I love flying west. It’s a form of magic – being able to gain time. To relive hours that you’ve already lived. To choose to make the same choices, or different ones.
This feeling is similar to the one I had when I was taking care of Mom, who had Alzheimer’s. Much of the time that I spent with her felt like Groundhog’s Day. She asked the same questions over and over. She made the same observations over and over. We had the same interactions over and over. In the very beginning, this irritated me. “I just told you!,” I thought in my head. And then it dawned on me what a precious offering was being presented.
If I got it wrong the first time (as I often did), I had multiple opportunities to improve. She didn’t remember the time I got it wrong, which was such a gift. If something I said made her upset, I could reflect on it, or speak to her Memory Care doctor, and learn what I could do better. I could improve the next time she queried (and there was always a next time. And a next.). And after two or three tries, we both were content with our interaction.
I can’t remember ever having a small chest. It was as if one day I was prepubescent, and the next I was a 34 DD (that’s big, for folks who don’t know sizing). In fifth grade. It wasn’t ideal.
I fielded inappropriate comments from classmates, from teachers, and from random men, for years. As I aged, and as I grew, I took to binding myself, to buying minimizer bras, and to wearing baggy clothing to try to hide the shape of my body.
I hated exercising. It hurt. I hated running. However running was what my friend group gravitated towards, signing up for races around the country. I bought sports bras from Germany, virtual steel traps. I ran, so thankful for crossing the finish line, when I wouldn’t be bouncing anymore.
I went through menopause. I gained weight. My boobs became even bigger. I wore a 36K bra size, which had to be special ordered. No stores carried that size. My shoulders ached. My neck ached. My back ached. I engaged in physical therapy for almost two years to try to alleviate the pain. I lost over 50 pounds. And none of that weight came from my boobs.
I despaired. I didn’t want to be in constant pain. I didn’t want to hate pictures I saw of myself.
I don’t even remember how it came up, but one day, in a conversation with my neighbor, she mentioned she had had breast reduction surgery and it was the best decision she’d ever made. She showed me before and after pictures, and talked about how she was no longer in pain.
I reached out to her doctor for a consultation. He’s popular. I waited almost 4 months to be seen. He said, yes, I was an ideal candidate for breast reduction. I petitioned my insurance company. Again and again. A date was set for surgery. I told the doctor to remove as much as he possibly could. He asked ideally what size would I like to be. I told him a B cup. He sighed, and said he didn’t think that was safely possible. But he’d do the best he could.
The morning of the surgery, I reminded him that I wanted to be as small as possible. He acknowledged my request and said he’d see what he could do.
The last thing I remember was laughing with my sister, then being rolled into the operating room. And then I was being woken up, in the recovery area, three hours later. The nurse helped me dress – surgical bra, button up shirt, pants. As I stepped off the table, as groggy and medicated as I was, I felt such relief. I could stand up straight. I could hold my shoulders back without effort.
I’m not as small as I’d hoped I’d be. But I feel balanced. I feel comfortable in my body. And there’s no more back, neck, or shoulder pain. It’s an amazing feeling.
We had dinner plans. She suggested we got to the North Carolina Arboretum instead/in addition to visit Thomas Dambo’s “Trolls: A Field Study” exhibition. It was the perfect day for it. Cold, but not as cold as the recent single digit snowy temperatures. A pleasant chilly. Gray and drizzly. Not many other visitors. An ideal day to saunter through the Arboretum and enjoy the calming force of being among copses of trees, walking on paths covered with soft pine needles.
Each troll had a message. About food waste, noise pollution, capital consumption, among others. The messages were short and to the point, with suggested action items. The trolls were delightful. Huge wooden sculptures with surprising details. Beautiful fingernails. Wild hair made from twigs. Kindly facial expressions. And with each troll Dambo captured the essence of movement – catching something (perhaps a human?) with a net, attempting a handstand, delighting in found objects. I marvel at artists. How do their minds work to come up with these ideas? Simply stunning.
Eternally grateful for the surprises the world offers. ❤
Valle – encouraging us to take a breakBignut – capturing us to allow us to marvel at natureLilnut Boge – collecting thoughts on nature (and nibbling on my shoulder ❤ )Kirse – what designs in nature bear repeating?Poppy – why are we consuming so much??Hasse – look at nature from new angles!Birch – nature comes in all sizesAnya – collecting stones and admiring natureLarke – why do we throw away so much food when so many go hungry? Wilde – observing humans
We’re expecting a big storm this weekend. Possibly snow, probably lots of ice. Ice could mean downed power lines. For a long time. I’ve been familiar with storm prep all my life. There are many wonderful things about living in the south; however, storm response is not really one.
I remember as a child, maybe 11? maybe 12 years old?, we had a snowstorm that took out power for over a week. I remember being trapped in the house, confined to our den that had a fireplace/wood stove. We shut all the doors to try to keep heat in, and hunkered down under layers of blankets. We warmed soup over the wood stove, read or played games during the daylight hours, and went to sleep when night fell. It’s not a bad memory. It’s one of comfort, and belonging, and safety. And fun. We made snow cream every day during the storm. The sweet, delicious treat of snow mixed with condensed milk and vanilla. And we could eat as much as we wanted. There was no limit to the decadence.
This impending storm, however, brings up different memories. Memories from just over a year ago. Memories of being without power for weeks, and without water for months. Hurricane Helene was a doozy.
And so, in my storm prep, I find myself charging all my devices, yes. But also, doing all my laundry. Refreshing my sheets. Washing my hair. Setting out flashlights and candles. Making food that would be as delicious cold as hot. Setting out stacks of physical books and jigsaw puzzles for entertainment if electricity fails. And physically preparing to be alone if need be.
When we get warnings like this, it seems like it could either be the storm of the century, or a big bust. Looking forward to seeing what this brings.
Such serendipity. A dear former colleague and her family were vacationing in Mexico City. ON THE EXACT SAME DATES I WAS!!!!! We discovered this through a mutual friend. I couldn’t believe how lucky this was. Unexpected joy is the best.
We shared many dinners and excursions together, and shared tips on the things we had done apart. She recommended the Palacio de Correos de Mexico and I was enamored. I love all things mail. I love stamps. I love connecting through the written word. And. Oh, my goodness. The extravagance. The opulence. I repeatedly oohed and ahhed and gaped and gasped. I couldn’t believe such a structure had been built as a post office. And the preservation! Marble and gild and art and stone and mahogany and brass and statues and…
One of the first exhibits was a collage made of postage stamps. This wasn’t a small collage. It was at least six feet wide by eight feet tall. So. Many. Stamps. And so stunning from afar, where it appeared to be a painting, and so stunning up close, where it became apparent how much painstaking care was needed to create such a masterpiece.
Each room highlighted a different aspect of the postal service. Stamps. Plates to make stamps. Seals for letters. Postal uniforms. Post boxes through the years. Postal art.
And then. There was the special exhibit. People who had stitched letters. Some of the letters were heartbreaking. Messages to children who had died. Messages to former lovers. Messages to family members who had passed into the next world. Messages to friends. All were stunningly beautiful.
As we were leaving, my friend said, “That was a museum built for you.” And it was. Every brick, every light fixture, every exhibit, spoke to my heart. Thank you, Mexico. ❤
We arrived to Santuario Piedra Herrada, after an almost three hour drive from Mexico City. I stretched my legs slowly and breathed in the crisp mountain air. I watched my breath exhale in tiny wisps of white “smoke.” I smiled.
We walked to the base of the mountain, where horses waited for us. José helped me mount Regal, a sweet, sleepy horse, with deep brown pools for eyes. Up the mountain we went in silence, two riders, two horses, two guides leading the way. There is something primal about being in the woods. Not just being outside, but being surrounded by wilderness, the seemingly disorderly arrangement of trees, bushes, flowers. And that’s all that you can see, all around you. It’s as though nature is enveloping you in a tight hug, reminding you that you are loved.
Jose leading me and Regal
We rode like this for almost an hour. I marveled at lantana that were closer to the size of bushes, rather than the small plants I have at home. Sprigs of red bee balm peeked through the browns and greens of the forest. Sunlight dappled the path, where it could penetrate the tops of the oyamel fir trees. My body swayed and bobbed with Regal’s gait, lured into a peaceful trance. As we climbed higher, a fluttering captured my eye. Oh! There! The bright orange of a monarch’s wings captivated me. I watched as it glided closer, effortlessly drifting, before landing on a bright flower. I was mesmerized.
We reached the point where horses could go no further. We dismounted, and began the final climb on foot to the top of the mountain. Ten minutes later our guide stopped. We stopped, somewhat out of breath, the elevation of 5,500 feet bearing on us. I wondered why we stopped. We were in a fir grove, mulched wood soft and spongey beneath our feet. Our guide pointed upwards.
It took me a minute to process what I was seeing. There, on the trees, were brown clusters, which looked similar to wasps’ nests. I stood in silence, wondering what the ever so slight sound was that I could barely discern. And then I saw it. As the sunlight hit the clusters, individual monarchs peeled off and began flying around the tops of the firs. Each individual monarch appeared to be a diamond in the sky, sparkling as the sunlight reflected off its wings. I reveled in the silence. I stared upward, my eyes darting each time a butterfly took flight. They circled, they dipped, they returned to the cluster, they took flight again. A woodpecker peck, peck, pecked on a nearby tree. I was on sacred ground.
We watched in silence, marveling at the miracle before us. I attempted a video, but camera simply could not fully capture the magic of the moment.
After what felt like an eternity, and at the same time no time at all, our guide motioned for us to follow him back to the horses. Part of me wanted to plead for just a few more minutes. And part of me understood that I had witnessed something magical, and it was time to allow others to experience the same. As we walked to where the horses were, more butterflies fluttered past. I said a silent prayer of gratitude for being able to experience this miracle. Muchas gracias, mis monarcas.
Today I received a thank you card from my ten-year old godson, thanking me for his birthday gift. And then, in a child’s handwriting, where letters aren’t quite perfectly formed, he added this:
And my heart broke. In the most wonderful way. Because I miss him, too. I miss our loud and rambunctious outings. I miss snuggling hard on the couch. I miss listening to books on tape together.
I miss all of my friends in the Bay Area, especially the children of all of my dearest friends. It’s like watching the best of the best grow up again. It’s a lot to hold true all at once: not missing living in the Bay Area, for the cost of living, for the politics, for the homelessness *and* at the same time missing the people that I love so dearly. So hard. Missing the opportunity to be part of their day to day lives. I guess that’s what letters are for, right?
The most recent book to become available on Libby was Human Acts: A Novel. I started reading it last night and finished it today. Though this was not a chapter in Korean history I was familiar with, I was overcome with nostalgia for my time spent there in 2001-2002.
Nostalgia washes over me. I remember experiencing illiteracy for the first time. I could read the hangul letters, and sound out words on signs, and had no idea what the meaning of said words were. Everything was new. Each day was an explosion of learning. How to order in a restaurant. How to pay the electric bill (at the post office?!?). How to navigate transportation systems. The kindness of strangers.
And the seoye classes. My job as an English teacher didn’t start until 3 pm. So every morning I took seoye classes with Mr Song. Me, and seven Korean grandfathers. Seoye, or Chinese calligraphy brush painting, was something one traditionally did in retirement. But I loved the beauty of writing and art, and asked if Mr Song would allow me to take classes with him each morning. He agreed, though he spoke minimal English, and I spoke minimal Korean. Each morning, for hours, we sat at our desks, brush held at a ninety degree angle to the paper, and practiced strokes. Mr Song would often come by and place his hand over mine, coaxing my hand into the correct position to make beautiful brush strokes. I would smile and offer an enthusiastic “Khamsa-hamnida!”
About a month into classes, the group decided that one day a month would be spent on a field trip to a cultural institution to expose me to more Korean heritage. Again, because of their limited English, and my limited Korean, I’m not sure that I understood the full depth of what they intended to impart. And I appreciated the great kindness they showed. Our first trip was “The Welcome Party.” They introduced me to black pig (delicious) and the correct way to pour and receive soju (dangerous).
They taught me the Korean song for the 2002 FIFA World Cup, “Oh Pilseung Korea.” We sang it through the month of the World Cup, waving the Taegeukgi flag and cheering for the national team that eventually landed fourth in the tournament.
Nostalgic, I found my bag of seoye materials in my craft room. I probably haven’t examined the materials in 20 years, yet they’ve made the move with me from apartment to condo, from San Francisco to Asheville. I took out my onion skinned practice papers. I marveled at how proficient I used to be.
I spread the felt cloth over my dining room table. I opened my ink stone and began to grind the onyx black ink. I twisted my brush into a fine point, and began my exercises. For hours, I awkwardly practiced strokes – numbers first, then common characters such as happiness, longevity, and strength. I’ve lost the natural flow of strokes. But I haven’t lost the overwhelming feelings of calm and peacefulness as I silently place ink to paper. I’m grateful.
Hands down, the thing I miss most about living in San Francisco is the ease of connecting with friends. We still connect, through postcards, and texts, and emails, but the in person visits require a bit more coordination now that I’m on the east coast.
What surprised me about my most recent visit is that I discovered I also *really* miss the Pacific Ocean. I had two very different, yet equally perfect, days with her this trip.
On Saturday, we were at Ocean Beach. It was a quintessential San Francisco summer day. Cold, drizzly, and ridiculously strong winds. My legs were bare and the coarse sand pounded against my exposed skin. My loose hair whipped around my head, preventing me from always seeing. The water was rough, no surfers daring to tackle it. I love the raw power of the Pacific Ocean on days like this.
Stormy Pacific Ocean at Ocean Beach in San Francisco
On Wednesday, I walked along Crissy Field. A gentle breeze blew, the sun warmed my bare arms. This was San Francisco October at its best. Blue skies, gentle breeze, warm sun. The most perfect month to visit. I stopped at one of the many wooden benches overlooking the Bay. The water isn’t as rough here. I can see to Marin. Sailboats glide by. Tankers slowly make their way across. The Golden Gate Bridge stands majestically in the distance, its International Orange contrasting with the blues of the Bay and the sky. The roar of Highway One traffic is in the near background, yet feels far away. A young couple sits cross legged on a blanket in the sand not far away, facing each other with little space in between. Talking, laughing, ignoring their Husky. The Bay is the epitome of opportunities – anyone’s dream can become reality here.
Beautiful San Francisco Bay on a sunny October day
The day was perfect. Blue skies, puffy white clouds, cool temperatures. I had just come home from dance class, and sat on the front porch, rocking in my favorite chair and enjoying the moment before it dawned on me that it would be a perfect day to drive up to the Parkway. Sections that had been closed since Hurricane Helene had just reopened. I prepared some snacks and jumped into the car.
As I drove higher and higher, I felt an overwhelming sadness. I saw evidence of the destruction Hurricane Helene had wrecked. I was grateful for the crews that had worked so hard to reopen the parkway. I was sad for all the downed trees and destruction. Both can be true all at once.
I parked at the trailhead to Black Balsam. I bounded up the rocky path, and relished in the pristine air. I appreciated the silence. I hadn’t realized how accustomed I had grown to noise. I loved the lack of it. Silence is beautiful. Silence is restorative.
I don’t know what they were, but the bare trees with bunches of red berries were striking. The sun over the horizon was invigorating. The red leaves rustling in the wind. All were almost too beautiful to take in. Almost.
I sat on a rock and just was. I looked out over the mountains. I listened to the wind blowing. I felt the warmth of the sun. I appreciated the land that has been here for ages and will continue to be here for ages to come. I was content. I was happy.
LoriLoo 