A simple Memory

It's funny what can trigger old memories.  Sometimes we will spend years apart from a person, a place or an object and then suddenly out of the blue there will be a trigger to our senses that brings it all back.  It can be something simple like the smell of warm cookies or the sound of the ocean.  It can be the taste of blood in your mouth when you loose a tooth or the sight of an old photograph.  It it was the latter for me recently. 

My mother has been putting together old photographs of her mother (my grandma) on a shelf by the kitchen.  On a whim one sunday morning I picked one up and looked at it.  I haven't thought of my grandmother in the some six or seven years since she did.  I had an image of her last days in my mind, frail, mind failing due to alzeimers.  She could barely comprehend most things, but she could still play music on her organ in the little home where we'd put her.  

This picture however, was of some time before that.  She was holding this one purse with flowers on it.  I'd completely forgotten it, but my grandma had always carried little purses like this.  They were almost crochet covered, knitted but with plastic or leather straps.  I remembered picking one up as a kid and trying to figure out what exactly was in it.

In that moment I could suddenly remember the smell of the purse, how it felt in my fingers as I traced them over the strange bony protrusions along the edges. That memory triggered other things, thoughts of my grandma's house, what I did there, the sound of her voice or her music and for the first time in a long time I felt on the verge of tears.

So many years after her death, and still the memory of that pain is very fresh.  It made me realize how very soon I'll have to go through it again with my surviving grandparents.  I don't want to think about it, yet it looms so large in the foreseeable future.  In the end, such things are beyond the power of mere mortals to comprehend.  We are just infinitesimal specs in the eyes of time, death and the universe.  But in death, there is still hope beyond the eternal mystery.


My Mom once told me about the day my grandma died.  She had just passed and she and my father were in the backyard.  I think they were talking when they noticed a very old dove sitting on the top of the house.  The dove was cooing softly, then it spread its wings and took flight.    When my mother told me this I wasn't so much surprised as humbled and awed.

There are a great many things no one can explain about death.  Many would argue that the dove was merely circumstance.  These same people would say that the only point of life is to live then die and that there is nothing afterwards.  In that moment, I think, my grandmother would strongly disagree.  She was a very devoutly religious woman, and it was from her that I started learning my first lessons about death when my grandfather died.  There was a strength of resolve that remained within her, even to her last day.  A brightness in her eyes that I never want myself or anyone to forget.

The senses of summer

Summer is almost done, and so I do something which I try to do at the end of the season:  consider what parts of summer I love best to observe with my senses.  The four main ones are very easy, but it there are more than four senses to summer in my humble opinion.  Its a fun exercise that I think I stole from a writing class somewhere, but I believe anyone can do it and be satisfied to retrospect their own view of the season.  It is very easy to look back with fond memories of an easier time at work with more ability for vacation, the making of new friends and going to new places.  In any case, these are my senses of summer.

Sight:  Shimmering waters, warm waves of air, the pristine pines of Lake Tahoe.

Smell:  Ocean breeze, salty air, the smell of warm peanuts and stale beer.    Simply walking along the shores of Avila I can get all these smells in an instant.  I suppose the two latter smells also remind me of my childhood when we would go to USC games and I'd smell lots of peanuts and beer.

Touch:  The feel of sand beneath bare feet, the warm touch of breeze in evening or a cool fog in morning.

Taste:  Rootbeer Marble, a rare ice cream treat.  I have seen this only sparsely, and had it even fewer times, but it is my all time favorite ice cream.  Like liquid fudge, the rootbeer syrup is mixed with pure vanilla ice cream creating a rootbeer float taste.  Combine this with a real rootbeer float, and you will be in seventh heaven.

Thought:  The relishing of each moment and sense, each new experience.

Word:  In words, Summer should be beauty, passion.  It is fleeting like life itself.  Scarce, it flees so quickly to hotter weather of so called "indian summer" which I hate.  Summer should be the three months we please it.

Action:  To go, to do, to see and sense all that we can.  To enjoy

Obon

Its been two years since I attended the local SLO Obon Matsuri at the Veteran's Hall here in town.  Long story short, when I started my current project I started going to the local Buddhist Temple to not only research but make connections.  The first time I went I was a bit overwhelmed, I had fun, but I suppose I felt a bit sheepish being put in the spotlight when several members pushed me into doing Taiko and some volunteering.  Its only now I realize that they were trying to help me feel included, but I have hated being pushed into doing anything since I was a kid.  So, I stopped going, and haven't been back.

This year however, I took the trip and it was well worth it.  Delicious food, great people, etc.  There were a lot of Japanese people here from all over California, all participating in various capacities.  It was a very warm sunny day, but everyone took it in stride.  I saw a really amazing Bonsai demonstration where a very, very aged gentleman took a standard Juniper plant and transformed it into a lovely fledgling Bonsai within about 30 minutes.  It was amazing to watch this tiny, frail looking man with almost shivering fingers working his magic.  He had all assortment of strange tools from chopsticks to a ground down trowel and other various things.  His son stood by and explained each step he was taking.  It was lost on me, but it was fascinating to watch.

Then there was the Kendo.  I've always wanted to take Kendo, but now I am not so sure.  Watching the master on the stage with his high yells really was impressive.  You could feel the pounding on the floor every time he lept forwards and started beating against the other students with his wooden stick.  Finally was the food and vendors.  There's not a lot in terms of Japanese "stuff" per say.  Some book vendors, t-shirts, etc.  There's pretty good food and of course information on the local temple.  The older priest I recall from last time was not there, but there was a very young one in his place.  He spoke Japanese beautifully, and it made me a little jealous that he's that good, because in his place I'd be off working in Japan.  In any case, I enjoyed myself, but now I am left with a new quandary:  do I return to the temple?

My reasons would be very just.  I want to enjoy meeting and learning about Japanese culture locally.  The only problem is I understand nothing of the chants and they wear on my ears.   The temple proper has a very small group of people in it, mostly older, but that's not a bad thing in the least.  Its an inroad to a larger aspect of something I love.  Even if I am a Catholic, there are aspects of Buddhism that appeal to me.  We will have to see tommorow morning, though part of me is scared to answer why I was gone so long if someone asked.  Most of the people there I recall didn't seem to recognize me, maybe that's good for now.  A fresh start.

Summer Rain

There is nothing quite like a summer rain.  I cannot recall the last time it was this cold or this rainy so close to the season.  Usually by this time of year its terribly, unbearably hot.  Many would point to global warming for the unseasonable changes.  Me?  If this is global warming, bring it on.  I hate hot weather.  Hot weather you can only take so much off to get relief and being without air conditioning is really hard.  Give me storms, give me rain on the windows and a warm fire in my hearth.

Rainy, stormy weather is the best kind for writing, at least for me.  For my work, not so much.  Dodging showers with a cart of perishable supplies and cleaning classrooms that don't have rain cover is not ideal.  I used to judge potential job sites I wanted to go to by the amount of rain cover because, believe me it matters.  Too often schools aren't built with rain in mind, which is odd considering these are children we are allowing to get wet.  Of course, kids love to do so.  They step in puddles simply because they are there.  Any other time I would laugh and watch, but when I am at work I cringe because I know I have to clean up the mess later.

I am not saying I want rain every day.  I could never live in Seattle per-say.  We need some sun for plants to grow and things to be healthy.  But that's

Close to Completion

Book one of my new series is finally, finally closing in on completion.  I am about to begin editing on the some 200 page manuscript and I'm terribly excited, but also very cautious at the same time.  I've always been cautious about hyping my own work, but I truly think this book is something special.  Phantom Express spoke to one part of me, the part that had to deal with death when I was a child.  This series of books however, is more fantastical and based on my lifelong love of all things Japan.

Despite this, I've hit a snag in my second book.  I know its strange to start writing a second book before I publish the first, but I've always been that way.  I have a clear story...and I want it done and on the page.  Still, I've hit major writer's block, I just find myself with little time or desire to write of late.  Work exhausts me, and I come home too weary to think.  All I want to do is curl up and go to bed.  Its not conducive to writing.  I suppose I just need to make time, because this series is going to be worth it.

What I need most, is someone with better knowledge of Japan and Japanese culture than me.  I took classes on the subject years ago, and I am rusty at best.  I am hoping among my friends or those who follow me that I might gain some suggestions.  Where should I go?  What should I do?  Japan itself is out of the question at the moment.  What else is there?

A Essay Poem out of Nowhere

I have no idea where this came from but here goes.

There is, in all life and love, a story to be told, a dream known only to ourselves.  Within us is the power to interweave it into the tales of others.  We are, all of us, fragments of imagination, dreams brought to life in words, thoughts and deeds. Within each moment and each life we touch, there is an eternity to touch, see and explore.  In the waning hours of existence, it plays back before us, and we see it all: the good, the bad, the indiscriminate decisions and the endless possibilities. Our memory beyond death is in the story of our life.  Those who remember us, remember what we did and who we are carry on our story.  In that telling, our life goes on, we live on, and the story of our dreams interweaves ever more.

Deathly Hallows

It is rare when I have to eat my words.  Not two posts ago, I railed Harry Potter and JK Rowling.  But tonight, I gave in.  I went out and saw the conclusion of this series.  I loved it.  In the end, I was wrong.  I fully admit I was wrong.  Harry Potter is not about death, it is ultimately about life, hope, perseverance.  This series of books, this writer, I can only hope to emulate what she has done.  I am just a piddly little writer.  I write because I enjoy writing.  I have ideas, thoughts, inspirations.  Here I sit however, utterly stunned.

I have to admit, I cried like a little girl when certain main characters are killed.  I cheered when villains got what they deserved, and I left the theater satisfied.  Sure, the movie takes liberties with the book, they always do, but ultimately, the spirit of this series has been kept wonderfully in tact.  This truly was a great revelation, not only to me, but to my writing.  I work very hard at what I do.  Its hard because I often don't see any ground gained.  I have two followers, I doubt very much anyone really reads what I have to say.  But I hold the same hope I believe is in those works of fiction that I can make something of myself.

This truly hit home towards the end.  I will not spoil it, but there are allusions to the ghost train, a train which when boarded carries the dead to the other side.  When I saw this, I had to congratulate Rowling.  She's remarkable.  I still don't want to read the books, I just can't get into them, but through these movies I've seen the work come alive, and I appreciate what she has contributed to literature.  Maybe, someday, when and if I find myself in her situation, I can meet her and tell her how I felt tonight.  Who knows, maybe she will read this, maybe not.

I have no illusions of that grandeur.  No, star studded ideals that may come true.  Chances are I'll be dead before any of my work sees fruition.  But I like so many people, can take hope an inspiration from Harry Potter, a boy who truly lives within all of us.