Happy New Year's Eve 2015

Mourning Dove sunning on the deck

When you find your sunny spot,

stay, enjoy and then move on.

Happy New Year's Eve, 2015. 

May your New Year move 

through many sunny moments.

Merry Christmas 2015

Good Morning and Merry Christmas to everyone.

Almost There

The house is clean and the turkey is in the oven. We're almost ready, almost there, feeling the tingle of anticipation, a gentle glow spreading over us.

Happy Christmas Eve to all.

Let Christmas Unfold as it Does

It hasn’t been the pre-Christmas season I’d imagined.

I’ve been ill with a cold which morphed into sinusitis, complicated by adverse reactions to another procedure’s prerequisite meds. But, it will end. I’ll get better. I’ll live.

I’ve done no baking this year as I didn’t think anyone would want my green-gold seasonally coloured snot anywhere near their food. Prior to getting sick, I had made my own Christmas cards and written all the inside notes. I added quotes to the cards and discovered some which spoke to my own feeling-sorry-for-myself state of mind.

“Don’t spoil Christmas by anticipating how it will be.

Let it unfold as it does,
and be grateful for whatever comes.”    Tori Sorenson

So I am grateful for:

lots of rest

outside Christmas decorations done in early November

the invention of tissues

a tree finally decorated

daughters who helped with shopping

antibiotics

Gary’s care

reduced expectations

I look forward to feeling well again soon and being able to smell the fragrance of the fir tree, warmed by the fireplace.  And, I remind myself of the words of Dr. Seuss. “Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.”

I’ll be grateful for whatever Christmas offers this year.

Dear Elizabeth

Dear Elizabeth

It’s New York at the Women’s Project Theatre, a full house. The audience settles and reads the Elizabeth Bishop poems left as “A Poem for your pocket” on each seat. Programs rustle, anticipation mounts, the house lights brighten then dim, a cockroach scurries beneath a desk on the stage. We are there to watch Dear Elizabeth, a play written by Sarah Ruhl, originally published as Words in the Air in 2008.

The play is based upon the thirty year correspondence and friendship between the poets Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell. Their relationship is complicated.

Pulitzer-winner Bishop, who was lesbian, was left financially stable enough to be able to travel as she wished, a love for travel reflected in her work.  Lowell, also a Pulitzer recipient was twice divorced and his third marriage ended when he died in 1977.

All the words in the play are taken from their letters and their poetry, and force the audience or reader to look at their lives not as story, but as lives lived.

Bishop’s and Lowell’s admiration for each other’s work is immediate and their letters are full of compliments and professional observations and suggestions. Their friendship is an ever-evolving affection, with each seeing the other as that rare person who understands the need for a balance of solitude and public image. There are oblique references to infidelity, depression and alcoholism. (BWW Review, Michael Dale)

The play begins with the poets as adults, so no mention is made of Elizabeth’s childhood in Great Village, Nova Scotia, her Canadian connection.

Dear Elizabeth unfolds as letters are read from two wooden desks placed on opposite sides of the stage. The cast frequently changes. The evening we attended, the actors were Ellen McLaughlin and Rinde Eckert, with Polly Noonan as a kind of stage manager, stationed in an upstage corner.

Familiar with the work of each of these 20^th century poets, the play is a delight for me. As a poet, I value the profound effect of friendship and knowledgeable critiques of one’s writing, as well as the necessity of dealing with real life while writing.

I appreciate the kindness and generosity of my daughters in taking me to see Dear Elizabeth, as I know their own tastes would have led them to another sort of play. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and appreciated the evidence of their recognition of me, as poet.

The cockroach provided a play within the play, scuttling around Rinde’s shoes during the evening. When foot work became too active, it took off for the safety of the travel props at the back of the stage.

Life intrudes into our stories without warning.

Words is colour will take you to another site with additional information, if you click on them.

Travelling by Air

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Sir Bedevere: 'Now, why do witches burn?'

Peasant: '... because they're made of wood?'

Sir Bedevere: 'Good. So how do you tell whether she is made of ... wood?'

Peasant 2: 'Build a bridge out of her.'

A Cautionary Tale of Travelling by Air

My plane is late leaving LaGuardia, an hour late, which will cut into the time I have to make connections in Montreal. I need that time for customs, picking up my suitcase, going through security, dropping off the suitcase and then getting though the next security before boarding my final flight. If I’m lucky, I’ll have time to eat.

Everywhere in the Montreal airport, there are signs saying, “This process will take 10 to 15 minutes. Following that, you have a 5 to 12 minute walk to your gate.” This is supposed to be helpful. It isn’t reassuring when I’ve lost an hour, sitting on the runway at LaGuardia.

I hustle through the Montreal airport, walking-running-sprinting, paying attention to where I’m going so I don’t waste time getting lost. All is well, though time is tight, until I reach the place where I hand over my customs form and am about to return my luggage to Air Canada. I fumble handing the form to the staff person. My hands are sweaty from hurrying.

He looks at me, sees an older, overweight, sweaty woman who appears nervous.  Automatically, he points at an open door. Now, I have to go to a second level of security screening. The officer decides I am trying to hide something.

Him: What are you declaring?

Me:  (I think, holy shit I’ll never make the plane now, but remain polite.) I bought two small books and a DVD while in New York.

Him: You’re telling me that you were in New York for Black Friday and all you spent was $60?

Me: Yes. I went to visit family, to spend time with grandchildren.  All I’m bringing back are two books and a Monty Python DVD.  (I offer the additional information hoping it makes me look ordinary, boring and non-threatening.)

Him: Are you saying that if I search your bag and your purse, I won’t find undeclared items?

Me:  That’s what I’m saying.  I have a cold, caught it from my grandson and I’ve been running trying to make my connection. That’s why I look flustered.

Him: Yes,’ tis the season for giving. (No smile.)  I want to search your bags.

Me: That’s OK with me.  Can you help me lift the suitcase?

Him: You look anxious? Are you hiding anything? (He glares at me.)

Me: (Trying hard to remain calm and polite.) No I’m not hiding anything. I visited my family and I didn’t want anything badly enough to take the train, then the subway into New York to shop over the Thanksgiving holiday. I am anxious as I don’t have much time to get to my next flight.

Him: You are shaking and your eyes are watery.

Me:  Yes, I have a cold, and yes, my nose and eyes are runny.

Him: I think you are hiding something.

Me: (I think every swear word I know.) I say: I am hiding nothing but you are welcome to search. Perhaps you could help me lift this bag to your counter.

Him: (Smirking.) You look suspicious because you dropped your customs form and because you are sweating. (He stares and bends over the counter to push his face closer to mine.) I can go through everything. What will I find?

Me: (I stare back, feel bullied. I hope he catches my cold. He continues to stare at me silently. I blow my nose.)

Finally...

Him: Have a good trip. You can go now.

Me: Thanks. (I think bad thoughts.)

 I run-walk to return my bag to Air Canada: this contentious bag containing two small books and a DVD and my clothes.

It is 20 minutes until final boarding for my plane. I go through the next security point (10 to 15 minutes) and then run to my gate (faster than the seven minutes it says it takes). I make it, sweating, out of breath, feeling miserable.

Because of delays, I eat nothing since breakfast except airline pretzels and water. I feel sick and shiver uncontrollably in the uncomfortable, cold and noisy Air Canada Dash 8 which flies from Montreal to Moncton.

The air hostess is friendly, asks if I want water and free pretzels. I say no. She asks if I enjoyed my trip.

The answer is yes, except for this last day of travel with Air Canada, coming back through Montreal.

What have I learned?

Don’t sweat or look nervous when passing through security’s scrutiny.  (Yes, I know they have a job to do and an important one, however this issue of being hauled over and given the gears for merely sweating has happened before. I’m sorry but I’m a damp kind of person.)

Don’t fly with a cold. Wow! That was a painful lesson and one I won’t repeat.

Drive instead of flying whenever possible.

Learn to sprint without perspiring.

Why am I not complaining about my trip from Moncton to New York?

I flew that part of the trip with West Jet.

Perhaps, the Monty Python writers could make a movie moment out of the idiocy of harassing older, out-of-shape women in airport security.

The photo and quote above are from Monty Python's The Holy Grail.