Tamarika

And she is going to dance (revisited)

I dedicate these dancers to all of us but especially to those 50 and over, in celebration of Kalilily Time's birthday today because she says, "there's a dance in the ol' dame yet."

Isn't that true for all of us?

Nightingale

Many people have favorite comfort foods. For some it might be chocolate or even caviar. It's natural that food would become comforting. After all, we were all soothed as infants by bottles or breasts of milk, through loving caregivers. Our oral phase is still very close to our aging psyche. Lately stroopwafelen, reminding me of my adventure in Raalte twenty three years ago, have become early morning comfort, especially when I awaken from sad or anxious dreams . In the past, comfort food was soft boiled eggs and marmite on toast. I used to spread marmite on matzot during Passover week. The one or two Jewish people in my high school class would laugh at me and say that I couldn't eat Marmite with Matzo because it was full of yeast - just the stuff we are not allowed to eat at Passover - yeast! Nowadays I am fortunate to find a steady supply of Marmite and stroopwafels at the Chestnut Hill Cheese Shop. I spread the black, yeasty Marmite thickly on wonderful whole grain bread, pile it with avocado and tomato and sink my teeth into it. The comfort flows intravenously into my body and I sigh with relief. A really plump, juicy, freshly grilled chicken serves well as comfort food too. Of course it has to be piping hot and the aroma circulating in my car as I drive home from the supermarket, making me rush to put away the groceries so that I have time for a tiny taste before having to share it with Tom later. Tom is so kind and wise. Whenever I return home weary after a long travel, presentation stint I find one of those chickens. It awaits my arrival on the kitchen counter. At the airport, while we put my bags into the car, he says, "There's a chicken waiting for you at home." All is well with the world!

Food is not the only way I feel comforted. Music does it for me even more intensively. For example, Joan Baez and Annie Lennox make me feel strong and powerful. Some songs reach into the depths of my soul and seem to pour a blanket of comfort over my pain. When I was driving to and from the hospital in Charlie's final two weeks of life, I would play one song by Greg Brown over and over again. Something about a river. I have forgotten it now but I know I will remember it the moment I hear it again. I would drive down the road feeling anxiety and pain, push the tape button and the music would swirl around me like big, strong arms holding me safe and tight. Back and forth, day after day, the same song would soothe and rock me giving me strength to be all present and accessible, for the next time I would be with my friend as he faded away.

These past three months Nora Jones has come to my rescue! Her Nightingale song has been the one I play over and over again as I drive through the new streets of Chestnut Hill and Philadelphia. In December I set out from Buffalo with Molly and Ada yowling and howling in anxiety and fear imprisoned in their crates in the back seat of my car. The three of us pulled out of the driveway and I did not dare look back for fear of unleashing all those locked up tears in my throat. As we drove across New York and into Pennsylvania those long seven and a half hours Nora Jones sang Nightingale over and over again. Slowly the torment in the back seat subsided and Ada and Molly settled into a guarded peace as I softly called out to them to listen to the music. Every now and again they would whimper and call out to me and as they quietened down I listened to the words of the song and silently began to weep. A cleansing, peaceful crying that washed away the pain of farewell and anxiety of the unknown.

Yesterday I played it again as I ran about town buying gifts for our anniversary today. Mainly I was searching for daffodils like those that bloomed so brilliantly on our wedding day, six years ago in the beautiful valley of Anacordes. I found two small pots of tiny bright yellow daffodils. And as I drove home, Nightingale covered me in a blanket of comfort.

Nightingale
Sing us a song
Of a love that once belonged
Nightingale
Tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?

Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer
To a question I can't ask
I don't know which way the feather falls
Or if I should blow it to the left

Nightingale
Sing us a song
Of a love that once belonged
Nightingale
Tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?

All the voices that are spinnin' around me
Trying to tell me what to say
Can I fly right behind you
And you can take me away

In and Out of Confidence

Well, I was pretty well inspired by Amba today and so I jumped enthusiastically onto my treadmill allying flesh and spirit together. Actually, I love exercising, so usually I don't need a tremendous amount of encouragement. I do an almost daily regimen of treadmill walking and running for 45 minutes, lift those 8 pound weights for awhile, and then my beautiful twenty five minutes of yoga, which I have been doing regularly, steadily since I was in my twenties and studied to be a yoga instructor with Swami Ji Sivalingam. 

Swami Ji gave me the name of a river in India - Amaravati Devi. I think it is a metaphor for a mother. Six years ago when Tom and I were married Gilad (scroll down) wrote a jazz piece in my honor called "Amaravati Devi is Getting Married." I thought about that as I was huffing and puffing on the treadmill because in two days time Tom and I will celebrate our anniversary. I cannot believe that we have survived the move to Philadelphia intact. And yet, I think we have become even better friends than ever. Phew! What a struggle.

Looking at my stats counter graph I see a resemblance to my state of mind. High mountains and deep valleys! I have been struggling for a few months about my self worth and confidence level. Some of you have been reading these ramblings and reflections and I appreciate the time you have taken to journey with me about this. My biggest struggle was losing my mini-empire at work and teaching and finding myself alone with me. The losses and alone time threw me into a spin. Who was I? Who am I? What worth am I? Will I be of worth again?

In fact, I have to admit that at times, it has been agony.

First I looked at my childhood relationships and how self worth seemed to be connected to my needing acknowledgment and recognition. Then I looked at how grieving affects the way I feel. I have been mourning the loss of my home, city, state, friends, jobs, colleagues, lovers, Charlie, Mar-Mar, marriages, father, aborted children, Africa, Israel, Holland. I experienced all of them differently. Sometimes while walking down a new street in Chestnut Hill, pain suddenly rises in my chest, or I awaken from sleep with a heavy heart. Once I woke out of a dream where I had fallen to my knees and then lay sprawled, face down, sobbing, "I just want to go home." The atmosphere and pain of that dream took almost the whole day to wear off.

For awhile I wondered if my self-worth might be connected to how I look, my fuzzy hair or sexuality. I touched on these reflections superficially scratching the surface of what I feel about myself in relation to my physical presence.

Today I think I have realized that who I am depends on what I am able to contribute to those around me, future teachers, friends, colleagues, society, and, even, the world! If I am unable to give of myself through acts of compassion, lectures, writings, and, even, singing, then I am nothing. It seems so much bigger or deeper than simply feeling like I am worthwhile when I am needed. I want to contribute all I have to offer. It feels good to do that. There is a sense of purpose, or meaning to living this life when I can do that. I struggled for years after Charlie died trying to grasp the meaning of life. His illness and death seemed too senseless and cruel, and I just simply missed him so much. Slowly I came to understand that's just how life is - sometimes mysterious, sometimes senseless, wondrous and marvelous, always complex and often confusing. And that's okay.

So I am at the top of one of those graph-like hills today. Is it because I know for sure where I will be working in the fall and it fits perfectly with our new life and surroundings? It might be because Molly and Ada seem truly settled lately - nothing big - just a subtle sense that their world is not shaking any longer. Is it because I awoke without remembering my dreams this morning? After all, I'm still the same old me. Fifty five - going on 56 - not as sexually attractive as when I was 32, still with curly, frizzy hair, alone each day in a new place, city and state, and some siblings still ignoring my presence. It might be because I spent a week in Charleston with many colleagues who seemed to appreciate my expertise and laughed at my jokes. Hmm ... and then I wonder, is it just hormones?

Maybe it is just that time heals all.

Running and walking in place is never the most inspiring environment although I have a large window that looks out on trees where many different birds alight before they continue on their way to the feeder around the corner. Sometimes Sheryl Crow warbles in my ear through my MP3 player.

Today she sang, "If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad. If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"

Was she yelling it at me?

More blogging news

Thanks to Leanne who sent me this from her listserv today:

IF YOU CAN'T BEAT 'EM, BLOG 'EM
March 8, 2005

Got something to say? Got access to the Internet? You're one step away from being a blogger. And these days, bloggers are having an affect on politics, news, on everything, really. And blogs are changing the way we do news. There's no doubt about it.

I check several blogs a day. Some on politics, some on technology and some journal blogs written by my friends. It's become part of my daily routine, like reading the paper in the morning.

So what are blogs? Turns out that although 8 million have created blogs, 62 percent of Americans who use the Internet don't know what a blog is. That's according to the Pew Internet & American Life Project. And in an age where blogs are fundamentally changing the nature of news, we thought we'd tell you the story about the beast of blogging.

In case you're part of that 62 percent, blogs are online journals. They are places on the Internet where anyone can have a voice about, well, just about anything. If that definition seems vague, that's because the nature and rules of blogging are being defined more and more every day.

Blogs have been credited with bringing attention to news that the mainstream media (called by bloggers "MSM") is slow to report, or would otherwise ignore. Think of the cases of Sen. Trent Lott, CBS' Dan Rather, CNN's Eason Jordan, among many others. But blogs don't only bring attention to comments made by those in the spotlight; they can also affect your privacy. How?

Well consider this. You're at a party and a blogger overhears your conversation with someone. That person then writes about your conversation, using your name, in his blog. Well, anytime your name is searched on the Internet, that blog will appear with your comments made at that party. Is that fair? The blogger doesn't even have to identify him or herself. Or his sources.

Not yet anyway. A California judge is considering a lawsuit brought by Apple Computer against three bloggers who have published information on unreleased Apple products. The bloggers refuse to disclose the identity of their sources (who are likely Apple employees) and are asking for the same legal protection as journalists. Under the California Shield Law, journalists don't have to reveal their sources. Do the same laws, rules, codes of conduct of journalists apply to bloggers? Not yet. Should they?

Tonight, correspondent John Donvan will tell the story about a high school teacher whose blog led to political change in her state. Tonight's piece is a fascinating one. Turns out that as John and producer Elissa Rubin were conducting interviews with bloggers, they were being blogged. The bloggers had some interesting opinions, to say the least.

And as this program airs (and this e-mail is read by viewers), there's no doubt that bloggers will blog about it.

We hope you'll tune in, along with the bloggers.

Zena Barakat & the "Nightline" Staff
ABC News Washington Bureau

Matthew Lombard, Ph.D.
Temple University
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
President, International Society for Presence Research
______________________________________________
This e-mail is from MMC, the listserv for students, faculty, alumnae/i, and friends of the Mass Media & Communication doctoral program at Temple University in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Rules are rules

Yesterday, Cynthia e-mailed me this story about her brother:

My brother got back from Iraq last week after almost 4 months, and had an interesting experience at the airport in Charlotte. He had flown from Baghdad to Germany, then Germany to Charlotte, and had been up for about 36 hours.  When he went to the counter to check his duffel bag on to Nashville, the woman at the counter told him that his bag was 5 pounds overweight and he would have to repack it. He asked if she had any boxes, and she told him he would have to go to another part of the airport to get that type of assistance.  So, M. opened the bag and took out his flack jacket (he took all of his own body armor with him) and asked her if it was within the weight restrictions. She said she thought it inappropriate that he was going to wear such an item in the airport, but that, yes, the bag was now within the weight limit. He said to her, “Madam, I have been serving my country for 4 months under fire every day, and this jacket has not been off my body. If you can’t let 5 pounds slide, then I wear the jacket”.  So, he did just that – and for the next several hours, while he waited for his connection, he was approached time and again by people, who shook his hand, thanked him for what he was doing, bought him lunch and made him feel like a king.

Jane Fonda

I thought of Ronni when I read this.

I thought of how political activism accompanies my life since I was 16.

I thought of all the hours of exercises I did with Fonda's exercise tapes alone in my living room.

I thought of all the movies I have seen her in, especially Barefoot in the Park. I saw it in Netanya in the early seventies.

What's a blog? (update)

I'm back - finally! (see below for an additional e-mail reply...)

Charleston was interesting indeed. Beautiful homes built by monies from plantation owners on the backs of slaves. Dolphins jumping and diving in the bay, raw oysters and carriage rides. The conference was in a beautiful old hotel.

We worked hard. Long hours of board meetings, presentations given and heard. Linda Babcock had an important message in her keynote speech. It was especially interesting learning about the Gullah Culture.

However, I found it most intriguing that very few people - in fact almost no one - knew what a blog is! The membership of NCCCC is in higher education. When fellow members of the organization asked me what I have been doing lately and I replied, "Blogging," there were only two women who knew what that was. One had been reading a blog of her niece, who was using it to tell the family about her travels. The other was disgusted with the concept of not interacting face to face with others. She termed it as journal writing, a kind of "vomiting" everything out in public. Mostly people shook their heads. "What's a blog?" they asked. When I told them they asked again, "How is it different from a website?"

So - as many as we think we are, and as powerful as bloggers are becoming, methinks we are still a minority. A large minority.

But oh, fellow and sister bloggers, so much more exciting than that.

We are on the cutting edge!

This evening I received this e-mail reply about "what's a blog?"

Was interesting to read this on your blog:

"there were only two women who knew what that was. One had been reading a blog of her niece, who was using it to tell the family about her travels. The other was disgusted with the concept of not interacting face to face with others."

Why limit oneself to face-to-face interactions? 

"She termed it as journal writing, a kind of "vomiting" everything out in public. Mostly people shook their heads. 'What's a blog?' they asked. When I told them they asked again, 'How is it different from a website?'"

Suprising that so few knew about blogs.  Perhaps these people don't spend as much time online as we do?  I've been reading blogs for a few years now. The word "blog" was even added to the Oxford English dictionary (as both a noun and verb) a couple of years ago. 

I get different things from different types of blogs. There are blogs I read for humorous content and links to other interesting stuff on the internet, political blogs that cover a lot of the stuff the so-called liberal media is afraid to touch(and it doesn't hurt to look at stuff from the other side now and then, either), and people's more "personal" blogs that are more like journals (I feel somewhat voyeuristic reading some of those, sometimes, but--I adore your editor's blog.  Keen insight to a lot of pop culture stuff and damn funny and well written too!).

I find that people who don't spend a lot of time online sometimes have difficulty understanding those that do when it comes to news, information, blogs, usenet and other online communities and relationships.

Of course, I love the internet! Where else could you find such a fascinating article about toilets: http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/13.03/toilet.htmlpg=1&topic=toilet&topic_set= or why the tomato I cut open yesterday was full of sprouts inside: http://forums.gardenweb.com/forums/load/tompests/msg0909365321508.html
http://www.cookingforengineers.com/article.php?id=57  ?

Leavin' on a jet-plane

Well, dear fellow/sister bloggers, I wing my way to Charleston for a conference this week. Be back on the weekend. Who knows I might get a chance to write while I'm there. I'll certainly be checking in to all of you from time to time.