A daughter
A work of art
Sculpted a bit each day
By oblivious hands
Molded
not with intention
Or outcome
But in each separate moment
By hands filled with
Love
Or pain;
Frustration,
Anger
Or gentle joy.
Each day, each moment
Adding
A nuance of shape
Each day, she told me
My own beloved mentor
You do the best you can
Not even God
Can ask more of you.
If the daily best
Begins with love,
Everything else
Will follow.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Book Review--The Memory Keeper's Daughter
The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
By Kim Edwards
I thought I had to read this book for a project. Turns out I didn’t, but more than one person said it was really good. And it was at some levels. The premise is that when a physician/father discovered that one of his new-born twins has Downs Syndrome, he gives her away and tells his wife that she died. His goal is to prevent the sadness and pain of having a disabled child in the family. It is a spur of the moment decision, and by the time he regrets it he can’t take it back. The rest of his life, and his wife’s and his son’s are deeply marred by the missing daughter/sister and the lie he never confesses. Meanwhile, the Downs baby grows up healthy, happy and loved. Edwards explores family dynamics from an interesting perspective. It looks at disability from several angles, including its impact on a family, a parent, a brother and the adoptive parents. Plenty of food for thought and worth the read.
By Kim Edwards
I thought I had to read this book for a project. Turns out I didn’t, but more than one person said it was really good. And it was at some levels. The premise is that when a physician/father discovered that one of his new-born twins has Downs Syndrome, he gives her away and tells his wife that she died. His goal is to prevent the sadness and pain of having a disabled child in the family. It is a spur of the moment decision, and by the time he regrets it he can’t take it back. The rest of his life, and his wife’s and his son’s are deeply marred by the missing daughter/sister and the lie he never confesses. Meanwhile, the Downs baby grows up healthy, happy and loved. Edwards explores family dynamics from an interesting perspective. It looks at disability from several angles, including its impact on a family, a parent, a brother and the adoptive parents. Plenty of food for thought and worth the read.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Crashing Through, a Book Review
Crashing Through: A true Story of Risk, Adventure and the Man who Dared to See
By Robert Kurson
Just released, this is the story of Mike May, a blind, California-based entrepreneur. Mike was blinded at the age of 3 by a chemical accident. He learned in his forties that his sight could be restored with a new procedure. This is his story, and it is a fascinating and articulate look at the issues of sight restoration, the fears, the risks, the triumph, and the ultimate reconciliation with reality. Mike shares candidly thoughts and fears that all blind people, including me, must feel at one time or another. He becomes one of perhaps 20 people in the last several hundred years who were blind as children and had vision restored as adults. The majority of these people, surprisingly perhaps, did not find their new vision to be a panacea. Rather, they often became profoundly depressed. Mike’s story is of coping, and learning to put his vision, not perfect as it turns out, in a useful place in his life. I can see this book wrapped and ribboned under the Christmas tree this year.
By Robert Kurson
Just released, this is the story of Mike May, a blind, California-based entrepreneur. Mike was blinded at the age of 3 by a chemical accident. He learned in his forties that his sight could be restored with a new procedure. This is his story, and it is a fascinating and articulate look at the issues of sight restoration, the fears, the risks, the triumph, and the ultimate reconciliation with reality. Mike shares candidly thoughts and fears that all blind people, including me, must feel at one time or another. He becomes one of perhaps 20 people in the last several hundred years who were blind as children and had vision restored as adults. The majority of these people, surprisingly perhaps, did not find their new vision to be a panacea. Rather, they often became profoundly depressed. Mike’s story is of coping, and learning to put his vision, not perfect as it turns out, in a useful place in his life. I can see this book wrapped and ribboned under the Christmas tree this year.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Credit Card Fees
Credit Cards
Today I applied for a credit card that offered 0% APR for the next year. It all went well until I asked them to do a balance transfer. Well, she said, there will b a 3% fee on the balance transfer. Fine, I said. I understand that. So she began processing it and then said, well now your balance is $X, which my math skills told me was the balance transfer amount, plus the 3% fee, plus another $52. What’s with the $52? I asked. Oh, that’s a finance charge. What do you mean a finance charge? I thought this was 0% for a year. Yes, that’s right. The interest is 0% This is a finance charge. Remember when I read [the fine print]—and she reread it. When I protested, she instantly dropped the 3% transfer fee, leaving this “finance charge”. But now I do not trust this company. I canceled the entire thing.
The moral of this story, though, is that hidden fees, buried in language you are not supposed to understand, seemed to be part of this company’s method of doing business. Buyer beware, I guess.
Today I applied for a credit card that offered 0% APR for the next year. It all went well until I asked them to do a balance transfer. Well, she said, there will b a 3% fee on the balance transfer. Fine, I said. I understand that. So she began processing it and then said, well now your balance is $X, which my math skills told me was the balance transfer amount, plus the 3% fee, plus another $52. What’s with the $52? I asked. Oh, that’s a finance charge. What do you mean a finance charge? I thought this was 0% for a year. Yes, that’s right. The interest is 0% This is a finance charge. Remember when I read [the fine print]—and she reread it. When I protested, she instantly dropped the 3% transfer fee, leaving this “finance charge”. But now I do not trust this company. I canceled the entire thing.
The moral of this story, though, is that hidden fees, buried in language you are not supposed to understand, seemed to be part of this company’s method of doing business. Buyer beware, I guess.
Book Review--An Ordinary Man
Book Review—An Ordinary Man by Paul Rusesabagina with Tom Zoellner
This is the story that the movie Hotel Rwanda tells, only in book form. You’re going to think all I read is about horror and tragedy around the world—plenty of that out there. This is a very good book, though. It does not dwell on the horrors of the Rwandan genocide, but tells how this hotel manager housed over a thousand refugees in his hotel, and each time someone came and told him they had to leave the hotel, (at which time they would be slaughtered), he talked them out of it. His concept that each man has hard and soft places, that words are stronger than the sword, that his negotiation skills, his willingness to find compromise (and booze) is what saved these people’s lives. Words on a hate-laden radio station, broadcast 24-7 telling people to kill their neighbors is what lit the fuse on the massacre, and he contends that words could be as powerful for good as for evil. The story has been compared to Schindler’s List. He does not see himself as a hero—just a hotel manager doing what he was trained to do—take care of his guests. He’s running a taxi service in Brussels now.
One interesting point is that the Belgians who colonized Rwanda, used the tribes against each other to get what they wanted. This kind of interference is not unique to Rwanda! He also has strong words for the hobbles put on the U.N. peacekeeping force (they were not allowed to do anything even in the face of mass killing) and the refusal of help from the U.S. The Belgians fled as soon as the killing began. Can we, will we ever learn anything from these horrors that we can use to stop the next one?
This is the story that the movie Hotel Rwanda tells, only in book form. You’re going to think all I read is about horror and tragedy around the world—plenty of that out there. This is a very good book, though. It does not dwell on the horrors of the Rwandan genocide, but tells how this hotel manager housed over a thousand refugees in his hotel, and each time someone came and told him they had to leave the hotel, (at which time they would be slaughtered), he talked them out of it. His concept that each man has hard and soft places, that words are stronger than the sword, that his negotiation skills, his willingness to find compromise (and booze) is what saved these people’s lives. Words on a hate-laden radio station, broadcast 24-7 telling people to kill their neighbors is what lit the fuse on the massacre, and he contends that words could be as powerful for good as for evil. The story has been compared to Schindler’s List. He does not see himself as a hero—just a hotel manager doing what he was trained to do—take care of his guests. He’s running a taxi service in Brussels now.
One interesting point is that the Belgians who colonized Rwanda, used the tribes against each other to get what they wanted. This kind of interference is not unique to Rwanda! He also has strong words for the hobbles put on the U.N. peacekeeping force (they were not allowed to do anything even in the face of mass killing) and the refusal of help from the U.S. The Belgians fled as soon as the killing began. Can we, will we ever learn anything from these horrors that we can use to stop the next one?
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Three Cups of Tea by Relin and Mortenson
Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Fight Terrorism and Build Nations … One School at a Time
by David Oliver Relin with Greg Mortenson
Greg Mortenson got lost and nearly died in a failed attempt to scale K2 in northern Pakistan. He blundered into a village high above a river accessible to the world by a sort of cable car—a box pulled on a cable and pulled across the river by hand. The people of this village welcomed him, fed him, warmed him, and restored him to life. He promised them that he would build them a school in gratitude-they had none and their children’s lessons, what they had of them, were held outside writing in dirt with sticks. He kept his promise, came back and with his own money and the money he raised in inept fund-raising efforts he built them first a bridge across the river, and then a school. This book is the story of this and many other schools he and later his organization has built in Pakistan and perhaps by now Afghanistan.
Mortenson believes that the Wahabis of Saudi Arabia building Madrasas and educating young Pakistani, Afghani, and other young men around the world, filled a vacuum crated by war, corruption and poverty. These schools and camps are breeding grounds for fundamentalist Islam and the terrorism we have seen. He believes that educating children, especially girls, is the way to counter this terrorism in the long term, by giving the next generations in these regions options. The boys, he says, will leave their villages for the cities, but the girls are the ones who can change a culture, bring advances home to the villages. He believes strongly in educating the girls. His mission has been to build schools and pay teachers. It’s a fascinating story;, and one that has not ended yet.
It pricks my complacency, flings sparks into the dreams I have always cherished of doing something that would make a difference. Giving to those who have less than I. Sharing my gifts. I am restless today, wondering where my path will lead if I just let it.
by David Oliver Relin with Greg Mortenson
Greg Mortenson got lost and nearly died in a failed attempt to scale K2 in northern Pakistan. He blundered into a village high above a river accessible to the world by a sort of cable car—a box pulled on a cable and pulled across the river by hand. The people of this village welcomed him, fed him, warmed him, and restored him to life. He promised them that he would build them a school in gratitude-they had none and their children’s lessons, what they had of them, were held outside writing in dirt with sticks. He kept his promise, came back and with his own money and the money he raised in inept fund-raising efforts he built them first a bridge across the river, and then a school. This book is the story of this and many other schools he and later his organization has built in Pakistan and perhaps by now Afghanistan.
Mortenson believes that the Wahabis of Saudi Arabia building Madrasas and educating young Pakistani, Afghani, and other young men around the world, filled a vacuum crated by war, corruption and poverty. These schools and camps are breeding grounds for fundamentalist Islam and the terrorism we have seen. He believes that educating children, especially girls, is the way to counter this terrorism in the long term, by giving the next generations in these regions options. The boys, he says, will leave their villages for the cities, but the girls are the ones who can change a culture, bring advances home to the villages. He believes strongly in educating the girls. His mission has been to build schools and pay teachers. It’s a fascinating story;, and one that has not ended yet.
It pricks my complacency, flings sparks into the dreams I have always cherished of doing something that would make a difference. Giving to those who have less than I. Sharing my gifts. I am restless today, wondering where my path will lead if I just let it.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
When I become Senile
I had this question posed to me today—what will you do when you become senile?
I will talk to myself—oh wait, I already do that. People think I’m senile already!! I assure them I’m talking to my dog, but I don’t think they believe it when they hear me say “I can’t believe what she said to me—why in the world would h want …” Oh well.
I will wear purple—wait—I already wear a lot of purple.
I will jettison all my inhibitions—If I have any—and say whatever comes to my mind. I remember my grandmother doing that—it must have been amazingly liberating—extremely annoying and hurtful to the younger crowd though.
I will require my children to wait on me hand and foot. Well, maybe not—I don’t think I raised them right for that.
So look out, everybody, when I become senile—if I haven’t already.
#6 visited tonight. It was good to cook a meal for someone else and to sit around and just talk about everything under the sun, or moon by the time we were finished. I think I should have a child over to dinner every Thursday night!W
I will talk to myself—oh wait, I already do that. People think I’m senile already!! I assure them I’m talking to my dog, but I don’t think they believe it when they hear me say “I can’t believe what she said to me—why in the world would h want …” Oh well.
I will wear purple—wait—I already wear a lot of purple.
I will jettison all my inhibitions—If I have any—and say whatever comes to my mind. I remember my grandmother doing that—it must have been amazingly liberating—extremely annoying and hurtful to the younger crowd though.
I will require my children to wait on me hand and foot. Well, maybe not—I don’t think I raised them right for that.
So look out, everybody, when I become senile—if I haven’t already.
#6 visited tonight. It was good to cook a meal for someone else and to sit around and just talk about everything under the sun, or moon by the time we were finished. I think I should have a child over to dinner every Thursday night!W
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
35th Anniversary
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Thirty-five years ago today, Ex and I were married. Twenty-two years later, we were divorced. Five years later, on this date, I received our annulment papers.
Ex is getting married this summer to a woman who loves him. I am very happy for them both. I wish them comfort, unanimity, and pleasure in each other’s company.
Our marriage shaped my life more than anything else besides my birth family. I have six marvelous and loving children—his children, and six marvelous grandchildren—his grandchildren. I owe him the world for that. It is enough to bless this day as the anniversary of a family’s beginning.
Thirty-five years ago today, Ex and I were married. Twenty-two years later, we were divorced. Five years later, on this date, I received our annulment papers.
Ex is getting married this summer to a woman who loves him. I am very happy for them both. I wish them comfort, unanimity, and pleasure in each other’s company.
Our marriage shaped my life more than anything else besides my birth family. I have six marvelous and loving children—his children, and six marvelous grandchildren—his grandchildren. I owe him the world for that. It is enough to bless this day as the anniversary of a family’s beginning.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Forgiveness
Book Review
Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst The Rwandan Holocaust
By Steve Irwin and Immaculee Ilibagiza
This is a story which will stay with you. Autobiographical, the narrator tells of her childhood as a Tutsi in Rwanda and her narrow escape from the government-sponsored genocide intended to eradicate all Tutsis in Rwanda. Her family was murdered, and she survived because of the sometimes grudging charity of a Hutu Protestant pastor who hid her and six, later eight, other Tutsi women in a tiny bathroom where they crowded together for three months while the Hutu rampage went on, sometimes outside their window, and sometimes inside the house.
The most remarkable aspect of her story is her spiritual journey during those months in the bathroom. Born and raised Catholic, she spent the time, as she puts it, in a corner of her mind communing with God, praying constantly, begging Him for help, and receiving at strategic moments direct help from God. She struggled with the demons of despair and unbelief, and forced her way each time back to God through prayer and meditation. She was able to view her Hutu hunters with compassion and forgiveness. These Hutu who hunted her relentlessly, knowing they had not yet accounted for her death, were her neighbors, her childhood playmates, her teachers and her parents’ friends.
How could she bring herself to forgive those who betrayed and murdered her father, who tortured and dismembered her favorite brother, who clubbed her mother to death? How could she forgive a government who sanctioned, encouraged, inflamed this genocide?
And yet do we not pray daily to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”? Are we not enjoined to love our enemies? Are we not given models of this love and forgiveness—Jesus on the cross, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”; Maria Goretti, a modern saint who forgave her rapist/murderer before she died and appeared to him later with forgiveness, prompting his conversion?
How often I have struggled with forgiveness. Just saying I forgive you doesn’t really do the job. I think true forgiveness requires letting go of the anger, the pain, the resentment that an offense causes. But it’s even more than that. It is a positive act of love, replacing that anger and pain with love—the kind of love Paul talks about—patient, kind, accepting, … It’s easy to say I forgive you, but its really hard to do. The resentment lurks in hidden corners of the soul and leaps out unexpectedly as a sarcastic comment, a surge of resentment, a moment of renewed anger, or a poor-me-focused story shared for sympathy or attention.
I believe that forgiveness is a unilateral act, as modeled by Christ and by Maria Goretti. It does not require contrition or reform on the part of the forgiven. Repentance is also a unilateral act. When you bring forgiveness and repentance together, you can effect reconciliation. But forgiveness can be accomplished independent of repentance or reconciliation.
I have heard the term forgiveness referred to as psychobabble. I think the genesis of that approach is the reality that true forgiveness, deep-rooted, erasure of the emotions of injury, anger, resentment and pain is so easy to say and so hard to accomplish.
It is not mine, but God’s, to judge the depth of Imaculee’s forgiveness, but I accept it and wonder if I could come to that myself.
Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst The Rwandan Holocaust
By Steve Irwin and Immaculee Ilibagiza
This is a story which will stay with you. Autobiographical, the narrator tells of her childhood as a Tutsi in Rwanda and her narrow escape from the government-sponsored genocide intended to eradicate all Tutsis in Rwanda. Her family was murdered, and she survived because of the sometimes grudging charity of a Hutu Protestant pastor who hid her and six, later eight, other Tutsi women in a tiny bathroom where they crowded together for three months while the Hutu rampage went on, sometimes outside their window, and sometimes inside the house.
The most remarkable aspect of her story is her spiritual journey during those months in the bathroom. Born and raised Catholic, she spent the time, as she puts it, in a corner of her mind communing with God, praying constantly, begging Him for help, and receiving at strategic moments direct help from God. She struggled with the demons of despair and unbelief, and forced her way each time back to God through prayer and meditation. She was able to view her Hutu hunters with compassion and forgiveness. These Hutu who hunted her relentlessly, knowing they had not yet accounted for her death, were her neighbors, her childhood playmates, her teachers and her parents’ friends.
How could she bring herself to forgive those who betrayed and murdered her father, who tortured and dismembered her favorite brother, who clubbed her mother to death? How could she forgive a government who sanctioned, encouraged, inflamed this genocide?
And yet do we not pray daily to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”? Are we not enjoined to love our enemies? Are we not given models of this love and forgiveness—Jesus on the cross, “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.”; Maria Goretti, a modern saint who forgave her rapist/murderer before she died and appeared to him later with forgiveness, prompting his conversion?
How often I have struggled with forgiveness. Just saying I forgive you doesn’t really do the job. I think true forgiveness requires letting go of the anger, the pain, the resentment that an offense causes. But it’s even more than that. It is a positive act of love, replacing that anger and pain with love—the kind of love Paul talks about—patient, kind, accepting, … It’s easy to say I forgive you, but its really hard to do. The resentment lurks in hidden corners of the soul and leaps out unexpectedly as a sarcastic comment, a surge of resentment, a moment of renewed anger, or a poor-me-focused story shared for sympathy or attention.
I believe that forgiveness is a unilateral act, as modeled by Christ and by Maria Goretti. It does not require contrition or reform on the part of the forgiven. Repentance is also a unilateral act. When you bring forgiveness and repentance together, you can effect reconciliation. But forgiveness can be accomplished independent of repentance or reconciliation.
I have heard the term forgiveness referred to as psychobabble. I think the genesis of that approach is the reality that true forgiveness, deep-rooted, erasure of the emotions of injury, anger, resentment and pain is so easy to say and so hard to accomplish.
It is not mine, but God’s, to judge the depth of Imaculee’s forgiveness, but I accept it and wonder if I could come to that myself.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Book review--The Girls by Lori Lansens
The Girls by Lori Lansens
Premise—Siamese twins joined at the head tell their story. I read it because I thought it was on a list I needed to read for a project—then I found out it was not. It starts out well, and deals directly with the disability and people’s reactions to it. The voices are generally authentic and distinct. It bogged down before it got to the end—I found myself wishing they’d hurry up and die and get it over with. But I’m not usually into books about people dying. Interesting in spots, but not high on my recommendation list.
Premise—Siamese twins joined at the head tell their story. I read it because I thought it was on a list I needed to read for a project—then I found out it was not. It starts out well, and deals directly with the disability and people’s reactions to it. The voices are generally authentic and distinct. It bogged down before it got to the end—I found myself wishing they’d hurry up and die and get it over with. But I’m not usually into books about people dying. Interesting in spots, but not high on my recommendation list.
May Wind
May Wind
She plays
Each tree
Each branch
Each blade of grass
Each seedhead
Each flower stem, each bud
Higher, lower
Faster, slower
Impetuous bowman
Careless oboe
Each tree
Each branch
Each leaf
Each little flower, each blade of grass
raises its singular voice.
A sough, a sigh
A rustle, a whoosh
A creak, a groan, a crackle,
A whisper, a whish,
a crash, a whistle, a cry
Soloists
Together
They call
“A storm is coming.”
She plays
Each tree
Each branch
Each blade of grass
Each seedhead
Each flower stem, each bud
Higher, lower
Faster, slower
Impetuous bowman
Careless oboe
Each tree
Each branch
Each leaf
Each little flower, each blade of grass
raises its singular voice.
A sough, a sigh
A rustle, a whoosh
A creak, a groan, a crackle,
A whisper, a whish,
a crash, a whistle, a cry
Soloists
Together
They call
“A storm is coming.”
Friday, May 11, 2007
Mother
Mother
The bridge
Over rivers
Chasms
Floods
Other roads, other ways
Strong, solid, safe
The rainbow
Linking red to violet
Little feet
To the stars
An arc
Daughter/mother-daughter/mother-daughter/mother
Passing the family
Hand to hand
Womb to womb
across time
The bridge
Over rivers
Chasms
Floods
Other roads, other ways
Strong, solid, safe
The rainbow
Linking red to violet
Little feet
To the stars
An arc
Daughter/mother-daughter/mother-daughter/mother
Passing the family
Hand to hand
Womb to womb
across time
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Rainy Sunday Blues
Sometimes my life seems so small, so routine, so unimportant. I have dogs and cats for company. How does that add to the economy of the universe? I flit from one thing to another with barely a breath in between. I don’t stop to get good at anything—really good and accomplished. Just passable, or not. I want to do this, and that, to learn this, and that, to understand, to share, but the sum total is minimal. Okay, it’s a rainy Sunday and I’m reflecting the weather in my mood. Here’s a list of ten things I like just for contrast.
Things I like:
1. Children. My arms are often hungry for the little shapes, the little hands, the little breath.
2. Books. I have an insatiable hunger for books, requiring not only reading, but maintaining the potential to read—piles of books ready and waiting at any time. I read constantly, it appears.
3. Music. I love classical music. I don’t know it, don’t understand it, don’t discuss or interpret it. I just listen to it and it soothes me. It provides a background of beautiful sound in my world.
4. Biking. I love getting out in the world, traveling quietly through it open to the sounds, the smells, the joy of the downhill coast, the effort of the uphill struggle. I love the thermal layers of air in the evening, the blackbirds and frogs, the smell of pigs and horses.
5. Dogs. I find freedom, comfort and companionship in the dogs that surround me. Also hair, messes, and overwhelming ebullience sometimes. I like their willingness to please, their faithful forgiveness, their ready joy for work, and their acceptance of their dogs’ lives.
6. Cats. I like my cat when she likes me, and even when she doesn’t. She is the first cat I have known who considered me her own, and I like that. I like her soft thick long fur although it flies everywhere and people are allergic to her. I like her company at my desk when I’m writing.
7. Trees. I like the trees that surround my house, the walnuts, the maples, even the elms. I admire their strength, their steadfast shelter, and their willingness to harbor the wildlife I enjoy. I welcome their summer shade and the coolness it gives my house and my eyes. The windbreak that keeps the northwest wind at bay all winter long.
8. My house. I like my house—the fun and excitement of building it, and the daily pleasure of living in a space designed to meet my own particular preferences.
9. Ideas. I like the challenge of new projects, new ideas, new ways of looking at things. I like to start projects at home and at work, and I like to hand them off to someone more detail-oriented than I to finish them.
10. Travel. I like to see new places, learn about them, visit them, smell, taste, touch and hear them. And I like to come home again.
Things I like:
1. Children. My arms are often hungry for the little shapes, the little hands, the little breath.
2. Books. I have an insatiable hunger for books, requiring not only reading, but maintaining the potential to read—piles of books ready and waiting at any time. I read constantly, it appears.
3. Music. I love classical music. I don’t know it, don’t understand it, don’t discuss or interpret it. I just listen to it and it soothes me. It provides a background of beautiful sound in my world.
4. Biking. I love getting out in the world, traveling quietly through it open to the sounds, the smells, the joy of the downhill coast, the effort of the uphill struggle. I love the thermal layers of air in the evening, the blackbirds and frogs, the smell of pigs and horses.
5. Dogs. I find freedom, comfort and companionship in the dogs that surround me. Also hair, messes, and overwhelming ebullience sometimes. I like their willingness to please, their faithful forgiveness, their ready joy for work, and their acceptance of their dogs’ lives.
6. Cats. I like my cat when she likes me, and even when she doesn’t. She is the first cat I have known who considered me her own, and I like that. I like her soft thick long fur although it flies everywhere and people are allergic to her. I like her company at my desk when I’m writing.
7. Trees. I like the trees that surround my house, the walnuts, the maples, even the elms. I admire their strength, their steadfast shelter, and their willingness to harbor the wildlife I enjoy. I welcome their summer shade and the coolness it gives my house and my eyes. The windbreak that keeps the northwest wind at bay all winter long.
8. My house. I like my house—the fun and excitement of building it, and the daily pleasure of living in a space designed to meet my own particular preferences.
9. Ideas. I like the challenge of new projects, new ideas, new ways of looking at things. I like to start projects at home and at work, and I like to hand them off to someone more detail-oriented than I to finish them.
10. Travel. I like to see new places, learn about them, visit them, smell, taste, touch and hear them. And I like to come home again.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Book Review--Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Infidel
By Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Islam, says the author, is not a religion of peace. It is a religion of submission, of oppression, of violence sanctioned by its holy book. It is a religion frozen in time, a time of desert tribes, of violence. The people who embrace fundamental Islam, she says, are not the poor, down-trodden looking for a better way of life. They are fanatics, educated in the Madrasas of Germany and the United States, filled with holy hatred, the hatred of all that is not them, the infidel, the American. She warns that this resurgence of fundamentalist Islam is a major threat to the west, and that pretending that it is harmless, or that we should tolerate it, excuse it, leave it to flourish in religious schools, is suicidal.
She speaks from her own experience, growing up within Islam in Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Kenya, and eventually Germany and Holland. She tells her own story, what she experienced, how she lived, how her people lived. She tells of her grandmother, fresh from the desert nomads of Somalia, trying to teach her the ways of the desert, trust noone, be suspicious, attack first, learn your ancestry, recite it-the clan will protect you. Djins, desert spirits, desert ways. Her mother, enthralled by the Saudi way of life; her father fighting for freedom, independence and democracy and still totally within the clan structure. Her escape from an arranged marriage and eventually from the clutches of Islam. A fascinating and revealing story of a world that is hard to imagine and yet must be considered, must be believed and, to the extent that a Christian American can, understood. Her warnings are dire, and real.
It reads like a novel, but depicts scenes hard to imagine from my safe Midwestern country home.
I strongly recommend it to anyone who has any interest in unraveling the complexity of our “modern” world. Will it help me understand Iraq? Will it help me develop a position on terrorism, war, and what we as Americans ought to do? It seems to me that it complicates the issue, focuses it, makes it more frightening In a way. If women’s rights are the focus, it tells a terrifying story of immigrant women, beaten, subjugated, excised (female circumcision), depressed. And the women for the most part complicit—they don’t know any better. They have been taught by their own mothers and grandmothers from infancy that Allah wills that they be beaten, degraded, killed, repressed, treated like property, chattels, livestock. Allah wills it according to the Koran.
By Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Islam, says the author, is not a religion of peace. It is a religion of submission, of oppression, of violence sanctioned by its holy book. It is a religion frozen in time, a time of desert tribes, of violence. The people who embrace fundamental Islam, she says, are not the poor, down-trodden looking for a better way of life. They are fanatics, educated in the Madrasas of Germany and the United States, filled with holy hatred, the hatred of all that is not them, the infidel, the American. She warns that this resurgence of fundamentalist Islam is a major threat to the west, and that pretending that it is harmless, or that we should tolerate it, excuse it, leave it to flourish in religious schools, is suicidal.
She speaks from her own experience, growing up within Islam in Somalia, Saudi Arabia, Kenya, and eventually Germany and Holland. She tells her own story, what she experienced, how she lived, how her people lived. She tells of her grandmother, fresh from the desert nomads of Somalia, trying to teach her the ways of the desert, trust noone, be suspicious, attack first, learn your ancestry, recite it-the clan will protect you. Djins, desert spirits, desert ways. Her mother, enthralled by the Saudi way of life; her father fighting for freedom, independence and democracy and still totally within the clan structure. Her escape from an arranged marriage and eventually from the clutches of Islam. A fascinating and revealing story of a world that is hard to imagine and yet must be considered, must be believed and, to the extent that a Christian American can, understood. Her warnings are dire, and real.
It reads like a novel, but depicts scenes hard to imagine from my safe Midwestern country home.
I strongly recommend it to anyone who has any interest in unraveling the complexity of our “modern” world. Will it help me understand Iraq? Will it help me develop a position on terrorism, war, and what we as Americans ought to do? It seems to me that it complicates the issue, focuses it, makes it more frightening In a way. If women’s rights are the focus, it tells a terrifying story of immigrant women, beaten, subjugated, excised (female circumcision), depressed. And the women for the most part complicit—they don’t know any better. They have been taught by their own mothers and grandmothers from infancy that Allah wills that they be beaten, degraded, killed, repressed, treated like property, chattels, livestock. Allah wills it according to the Koran.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Here’s an odd and interesting little book by the master of magic realism. It’s much more accessible than 100 Years of Solitude seemed to me at first try. I do plan to attempt Solitude again soon, however. The premise is that a 90-year-old man decides to celebrate being 90 by having himself a virgin. But when he arrives, the young girl is sound asleep. He watches her sleep, then sleeps himself. He continues arranging for the same girl for a year, and falls in love with her, although he never sees her awake. Spend the requisite hour or two it will take you to read it and see what you think.Here’s an odd and interesting little book by the master of magic realism. It’s much more accessible than 100 Years of Solitude seemed to me at first try. I do plan to attempt Solitude again soon, however. The premise is that a 90-year-old man decides to celebrate being 90 by having himself a virgin. But when he arrives, the young girl is sound asleep. He watches her sleep, then sleeps himself. He continues arranging for the same girl for a year, and falls in love with her, although he never sees her awake. Spend the requisite hour or two it will take you to read it and see what you think.
Islam notes Part 2
These are not well organized or completely coherent ideas. They are notes gathered and yet to be distilled. I share them for my own benefit—to write them down, review them, organize them and think about them may help me come to some position on the issue.
In Islamic countries in the middle East and in Islamic communities in Europe, poverty, high birth rates, no jobs, and a lot of angry, unemployed young men conspire to create conditions which favor radical Islamic involvement. This gulf between the Islamic countries and the first world countries continues to widen even as China, Korea and other Asian economies begin to flourish in the world economy.
It is easy to blame the Other—the U.S., for conditions under repressive, corrupt rulers whom we have helped to prop up. It is easy to hate foreigners, especially those who have a lot more than you have, and who at the same time live under very different social codes—codes which are portrayed at their worst on the television programs and movies which they see. They blame us for globalization, which seems to be leaving them behind We make a highly visible, focused and hatable target for the radicals.
Yet some Muslims want to join the modern world, to participate in its economies, its ways, its wealth and prosperity. Others say no, we must revert to our traditional ways—ways evolved over millennia in harsh desert lands.
the Saudis use the u.s. and hate us at the same time. They support
madrasa schools with oil money not only in their own countries but also in Europe and American countries, including the U.S. teaching their own brand of Islam suffused with hatred of the modern, hatred of American, hatred of the other.
Traditional Islam is said to be a religion of law--harsh law, but
just law. Penalties are severe for transgressions--but justice,
judgment and conviction are supposed to be part of the process.
Suicide is not only not condoned by traditional Islam, but is
explicitly forbidden by word and action of the Prophet. Dying
by the hand of another during war or assassination is noble, but
dying by your own hand is still considered suicide, including
blowing yourself up.
Islam also forbids the murder or involvement of women, children and other noncombatants in its complex and long-studied and
debated rules of war. Blowing up their own people to get media
attention does not, according to traditional Islam, qualify a
young man for martyrdom and heaven. The Prophet says it
qualifies him to blow himself up over and over again in Hell.
The Islamic world is falling farther and farther behind the rest
of the world economically, in part because of the corruption of
its own rulers. The U.S. has interfered, propped up some of
these leaders, and followed policies which have harmed the Muslim
peoples in the Middle East e.g. sanctions against Iraq which
clearly did not harm Hussein but squeezed the poor dry.
Bin Laden cloaks his messages in terms of Islam, but he has elevated himself to leadership and hero on hate. Hate instilled in young men in Madrasas, refugee camps, training camps. Hate of an America that does not really exist--a place of debauchery,
corruption, dissolution. They should look at his own family for
closer to home examples of corruption, debauchery and dissolution. But he and his kind need a focus of hate, a focus for their cause. Without that focus you can't get people to blow themselves up voluntarily. You can't fuel cells of people to rise
up in rage without inculcating hatred into their bones.
Some of the reasons they put forward for hating us may have some basis in reality. We have since the 1920s interfered in Arab politics, economies and distribution of wealth for the sake of the oil they sit on. We have not backed up our allies when it suited us to bail--the Shah, the Shiites in 1991 in Iraq. Saddam Hussein was our own man at first. Then we ousted, hunted, captured and eventually got him executed.
We have freedoms, material wealth, and customs they do not have. We flaunt them to the world in the over-dramatized visions of television and movies. And they eat them up.
They promise their young men heaven, virgins, and support for their families if they become suicide bombers. Which is more compelling to a young man without a job, no hope of carrying out his God-given duty to support his family in a world where nothing
is certain, and poverty, violence and hatred are all he has ever known? Do they drug them before they send them out? Do they whip them into a frenzy? Or brainwash them so thoroughly that they can carry out the mission?
They despise us for cowardice and weakness. We turned tail and ran in Beirut; we bailed in Somalia; we left our hostages in Iran for 444 days. We cry to the world that we want to bail again in Iraq. Bin Laden will use that too as a sign of our softness, our
weakness, our cowardice, our willingness to surrender, to flee, to bail. We have no backbone and can't finish what we started.
We are the enemy. We deserve part of that and don't deserve part of it. It doesn't matter. But the roots of the hatred are not, I think, only in Islam, or even, I think, in Wahhabiism. They are political, economic, historic, ethnic, cultural, and circumstantial.
We should never have gone into Iraq in the first place. We should have dealt with it in 1991, and since we didn't, we should have left it alone. But now that we're there, we have to find a way to pull it out. If we don't, the region will dissolve into a
morass of bloodshed, violence, and probably end up in another tyranny, because the only kind of leader who will work will have to be a strong military one.
What is our responsibility now? Having started the war, torn down the government, demolished the political structure, and unleashed the jackals, the extremists on all sides, to devastate their own lands and peoples—what do we do now?
In Islamic countries in the middle East and in Islamic communities in Europe, poverty, high birth rates, no jobs, and a lot of angry, unemployed young men conspire to create conditions which favor radical Islamic involvement. This gulf between the Islamic countries and the first world countries continues to widen even as China, Korea and other Asian economies begin to flourish in the world economy.
It is easy to blame the Other—the U.S., for conditions under repressive, corrupt rulers whom we have helped to prop up. It is easy to hate foreigners, especially those who have a lot more than you have, and who at the same time live under very different social codes—codes which are portrayed at their worst on the television programs and movies which they see. They blame us for globalization, which seems to be leaving them behind We make a highly visible, focused and hatable target for the radicals.
Yet some Muslims want to join the modern world, to participate in its economies, its ways, its wealth and prosperity. Others say no, we must revert to our traditional ways—ways evolved over millennia in harsh desert lands.
the Saudis use the u.s. and hate us at the same time. They support
madrasa schools with oil money not only in their own countries but also in Europe and American countries, including the U.S. teaching their own brand of Islam suffused with hatred of the modern, hatred of American, hatred of the other.
Traditional Islam is said to be a religion of law--harsh law, but
just law. Penalties are severe for transgressions--but justice,
judgment and conviction are supposed to be part of the process.
Suicide is not only not condoned by traditional Islam, but is
explicitly forbidden by word and action of the Prophet. Dying
by the hand of another during war or assassination is noble, but
dying by your own hand is still considered suicide, including
blowing yourself up.
Islam also forbids the murder or involvement of women, children and other noncombatants in its complex and long-studied and
debated rules of war. Blowing up their own people to get media
attention does not, according to traditional Islam, qualify a
young man for martyrdom and heaven. The Prophet says it
qualifies him to blow himself up over and over again in Hell.
The Islamic world is falling farther and farther behind the rest
of the world economically, in part because of the corruption of
its own rulers. The U.S. has interfered, propped up some of
these leaders, and followed policies which have harmed the Muslim
peoples in the Middle East e.g. sanctions against Iraq which
clearly did not harm Hussein but squeezed the poor dry.
Bin Laden cloaks his messages in terms of Islam, but he has elevated himself to leadership and hero on hate. Hate instilled in young men in Madrasas, refugee camps, training camps. Hate of an America that does not really exist--a place of debauchery,
corruption, dissolution. They should look at his own family for
closer to home examples of corruption, debauchery and dissolution. But he and his kind need a focus of hate, a focus for their cause. Without that focus you can't get people to blow themselves up voluntarily. You can't fuel cells of people to rise
up in rage without inculcating hatred into their bones.
Some of the reasons they put forward for hating us may have some basis in reality. We have since the 1920s interfered in Arab politics, economies and distribution of wealth for the sake of the oil they sit on. We have not backed up our allies when it suited us to bail--the Shah, the Shiites in 1991 in Iraq. Saddam Hussein was our own man at first. Then we ousted, hunted, captured and eventually got him executed.
We have freedoms, material wealth, and customs they do not have. We flaunt them to the world in the over-dramatized visions of television and movies. And they eat them up.
They promise their young men heaven, virgins, and support for their families if they become suicide bombers. Which is more compelling to a young man without a job, no hope of carrying out his God-given duty to support his family in a world where nothing
is certain, and poverty, violence and hatred are all he has ever known? Do they drug them before they send them out? Do they whip them into a frenzy? Or brainwash them so thoroughly that they can carry out the mission?
They despise us for cowardice and weakness. We turned tail and ran in Beirut; we bailed in Somalia; we left our hostages in Iran for 444 days. We cry to the world that we want to bail again in Iraq. Bin Laden will use that too as a sign of our softness, our
weakness, our cowardice, our willingness to surrender, to flee, to bail. We have no backbone and can't finish what we started.
We are the enemy. We deserve part of that and don't deserve part of it. It doesn't matter. But the roots of the hatred are not, I think, only in Islam, or even, I think, in Wahhabiism. They are political, economic, historic, ethnic, cultural, and circumstantial.
We should never have gone into Iraq in the first place. We should have dealt with it in 1991, and since we didn't, we should have left it alone. But now that we're there, we have to find a way to pull it out. If we don't, the region will dissolve into a
morass of bloodshed, violence, and probably end up in another tyranny, because the only kind of leader who will work will have to be a strong military one.
What is our responsibility now? Having started the war, torn down the government, demolished the political structure, and unleashed the jackals, the extremists on all sides, to devastate their own lands and peoples—what do we do now?
Friday, April 27, 2007
I Feel Good!
I feel really good—wonder how long since that’s happened!! Just came home from a bike ride into town, visited a friend who just had a positive diagnosis of M.S.
You wouldn’t think that was good news, but it sort of was, because she’s been worrying about what’s wrong with her for almost four years, worrying that it might be some terrible thing or other. M.S. is no picnic, but now the enemy has a name, and she knows what she should do and what she shouldn’t do (fall mostly), and that it isn’t ALS or Parkinson’s or something. It’s not easy to get used to, but it’s definite and that’s a relief. She got a walker—they really make them slick these days with brakes and baskets and a seat. It will be like my cane for her—you have to remember to grab it and take it along so that when you need it it’s not at the other end of the world from where you are. But if you do, you have security and independence.
Back to the exercise, though—the high is great—and the third round of meds for the sinus infection must finally be taking hold because I really do feel GOOD!! Or maybe it’s just the weather.
You wouldn’t think that was good news, but it sort of was, because she’s been worrying about what’s wrong with her for almost four years, worrying that it might be some terrible thing or other. M.S. is no picnic, but now the enemy has a name, and she knows what she should do and what she shouldn’t do (fall mostly), and that it isn’t ALS or Parkinson’s or something. It’s not easy to get used to, but it’s definite and that’s a relief. She got a walker—they really make them slick these days with brakes and baskets and a seat. It will be like my cane for her—you have to remember to grab it and take it along so that when you need it it’s not at the other end of the world from where you are. But if you do, you have security and independence.
Back to the exercise, though—the high is great—and the third round of meds for the sinus infection must finally be taking hold because I really do feel GOOD!! Or maybe it’s just the weather.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Colleagues
He pumped me
for informationI did not have
?As we walked
in the rain
under one umbrella
I wanted to tell him
What I didn’t know
Details
To confirm his suspicions
Facts
To set his mind at ease.
I wanted
To tell him
More than I knew
Who said what
And why
I wanted
To seem important
Knowledgeable
Informed
In
But I didn’t know
So shook my head
And told him so.
for informationI did not have
?As we walked
in the rain
under one umbrella
I wanted to tell him
What I didn’t know
Details
To confirm his suspicions
Facts
To set his mind at ease.
I wanted
To tell him
More than I knew
Who said what
And why
I wanted
To seem important
Knowledgeable
Informed
In
But I didn’t know
So shook my head
And told him so.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Home Office
Home—I love it here. My own space. I’ve spent the entire day in my office working on work (home office day don’t you see) and enjuoying it totally. Why is it I can get everything on my list done today but yesterday the same things never made it to the top? Peace, no interruptions, and the comfort of home. Rain on my windows, wind through the cracks, a good day to hole up and concentrate I guess.
I started playing at basketry a while ago, and Sunday I finished my first complete item. It’s lopsided, misshapen and rather weird looking but will make a perfectly serviceable trash basket. It’s satisfying to work with my hands, to do something with concrete results, even if the results aren’t that good. I learned a lot, after all. While I’m weaving, the cat leaps and grabs at the ends of the reeds, trying to catch and hold them with her clawless paws.
One of the advantages of talking books is that I can read and do something els at the same time. Of course when I do, my concentration is not complete on the book, so it doesn’t work for serious reading. So I’ll just skip serious reading!
I started playing at basketry a while ago, and Sunday I finished my first complete item. It’s lopsided, misshapen and rather weird looking but will make a perfectly serviceable trash basket. It’s satisfying to work with my hands, to do something with concrete results, even if the results aren’t that good. I learned a lot, after all. While I’m weaving, the cat leaps and grabs at the ends of the reeds, trying to catch and hold them with her clawless paws.
One of the advantages of talking books is that I can read and do something els at the same time. Of course when I do, my concentration is not complete on the book, so it doesn’t work for serious reading. So I’ll just skip serious reading!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)