Notes from a Snowy Tuesday

    It's been snowing since last night. So far, maybe three inches covers the ground, enough to touch things up and make driving a growth experience. The open fields surrounding the house are the wind's sand tray, allowing it to push and pat the snow into swirls and against the back door. The wind also blows the snow over the road, laughing in the face of the road crew's hard work.
    I made sweet potato muffins for breakfast. I had mine with a smear of marmalade, some good stuff imported from the UK. Thick cut, a little bittersweet. Perfect.
   Orion's been out three times to tend to personal business and eat some snow.
  The Spouse is working from home, praise be to modern technology. He's in his space. I'm in mine. We have a movie to watch, enough tea and coffee and chocolate to see us through until the roads are rendered passible.
   Hopefully, we won't lose power. It gets flukey out here. It goes out for no discernible reason more often than not. It's gone out on days when no wind, no rain, no air conditioning drains it. As if it merely wants to grab coffee.
    That sounds good about now.

Because I Don't Bungee Jump

Some of you may know that I do an e-newsletter, Swan and Iris (swanandirisonline.blogspot.com ).

I don't have that far to go on it. I've found some cool public domain artwork. Heather Carroll of The Duchess of Devonshire's Gossip Guide (georginaduchessofdevonshire.blogspot.com)
graciously joins us for a cup of tea and chat about the Duchess and gossip then and now, and passed along some lovely portraiture of her. I've done some research on bison recipes. I have ideas on what to write about for the other departments.

Why am I procrastinating?

There is no greater thrill than to push a deadline. I don't bungee jump, hate roller coasters, find the vast majority of horror and thriller movies to be a bloodsoaked waste of time. It's safe, and getting on someone's nerves is the worst consequence.

 The next issue will be available on February 15, this year. I promise. Just grant me my rush.

No, I Didn't Watch

   The State of the Union address aired last night.
    I watched "Star Trek." Both the original and "Next Generation." I needed a vision of the world that was more hopeful than what was on network TV.
    A year and a little over I week ago, I watched as President Obama took the oath of office. I wept a little. Was I naive in my prayer that this would signal a new beginning for the US, that the seeds of change and justice planted in the '60's and '70's would finally grow to fruition? The just, tolerant society where no one had to lie bout who they are to survive, where women were in total control of their bodies and destinies, where race was no longer an issue?
    Maybe. I wish I knew. Lately, I've struggled not to turn cynical. Obama's well-intended desire of inclusion may have backfired on the health care front, reducing it from a single-payer or a public option to an unworkable bill that needs to be handed over to one of them there alleged death panels itself. Iraq and Afghanistan continue to look suspiciously like the children of the last regime. Don't Ask, Don't Tell was delegated to legislature when a signature on an executive order would repeal it more quickly. We still have no jobs, and the Wall Street fat cats have grown fatter.
   As Stephanie Miller put it on her talk show fairly recently, President Obama has 100 flaming bags of dog poop left on the Portico by the Bush administration. His task has been deciding which one needs to be stomped out first.
   Just start stomping, Mr. President. Just start stomping.
    

2:30 A.M. Thoughts

   The problem is not with the vivid dreams  or with Orion or The Spouse making unusual sounds in their sleep. The problem is with getting back to sleep after the images or noises fade. Granted that it's disconcerting to feel that your subconscious is directed by Terry Gilliam, who created the cartoons that did their level best to give coherent transitions to "Monty Python's Flying Circus" and unpleasant to be dragged  by the arms into consciousness in the wee-est hours of the night. However, it's the vortex of thoughts that add fuel to the fire.
    Take this morning, please. After a dream about an argument with a natural pet care expert, I snapped awake, and hoped that it was closer to 5:30. Nope. Only 2:30. Ok, go to the john, try to go back to sleep. Did I turn my cell phone off? Oh, yeah, I'd never turned it on. I likely need a new battery; it's been showing signs that  it may be dying. The song about the internet being made of cats that I saw on YouTube, oh great, that's starting. Ok, try an affirmation. No. Try a visualization. No, not the one with Patrick Stewart and the strawberries. Breathe, and try the white light coming up through the feet and out through the crown of my head, cleansing healing and balancing while oh, great, the theme from "Star Trek: The Next Generation" started playing in my head. Crap. What if I turn over? Ouch; my back is too stiff from the dive I took on the ice last week. Other way. Good, both puppy and hubby are sleeping through this. Puppy. Orion's heart murmur's worse, but for now he's ok and he's doing well with the new supplements.
    I finally got back to sleep just before Orion came in to ask for breakfast at 6.

Oprah, Brian, and Keeping Your Sandals On

   There's a book out now that intrigues me. I don't know if it's enough to part with the shiekels to buy it, but it intrigues me.
    A Chicago area yoga teacher spent a year watching Oprah Winfrey's show and reading her magazine. Her question: if she followed the advice, if she bought what had been blessed by the Queen of Talk's mention, would the author be any happier?
     The answer seems "not really." Living Oprah is the chronicle of the experience. The author (whose name escapes me) seemed to have a pretty good life already. Based on the reviews, it sounded as if some of what was touted was silly and expensive at best (i.e. leopard print flats, a specific brand of highlighter to use for reading a specific book) and potentially detrimental at worst (i.e. communicating with her husband a la expert of the week and interrupting the flow of intimacy by insisting on taking a shower first).  The whole thing smacks of junior high when you had to have the right jeans, the same pencils as the popular girls or risk being tormented by the mean ones.
     Even more disquieting is the continuation of the band-aid mentality, that if you buy the right highlighter or read the right book because the popular girl with the seemingly perfect life has influenced you, all will be well in your world. Sorry, dear ones; it just doesn't work like that. If one chooses to model or pattern one's life after another instead of sitting with the difficult questions of what would really bring fulfillment, the illusion of contentment would fade in time. It's too easy to fall into that trap rather than bring forth the effort to create the sustaining satisfaction and inner peace that comes from determining the best course of action for yourself.
     Please don't get me wrong. I have a ton of respect for Ms. Winfrey, even though the last time I watched her show deliberately was probably five years ago when Sting touted his memoirs. It takes a lot to go from a childhood as impoverished and disturbing as hers to one of the wealthiest women in the world, and one who has championed personal growth and healing.
    While much of her empire is devoted to the good, I found my thoughts turning to "Monty Python's Life of Brian" as I contemplated the book. It drew fire and still does, even though it has nothing to do with ridiculing Christianity as some who haven't seen it think it does. Brian Cohen was born the same day as Jesus was in the manger next to him. Would be followers kept confusing the two, despite Brian's frequent protestations that he was neither a prophet nor the Messiah. One scene involved him running down the street to escape a band of rabid followers. He lost a sandal. In a flurry of shouts, the mob all removed one sandal, commenting on his wisdom in doing so while the chase continued.
     Sandals back then offered little protection from the sharp stones and pottery shards and other hazards lining the roads of those times. What would happen if we learned to content ourselves with the ones we have, to see the beauty in each pair, rather than thinking the other woman's would fit us better?
  
  
  
        

Because It Sells, That's Why

   I'm not real happy with the way this mess in Haiti is getting covered on TV.  To what end will it serve to show the endless footage of the rescued, the injured, the lost souls wandering the street still caked in the cement dust since water is so scarce?

   Where are the political analysts to help the rest of the world understand the history behind the events that caused Haiti to be in shambles even before last week's earthquake? 

    Oh, I'm sorry. They're on NPR, PBS,  the foreign networks and some websites such as http://commondreams.org .  The job of the networks and CNN and Fox is to sell detergent, personal care products, cars, and TVs so they can increase their revenue and get prettier anchors in preparation for the Even Bigger One that threatens to knock California off the map. As if those trinkets could save anyone. They appeal to the perverse part of human nature that slows down to stare at car wrecks despite our parents' admonishments not to do so. 

   Whether it's the morning shows or the evening news, there seems to be an informal competition to see who can report the same story in the most sensational method possible. It's not just the humanitarian or natural disasters that have dragged the above outlets down to the same level as the tabloids. It's the sleazy stories inherent in the political world, items from the world of entertainment that detract from the real issues of the day (yes, Michael Jackson's passing was sad and of note because of his enormous fan base, but tying up coverage of the health care overhaul and the last weeks of Ted Kennedy's life was inexcusable). 

    The time for mourning the initial shock has gone, and we need to get into the nitty-gritty of the world community doing what is right and proper to literally and figuratively stabilize the situation. 

Me Thank God That Cows Don't Fly

Dirty birdy in the sky

Drop some whitewash in my eye

Me no scream, me no cry

Me thank God that cows don't fly...Anon.

     My sister taught me that poem when I was in fourth grade. Worth the scolding from the uptight fourth grade teacher when I shared it with my friends, then her when she came to see what we were giggling about. It's been one of my discreetly chanted mantras since.

      After watching the news from Haiti today--another 6.1 quake hit the island overnight--I'm so grateful that the cows in my neighborhood walk.