It seems a lifetime ago

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/notes/jenn-ryan/a-lifetime-ago/474922224139

For the health of it!

Read some simple, smart, definitely-worth-it tips for the health conscious!
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a headline from today

City Regional Chamber of Commerce Bi-Weekly News Digest, Week Ending Fri., Oct. 1, 2010

Is It Over For Bernero?

The airwaves are dark for Democratic Gubernatorial nominee Lansing Mayor Virgil Bernero -- leaving pundits to wonder whether the tide has gone out on the Democrat's gubernatorial hopes.
"It was openly asked on the Off the Record show and elsewhere a few weeks ago. That was: What was the maximum amount of time Bernero had in which to try to change the race before the Democrats started pulling money from his race to be divvyed up for other races?" Inside Michigan Politics Editor Bill Ballenger told MIRS. "People generally estimated that he had about two weeks, or until the end of the month. Now here we are . . . so it's not surprising that we're talking about this right now."
Apparently what has been happening is as follows:
A little over a week ago the TV ad activity for the Bernero campaign, which had been fast and furious in mid-September, slipped off the cliff. The word was that Bernero was out of money. His campaign hasn't made a buy since Sept. 22. A few days later the Michigan Democratic Party (MDP) stepped in with a $200,000 cable TV buy for Bernero. Then as the end of last week neared a second $200,000 MDP buy for Bernero was supposedly coming, but according to those watching in the opposing camp, it never happened.
A well-placed source has told MIRS that the Democrats are polling to try and find out what, if any, effect Bernero's mid-September ad blitz had. Insiders say that unless the ads did more than shore up the Democratic base a bit and push a few Snyder supporters back into the undecided column, potential Democratic financial backers aren't likely to be impressed.

Politics aside, why in HE** does money become the deciding factor on the potential for an election of any kind? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY does it have to be this way??????????

stella

oh stella, old gal
it breaks my ever-lovin' heart today
to know
that you took
your last
zoom
down the 'boulevard'
of green-tree'd, blue-sky'd
life

who else
has been by my side
through all the laughter
tears
funerals
celebrations
kisses

the ditches
& unfortunate encounters
with springtime snowshower hydroplaning
or
keys
locked
inside
(dare I crawl through the trunk?)

the times you
saved
my
life

the songs
belted
(when perhaps you wished the windows to be open or the laryngitis
to kick in).

i will forever
love
chevrolet
not just
for a taj mahal song

but because you got me through 225,803 miles
of a beautiful life.

the good with the bad gal.

RIP to the independence of my youth!

(Stella = my 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier who took a knee today...)

insurmountable

when you can't go back to correct
the mistakes that you've made
and
moving forward
seems tantamount to a deep sea dive to hell
and back
how do you put
one foot
in front of the other
& just take it one day at a time.

when does crawling out of the abyss you've fallen into
end?
will it ever feel like breathing again
and not gulping for air you
forgot to inhale during moments
stressed
and strained
and hot red
& itchy

shiny bright beaming blue sky
sun rays
moon shine
i see and feel
your light
my pores sop it up
like salty earth to rain.

i want to
and continue to
believe
yet
...
yet...

y e t ...
my hope flag's
flyin'
kinda
low.

Ode to Isabel

Silky-soft palms, too smooth to hold onto much...
A dash of this, and this, and that...

     flour

     salt

     baking powder

     [warm] milk

     olive oil

mix dry together
then
ever-so-slowly,
add warm to dry

stir and knead and let rest and knead and roll
thin
thin
thin
s t r e t c h e d flat like a record.

sizzle-sizzle in a big, round pan or a HOT
flat
griddle...

[Isabel style: shred your favorite cheddar grab your favorite butter]

or summer harvest
red, green, orange...
chop, chop, chop.

paper thin disks
sizzle
on dry heat
turn quick, over and over and over
and then keep warm; nearby.

ring the dinner bell.
eat up.
with zippy hot salsa!
zam!

what of flaky, freshly caught fish tacos?
or
one dollop
of
bright green
avocado (guacamole)
added on top...

black beans.
orangeyellowredPEPPERS!

oh Isabel Najars, how the heaven on
Earth of who you
were to us, held closely
near your
apron strings,
feeding hungry kid-mouths
who played, and played and
never
stopped
playing...
oh Isabel.
we hold you in our hearts
close like a granny.
close like a sweet, sweet heart
of
our little girl hearts.

An ode to Isabel (part 1)

The all-important flat, dry, floured surface!

Ode to Isabel (part 2)

essential!

Ode to Isabel (part 3)

Improvised rolling pin...

Ode to Isabel (part 4)

yummy garden goodness!

An ode to Isabel (step 5)

Voila! warm tortillas!

Illusive Lover

Screechy-yellow
Bright light

Squinting into you
I ache
Deep inside

I have a lovehate
Relationship with you.

Somewhere in late july or early august
When my sunblock-shopping-sprees are maxed...

You wile me
into believing you are safe and
Cozy and warmhearted (and sexy).

Morph my freckle
Into a cancerous lump and
I
WILL
slityourthroat

With my shiny, shiny pocket
Sword.

Oh, be-nign-baby...
be mine (benign).

jennryan2010

In honor of...

The other day as I clicked to “Like” my alma mater’s ‘fan page’, I read a friend’s post which heiroglyphed an “RIP” on the electronic footprint of the page, it was in honor of a woman who attended college at the same time that we did.
I attended a small, private, Midwestern, liberal arts college in the 1990’s, and although I did not know this woman very intimately, we shared friends and classes in common, and in particular, I remember her bright eyes, exuberant smile, and a laugh, that would make most any heart sing.
After reading about her death, I inquired further and learned that sadly, a number of tragic circumstances including the loss of her mother, the loss of her home, financial complexities, and other personal problems had all contributed to her untimely demise. In fact, she intentionally took her life, in a somber act of suicide.
In the moment of recognition of what this young woman had determined to do, I mentally stepped into her shoes, and looked around, trying to imagine the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that she must have been overwhelmed with. I saw a grey smoky haze, hanging all around. It was murky, heavy, dim. As I inhaled, a sputtery cough began deep in my esophagus and it was difficult to breathe.
Card-catalogue drawers of thoughts careened through my mental space, recalling loss—the loss of family, of friends—both naturally and by their own hand. Recalling financial woes—paycheck-to-paycheck living, blocks of government cheese eaten as a child; my own experience with foreclosure and in the ‘difficult personal problems’ category, tragic decisions such as terminating a fetus.
In the seconds it took to step into her shoes, to take a few steps in the reality that she may have experienced, treading lightly on the memory of my own war story, I wondered why it was that she chose to go, and I chose to stay?
For even in loss and failure and utter chaos; even when overwhelmed with embarrassment or hasty decisions, the ramifications of which might haunt me a life long, I stood tall. I stayed earthbound. I am here.
Thank goodness.

In honor of the beauty that was this woman’s center, her soul; I salute her. I raise high, my heart-of-hearts, and send an unequivocally unwavering sweet gesture, holding space for all that she was and is now, free, spread far and wide across the universe.

So too, do I honor the memory of all the sweet hearts who have gone before... Mary* today is the anniversary of her death, Roseanne, Daniel, Arthur, Russell... there are too many names to type here... they are all here, in my heart.

*Picasso's 'Dove' seems appropriate to leave here today, for all soaring souls...

Playing catch

Last evening was spent with most of my immediate family as we watched my eldest nephew play a game of baseball. The age range spanned 56 years, the stories in those years, varied, colorful, tragic, irreverent...

A small, sweet, chilled-early-June moment that stood out involved a game of catch between an energetic (albeit allergic) five year old boy and his grandpa--playing a simple game of catch with a lime green tennis ball--furry and buoyant in the blue skied air.

A spitfire of sorts, the little guy cocked his arm, aimed, and drilled the ball.
It careened away from his body, the trajectory off course, and collided, suddenly, with a thud, against the temple of a young mother, also present to watch the 'big boys' baseball game in the ball field behind this little game of catch.

Stunned, she jumped, as the ball merely grazed her temple and designer sunglasses, she turned to see that it was a furry, green tennis ball; NOT, perchance, the squishy, furry flesh of one of the millions of tent worms/gypsy moths which have over run our lovely Northern Michigan foliage of late.

She grinned, laughed aloud, and the little guy chirped with a frenzied, emotional clatter of response, "OOH, SORRY!!!"

Satiate

Spending time surrounded by colorful mixed media, listening to music--quiet or loud, depending on the mood of the day; immersed fully in the creativity that is pouring forth, is my favorite space to be within.
I thank my stars for the keen ability to recognize this need to nourish and the luxury of quiet weekend space to fulfill it by the spoon full.

Vroom-vroom...

Monday through Friday, I drive 37 miles between the tidy city streets of downtown Frankfort, to the industrial corridor of Traverse City, Michigan. Home to work and then back again. Depending on the weather, the time of year, and the time of day, I can make the trek in about 40 minutes, and/or 90. It all depends.
In December, I found the trip was taking 75, consistently. Everyone was driving about 40 miles an hour as we were pounded, day after day with a steady stream of white, puffy snowflakes. During this seemingly less than tolerable portion of my commuter’s history, I found listening to our local public radio station, IPR, practicing Spanish, and listening to a couple of holiday gifts (mixed cd’s) got me through it all.
I haven’t always been a car-driving commuter. I’ve had the luxury (and general proximity) of such frivolities as apartment-above-the-garage convenience (during the stint I was a nanny in New York), or the ‘three doors away’ convenience of an artsy loft in the neighborhood of the studio I worked at for three years. Another time, I chose to purchase a house that was not only on the main drag, close to the highway, but less than three miles from my office and on a main bus route. Normally, ‘work’ is nearby and the option to ride my bike, walk, or roller blade has been the plan of attack. BUT, change is inevitable.
I’ve been driving a 1997 Chevrolet Cavalier since January of 1997. “Stella” as she is named, because of her general demeanor and car-riding charisma, has gotten me from here to there, forever.
She kicks more ass than I can count.

Engage

"Never get tired of doing little things for others. Sometimes, those little things occupy the biggest part of their hearts." -- Author Unknown

I find this suggestion to be one of the favorite of my life. For whatever reason, I learned long, long ago, the sheer delight of doing just this--the trick is knowing that it does not have to be about spending any money on anyone, but simply being thoughtful... stepping outside of the 'bubble' of yourself long enough to notice the other wonderful folks all around, and interacting and reacting on behalf of something that you recognize in them-- it could be the simplest gesture...

:)

Practice Random Kindness & Other Senseless Acts of Beauty!!

Boone Docks

“We only go to Boone Docks if it’s an emergency!”
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.

Summer's Wake

Tall ship slice
through translucent aqua
marine clarity.
I wonder sometimes if all those years I hated
the white, freckled skin of my upper thighs
of how sad they must
have felt—being hated like that.

For as long as I can remember I have been
YOUR biggest fan—
YOUR most-swell supporter.
I have cheered and
applauded—I have
woo-hooed
YOU to your finish line.

Why not to those long, strong curvy limbs?
those generous rounded mounds?
why hate
and hide
ashamed
so much beauty
below the surface of things...

My nation tis of thee

Independence day, 2009

On this historic day, in this historic time of Obama, I sit back, reflect and think about the little ‘nation’ of my own small life. I sort of think of it more as a tribe or a posse, but reflecting on that piece of the definition—‘a group of people united by a common interest’ I find it resonating with some thoughts from the day and the past week.
Somewhere between teenage angst and early adulthood I must’ve imagined what life would be like—as grown ups. I do not recall it exactly in the way I have been told by many girlfriends—the planning, the binders and pages of dresses and steps. No, I never imagined a wedding or who the groom might be. I did not pine secretly for a shiny engagement ring and the car, house, and 2.25 children that so many planned and saved for. But I did, I’m sure, imagine what life might have in store for me.
I had a thing for the ‘Brat Pack’ at one time. I remember secretly pining for the camaraderie of the St Elmo’s Fire gang (sans all the dysfunction as an idealistic teenager). I hoped that even if single, that I had a gaggle of friends—boys and girls, couples and singles—kids and dogs and Frisbees and picnics and camping. Holidays and birthdays, sometimes shared. Thanksgivings and Bat Mitzvahs, Christenings and Halloween costumes. Life and death and happily ever after, all wrapped up in the snotty shirtsleeves of the best friends (and family) who would always be there—who you’d always be there for.
In my adult life I’ve transplanted myself a number of times. I’ve removed the familiar and immersed within the brand new. Time has passed, and in every single instance, I have been incredibly fortunate. I have located a nurturing cell of living, breathing, lively, talented, compassionate, conscientious, fantastic human beings. They have become my extended family so many times, and now, as I find myself back ‘home’ in my mid-thirties, I am both rediscovering antiquated acquaintances as well as rekindling familial bonds. Day in and day out I realize that I have found my truest north—my most amazing circle—my nation, my tribe, my posse, and my heart.
An example of my amazing communal circle was evident last Saturday. Dear friends were celebrating the ninth birthday of their oldest daughter. A late afternoon soiree involving pirates and fairies, a treasure hunt, and then plentiful bootie ala potluck found an amalgam of friends and families conjoining to imbibe and enjoy. After chomping on the delicious vegetarian fare we were entertained with a talent show. From adults spewing bad pirate jokes and children singing solos and reciting their original poetry, we were transfixed and beholden to each other for the magic most certainly in the air.
The really fabulous reality of the event was that the humidity was ridiculous, producing sometimes downpours and most of the time, small air raids of needle-nose mosquito beaks. Ugh! The itching!! Yet we all stayed—for hours past when we might normally have fled for dear life. The following day I met a new friend for a hike along the beach and we wandered for hours, spending time over a mango tea freeze thereafter, I went home satiated in soul. My weekend more nourishing than any dose of ‘medicine’ could ever offer.
Today, this gorgeous Independence day, (after a week solid of dreary, grey rain and low temperatures) I spent the day in the verdant outdoors of the wonderland that is my home. We trekked the more technical upper Platte River via kayak and canoe. Lathering with sunscreen I readied myself for the long hike down the river, wondering how long it might take us, hopeful for the day to last forever. Although time spent in miscellaneous pods throughout the trip was frequent, my luxury was the slow, swift times alone, listening to birdcalls and smelling cold river water. Watching black & teal winged fireflies alight on my shoulder and collecting algae covered rocks, while waiting for the canoers to catch up. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I beam, for I am intertwined with the sweetest mix of family and friend. With children aplenty, I never feel lonely for the children who have gone. I see them in the gleaming bright eyes of Ada and Abby, of Nadia, Sonja, Noah and Jackson, Ezra and Olive. I hear their laughter in Isaac’s guttural guffaw and Casey’s sweet cackle. I am rare to pine for the soul mate I live without, for I am surrounded by so much love and support and friendship, that I hardly realize my solitude.
© Jenn Ryan 2009