This Moment: December 5, 2010 - 7:50 A.M.
The trees have shrugged off their shroud Victorian morning mist. Geese are calling overhead on their way to the fields, their raucous calls comfort against the coming storm.
This Moment: December 4, 2010 - 7:08 A.M.
I awoke to a multitude of sirens and the thought that I must have left the television on all night. No. The sirens come from the shopping district not far from my home. It is the annual Policman's Charity event at the local Walmart. The cacophony began at seven and has now ceased. Cars break the silence buzzing up and down the street. Traffic is unusual for a Saturday morning, but not when there are only twenty shopping days left. The trees outside my window are dull, but not yet completely barren in the early light. My dog is perched at the end of the bed, hunting the cars that pass before the house. He pounces on his hind leg and chews an imagined enemy. Abbreviated patches of snow mingle with leaves on the still green lawn. More cars, a train, and then a plane. It appears the world is awake and desperatley trying to reach its destination, somewhere, somewhere far away. I too, think that my life, my real life, is somewhere out there waiting for me to claim it, and that when I emerge through the milky clouds and land on the solid ground of foreign soil, my life will step forward, embrace me, and say "Welcome. You are home."
Poem Therapy at 1:36 P.M.: December 3, 2010 - Steven Schneider
Chanukah Lights Tonight
Steven Schneider
Our annual prairie Chanukah party—
latkes, kugel, cherry blintzes.
Friends arrive from nearby towns
and dance the twist to “Chanukah Lights Tonight,”
spin like a dreidel to a klezmer hit.
The candles flicker in the window.
Outside, ponderosa pines are tied in red bows.
If you squint,
the neighbors’ Christmas lights
look like the Omaha skyline.
The smell of oil is in the air.
We drift off to childhood
where we spent our gelt
on baseball cards and matinees,
cream sodas and potato knishes.
No delis in our neighborhood,
only the wind howling over the crushed corn stalks.
Inside, we try to sweep the darkness out,
waiting for the Messiah to knock,
wanting to know if he can join the party.
Last night while watching Bravo's Watch What Happens with Andy Cohen, the host wished his audience Happy Chanukah/Hannukah and gave away gifts baskets of games.
First off, let's just get this out of the way:
Hi, my Name is Danna and I'm a Real Housewive addict.
I admit that I am obsessed with The Real Housewives series and watch every single lurid episode and talk about these women and their problems as if they are girlfriends I speak to every night. It's a little embarrassing. A lot embarrassing, but I love/loathe/admire/detest these women. I don't know that I'd really want to know them, but I'd like to sit at a table next to them in whatever restaurant they are dining, and eavesdrop. Oh yes!
I suppose this is exactly what the series provides: a type of cultural anthropology project, a window into the private lives of women and their families. I can't imagine allowing a film crew to follow me and my family around.
I was one of those TV viewers that expressed disdain for this type of programming, made fun of people who watched it, but honestly, after watching one episode, you know the one, where New Jersey housewife Teresa flipped a table in a restaurant, well, I was hooked. I mean, who does that sort of thing and then justifies it, then claims her husband thought it was "hot" and that she is "classy"? So far, my favorite housewives are from the Beverly Hills series. Although it may be an oxymoron since they're the most botoxed, they seem real, less staged.
Back to the original poem-related point: I love the contrast of the sacred and profane, that of guests doing the twist to Chanukah Lights, and waiting for the Messiah to knock while looking out over a dark Mid-western landscape. What makes this poem powerful for me is that each of us find a way to express our beliefs, regardless of circumstance.
I think the contrast of the sacred to the profane speaks to the deepest core of my aesthetic. I love cathedrals, synagogues, mosques, sweat lodges, sacred rock formations, pilgrimage sites, any site that is sacred, but I can't love the religion. I'll sit in a cathedral and weep listening to altar boys sing in Latin, but ask me to accept a wafer as the body of Christ, forget it. The same goes for any sacrament that asks me to accept a messiah, a savior, prophet.
I love religious iconography and collect it, but only Christian and some Buddhist, and then to a point. I have a huge collection of crosses, but not a single rosary or crucifix. That crosses a line. Crosses predate Christianity. Actually, the majority of the basic tenets of Christianity predate the religion.
I've cobbled together my own belief system which relies very heavily on myth. It's the closest I've ever come to joining anything. Parallel myths are fascinating, and for me, have been like crumbs left in the forest, that if you look very closely, the moonlight will illuminate the way home.
Yes, I have gone on a rambling excursion in this post. What's my point? Whatever warms you, helps you to feel like you are welcome at the table, happy, happy holidays to you.
Sincerely.
Steven Schneider
Our annual prairie Chanukah party—
latkes, kugel, cherry blintzes.
Friends arrive from nearby towns
and dance the twist to “Chanukah Lights Tonight,”
spin like a dreidel to a klezmer hit.
The candles flicker in the window.
Outside, ponderosa pines are tied in red bows.
If you squint,
the neighbors’ Christmas lights
look like the Omaha skyline.
The smell of oil is in the air.
We drift off to childhood
where we spent our gelt
on baseball cards and matinees,
cream sodas and potato knishes.
No delis in our neighborhood,
only the wind howling over the crushed corn stalks.
Inside, we try to sweep the darkness out,
waiting for the Messiah to knock,
wanting to know if he can join the party.
Last night while watching Bravo's Watch What Happens with Andy Cohen, the host wished his audience Happy Chanukah/Hannukah and gave away gifts baskets of games.
First off, let's just get this out of the way:
Hi, my Name is Danna and I'm a Real Housewive addict.
I admit that I am obsessed with The Real Housewives series and watch every single lurid episode and talk about these women and their problems as if they are girlfriends I speak to every night. It's a little embarrassing. A lot embarrassing, but I love/loathe/admire/detest these women. I don't know that I'd really want to know them, but I'd like to sit at a table next to them in whatever restaurant they are dining, and eavesdrop. Oh yes!
I suppose this is exactly what the series provides: a type of cultural anthropology project, a window into the private lives of women and their families. I can't imagine allowing a film crew to follow me and my family around.
I was one of those TV viewers that expressed disdain for this type of programming, made fun of people who watched it, but honestly, after watching one episode, you know the one, where New Jersey housewife Teresa flipped a table in a restaurant, well, I was hooked. I mean, who does that sort of thing and then justifies it, then claims her husband thought it was "hot" and that she is "classy"? So far, my favorite housewives are from the Beverly Hills series. Although it may be an oxymoron since they're the most botoxed, they seem real, less staged.
Back to the original poem-related point: I love the contrast of the sacred and profane, that of guests doing the twist to Chanukah Lights, and waiting for the Messiah to knock while looking out over a dark Mid-western landscape. What makes this poem powerful for me is that each of us find a way to express our beliefs, regardless of circumstance.
I think the contrast of the sacred to the profane speaks to the deepest core of my aesthetic. I love cathedrals, synagogues, mosques, sweat lodges, sacred rock formations, pilgrimage sites, any site that is sacred, but I can't love the religion. I'll sit in a cathedral and weep listening to altar boys sing in Latin, but ask me to accept a wafer as the body of Christ, forget it. The same goes for any sacrament that asks me to accept a messiah, a savior, prophet.
I love religious iconography and collect it, but only Christian and some Buddhist, and then to a point. I have a huge collection of crosses, but not a single rosary or crucifix. That crosses a line. Crosses predate Christianity. Actually, the majority of the basic tenets of Christianity predate the religion.
I've cobbled together my own belief system which relies very heavily on myth. It's the closest I've ever come to joining anything. Parallel myths are fascinating, and for me, have been like crumbs left in the forest, that if you look very closely, the moonlight will illuminate the way home.
Yes, I have gone on a rambling excursion in this post. What's my point? Whatever warms you, helps you to feel like you are welcome at the table, happy, happy holidays to you.
Sincerely.
The Coffee Project: November 30-December 2
December 2, 2010.
December 1, 2010.
November 30, 2010.
Finger exercises.
I Heart Coffee
Coffee No.3 - Loris Word lorisworld.etsy.comTis the season for hot beverages! All recipes from Robin's FYI Coffee Recipies
Mexican Mocha (hot) 4 servings
1 1/2 cups strong coffee
4 teaspoons chocolate syrup
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 cup whipping cream
Put 1 teaspoon of chocolate syrup into each cup
Mix Whipping cream, 1/4 teaspoon of the cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar.
Whip until you have soft peaks
Place the last 1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon into coffee, and stir
Pour coffee into cups, stir to mix in chocolate syrup
Top with whipped cream mixture.
Cafe Borgia (hot) 4 servings
2 cups strong Italian coffee
2 cups hot chocolate
whipped cream
grated orange peel (garnish)
Mix coffee and hot chocolate
Pour into mugs
Top with whipped cream and orange peel
Turkish (hot) 4 servings
1 1/2 cups cold water
4 teaspoons dark roast coffee (ground very fine)
4 teaspoons sugar
Heat water in saucepan, add coffee and sugar when warm
Bring to boil
Pour half of the coffee into demitasse cups.
Return remaining coffee to stove, and allow to return to boil.
Spoon off foam, and gently place into each cup (don't stir)
Irish (hot) 2 servings
2 cups strong coffee
2 tablespoons orange juice
2 teaspoons lemon juice
whipped cream
Mix coffee, orange juice and lemon juice
Pour into Irish whiskey glass
Top with whipped cream
An American Thanksgiving with Good Friends
Danna & Avital. Upstairs hallway/book wall(one of my collections of books).
Danna, Curt hiding, Avital, Pablo.
Curt, Danna, Avital & Hagel sculpture w Santa hat. 
Curt, Danna, Avital, Pablo.
Park City.
Pablo, Amaris, Avital.Avital and I have been online friends for at least eight years, but I finally met her (and her fabulous husband Pablo),in real time last week. It was so much fun getting to know them in person and having the opportunity to share my family, one purely American holiday (of thanksgiving & gluttony), and my little corner of the world with them!
Their arrival also ushered in the beginning of winter, which is a beautiful season all across the state.
Although some believe that people who are destined to be friends will meet over a course of a lifetime, thank the gods for the Internet and Zoetrope, because otherwise, I have no idea how we would have ever met each other since they hail from Brazil and I from Utah (perhaps it is possible we would have met on vacation or at a writer's conference).
Avital is a talented and much published writer, and Pablo is an emerging glass artist. (I'll have to come back in later and provide links).
As per usual, I forgot to take one photo, but luckily they sent these.
The Owl That Came to Visit
La Chouette - Irina http://bellegalleries.blogspot.com/
Emily and the Owl - Dilka Bear dilkabear.etsy.com Trieste, ItalyThe other night my daughter and I were heading out to our favorite local Thai restaurant when we pulled around the drive and saw a large avian shape perched on the highest branch of my honey locust tree, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
My daughter was certain it was a huge clump of leaves that hadn't dropped yet. I was certain it was a hawk, or an eagle. We walked very slowly through the fallow hay field, careful not to spook it. It would not be spooked. We walked right up under the tree and strained our necks looking at a Great Horned Owl.
Almost the entire month of November I've been in an emotional tempest wrestling with a thorny question/issue that just would not be ignored, until I finally faced it head on and did serious battle. Well, my version of serious battle. Nothing Athena-like.
I have a bit of a superstitious bone and tend to see meaning in things like owls appearing in trees, especially if it's my tree and I've never, ever, seen this particular genus of owl before on the property. What I'm saying, is that the owl's arrival came at the perfect time, right when I was riding the crest of emotion,and seeing it, how unflappable and unafraid it was that evening, confirmed that my decision was the correct course, however uncomfortable and painful, to take for this time and this particular situation.
I like to think the Athena's totem, her power animal, the owl settled in my tree to lend me its wisdom and vision to see clearly through the darkness.
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