Marine Corps Veterans - Daddy and his Good Officer's Wife
My Favorite Veteran(s)
friends and family
Lies
Used under a creative commons license. Pareerica's http://www.flickr.com/photos/8078381@N03/2894159255/
I did a search on Flickr using the term imagine – I was delighted to find the very kind of image I set out to find on the very first screen of results. It’s a good day to be me.
I wanted an image that was a little edgy – one’s imagination can be a fearful place as well as a hopeful place. It’s most powerful when those two mix – hope rising out of fear.
One of our features as Homo sapiens sapiens is that we possess the ability to think beyond the here and now – to both hope and fear, for these are components of imagination. We can see possibilities. We can anticipate barriers.
Most of us lead comfortable little lives only barely tinged with the quiet desperation of Thoreau’s imagination. We go through rough spells. Some of us will throw up our hands and say, “I can’t do this.” But we can. We do.
Our lives sometimes feel like an endless stream of I-can’t-do-these-things-I’m-doing. Perhaps that’s the core of Thoreau – the desperation of self-imposed limits.
What-if is often seen as a brain-storming, motivational force. My what-ifs are worst case scenarios. I don’t think I’m a fearful person, but then again, I’ve had a right awful couple of years. There’s that old chestnut about 99% of what we fear never happens. If that’s an accurate statistic, my 1% has been powerful enough to cause lengthy analyses of dark what-if scenarios before I can move forward.
I discovered I was stronger than I thought I was. I’ve moved forward when I didn’t think I could even stand.
I-can’t-do-this is a lie.
Still, I wasn’t impressed with myself.
I’ve whispered I-can’t-do-this and I’ve shouted I-CAN’T-DO-THIS. But I did it and I’ll do it. The doing can be worrisome, terrifying, humbling. It can also be strengthening. A large part of the downside is the fear of what will people think. That fear is that we’ll be alone.
Another salient feature of Homo sapiens sapiens is that we’re pack animals. We need one another at the primal level. And yet we pride ourselves on our independence. We’re quirky creatures.
Pride is not an integral part of dignity. Dignity is imbued by the creator, pride is manmade. Pride can be squashed, but a loss of dignity is self-imposed. Independence is a chimera; and quirkiness, well, quirky is dignity in faded jeans and a clever t-shirt.
I’m not that strong. Every I-can’t-do-this that I’ve done has relied on help from someone. It’s always easier to accept help when you haven’t asked for it, but the I-can’t-do-this when the this is asking for help is a lie too. I can do this. I can ask for help. I’ve proved it. And when I’ve been asked for help, I’ve always been happy to. We’re pack animals, we’re cooperative – we’ve had to be to survive.
I-can’t-do-this is a lie.
We-can-do-this is more accurate.
A cup o’bloomin’ tea.
Tea can provoke a need for candlelight.
My family are not tea drinkers. We had iced tea (no sugar – sweet tea was for communists), but we weren’t hot tea drinkers. Oh sure, the parents would let me order tea when I was 8, but they thought I just wanted it for the little silver pot. I did, but I also enjoyed the tea.
I got introduced to “Russian Tea” when I was 14. It was a dark black tea with cloves, dried oranges, cinnamon, star anise and something else. It was the first tea I ever had that was supposed to be lumpy and leave dregs. I’ve searched multiple states and multiple countries for it with no luck. Just last Christmas I found a reasonable substitute at a bookstore – Harney & Sons Hot Cinnamon Spice (with orange and cloves). It’s a lovely tea and I’ve grown fond of it.
The well-used kettle.
I’m an unrepentant coffee drinker. Folks are astonished at the amount of coffee I drink. I’ve been told I’d fit right in at an AA meeting. I drink a pot of coffee before I even leave the house in the morning and another throughout the day. During the day, I’ll often also brew green tea. Or chamomile. Sometimes an Oolong.
I enjoy the ritual of tea – the boiling, the steeping, the pouring, and the accoutrements.
Oolong.
I like trying to “read the leaves.” I stir and watch the steam swirl. I deeply inhale the fragrance. Coffee is gulped, tea is savored.
I drink my coffee black except for the very rare occasion I have dessert – in which case heavy cream is required. But tea – now tea positively requires additives mostly because of tea sets – you have to put something in all those containers and if you’re going to put something in there then you have to use it.
The very-special English teacup.
I love tea sets and tea pots and tea cups. Coffee is everyday – utilitarian. Well, mostly it is. Sometimes coffee is just a caffeine delivery system and sometimes it is a spiritual experience. Tea, however, always provokes ritual. Sugar cubes, creamer, lemon, honey, Demerara sugar, spoons, tongs, pots, trays, kettles, shortbread cookies, and comfortable rockers.
Tea is not a beverage, it’s a mind/body experience.
The even more special dragon cup (and tea service).
I like a little Mozart with my tea.
My teapot collection, while not large, is diverse. Some of it is very formal even if I do almost always drink tea in faded jeans. The tea cup collection is far more sparse. I vow, now and again, to get more, but I’m usually overwhelmed by the choices.
Tea is almost always enjoyed in well-faded jeans.
Lipton’s black tea is fine. Cheap herbals are fine. Luscious imported teas, delicate whites, organic herbals and the like are, of course, much more appreciated. I love to hold the cup close to my face and breathe in the steam and aroma.
A couple of years ago I discovered in a magazine the “blooming teas.” These immediately rushed to the top of my “must have” list. Showing restraint, I did not order them and when Chef Boy ‘R Mine asked what I wanted for Christmas, I told him. My restraint centered on the fact that without the special teapot, the wonder of blooming tea is not fully realized.
Blooming tea.
Blooming teas are hand-tied bulbs of tea and other botanicals including dried flowers. When the boiling water is added, the bulbs “bloom” and one ends up with a floral arrangement in their teapot. It doesn’t get much cooler than this.
Said tea requires a glass teapot and a tea candle so that the blooming tea is visible. Brewing this tea is most spectacular in a dark room. The blooming teas are almost always one of the white teas; hence the tea is an amber color. With the tea candle shining upwards through the bottom of the pot, the view of the blooms is wondrous – a Monet water lily with a golden cast. The ritual of tea takes on a whole new facet with these bulbs.
Tea often demands a good book, an afghan and a comfortable Victorian rocking chair.
Still, I like the old standbys. Oolong is a favorite because it has the same mouth feel as coffee. The cinnamon/clove/orange tea is great heavily sweetened and drunk on a cold winter night. Chamomile is spectacular with honey and lemon.
When in England in 1998, I learned to drink tea with cream. I was in a little tea shop complete with white table cloths and a platter of “biscuits.” The tea was served with cream and sugar. When in Rome and all that. It was quite lovely and there are some days I just I have to have tea prepared that way along with some Walker shortbread cookies.
My 13th birthday china.
It’s always been interesting to me how and why we acquire the habits we have. I’m not sure why I’m so entranced with tea, but I suspect it’s the cups and teapots. I have more dishes than any one person can justify, because I love dishes. Now there’s a habit I can’t begin to explain – fine china, hand-turned pottery, hollow-stem champagne flutes, sushi plates, whimsical turkey soup bowls – you name it, I have it.
Tea is ritual – it’s the very epitome of right here right now. It slows me down, centers and grounds me. It’s a lovely respite from real life.
[If you’re into tea and ever in the D.C. area, don’t miss Ching Ching Cha’s – it’s a Chinese tea house that will, I promise, rock your world.]
The Land of Bad Dreams
bad dreams live in Michigan
Way back when, Chef Boy ‘R Mine had a nightmare. I slept through his screaming (I’m a sound sleeper), but Ex O’Mine ran in at the very first of the blood-curdling scream. Soothing the child (he was and is a very good father), he told the boy that he’d chased the bad dream away back to the Land of Bad Dreams. The child asked where that was. Groggy and put on the spot, the ex said the first thing that popped into his head – “Michigan. Michigan is where bad dreams live.”
[Now. The boy was confused because I always told him the bad dreams were caused by using the wrong side of the pillow. We then made quite a to-do of turning the pillow over, smoothing it, and peeking under it to check for certain that we had the right side down.]
Michigan may have popped into the ex’s head because my parents were setting out in a couple of days to visit the extended family. When Child O’Mine heard later, he was appalled – he decidedly did not want his cherished grandparents near the Land of Bad Dreams. My father had to do a lot of fancy talking to ease the child’s mind.
Michigan has, forever since, been re-dubbed the Land of Bad Dreams notwithstanding the fact that almost all of my extended family live there.
The whole thing was doubly poignant (and kind of funny) because both parents had some horrendous childhood experiences in Michigan. The sweetness of my son’s concerns softened their bad dreams a bit.
Neither my son nor I have nightmares often. I do, however, have a recurring dream that’s eerie. I don’t wake scared – more puzzled. I’ve been having this dream since I was about 13. If memory serves, the first time was during my first menstrual period. [The women amongst us (and some of the men) know that menses can provoke all sorts of psycho-drama.]
Moody Blues
I don’t have it often, but once a year or so, I will dream of the white house. In my dream, I’m wearing a long flowing nightgown – white- suitable for the cover of a romance novel. I’m in a shabby cottage. Everything is white. The linoleum is white, the walls, the appliances, the curtains, the doors, the woodwork and the fireplace mantle. The only thing not white is a poster hanging above the fireplace. The poster changes through the years. At 13, I think it was a Moody Blues album cover – In Search of the Lost Chord. Later, it was Mary Lou Retton. Most recently, it was Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
The dream never lasts long. I’m in the house. I waft from room to room. I always have a sense of puzzlement – of what I don’t know. The lack of furniture? The unrelenting white? The poster? The cracked and scarred linoleum?
The Pier
After exploring the house, I open the front door to find that it leads directly to a pier – a very long pier. There’s no porch or walkway to the pier. The pier is the porch. It’s gray and foggy outside. The sky and water are so gray it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other. The fog has settled in and the beige of the sand is completely obscured. I walk to the end of the pier for what seems miles. During the walk, I watch my bare feet carefully negotiate the pier. The pier is ancient and splintering.
At the end, I look into the water and notice sunlight dapples. I look up to find the fog has lifted and the sun has come out. I look to the left and I look to the right and for miles and miles all I see are identical houses with identical piers.
The dream always ends there.
I have analyzed this dream from every angle. Not a clue. If my psyche is trying to tell me something, it needs to start speaking a language I can understand.
I went to Michigan this week to attend my grandmother’s funeral.
rocks, sand, autumn leaves
We stayed in a charming motel on a lake – a delightful mom & pop place. I scoped out the scenery as soon as we checked in, but the purpose of the trip precluded my itch to grab the camera and go play.
This morning I woke up at dawn. Quickly slipping into jeans and a sweatshirt while grabbing the camera, I quietly opened the sliding glass doors and walked through the early morning drizzle and fog to the lake.
There was the pier.
the white pier
In my dream, the pier had always been weathered, gray wood. I now know that was wrong.
The pier is white – in keeping with the house. I think my psyche didn’t know there were white piers.
I shivered.
I hurried to the pier. My sleepy self was convinced if I stood on that pier, I would understand.
I stood on the pier. I sat on the pier. I took off my shoes and put my feet in the freezing water. I let the rain sluice over my head. I watched the wind ripple on the water and enjoyed the scent of early morning pines.
beach rocks
I took photos. Dozens. I sat in a chair and stared at the pier, the lake, the trees, the falling leaves. I fell a little bit in love with Michigan.
I still don’t have a flippin’ clue what the dream is about. But I expect to have it tonight.
I still think the dream takes place on the Atlantic ocean, but a Land of Bad Dreams pier is going to change the tableau. Lord only knows what the poster will be tonight – I was admiring a Georgia O’Keefe at a bookstore today.
And all of this reminds me of one of my all-time favorite quotes: If little else, the brain is an educational toy. (Tom Robbins).
I need more time at this pier. I think the red hammock will entice HMOkeefe. (He likes hammocks.)
red hammock at dawn
And I did fall a tiny bit in love with Michigan – the Land of Bad Dreams – the memories of my childhood and the beauty of this morning’s scenery contributing. And that motel was just too charming. Yes, I need to go back and spend more time on that pier.
I have got to unlock this dream which I just know I will have tonight.
W. Va. Fur and Root 