A friend, Al, who is in advertising, said to me one day over coffee at Peets in California, “You need to have a blog,” and so because of that casual remark and my faith in his techy wisdom. I commenced walking over rocks and pebbles of techy knowledge, and a blog was born.
September 5, 2006, Sorry-Gnat enters hyperspace life letting those who are interested know that in the Baha’i Writings one can go on the path of transformation and be a sorry gnat and become a giant eagle.
“I’ve just had lunch at Tuohey’s Restaurant in Alhambra and had dinner there last night. No I’m not trying to be giant like an eagle physically. I’ve ruminated a good deal about stuff to put into this blog: poetry? pug dogs? notes about books? human rights? racial justice: schlepping, Esther, don’t forget schlepping. I have a lot to learn on this blog, and will consult with my techy friends as to how, what, why, when! I’m reading The Earth is Flat, Thomas Friedman, excellent. Very good writer. We just saw Jessica, our granddaughter, at an early soccer practice. She’s almost 7-going into first grade, and all the little girls are not aggressive players at all, but very cute.
Today, April 5, 2012.
Well Jessica is 12 now, and has an equanimity about her and kindness to all that I adore. My family was like a Rorschach test, and I used to wonder what it’s like if my kid had the soul of an accountant. He didn’t, and that’s okay, but Jessica, my granddaughter’s mom, leans to that side: stable, and a tremendous educator with regards to child rearing.
Okay, I do blogs, and at times in my life the only themes seem to be pug dogs or spirituality, and for a while pug dogs were winning. Of late, it’s books, and maybe a while or so about my adequacy level down by my ankle bones, blogging wise-the techy side. I’ve avoided Twitter. Facebook? Boys and girls, I’ve got FB down; I have friends all over the globe. The good thing about moving 17 different times in 25 years is you meet a lot of people.
Sure I grieved over leaving some, but I tell you, I’ve met incredible people and to this day I never cease to wonder. Today we had lunch at Farideh’s and we had Tadiq, golden crusted flat slabs of potato under Basmati rice. Oink. We had wild salmon, vegetables even turnip. Then we had dessert served on creamy white china and looked like a vibrant water color: blueberries, peachy colored mango, and a scoop of vanilla soy ice cream. I’m so slogged with fatigue and memories of good food, my brain turns to sludge. Later I hooked up with Jean a new person in our Baha’i community.
She’s new to Pasadena, and hasn’t been in the States for 10 years. She has lived in India, and I can’t remember the name of her city; small – 5 million, but she’s traveled all over. Did I mention she’s blind and gets around by cane. We’ve hung out before. She’s done everything; social worker, worked in radio stations, done voice over, teaches ESL, works via the computer. No dust on her heels! It gave me just another chance to marvel.
Tomorrow, I’m off at a little before noon to a Christian church up the Street on Lake, in Altadena/Pasadena area, where the Ecumenical Council is observing Good Friday. I remember Good Friday when I was Catholic, sitting in the silence of the church, the religious figures draped in purple silk, and I remember a day before, called Holy Thursday, when Liz, my twin, and her best friend Jannie Cleary, walked and visited the 7 Catholic churches, a tradition we participated in only once. When we got home that day my sister Meb (Mary Ellen Bradley) was hanging her head out of the bath room window on the second floor, showing a newly bleached blonde.
We were three sisters; close in many ways, and yet Meb would die of alcoholism, as my mother did. They were terrific. They both played classical music, and I can’t not stop when I hear Chopin’s polonaise in something Minor. My mom died when we were 17, and my sister died when I was living in Dnepropetrovsk. She was the size of a twig, ravished by emphysema and years of alcoholism which I think she kicked towards the end. She had once survived on the streets for five years.
So back to homeless women. I’ve done two things in my life influenced by these two women so close to my heart. My mom had Latvian Babushkas come to our little house on Wren Street, tuck into the small kitchen with the red checkered oilcloth table covering, and she’d teach them English for free. They talked of their husbands, “lost behind the Iron Curtain,” and I’d visualize a large iron shower curtain stretched across a vast empty land.
Years later, in 1990, I traveled to Siberia with Bill, my husband. I wrote a book Without A Net: A Sojourn in Russia, which tells about Meb, Russia,Ukraine, and all. People like it. I often thought my mother’s selfless act of reaching out had reverberations into the future, when I, her daughter, very much her daughter, went into Slavic countries for service only.
That said, we’ve lived in Pasadena for 11 years, and it’s the longest we’ve ever lived anywhere. Bill is 77 and I am 73, and first we house sat in a gorgeous condo for 3 years and then found this pool house, and we can afford the rent they charge which is not high. I’ve survived open heart surgery, having the surgeons write the whole business off for free, and I’ve had a lot of trips to Cardiology at Kaiser, bleeding out, stuff like that, but now I thrive. I’m like a Russian doll that tips over and bounces back. Someone said to me the other day, “You have a strong life force,” and I do. I feel life gets better and better for women as they age. I am no longer moth-holed by self-doubt and scalding inner words of rebuke. I’m me now, and I sort of glow at times, at least when I’m teaching writing, meeting friends for coffee and always stretching to do more.
A few years ago I gave a goodly amount of writing workshops-method, process, and did so for free at the local library branch of La Pintoresca in Northwest Pasadena. The Women’s Room a group formed and created by members who were connected to an Ecumenical Council realized women in Pasadena, either homeless or in transition, had nowhere to go. This is a day refuge, but oh what a refuge. Showers, laundry, good food, make up suggestions now and then are available, and oh, my writing class. Long story short, a room above the food pantry of Friends in Deed was created, like a small living room, dusty peach walls, art with symbols of 3 poppies, art on the wall, small kitchen and on Tuesdays 1-3 I teach writing. Everyone is welcome, the volunteers and the guests (homeless/in transition) and it is truly solidified in love and community. The bonds are strong.
We were asked to have something for tomorrow’s program at this Church. I wrote a poem on forgiveness. I’ll publish it later. Then I had the women do a group poem, each writing 2 lines.
They’ve performed before; different women, different voices, and at first they were terrified. But after they had the guts to get up behind a microphone and say their piece, their pieces, they were and are proud. You can’t take that away from anyone. Above is a poem written by Chris Annick which graced our first fundraiser flyer.
I always say to them before they read, “Own this. Own your voice,” and by golly they do. So with that, I didn’t expect this to be such a rattle on blog, but here you go, and that’s the facts Jack.