Friday night's local tv news and the Home section of Saturday's LA TIMES presented a story about guerrilla gardeners with a new, accessible way to beautify vacant urban spaces around Los Angeles. By modifying old candy dispensing machines, L.A. designers Daniel Phillips and Kim Karlsrud, with San Francisco landscape architect David Fletcher, offer passers-by the chance, for 25 cents, to purchase and distribute seed bombs. The balls, which come in three mixes formulated for different habitats, are a combination of soil and seed and are meant to be tossed, guerrilla-style into bare and unlovely patches of earth. Called Greenaid, the concept calls for 10 of the dispensing machines to be installed by mid-May. The first is located in L.A.'s Chinatown. For further details, background and photos, here is the link. And to all guerrilla beautifiers of our cities, including a blog-pal knitter in Australia, thank you.
Vintage Candy Machine Turned Guerrilla Gardening Dispenser @greenUPGRADER
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
LITTLE MARY SUNSHINE
All singing, all dancing. In my childhood home, the Broadway musical was king. For their favorite shows, LITTLE MARY SUNSHINE and THE BOY FRIEND, my parents were willing to drive...distances...for every student, amateur, community or professional staging they could find. The plays were always performed with great heart, and, as I remember, no cast ever disappointed. Imperfect diamonds are diamonds all the same.
The big shows sang throughout our lives, too. When all we had was a phonograph, the cast recordings of KISMET, CAROUSEL, SOUTH PACIFIC, GUYS AND DOLLS played again and again, music to indoctrinate young minds. When I think what the soundtrack of my story would include, I am conscious of many separate compartments, from my grandfather's World War I standards like, "There's A Long, Long Trail A'Winding," Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, all the show tunes, up to the Dylan albums that I was listening to when I left home and all that has been added since. That doesn't even touch upon everything we heard on the radio, which I started listening to like a religion when I was still in grade school.
When we purchased a stereo, my father positioned his chair between the speakers. One half of the combo had the turntable and all the dials; its companion, equally large, about the size of a double-door kitchen cabinet on legs, was all speaker...probably not ALL, as I imagine most of it was empty space. What he liked almost as much as the musicals were albums of what I think were called society orchestras, instrumental, dance-tempo renditions of familiar melodies. I remember one favorite was Lester Lanin. They went on to play (thanks, Google) at the wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. We were not a family that listened to classical music, something which I may still remedy, but we surely had music and as long as my long-term memory holds, lyrics by the boatload can be accessed in an instant. Additionally, songs (as performed by the original artists) will simply begin to play in my head. I wonder if there is some message being communicated or if it is merely part of the soundtrack, randomly selected.
In his newspaper job, which included a daily column, my dad was - over the years - in charge of a variety of sections and departments, like camping - which was a family joke since we never went camping together - but he wrote about sleeping bags and Coleman stoves to go along with his suggestions for back roads and tranquil destinations. He was the book editor, almost ever-lastingly - our mail arrived in canvas sacks like the letters to Santa being brought into the courtroom in MIRACLE ON 34th STREET, mountains of review copies, what joy. For a time he was, not music editor but somehow in charge of being sent review copies of records and, as such, would received original cast albums, occasionally for shows which had closed by the time the record arrived.
As he also wrote reviews of Civic Light Opera performances, for several seasons we were among the happy opening night audiences when Broadway went on the road. I do not under-value what a gift it was to have those orchestra seats, usually just a few rows from the stage, for such names as Ethel Merman in GYPSY. The theaters in which we saw them may be long vanished, yet the shows endure. Perhaps fewer in number and variety than 50 years ago, they come to Los Angeles, sell out and entrance current generations with their unique magic.
As I recently verified on-line what I remembered of the musicals, seeing if any videos existed of less-well known tunes, I found comments left on You Tube from people thanking their parents for raising them with the, "...good, old songs," crediting their success in life to the values represented by parents who played them Broadway shows. I wouldn't have expressed it in just that way, yet I don't disagree. For me it is, more accurately, another square in the quilt of my life, additional texture, more near-encyclopedic knowledge that will never appear on a resume. It does contribute to my way of seeing, of responding, of appreciating. While aspects of my earlier life have required repair, at the same time the continuous influence of my parents' enthusiasms has provided substance, sturdy handrails which have kept me from flying overboard. The arts enrich; it has been proven. Knowledge and experience of a wider, creative existence seem to balance the sense of being alarmingly insubstantial that results from childhood's unwelcome teachings.
Many of us emerge from our younger lives with pieces that don't seem to match. Art from found objects - assemblage, collage, constructions, anything that brings disparate parts together into a new and resurrected whole - offers a model of how our incongruent histories can make sense. Retain all that feeds your spirit, whether you remember the words or not, and forgive the rest.
The big shows sang throughout our lives, too. When all we had was a phonograph, the cast recordings of KISMET, CAROUSEL, SOUTH PACIFIC, GUYS AND DOLLS played again and again, music to indoctrinate young minds. When I think what the soundtrack of my story would include, I am conscious of many separate compartments, from my grandfather's World War I standards like, "There's A Long, Long Trail A'Winding," Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, all the show tunes, up to the Dylan albums that I was listening to when I left home and all that has been added since. That doesn't even touch upon everything we heard on the radio, which I started listening to like a religion when I was still in grade school.
When we purchased a stereo, my father positioned his chair between the speakers. One half of the combo had the turntable and all the dials; its companion, equally large, about the size of a double-door kitchen cabinet on legs, was all speaker...probably not ALL, as I imagine most of it was empty space. What he liked almost as much as the musicals were albums of what I think were called society orchestras, instrumental, dance-tempo renditions of familiar melodies. I remember one favorite was Lester Lanin. They went on to play (thanks, Google) at the wedding of Prince Charles and Princess Diana. We were not a family that listened to classical music, something which I may still remedy, but we surely had music and as long as my long-term memory holds, lyrics by the boatload can be accessed in an instant. Additionally, songs (as performed by the original artists) will simply begin to play in my head. I wonder if there is some message being communicated or if it is merely part of the soundtrack, randomly selected.
In his newspaper job, which included a daily column, my dad was - over the years - in charge of a variety of sections and departments, like camping - which was a family joke since we never went camping together - but he wrote about sleeping bags and Coleman stoves to go along with his suggestions for back roads and tranquil destinations. He was the book editor, almost ever-lastingly - our mail arrived in canvas sacks like the letters to Santa being brought into the courtroom in MIRACLE ON 34th STREET, mountains of review copies, what joy. For a time he was, not music editor but somehow in charge of being sent review copies of records and, as such, would received original cast albums, occasionally for shows which had closed by the time the record arrived.
As he also wrote reviews of Civic Light Opera performances, for several seasons we were among the happy opening night audiences when Broadway went on the road. I do not under-value what a gift it was to have those orchestra seats, usually just a few rows from the stage, for such names as Ethel Merman in GYPSY. The theaters in which we saw them may be long vanished, yet the shows endure. Perhaps fewer in number and variety than 50 years ago, they come to Los Angeles, sell out and entrance current generations with their unique magic.
As I recently verified on-line what I remembered of the musicals, seeing if any videos existed of less-well known tunes, I found comments left on You Tube from people thanking their parents for raising them with the, "...good, old songs," crediting their success in life to the values represented by parents who played them Broadway shows. I wouldn't have expressed it in just that way, yet I don't disagree. For me it is, more accurately, another square in the quilt of my life, additional texture, more near-encyclopedic knowledge that will never appear on a resume. It does contribute to my way of seeing, of responding, of appreciating. While aspects of my earlier life have required repair, at the same time the continuous influence of my parents' enthusiasms has provided substance, sturdy handrails which have kept me from flying overboard. The arts enrich; it has been proven. Knowledge and experience of a wider, creative existence seem to balance the sense of being alarmingly insubstantial that results from childhood's unwelcome teachings.
Many of us emerge from our younger lives with pieces that don't seem to match. Art from found objects - assemblage, collage, constructions, anything that brings disparate parts together into a new and resurrected whole - offers a model of how our incongruent histories can make sense. Retain all that feeds your spirit, whether you remember the words or not, and forgive the rest.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
What's your other choice?
"All who joy would win must share it; happiness was born a twin."
Lord Byron
How do you greet yourself in the morning? When you awake, are you inhabiting your skin with a welcome entity or something that causes you to think of exorcism? Any day that begins with even a pinch of self-rejection is going to be a particularly bumpy ride. Save bumpy for the chenille bedspread; what we want is smooth, kind, gracious. Gee, I sure am happy to see you.
If we are enemies to ourselves, how can we hope to be a friend to another? I have come through stretches of time - years would be my best guess - when, as soon as I opened my eyes, every character defect, shortcoming, each bit of unfinished business, regardless of its vintage, was being enumerated for me, like the Naughty side of Santa's ledger, by a voice so superior in its disapproval that I felt defeated before the covers were even thrown back. This is not living; this is not right.
My eventual release from this hell, one which I know is shared by many, came from (a) traditional talk therapy, (b) 12-step programs, their impressive record of wisdom and recovery and a power greater than myself and (c) beginning to keep a journal of only gratitude. No complaining, no self-pity, no diving into the story so that wounds could be kept fresh and oozing.
"Thank you," I would begin, "today I am grateful for..." and go on to list all that I could think of which was not a recitation of how the wheels were about to come off the wagon. I was thankful for everything that worked that day - automobile, plumbing, pencil leads that stayed sharp, meals prepared without mishap. It was easy to be grateful for my son, for my friends, for family members who allow me to sit close, metaphorically, rather than treating me like something better handled through third parties or with the use of rubber gloves and barbecue tongs.
As thankfulness becomes a state of mind and a state of being, we notice that another hundred blessings just got off the bus. They have their hands in the air, oooh, oooh, pick me. It reminds me of the lines for "Let's Make A Deal," taped at the studio where I was employed. The couple dressed as containers of french fries could have been on my show. Blessings are patient; waiting - time itself - hah! no matter. We will be here.
An invitation via Facebook from Giant Robot to their presentations at the coming LA Times Festival of Books drew a benevolent sigh when I read that David Horvath would be there. Horvath and Sun-Min Kim created the Ugly Dolls. They belong in the Perpetual section of my gratitude list for how seeing any one of them makes me smile. A green Abima and magenta Moxie reside with us. It was discovering them - and the mind-expanding "Giant Robot" magazine - that elbowed me to draw the creatures who became a line of rubber stamps for Stampington and Co. in 2008.
Today I am grateful that I didn't gobble my package of Peeps but savored them...three still remain. I am grateful that our supermarket strawberries were not only inexpensive, they were also ripe and sweet. I am grateful to hear my friends speak with unguarded affection about their children, their pets, their gardens. My list today contains newsletter recipients who sent favorable comments to the store for which I write. I laughed - perhaps disproportionately - when hearing of the new game, " Chuck Norris versus Werner Herzog," which film critic Roger Ebert is playing on Twitter, where it apparently began. If you've read earlier entries here, you know whose team I'm on.
Life is absurd. I am relieved and reassured whenever that awareness taps me on the shoulder or grabs me by the lapels. In the midst of grief, etc. What will make it onto your gratitude list today? Will you say Thank You for: The means to acquire new pens for a sketching fest? News of good health from someone dear? The wealth of useful facts and overflowing inspiration that creative bloggers all over the world deliver to our table? Lucinda Williams' "...pens that don't run out of ink and cool quiet and time to think..."?
It is said that all of life is a blessing; I know there were days when the extent of my gratitude was to say, "I'm still here." Today I give thanks that I have so much more which I recognize as gifts. I am grateful to computers and the internet, to Google and Blogger, and all who dreamed them into being. I am grateful for a forum in which I can share my joy, for people who may find something of themselves here, for Lord Byron's insightful words, for being here.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Just love it
A friend of mine tells the definitive story of how what we want to see occludes our vision for what is. She and her husband were looking for purebred boxers and located a seller with two young dogs for sale. They did not resemble the boxers they had owned previously, yet the seller swore they were that breed. Driving home with the alleged boxers in the car, my friend was thinking, "We have our boxers," yet feeling that something was out of kilter. When they arrived home, they looked closely at the not-even-purebred dogs of indeterminate origin and had to acknowledge they had talked themselves into something from the sheer wanting of it to be true and these were not, never had been, never would be, boxers. "These dogs are not boxers," has become a phrase she uses when speaking of any situation in which we try and convince ourselves that...this is it.
Conversely, I am too well acquainted with how easily we can reject the real thing when it doesn't match some arbitrary notion of how, for example, a piece of art or writing ought to be. This falls under the heading of Nothing in Life Is One Size Fits All in my yet-unwritten manifesto. If I had kept track of how many years I spent comparing (underlined, caps, bold face...remember this word) the visual interpretation of my spirit with that of other illustrators, essayists, and so on, I would wander the streets draped in mourning for so much lost time, for gifts unappreciated.
How long until we understand that whatever our form of expression (this assuming that it doesn't cause harm anywhere), it is authentic and it absolutely is our gift. Would you dream of rejecting a child's handmade card, pillow, giant mailing-tube candy cane or cotton-ball tufted Santa face for its lack of sophistication? I have the memory of a pair of yellow and green earrings - could they have been made of seeds? - going right into the dresser drawer, never to be worn, never even taken out of the box, because they were not lovely enough. Since that is a fourth-grade memory and it lingers still, I present it as a cautionary tale. I will not elaborate on the first-grade clay Christmas tree whose tilt gave the impression, in brown and orange, of dancing, of happy motion. Did it sway to its own music on the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard decade after decade? At least it wasn't thrown away, yet it never got to come to the party.
Because my desire to produce a longer work brought me nothing but frustration, I gave in one day and let my shorter pieces speak for me. Trying to make myself into the boxer of my own creative process gave me cringe-worthy chapters of semi-fiction that went nowhere and said nothing. Because what escapes from any pen in my hand is somewhat silly, often cheerful and occasionally lumpy, askew and peculiar, I realized I was dragging myself back to junior high and looking at myself through the adolescent prism which emphasized how much I didn't match anything or anyone around me. Then it seemed to matter, at least somewhat. Fortunately, it didn't matter enough to go all psycho over never having owned a Lanz dress, having hair that only now - thanks for nothing, dwindling hormones - has quadrants completely free of curl and white bucks (it was the 50s, give me a break) that were never white enough, despite the powder-puff chalky pillow that I carried in my felt clutch purse in the hope of dusting them into a state other than scuffed and faintly gray.
Do not suppose it escapes my notice that outsiderdom is a recurring topic in these posts. Nor will I apologize for restating the belief that, if we are permitting ourselves to appear in the earthly regions in our true forms, we will always be one-of-a-kind. During the lengthy silent moments of my days, I feel guided to say a frequent "thank you," then sit down and be happy with my equivalent of the package of assorted Life Saver rolls which was the gift I brought to the 6th grade Christmas exchange. Unlike Loren (you know who you are), I would not sell them to my classmates while exhibiting facial disappointment and speaking of them in unwelcoming language.
Here is what I think, based on thoroughly unscientific observation and conclusion: we will never be satisfied with what we may one day produce if we are not happy with the light that flows through us today. For it is indeed light, pure and golden, and to reject or disparage it is to tell the universe that it has done a sub-par job. Do you really want to relay THAT message to all that is, to our source, by whatever name you choose to call it? I think of a long-ago Shel Silverstein book called, in my memory, "Uncle Shelby's ABZ Book." In it was cyclops, probably for the letter "C" and Uncle Shelby suggested that you, child reading the book, go and poke him in the eye. As Uncle Shelby said, "I'll wait here for you." Before something goes tragically wrong, take the gift, love it, wear it, coo and swoon over it. Feed it bits of carmelized popcorn, caress its funny, pointy head, give it a home and love it. As my brother once said, love it "...like the pain of being alive." Love it.
Conversely, I am too well acquainted with how easily we can reject the real thing when it doesn't match some arbitrary notion of how, for example, a piece of art or writing ought to be. This falls under the heading of Nothing in Life Is One Size Fits All in my yet-unwritten manifesto. If I had kept track of how many years I spent comparing (underlined, caps, bold face...remember this word) the visual interpretation of my spirit with that of other illustrators, essayists, and so on, I would wander the streets draped in mourning for so much lost time, for gifts unappreciated.
How long until we understand that whatever our form of expression (this assuming that it doesn't cause harm anywhere), it is authentic and it absolutely is our gift. Would you dream of rejecting a child's handmade card, pillow, giant mailing-tube candy cane or cotton-ball tufted Santa face for its lack of sophistication? I have the memory of a pair of yellow and green earrings - could they have been made of seeds? - going right into the dresser drawer, never to be worn, never even taken out of the box, because they were not lovely enough. Since that is a fourth-grade memory and it lingers still, I present it as a cautionary tale. I will not elaborate on the first-grade clay Christmas tree whose tilt gave the impression, in brown and orange, of dancing, of happy motion. Did it sway to its own music on the top shelf in the kitchen cupboard decade after decade? At least it wasn't thrown away, yet it never got to come to the party.
Because my desire to produce a longer work brought me nothing but frustration, I gave in one day and let my shorter pieces speak for me. Trying to make myself into the boxer of my own creative process gave me cringe-worthy chapters of semi-fiction that went nowhere and said nothing. Because what escapes from any pen in my hand is somewhat silly, often cheerful and occasionally lumpy, askew and peculiar, I realized I was dragging myself back to junior high and looking at myself through the adolescent prism which emphasized how much I didn't match anything or anyone around me. Then it seemed to matter, at least somewhat. Fortunately, it didn't matter enough to go all psycho over never having owned a Lanz dress, having hair that only now - thanks for nothing, dwindling hormones - has quadrants completely free of curl and white bucks (it was the 50s, give me a break) that were never white enough, despite the powder-puff chalky pillow that I carried in my felt clutch purse in the hope of dusting them into a state other than scuffed and faintly gray.
Do not suppose it escapes my notice that outsiderdom is a recurring topic in these posts. Nor will I apologize for restating the belief that, if we are permitting ourselves to appear in the earthly regions in our true forms, we will always be one-of-a-kind. During the lengthy silent moments of my days, I feel guided to say a frequent "thank you," then sit down and be happy with my equivalent of the package of assorted Life Saver rolls which was the gift I brought to the 6th grade Christmas exchange. Unlike Loren (you know who you are), I would not sell them to my classmates while exhibiting facial disappointment and speaking of them in unwelcoming language.
Here is what I think, based on thoroughly unscientific observation and conclusion: we will never be satisfied with what we may one day produce if we are not happy with the light that flows through us today. For it is indeed light, pure and golden, and to reject or disparage it is to tell the universe that it has done a sub-par job. Do you really want to relay THAT message to all that is, to our source, by whatever name you choose to call it? I think of a long-ago Shel Silverstein book called, in my memory, "Uncle Shelby's ABZ Book." In it was cyclops, probably for the letter "C" and Uncle Shelby suggested that you, child reading the book, go and poke him in the eye. As Uncle Shelby said, "I'll wait here for you." Before something goes tragically wrong, take the gift, love it, wear it, coo and swoon over it. Feed it bits of carmelized popcorn, caress its funny, pointy head, give it a home and love it. As my brother once said, love it "...like the pain of being alive." Love it.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Perhaps I can explain...
Friends and readers who are not battling the riptide of mixed-media obsession may not understand how I feel about paper. It started with end-rolls of newsprint and what we used to call "shirt" cardboard, the shape-giving pieces that Royal Laundry included with every clean shirt they delivered.
I didn't just draw on the stuff, I shaped it into Valentines, dimensional Easter cards, faux fireworks, paper bag puppets, holiday place cards and flowers. Following my mother's example, I learned to save scraps and cut images from magazines. I spent my allowance on rolls of giftwrap.
Taking inspiration recently from the Liberty of London products created for Target stores, I started looking for floral scrapbook paper that would simulate their multi-colored, random flower prints, without (yet) finding any. It becomes a fox-and-hounds world when the scent of new paper is in the air and as my tracking failed to expose anything that matched my vision, I thought I would try to design my own. It has been years since I worked on glossy cardstock, having developed a style that suits me with non-glossy surfaces and Prismacolor pencils. Into the boxes and drawers I ventured to see what remained of once-plentiful white glossy stock that could be turned into photocopy-able marker-colored sheets of pattern and image.
Once upon a time, the Kelly Paper store in Pasadena (and elsewhere, I think) allowed the taking of free samples and I retained a supply of those, along with purchased cardstock which had begun to yellow around the edges. Deep and vivid Pantone shades would hide that, I thought. What I did not remember, or factor in, was the fact that permanent drawing pens may be permanent with water-based mediums but run with alcohol-based markers. The result is first samples with a bit of smudge darkening, but I can live with that. My elderly Tria pens have stayed miraculously juicy. They have been standing in their wooden storage boxes for well more than 10 years and, with a couple exceptions, did everything I needed them to do.
I discovered brand new fun with supplies I kept on hand because (a) who in this line of work (I use the term loosely) can throw away paper? and (b) the allure of drawing and coloring in the shapes will never diminish. So far I have not reproduced anything close to the Liberty look that started this and it doesn't matter. I have a cramp at the base of my thumb that, for a few minutes after I've put the pen down, runs part-way up my arm AND I have vivid, edge-to-edge filled sheets that, as color copies, will become backgrounds, envelopes, gifts and reminders that what some might call hoarding - I call it saving - has unimagined payoffs.
My good fortune is no one close by to scowl and ask (surely the answer is evident), "do you really need ALL that paper?" Yes, today I need all that paper and a bit more, which would fill in the gaps of weight, texture, size, color, pattern and purpose. Appearances to the contrary, a containerized life wherein rest font catalogs, deconstructed cereal boxes and origami squares (whether crumpled, dog-eared, faded or fresh) is not the second or third sign of mental apocalypse, it is a benchmark of foresight and thrift. It is what I know and what I do. It is me.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Alterations
(stained glass created by Sharon Ruxton, based on a sketch by M. Kelly)Today we are not the people we were yesterday. Even if we live as hermits - a choice not widely available - natural forces surround us. Change on a grand or barely discernable level is continuous and inescapable.
The human experience has a lot in common with attending a major league baseball game, sitting in the bleachers past third base, hands occupied with a hot dog and soda, and seeing that mad foul ball coming right at you. To this day, I have some uber-sized knuckles from finger sprains acquired in right field at Longfellow Elementary. You will not hear me rejoicing as a maiming projectile hurtles toward me.
Among the elements working around the clock is gravity, source of physical changes which over time resemble - at least to my eyes - the melting of a Nazi face in RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. We are held to this planet by invisible power and I swear some days the pull is stronger than others. Everything entering our sphere has an effect - wise or witless, kind or critical, even something in perfect balance leaves a trace and, whether added to or subtracted from, we become variants of our previous selves.
As we evolve or morph or transform, our thoughts are not static. The good news is we are free to change our minds; the less good news is that we may be seen as flighty or worse, conflicted. I will survive being misunderstood, as will you.
I find life to be a process and as any process, it has stages. There will be moments - or days, months - when the dough is rising, other periods when it gets punched back down, then, if we were actual loaves, the eventual baking...but that is not for us. We will go on being dough. At least in this incarnation, we are works-in-progress, not intended to become finished products.
Our process is enhanced by the souls with whom we choose to make this journey. Though I would keep writing if no one else ever read these words, I am lifted by comments that tell me I have come near the mark. I have the luxury of time during the day to converse or correspond with others and exchange ideas. There are places where I can turn if the waters are troubled and I turn to them as well when tidings are glad. We come, I know, to a state of reliance upon this core of support. Few of us will likely be in this exact configuration indefinitely; it is comforting to assume that people who matter will not waiver or drift, yet they do.
On Friday my cousin Sharon - Sheri - died. Her kindness, encouragement, generosity, unconditional love and unambiguous passion concerning all things, whether for or against, enriched our lives and, I assume, the world at large for such energy expands in a widening circle. We and our lives were different Thursday night than they are today. I will not say that she is gone, for the power and expanse of her nature are too great to cease. That I don't expect we will speak again, finding our way through personal as well as political challenges, may simply be my own too-small expectation. I don't know where death leaves us, whether we are the departed or those who remain behind. I choose to find something eternal in strong connections. A blessing bestowed is not revoked by time or absence. It is ours to keep forever.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
To sleep
Daylight Savings Time drops me into the back country for which I have no map. I am unable to explain why the rearranging of time to be off by an hour becomes the source of havoc. My first guess is that our cells are way smarter than we are, they know to question authority. There is a natural rhythm to life which legislation cannot override.
We adjust without upset to the tilt of the planet, the angle of light, length of night and day, waxing and waning. Here we are in the fifth day of DST and I slept three hours past my normal wake-up time. During the previous days I required additional sleep, also know as a nap, to feel anything like myself and semi-competent. I have no plans to see if there is a grassroots movement afoot to stop the government from telling us it is 7:00 a.m. when it is really 6:00, but if there is, they have my support in spirit.
Sleep in sufficient amounts is necessary for me to hold onto whatever wits I possess. There were years when states of health or of mind made too much sleep desirable. Our bodies, or so I believe, never lie to us. They tell us what they, what we, require to function at optimum levels. Mine makes its demands so clear that I sometimes feel narcoleptic. "Go to sleep NOW."
A nap can resemble a state of grace, a peaceful withdrawal from worldly matters in which we restore ourselves to be of greater service. After decades of full-time jobs, and a frequently too-full life in which there was simply never enough sleep, the gift of napping is a rich reward. Things may not be accomplished because the body has called for time out, yet when the game resumes, the ability to be entirely present seems a fair exchange.
Napping may be genetic. During my childhood, my father came home for lunch every day and part of his lunch break included a nap. It made vacations hellish for us children as we learned to be quiet, to be solitary, to be self-contained; a sort of survival training. The most enduring gift we all took from those silent hours was a love of reading.
There is also a defense mechanism about sleep, again the body speaking emphatically when it has had enough. I was once married to a man who wrote music reviews, focused primarily on rock and roll. We saw bands at clubs, at outdoor festivals, in concert venues. I looked forward to some more than others though I don't remember any that caused me to think I'd rather stay home. But the body knows what it knows and I became a person of questionable worth and taste by falling asleep seeing the Allman Brothers. When it happened again - these were not conscious choices on my part - at AC/DC my outcast status was confirmed. A rebel at heart, I took pride in a vessel that knew we needed to shut down when the volume reached ear-bleed levels. I liken it to a person with nut allergies being given a dish which they swear has no nuts anywhere, yet when his throat closes or vomiting begins...someone has some explaining to do. There are places our minds do not recognize as unsafe; luckily other aspects of the whole are more wise.
As DST approached, I tried to convince myself that it would not disorient me. Positive thinking applied to universal forces - it could work. Yes, and let me stand on the beach and think the tide into submission. We could say I transition slowly, which is not untrue. What is untrue is that my response to this seemingly small upheaval is anything but organic. What I know is this: with three additional hours of sleep, today felt more creative, more joy-based and I, walking through it, felt more centered and capable. I will not think yet of autumn and doing this all over again.
We adjust without upset to the tilt of the planet, the angle of light, length of night and day, waxing and waning. Here we are in the fifth day of DST and I slept three hours past my normal wake-up time. During the previous days I required additional sleep, also know as a nap, to feel anything like myself and semi-competent. I have no plans to see if there is a grassroots movement afoot to stop the government from telling us it is 7:00 a.m. when it is really 6:00, but if there is, they have my support in spirit.
Sleep in sufficient amounts is necessary for me to hold onto whatever wits I possess. There were years when states of health or of mind made too much sleep desirable. Our bodies, or so I believe, never lie to us. They tell us what they, what we, require to function at optimum levels. Mine makes its demands so clear that I sometimes feel narcoleptic. "Go to sleep NOW."
A nap can resemble a state of grace, a peaceful withdrawal from worldly matters in which we restore ourselves to be of greater service. After decades of full-time jobs, and a frequently too-full life in which there was simply never enough sleep, the gift of napping is a rich reward. Things may not be accomplished because the body has called for time out, yet when the game resumes, the ability to be entirely present seems a fair exchange.
Napping may be genetic. During my childhood, my father came home for lunch every day and part of his lunch break included a nap. It made vacations hellish for us children as we learned to be quiet, to be solitary, to be self-contained; a sort of survival training. The most enduring gift we all took from those silent hours was a love of reading.
There is also a defense mechanism about sleep, again the body speaking emphatically when it has had enough. I was once married to a man who wrote music reviews, focused primarily on rock and roll. We saw bands at clubs, at outdoor festivals, in concert venues. I looked forward to some more than others though I don't remember any that caused me to think I'd rather stay home. But the body knows what it knows and I became a person of questionable worth and taste by falling asleep seeing the Allman Brothers. When it happened again - these were not conscious choices on my part - at AC/DC my outcast status was confirmed. A rebel at heart, I took pride in a vessel that knew we needed to shut down when the volume reached ear-bleed levels. I liken it to a person with nut allergies being given a dish which they swear has no nuts anywhere, yet when his throat closes or vomiting begins...someone has some explaining to do. There are places our minds do not recognize as unsafe; luckily other aspects of the whole are more wise.
As DST approached, I tried to convince myself that it would not disorient me. Positive thinking applied to universal forces - it could work. Yes, and let me stand on the beach and think the tide into submission. We could say I transition slowly, which is not untrue. What is untrue is that my response to this seemingly small upheaval is anything but organic. What I know is this: with three additional hours of sleep, today felt more creative, more joy-based and I, walking through it, felt more centered and capable. I will not think yet of autumn and doing this all over again.
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