Monday, December 14, 2009

what a week



Tuesday it snowed almost a foot and the sky was white for two days
I skied and skied until my legs were weak but my spirit was soaring

Wednesday I flew to NYC for a company Christmas party at the Kama Sutra lounge and then ate a plate full of homemade pasta and white truffles – A food that is irresistible and must be devoured with passion and purpose, which it was.

Thursday I arrived on Sir Richard Branson’s private island and swam in the turquoise Caribbean Sea

HAPPYness

Friday I sailed and swam and won the 2009 Necker Island Tennis Tournament with my boyfriend Jerry

Saturday I sailed to breakfast on another island, swam naked and THEN got engaged at the perfect moment on the perfect beach at the perfect time in the most perfect place.

We had quite a party that night

And on my left finger a diamond that shone brighter than the disco ball, and on my face and most every one else, a smile wider than the ire Rasta man playing disco-reggae.



We conga lined straight into the pool (wearing our clothes), backward bended under the limbo pole, saw a one legged pole dancer, there was some heavy petting on all parts of all people, and couch jumping, dog piling, stumbling, dancing and all around LOVE making with 20 of our closest friends.

Sunday I woke up in a bed with my lover feeling like I was floating to infinity on the endless sea anchored only by a few palm trees.

We swam and jumped on a trampoline, played at kite surfing and tennis before a zip line through the moist island air into the shimmering blue sea to a beach side lunch on a brilliantly blinding white sand beach surrounded by hammocks, inviting.

One hour later I am flying

Not like I have been the last week in my sprit-mind and body -

But actually flying, in a helicopter, over Tortola and Virgin Gorda waving goodbye to Planet Necker and all the tiny houses and sailing ships in the sea. We land the helicopter on the runway next to our plane waiting in Saint Thomas to take us

to the town I love to live in

Aspen.

I am home.

It snowed a foot
And today we ski again

What a week.


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Yoga and Hockey




In the moment

Crash, slash, slap
Ground down, stretch up, expansion

Awareness

Look, catch, shoot
Empty, listen, feel

Intuition
Intention
Visualization

Grounding
Gliding

Tension
Release

Breath

Life

Freedom


(these are two of my favorite things. Amazingly similar in a strange way...)

In The Morning

In the morning, when you wake, lie on your back and be perfectly still. Silently say to yourself,
"Today I will make no decisions by myself."
Say this several times until you have meant what you are saying.
Then Add,
"I will make no decisions by myself because it is no longer intelligent to do so.
Instead, I will make all my decisions in silent council with the Infinite."

- From Erich Schiffmann "Yoga: The Spirit and Practice of Moving into Stillness"

I like to make decisions for myself, but I believe if I can really listen, there is a much greater force guiding me.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

no way

I go outside to "capture the view" (with my camera)
and I am reminded (by Jeff Berkus in my driveway)

"You know you can't capture the view

you can only borrow it for a moment or two..."

true.

The View (Gratitude)


My toes spread wide, gripping
Growing
Roots
Like a tree
Pressing down,
Into the earth
I feel my body
Growing
Up.
Breathing in this view
Blue
I take in the energy of all these mountains
and all this sky
Starting with the bottom of my feet
Saturating
My ankles, knees, thighs,
The base of my being
Through the torso
Washing over the shoulders and dripping down my arms and fingertips.
One more breath and my body if full and then my mind is consumed
My brain is blank, only
A canvas of colors, and:
mountains and sky
tall and wide
snowcapped trees
reaching
a few song birds
singing
bright white,
blinding.
The life force,
My breath,
Feeding me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head -
Opening like a lid to the sky above and
Infinity -
Sinking into the earth,
Finding nourishment and love.

All day
Everyday
This is how I live
This is how I breathe
This is how I see

The view.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

I miss

Gina

I like

Gina

I want to get to know

Gina

I wonder what

Gina

will do next??


(This is what happens after two days alone in a house)

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Timing




My feet dangle.
Delicious toes
Fishes, seaweed, sharks
Who knows who’s checking out these flat feet?
It feels divine
To dangle
My feet over the side
Of my surfboard as I stare at the horizon
Waiting for waves.
Nov. 1, 2009
5 p.m.
Paddle, paddle
Surf…
Catching the wave and riding toward the shore
Looking at the water flowing past me sparkling and dancing as I turn
Weeeeeee, I feel freeeeeee….
Looking up
The cliffs darkening
Details disappearing
with the fading light.
I see the glow of the rising moon like a halo ascending…
Crash.
Damn.
Paddle out
Spry, spunky, psyched
Strong
I see
The sun is sinking down
beyond the horizon.
Catalina, surfers, boats
Become black silhouettes, darkening by the second.
I never want to go in
A wave is building and I tag it mine
Turning to face the shore
Paddle, paddle
Surf…
Standing on a moving mound of energy I ride
toward the growing light of the moon
Away
from the fading light of the sun
The moon has emerged over the cliffs
shining on me like a beacon
as I ride the water.
Turning off the wave and looking out once again
I see that the sun has been swallowed by another day
Equal and simultaneous, and while surfing,
I see the moonrise and the sunset
The line of these two great forces, the balance of sun and moon,
is dissecting me as I float on this bit of foam on the surface of the shimmering metallic
ocean.
I am a witness
honored
I see the moon and sun greet each other for just a moment
And then
Bid farewell
I feel like I was invited here,
to this beach,
at this time,
for this occasion.
For if not,
Why else would I be here?

Timing is everything.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Btw,

this is my dad...




Any questions???

We are still cute


Me n' Leah wearing matching embroidered pajamas to the movies in the early 90's. RAD. We though we were safe and that we wouldn't see anyone we knew because we were not at the local theater. Wrong! We are officially nerds... and, fortunately, still friends.

This was funny

Agua Aerobics in Italian


I highly recommend it. It is more fun than you can imagine... really.

The mirror (My 33rd birthday in Tuscany)

I feel a little wasted
From thinking too much
And trying too hard
To become
I should know better
Than to look like that
Than to want
Like that
I should know
That things happen when you least expect it and certainly not,
Not
When you want it
That’s why you have to let go and allow
The universe to guide you
And you can only do that
By listening

Silence


Reflection


Up in the sky there are:
Stars
Millions and millions
Light
Always bright on a night like tonight
Thoughts
Plenty
Silhouettes
Trees, bushes, distant mountains, towns
Sounds
Crickets, kids, quiet
Footsteps
Mine

There is a quarter moon in Tuscany tonight
I need to let go of expectations
Mine

The earth attempts to absorb the weight of me,
But it can’t
Not tonight
There is too much
It cannot be absorbed
It must be lifted. I look up
From left to right (the moon is far right)
From silhouettes to stars to remnants of sunset
I say the words
Let go let go let go let go let go… let god
When I face the moon I feel that instead of the words,
thoughts,
flying out into the universe
They are reflected right back to me.

It is as if I am looking at a mirror
When I see the moon.

I try more words
Looking
Left to right
Allow allow allow allow allow allow
Believe achieve believe achieve believe achieve
Open heart open heart open heart open heart

Same feeling
That moon makes me think
I am not speaking out but speaking in
Like a boomerang I hear myself
Talking back to myself
But it is not the me that is standing outside this posh hotel in the middle of Tuscany at night talking to myself (crazy?)
It is the essence of me that lives outside
Always
And especially
With the moon.

I knew it
I know it

I talk to her all the time
But rarely listen to her…
But I want guidance
Remember?
I am letting go
Of expectations
Control
So listening I must
Learning
Kindness and trust
And with that feeling of warmth - the loss of the frustration, judgment and confusion that brought me out here for this consultation –
I say these words
“I love you”
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you
Left to right

Silhouettes, stars, silence

As I face the moon, the reflection,
I pause
Letting go, allowing, forgiving, admiring, opening, emerging, breathing
Listening
Silently, I am saying those three words and feel them vibrating back into myself

And just in that moment
When I feel
The connection
The penetrating moon glow gaze that
Speaks deep and without question

A shooting star streaks cross the sky right in front of my eyes
Below the moon
Disappearing into the night
(Is this real??)

It is Love


Montepulciano

This morning I am reminded of the saying,
“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away.”
I dreamt of sickness - friends and family – and was concerned about real or perceived threats.
There was this dent in my forehead that forms when there is concern.
I hate when I see it and must acknowledge a troubled sleep.
I awaken unusually early to this bright blue sky covered in pink, infinite trees and church bells ringing.
I think of the people I know in the world, and even those I don’t.
I wonder if they will ever have the pleasure of waking up in Italy to the sound of church bells ringing,
and to the vast sky strewn with wisps of pink in those precious moments before the sun reaches over the hill stealing away the night.
It has been raining for almost a week, and the smell of the earth rises headily out of the ground.
I am reminded of the truffles, white and black, and the mushrooms that I have eaten over the last month from Northern France to Southern Italy.
We have traveled many, many miles – by car and by bike, by helicopter and airplane – transported daily from one reality to another.
Ten different hotels, locations, types of food and wine,
all in one month.
Today the birds outside my window remind me of Aspen in the springtime,
so lively and poetic with their songs on this early Sunday morning.
The ground is still wet and I am under this brilliant sky all alone with my thoughts.

X Factor

Last night we ate at Mondo X (pronounced eeex), a convent created by Padre Eligio, a man changing lives. The waiters and cooks and cleaners, all drug addicts, alcoholics. Who knows what else. But now they are dressed in tuxedos and more polite and attentive than anyone, anywhere, ever. There is so much pride evident in every detail of the restaurant Рfrom the food to the d̩cor to the service.
We drink this gorgeous ruby red liquid, Soldera. It is a Brunello like I have been drinking for the last several days in this region, but light like a dancer instead of heavy like a boxer ready to knock you out. Same grapes, similar land, completely different flavor, texture, feeling.
We see a Buddha in the convent which Jerry explains was a gift that someone gave it to Eligio because he reminded them of the Buddha.
One world, one tribe, one people.
Sakyong, Jerry’s Buddhist friend, was here at the convent a few years ago and liked it. It has a good feeling. The best aspect of religion is loving each other and you see that clearly when you see rehabilitation.
Hope.
The world’s religions have so many similarities if we keep the big picture in mind, “Love Thy Neighbor”.
Simple.
To me, being at the convent was like a dream - every flavor and sensation and view and feeling - unique and desirable.
We drive home staring at the Pleiades out of the window in the brightening night sky. A quarter moon, a slice of light, illuminates these ancient stone cities perched on these same hilltops for hundreds of years.
I am reminded of the time as a kid I thought I discovered a new constellation out there as I stared out the car window on a family road trip across the California desert. I worked very hard to keep an eye on it for many hours until I fell asleep. I dreamt about it and planned to tell my parents about my discovery. I visualized how famous I would be and that this group of stars might be named, The Gina Formation. I didn’t know then I was transfixed by the Pleiades, and that 20 years later it would still fill me with this sense of awe and wonder…
even knowing now I wasn’t the first to see it.
This is a beautiful night - my belly, my heart, my spirit - are full.
This is a magical place,
Tuscany.

One moment




Just a moment in time and there would be nothing left of Conterno Barolo or Montfertino, known as the best wine in Italy. We have dinner with the winemaker Roberto in Piamonte, Italy. He is the grandson of Giacommo and the son of Giovanni carrying on a tradition of family winemaking that reaches back to the 1700’s. Same grapes, same land, same line.
Roberto tells us about his grandfather’s restaurant and hostel where anyone was welcome and served. In his broken English he relates the story of this moment in time, this flicker of history, when the Nazi Germans where interrogating his grandfather about who was there, were they housing or feeding any Jews?? They would all be killed. Just in the other room, behind one door where one Nazi soldier stood, there was plenty of evidence of Jews. But his grandfather was quick, Roberto explained, and under this immense pressure of life or death he made a casual and convincing argument that there was nothing back there but storage of food and restaurant supplies. Satisfied, the Nazi’s left without looking behind the door.
One moment
If they would have decided to open the door, for whatever reason, Roberto would not be, this fabulous dinner with white truffles and bottles of the best wine would never have been. As we are driving back from this quaint, family-run restaurant called Art and Oak, I say,
“It is just the difference of that one moment in time that we are here, that there is Conterno wine, that you are here.”
Roberto looks at me and with a slight shift of his head back and forth I see him travel back in time in his mind.

“It is one second, “ He replies.

We have all had our “moments”.

Filter




I am trying to take in as much as I can, to fill myself from the well of love that I know is available to me.
The love is there,
It comes from the earth, the universe, friends and family, from hope and renewal;
it comes from you…
Most importantly, though, it comes
from me.
I want it all.
“It is there, take it,” I hear from somewhere.
“I will,” I say smiling.
I feel it come into me, everyday, every minute, every second
Renewing and revitalizing my soul
But, it’s never enough.
And NOBODY and NOTHING could give me enough
If my filter is dirty
crusted with judgments and doubts, cynicism, anger, resentment, fear
Guilt
You, the earth, the universe,
Will never get through to me
Your love cannot penetrate this barrier I have created,
this plaque, this dirt and grime I’ve made thinking that’s how I should feel.
That is not freedom, Gina.
I know The Love is constant
Like a river flowing.
I see it
I can feel it
But, I am limiting myself.
By not cleaning this “filter”, by not purifying myself to absorb all that there is to take in, I have made a choice…
It is not that you must give me more
Or the earth must give me more
Or everyone else should give me more
It is that I must allow what is there to come in
Invite it daily by being positive and hopeful and free
Breathe, yoga, meditation, visualization…
It is all
Self Love
It is only once I love myself
That I can truly experience what it is to be loved by another
Otherwise
There is never enough water in the well, it will always run short, as it skims off the surface of me, as it beads up and rolls down into the gutter
As I become more permeable, more open
I can easily and effortlessly and happily absorb all the love that is available to me.
And then, of course, I can also give more freely to others as I overflow with this feeling of freedom and love.
As I clean my filter, getting rid of
Judgment
Doubt
Fear
Cynicism
Guilt
I feel the love pour in
As clear and clean and pure
As a mountain stream.
I drink it up and feel,
Finally,
I am nourished.

“If in our daily life we can smile,
if we can be peaceful and happy,
not only we,
but everyone
will profit from it.
This is the most basic kind of peace work.”
Thich Nhat Hanh

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Andy Goldsworthy Refuges D'Art


Usually a ten day trek. We took the fast route via helicopter.





Our Holiness



Approaching the first of Andy Goldsworthy’s art installation in Provence, France there is excitement palatable in the helicopter. Jerry points out our destination: a long wooded escarpment with a tiny stone chapel on the edge overlooking a vast valley of yellow and green. Where will we land? I wonder and look at my parents whose raised eyebrows and wide eyes are indication that they are pondering the same internal question. Our Moroccan pilot, who has never been here before, eyes Jerry suspiciously and edges the bird close to the only somewhat flat spot on the small hillside. There are power lines lurking just a few feet from the blades of the copter and the dirt all around is swirling violently.
This is exciting.
With grace and expertise and only a little pouty lip protruding in and out to defy his cool, calm presence, our pilot gently lower the mass of metal onto the ground as if delivering a newborn baby back to the crib. To my surprise, Jerry asks that He and I have a few moments alone before my parents join us inside the chapel. I am nervous for some reason, what is there to see inside of this old structure? Why do we go alone??
We walk down the hill hand and hand and I feel excitement growing inside of me as we approach this old sheepherders chapel called Chapelle Sainte-Madeleine. The view in front of us is vast with continuous mountain ranges filled with trees and flowers radiantly glowing in this distinctively clear and crisp autumn day. There is a sharp quality to the landscape, like the difference between a grainy three megapixel image and one that is ten or twelve. This is the highest quality, blindingly bright beauty in every direction. I look back to see my parents and the pilot 100 yards up the hill and I turn to walk inside the small chapel.
Silence.
There is the perfectly square door framed with stones of so many ages and colors and then at the back of the chapel is an oval shape made from carved rocks. There is a cavity behind the oval opening that is also oval, three-dimensional. It takes me a moment to understand the depth of this, why this form affects me. It is birth, I decide, after marinating on the space it for several days. A womb. A sacred space made more so by each visitor that passes through and steps inside to feel the power of a continuous line. Round. And rocks.

“I wanted to make a work that would draw people into the space, into ourselves,” Goldworthy wrote about the chapel which is one of nine installments in the Refuges d’Art. “I decided to make a chamber for people to step into. I see the landscape as being not just nature but also people… The presence of people is what I’m interested in. The chamber will become stronger and richer the more it is visited. Each time someone steps inside a little bit of their prscence will be left inside the space. It is like collecting the memory of all the people who will make the walk (or helicopter ride in our case☺).

Goldsworthy designed this sculpture, along with about nine others in the Reserve Geologique de Haute Provence near Digne Les Bains, France. It is meant as somewhat of a pilgrimage of ten days or so as each installment is about a days walk from the last. This day we took three hours and one helicopter and saw three sites. While we missed the connection of our feet on the earth, the pilgrimage, we were able to get a birds eye view of these incredible mountain ranges. It was a valuable perspective and a really exciting experience to fly (and land) at all of these remote sights.
Inside the chapel, I solemnly entered into the cavity, a space formed by a group of people believing in the importance of their work. Great care is evident. It was Goldsworthy’s intent to have the sculpture occupied by those who walked by. He has no signs around it, and if someone were to find it by accident he wrote, “they wouldn’t know when it was built or why.”
I entered this oval/oval with my feet feeling the earth below and a connection to time passed. I stood there like an effigy, a saint, a symbol, void of the peculiarities of me, simply a form within a form.
There was a feeling of holiness inside of that wall inside of that chapel on the hillside in France. Not my holiness, or Jerry’s or my mom or dad, but of OUR holiness. The sanctity of humanity. All of us. The beauty of form, of shape - the world in side of stone: Simple.
Inside the weight of the wall I felt time, geologic time, not ticking, but existing. And me, my molecules part of it. Just the same as I am part of the landscape outside, energy moving, melding. Me and the trees. Me and the stone of ages. Me and the helicopter, the parents, the lover, the fly I swat, the flower I smell.
It didn’t matter that on that day I was 32 years old, American of Italian decent, a woman, a sister, a child… It was that I was a human being becoming part of where it is I came from: the stone, the dust, the earth.
Stepping out I felt as if I left a legacy of energy that is unique to me and to that time and space and place. But, more importantly and simply, the energy of life as it weaves a story through time. No beginning and no end.

An oval
a circle
A cycle.

Simply a whisper…

Moustiers Saint Marie

This is an amazing little town built high into the hillside just outside of the Verdon Gorge in France. The church at the top of the hill has been visited for centuries as a place where miracles occur and babies who were born dead can come to be baptized so they can go to heaven.



Train station

My mind takes me to a time and place when the train leaves slowly from the Gare de Lyon train station in Paris.
Under that tall, open ceiling there is a girl standing with a vacancy as wide as the Seine in her heart.
I don’t know her, but I can see a vestige of her clearly as I await my train to Dijon today.
When I see this ethereal ghost of anyone, I feel that river of pain flowing deep inside of her, chilling her bones, pulling her, like there is an anchor in her heart.
She is so alone.
He will not be back (the wheels move slowly, then faster and faster as she cries deeper and deeper. It is as if she is in the bottom of a well looking up.)
It is war…
or business…
or maybe he has to return to his wife that he no longer loves, but cannot leave.
She aches.
He looks back with a strange vacant stare as he prepares for what’s to come.
He must move forward.
She pleads.
It is 1912, 1942, 1969, 2009…
always the same slow turning of those wheels carrying the heavy weight of these monstrous metal trains and the cargo:
flesh and blood, raw anger, fear, deception, loss, struggle, dejection… LOVE, loss…
What else is there to say?
The train does not stop.
And she is always there.

Language of Love



Bonjour

I could be in love a thousand times
Everyday
The gliding
Striding
Elegance of
These long-legged
Waif-y women who
Smoke skinny Cigarettes
eat nibbles of cheese
Drink
Wine
And hold heads high
With beauty and
Pride
Not pomp
Or judgment,
Perhaps a touch
Just enough to have the
American doll
Prove herself as
Worthy of the gaze and the floating syllables that dance off
Their elegant sumptuous tongues

Taxi drivers
Waiters
Concierge
Shopkeeper
Ticket taker

The sounds float off from perfectly decorated lips into this damp fall air
Settling down and leaving no doubt:
This is
the
Language of Love

Au Revior

Jerome from Beaune


Next day we take the train from Paris to Dijon and Jerome from Beaune picks us up in his van. I eat a sandwich of fried bread with melted cheese on top and a blubbery fried egg on top of that, ham inside. It’s called a Croque Monsieur and I wouldn’t recommend it, at least not at the restaurant by the train station in Dijon. I actually had to ask for mustard there, in a town called Dijon, Incredible!
We drive an hour to the quaint city of Beaune where Jerome and his three brothers live and where their family has lived for five generations. Jerome and his older brother Florant run a travel company called Detours in France and they are in charge of us having fun. The youngest brother, Ben, seems like he is actually having the most fun though. He is a wine-maker, and a damn good one we heard and then tasted. Jerome sets us up with bikes and within an hour of arriving in Beaune we are riding road bikes through all sorts of vineyards and tiny towns with big chapels bumpy streets. It is stunning and I am breathing easier after leaving the density of Paris and seeing the vast open spaces of wine country in front of me. We dine next door to our hotel (Hotel De Beaune) at the best little bistro savoring seasonal vegetable soups and sea bass crispy on the outside tender on the inside. The wine is all the stuff I’ve been drinking for months with Jerry. It is the best stuff on earth, but now I see where it’s from as every delectable bottle and taste comes from a different town, or even just a different row of grapes off of the same plot in the same town. It is incredible how much difference the land makes in the taste of the wine, and of course the ability and attention of the winemakers makes a difference too. They have winemaker's high school in Beaune and then college too, so these guys know what they're up too.

On Saturday, the day after we arrive in Beaune, I sleep all day. I want to get up and I feel this hot breath on me and these words speaking to me and this body laying on top of me and telling me “get up get up get up” but I cannot. I cannot get out of bed and my body is telling me this in no uncertain terms as I feel like 1000 lbs of concrete mixed in a bag. My eyelids will not open. It is perplexing to my man and I try, eventually, to will my weariness out of bed. I emerge downstairs for breakfast only to admit I am able somehow to ride my bike today, like I’ve been looking forward to for so long, I could do it, but everything in my mind/body says no. It is only once I get the allowance of, “maybe you should stay in today” that I readily agree and drag my bones back to bed, quickly make sure no buzzing or beeping will wake me, then shut the lids once again and fall in the deep hallucinogenic sleep I was in just an hour before not to rise till 3 pm when the maid comes in apologetically telling me she must clean my room so she can leave. I acquiesce, wake slowly, placing clothes on these tired bones and walk down the stairs out the door and into a town full of living people who have not been feeling weary and sleeping all day. I walk directly to the park one block away looking for a park bench to lie on. I am a stranger in a strange land so I am allowed to lay on a park bench and look hapless and homeless, I say to myself. I am in France and I don’t know if people just lay on park benches here like I would at home. I feel a bit uncomfortable, squarmy, out of place. There are teenage boys smoking and talking and looking mischievous on one bench, there is a couple in love smoking and telling stories on another bench, there is a mom and dad smoking and watching their kid walk around in circles near another. I feel like I can not intrude onto these French scenes with my sorrowful American non-smoking self. And then I see, for some reason, there is nobody sitting on the benches around the merry-go-round that is waiting for riders. So it is there I sit and vegetate and scarcely watch and feel my surroundings but it isn’t but one minute until a grandma and her beautiful granddaughter and grandson in these miniature woolen coats come by with big smiles glued on. Of course, they will go for a ride, if not many. Grandma is smiling and smoking. Her joy, her grandchildren, with their curly hair and rosy cheeks run and grab and touch all of the carousel horses until they find just the ONE that they love so much and with great excitement and zeal they hoist themselves up and await the magic… all for two Euros, maybe $3.
It is worth it.

I would have paid for it as I was stealing glances feeling oddly like I was doing something wrong to take pleasure just by watching the interaction and the joy of these kids riding fake horses. I felt strangely like my grandmother who I used to constantly catch just watching me and smiling with a faraway look in her eye. It was embarrassing for me to catch her, especially when I was younger, “what is she staring at?” I would think and be aggravated and embarrassed by all the attention. But, as I get older, I see that what we are all smiling and staring at. It is something that is long gone, how far gone is relative, the point is, it is gone, the real realization is, that it was something so special and fleeting and unmistakable and irreplaceable. To laugh, so free and hard and find such joy in a round and round and up and down.
When was the last time you did that??

Wine seems to be helping the cold that invaded my throat and then my sinuses and then the ugly thing that settled in my chest. I drink as much as I can every night, and not just ordinary stuff, but the good stuff, and it seems to clear out the crap. Now, four days later, I can say, it works. I am a believer. No cough syrup or pretty little pills, just liquid that opens wide in your tempered taste buds and brings joy to the sorry soul or the slobbering celebrants and anything in between.
It is impossible not to just feel a wee bit better on wine.

The ride we take on Sunday makes me smile like that child on the carousel horse. Once I mount my bike I feel free and unburdened as I fly through the bike path sized streets of Burgundy in 30 speeds. It is so simple, so pure to push, a little pull, and propel. We cover many miles and I forget my sickness even though I feel it in my bones. I ignore it and ignore the suggestions that I not ride here or there or up or down as to not get a chill in these damp cold October autumn days. The trees are gorgeous green and glowing gold. I push on without thought to the side effects of this medicine. I don’t care if I will sleep for two hours after I get home and drag myself to dinner after 60 km, an “easy” ride that has left me feeling limp. I don’t care. I saw snow white cows in florescent green pastures chewing on grass, I saw sheep in a flock playing under a tree seeing who could jump higher, I saw gorgeous/ugly snorty big cute pigs who talked to me, really. They would turn away and I would lure them back speaking in my best French accent. They would buy it “Cutie little piggies come back mo name, wee… wee… you want to be free, you will be so tasty…” We talked enough (me and the pigs) and the sheep were coming to see what was going on and I was falling way behind so I mount my “horse” and “gallop” off down the pasture of pavement that grips me and guides me onward, and, usually, upward. Through the fields we rode for three hours and my saddle was sore but my mind was light and free as I meditated on these journeys through here and there.

It was worth it. 12 hours of sleep and I am ready for more.

My parents arrived late in the afternoon to join us for one week in France. After I awoke I saw them and explained how much fun we would have and how much fine wine we would drink. They jumped right on board and we headed right over to the Bistro to test out my theory.
Jerusalem artichoke soup with burgundy truffles, crusty French bread with salty delicious melt-in-your-mouth butter, lamb ragu thick, brown, rich, savory and nourishing hand made by our chef Johan. We drank the wine from the region, which happens to be Pinot Noir and happens to be fantastic – smooth, playful, delectable, drinkable.

My theory was right, my parents exclaimed as we headed to bed fat and happy ready to ride in the a.m. across one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

We ride up and down and all around. I am impressed that my mama is making it all the way, almost, with just a little help from our motorized transport up the big hill. My dad, at 72 is hard to keep up with, really. I am so proud of them and happy to be out with them. I am still a little sicky and they are mothering me and I am bundled with everything I can be bundled with so I am toasty warm on this coldest day. We ride up and up and then are excited to careen down this gorge of moss-covered trees and rock crags. I am in the rear watching my mom take this hill like a pro on her hybrid “made for mommies” bike. She is no sissy and I see her chubby little legs just chugging along like a choo choo train. I am chuckling and just laughing to myself back there as I am keeping an eye on them for once, telling my mom before the great decent, “Don’t wipe out, mom,” she looks nervous, laughs and never turns back and I hear a "Weeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" as she heads downhill fast. Gravity pulls her down faster than me, she is chasing my dad and her legs are running like a hamster in a wheel. I am laughing out loud watching her and my dad zoom down this brilliant hill in the wine country. We are having so much fun and I am so happy that I could bring them here, instead of them bring me.
“How did we get here?” I think to myself.
I know it is as it should be...


We have a decent dinner at Ma Cuisine where all the winemakers go and where they serve things like poached eggs in red wine sauce and liver and sweetbreads and rabbit and pigeon. We drink some of that sweet stuff then go for another hibernating sleep. On Tuesday the weather is brisk again but sunny. Mom and dad head out on a historical tour of Beaune which gets them really excited. We leave at 1p.m. for a gorgeous ride winding through all the best vineyards in the region. I find my favorite point on the road to Santenay where I stop and lag behind to absorb the valley of gold, the Val d’Or. I cannot not stop and I am way behind and happy as the cows seem to be out there as they decorate the green and gold landscape with their bright, lumbering, chewing white masses.



Riding by the trees the birds escape into o the air. These are not just birds but pigeons, and not pigeons like you would think pigeons. It is pigeon like Dijon, pigeon in French sounds like that. They fly up into this sky of bright blue spread with clouds of all shapes and I am troubled to keep my eyes on the road as I want to follow the flight. My mom eats a pigeon for dinner tonight. I try it, a wing, greasy and gray and salty and tasty, but not enough to take a second bite. I think of these birds flying and the salty sticky taste in my mouth and then I see the beef on my boyfriend’s plate and remember those lovely cows and there was lamb in my stew last night and rabbit on my father's plate tonight. I realize, I have ridden through our banquet and enjoyed it on both sides. Riding and eating.
I cannot say the same for the animals…


We have lunch of simple ham on baguette in the square of Santenay and a ride on to Mersault before we pile in the van for the hour-long ride to Chateau Bagnols where we enter another world. A medieval world that transforms me and my mom into princesses as we cross the mote and enter the castle.

Chateau Bagnols to Moustiers Saint Marie in the mountains and then off to the French Riviera and Chateau Saint Martin, Cote D’Azur in Vence.

ALL good.

Playing Bridge in Paris


Paris is really so gay… Gay Parie. Wee (Oui) Wee (Oui).
We love it.
I wandered the streets so much and for so long that I became ill the following day. It was too much for my bag of bones to handle uncomfortable shoes, cigarette smoke and spending six hours walking the streets and not talking to anyone. I don’t speak French except to say “Wee, wee.” And it is not when I have to go to the bathroom. It is when I am walking and shopping and singing it to myself, “Wee, wee, gay Parie…”

So, it seems maybe I went a little crazy in Paris.

My favorite moment occurred just about an hour after I arrived from New York traveling overnight but with very little sleep. Bleary eyed, I was told, “don’t go to sleep!” as this makes jet lag even worse. You have to suffer through day one to become whatever it is you are trying to become - french, Italian, Spanish, etc.
I mustered up the strength to walk from the way hip and cool Hotel Costes on Rue Saint Honore to the park across the street (Jardin des Tuileries.) The park is named Orange, or something like that, and it is the remnants of a royal garden where there are fountains and sculptures of all sorts and also a lovely museum filled with circular wall-sized Monet paintings of water lilies (Musee National de l’Orangerie.)

I was left on my own while my date took a wee wee break and so I stared into the canvas of colors. I became hypnotized by blue green. So many textures and colors sucked me into that lake of lilies that before I knew it, before my man came back up the stairs, I was meditating so deep I was actually, maybe, a little, asleep.
I abruptly traveled back from within the paining when I heard my name called softly and I wondered, as my eyes looked up and all around, “where am I and how did I get here?” I shook off my wet feet and the lily leaves and blinked my eyes several times until I remembered, “oh, I’m in Paris. Oui! Oui!”

Sleeping after arriving in Europe is like the forbidden treasure that I love… I still remember my first afternoon sleep in Italy after arriving on a different trip in July. Nobody, I mean nobody, could stop me. It was the most beautiful feeling of falling softly cushioned by down feathers forever. Ahhhh, I will remember that feeling as long as I am able to dream about the wonderfulness of sleep, which I found myself doing at that moment with Monet.
And a moment it was, but exquisite.

So I kept trucking along denying my body’s urge to be horizontal versus vertical. It became easier once I found myself alone on the streets and in sight of the Seine River and the bridges I had been dreaming about. I was told, and remembered slightly (though I didn’t care last time I was in Paris), that this is a city of romance. Last time I was here I was in love with my parents and sometimes, but not often, my sister. I was 11-years-old and we were all traveling together for four months in our brand new fresh-from-the-factory-in-Germany VW camper van. Now, I am Paris with my lover, and I’m looking for bridges and I see one just a stones throw from the Rodin statue of two lovers embraced in front of the Orange Museum where the water lilies live.

My man has departed to do business, a common practice.
I wander the streets alone, a common practice for me.

It is rush hour and people are staring at me, the streets are clogged with all sorts of modes of transport – bikes, miniature cars, vans, motos, and then there are people everywhere, but more importantly, there are boats. I direct my attention to this mass of water beneath me and to the horizon which consists of bridges and barges below and a gleaming path of sunlight on the water that lifts my gaze straight up to the Eiffel Tower.

Clouds are gathering as the sun sets.

This is a view that takes me back beyond being eleven to a time when I was a woman, but here before (in a dream perhaps), waiting and wondering.

Where is my romance?

I am on the bridge, at rush hour, a man stops to tell me it is dangerous to be sitting there on the side of the bridge like that. I imagine he is trying to save my life when really he is just trying to maybe teach me French… in bed… later. I ignore him, even though he is well dressed and not completely ugly. I need no distraction from voices here as I attempt to absorb the scene in front of me. I am in love with this scene. It is offering me, even without the romance, all that I dreamed of Paris.


Later this same day, without any sleep still, we go to the most decadent fancy shmancy restaurant I’ve ever seen. It is three floors up and offers us: Notre Dame aglow by moonlight, raindrops falling on one of the 37 bridges over the River Seine with colorful boats shimmering past, a sky line of buildings older than anything I’ve seen in my young country, church spires, lights moving red and yellow and the sky of dark gray clouds with white accents over the vowels. Inside, everything is like lacquer -shiny or velvet - and on our table is a wine list which is thicker than any phone book anywhere…


This is romantic… even with liver and duck, eventually there is chocolate.
The food is nothing next to the wine;
the wine is nothing next to my man…
And so this is how it is...
in Paris.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Beautiful Autumn in NYC



New York is such
a
beautiful
disaster.

There are more people here
than trees in Aspen

It is a:
dense
electric
contagious
chaotic
vibration.
Unlike the feeling of the trees
soft, gentle, kind
quietly whispering
swaying like lovers lost in a trance

New York
roars
honks
belches
slam dances
and rarely
rests

countless thoughts
desires
actions
regrets
triumphs
all caught up in the mountains of buildings
still reaching for the sun
like those branches seeking light

Air

CO2
or
O2

nourishes
us
all

Sunday, October 4, 2009

words, words, words

“The human voice can never reach the distance that is covered by the still small voice of conscience.”
-Mahatma Gandhi

Every human has four endowments- self awareness, conscience, independent will and creative imagination. These give us the ultimate human freedom... The power to choose, to respond, to change.”
-Stephen R. Covey

“Never do anything against conscience, even if the state demands it”
-Albert Einstein

“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear as it is - infinite”
-William Blake

“It is one of the commonest of mistakes to consider that the limit of our power of perception is also the limit of all there is to perceive.”
-C. W. Leadbeater

“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.”
-Richard Dawkins

“Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other people see nothing.”
-Camille Pissarro

“These things will destroy the human race: politics without principle, progress without compassion, wealth without work, learning without silence, religion without fearlessness and worship without awareness.”
-Anthony de Mello


“Power comes not from the barrel of a gun, but from one's awareness of his or her own cultural strength and the unlimited capacity to empathize with, feel for, care, and love one's brothers and sisters.”
-Addison Gayle, Jr.

“The whole idea of compassion is based on a keen awareness of the interdependence of all these living beings, which are all part of one another, and all involved in one another.”
-Thomas Merton

“Meditation is the dissolution of thoughts in Eternal awareness or Pure consciousness without objectification, knowing without thinking, merging finitude in infinity.”
-Swami Sivananda


“Even a fish could stay out of trouble if it would just learn to keep its mouth shut.”

“Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after.”
Henry David Thoreau

“The fish only knows that it lives in the water, after it is already on the river bank. Without our awareness of another world out there, it would never occur to us to change.”

“Faith is a passionate intuition.”
-William Wordsworth

“When a scientist is ahead of his times, it is often through misunderstanding of current, rather than intuition of future truth. In science there is never any error so gross that it won't one day, from some perspective, appear prophetic.”
-Jean Rostand

“The moment of truth, the sudden emergence of a new insight, is an act of intuition. Such intuitions give the appearance of miraculous flushes, or short-circuits of reasoning. In fact they may be likened to an immersed chain, of which only the beginning and the end are visible above the surface of consciousness. The diver vanishes at one end of the chain and comes up at the other end, guided by invisible links.”
-Arthur Koestler

Intuition becomes increasingly valuable in the new information society precisely because there is so much data.”
-John Naisbitt

“Cease trying to work everything out with your minds. It will get you nowhere. Live by intuition and inspiration and let your whole life be Revelation..”
-Eileen Caddy

“Love never claims, it ever gives..”
-Mohandas K. Ghandi

A woman knows the face of the man she loves like a sailor knows the open sea.”
-Honore de Balzac quotes

“Don't brood. Get on with living and loving. You don't have forever.”

“There are more people who wish to be loved than there are who are willing to love.”

“Who travels for love finds a thousand miles not longer than one.”

“Of all forms of caution, caution in love is the most fatal.”

“Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because welove.”

“Love is a canvas pattern furnished by Nature, and embroidered by imagination.”


HAMLET


All that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
Hamlet, 1. 2

In my mind's eye, Horatio.
Hamlet, 1. 2

Season your admiration for a while.
Hamlet, 1. 2

A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute.
Hamlet, 1. 3

Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
Hamlet, 1. 3

This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Hamlet, 1. 3

It is a nipping and an eager air.
Hamlet, 1. 4

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Hamlet, 1. 5

By indirections find directions out.
Hamlet, 2. 1

This is the very ecstasy of love.
Hamlet, 2. 1
Brevity is the soul of wit.
Hamlet, 2. 2
More matter, with less art.
Hamlet, 2. 2

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
Hamlet, 2. 2

Polonius: What do you read, my lord?
Hamlet: Words, words, words.
Hamlet, 2. 2

Polonius: My honorable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.
Hamlet: You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal; except my life, except my life, except my life.
Hamlet, 2. 2

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Hamlet, 2. 2
A dream itself is but a shadow.
Hamlet, 2. 2

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks.
Hamlet, 2. 2

He would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech,
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed,
The very faculties of eyes and ears.
Hamlet, 2. 2

Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindles villain!
Hamlet, 2. 2

The play 's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
Hamlet, 2. 2

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Hamlet, 3. 1

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
Hamlet, 3. 1

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
Hamlet, 3. 1

O, woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!
Hamlet, 3. 1

A robustious periwig-pated fellow.
Hamlet, 3. 2

Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
Hamlet, 3. 2

Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.
Hamlet, 3. 2

Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord.
Hamlet: As woman's love.
Hamlet, 3. 2

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Hamlet, 3. 2

Tis as easy as lying.
Hamlet, 3. 2

You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass.
Hamlet, 3. 2

Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?
Hamlet, 3. 2

'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood.
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.
Hamlet, 3. 2

Let me be cruel, not unnatural;
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
Hamlet, 3.. 2

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Hamlet, 3. 3

A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother.
Hamlet, 3. 4

A rhapsody of words.
Hamlet, 3. 4

Speak no more;
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul
Hamlet, 3. 4

A king of shreds and patches.
Hamlet, 3. 4

I must be cruel, only to be kind.
Hamlet, 3. 4

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
Hamlet, 4. 3

Lord! we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Hamlet, 4. 5

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
Hamlet, 4. 5

I loved Ophelia: Forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.
Hamlet, 5. 1

There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
Hamlet, 5. 2

I am justly killed with my own treachery.
Hamlet, 5. 2

Saturday, September 26, 2009

sailing with dolphins in Greece... weeeeeeee!

Equinox


The Earth
is neither
Toward
Nor away from the sun
Equinox
Equinimity
Balance
Harmony…
At least within
The earth
Today (Sept. 22)
And then there it goes again
A little off
One way
or another
In this case,
In the fall
We descend into darkness
Cold, snow, dark
Fun
Though
A little more serious than
Say
Summer
When one can run around in flip flops and a bit of fabric here
And there
And that’s it.
Now we must take great care
Wear shoes with laces and jackets with snaps and
Hats with flaps and
Scarves that wrap
And keep out
the cold
and dark
Of another winter.

I love the seasons,
the changing of weather
and clothes.

Welcome to Fall of 2009
Now, and never again
The light falls
Just like that

Two Birds


Two birds dancing on the wind
The are white
In flight
Mesmerizing as they
Rise and
Fall. And I think of you
And
Me and how we rise and fall
And dance and
Soar and ignite
And delight
Each other
But rarely
Do we find each other just like this
Like these two birds
No thought
No plans just a
Chance meeting in the sky
And a dance
Gorgeous
Unscripted
Improv
Twisted and tangled in
A quiet quarrel
Descending and rising
up up up
just to plummet once again
why?
for the feeling
nothing else
and to share it
with another
and then
to
just
fly away.

It was 6am
It was two minutes
It was you and me
And
Infinity
And never
Again
Just like that
On that bright, dark dawn of that unusually cold
September day
When I woke up,
I don’t know why,
Just in time to watch something that was meant
only
To fade away…

I closed my eyes
again
And slept the best sleep –

Like I always do after I’ve woken up
quick and too early
to make sure the sun was going to rise again (what a gift!) –

Falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness
Into that Beautiful
Two-birds-flying
Oblivion

Did you see it??

The Wind in the Trees


Let go
Acquiesce
Allow
Become
Merge
Engulf
Absorb
Delight
Invite
Astonish
Dance
Explore
Emerge
Acknowledge
Adore
Construct
Create
Smell…
See…
Feel…
Embrace…
The
Love that is all around you
Listen
To the wind
In
The trees
Realize there are no answers
only steps
A journey
You are on it
Now
And it never ends
I’d like to share that with you

“you have absolutely no idea what is to come,"
I hear.
"You will see, the life that you can envision for yourself is nothing… NOTHING, compared to what the universe has in store for you
if you just
Let
Go
And listen.”

OK,
I accept,
And gracefully
Softly
Quietly
But, assuredly
Place one foot in front of
The
Other.

This time
Though
I have no
Idea
Where I am going

The map is gone
The compass broke
The directions from that girl the other night
All
Gone.

All I have now
And all that I
I’ve ever had
Really
Is:
My intuition
My strength
My faith
My self
My love
My…
Perseverance
My two feet
My Heart
My hands
My
slow and steady gait
My joy
My enthusiasm
My Excitement…
And wonder

The inspiration
Of the great mystery of everything…

Of you
Of me

Of forever…

Let go.

You Will Soar…

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Why does the desert speak to me??


The desert speaks to me and tells me, "Do drugs. Do lots of psychedelic drugs."
I don't know why the desert says this to me, I think maybe I need to ask my friends recently back from Burning Man; I think they get the same message. The difference here is, I don't listen to the desert, not this time. I've had enough of her telling me what to do, and we've had a very, very good and elastic time together. I stretched my perception a lot. It was always FAR OUT. But not this time.

I spent Labor Day weekend in Joshua Tree, a little town in the middle of the California desert that defies time and place. And screams, "I am weird, I am quirky, I am unique... you may want to alter your consciousness so you can figure me out..."

But, we don't need to go there again, right? No drugs in the desert, instead a steady stream of movements and focus and concentration at the Tensegrity workshop "As Above, So Below" held at the barely-still-standing Joshua Tree Retreat Center. Tensegrity, as I've recently learned, is a way of being created by the mystic writer Carlos Casteneda from the teachings of the shaman Don Juan Matus. There are followers of this type of awareness from all over the world. I would say the goal is very similar to Buddhism in that practitioners seek enlightenment. But, instead of meditating in a cave, with Tensegrity there are thousands of different movements called "Magical Passes" that one learns and performs to increase awareness and energy.
This may sound weird and woo woo, and it is. But it is also a very interesting study, one that can take you deeper into consciousness and perhaps, for some, FAR OUT. So, I have been seeking this far out feeling ever since I did travel to the desert to enjoy the thrill of melting fuzzy cactuses with sunglasses on and brilliant colors of light emerging from the earth and the night sky.
Those days it was easy to get out, far out, but I was cheating. Now, in my old age, I am finding the same things that I discovered on mushrooms or LSD just by being still, quiet, deep, and, in the case of Tensegrity, by moving fluidly throughout the atmosphere.

I was told as I entered the desert and heard that familiar calling from far out that I would be able to find that same feeling without drugs. And i did.

I never liked to cheat.

And for those who would like a different version of enlightenment there is "Jesus House of Prayer", or JHOP, right there on the side of the road. Hallelujah!