Wednesday's Words/Fiction: The Meaning of Frankincense

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

Hugo Fontaine snugged his violin and then his viola into their purple satin-lined cases, called out farewells to his bluegrass band’s other members and headed out the back way of the music building. It had been a good rehearsal for an upcoming wedding gig.

Though he loped along, all 6’3″ of him loose and lithe, his shoulders ached and by the end of the session, the strain got to him. He’d already spent all day at his small but rising gallery, working on an exhibition. The ceramic sculptures were heavy and pedestals had to be moved several times. Of course he might have directed his assistant, Gage, to labor for him but this was a winning show of an old friend’s work. It had to be fresh, right. Marie and he went way back to childhood. They sometimes had thought they should be together but any spark felt at 15 had long ago cooled. They trusted each other; that was a lot. At 38, he had gotten comfortable with his life. She was facing marriage number two.

He needed food but coffee aroma on the breeze struck his nostrils and he crossed the street to Duchamp’s Sip and Dip. It was one of the few places in New York where people could be found to speak French, the owner being French-born, but oddly Hugo seldom did. He had worked a long time to develop a passable American accent. This possibility had disturbed his father when Hugo left Montreal at 22 to complete his Masters degree at NYU, but it had only further propelled him to leave his past behind.

He pushed open the door and found himself enveloped in sharp and sweet odors, voices amiably swirling about as people sipped drinks and dipped biscotti and other baked treats in the mugs. It was warm shelter within a megalopolis rife with traffic, smog, people and many fascinating options. he relaxed.

“Mon ami! Monsieur Fontaine!” The barista, busy steaming milk, bathed him in a brilliant smile him.

He nodded at her and smiled politely. She always was thrilled to see him, and knew he spoke French fluently so tried to engage him. Much too young, flirtatious and deferential, Hugo appreciated that she was a good barista and liked his music (she had been at an event they’d played) but kept his distance. Okay, he knew he was good looking–this had been hammered into him since childhood–but he was shy by nature, not self-impressed.

Hugo’s order given, he moved to a corner near the entrance and waited. His ears were filled with nearby French conversations and he let them come and go in his mind, not interested in eavesdropping then. The violins pulled at his shoulders so he set them on an tiny empty table and sat on chair’s edge, anxious to go home. His hands pressed lightly on closed eyes; his breathing calmed. The opening was soon, the wedding performance was shortly after, and he was supposed to go to Montreal for his mother’s 68th birthday in about a week. He tallied up his tasks and slumped back into the chair, vision unfocused on the black and white tile floor.

And then it hit him: frankincense. He’d know it anywhere. Nose lifted, his body almost rose, too, as eyes searched. That spicy, woody, lemony, amber-toned ,smokey scent, those layers of tantalizing notes–they always got to him but seldom was found this pure. It reminded him of a specific, expensive perfume his father’s parfumerie carried–what was its name? He was instantly back in the store his family had owned for three generations. He had left; his sister had taken his place by their father. But he still respected and loved the art and science of making perfume, and sharing its beauty. Frankincense had become a favorite scent, mysterious, luxuriant, primal while spiritual: powerful scent of sap of the Boswellia sacra had been important for centuries, and still used in a myriad of ways.

Rarefied majesty of a scent, a natural perfection alone yet a greatly flexible note when blended with others, his father always said. And Hugo, often at odds with him (more so since choosing his own path), agreed on that.

He didn’t have to look far to find the carrier of the scent. She was a few feet away, shifting from one foot to another as she studied the hand painted menu board of offerings. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek long ponytail so that her pale, prominent features and high forehead were exposed. A beige woolen cape encased her sturdy frame and she held red gloves in one hand. He inhaled deeply, then closed his eyes. His cares began to melt away. But his name was called and he stood.

Was the woman speaking French? No, it was the barista again, clumsily working over the language with another victim in line. The frankincense lady was heading toward back of the shop. Hugo slung one violin case with a shoulder strap over his shoulder, took his coffee in its “to-go” cup, then hesitated. He wanted to ask her what it was she wore. But one doesn’t just saunter up to a strange woman and speak what sounds like a very lame come-on line. Did he dare do it? His pointed awareness of her perfume might seem odd. He took a few steps when she appeared to look his way, and their eyes then met.

She smiled a brief lopsided smile and looked at her cell phone, then glanced up again as he stood, uncertain. He closed the gap and found himself before her.

“Forgive me–but my family owns a parfumerie. I know that fragrance but can’t name it.”

She frowned as she bit her lower lip and he felt it best to go so turned around.

“Black Tourmaline.”

She said it quietly, as if reluctant to reveal it. Hugo turned back around. It was a cloud he stood within, invisible yet dense, light and dark, rich and deep. He was beginning to feel better by the moment, if awkward. But that wasn’t it, not the perfume he thought he knew but since she had answered, he reciprocated.

“Ah. So many perfumes! It is hard to identify them, even with strong notes as this. This is not one I recall. But then, I don’t pay attention usually, it’s just frankincense, it is so distinctive, of course….very nice…”

He felt heat in his cheeks as he fumbled for a more specific response. Had he forgotten everything his father taught him, then? The perfume he once knew so well had evaporated from his memory, in any case. This was ridiculous, it was only fragrance, what else could he say? He gripped the handle on his instrument case, shifted the other violin case, prepared to go.

The woman nibbled on her biscotti and stared at his hands. “Two violins? You are ambidextrous to the extreme?”

He was baffled by her words, then exhaled in a nervous laugh, relieved to move on. Which he needed to do now. He bent to extend his hand; he was not an oaf, he knew how to be courteous if nothing else and better now than not at all.

“Hugo Fontaine. Yes, a violinist–and violist–more bluegrass than classical.”

“Gina Corelli.”

“You’re kidding–Corelli? As in Arcangelo Corelli, Italian violinist and Baroque composer?”

“Right. Not kidding. No relation that I know, but I have never researched my genealogy. I am not that interested, it might set up expectations!” She laughed, too, but softly, and indicated a chair. “Have a seat, Hugo?”

“Well, I need to get back to my gallery. There’s a big show coming up, but–” She was wearing frankincense, she knew something of music, perhaps, there was an empty seat. An invitation. He looked at his watch and sat.

Seated, he could see crinkling blue eyes and that dark mane of hair– it had a startling effect. She might pass him by any time and he wouldn’t notice her–the quietness of her bearing, bland paleness. A sort of gentle yet strong kind of loveliness that melded into anywhere, anytime…. He lifted his coffee and drank deeply as she eyes scanned his face. Bold despite her calm energy, he thought, but he could not stop looking at her, either. He inhaled her perfume without ceremony, fell under its spell. Perhaps she was used to this, men asking to speak with her, men following her down the street and her waving them off or more. It was her fragrance…or was it her?

As if reading his thoughts, she said, “Most people can’t always place the frankincense; they don’t always like it. It has a headiness, right? But more. I’ve worn it a couple of years and nothing else feels right somehow. It has a soothing effect though it perks up my senses. Maybe that is logical since it is your family’s business…In New York?”

“Montreal. But I live here, have since university. Yes, I get that.”

“Born and raised here, myself. That must have been interesting, perfume and Montreal.”

He shrugged. It sounded exotic but it was just his growing up life, as hers was New York, which seemed better to him. Freer, more cosmopolitan, energizing.

“You play something, also?” He suspected she might, knowing about violins and ambidexterity. Corelli.

She shrugged as if it was irrelevant. “I have. Oboe. Flute. I’m in the publishing business now. Educational materials publishing. Not so wonderful as an art gallery owner.” She took another drink and nibble. “What sort of art?”

His phone rang with a Mark O’Connor Band song, “Coming Home”. He was about to ignore it when he saw it was from Gage.

“I’m sorry, Gina, I have to get this. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime?”

“Sure, maybe!”

Her gaze followed him as he wove through the tables and lines. Then she pulled a slim book from her leather bag, opened it, smoothed the pages, at once lost in the tender words. “If when you rise in the blue and green mists of woods at dawn, go farther, seek the meadows and willows by running waters, forego the spell of sleep, of cares…”

He got up and took off with his instruments. But as he hailed a taxi, then arrived at the gallery and started back to work, the few facts he had accompanied him like a vapor, hanging on into night and the next days: Gina, frankincense, flute, blue eyes, dark hair, beige cape, good energy.

And then it got busier and he tied to push such nonsense aside.

******

“What are you doing with that?” Marie asked an hour before the opening of her show. “I thought it was to be in the center of the room!”

It was a mammoth piece, a curvaceous, green-glazed form, one Hugo privately thought of a part octopus, part sea siren. He may have been right but they rarely discussed what her work meant or might represent. Every artists had their own intentions but it was up to the viewers to ascribe meaning. He loved it, but he liked the smaller trio of pieces in the center better and so had moved it without consent.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “But see how these complement the space and lighting so well?A sort of relief after the opening genius of the big piece.”

“Oh, really Hugo, the lighting can be altered, the space is so large and it isn’t what we decided.” She looked at it all, crossed her arms, tapped her foot.

“It’s now stationed by the window, near the door, a draw for passersby and a very good spot overall.”

“It’s the draw of people off the street you think best, really!” She walked around the room and inspected once again.

“Not a bad thing,” Gage said under his breath. “The piece looks wonderful there. She might sell it….”

“Oh, well, opening night nerves,” Hugo reminded.

The food and table with colorful candles set into her ceramic holders were being readied by the caterer. They were all dressed and ready. Hugo poured wine for each; they drank quite indelicately. It wasn’t easy, running a gallery, supporting artists’ desires and hoping for a good profit. Marie knew all that. Her work was selling well now, in fact. It was as much for his Fontaine Contemporary Arts that she was showing there. Though he was rising closer to the top of the list, himself, the last five years.

Gina, frankincense, flute. He shook his head and drank again. He had manged to shut off the repetitive musings, mostly, the past few days, but it was like a song repeating ad infinitum.

“Hugo? Did you hear me? The pedestal on the east side needs adjusting, can you help me?”

Gage snapped his fingers near his right ear and Hugo came back to the present, growling a bit at his assistant.

“Stop that.”

“What is it with you lately?”

“I have wondered the same, maybe you need time off, head to the Bahamas of something,” Marie said and dusted her sculptures lightly with a batik napkin taken from the table.

“Or Montreal…” Gage suggested, bravely. He well knew that Hugo did not want to go to his hometown next week. Not only was he busy with more shows coming up but his father wasn’t lately well and his mother was feeling anxious. His sister seemed more in charge. She had demanded he come.

Hugo shot him a warning look. He did not want to think of all that, though he did suspect there’d be good moments to share, as well as stressful times with his father. There usually were, even with his mother’s constant refrain: why was he insisting on staying single? Now he had to worry about their aging.

The time came to unlock the doors and begin the formal opening of Marie Werther’s show. People began to fill the doorway; they were keen to see her imaginative ceramic works and he hoped, too, they wanted to own some. It was fine art but it was business, after all.

Outside, glancing in the window as she slowly passed was a woman in a voluminous cape, dark hair flying about her face, hands snugly gloved in red leather. She paused to get a closer look at the work, then searched the crowd, palms pressed against the glass a moment. There. Hugo stood among admirers, goblet in hand, chatting away. His eyes swept over the large gallery spaces and afraid he might see her, she hurried on. She could not go in. That was too close to a sort of stalking, wasn’t it? Yet, she had looked him up and found out about Fontaine Contemporary Arts. She had wondered about him enough that she felt she had to see if it was all real– the person, the place. Now she knew more. His family had long been perfumers, Hugo was from Montreal.

Hugo took a break from chatting. He could have sworn he saw her. Gina. She was a shadowy figure passing by, beyond his bright windows, so he rushed to the front and peered into dark of night. Snow was starting to drift down, glistening in streetlamp and headlights light, and people hurried on their way. He stepped into the fall of soft flakes, and almost believed her perfume settled about him, warming him in the icy air. He took in a long breath of tingling air. But she was not there, just–surprisingly, strangely–stuck in the depths of mind.

Somewhere in that city she was living a whole life. And he was not in it.

******

The wedding reception was generously festooned with blue and white flowers, a pair of doves in one gilded cage and bluebirds in another (Hugo worried they’d be let out, he didn’t care for birds swooping onto his head), hangings of silvery tulle and white satin (he was told), and tons of food, fried chicken being a primary choice. The guests were festive, the bride and groom were well on their way to married bliss after several rounds of drinks. It was a pretentious-leaning yet earthy affair and the band, Down Home Times, was playing hot and happy. He could play these tunes with little thought, and yet he appreciated every crowd’s dancing and cheering. It paid okay, but it was his main outlet for fun. He’d veered onto a different musical road as a teen when leaving classical training, but this gave him a different– more satisfying–thrill. And it was with relief that his parents liked it when they’d heard his first set on stage at 18.

At a break between his current sets, he and the guys usually went outside, some for a smoke, some for the relief of open air. Hugo was the last one to the door when he heard a voice behind him.

“Hello.”

He stopped to look over his shoulder, expecting a bluegrass admirer but there: the frankincense, spicy-citrus-amber-smokey-woods suffusing his nostrils, altering his state of mind, bringing him to a full stop.

Gina.

She stood before him with a tentative smile, bright eyes. “I know the bride, but her cousin much better so I tagged along for the night. I did not know it was going to be you up there, I swear. A shock, I have to say.”

“No way.” He offered his hand and she took it a moment, warmth against warmth.

“I knew of your bluegrass interest, and it was on your gallery site. Yes, I found that. I looked up a bit more. But I didn’t know you were playing here until I arrived.”

“Well, then.” He ruffled his sweaty hair and looked away. “Too much. In New York, this is a wedding you just came to, out of nowhere–too weird.”

“I know…kind of different, I agree.”

“Wait, you are here with out an escort?”

“Male? No, no date!” She chortled. “Just the bride’s cousin.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, I’m not such a drinker. I just wanted to say hello once more. “

“I’m getting water, I need hydration right now. Coming?”

So they got his water and talked a bit, her about work, how she needed a vacation, it had bogged her down all that fine print, boring statistics. She did not plan on taking his time up when he asked if she wanted to come by the gallery on her lunch hour sometime.

“I’ve been.”

He wanted to be cool, but his mouth fell open a bit. “It was you, then, during the opening of Marie’s exhibit–you walked by the gallery and I went outdoors to find you.”

“Yes. You did that? I didn’t expect you to see me, that wasn’t the plan. I was trying to slip by.” She put her hand on his forearm. They sat with her fingers firm but careful on his shirt sleeve, skin under the fabric tingling where those fingertips lay.

He shook his head. “None of this was the plan. But I keep thinking about you, anyway.”

“Yes. Me, too–you.”

His bandmates were jogging up the stage steps. Hugo jumped up to join them.

“Don’t move too far. Please.”

“Not likely, this has gotten interesting!”

And she laughed, head tilted so that he could see the silver of a filling and her hair bounce and gleam. He thought how wonderful it was to see her, to smell her, to talk a bit with her, and then he took a giant leap. He was embedded with her presence already and so far there was no serious resistance. He was going with it.

“Want to go to Montreal with me next week-end, by any chance? My mother turns 68 and I must attend the family party.” He made a mock-sad face and then left her there.

Hugo picked up his violin and put bow to strings, tapped his foot with the stand up bass rhythm line, dove right into the music. After a few bars the intoxicating Gina Corelli moved up to the stage and raised both arms, gave him two thumbs up. He sure hoped one of those was for a madcap trip to his hometown. He thought it likely. With frankincense in the mix, anything seemed possible to him, as it had for people all through time.

Monday's Meander: Chihuly Garden & Glass

A “contained ceiling” installation of glass art by Dale Chihuly

One of the big sights in Seattle is the Dale Chihuly glass exhibition housed long term in Seattle Center, established in 2012. Marc and I enjoyed it at its inception that year and were pleased to visit again. Born and raised in nearby Tacoma, Chihuly is world renowned for his organic, imaginative glass formations. A major installation of site-specific work is Chihuly Over Venice, his glass sculptures installed over canals and piazzas;he has installed several other major works. His work is included in over 200 museum collections around the world.

Botanic and oceanic forms largely highlight the Seattle exhibit, and large and small bowls inspired by Native American basketry also are significant. The colors of his work are vibrant and saturated, the forms often sinuous. There are eight galleries represented here, as well as a Glasshouse and Garden. As during the original visit, I was swept happily into his original, curious world which shone with a radiant light. Enjoy this fantastical meandering!

Space Needle behind the Chihuly sculpture

Friday's Passing Fancy: A Shadow Life/Light of Sobriety

My instinct is to pause near the weakened

and set apart, those men who shuffle bayside

with drooping eyes and lax arms as if waiting for a ferry

that has never come for them so why stay,

those women whose lips are dusted with crumbs,

no drink to wet and warm the slow tongue.

They speak different languages or none at all

but their stillness or words slip about me like lassos;

I am tugged toward a hidden cry of a mind

that seeks and cannot find.

It makes me homesick

for a happiness that can come to all.

You pull back- say we all must find our own way.

Distance may be the strong fence that keeps you in

a safer place, away from possibilities of

madness or privation, as if that suffering

will resurrect yours, bring you to your knees.

I say let us all kneel and nod in recognition:

humanity is dragged through life as well as lifted.

Let us net pain and give it refuge,

carry to brazen streets or yielding sky

any pleas for mercy as a potent offering.

Let slouching man and thirsty woman

meet our eyes with theirs and be known,

feel no shame of crippling loss. It is no sin

to be alive and stumble or to sense

an invisible gathering of angels or others

as their hearts labor for them without judgement.

To be is all any of us we have;

we are each given this, our chance.

Once we were closer to this than believed:

one man, one woman who carved

obdurate caves in which to conspire or hide,

and came the drink, a failed banishment of grief’s specter,

and the drug, a frail bandage to repair bloodletting.

Listen, I know those ones are my people as much

as those who manage dawn to dark with boldness,

heads so high. They have their own tender spots,

their lack of surety. I am not fooled.

I am versed in the strategies it takes to live.

You and I live like common meadowlarks,

migratory, adaptive, field and wood, art and hope

and Divinity the common passkeys

as we careen through lighting strikes of love or fury,

and ride on a wind that sings hallelujah

then drops us in mud and shining grasses.

Earthbound, still.

We know that sun and moon light disguise

and reveal, that shadows and darkness

do the same. One cannot live without

learning navigation, noting signs, getting honest.

But the truth is a shape shifter:

though we live in plenty and strength now

we could be leaning over water’s edge,

or crouched with bread heel in trembling hands

and passersby would turn their heads

only to become blind, or to soon forget.

We must never forget our sisters and brothers,

their bravery and their ache,

what we were, too, yet were welcomed

into a circle and given reprieve.

We must not forget this, how tenuous the line,

and give not pity but dignity,

an easy nod, good word, a signal of love.

Wednesday's Words on Thursday/Nonfiction: What's New, What's Not?

I’ve not gotten far on contemplating this new decade. In fact, I am barely attuned to the idea of a brand new year. I try to get serious and come up with clear goals, those things good for you like kale, but my notepad remains empty beneath the brief heralding of 2020. Maybe it is my age–is passing of time more irrelevant than it was at 20, 30 40 and so on? Some say more important but it does speed by, then slow down, even pause a split second or two–all as though I’m captive in an oddly edited video. Naturally, I see the past/present/future linked and pertinent to anyone’s identity. It just doesn’t seem as confining to me as it did when younger.

I was thinking, for example, about a class in film making and photography that I took at age 19…50 years ago …and I still want to take a class on film making and 35 mm photography. It was thrilling, that dark room. It would be a different course now but the spring of creative energy and intellectual passion are not less than before. I have plenty I’d love to do–and maybe I will get it done, and maybe I won’t. It was the same back then. But nothing so critical as back then hinges on my decision, only whether or not I fulfill my own desires. That was not the case in 1970, all life met head on with a restless, at times painful urgency, an inbred hunger for perfection, my intense dreams replete with plans for two or three Great Things before the next decade roared in. God forbid that I Not Accomplish Much. I can’t say I did by some standards, but there were other matters of importance, human life being surprising as it is.

Some things came to be, then, some did not come to be. Now I plan less, live more, much oftener in good ease. More spontaneously. I have my calendar with instructive and colorful notations on it already, conspicuously hung. But I know anything is likely to change. I don’t have the power to keep the unexpected from occurring, after all. I can shape my personal time, perhaps some space and events therein, but I cannot perform omnipotent acts.

My life is now in part reflective of the photo shared above. Gathered together: newer and older, inherited and intentionally acquired, chipped but functional, and lovely if spare, open to possibilities and accompanied by light and shadow, comforts of written and spoken language and, though you cannot hear it, music. In this case (from a genre termed “light classical” on TV’s “Music Choice”), a piano sonata by Mozart. I can feast on silence but music suits me more as perpetual winter grayness is absorbed into everything…a humorless palette that needs tonal brightening to be appreciated.

Tea or coffee with almond milk sits close by sooner or later, and chocolate. (Food is sometimes an afterthought. Chocolate covered nuts and fruits are preferred to get a little of the food tucked in.) The chipped china cup and saucer–one more thing that got marred in the move we made, yet still good in the hand. If I am not on my feet doing this and that day into night, I am sitting with a cup or mug, writing tools, my thoughts and a soft light, a stack of books at the ready.

It is 2020, I know, yet how many things remain the same despite that change. Little seems so different from the long past. Much has advanced, self-destructed or worse, it is true. And my generation certainly protested, we marched, demanded a higher national conscience and much better quality of life–equal rights and reproductive rights, cheaper or free and much more informed, expansive education for all. And several goals were met. And also, there were so many lives lost to causes.

Still, those days, these times: the essence of who I am remains, with suitable variations. Like it is for a mature tree, the core of personhood has decades of growth rings, marks left by adaptive responses to the environment, to a myriad interconnections with others that organically or perhaps shockingly came to be. It isn’t only in ind; it is in my very cells and in my soul. We may become ourselves–show ourselves– quickly after birth, I think. But then we tune ourselves up again and again as we grow and conquer and falter, readjusting to circumstances and altering needs.

So what does 2020 mean to me in a personal sense? What is changed or is anticipated? (Note: I do think globally but don’t write strictly of politics here, and am not in the mood to write of it now despite knowing that all that happens around us impacts in some way. The world shares its energy; if the energy wave that flicks us seems small, it still is there. We cannot survive and thrive in exclusivity, despite sometimes wanting to do so.) If I consider my singular life for a moment, I may learn something new here.

First, I have actually lived to see the new decade arrive. A fortunate and necessary grace.

I can’t count on it as it is not a given. My car was totaled in an accident. It might have totaled me. But did not. My heartbeat might have taken utter leave as I enjoyed a brisk walk this morning since heart disease has nagged me 20 years. But it did not. I might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But was not. I’ve also had more stress (due to many life changes plus a health issues for Marc and me) than I can recall encountering in a very long while. But have not retreated, blithering, to the corner (at least not for long) remaining heaped in a soggy ball. And likely will not this year. I have endured harder years and known less joy by far.

Second, this April the grand-baby twins will have been here for an entire year.

Alera and Morgan were not here last January, they were wriggling and snuggling while waiting to arrive. But it was possible they may not have been able to stay there long enough as our daughter was a high risk mother with high risk babies. She’d been informed she’d likely never have children due to severe growth hormone deficiency and other hormone issues since birth. But things can change with right help. And the baby girl-people are strong, well, luminous and such fun.

Third, I am not moving this year. Change can be made to happen or not, at times, and this is not happening.

I almost argued for a change of address to save more money in the long run. But we did this move in 2019. It was taxing. Month by month it has become better for the best reasons. It has enriched my thinking and doing being out here among impressive woodlands, in a pretty place right outside Portland. Never wanted to live a suburban lifestyle, it just doesn’t hold the rhythms and textures I love. It was either city center or the country for this woman–and I’ve enjoyed both with many moves during my life, a suburban town tossed in a couple of times. But this spot has its charms, more quaint town than suburb. And we’re five minutes away from baby girls and their parents, fifteen from another daughter. I can still getto my son and sister within a half hour or less. So I am for now stuck here and starting to like it, surprise. And regarding finances: I’m deliberate with finances for the most part, and do worry about the future at 3 a.m. But some things have to be done in faith. This was one of them. There are babies right here. Much to learn and share.

Fourth, I can write more comfortably as well as edit photos better this year.

This is no small thing. I now have a new Dell Inspiron 15 5000 that I was reluctant to buy (the money thing, though on the cheaper end). But Windows 7 was not much working, anymore, and was not to be supported soon… so my limping Sony Vaio had to be sidelined. Since I am no whiz on the thing–it’s about intuition, trial and error and learning pretty fast I guess–this new machine is a godsend. It does what it is supposed to do; it displays all with orderly clarity. No more cussing at my desk every hour or more as I labor. Or push away and give up for a day. Which means my blood pressure will improve and my creative juices will rise to the occasion with far less interference. I will get more done–ah, this so relieves and heartens me! And Marc will have more peace.

Fifth, I expect to be outdoors a great deal, and not just on sidewalks or attractive balcony.

Is this different? Perhaps not. But some years it has been many city walks and parks (admittedly, still scintillating, refreshing), whereas now it is all woodsy pathways. I might find more routes in city center, though–I miss gazing at varied architecture. And I would like to hike, explore more; the beaches, forests and mountains around here are fabulous as ever. But I know this for sure: walking fixes nearly everything. Writing does the most good for me on a regular basis but walking loosens and polishes ideas as well as being more generally kind to soul and flesh. Such meanders are meant for humans to right the body, mind and spirit.

Oh, plus, I have a gym membership gratis with our housing. So: swimming, treadmill, Zumba, rowing, etc. as needed. Another good year to keep on shaping up.

Sixth, I may find myself designing houses soon. And composing music. Well, to some degree.

They are old plans of action that want to be made anew, that’s all this is. Another daughter and my son told me there are countless apps online to enable those creative forays. Who knew there were so many choices, even for free? So I have made notes and will check them out. I cannot imagine a life without creative activity, no matter my skill level. I don’t demand perfection of myself, not with these endeavors, at least. I wanted to design–and sketched quite a few, built a couple models– houses as a kid. I wrote music as a youth and even as an adult awhile. I can still do both if I want to do. So often we get in our own way. I need to get out of mine more.

And there is that art class I keep intending to take. And didn’t I mention film and photography?

You cannot ever stop learning unless you desire stagnation with resultant boredom. There is not nearly enough time to gather in wonderful bits of knowledge to peruse and use. I am as excited this year as every other year to just keep my mind a-humming with new ideas and experiences.

Seventh, my spiritual life could use more, not less. Of prayer, yes, of sacred moments. But I also just need to stay alert to the shining heart of life, to root out hidden treasures, and keep my being open to grace. The heat of passionate engagement with life’s small miracles can cool, leak away in minuscule woundings as well as grave trials. It is easy to let perplexing moments, those cruelties and hardships of my small life–not to mention those of the billions who make up humanity–transform me into a more jaded person. Or be turned into one who becomes dis-empowered. Empty and unmoved.

But I won’t have it. I wasn’t born to not pay attention. To not take action. To not embrace. To not believe in greater possibilities. We can always be more than we think, better than we imagine. We are made of cosmic stuff; we live our lives in part within realms of Spirit because we are more than flesh, blood, sinew, bone, neurological labyrinths, and our mad self will with many faulty choices. Everything in God’s creation reflects a vital complexity of the magnificent infinite story. Can we not see that for the grand good fortune it is?

I claim my part. Not vaulted, nor far-reaching in scope. But this life is mine, to use as can be of benefit as long as breath is in me. I will be celebrating 70 this spring if all goes well. I care much less than I thought, but it is quite okay with me. I mean, what’s another year? We move through time like secretly winged things, catching the updrafts where we can.

Well, I have to write when I need to understand more. Now that I have some insight, my friends, this is how I see 2020. This particular day. Maybe not tomorrow. But not so differently than before I undertook the exercise. I suspect I am fairly ready for what may come, but then again I may not be. I have been taught a bunch of things this past year and more to come. I carry a bit of goodly knowledge from many years of surviving, growing. Perhaps we don’t quite know what we are made of until we have need to know it.

I do persist in tending an intrinsic hope, despite tatters and moans. Hope for what is good for me and for you. May you each care well for your life and loved ones… and whomever and whatever else you can manage.

Monday's Meander: A Seattle Visit with Sweet Returns

I have several hundred pictures of Seattle to go through (on a new computer–learning its ways but so far, much better!) but want to share a few right now. Though we go a couple times a year at least (less since my sister and brother-in-law passed plus my niece and husband relocated to Texas…) we were excited to visit. Brisk, moist sea air that can be smelled and felt on the skin while walking up and down city center’s steep hills, coupled with beauty of Pacific waters and Cascade and Olympic Mountains ; the high energy of an innovative, bustling city with unique neighborhoods; the variety of architecture, shops, cultural options–well, you get the idea. And it’s the Pacific Northwest, our beloved home, only bigger and farther north!

It was a brief meander, a refreshing three days. The photos above and below are views from our hotel 25th floor room–with a little magnification–with some loss of clarity, sorry to note. Note the ferry on Elliott Bay (part of the more vast Puget Sound) glimpsed between buildings. The famous Space Needle, left of center, built for the 1962 World’s Fair, rises above and seemingly between several skyscrapers and has an observation deck at 520 feet. Marc suspected our room at the Renaissance Hotel (excellent beds and appointments) was nearly as high–alas, we were two hundred feet lower and that was high enough…I have night time pictures to best demonstrate that in another post.

The Olympics show up more readily in the larger 4th picture, and we were fortunate to have some sunnier days so they better showed off their splendor here and there.

The beauteous Mt. Rainier of the Cascade Mountain Range, seen from the inimitable Queen Anne neighborhood, rises above the city, above. A bit dusky here–as well as misty, usually the case in winter. It is 63 miles from Seattle, but we can see it from Portland at over 130 miles without massive cloud coverage. Additional info: Mt. Rainier is 14,411 feet as opposed to “our” mountain, Mt.Hood, which is 11,250 ft. Both are enthusiastically and frequently scaled. About 10,000 people attempt to climb Rainier; 5,000 perhaps succeed. Mt. Rainier is considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, and last erupted in 1894.

Here are few other teasers as I work on the bulk of photos later this week. They are from a variety of sights, from heavily visited Pike Place Market to Chihuly Garden and Glass, a fascinating art museum; to random city streets and the city’s vibrant waterfront and a marvelous outdoor sculpture park. And there is even more to come in future posts. Pus, I feel better restored on every level. May I suggest that when you get rough around the edges and feel worn out, don’t take a nap–take a trip!