Ambushed

"Who can hope to be safe? Who sufficiently cautious? Guard himself as he may, every moment's an ambush." - Horace


The Ambush - Albert Bierstadt, Oil on canvas, 1876 

Whooeey. Horace got that right. Every moment's an ambush.

I was ambushed yesterday. Wow, it took me by surprise, this wave of frustration and helplessness and futility at the circumstances surrounding me lately. It came out of nowhere and knocked the breath right out of me.

I've done lots of work in the last year or so on my practice of meditation, and thought I had come a long way in learning to separate myself from certain emotions. I've learned to acknowledge them, release them, and move back to a position of neutrality or 'emptiness'. It's been very healthy and healing for me.

Imagine my shock, then, at the surprise attack of...well, wrath that overtook me yesterday.  THIS IS SO UNFAIR!  

I was nothing short of "Sybil" yesterday, exhibiting extremely different personalities with each person I encountered.

I was a kind and Sympathetic Clara Barton Yia-Yia to my sick Little Beauty as she endured several more bouts with "Ivan the Terrible and his Tummy Rumblers" (story to follow some day with illustrations by his victim). I wiped her brow and stroked her soft golden hair, and offered an occasional cracker with her cartoons.

I was an Engaged Yia-Yia to the Little Scholar, who is gamely spending his cycle break from school in quarantine with the rest of the household in an attempt to squelch an epidemic. [Cycle break is the term for the 3-week break in between each 9-week cycle of classes for his year-round school. This break has been honed down to two weeks in order to make up for all the snow days this year.] I admired his lego creations, read Hardy Boys with him, and fixed him cookies and milk. Yay, me.

I was the Overworked Housewench, still trying to seek out and destroy any lurking virus in our midst. I actually even tried to 'get into the head' of Ivan the Terrible to imagine where he might be, waiting to ambush his next victim. (After all, this is the menace keeping me from being at my own mother's side right now...he must be vanquished so that I can be with her.) Goodness, it really is getting ridiculously obssessive...chapped hands, the ever present smell of bleach, and piles of sanitized and neatlyfolded laundry everywhere. Wait...did I clean that closet doorknob yet?

I was the Wise Mother of Adults, having very grown up conversations about work and world situations with The Scholar and his older brother, the Young Titan of Business. 

I was doing okay. I thought.

Suddenly out of nowhere, Sybil, the Indignant and Angry Sister, appeared and ambushed me. She was followed closely by a rogue's gallery of miscreants, including the Sorrowfully Misunderstood Sybil, who soon morphed into the Distraught,Weepy, Needy Wife personality during a phone conversation with her on-a-business-trip husband, and finally, the I'll Think of This Tomorrow Scarlett O'Hara Sybil.  

Yikes. It's exhausting being Sybil.

I guess we're all exhausted, needing a break that no one can take and answers that no one can find. I'll try hard to remember that.

I'll get back to my meditation and try to double the dosage during this rainy season. I guess I have more negativity to release than I realized. I'll try to remember to breathe deeply. I'll be more gentle with myself and with others who have no more control over the situation than I. I hope.

Most of all, I'll remember that every moment's an ambush. Anything can happen to any one of us at any moment in time. I will appreciate this moment. I will. 

I hope you live each moment today with intent.


I usually try to find music that will comfort, soothe, or entertain, but not today. Noooo, today requires the firey tempestuous mood of yesterday. That mood can only be explained by Verdi's "Requiem: Dies Irae" (meaning "Day of Wrath"). It's really all about the day of reckoning, but has all the feel of being ambushed and the feeling of wrath that accompanies it. I won't say, "enjoy" as I usally do, but maybe "Appreciate" instead.

This is one of the finest interpretations I've ever heard. Claudio Abbado conducts the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra in 2002 in this very small but profound snippet from the Requiem.

Into Each Life...

Be still sad heart and cease repining;
Behind the clouds the sun is shining,
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life a little rain must fall.
 - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Simplon Pass: Reading - John Singer Sargent
Watercolor, 1911, Museum Of Fine Arts, Boston, USA
courtesy johnsingersargent.org

Yesterday morning, as if on cue from some heavenly director, the skies spilled out a cold steady stream of rain.  Caring for my still-sick Little Beauty (please go away, Ivan the Terrible), I watched from the window all day as the unceasing droplets descended from the sullen winter sky. Sometime around mid morning I realized it was high time to acknowledge this period of rain in my life.

Rain From the Window

Into each life, I thought. Better to recognize the downpour and open an umbrella than to bury my head and pretend it's not raining.

It's raining. Cats and dogs. Literally and metaphorically. Whoever first said, "When it rains, it pours" was absolutely right, and I'm soaked to the skin right now. 

Scheveningen Women and Other People Under Umbrellas
Vincent Van Gogh Watercolor, The Hague,1882

Ultimately, though, this is not about me. This is about several very important people in my life who are going through serious health crises, and the ripples caused by these disturbances. Three...three are locked in serious battles with cancer. Another dear one is experiencing life threatening difficulties caused by Cystic Fibrosis.

All men, all dear to me for one reason or another, each of them is way too young and way too undeserving of such difficulties.  The ripples reach from parents to spouses to children and grandchildren and friends and others, eventually crashing into the concentric ripples of the others.

Word came late Monday from My Twin, a physician, who had spoken to the doctors concerning their investigation into our mother's recent falls and encroaching dementia within the last few months. The neurologist has diagnosed ALS (Lou Gherig Disease) or similar progressive neuropathy. One test remains before putting a period after the diagnosis.

Within forty-eight hours, we've gone from wondering how our mother's health could decline so rapidly, to moving her to a skilled nursing center, to discussions about hospice care. It sort of boggles the mind.

And so, I'm enterting a rainy season. As Longfellow said, it's the common fate of all. I know the sun will return in due time. I think when it does, I will take my mother out into its radiance and read some lovely books and poetry to her, just as in the beautiful John Singer Sargent watercolor painting pictured above. Watercolor. How perfect.

For now, though...for just a little while,...I must honor the rain.

Today I wish for you to know that "behind the clouds, the sun is shining."

The music selection today is Eric Whitacre's "Cloudburst" sung by The Tower Choir. Many of you may know Whitacre as the composer behind the virtual choir production of "Lux Aurumque". He is a brilliant, inventive, 21st century composer with classical taste. I think he's fabulous.

Please be patient as you listen to the storm clouds build during the first few minutes. The harmonies are amazing. The cloudburst appears after the five minute mark, when the singers and musicians employ everything from finger snaps, bells, drums, claps, and voices to produce the wind and rain. Listen, and you will see the droplets which fall and cause those overlapping, concentric ripples.  Enjoy. 

Please Stand By

"If the family were a boat, it would be a canoe that makes no progress unless everyone paddles."

- Letty Cottin Pogrebin

I'm paddling along with the rest of my family today,

but I'll be back as soon as possible.

Be kind to one another today, okay?

Joshua Bell plays "O Mio Babbino Caro" from opera "Gianni Schicchi" by Giacomo Puccini

At the Ballet

"But everything was beautiful at the ballet..."
Sheila from "A Chorus Line"



Fin d'Arabesque, with Ballerina Rosita Mauri
Edgar Degas,1877, Oil on canvas, Musée d’Orsay

Like everyone else, I have my share of problems. More than some, but far fewer than most. I have the blessings of good health, abundant food, warm shelter, and a loving family. How much richer could I be?

I try to put my troubles into perspective, keeping each one separated from the others. Divide and conquer, you know? Little by little they can be sorted out, taken and looked at logically, worked on and worked out. Usually.

Every so often, though, Troubles decide to gang up together into a big troublesome wad and hurl themselves into your midst without warning to see what havoc they can create. Splat! It hurts.

And so it has been for the last few weeks. Just when one issue seems to be resolved, another one pops up to take its place. Then another. And another. It’s been a big ole’ game of “Whack a Mole” around here lately.

Yesterday, it all went away for a while. All the problems, all the anxiety, and all the difficulties melted away.

I went to the ballet.

I was tempted not to go. I had planned to accompany my four year old Little Beauty to see the performance, but she contracted a nasty tummy bug that I nicknamed “Ivan the Terrible” and cancelled (wisely) on me. Poor baby.

I was feeling spent myself, tired of the hustle and bustle and back and forth and sickness and logistics and wondering where I would be needed the most. Maybe I would just stay home after all.

But I knew that a dear friend would be acknowledged at the performance, receiving an award for her artistic contributions as costume designer for the last ten years or so at the ballet company. I’ve held many pins for her through the years, and learned so much about the mix of artistry and engineering that goes into building costumes (yes, costumes are ‘built’ not ‘sewn’ as Jude taught me), and with each pin I’ve handed to Jude Bonnot over the years, my estimation for her has grown. I had to be there to see her receive her well-deserved accolade.

Don’t you love it when you make the right choice?

I went to the ballet and had the most wonderful time. The production was amazing, a tribute to the gifted artistic staff from Alexandra Ballet, the gifted dancers (of course), and the scores of volunteers who contribute to the effort.

The MainStage production this year was a repertory show, which is a grouping of small pieces put into a cohesive unit, rather than the usual story ballet (like Cinderella or Swan Lake). Five beautiful pieces of differing style and mood made up this season’s “Gems of the Ballet” and what a shining gem of a production it was!

Here is a photo of the bows taken after the performance of the first piece, Paquita, in which every single dancer wore a custom creation made by Jude Bonnot. This is what's called a "complete build" and you are only seeing a fraction of the scores of costumes made for this one selection.

It was a lengthy show with two intermissions (everyone certainly got their money’s worth for this one!), and as I visited with the company’s Artistic Director during one of them, she was kind enough to invite me over to the cast party following this final performance.

It took a nanosecond to accept the invitation, though I knew I’d be an unplanned guest of the company, and might cause some difficulty to the planners. If it didn’t feel right, I’d just say a quick hello to a few friends and beat a hasty retreat.

Right decision, again. The gracious chair of the planning committee could not have been kinder. She placed me at a table with old and new friends (which, of course, is the perfect combination), arranged for my dinner, and made me feel like a guest of honor. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Karen!

Ballet people know how to throw a party. I've told you that before, but it bears saying again. If you are ever invited to a party connected with  the ballet world in any way... go. It's a guaranteed great time.

The idea here is transcendence. The production itself took me out of my reality for two hours, long enough to restore my psyche. The music took my mind to a place of order and beauty. As if time traveling, the stories of the ballets transported me to places of intrigue, charm, lovely gardens, and humorous vignettes. The party afterward was a place in which I could reconnect with old friends and enjoy making new ones.

The afternoon and evening was truly a tonic for my soul.

If you find yourself beset with troubles, I hope you are able to find a recipe that works for you like ballet works for me.We sometimes are not even aware how very badly we need the respite from those troubles. Music, dance, reading, walking...how do you transcend the everyday?

Today, I hope you transcend all your troubles...at least for a while.

This little video snippet is of Alexandra Ballet Company dancer, Makensie Howe, who has accepted a contract to dance professionally next season with Houston Ballet II. It has been an honor to see this lovely young lady grow up, and she will be sorely missed next year. As it is with any great training company, we must become accustomed to saying goodbye, and come to the understanding that our loss is the ballet world's gain. Godspeed to you, Makensie, and come back soon to perform as a guest artist!

Don't Take Me to the Mardi Gras

"Mardi-Gras is of course a relic of the French and Spanish occupation; but I judge that the religious feature has been pretty well knocked out of it now." - Mark Twain, "Life on the Mississippi" 



Giclee Print of Vintage magazine, c. 1920

  
The caption to this picture reads, "Les Crepes Du Mardi-Gras' are as Traditional as Shrove Tuesday Pancakes in England."

Well, that was then and this is now. No longer are we content to contemplate the true meaning of "Mardi-Gras" which translates to "Fat Tuesday" as a time of feasting and, literally, eating rich and fatty foods in preparation for the fasting and penitence of the period of Lent before Easter. Mark Twain would be amazed at how soundly the "religious feature" has been knocked out of it.

If that poster were to be made today, the women would not be holding platters and gadgets for making deliciously rich crepes for their families, but would undoubtedly be holding bright red plastic cups filled with beer. They would be dressed in outrageously scanty clothes instead of dresses, and their outfits would not be accessorized with lovely printed aprons, but with stacks of brightly colored beads. Don't even ask how they obtained the beads.

Yes, Americans have managed to prune away the sacred from the secular of every holiday on the calendar, and Mardi-Gras is no exception. I'm just silly enough to think that every single person attending parades, throwing beads, flashing breasts, and drinking beer this weekend should be required to write a term paper on the true meaning of the occasion.  After turning in that term paper, they would then be required to actually participate in the penitence and fasting. Oh, yeah, that should effectively end the need for at least half of the porta-potties now required for the weekend.

I'm not trying to put a halt on all the wild debauchery that takes place in the streets of our cities during the days before Ash Wednesday. I'm in favor of debauchery as much as the next person. I'd simply like for people to go into the wild abandon of their senseless behavior with some sense of purpose. Is that even possible?

On the 10 O'clock news last night, one intrepid journalist ventured out and braved the crowded streets of Tripoli St. Louis to interview the rebels revelers on the scene. One young lady thought that Mardi Gras was a German beer festival, for heaven's sake. Yes, Honey, "Mardi Gras" and "Strassenfest" sound so much alike. I can see why you're confused.  Or maybe it's just the overdose of Anheuser-Busch talking.


Now I'm sounding a bit snarky, which is not what I intended for our Sunday discussion on the sacred. I'm not even a church-goer anymore, but I am a bit weary of the way we have allowed beer companies, toy companies, and candy companies to co-opt religious holidays. Is there any way to stop the madness? Has this happened in other countries?

Really. I'm asking you seriously. What should we do?

Today, I wish you a small sacred moment within the secular.

As I often say (okay, not really), I think Paul Simon has the right idea. As long as he advises us to "let the music wash your soul," I'm down with that.

Here is his take on Mardi-Gras. Be sure to listen to the very end, when the New Orleans jazz brass band takes over...it just might wash your soul like it did mine. Enjoy!


Take Me to the Mardi Gras
- by Paul Simon

C'mon take me to the Mardi Gras

Where the people sing and play
Where the dancing is elite
And there's music in the street
Both night and day


Hurry take me to the Mardi Gras
In the city of my dreams
You can legalize your lows
You can wear your summer clothes
In the New Orleans


And I will lay my burden down
Rest my head upon that shore
And when I wear that starry crown
I won't be wanting anymore


Take your burdens to the Mardi Gras
Let the music wash your soul
You can mingle in the street
You can jingle to the beat of Jelly Roll
Tumba, tumba, tumba, Mardi Gras
Tumba, tumba, tumba, day