15th Anniversary (Montreal)

Duck

Dessert

Winter Running (Blue)

Lately I have felt so much joy on my morning runs.  They start in the dark and the sky gradually lightens.  It is so lonesome (in a good way), just Rosie and me and whatever wildlife is watching us.  I feel like the world is just coming to, waking up, starting to breathe, and Rosie and I get to both witness and be an integral part of it.  It feels really special and really important.

One morning last week it began to snow just as the sky brightened.  Today it was crisp and clear and I brought my camera to try to capture the essence and beauty of winter mornings.   I also enjoyed yesterday's cloudy dawn, opening with a particularly spectacular and moody darkness/light.

As I was thinking about writing this post on the rhapsody of winter runs, it dawned on me that I mostly only write about joy here.  If you didn't know me and read this, you'd think I was always super happy and celebrating everything all the time.  That's mostly true, but it is also true that I prefer to keep my sadness private, or at least semi-private.  I like to send positive vibes out into the universe (or blogosphere), not whine and complain.  But if you are my mother or husband, you know that I've had some recent loss and disappointment.  And like everyone, I have bad days, get pissed off, stressed out, irritated and grumpy.  But I am terribly grateful for all the goodness in my life and in the world and feel compelled to share those joys.  And recently I was reminded that no ONE thing is your life, so when you lose something or something changes, you can roll with it and notice all the other things still in your life.  Like the blue, cold and lovely dawn.

My Grandfather is Nice By Patrick Favreau

A little while back, Patrick had to write a biography for school. He chose Grandpa David.

"David Gascon is my grandfather. He was born on November 3rd, 1942.  My grandpa is fun, smart and helps keep the world healthy.

My grandpa likes to go on walks and picks up trash while he goes.  This keeps the world healthy.

He has one daughter named Zoe.  He also has two grandchildren; me and my sister Harper.  He is a Bachler.  He has arthritis.  But it doesn't slow him down.

We go to his house every Thursday.  We usually eat fish there.  I'll tell you one thing...he is a fish lover.

My grandfather is fun and smart and I like to hang out with him.  He cares for us and the world around him.

My grandfather is an important person because he picks up trash.  One important fact about him is he has arthritis.

One interesting detail is that we go over to his house every Thursday for dinner.

I chose him because I know about my parents.  I wanted to learn more about my grandfather."
'

Unexploded Ordnance (UXOs), Clowns and Cheetos

Vieques is a beautiful, 21x5 mile island just east of Puerto Rico. Vieques has a long history of oppression and exploitation, of which the U.S. Navy is the most recent offender.   On our visit there last week, we went to an event billed as a "Photo Exhibit" of the clean up of the toxic, Superfund mess the Navy left behind.  We arrived at the multi-use building in Isabel II to see the exhibit at about 6:30 PM, just before they closed up for the day.  It turned out to be a lot of NAVFAC (Naval Facilities Engineering Command) propagandizing.  A pleasant, older man, walked us through much of the exhibit, telling us all about the clean up process, the high wages NAVFAC is paying locals to find and destroy UXOs and warning us not to touch anything we might find on the beach that could explode and kill us.  The Navy left in 2003 and NAVFAC hopes that they will be "done" with the clean up by 2021.

A week later, my head still spins with one big question:  What the f*** was up with the clowns?  Why were the clowns there and why were the clowns still there as the rest of the crew packed up their display boards and briefcases at the end of the day?  Are the clowns supposed to make me feel better about the mess my military has made of this amazing and complicated place?  You're talking about how to clean up a land you've unethically appropriated, a place where people have been wrongfully displaced and made terminally ill from depleted uranium.  Is this really a place for clowns?  For free Cheetos and tightly wrapped packs of cream-filled cookies?  And when the NAVFAC folks are clearing out of the gym, when the Navy has, at long, painful last, finally cleared out, why are those tired clowns still sitting on a bench, just outside the multi-use building?  Why haven't they at least taken off their wigs?

Reminder

At dinner tonight, the kids and I were talking about this in-between time. No longer really fall, not yet winter...what is this? Flinter?

As always in late fall, I've been noticing a bit of the heaviness of November. So I was reminded, by my children, at our dinner table, of the Robert Frost poem my dear, deep and thoughtful friend Nichole shared with me several years ago. Nichole is a teacher (an extraordinary one) and every year she teaches her preschoolers Robert Frost poems. I really admire that. And I am so grateful to her for teaching me "My November Guest." After we ate tonight, I looked the poem up, read it out loud to the children (Nichole, had she been here, would have recited it for them), and just couldn't get through it smoothly for the tears in my eyes and small sobs in my throat. Harper thought I was a dork and Pat sought to console me. But I was so happy reading that poem! So happy to be reminded that if not for the quiet, dark November times, the other seasons would not be so precious. Happy for Frost's gift of this metaphor. Happy to have a friend who helps me understand those kinds of truths. Happy to have kids to read poetry to. Grateful for big feelings; for sorrow and joy and everything that means we're alive and connected to each other.  Yeah, I'm a dork.  And I'm glad.

Please read this poem and then read it again.  It's just awesome.  Thanks Nichole.

My November Guest by: Robert Frost My Sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay. She talks and I am fain to list: She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist. The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky, The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why. Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow, But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise. From "A Boy's Will", 1913

Photos by Nichole Ruggles

And You Smile Because I Smirk

For those of you who may have missed this on facebook, here's Kali's very first music video.  I can't wait for more!


And here's Kali when he was little.  I took this picture and it is one of my favorites.  Kali has always been outrageously gifted.  I like to tell the story of this time when he was pretty little (maybe 5 or 6) and he made an entire set of miniature wind instruments out of clay.  They were perfect, delicate and just lovely.  This was the day I learned about the piccolo.  My little cousin had constructed one perfectly, showed it to me and explained what it was.  Incredible.

In Need

I've been experiencing a lack of inspiration.  My little notebooks have blank pages.  This poem is reassuring at times like this.



inquiry
      --ntozake shange

my questions concern the subject poetry
is whatever runs out/ whatever digs my guts
til there's no space in myself
cryin wont help/ callin mama wont help
lovers are detours/ no way to assuage this
poem/but in the words & they are deceitful/
images beat me confuse me/ make me want all of you to share me/
&i hide under my bed/


poetry is unavoidable connection/
some people get married/ others join the Church
i carry notebooks/ so i can tell us what happened/
midnight snacks in bed with whoever/ are no compensation/ when
i'm listenin to multitudes of voices/ i consume yr every word
move/

durin the day you are initiated into the holy order
of prospective poems/ i dream in yr voice/ sometimes act
yr fantasies/ i've made them my own/
whatever is here/ is what you've given me/
if it's not enough for you/
give me some more