Chios

I was recently on the Greek island of Chios,

which is just off the coast of Turkey.

I've lived in Turkey,

and been to several places in Greece,

but I had never been to Chios before.

Chios, like other islands in the area,

has been invaded and settled over time by several

different powers,

including the Greeks, the Persians, the Italians,

and of course the Turks.

Because of the island's vulnerable, coveted geographical location,

the people built up cities that were natural fortresses,

like this one, the medieval village of Mesta.

This is its outer wall:

The houses in these village/fortresses are built so close together

that you have to look for the hole

or chink

in the fortress, so the speak,

where you will find the entrance:

And then you walk through narrow passageways

that ultimately open out into fabulous central courtyards

The most fascinating of these medieval villages was Pyrgi,

also built so to protect itself:

But the remarkable thing about Pyrgi is the amazing designs 

on the buildings there.  It's almost like graffitti,

but controlled into fabulous patterns.

It reminds me, in a small way,

of the island of Bali,

a land where art and living work collaborate continually.

But in Pirgi, the artwork comes from very humble means.

It begins with putting plaster on stone walls,

then digging it off into different designs

using spoons:

This people of Pyrgi began doing this to their houses 

a few hundred years ago.  The more geometric patterns

come from that time.  The most recent designs

date back fifty years or so, and they are more

elaborate.  The result is a most definitely Greek

village that might have been imagined

by

Dr. Seuss & Gaudi:

. . . ah, it is so wonderful to see

what the human compulsion

for self expression.

There will, I believe, always be

some form of art.  And it is most fabulous

when our art is also the place

where we live.

(all photos by Makropoulos)

The Garden Goddess

Haven't been living in the virtual world much these days-

instead I've been in the real,

whatever that is,

gardening

and watching the garden explode.

You met this lady once before, in this form,

when the garden was young:

Well, her little patch of the garden keeps changing,

and she keeps reclining,

so happy to be part of the constant cycle

of the earth:

. . . enjoy your day --

I wish I had some more to say!

But sometimes the insanity of the man-made world is far too insane 

to even provoke comment.

Today's Diva: Orianthi Panagaris

As I've said so many times before,

divas don't have to be

opera singers.

They're anyone who put their hearts and souls

on the line to produce the best 

that they can produce.

Here's another:

I first encountered her in 

This Is It! --

the film about Michael Jackson's "final" tour,

and I thought then: there's a force to be reckoned with,

and that force was not Michael Jackson:

And she is a force to be reckoned with,

and a true diva ~ ~

Orianthi Panagaris

The Rage of the Soul

from: extremeinstability

Those times, when the rage comes around,

so great, it's near impossible to control,

don't let the despair overcome you; know

it's the god within your soul;

It's the force of creation awakening

there, trapped in the shell of the human --

it's the sustaining spirit in

despair, for the bondage it suffers,

the blindness of flesh,

the myth of happy-ever-after,

the rope of time,

the windowless buildings

of society's rights

and wrongs.

(readywisconsin)

Like all caged beasts, it is prone to rebellion.

Ride the wave of its energy, channel

it through the inlets and byways

of art and society.  Put it to use,

so it doesn't use you, and it will

be 

the beauty that you leave

on the face of the earth.

 (also from extremeinstability -- a fascinating website!)

Living in Bunny Land

( petrabbitcare )

The winter was not cold; this climate
grows rabbits.  Bunnies, in abun-
dance dance across my yard.

Our nightly walk, a ballet of cotton
feet in moonlight, ears in twi-
light, noses nibbling, twitching

to the pulse of the earth; my feet your feet too.
Two of us see two of them: bunnies
in our path.  They see us too.

Who will give way to the other?  It
is we who move to the street, while the rabbits
watch.  Bunnies are we all, even

my cats who watch bunnies from windows.
This is why the rabbits run rampant
on my side of town, and will endure

long after the rest of us have moved on.

( ribonita )

Diva Donna Summer, continued

I know I honored her a day or two ago,

but then I found these videos,

and wanted to post them,

because they prove she truly numbers among 

some of the great gospel divas:

In the case of this diva,
and all the others,
the internet does us the great favor
of making their music
truly immortal --

Today's Diva: Donna Summer (May She Rest In Peace)

Another great disco diva departs:

She was one of those radio spirits that orchestrated a certain part of my growing up,

and it was really easy to like her.

And right up until about three years ago, she was still delivering:

Dear Donna, I'm sure you're a diva in heaven!

Lilac Tercets

Overnight, purple and white

exploded on your boughs

against blue skies, you burgeon there

insisting on the now, the breath

revolves and calms me here

despite the ringing in my ear

be still, it whispers, be

amazed, let birdsong ease

the chill.  Be still.

The Elf in Self

stonecarver

~ ~ ~

The self, transformed

becomes an elf,

on its way to being

stone.

~ ~ ~

fanpop

The elf in the self is a 

solitary soul,

sly and suspicious 

of snakes;

when met on the road,

she is playful and kind and certain

society's rules are a guise.

The elf self wants only to be self

unencumbered

by rules and opinions

of others.

And then, we'll agree

that the loss of the "e"

leaves

life's consonants

that must be whispered,

not hissed or aspirated

but rolled on the lips

and tongue

felt by the body

like a kiss.

Self as a word,

deconstructed,

brings us solely to now,

wholly to how

we can give to each other --

by discovering the elf,

and removing the vowels

we are left with the body

the shape of the utterance,

the impulse to say,

the impulse to stay.

sdakotabirds

The Art of the Exhale

I just started reading Pema Chödrön's book When Things Fall Apart,

and I have been trying to practice her meditation technique of 

making the outbreath, the exhale, the object of meditation:

". . . -the elusive, fluid, everchanging out-breath, ungraspable and yet

continuously arising.  When you breathe in, it's like a pause

or a gap.

There is nothing particular to do except wait for the next out-breath." (19)

annawojtczak

~ ~

Last Tuesday, I returned to the States after my second trip abroad

this year.  It was a relief to be home,

and to return to Normalcy, though, quite frankly,

I fear Normalcy 

-- "Normalcy" is that strange state we all slip into

when we are surrounded by the familiar,

where we take things for granted,

take each other for granted,

walk down the street where we live and don't look at the beauty,

etc. etc. etc. . . . 

but I did not come home to Normalcy, really; I came home to a phone message

from an old friend telling me my former husband was dying.

In actual fact, he died that night,

and for 24 hours or so I was barraged by phone calls from people

who associated me with him, everyone wanting to be

the person who told me he had passed on.

Of all the calls I received, the one that moved me most was from my old friend A.,

who happened to be there in the hospital when my ex breathed his last.

A. called me within 30 minutes of the death, and he was indeed the first to tell me.

Truly, I was deeply moved that he shared that moment with me:

I could hear the awe and horror still in A.'s voice as he described the scene:

my former mate had cancer, you see, and it was in his lungs,

in his whole body, A. finally admitted,

(I actually had had contact with my ex- over the past months,

and knew he was quite ill, though he would't tell me

exactly how ill)

and he had a breathing tube,

and A. explained the sound of the breath

even with the tube,

and I recalled the times I've stood by one near death,

and all I could really focus on 

was breath.

The inhale, yes,

the agonizing intake,

but more poignantly,

the exhale --

that moment of release

and relief

that anyone at hand knew could be the last,

and I was happy to hear

that the final breath was a gentle one,

a peaceful one 

orchestrated by Mahler, played by one of his friends. 

You see, exhales are the most important part of the breath because

it is what we give out to the world.

Yes, we need the inhale for our individual lives,

we draw in the air to maintain our measly machines,

but it is the exhale that we give to the rest of our

living, breathing creation.

(inhabitat)

Perhaps this is why people are so interested in final words:

Did he say anything about me?

(No, I didn't wonder that, not at all; but people do.)

Did he say anything absolutely insightful?

Did she say anything at all?

The final word is the wish we give to the larger assembly.

So it is best if it is one of love, or at least one of peace or compassion,

or understanding.  

Our world is so full of evil expirations

and intentions, and it seems to me our final words

have the power to allay them.

huffingtonpost (interesting story - The Scream is being auctioned off!)

~ ~ ~

Indeed, every exhalation is a powerful thing,

like a wish, or a spell, we unconsciously bring 

to those around us.  My mother

was a great sigher, exuding her personal agonies on her children

with every melodramatic sigh.

I think we were all impacted by this,

raised as we were in this aura of personal despair.

Exhalations of fear, too, only fill others with apprehension.

I can see that in my poor cats: when I get upset,

they are upset, too, just as

when I am in love, they too are in love.

Air, you see, is the most insubstantial substance

we consume 

in the material world,

and, whether we like it or not,

it gets recycled.

Now that we understand recycling a little more,

those of us who care actually clean what we discard

before we put it out to be reused.

Why not the same with breath?

Meditating on the outbreath

makes me very conscious of this dynamic.

I know it's hard to make every outbreath meaningful --

after all, we take so many every hour --

but being conscious on some level of the challenge

can slowly bring a change

to every breath we take,

and give back to the world in which we live

and die.

Some Thoughts on a Morning Walk

Now that I've lived in my body

for hundreds of years,

                                         now

that I know the cycle of my personalities,

                               now

that I know the journey from my spine to foot,

and traverse it regularly,

relieved by regularities,

and pestered by the places of pain and imperfection,

Now that I know

unequivocally that

No

One

Wins,

                            and no one loses,

and

that you, on your morning jog,

and I, walking my head to clarity,

that we, working repetitively

just to be here now,

well,

now

what is there to do but be grateful 

that the earth too works repetitively

to make our nows

Eden, if we let them be.

photos by me.

Today's Diva: Deb "Spoons" Perry

Yes, I've been away for awhile,

out of the country, in fact.

As I recuperate from both my trip

and my allergies,

let me please share the work of Deb "Spoons" Perry

She is a true diva!

going on the road

Hey,

I'm going on the proverbial road

and won't be blogging for a little while =-=

Please don't leave me dear friends:

I will be back!

Who Knows Where The Time Goes

I've posted Judy once as a diva,

and I'll do it again,

as she sings the sentiment

I feel so often these days:

Do I Look Suspicious -- God Bless You Trayvon

I have been silent lately,

but my heart is full.

I would like to say something about the shooting

of Trayvon Martin,

but I think the students at Howard University have said it better:

What follows is a modest attempt at commentary:

I recall when I moved back from Turkey to the USA,

in 2003,

my first position was a one year stint at a historically black university

in Mississippi. 

As someone who lived the bulk of my current life

in the North East, I found that year to be just as culturally illuminating

as four years in Turkey, if not more so.

Indeed, my culture shock recovery was deferred by a year,

as I moved into another culture, and was shocked even more profoundly,

NOT because of the experience of teaching primarily black students --

they were students, and they had dreams and goals,

and I was happy to help them, in whatever way I could --

but rather, I was stunned when I saw,  very vividly,

in grocery stores, empty swimming pools, churches,

and on the street,

that racism continues to be the biggest challenge facing the United States.

Every now and then, something happens like the murder 

of Trayvon Martin,

and that hidden illness surfaces.

It is our biggest challenge to face that illness

and find constructive, peaceful ways

to heal it.

Rest In Peace, 

dear Trayvon,

and best of luck to the students who made this video,

and all of the students in the USA,

who seek only peace

and respect,

as they work to create

a better future.

words have left me for awhile (what follows is a short poem from Rumi)

( larkcrafts )

Birdsong brings relief

to my longing.

I am just as ecstatic as they are,

but with nothing to say!

Please, universal soul, practice

some song, or something, through me!

(by: Rumi)

Spring-Waking

. . . the earth has woken

to herald spring

with premature,

voluptuous

accord ~ ~

Could it be that time

is speeding up?

Is this the last gasp

before a deeper chill?

Or is it just a passing phase, ~~

a year that history will look back upon and say

"it was extraordinary."

It is

extra

ordinary,

and so hard not to stop and look

and be amazed

. . . wishing you all a peaceful spring.

St. Patrick's Day Thoughts

Oh, it's been too long since I've written here.

No excuses --

I'm back home for now,

and planning another journey, and my mind is still.

Sleeping.

It's still hibernating, I think.

Right now, I'm sitting somewhere in Ohio,

marveling over a mid 70's F temperature (about 23 Celsius)

and blossoming daffodils

on St. Patrick's Day,

a day that is typically

snowy, blustery and awful in these parts.

And all I keep thinking is:

it's beautiful, but

there's something wrong.

I tend to think it's the earth telling us

to stop being such fools and stop abusing her so.

A few months ago in Southern Ohio,

fracking caused earthquakes --

Yesterday, my sister told me how the school where she teaches is is being closed,

a school devoted to serving the most challenged children,

and there is a rumor that her school board had sold the mineral rights for the land

the building stands on, so they could frack where the building stands.

Of course, the building stands near some low income projects, too.

I guess any land that houses the poor or needy is expendable.

Oh, well, so I sit here on St. Patrick's Day enjoying the weather,

but wondering if this is herald to something the earth has in store for us

for hurting her so.   

Happy St. Patrick's Day to you,

enjoy the day.

Enjoy the world we've been given ~ ~

better yet, do one thing today to take care of that world ~ ~

Living in the Fold

Living in the Fold:

Aka:

Traveling From Far East to Far West

( memorylaneminis )

At this time, I commence,

And within an hour

Or two it is the time

At which I commenced.

I mark a line

On the map in between

These two zones

And fold time in

On itself.

                             And then proceed rapidly

Forward,

                                                                                                                                                Backwards,

Into a day that I will live twice, yet only once,

Passing myself meeting myself

At the same moment

                         Again and again.

( greenchairpress )

I mark and fold

My origami world,

I sleep when tired

There in the fold

And dream of tonight

Twenty-four hours

            (or so)

                     from now

when I will meet you

and we can fold

us

into each others’ arms

again.

( gildaorigami )

the perfection of repetition and symmetry

In all my years,

I've traveled many places,

but the one place I had yet to see

has been India.

My silence, dear friends,

is because as I write this,

I am sitting in Dehli.

My purported purpose for being here

has been a conference.

(Did I write about that already?)

But my other raison d'etre

was to see,

if only for a moment,

some of India's finest landmarks.

Magic can be found

in the hinterlands of this land;

for instance, the Amber Fort, near Jaipur:

(all photos by me)

or this fabulous floating palace, Jal Mahal, in the same area:

I suddenly understand that the worlds of the Arabian Nights,
which happens to be
one of my favorite books in all of the world,
may indeed have a foundation
in something very real.


But more than anything else,
I am struck by the sheer beauty of symmetry and repetition.
It creates an experience
so much like a song,
as I travel from town to town,
past poverty and controlled chaos,
the trip has been held together
by the most terrific harmony.

Let me please share with you
some of the sites I have been lucky enough
to see: moments
of perfection on a landscape in a symphony that helps us see
that perfection is rare,
but possible
in our troubled world:

 ( Amber Fort, near Jaipur, India)

(Chand Baori, Abhaneri, India (between Jaipur and Agra)

(Chand Baori)

(Fatehpur Sikri )

(interior design, Fatehpur Sikri -- photo again by me)

(Taj Mahal)

(Taj facade)

. . . and my favorite (well, other than the Taj) Akbar's tomb:

( Akbar's Tomb, entrance gate -- Sikandra )

 (Akbar's tomb)

(Akbar's tomb)

(Akbar's tomb)

Truth to tell
these sites render me speechless,
and all I can do
is share their beauty.