I Am This Woman

Watch this video, and then think about whether or not this guy has a talent, or a gift.

Britain’s Got Talent - Opera Singer from Cardiff

I would venture to say he has a gift for singing, and the talent required to get up there and do what he did.

I love the expressions on the judges’ faces too, esp. old Simon Cowell.

(When I heard that the guy is Welsh, I was expecting good, but not quite like that!)

Follow-up: the finals of the Britain’s Got Talent 2007 competition is here.

(36 of 50)

You know, even if we didn’t make it to all the “perfect” places in Austin, we made it TWICE to see my Knitting Guru, and that was solid gold.

She is a woman I met when I started attending the UU church and discovered that I was indeed a lifelong Unitarian but just didn’t know what to call it all those years. In 1995, I was pregnant and wanting connection, so I volunteered to teach Sunday School, after Guru J chatted me up and I discovered that we shared similar teaching philosophies.

I began to live for the days when she was able to stay after church talking and gabbling with me until we were embarrassingly the last folks to leave the parking lot, stomachs grumbling for lunch.

Eventually, I found my way to her house, which was filled with books and yarn and music and love. I soaked up the time with her, and mentioned that when I was 40 (which I regarded at the Age At Which Everything Would Be Over), I would take up knitting again. She looked at me a little askew and said, “why wait? I’ve been knitting forever since I was about 8 or 9.” Oh.

So I took up needles and tried again… and fast forward two years, and I have a baby in tow on the way to Australia on a lark, and my Make-Mistake-Snake on the needles on the plane. I completed this lovely snake toy for my child, having learned much about tension, switching from purl to knit and back again, dropping stitches, joining seams, slipping the first stitch on the row and counting each row each time to see that I did not drop a stitch.

Many thousands of conversations, games, visits, food, stories, books, yards of yarn and years later, and we were sitting around her table again tonight, talking a blue streak right up until I had to run out to dinner in order to get to sleep by 11 or so. And still we have conversations, knitting work and stories to finish and show/tell each other another time.

Tonight, I showed her my very favorite birthday present, a compilation art technique book that someone gave me thinking it wasn’t much of a gift, but it was better to pass it along than to toss it. OMG, both of us raved and drooled over it for an hour. She said, “Oh my, I LOVE THIS. It gives me SO many ideas!” EXACTLY! That’s the magic of it!

Such a treasured friendship. I am truly blessed, and to that she would say, “oh well, you know, it’s just what we do, isn’t it? No big deal. Glad to see you anytime!”

And later, my darling child said, “J is so sweet.” Why? I prompted. “Well, she just UNDERSTANDS what I’m into. She listens.”

Wow. Yes. That from a 12 year old who is priming himself for a typical but very non-conformist teenage (just like all teenagers). For both of us, we have a role model for very different (but really just the same) reasons. And that is just awesome.

Now all I can think of is what should I make her! I have a very good idea. Heh heh…

(35 of 50)

Just a quick moment here before kicking into the evening portion of the festivities…

I opened cards and the few packages I received just now, and there is no way to explain just how touched and moved I am for the little kindnesses I’ve received. A handmade card, a card hand-picked, a handwritten note, a scribbled note on a gorgeous postcard (or a silly one)… they are all precious to me.

The small gifts (to the giver) mean the world to me. You have NO idea. Tears sprang to my eyes each time I saw the loveliest of little things… each one was Something Wonderful.

There will be a proper accounting of these things, and the fun of receiving the cards over the last month (and I hear there are more cards to come!), but first, I need to finish celebrating, visiting and contemplating this day because it will not come again. It is a good day, one to be met with elan… so that the next day and days can be so met too.

No rest for this siesta from the 100 degree temps here today, but lots and lots of joy, laughter and love. Thank you all!

(34 of 50)

Yay me. I’m 50 today. Although it’s just another day, and I feel the same (ie, back pain if I sleep too long, need glasses to see computer screen, where’s my coffee?!, and all that jazz).

For today, visiting here in Austin, I am going to attempt a perfect day. One can never plan these things, but I’m going to hit a number of spots that I know to be awesome and cool and just regular deals, not completely FUNNED OUT AND SIX FLAGS EXTREME!

On my list, in no particular order, though I’m thinking about scones right NOW:

Texas French Bread

Waterloo Ice House

Threadgill’s

Hyde Park Bar and Grill

Hill Country Weavers

Zilker Park/Barton Springs

Lady Bird Lake bats (formerly Town Lake)

Toy Joy/Terra Toys

Bull Creek Park

and the hotel swimming pool, sauna and spa….

Spending some time nurturing the Writer Me

Hanging with my son and Miss Lucy

Brie and pepper water crackers

German chocolate cake

Sushi

Massage and hair salon visit

(and much more…)

Add to this mix my Knitting Guru, my cousin the atty-at-law, a handful of old friends, all my nieces and nephews, and it would be the perfect birthday. Alas, I think only the Guru knows I’m in town. Obviously, there is little chance that I will have the time, patience or desire to hit all those spots (as I type I can think of 10 more). I did the hanging out and drinking thing last night (to great amusement, and a slight headache this morning). I will also make phone calls to round up those far away that I do miss… and I have a STACK of unopened birthday cards/packages that I’ve been saving.

If we were going to make this a Perfect Day(tm), what I REALLY want is to be in Italy, Hungary or Spain… but that wasn’t to be this time. No worries, there are plans afoot for next summer already (which right now are leaning towards Paris and the UK. And why not! It’s all good. There is no magic to this one day, it’s how I live the days before and after it that matter… esp. the days that come after.

No, I can’t do it all today, and I may not be able to do it all in this lifetime. But I’ve got 50 more years to try (I am ambitious), and I’m not going to waste one day (though I am certain there will be some wasted hours in traffic, waiting rooms and the like, but I’m not even going to let THAT bug me!).

I am this woman, living the only life I’ve been given. And it’s not bad, people. Not bad at all.

(32 of 50)

Four days before my 50th birthday, I am getting a mammogram. It is my second. Yes, I know that I should have started at 45 and gotten yearly ones. But I am a slow adopter, and I confess to having a modicum of anxiety about the whole “breast sandwich” thing.

But then I had my first one. And IT WAS NO BIG DEAL. I think that we need to stop catastrophizing these routine procedures, which in many cases, SAVE LIVES. (More later on the colonoscopy.)

I am going to a new clinic today, but last time this was the drill: wait in waiting room (aptly named) for a bit, ignore all the people who are getting more dire diagnostic exams/tests, read Reader’s Digest from 1999 (an article about Y2K). When name is murmured barely above the din by laconic technician in candy pink scrubs, sound like an old fart and say, “WHAT? Did you call me?”

Get instructions for the fifteenth time about undressing from the waist up. “TAKE OFF EVERYTHING. Did you wear deodorant?” Um, no because 75 people in your office told me not to. One woman made a special phone call to impart this wisdom. Regardless of the fact that I don’t *wear* any products with aluminum in them, and have a very simple system of bra-and-shirt, I suppose they get really tired of having to specify to people that they need to remove their nipple piercings.

The clinic I went to has a special little waiting area for the topless-but-gowned ones. The magazines are only a month old. I read People and probably discovered that some former TV star had died and I hadn’t heard about it.

When you get called into The Room, the Express-Lane Effect starts. By this principle – that whenever I get into an Express Lane, it backs up because the machine is down, or there is a price check required – I will get the technician with the coldest hands.

And the most fun is the little tape pasties they put on you (cool! they come in floral now!). “No, I need to place them.” The tech scrutinizes your boobs, selecting just the exact center of your nipple for reference.

Then the breast sandwich is done, with two plates (which are cold, no surprise there) that come down to “gently” mash your breast tissue as flat as possible so the x-ray gives as accurate a picture as possible. Yes, it hurts but it lasts for about 20 seconds. The tech says, “Hold your breath!” to which I gasp, “No problem!”

Repeat that three more times. There are two views taken – one vertical, one horizontal, two boobs. So, 80 seconds of unpleasantness, some cool, high-tech pasties and the off-chance to detect breast cancer early while it’s treatable.

Not bad.

(31 of 50)

My son has been alternatively-schooled and unschooled 11 years, and in public school for not quite one year. He was in a non-traditional daycare and kindergarten (Waldorf-inspired and Waldorf-proper) for the first six years, then in a charter school for five years that emphasized community responsibility, consensus building, theme-driven multi-year curriculum and individual responsibility.

The one lead teacher he had for the last three years of the charter school was, as it turned out, NOT a good fit for him in that last year, though I didn’t see it at the time (so much other stuff going on). I know better now. My son is what he is, and needs the kind of learning environment that he needs, and a teacher who does not make reasonable accommodations IN A SMALL CHARTER SCHOOL is a bad thing.

We unschooled for six months, exploring together what he wanted to learn, but mostly decompressing from that bad teacher. Last October, I enrolled him in a public school in a move that startled me but seemed to be the right thing at the time. The decision was twofold: as his main educator, I was failing him. I couldn’t find the right combination of approach, topic, method or structure that suited him (including NONE), motivated him. Some dedicated home educators said that I didn’t give him enough time. But the need for change was immediate. And thus as his parent also, I was failing him.

However, when I thought about more and more and more structure, I realized that I did NOT want to replicate school at home. I had a job to attend to, and as flexible as working from home is, it does require one to actually work. The much-ballyhooed “working alongside each other” was not working for us, and having me as the teacher and parent was confusing and stressful for the lad.

Unschooling was not working (at least not fast enough for my son’s well-being); I did not want to do “school-at-home” (even brief attempts at workbooks and lesson plans were met with tears and anxiety). So, why not share the responsibility with others to be the teachers? Oh, hey, there is a system for that. It’s called “school.”

I wanted to see how he would respond in addition to seeing how he would do when pitted against the mainstream school of thought, standardized testing and all that rot. Sixth grade was an ideal place for that to happen because, in reality, sixth grade is pivotal developmentally but not academically. It was a great learning lab for all sorts of reasons. If it didn’t work out, then we could also go back to Plan A, or move on to Plan C, D, E, F…

Sixth grade worked out just fine. Not great, not awful. Just fine. As it should be. He got the full experience of social mores (public school really is a funny sort of island tribe!), teacher nonsense and teacher wonderfulness (esp. librarian wonderfulness!). He learned cool stuff in math and science, and has emerged as bright and skilled in most subjects (completely “meh” in mainstream art-teacher art). He has learned the game of homework completion and the consequences of not doing it and not caring about it. And because of the ungraded foundation he had in the non-traditional schools, he is not a little trick monkey working for The Grades. The numbers on his papers were like weather reports to him, and me, and we dressed and reacted accordingly.

And now we are moving on to seventh grade, and I’m going to take the same attitude: it will be a learning lab. We’ll see what works, and what doesn’t, and if it doesn’t work on a catastrophic level, then we have Plan C, D, E …

So anyone who says, “oh, I can’t imagine homeschooling,” “homeschooling is too hard,” “I bet you got sick of it” or “kids need to socialize with other kids” will get a polite smile from me. Ditto the folks (much more rarely) who say, “public school is evil,” “I would never do that to my child,” or “You’re caught up in the establishment, man!” They really have no clue what we were and are doing, and I don’t have time to fill them in. Join us in the journey and conversation, see all the shades and colors of learning, be a supporter and a partner. But heckling, however well-meaning, will be ignored.

(30 of 50)

First of all, unless I do three entries a day, I am not going to get to 50 by next Sunday, which IS MAH BIRFDAY!!!! yay! yay! I’m not mad enough to try that, or think that it would be worth reading. But I may continue with daily entries until I indeed do have 50.

Secondly, I haven’t exactly been delving into the Deep Stuff. This birthday so far hasn’t seemed to be as momentous as 40 was. 30 was pleasant and rather sad. I was desperately unhappy at 30, and the day was made worse by an unwelcome celebration at work, if I remember correctly. In fact, it is rather funny (both in a ha-ha way and in a peculiar way) that other people assign so much meaning to one’s birthday even when you don’t. 50 is a number. When you are not yet fifty, it seems impossibly OLD. But days from 50, I feel like I’m truly in the middle of something. Not old. In the middle. Busy. Occupied. Booked up.

My creativity has been dampened this week. I’ve felt it sort of lying there in a wet little puddle in the corner, occasionally whimpering and sighing, “Oh please, let’s do something with paint. Or fabric. Yes, with fabric.” And then it slumps down again, just wistful and Edwardian and all want and no have.

I know that by directing some energy over toward that corner, that things will start to flow again. I know that ideas and experiments will be there when I am ready. During our recent trip to see the Prince Caspian movie in the Narnia Chronicles, I found myself drifting off the storyline (some would argue, “what storyline?”) and noticing the clothes. I wanted to remember how the clothes were constructed so I could make myself some cool period clothes, and my son a puffy shirt that looks very masculine and royal. I also have decided to make a mask like the helmets that the Telmarines wore (think Spaniard conquistadors).

The flow is there, when I want to release it. For writing, it’s much much easier, both because the medium is so simple (word processor, blog, keyboard - just start putting words down) and because it’s my preferred and oldest practice. But I also know that when I open some Sculpey, sit down with scissors and cloth, or pick up knitting, the same process is there. With some variations, but it’s there for me when I seek it. That’s one very very nice thing about 50. My creative process is a known quantity, an ever-evolving entity that I’m smack in the middle of.

For you, gentle reader, think today of ebb and flow. How would you map your process? Start in the middle with a work in progress. If you unravel time, where was the inspiration for that item? where were the ebbs and where is the flow? Did you find a flow, or was there something in the way?

It’s Sunday, and for me, I hope it rains because that will be loads of quiet “boring” time inside with books, fabric, yarn and ideas. (The border collie disagrees with me. She must go RUN!)

(29 of 50)

Call me “Four Eyes.” Actually, I have bifocals, so that would be “Six Eyes.”

One part of aging is the inevitable need for glasses. This started for me in my mid-30s when I was in graduate school and reading a lot. But I didn’t believe it. I look back and see the truth now. However, at the time, I thought it was just overuse (which it probably ALSO was). Lots of reading in grad school and not all of it can be done at optimum ergonomics.

Finally, around 42, I succumbed to getting some “cheaters” as they are called, and it rocked my world. (more…)

(28 of 50)
Forgive me for just a moment, for not being fluffy, funny or pointless. This is a particularly important day for me, historically, as an American and as an Air Force brat.

Today is June 6. On a pretty day in summer, 64 years ago, a whole lot of men, young and old, landed in France for an invasion that turned the tide and eventually ended WWII. In the following months, American, British, French, Canadian, German, Italian, Spanish, etc. men and women died. Some survived and told us their stories, lest we forget.

However you feel about war, one cannot forget those hoardes of soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen who were cut down, some even before they were on dry land. Some of them were fathers and have children and grandchildren who remember. Some were childless, some married, some unmarried. There are some men who died, whose loved ones are now also dead 64 years later. They have no one to remember them.

But I remember. I was raised to honor their service and sacrifice, and to support the men and women and families serving in the military currently, regardless of my political and emotional feelings. My parents never missed any news coverage or speeches about this day. They watched with quiet tears in their eyes. They had lost friends, classmates, colleagues, neighbors; nearly everyone in their generation knew someone who had died there. They knew the magnitude of the day and taught us kids its importance. I remember. My brother remembers.

Remember them. Thank them. But really, just remember them.

(27 of 50) (not to be confused with Greta Thragnusdottir’s magnum opus - a much later but fragmented text which is considered to be the first Icelandic historical romance)

I suppose it is time to begin the story about how I discovered these Icelandic texts. I had always meant to reveal them in appropriate academic channels, but since I am no longer an academic, I can perhaps allow myself a little leeway. The problem is, however, the only other person in the Universe who ever expressed any interest in these important works was my father, and he has now passed on. In fact, if you look at the Moultrie (Georgia) High School Library check-out card for 1935-36, you will see only his signature (and one overdue fine).

Thragnussen was lesser known. Ok, he was unknown until his eddas were discovered in the 19th C. by a sheepherder, and documented by a fellow from the British Museum who had traveled to Iceland for the hákari, which he believed to be a cure for toe fungus.

(I’m sorry. I’ve run out of time tonight to finish this truly fascinating and little known story from literary history. More soon.)