my passions with solid information. I wish others in my country would do the same.

The other frightening aspect of this election is those who will  vote for "what will benefit me - and the hell with rest of you." The common good that I always thought was so embedded in this country has been badly eroded. Replaced by "I earned it and I want to keep it" - all of it." Tell that to your neighbors if we privatized everything from plowing snow from your street in the winter to repairing its potholes in the summer construction season.

What would happen if everyone voted on the candidates and legislation that best supported the idea that we are NOT all created equal - and that some need more help than others? What would happen if we embraced our neighbors' differences, instead of excluding those who did not look, think or believe as we do?

Meanwhile, we will munch on hot buttered popcorn, tempered by apple slices and dark chocolate - knowing that there are folks out there for whom our snacks are a luxury beyond them.

The Next Stage

In one of the articles about the monster storm in my morning paper, a man commented that they would rebuild and that in a year, no one would remember any of this happening.

I know what he meant - the determination not to let this storm have the final say. However, I have news for him. He, and all of us, will remember this storm - again and again.

Traumatic events are not erased from our memories when we pick up life and go forward. Ask any one of my generation where they were when JFK was assassinated - and most of us can describe exactly where we were and what we were doing. Ditto with the assault on the Twin Towers in New York. I was sitting at my computer. I can remember my husband coming home and standing in the doorway of our study, saying a plane had flown into one of the towers - and the ashen look on his face.We remember - whether we were on the scene or not.

Just as women remember their childbirth stories - and retell them every time a younger woman announces she is pregnant. Just as yesterday, I tried to imagine being in labor in NYC when the power went out - and what it was like to be carried or helped down flights of stairs lit only by flashlight while in labor. And the story of the man who used his cell phone for illumination, so physicians could complete delivery of their baby.

Now that the brunt of the storm has passed and people begin the work of restoration, we will hear their stories. Because our stories are our way of coping with life's traumas. The stories of death and major loss - and the stories of the little things that no one thought of while preparing for the onslaught. Toilets that can't be flushed, because there is no water. Cell phone service disrupted and trying to find places to re-charge cell phones we so take for granted. Searching for places to be able to take a hot shower. And the little kindnesses that are erupting all over. Like spring flowers bursting forth after winter snows.

There is the process of restoring life - and acknowledging that life will never be the same as it was before this hurricane. We are all altered permanently by what happened.

The Mega-Storm

Sometimes I cannot find words. Nor can I imagine what photos/videos portray. These places - all so familiar, having lived there. People's lives altered forever. The tenderness with which responders lifted terrified children and the elderly to bring them to safe places. The stories, the stories. All pieces of a gigantic event so beyond what any of us have ever seen or experienced.

People caring for each other - and determined to put life back in some semblance of order. Walking to work because there is no public transit - in a city where owning a car is not something worth doing.

The confluence of weather striking at the heart of our countries. May there be healing and new wisdom.

SKY DANCE

Returning
cranes’ uplifting flight
over fields of new
green sprouts.

Willows brighten
flowers grace trees.

Harbingers
of life’s opening.
Fresh starts
new directions.
______________________________________________________

Everyone should go at least once in their life! It's not too early to think of spring plans.

Each spring, ninety percent of the Sandhill Cranes in the world converge along a ninety-mile stretch of the Platte River in central Nebraska. Here, they pause to fatten up before they complete their northward journey to millennia-old breeding grounds stretching across the high Arctic from Siberia to eastern Canada.

The first cranes arrive mid-February and the last leave in April. The best time is somewhere around the third week in March, where their numbers swell to almost a half a million. If you go at the peak of their migration, be sure to make motel reservations, because this seventh wonder of the natural world attracts people from all around the world!

The cranes spend nights, sleeping balanced on one leg, in the shallow Platte River. Some cranes act as sentinels, alert to any sound of creatures such as fox, who might have fantasies of midnight snacks. In the morning, they fly out to surrounding fields to feast.

During their evening return, they call out to each other and to their one adolescent chick, who stays with its parents for two years. The are joined by Canada, Snow, and Blue Geese, all calling out to their compatriots. The cacophony of sound is so loud, you can not hold a conversation – and the sound reverberates through your body and bones.

What Do Cats Do When Their Humans Are Gone?

Our two feline friends are fast friends with each other. They play together and sleep together Everyday they lie under the desk lamp on my desk when it is on - basking in its warmth as though they have gone to the beach.

By now, they are familiar with our habits. The sounds of us getting ready to go out the door. When we return, they are perched on the table by the door, waiting to greet us. Who ever said dogs greet you when you return, while cats disdain to notice you have returned? Not our two!

What happens in between our leaving and returning? Do they sigh and say, there they go again - abandoning us of warm lamps and the hope of extra cat food? Do they sulk just a bit before deciding how to fill the time until our return?

Or do they say, there they go again with a bit of glee - what can we explore in this big house? Where haven't we poked around? What games shall we play together? Any mischief we might create? How about a nice long nap in the sun streaming in a window?

Or perhaps, they say, the house is ours again. We are in charge and need to keep track of everything that happens inside and out.

I will never know. Yes I know, a person can buy some sort of web cam device so that I could spy on them. But I wouldn't want them to do so with me.

A part of their lives will forever be a mystery to me!

Almost Time!

In the next few days our new book CONVERSATIONS  Images and Poetry will roll off the presses! To say that we are eager to hold a copy in our hand is understated.

I have had a love affair with books ever sincre I was old enough to turn the pages in picture books. I love the way a book feels, its scent when it is new, the wonder of turning pages that have never been turned before. Or well worn pages from the library, a history of sorts as to a book's importance in many poeople's lives. Some books fill my shelves as markers in my life. Other books are re-read from time to time - always learning something that I'd missed before.

And when it is your own book! As a friend in grad school once remarked, "there is something so satisfying to hold the tangible pages of a term paper just off the printer."

I have watched the behemouth presses through a large window at the printing company we use. Big pale grey mysterious machines, all run by computer data. Some are color presses, while others print black words on white or creamy paper. Big rolls of various types of paper stand around like giant wheels, ready to be moved in place for another big event in someone's writing life. Rolls that sometimes are four feet in diameter.

Now it is almost time for our latest creation to take it final form. And we can hardly wait!

RAIN TAXI 'S ANNUAL BOOK FESTIVAL

Put on your walking shoes and be ready for the biggest book event of the year!

Every year, Rain Taxi (a Minneapolis-based book review and literary organization) has a a grand book event that is NOT to be missed. It outgrew its previous space at Metro Community College and this year will be at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds. Go to their website for directions to the building in which it will take up residence on Saturday, October 13th from 10am-5pm. It is a free event and the abundant parking is free as well.

Take a look at the schedule for the day - writers reading from their own works and other interesting topics related to books. Make the rounds from table to table of three hundred publishers, bookstores, individual writers, and arts/ literary centers. It  also is a place to have lots of informal conversations with writers and readers. And it is likely you will see folks you know - all there to see what is new in the book world.

Don't wait to come at the last hour - there is so much to satiate your book-mind that you will need to give it some time. After you have luxuriated in this wonderful atmosphere, go home, take of your shoes, put up your feet, and give a long, contented sigh. Books and publishing are alive and well - whether you have an e-book reader, buy print copies of books, or use your library card!

As for those of you world-wide who read this blog, eat your hearts out for not being able to attend this wonderful gathering. Maybe next year!

'Tis the Season For Hot Chocolate!

I am a firm believer that the hot chocolate season begins several months before the winter solstice.
I mean, why would you wait until then?

There is nothing like a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a fire in the fireplace, and a cat curled up in your lap. This is true living, when my memories of the long hot and humid summer have faded.

I remember the first time we were in San Diego, California. We couldn't get a decent weather report on the radio. And weather to a Midwesterner is of vital importance. It is the way we greet each other - "think it will rain today?" or "mighty hot yesterday" or "hope it snows a lot so that skiing is a possibility." I don't even know how to talk southern California.

Besides, when we are traveling, the weather IS important. Will it be a day inside at a museum or a hike in wide open places?

That hot chocolate. We buy the one serving packets of various versions (a Land O' Lake's product - our son-in-law works there). so the first decision is what kind shall I have tonight. Raspberry chocolate? Mint chocolate? Chocolate amareto?  Irish creme? Hazelnut? 

I imagine it won't be long before my young cats recognize the sound of the jar opening and know it is hot chocolate time.

And the jar? It is from my childhood  and was our cookie jar - says Nash's Toasted Coffee on its faded lid. I think hot chocolate is its best use yet!

Uncovering Some of the Wonders of the Natural World

Nature issues an invitation. It sneaks up on us in a beckoning fashion. It lures and calls us. If we pay attention, we will find its beauty irresistible. Perhaps we even are compelled to share with others what we experience.

"Wasn't that a beautiful sunset last night!" Or "Over there, a parent bird is feeding newly hatched babies!" Or "Look, a rainbow!"

We are invited to revel in the natural world's beauty. Majesty, simple and complex designs. Amazing patterns, surprises, perseverance, and abundance. Robert Frost's poem about the pasture has always been one of my favorites "I'm going out to clean the pasture spring . . . you come too."

Jessica Powers is another poet writing about this invitation: " Make decoys he told me/set them on the blue  . . . Let him have his decoys . . . My decoys are fashioned /to bring heaven down."

Nature is about listening to silence. I just finished reading the book One Square Inch of  Silence. The writer makes a journey across country recording the amount of sound that surrounds us - and the lack of places to experience natural silence. A very thought-provoking book that has made me aware of how much sound intrudes and invades my life. Sound that I previously filtered out, just as we talk louder in restaurants to be heard by others at our table,  not consciously realizing why we have raised our voices.

And I have been re-reading the Rule of Saint Benedict - and notice how often he uses the word listen.

It is a challenge to find times and places of silence. But I return again and again to favorite places in the natural world to find silence to nourish my heart and soul.

Embracing the Natural World

Humankind, being a part of the entire web of life, owes its existence and its quality of life to how it reads and heeds the signs of the natural world. Paying attention to the approach of a violent storm and decidng what action to take. Or knowing the optimum time for planting crops for harvest. These are just two examples of crucial readings of the natural world. 

Individuals and humanity have survived and thrived by being aware and in tune with the surrounding environment. How seriously, quickly, and steadfastly our world civilizations become comfortable in living interdependently within this world ecology.
Let's start at the beginning! Discernment is a key element to figuring out to use our awareness to create healthful living. Discernment is all about being whoever you are. It is not simply figuring out how to resist what is destrucutive to one's living. Discernment is coming to believe the wonder of wonders - that we are loved for who we are, not for what we achieve.

We were created good - all of us. As Parker Palmer says "truth that was seeded in the earth when each of us arrived here" The clue lies in the assurance that you are nothing less than a good seed planted by a river of water.

More About Those Poor Trees

Don't be put off by my despair - as I go from place to place, I keep seeing more trees that likely are dead. The optimist in me wants to say that perhaps they will be revived when spring comes.

There is a Japanese poetic form called the haibun. For example, Gary Snyder makes good use of the form.

A haibun consists of a paragraph followed by a haiku. The two relate to each other - but not directly. The form seemed a good way to explore my feelings further. I took a little liberty with the form - writing three paragraphs and using the same haiku three times.

************

                     Dry leaves hang on branches. Dead trees masquerading as autumn-arriving-early.

                    The rain has forgotten to come as weeks go by, dry as the leaves that have lost

                    their meaning in life. The Arctic sea ice continues melting while politicians argue

                    about who is to blame for the economy and gas prices. As though they were

                    sealed away from reality.

weep for our lost earth

may your tears water our souls

as we mourn dead trees

                     Once I heard spiritual-dislocation described as being oblivious. The not-noticing

                     of a breeze through pine trees, the hint of changing seasons as the nights turn cool,

                     geese practicing their formations before heading south. Until one day we wake up 

                     and notice. The dead leaves hanging from lifeless trees.

weep for our lost earth

may your tears water our souls

as we mourn dead trees

                      I know there can be no new life without death. I figured that out as a child when

                      I thought about what it would be like if nothing died. And that nothing is not the

                      predecessor of birth. Winter is the first season, not the last - the time when new

                      cubs are born in dark caves, whales migrate to give birth, volcanoes seethe, seeds

                      die in order to be transformed. But these dead trees - perhaps their purpose now

                      is to dramatize the damage we have wrought upon this blue orb moving through

                      darkness. Moving us to pray that we do not create one more dead planet.

weep for our lost earth

may your tears water our souls

as we mourn dead trees

The Cycle of the Seasons - and Dead Trees

Today with temperatures in the low 60's feels like a blustery fall day. Never having lived in a place with less than four seasons, the annual changes are embodied in my bones. At least the old pattern is.

I remember when I kept track when different spring bulbs would pierce the soil in springtime. After about five years, I quit recording the data —  because the dates of their emergence varied so little. I could set my internal clock by the emergence of snowdrops or daffodils.

A mallard pair used to wattle across our backyard every April 23rd. We knew they were the same pair because the drake walked with a limp as he protected his "bride.". One year when spring was a bit late, our pond was still frozen when they arrived. The drake positioned himself in the middle of the pond as if to say "melt baby melt —  because I have arrived." Eventually they stopped coming, probably because they had lived out their life span.

But now all the reliable signs are not happening. I think back to our crossing the North Pacific by boat this past spring and encountering sea ice from the high Arctic, ice floes so dense that we had to turn back to Japan and find another route to North America. Ice that should not have been there, but was the result of too-early melting. I read article after article about the melting ice pack in the Arctic and worry about our future.

Closer to home, garden perennials are confused. Cone flowers bloomed in July —  not August. The sequence of blooms in the spring did not follow their usual pattern. And drought, though not as severe here as further south, has had devastating effects on grass, gardens and crops.

One result has been dying trees. I want to weep as we travel around our metropolitan area. A magnificent maple shorn of its leaves in August. A flowering crab apple at the entry road to our neighborhood that retained its reddish leaves all summer now looks more forlorn as the days go by. A fifty-year-old silver maple a block further that looks like a tree mid-winter — no leaves whatsoever. Evergreens that no longer carry their green coats of needles. The list goes on.

Will this summer's "off-cycle" be an anomaly? And next year see a return to normal patterns of growth, maturation, and preparation for winter? I wish that would be the case — but I am afraid. Afraid that what has been set in motion is the future. More drought. More extreme weather. More fires. And re-calibrating my internal clock as the days grow shorter and cool air from Canada tells us winter is coming.

When Free Speech Is Not Free

Defining where free speech ends and verbal violence begins is not easy.

Possessing pornographic images on your computer has some legal restraints. And when those images are of children, there are stronger legal consequences. Even if you claim those images are for your eyes only, tell that to TSA or to border-crossing personnel if they have a look at your laptop when you are traveling somewhere.

Defining what is acceptable sexual imagery is not easy to define. Are images of mutually consenting adults designed to arouse a person okay? What happens when the imagery exploits women and continues to maintain a social climate that defines women as secondary sexual objects? And children - do such images increase a person's leaning toward pedophilia - and to acting out on that leaning with children in a family or neighborhood?

When we turn to video games based on violent imagery, another issue of value is raised. Do such violent images glorifying war increase aggression in our gun-loving culture? Or, as some argue, do such games provide an outlet for aggressive feelings - resulting in less violence? Here, there are a different set of legalities regarding the use of such games by young children. And parents trying to enforce their standards, when a neighbor's standards differ from theirs.

After all, we live in a country that values free speech. What may be acceptable for some may be offensive to others.

When we turn to free speech and religious differences, another set of issues is immediately evident. Freedom of speech was political and religious, when a musical group used one of Moscow's churches to appeal to the Virgin Mary to free Russia from Putin. Today, the Prime Minister in Russia suggests the punk singers sentenced to two years in prison should be set free after serving six months. Even though their choice of venue and words was offensive.

The events this week in Muslim countries over a deplorable film clip begs this question:  when is free speech no longer free. Our American Ambassador in Libya and his colleagues paid with their lives because this film was spread around the world using the connectedness via the Internet. As one commentator said: countries used to authoritarian governments may find it hard to believe this film was done without any government permission.

There is so much we do not know about the events unfolding in the Middle East. Are the protesters a very small minority of people in their respective countries, people on the Islamic right and not representative of Islam as a whole? Was the attack in Libya planned and then took advantage of translation of this film into Arabic a few days before 9-11. How much distortion is present among people - both via the Internet and media and from person-to-person in countries with close-knit cultures? These are all questions we will  understand more fully as investigations search for answers to exactly what was/is happening.

But this film clip. . . I will not watch it on YouTube. I do not want to be counted as a viewer. When I read about its content, it is a despicable and unacceptable attempt to misrepresent one of the world's major religions. Think of it this way. Replace Mohammed with Jesus in a parallel "film." Unclear family of origin? A pedophile, a womanizer, a violent man? How would we react if the film had been doctored (as it was) to depict Jesus? Is this free speech?

Do we just cringe and say everyone has a right to say whatever they want, then shrug our shoulders and walk away?

For me, it does not matter how any of us feels or believes about about Islam - or about Christianity or Judaism. Yes, all of us have a right to our opinions and differences - feelings colored by our life experiences.

But when bigotry, fraud, and great distortion are used to inflame people, free speech is no longer free. And all of us bear the cost.

Learning a New Language

Last week, Clem's computer became terminally ill. An old friend, it has been a steady presence in his life - and mine. Perhaps it was all the poetry Clem has been writing - and the poor thing just could not sustain itself any longer.

It was not a particularly well-timed illness - although if it had been a few weeks earlier, while we were still working on our newest manuscript, the results could have been much worse. Any rate, it meant researching, buying, and installing a new computer.

Now, we both have used PC's for a couple of decades. We can cruise around within their software with considerable ease. But the time had come (for various reasons) to shift to an Apple computer.

The Apple people are very helpful. But they speak another language. They would ask, "do you use sjdhtrueyth?" And we would look puzzled. and ask for a translation.  The person would try again. "Khjrhtuc?" And the universal language of talking with our hands - workable in most places around the world - was useless.

It reminded me of traveling in foreign countries where no English was spoken. Where asking basic questions becomes a major event.

One of my favorite memories is traveling in what had beeen East Germany just a year after Reunification. We were traveling around the country by bus, in addition to trains. We quickly learned that bus tickets were sold in different places depending on the town we were in. Sometimes on the bus, sometimes in a kiosk - or elsewhere.

We were in Erfurt and wanted to travel to Wiemar, just a few kilometers away. However the reality of traveling even to the next town under Communist rule had been verboten. Thus, the question of where to buy a bus ticket was a mystery - because it was not a question that occurred to people in Erfurt (who had never been to Wiemar). In German - Whadayamean? You buy tickets where tickets are always sold! Why would you even ask?"  We finally went to a bank where someone had enough broken English to put with our broken German. So here, we learned that the tickets were sold on the bus!

So now we are both struggling to learn Apple-eese. At least the way computers are made these days, it is very hard to break them or screw them up permanently. Mekrjtivuder anyone?

THE New Book!

We are nearing the end stages of this "great work." CONVERSATIONS   Images and Poetry will be printed and available near the end of September.

And work it has been. We have woven together my photos and Clem's poetry - a far more complicated task than either of us imagined when we began to put this manuscript together last February.

A little over five years ago, we first conceptualized putting these two art forms together. We installed several exhibits and then repeated exposure of different pieces to the public over this period of time. And we listened to people's responses.

This book has been a postponed project - a project waiting for the right time to be born. Our other books kept nudging it down our list of possible publications. When each of our books was printed, often the first question was whether our newest book had photos. The answer always was that it did not. For starters, printing photographs is a far more expensive venture requiring a photographic grade of paper.

However, it was not just the cost of such a book. There was some unconscious awareness within both of us that we were not yet ready. And actually it has been a very good thing that we waited. We both grew as artists as we experimented with this conversation. And we traveled more places and accumulated more photos and poetry from the respective pools from which we made our selections.

At this point for each of us, it feels like a masterpiece or great work. The difference between a symphony and a sonata. Whether we will ever write a second symphony is not something we can answer at this time. It is like childbirth - never ask a woman in the midst of the late stages of delivery whether she will have another child!

The publishing business is a moving target these days. Digitalization, e-books, print-on-demand, self-publishing, and difficulties established publishers are having are only the tip of an iceberg of gargantuan proportions. Predictions of the end of printed books have been replaced with research saying e-book owners are reading more - both electronic and printed. books And they are reading more than people, who do not own Kindles, Nooks, and iPads. Books definitely aren't going away! Our options and opportunities are increasing.

What would our book look like on an iPad or an e-book? We simply can't even venture a guess. What we do think is that this is a book to be savored, to come back to over and over again. It will not be a book that a person likely will read from beginning to end, like a novel or non-fiction work. Rather it will be more like visiting an art gallery and sitting before some pieces of art or coming back to them. And passing by some pieces as nice, but not what holds your attention.

We will keep you posted and let you know when Conversations   Images and Poetry will be available.

A Cheer For Return of Nines!

Would all computer "problems" be this easily fixed. A new keyboard was all that I needed. Now I have an abundances of 999999's!

Sometimes people are asked what they would keep if they were allowed only a cetrtain small number of mechanical devices in their homes. I used to say "my dishwasher." Having grown up without this invention, I would have given up any number of other things that make life work. Some people might answer, "microwave," automatic washer," or "dryer." All things that were not part of my childhood.

Now my answer would be "my computer." It is my connection to friends and to the world. And it enables me do do a host of things more easily than "by hand." I used to write on those yellow legal pads. Today I can hardly write a coherent paragraph, much less a series of paragraphs without cut, move, and paste. Or have access to Internet resources, whenever I want to check some piece of data. And my life as a poet was born when I learned to use a computer.

Unfortunately, this connectiveness brings a host of risks. Hardly a week goes by without news articles about those risks. Having your address book stolen - or worse financial information that gives someone else access to vital information - is terrible experience. Hence "secure" passwords - or at least we hope they are secure. (And my "acute crisis" when the nine on my keyboard stopped working and prevented me from doing a number of things.)

Today's intriguing news article was about legal issues arising out of use of personal devices at work - cell phones and laptops in particular. The overlap between people's personal and work life becomes blurred. And as one person said it well: there is no way to bar cell phones at work. People will bring them anyway.

There were no car accidents before the invention of cars. But who would ban cars - other than in places where cars are not really workable. I think of Venice where it is obvious why there are no cars. I think of villages build on hills elsewhere in Italy or other places in Europe where passage-ways are not wide enough to accommodate cars.I remember sitting at a sidewalk cafe in Seville watching a very animated "discussion" in which a woman was adamantly insisting she could drive her sleek BMW down an alley that all of us bystanders could see was impossible. Quite entertaining!

Computers are much the same. I never worried about anyone stealing my Social Security number in the days before personal computers! Or accessing placers in my life I wish to remain private.

Today I am simply reveling in being able to enter a nine whereever needed!

Life Without Nines

Sometimes twenty-first century life presents challenges unknown in pre-computer days. With my brain a bit soggy from the last weeks of formatting our newest book [for its next stage with our design consultant], I sat down to my computer. My intention was to check whether I needed to pay a few bills and several other tasks.

 I type in my password for an account - and it is rejected. Sometimes my fingers are a bit sloppy on the keyboard, so I try two more times - more careful to key in the correct numbers.

More rejection! What is this?!

I focus my eyes on the screen to understand what my computer, also a bit soggy in its brain-department, might be adopting as a contrarian position for the day. Aha! The nines in my password are absent. And as we all know, secure sites are a bit touchy about slightly errant passwords, threatening to cut you off at the knees when you try too many times with the wrong sequence of letters and and numbers.

I tap the nine key several time. Nothing happens. I hold it down to no avail.

Oh dear - I shouldn't be surprised. The left parenthesis - on the same key - has not produced a single parenthesis in some time. I have gotten quite enamored to using brackets instead - and I had hoped the problem would go away at some point. After all, Clem's errant period on his keybord returned after wandering around cyber-space for several weeks.

I hoped my missing parenthesis also would find its way home. There was the matter of  my time being consumed on the book and a lack of desire to go keyboard shopping. Keyboard acquisition is a rather unglamorous thing to be doing when there all sorts of other more interesting things to do. And course it is like shoe-shopping. A person can't just buy the first keyboard they see - one must compare options and prices at several stores.

But no nine? I can't pay bills on line, record checks online in Quicken, check Face Book or held email, and make sure I am still solvent at the bank. That's enough for a list of can't. Life has ground to a halt.

In the olden days, I kept my bank transactions in a paper register, reconciled my bank account with a calculator, and called or wrote to people with whom I wanted to talk. And bills even came due at either the middle or end of the month - none of this being spread out across a month.

Life without nines! I don't even want to find out other things I am now prohibited from doing. I'm off to the stores that sell keyboards!

A Pulsing


In the dusk,
a nearby bush harbors
the call of a lacewing.

A first sign of fall –
a change-signaler.

Incessant –
calling for hours
without pause.

Throbbing heart-like,
comforting, assuring,
quiet, muffled, yet
penetrating.

More felt than anything.
Soft, persistent, mysterious.

Slowed by the
cool evening air –
four, green, transparent,
veined wings vibrate.

A slow ancient song
is given birth.

Always curious –
I pause to count
the pulsing calls.

48 each minute.

Same as my heart beat
at rest.

                         -Clem Nagel

Universal Ambivalence

My gift for this morning, as I finished reading the morning paper, was a family of young blue jays in the ornamental crabapple tree that sprawls over our deck.

For all practical purposes these "babies" are full-grown. But they still want their mama to feed them. To make their "needs" known, they sit on a branch, flutter their wings, and cry pathetically. Of course, the parent birds respond - and these now-fledged birds manage to prolong their childhoods. At some point however, the parent birds will cease to hear them - and the young birds will have to fend for themselves.

How like all of us! The yearning to be cared for - and fierce independence - competing for attention within all of us. Small children declaring they can "do it themselves." And the very elderly who resist the efforts of others to assume care for them.

This inner tension does not even fall in the category of wanting "our cake and eating it too."  Ambivalence is a better description. We even see its effects politically. We demand smaller government and less taxation. And then cry foul when our streets are not maintained and our libraries curtail their hours.  We want to choose whether to wear helmets while riding motorcycles and demand the right to not spend a single penny on health insurance. But we expect medical care when we have been in an accident and that someone will pay for that care.

The list is long. Take care of me and guarantee my job security. Permit the wealthy 1% to engage in unfettered capitalism - but don't threaten my pension investments. Don't restrict my rights with building codes and regulations, but my neighbor had better mow his lawn or I will complain to the city.

Somewhere in the very midst of our ambivalence lie necessary solutions, created out of compromise and caring for the common good.

And those independent and feisty jays will function together in a loose community to help safeguard each other's welfare. I know I will hear them them from time to time during the remainder of the summer, their raucous calls announcing a threatening intruder.

Look out solitary hunters, such as owls and hawks.  If the jays go after you, they will  be determined to chase you away hungry!

Act on Your Hunches!

Resist sitting on your haunches . . . anyone can do that.

After a recent support group for writers, I made an observation about members of this long-standing group that began five yeas ago following a week-long memoir writers' retreat. We meet monthly and our deepening friendships have become a rich part of our lives - as well as the composite value of input in honing our writing skills.

My observation was that all members of the group are very involved in various ways that go beyond the enjoyment of writing for writing's sake.  Each person has been using her or his writing skills to speak out and stand up for issues.

It is amazing what life-journeys each of us have been on and the opportunities we have had - and continue to have. Somewhere in each person's evolution as a writer has come the importance of making a difference in the world.

One person writes op ed pieces that are published regularly. Another in the field of education was asked to read and then write a review of a new book on the “state of the educational system in our society.” Still another person has spent her life speaking out on ethical issues of internal church matters. Another continues to function as a “community organizer” around critical environmental and social issues.

One person is in the position to encourage church congregations to think hard and deep on what is really important and then to put one’s faith into action. Another person wrote a well-crafted article about an evironmental issue in his commuity. Another speaks internationally at professional meetings out of his passion for the health care of our beloved family dogs. And yet another person has moved from writing about detailed memories to social issues such as the celebration of scouting for girls.

And I had thought that we were just writers, gathering each month to share what we had written since the last time we had been together. And to offer each other gentle, helpful comments on the craft of writing.

Granted . . . after a potluck meal . . . we do sit on our haunches for a while . . .

Flags At Half-Mast

Like others, we were both stunned to hear about yet another massacre of innocent people. So many questions. So much grief and loss.

There are the usual muted appeals for the restriction of sales of guns and ammunition. Unfortunately, those opposed to such restrictions are right - it would not have caught a person like this this man. There was nothing about him that would have drawn attention to his slide into the dark places that caused him to act.

There are no easy answers or solutions. Such violence is indeed evil, as the President named it. But so is the violence in Syria and Iraq and all the other countries where people have resorted to violence as the only way to have voice in their lives. Violence used to confront violence. 

Outlaw guns? Outlaw violence? Marian Zimmer Bradley wrote a series of science fiction books about a planet where guns were prohibited - the only combat allowed was hand to hand confrontation. Still, violence existed.

Our language is full of violent imagery. When most of us say things like "I could have killed him or her" we use that language metaphorically - as an expression of being driven to the point where we feel helpless. We engage in political wars - or turn away because we feel it is useless to make anything change. We seethe inside over all the things in our life over which we have no control.

I heard Bill Moyers interview Chris Hedges this weekend. Hedges is someone I admire greatly as a person of great integrity - but I was struck by his deep feelings of hopelessness for the future of the world. Moyers continued to push him as to why he continues to write. Hedges' response was that it was out of moral responsibility - and a slender hope for his four children.

Read the interview online. Then ask yourself what is your moral responsibility - as I have been asking myself.

Bring On the Goats!

When in Norway, Elizabeth photographed an old, abandoned log house. What caught my eye was the sod grass roof. I am looking at that photo at this moment. A thought comes to me . . . would a goat find this roof a place to put a little excitement into her or his often boring dining venue? After all, going “out to eat” all the time could become a little mundane. But, consider going “up to eat!” Now, that’s got class.

A grass-munching goat might even invite other goats to join in. They would have no problem getting up to the roof. Everyone knows something of a goat’s prodigious agility and persistent stubbornness. No need to ask permission as the surrounding lawn in the photo hasn’t been mowed for a good while. Obviously, there is no one at home. So . . . bring on the goats!

Why eat the grass on the ground, when the best grass is greener at higher elevations!

quoted from A Goat’s Primer On Survival

(used with Billy's permission)

by Billy the Kid

Don't confuse me with that teenage outlaw,

something I feel gruff about. 

Take Your Life in Your Hands: Go Somewhere by Car

There are some states in this country where drivers actually obey the traffic laws - and are courteous besides. Such as when you want to change lanes, they let you in. But not in this state of Minnesota Nice!

As a passenger, I have been doing a bit of informal research. Since the driver is in charge of staying safe. I have broken down what I have discovered into categories of drivers what I observe. I have thought of closing my eyes as we back out of the driveway until we return. But that option is just too scary. I guess I want to know when I am about to die.

The Speeders
These folks  believe speed limits are meant for other people. Somehow a good ten or fifteen miles an hour faster is important in their little minds. You hear them approaching behind you by the roaring sound their cars often make - and then see them quickly vanish ahead of you. Except - as cars wait at a stoplight, a second look confirms your suspicion. You have gotten "there" just as fast as them.

The Tailgaters
These drivers are scary - no matter whether it is your bumper they are hugging or someone elses a few cars ahead. They must believe the saying of being able "stop on a dime." And when it is a semi-truck, the scare factor goes up at least tenfold. The causes for this disorder vary. Sometimes as traffic slows, drivers get too close to the car in front of them, eventually realize what they are doing, and increase the distance between them. But other people take it as some kind of affront to their ownership of the freeway. They intimidate - whether or not you have the option to move over a lane to get out of the way. When tailgaters do get ahead of you - because you finally are able to get out of their path - or because they have whipped around you, sometimes using the shoulder to do so. Then they take on the next car. Since most drivers drive near the speed limit and traffic is heavy enough, you can watch a tailgater's behavior ahead for some time. One accident potential after another.

The Weavers
These drivers may have played too many video games. The freeway is an open course to zoom around anyone ahead. Going across one lane and than back over ad nauseum.They may cut in too close or fill a space between two cars as though they were parallel-parking at 60 miles per hour. Sure on occasion, I have played the latest game with grandchildren. It is fun to see if I can race through to the finish faster than they can. And if I careen off a highway wall or roll my vehicle, I get to try again - unharmed.

The Distracted
These folks forget that their primary job is keeping their car on the road and not threatening other drivers. They easily are recognized by the cell phone permanently adhered to their head. Or if their car allows them to phone others without this little rectangular device, they speed down the road looking as though they are "talking to themselves" - which can be distinguished from sing-alongs with radio or CD. Others text, look for stuff in the seat next to them, shave or put on make-up, or otherwise multi-task themselves from point A to B. The most extreme distractor I ever saw was the women who had one foot up on the dash, was putting nail-polish on the toe of her other foot, eating a sandwich, and drinking her Starbucks. Sometimes she steered with her one knee as she staved off starvation.

The Little Old Ladies
Ever see a car in front of you that appears to have no driver?  When you get closer, you realize the driver is a little old woman hunched over the steering wheel and gripping the wheel with both hands - and going ten miles below the minimum speed limit. At least, her male counterpart is tall enough that you know from a distance that the car has a driver. One quite older woman, we both knew had a habit of backing into cars in parking lots. She bought a new big car and wanted to take Clem for a ride in it. He said he would - but just around a vacant church parking lot  after he parked his car out in the street. . .

The Inexperienced
At the other end of the spectrum of drivers is the inexperienced person - who probably has been driving for some time and just can't quite get the hang of it. They can be observed changing lanes abruptly - without signaling - or passing too close for comfort. They look confused if you pass them. And they weave a bit, looking like they have had one-to-many for the road. Their car seems to be too much to handle with any finesse or grace.

The Color-Blind
At least these driver seem to be color-blind. Red-light running is habitual. It is one thing to pass through an intersection on a yellow light. It is quite another to be the fifth car in line going through the light after it has turned red. And there are those who ignore lights on metered lanes, put there to regulate the flow of traffic. Red is just as good for them as green.

At least I have never seen the old joke played out, in which a person buys a new RV with all the bells and whistles. A week later, he returns to the dealer, walking on crutches and a big bandage on his head. "What happened?" asked the salesman. The person replies, "I'm not sure. I put it on the automatic cruise control just like you showed me. Then I went into the back to make myself a cup of coffee. The next thing I knew I had rolled off the road. Something must have been wrong with that control system."

Unfortunately, we are still aways from such automated driving to keep us all safe. And I live in a car-dominated city. Driving to places is often my only option. Sometimes I yearn for European cities where having a car is unnecessary and public transportation can take me wherever I want to go.

So I keep on going places by car - my fingers crossed - taking my life in my hands.

And What Did YOU Do . . .

Time seems to be one of those givens in life. Whether the clock or the calendar, time ticks away in precise intervals. Except for yesterday. Those who keep the world's time in order announced the addition of one second to the day.

What did you do with YOUR extra second?

Living where I do, I value the rhythm of the changing seasons. The newness of spring, the flavors of summer, the colors of fall, and the solitude of winter. I used to be able to mark spring events on my calendar.  Snowdrops came up on exactly the same day every year, despite variations in any particular spring's weather. The same pair of mallard ducks arrived regular as clockwork - the male's limp telling us it was the same pair every year. One year, the pond had not yet thawed - and he came anyway and sat on the ice, waiting.

Not anymore are seasonal changes dependable. On this first day of July, our garden looks like mid-August. Slightly unruly like a person in need of a haircut. And we already are in the midst of August's hot and muggy dog-days. Along with all the record-breaking weather across the country. The worst power outage ever in Virgina. Floods in Duluth, the city built on a hill. Colorado burning up, Florida deluged with rain. Last week over a thousand weather records were broken in this country.

When we recently traveled to Japan and returned by ship, I gained a new perspective about time. When we have flown to Asia in the past, crossing the international date line was mixed together with time zone changes. After the long plane flight, the only thing that mattered was the day and time when we landed.

Returning by ship was another matter. Our ship traveled at 20 knots or so - the rough equivalent of 20 mph. This slow passage across the Pacific gave us a number of 23-hour days. When we crossed the international dateline, we had begun the day as Saturday and then reverted back to Friday. Or we had two Saurdays in an eight day week, if we preferred to look at it that way. Time shifts in our internal clocks - time that was not so regular, so dependable.

I remember when I was a child. Summer stretched out blissfully. It felt like six months of no school, rather than three months. Now that I am at this age, time whizs by like a bullet train in Europe.  There is something intrinsically "unfair" about this arrangement! Not that I would ever begrudge a child's relationship to summer-time. But here I am - at this age - wanting to savor life. When I often can't keep track of what day it is, much less what month it is. How can it be July already?

Clem bought a card for me. He is a great supporter of Hallmark and a dear romantic at heart. I looked at him a little funny when he handed it to me. I couldn't recall any special event we were celebrating. I drew the card out of its envelope. The chimp on the front of the card says "do you know what day it is?" Inside the card,  the chimp answers his own question -  "me neither."

                                                         And what did YOU do with your extra second . . .

Watching From the Edge

We live less than a half mile from the Mississippi River. We love the particular mystery of this great river, stretching from northern Minnesota to the gulf of Mexico.

Parts of the river freezes over during the winter, depending on both temperature and its rate of flow. Usually in the spring, the river rises from melting snow here and further north. But not this year of little snow. Since May, we have watched the river rise from torrential rains here and further north.

Still, the birds that inhabit its banks find life among all the river's changes.

Winter river birds watch from distant,
tree-covered islands and
from bushes beneath
towering cottonwoods.

There they roost
to seek food
throughout long
seasons of ice and snow.

They wait for a first sign of
melting ribbons of water
along the river’s edge.
For now, a place to explore
until broad expanses of ice
show glimpses of spring change.

Then it happens!

Crows flock to land on
edges ice plates.
Still frozen to each other,
but allowing cold, dark water
to be heard and seen.

At least for now,
potential places
for new food.

Dodging Raindrops

It has been raining a lot this spring where we live.
Enough to encourage vigorous growth of trees, shrubs,
and garden plants. Not the devastating downpours that
created untold hardship and havoc in Duluth last week.

As a young child, our neighborhood gang would get bored
as summer dragged on. We argued about the darnedest things.

Like this debate . . .

When a light rain shower began, we would sit under a tree.
We discussed whether we would get wetter going from
“point A to point B” if:

1. we walked slowly, looking up all the time to skillfully
dodge as many raindrops as we could
                           or
2. we ran to “point B” as fast as possible, getting hit
by more raindrops along the way

We discussed this intriguing question endlessly . . .
                                    and we experimented.

Just as, in today’s world we discuss whether short,
intense, catastrophic wars are better than long,
drawn out ones.

A Life Without Periods, And, Comments on Commas,

I never dreamt it would happen to me, But it happened, just out of the blue, Two days ago without warning,

I’ve always had a plethora of periods gracing my life, those tiny little dots at the end of sentences, For me, it started back in grade school, The very first time I printed my first sentence, I remember my teacher’s name was Miss Daisy Rose, She was very strict about putting periods in the proper place, at the end of each sentence,

Here I am having gone almost 72 times around the sun, And now I have lost the capability of placing periods at the end of sentences! Or rather, it’s because of my computer keyboard, "Who’da thunk it”, as singer-song writer Greg Brown was wont to say, Two days ago, at 4:31p,m, in the middle of writing a piece of poetry, the periods just quit, PERIOD , , ,

How frustrating to have to have run-on lines, phrases, and hugely long poems! Because I couldn’t end them, since I couldn’t insert a period anywhere, So, I printed up a copious supply of huge commas and put them where needed! AND THAT REALLY DID THE TRICK, IT TOOK CARE OF THE PROBLEM,

I mean, poets get to break the rules whenever they want, They have a special exemption other writers envy, Those poor souls are required to follow common usage rules for punctuation, And Whether to capitalize Or not , , , another poets' Exemption,

However, the biggest difficulty was with the Internet, Some URL addresses are downright fussy about periods and commas, Like   ,com and www,   and other such use of periods, I tried apostrophees like   'com or www,'   But that didn't work either,

I think I need to go and have a cup of tea ,  ,  ,  Constant Comma perhaps,

Another Article!

I had another article published on MinnPost, an online news source. Go to MinnPost. Click on Perspectives and scroll down. The headline to the article is Deep political divides can lead to despair — or to action.

It's gotten some nice commentary. I am always amazed when I publish an op ed commentary. Never thought this opinionated, "uppity woman" would have this kind of voice.

And all because opportunity crawled across my path and I tripped. Like when one of two cats gets in the way - though no tripping over them, having learned to keep an eye open for them.

As we grow older, life sometimes seems more difficult.

Traditions, by definition, are things that simply don’t change much. One of Elizabeth and my traditions is closing the day by relaxing to quiet sounds of nature. During most of the year, we open the window by our bed . . . and feast on music of evening birds, insects (lacewings are one of our favorites), and sounds of wind-chimes. In winter months we play the gentle sounds of ocean waves or those of nature on a bedside CD player.

At some point, we unwrap the plastic wrap from two small squares of dark chocolate. We slowly savor them. Then turn off the light.

But . . . gosh, darn! Our nighttime ritual nearly has ground to a halt! The wrapping of our chocolate has become so impervious and resistant, that removing them from their protective shields has become nearly an act of absolute and blatant warfare!

First, I bite the edge of the plastic . . . to give it a little nip in order to start the opening process. But I am hesitant to try too hard for fear of chipping my teeth.

Lately, I’ve cut off the end of the wrapper with kitchen shears and then insert a sharp paring knife into the slit to liberate the dark chocolate. When I succeed, I bring the two pieces on a plate into our bedroom.Such elegance!

What is going on? Friends say that they have been noticing the same increased toughness of plastic packaging in other ordinary situations.

My question: will our human species be able to adapt and evolve in time to stay ahead of the curve of increasing plastic toughness?!

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa

"When the right hand doth not know what the left hand doeth" . . . has a nice scriptural  sound to it, doesn't it.

My grandfather was a faithful reader of his Bible. and he was fond of quoting scripture. But the catch was that often his quotes were not found in the Bible - though I think he sincerely believed his treasured sayings were.

My right hand and my left. Yesterday, Clem and I both had been dealing with cranky computers. The coup d'etate for him was when he wanted to post something on this blog. His computer informed him he could not post. It was 5 pm and we were both hot and tired. Rather than try to solve the problem, I told him to email his piece to me and that I would post it for him. He did and I posted.

But what did I post? This morning, he asked me when I was going to post what he had written. I said I had - but when I looked, it was not there. Grrrr  . . . more cranky computer?

Tired of the whole computer-thing, I had managed to post "Check It Out" - an email blitz to people inviting them to check out our blogs . . . His lovely reflection still sat in my email.

 Guess it just reaffirms that I am human and humans err. And that posting anything when so "done for the day" is not a good idea!

I will try again - and this time watch what both the left and right hands are doing!

Check It Out!

Elizabeth posted a new entry this week on her blog. The essays title is "The Changing Face of Creating Change." Enter these words in Google, and it will appear: essays from the heart Elizabeth Nagel 

Also, there are several new entries on the blog that we share: nagelandnagel.com

We will be reading some of our poetry as part of the Annual Northwords/Rice Creek Writers Reading Night on this Friday, June 8th, 7:30 pm at Banfill-Locke Center for the Arts, The event will feature a number of folks reading a variety of their work - ranging from fiction and poetry to non-fiction.

Refreshments, of course! Come and bring a friend . . . they will be glad you did!

The address is 6666 East River Road in Fridley, MN.

Cherry Blossoms and Floating Ice

Japan's springtime cherry blossoms are revered by the Japanese people. The trees become covered with pink clouds and people take time to enjoy them. Families plan picnics under them. Inter-generational groups of ancient grandparents, busy parents, teens, and young children take river boat trips through their busy cities to admire the trees' profusion. Other people stroll alone under the trees' canopies and reflect on their lives. Men gather together to celebrate by drinking sake - lots of sake. And women too have their gatherings under the beautiful trees.

When we recently in Japan, I had reconciled myself to missing the cherry blossoms. After all, the bloom happens early in April and I would not arrive in Japan until April 20th. However much to my delight, the cherry trees were in full bloom when I landed on Honshu, Japan's biggest island. Due to unseasonal cold, the trees' blooms were two to three weeks late. It was a good news-bad news occasion, since the cold that slowed the trees so dramatically was part of the pattern of worldwide changing climate.

After some time in Japan and South Korea, I continued traveling along the Asian coast to Vladivostok,where we spent a rainy time exploring this Russian Siberian city that once was  a military installation and a closed port. From there, the plan was to sail between Russia's Kuirl Islands and Hokkaido, Japan's northernmost island. Instead, the ship encountered immense amounts of floating sea ice.  It was a glorious and unprecedented experience. People poured onto the open decks to watch. Cameras clicked and clicked recording the sight.

As the number of ice floes became more numerous and larger, they began to pile on top of each other and push  against the ship. We slowed to one to two knots - roughly the equivalent of about one to two miles per hour. Finally, the Captain concluded it was not possible to find a pathway through the ice. We turned around and headed back to Japan to find another route.

It was another good news-bad news experiences.It was nothing I ever expected to see. It was an experience of a lifetime. The bad news? Strong northerly winds of over 50 mph had pushed the ice southward from the high Arctic, where ice was melting. In April, where it should have still been winter for several more months. Another result of worldwide changing climate.

We did re-chart our course, going south around Hokkaido Island and then headed straight into the Bering Sea above the Aleutian Islands, further north than I ever expected to be. We had two and a half days to make up in order to reach Kodiak, Alaska.

Sixteen Seconds

A news article this past week reported the conclusion of a court trial in which sixteen seconds dramatically had changed the lives of a number of people.

A man driving a truck had bent down to pick up his sports drink on the floor. When he looked up, it was too late. Traffic ahead had slowed and stopped due to road construction. He crashed into the cars stopped ahead of him. Two women died, one of whom was pregnant. He was charged and found guilty of criminal vehicular homicide. Now he waits to be sentenced to prison.

So many lives affected - or lost. Two women lost the promise of years of to live. A baby will not have a chance at life. Families of these women will grieve long into the future. And the man driving the truck will spend time in prison for committing a felony. All because of sixteen seconds of inattention.

An act that ALL of us have committed at some time or other. Looking away from the road momentarily - perhaps to pick up something  or put a CD in the little slot or to answer (or silence) a ringing cell phone.

It doesn't take alcohol or drugs to be the cause of so much loss. Only sixteen seconds of our inattention.

A Year of Celebration

We have been celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary. It has always been a joke when people ask us how long we have been together. We met in 3rd grade, although I did not much pay attention to Clem until 6th grade when he got a Mickey Mouse watch for Christmas - which I thought was really cool (and he kept looking at it in school).

We had our first date in 7th grade, the standard time to start dating in our hometown. By the time we graduated from high school, we knew we would marry - but waited until we graduated from college, in deference to our parents' wishes. After all, as the man, Clem needed to earn a living - and I needed a college degree, "just in case something happened to my husband." But it was clear I was not to use that degree otherwise. How much has changed in 50 years!

We actually married the end of August after summer jobs gave us some financial padding to start married life (another change - can you image summer jobs providing enough to start marriage life). We never had a honeymoon - rather packed up our meager belongings and headed east to Washington DC, where Clem was enrolled in graduate work. Going from our isolated rural community where access to news was limited to the news briefs at the movies - to becoming immersed in the international city of Washington in the sixties was like moving to another planet. And it changed us forever!

So we have decided to celebrate all year. First, we went on a 3 1/2 week voyage via cruise ship - from Kobe Japan all around the northern Pacific Rim's ring of fire to Vancouver, BC. It was wonderful - cold, challenging, and and filled with adventure. We encountered sea ice too thick to navigate at the south end of the Kuril Islands and had to return to Japan and chart a new course - all of which left us over 2 days behind schedule. We sailed above the Aleutians across the Bering Sea - something not in the original plan. And we revisited Glacier Bay National Park in Alaska for the 3rd time - one of the very special places on this earth.

The next celebratory event was an Open House here at our home, where 80+ of our dear friends and family gathered. It would have been a successful party (the rain held off until evening) even if we had slipped away and left our guests to meet each other and converse. We have accumulated a diverse group of people in our lives over the years - and count ourselves as rich beyond words for this community that came together and blessed us with their presence.

On Sunday, we renewed our vows at our parish. This time we knew what these vows really mean - to promise ourselves to each other for "better or worse." We certainly didn't have a clue when we married so long ago. Then we celebrated at dinner with our family at a favorite Indian restaurant. We re still basking in the glow of all this love.

And the celebrating will continue throughout the fall. We will report as events unfold. How fortunate we are to have found each other and to have all these years together!

From Drought to Flooding

I acknowledge people in the upper Midwest do obsess a bit about the weather. Not like people, in say San Diego, where the weather is downright boring - and perpetually pleasant. Here the saying is that if you don't like the weather today stick around, it is sure to change by tomorrow.

However, we now live in a time of weather extremes. Not just here but in many places in the country. (Pay attention San Diego folks - you may develop a new interest in weather). Something like 15,000+  new weather records set across the country in recent months. It is a scary statistic to consider. Since one result of changes in climate is for weather extremes to become more common.

Here, we have been suffering from drought - in this state where water is so abundant. Deluges last July were replaced in August with months of no noticeable precipitation. Not even snow in the winter, something we have considered one of the dependable things in life - like birth, death, and taxes.

This May, it began seriously raining. By the bucketfuls. In a month, we have moved from drought conditions to flooding possibilities. Creating temporary road closures, because we are not like Tucson, which does not have our elaborate drainage system to send excessive water to places such as rivers, where the overflow can be handled. After all, it does not rain often in Tucson! I can personally attest to a cloud burst in Tucson being an interesting experience!

And these heavy rains here have caused flooded basements. Last August 3/4 of our suburban community had water in their basements - and we live in a sand plain that filters water quickly into the lower reaches. (we were spared). At the rate we are going lately, since underpasses  often flood in deluges, street maps will need to mark underpasses. So we can find alternate routes to return home when it rains.

One weather prognosticator has suggested that with warmer temperatures we can expected tropical monsoon rains more frequently. Something about the warmer stratosphere and rain formation - you figure it out.

I always have enjoyed being in the tropics! And with warmer temperatures the planting zones are inching upwards. That lovely Japanese maple, hardy only to Zone 5 that I have lusted after for years, may become a reality  in my garden . . .

Pablo Neruda as a Birdwatcher!

You never know what you might find in your local library! Clem was checking out the poetry section today and found the book, Art of Birds by Pablo Neruda. It was first published in Chile in 1966, and recently was translated by Jack Schmitt into English with illustrations by Jack Unruh. It is a treasure of a book.

Neruda is one of our favorite poets. He grew up in a bird-rich place in Chile in one of the most beautiful places in his country. How could anyone who pays attention have not noticed the diversity of bird-life there.

It makes me wonder how it would be to live in a place where there is a relative absence of birds. I so take them for granted - such as the robin who begins caroling at 4:00 am, as regular as clockwork, making me wonder whatever there is to sing about when it is still pitch-dark! Jenny-wren has been singing in our flower-garden the last few days. We are hopeful she is moving into the wren house in the back. Even though she gets a bit territorial when her babes hatch and scolds us when we come near her house. A downy woodpecker has dedicated himself to beating out a rapid rhythm on a dead tree nearby. We wonder if he is marking his territory - and his sweetheart - as off limits to other competitors.

Canaries are given the position of warning when coal-mines are unsafe. But now we have other indicators of danger to all life with the signs of climate change all around us. I hope people begin to seriously listen. Not only do we risk living in a bird-less place, but where the destruction of habitat affects everything - including us humans.

I imagine if Neruda were still alive, he would have plenty to say. Anyone who pays attention to birds would be noticing so much else about our beloved earth.

B A R R I E R S

The concrete retaining wall, lining the freeway
keeps everything in its place . . .
cars, people, bikers, dogs, rabbits.
But it is also a playground for vines of all sorts,
scribbling out messages for those who have eyes to see.

Their motto is:
as long as your roots stay firm, and you get a bit
of water, you can grow however you want. With
one exception: stay clear of the maintenance sickle.

As a vine . . .
     You have a certain freedom of speech to
            spell out messages for all to see.
     Though the traffic rushes past, you can
            stay anchored and enjoy life –

such as it is . . .

Happy May Basket Day

I remember May Basket Day when I was a small child. My memories are mixed!

The idea was to deliver a May Basket to some one's house and then run away as fast as you can. I can't remember why we were to run - and why my mother picked the house's I was to leave this little tidbits of goodwill.And sometimes it rained, making the whole experience less than optimal.

But I did know the day somehow was special. We had survived winter, which on the prairie was no small feat, given the amount of snow and the wind that drove the snow into huge drifts. It was springtime and everything was celebrating.

We still have peonies from my grandfather's garden. they huge dark reddish blooms were like magic. I have no idea how long these peonies had grown in  his garden. But the red spears of leaves that emerge in the spring must be over a hundred years old.

Petty awesome when you think about it!

Beyond My Wildest Dreams!

As a child, I was given a little packet of cardboard
Audubon Bird Cards. Each had a color photo
on one side . . . the other had a brief description
including in what part of the U.S. they could be seen.

I poured over these cards endlessly,
knowing that there was no way on God’s green earth
I would ever see them. I knew I would never
leave my boyhood town in western  Minnesota
where the Red River of the North
beganits journey to Hudson’s Bay.

The cardinal redbird was just one of those card images
that I would never see.
It read that the cardinal lived in
the Southeastern part of the country.
I moved from Breckenridge
soon after graduating from college.
The cardinals moved as well  
to Breckenridge to look for me –

but I was gone.

The Best Food of All !

One of the East Indian restaurants we frequent has a wall lined with official plaques and awards
“For the Best Food.” The awards go back many years!

However, the best of all the awards for me is being in a place where people from all over the world
gather together, eat, converse in their country’s languages, and join together in the common language of laughter.

It is amazing to me that they all laugh “in English.”

THE BROKEN TOE

This was the first poem I wrote on my brand-new laptop notebook and the first poem written in 2007! Sitting in the Roseville Paneras, I plugged it in and wondered what I might write. Then, I overheard a couple talking about a friend who had broken one of her little toes.

The poem wrote itself! 

I heard her say to her friend,

Not quite certain
how it happened.
Not anything amazing
or anything.

It just broke.
They say it will heal
all by itself.
Not to worry.

In the meantime,
I wonder if —
old souls ever heal
like that?

NEXT ?

Just when I least expect it:
     Snowdrops peer from beneath the icy leaf litter.
     The pair of mallards return to our little garden pond
          a month early.
     Elizabeth says “hey – let’s take an overnight trip up
          to the North Shore of Lake Superior!”
     One of my poems gets published in some journal.
     Seven blue crocuses appear where we did not plant
         them!
     A pair of Pileated Woodpeckers, with their peculiar
         swooping flight and white patches flashing, stay for
         a while in a neighboring tree.
     Fiddlehead ferns unfurl to the sun.

I wonder what will be next?