Whirrling Words

Good morning, world/ Good mourning, world
Whoever out there is mourning, and there is always, the death of a sparrow, take heart. I think it’s not over, when, it’s over…

I don’t read the newspapers often, because I am looking for something sweet and lovely, and sometimes I need a “down” comforter, because the news can be so depressing, so sad, so filled with cruelty and disasters, personal and cosmic, around the world. Tsunamis, earthquakes, land mines. Life is a minefield in every sense of the word: mine for what we own, and minefield for the slings and arrows ever present, and also for the geodes within, those jewels we all find, that make of our lives fascinating facets in a prism that is vast, as we reflect light in myriad colors, beautiful hues. Beautiful “yous”. Maybe when we die, we change “yous”, just as, when we dye, we change hues. Something to think about. AWE, the alchemy of words!

We all lead chequered lives, and here’s a short story about checks, so scarf this one down, with your morning coffee and hot croissant. I am thinking Paris, as you can see!

I have a friend, Rosanna Alfaro, who is a playwright. She’s now seventy-two and has written some lovely and deep plays but most recently she has a play being produced by the Huntington Theater in Boston, and I have tickets, for November 11. Anyhow, the day I purchased these tickets I was in Scituate Harbor, in fact, right after purchasing these tickets. My mission was to buy some sour cream for a banana bread recipe that is awesome, out of the by now old Boston University Cookbook. My last birthday, Rosanna had given me a lovely, so soft, yellow check scarf. Now what we gift each other, does always, it seems, serve as a reminder to the recipient of this love, of friendship. So here I was, at this Marketplace, and suddenly spot a section filled with scarves so like mine, but in different colors of check. So I go to “check this out” by feeling these scarves, and surely it must be, the exact SAME label.

I am thinking there’s a smiling Tinkerbell following my every move, and it feels like LOVE. So yes, I believe. I truly DO, and Tinkerbell, I have never lost you. And NEVER will.

Do you, dear Readers, have a Tinkerbell story? If you do… share it. By the way, Peter Pan is now playing in Boston, in the round.

It’s been a week of, NASTY. It seems wherever I go, people are telling me about someone in their lives who has been unpleasant in CAPS, and so I would say, there is a kind of person who seems to be intent on making other people unhappy, when they are, no doubt, unhappy in a deep way, with themselves. I have re read aspects of my Diary, realizing I bent over backwards to make the person holding this diary, feel I really care, using words like Dear, when I felt the opposite, when I was really very angry, at the way I was treated and continued to be treated. This reminds me of how a dog cowers and acts obedient when it is abused, and I do not like this in me, that throughout the sending of my letters, I was so cowed, and lied about the “other” in trying to massage that huge ego. That person never let go, of that very nasty hold on me, by refusing to answer any questions about my letters, and by using silence as a kind of weapon, even as I asked, repeatedly for response. I even went to far as to say I forgive this, but no, I cannot. Why should I? Not on this “plane”, that’s plain, though I do believe, given the synchronicity in my life, that life can be experienced on many planes, and is. Maybe ultimately we all have to forgive each other for the sake of story, knowing we were not forsaken, but that comes, later. Now is Now, and the OW in now is the hurt we experience at the hands of another. If there is a learning curve, it’s not always ours.

But I allowed this, and now I feel perfectly justified in going aloud, because I have THAT evidence.

This is such a beautiful time of year, and I feel that clarity in the air opens me up to new vistas of seeing. I feel so free as the leaves rustle beneath me, and as russet and reds take my breath away. I race to get my camera and snap. But there is nothing quite like what I see with the naked eye, nothing that can compare, and I think of that Sinead O’Connor song that goes, Nothing compares/Nothing compares/ With you, and I feel it, such a rush of love, for the beauty of my surrounds and for the gift, of this, another day.

I picked up a red red maple leaf the other day, and it seemed to me, that if I were to draw the flame that is fire, drawing this leaf, with its “flame” would be how I would depict fire. And it does always occur to me, that there is this inchoate, most amazing one ness to all life. In one red maple leaf, the fire, and it is, fire. And so for me, this season, The Burning Bush, yes, THAT bush.

Keep your boundaries. Do not let go of your authentic, your loving, inner self. Let no one abuse you. If you feel this way, get out of their way, and find those who walk with you, in loving ways, and share that page, and enjoy that sharing.

Post Script: Actually Post Script Lane is a little road which I pass on the way up the back streets from Rexhame Beach towards Humarock. I also pass Revere, and other streets so redolent of connectivity. I think we all do see these things, and sometimes we smile, because there are names that connect in diverse ways to our lives, in a very personal manner.

I have been writing, that the road we travel, by foot, by car, using all kinds of transport, has signs which do have import for us all. For example, Dead End, No Exit, Sharp Curve Ahead, and the most important of all, is surely Share The Road, which is my card carrying sign, and this definitely applies to the silence I received by the man of letters who has large parts of this ongoing story.

Maybe in life for us all, there is a time to speak up, to affirm what’s ours, and also the hurt we received along the road which has of course, many pot holes, and we’ve all experienced flat tires. I am tired of being positive, of presenting a false self to someone who continues to hurt me, in a most petulant self-involved way. I could not ask even a little question about my archive, without eliciting this, most childish response, “I will do this myself.” And yet it was rudeness, that sparked me to ask, why am I coming, what is expected, here. How hard IS that?

How very strange for someone, who has had such contact by way of my emails, in a most one sided way, by choice, to never express any interest, in all this time, about the meeting. “This is not a social hour”. What kind of response IS this?

Anyhow, here I am saying: when you are feeling oppressed in big and small ways, do not continue, for too long, to repress your authentic feelings. Do not let another person oppress you, for power and control, and for ego. It’s not right, and nothing is going to make this right. Do not cower. Do not be, a coward. Speak out!

Good morning, My intrepid husband, is making his second batch of blintzes. The other day he came to me saying he could do this, and I was a bit sceptical, but these are, totally awesome, and do freeze well. Getting to YUM.

On another note, I got a sudden out of the blue, summons, to come to The Hay Library to do something, unspecified, with my archive of letters. This was a very rare email from the man who has kept these letters by dint of a story, told here on line. I can say, since I keep most of my emails, that this is a very curious story, and by far, the most curious element of this, is this man’s silence, with respect to my letters, and my own person. As documented, I have requested meeting with him to discuss these archives in the past, with no response, as if I never wrote this, and I have also requested some response to content. I can say, that any blog of mine, here, any one, is more in terms of words than I have EVER received from him, in over eleven years of sending. And he could have stopped this, anytime, but he really didn’t.

The longest ever email I got was from him, outlining a truly outstanding coincidence in his own life. And what few emails I got from him, seemed to be, about him.

I was fully prepared to go to the Library, after all this time, given this sudden summons, but did ask, could you tell me, in two sentences, what’s going on. This was the occasion of petulance, saying I will do this myself, and he seemed so totally put out. I actually felt he was incredibly rude, in writing this was not going to be a “social hour”, and I think this is what finally sparked me, to speak out, and to say, basically, I think it’s time I established some boundaries here, around import and importance.

So that’s where it’s at. I have no idea whether I should actually recommend anyone go to the Hay.

I have the entire Diary in my possession, which is extensive, and complete. I really do not need to have so much ego get in my way and to allow another’s ego to hurt me, to exert such power and control over my writings.

I am aware of the egg in the aural pronunciation of his name, and honest, I think Ego is not the answer in how we deal with each other, and that a deepening knowledge that we’re all in this together, is where it’s at. This Diary is about us all, and I say, in every possible way, this Diary is about words, their deconstructions, and a story that involves us all, and strangely, I could not have written this story, myself.

I have been delinquent in writing this Blog and confess to taking a long break. Partly my reason for this was the conviction no one was reading my words, and so it seemed there are other ways to keep a Diary. But I am coming back for a reason, and that is, following the dictates of my heart.

Here is a story. Take it for what it is, because I do not invent my life.

This summer my husband was excited to learn about a camp in the Laurentians that was hosting Yiddish music, lectures, dance. The camp was called KLEZKanada, and I think this happens on a regular basis, involving as it does, great names in Yiddish music and theater, such as Theodor Bikel, and rising young talents. So we went and had a wonderful time, and we felt particularly that we were accessing a collective past that did bring us to tears, in listening to these marvelous performers. I had never experienced the music of Daniel Kahn and totally loved him. We both did!

When we returned home I happened to be teaching a class in the LLARC program, learning in retirement, at Regis College. We were “doing” the children’s classic, The Secret Garden, so I got the idea to talk about gardens and their significance throughout history. The movie that came to mind for me, was Being There, the story that made the gardener, a hero, because his wisdom, the wisdom gleaned from the garden, suddenly got people in politics interested in his very “sage” advice. Of course, Chauncy Gardner, played by Peter Sellars, was retarded.

I walked into the book, Being There, by Jerzy Kosinski, in my house, and honestly did not remember how it got there, and know I had never read this, but brought it to class. I did know he had written The Painted Bird, and that this story, which is about The Holocaust, was too painful for me and so I never read this after a few pages. I mentioned this to my class.

That evening I had the urge to hear the CD we had purchased at KlezKanada, the Daniel Kahn CD. So I went looking and found it, still wrapped, and read that his group is named, The Painted Bird. So I did a double take! But surely anyone can call their group Painted Bird, without reference to Kosinski. I went on line to discover that this name is taken from Jerzy Kosinski’s title.

Now these things, following as they do, my life, and massively, do tell me I am, like a reporter, putting down a story, that cannot be random.

What will we do? Well we think of Daniel as a real musical genius and love his music. My husband discovered he’s playing in Paris and Marseilles, so we’re going to hear him, leaving November 15! Yes, life can be an adventure. We’re going with a good friend, Barry P. who. around the same time, discovered Daniel Kahn himself, and that’s HIS story.

Cheers, Ruth

it seems this is a popular
stopping place for ghosts
every Hallowe’en
I am loving them
they must know it
I’m crazy for this holiday

I race to re-fill the bowls
with tinsel-wrapped sweets
come children   inhale with me
this icy almost-winter air
anyone for a taste of my
special goblin cherry wine
it’s spooked  not spiked

a skeletal hand dangles from a bush
holding a set of keys
take one if you dare
then come to my stoop
for chocolate kisses

such joy in this
the jangle of young witchy faces
whoops of whooo are yooo
so fully alive while playing dead

even jack  ever faithful
still glimmers with his fading candle
long after the troops have gone
hoping for more
one last  hoot
before the lights go out

ruth housman

Hi world, I have been writing elsewhere and took a hiatus from this BLOG. My life of total visible connects by way of the astonishment of story, however, has never stopped.

I am writing now about bees, as in “to bee or not to bee”. This might seem like fun word play, and surely reminiscent of Shakespeare, and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, that particular sonnet. What I am saying is that it’s funny to be punny, but that there is a deeper underlying story that is about words, and for that, I am serious, and also, having such fun in explicating this. Sirius is also, the dog star, and I LOVE this.

I was at Brandeis at their Bolli program, for adults in retirement, and I went to view  a documentary about young people in a wonderful school that offers a special program in culinary arts. I will remember the title and put this into the Blog later.  A woman seated in the row before me, turned around and asked about the Bolli program, because she was new. I began to explicate this. Then she mentioned having started to raise bees, in the course of a conversation that wound around to “her” life. It just happened, truly, that en route to Bolli I was thinking about their new bulletin, and thinking Bee Lines would be a good title, but it seems they already use The Bulletin. So that gave me a startle.

We exchanged email addresses as I was thinking I love bees and would love to see her hive. Right after this, I was thinking about needing a carpet for my new study, just beneath the chair, so as not to scratch the beautiful floors. I had the idea to go to Country Curtains in Sudbury, because  along time ago I had seen some lovely little rugs. I went and saw several rugs but was about to leave in disappointment, because the colors were wrong for the room, when I suddenly spotted one with just the right greens in it, and of course, the subject was, BEES! So I took a picture of my new rug and sent it to my new friend.

The bee story began a long time ago, with my childhood love of Maeterlinck’s book, The Children’s Life of the Bee. I also thought of him, his name, as being Master Link, as surely bees are deeply part of our lives. We NEED them to pollinate our flowers and beyond. In fact, my very magic bookstore, the Bryn Mawr in Cambridge, just happened to have this very book. I saw it and remarked on this on one of my forays into the bookstore.

We had a couple as guests over the weekend, and the woman, Michelle, remarked that my daughter had been totally taken by a new movie she had seen when visiting these two, on her most recent journey to New Mexico, a movie about bees. Michelle did not know about my interest, and so it was also serendipitous to get bees wax candles as a gift.

I am saying something here, and I am saying these coincidences are wise, and funny, and wonderful, but they are also about our most humming lives, and we need to take care of our bees, our environment, the very environment that sustains us all.

And one more thing about bees before I close. My husband just noticed a STING concert in New York, this very Thursday night, and I will go with him. Of course STING is reminiscent of the bee, and also if you look at some of these POLICE songs, you will see, a mystical treatment of synchronicity, of what I am talking about right here, in these many blog pages.

BEE well!

MUSIC: STING of course!