Have you gone anywhere by plane lately? If you have, you have probably joined the crowd complaining about how traveling anywhere by plane has become increasingly adversive. Especially when you manage to cram yourself in the space called "your seat."
At an aircraft expo, a new airline seat has been exhibited. It is the saddle seat. You sit on a seat shaped like a saddle. This seat is a bit higher than regular airline seats, which means the space between you and the seat in front of you can be now reduced to only 23 inches, rather than the customary 30-32 inches. (Unless you are fortunate to ride in first class). Which means the plane will be able to "accommodate" more passengers per plane. Whoppee-ding!
The company producing these modern wonders says that cowboys spend 8 hours a day in the saddle on their horses and the cowboys are quite comfortable. I never knew that cowboys worked eight hour days. And having ridden a horse a few times in my life, I wouldn't advise eight hours in the saddle as an invitation to comfort for occasional riders.
A representative for the airline industry says that these seats are not likely to be adopted by most US airlines. Does this sound comforting?
If you have nothing else to to do, check out the math as to how many more passengers could be stuffed in various types of planes . . .
Road trip anyone?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Poetry Reading by Michael Dennis Browne
Come and hear Michael Dennis Browne read his poetry about well-being and distress. He will be reading at 7:30 pm on September 22, at the Benedictine Center at St. Paul's Monastery in St. Paul.
Michael believes that poets "have a vocation to pay attention., a belief that is evident in his writing. He is Professor Emeritus at the University of Minnesota, where he taught from 1971 to 2010. His most recent publication is What the Poem Wants: Prose on Poetry. He has spent a lifetime soaking up great poetry and is one of those individuals whom you can poke and out pours the work of wonderful poets. When I can't even remember the poetry I write just a day later.
Go to the Benedictine Center link for the details.
Michael believes that poets "have a vocation to pay attention., a belief that is evident in his writing. He is Professor Emeritus at the University of Minnesota, where he taught from 1971 to 2010. His most recent publication is What the Poem Wants: Prose on Poetry. He has spent a lifetime soaking up great poetry and is one of those individuals whom you can poke and out pours the work of wonderful poets. When I can't even remember the poetry I write just a day later.
Go to the Benedictine Center link for the details.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Lacking Words
Anyone who knows me, knows I am never at a lack for words.Yet this past week, the words have not been there. The impending 9-11 events and protests, and the prospect of burning scriptures holy for some, left me with much uncertainty of what words I wanted to gather together. With so much media attention focused on fear, hatred, and misunderstanding, I did not want to add anything that could be misconstrued or hurtful to anyone.
This time is like no other time in my memory - even though I know there have been similar periods of mistrust, even before humans learned to create words and to record them. People have been fearing other people forever. But I guess the optimist in me wants to believe that we have learned a few things in the course of human history.
Clem and I have been traveling recently and have been around people whose non-western European languages I could not identify. When we came home, we went for dinner at a favorite East Indian restaurant. I looked around the room. People with multiple hues of skin color eating with each other. Bits of conversations floated across our table about places people have lived or traveled. A few head scarves on women. A turban or two on men. Families composed of several generations with visibly mixed ethnic backgrounds. No one was shouting hatred or fear. And I said to myself that this microcosm of the world is where I want all of us to live. Enriched by our differences.
When I was growing up as a child, I never saw a person who was black nor met anyone who was Jewish nor heard a foreign language spoken. Everyone was "like me" with their northern European roots. (Except the Native American children who lived at the Indian School across the river in North Dakota.) Then I married - and several days later we were in the middle of Washington DC, where my husband was to begin his graduate education and I was to work at the NIH. It was a crash course in diversity! I will never be the same.
On this Monday, I live in a country in which I am trying to find perspective. Polls tell us one thing. The news media serves up the most dramatic events. What is really representative of the thoughts and feelings of the majority of Americans?
The image that comes to mind for me is a dog. A dog and his wagging tail - and I ask myself : is the dog wagging its tail or is the tail wagging its dog? What forms the nature of my beloved America? Has this Great Recession so unsettled us - and a president who is half black - and half white? Does all of this fear and hatred come out of some core deep within in us from ancient times, when humans first wandered across the water and land masses of this earth? Akin to the fears that some people have of snakes as personified evil, even though no actual event in their lives gives them rational cause to fear snakes.
Who are we? How have we come to use the creation of words to lash out at anything or anyone who is not identical to us? Or is the goodness of people across this diverse country being masked by the fears of a few that have been given such prominence?
Elizabeth
This time is like no other time in my memory - even though I know there have been similar periods of mistrust, even before humans learned to create words and to record them. People have been fearing other people forever. But I guess the optimist in me wants to believe that we have learned a few things in the course of human history.
Clem and I have been traveling recently and have been around people whose non-western European languages I could not identify. When we came home, we went for dinner at a favorite East Indian restaurant. I looked around the room. People with multiple hues of skin color eating with each other. Bits of conversations floated across our table about places people have lived or traveled. A few head scarves on women. A turban or two on men. Families composed of several generations with visibly mixed ethnic backgrounds. No one was shouting hatred or fear. And I said to myself that this microcosm of the world is where I want all of us to live. Enriched by our differences.
When I was growing up as a child, I never saw a person who was black nor met anyone who was Jewish nor heard a foreign language spoken. Everyone was "like me" with their northern European roots. (Except the Native American children who lived at the Indian School across the river in North Dakota.) Then I married - and several days later we were in the middle of Washington DC, where my husband was to begin his graduate education and I was to work at the NIH. It was a crash course in diversity! I will never be the same.
On this Monday, I live in a country in which I am trying to find perspective. Polls tell us one thing. The news media serves up the most dramatic events. What is really representative of the thoughts and feelings of the majority of Americans?
The image that comes to mind for me is a dog. A dog and his wagging tail - and I ask myself : is the dog wagging its tail or is the tail wagging its dog? What forms the nature of my beloved America? Has this Great Recession so unsettled us - and a president who is half black - and half white? Does all of this fear and hatred come out of some core deep within in us from ancient times, when humans first wandered across the water and land masses of this earth? Akin to the fears that some people have of snakes as personified evil, even though no actual event in their lives gives them rational cause to fear snakes.
Who are we? How have we come to use the creation of words to lash out at anything or anyone who is not identical to us? Or is the goodness of people across this diverse country being masked by the fears of a few that have been given such prominence?
Elizabeth
Monday, September 6, 2010
Exponential Explosion of Ivory Soap
Take one white bar,
99.44% pure Ivory.
Place in microwave oven,
unwrapped and waiting.
Close door and punch high,
observe closely.
Useless entertainment,
derived in college dorms.
Out from under parental eyes,
creativity blooms.
As does the bar, expanding
into a unique creation.
Energy swells it magically,
from its rectangular form.
Our choice: remain contained,
in our original form.
Or open ourselves,
to unlimited possibilty.
Let uncensored creative energy,
have its way.
Ivory soap unrecognizable,
exponetially exploded!
Elizabeth
99.44% pure Ivory.
Place in microwave oven,
unwrapped and waiting.
Close door and punch high,
observe closely.
Useless entertainment,
derived in college dorms.
Out from under parental eyes,
creativity blooms.
As does the bar, expanding
into a unique creation.
Energy swells it magically,
from its rectangular form.
Our choice: remain contained,
in our original form.
Or open ourselves,
to unlimited possibilty.
Let uncensored creative energy,
have its way.
Ivory soap unrecognizable,
exponetially exploded!
Elizabeth
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Being Not Afraid
Elizabeth and I were walking through a springtime woods along Lake Superior, on one of our many trips to the sea without leaving Minnesota. High above the lake, the path took us across a ravine. As we reached the other side, we saw Bunchberries in full bloom. Elizabeth captured the moment with her ever-present camera .
My very first thought that came to mind . . . these are white doves of peace — everywhere. The poem “Being Not Afraid” was birthed that day. It remains a favorite of mine. It was not long after that visit to Lake Superior that we came up with the idea to pair Elizabeth’s photographic images with my poetry, each to have thoughtful conversation with each other. And hopefully a third conversation with the viewer.
It will be as if,
in the dry autumn of earth’s life,
the world’s people
walk a woodland path ―
expecting only
crumbling rustling leaves,
a shriveled mushroom or two.
Around a bend
tiny, white doves
appear everywhere
and they are not afraid.
And now ―
littered with peace,
the glade is watered and turns
to spring. Not just here, or
there; but everywhere.
And peace is not afraid.
It will be like that ―
the springtime for earth’s people.
Imagine, being not afraid ―
peace everywhere.
It will be like that.
Clem
Published in the National Catholic Reporter, in June 2008
My very first thought that came to mind . . . these are white doves of peace — everywhere. The poem “Being Not Afraid” was birthed that day. It remains a favorite of mine. It was not long after that visit to Lake Superior that we came up with the idea to pair Elizabeth’s photographic images with my poetry, each to have thoughtful conversation with each other. And hopefully a third conversation with the viewer.
BEING NOT AFRAID
It will be as if,
in the dry autumn of earth’s life,
the world’s people
walk a woodland path ―
expecting only
crumbling rustling leaves,
a shriveled mushroom or two.
Around a bend
tiny, white doves
appear everywhere
and they are not afraid.
And now ―
littered with peace,
the glade is watered and turns
to spring. Not just here, or
there; but everywhere.
And peace is not afraid.
It will be like that ―
the springtime for earth’s people.
Imagine, being not afraid ―
peace everywhere.
It will be like that.
Clem
Published in the National Catholic Reporter, in June 2008
and used with permission.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Poetry Emerging from Unrelated Cues
Pieces of poetry don't always arrive in conjunction with the seasons. They just show up, triggered most often by something unrelated to the eventual poem. I've written Christmas poetry in July and pieces about spring flowers in December. Perhapes I see something that would make a perfect gift - but pass on it, because I have difficulty keeping secrets for so long. Or watching the world outside be transformed by the first snows might generate poetry about what rests in my garden until the time is right for new things to push through half-frozen snow.
Poetry is like that. Just as many of the insights we have that show up, when we are looking somewhere else.
This particular piece came in the August heat, from noticing small black scale insects on the hoya that hangs by a back window.
Contemplation in Sun-Warmth
early spring and turtles line
the old dead tree, slanted\
over a small pond, its branches
shorn of life long ago
its grey trunk polished
over long winters, imprinted
in turtle-memories
along with the sun's warmth
from a distance. the turtles
look like black scale insects
adhered to sturdy stems,
no space left vacant
one quick motion -
startled turtles disappear,
dark water settles
into the silence that conceals
they slide into familiar muck
to wait for safety, in this place
of return that perserves
through the frozen time
then the lure of sun-warmth
coaxs small heads to peer
just above the water,
then they scramble onto the old tree
to resume contemplation
Elizabeth
Poetry is like that. Just as many of the insights we have that show up, when we are looking somewhere else.
This particular piece came in the August heat, from noticing small black scale insects on the hoya that hangs by a back window.
Contemplation in Sun-Warmth
early spring and turtles line
the old dead tree, slanted\
over a small pond, its branches
shorn of life long ago
its grey trunk polished
over long winters, imprinted
in turtle-memories
along with the sun's warmth
from a distance. the turtles
look like black scale insects
adhered to sturdy stems,
no space left vacant
one quick motion -
startled turtles disappear,
dark water settles
into the silence that conceals
they slide into familiar muck
to wait for safety, in this place
of return that perserves
through the frozen time
then the lure of sun-warmth
coaxs small heads to peer
just above the water,
then they scramble onto the old tree
to resume contemplation
Elizabeth
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Tricyrtis Discovery
I had challenged one of our young grandchildren to see what could be found in our autum garden. Kneeling alongside the path, the assortment of leaves was parted, and close to the ground our eyes peered at the place I thought something special could be seen . . . at least, I hoped it was still be there.
“this is the most beautiful flower
Maybe my grandchild will find Twinflowers in full bloom and declare again, to no one in particular,
It was found and
I heard a quiet declaration—
"this is the most beautiful
flower I have ever seen!”
"this is the most beautiful
flower I have ever seen!”
My grandchild uncovered the diminutive, orchid-like blooms of the Toad Lily (Tricyrtis sp.). The flowers are exotic and intricate. White with violet spotted petals. Asked if the other flower buds would open soon, I replied
"Honestly
I don’t know.”
I don’t know.”
Much older now — my grandchild left a month ago for a first trip in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.
My secret wish for you was that you would find the BWCA
‘the most beautiful place you have ever seen.’
That you watch long-hidden stars being freed to shine.
See points of light dancing on the smooth, night water
before you turn in for a well-deserved night’s rest.
Wonder how the rock upon which you are sitting
came to be so smooth.
“this is the most beautiful flower
I have ever seen.”
Sometimes a person simply has to be patient,
be open to looking, and
to pay attention to little things.
Clem
Clem
Twinflower is Linnaea borealis
(the only plant that Linnaeus
named after himself.
It was his favorite flower.)
Toad Lily Tricyrtis sp.
Twinflower Linnaea borealis
(the only plant that Linnaeus
named after himself. It was his
favorite flower.)
Toad Lily Tricyrtis sp.
Twinflower Linnaea borealis
(the only plant that Linnaeus
named after himself. It was his
favorite flower.)
Maybe my grandchild will find Twinflowers in full bloom and declare again, to no one in particular,
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