HERE WE GO!! NEW WEBSITE!! PLEASE RE-SUBSCRIBE

I now have a website with all of my writing in one place.
Here is the link to my Truth Burps blog. Once you are there, I hope you will nose around the other pages and check out my other projects:

Truth Burps

I have to laugh because it is exactly like having a family room after the kids have long gone.
And I am crazy enough to be feeling sentimental about leaving Blogger.
And hoping I can learn Word Press well enough to enjoy it.

I like lots about the site.
(Other than the usual wanting a better haircut or being ten years younger.)

Here's my favorite part. It has coffee stains that move every time you go to the site.
I love coffee stains---how they look, what they mean and all of my writing is done with a red cup of coffee nearby.  And I have put in little red cups to click on just for fun, for photos (if I learn how to add them) and random thoughts like--"Is there even such a thing as a sentence fragment any more? They used to be like a sin in college."  That sort of nonsense.

What else"  Oh, my most recent Tweet shows up on the bottom. Once again, for the fun of it.
I'm stalling. (My house would be much less cluttered if I weren't so sentimental, but carrying it over to a blog???)

readjoyce.com

joycewilsonsanford.com

iprayanyway.com

thruthburps.com

ceonotetoself.com

OK--now to test the plasticity of my brain with learning to use a real deal website

NOTES FROM THE SECOND RUNG

I have had a wonderful Summery Summer
I almost take for granted that I live in beauty, that I have ease, that my family people are all healthy, that I can buy food when I need it, and I can be frivolous. And I am a white woman second from the top of white males, thinking of the unfairness of that white man at the top and ignoring all the other rungs of the ladder below that of privilege.

It's so fake humble to say I am privileged as a way to manage the the truth that I am over privileged. 

I wrote an inane comment to my black pastor about people learning to love in order to survive.
He wrote back, "maybe". I wrote my comment as an over privileged person who watches  awful hate from a somewhat safe distance. Of course nuclear missiles carry long range hate, so I am closer than I think.

I did watch news last night and was amused and very discouraged to see four guests erupt into furiously shouting their opinion at one another. It was out of control. They were re-enacting the Charlottesville riot. Thank goodness for a break for ads. Maybe we need a world wide break to cool our fevered opinions of rightness.

So another beautiful Summer day. I will enjoy it. I will have fun. I will have coffee with a friend. I  am too far along in life not to savor what is good. But I have a pebble in my soul as I ponder my 
privilege and what to do with it.

ANGRY IRRITABLE AND SULLEN

I hate it when my mood is one hundred percent out of sync with the day.
The day is magnificent. Hot in the sun, cool in the shade. I'm on the side porch of the house which is my bower territory for quiet. The flower boxes look good and usually make me quite happy. I had a great day yesterday frolicking with my daughter going for a haircut (and a couple of blue streaks) and afterward a lovely dinner and conversation.  Perfection. I have a stack of good books to read, an interesting week coming up, writing I want to do, and I am grumpy and moody.

So I took a nap hoping to wake up astonishingly different. Instead I woke up with a thought I wanted to share that made me laugh and now can't remember it. 

Burpety, burp, burp, burp.
Why so cranky?
I beep if my husband approaches so he knows he is in the smart ass remark range.

Why so cranky?
As I wrestle this mood to the ground, I begin to hit pay dirt. I have the kind of unrest that Seniors in high-school or college have.  Something is coming to an end. The future is unclear.  What to do next is a giant distraction from fun and everyone asks about it. Will  the right thing, the perfect thing, the crack the world open thing come to me?  Urgency with no where to go equals moody.
And the definition of moody is angry, irritable and sullen. I suffer from Senioritus.

Mostly I ignore the fact that my time is limited, very finite.  A financial advisor friend reminds me of this fact as he talks about the end of my plan--which means I'm dead or broke!! The actuarial  tables say I have ten more good years and a few not so good to follow. I have a 'dead' line. How to meet it?  What matters most? Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. I have kids who ask "Don't you need to sell your three story house? Isn't it too much for you?"  (I very snarkily think, "Don't you mean too much for you if we pop off mid-mess?")

As I write, my mood shifts. I love deeply, I attach, I care about the smallest tchatkas of my life, I'm sentimental about Sippy Cups.  I like surprise and play. So this is the perfect time of life to not know, to not plan til events make you, to trust the next trajectory will come and to fill all the minutes with the deep satisfaction of creating or loving that makes time stand still. So there. My mood lifts to match the day. To hell with knowing.

I just remembered my waking thought--What ever happened to playing Jacks? Hours and hours of Jacks competition with ten different stages to go through to win? Way beyond onsies and twosies. There were double bounce upsies and downsies and over the fence as well. Tossing the jacks on the backs of your hands to see how many you still needed to pick up was admired. The jacks had to be just the right weight and thickness. It was an art form. That thought makes me very happy.
Mood overboard. 



PS--I WILL BE CHANGING OVER TO WORD PRESS FOR MY NEW WEBSITE THAT WILL HAVE ALL OF MY VARIOUS BLOGS IN ONE PLACE SO--know that I may miss a post or two or do strange things with them until I master this new technical challenge. As my 4 year old granddaughter says when scared with fists at her sides, "I can do this!".

NOTES FROM RANGELEY MAINE

We have an wonderful little house in Rangeley, Maine that, of course, I did not want to own but my husband's vision won while I fussed along behind. "Too much money, five kids will be in college, too far from Portland, Maine. All true. And------it's been a great gift.  

We paid very little for it. I always say 18,000 dollars and my husband says 35,000.  My guess--he told me 18000 and we paid 35000!!  He is expert at "act first, apologize later". We gave each of our five kids a room to renovate. So the kitchen cabinets were thick with oil paint drips, the living room floor had a hollow place from an electric sander and lots of divots, the upstairs girls' room was a kind of tangerine orange and the paneling in the boys' room was polyurethaned with a brilliant shine that didn't help the room at all. Luckily we had a chimney fire that covered everything with soot and we had to upgrade to somewhat normal. Normal means the bathroom is no longer attached by the wallpaper holding it onto the kitchen wall. 

Rangley is quiet. Not many sounds day or night except the Loons. Deer saunter by on our lawn early morning and evening. We have no TV or Internet connection (for now--Internet is looming).
To get a signal I sit under a pin oak planted long ago in an old fashioned metal lawn chair.
The house is a museum of our family full of displaced things from other locations. My mom and dad's Lazy Boy chairs, blankets, non-matching cups and plates from other relatives, Monopoly set of my dad's, and books, books, books from college and eras or our life including The Whole Earth Catalogue.

People choose Rangely. It has wonderful competent hardy wry born there people and wonderful, incompetent,  slightly helpless, romantic eccentrics from away. Actually the generalizations hide
an array of very idiosyncratic people. There is the carpenter who sits over coffee with me and 
discusses world religion, the waitress who is a world class quilter. (It's necessary in Rangeley for people to have many skills to earn enough to live there.) There are our dear neighbors, a former school principal and his teacher wife who are pioneers. They move barns and build additions, and float huge logs across the lake for an off the grid house while I decide which book to read.

And it seems that time exists still in Rangeley.  We talk and get to know people as very distinct individuals. This trip we met our waitress at a tiny cafe. She loves baking and does all the sweets for the cafe. Her idea of heaven is six hours in the kitchen alone. She loves baseball and wonders about David Price and his sour attitude with the Red Sox. She aspires to an old house to fix up.
She declares with a blush that she likes us. We return the sentiment. She sits with us at breakfast the next day.

And then there is our experience on the way home from Rangeley. My husband likes to take photos of rot and decay and moss and slime. Family pictures, not so much. We tease him lovingly and not so lovingly. I was feeling nice. We take a road we never have to New Vineyard. 
There is a lake. (No surprise in Maine) and some slightly falling apart houses. I see a real goody and almost don't point it out to David (I might as well name him) because I know it will be at least an hour delay.  I have a book and feel generous so, I point out the house. 

It is one scary house. Huge, paint peeling, porch falling, wonderful detailed house with shutters and porticoes and old glass windows. Intriguing but still too much like the house in Psycho for me.
I read. David photographs. I hear voices. There is Don David on the porch with a man chatting.
I approach. We all chat. He is Harvard graduate, college teacher, wife died last February. She bought the house for 10,000 dollars. He has been sweeping out plaster from the 3rd floor for his kids who are coming to visit. He married a woman with six children. As he said, his whole life has been doing things he was not prepared to do, but did. He and I talked about secular humanism and whether that is the next movement in a religions like structure!! He plays tennis and does pottery. He lives in North Carolina but he and his wife have come up to this house for many Summers. There are mattresses but no bed for his family that is coming. There is an artificial Christmas tree in the bay window of the 'parlor'. He said he keeps it up because the neighborhood kids used to be afraid to walk by the house. We leave at my impetus. 

As we get in the car, we wonder, what was real and what wasn't. Taking time to stray.
Another gift of a Rangeley kind of mood.

AND THE ANSWER IS----

But first, sorry to be late. I am up in Rangeley where the Internet signal is variable and the deer are on the lawn and the loons are looning and we imagine a moose groaning.

I will be very very short. I write from the Inn next door to us. On the porch. And it is cold and rainy. 


THE ANSWER TO LAST WEEK'S QUIZ IS-----
(To get the answer, all you have to do is join my club to make life wonderful and your skin wrinkle free by sending your email and paying only 67 dollars. No wait, wait. If you hurry, only 39 dollars.

Well OK
For free

I DO NOT LOVE DIXIELAND JAZZ. ALL OTHER COMMENTS ARE TRUE!!!!
(Including not having watched Game of Thrones. I never read or watched Harry Potter either.
Nor did I see Titanic.)  Sometimes you just miss the wave.

"IMPORTANT NOTHINGS"

These are the days of Jane Austin glut--200 years since she died. Deathaversary?
This Jane Austin quote is how I often feel when I start to write, "Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?"

And so here are some of my important nothings:

—I like popcorn more than red licorice

—My grandchildren ask if they can have a break from playing with me

—I hate to drive

—I have not watched one episode of Game of Thrones

—I miss playing tennis

—I was an excellent violinist

—I have eaten iguana meat

—I like order and create mess—

—I had waist length hair and a leather peace sign necklace

—I paint paintings and cards for special occasions but only then

—I dont' know how to parallel park and don't want to learn

—I love to listen to sports radio in the car

—I love games 

—and so which of the above is not true?

CHOOSING MY SUMMER MEMORIES FILLS ME WITH GOOD STUFF

OK, this is a very metaphysical thought  coming out of ten days of vacation and family.
Then again, it may be very apropos. 

When kids from far away come for a long visit there are lovely memorable moments--and usually a few bumps when feelings run high. Too many feelings into compressed a time heat up all the experience. Sparklers are "phenomenal"! Sitting in candle light and talking is "magical"! A cross word is "devastating".  You get the idea.  I lived far from my parents as an adult and my dad and I always had our moment that ended with me in tears and my dad hugging me. Spill over emotion, I call it.

Mmmm. How does this fit with my truth burp title?  Maybe this way.  I read quotes from Abraham every day --dailyquote@abraham-hicks.com>  It is based on the law of attraction with the basic premise being that you create what you think and feel. And choosing the thought that feels the best to you will support it coming into being. What it does is help me choose the positive. Period.
I think Pollyanna got this right without much falderal. (There's a fun word)

And so I sit here ready for family to leave tomorrow. What thoughts do I want to put into my basket--the night everything went wrong, the irritations of too many, too much cooking, not enough slow easy connection? No. 

I choose cousins playing together easily who don't see one another often but feel the family connection.

 I choose sitting on Adirondack chairs at the Nonantum Inn in Kennebunkport with my Oregon daughter. Just us. Treated like royalty by Jean Ginn Marvin the Innkeeper and friend.  We stepped away and did luxury and waved to the Bush family compound. 

 I choose the delight of my 4 year old wanting sparklers at home over fireworks and her delight in writing her letters with the sparks. 

I choose the mandatory lobster dinner and the same 4 year old being adept with lobster crackers.

 I choose my 9 year old (only boy) grandson still wanting the ritual of going to the Cookie Jar bakery with me and treating me to a cookie. (He came back from ten days at Camp Chewonki grown up!)

 I choose to remember the Summer front porch with people sprawled and chatting and getting up for Ladder Golf. I

I choose to see two sisters (my daughters) having a connection that will sustain them for life.

But to avoid being totally la-la, I will say my Oregon daughter heads back with a probable broken rib, not all relatives got visited, and each kid can count and name various
"owies" that deserve the count, and I will wish to change things I said--and didn't say.

You know, actually it is esoteric. We do choose who and how we want to be---and what we want to remember.

THOUGHT BEFORE GOING OFFLINE FOR THE WEEK

As I head to vacation, here is my thought.

So many people are just darned good and nice.
I've bumped into many this week.
I had to go to the DMV to renew my driver's license. It was the last day before the possible shutdown of Maine's government.
I had 68 people before my number would be called.
The place was short staffed.
The atmosphere was not bored and resigned to bureaucracy as it is usually.
The information desk guy was out and about checking with each person about whether or not they had the right paperwork with them.
People were exchanging numbers based on need.
The atmosphere was jolly and helpful, one person to another.
Names were exchanged. Hobbies were shared. It was like a neighborhood gathering. 
Goodwill winning over governmental craziness.

My husband couldn't find his way to the entrance to a doctor's office.
He parked his car on the side of the road with blinkers on and walked up the grass hill to the office.
A nice nurse went out to the care with the keys and put it in the parking lot.
Two cars had already stopped to see if help was needed.

We--world wide--are good people.  What we need is good leaders--competent and moral and wanting to serve.  We deserve it.

Here I go.
Offline
Splash

MAUDE THE MOOSE

This entry comes from my soul friend from college. It's so perfect for a Maine Summer story that I asked permission to share it.


The true story of Maud, the moose, was a family favorite--

Aunt Loretta and Uncle Moot's camp was on an offshore island in Canada. each summer when school ended, Loretta and Moot closed up their house, packed up their car and headed north. throughout the summer Moot made weekly trips to the mainland in their motor boat to replenish camp supplies.

on one such resupply trip, Moot saw a tired young female moose struggling in the water with no sign of an adult moose nearby. Moot managed to throw a rope over the young moose's head and tow the moose back to camp. the camp kids named the moose Maud and Maud chose to make the island and camp her summer home. Maud wandered around, in and out of cabins, was never aggressive and became an over-sized camp mascot and pet, fond of campfire marshmallows and people, her adopted "family". 

for several years, each summer soon after Loretta and Moot arrived, so did Maud. Maud thrived and grew into an impressively large moose but always remained docile and friendly, walking up to campers and counselors to be petted and scratched. 

then one summer Maud didn't appear. now full-grown, Loretta and Moot thought that perhaps Maud had found a mate on the mainland and had given birth until Moot stopped in a local bar for a beer when he made a weekly resupply run and saw Maud.

Maud's head was mounted on the wall behind the bar and a guy seated at the bar was bragging about the humongous and aggressive moose he had skillfully bagged. with effort, Moot kept his mouth shut, finished his beer and returned to camp. 

                                              **********************

strangely, this true story wasn't perceived as sad but just as a fact of life. 

shooting moose was legal.

Maud was a moose anomaly. 

some people are braggarts and liars. 

being born a creature considered "game" is not the best karma. 

thereafter, Moot settled for buying a soda from a vending machine in town rather than having a beer in the bar. 

I HAVE TWO DEAD BOYFRIENDS!!!

That's a hell of a title, but that's what came to me. Can't control truth burps!

Two very important loves in my life are dead. Social media told me so. 
I'm not new to people that I love dying. But most have been older than I am and 
there was some getting used to the idea.  My mom and dad died 10 days apart so
that was unique and poignant and very very funny. (That's for another burp)
I grieved proudly and formally for them. They deserved a little honoring grief.
And I have had three college friends die. Kind of weird and getting close to home.

But boyfriends aren't supposed to die. They just aren't. Nor age. Nor stop
loving me even if I stopped loving them first. It does help that I haven't seen a picture of them
since we were in love.  I have seen some photos of other boyfriends and was surprised to see 
they all looked like old men versions of themselves. I had to dig around in their faces for awhile to
get a glimmer of a Prom date. 

This reminds me that I had a moment  of relief to know that my two dear guys 
(one high school, one post divorce) would never see me and have to adjust their
idealized image of me to current reality. Vanity eventually gets humbled. Why hurry?
My eighty-three old husband still gets phone calls from former girl friends who he is shocked 
to realize are also eighty-three!!  

My high school love was a kind of torment. I was crazy about him. I have to admit I liked the Adrenalin of
deciding what to where each day and how to manage to walk by him at his locker at just the right time.
And dancing the last dance together. (Yes, it mattered. I feel sorry for any of you that haven't experienced the last dance and its meaning), We were off and on but never not connected from sixth grade through the first year in college. I ended it. I fell in love with the freedom of dating lots of guys with no anguish or love involved--just fun and dancing! New love every semester.

My post divorce guy was in the Peace Corp with me and my husband at the time. He heard I was divorced and called me and said, "At last, I can let you know I love  you."  It was nice to hear. He was fun and funny and generous and loved my kids and lived in Connecticut while I was living in Illinois.We sailed his boat and partied and had a few visits of  crazy in love times and one 600 dollar phone bill which was monumental then and I cried to the phone company and got them to accept 25 dollars a month.  Distance finally killed this love as I began to date back in Illinois where I lived. 

So RIP dear Jim and Billy Bell. I am right. Past loves aren't supposed to die and they don't.

TO BURP OR NOT TO BURP

I guess I could write this blog ahead of time. But I don't. It would betray the surprise for me about what I want to write. I do think about it. This week I planned to write about 'staying on your own path' and I will later because it is an active thought for me.

But here is my burp. I just wrote my former husband a letter. I had super indigestion about it and just had to 'burp' it. Seriously, I felt compelled. It is June 11th and today would have been our 53rd wedding anniversary. We were married for 13 years and had two children. We have had very little contact over the years. There are many reasons for that--mostly hurt on my side and maybe guilt on his. I don't know. I find myself being fond of the youth we shared together. We were young once-- and innocent. We started our marriage in the Peace Corps. A newpaper photographed us with the title, "Saving the World from Communisn". That's the kind of youthful innocence I'm talking about.

I visited my former mother-in-law last week-end along with my daughter and hers and it was just right to do. She is 97 and gorgeous. Check it out on my Facebook page JoyceWS. We have stayed connected and she loves and flirts with my husband David. David and I were lucky to have all grandparents of the kids like the idea of a combined family of five kids. They were nuts too. 

The visit was long enough to elicit lots of good memories and history. I had periodically thought of a more complete resolution of my former marriage but you just try five kids and a demanding job and try to think of gathering energy and goodwill to do it!!  

Here is the only sentence that matters in the letter and that I want to share. "I want to move into the present tense with peace and love for all of us and our history." That's it. It is my present truth that was nagging at me and needed to be spoken. It so clears the clutter of past wrongs and hurts. Now if I only could and would  do the same with the physical clutter of the same number of years!!!
 

CELEBRATING!!

 Off to California for a long week-end to celebrate 4 generations of women.  My daughter and her daughter are off to visit my former mother-in-law who is just old enought to be impressive.
So glad to be doing it. So excited I can't pack. Mama Mia. Talk to you next week. I go computerese.

SWEET SURRENDER

The word 'surrender' has been rolling around in my head all week. It emerges like one of the sayings in the Fifties' toy--the magic eight ball. My intuition is weird. It also sings songs to give me messages! I always walked into work with a song in my head (and often out of my mouth) that seemed to fit the occasion. Not always good either--Whistle While You Work, Get a Job, Smile and the Whole World Smiles With You, You're Late, You're Late for a Very Important Date. That way.

So, 'surrender'?  Not me. Never. Onward. Do or die. Never give up.
Persistence has been good to me and for me. I like being diligent.
Say 'no' to me and I'm all in.
Bat away that word, surrender. 

Then the phrase 'sweet surrender' popped up.  Of course.
This is what I want. Not giving up, but giving in.
My stomach feels the difference immediately.

Some of my 'sweet surrenders' are:

—I'm never going to learn to parallel park. I surrender to looking longer for a parking place.

—I'm always going to read or write before I pick up my mess--which usually is books. I surrender to my clutter.

—I will never have all my grandkids living nearby.  I surrender that loss and double enjoy those I have near

—I will never not be a little naughty and nuts. I surrender my dignity

—I will never be thin. I surrender to being voluptuous!

—I will never be an important author.  I surrender to writing anyway

—I will never get holiday cards out on time.  I surrender to using Valentines' Day for cards--or the 4th of July!

—I will never be young again. I surrender to being mortal.

Whoa. I thought this would be mostly funny. Not so much. Not so much.  But this kind of surrender IS sweet. Try it. Write down your surrenders. You'll experience peace and softness in your stomach when you mean what you say.  Sweet surrender is the ultimate humility of giving in, proof of being very very human.

WHO'DA THUNK!!!

To keep Truth Burps 'true' to its premise, I never know what I'm going to write about and I never write ahead of my deadline. (Probably wouldn't anyway, but you know what I mean.)
However ideas do come and go during the week.  

Here's my funny story for this week and then a thought about a new product that is emerging and will become big. Thus speaketh Joyce.


Story first. I have had easy good health for most of my life. Not now. One does pay the piper, darn it. I am the inflammation poster woman. I have always been interested in emerging health stuff because I have seen many things go from ridicule to mainstream like acupunture, vegetarian diet, omnipresent Yoga for Pete's sake. So I decide to go to a functional doctor.  (The Institute for Functional Medicine teaches practitioners how to uncover the underlying causes of your health problems through careful history taking, physical examination, and laboratory testing)


I make the appointment from Mexico. I go two days ago. Th e office is hard to find and poorly signed. I wonder. Nice enough inside. Hour long form to fill out. Could use it as a structure for a memoir. Nice education room. Lots on agriculture and plants. I meet with the doctor who is lovely--organized, tender, listens deeply, seems well versed in my issues AND ends up certifying me for medical marijuana use!!! She gives me a list of possible 'products' and where the dispensary is. I laugh my head off and so does she. I am so proud of my little card and can't wait to tell my kids. This was the best medical exam I've ever had. She will do much more traditional testing and treatment. 

I just like to see how things emerge and morph and manifest. Marijuana has gone from evil to boringly practical and highly refined!! And I am very curious.

OK, I hate writers and workshop leaders who don't do what they say they will. So new product? Solitude and silence. It's starting now. People are paying to disconnect and to avoid being overstimulated. We are drowning in stuff and connectivity and are willing to pay for 
stepping away from it. Let's watch how that emerges. More on this----maybe. 

NOTES FROM 'THE MUSER'

Who knows how things work?  I do know that one day, maybe three years ago, I bumped into an ancient email (and I use GMail) from a college friend. We were inseparable our Freshman year. Life happened and we lost touch. (I like that phrase--lost touch) We lost touch, not spirit.
And so we correspond. Often--laughing, telling our truth, sighing, hurting when the other hurt, telling our stories and musing. My friend is a muser. She muses. Beautifully. I share this musing with her permission. She recently ended an email with it.

acts of compassion, acts of random kindness, consideration--these are the human gestures i find uplifting. righteous conviction, blatant self-interest, hatred and prejudice in all their guises, intentional deception--these are the human behaviors that make me discouraged and sad. i choose to and must believe that most people desire and strive to be "good" and that what is considered "news" are, in fact, aberrations and acts of ignorance.

choice.

always choice. 

BLESS OUR NOVELISTS

I just read two books back to back--A Constellation of Vital Phenomena by Anthony Marr and The Year Before the War by Helen Simonson. The first is about the impact of somewhat recent wars on Chechnya and the second about World War I.  They were both compelling in  different ways--tone, 

hope, cultural context, individual heroism and lousy-ism.

I admire both for the work the authors did on historical accuracy and the plot turns that in any work that did not include war could be labeled contrived. Marr's book had such sharp edged particular people. Simonson's were more the usual British prototypes but not false nor flat regardless. I think it was the specificity, the details in both that gagged me, more in the Chechnya book because the horror was always there. There was no one lived outside the atrocities.  Both allow that war 'is' and will be.

In both, there was the petty  cruelty of cultural class war and the ever presentcruelty of individual hate and pain. 
I am sober after reading them, not that I haven't been many times before after reading about our ability to hate and kill. This time I am sober because I am aware that we are at the cusp of deciding if war just 'is' or whether we can turn back from the edge of allowing competing differences turn into unalterable damage. Do we live at the brink and won't know it?  Or are we in just one more cosmic burp of violence and hate that just 'is'?  Do we need the life and death drama in order to have respite after the destruction?  Nature or nurture?  What can we change?  What will we change?  And what will we accept?  What do we accept in our daily lives where, instead, we could sow tolerance and compassion and don't?  

You see, this is what novels are for--showing us dramatic choices.  Bless the authors. 

IT WAS ABOUT TIME TO BE A TOURIST

• 
  

I was in Maine for Easter week. When I said I was going back to Mexico, people would ask or exclaim about how exciting that was. Not so much. Living in another country is different from vacationing there. Mostly things go smoothly here but is more cumbersome than'home'. This time though, I arrived to no telephone, no Internet, no water, no food in the house and, worse yet, no coffee maker that worked!!

With irritation, my husband and I trudged to the center of town to buy a coffee maker.

It was a Saturday night. People were happy. Restaurants were busy. We stumbled around and saw a cafe with a table outside. Waiters matter. We collapsed. The waiter took care of us (which was much needed). He was so gracious and caring and funny and adept as in fine dining adept. We were grubby and grumpy. He turned us into appreciative pampered tourists. (And served phenomenal coffee to boot.)

We left holding hands. We walked up a side street and ran into a burro all dressed up in flowers. We saw a group of musicians gathering and so asked what was going on. We kidded and shared names and took photos of me with the tuba (why is tuba so popular in Mexico???).

They told us there was going to be a 'callejonada'.  A Callejonada takes place when there is a celebration of some event--usually a wedding. After the ceremony the bride and groom and all the guests head out into the street and parade, drinking vodka and singing. So we waited and watched the procession leave the elegant restaurant, women maneuvering to stay upright in five inch heels on cobblestone streets. Glamour first!! The band said there were 12 Callejonadas that night in San Miguel. Wedding season. ('Callejon' means small alley street.)

Next we found a hip (without trying too hard) but low key place for tacos and enchiladas al pastor. Cheap. Building made of old windows mostly. Lots of hot sauces. Good music and beer. We had seriously forgotten how to be a tourist in San Miguel. We went home happy and hoping for water. (Nope,Monday, si Dios quierre. (God willing.)

WELCOME TO MY BASKET OF THOUGHTS

I don't plan ahead when I write my truth burps. That makes it fun and interesting to me.
I sit and usually a theme or thought emerges. Not today. I have a torrent of thoughts.
Or at least I can't settle on one. (Yep, had a luxurious cup of great very caffeinated coffee 
in bed this morning--red cup too)  So here I go:

–I have always said and felt, "The more the merrier. Come on in. Let's play".  I supported open enrollment for higher education allowing for different levels of ability. As I kid, I assumed that biography shelves (anybody old enough to remember the orange covered series of biographies of famous people?) were there for everyone's story. I wanted to hear everyone's stories. And now we can and are with Indie publishing and social media channels.  AND it overwhelms me and I want to plug my ears. It reminds me of a question one of my sons asked me when he was about eight years old. "Is everyone thinking?" "Yep",I responded.
"All the time?" he continued. "Yep", I was driving and half listening. Then, my son said, "Is there room for all the thoughts?"

There you have it.  Is there room for all our thoughts, all our photos, all are stories, all our gripes?  Yes. We have to make room. And we also need the skill to step away from the too muchness to hear and know our own thoughts. We need critical skills to curate what we want to take in and what we don't. We need paths that take us where we want to go and we need to take a detour now and then so we don't reinforce only our sameness. We need to listen to more than words and the visual. We need discernment. We need to clear space for our cluttered brains. 

And so, listening to what I just wrote, I'll save my other thoughts for another time.
We live in a "too much is never enough" time. I've shared enough. 

TOO MANY PERSPECTIVES

There are times when I wish I had one perspective and one only. It must feel so simple to
see things through one lens. Sure of being right. Not bothered by a strong alternative point of view. No multi anything. Clear.   

What triggered this thought was Easter and its varied celebrations in different cultures. 
I was lucky enough to experience many in my global work. I would love to be able to follow the path that led to these traditions. Who started the idea and why it stuck. 

Here's one that I bumped into by mistake. Big mistake. I was in the Czech Republic working, running a leadership conference. I noticed there were big and small twisted sticks with varied color ribbons on the end. Festive. I grabbed a bunch to spiff up the boring sterile ballroom we were working in. Well I learned what they were and fast. The sticks are used for Easter Monday. Men go door to door to visit the moment. The women bend over and are 'spanked' with the switches. Sometimes the men splash the women with water too. How very jolly. AND then the women give the men a shot of whiskey and off the men go to the next house. Think what the last house they visit must be like. Well there. Anyway, the modern women leaders did not like that I had put the darn switches everywhere in the room. Out they went and a great cross-cultural discussion ensued. (Look it up, it's for real)

Then there is Mexico that doesn't involve eggs except at the start of Lent when eggs are hollowed and filled with glitter and white flour and the goal is to crack strangers over the head with them. By the end of the day, all brown faces are powdered white. The Friday of Palm Sunday all houses are decorated with purple and white and so are the churches. People go house to house to view them and to receive----a Popsicle. Used to be salt water representing Mary's tears, but the kids must have hated it and thus the Popsicle. Easter Sunday, effigies of Judas are exploded all over town like a pinata stuffed with firecrackers. Very satisfying

Belgium has flying church bells. The bells are quite from Good Friday until Easter Sunday.
They fly away and come back with chocolate and other candies for the children. I imagine a priest trying to tie the sweets to Holy week somehow. "Here's an idea. The bells are quiet anyway. Let's say they fly away and bring back candy. Show of hands??? Good. Flying bells it is.

I can't leave out Greece. Greece does Easter with great joy. Yep, eggs but only red--the best shade of red ever. Red is great for Easter--blood and fertility!! "Forget pink and yellow. We got it"  Everyone has them and use them up fast. Two people each hold and egg and hit it against one another's egg. Whichever egg doesn't crack wins. Sacrosanct.

I take it back. I don't want one point of view. I love the variety and the richness of so many differences. Fertility, pagan Spring, Christ's resurrection are all tied together. Christ would smile and understand it all and understand us as well.

I'M IN A SAN MIGUEL STATE OF MIND

I'm in the turning point of my San Miguel time, meaning almost everything feels comfortable now. I speak Spanish easily and lose my English words. Four hours at the bank to adjust
accounts and pay bills, still mostly done with paper and lots of Supervisor signatures, seemed like a nice time to 'platicar'--chat. 

After banking I went to a great cafe for 'to die for' coffee and struck up an hour long conversation with a Mexican woman who runs a candy store in San Miguel and we complained about everything (men, kids, diet, men, kids, diet and Trump, to tell the truth) We laughed and declared ourselves friends and exchanged phone numbers. Only later did I realize we did it all in Spanish.

I wandered toward the bus stop and got on a very crowded bus. I did have a 73rd birthday this past week and I cannot tell you how odd it felt to have kids give me their seat. I have arrived. Old enough to not stand. Yea??

Then home to a Lenten Service at the tiny ancient church down the alley ( the alley of the bane of my existence--zero charm and lots of basura) The church (think chapel) built in 1560  holds at best one hundred people. Many gather outside where the omnipresent speaker blares out the mass.
The church was covered in purple and white flowers and lots of chamomile and fennel for fragrance. A young handsome priest with a wonderful voice ran the Mass. His first Easter.
The music was one of those combinations of Indian and Catholic combos. It was the most mournful,discordant, wailing kind of sound that represents sorrow and Christ's climb to his crucifixion. Not so well done this year. Lots of squeaks and sour notes that had kids giggling and mom's threatening pokes to stop.

Onto a corner diner ran my a neighbor who put her kids through school by running a restaurant every Friday, Saturday and Sunday--Raquel. Natural retailer and cook. I've never seen another gringo there but we are regulars. After enchiladas verdes, we walked with neighbors and some kids to honor Dia de Dolor. This day represents the sorrow of Mary who knew what was coming for her son. Every house and church decorates with the purple and white flowers and herbs. Long ago every house served salt water to sip that represented Mary's tears. Hey, no more. Popsicles work just as well. So it has a Halloween feel with groups walk around sucking on Popsicles. This is exactly what I love about Mexico.

I am embedded here in Mexico. And I will fly to Maine for Easter. It will be good and odd. 
Living in a different culture is very different from visiting. I switch homes, not houses.
Am I complaining? No. I am digesting the richness of my life. 

I AM A SAP----

In about sixth grade, I discovered that magazines had ads in them and contests and if I responded, I got things back in the mail!!!  It thrilled me. American Girl, Boy's Life (my brother's magazines had the best stuff)
Seventeen, and all comic books. I applied to art school that had something to do with a matchbook cover.
I sent for a tiny sea horse--dead on arrival. I got the best ever Roy Rodgers ring that was a saddle and the saddle slid off to show a hiding place for messages. And then began, the deluge. I had mail everyday.
Even from Frederick's of Hollywood. My dad and the mailman laughed together at that and I cried and my mom had a talk with my dad about sixth grade girl's sensitivities!

OK.  First is there anyone out there that falls for the come-ons about health and beauty on the Internet or do I have to join a support group. Well, OK. Of course I want:

—a sample of Angelina Jolie's face cream with all the ingredients that I put in a salad
—the one spice that will cure leaky gut--my kitchen is covered with turmeric!! It stains, people!
—the strange fruit that rebuilds your joints in a week--that you have to eat 40 of a day
—the three junk foods that give you perfect blood pressure—that I am happy to sell to you
—to have new clients by Friday —written on Thursday
—to activate the three centers of feminine power (If only Feminists hadn't lost their sense of humor I could say something funny there)

To make it worse all of these ads come with an incredibly long video and a person who wants to change the world with their product while becoming very very rich. All have a sob story and all somehow involve avocados or coconut oil. AND--the kicker, they all come with a sample that leads to a monthly delivery of their oh so special product!!!

How do I know? Momentary boredom and curiosity made me click a few little tiny circles and stuff came in the mail. I have unclicked all but some red powder that keeps coming that would have made me lose years
with each Tablespoon, I think. Or it could be for clearing foggy brain. No, it was for memory enhancement. Not sure. Good thing I never tried it--all six jars and more to come unless I fine the unclick box.

You've never been a sap? It's kind of fun. Stuff comes. It's exciting. Too much comes. Then you cry.