Tokonama,

A tokonoma is an alcove meant to rest the eye.
It is the sole adornment of the room in which it stands.
The tokonoma is  looked upon,
But never entered.

The floor is raised,
carpeted with tatami mats.
To the left the eyes perceive a flawless beam, unvarnished,
cut and planted so the moisture of the house can be absorbed –
a beam that breathes.

A simple flower, an arrangement of a single branch,
is on the left as you look into the tokonoma -
a solitary greeting from your host.
Straight ahead there is a scroll hung high upon the wall,
with oriental lettering.

The scroll could be a poem or an ancient landscape,
it doesn’t matter what it says or shows.
To the right there is another,object,
perhaps an incense burner,
 but no matching beam or plant to cause distraction.

 tokonoma seems to flow from left to right
into a seamless space of solitude.
The tokonoma is designed to bring forgetfulness,
 to still the senses, to remove complexities.

Teaching Company: Senior Education

Some years ago a co-worker lent me tapes of lectures given by a history professor in Oregon. Her sister was taking the class and was fascinated by his take on American History. He was wonderful, informative, funny. When he talked about the exams coming up, I knew I wouldn’t be taking them.

That experience planted a seed with me. I don’t have a long commute, and now that I’m retired, I don’t commute at all. When I was working I loved the books on tape. When books on CD came out it was even better, because I didn’t have to worry about the tape breaking and tangling. One of the first books I took from the library was the first volume of the Balkan Trilogy, by Olivia Manning. The second and third volumes were harder to find, but by the time I did I was thoroughly hooked on the idea that even short commutes were opportunities to listen and learn.

By the time I retired from my city job and gone to work (you guessed it!) at the library, I had learned that books on tape or CD could be brought indoors – I did not have to drive around just to hear what was going to happen next.

Then a misaddressed catalogue arrived from “The Teaching Company” (www.Teach12.com). Remembering those history tapes, I spent an afternoon studying the catalogue before I put it in the right mailbox. The catalogue announced a special sale on certain courses, if I ordered right away. (There are always some courses on sale, but I didn’t know that then). I was hooked. The courses ranged from Biblical History to Physics for the Non-Physicist, to the Symphonies of Beethoven (and so much more!). Now I am addicted. I have studied the Divine Comedy by Dante and the History of the Supreme Court. I have watched videos on the History of the Universe and the History of Western Art. I have been, through these courses, in the lecture halls of colleges and universities all over the country.

At the moment I have two courses going – the History of American Literature, and a History of Great Western Literature. I am experiencing the American Civil War and the Trojan War all at the same time, driving back and forth from the grocery store, or from the Bay Area visiting the children and grandchildren.

The opportunities for learning are endless and exciting now that it isn’t just about required courses or earning a living. For me, the Teaching Company has been a fantastic resource.

Accident?

It was spring. The war was over, rationing gone, people were once again buying new cars. The Muskegon (Michigan) Lassies (part of the All-American Girls Baseball League) were having a winning season. The “New Look” was in and hemlines were down.

Mrs. Sheridan arrived at our house to show off her brand new 1948 Oldsmobile with Hydromatic transmission. We were all going to a Lassie’s baseball game that night. She offered to drive me, with Mother and Dad coming later.

Mrs. Sheridan was a widow the same age as my mother, but much more glamorous. She wore spike heels, red lipstick, blue eyeshadow, and had a fox fur biting its tail draped around her shoulders. Her nails were painted and she smoked using a holder.

“See, look,” Mrs. Sheridan crowed. “It doesn’t even have a clutch! You don’t have to shift gears. Why, it’s so easy, even Kay could drive it.” I was 12. My parents peered into the windows, opened the doors, sat on the seats, and admired the gadgets.

Shifting gears, stepping on and releasing the clutch at just the right moment, had always seemed to me to be the most challenging part of driving a car. Of course, I’d never driven anything. I had only tried sitting in stationary vehicles, turning the wheel vigorously, pretending I was steering. Imagine a car where you didn’t have to engage a clutch.

I got in beside her. I heard the smooth purr as she turned on the ignition.
“Do you really think I could drive this?”

“Sure you could. All you have to do is steer.”

She drove around the corner onto Fifth Street and parked. Fifth Street was a straight shot down four or five blocks before it curved.

“All you have to do is keep the wheel steady, don’t turn it too much, and just press lightly on the gas.” She indicated the gas pedal, the brake right beside it. “If you need to stop, you press on the brake, here. Not with your left foot, with your right.” She demonstrated.

“Can I try?”

“You drive to the end of Fifth Street. Then I’ll take over.”

I sat in the drivers’ seat. Mrs. Sheridan showed me how to release the brake and put the car in drive. Off I went. The car jerked, moved, jerked, a few feet at a time.

“Press a little harder on the gas, just lightly, but evenly,” said Mrs. Sheridan. I did.

The car took off, careening down Fifth Street, moving back and forth from curb to curb, with Mrs. Sheridan screaming in my ear, “The brakes! The brakes!”

“Where are they?” I cried.

Fifth Street turned. Mrs. Sheridan’s brand new Oldsmobile did not. There was the scream of crunching metal as the car hit a tree. Shaken but intact, we crept out. People began to gather. Steam rose from the front of the painfully crumpled, wounded new car.

“It wasn’t your fault,” my mother said later. “Nell should never have allowed you to drive that car!”

“Her insurance will cover it,” my father said. My father and I both knew, though the words weren't spoken, that it wasn't only Mrs. Sheridan lacking in good sense that day, and we were lucky that only the car was wounded.

The insurance did cover the damage.  Mrs. Sheridan did not offer me a second chance at driving her car.

49 Fire: Auburn, CA

A rapidly moving fire devastated a commercial and residential area in the town of Auburn, CA, just east of where we live. Jack, along with 60 other homeowners, lost his house and everything in it. The following morning, still probably in shock, he showed up at the meeting where he always shows up on Monday mornings. Other people there were wearing the clothes they had on when the evacuation order came to them the day before. Their houses were spared, but they weren’t allowed back into the neighborhood.

We always read about fires; right now we’re hearing about the fire storm raging almost unabated in Southern California. This fire felt very different. It was just up the road, affecting friends and for some people, relatives. Jack was able to save his dog, but not his cat. I found myself being particularly affectionate to our cat, Blue, and wondering if we could catch him in time to put him in a cat carrier, if there were a fire. He tends to hide when he’s frightened.

Although 60 houses were destroyed, as far as is known, there was no loss of life – or at least human life. How many memories, wedding pictures, souvenirs of good times, were lost? How can insurance policies cover the track trophies, golf trophies, favorite toys or stuffed animals of children? The quilt handed down? The quilt just made?

How long will it take people to recover from the fear of not knowing if their children, parents, friends had gotten out safely?

I came home from the meeting, and looked around my house. What would I save if an evacuation order came? Blue, the cat, of course. What about the pictures on the walls – painted by Lisa, or Linda, or Fred, or Ron who died in 2006? What about the computer which holds every bit of our life stories, as well as all the pictures we’ve taken in recent years with our digital cameras? What about my mother’s silver?

The American Red Cross and the Salvation Army are accepting donations for victims of the fire. They are especially in need of money donations.

The Salvation Army is also asking for nonperishable food and hydration items, clothes and unopened toiletries. You can donate money to the Salvation Army at the community center at 286 Sutter Street in Auburn from 9:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. Mon-Fri, or mailed to P.O. Box 4088, Auburn, CA 95604.

The Red Cross is only accepting monetary donations. Their Auburn office is located at 457 Grass Valley Hwy. Suite 8, Auburn, CA 95603.

To designate cash donations to victims of the fire, write "49 Fire" on the memo line of checks.

http://newsblaze.com/story/20090901000726zzzz.nb/topstory.html

Elegy

 

My youth was a loud, rambunctious play
With a boisterous cast of parents, teachers, pals
Who stood across the footlights of my stage
Or sometimes simply waited in the wings
of my growing up –


Skip Halfpenny, the scamp whom teachers loved
To scold, And Martha Johnson, whose parents
Didn’t seem to like her very much.
My mother said it was because they were afraid -
They’d had four children, only two remained.


Mr, Stewart led the orchestra and band,
and we were good!
He called on us to do more than we could
He taught us the mathematical reality that
The whole, in orchestra, and perhaps in life,
Is often greater than its parts.
We learned it playing Rimsky-Korsakov.


I see my parents’ friends who smoked and drank
Played poker: nickel ante, dealers’ choice –
I see our houses, stages where we’ve acted
I wouldn’t know them now, they’ve been redone


The lights upon stage on which my childhood
         was played
Have flared, then flickered, finally gone out,
All the actors too are gone,
One at a time, they left.

Prayer Shawls

At our church we have a group of women who meet regularly to knit shawls, which we then give to people – church members, relatives of members, friends or neighbors who might be wanting or needing comfort and prayer. The knitting group varies from a few to many. The knitting is done at bi-weekly meetings and in between. The yarn is purchased or donated, and the knitting patterns are as varied as the members of the group.

In addition to the shawls, the knitting group makes “prayer pockets”, small squares made into pockets into which are placed a talisman of some sort representing to the recipient the presence of God or their guardian angel or their “higher power”. If you are going into a scary situations, whether it’s a dentist’s office, a principal’s office, or an oncologist’s office, it is like taking your guardian angel with you when you carry a prayer pocket in your pocket. It reminds us that we are never alone.

The knitting group consists of experienced knitters, (even one who has taught knitting and spins her own yarn) – and people just learning to knit. Some of the members don’t knit at all. They crochet.

While the shawl is being made, or the prayer pocket, we don’t know who will get them. That means that while we make them, we pray for everyone, whether they think they need those prayers or warm wishes or not. We pray for each other. We pray for people we’ve encountered that day, including the checker at the grocery store, or the waitress at Denny’s, the kid we passed lugging his backpack to school, or the person we’re having a hard time liking. We pray for the guy who cut us off on the road, and we pray for the doctors and dentists who will be treating the people we love.

On Sundays the completed shawls and prayer pockets are blessed during the service before they are given away to wrap someone in our love and our prayers. The good part is that the recipient does not know exactly who knit their shawl, so they can assume that we all did.

AN ODE TO LAUNDRY

I love to do the laundry
Cause its satisfying, neat
When folded, put in drawers, on shelves -
Cause when its done, its done
I know that I’ve done one small thing
Domestic folks would deem
Worthwhile!

My washer does its noisy work -
It swishes, pops and spins
I disappear, don’t interfere, I let it toil in peace
Until it beeps to tell me “ Time
To move this soggy load.”

The dryer smells of freshener
I take the last load’s lint –
(It’s colored from the load of wash
I’d done some days before) -
I set the dials, wipe my brow, pretend I’m all worn out
Then once again I leave the scene,
My day’s work halfway done!

The folded loads of laundry tell
Of where we’ve worn the clothes
Of what we’ll wear next week
Of what we’ll keep or give away
Or save as rags, or toss.
And now its time to celebrate
That this week’s laundry’s
Done