The weather has been lovely lately. Not too hot, not too cold. The skies are clear, the water warm. A couple of days ago when Lila and I went in for a swim we were the only ones in the water. Except for three loons swimming together about fifteen feet away from us. They watched us approach as we watched them looking at us. Then they dove under water and swam away.
If you wake up feeling old and tired, here's some inspiration:
Britain's oldest man, thought to be one of three surviving UK World War I veterans, is celebrating reaching his 112th birthday. . . Henry Allingham, who was born in London on 6 June 1896, is also the last surviving original member of the Royal Air Force - formed 90 years ago."People ask me how I've done it, and I just say that I look forward to another tomorrow."
Now partially deaf and almost blind, Mr Allingham, who was born in Clapham, London, now lives at St Dunstan's home for blind ex-servicemen, in Ovingdean.
His life has spanned six monarchs and has taken in 21 prime ministers. , , , He has joked that the secret to his longevity is "cigarettes, whisky and wild women".
I'm not personally fond of cigarettes and whisky (much prefer beer) but I can relate to the wild.
I may not be of the “Facebook generation”, haven’t yet found it much fun, but I do greatly enjoy the way people connect on the internet. I love the “accidental” ways people come across my artwork and similarly, the “chance” meetings on blogs. Recently I received a comment from Mary Ann on the West Coast who “found” my blog and has just started her own. Her artwork and writing is well worth taking a look, both sensitive and thoughtful.
In addition, my friend Jackie who lives in Ottawa saw a video of me on TV (the one on BRAVO where I was paired with a musician from Monitoba to create work from each other's work) and contacted me. She lives in Ottawa now but about fifteen years ago was a student of mine at NSCAD U. I always liked her artwork and was delighted to renew a friendship. She too has started a new blog. This one is about her explorations of a gluten free diet. Her recipes are well worth trying. When visiting her in Ottawa two weeks ago, I had a scone she made and it was delicious. It’s great: she does the research, I get the results!
Last weekend when Lila and I on our walk through the woods, we stopped at a neighbors’ house. They had a stove on their porch and asked if I knew anyone wanting it. They were giving it away. I told my friend Suzanne who said she did indeed want a stove. So I called my neighbor. But it was the wrong neighbor. I couldn’t remember where I had seen the stove. A few days later I did remember. But it made me think about memory. Forget my past phenomenal memory: perhaps I should now write down everything I do each day so I will have a record when I need to check on something. A good idea but I haven’t yet been able to overcome the feeling that it would be a tedious exercise. Maybe if I drew little pictures as well as wrote my daily diary it would be more interesting.
I did once, for a couple of years, write down everything I did that was art related. It was an interesting record, done mainly for the T-man. But then my suitcase was stolen from my car on Greene Street in Manhattan when I was unloading some paintings for an exhibit after driving down from Halifax. I wasn’t out of the car for more than a half hour. But that was more than enough to get the book and my inspiration for writing details. Of course the thief wasn’t interested in the diaries or my slides or clothes, or even my passport, all of which were found strewn across the streets. He did keep my plane ticket as I was on my way to California after New York. He didn’t get anywhere anyway with the ticket. I got a new one. And a lovely woman retrieved my passport. When I went to pick it up, she made us some tea and told me I should always keep it on my person when traveling. I had a very pleasant visit with her.
And then a few days ago I came across an old journal, one I hadn’t tossed. It wasn’t about what I did that day but about what I thought, felt that day. It too was memories and it too could help me find something. Feeling things, learning things. Where I’ve been on the path to where I’m going. What remnants are in the clothes of my life.
I don’t write that kind of journal much anymore either. It’s hard to overcome the feeling that someone someday will read it. Not to self-censor, make it honest. I think, maybe, I am just enjoying living each day without thinking about it too much. Maybe.
It’s been sunny and warm for a few days now. I spent the afternoon with my hands in the dirt, turning it, weeding, getting ready to plant. Lila lay on the cool soil and helped by just being there. Bliss!
Since last Tuesday when my car window was smashed, I’ve been pondering how close, how interconnected my car, my house, my body are. I wasn’t in the car; I wasn’t hurt. Nevertheless my body seized and I was physically in pain, just as if I was physically attacked.
After getting the window fixed, having some acupuncture and a couple of hours in my tai chi class and I’m feeling fine. But it’s been interesting.
Okay, so it’s New Year’s Eve, a day of endings, thoughts of beginnings. I’ve never been into New Years resolutions very much, but I did keep last year’s—to drink from my good glasses and not wait for company.
Today I’ve been listening to New Year’s Resolutions on CBC, as made over the years. One woman said she’d like to see the emphasis not on the equality of women with men, but the differences between men and women. This was back in the ‘50’s. It led to a lively discussion. One man said he’d like women to be more like women. Another said, face it, women rule the world as it is. A women replied, if they do, it doesn’t show.
I heard, also, Margaret Lawrence, in 1978, say she wanted to spend less time answering letters and more on writing. It turns out she was writing a series of children’s books. She also wished our country hang together. It has, so far.
In 1982, some children were asked for their New Year’s wishes. One wanted her parents should make sister stop picking on her. Another hoped dad would stop working so much. Another hoped mom would not make him eat squash (or another one, broccoli). Others: hope the parents would let her quit piano lessons; stop being so over protective (i.e., let her go downtown alone); that the parents would stop smoking; raise allowance to 50 cents at least; and let him have a stereo.
A 1987 resolution by Ted in Cambridge, Ontario was to save all the junk mail that came to his house. By January 1988 he had a 75 POUND box of JUNK! Remember when we thought computers would eliminate paper?
1990 a fitness gym owner told Peter Gzowski that January is the best month for gyms, the most income from New Year’s resolutions. Gzowski said he was in great shape, didn’t need fitness advice. And laughed, of course.
I heard a couple of days ago that after one week, 75% of resolutions still stand; after six months, only 46% are left. If I were to make a resolution this year, it would be to tame the paper tiger that stalks my house: those piles and piles of paper I don’t know what to do with, have trouble sorting and tossing so just put aside for a “better” time. But I’m just not sure I’m up to it, yet.
Today is the fourth anniversary of my blog. My first entry was December 18, 2003. My daughter, Tamar, had been keeping an on-line journal and then a blog for years. I had admired her writing and enjoying seeing aspects of her life not offered through our emails and phone calls.
So on my holiday visit to Sunny LA, Tamar helped me set up this up. At first it did feel strange, I admit. I was oh so aware of every word I posted. Then I began to relax a bit and enjoy the process, the communication with a broader world than I would every have imagined possible.
So many good things have happened because of my blog. My exhibit in Denmark last June was directly a result of my blog. I met Elin Neumann when she googled how to rid her garden of deer and found my recipe posted on my blog. We corresponded and she introduced me to the Galleri Saltum where I exhibited. I also spent a lovely few days visiting with her in Denmark.
I sold a photo to St. Paul Science Museum through my blog. It was posted with the title “Mist” and is going to be used in an exhibit about water, how it is transformed in its life cycle. The exhibit will travel and I hope to see it eventually at the Natural History Museum in New York City.
I must admit, when Tamar stopped her blog just over a year ago, I found it hard to write. Maybe I need to feel I am writing to someone. Like a letter. And she was my mental audience. But, on a broader view, a blog is not just a conversation but also a record of a life. What I do, what I think, what I expect. Often thoughts get written I had no idea were roaming around in my mind. Sometimes it feels like a way to taste the flavors of my experiences, to put a meal together for whoever might come to the table.
Who do I write for? Who reads blogs? I only know one friend of mine here in Halifax who reads my blog. Most of the people I mentioned it to when I first started laughed. Now they either have a blank expression or realize that blogs are so omnipresent, it is no big deal. Everyone (almost) blogs, politicians, radio programs, writers, actors, but it seems not too many of my friends.
Over the past year I did think about not writing. I let many moments slip by that now I would like to have captured in print. I know I would miss this part of my world so I am making a renewed effort. Mostly, I would miss the so many interesting people I “meet” here.
Yesterday I went for an acupuncture treatment. Dr. Robin Wu and his wife Jenny moved here from Taiwan about a year ago. He’s working on his English. But sometimes I have trouble understanding him. And he, me. Jenny's English is a fair bit better; she took a three month immersion course in Arizona before moving here.
Yesterday Jenny was recommending I go see the movie Milarepa. It was here for only a week. Apparently it’s very inspiring. I said I couldn’t; I had to go to a dog make-up class. (It had been canceled once because of a snowstorm.) They smiled. And then I realized they thought I was saying I was going to a class to learn how to put make-up on my dog’s face.
I laughed so hard Dr. Wu could put the needles in without my even feeling it!
I went to a play Saturday night. (I won’t mention the name because I found it didn’t satisfy. No point.) It was neither here nor there, neither comedy nor serious. The one-person skit started out with energetic farcical energy, very funny. It went on too long in that vein but wasn’t funny any more. Then it became heavy, ponderous and ended flat. The friend I went with said afterwards she can suspend belief in the theatre but not in the movies. She was willing to give it more respect than I did. I almost fell asleep in the middle.
So what does it take to make you suspend belief? I can get totally involved in movies, books, TV shows, plays. Often when I am with someone watching TV and am getting visibly upset by a story, by the way people are acting or things that are happening to them, the person with me will say: Leya, it is only TV! Sometimes I don’t answer the phone when I am involved in a show. At least in a movie it’s dark and my reactions are more my secret.
Books are another story. Sometimes I get so involved in what is happening, I must read it, even if it keeps me up most of the night. Other times I find I have to put it down before I get to that point just because it is so overwhelming. Then, sometimes, I just can’t relate to the story or the characters; it puts me to sleep. With a book, at least, there’s the option of putting it down. Walking out of a theatre is more dramatic.
Last year was the first time I can remember when I actually didn’t finish reading a novel once I had started it. It was liberating. To admit a book just wasn’t for me. So maybe I will walk out of a theatre production—someday, maybe.
As a birthday gift, a few friends got together and gave me a facial. What a luxurious gift, I must say! It was lovely, being pampered for an hour, coming out with my face feeling like velvet, and my body like a marshmallow. When it was finished, I asked the esthetician how often she recommended having this done. She said every four weeks. I said Four Weeks! If I made it in four years I would feel fortunate. But apparently some people do. I wonder if it is covered under MSI, as health assurance.
Then I looked up the number “four” in Wikipedia. Among many many other things, many of them being mathematical, it said: “Four is the only number in the English language for which the number of letters in its name is equal to the number itself. This is also true in several other languages.” Interesting. A very sturdy number.
I don’t believe in closure. I think emotions are a bottomless well. Just when you/I think there is resolution/conclusion to an event/a situation/an emotional state, something arises, appears that can set off an entirely new set of feelings. Something more to look at, to ponder, to work through. For me, there is no such thing as closure.
On Sounds Like Canada Wednesday morning, the topic was caring for your elderly and/or ailing parents. A woman was talking about caring for her ex-husband. She had long before come to peace about the divorce so it was not a working on the past, she said. But it was, she also said, some kind of closure. And I could hear the question in her voice around the word closure. She knew, it seemed to me, that there could always be more.
I don’t know if I could or would take care of my ex-husband. It’s not a possibility at this point. He lives in NYC and we don’t have much communication. We didn’t have an easy separation. Lots of unpleasant feelings for a long time afterward. I did see him a year or so ago. It was interesting, pleasant enough. No real problem. No big aftermath. Just a visit.
After my mother died, it took me ten years before I stopped having shocking dreams about her, dreams that woke me shaking from an image of her still alive but inevitably dying. It was many years after that before I could think about her without some kind of lingering childhood emotion. I’m not sure I can even now but at least I am not acting on it (as often). And I think that is more important than closure.
Yesterday standing around in Seaview Park on the cold frozen snow talking to a couple of other dog owners while our pups romped around, we saw a navy ship coming into the Halifax Harbour. It seemed all the passengers were standing on the deck eager to pull into the dock. It was very tender sight. The two other people said they were carrying the sailors home for Christmas. The servicemen knew they’d be leaving again soon, they said, going back to the war zone. But then, one person said, they knew when they signed up that’s the way it would be.
I very proudly told them my daughter has a Support Peace ribbon on her car (I think it’s a purple one). Both the other (freezing) dog owners seemed unimpressed. Assumed, it seemed, that we all support peace so why say it.
But from what I have heard on the radio, those servicemen and women who signed up thought they were going on a peacekeeping mission. Not going to war. They support peace.
How many reminders does it take?
And happy to be here. After a long and wonderful journey. Lots of walking from one end of Rome to the other, walking through the narrow winding streets of Venice, walking through Zurich, walking and taking pictures. In fact, sometimes I took so many pictures I felt like I possibly didn’t see where I was, except through the camera’s eye.
At the airport in Halifax, I was so tired from the long trip home that, when going through immigration, I put down the wrong date for when I left on my trip, said it was the 18th, when it was the 17th. Then the officer asked me what I had bought abroad and, thinking what else would you buy in Italy and Switzerland, I said “Clothes and candy, you know” and he replied, “No, I don’t know or I wouldn’t be asking.” Oh.
I have tons of photos and stories of my trip I hope to post soon, but now we are awaiting the Big Storm Noel.
I’ve been going to lectures given by my friend Sean at the Public Library on Wednesdays at noon. He teaches Irish Studies at St. Mary’s University in Halifax. The lectures are part of his classes and also open to the public. So it is a mixture of the young the old and the curious. He’s talking about the culture and society of Ireland. It’s been fascinating. I’m learning about history, how it changes from different perspectives, how many different views there are of the same “event”, how “events” have many layers.
Yesterday he was talking about language: how the Irish are trying to establish identity (as distinct from the English) through the Irish language but it hasn’t taken root. He was required to study the Irish language in school but it was never spoken in his daily life. Sean read a poem in Irish to us. Then he read the translation. The Irish language is very beautiful to hear, very lyrical.
At this time, it is more the upper classes who are pushing the language, making it a more elitist experience. There are some writers who write only in Irish. Some allow translations, others don’t. But they don’t have the broad audience as not many people actually speak the language. There is even a town in Ireland that is only Irish speaking. As a result, tourists can’t find it from a map because the English name is still in print.
It made me think of Israel. How the Israelis resurrected Hebrew, once dead, now the national language. But in that situation, they were people coming from many countries to a new land. Bringing their disparate cultures and histories to form a new one.
When Aaron and I first moved to Canada, we lived a half an hour from Halifax where he was going to high school. We would spend much of the car ride into town practicing our “Canadian”. There are differences, however subtle, between Canada an the U.S. Some I’ve been able to adopt, some not. I am, after all, “from away”. Yet I do feel very Canadian, most of the time. Language is a powerful identifying marker.
It's been raining hard most of the day. After a few days of lovely sun, it seems like a necessity. A reminder we are in the Maritimes.
Lila didn't want to go anywhere today. Couldn't get her to leave the house much. So we spent a quiet day at home. I also did a lot of cleaning. It's mostly the papers that pile up. Even cleared out my old journals. They were just gathering dust in the bottom of my closet. Don't even want to read them. Just toss. Didn't realize I had so many (over a dozen) until I bagged them up for the trash!
A friend came over for a swim today. The water was perfect. It was my second time in today. Lila was in heaven. When we were drying off, I mentioned I have a hard time with other people often wanting a piece of the pie. Now that I have sold a few paintings and received a grant, I can pay off some debts, catch up and fix a few things around the house that have been waiting for the past year. It feels good. But even today, someone wrote me that, although we had agreed on a trade of services, now that I had sold some paintings, she would like money instead. It reminded me of the time I sold my loft in Manhattan and received a call from a casual friend asking me if she could borrow $4000 to pay a tax bill. She said: “There is no one I would rather borrow from than you.” Compliment?
My swimming buddy told me of an article she had read recently. It described how boys tend to pick on the weakest amongst them whereas girls pick on the most successful. She had experienced this in the grade school class she was teaching. The girls bullied another girl whose mother was successful, with the bully’s mother encourageing her daughter.
So somewhere in there is a balance. Balance between being successful, feeling good, and allowing other people to enjoy that in you/me.
I was walking with Lila yesterday afternoon in Point Pleasant Park. The park is now, after all the rain we have had in the past few months, very lush and verdant. The underbrush, berries and wildflowers are about to burst. A lovely sight. To my surprise, I saw a man walk past us, quite briskly, reading a newspaper. He didn’t miss a step and didn’t take his eyes off the paper. I saw him later on another path. Still reading.
Yesterday I clicked on Linda Fairchild’s blog and was surprised to find a photo of me staring at me. She (my gallery owner in San Francisco) tells the story of how we met and tells it very well. Almost all of the gallery connections I have made have been by chance, coincidence, serendipidy. It’s enough to make me believe in (I’ve spent several days trying to figure out the right word here, so I’ll just settle, for now, on) destiny. Although I know it’s not that easy. There’s a lot of work that needs to go into making that destiny (if you can call it that) happen. So then, is it really destiny. Linda calls it serendipity. Perhaps that is a better word.
The great thing about Nova Scotia, mentioned by many who live here, and more who come to visit, is the laid-back atmosphere. Yet everyone I know works hard at whatever they do. People here, as far as I can tell, the ones I’ve met, are just as driven and highly motivated, intelligent and talented as anywhere else (even Manhattan). Yet that drive still allows room to look around, enjoy the spaciousness of the landscape, of the people. (I guess this turned into a tribute to Nova Scotia!) I don't know why this happens. Maybe it's just that there isn't as much to do here as in big cities (good movies don't stay around long; I've walked from one end of Halifax to the other more than once), and so we can relax at the same time as we pursue goals, work on our ambitions. When I first wanted to move here, I was told there are more artists in Nova Scotia than any other province in Canada (I don’t know if they meant per capita or total). Fortunately I was able to convince the beurocracy they needed another artist. Yes, even with the erratic weather, I like it here.
(By the way, that great photo of me was taken by my friend Heidi. I do love her photos! but my hair is not blond, it's just the light on it.)
I made a New Year’s Resolution this year. The first time in many years. And I actually think I can keep this one.
I resolve to use my good glasses for myself every day, not save them for company. So far, I’ve been successful.
I went to a bar yesterday with a friend I haven’t seen in a couple of years. He had a beer; I had some Perrier but that’s not the point. Behind him, over his head was a TV showing sports event. There was also one behind me, a couple over the bar and in every other corner (and center) of the room. Although neither of us was interested in what was on the TV, being genuinely wanting to talk to each other, catch up on our lives, I couldn’t help but glance occasionally up at the moving images on the screen. And I also noticed him doing the same. It was very distracting, disconcerting. When I came back to the apartment and mentioned this to Aaron and Jessica, Aaron said when he was studying dance and theatre at Concordia, he was told that any time you put a moving image of any kind behind you, attention automatically goes there; you become invisible. The only kind of light-image that can work is a slide show where the images change slowly.
The party Aaron, Jessica, Shaya and I went to Saturday night was a potluck. There were a lot of delicious dishes: cheeses, salads, casseroles, dips. The food was good, went quickly. Then the desserts came out. It was fascinating watching the faces and body postures of people approaching the elaborate dessert table. There was an eagerness, a ripple of joy running through the bodies, people eager to indulge. No longer the sensible adults enjoying a good meal, everyone became an excited child. Happiness from the taste of forbidden pleasures.
Often here either Aaron or Jessica ask me what I am saying and I realize how much I talk to myself. Lila doesn’t mind, but also notices. Now I am really noticing. My mother used to talk to herself a lot. It’s normal, right!
It seems my blog has taken an unplanned holiday. Where did it go? As far as I can tell, it’s just been thinking. So. . . to catch up:
1. The weather has been beautiful—mostly sunny days and cool nights—but it has also cooled the lake water so swimming is not as easy.
2. I had been negligent spraying my garden with rotten-egg-water and the deer had a picnic with my lettuce. The day before that I had thought I would never be able to eat it all. Now I don’t have enough. At least they left the squash plants.
3. I had some photos taken of my latest paintings and I’ve been writing up a grant proposal—a very absorbing task. If only the paintings could talk. That’s what I really want. But the granting process wants me to do the explaining.
4. Applying for grants is a crap shoot. So now I have to forget about it. Until it’s time to apply for the next one.
5. I went to a magnificent dance performance a couple of weeks ago. Jacinte Armstrong is by far my favorite dancer.
6. I’ve ordered more blending sticks with drier. At the moment I have some canvases ready to roll but don’t want to put paint on them until I have the sticks. Otherwise they take too long to dry. So I’m trying to be patient. It’s hard.
7. Speaking of hard, I’m still practicing my jazz piano every day. It seems the more I play the more I understand what I am trying to do. Basically I’m just growing more brain cells. Exercising the brain muscles. Someday it may sounds like music.
8. I had Lila spayed yesterday. It was strange being without her all day. I did things I usually don’t do: like going to a mall and browsing through stores. After a while it was boring so I went home and worked on my photos. Then I was eager to pick her up. She was very groggy and confused. During the night she seemed to have some pain but this afternoon she acts like nothing happened—wants to play ball, swim, run, jump, but I’m not supposed to let her be too active for a few days. That may be hard.
9. I took up Jian Ghomeshi’s challenge and started reading James Joyce’s Ulysses. I’m on about page 137 as of last night. I’m actually enjoying some of it. I’m still working on figuring out the rest of it.
10. The thinking part is still being digested and not for public consumption. So I guess this is about it for now. The long weekend is ahead. Then school starts again (the week after for me). The summer was far too short.
Summer is just beginning here. Finally, we have some decent weather. Because of all the rain (three times the usual in June) my dock couldn't go in. The water was too high. But tomorrow is the big day summer begins for me. My neighbours are putting the dock in. We decided to move it to a better location, build a stationary platform with one long ramp down to the floating dock. This way I can leave most of it in all winter, not have to go through this again if we have another rainy spring (hope not!). So summer is just beginning here.
When I got home from teaching Friday, the scaffolding was down. At first I felt disoriented. It's been three months. Interesting how something unusual can become so familiar it seems normal. It still feels a bit strange, but it is nothing to complain about, for sure. With the new big windows facing the lake, everything is fine.
Fifty-five people came through my garden this afternoon! Even though it was rainng hard most of the morning and some of the early afternoon. All in all, a very successful event. And I am very tired (happy and relaxed) now!
I read on a Honda Element Owner’s Club site that 75% of Element owners have dogs. So first I got the dog. As of yesterday, I have the Element. Now all I need is the IPod!
Not much in my life these days is well planned. I think about things and suddenly they happen. Last week a friend said she saw my car (the one I’ve been talking about maybe buying) in the lot at Colonial Honda. So we called them; the young man who talked to me made a sweet offer; I looked at their cars and now I have mine.
The same with Lila. I was thinking about a dog but wasn’t ready and I certainly wasn’t going to get a puppy in the middle of winter. But then, my dentist told me about a breeder of Portuguese Water Dogs (the breed I had been thinking about because they are hypoallergenic) in Chester; I went to look and fell in love with Lila’s (then pregnant) mom.
And again, I’ve been thinking about putting more windows (facing the lake) in my studio, talked to my favorite builder (on and off over the past year). Now he says he can start Tuesday. So . . . it must be the right time!
Last night when leaving the building after my dance class, there were some flashing lights and fancy vehicles up the street. We looked and I wondered: “Are they shooting a movie or is it a fire?” So many movies are being shot here now that we take it for granted. Like it was when I was living in New York City.
But it was a fire, unfortunately. The restaurant Seven (a very good place to eat) had a kitchen fire. I think the difference between here and NYC is that it was big news on the radio this morning.
I don’t seem to have any resolutions this new year. Just want it to be good—for me and for everyone. When I have (rarely) made resolutions in the past, it has been too painful to see what has and hasn’t come to pass. But if I just have a general feeling of what I want to accomplish, it works better for me. Most of the good things in my life have "just happened." I didn't "plan" on moving to Nova Scotia. Things just fell into place. The times that I received grants have been when I almost (and at times actually) forgot that I had applied. When I put all that “positive” thinking into receiving the grant, then it seems to pass me by. I need to find a middle point. My aspiration for this (and every) year is—letting go of hope and fear. So I prefer to “live and let live,” so to speak. AND put a lot of energy into doing what I do.
So, to the world, to people, to my friends and family, may 2006 be a year of peace and prosperity and productive, outrageous playfulness.
With all the “excitement” in my daily life lately, I seem to have missed the two-year anniversary of my blog. Two years ago, on December 18, 2003, visiting Tamar in Los Angeles, she helped me set this up and since then it’s been an interesting exploration of thoughts, feelings, places and people. Although my work needs an audience (paintings have no life if they are not seen), I was never a very public person and I have surprised myself with the pleasure I have felt in putting my experiences out there, revealing the meanderings of my mind, not even knowing about where “there” is. And I have surprised myself even further by starting another blog, one that is only about my experience in my studio. I’ve never been a steady “personal journal” keeper just like I never kept a sketchbook. (Well, I did as a young teenager and it hurts to read what I wrote in those tender years.) I love writing letters, knowing that someone would read it, that I am passing “information” along. Email is a delight for me: easy to write and send (no envelope to find, write out, icky glue to lick, no stamp to locate, use). Just write, click and send. Although a “little” more complicated, a blog is similar, for me, to writing letters. It is communication; I feel like I am talking to “someone.” So maybe that’s why I enjoy it.
And now Tamar is stopping, for a while, after six years of (almost) steady writing on line, making many lasting friends, trying out different ideas and approaches. It will seem strange not to log on to her writings but we do (I must admit) tie up the phone lines frequently. I will miss her writing in her blog.
New research shows that, just like mothers always knew, wet cold feet can lead to a head cold. My trip to Montreal was really great, had a wonderful time, but it was freezing cold, snowed, and my boots leaked. Walking around Montreal with cold and wet feet did the job.
Last Saturday a friend (who is about ten years younger than me and whom I haven’t seen in a while) came over to look at my work. She wanted to pick a painting to rent while she put her house on the market to sell. As I was sorting through and hauling paintings around in my studio, she asked me “Leya, how old are you?” I told her, proudly, “I will be sixty-eight next Saturday.” “And you’re still going at it!” I said “Why not!”
This little interchange is replete with admiration for the process of aging as well as the suggestion that sixty-eight is old, and perhaps it is amazing I can still move. To her credit, I think coming into my studio can be overwhelming to people who are not used to it. I do a lot of work and most of it is very large so my studio is quite full. So there is definitely an exciting energy in the room itself.
Most artists do mature well. Like conductors where the physical and mental activity keeps them active, the act of painting is energizing. I think, perhaps, it is the childlike mind that is a generator for artwork. In many ways, painting is play. Intelligent play. Demanding openness to unlimited possibilities. Challenging.
I know I am fortunate, come from a family where youthfulness is common. My one hundred year old (almost 101) aunt is still full of piss and vinegar. My dad didn’t slow down (at all) until he was eighty-four (and lived until he was ninety). My lively, vibrant mother died an early, very untimely death from DDT poisoning, at sixty-five. There are no guarantees.
I do color my hair, but so do 99% of my students (even, especially, the eighteen year olds) and most of the women I know. I’m a fairly active person: paint, teach, dance, read, exercise, play, think, etc. Basically, enjoy my life, live. I was told a quote yesterday: “There is a difference between living and dying and being alive and dead.”
Youthfulness is considered an asset but my greatest pleasure is in the wisdom and calmness that blossoms with age. When I was reading some of the comments on an entry by Ronni on her blog, Time Goes By (whose main theme on her blog is aging) where she was asking people how they felt about proclaiming their age, one man said (and I probably am slightly misquoting, but the idea is right!): “Hell, no. I don’t tell my age. I would never get a date if I did!” I would like to lie about my age. Maybe then I would be able to “get a date.” But the date I would “get” because I lied wouldn’t be the one I wanted. I want to be wanted for who I am, not some number attached to my entity.
I’ve been told I should, when someone tells me I don’t look my age (which I do hear often), say: “This is what sixty-eight looks like.” So………..
Today is my sixty-eighth birthday and this is what sixty-eight (holding a four day old puppy with a two year old mom) looks like!
Just when I think I have a gap, some space in my otherwise very busy schedule, I come down with a lousy head cold. What a bummer! I can’t paint because wearing my mask would be (very) uncomfortable with a runny nose. So yesterday I stretched up a canvas, then ran out of canvas, then started working on a quilt I am making for Aaron and Jessica (hoping to finish it before I go to Montreal Thursday to visit them) and ran out of a particular (very necessary) fabric. All I can do (have the energy for) this morning is clean up the (many) stacks of paper I usually neglect (because of my busy schedule and because it's not fun and if I'm home I prefer to paint) and lie around and read how to train my puppy books. (Definitely fun!)
Thursday at lunch Hiro said he had read in the local newspaper that Halifax is first in a survey on ideal retirement towns. Vancouver is tenth. The only two cities in Canada on the list. I don’t know about this. I mean, I do love it here, very much, but I also have no plans to retire. Ever.
What would attract a retiree to this place? Bingo seven days a week? The wicked weather? A short hike (a five or six hour drive) to Prince Edward Island to play golf? I suppose if you like to curl up in front of a fire, it’s a great place to winter. Or if you like to travel, it’s a great place to winter, that is, a great place to get a way from in the winter.
I googled “retire Halifax” and came up with the CBS site recommending Halifax because it has beautiful scenery and a large beach (if they mean the ocean, you’d have to like to swim in cold cold water). There are lots of amazing lakes here and the water on the North Shore is warmer. And there is lots of good sailing opportunities. The CBS article recommends, for retirement, choosing a college town (Halifax has five universities) because you can then find cheap entertainment, food and cultural events. Students generate lots of cultural activity. And, CBS says, you can usually find a major teaching hospital and low crime rate in university cities. We do have all of this here.
Halifax is nothing like it was when I first moved here twenty some years ago. Besides more and better stores and restaurants, the most noticeable difference is the traffic. Rush hour was fifteen minutes then. Now it starts at 3:00 and goes to 5:30 or 6:00. The roads definitlely cannot accommodate the increased population outside of Halifax. The commuters (that includes me). We need a commuter rail. (I’d be the first one on the train!)
We have lots of interesting restaurants and stores here now, good shopping, good eating. The best music scene, some good dance and theatre. Before I moved here I was told to buy everything I might ever need because I wouldn’t find anything here. I actually like that about Halifax. I have no desire to spend a lot of time shopping so I usually know exactly where to go to get what I need. But I think the best part of living in (near) Halifax is the general spaciousness of life I find here, the kindness of people, the courtesies of people living so close to the weather and the land. A good place to live.
I don’t know what was happening in the heavens yesterday but they certainly arranged a difficult day for me! The morning was good. Did some work in my studio and then Yoko came over to play duets. Hiro joined us for lunch. That was nice.
But then, not so nice. I had loosely arranged a meeting at school with another instructor. My intuition told me she wouldn’t be there. And there was a note on her door saying she had to pick up her daughter. Understandable. My plan was then to go to the hospital to have some routine blood work done. My intuition nudged me to think I’d probably spend the time more wisely at the grocery store. I had not enough fresh vegetables or fruits in the house with no plan to go into town again until Sunday. But the afternoon is usually a time when there are fewer people waiting so I went to the lab. I was told I probably had about a twenty minute wait. After a half hour I asked how much longer as I had an appointment at 4:15 and it looked to me as if the technicians were taking a break. I was told I was next. After another half hour I retrieved my forms and left. Without the lab work done or the groceries bought. Later I went to Pilates and, in the process of doing the usual exercises, strained a muscle and had to leave, hobbling to my car, eager for a bath in Epsom salts.
Today I am fine, but wondering about intuition. There are many times when I don’t trust what I feel in my gut is right. Sometimes you have no idea what might have happened if you did the “other” thing. But sometimes you do. Sometimes not trusting is so dramatic that it is impossible not to know that you could have avoided a difficult situation. (And to be fair, sometimes good things happen because you go with an hunch.)
One of the best examples of my not trusting my instincts is when I was driving from Cleveland (after my nephew’s wedding) back to Montreal with Aaron (about twelve years ago). We were about an hour outside of Montreal and I had a feeling, very strong, that I should pull over. But there was construction on the highway and I not only couldn’t find a place, but couldn’t understand why I felt that way. Then two teenagers, coming from the side road, decided to make a u-turn in the middle of the highway, hit my car, we swerved, rolled and luckily survived. The kids’ car went off into a field. They weren’t hurt. The paramedic, when he helped me to the ambulance (just a fractured breastbone) said “I guess it just wasn’t your time.” But it would have been a better time if I had trusted my intuition.
This morning the sunrise made up for the hard day previously:
Saturday night I went to a party. This one was a birthday celebration for a friend turning fifty-one. The gathering was all women�except for an eleven month old little boy. So inevitably, at one point, the conversation turned to babies and nursing. One mother of a now grown boy told how she had nursed her son until he was twenty-six months, then told him that was it, the milk was all gone. During his second year he frequently asked for a baby brother or sister, then his request disappeared like the milk. When he was seven, he asked again for a sibling. His mother asked him why he wanted a brother or sister. His reply: �Then I could have a drink!�
Another woman who teaches fourth and fifth grade apparently has a sign up in her room at school that reads: "Why do we have flowers?" Apart from the existential question of existence, I think about the beauty of flowers. And then today on Jonathan Goldstein�s WireTap (CBC radio, finally), there were various people of various ages and interests talking about what beauty meant to them--one, a woman who valued her beautiful hands so much she never washed a dish but felt proud to share these beautiful hands by being a hand model. And there was a young teenage girl talking about how beautiful her boyfriend�s hair was, and how beautiful she found people and her words were very beautiful.
In the classroom, my friend, the teacher, annoyed with the tittering about the male and female parts of flowers, told them very directly that yes, they would be talking about sex and it is a normal part of life so they had better get used to it and that was that! And then they calmed down and had some very interesting, thoughtful questions and conversations. But I don�t know really why we have flowers. Maybe we are just lucky.
By chance (coincidence) I happened to hear a rebroadcast of Stanley Coran being interviewed (How Dogs Think, the book I am currently absorbed in) on Bob McDonald�s Saturday program, Quirks & Quarks. Dr. Coran said dogs have the intellectual development of about a two and a half to three year old and the emotional life of a teenager. And this can lead to some very interesting behavior: with the vocabulary of a two year old (150 to 250 words) yet the socializing needs, the pack mentality of a teenager. Interesting indeed!
Interesting, also, is that regular CBC programming has resumed. Although the substitute programming was excellent and appreciated, I am happy to have my old friends back in my house. The lockout is over. Management and Union have agreed. Just in time for hockey season. A timely coincidence!
On my feet again (more or less). Hope my strength holds out. Definitely would prefer a few more days of rest. But part-time teaching doesn�t allow for sick days (or vacation pay or a dental plan). A good, rewarding job nevertheless.
I�ve been sick. Sick enough that I only turned the computer on to contact my amazing (and extremely helpful) homeopathic doctor in New York City (who also officates weddings and loves dogs). Every system in my body has been effected over the past few days. I used up two full boxes of Kleenex and, when I wasn�t blowing my nose, slept for a couple of days. Fortunately it�s been the weekend and I should be up and running for school tomorrow.
I keep thinking about the movie we saw last week, Wedding Crashers: would I want life to be as easy as a romantic comedy? Not on your life! Its the grit and grind that makes our moral fiber. But we are led to believe that the fantasy can be real. After visiting a rug-hooking supply store on the north shore of PEI, my friend Valerie and I went for a walk along the boardwalk of the local beach. Shortly into our walk we saw a large van pull up and unload one after another handsome manten in all. They grouped themselves together along the hillside and began taking photos. As we approached they asked us to take their picture so they could all be included. I said I would if I could take one with my camera as well. They were a group of friends visiting from Germany, who play tennis together in tournaments, and usually win.
It was a highlight of the day. And I could continue to write a romantic comedy from there, but I wont. We just walked away with pleasant memories and a fun photo!
I am not actually much of a tennis player. Never was, although my dad and sister played. I like activitydancing, swimming, walking, but have limited desire for team sports. While on PEI, along with the usual beach sports, Valerie and I went for a game of miniature golf. I made two hole-in-ones. I think it is a testament to my artistic training that I am good at that kind of gamewith all the hand-eye training I have had. Ive also won at billiards.
I recently finished reading an interesting memoir by Doris Kearns Goodwin titled Wait Till Next Year. Next year is THE YEAR the Dodgers will win the World Series Pennant. Her interest in baseball games began as a young girl, four years old. She, her family and friends followed the games through the many years of the Brooklyn Dodgers almost winning against the NY Giants.
Goodwin also tells of the local and world events happening at that time. she being just a few years younger than me, it was fascinating to connect again to the times before television, when radio was King, when people gathered around the radio and could see in their minds the activities portrayed. I remember all play stopping at 4 pm for the children in the neighborhood (it was Richmond, Virginia for me at that time) to go in and listen to our fifteen minute programs: The Lone Ranger, The Green Hornet, etc. And mothers ironing, as Goodwins mother did, to the noon hour soaps.
I saw my first television when I was about nine years old. It was at a friends house. We didnt have one until I was about twelve or thirteen. It was all black and white then, no such thing as color. (I still love black and white movies.) At that time, the shows started at 7 pm and went on until 10 pm. We would gather around the set, watching I Love Lucy and The Ed Sullivan Show. Then the TV screen would show its familiar pattern and go blank until the next evening. It was a major family event, watching television. But I still had my radio programs and my 45 rpm record changer.
When I was in the sixth grade and one of the major World Series Games was playing, one of those famous competitions between the two New York teams, school stopped and we listened on the radio every afternoon. I was never, on my own, interested, but could easily get caught up in the enthusiasm generated by the radio announcer and the other children. We even had some betting going on (outside of class, of course). I dont think I really cared who won, was just glad to have the regular school day interrupted.
I was not much of a baseball player. When we moved back to Bethesda after The War, my next door neighbors had a playgound in their backyard, with a tree-house, sandbox, and a flat space to play basketball, badminton or baseball. We had the swing set and monkey-bars. Often the games spilled out onto the street but there was little traffic on that road. As we got older the games changed to monopoly, then gin rummy and poker. But I think my favorite game was lying in the hammock in the summer with lemonade and a good book. Although I still love badminton, ping-pong, swimming and other gentler sports that I enjoyed when I was young, I was never a big game player. Once I caught a fly ball with my bare hands flat open, astonishing all the boys (and me, I must say) who were playing that game. In fact, they were so annoyed, they made sure I struck out when my turn came at bat. It was a lively suburban neighborhood, but not nearly as active as the one on Long Island described by Goodwin. But the book brought up a lot of memories for me. And a reminder of how much things have changed.
I�m off to Prince Edward Island for a few days. I�ve never been there before and am very excited about this trip. I�ll be staying with some good friends on the north shore.
It's raining. A perfect day to get away.
Off now to pack the car!
Yesterday, sitting (and reading) at the Toyota dealers� while getting my car serviced, the man next to me was greeted (fondly, it seemed) by one of the car salesmen. The man then turned to me and said �They think I live here!� And then he went on to tell me he brings five cars in for service: his own, his wife�s, his daughter�s, his aunt�s, and another family member. He seemed to want to chat, so I put my book down, and heard about all his other cars, his �78 sports car and his big Chevy truck. We talked about cars for a while (a favorite topic for me) and then, as he changed the channel on the ever present TV in the waiting area, on to TV shows. He wasn�t interested in the news. It is too depressing. He watches some game shows, one of which was on the television at the time (�So You Want to be a Millionaire�) and he explained what the routine was to me.
Then he mentioned �Coronation Street� and even the man sitting next to him perked up, put down his book and joined in the conversation. I too have been enjoying watching it and I�m not much of a TV person. It took me a while to get into it, but I do enjoy it�s quirky people and their stories. Although sometimes I get tired of their continuous problems and turn it off. Isn�t anyone in a TV series allowed to learn from their mistakes? My (new and brief) friend explained to me what had happened in the few shows I missed last week, that Sunita had been released from jail (thankfully). Someone, at least for a while, could be happy, maybe. He thought it was just great, now, that CBC is running a full hour of Coronation Street daily. When he and his wife went away on holiday for a week, they taped the shows. On return, they spent the first day catching up, watching Coronation Stree. Sitting there waiting for our cars to be fixed, we all agreed that it is often hard to follow the accents, know what they are saying. He said his wife turns up the volume when Ashley is speaking, and the topic turned to accents. He mentioned that even if you lined up people from all over Nova Scotia he could tell where they were from because of the wide variety of localized accents here.
I really do miss the programs on CBC Radio. Now, with the labor dispute, the lock-out of personnel, I�m listening to repeat programming most of the day. Sometimes it�s programs I�ve heard before, sometimes one�s I�ve missed. Usually interesting, nevertheless. But I miss the commentators, people�s whose voices have been in my life for twenty-one years now, voices I�ve begun to know well, voices of people I feel are my friends. They are in my home (and car) almost every day. I sincerely hope this labor dispute is settled soon, although it doesn�t seem like it right now.
One of the issues is contract employees� status. I�m one of them, a contract employee, at the Art College where I teach. It seems that�s the way employers save money. With all the insecurity in the world at large these days, not having secure jobs is a big problem. For me it means not having vacation pay, sick leave, a decent salary and most important, a dental plan. Sounds lousy, but it does give me the time and mind to be with my true love, painting. And I have seen how hard it is for the full-time faculty to spend time in their studios. I don�t have to be on committees. That�s good. I�m not good on committees; I�m too impatient. I love teaching and I love painting and I do appreciate my schedule as it is. But I wouldn�t mind more fringe benefits--no, not at all.
I went to the dentist this afternoon. It took an hour for the freezing to work and four minutes to fix the tooth. In the meantime we chatted about this and that. Im a bit of a sissy with the pain of needles and drilling. Sensitive, my dentist says kindly. That led me to ask him if he had heard Richard Wassursug on the radio recently. He had. I told him my connection; I had taught with him, knew his family, and was very moved by his actions. And Dr. Haas was impressed as well. I heard another interview with Richard on Sounds Like Canada this morning. He was interviewed by Kelly Ryan, who had also known him in Halifax before he developed cancer. She asked him if he could (that is, if he had a choice), would he go back to being a man. Richard answered no, he really is enjoying his new body and emotions. It is fascinating to him as a scientist and in his daily life, experiencing a new relationship to himself. He is enjoying having greater sensitivity.
I had read a few months ago, in Organic Style Magazine, I think, that women who have had a mastectomy, whether they had reconstruction surgery or not, were (statistically, by an impressive amount) much happier, content with their bodies than women who havent.
What does it take for us to be happy with ourselves?
Went to see and hear Kenny Werner Trio Saturday night. Watched his fingers caress and challenge the keys! Although very different in its overall impact, being much faster, changing pace and mood frequently, often loud and exuberant, his playing reminded me of Thelonious Monk. The obvious absorption with the keyboard and the music, the percussive sound. I had the good fortune to see Monk a few times in the early 60s, at the Blue Note at Third Avenue and St. Marks Place. I can still see him as if I was just there. The smoky dark room with Monk huddled over the piano, becoming one with his music. What both men expressed as they played is a deep love of their instrument, so that it becomes part of them.
Walking along the waterfront after the concert, I saw Richard Wassersug, a man I had co-taught with many years ago. He is a scientist, had taught the anatomy part of the class and I taught the drawing. We nodded to each other as we passed, were both with other people moving in opposite directions so the moment to talk was gone. But there is more to this story. I had heard him on the radio during the week. He is often on the Maritime Noon show, answering questions from listeners on science. This time, though, he was introduced as having advanced stage prostrate cancer. Due to the drugs he is taking, he has experienced a change in his sexuality. He still has his facial hair but has lost his body hair, developed breasts and put on flesh around the hips, and also become more emotional, is able to cry easily. He is being public about his condition, calling himself a eunuch, explaining the etiology of the term and the history of the condition. Hes developed feminine characteristics yet also lost his sexual desire and ability. His intent now is, as a scientist, to study his condition and also, as a compassionate human being, to help other men like himself so they wont have to feel shame and embarrassment. On Saturday he marched in the Gay Pride Parade. I heard him again Sunday on the radio and also his daughter (who I have met several times) talking about the experience, the camaraderie, the real pride they felt by being with the Gay community. The daughter said she was proud of her father and she hoped the scientific community would accept him because that means a lot to him, is very important to him.
I feel deeply moved by his actions. His outspoken defense of eunuchs, to me, expresses so much about the beauty of human generosity. I had wanted to say more to him as we passed on the waterfront, to tell him how sad I am that he is ill yet how much I respect his decisions. There is so much dignity in what he is doing. A very brave man.
Yesterday was not an easy day. It was hard to hear about the bombings in London, hard to think about what might happen as a result of those bombings. I had a hard time concentrating on my tasks. I had lots of memories of past shocking events.
This morning on the radio they were saying that London theatres were closed last night, a decision that was difficult for them to make because of their history of continuing performances during the War. When the air raid sirens went off, the cast and audience would go into the shelters, returning when the all-clear signal was heard. The spirit of respecting the creative life is strong there.
I remember vividly the day the World Trade Center crumbled. I was teaching that afternoon, had been at Pilates all morning and somehow had not turned on the radio (Im a radio-fan so that is very strange indeed!). That afternoon was warm and sunny here and I took my students up to Citadel Hill to draw. One student went off and seemed upset but didnt talk about it. Another student told me planes had flown into the Towers and the five cruise boats in the harbor were stranded. She wanted to go down to the Maritime Museum where she sold her beautiful drawings, a job that supported her art school education. It was only later when I picked up Aaron (who was visiting from Montreal, deciding whether to move back here, which he did, for a couple of years) that I realized what had happened. He immediately told me to turn on the car radio. Then I knew. Something I perhaps didnt want to know.
I remember when President Kennedy was shot. I was working on a red painting, one that had some strong, almost violent black and yellow marks on it. A friend called to tell me the news. That night we went to an off-Broadway theatre production. I think there were about six people in the audience. But the show went on and it was good. Good to feel that life and creativity were important and must survive.
About four or five years ago I was hanging out at the vets, waiting to pay (or something like that) and complaining about losing all of my tulips and most of my new peony buds to deer. They love them just before the flowers burst into bloom and I had unwillingly provided breakfast. Another woman at the counter said she had just the cure for deer. Rotten egg water. And it works.
Take about a half dozen eggs (she said eight but I use six, its easier), put them in a litre of water, blend well, let it sit for a week, then put it in a large sprayer bottle, add water to fill and spray onto the flowers and bushes, especially after a rain. The smell lasts quite a while to the deer but not at all to humans. And the plants love it. Its amazing.
Another system that works well (if you have it available) is the early morning urine of the male species. My female dog scent helped a little but she is no longer with me so, until I get another dog (which is a constant question in my mind) the egg-water does the job.
After a couple of weeks of excitement, the thrill of being in other countries, seeing new places, exploring other cultures, I�m home. The return trip overall was easy, if long. All connections were smooth. I left Amsterdam with the sun shining and found the same here, thankfully, after three days of what my Dutch friends call �Dutch weather�, which means cool and drizzly. Yesterday was beautiful, the lake was still, reflecting the cloudless sky and bordering trees like a mirror, and the loons sang in the night. I was greeted with a fluff of yellow daffodils when I came home, very nice. One beautiful fawn was on the road as I drove in. It didn�t move for a while as I stopped and admired it. So it is fine to be here.
There is still a lot to digest from my trip, photos to download, things to put away. But I will give you a brief outline of my travels. I definitely had a wonderful time, especially enjoyed traveling alone. Didn't really care to start conversations with strangers, just enjoyed the solitude. When I first arrived in Switzerland, I went for a walk in the hills and woods with Evelyne (gallery owner) and then poked around the village. And of course, took lots of pictures.
The next day it was raining so I took a train to Bern, the capital city, where most of the streets have covered walkways. I explored the museums, buildings and bookstores. The next day I went on a two day excursion to Lugano, the Swiss Riviera, where it was warm and sunny. The museum there had an interesting exhibit of Jean-Michel Basquiat�s paintings. I especially liked the earlier work, before either fame or drugs took him over. I also went on a boat-ride around the lake there, then returned for the opening of my exhibit.
The show was well received, with a good review in the newspaper. Except that it is in German and I can�t read it. Evelyne told me it says, basically, that first you see the color, then the more you look, more is revealed, more layers of images and experience. (I will have to have a German friend translate it for me soon.)
The train ride across Germany was fascinating. The countryside was
beautiful, of course. Yet I am still amazed by the "generous" amount of graffiti everywhere. I sat there with a guidebook and read about every town we went through. A real tourist!
I arrived in Amsterdam on Queensday--a drunken brawl, no trams, the city strewn with litter and smelling of booze and urine. And masses of people going into the train station just as I was leaving. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it! (I was warned, but am stubborn and wanted to spend as much time in Amsterdam as possible, so there I was, stranded at the train station, with no public transportaion working, until I could locate a taxi�quite a distance away).
In Amsterdam, I stayed at some friends' house, a lovely,
quiet place. We went to the countryside on Sunday to visit a friend of
theirs, walk around the dunes, then to a party that night.
I really "did" Amsterdam! My hosts called me the
super-tourist! I went to the Van Gogh Museum (saw an excellent Egon Schielle exhibit), the Rijksmuseum and then a tour of the canals on a boat. The next day it was the Rembrandthuis, the flea market, lunch in the red light district and then to the Stedlijk
Museum.
After the first day, the weather turned chilly and drizzly part of the day, then warming up and sunny in the evenings. But the rain comes down straight and light (not like in Nova Scotia where it rains
horizontally) so it was quite refreshing. (Although I would prefer warm sunshine all day right now. Winter was long enough for this year.)
On Wednesday I went to the Anne Franckhuis. It was very well done, very moving, and very crowded. Then I walked and walked and walked (and I must have begun looking very comfortable in Amsterdam; at least six people stopped me to ask directions) through the Jordaan and other neighborhoods�and then got into a hot tub. In the evening I took my hosts out to dinner at an amazing Moroccan restaurant in their neighborhood. A fitting end to a wonderful visit.
It�s cold and raining hard now. I�m back in Nova Scotia, for sure!
Last night I saw the movie Monkey Business. It�s an old one, (I love black and white movies!) with Cary Grant, Ginger Rogers and (that great beauty!) Marilyn Monroe. The storyline was about a very serious and brilliant scientist (Cary Grant) experimenting (at first) on monkeys (and then on himself and inadvertently on others) to find a formula to restore youthful energy. The antics that follow are funny, for sure, but also underline the ridiculous thoughts and behaviors that result from trying to be something other than what you are.
When I went into the Art Sales and Rental Gallelry at the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia to deliver a painting this week past, I was greeted by someone I�ve known for a long time. She had actually been a student of mine many years ago. Her first comment was �Leya, you look so much younger every time I see you!� And when I left, the same comment. I hear this a lot. Reminds me of Max Tivoli, who actually grew younger as he aged (in The Confessions of Max Tivoli). Maybe someday I will write an addendum to that book: What It Feels Like to Look Much Younger Than You Are! Max�s mother gave him one rule to cope with his condition: Always be what they think you are. Not good advice. Very confusing advice for him, especially when he had the emotions and desires of someone his actual chronological age. It is so hard just to be who you are without trying to fool everyone. But maybe that is what so many of us try to do anyway. And that is what made that book so endearing yet sad to read. The pretense and avoiding made it so that everyone was like magnets being rubbed together on the wrong sides: no real connect.
It is nice to look youthful and great to feel it, but most of all, I appreciate the experience age has brought to me. Nevertheless, I do enjoy the shock value of looking so much younger. When I got married at twenty-three, I looked twelve. The Justice of the Peace mistook my then pregnant (and older) sister for the bride. When I was pregnant with Tamar, later that year, I must have looked about sixteen. People stared at me with such pity in their eyes. In my early thirties, I was taken to be eighteen. Shortly after that, with the stress of divorce at thirty-five, I aged to look twenty-four for quite a few years.
Sometimes I get annoyed hearing �you look ten years younger each time I see you.� With the same person saying that it would make me be in the minus age group, not existing at all! When people ask me the secret of my youthful looks I usually say �Stress.� Actually it is a combination of heredity and attitude.
But does that mean there is something wrong with aging and showing it? I once took some (what I thought to be) beautiful photographs of my eighty-five year old step-mother. It was at the beach and the sharp summer sun enhanced not only the wrinkles on her face but the peacefulness of a full life. When I sent the photos to some family members, they found them unattractive, unflattering, too many wrinkles. Just goes to show!
I almost ran into a deer tonight on the road near my house, on my way home from Pilates classes. It was a big buck, a beautiful animal, but not one I would want to hit. Now that the snow has cleared revealing the juicy new leaves on the bushes, I will have to be more vigilant to protect my plants from hungry animals.
The sun is shining on the snow making beautiful shadows and I�m off to NYC in a few hours. My suitcase is packed, I'm eager to go, but first I have to pack up the paintings to Edmonton and take them to the shipping company. And then I�m off to the airport! I�ll be back late Monday. Much more later, no doubt!
Radio is special. I love radio. Always have. When the power was out for five days in November I was so relieved to have my windup radio to let me know what was happening, to keep me in touch with the world outside my snowbound home. Sometimes I turn on the radio before getting dressed in the morning, to bring some sound, another person (so to speak) into my house.
My first memories of radio are of when we lived in Richmond, Virginia during The War, those exciting fifteen minute programs that would come on before dinnertime, when all play activities would stop and the neighborhood children would gather around the radio to hear The Green Hornet, or The Lone Ranger. I had a fantasy then that when The War was over there would be no more bad news, just music. No more announcements of so many dead in this battle and so many in that battle. Just music and storytelling programs.
When I was around eleven, my next-door neighbor, Jimmy, was selling chances to win one. I wanted that radio so much I did the Machiavellian thing, I cheated (does the end justify the means?). To win, you had to choose the right name on a sheet of names and the winning name was exposed after Jimmy sold all the squares. I peaked very carefully, lifted ever so gently the cover to the winning square and put it back so that no one would know. The name was Olga, not one I would normally have chosen. So I changed what I had picked previously. I won that radio and it gave me so much joy. I never felt guilty. That little white radio belonged to me no matter how I won it. I had my special programs. Every Sunday night I lay on my bed listening to them, looking at that little white radio as if it were talking only to me.
These days, CBC is my friend. People tell me it isnt what it used to be. But thats okay with me. It is so much better than anything I had when I was living in New York. I listen to the radio when I am painting. They call it white noise. It helps me not to take my own thoughts too seriously. I once heard that listening to music helps you to learn concentration when reading. I extend that to other activities now. I know all the programming, switch between the various stations in order to hear what I want. (I hop back and forth between Radio One and Radio Two and the French station, depending on the programs.) I rarely watch TV. It doesnt allow the same level of fantasy mixed with reality, where I can listen and do my own activities. I do love radio.
Not sure if I will be posting over the next few days. I'm on a busman's holiday. Actually I'm not sure what that really means but I like the sound of it. Actually, I am on a safari exploring unknown territories. Will keep you posted when I can. Stay tuned.
I said recently that I don�t usually rearrange furniture or change the paint on my walls, just put things in their place, pick colors and that's that. But then I realized today that I don�t usually stay in one place this long. I�ve been here eight years. That�s a record for me. Since I left my parental home at seventeen, I�ve changed residence an average of every three years and that includes nine years on West End Avenue when I was married.
And the strangest thing about all those moves was that (almost) each time I would say (and believe it): �This is the last time, the last move.� And then just a few years later, for some reason that seemed completely reasonable (and was in fact logical), I would pick up everything and move again.
Now, moving a house is difficult enough, especially with all the books I seem to have to have and the grand piano that is also a necessity. And moving children and assorted pets around Manhatten was very difficult. But moving a painting studio�not fun! So eight years here in one house, no wonder I�ve recently been moving all the furniture around!
Without the structure of school, time seems to have lost any meaning. I can hardly tell what day of the week it is. It doesnt really matter. And, because I moved my bed (to the other side of the room) before leaving on my last trip West, I am still waking up not being sure where I amin California, Montreal, my home? And yesterday I moved my computer table to be near the windows overlooking the lake and now I find myself still going to the corner where it was, behind the piano. What creatures of habit we human beings can be!
Routine, schedules all start up again by the end of this week. I think I wont mind too much this time. At least I know where my classroom isthe same as last semester so my habits will not be disturbed!
The tsunami disasters make me think that the earths upheavals are an expression of anger towards our uncivilized behaviors, our devastations of her natural resources. As archie, the wise little cockroach (of archie and mehitabal) said:
i once heard the survivors of a colonly of ants that had been partially obliterated by a cow's foot seriously debating the intention of the gods towards their civilizationthere is always
something to be thankful
for you would not
think that a cockroach
had much ground
for optimism
but as the fishing season
opens up I grow
more and more
cheerful at the thought
that nobody ever got
the notion of using
cockroaches for bait
I wonder about the optimism of people whose families, homes, livelihood have been obliterated. Although I have heard that cockroaches can survive any natural disaster, who knows, maybe even cockroaches will be bait next.
Even though it is difficult in this situation, it is, as always, important to see the larger picture, and to work towards making that worthwhile. We are tenants on the planet, staying for such a short while. Perhaps the only real cheefulness that can be garnered here is the generosity that is flowing towards the survivors. Human beings, after all, need each other and need to be good to each other in every sense of the word.
If you saw my age on a piece of paper, would you think differently of me? If I told you I was 102 would you think differently than if I told you I was 99? Or 49? 29?
Ageism is such a crippling concept. It is everywhere in our culture. The most pronounced in my life is the acceptance of the Faculty Union at school voting to accept mandatory retirement (a trade-off for a slight wage increaseuntil forced retirement!)
We are visual artists, working with our eyes and minds, not ballet dancers where the body tells stories. The stories I tell are from experience. My experience has been one of slow maturing into the process of making art. And even more, a slow process of learning how to teach, to impart the knowledge I have garnered from years of experience. Ive been around the block and learned a few things on the way. You would think these qualities would be valued more.
They had a series about aging on CBC radio a while ago. What seemed to come up often was the realization that 80 is now what 60 used to be. With all the changes, innovations in medicine, people are living longer in more flexible bodies. A retirement age of 65 was originally set because most people died at that age and therefore wouldnt be a drain on the Pension Plans anyway. And then, our youth oriented culture has permeated how older people see their lives. And computers have opened up a whole new way for people to reach beyond their immediate boundaries of space and age. Even grandmas and grandpas are often computer savvy.
Like most of the single people I know (of any age), Ive tried a bit of internet dating occasionally and have come across a surprising phenomenon: even men lie about their age! A couple of men told me they were relieved to be honest about how old they were, this in situations where they were closer to my age. Most men state openly that they are looking for a woman who is at least five to fifteen years younger than themselves. I think it is the biological necessity of procreation that makes men think they need a younger woman where in fact, women, in general, outlive men, giving women, by this standard, too many years alone.
One interesting (brief) correspondence I had was when a man contacted me and said: You dont look your age; but then neither do I. (In this case I had tried stating my age as five years younger, mostly because my friends had been urging me to do it considering that I do indeed look many years younger than my age, and actually responses to my profile were then tenfold greater.) I responded to him by saying: Like you I dont look my age, dont feel it, nor seem it, so maybe Im not! I never heard from him again!
But really, I dont want to be judged by my age. I'm mature, I've done my homework, and I can go out and play now.
Tamar and I went to the Farmers Market on Sunday. We stocked up on persimmons and Asian pears, enough to keep me satisfied until I have to leave next Sunday, until I have to go back to the cold North where one pear costs as much as a dozen here and persimmons are rare. But we do have them now in Nova Scotia; we didnt just a few years ago.
Damian and Dante helped us put the food away (well, more or less):
So much has changed from when I first moved North. Then people I knew would laughingly say that NS was thirty years behind the times. Nothing to buy there. I always liked the nothing to buy quality of the place. You start to see what is really important. Shopping is very time consuming. Better just to go out and get what you need. And when you think about it, that isnt really so very much. (There was a time, though, about fifteen years ago, for about four years when I had a part-time administrative job that was good and bad for megood for my public relations skills, bad for my painting mindand would stop at a mall to deposit my paycheck, meander through the boutiques and inevitably buy a sweater or something and eventually give it away because the purchase was more to fill an emotional need than a physical one.)
But now our shopping options in NS are so much greater. When Aaron was first deciding whether to move back to NS a few years ago, he told me he would if I could find choyote in the market. And I did. And he did. For three years he was there cooking and eating one of his favorite vegetables from his life in Brazil.
Nova Scotia is catching up with the times. Good food in the markets, good restaurants, more good movies that stay around longer, some good furniture stores. Now all we have to work on is the weather!
We went to Watts Towers on Sunday afternoon, a very warm summer Sunday in December. I had been wanting to go there for several years but there never seemed to be the right time for it. This was definitely the right time. And I was impressed with how much more amazing the structures were than anything I had seen of it in books. The intricate lacework of the towers. The transforming quality of the architecture, how I felt peace just being there. There we were in what felt like an island, or a boat floating in the middle of Los Angeles, a busy metropolis, a city that disappeared, floated away while we were there.
Simon Rodia, born around 1879 and immigrated to the U.S. in the 90s, built the towers, beginning in 1921 and continuing for 33 years. He used no machine equipment, no scaffolding, bolts, rivets, only a tile setters tools and a window washers belt and buckle. The nine major scuptures are decorated with a mosaic of broken glass and ceramics. He was considered a crazy man, an alcoholic with wild ideas. It is thought that he built the towers as a monument of atonement, a witness to the power of belief, a prayer of and to love.
At the end of the tour the guide gave Damian a stone heart and told him: May you have everything your heart desires. I would add: Take care of your heart.
The other morning, Tom Allen (on CBC radio) said there is a new theory about Neanderthals, that the reason they became extinct was not that they were an inferior species but on the contrary, were a superior civilization. They had a larger brain cavity than Homo Sapiens and therefore possibly a larger, more refined brain. It was the more aggressive homo sapiens who, because of their warring skills, wiped them out. Ouch!
I love rituals: the rituals of foods, the everyday lunch, the rituals of friends, of books, the bedtime book, the schedule. I often wonder if my parents had not been immigrant Jews feeling the need to assimilate, be more a part of a Christian culture, blending all our special holidays into a puree soup, if I would have appreciated Judaism more. If we had had a real Hanukkah, exchanged gifts, lit the menorah instead of putting the gifts under the Hanukkah bush and opening them on Christmas morning like our neighbors. If we had not had Easter baskets along with Passover at my grandmothers house (with me usually the youngest child reading the Four Questions and always finding the hidden matzo with my uncles hints). If we had acknowledged Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur other than going to synagogue to kiss my grandmothers cheek. If I had learned more about the contemplative, inquisitive nature of Judaism and less of the aggressive, exclusive qualities that repulsed me.
I know it is partly the rituals that attracts me to Buddhism, and certainly what keeps me there, along with the intelligence I find in the teachings. I love the rituals of my practice, ringing bells and throwing rice, reciting liturgy over and over. Being a part of a larger body of thought and way of relating to experiences.
I also love the unexpected, the interruptions, the non-planned. Of not knowing what is going to happen, what will evolve. Because really, that is how it is..
Seeing the pix of the sunrise over my lake, Yoko said she understands why I get up so early.
Im just a country girl, rarely miss the sunrise. Love the early morning hours. The trees, the lake, the brook that are outside my door. After most of my years in Manhattan and then twenty-one here, I dont think I could ever live in a city again. I cant say I enjoy the isolation, the loneliness of country living, the (sometimes long and arduous) drive into town, but I do enjoy the solitude and beauty that surrounds me, that allows me to relax into my own being. Yet I do not want Lonely to be my roommate.
Carries mother puts it perfectly in The Dive from Clausens Pier (by Ann Packer): Lonely is a funny thing, she said slowly. Its almost like another person. After a while, itll keep you company if youll let it.
These thoughts as I am about to take off for the warm embrace of my children and the big cities they live in now, Montreal and Los Angeles.
For over a year now, since Hurricane Juan swept across my little piece of paradise, I have been looking at this lady of the stump and wondering how and when I could ask (make) her leave. She has been a reminder of the vicissitudes of weather here in beautiful Nova Scotia and a hindrance to my view. So, finally, I called a tree removal company and had an estimate today for the cost of her departure. It is high (expensive) but it feels like letting her squat on my land any longer is more expensive, robbing me of a broader view.
All this because I had a proper feng shui reading a few weeks ago and, since I am naturally a true believer (dont need to be convinced of the existence of unseen energy forces), I am, as rapidly as the depths of my pockets will allow, implementing the suggestions. There are lots of things to do, all making sense, both practical and visual. Besides hauling away the debris from the hurricane, I have to finish off the ceiling in my studio. Until now it has had exposed beams and according to feng shui principles, that means cutting energy which is very bad for both health and prosperity. It will also mean less fumes being able to sneak up into my living space. So I am currently cleaning up my studio, a job long overdue, throwing away outdated, unusable items, sorting and rearranging. Then all my paintings and supplies have to come up into my living room and the work will take place, thankfully, while I am away over the next two weeks.
This is a lot to do along with getting ready to go away (shopping, sewing presents, cleaning, packing) and still teaching, eating, reading and sleeping. (Cant paint, so that gives me some time I dont usually have!) Its going to be a very tired (and relieved) me who gets on that plane next Tuesday!
Well, after reading Tamars entry saying she was joining the Holidailies and having seen her do it last year (which actually inspired me, among other things to start my own blog whose anniversary is coming up soon and I definitely have some thoughts on that!), I decided to join myself (joining the Holidailies, that is). So..I know already I cannot write an entry every day because I will be traveling and not have computer access a couple of days. My travel plans (this time) includ