Day 21: Best inside joke

Oh boy...this could take a while...focus.  Focus.

The hardest part about describing why an inside joke is so funny is because of the nature of its existence: it's kept within the confines of folks who were present at the birth of something which made its presence known, somehow and most times really isn't all that funny to the rest of us, but here goes...

Namaste:  my childhood friend and best manfriend has a way of taking the simplest things in life and expanding them in to something show-worthy.  I would compare him to Seinfeld, but it's not the same thing really.  Take yoga for instance.  It's a heavily sought after outlet for a multitude of reasons- the benefits are expansive, varied and tangible.  They're also a benefit to one's sense of personal peace and inner mindset.  Then take James' ability to play any instrument on the planet.  Then add a dash of perverse sense of humor.  Mix 'em all together, and try to do even 5 minutes of yoga in his presence.  You wont be able to do it.  The sweet sounds of some terrible New Age music filters through the air and just as you get in to downward dog, he's naming the poses as you flow through your set...and it's not so much the look on his face that makes it so painful but the tone of his voice...it's indescribable, but in my stead to really push through the course of something as simple as a sun salutation, I suddenly imagine trying to take a yoga class with him....I'd pee my pants before I got to minute 4.  It just could never happen.

"Namaste...."

Day 20: Why do you love to cook?

Oh my goodness...I could write a book about the reasons why.

I may not know the science of food, but I know the passion of food, and it started with my Mom's family in the South.  A place where breakfast is breakfast, lunch is dinner and dinner is suppa'.  I have dreamy recollections of sitting down, with a table of 20 and eating myself full of happiness.  Forget recognizing when you're too full in my family- you're too busy laughing to stop stuffing.

I also give some of my love of cooking to the novel "Like Water For Chocolate."  The idea that a person loves so much, feels so much that she dispenses her emotional state in to the food she cooks is a profound notion to me.  Food tells stories.  Where it comes from tells a story.  Is your lemon from your backyard, or is it imported from down south?  What's it remind you of when you smell it.

The memories the smell of food triggers are unrelenting to me, and to be able to harness those memories, to see the smiles of those eating my food makes me whole.  Baking bread brings me back to Paris.  Fish tacos to Mexico and black beans back to Costa Rica.

Food is magic, if you let it be.

Childhood memories swarm to the front of my brain when I smell chocolate baking, hot in an oven.

The crazy spice of peppers, grilling gently on the stove reminds me of my boyfriend's mastery of all things salsa and spicy.

I love to cook because it forces me to try something new.  A beautiful cake is instant gratification- entirely selfish, yes, I know.

Watching a person bite in to a piece of cake, and sit back just to take it in is better than tv.

Then, of course, there's the apothecary...the use of herbs for healing purposes.  Aloe heals burns.  Ginger calms the stomach.  Chamomile eases...lavendar induces peace...the list just goes on.  Plants are our food.  They are our first aid.  Food is the story of family.  Food is heart and soul in my book.

And I love to eat too....

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Day 19: Why young adult novels?

Ah...this one's interesting.

I suppose it's true that I do have a soft spot for young adult novels.

There are a multitude of reasons for this, namely the recognition that so many of these novels touch on facets of life we find, still present, as adults.  Lost love...unrequited love....the pains of finding your spot in life.  So many of these novels are really a great depiction and example of the "Hero's Journey."  We all find ourselves on some path at some point.  It gets muddied, twisted, confusing and ridiculous.

I remember, to the day, the moment I realized it might behoove me to read what kids were reading.  As a student teacher, there existed moments in which I had to remind my students to put their books down, in prep for the next task.  It was with a happy heart, I watched some students red, completely immersed in another place.  A place they could relate.   A hero or heroine they responded to, respected and understood, whose challenges were similar to their own in life.  I suppose what really pushed me was the desire to get to know what it was they really related to and what it was in a story, that made a book so hard to put down.

Mostly, I suppose I love young adult novels because there still exists on those pages a place in which a person might still be able to refine themselves and find a place they admire and adhere to.

For some of us, finding a character with whom we identify is a relief of sorts.  To know that a person out there has experienced what we have and to see that person rise from the ashes is inspiring.  And as an adult, we are able to recognize that though that character may be unreal, at least the author cares enough about something and someone to write a story about overcoming some loss or moment...

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Day 18: Happy Birthday, Mom

Happy Birthday to you, Mom!!

I listened to this one on repeat this morning, because it just brings back some of the best memories of all time.  I know that life wasn't the easiest for you as a single Mom, working, paying bills alone and trying to keep a small fortress alive for a small girl, but you did it better than anyone.

I remember waking up to this song, and listening to it on repeat.  I hope that you know that my life as a wee one holds some of the best memories in my small life.  I remember dancing along the floors, in new ballet shoes, pink and perfect.  I remember eating Happy Meals, with Doggie and having not one single care in the world.  I remember looking at your hutch, trying to discern which tea cups would encourage the presence of fairies and which ones you might not miss, in the event that I was brave enough to steal one.  I remember climbing the steps to our little apartment, holding your hand and thinking you were all there was in the whole world.

But mostly, I remember being happy!

You did it, Mama- and then you gave me the best present ever, when you married Papi, even though he let me wear my pretty new ballet shoes outside :)

Thank you for always supporting me and pushing me.  I will never be as calm as you.  I will never be quite as wise as you, and I will never forgive as easily as you do.  I wish that someday I can claim some of your grace, though.

Like Gordon says, "you bring out all the good things in me."  Thank you for never giving up on me and for being a rock always.

You were tough.  You were strict.  You were determined.  You pushed and you ripped me up off the ground, told me to scrape off my knees and keep walking when I needed it.  You were like that with a lot of us, and it paid off for you...my friends looked to you and Papi as their own at times and that is something I will never forget.

Thank you for being there for me with Chad.  I will never forget that handsome boy next to you, clamored in black leather, spikes and a pink or was it green mohawk.  And when he cried, you held his hand and at that moment, I was so proud that YOU were MY Mom, that you could look past all the ways in which his exterior was different than you own.  Thank you for being there for a strange boy who needed you at that moment.  We miss him deeply.  Thank you for telling me to talk to Chad even when we lost him.  I still do and I believe that he listens to me :)

Thank you for loving Bosie, even though you're allergic to him <3.

Thank you, Mama for everything.  You are my hero.  I will never stop looking up to you and someday I will find a space to find your secret concoction for staying cool as a cucumber under the pressure life brings.

You have been the best role model a girl could ask for.

Happy Birthday, Mama.

The Luxury Of Dreaming

Most of the time I fear that people reading my blog will think me a silly little fool, thoughtless when it comes to the real and tangible facets of a live lived.  The problem, as I see it, revolves around the fact that most of my thoughts, at least the ones I divulge, are based mainly on some other hinted life.  Some life which exists under the covers of this harder, more difficult life.  The life which requires that we pay taxes, panic at Christmas, lose jobs, find ourselves unable to pay mortgages, or car loans.  The live which reveals that the sex trade is a very real atrocity and a high dollar business- someone's making a lot of money from human trafficing.  It's the same life that requires us to realize that children are starving to death and women remained shunned, disrespected and brutally wounded.

Reading the news isn't something I enjoy anymore than I enjoy going to the dentist- but I do it.  I don't read the news, in hopes that I may become that much wiser, or prepared for what's to come next.  I read the news because I feel I owe it to people and a people whose stories need to be told, divulged and unraveled so that I can better appreciate the simple space in which I live and breath.

My life is simple compared to many.  It's far more complicated and challenging compared to others.  I suppose it's all how you see it, where you stand and from what viewpoint you're looking, waiting and watching.

Life is a mess.   And life is beautiful.

There's a certain guilt I gravitate towards when someone else's tragedy unfolds before me...but then, if Donald Trump were to hitch a ride in my car, or step foot in my own house, he'd probably assume my little life a tragedy and he might go so far as to pity me...dare I give him that much credit.  He would not feel pity, but might better recognize his own wealth.  He might better understand the ease of his financial state should he watch me panic while I maneuver through my stack of bills, some months deciding who's late fee I am better afforded.

The point is, life's remiss and I get that.

There's some tinge of guilt I fear when I write about things as silly as mermaids and quiet Irishmen who troll seedy bars, seeking quiet and solitude.  It's my escape.

But is it my escape and my freedom to dream, simply because I can afford the time to do so?  Or is it because it's an innate mechanism, triggered by even the slightest change in the wind, or the view of some place before me?

I got a FACEBOOK message today in response to a blog entry I'd posted and it read:

"I read your blog.  I don't get it, but it must be nice to have that kind of time to waste on all that dreaming  you do."

I wasn't offended, at first.   I was sad, and ashamed of the luxurious time I possess which certainly allows me the space to dream, read and write.

And then I got pissed off...in true Brett Fashion.

I didn't respond to the message, but I will.

The point, I suppose, I am trying to make is that I "make time to dream."  It's a luxury I can afford because I have created a space in my life which will not override who I am and what I seek in life.  It is that space in which I pour through myths, legends and stories of magic because it does something for me, in the same way that a 90 minute yoga class refreshes my Simpatico Sister, Ronda.

We all have to make time for something, whether it's our (ok your) kids, our pets, knitting, D&D, fitness or fashion.

It's an eye opener to have been called out on the time I spend on reading and writing.  And really, it's a funny one- I can think of a lot worse things I could do with my time, and better things too.

In the end, as a wise man once told me "No one owns you but you."

I have created, for myself, a life which allows me the luxury to dream, and while I have that time, I make the most of it.  Maybe I do it for people who cannot afford the luxury.  Maybe I do it because it's the way I cope with things.

Whatever way you slice it, it doesn't mean I have forgotten that tragedy strikes some of more harshly than others.

Day 17: What feels like home?

I like this one...

Home feels like a full belly, a hug from my Dad and a "you go girl," from my Mom.  Home feels like the foggy, craggy coast of Half Moon Bay.  Home feels like a room filled with my favorite people, wine, stories, laughter and the sense that everything is as it always was.

Home feels like the peace of sitting in a dimly-lit room, with a good book in-hand.  Home feels like the warmth of a hot bath.

Home feels life the peace and quiet of a meadow in some forgotten place, found only in a book.

Home feels like the chaos of family and the laughter we share.

In my mind, I imagine the ground of Ireland feeling like home.

Surrounding myself with myths, legends, stories of King Arthur, dragons and magic feels like home.  I am a dreamer, so in my dreams, I come to find some sense of home.

Home feels like the Southern hospitality and my Granny Ma's 10 course meals.

Home feels like a song that takes me to some other place outside of myself.

Home feels like the heat of strong coffee and a butter-laden croissant.

Home feels like the mornings I spent outside of Paris, among great fields,beside an ancient farmhouse and gardens bursting with pink, gold and lavender.  Home feels like the space of utter peace and solitude.

Home feels like security.

Home feels like the greeting my cat gives me, each night I arrive home to my tiny castle.

Home feels like precious time spent with friends.

Home feels like the presence of those gone from the tangible world, but here beside me, somehow, none-the-less.

Writing this blog, and conquering it feels like home....

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Day 16: Choose a song on your ipod- why did you include it?

"Fisherman Blues" by the Waterboys

This is one of the most romantic songs- ever.  It makes me happy, it makes me smile with a huge grin plastered all about my mug.  It brings back fond memories of Chad, wishing we had had enough time together to have listened to this song together- Chad, I know that you are with me when II play this- I send it to you with everything I have.

This song brings me to heavily wooded passages, and fairy rings about me.  I t brings me to darkly lit bars, on the craggy coast of some ocean, filled with a simple people whose lives are bound by myth, stories of legend and  mermaids.

This song inspires me to dream, love, write and wish.  It gets me to the gym-it's my closer song, getting me to the end of a workout.

This song reminds me of home, eating fish and chips at Ketch, and swigging beers, watching old men from the sea stroll through to the bar....

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