I watched the "Magdalene Sisters" tonight. What a disturbing film. Set in 1964, in Ireland, it described three girls who get sent to a nunnery because they have sinned, according to the Catholic religion. One girl was raped, one had a baby out of wedlock, and the other was considered a temptress because she enjoyed flirting with boys. Their lives were ruined, they were shunned from respectable society, they were removed from their families and sent to a place without love or affection, a place where they had to work themselves to the bone, in order to redeem themselves in the eyes of god.
I realized while I watched this film, how lucky we all are in this world to be free. To be whom we want to be; to live in culture where there is tolerance and acceptance. I know there are situations which don't fit with this, and I respect that people's individual experiences may be different, but I know, for myself, that I am free. To be myself, in whatever capacity that is. I can choose to be me, to express myself, to make choices and make mistakes, and be responsible for those. Knowing that the only judgment, generally, will come from me. I recognize that I am so extraordinarily blessed to be able to do whatever it is that I want. Life is so good. : )
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Finding Zen on a Run
My body is
aching from exertion and effort.
And in that state of stiffness and fatigue
there is a stillness.
My mind is quiet
from worry or anxiety.
I am reminded of what is happening now,
what is there in my body, in my mind.
I am present, here, with my sore muscles
and restricted blood flow.
I feel my breath, labored;
I hear my heart racing.
I am enjoying fully my tired limbs
and the calm that comes with it.
-- July 10/05
aching from exertion and effort.
And in that state of stiffness and fatigue
there is a stillness.
My mind is quiet
from worry or anxiety.
I am reminded of what is happening now,
what is there in my body, in my mind.
I am present, here, with my sore muscles
and restricted blood flow.
I feel my breath, labored;
I hear my heart racing.
I am enjoying fully my tired limbs
and the calm that comes with it.
-- July 10/05
No Whites, No Blacks, Just Blues *
Ottawa is hosting a Blues Festival from July 7 to 17th, and I decided to treat myself and get a full pass. I've been Friday and Saturday so far (it started on Thursday). I've listened to the Black-Eyed Peas, Neko Case, Alison Krauss & the Union Station, and some of Daniel Lanois.
It's so much fun to walk out of my apartment, up 6 blocks to Laurier/Elgin, and be immersed in the energy and delight of thousands of people, all playing outside, with the intent to hear music. And the music is so good.
I am enjoying this festival. It's a delight to people watch; to navigate through sunburned faces, and around people carrying chairs, coolers, and drinks. I love watching groups of friends who are out enjoying themselves and the scene; lovers swaying together to the music; parents introducing their children to dancing and singing in the park; girls preening themselves and casually scanning the vicinity for boys; And boys acting cool, cruising by the groups of pretty girls.
And walking home, I can hear the strands of Bluegrass music wafting through the air that almost seems to reach my apartment.
* I saw that quotation on the volunteer shirt for the Blues Fest of 2000.
It's so much fun to walk out of my apartment, up 6 blocks to Laurier/Elgin, and be immersed in the energy and delight of thousands of people, all playing outside, with the intent to hear music. And the music is so good.
I am enjoying this festival. It's a delight to people watch; to navigate through sunburned faces, and around people carrying chairs, coolers, and drinks. I love watching groups of friends who are out enjoying themselves and the scene; lovers swaying together to the music; parents introducing their children to dancing and singing in the park; girls preening themselves and casually scanning the vicinity for boys; And boys acting cool, cruising by the groups of pretty girls.
And walking home, I can hear the strands of Bluegrass music wafting through the air that almost seems to reach my apartment.
* I saw that quotation on the volunteer shirt for the Blues Fest of 2000.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
For Mom
My sisters and I are getting together to celebrate my parent's milestone birthdays this year. My mom is quite an extraordinary cook. For her birthday present, we've put together a recipe book of memories, quotations, pictures, menus, and other memorabilia to help commemorate her passion and her love.
This is my contribution.
---
When I think about Mom over the years, one of the things that stand out is her absolute passion for caring for people. She is a warm, caring, and loving person, and one of the biggest manifestations of that love is through her cooking.
My earliest memories of Mom are being in the kitchen with her, watching her move around the space, owning the space with her presence and her being, and her incredible rhythm and timing.
Cooking is about measurements and precision, but it's also about intuition and beat. Much like how a drummer is what holds the tempo of a song together; a cook holds the meal together with the ability to sense when something needs attention and when something is ready to serve.
As a child, I remember celebrating birthdays by being able to choose our absolutely favorite meal and having that be our birthday dinner. Bacon and eggs! Palacsinta! Spaghetti and meat sauce. Whatever our pleasure was, Mom would take the time to create the perfect meal.
Christmas, Easter, and birthday celebrations were a big event in the Michals' household. These special occasions were celebrated with ornate tables. Color-coordinated children matched with tables and food dishes. Everyone was well-dressed and presentable. Name cards were situated at each table setting. The tables were decorated with linens and centerpieces usually consisting of a seasonal fruit or plant, and colors that match the occasion. Wine glasses were placed at each setting, whether you were young or old. And once the food had been served, the tables looked like they were groaning under the weight of all the scrumptious, savory, delectable meals.
For every meal at night, the Michals' family would sit and dine together. We would help Mom set the table, setting each place as if we were setting a place for a special occasion. Each of us had our designated spots to sit in, at each place was a full set of cutlery and a wine glass (often filled with milk or water), and I remember that we would go around the table, all 6 of us, and describe the day we had. Taking our turns to talk about the exciting things we had done, or the difficult events we had experiences. It was a ritual.
I remember a phase of eating when we were living in California which consisted of grilled chicken breasts and green salads. I suspect that we didn't eat this for very long, but it remains the "meal" that I associate with those years in Tiburon.
In my early married years, I mentioned to Mom that I would love her to send me some ideas for meals. Especially with the intent for me to learn how to put a whole meal together, with the desire that one day, I might host a dinner party. I was looking for recipes, ideas, suggestions, and the like. Not three days later, I received a full meal plan (for an appetizer, main course, and dessert), complete with grocery list, clearly laid out descriptions of when and how to cook each course, and even suggestions of meals I could make with the leftovers.
Mom insisted on cooking with whole foods. Very rarely was anything we ate processed or bought. Foods that Mom cooked were in season, fresh, abundant, and at their most nutritious. And whatever we weren't able to eat, was miraculously and deliciously converted into another meal.
I think the only memory I have of food that I disliked were our school lunches. Every Sunday night, we made sandwiches that would last us for the entire week. Each sandwich was the same, and would be the same for the entire week. Sandwich varieties included peanut butter & jam; cucumber & cream cheese; cream cheese & jam; some kind of deli meat & cheese & mustard. By the end of the week, whatever sandwich we had in our lunches, would end up being slightly soggy, slightly limp, and I seem to remember longing for Monday's sandwich to come around quickly.
When we got older, Mom started a cooking school. As part of her meticulous and thorough nature, she began to record her favorite recipes. The recipes included things that she tried that were new and delicious; old family favorites that had been passed on from grandmother to daughter; Hungarian recipes that were obtained from the Michalcsics' side of the family and perfected; and other items. Mom, in her generosity, created recipe books for each of us girls. To this day, she still sends us new recipes to add to our collection.
I remember asking Mom the other day what are her favorite meals to cook. She mentioned to me the following: her trademark lemon salad dressing; sour-cream coffee cake; buttermilk pancakes; and her spaghetti and meat sauce.
Some of my favorite cooking quotations from Mom are:
"I cooked up a storm today...."
"I was thinking of you today because I cooked the most fabulous _______."
"I'll give you the recipe, it's really easy."
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Thank you for filling our lives with love and care. Each mouthful you gave us, each armful you held us in; each kiss you planted on our cheek; each smile and laugh you shared with us; each meal you sat us down for; is a reminder of your love for us.
May you enjoy another happy, healthy, and wonderful 60+ years.
Love,
Lisa
This is my contribution.
---
When I think about Mom over the years, one of the things that stand out is her absolute passion for caring for people. She is a warm, caring, and loving person, and one of the biggest manifestations of that love is through her cooking.
My earliest memories of Mom are being in the kitchen with her, watching her move around the space, owning the space with her presence and her being, and her incredible rhythm and timing.
Cooking is about measurements and precision, but it's also about intuition and beat. Much like how a drummer is what holds the tempo of a song together; a cook holds the meal together with the ability to sense when something needs attention and when something is ready to serve.
As a child, I remember celebrating birthdays by being able to choose our absolutely favorite meal and having that be our birthday dinner. Bacon and eggs! Palacsinta! Spaghetti and meat sauce. Whatever our pleasure was, Mom would take the time to create the perfect meal.
Christmas, Easter, and birthday celebrations were a big event in the Michals' household. These special occasions were celebrated with ornate tables. Color-coordinated children matched with tables and food dishes. Everyone was well-dressed and presentable. Name cards were situated at each table setting. The tables were decorated with linens and centerpieces usually consisting of a seasonal fruit or plant, and colors that match the occasion. Wine glasses were placed at each setting, whether you were young or old. And once the food had been served, the tables looked like they were groaning under the weight of all the scrumptious, savory, delectable meals.
For every meal at night, the Michals' family would sit and dine together. We would help Mom set the table, setting each place as if we were setting a place for a special occasion. Each of us had our designated spots to sit in, at each place was a full set of cutlery and a wine glass (often filled with milk or water), and I remember that we would go around the table, all 6 of us, and describe the day we had. Taking our turns to talk about the exciting things we had done, or the difficult events we had experiences. It was a ritual.
I remember a phase of eating when we were living in California which consisted of grilled chicken breasts and green salads. I suspect that we didn't eat this for very long, but it remains the "meal" that I associate with those years in Tiburon.
In my early married years, I mentioned to Mom that I would love her to send me some ideas for meals. Especially with the intent for me to learn how to put a whole meal together, with the desire that one day, I might host a dinner party. I was looking for recipes, ideas, suggestions, and the like. Not three days later, I received a full meal plan (for an appetizer, main course, and dessert), complete with grocery list, clearly laid out descriptions of when and how to cook each course, and even suggestions of meals I could make with the leftovers.
Mom insisted on cooking with whole foods. Very rarely was anything we ate processed or bought. Foods that Mom cooked were in season, fresh, abundant, and at their most nutritious. And whatever we weren't able to eat, was miraculously and deliciously converted into another meal.
I think the only memory I have of food that I disliked were our school lunches. Every Sunday night, we made sandwiches that would last us for the entire week. Each sandwich was the same, and would be the same for the entire week. Sandwich varieties included peanut butter & jam; cucumber & cream cheese; cream cheese & jam; some kind of deli meat & cheese & mustard. By the end of the week, whatever sandwich we had in our lunches, would end up being slightly soggy, slightly limp, and I seem to remember longing for Monday's sandwich to come around quickly.
When we got older, Mom started a cooking school. As part of her meticulous and thorough nature, she began to record her favorite recipes. The recipes included things that she tried that were new and delicious; old family favorites that had been passed on from grandmother to daughter; Hungarian recipes that were obtained from the Michalcsics' side of the family and perfected; and other items. Mom, in her generosity, created recipe books for each of us girls. To this day, she still sends us new recipes to add to our collection.
I remember asking Mom the other day what are her favorite meals to cook. She mentioned to me the following: her trademark lemon salad dressing; sour-cream coffee cake; buttermilk pancakes; and her spaghetti and meat sauce.
Some of my favorite cooking quotations from Mom are:
"I cooked up a storm today...."
"I was thinking of you today because I cooked the most fabulous _______."
"I'll give you the recipe, it's really easy."
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Thank you for filling our lives with love and care. Each mouthful you gave us, each armful you held us in; each kiss you planted on our cheek; each smile and laugh you shared with us; each meal you sat us down for; is a reminder of your love for us.
May you enjoy another happy, healthy, and wonderful 60+ years.
Love,
Lisa
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Logic Flaws
I am learning some of the mental aspects of story telling that bog me down when I write. What prevents me from telling a story (any story) is getting the logic right. I am often paralyzed from continuing a thread or following through with an idea, because I feel that it can't happen. I find myself constantly asking myself "Does it make sense? Is it plausible?"
For example, I can start this story about a shoe. I can envision a man driving home after a long day, who is stuck in traffic, in 35 degree weather, with his A/C broken, wearing long pants and a long-sleeved, button-down work shirt. I can see this man as he impulsively kicks his mocassins off to relieve some of the heat that he's
experiencing. I see him reach out to place the shoes on his seat next to him. As he takes his attention off the road for a split second to move the shoes, the driver of the car in front of him slams on his brakes.
In a panic, he tosses the shoes, so that he can grab the emergency brake, and within inches of rear-ending the sleek, shiny, black Mercedes, he screeches to a halt. One of the shoes he's tossed, bounces off the glove compartment, and ricochets out into the middle of the road.
But really? Would he toss the shoe hard enough for it to bounce like through the window? Would the toss be aimed high - towards the window? Or would it, logically, be aimed at the floor? I suspect that when you rush/drop things, it's usually to the ground, especially since the force of gravity assists you.
It's at this point that I feel unable to continue. The story is lost to me.
For example, I can start this story about a shoe. I can envision a man driving home after a long day, who is stuck in traffic, in 35 degree weather, with his A/C broken, wearing long pants and a long-sleeved, button-down work shirt. I can see this man as he impulsively kicks his mocassins off to relieve some of the heat that he's
experiencing. I see him reach out to place the shoes on his seat next to him. As he takes his attention off the road for a split second to move the shoes, the driver of the car in front of him slams on his brakes.
In a panic, he tosses the shoes, so that he can grab the emergency brake, and within inches of rear-ending the sleek, shiny, black Mercedes, he screeches to a halt. One of the shoes he's tossed, bounces off the glove compartment, and ricochets out into the middle of the road.
But really? Would he toss the shoe hard enough for it to bounce like through the window? Would the toss be aimed high - towards the window? Or would it, logically, be aimed at the floor? I suspect that when you rush/drop things, it's usually to the ground, especially since the force of gravity assists you.
It's at this point that I feel unable to continue. The story is lost to me.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Lonely Shoe
I was driving along the 417 the other evening, and I saw a single black mocassin shoe in the middle of the fast lane. I was immensely curious about the story behind the shoe. Where did it come from? Where is the matching shoe? How does a shoe end up on the highway anyway?
I've decided to write a short story about the adventures of the lonely shoe. This is my attempt at trying to be creative and learning how to write.
Stay tuned....
I've decided to write a short story about the adventures of the lonely shoe. This is my attempt at trying to be creative and learning how to write.
Stay tuned....
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