Let's talk about FaceBook.
And my age.
Supposedly women over 50 make up the fastest growing population on Facebook.
I am over fifty.
But I find the atmosphere difficult.
In the beginning every time I got an announcement from someone about an event
I sent a thank you note for the invitation. Later I realized they were not making
an individual invitation, friends were pushing one button and inviting one
hundred and fifty folks.
I quit writing the thank you notes.
And here is something else, folks that have been disrespectful of my feminist views request to
be friends ... and I don't understand. The word Friend I think must mean something else on
FaceBook. And I know I have been accepted as a "Friend" when "Friend" is really not the case.
Language appears to be not so critical on FaceBook.
More later, must run.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
A Different View
And it is raining.
Very hard.
I live on the third floor in a downtown building. I see rooftops from
where I live in the back of my building. The rain smacks down and runs
for the edges to the ground. Rooftops have seasons too.
In winter a chimney's smoke rises directly up and in straight line in
frigid cold. Just cold and the smoke meanders up unhurried.
This is a new view for me, here in the back.
I lived in the front with a view of Main Street, the roof tops not so
close but still a view of the chimneys across town working against Maine
cold.
Today the rains pours and two dogs need walking.
Very hard.
I live on the third floor in a downtown building. I see rooftops from
where I live in the back of my building. The rain smacks down and runs
for the edges to the ground. Rooftops have seasons too.
In winter a chimney's smoke rises directly up and in straight line in
frigid cold. Just cold and the smoke meanders up unhurried.
This is a new view for me, here in the back.
I lived in the front with a view of Main Street, the roof tops not so
close but still a view of the chimneys across town working against Maine
cold.
Today the rains pours and two dogs need walking.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Low Tide
It will be low tide at 4:51 this afternoon.
The dogs and I will be on the beach.
We like low tide for racing.
The racing is easier when the waves pull back.
We wait.
The dogs and I will be on the beach.
We like low tide for racing.
The racing is easier when the waves pull back.
We wait.
Friday, June 5, 2009
So I have a cat. A kitten to be specific.
This is new to me now. Cats are new to me. Now.
And.
I am a dog woman and not a cat woman but I am trying
to be a dog and a cat woman. It is hard.
The kitten screams and chews on electrical wires.
Also rain gear that hangs in the hallway. Plastic rain gear
that becomes less effective with holes in it.
The dogs and I put on a happy face ... or we did. The kitten
came out of an awful situation in Millinocket. Forty cats and
kittens in various stages of unhealth. I was asked. I accepted.
Milk.
His name is Milk.
For Harvey.
But he screams and chews electrical wires.
This is new to me now. Cats are new to me. Now.
And.
I am a dog woman and not a cat woman but I am trying
to be a dog and a cat woman. It is hard.
The kitten screams and chews on electrical wires.
Also rain gear that hangs in the hallway. Plastic rain gear
that becomes less effective with holes in it.
The dogs and I put on a happy face ... or we did. The kitten
came out of an awful situation in Millinocket. Forty cats and
kittens in various stages of unhealth. I was asked. I accepted.
Milk.
His name is Milk.
For Harvey.
But he screams and chews electrical wires.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
a heavy rain
Okay so it is still raining.
I have my own flood story, I am thinking some people do ... have their own flood story.
Here is mine.
I was living alone, in my late forties, in the woods. I called it the woods.
I was in Appalachia and living on what we called river road. My house sat right in front of the river ... from every room in my house I could see the river and from every room in my house I could hear the river. Marvelous.
The water would coast over the rocks and the sound was a constant companion.
I lived there for years. And years.
And only one year did the river rise so high that it threatened my home and my life. It have been raining and raining. Sometimes the front end of the road, down
toward the four lane, would flood and you would just take the back way to town ... the beautiful back way .... climbing up the hills, by the waterfalls, twisting and turning you way to town. It took about a full half hour longer.
Anyway ... one morning I woke up in my second floor bedroom that faced the river, looked out the window expecting to see a large yard with meandering rock paths through the wisely planted rhododendron down to the road and then to the river. But there was no yard, no "rhodies" as I called them, there was no land. There was only water as far as I could see. I was Rapunzel without the hair.
And the odd thing about a river flooding is that it creates another fast track other than the one way out in the middle ... there were passages in my yard going like heck for Tennessee. Swirling hard and fast. Little rivers in the big river which wasn't that big in the beginning.
Well I was full panic when I got down to the front door. I moved the car and the truck up and in the barn with my dogs inside. I went down to check the basement and the water was more than 5 feet high. I could not in that second figure out what to do ... the yard was inching near the first step to the house and the basement still had some space ... I joked about pumping the river into the basement ... to myself ... and then I got the sump pump set up, and it began its work, adding the basement water to the yard, down the long driveway now mostly covered with river water.
In a short two hours, I could begin to see the water inching away from the house.
I felt blessed in that moment. Seriously blessed.
The slow movement back to the confines of a river bank. It took days.
The debris, the rotting things, the insects, it was devastating what was left behind.
Just devastating.
And for a long time and even now ... a heavy rain makes my heart beat faster.
I have my own flood story, I am thinking some people do ... have their own flood story.
Here is mine.
I was living alone, in my late forties, in the woods. I called it the woods.
I was in Appalachia and living on what we called river road. My house sat right in front of the river ... from every room in my house I could see the river and from every room in my house I could hear the river. Marvelous.
The water would coast over the rocks and the sound was a constant companion.
I lived there for years. And years.
And only one year did the river rise so high that it threatened my home and my life. It have been raining and raining. Sometimes the front end of the road, down
toward the four lane, would flood and you would just take the back way to town ... the beautiful back way .... climbing up the hills, by the waterfalls, twisting and turning you way to town. It took about a full half hour longer.
Anyway ... one morning I woke up in my second floor bedroom that faced the river, looked out the window expecting to see a large yard with meandering rock paths through the wisely planted rhododendron down to the road and then to the river. But there was no yard, no "rhodies" as I called them, there was no land. There was only water as far as I could see. I was Rapunzel without the hair.
And the odd thing about a river flooding is that it creates another fast track other than the one way out in the middle ... there were passages in my yard going like heck for Tennessee. Swirling hard and fast. Little rivers in the big river which wasn't that big in the beginning.
Well I was full panic when I got down to the front door. I moved the car and the truck up and in the barn with my dogs inside. I went down to check the basement and the water was more than 5 feet high. I could not in that second figure out what to do ... the yard was inching near the first step to the house and the basement still had some space ... I joked about pumping the river into the basement ... to myself ... and then I got the sump pump set up, and it began its work, adding the basement water to the yard, down the long driveway now mostly covered with river water.
In a short two hours, I could begin to see the water inching away from the house.
I felt blessed in that moment. Seriously blessed.
The slow movement back to the confines of a river bank. It took days.
The debris, the rotting things, the insects, it was devastating what was left behind.
Just devastating.
And for a long time and even now ... a heavy rain makes my heart beat faster.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
rain
washes all things clean.
I certainly hope so.
It is going to rain for days and days.
I am looking forward to the cleanliness.
Seriously.
I certainly hope so.
It is going to rain for days and days.
I am looking forward to the cleanliness.
Seriously.
Friday, April 3, 2009
She Inspires
MEXICO: Indigenous Woman on the Offensive
FROM the Inter Press Service News Agency
Two years ago Eufrosina Cruz was
kept from running for mayor of her home village by the
traditions and customs of her indigenous community in
southern Mexico just because she is a woman.
But she refused to back down and challenged the tradition – a
decision that brought her death threats but also dreams and
achievements that she had never imagined.
On Tuesday the 29-year-old Zapoteca Indian woman presented in
the Mexican capital a new civil society association aimed at
highlighting the deep-rooted nature of native traditions and
customs in many communities especially in the impoverished
southern state of Oaxaca where a large proportion of the
population is indigenous.
If in November 2010 women can finally vote in my village
and one of them is elected mayor I will be more than happy; it
will be the best achievement of this association through which I
promise to become even more crazy which is what people in my
village say I am Cruz said in an interview with IPS.
Her group is called Quiego short for Queremos Unir Integrando
por Equidad y Género en Oaxaca (roughly we want to come
together for equity and gender in Oaxaca). The acronym was
inspired by Santa María Quiegaloni the name of her village of
800 Zapoteca Indians located in the mountains of Oaxaca one of
Mexico’s poorest states.
Quiego plans to hold workshops and organise women’s
groups first in my village and later throughout Oaxaca and
anywhere else that we can to raise awareness on women’s
political rights and help them understand that some traditions
are no good but that we are not alone and that we have to wake
up she said.
Cruz an accountant was the first woman to attempt to run for
mayor there. Although some of the men backed her up the heads
of the local assembly said tradition blocked her from
participating as a woman.
But that denial of women’s political rights had not been loudly
protested until Cruz brought the problem to the attention of
state and national authorities.
I always said things couldn’t stay this way that it was
unfair. But I didn’t imagine that all the rest of this would
happen she said.
By all the rest she was referring to anonymous
death threats that led to police protection for her as well as
the approval of a reform of the Oaxaca state constitution at her
initiative which clearly stipulates that no local tradition can
apply if it denies the political rights of indigenous women.
But she also meant the numerous invitations to take part in
conferences and in meetings with legislators and government
officials and the decision by the Mexican government of
conservative President Felipe Calderón to award her the national
youth prize consisting of 100000 dollars for her work on
behalf of women.
Last year I quit my job (as coordinator of academic
programmes in technical high schools in Oaxaca) to dedicate
myself completely to the cause of defending our women to coming
together to talk and to gradually finding a way out of this ugly
poverty and denial of our rights she said.
Mexico is the Latin American country with the largest
indigenous population in absolute numbers which is variously
estimated to make up between 12 and 30 percent of the country’s
104 million people (the smaller official estimate is based on
the number of people who actually speak an indigenous language).
The overwhelming majority of the Mexican population is of mixed
indigenous and Spanish ancestry.
More than 90 percent of the 12 million officially counted
indigenous people live in extreme poverty nearly 50 percent are
illiterate and 80 percent of the children under five are badly
malnourished according to the human development report on
Mexican indigenous people published in 2006 by the United Nations
Development Programme (UNDP).
A study focusing on gender issues by the government National
Commission for the Development of Indigenous Peoples also
released in 2006 states that among the poorest of the
poor among the most marginalised of the marginalised are
indigenous women.
On many occasions they are discriminated against because
they are indigenous because they are women and because they
are poor. The social systems of their own communities also
frequently exclude them says the report on
indicators with a gender perspective for indigenous
peoples.
Among the country’s indigenous people there are 636720 women
who only speak native languages compared to 371083 men. And 27
percent of native people over 15 are illiterate by contrast with
a national average of 9.5 percent. But illiteracy among
indigenous women is 34.5 percent against 19.6 percent of men.
In Oaxaca 39 percent of native women and 22.3 percent of
native men over 15 are illiterate.
Among my people many women still believe that that’s how
it should be that rights are only for men that only they
deserve to study said Cruz. But I tell them that
they have to open their eyes and change even if they are
threatened horribly like what happened to me.
Cruz left Quiegolani at the age of 11 because she did not want
to end up being married off at 13 like her sister and raising
a gaggle of children in absolute poverty.
A lot of people have helped us: journalists politicians
and women’s groups. Thanks to all of them this association has
emerged but we are still searching for more support in order to
complete our dream said Cruz. (
FROM the Inter Press Service News Agency
Two years ago Eufrosina Cruz was
kept from running for mayor of her home village by the
traditions and customs of her indigenous community in
southern Mexico just because she is a woman.
But she refused to back down and challenged the tradition – a
decision that brought her death threats but also dreams and
achievements that she had never imagined.
On Tuesday the 29-year-old Zapoteca Indian woman presented in
the Mexican capital a new civil society association aimed at
highlighting the deep-rooted nature of native traditions and
customs in many communities especially in the impoverished
southern state of Oaxaca where a large proportion of the
population is indigenous.
If in November 2010 women can finally vote in my village
and one of them is elected mayor I will be more than happy; it
will be the best achievement of this association through which I
promise to become even more crazy which is what people in my
village say I am Cruz said in an interview with IPS.
Her group is called Quiego short for Queremos Unir Integrando
por Equidad y Género en Oaxaca (roughly we want to come
together for equity and gender in Oaxaca). The acronym was
inspired by Santa María Quiegaloni the name of her village of
800 Zapoteca Indians located in the mountains of Oaxaca one of
Mexico’s poorest states.
Quiego plans to hold workshops and organise women’s
groups first in my village and later throughout Oaxaca and
anywhere else that we can to raise awareness on women’s
political rights and help them understand that some traditions
are no good but that we are not alone and that we have to wake
up she said.
Cruz an accountant was the first woman to attempt to run for
mayor there. Although some of the men backed her up the heads
of the local assembly said tradition blocked her from
participating as a woman.
But that denial of women’s political rights had not been loudly
protested until Cruz brought the problem to the attention of
state and national authorities.
I always said things couldn’t stay this way that it was
unfair. But I didn’t imagine that all the rest of this would
happen she said.
By all the rest she was referring to anonymous
death threats that led to police protection for her as well as
the approval of a reform of the Oaxaca state constitution at her
initiative which clearly stipulates that no local tradition can
apply if it denies the political rights of indigenous women.
But she also meant the numerous invitations to take part in
conferences and in meetings with legislators and government
officials and the decision by the Mexican government of
conservative President Felipe Calderón to award her the national
youth prize consisting of 100000 dollars for her work on
behalf of women.
Last year I quit my job (as coordinator of academic
programmes in technical high schools in Oaxaca) to dedicate
myself completely to the cause of defending our women to coming
together to talk and to gradually finding a way out of this ugly
poverty and denial of our rights she said.
Mexico is the Latin American country with the largest
indigenous population in absolute numbers which is variously
estimated to make up between 12 and 30 percent of the country’s
104 million people (the smaller official estimate is based on
the number of people who actually speak an indigenous language).
The overwhelming majority of the Mexican population is of mixed
indigenous and Spanish ancestry.
More than 90 percent of the 12 million officially counted
indigenous people live in extreme poverty nearly 50 percent are
illiterate and 80 percent of the children under five are badly
malnourished according to the human development report on
Mexican indigenous people published in 2006 by the United Nations
Development Programme (UNDP).
A study focusing on gender issues by the government National
Commission for the Development of Indigenous Peoples also
released in 2006 states that among the poorest of the
poor among the most marginalised of the marginalised are
indigenous women.
On many occasions they are discriminated against because
they are indigenous because they are women and because they
are poor. The social systems of their own communities also
frequently exclude them says the report on
indicators with a gender perspective for indigenous
peoples.
Among the country’s indigenous people there are 636720 women
who only speak native languages compared to 371083 men. And 27
percent of native people over 15 are illiterate by contrast with
a national average of 9.5 percent. But illiteracy among
indigenous women is 34.5 percent against 19.6 percent of men.
In Oaxaca 39 percent of native women and 22.3 percent of
native men over 15 are illiterate.
Among my people many women still believe that that’s how
it should be that rights are only for men that only they
deserve to study said Cruz. But I tell them that
they have to open their eyes and change even if they are
threatened horribly like what happened to me.
Cruz left Quiegolani at the age of 11 because she did not want
to end up being married off at 13 like her sister and raising
a gaggle of children in absolute poverty.
A lot of people have helped us: journalists politicians
and women’s groups. Thanks to all of them this association has
emerged but we are still searching for more support in order to
complete our dream said Cruz. (
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I got one
and the dogs ran and hid.
You have seen them on television.
The dog and the cat sit motionless in their owner's lap while having their nails
filed. Ho hum. It looks so easy.
Yawn.
After years and years and years of clipping dog nails and having every single dog act as if I don't see very well, I have been wanting the simple and easy to use dog-battery-operated-fingernail-file.
At the Rite-Aid in my town, my small town, they have a shelf of "sold only on T.V."
items ... they are heavily discounted. The discount should be the clue.
I bought the dog fingernail battery operated file with the heavy discount.
I also bought super-sized not discounted batteries to make it work.
I have used it four times.
You have to cut their nails first. No lie.
The dogs you see on T.V. are comatose because they have a separate major artery connected to each toe nail and each one was probably a little bit nicked in the making of that commercial.
My dogs said so.
When I gasped about the arteries they said dogs have an automatic lever that can be turned in case of emergency ... and that is probably what happened.
They sometimes say disturbing things. Not all the time or anything like that.
Just sometimes.
And.
They still run and hide.
The instruction sheet encourages that in awhile your dogs will give up and no longer run and hide.
Oh joy.
You have seen them on television.
The dog and the cat sit motionless in their owner's lap while having their nails
filed. Ho hum. It looks so easy.
Yawn.
After years and years and years of clipping dog nails and having every single dog act as if I don't see very well, I have been wanting the simple and easy to use dog-battery-operated-fingernail-file.
At the Rite-Aid in my town, my small town, they have a shelf of "sold only on T.V."
items ... they are heavily discounted. The discount should be the clue.
I bought the dog fingernail battery operated file with the heavy discount.
I also bought super-sized not discounted batteries to make it work.
I have used it four times.
You have to cut their nails first. No lie.
The dogs you see on T.V. are comatose because they have a separate major artery connected to each toe nail and each one was probably a little bit nicked in the making of that commercial.
My dogs said so.
When I gasped about the arteries they said dogs have an automatic lever that can be turned in case of emergency ... and that is probably what happened.
They sometimes say disturbing things. Not all the time or anything like that.
Just sometimes.
And.
They still run and hide.
The instruction sheet encourages that in awhile your dogs will give up and no longer run and hide.
Oh joy.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
walking in the morning
Every morning when I am about town, walking my dogs or headed to the co-op, I see a woman walking beside a man who is pushing a small cart. She is very short. Very short. And he is very tall. I am not much interested in him although I have looked to see that his demeanor is polite to her. They do not talk. They don't smile. They walk.
She is probably only 3 and a half feet tall. Just small with age. Her hair is long and red. It hangs well below her knit cap worn for the cold Maine mornings they walk. Her hand holds on the cart, so close to him that for a time I thought they walked holding hands. It would make balancing difficult because they walk all day. Her hand in his would not have physical support walking all day demands, although I understand the emotional support it would offer. The support they offer to each other is clear. Their walk is slow and determined.
I have watched her for weeks now. I want to ask for a photograph. I want to ask folks in town what they know of her .... she is so strong. Her legs, her back her mind in the determination to not stop. Walking.
She is probably only 3 and a half feet tall. Just small with age. Her hair is long and red. It hangs well below her knit cap worn for the cold Maine mornings they walk. Her hand holds on the cart, so close to him that for a time I thought they walked holding hands. It would make balancing difficult because they walk all day. Her hand in his would not have physical support walking all day demands, although I understand the emotional support it would offer. The support they offer to each other is clear. Their walk is slow and determined.
I have watched her for weeks now. I want to ask for a photograph. I want to ask folks in town what they know of her .... she is so strong. Her legs, her back her mind in the determination to not stop. Walking.
Monday, March 16, 2009
to be naughty
The Naughty North is absolutely fabulous.
They are thinking on the edge and organizing actions ... just fantastic!
For the longest time I think we have been somewhat stuck in a no-response mode when it comes to objecting to discrimination, to the selfishness of capitalism .... the free-speech allowance which I often find disturbing .. the naughty have taken on a number of situations .... like the folks opposing women's right to choice that gather on the highway outside the Common Ground Fair. For a long time this group of anti-choice, really anti-woman people have been expected and ignored for the most part ... not an organized objection ... no one on the highway taking on the banners showing bloody fetuses. This group has and last year met them on the highway with antics that drew the attention away from the posters. Excellent. They also took on Southern Maine gay pride ... for their corporate mirroring. Amazing group.
They are thinking on the edge and organizing actions ... just fantastic!
For the longest time I think we have been somewhat stuck in a no-response mode when it comes to objecting to discrimination, to the selfishness of capitalism .... the free-speech allowance which I often find disturbing .. the naughty have taken on a number of situations .... like the folks opposing women's right to choice that gather on the highway outside the Common Ground Fair. For a long time this group of anti-choice, really anti-woman people have been expected and ignored for the most part ... not an organized objection ... no one on the highway taking on the banners showing bloody fetuses. This group has and last year met them on the highway with antics that drew the attention away from the posters. Excellent. They also took on Southern Maine gay pride ... for their corporate mirroring. Amazing group.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The sun is out ... seems like any topic might be good for writing on a day like today.
Brightness. After a day of snow and sleet and rain is like the gift on Route One that the crows and the seagulls enjoyed yesterday .... vitamin D for the taking, a reference point in the mind radically different than the point that originates from grey.
Brightness. After a day of snow and sleet and rain is like the gift on Route One that the crows and the seagulls enjoyed yesterday .... vitamin D for the taking, a reference point in the mind radically different than the point that originates from grey.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Gift Worth Grabbing
The dogs and I took a walk on Sears Island today. It was warm in the morning despite the snow you see. And I want to note that on Route 1 for about ten miles there was an orange substance on the road that the birds just loved. They would dive and dart around the cars, which worried me. I wanted to have the bird's perspective of a fine
unexpected treat ... but I focused instead on the danger. I wanted to call the highway department and have them remove it to the side of the road ... and I wanted to see it as the birds saw it ... just a gift worth grabbing.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Creativity's Return
I am having great difficulty keeping up with my intention to write here daily. And I don't want it be a journal, but an exploration of a particular idea or notion ... maybe. And I am in the middle of this move and the writing, the creative thinking is just not happening. I am going to have to do more to encourage creativity's return.
I miss seeing the world the way I used to .... always abit of a twist or a turn, good humor abounding.
One thing I am wanting to explore is small, middle and big. The terms that define so many interactions, from our towns and cities, to our cars and bodies ... the experience of size and how it affects our many communications, an influence on our perception of need and want. And maybe it is not the small the middle and the big that influences us at all, but what it is inside us that responds to sizing ... what we have been taught and to whom and to what we are responding .... maybe and more. Later.
I miss seeing the world the way I used to .... always abit of a twist or a turn, good humor abounding.
One thing I am wanting to explore is small, middle and big. The terms that define so many interactions, from our towns and cities, to our cars and bodies ... the experience of size and how it affects our many communications, an influence on our perception of need and want. And maybe it is not the small the middle and the big that influences us at all, but what it is inside us that responds to sizing ... what we have been taught and to whom and to what we are responding .... maybe and more. Later.
Friday, March 6, 2009
more snow
What else is there to write about when on March 6th there is snow falling where you live. And so okay, I live in Maine, but still.
I have to say I am on a com uter that is missing a few letters ... you guess which ones and maybe later in the day or the week or the month I will come back and fix the missing letters. I think letters and maybe more, words, become unha y at omission. Certainly they do. And rightfully so.
So it is snowing, the dogs are slee ing and I am writing without a few letters that are robably issed at their omission. Good Day!
I have to say I am on a com uter that is missing a few letters ... you guess which ones and maybe later in the day or the week or the month I will come back and fix the missing letters. I think letters and maybe more, words, become unha y at omission. Certainly they do. And rightfully so.
So it is snowing, the dogs are slee ing and I am writing without a few letters that are robably issed at their omission. Good Day!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Moving
It is moving day. The last moving day for awhile.
Portland is a special small city. I love it.
I love the lights and the diversity, the activities
and the art ... I just cannot manage to stay with so
work to do elsewhere.
So I am leaving.
For awhile.
Back again soon.
Portland is a special small city. I love it.
I love the lights and the diversity, the activities
and the art ... I just cannot manage to stay with so
work to do elsewhere.
So I am leaving.
For awhile.
Back again soon.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Valentine
This was a lovely good morning surprise on Valentine's Day in Portland, Maine.
Every window in Old Port had a red heart on a piece of white paper taped on the outside ... there were hundreds of red hearts all over the city, including Munjoy Hill ... everyone was looking and laughing and smiling. Very terrific. When I drove by the Portland Art Museum, there was a large heart hanging down from the building. A huge red heart.
At first I thought it was a lone activist who had a day off and is in love who was making things right for her lover for when they went downtown for coffee on Valentine's Day. Now I think she works at the Museum had the day off and is in love and was making things right for her lover before they went downtown for coffee on Valentine's Day!!!!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The Sun is Important
I know you know.
And.
Hey now, this is no laughing matter. In New England there is a long winter, and often without much sun, despite all those lovely pictures of folks on the ski slopes laughing real big with their white teeth and amazing goggles. I like those goggles.
The sun is a gift in New England, and most of us will take a real cold day with sun than a thirty-degree gray day.
I grew up in Florida and I talk of this with ease. Thirty degree days, as if they are not terribly cold. They aren't. Anymore.
It's all in the goggles.
Serious.
Today the sun is out and it is cold, but it is amazing.
Vitamin D for the taking.
Smile on.
And.
Hey now, this is no laughing matter. In New England there is a long winter, and often without much sun, despite all those lovely pictures of folks on the ski slopes laughing real big with their white teeth and amazing goggles. I like those goggles.
The sun is a gift in New England, and most of us will take a real cold day with sun than a thirty-degree gray day.
I grew up in Florida and I talk of this with ease. Thirty degree days, as if they are not terribly cold. They aren't. Anymore.
It's all in the goggles.
Serious.
Today the sun is out and it is cold, but it is amazing.
Vitamin D for the taking.
Smile on.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
For Women
For the love of women.
The NYTimes article on wimmin's land failed to note the success of the Michigan Women's Festival ....it has been happening for more than 30 years ... one week of women only and five to ten thousand women show up each and every year to feel community. Men are not allowed on the site .... women come away from that week renewed and strengthened. They come back year after year after year. That is worth examining and worth an acknowledgment of the possibilities.
Most of the women attending do not profess to hate men. They do recognize, honor and respect the difference of the moments spent within the woman tribe. It is profound.
And it is difficult on many levels. Tenting only unless you stay away from everything in the rv area. Extremely hot days and very cold nights. Long lines for food. I am writing this because to be in the company of only women, thousands of women each year take a week and give it to Michigan and it is not easy or inexpensive.
The NYTimes article on wimmin's land failed to note the success of the Michigan Women's Festival ....it has been happening for more than 30 years ... one week of women only and five to ten thousand women show up each and every year to feel community. Men are not allowed on the site .... women come away from that week renewed and strengthened. They come back year after year after year. That is worth examining and worth an acknowledgment of the possibilities.
Most of the women attending do not profess to hate men. They do recognize, honor and respect the difference of the moments spent within the woman tribe. It is profound.
And it is difficult on many levels. Tenting only unless you stay away from everything in the rv area. Extremely hot days and very cold nights. Long lines for food. I am writing this because to be in the company of only women, thousands of women each year take a week and give it to Michigan and it is not easy or inexpensive.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Wimmin's Land
After the NYTimes published a piece on a group of older lesbians living together
in Alabama I heard from friends and family who wanted me to know about the article.
They were pleased to find lesbian lives examined in the New York Times.
I have to wonder about the article. There are lesbian communities all over this country, and beyond ... they exist in a variety of ways ... some much older and more well-established than the one in Alabama that made the Times. Most cities have a "gay" neighborhood and many have lesbian communities that seriously seek to locate in blocks owned and rented by only lesbians. Kansas City has a good thing going, Arkansas and Atlanta, NYC ... Minneapolis,Seattle, San Francisco .... oh the variables keep growing.
The point of the NYTimes article was that the practice of separatism is dying.
The wimmin in the group from Alabama were older and having difficulty encouraging younger wimmin to join their efforts, their family and their land. Without new women entering the group their efforts end with their lives.
It is a hard point. I worked with a group to create affordable and lovely housing for aging lesbians in midcoast Maine. You must incorporate some inclusion of younger women, or you are not sustainable. True. We had a number of ideas, including creating a scholarship for med school with internships served at the Old Dykes Home.
Design for inclusion.
One writer ranted over their "sexism" and hatred of men.
Arguing sexism over lesbian separatism doesn't work .... lesbians are marginalized and oppressed, old lesbians more so, and you must have power to reinforce your prejudice (and isn't this a key word .... prejudice instead of knowledge from which you make personal living decisions) but let's use the term "prejudice" and point out for the umteenth time, that you need power commit an "ism" .... these women have no power over men. Please.
And if you read the article and look at the accompanying video, you see they interact well with men in the community and in fact, they say they depend on these folks ... .... which really means that for all the separatism talk, these women are dependent on men to some extent. That may be the discussion here ... however their dependency is selected and self-defined, their boundaries respected and acknowledged. And if this was the conversation to have, the idea to examine in all of this .... in patriarchy can any woman's land be totally separatist.
And.
Why the NYTimes selected this group as an example, I don't know. They were reported to have formed after the demise of Pagoda ... which is never accurately explained. Pagoda was conclave of lesbian space almost on the water in St. Augustine, Florida. You crossed over a big bridge (my former partner and I walked this bridge to Pagoda after taking a short vacation there in 1984) .... the town moved this bridge so that it emptied and was accessed directly across from the entrance to Pagoda .... a hard way to live. There were a number of other reasons this long-time group disbanded, but let's not forget to include the absolute lack of community support with a major highway in their driveway. And they kept a journal. I wrote in it and I read it. They took notes in every meeting, so much to learn on the difficulty of keeping this special place going. So many decisions and disagreements. From the heart.
When I visited there in 1984 it cost us $15 a night for a room with kitchen privileges ... we were both working non-profits, I worked with battered women and C worked with people with HIV-AIDS .... we had no money, wanted to support women in whatever we did and so Pagoda was a good choice for us .... we took the bus down from Atlanta. It was in February, I remember still. It was warmish. I saw dolphins and I still have the black shell I found on the beach there. C made a shell mobile as a gift to the house before we headed back to the city. It was a good time for us.
Women's Space. I have found something to write about ... and will.
Part two to follow ... my interview with some of these women at the Michigan Women's Festival and a bigger discussion of Wimmin's Land.
in Alabama I heard from friends and family who wanted me to know about the article.
They were pleased to find lesbian lives examined in the New York Times.
I have to wonder about the article. There are lesbian communities all over this country, and beyond ... they exist in a variety of ways ... some much older and more well-established than the one in Alabama that made the Times. Most cities have a "gay" neighborhood and many have lesbian communities that seriously seek to locate in blocks owned and rented by only lesbians. Kansas City has a good thing going, Arkansas and Atlanta, NYC ... Minneapolis,Seattle, San Francisco .... oh the variables keep growing.
The point of the NYTimes article was that the practice of separatism is dying.
The wimmin in the group from Alabama were older and having difficulty encouraging younger wimmin to join their efforts, their family and their land. Without new women entering the group their efforts end with their lives.
It is a hard point. I worked with a group to create affordable and lovely housing for aging lesbians in midcoast Maine. You must incorporate some inclusion of younger women, or you are not sustainable. True. We had a number of ideas, including creating a scholarship for med school with internships served at the Old Dykes Home.
Design for inclusion.
One writer ranted over their "sexism" and hatred of men.
Arguing sexism over lesbian separatism doesn't work .... lesbians are marginalized and oppressed, old lesbians more so, and you must have power to reinforce your prejudice (and isn't this a key word .... prejudice instead of knowledge from which you make personal living decisions) but let's use the term "prejudice" and point out for the umteenth time, that you need power commit an "ism" .... these women have no power over men. Please.
And if you read the article and look at the accompanying video, you see they interact well with men in the community and in fact, they say they depend on these folks ... .... which really means that for all the separatism talk, these women are dependent on men to some extent. That may be the discussion here ... however their dependency is selected and self-defined, their boundaries respected and acknowledged. And if this was the conversation to have, the idea to examine in all of this .... in patriarchy can any woman's land be totally separatist.
And.
Why the NYTimes selected this group as an example, I don't know. They were reported to have formed after the demise of Pagoda ... which is never accurately explained. Pagoda was conclave of lesbian space almost on the water in St. Augustine, Florida. You crossed over a big bridge (my former partner and I walked this bridge to Pagoda after taking a short vacation there in 1984) .... the town moved this bridge so that it emptied and was accessed directly across from the entrance to Pagoda .... a hard way to live. There were a number of other reasons this long-time group disbanded, but let's not forget to include the absolute lack of community support with a major highway in their driveway. And they kept a journal. I wrote in it and I read it. They took notes in every meeting, so much to learn on the difficulty of keeping this special place going. So many decisions and disagreements. From the heart.
When I visited there in 1984 it cost us $15 a night for a room with kitchen privileges ... we were both working non-profits, I worked with battered women and C worked with people with HIV-AIDS .... we had no money, wanted to support women in whatever we did and so Pagoda was a good choice for us .... we took the bus down from Atlanta. It was in February, I remember still. It was warmish. I saw dolphins and I still have the black shell I found on the beach there. C made a shell mobile as a gift to the house before we headed back to the city. It was a good time for us.
Women's Space. I have found something to write about ... and will.
Part two to follow ... my interview with some of these women at the Michigan Women's Festival and a bigger discussion of Wimmin's Land.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Yesterday's post was abit of a cheat. All of it true, but it was very short and very simple.
Not unlike today.
And.
Not so bad, that, short and simple.
Good to have around.
Like the sun.
It is out again today. And I am loving the sun when it is out.
In the winter in Maine the sun, out, is a gift.
Simple. And usually short. And sweet.
Not unlike today.
And.
Not so bad, that, short and simple.
Good to have around.
Like the sun.
It is out again today. And I am loving the sun when it is out.
In the winter in Maine the sun, out, is a gift.
Simple. And usually short. And sweet.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Beet Bits in a Bowl
So okay. I read about roasting beet bits and right away it was something I wanted to do.
This recipe uses a number of pans, but is eaten with only one bowl.
Roast a lovely chicken that has been buttered and sprinkled liberally with salt and pepper.
Put on a pot of brown rice.
Peel and slice three beets. Dice. Roast in the oven with a little olive oil. And hey, the red beet
juice will not stain your fingers when uncooked. Kindof like natural magic markers for the body ...
washes right off .... however design work on white t-shirts will remain as a lovely reminder.
Roast beet bits for about an hour.
Fill one large salad bowl half-way up with raw baby spinach. Add roasted beet bits. And some walnuts. And some goat cheese.
Enjoy.
You will not eat all the spinach and so when the rice and chicken are done put little scoops of both in your bowl.
It will be delightful, even more so when you find left behind beet bits and walnuts.
One bowl dinner.
This is nicely shared with one guest or three.
This recipe uses a number of pans, but is eaten with only one bowl.
Roast a lovely chicken that has been buttered and sprinkled liberally with salt and pepper.
Put on a pot of brown rice.
Peel and slice three beets. Dice. Roast in the oven with a little olive oil. And hey, the red beet
juice will not stain your fingers when uncooked. Kindof like natural magic markers for the body ...
washes right off .... however design work on white t-shirts will remain as a lovely reminder.
Roast beet bits for about an hour.
Fill one large salad bowl half-way up with raw baby spinach. Add roasted beet bits. And some walnuts. And some goat cheese.
Enjoy.
You will not eat all the spinach and so when the rice and chicken are done put little scoops of both in your bowl.
It will be delightful, even more so when you find left behind beet bits and walnuts.
One bowl dinner.
This is nicely shared with one guest or three.
Gifts
I am overwhelmed by the inauguration of President Obama.
Stories are bubbling up.
For everyone.
My story is about my mom.
I am so sorry she was not alive to see President Obama take office.
She would have cried all day.
Too.
These memories of her flood in me and they are gifts.
I must have been four when I first remember our annual six day journey
on remote southern roads to visit my grandfather. It was just the two
of us. Always. We drove an old green Rambler with the windows rolled
down to help with the summer heat. She refused to use the "white only"
fountains and bathrooms and lunchrooms. She was 32 years old in
1957, she was divorced, and she had a young daughter with her. My God.
I thank her.
At eight we went into migrant camps. She carried lessons for the children who
had to quit the third grade to work in fields so their families could
eat. She spoke very little on the drive in, it was just what you did. I thank her
for recognizing the work andsharing it with me.
As a public school teacher she never made alot of money but she
quietly paid for the dental work for classroom assistants. And as a woman figuring it out financially she shared the possibilities of teaching with Geraldine,
the school custodian, also figuring it out on her own. Geraldine
became a teacher at the very same school after ten years of night
school. My mom and Geraldine plotted in our home some evenings after
school. I thank them both for this vision of one woman supporting
another woman and breaking barriers.
My mother cried watching on television the civil rights struggle in
the deep south, and she was desperately sad that she had not gone in support and to
ride the buses. I watched her and as a child I felt both the despair
and the determination of the time. I thank her for sharing how close
injustice cuts us all.
These are just a few of my experiences growing up as my mother's
daughter. On Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday I remembered my mother. More.
More than I had remembered my mom for decades.
Obama remembered my mother in his inauguration speech. She was one of
the people in this country who is nameless but who contributed in
countless ways to overcome racism. I was very lucky to have been her daughter,
to have witnessed her love of humanity and her willingness to work for justice.
Healing comes in a variety of ways.
And it spreads.
Stories are bubbling up.
For everyone.
My story is about my mom.
I am so sorry she was not alive to see President Obama take office.
She would have cried all day.
Too.
These memories of her flood in me and they are gifts.
I must have been four when I first remember our annual six day journey
on remote southern roads to visit my grandfather. It was just the two
of us. Always. We drove an old green Rambler with the windows rolled
down to help with the summer heat. She refused to use the "white only"
fountains and bathrooms and lunchrooms. She was 32 years old in
1957, she was divorced, and she had a young daughter with her. My God.
I thank her.
At eight we went into migrant camps. She carried lessons for the children who
had to quit the third grade to work in fields so their families could
eat. She spoke very little on the drive in, it was just what you did. I thank her
for recognizing the work andsharing it with me.
As a public school teacher she never made alot of money but she
quietly paid for the dental work for classroom assistants. And as a woman figuring it out financially she shared the possibilities of teaching with Geraldine,
the school custodian, also figuring it out on her own. Geraldine
became a teacher at the very same school after ten years of night
school. My mom and Geraldine plotted in our home some evenings after
school. I thank them both for this vision of one woman supporting
another woman and breaking barriers.
My mother cried watching on television the civil rights struggle in
the deep south, and she was desperately sad that she had not gone in support and to
ride the buses. I watched her and as a child I felt both the despair
and the determination of the time. I thank her for sharing how close
injustice cuts us all.
These are just a few of my experiences growing up as my mother's
daughter. On Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday I remembered my mother. More.
More than I had remembered my mom for decades.
Obama remembered my mother in his inauguration speech. She was one of
the people in this country who is nameless but who contributed in
countless ways to overcome racism. I was very lucky to have been her daughter,
to have witnessed her love of humanity and her willingness to work for justice.
Healing comes in a variety of ways.
And it spreads.
Friday, January 9, 2009
In-between
I am in-between but don't want to talk about me. Here.
I wonder about this. The blog.
I want to write about civil rights and world peace in the
neighborhood ... instead i feel compelled to begin with
the space I am in or not in ... I am in-between.
I wonder about this. The blog.
I want to write about civil rights and world peace in the
neighborhood ... instead i feel compelled to begin with
the space I am in or not in ... I am in-between.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
the new
I want to get good at this. So good that I add photographs and talk about my dogs.
Easily. My dogs are watching me this morning. They want me to be good at this too.
Easily. My dogs are watching me this morning. They want me to be good at this too.
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