tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133788202024-03-13T07:47:56.099-07:00Lisa Garrigues"Always carry your monkey on your own back."Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-89232882027752447762021-06-27T12:06:00.005-07:002021-06-27T15:12:13.501-07:00Springtime in Alaska<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I took this trip to Alaska to visit my friend T back in 2016, created the post for it a few weeks later, then got distracted by other activities, and never published it. So here it is, better late than never. T left a note awhile ago on my Facebook page where I
had posted some photos, “ Where's the narrative?” In my mind I
answered her: “Cooking. Not yet ready to be served.” </div>
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Et voila. Le diner est servie. </div>
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<h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Taking Off</span></h3>
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I love the feel and sound of departure, the engine building to a roar, the plane coasting on the runway, the lift-off. So here you go, take off from San Francisco on my way to Fairbanks. At the end, you'll hear someone's voice, which captures my sentiments exactly. <br />
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<span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Fairbanks</span><br />
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In Fairbanks, I stay at T's house,
which is a magnificent expansion compared to my space in crowded San
Francisco. This is what T calls “in town”, what she can't wait
to get away from while she's there, so she can go out to her cabin in
the wilderness. That's where she is now, with her boyfriend,
stomping around in snowshoes fixing the place up. (Actually I've
never worn snowshoes so I'm not really sure what you do in
them...stomp? Glide? Mush?) At any rate, they are where I'm
headed. And in the meantime, I sleep downstairs on the couch in a
wonderful big empty house, facing the window, staying up to watch the sun go down
around 11PM, and waking with it already shining in my face.
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<span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Chickens and Shopping</span><br />
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T's friend T2 shows up to feed the
chickens which T keeps in a chicken house just below the main house.
Unfortunately, I have already eaten almost all the cooked white rice
that was left on the pot for them, thinking, “Oh, how thoughtful
that T left me dinner!” T2 is a transplant from California, so we
can both talk and nod about how strange Alaska is to people from
California. Mostly, for her, she is bothered by the long dark days
of winter. I can't say I blame her: one of the reasons I choose
to come up here now, in the spring.</div>
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T has left a mammoth shopping list of
stuff to take out to the cabin, so T2 is my driver and co-shopper in
this adventure. She and I were created in the same factory of
absent-mindedness and spatial disfunction, so on the road we end up
driving around in circles and yelling at Siri, and once inside the
mammoth big box stores of Fairbanks, we wander the aisles with lists
in hand for what seems like hours.
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I don't like shopping, but I appreciate
having T2 along with me; she's a good companion.
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Back at T's, we load all the stuff onto
a sled and slide it all slowly down the snowy slope to T's house,
careful not to slip and fall on our butts.. Actually, we do this mammoth shopping escapade over a period of several days, which is probably why
it invaded my dreams, but more on that later. Mostly it's
foodstuffs, enough to last for the six weeks T and I will be out
there, along with other important items like wheelbarrow tires and
plastic storage tubs.
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<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Voices and Memories</span></b></h3>
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During the few days I am in Fairbanks,
T calls me periodically from her satellite phone to request more
stuff that she didn't put on the list: batteries, food, tools. The reception is bad, and we
frequently get cut off, but it's good, as usual, to hear her voice. </div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This is
basically all I have known of her for the past eleven years: the
sound of her voice over the telephone. For the last forty years of
our friendship, we have only seen each other about once a decade.
We met in high school in Bellingham, WA when we were sixteen, and
immediately created our own private club, membership of two, doing self-consciously self confident sixteen year old things like using the boys' bathroom to smoke
our cigarettes, and sitting under the table at the local diner to
drink our coffee instead of at the table on chairs like we were
supposed to. We were brilliant, we were rebels, we took LSD
together and saw god in a bowl of adolecent laughter, we were
sixteen. She, freshly arrived from Alaska, always wore a big orange
pumpkin parka and I teased her about hiding her Cinderella inside a
pumpkin. I, freshly arrived from California, ran around shivering in
the snow looking like L.A. in a green miniskirt with my skinny legs
sticking out.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
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Later, in our twenties, we spent time together on the
road in Barcelona and Paris, working late hours in nightclubs and
staggering one night after work into a photo booth and taking our
photo, my arm around her, our heads cocked together, smiling bravely
into that singular moment of light. I now have the photo, which had
been in T's posession for many years in her cabin on the Kantishna
river. No, I'm not going to show it to you, because the mysterious
Miss T prefers not to be shown these days, so I will respect her
wishes.
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After our wild wandering days in
Europe, T pretty much settled down and got a respectable career, and
I didn't. At one point she called me while working her respectable
career and spending all her money on the corporate suits she had to
wear to work every day to tell me how miserable she was doing that
and how all she really wanted to do was go back to Alaska and build
herself a cabin in the woods and live in it.
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And so she did. And that's where I'm
headed. “Wheelbarrow tires,” she says on the phone, her voice
filled with the static of distance, “You can pick them up at the
hardware store.” <br />
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<b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">To the Bush</span></b></div>
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T and I have had some phone calls back
and forth about how I may or may not be able to actually fly out and
join her in the bush, because of bad weather or the ice melting too
quickly, so I am reluctantly prepared to spend the next six weeks
hanging around Fairbanks if I have to. But the pilot calls me to
give the go-ahead, so before I know it I have said goodbye to T2 and
am high in the air looking down at the wild but strangely elegant
markings of Alaska down below. The pilot announces ahead of time
that he'll need to stay focused, and won't be able to chit chat
much, so we fly in silence together, hearing only the sound of the
motor. That's fine with me.</div>
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Next life, I'm coming back as a bird.
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<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Landing</span></b></h3>
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I step off the plane. The day is
beautiful, snow on the ground, air fresh with light, the Kantishna river icy flat, smooth and white. T is there, bundled in a parka,
as well as her boyfriend R, equally bundled. They've got a sled to
pile the stuff onto, and a big happy dog who bounces around unbundled
on top of the river ice.</div>
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Although it's been eleven years since
I've seen her, she honestly doesn't look that much older than the
last time I saw her. But part of that I'm sure is because we all age
at the same rate, which can sometimes produce a kind of time warped
optical illusion. She has recently been ill, so I was expecting
worse. But she looks amazingly strong.
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The last time we met up here, eleven
years ago, she took one look at me and said, “My we certainly have
aged haven't we!”</div>
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I was glad she didn't say that this
time, although, on the other hand, I really don't give a hoot. I
guess by now we are both taking the ageing part in stride and don't
even comment on it.
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We unload the stuff onto the sled, and
her boyfriend R takes my place in the Bush plane and heads back with
the pilot to Fairbanks.
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When we were sixteen T once went for a
psychic reading and the psychic told her that she and I would be “old
ladies together.”
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So here we are. Not old of course,
because nobody I know, at any age, ever seems to admit to that, but
respectably close.
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<b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Disappearance</span></b></div>
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We drag the stuff into the cabin and
unload it. T is concerned because the other dog that came out with
them has disappeared. He ran off into the woods a few days ago and
never returned. He was old.
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“Maybe he just wanted to go out into
the woods and lie down and sleep,” I said.
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“Maybe,” she said. “I hope
that's what happened to him.”
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The next day, T took off and waded
through thick undergrowth and snow up to her hips for several hours,
and then returned.</div>
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“I can't find him,” she said. She
was breathing hard, her face red.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
The dog never returned. But we still
had the other dog, Ziggy, filled with exuberant youth and plaintive
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<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">About the Body </span></b></h3>
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Of course, after we settled in, we had
to spend time 'catching up', face to face, not over the phone.
Talking is something we've always been good at, a long communication
that has now gone on for several decades. I didn't know when I
was sixteen how important it would be to have people like her still
around in my older years. Witnesses, accomplices, pieces of the
jigsaw puzzle I call my life. She remembers stuff I don't, and vice
versa. We talk and laugh, adventures and challenges we have had in
the past decade, my trip to Peru and across the country, her life
here in Alaska, people who have come and gone from our lives, old
memories.
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Inevitably, we begin to talk about the
body.
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What has come into both our lives in
the past eleven years has been a real sense of the time limit on our
physical bodies. I really think of our bodies like vehicles; when
they are new, we run them ragged, we show them off; over the years,
they get us where we are going, then they begin to break down, and
eventually, they stop. Her ailments have been more dramatic, some
of it no doubt the culmination of a lifetime of overconsumption of things that are not good for you. My own, more mundane: a too long recovery from a broken
arm, an undiagnosed hypothyroid condition which dragged me down into
long periods of fatigue before I was able to correct it.
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And this, and that. Yada yada yada.
As a teenager, I used to hate the part where older people began talking
about their bodies.... I mean, really who wants to know?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And yet, here we sit, on the verge of
old ladyhood, swapping exciting tales about our illnesses and their
cures. But the worst of it is not that I am doing it but that I am
actually finding it interesting, comparing symptoms and remedies like
we used to trade stories of our love affairs. “Reallly? And what
was THAT like...what did you do then?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For a long time, probably too long, T
never went to doctors, saying “Nope, don't wanna do it, because
once they get their hands on you, they never let go.” And, in her
case, it proved to be true. She now sets an enormous plastic bin
full of vitamins and pills on the table and insists, for good
measure, that I take some too.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Last year after she discovered she had
Hepatitis on top of everything else that was wrong with her, she was
talking about making me executrice of her will.<br />
<br />
Why don't you come up
here and marry my boyfriend after I die, she urged, he's a good
guy. (T always wants to make sure everyone is taken care of. )<br />
<br />
She
didn't want to go through nine months of the Hep treatment from hell,
she said, and everything else was falling apart too, might as well
call it quits. The shorter, more painless treatment was three months
and cost $90,000 without insurance. She wasn't sure her insurance
would cover it. But she ended up getting it covered, and
miraculously, here we are now, sitting across from each other at the
wooden table, talking about life and not death.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We are here, at the cabin on the
Kantishna river, to watch and celebrate the spring.
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
</div><div style="border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-style: none none solid; border-top: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5M_kxTJyl2s/YNi_CJHw3bI/AAAAAAAABqk/WMjeY347IUMBuKkJ2S2eYHJqaQms9X_OACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7094.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1373" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5M_kxTJyl2s/YNi_CJHw3bI/AAAAAAAABqk/WMjeY347IUMBuKkJ2S2eYHJqaQms9X_OACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7094.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bz23xrXjhBk/Wkf7ZsjQTkI/AAAAAAAAA1c/0K_PB6kjxwghexnLGCFkYcAaUIkkVZ2lwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_7070.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="1600" height="245" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bz23xrXjhBk/Wkf7ZsjQTkI/AAAAAAAAA1c/0K_PB6kjxwghexnLGCFkYcAaUIkkVZ2lwCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_7070.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">The Routine</span></b></h3>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eventually our swapping of stories dies
down to some degree and we settle into a routine. I am sleeping on
the fold-out couch in the living room area of the cabin; T sleeps in
an alcove. Subconsciously, we seem to adjust for our need for
privacy by changing our sleeping schedules: at home in SF, I go to
sleep and wake up early, but here, to have a few hours all to myself,
I stay up later at night, and she gets her alone time early in the
morning, while I sleep with an eye mask on to block out the increasing light. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
T knows that I want to spend some time
writing up here, and is gracious about waiting for me while I write
and there is work to be done around the cabin, which there always is. Most of all, there are dead trees lying around that need to
be limbed, cut up with a chain saw, and hauled in wheelbarrows to the
growing woodpile in front of the house. So we do a lot of that. T
knows about my sometimes awkward relationship to the physical world,
so she takes over all the chainsawing, which is fine by me. I do a lot of limbing and hauling of both wood and water, which in the
middle of the woods, has a certain zen peacefulness to it, though my
back does not always approve of my desire, or my need, to haul water,
chop wood. So there are also a few hours spent popping painkillers
and lying on the sofa unable to do much of anything, which those Zen
books never tell you about.
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZeTaWpk9wkM/YNiYFrPA7BI/AAAAAAAABiM/1tX_2K4wU8ka8D75h03J97DNwhcwDOmbwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4284.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZeTaWpk9wkM/YNiYFrPA7BI/AAAAAAAABiM/1tX_2K4wU8ka8D75h03J97DNwhcwDOmbwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4284.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
T insists on doing all the dinner cooking, and
because of that, we eat very well, from the stock of frozen food
which is in a big tub a covered area behind the house. She is one
of those people who begins to plan for dinner in the morning, whereas
I in my citylife will usually just throw something together
haphazardly or go out to a restaurant. Eventually, as the snow
melts, we realize the food will thaw unless we do something, so, while there is still snow on the group, I fill up ziplock bags with snow every day and stuff
them into the cooler to keep everything cold. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ziggy the dog insists on his walks so
every day there is at least one walk to the river. This is where
extraordinary things happen. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dybF-5EJT5WGv7bo1VnLdNcFSEQm2YFyrIKQ_TrapRRk4t6pVg1Jh1eSUrKgyj9kHeFW64FIbJT2as' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-style: none none solid; border-top: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">The River</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I really want you to experience
Break-Up,” T had said for years before I finally got my ass up to
Alaska for the spring. Break up is what the river does when it
thaws; the long road of ice that we landed on begins to form puddles
and rivulets, and then, in an amazing dance, the chunks of ice begin
to break off and go rushing down the river, along with logs, limbs,
unexplained flotsam and jetsam, which sometimes formed into
magically strange creatures, semi-transparant turtles and dragons and
half-ruined castles, illuminated by the sun, all whooshing
downstream together.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This, T said, was a 'gentle break-up'
compared to years past. Here are some stills and video of what that looked like: <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AkInH0nyZlM/YNiAqJSRZPI/AAAAAAAABgQ/lFDozNf4LVoLoxJATCgZf5YYy-UU_-wywCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7193.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1243" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AkInH0nyZlM/YNiAqJSRZPI/AAAAAAAABgQ/lFDozNf4LVoLoxJATCgZf5YYy-UU_-wywCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7193.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yFbo8Z0IKB0/YNiAq7LG9BI/AAAAAAAABgk/fI3jPSrPYdMpIe79elRoeYxmlfJhNehuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/red%2Bgreen%2Btrees%2Bkantishna%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1546" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yFbo8Z0IKB0/YNiAq7LG9BI/AAAAAAAABgk/fI3jPSrPYdMpIe79elRoeYxmlfJhNehuQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/red%2Bgreen%2Btrees%2Bkantishna%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZW9e3xCnnuU/YNh_-sbNw5I/AAAAAAAABfg/Qmyv1D7ZOzUZXDFRWhNoUxkb_EwMuuxmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7148%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZW9e3xCnnuU/YNh_-sbNw5I/AAAAAAAABfg/Qmyv1D7ZOzUZXDFRWhNoUxkb_EwMuuxmgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7148%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kwFBXjPENpE/YNh_-hffzII/AAAAAAAABfY/LtXRSK8xRzY12bzSOLv3bjiqGftyCs11wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7111.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kwFBXjPENpE/YNh_-hffzII/AAAAAAAABfY/LtXRSK8xRzY12bzSOLv3bjiqGftyCs11wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7111.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz2N5nrNAYMXcy5mvFhvZNP0U6345Iks0gfTMEcwaRm1z9Er3140Iy7_qsWTzkjQPFc2nFPHkV9tOE' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The river is also the place where,
later in the spring, the birds gather: ravens, and wild swans,
ducks and seagulls.
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N3CtDJYmMwA/YNc8WxzmkAI/AAAAAAAABUE/0-w5EA7gMQspg41TEJ8lDWwYTWil_hafgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7486.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N3CtDJYmMwA/YNc8WxzmkAI/AAAAAAAABUE/0-w5EA7gMQspg41TEJ8lDWwYTWil_hafgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7486.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wgDrGgbN330/YNitiac82tI/AAAAAAAABmM/8JLDxNRadCwfnzFNrz0iE57eyiXUvbcXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7460.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1252" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wgDrGgbN330/YNitiac82tI/AAAAAAAABmM/8JLDxNRadCwfnzFNrz0iE57eyiXUvbcXgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7460.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Just across the river, we could see Denali:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pq_Xm9-pxus/YNiBi7IMZrI/AAAAAAAABhI/7lPG2GlcgBczO3_lU7rHnyTcjV0fufHNACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7253%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1259" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pq_Xm9-pxus/YNiBi7IMZrI/AAAAAAAABhI/7lPG2GlcgBczO3_lU7rHnyTcjV0fufHNACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7253%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Dreams
</span></b></h3>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am hoping that my psyche will take
a cue from the river and that my interior world, the world of dreams
that has been put into a semi-deep freeze while I ran around earning
a living in San Francisco, will thaw, and the dragons and castles of
my own dream world will magically return. Last time I was here, it
happened that way, my dreams took on the bigness and the wildness of what was around me: After eating moose
heart for the first time, for example, I dreamed of being a wild
moose, running through the woods. But this time, it takes awhile for my interior to adjust to my exterior. For three weeks, I dream about being lost in urban shopping malls. Perhaps my psyche is just
doing some deep cleaning, and I am only remembering the flotsam and
jetsam that is being washed ashore. I don't know. Eventually, however, the shopping mall dreams stop. it does feel as if I am beginning to breathe more deeply, in real life as well as in my
dreams. T has one dream while we are out there: in it, she loses and then finds her potholder.<br />
<br /> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fq_ti6krupI/YNi5Dwa5-hI/AAAAAAAABqI/i1AK0DI4tAYpiPELRaPBmlklzAmZLdy5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5218.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fq_ti6krupI/YNi5Dwa5-hI/AAAAAAAABqI/i1AK0DI4tAYpiPELRaPBmlklzAmZLdy5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5218.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Trees</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The transformation of the trees is no
less magical than the break-up of the river. When I arrive, the
ground is still covered with snow; everything is white; white snow,
tall, elegant white birches. Gradually, little flecks of green began
to appear like paint on the distant trees, and I wish staring out
the window, that I could paint, feeling that what is really needed
here is pointillism, not photography. Up close, the leaf-buds began
to form, then unfurl, then announce themselves in all their lush
brilliance as spring arrives. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ymuar3amYdc/YNdFiQE_QvI/AAAAAAAABVk/hTUvu8yhuG4V-3xK4_cGeBlf2Hcl_RDXACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4228.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ymuar3amYdc/YNdFiQE_QvI/AAAAAAAABVk/hTUvu8yhuG4V-3xK4_cGeBlf2Hcl_RDXACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4228.jpg" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XkS-j3K3zkA/YNdFjBflyCI/AAAAAAAABVs/4E-Gcay04wIQgdsAGraPv48xlGtUPELNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4231.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XkS-j3K3zkA/YNdFjBflyCI/AAAAAAAABVs/4E-Gcay04wIQgdsAGraPv48xlGtUPELNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4231.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6flMwV6yoM/YNc_iNI-P6I/AAAAAAAABUQ/WbB_pbYW4JgYecLojQPsuOp68yHLHxe7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4366.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6flMwV6yoM/YNc_iNI-P6I/AAAAAAAABUQ/WbB_pbYW4JgYecLojQPsuOp68yHLHxe7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4366.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MYbHeMd89eA/YNdDxZCUQSI/AAAAAAAABVc/cW2T3uXUTjUbCgZLlt82D_1dRNfBTB3MQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4674.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MYbHeMd89eA/YNdDxZCUQSI/AAAAAAAABVc/cW2T3uXUTjUbCgZLlt82D_1dRNfBTB3MQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4674.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ObS0t9aAUGY/YNc_iBYF67I/AAAAAAAABUY/NKwAWgCuXNIrPoEfoWfBoRN7fLQkUcoMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4434.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ObS0t9aAUGY/YNc_iBYF67I/AAAAAAAABUY/NKwAWgCuXNIrPoEfoWfBoRN7fLQkUcoMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4434.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-41ZAYGQD58Q/YNc_igRchdI/AAAAAAAABUg/TBynhhImk-k9FrTSaJ1rt6ox5l8qyhVmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4468.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-41ZAYGQD58Q/YNc_igRchdI/AAAAAAAABUg/TBynhhImk-k9FrTSaJ1rt6ox5l8qyhVmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4468.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bIYsI6H1DEU/YNdHeXVGzxI/AAAAAAAABXA/yYqs3iJNJcsQchE-axoiV4X_B3UnAl3wwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4644.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bIYsI6H1DEU/YNdHeXVGzxI/AAAAAAAABXA/yYqs3iJNJcsQchE-axoiV4X_B3UnAl3wwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4644.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwwy1tofNAX-jYK3o9srAQgoeVVJnuajRN5vHfgBrb1ss-y38outsFX_40g-dry_vrgoEbOU6371u8' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Flowers</span></b></h3>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The roses start out as nothing but
stark thorny stalks, beautiful in their own ragged and luminous way
as they emerge into the sunlight. Later, the buds began to form and
T and I walk every day to examine a clump of rosebushes growing
along the river that she begins to call “Lisa's garden”. We visit it every day, hoping the roses will bloom before we return to Fairbanks. That doesn't happen, but there are Alaskan roses in full
bloom waiting for us there when we return. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bluebells, or chiming bells, are the
other flower that grows in abundance here in the spring. The flower
essence for this flower is “Joy in Physical Existence”. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-reKWzoFCOrU/YNdJBOXSFqI/AAAAAAAABXk/C918Y3NVagcPTIRVXHV9J6Tt8FyhqwZvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1091/IMG_5131%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="1091" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-reKWzoFCOrU/YNdJBOXSFqI/AAAAAAAABXk/C918Y3NVagcPTIRVXHV9J6Tt8FyhqwZvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5131%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S-cot9pR3Lg/YNdJBK3Co0I/AAAAAAAABXs/Hyo1yD6yzOQ1ABBvYNw9X11ukqm2hAJmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1886/IMG_5119%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1886" data-original-width="1818" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S-cot9pR3Lg/YNdJBK3Co0I/AAAAAAAABXs/Hyo1yD6yzOQ1ABBvYNw9X11ukqm2hAJmQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5119%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" /></a> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TwifisNslqQ/YNdI2H7bomI/AAAAAAAABXY/50F6IOpji10URQcmq8VznkTOUWymnztNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5324.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TwifisNslqQ/YNdI2H7bomI/AAAAAAAABXY/50F6IOpji10URQcmq8VznkTOUWymnztNQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5324.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pow_sutpyTo/YNdI2AhDu1I/AAAAAAAABXg/UpwX0d15qqQ-DceTojj_5b_96yM-0jphgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5354%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1890" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pow_sutpyTo/YNdI2AhDu1I/AAAAAAAABXg/UpwX0d15qqQ-DceTojj_5b_96yM-0jphgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5354%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8XPMevJyR-I/YNdJBbPcwOI/AAAAAAAABXw/8ZLbALhHtrcx2jDpW2JPflTYpahIv5VvACLcBGAsYHQ/s1626/IMG_5314.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1338" data-original-width="1626" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8XPMevJyR-I/YNdJBbPcwOI/AAAAAAAABXw/8ZLbALhHtrcx2jDpW2JPflTYpahIv5VvACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5314.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E38Rxu_JVwQ/YNdJ1T3yvPI/AAAAAAAABY8/H0B8bMshlC0KKhEPT4yiC4ViZKajgtWzACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5331%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1378" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E38Rxu_JVwQ/YNdJ1T3yvPI/AAAAAAAABY8/H0B8bMshlC0KKhEPT4yiC4ViZKajgtWzACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5331%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XWBPplIqUMY/YNdJBALqL9I/AAAAAAAABXo/SYN3RGz67fIzt6I0G1_Epk55RsvT2QdBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4868%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1673" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XWBPplIqUMY/YNdJBALqL9I/AAAAAAAABXo/SYN3RGz67fIzt6I0G1_Epk55RsvT2QdBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4868%2B-%2BVersion%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Fef6G0cOuU/YNdL8YkiK1I/AAAAAAAABd0/KuqbcaK7IhUF92A4NceJ1eXpwxAc_lDCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5365.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1532" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Fef6G0cOuU/YNdL8YkiK1I/AAAAAAAABd0/KuqbcaK7IhUF92A4NceJ1eXpwxAc_lDCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5365.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="border-bottom-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom: 1px solid #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-style: none none solid; border-top: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; padding: 0in 0in 0.03in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">The History of Civilization</span></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wowMczbxls/YNdYq2ciUYI/AAAAAAAABes/1pz-7Petr6cO5pgZaJLkEGW0FLWTBrp8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5239.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wowMczbxls/YNdYq2ciUYI/AAAAAAAABes/1pz-7Petr6cO5pgZaJLkEGW0FLWTBrp8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5239.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the cabin, I actually start reading
books again. In the last few years, my brain seems to have been
overtaken by the Internet. But there is no internet here, so I am
forced back in time to the weight of the book in my hand, the feel
and smell of paper. It feels good. On a shelf in the corner, T has
the entire series of Will Durant's History of Civilization. I
figure that's a good a place as any to start. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In many ways, being here is certainly
like moving back to the 20<sup>th</sup> and in some ways, the 19<sup>th</sup>
century. We have the advantages provided by the bank of
generator powered batteries that sit on the floor along one wall of
the cabin: electric lights, a Satellite phone, computer and VCR.
But we have to parcel out our electricity use, only so many hours of
computer usage, one movie a week. Every couple of days, a visit out
to the back of the house to refill and re-start the generator. And
the generator itself barely survives our visit. Towards the end of
our stay, it is coughing and sputtering and we have to tease it into
doing anything at all, the electric lightbulbs in the cabin dimming,
replaced by kerosene lamps.
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--01FFe7HVs4/YNiwUNEKkqI/AAAAAAAABoQ/yj6VoNG1DKIpV-f5aMFKPB388xe4bcjFACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4841.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--01FFe7HVs4/YNiwUNEKkqI/AAAAAAAABoQ/yj6VoNG1DKIpV-f5aMFKPB388xe4bcjFACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4841.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I dip in and out of the volumes of Will
Durant: the Biblical Era, 10<sup>th</sup> century, 14<sup>th</sup>
century. War, politics, religion, family, hunting, agriculture, food. Other than the
electricity, and the fact that we have a storage shed filled with
store-bought food that we have flown in, we are living the way
people have lived for centuries: four walls and a wood fire to keep
us warm, hauling water into the cabin from drainbarrels filled
with rain. Chopping and hauling wood to stock up for winter.
Weapons nearby—in this case a shotgun leaning against the door and
a holstered .38 on my hip---to scare off any wild animals (in this
case bears) that might want to compete with us for our food.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">T is
fully in her element here; she says she wastes too much time in town
drinking vodka and staring into computer video games; she likes to
be pushed up against her own resources out here with just the elements of nature, it makes her feel alive.
I understand this, but the visit also makes me appreciate that I
don't have to handle these day to day elements of survival in my
urban 21<sup>st</sup> century life, where water comes out of a tap,
and light comes from the flick of a switch.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I also recognize that progress has
brought us into a kind of fog of invulnerability, a disconnectedness
from 'the big picture'. We can spend our entire lives working
frantically on our little piece of the jigsaw puzzle, sometimes not
seeing either the pieces around us, the big picture that surrounds
us, or the fragility of the whole construction. And then: poof!
it's gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here at least, out in the woods, I am
reminded of the eternal rhythms of nature and our human place in it:
the sound of the river rushing, the soft thud of my step on melting
snow; ax hitting wood while I limb another branch from a tree, the
weight of a log in my arms, Raven calling in the distance.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I dump the log in the wheelbarrow,
raise my voice and call back.
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;"><b>Openings</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spring arrives here like a fierce but
elegant woman, taking her time as she moves slowly through the tall
spruce trees and birches. Standing by the river, you can hear the
sound of water beginning to break free from its ice prison, a slow
gurgling, an occasional crunch of ice breaking off and falling into
the water. Chunks of ice glint in the sunlight. From one day to the
next, vast swatches of water are unbound, and begin to flow freely.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I arrive in early April,
the silence is stunning. It is that cool, all-enveloping silence of
snow, broken only by the occasional,impatient scolding of the two
squirrels who seem to never sleep and chase each other back and forth
among the trees. By May, the sounds of spring are breaking through:
ravens, geese, even an occasional songbird. Snow is melting,
replaced by increasingly large patches of earth, budding with
broomrape, the stems of wild roses, mushrooms. It is
nothing like the wild cacaphony of spring that explodes in California:
here, in Alaska, every new sound is discrete: a surprise, and a treasure.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The space and silence opens up a
freedom between the ears: not only spring, but the thinking spaces
awaken, taking flight like the flock of wild cranes that occasionally
soar overhead.
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1tHXV1tLWa8/YNdWKUAm8II/AAAAAAAABeg/7mfHLNzJjLAY6hWxn4y4OyQ8ioTJzsPlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1347/IMG_7490.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="1347" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1tHXV1tLWa8/YNdWKUAm8II/AAAAAAAABeg/7mfHLNzJjLAY6hWxn4y4OyQ8ioTJzsPlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7490.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;">Doing Stuff</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Out here, when we are not talking or
reading, we Do Stuff. I capitalize these words because it is a
different kind of Doing Stuff than I am used to. In my San
Francisco life, my doing of stuff sways in a fluid but sometimes
chaotic way between the concrete and the abstract, it frequently
involves multi-tasking, or thinking about one thing while I am doing
another. I cook breakfast and think about what class I am going to
teach that day or what I need to do on the film I am working on; I
head out into the day in my car, listening to NPR, watching
traffic, catching a bird sweeping over a San Francisco hill, a woman walks down the sidewalk in a red hat, and I wonder what she's thinking,
oh shit, what time is it, am I going to be late for class, did I
remember to bring my cell phone, damn fool in front of me didn't
signal his turn, wonder if I have enough Starbucks rewards for a free latte, why the hell Donald Trump, etcetera etcetera.
It's the way many of us live these days. Multi-tasking. All over the
place.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The gift of six weeks in the Alaskan
Bush with no one but your good friend and a dog named Ziggy is not
just the beauty of the environment or catching up with your friend,
it is the simplicity of your Doing Stuff. Wake up. Eat breakfast. Write (in my case). Read (in hers.)
Eventually someone (usually her) says, “Well we got a lot of wood
out there to bring in.” Or: “Generator needs charging.” Or:
“Need to bring in more buckets of water.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here, I enjoy how I am able to cut down my Doingness of Stuff to the bare essentials: Chop wood. Haul water. Watch flowers grow. Take dog for
walk. Cook. Eat. Sleep. My mind, slowly, begins to unite with my body, and I begin to feel that thing that people back in California
spend thousands of dollars on workshops trying to obtain: Presence. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2JRB5OYpacA/YNityXBkXvI/AAAAAAAABms/CViEYsYCVIMy0Ceqmt6sgDd28e_fISKtACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4539.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2JRB5OYpacA/YNityXBkXvI/AAAAAAAABms/CViEYsYCVIMy0Ceqmt6sgDd28e_fISKtACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4539.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br /> <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ytQYcpD-Zw/YNi5DvECnNI/AAAAAAAABqE/59L_-uWs6nIXD0DLi2wFCsll_k0xsGNygCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5104.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3ytQYcpD-Zw/YNi5DvECnNI/AAAAAAAABqE/59L_-uWs6nIXD0DLi2wFCsll_k0xsGNygCLcBGAsYHQ/w213-h256/IMG_5104.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><br />
<br /><h1 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 164, 0);">Endings</span></span></h1>
<br />
So here comes the part that it took me a little longer to write, the part about killing the bear. If I were submitting this for publication, or writing a movie script, this part would be the teaser, inserted early on to grab your attention. Death and violence wakes us up. <br />
<br />
But looking back on it now, Killing the Bear was just one more thing that we had to do in the Doingness of Stuff that was our life in Alaska. And the big black bear in that sense holds equal importance with the snow, and river, and the wild roses, and our own bodies, everything else in the landscape that comes alive and disappears. Certainly I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it was painful, and scary, and that it left both a trauma and an intimacy having to do with bears deep in my bones. (By nature, I am one of those people who carefully lift an indoor spider with a Kleenex and gently release it outside---most Alaskans would probably just dismissively call me a useless Californian.)<br />
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Ms. T, who is part Tlingit, told me that when Native Alaskan hunters go out into the bush and are able to easily kill their prey, the animal is said to 'offer itself to the hunters'. And the hunters in turn, give thanks to the animal they killed.<br />
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Our bear offered himself repeatedly to us; showing up five or six or seven times around the cabin before we decided we had to kill it. This is what bears do in the Spring. It probably wondered what these two women were doing invading its territory. It came right up to the front door of our cabin, whose door we always kept part way open, and snuffled around. It surprised us--or we surprised it--from a distance of about five feet as we returned with the dog from a walk through the woods. It ripped off the outhouse toilet seat several times and scattered its remnants throughout the woods. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rqklMpaJV6M/YNiDh19_MBI/AAAAAAAABhg/bzOQhKET0Ewrm-QsvWBVOXDownI3wQ4-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7298.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rqklMpaJV6M/YNiDh19_MBI/AAAAAAAABhg/bzOQhKET0Ewrm-QsvWBVOXDownI3wQ4-ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7298.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2rDAM6Ln-sE/YNiDh79fHrI/AAAAAAAABhY/i_G7k6euRcI82wKJMGT8lLScaGC4aOxGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7299.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2rDAM6Ln-sE/YNiDh79fHrI/AAAAAAAABhY/i_G7k6euRcI82wKJMGT8lLScaGC4aOxGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7299.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lWbfu9Pa5uU/YNiwTUtzppI/AAAAAAAABoI/8ikqtRV11tohO8jKGxpTKTqS8JCl9xMCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4691.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lWbfu9Pa5uU/YNiwTUtzppI/AAAAAAAABoI/8ikqtRV11tohO8jKGxpTKTqS8JCl9xMCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4691.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bj8v84awhiY/YNiMqfXt_2I/AAAAAAAABh8/xHDHK_Qz9w8iEPGdrtCyHZ0GEUr3cctDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4692.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bj8v84awhiY/YNiMqfXt_2I/AAAAAAAABh8/xHDHK_Qz9w8iEPGdrtCyHZ0GEUr3cctDgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4692.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <br />We had almost made peace with the idea that we would simply let it be when it ripped apart the chicken house (no chickens inside, only feed) which we had so carefully protected with wood, metal, and barbed wire. We realized then that when we flew back to Fairbanks the bear would most likely do the same to T's cabin as it had to the chicken house---rip it apart, steal her food, and destroy shelter for her and her boyfriend when they returned the following spring.<br />
<br />She insisted it had to be done.<br />
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"You do it," I said, knowing T was a better shot than I and had done this before.<br />
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So the next time the bear showed up, she walked out with her rifle, I don't remember what kind, and fired away. <br />
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And it jammed. And she couldn't get it unstuck. And the bear was pretty close.<br />
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So it was left to me, with my puny .38, to fire several shots into the black bear until it fell down dead.<br />
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Then we skinned it, and canned it, and Ms. T served it up as a kind of goulash the next day. <br />
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This is the way people used to live, I thought, chewing on my bear goulash. For many of my ancestors, this was normal. And now we get our meat wrapped in cellophane in a supermarket and cooked into whatever the latest restaurant foodie craze is.<br />
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Every meat eater should have the experience of looking your prey in the eyes and killing it. Like our ancestors did. It changes you, and it changes the way you eat. It gives what you put into your body a sense of sacredness, of knowing that something real has been offered to you, a life.<br />
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It was almost time to leave. Knowing that neither one of us really had room for it, we gave the skin of the bear back to the river, and took some of the claws, because, well I'm not really sure why, but I guess it's some way to honor the bear to keep a memory of it around. <br />
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The days were getting longer. You could walk to the river at close to midnight, look up at the wild birds swarming in the soft grey sky, listen to them calling to the last rays of sun on the water.</div>
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At the end of six weeks, the landscape,
as it always does, has changed. The birches are lush with green,
the clump of fireweed and other wild plants growing in front of the
cabin, (many of which I have discovered to be edible) has become a
small jungle, during the day the air is annoyingly rich with armies
of mosquitos. </div>
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Spring, as it always does, has broken
through the ice; and T and I have created another memory.
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We both know that there probably won't
be another visit together to this place, in this way. In another year
or so, if all goes according to plan, she and her boyfriend will be
living here permanently, which will mean a different kind of life,
including internet connection and its invasions and distractions.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />Then there is the other possibility, the one neither one of us want to talk about. That bear didn't know when he woke up in the morning what would happen by the end of the day. </div>
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“How about, next time, a trip down
the Alaskan Maritime highway?” one of us says.</div>
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“Yes” says the other. “Good
idea.”
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In the few days I have left, I pick some
chiming bells and place them in water in the sunlight, then put the
water in a small bottle that I slip into my pocket. The essence of
this flower, “Joy in Physical Existence” will be returning with
me.
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The day of return has arrived. We
clean up, pack up, board up the windows to the cabin, haul our stuff
back to the river and wait for the pilot, who lands this time with
skis on the water. We have to physically lift the large terrified
dog from the riverbank over the water and into the plane.
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The pilot starts the engine.
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We fly.
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<h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Postscript, 2021</span></h3><div><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 164, 0);">Ms T never made it back to the cabin; her body grew weaker from liver failure and she passed away just before her birthday in 2019. She told me before she died that she was "kind of looking forward to this next adventure". I was glad to have been with her in this last trip to the Alaskan Bush, and everything it provided to both of us. I miss our long conversations, in the Bush and on the phone. </span></div><div><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 164, 0);"><br /></span></div><div><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 164, 0);">Not sure how these three images of the chiming bells appeared below, because I didn't intend to put them there. But it seems fitting there are three clumps of flowers: one for her, one for me, (still in physical existence, still mostly joyous), and one, just in case you need it, for you. </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cZHFc7Nmvco/YNdLD8UvPvI/AAAAAAAABaY/iU58TepP7NQXBeK4l4sxVfVbPX0tGb7gwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5365.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1532" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cZHFc7Nmvco/YNdLD8UvPvI/AAAAAAAABaY/iU58TepP7NQXBeK4l4sxVfVbPX0tGb7gwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5365.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGj3z2-ioxI/YNdLY_qAW7I/AAAAAAAABbs/wQm6ypOr0pcsh0zbwR5EBTcbQzxiZcl1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5365.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1532" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nGj3z2-ioxI/YNdLY_qAW7I/AAAAAAAABbs/wQm6ypOr0pcsh0zbwR5EBTcbQzxiZcl1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5365.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YqC2IClbHbs/YNdLrVNVvfI/AAAAAAAABco/NkMlH1kfeoYcHJPGhYvH6Nos42QFfQmDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5365.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1532" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YqC2IClbHbs/YNdLrVNVvfI/AAAAAAAABco/NkMlH1kfeoYcHJPGhYvH6Nos42QFfQmDwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5365.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wowMczbxls/YNdYq2ciUYI/AAAAAAAABes/1pz-7Petr6cO5pgZaJLkEGW0FLWTBrp8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5239.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3wowMczbxls/YNdYq2ciUYI/AAAAAAAABes/1pz-7Petr6cO5pgZaJLkEGW0FLWTBrp8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_5239.jpg" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Goodbye, Ms. T, and thank you. See you around.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8DUGZgR5DbI/YNiF7J52WQI/AAAAAAAABhw/Yd1qTFaoPnUelVvZhZcXDfrDpXET8nIZwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7181.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1478" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8DUGZgR5DbI/YNiF7J52WQI/AAAAAAAABhw/Yd1qTFaoPnUelVvZhZcXDfrDpXET8nIZwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_7181.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>(<a href="https://lisagarrigues.blogspot.com/2005/10/in-alaskan-bush.html">Here</a> is a brief description about our meeting 11 years earlier in the same place, and <a href="https://lisagarrigues.blogspot.com/2005/06/smoking-pumpkins.html">here</a> is a comment from Ms. T herself. )</div>Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0Kantishna River, Alaska, USA64.4995189 -150.285362948.986444319263853 174.5583871 80.012593480736143 -115.1291129tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-89884117489613236412017-12-30T10:16:00.000-08:002017-12-30T10:16:02.727-08:00January 7: "Water Language" : Reception for new photography show by Lisa Gale Garrigues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Maybe it began last year with the Dakota Access Pipeline water protectors' chants of "Mni Wiconi", "Water is Life". Probably it began long before that, with my observations of the break of a wave or the ripple of a river, or a flash of sunlight on wet sand, or even the feel of a hot shower on my skin. For some time now I have wanted to pay visual homage to water and the language she speaks. <br />
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I give thanks to the Unitarian Universalist Church for the opportunity to show my work at my new photo show, "Water Language" at the Kings Gallery at 1187 Franklin St. in San Francisco. <br />
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This is a joint show with painter Dorothy Weintraub. The show will be up until January 15.<br />
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We'll be having a reception on January 7 from 12:30-3:30PM. It's also just a few days after my birthday, so I'll be celebrating that too! Come on over and say hello!<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q7R_ut60gZg/WkfUEL2b9sI/AAAAAAAAAyA/CcmQ4h8-BVQh_Jjs_N3WbXgAZRD-LKApgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Grass%2Band%2BRiver%2B2-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q7R_ut60gZg/WkfUEL2b9sI/AAAAAAAAAyA/CcmQ4h8-BVQh_Jjs_N3WbXgAZRD-LKApgCEwYBhgL/s320/Grass%2Band%2BRiver%2B2-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-4826957645171542222014-09-20T12:12:00.000-07:002014-09-20T12:12:15.150-07:00 "Beth Pewther: Living Art" at the Bernal Outdoor Cinema Awards Night, October 7, 2014<div class="yiv3701402345" id="yiv3701402345yui_3_16_0_1_1410829911232_3130" style="font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 19px;">
Thanks to all who showed up at the Bernal Heights Outdoor Cinema Festival screening of the film "Beth Pewther: Living Art". You undoubtedly helped make this happen: </div>
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3. AND THE 2014 AUDIENCE AWARD WINNER IS...</div>
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I'm looking forward to the Awards Night reception and screening on October 7, from 7-9:30PM at the <a href="http://missionculturalcenter.org/">Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts </a>in San Francisco. See you there!</div>
Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-7802279416693908682014-09-06T05:40:00.000-07:002014-09-20T11:58:44.640-07:00Beth Pewther, AKA Liz Breger<div style="background-color: white; border: none; color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-top: 13px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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My video on artist friend and neighbor, "Beth Pewther: Living Art" was a selection at the Bernal Heights Outdoor Cinema Festival last night. It was great to see so many videos by talented local filmmakers, as well as catch up with friends and relatives who attended; </div>
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"What do radishes, Wichita, Cosmic Christianity and a tiled house on Bronte Street have in common? Meet Beth Pewther, mixed media artist and longtime Bernal Heights resident. Combining interviews with stunning imagery, this short documentary explores Pewther’s life and artistic work while it also raises questions about women, art, spirituality and living an artful life."</div>
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Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-82073049202537431822014-08-31T08:30:00.001-07:002014-08-31T08:35:11.269-07:00Awakened Living TV-"Healing Collective Trauma"<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/4I6n2lPQyi8" width="480"></iframe>Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-88901507581205847852014-08-31T08:08:00.000-07:002014-08-31T08:21:02.036-07:00There's Always a (W)Hole In It: Spiritual Beings, Human Experience<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Here's an Interview with me on TJ Woodward's TV Show, "Awakened Living" : " ( Reading my poem "Dear God" talking about Poetry, (w)holes, Slouching Towards Enlightenment, the Perfection of Imperfection, being a Spiritual Being having a Human Experience. )<br />
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It was interesting being the interviewee instead of the interviewer, but I enjoyed it. Thanks TJ!<br />
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<br />Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-26192667018080478582014-03-10T13:20:00.000-07:002014-03-10T13:24:37.899-07:00Beware the Ideas of March<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/S5biWXGGMLI/AAAAAAAAAd0/9Mvt_E52Z4s/s1600-h/through+the+fence.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/S5biWXGGMLI/AAAAAAAAAd0/9Mvt_E52Z4s/s320/through+the+fence.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446789673135780018" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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Image: "Through the Fence" by Lisa Gale Garrigues<br />
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It's March, uh-huh, and here come all those dangerous little ideas that spring forth like budding leaves and flowers...like hmm, maybe I need to change my socks, I've been wearing them all winter. (ok that was metaphor folks my feet really don't stink that bad :)) Or maybe I need to change my attitude, or my home, or my job, or my lover, or get a new lover if I don't have one, or maybe I just need to change my mind about what I thought I knew all winter and now seems all wrong, the comfortable sock of the mind that I have gotten so used to. It is spring, and the wind tickles the canyons and cactus and astroturf inside my brain, urging me to slip out of my bag of comfort and go forth, into the world, with or without mind-socks, bare-brained if need be, like the beginner, the beginner's mind, the sprout of knowing that only knows to grow and nothing more. <br />
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Sometimes the dangerous change of spring is slow, almost imperceptible, like the struggle of the green leaf against the red fence, and then suddenly, pop there it is, doing like James Thurber when he said, "The Best Way Out is Always Through." <br />
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So yes, it's time. Time to burst through your red fences and into the open air where the green breathes free,<br />
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I will meet you there, maybe for a cup of coffee, not the lousy kind the French call 'sock coffee', but one that has the exquisite taste that only the early days of spring can provide.<br />
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Happy Ideas of March.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-2637024945297989222012-10-13T09:28:00.001-07:002012-12-29T10:25:48.819-08:00A Visit to Obama at the Cesar Chavez Memorial <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last Friday I got an email from the <a href="http://www.ufw.org/">United Farmworkers</a> inviting me to Obama's dedication of the <a href="http://www.chavezfoundation.org/_page.php?code=007001000000000">Cesar Chavez Memorial</a> as a National Monument.<br />
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By Monday morning at 5:30AM I was driving down a cold and dark Highway 99 to attend the event in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keene,_California">Keene, California</a>. Get here before 7:30AM, the confirmation email said, expect to stay until 5PM and don't bring any food or water. <br />
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My kind of an adventure.<br />
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Light snacks and water will be provided, the email said. And hopefully some portapotties, as well, I'm thinking, as I take another sip of my pre-dawn coffee from the travel mug in my car.<br />
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As instructed, I pulled into the parking lot in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tehachapi,_California">Tehachapi California</a>. There they were-- the long line of people waiting for the buses to pick us up and take us to the memorial. I park my car. Someone gestures towards the end of the line. I walk a very long time to find it: <br />
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Behind me, the line continued to grow.<br />
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We waited and waited. Finally, some buses pulled up. Some people got on. More waiting. A few more buses, a few more people let on. Two hours later, I was waiting not in a line but in a jumbled crowd while behind me a woman complained loudly in a German accent and next to me a laughing group of Mexican-Americans sang "<a href="http://labornotes.org/node/1876De%20Colores">De Colores</a>" several times over. The German woman quieted down and listened to them. "Vat are you sinking?" She asked. "Somesink about colors, yes?"<br />
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"Yes," said one of the men. "It's about the rainbow. And about the human race."<br />
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"Oh," she said. "Ferry nice." <br />
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Finally, another bus pulled up and we were able to get on. <br />
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Some of the "De Colores" group had gotten on with me, educators and students from local colleges.<br />
Despite the wait, they were smiling and laughing. "We're so lucky to be here," they said. "We're so excited." <br />
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I agreed with them. I was there not just for Obama but for Cesar Chavez. And not just for Chavez but for all the people he fought for and all the people who fought with him. Because I remember those days, the grape boycotts, the marches. I had spent a lot of time working with Latino immigrants, and this was an event I wanted to attend. Okay, it was Obama trying to get the Hispanic vote. Okay, Cesar Chavez wasn't perfect. But still. This was an event that was larger than the few thousand people who were able to attend it.<br />
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When I got there, the vast surrounding hills of Tehachapi made the crowd look much smaller, like folks mingling at a county fair. <br />
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You couldn't help but see the excitement and anticipation on people's faces:<br />
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There were lots of high school students, some of them the children of farmworkers, many of them wearing cool t-shirts. <br />
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"President Obama Visit, Cesar E. Chavez Memorial Dedication"<br />
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"Tigers Thunderbirds, Titans, Youth of Today, Leaders of Tomorrow."<br />
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"I Came To See Obama With My Mama</div>
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As people gathered in the grounds, a helicopter buzzed overhead. "Obama?" people whispered. "News 'copters?"<br />
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High above the helicopter, a red-tailed hawk endlessly circled the crowd. He didn't want his photo taken. <br />
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There were also plenty of Secret Service men:<br />
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Why this guy positioned himself directly in front of me I'm not exactly sure. But when I raised my arms to give myself a stretch after standing in the same position for a long time, his whole body suddenly jerked and swiveled back as if someone had fired a shot. <br />
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As part of the festivities, local talent entertained us on a small stage: <br />
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Yes, the singing little girls are celebrating Cesar, not Hugo. Apparently there was some <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/08/hugo-chavez-cesar-chavez-_n_1949585.html">confusion over this.</a><br />
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After the local talent, the luminaries arrived, and speeches were made.<br />
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The speeches were good. They were rousing. They were passionate. They were meaningful. They brought a sense of memory and achievement to the crowd.<br />
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After the speeches, there was some festive marching band music, from a band I couldn't see. The band made you feel like Obama was going to come out on stage any second. But he didn't. And then he didn't some more. And then there was more waiting.<br />
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Finally, after much more marching band music and much more waiting, a man came out and took the microphone. It was the man who was going to introduce Obama. A rustle of excitement went through the crowd. The high school girls behind me who had sat down stood up and began to murmur "Obama! Obama!" A shout of "Four more years, four more years!" moved through the crowd. I positioned my feet awkwardly on the tiny narrow step I was on that gave me just a tiny view several hundred feet away of the tiny heads that were speaking into the distant onstage microphone. <br />
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Then the man who was going to introduce Obama left the microphone and Obama himself appeared.<br />
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"I see Obama" shouted the high school girl behind me to her friend, standing on her tiptoes. "I see his head!"<br />
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Cameras came flying out of peoples pockets and bags and were raised enthusiastically into the air. <br />
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The Secret Service guy had moved on and this tangle of hair and cameras and waving arms is what I was trying to photograph Obama through. That square white thing in the photograph above this one is what I was trying to keep in focus, because I knew the microphone was right next to it,<br />
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Obama began to speak. It was another good speech, even better than the previous speakers because well, because it was Obama, and he was on. He honored Cesar Chavez and he spoke about the American dream. The people roared and the cameras waved in the air. I was happy to see him infused with his old charisma again after his lackluster performance during the debate. <br />
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Most of the photos I attempted of Obama were like the one above, full of hair and blur and other people's cameras. But yes, I did manage one. Just one. Obama in a quiet moment, squinting into the sun, a press photographer behind him, probably just after his speech:<br />
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A close up:<br />
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When I cropped this photo, I wondered what he was thinking at the time, while he was staring out at the crowd. He looks pensive, even a bit weary. He was due in San Francisco a few hours later to do it all over again, the crowds, the cameras, the speeches. He certainly has a job I wouldn't want. <br />
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After a round of thunderous applause for Obama's speech, the crowd dispersed to drink water from paper cups and snack on potato chips and granola bars that were offered on site. To complete the day, an Aztec ceremony was performed:<br />
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Then we all headed back to the busses. Out of the 7,000 people at the event, somehow I ended up standing next to the "De Colores" group again. They were <i>still</i> laughing and singing. While we did more waiting, busses came and went in all the wrong places, picking up everyone but us.<br />
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I learned that the older man in the group was a professor of Chicano Studies at <a href="http://www.pomona.edu/">Pomona College </a>who had worked with Chavez back in the Sixties and has taken his students every year on a "Farmworker spring vacation" where they get to know about the farmworkers and the issues they have faced. While the bus continued not to come, he was busy talking to a redheaded man about the common struggles between the Mexicans and the Irish. When one of the busses finally opened its doors to us and we all got on and took our seats, he just kept on smiling and talking.<br />
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I got back to San Francisco later that evening, tired but glad I had gone to the event The only glitch was an email I discovered the next morning telling me I would not be able to attend the Obama dedication of the Cesar Chavez memorial. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/08/president-barack-obama-cesar-chavez_n_1949386.html"> I was one of 3,000 people who had been disinvited.</a><br />
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I sure hope Cesar Chavez doesn't mind that I crashed his party.<br />
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And
now I will leave you, with some verses and a video of "De Colores".
This video is one I found on Youtube. It just happens to be of the same
professor that was singing De Colores next to me as we waited for the
bus. His name is Dr. Jose Calderon.<br />
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<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://0.gvt0.com/vi/QY4pi_U5QUA/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QY4pi_U5QUA&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QY4pi_U5QUA&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
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There are heroes everywhere. Sometimes they get their own national
monuments and sometimes they don't. Sometimes we are lucky enough to be
standing right next to them. All we have to do is turn around and hear
them singing. <br />
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<i>De colores, de colores<br />
Se visten los campos en la primavera.<br />
De colores, de colores<br />
Son los pajaritos que vienen de afuera.<br />
De colores, de colores<br />
Es el arco iris que vemos lucir.</i><br />
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<i> Y por eso los grandes amores<br />
De muchos colores me gustan a mí.<br />
Y por eso los grandes amores<br />
De muchos colores me gustan a mí.<br /> </i><br />
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<i>In colors, in colors<br />
The fields are dressed in the spring.<br />
In colors, in colors<br />
Are the little birds that come from outside.<br />
In colors, in colors<br />
Is the rainbow that we see shining.<br />
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And that is why I love<br />
The great loves of many colors<br />
And that is why I love<br />
The great loves of many colors</i><i> </i><i> </i><br />
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<i> </i> <br />
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<br />Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-16742259670757475732012-01-16T13:29:00.001-08:002012-01-16T13:59:22.564-08:00Happy Birthday MLK<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8h017Nf3fSk/TxSZ8sydn4I/AAAAAAAAAhA/an1jDpObabY/s1600/MLKtribute.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8h017Nf3fSk/TxSZ8sydn4I/AAAAAAAAAhA/an1jDpObabY/s200/MLKtribute.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698348696624537474" /></a><br />Last year I was fortunate to have been commissioned to do <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xThoBTdL45U&feature=context&context=C3b7e99dADOEgsToPDskLslZEeFwWAOwAR__4VuUGJ">a video project </a>that involved Martin Luther King Jr., the Poor People's March on Washington, artist Beth Pewther, and the singer Mahalia Jackson. It's a tribute to King as well as a tribute to the importance of getting your art and message out there to the world. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xThoBTdL45U&feature=context&context=C3b7e99dADOEgsToPDskLslZEeFwWAOwAR__4VuUGJ">So I am reposting it here. </a><br /><br /><br /><br />Happy Birthday Dr. King...may we continue having and implementing our dreams!<br /><br /><br />(Image: Beth Pewther)Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-14285104225237586572012-01-05T05:11:00.000-08:002012-01-16T13:28:57.486-08:00Some Reasons I Woke Up At 4:30AM<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QWUJzp_anuo/TwWl4xLLBWI/AAAAAAAAAg0/K-F0CFcJJ1w/s1600/eyeballpruitt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QWUJzp_anuo/TwWl4xLLBWI/AAAAAAAAAg0/K-F0CFcJJ1w/s200/eyeballpruitt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694139698571314530" /></a><br />Because I couldn't sleep.<br /><br />Because the upstairs overnight guest was walking on my head.<br /><br />Because my body says I have slept enough.<br /><br />Because the view of lights and branches was stark and quiet and beautiful from the upper deck of the house.<br /><br />Because the coffee tasted good.<br /><br />Because my cat wanted to get up too. <br /><br />Because, sitting upstairs with the taste of coffee on my lips and the view of lights and branches quiet all around me, <br /><br />inexplicable joy.<br /><br /><br />(photo by D Sharon Pruitt <a href="http://">www.pinksherbert.com</a>)<a href="http://"></a>Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-90288641221928083592011-11-05T09:34:00.000-07:002011-11-05T09:35:38.113-07:00The Occupy Movement and Memories of ArgentinaTen years ago, middle class people in Argentina were streaming out into the streets to protest the economic system that had plunged them into poverty. <br /><br />I was fortunate enough to have been there, witnessing and participating.<br /><br />I remember one man, in one of the numerous neighborhood assemblies that we had, saying, "I predict that in ten years people in the United States will be doing the same thing."<br /><br />I'll write more on this later, but for now, <a href="http://argentinanow.ar.tripod.com/index.html">here is a link to an English website I ran covering the events of that time.</a>Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-79145044009436776742011-05-06T11:23:00.000-07:002021-06-25T09:16:27.294-07:00White with African Ancestry<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BCyLMjISwE8/TcREJbO9X4I/AAAAAAAAAgo/ozEFEPy5BTU/s1600/Brazil_lula_silva-thumb-240x300-19187.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603678765075750786" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BCyLMjISwE8/TcREJbO9X4I/AAAAAAAAAgo/ozEFEPy5BTU/s200/Brazil_lula_silva-thumb-240x300-19187.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 160px;" /></a>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-97afb547GHc/TcREDXd2B2I/AAAAAAAAAgg/tybEcl3A4IM/s1600/locklear.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603678660985227106" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-97afb547GHc/TcREDXd2B2I/AAAAAAAAAgg/tybEcl3A4IM/s200/locklear.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AAj77M67g6I/TcRD2oZJu0I/AAAAAAAAAgY/Lt7oMnWeqf4/s1600/eisenhower" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603678442190650178" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AAj77M67g6I/TcRD2oZJu0I/AAAAAAAAAgY/Lt7oMnWeqf4/s200/eisenhower" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 178px;" /></a>
(photos: three 'white' celebrities with confirmed or rumoured African ancestry: Lula Da Silva, President of Brazil. Heather Locklear, actress. Dwight D Eisenhower, former U.S. President.)
In my continued efforts to investigate my ancestry, I shelled out even more money to get my Dad’s genome tested with 23andme.
Part of this was to see if I could get more information on the oral tradition of Native American and “Black Dutch” ancestry on his side of the family. The website 23andme, in addition to telling you your paternal and maternal haplogroup and your likelihood for particular diseases and traits (“Yes you have blue eyes!”) has something called “Ancestry Painting” which will break your genome down into three ethnic groups: European, African, and Asian. It also goes a step further and give you your likelihood of having Native American ancestry in the past five generations.
So I look at my Dad’s ancestry painting and see this teentsy weentsy bit of orange Asian color sliced into his
blue Western European painting. The Native American Ancestry finder tells me this teentsy weentsy bit of orange “Asian” indicates my Dad could have a Native ancestor, but any ‘full-blood’ ancestor would probably not be any closer than a great-grandparent.
Which sounds about right to me, and fits in with when and where the tradition of Native ancestry started in my family tree. But the segment is so small I want to be sure it is not just statistical ‘noise” and send it off to a couple of genetic specialists, <a href="http://chemistry.illinois.edu/faculty/Douglas_McDonald.html">Dr. Doug McDonald</a> and <a href="http://bga101.blogspot.com">David W of the Eurogenes blog.</a>
Here’s where it gets interesting. Both these guys, who do a much more detailed and precise scan than 23andme, tell me the “non-European” bit is not Asian or Native American, but African. David W ID’s the African as West African, and says because the rest of my Dad’s genome is Western European, he believe that it probably comes from “a distant African- American ancestor”.
“Your Dad?” says one friend. “He’s about as white as anybody could get without being an albino!”.
It’s true. My Dad looks like a perfect Celt--blue eyes, red hair, ruddy skin. And all this time--<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/one-drop-rule">according to the ‘one-drop rule’</a>-- he has been a black man passing for white.
But suddenly, with this bit of news, certain ‘suspect’ behaviors in my Dad’s otherwise French, English and Scots-Irish demeanor fall into place. I quickly go through the mental checklist: 1. the only white guy in the very white Southern California neighborhood I grew up in to stand up at a crowded and heated neighborhood meeting and argue for school integration, 2. wanted to take me to see Martin Luther King speak when I was a kid instead of letting me go off to play Barbie or Superman with my friends. 3. taught journalism at a black university. 4. worked as an editor for a black newspaper. 5. takes me to Leimert Park, a historically black neighborhood in Los Angeles, to chat with a woman who owns a store specializing in African-American history, instead of going to Disneyland or Universal Studios, 6. has a mother from a white Southern family who tells me when I am a teenager that she would disown me if I ever married any of the black boys I was then dating, but who spends almost her entire adult life living in Inglewood.
Very suspicious, all this. The call of the ancestors is louder than any one of us could imagine.
When I tell my “nearly Albino” Dad that he has that one drop, he just kind of shrugs his shoulders, not seeming the least surprised. My brother, another pale skinned red-head, says jokingly that this explains why I know how to dance. My sister, the dark haired, dark-eyed one in the family, says “I always knew I was part black!” remembering that in high school she always felt more comfortable with mixed race kids.
As for me, I now have another excuse besides my maternal Jewish lineage for my frizzy out of control hair being ‘not quite white’. And it has opened up a whole new set of questions for me. Like: how come so many white American people are looking for their Native ancestors but not their African ones? Is that “Cherokee Princess” that pops up in so many white Southern genealogies actually a light-skinned black person who needed an excuse for their complexion? Does this negate or just push further back in time any Native ancestry ( which I have been all along so certain of) that I may have? Who were my black ancestors and at what point did one of them make the decision to be white?
And: What does all this say about our country’s historic obsession with racial and ethnic definition? Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-68072333444547821302011-03-13T23:54:00.000-07:002011-03-14T00:05:41.165-07:00Japan and The Dream of Water, revisited<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TRDpTEjumdo?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It seems like weeks since the Japanese earthquake and tsunami hit, yet it has really only been hours. It seems like weeks because it has been difficult to tear myself away from the news and videos about this tragedy...I feel as if I am living it,moment by moment, with them. Suddenly the people in Japan, a country I have never visited, feel like my next door neighbors.<br /><br />I wanted to write about the combination of awe and horror and compassion that I experience when I see that wave of water washing through whole cities. But then I realized I already had--six years ago, when I sent an email out about a 'prophetic' dream I had before another Asian Tsunami. <br /><br />So here it is, from January, 2005:</span><br /><br />Friends,<br /><br />It is New Year's Day and we are surrounded by a tidal<br />wave.<br /><br />On television and in our memories, the images<br />continue:<br />the rushing wall of water, the cars, buildings and<br />bodies floating in the swollen sea, fragile and<br />temporary as children's toys. The faces of pain, loss<br />and anguish are our faces. National boundaries are<br />dissolved, at least momentarily, as we send love,<br />financial support, healing.<br /><br />Because my dreams are frequently wiser than I am, I<br />want to share a dream with you that I had about a week<br />before the Asian Tsunami hit.<br /><br />In the dream I am on the beach with a group of<br />international students from the school where I teach<br />English as a Second Language. The students are from<br />all over the world. Suddenly a huge tidal wave<br />arrives and we are all running along the beach in<br />panic. I see something metallic floating in the water,<br />a vehicle of some kind. I think in my dream that it<br />could be some kind of military vehicle, like a car or<br />a plane or boat. It is clear to me that this vehicle<br />was made by man in a moment of self-importance, and it<br />is now utterly useless, bobbing helplessly along on<br />the water.<br /><br />We all run away from the water and manage to reach<br />"higher ground." We are then all huddled inside a<br />room together, feeling fear but also deeply connected<br />to each other, and relieved that we are safe. One of<br />my Muslim students comes over to me, and I put my arm<br />around him, feeling a wave of love and compassion.<br /><br />I woke up from this dream, asking, as I usually do of<br />dreams, what it was saying to me:<br /><br />There is something more powerful than you, the dream<br />said. Maybe you should pay attention.<br /><br />Your technology and the shiny vehicles that get you<br />through your life are useless in the face of this<br />power, the dream said.<br /><br />It is the power of water, the dream said. it is<br />feminine, emotional, receptive, illogical,<br />mysterious, compassionate, ruthless, ferocious,<br />cleansing. It is running the blood of your veins and<br />in the ocean that links continent to continent. It is<br />the Tsunami and it is the wave of healing that<br />follows.<br /><br />Maybe you should pay attention, the dream said.<br /><br />It is the power of Mother Nature, the dream said,<br />seeking to balance all her elements, no matter how<br />horrific the sacrifice. With so many man-made fires<br />and explosions raging on the earth right now, it it<br />any wonder she chooses to respond with water? <br /><br />Maybe you should pay attention, the dream said.<br /><br />Look around you, the dream said, those people with<br />their different languages and religions are all<br />huddled in the same fragile room with you.<br /><br />Find the person in the room who is most unlike you,<br />the dream said, the person who is supposed to be your<br />enemy, and reach out to him or her in compassion.<br /><br />If there is a god, the dream said, he or she exists<br />not in the labels we have assigned, but in this<br />gesture, in this stretching of the heart.<br /><br />You are alive, the dream of water said , and this is<br />a gift that can be taken away at any time.<br /><br />Maybe you should pay attention.<br /><br /><br />Love,<br /><br />Lisa<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRDpTEjumdo"></a>Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-81072373257505350472011-01-01T16:41:00.000-08:002011-03-10T08:36:10.305-08:00DNA Tribes and All My Relations<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iadxI15I/AAAAAAAAAgM/yyJvYtKixuw/s1600/australian.gif"><span><span></span></span><img style="text-align: center;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px; " src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iadxI15I/AAAAAAAAAgM/yyJvYtKixuw/s200/australian.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557409409493686162"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iaSsp2wI/AAAAAAAAAgE/eKdBMC-QbMs/s1600/kathy%2Bfreeman.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iaSsp2wI/AAAAAAAAAgE/eKdBMC-QbMs/s200/kathy%2Bfreeman.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557409406522088194"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iFSo0FDI/AAAAAAAAAf8/pKa6jKlDKek/s1600/eastindiawelcome.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iFSo0FDI/AAAAAAAAAf8/pKa6jKlDKek/s200/eastindiawelcome.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557409045728728114"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iFBV2j0I/AAAAAAAAAf0/SL4Db5rfU-c/s1600/goldmedalskiierhannahkearney.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iFBV2j0I/AAAAAAAAAf0/SL4Db5rfU-c/s200/goldmedalskiierhannahkearney.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557409041085796162"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iFPCqgAI/AAAAAAAAAfs/T7MHkuTr1dA/s1600/mestizo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 167px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iFPCqgAI/AAAAAAAAAfs/T7MHkuTr1dA/s200/mestizo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557409044763410434"></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iEku_qeI/AAAAAAAAAfc/M1qw9Ax0bnM/s1600/e-bronson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 158px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR_iEku_qeI/AAAAAAAAAfc/M1qw9Ax0bnM/s200/e-bronson.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557409033406622178"></a><br />I finally broke down and decided to see what my DNA had to tell me, if anything, about my ancestry.<br /><br />So I sent my spit to an organization called DNA tribes and they sent me back a chart with my DNA alleles as well as three lists that matched me with current global populations. The first list matched my DNA to "Native Populations" around the globe that have experienced little admixture with other peoples. Since I am pretty mixed up ancestrally, my scores that matched these 'pure blood' folks were pretty low. Some in the top twenty included the Russian Bashkir (#1), the Tatars (#2), the Russian Udmurts, the Scots, the Finns, the English, the Irish, the Italians of Umbria, and the Iranians.<br /><br />I found only minimal matches to existing Native American tribes in their data base, the highest being the Inuit. Many tribes, like the Cherokee, are not included in the DNA Tribes data base. Also surprisingly low matching scores with Ashkenazi Jews, despite the fact that I am Ashkenazi Jewish through my mother's direct line.<br /><br /><br />The second list is the one that really broke open my conceptions of who my 'people' (or peoples) are. This matches your DNA with existing populations in the world who could be 'pure-blood' or mixed. These are my closest DNA 'relatives' in the world today.<br /><br />#1 The Polish Tatars. I suppose with so many Northeast European and Central Asian Turkic people showing up (Tatars, Bashkirs, etc.) my mother's ancestral Jewish lineage must be heavily mixed with tribal peoples who ended up in Latvia, Poland, and elsewhere. Jewish Khazars? Conversions? Pogroms? Interbreeding? I may never know.<br /><br />#2 European-Aboriginal Australians. Huh? I can't even begin to understand this one, though it certainly explains my unruly hair and why I love the didgeridoo. Did one of my "European" ancestors stop off in Australia and have a kid or two before he or she made their way to the United States? Or is DNA tribes just completely wacked out? Whatever. I have no problem embracing my Australian aboriginal cousins, mixed or not.<br /><br />#3 Central Mexicans. Ja ja ja. Ahora entiendo porque he pasado tanto tiempo con los latinos. Yeah Spanish has come pretty easy to me and now I understand it's because so many latinos are my DNA cousins. Central Mexicans are basically European-American Indian mixed bloods, so this kind of fits in with the family tradition of Native ancestry, or at least fits in with the European-Asian mix that seems to be prevalent in my DNA. (Native American DNA apparantly shows up as "Asian" in the DNA ancestry world.)<br /><br />#4. United States Caucasion. Well yeah, this is always what I THOUGHT i was when I was growing up as a little fair-skinned blue eyed white girl. And despite what everyone says about these people, I also accept them as my brothers and sisters in the human family. Some of my best friends are U.S. Caucasians, really.<br /><br />#5. Canadian East Indians. Not East Indian East Indians mind you, but Canadian East Indians. I'm not sure why my DNA only matches highly with the immigrant Canadian East Indians and not with the East Indian East Indians. Is this because this is another bunch of immigrants who decided to mix their blood with the local people and produce some kind of mulatto mestizo mixed race mongrels who were then accepted back into their tribe? Why, how dare they? Dammit, if people would just stay within their borders and not have sex with foreigners life would be so much easier. And you wouldn't end up inflicting smart mouth mix-ups like me onto the world.<br /><br />Again, my DNA matching so highly with East Indians is about as understandable as the match with Australians. All DNA tribes really told me was what I already knew--that I am an ancestral mutt, that no matter what tribal circle I am standing in I will always have one foot outside it. And that will be the foot that is looking for the larger circle.<br /><br />Others in the top twenty were Maraicabo, Venezuela, Scotland, Italy, the Flemish, the Bashkirs and Udmurts again, more U.S. Caucasian groups and more European-Aboriginal Australian groups.<br /><br />The third chart matches you with broader genetic groups called Regional Populations. Top Five Here were #1, Finno-Ugrian (Northeast Europe), #2 Northwest European, #3, Altaic (Central Asian Turkic people) #4 Mesopotamian (Iran, Iraq, etc.) #5 Eastern Europe. Seems to match the other charts. Other groups that showed up were Mestizo, Horn of Africa, Levantine, Mediteranean, and again, an uncharacteristically high match to Australian aboriginals for a US Caucasian person.<br /><br />I shared all this info recently with a friend. "But it's too much!" He said. "Too many relatives!:<br /><br />Indeed it is, I thought. One great big sprawling messy family of too many relatives. <br /><br />We are the world.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-26057263520216262872011-01-01T12:41:00.000-08:002011-01-01T15:35:16.264-08:00Spirit of the Seventh Chakra<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR-VTkiBF7I/AAAAAAAAAfU/I_g2l47rngU/s1600/gi_crown-chakra.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TR-VTkiBF7I/AAAAAAAAAfU/I_g2l47rngU/s320/gi_crown-chakra.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557324628654888882" /></a><br />The chakra class I was teaching has ended, and the seventh chakra has been hanging over my head ever since.<br /><br />Exactly where it belongs of course, since traditionally this is the chakra of the Crown, the chakra where spirit enters through the top of your head and ideally, fills you with its 'ineffable knowing.'<br /><br />In traditions I've studied if this chakra is clear you walk with certainty and purpose and a sense of spirit within. Blocks and imbalances here might manifest as dysfunctional ideas about religion, attachments to gurus who really want your attachment more than your freedom, or a seventh chakra that is too wide open to all sorts of spiritual influences that cannot be practically grounded in your day to day life.<br /><br />The Seventh Chakra has also been hanging over my head because although the class ended several weeks ago I have yet to post and write about it. <br /><br />So here it is. Seems fitting to have waited until after the winter holidays, a time when many people throughout the world celebrate major religious holidays--Christmas, Hannukah, Winter Solstice. Interesting to me that in the northern hemisphere it is the darkest time of year when we are most drawn to celebrating spirit. (Actually in the south this is true too--the Incan honoring of the sun, Inti Raymi, is celebrated in June.)<br /><br />The trap of any religion or spiritual 'system' seems to be its own dogma. So if you chance upon this blog and enjoy reading what I've posted about the chakras and the chakra class I've been teaching, be sure to print it out, read it carefully, then burn it and walk away. <br /><br />Happy New Year.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-67945517806887999092010-12-05T12:15:00.001-08:002010-12-05T12:51:09.738-08:00Visions of the Sixth Chakra<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TPv6sy3AGjI/AAAAAAAAAfI/d-cTCcp07_0/s1600/gi_third-eye-chakra-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TPv6sy3AGjI/AAAAAAAAAfI/d-cTCcp07_0/s320/gi_third-eye-chakra-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547303013510552114" /></a><br />The Sixth, or brow, Chakra. The 'third eye'. Located at the forehead, just above the place where the eyebrows meet. Related to the eyes, the brain, the pineal gland.<br /><br />This is the place where visions are formed---our vision of ourselves and of the world around us. These 'pictures' that we have created can influence everything we do, feel, and are--they are the results of the beliefs that we carry around, beliefs that may have been formed when we were children or even before. It is the place of dreams and perceptions. <br /><br />In my experience teaching classes in energy work, there are some people who seem to be natural clairvoyants--a French word for 'clear seers'. They form pictures in their mind, and can often see the energy of other people in pictures that are formed in their mind. When they come to class, they are frequently just looking for validation for something that they already know how to do.<br /><br />The other group of people do not consider themselves 'clairvoyant' and don't have a third eye that fills up readily with all kinds of images, but they would like to be.<br /><br />It has been my experience, that with training, this second group can learn to 'see' with their third eye. But it is frequently a long process. And the second group often has other intuitive gifts--clairsentients who sense rather than see the energy of others, massage therapists whose hands 'just know' where to go, etc.<br /><br />In some traditions, when 'psychic powers' arise as a result of intensive meditation, it is said to be best to just ignore them. There is wisdom in this--the risk of seeing oneself as 'more special' than others because of intuitive gifts, the risk of losing sight of the ultimate goal of spiritual enlightenment or balanced awareness in the pursuit of 'psychic superpowers'.<br /><br />I am one of those people who have always had a constant stream of images running like a movie on the screen of my 'third eye' and remember how shocked I was to realize that not everybody has this. <br /><br />For people with a highly developed sixth chakra, the challenge is usually in grounding these visions in a practical or creative way. Visionaries who don't find a path to the manifestation of their visions can sometimes find themselves feeling like marginalized misfits, dreamers who have nowhere to share their gifts. On an energetic level, the task is to balance and clear the energy in the lower chakras so that the magnificent visions of these people can be actualized. <br /><br />Cultivating a stronger relationship to earth, body and/or creativity is a good place to start. So, paradoxically, in order for a highly developed sixth chakra to be truly effective, it is the lower chakras that need to be healed.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-35043693973838768352010-12-04T09:16:00.000-08:002010-12-04T09:54:47.623-08:00Speaking True: The Fifth Chakra<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TPp7qLwvwKI/AAAAAAAAAfA/N07kGY6k0es/s1600/gi_throat-chakra.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TPp7qLwvwKI/AAAAAAAAAfA/N07kGY6k0es/s320/gi_throat-chakra.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546881855702155426" /></a><br />Our world and daily lives often require many voices of us; the voice we use at work, the voice we use with our friends and family, the voice we use with ourselves.<br /><br />If we are clear and balanced, we will be able to speak authentically to ourselves and to others. That's what he fifth chakra, the throat or communication chakra is about. When it is out of balance or blocked, we feel stifled with our communication with ourselves and others, we are not speaking our truth. This can lead either to choked silence and a voice within ourselves that never gets heard, or, on the other extreme, to endless chattering to fill the scary truths that might emerge from a few moments of silence. Listening is as much a part of the fifth chakra as speaking, something that is not often mentioned. <br /><br />Throat and thyroid problems are often linked to imbalances in fifth chakra energy. In my own life, I have looked at how my thyroid health might relate to the health of my fifth chakra and my abilities to articulate my truth. As a writer, teacher and communicator, my entire life has 'pointed to' the fifth chakra as the one that holds both the most challenges and the most treasures--so it's also not surprising that in my coaching and energy healing practice I have tended to attract and work with people with 'fifth chakra issues'.<br /><br />Questions that arose in the class: What do you need to say to yourself? What do you need to say to others?Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-7100327166395031962010-11-20T08:23:00.000-08:002010-11-20T08:53:34.770-08:00Healing the Heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TOf9A2-LrUI/AAAAAAAAAe4/BiRNJ8duS0w/s1600/gi_heart-chakra.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TOf9A2-LrUI/AAAAAAAAAe4/BiRNJ8duS0w/s320/gi_heart-chakra.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541676057700838722" /></a><br />This past week's chakra in the class I am teaching has been the heart. <br /><br />This old organ, overused, underused,<br /> misunderstood, misplaced, mistaken, shaken <br />strong, not strong enough, still<br />and always<br />in the center<br />waiting <br />steady in listening <br />to its own<br />music, tha-rum, tha-rum, tha-rum. <br /><br />Last week's class felt simple and subtle. One person shifted from trying to do what she thought she should be doing to what her heart already knew how to do. <br /><br />Issues that arose: Who and what do we love? Who and what are we ready to forgive?Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-23660059720373422352010-11-14T08:51:00.000-08:002010-11-14T09:07:18.315-08:00The Power of the Third Chakra<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TOAW8KdDY9I/AAAAAAAAAew/xMb4fvoE4JU/s1600/3-solar-plexus-chakra.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TOAW8KdDY9I/AAAAAAAAAew/xMb4fvoE4JU/s320/3-solar-plexus-chakra.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539452764519883730" /></a><br />Moving on up, we have arrived this week at the third chakra in the chakra course I am teaching. <br /><br />The third chakra is located at the solar plexus. <br /><br />This is the 'energy pump' for the rest of the energy body, as well as the place where we experience our individual power. Power is a word that is rife with connotation, some good, some bad, but if we think of the power of the third chakra in a more neutral way, like the power provided by a lightbulb in a dark room, or the power of an engine in a car, we can detach a bit from the 'ego' part of power and still allow ourselves to appreciate our own uniqueness, individuality and the ability to manifest that in the world.<br /><br />Here is my favorite quote, from Marianne Williamson, about manifesting our own power:<br /><br />“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-62783312473707402552010-11-14T07:56:00.000-08:002010-11-14T08:06:19.121-08:00Leonard Breger, Harry Cohen and the Question of ArtWe all know that most art is questionable. <br /><br />So <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/artcrazy2fools#p/a/u/0/wGkYkZ72QtQ">in my latest video</a> of my artist friend Leonard Breger, Leonard and his friend Harry Cohen have some fun making art and asking important art questions. There is also music by Beethoven, a glimpse of Laurel and Hardy, and some sexy legs on San Francisco's Bernal Hill.<br /><br />Enjoy.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-45731190332780630882010-11-06T09:26:00.000-07:002010-11-06T10:33:03.066-07:00Second Chakra: The Passion of Orange<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TNWB2eXZMtI/AAAAAAAAAeo/aHKgyua9OX4/s1600/gi_sacral-chakra1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TNWB2eXZMtI/AAAAAAAAAeo/aHKgyua9OX4/s320/gi_sacral-chakra1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536474089785995986" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Last week was an orange week. First the flickering orange of Halloween pumpkin light decorating the steps and windows of city buildings, then the Giants winning the World Series and the streets of downtown San Francisco erupting in crowds of fans wearing the orange and black colors of the team, and of course the burnt and brilliant oranges and golds of autumn warming the autumn sky. ( And autumn IS warm in San Francisco--it's our Indian Summer.)<br /><br />Orange is also the traditional color of the second chakra, which was our focus in the last class. Someone asked me yesterday how the chakras got associated with certain colors. I have no idea. To me it just seems to be a logical progression--the denser lower chakras are associated with the denser, warmer colors and the higher,lighter chakras with the cooler blues and purples. One person I read has an interesting theory about the colors moving from the hot red lava of the center of the earth (first chakra) out through the warm orange and yellow of the second and third to the green of the grass growing on the earth's surface on to the blues and indigos and purples of the sky.<br /><br /> Whatever its origin, orange seems an appropriate color for this chakra having to do with creativity, sexual relationship and emotion. It is traditionally where we hold and express our passion, as well as any conflicts or obstacles associated with areas of our life that we are passionate about. The class, appropriately enough, felt lighter and warmer and more playful than the very grounded first chakra class last week. <br /><br />Naturally, we all reflected on successes and obstacles associated with our own creativity and to creating meaningful and appropriate relationships. I am always astonished at how quickly, when given a chance, our own intuition can deliver up insight and direction. <br /><br />In my own meditation, I was offered a gift--a ripe and juicy orange.<br /><br />It's helpful to remember that this passionate gift of creativity and meaningful relationship is always there, all around us, ready to be peeled and tasted.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-62624880049275793042010-10-27T13:21:00.000-07:002010-12-04T09:56:07.352-08:00The First Chakra and Ganesh<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TMiM03f0XCI/AAAAAAAAAeg/J8TEbXAXpRQ/s1600/Ganesha_India.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TMiM03f0XCI/AAAAAAAAAeg/J8TEbXAXpRQ/s320/Ganesha_India.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532826982103145506" /></a><br />The eight week course on the Chakras that I'm teaching is off to a great start, with a wonderful group of people whose backgrounds include flower essences, dream shamanism, EFT, personal organizing, massage and more. As usual, I am learning much from the people who have brought their gifts to the class.<br /><br />The first week was an overview of the Chakras, with some energetic, meditative and creative exercises. Last week we worked on the first chakra, which has to do with grounding, support, shelter, finances, the physical body. I am posting this image of Ganesh, who in the Hindu tradition is the deity of the first chakra. Ganesh is also known as the remover of obstacles, and has brought me this past week a great deal of opportunity to reflect on when and how I put my attention on obstacles rather than solutions. The removal of obstacles is often a simple shift or liberation of attention which brings the solution home.<br /><br />Thank you, Ganesh!Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-85359252848328220362010-10-02T10:39:00.000-07:002010-12-04T09:57:37.783-08:00The Chakras: Your Seven Core Energies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TKd3MhGCB6I/AAAAAAAAAeY/lcW5mFDvvnk/s1600/chakras.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 224px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TKd3MhGCB6I/AAAAAAAAAeY/lcW5mFDvvnk/s320/chakras.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523514524919007138" /></a><br /><br />Image: <a href="http://ranbassi.deviantart.com/art/Ik-Ongkar-Chakras-84651445">Ik Ongkar-Chakras, by Ranbassi</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> I am excited about the new class I will be teaching this month. Here’s the description:<br /><br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;">Your 7 Core Energies: Cultivating the Power of the Chakras.</span><br /><br />--Enhance your ability to perceive your own energy and the energy of others<br />- Discover your unique energy gifts<br />- Clear internal obstacles to relating authentically to others and manifesting your gifts in the world<br /><br />In this course, we will use the chakras, the ‘spinning wheels of light’ that make up the energy body, to guide us on the journey to our own wisdom. We will combine techniques of meditation and energy perception with practical and creative exercises that allow you to cultivate your abilities in Grounding, Creating, Power, Love, Communication, Seeing, and Knowing. Open to beginners as well as those with some experience in energy healing and the chakra system. <br /><br />When: Mondays 7-9:30PM, October 18- December 6, 2010<br />Where: 36th Avenue near Balboa (call for exact location.) San Francisco<br />Cost: $265 <br /><br /><br />My own studies of the chakra system began when I was thirteen and started meditation practice. These studies were further developed in my training in Reiki and in clairvoyant healing classes in San Francisco.<br /><br />I initially developed and taught a variation of this course in Cusco, Peru, to tourists and local residents. I am always delighted to see how easily we westerners can come into our own wisdom using this ancient Eastern energy system. <br /><br /><br />To register, email me at lisagarrigues@yahoo.com<br /><br />I look forward to seeing you there!Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-47363966420380044202010-08-26T17:14:00.000-07:002010-11-14T08:13:53.816-08:00Leonard Breger Post-Cave ArtistWhen I first met Leonard a friend who was with us said to me, "Why don't you make a movie?"<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2NRXMOJLHI">So here it is.</a> The first of a series of short videos about my 90 year old "Post-Cave Artist" friend. In it you'll find some extraordinary non-rectangular art, and Leonard will lead you in and out of his experience of the Altamira Cave.Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13378820.post-14443874971348751132010-08-13T07:55:00.000-07:002010-08-13T09:04:09.170-07:00The Return of the Dreamspinner<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TGVjIo_O3tI/AAAAAAAAAeI/H8AO5Z1s9_A/s1600/Dream_Finder_by_arayo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_smSYl4TrXr4/TGVjIo_O3tI/AAAAAAAAAeI/H8AO5Z1s9_A/s320/Dream_Finder_by_arayo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504915119623036626" /></a><br /><br />Photography by <a href="http://arayo.deviantart.com">Arayo</a><br /><br />I like it when my fictional characters find new places in the world to see and be seen. So I am happy to report that you can now buy an anthology which contains my story <a href="http://frenchbreadpublications.com/pcj/fiction/garrigues1.html">Dreamspinner</a> at a site called <a href="http://www.anthologybuilder.com">Anthology Builder</a>. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.anthologybuilder.com">Anthology Builder</a> is a unique concept: previously published stories are available to collect in an anthology of your own making. You choose the stories, the title, and the design. You'll find some classics by Edgar Allen Poe, Charlotte Perkins, L. Frank Baum, and Jane Austen, as well as living writers like yours truly.<br /><br /><br />I have put together a collection called <a href="http://www.anthologybuilder.com/library.php">Seeing Around Corners: 15 Fantastic Fictions</a> which contains my story as well as 14 others by dynamic and original writers. <br /><br />Here's the intro to the anthology:<br /><br />"A woman who invents a language that sees around corners. The heavy metal return of Crazy Horse. A class full of goblins. Breasts with a mind of their own.<br /><br />Take a deep breath. Your journey around the corner is about to begin."<br /><br /><br />You can take the journey <a href="http://www.anthologybuilder.com/library.php">here.</a>Lisa Gale Garrigueshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09590479072902697239noreply@blogger.com0