Chicks and the Marine

My friend Julie raises chickens for eggs and for fun. She generously shares her multi-coloured eggs with her friends. Of which, did I mention, I am one? We are chick-sitting for Julie this weekend. Seven adorable chicks of varied breeds. They are cheeping in their box in the family room. Charlie got all GOOEY when he saw them. And, of course, he couldn't help being GOOFY too. I told him I would post the photo if he pulled a funny face! Here are some chick pictures for your enjoyment. Someday, when I'm more motivated, I will tell you the story of Attila the Hen.

Zebras and Giraffes

I bought these a few months ago for my newly renovated spare room:




I got them from Zimbabwe Artists' Project, a non-profit in Portland.
Which has a VERY HARD TO FIND location by the river.
With NO PARKING SPACES AT ALL.
It is, however, run by a couple of very personable types who were happy to let me buy these two wall hangings, even though they were supposed to be for a show.

I LOVE THEM.

Add those babies to the list.
Of THINGS THAT I LOVE.

I love them because they are cheery and bright, depicting two of my favourite animals. They have a hand-written note from the artist on the back, telling the story of the art.

I also love them because they serve a greater purpose than just decorating the walls of the African-inspired room.

Here is the PR for ZAP:

ZAP celebrates the artistry and accomplishments of women from rural Weya in eastern Zimbabwe. Through education, sale of their art in the U.S., and special projects, ZAP helps women become economically self-sufficient. Women of Weya are subsistence farmers, mothers, and householders as well as artists. Most women live on their own, providing for families. Some are widowed, others are single heads of households, since throughout Zimbabwe men leave the rural areas to seek work in cities.
Women’s income from agriculture is unpredictable and limited. Sales of their art helps women afford food, clothing, school fees, medicines, transport, seeds and fertilizer. Since the market for Weya art in Zimbabwe is extremely limited, sales in the U.S. are critical. ZAP pays much more than any other buyer, delivering cash at the time of purchase, and we provide health care to the artists.

Add to this the fact that inflation in Zimbabwe is, I don't know, a million percent and rising, and you get an idea of the hopelessness that many of the people must feel. I like thinking that my happy walls have helped an artist to provide for their families a little better.

Go here to read more about ZAP and meet Dick and Heather. They are very nice.

Happy Day!

Charlie's coming home on leave tomorrow.

Nieces and nephews are happy.


Siblings are happy.


Even parents are happy.

A teardrop for fallen Americans

This is an interesting bit of little-known history that my friend Brenda suggested for a post.
Heck, I'll post anything if a friend cares that much about my blog!
But this is worthy in its own right.
Read this excerpt from the official pamphlet on the monument.
(If you want to read the whole thing go here.)

“To the Struggle Against World Terrorism,” was conceived as the events of 9/11 unfolded and Russian artist Zurab Tsereteli walked the streets of Moscow. Struck by the outpouring of grief he observed, a memorial with an image of a tear formed in his mind. Shortly after the attacks, Tsereteli visited ground zero and looked to New Jersey’s waterfront for an appropriate site for a monument honoring victims of the World Trade Center terrorist
attacks.
Bayonne was a fitting location; the city was an arrival point for many New York City evacuees on 9/11, a staging area for rescuers and offered a direct view of the Statue of Liberty and the former World Trade Center towers.
A gift from Tsereteli and the Russian people, the memorial is made of steel sheathed in bronze. Standing 100 feet high, its center contains a jagged tear. In it, hangs a 40-foot stainless steel teardrop, representing sadness and grief over the loss of life, but also hope for a future free from terror. Etched in granite on an 11-sided base are the names of the nearly 3,000 killed in the 1993 World Trade Center bombings and terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001.

According to the caption on the above photo, which I found on Flickr: There are no signs leading you to find this remarkable monument. The walkway is lined with stones donated by those in remembrance of this day. The site is directly across from the Statue of Liberty, and looking at that skyline, you truly do see what's missing.

We're going walkabout

Yes!
Travel is imminent.
Well, looming on the horizon, anyway.
Reading the Garfields' travel blog has given me the itch.

It reminds me of when I got back from my big USA trip in 1976.
Every time I saw a plane overhead my heart wanted to be on board.

So today I booked two tickets for Sydney on September 25th.
Itinerary yet to be determined, but it will definitely include KANGAROO ISLAND. They call it the Australian Galapagos.

These photos were taken on the island.
By someone other than me.



But I will be there SOON.
Hobnobbing with the kangaroos and koalas.
Think I'll go now and sing a rousing verse or two of "Tie me kangaroo down, sport."

Yoga and Tulips

When I was a fairly limber 20-year-old, I took a yoga class at Waikato Hospital.

Side note: I was working in the cancer registry of the hospital at the time, with a girl named Raewynn.

This is the lovely Waikato Hospital.


What is a cancer registry, you ask?
I think it was a pity job.
Pity for me and for my boss.
Our boss was Arthur Nisbet, an ex-military type who should probably have retired.
Raewynn and I sat in a little office that was underneath the nurses' quarters.
I used to sneak up to the nurses' kitchen and eat their fresh white bread smothered with butter and this divine raspberry-apple jam.
Arthur was just down the hall.
I don't know what Arthur did all day, but Raewynn and I entered (by hand, of course, because this was a hundred years ago) all of the hospital cancer stats onto large record sheets.
I blithely wrote down, every day, patients' names and diagnostic codes in the records, without any thought for their anguish.
Lung cancer, breast cancer (the diagnostic code is 174, if you care), malignant melanoma, benign tumours. They were all just words to me.
Now I know better.

Back to yoga.
I loved it.
It was easy for me.
Our instructor (an elderly man whose favourite trick was inhaling water up one nostril and exhaling it out of the other) was big on Salute to the Sun.

I loved it too.
Tree pose?
No sweat.

This one, not so much.











Many years passed and yoga was NOT a part of them.

About five years ago, I realized that if I was to have any chance of enjoying myself in my old age, I needed to get back to yoga.
So I embarked on a love/hate relationship with yoga classes.
Our instructor is ex-Marine and runs a tight ship.
Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon I fight with myself.
"Shall I go to yoga tonight?"
"You certainly need to."
"But I'm tired and it hurts!"
Sternly: "You know you'll feel better if you do."

And I do.
Eventually.
Last night was no exception.
Even the downward dog hurt.

Enough of that!

We went to the tulip fields in Woodburn yesterday.
It was sunny and hot, the tulips were at their peak, and you could see snowy Mt. Hood against the blue sky.


I love Joshie's scrawny little neck.


Jenny and The Boys.
That's Jeff in the wild sunglasses.


Some of my favourite close-ups.



The only way to get a photo of Natalie when she's running free is this.


Our sweet McKenzie.

Improvising

When it comes to playing music, I have always been a "read-the-notes, play-what's-on-the-page" kind of gal. Improvising, at least when it comes to music, was a foreign concept to me. As a piano teacher, I was a bit of a stickler for getting everything "right".

Music therapy has changed me.
Most things, especially musical, do not seem so black and white any more.
These days, my students get to be more creative.
"Sure, we can play that rhythm a little differently, as long as you understand how it is supposed to sound."
"Yes, we can play that piece again and again if you want to."
And surely a favourite..."Okay, we can skip that piece if you really hate it."
Now, I give students opportunities to improvise with me at the piano.
Sometimes we play on the black keys.


Sometimes we play on the white keys.
For some of them, it is the best part of the lesson.
Others refuse to do it and that's okay too.

Improvising in music is like making tiramisu without even knowing the basic ingredients.
It's like sewing a dress without a pattern.
Or planting a garden without knowing the identity of the seeds.
There is no guaranteed outcome and you have to take risks.
Sometimes the outcome is just okay.
Sometimes it is serendipitous.

Improvising is still a new skill for me, one that I do not feel brilliant at, but with which I am beginning to be more comfortable.
Yesterday, I attended a continuing education class for my Board Certification called "Improvisation for Everyone."
Eight participants and two instructors got to play with cool instruments all afternoon.
There were no dull moments...


...and lots of wild and wacky ones.

It's hard to describe the change of mindset that is brought about by the act of improvising. It is a mindful "letting go" of the planning process and a conscious attention to that exact moment in which you exist with your fellow musicians. There are no expectations or rules. For me, it is a complete contrast to the rest of my life and quite liberating. Don't get me wrong, I love my life. BUT. It is full of responsibilities, diligence, planning, lists, and work.

Once in a while, it is nice to let the music have its way.