Minneapolis in Summer

Wonderful city, Minneapolis, city of lakes, with unending beauty for walking and talking with friends. Time for renewed acquaintances from times past. I am referring to political times past, when caring about anything meant joining a cause, nothing wrong with that, maybe everything right. My causes when I was younger, more specifically was getting my brother back from Viet Nam, which I could personally do nothing about, except talk to my mom and listen to the news of skirmishes on the Da Nang peninsula, knowing that was where he was, in some airplane hanger somewhere pulling planes out, refitting them, getting them ready for the next excursion. Only able to patrol, never allowed to defend himself because of the chain of command. He could only contemplate, wait, and follow orders. I worried about him. My mom sent him everything she could, all kinds of mom stuff hoping it would get to him, hoping by sending it, it meant he was there to receive it. I saw her worry, and fear, and her fear was frightening enough to take care of all of us. 
So, the friend I visited is ill, he asked for me and I decided to show up, he doesn't remember when he saw me last and that bothers him, he has erased all of his memory for the last 30 years, so as far as he is concerned, he hasn't seen me since then. But I remember, his mom, his sister, his nephew, his brother and his sister in law. I know his friends, and have known them for decades.
I asked when he retired and that was kind of a clear memory for him. Once the Co-Op closed his job ended, it was that quick, no planning for him, just there. I've read an interview from a few years ago, where they discussed his take on the Co-Op movement, I read one article he wrote for VFP and that was over a year ago.
I helped a friend stake her tomatoes and was loving every minute of that, especially the smell of the branches on my hands, a good smell. 
She is a BFF and that will never change.
Loving Minneapolis. 

Last day today in the Balearic Islands and George Sands

This trip has been a whirlwind. I've enjoyed every minute of my time with family, and a chance to see stuff I have never seen before. It reminds me how much I need to stay connected to time and place. One of the things I have never really experienced in my travels to other places is what I experienced half a century ago in Madrid. The people were so kind. It is out of a genuine concern, that at least in the States you will only get if you are married to someone or in therapy. Let me explain.
When I first traveled to Madrid, I was quite thin, and had a bad cavity to boot. Over the next month everything only got worse. I kept eating less and less because it was too painful. The place I stayed at was quite uncomfortable, it was a back hallway in a restaurant. I felt ok there even though it was ridden with bed bugs, the owner seemed safe. I ate very little. Finally the owner came up to me and said "do you know what a spoon is?" I nodded my head. "You have to eat with a spoon, here is a bowl of food, use your spoon." In short order without a charge of any kind he served up a bowl of white beans, they were the most delicious beans in the world. I ate and my weight stabilized, finally I was able to go to a dentist who was able to stop the pain. I was on my way.
This happened again to me only in Mallorca. We all ordered salads and my eyes popped when I saw salmon on the menu and I ordered that too. The waiter looked at me and shook his head "that is too much food for you, you are getting a lot to eat." He tried to help me and made suggestions but they seemed like questions and so I didn't understand. The food arrived all at once and it was WAY TOO MUCH. It was 90 degrees out, everyone was ready to crash, including the staff at the restaurant.
I have been reading George Sands Winter in Mallorca and she laments that the people are not more industrious. I think that whole concept is misplaced. When you live here you really SHOULDN'T LIVE IN EXCESS. There is no need to overwork, to overeat, to over drink. This is a place where you should live at a snail's pace, take your time. Slow it down.
It's quite easy to make more than you need, but if it is too hot to move, where exactly will you be going?
George Sand and Winter in Mallorca, has a type of writing that could bore someone to tears, but it is engaging somehow. She does wonder about some of the superstitions, and overall lack of industriousness on the part of the people here. But then again points out, if they are given property of their own, they WILL cultivate it and that land will be very productive.
So, I think I should write a book: Summer in Mallorca. Four exquisite days, not for the faint at heart, or for anyone who might faint from the heat anyway. I LOVE THE HEAT, just not the sun, so I have successfully avoided a sun tan with my SPF 50, hat, dark glasses and long sleeves and swimming as the sun goes down!!!

When she was five..a free write

When she was five years old there was an inexplicable occurrence in the world. The sky turned totally green for five minutes. She saw it happen and asked her friends to look at it with her, and they did and recognized it as the color that was supposed to be on the ground in the summer, but there it was in the sky in winter. The three best friends had their rolly polly parkas on and rolled around in the snow and giggled at the sight. They made snow angels that usually would be white on white in the snow. But with the sky turning green, even the snow angels started to look green too. They were amazed by the sight and couldn't keep their eyes off of it. So, they decided then and there that if they couldn't remember if the green sky or green snow angels came first, it didn't really matter, they would just have to keep making those angels and keep looking at the sky. Maybe check it out in summer to see if something else could happen with the three of them all in one place. So they made a pact to check in every 6 months and find out if any of the stuff that happened that day was real.

 and add three of these words, changing the freewrite to make them fit:

circus

dog

pencil

snow

fallen

Write to me and walk with me

So you want to go where nobody goes.
Then walk with me
And find those backwards waters
And listen to their sound
And write it down, 
And find it in your life
And sing it with your song
And paint it on the wooden table
The one you put your dinner on
And share it with your friends. 
And share it with me.

Reflections on Walking

I am a little concerned still about intruding on someone who wants you all to themselves. I personally cannot be around alcohol and drinking, not that I would stop anyone else from that behavior, but it changes me in ways I do not like. I am peaceful and calm at this time, and alcohol is a sweet insidious poison that leads to wanting more, even though in death only the alcohol will win. I am so easily swayed. I think I will visit you, but stay elsewhere so you can take your time to spend it with me if you want, and I will let you stay with your mom and not feel like I am interfering. Because I would interfere, and I cannot be around drinking. Perhaps it is your intention to have me around to be a relief for you, or a distraction for her from her own loneliness, but I would take it on, and wear it well thank you, and would become that same feeling for her. A projection of something through a clouded wavy glass. Better I limit the scrutiny.

The Buddhist would say to take yourself to the temptation to become Zen around the temptation itself, perhaps that would be my task, to let go of the biased judgmental thinking, let it all go in the face of it. And by letting go, you cannot be drawn into, to the wanting to belong, to wanting to feel part of something instead of spinning off on your own. In my own family, I have worked to stay away from the projection: the one they wish they were, the one who had the problem so they did not have to carry it themselves. Around the people I love I have been careful to maintain my love for them and let the judgment float away.

You are a friend, and have been that to me, and I respect your care for your remaining parent, and your filial support, and your desire to leave a legacy for your children. I see you want someone along to support you in all of that, and think you wonder what it is that you could do for me. I don’t see it that way. Already I feel acknowledged and included in your life and that is a lot, perhaps more than I could ever want. And I don’t want to expect more because that will always be subjected to disappointment. So, perhaps I will visit without rebellion or resentment and that will be the task I will put before me. A moment to experience a truth in my life, and then another and another will follow and I can walk a path of freedom from reaction, from reactivity, instead I can walk from a strength from within. Kind of like what my Pilates trainer is teaching me, "move from your core." I move physically from the core, and now it is time to move psychologically from that same core.

Robert Graves

Your turn……..the Confederate Flag as a martyr symbol for hatred past down for generations, your mother.

I like the way you said that. So I sit on my balcony in Mallorca, surrounded by an intense heat, the type I seek in the Winter, a type of heat that clings to your skin, and pushes all the soul out of your pores. You sweat. Instead of moisture, words eek out and you only wish for more and more of the heat. Yesterday, I thought of what it takes to move out of that mode where everything evolves around your own idea of what makes sense, where if you could be part of a caring world you would, instead of jumping away from a searing truth and heat. I hope to see Robert Graves home today, someone I admired when I was in grade school, because my uncle gave me his works to read, as though I was someone who could understand direct translations of Greek mythology, someone who could understand “I Claudius” that Greek psychological drama, someone who would seek out knowledge and understanding. That was my uncle, an older brother to me, so close in age, he would have loved it here.

Mary, I love the food, the pungent smells, the olive oil that permeates the air and every bite of food, and the serrano and chorizo earthiness of it all. Although I prefer Southern Spains country paella, the one that disappears from the restaurant because it is only made once a day, this coastal take on it is great too. I can live on "Tapes" as they call them in Catalunya. I am in Mallorca, and today I get to see the home of my all time favorite, Robert Graves. I poured over his Greek translations when I was a kid, it was one of four books given to me as a child, and I cherished it, didn't understand it, because there was nothing like it in my school library, but read it anyway. The heat, the food, and now I am back to writing, so I love it all. Barbara A.

Bree Newsome's arrest

I didn't think it was possible to cry on my vacation, but I thought about Bree Newsome's arrest for taking down the Confederate Flag on June 27 and I cried. From Charlotte, North Carolina, she quoted scripture as she descended the flag pole with the flag in her hand. I cried for that terrible injustice, that kind that has been portrayed to us only in film as though "it couldn't happen here." But it does every day, and the minor injustices the rest of us endure, are just that. The things we fight for, a niceness in the work place, a more equitable pay, a fair health system, all pale in the light of that massacre by a man who felt justified in his killing of people at pray. 
This woman, Bree, walked quietly onto that small ground, climbed noiselessly over that fence, without raising her voice except with words of scripture and acknowledgement of her imminent arrest, stayed calm. I cried for her and because of all the meaningless acts that I can surround myself with, when I see one statement without words, one walk without self-acknowledgement and self-congratulations say more than any statement could in a lifetime. Bravo to Bree, who exhibited the kind of citizenship we should all cherish, one with meaning, one wanting to right a wrong, one acknowledging a wrong doing and accepting the consequences without trepidation but with a calm resignation and sorrow at so many lives lost. In the face, the public face of a nation, that deserves and should serve the truth to all of us. 

What is an expectation?

In Mexico, in a town that never slept, I found the quiet after sunset, walking along a lagoon, or towards the city. Only then could I hear the sound of my own footsteps, marred by swarms of cockroaches under foot and the crack of their shells, unavoidable because of the numbers. I walked on the way to Meri and Pepe’s house, for a cup of coffee. They never turned me down and were always up late. Such a quiet house, Meri a Peruvian and Pepe a Mexican Artist who ran Bellas Artes in Tampico. They welcomed me into their home both in Tampico and in “el DF” which was brimming with people and excitement and story telling. No television or radio, all music was from the family and all “reality” was in the moment and they valued the stories told by people, and enjoyed their food. Walking the streets of Tampico I could get lost, but I always knew where I was, never felt unsafe there until about 10 years ago, and I walked everywhere, to the beach, to Cd. Madero, downtown, to the Lagoon, the Country Club and to the University. But nighttime was when the city slept, and the cars stopped, and only few conversations between friends who visited could be heard but only if you were the friend, the closed doors silenced the talking, and the only sound were your own footsteps.

Your turn…. See Coyote

So, I anticipate another way to see and experience a beauty in the world, along a path, not traveled yet by others, perhaps that kayak is the way to mimic Thoreau:

“At present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative freedom. But possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off into so-called pleasure grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and exclusive pleasure only, — when fences shall be multiplied, and man traps and other engines invented to confine men to the public road; and walking over the surface of God’s earth, shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentleman’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us improve our opportunities then before the evil days come.”

I wonder if it will be quiet enough to hear the coyote dancing with the otter, like you saw that day. Will their sounds echo across the water, like the Loon does in Northern Minnesota, with its human like cry? Will Eagles really cross the sky? Will the lake be still with only the sounds of the paddles pushing the kayaks through the water?

 A strange word I learned in meditation, a way of existing in the present moment with no expectations. A way of noticing things without expectation. To make a meal without hunger or expecting a feeling of satisfaction or fullness after eating. So the question becomes, as I walk through this life, one I have learned has little to offer in terms of what I expected, how do I stay away from disappointment. If I look for the eagle soaring, listen for the loons plaintive cry, and wait for the rush of moving through space across a clear lake; will I have taken all of the beauty out of the moment because of anticipation? And what is beauty? I enjoy the act of creating, and that has been kind of true for me always. The end object, the painting or the essay or the kayak, have seemed more like remnants of the activity. Because what is achievement but a projection onto an object or activity of who you are, whereas who you are is actually the observer. So, as long as I can move, write, put things together on a plate, play a game that doesn’t end, I feel engaged. I stay away from disappointment by not thinking, the 75% chance that any expectation will not be met, is a relief for me. So, Thoreau’s take on beauty sums it up:

“Yes; though you may think me perverse, if it were proposed to me to dwell in the neighborhood of the most beautiful garden that ever human art contrived, or else of a dismal swamp, I should certainly decide for the swamp. How vain then have been all your labors, citizens, for me!”

Your turn….

I found a friend

Kayaking

I have met few people in my day who relish the quiet of the country. Most recently I met one, who is a noisy sort, yet succeeded in bringing me to the quietest place of all: a lost cemetery close to an open field by an infrequently traveled road. We became instant friends, whilst I relished in the quiet of a wind blown field, the flap of a bird’s wing, the rustle of lilac bush leaves, he quietly lamented the lost reverence for a valley that attracted his great great grandparents to settle and participate in the growth of a nation through plantings and births, wars and personal turmoil.

I have walked through most cities I have lived in at least once from one end to the other, looking for quiet spots, places where the wind stops, and the river stills. Most often I have found it early in the morning, right before dawn. In the fall is when it seems most quiet. The leaves frozen from a cold night, leaves that are left not quite loose enough to gently float to the ground. Then, just as the sun rises, just when the sky begins its gentle change from dark ink with white spots of stars or a sliver of a moon, the sky begins to change to a lighter blue, a kind of blue mirage at its base. Then, with that little amount of heat the last leaves on the trees become loose and fall, and the frozen ones on the ground relax and crackle.

It’s rare to find a person who can find such a quiet place, and I have found one, one who has an understanding that to be obligated, by not having one's affairs in order, is to take away the only wealth we really have, to walk the earth, embrace it for what it is, not for what pillaging it will bring to a person, but to walk it with an understanding of its abundance and willingness to share with all beings an opportunity to experience life at its fullest.

Your turn….

St. Luke's Madonna

All right, the most remote area in the Monserrat and I had the opportunity to stand in the location that St. Lukes Madonna lay hidden from the Moors. It is not the original statue which is said to bless anyone who touches it's orb, but just the same, any blessing was easily received by me, so I touched the orb of the replica, and feel blessed any way. 

Barcelona's extreme heat

It is 100 degrees here, at least it feels like it and this religious parade is populated by people in full dress. The rest of the world visiting Barcelona in the summer, is scantily dressed at best, and I understand why. It is so hot that you only have time to drink water continuously and if you are moving, you look for a place to sit, so you don't get heat exhausted. Today, for instance, I am fully contemplating doing close to nothing, so I can finally breathe. Maybe visit one museum and spend the rest of the day as if I am a local, sitting at a restaurant, sipping a "Pepsi lite" or even a beer at 10 am. Yes, that is exactly what they do. I think all the alcohol evaporates before you swallow it and that's how the liver tolerates it. Otherwise everyone would fall down with the weight of Medusa's snake like head. 

Montjuic, a climb for all times

It looks so far away, when you start the walk and soon you can find yourself in the back streets and alleys of true Barcelona. Recognizable as tourists everyone seems to understand your plight as you join the thousands that have scaled that wall to the fortress above. As all fortresses that overlook the land, and in this case, the ocean port, below, it was built to give the impression that no one could go against it. In the time I am writing the Catalunyan were swept to France and by the time Ferdinand II of Aragon came along, it was taken back again from the French.

I notice people whose lives have meaning: VIOLETA PARRA who wrote and MERCEDES SOSA who sang her song.

As you may have noticed I posted a few performances by Mercedes Sosa. I heard Violeta Parras beautiful Gracias a la Vida today while walking along the Boardwalk of Barcelona. Several wonderful pairs of dancers were practicing the Tango to their own Boom Box. I was enchanted. The first time I saw the Tango was at my wedding. My Dad insisted on dancing that beautiful dance with me at my wedding reception. I was enthralled. First, I had never seen my Dad dance in his life, and then to dance such a beautiful dance with me when I was surrounded by all of my family and my extended family and all of my husband's friends was beautiful. So many years ago and I still remember the poetry of the moment. Later my husband would sing the beautiful Italian Caro Mio Ben to me at a dinner party. It was all so elegant. I was surrounded by a beauty that I did not experience ever again in that marriage. But it was oh so beautiful at the time. And then again today, I saw the enchantment of that beautiful dance filled with moments suspended in space, across a magic interlude on some tile squares taking space on a boardwalk. All in a city filled with art and beauty in its architecture and insistence on uniqueness in a language and history that is breathtaking at times. Oh, and in this summer heat even more breathtaking, until you've enveloped yourself in the azure Mediterranean ocean. I am graced to share this space with my daughter and her beau, both of whom understand little of my enchantment with all things Latino, romantic, and careful in its presentation and uniqueness, like those pairs of dancers in the heat of a summer evening, slowly moving to a sensuous beat and rhythm for the sake of the art. The same group plays Violeta Parra's "Gracias a la Vida." It seems silly to them, perhaps even unsafe, or outrageous, to find delight in a spontaneous street expression.

Gracias a la Vida (a prayer for all of us)

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me dio dos luceros que cuando los abro
Perfecto distingo lo negro del blanco
Y en el alto cielo su fondo estrellado
Y en las multitudes el hombre que yo amo.

Gracias a la vida que me had dado tanto
Me ha dado el oido, que en todo su ancho
Graba noche y dia, grillos y canarios
Martillos, turbinas, ladrillos y chubascos
Y la voz tan tierna de mi bien amado.

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me ha dado el sonido y el abecedario
Con el las palabras que distingo y declaro
Madre amigo hermano y luz alumbrando
La ruta del alma del que estoy amando

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto

Me ha dado la marcha de mis pies cansados
Con ellos anduve ciudades y charcos,
Playas y desiertos montanas y llanos
Y la casa tuya, tu calle y tu patio.

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me dio el corazon que agita su marco
Cuando miro el fruto del cerebro humano
Cuando mira al bueno tan lejos del malo,
Cuando mira al fondo de tus ojos claros.

Gracias a la vida que me ha dado tanto
Me ha dado la risa y me ha dado el llanto,
Asi yo distingo dicha de quebranto
Los dos materiales que forman mi canto
Y el canto de ustedes que es el mismo canto
Y el canto de todos que es mi proprio canto.

Gracias a la vida
Gracias a la vida
Gracias a la vida
Gracias a la vida.

Thank you to life that has given me so much. It gave me two eyes and when I open them I can tell black from white, and in the heavens, covered with stars, and from the multitude, the man I love.

Thank you to life that has given me so much. It gave me an ear with all its ability, records-day and night-crickets and canaries, hammers, turbines, bricks and storms. And the so tender voice of my beloved.

Thank you to life that has given me so much. It gave me sound and letters and with that I think and declare: mother, friend and brother and the light that lights the way to the soul I am loving.

Thank you to life that has given me so much. It gave me movement for my tired feet. With them I walked the cities and puddles, beaches and deserts, mountains and plains. And your house, street and patio.

Thank you to life that has given me so much. It gave me a heart, that causes me to shudder, when I see the fruit of the human brain. When I see good so far from bad. When I see the depth of the clarity of your eyes.

Thank you to life that has given me so much. It has given me laughter and tears. Thus I can tell the difference between happiness and grief, the two materials that create my song, and the song of all of you, which is the same song, and the song of everyone, which is my song.

Thank you to life.
Thank you to life.
Thank you to life.
Thank you to life. 

Mercedes Sosa - Gracias a La Vida POR LA FAMOSA VIOLETA PARRA

Mercedes Sosa - Todo cambia GOZALO MIS LECTORES

Barcelona

Here I am in the middle of the Raval district, in a beautifully IKEA built apartment with perfect air conditioning, while the rest of the world here melts. Just had my perfect coffee and am waiting for my perfect breakfast. Kind of cold actually, thinking about the beaches......better take that shower and put my bathing suit under a dress, because anything else will be TOO MUCH CLOTHING.
Can't get much better than this, well maybe kayaking with the bats in Washington, we'll see.

FOURTH OF JULY

FOURTH OF JULY

Summers by the river

Dirt roads cross the river town

Hill leads to the valley below

The heat piles up

Sweat trickles down

Friends gather

Look over the baseball mound

Wait for the sound

Of the first exploding star

That sprinkles down

Heat piles up

A breeze floats across the field

Lifts the swelter a little

As insects join

To bother all those sitters

The crack comes after

Each sparkle decorates the sky

From driveways and fields

All blown asunder

As the speculation mounts

Will the highbrows win today

Will Frog Town sally forth

Show their prowess to the rich

Confront the moneyed

With their lights and explosions

The cheers will rise above the mound

The votes counted

The winner is

That small “floater”

That comes from nowhere

Burns out and lands in a place

Determined by the wind

Destination unknown

A surprise object

On a walk across a field someday