Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Signs of the seasons

Spring and ideas get under your skin before you recognize them. The geese are returning to our lake causing the blue jays to sqwack louder declaring 'fowl' afoot. The pines sneeze, and pollen sifts in our lungs.

And then there are the debates and the fight for top job: a woman, an African-American man and an old soldier, each declaring his/her qualifications are best suited for the job. We have not seen women or other minorities vie for top job before. A first for this spring. A surprise and an opportunity.

We crave the promises of spring and renewal. What we really need is the collective judgement of past winters and the renewed promise of incoming springs. We need a collective of leaders we can trust and believe in.

From my corner, I'm glad we get to start anew. And I am glad we have more choices.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Words, words and more...

What do we sound like if not the sum of all the words we have encountered, the books we have read, the songs we have sung? Like air for lungs, words have been the oxigen to our thoughts. They're inhaled and exhaled, changed and exchanged, refined and recombined.

They are the currency of discourse,flowing easily like a river or crushing down like a waterfall.

And words can be the legacy we leave behind. Unlike gold, or silver, words are abundant and easily available. And like gold and other precious commodities, our words will leave a concrete and substantial heritage to our family for generations to come.

Have you written down the stories and the thoughts that are the sum of your being?

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Lakeside view

The picture on my blog is my official 'retirement' picture. I'm at the lake, a coffee cup in my hand, looking at the reader, inviting him or her to stop time with me: anticipate changes, note the visitors stopping and fretting at different times of the year, marvel at the play of wind, water, sand, logs, and fowl. If I move one hand I can disturb the blue heron in the grass next to me.

The depths and interplays of our existence are also represented on this lake.

Encounters and calamities have changed the nature of these waters. Once upon a time, this lake was a lagoon, in touch with the Ocean around it. Centuries from now, this lake may not be on the map at all.

Time to ponder.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Talk to me

When we were young, we marked days in conventional ways. Cards, candy, flowers. No occasion passed unnoticed. Each had a weight, solid and palpable. the weight of expectation.Valentines had a greater weight than all other occasions put together.

Deep in our hope chests was the magic wish that our special person would suddenly realize the feelings he/she had for us and make a heroic gesture of communication.

We wanted The Words. Words that had never been spoken before. Words that weighed more than platinum. Words that fed our hearts.

If we didn't get words, we accepted other gestures. Soon, we equated receiving things with affection and communication. But, we still hunger for words and communion.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008

The politics of age

I'd like to remind candidates that seniors' issues will become chronic if not addressed. Pensions have disappeared or have been drastically reduced, insurance premiums continue to rise, drug costs are skyrocketing, and services at the local levels have all been reduced. Add to the list the fact that seniors do not live close to their extended families, and you have a major crisis brewing.

Everyone complains about costs, how Social Security and Medicare will become insolvent, but costs can be contained if we had a government that valued human welfare above corporate greed.

How can government allow exorbitant profits to be made by oil companies when people cannot afford the gas to get to work? How can government offer tax cuts to to the wealthy, and complain about the costs of taking care of the needy?

Are priviledge and wealth the currency of human life?

I hope not.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Looking ahead

As I read people's blogs, I feel as though I have entered sacred spaces; I'm in their houses, through their closets, among their spice jars, in their hope chests. And I was invited in.

Blogging feels like journaling, but it is a lot more. It is the fence line between the private and the public. Sometimes we are there still in our robes and scuffies; sometimes we have dressed formally and are taking ourselves to town. We know that our thoughts have been made public. But we are also secure in the fact that we wanted this. Aren't we tired of made-up reality shows? Nobody tells how it really feels to live in our skins, in our town, in our times.

We label our new life, busy and happy. Most labels are wrong. We have to keep boredom in the close, anxiety in the back-roome and frustration can come out only on birthdays.

Blogging is our pulse taking for the fifteen, thirty minutes that we spend creating and posting. One day, in the next century, somebody will become rich mining these sites. If I were writing for movies and television, if I were running for office, if I cared to know what it is that people do, I would read these blogs.

Life has no map and no guideposts. We prepared for the life of work; we are discovering a life that does not get exposed much at all.