Today we're reducing our carbon footprint, helping the sluggish economy, and preparing for the future -- all in one action: we're replacing our heating and air conditioning system with a heat pump "duel fuel" system. The new furnace will have more than twice the energy efficiency as the 22-year old one it replaces. Best of all, because of the heat pump, the furnace won't even click on until the outside air gets down to 30 degrees or so.
I'm excited!
Yes, I tell my friends, we may never get the "payback" in terms of dollars. But we're getting a huge payback in knowing that I'm helping the environment, energy and the economy. Far more than the survival of my individual dollars, this action promotes the survival of all of us for future generations.
I think that's a pretty good investment - a far better one than watching our non-interest-earning dollars molder in a money market account.
If you want to join me, NOW is the time. You can get up to a $1500 tax credit for putting in a more energy efficient heating and cooling system, plus you'll get a rebate from your local utility company.
But most of all, you can join those who know that NOW is the time to do all we can to mitigate the effects of carbon emissions and climate change.
Happy (slightly belated) Earth Day!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
An Evening with Sandra Cisneros
Tonight I sat among several hundred Latinos, Chicanos, Hispanics of every designation, African-Americans and us just plain white folks to listen to Sandra Cisneros, who came to Kansas City to celebrate the 25th year of The House on Mango Street, her award-winning book that began her professional writing career. Here's what I learned:
1. She has a great heart.
2. Family is important to her, but independence and human rights are even more important. (She defined feminism as respect for equality and human rights for ALL, including gays, children, women, etc.)
3. To prepare for her writing day, she meditates and asks the universe for two things: (1) humility (because the ego gets in the way) and (2) courage, especially the courage to listen for and receive guidance from her highest self, her truest self.
She went on to describe her life as a writer. She listed several pieces of advice on "how to become a writer" and most were pretty typical, but some were surprising. She advised would-be writers to defer marriage and defer parenthood, but not to defer getting a good education to be employable - to have a "day job" while honing writing skills. She also said, "you need to become a human being. Ask for teachers to come and guide you, and they will appear."
If I were Latino, I would be very proud that she represented my ethnicity. I'm not Latino, but I AM a woman, and I felt proud that she represented my gender so well, insisting that we need to in her very words "be in control of our fertility and our sexuality" so that we don't live a life determined by biological drives. I thought "what courage it takes to speak to one's audience in those terms" knowing that many will disagree with that. Many will insist, still, that a woman's first duty is not to herself but to her reproductive role, and that is even more true of women of most non-white ethnic persuasions.
Sandra Cisneros inspired me both as a writer and as a woman. And, perhaps most of all, as a human being, here to do good, she says, in whatever small ways we can (she "collects" stray dogs, has them neutered and pays for their shots).
1. She has a great heart.
2. Family is important to her, but independence and human rights are even more important. (She defined feminism as respect for equality and human rights for ALL, including gays, children, women, etc.)
3. To prepare for her writing day, she meditates and asks the universe for two things: (1) humility (because the ego gets in the way) and (2) courage, especially the courage to listen for and receive guidance from her highest self, her truest self.
She went on to describe her life as a writer. She listed several pieces of advice on "how to become a writer" and most were pretty typical, but some were surprising. She advised would-be writers to defer marriage and defer parenthood, but not to defer getting a good education to be employable - to have a "day job" while honing writing skills. She also said, "you need to become a human being. Ask for teachers to come and guide you, and they will appear."
If I were Latino, I would be very proud that she represented my ethnicity. I'm not Latino, but I AM a woman, and I felt proud that she represented my gender so well, insisting that we need to in her very words "be in control of our fertility and our sexuality" so that we don't live a life determined by biological drives. I thought "what courage it takes to speak to one's audience in those terms" knowing that many will disagree with that. Many will insist, still, that a woman's first duty is not to herself but to her reproductive role, and that is even more true of women of most non-white ethnic persuasions.
Sandra Cisneros inspired me both as a writer and as a woman. And, perhaps most of all, as a human being, here to do good, she says, in whatever small ways we can (she "collects" stray dogs, has them neutered and pays for their shots).
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Rituals
I was reminded of the timelessness of rituals this week when I watched a group of Tibetan monks ritually create a sand mandala, then "de-create" it. All according to instructions from the Buddha himself, passed down through unbroken lineages. In typical American fashion, I had sandwiched in this ritual between other "errands" for the day. As the monks' ceremony went on, I realized I wouldn't make my previous schedule.
I had a clear choice: to leave and cram in everything I "needed" to do, or to stay and sink into the rhythm of this ancient ritual. Never have I been so aware of how rapidly time has shifted for western civilization. And of how great a toll it takes. I stayed.
Once I made the choice to be there, I allowed myself to enter fully those rhythms from another time. I saw how easy it was for them to sweep up the contents of an entire week's work and calmly put the contents in bags to distribute "sand blessings" to those who watched. Nothing was lost, only reconfigured. Nothing destroyed, only changed. And so it will be with our era too.
I had a clear choice: to leave and cram in everything I "needed" to do, or to stay and sink into the rhythm of this ancient ritual. Never have I been so aware of how rapidly time has shifted for western civilization. And of how great a toll it takes. I stayed.
Once I made the choice to be there, I allowed myself to enter fully those rhythms from another time. I saw how easy it was for them to sweep up the contents of an entire week's work and calmly put the contents in bags to distribute "sand blessings" to those who watched. Nothing was lost, only reconfigured. Nothing destroyed, only changed. And so it will be with our era too.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Yesterday
Yesterday - January 20. 2009 -- was, for me, tomorrow. The tomorrow I've waited for, for at least 8 years. No, for much longer -- for more like sixty years. My childhood memories of racism and segregation go back at least that far, my tangled, tortured, treasured trunkfuls of memories. Snapshots, really.
Snap: I'm with Eula Mae and she's ironing my clothes and singing. She drinks water from the special glass we keep for her in our cupboard.
Snap: I'm with my father as he snatches my doll away from a 5 year old black girl. She and I, oblivious to skin tone differences, had been happily playing together while he sold toys to her mother.
Snap: My father patiently explains why we don't allow "colored folks" to go to the same schools, the same churches, the same retaurants. "It's simple," he says. "There's chocolate ice cream and there's vanilla. They're separate. That's all."
Snap: My friend and I are sitting at the back of a New Orleans bus in solidarity with the bus boycotts. As we get up to leave, the white people who stand rather than sit in the back (the black people have filled the front seats, although it's still technically illegal) throw glares of hatred at us. One man spits at me. His spittle mingles with my own tears: tears of defiance, tears of fright, tears of injustice.
And yesterday: let justice roll down like waters keeps humming through my heart.
And I cry again as I sing with Aretha: "My country 'tis of thee...." MY country has finally done the right thing.
Snap: I'm with Eula Mae and she's ironing my clothes and singing. She drinks water from the special glass we keep for her in our cupboard.
Snap: I'm with my father as he snatches my doll away from a 5 year old black girl. She and I, oblivious to skin tone differences, had been happily playing together while he sold toys to her mother.
Snap: My father patiently explains why we don't allow "colored folks" to go to the same schools, the same churches, the same retaurants. "It's simple," he says. "There's chocolate ice cream and there's vanilla. They're separate. That's all."
Snap: My friend and I are sitting at the back of a New Orleans bus in solidarity with the bus boycotts. As we get up to leave, the white people who stand rather than sit in the back (the black people have filled the front seats, although it's still technically illegal) throw glares of hatred at us. One man spits at me. His spittle mingles with my own tears: tears of defiance, tears of fright, tears of injustice.
And yesterday: let justice roll down like waters keeps humming through my heart.
And I cry again as I sing with Aretha: "My country 'tis of thee...." MY country has finally done the right thing.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
A New Year
Yesterday was full of talk about the coming year, and a little reflection about the one dragging its feet before it completely disappeared into the past.
At my writers' group we all talked about our past writing goals, which ones had been met - or surpassed - and which had languished unfulfilled. Some of my writer friends felt frustrated or even guilty that not all their goals had been met. It seems that there's always this tension between setting goals in the first place and then facing the consequences of not accomplishing all of them - versus not setting any in the first place. Or setting vague, ambiguous goals: "submit short stories" or "write more often" - versus specific ones: "submit four short stories by October 2009 or "write 15 minutes every day."
To me it's all a wonderful game, something to do with life that keeps it interesting. but please -- no guilt! no frustration! and no regrets for something not achieved. In all likelihood, something else just as wonderful came along and took its place.
Setting no goals at all is, in my view, a poverty of the imagination. Or maybe just being chicken about the whole thing. Last year I had only one goal: let it unfold. Maybe that was a poverty of the imagination too. A lot did unfold, and I met most of it with equanimity. This year I'm being more specific. This is year 66 - it seems to demand a specificity to define what its journey will be. Route 66 leaps to the mind. Also the year 1066 AD: the Battle of Hastings?
I'll write more on the poverty of imagination later. It's one of the more important aspects of poverty.
Last night, though, there was a wealth of imagination as all spoke of what had been good about the old year, and what we thought lay ahead. Almost all of us reported many good things, and all but one of us saw that what happened to the economy -- the American economy, at least - as ultimately a "good thing." We had no problem with letting go of the values around easy money, rampant consumerism, greed for more, bigger and better. We agreed that what might take its place would be a sturdier framework that would allow for a greater sense of community, interdependence, interconnectedness.
One woman had spent 18 months living and working in Ethiopia. She talked of how Ethiopians did not close the door to their homes, and welcomed neighbors dropping in. And of how she never got comfortable with the custom, kept her door locked. That didn't, however, prevent her Ethiopian friends from opening cabinet and pantry doors when they were invited to her house -- also unsettling until she learned that it was their way of checking to make sure she had what she needed. What was almost unforgivable nosiness in one culture became an act of kindness in another.
Maybe if we all spent time here in America learning one another's hidden assumptions, expectations, values -- and then checking to make sure we each had what we needed -- we could come to a different sense of community.
Things I want to do more of in 2009: Listen. Watch. Sit in silence. Create inner space. Look for ways to create community. Those are not goals, nor even desires, simply an honoring of what arises in the moment.
At my writers' group we all talked about our past writing goals, which ones had been met - or surpassed - and which had languished unfulfilled. Some of my writer friends felt frustrated or even guilty that not all their goals had been met. It seems that there's always this tension between setting goals in the first place and then facing the consequences of not accomplishing all of them - versus not setting any in the first place. Or setting vague, ambiguous goals: "submit short stories" or "write more often" - versus specific ones: "submit four short stories by October 2009 or "write 15 minutes every day."
To me it's all a wonderful game, something to do with life that keeps it interesting. but please -- no guilt! no frustration! and no regrets for something not achieved. In all likelihood, something else just as wonderful came along and took its place.
Setting no goals at all is, in my view, a poverty of the imagination. Or maybe just being chicken about the whole thing. Last year I had only one goal: let it unfold. Maybe that was a poverty of the imagination too. A lot did unfold, and I met most of it with equanimity. This year I'm being more specific. This is year 66 - it seems to demand a specificity to define what its journey will be. Route 66 leaps to the mind. Also the year 1066 AD: the Battle of Hastings?
I'll write more on the poverty of imagination later. It's one of the more important aspects of poverty.
Last night, though, there was a wealth of imagination as all spoke of what had been good about the old year, and what we thought lay ahead. Almost all of us reported many good things, and all but one of us saw that what happened to the economy -- the American economy, at least - as ultimately a "good thing." We had no problem with letting go of the values around easy money, rampant consumerism, greed for more, bigger and better. We agreed that what might take its place would be a sturdier framework that would allow for a greater sense of community, interdependence, interconnectedness.
One woman had spent 18 months living and working in Ethiopia. She talked of how Ethiopians did not close the door to their homes, and welcomed neighbors dropping in. And of how she never got comfortable with the custom, kept her door locked. That didn't, however, prevent her Ethiopian friends from opening cabinet and pantry doors when they were invited to her house -- also unsettling until she learned that it was their way of checking to make sure she had what she needed. What was almost unforgivable nosiness in one culture became an act of kindness in another.
Maybe if we all spent time here in America learning one another's hidden assumptions, expectations, values -- and then checking to make sure we each had what we needed -- we could come to a different sense of community.
Things I want to do more of in 2009: Listen. Watch. Sit in silence. Create inner space. Look for ways to create community. Those are not goals, nor even desires, simply an honoring of what arises in the moment.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
A Little Time for Gratitude
There's nothing like counting blessings to erase any lingering feeling of lack. Notice I said "feeling of lack" since I'm not anywhere near those unfortunate ones who actually experience material lack.
Take last night, for example. We met old friends for dinner in one of our favorite towns, Lawrence, KS, home of the Jayhawks, a fabulous basketball team, and a full-of-surprises football team. My alma mater. But beyond that, this little city is full of sparkle, full of a determined "can-do" spirit, with a decidedly liberal bent.
The friends we met were of that bent too. They showed off their new Hybrid Camry and talked about their recent trips to Latvia, Paris and Machu Picchu. I showed off my new winter boots (not Uggs but just as warm) and we talked about how the world could change for the better now that Obama is poised to take the helm.
We ate at a moderately priced restaurant in the heart of the city, and by 6:30 it was full. No poverty to be found here, nor, indeed, anywhere among my friends. We are all solidly middle class and most of us are entrepreneurial enough to be independent of worry about jobs. Of course the flip side is that we don't have (and never did have) corporate health insurance or 401(k) plans. Bailouts bring no great reprieve since we have no mortgages to worry about and are debt free. Watching old movies on TV brings as much joy as seeing the latest one, but it's still nice to have the funds to do both.
Most of all, I'm grateful for the people who love me and who I love, those whom the Beatles wrote about long ago: "I get by with a little help from my friends."
Take last night, for example. We met old friends for dinner in one of our favorite towns, Lawrence, KS, home of the Jayhawks, a fabulous basketball team, and a full-of-surprises football team. My alma mater. But beyond that, this little city is full of sparkle, full of a determined "can-do" spirit, with a decidedly liberal bent.
The friends we met were of that bent too. They showed off their new Hybrid Camry and talked about their recent trips to Latvia, Paris and Machu Picchu. I showed off my new winter boots (not Uggs but just as warm) and we talked about how the world could change for the better now that Obama is poised to take the helm.
We ate at a moderately priced restaurant in the heart of the city, and by 6:30 it was full. No poverty to be found here, nor, indeed, anywhere among my friends. We are all solidly middle class and most of us are entrepreneurial enough to be independent of worry about jobs. Of course the flip side is that we don't have (and never did have) corporate health insurance or 401(k) plans. Bailouts bring no great reprieve since we have no mortgages to worry about and are debt free. Watching old movies on TV brings as much joy as seeing the latest one, but it's still nice to have the funds to do both.
Most of all, I'm grateful for the people who love me and who I love, those whom the Beatles wrote about long ago: "I get by with a little help from my friends."
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Another Thanksgiving
So how was it? Did it disappoint you? Surprise you? Live up to your expectations? Did you tell yourself you had no expectations as a way of getting ready for whatever came up? And how did that go? Was it what you had in mind all along?
Funny about these holiday gatherings. There are those of us who are fortunate enough to have family with us that we enjoy being with (count me among them!) and then there are those whose families are broken, dysfunctional, or just plain absent. Sometimes Thanksgiving leaves us with a bigger hole in the heart than before.
When I was a child, we had many family gatherings, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas. My favorite memories were of all of us gathered around the piano singing with gusto while Mother's tumbling notes tried to keep up and often failed. It didn't matter. We were family and we were where we belonged.
Sometimes Dad accompanied her on his trombone, using his old felt hat for a mute. I loved hearing him play "Sugar Blues" and imagined myself - then a child of 8, 9, 10, 11 - sitting in a smoky nightclub listening to jazz greats like Louis Armstrong.
The mystique of music was our holiday mainstay. On Christmas Eve we gathered again around the piano to sing familiar carols from the old Cokesbury Hymnal. "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "O Come All Ye Faithful," one of my favorites because Dad and Granddad always sang the bass notes. Then came "O Holy Night," another favorite, with Aunt Iva Jeanne's beautiful soprano sending the rest of us to hushed tones of accompaniment. We all came back to belt out "Joy to the World" and ended with a peaceful "Silent Night."
Altogether we probably spent less than half an hour around the piano, but it was always the highlight of the evening. Afterward, the adults would drift back to their eggnog and conversations, we children having nothing to look forward to now but the impossible task of getting to sleep so that morning would come and we could open the gifts we had poked, pinched and shaken. We were too old to believe in Santa anymore, so our gifts now were all wrapped, but the excitement was still there. And though I don't recall a single gift I received in those late elementary school years, I recall going to bed with my stomach in a knot of anticipation.
But back to Thanksgiving - although we didn't have gifts, it was a time of great thanks, feelings of glowing well-being. That same knot of anticipation was there before dinner, knowing the feast that awaited us would be delicious, sweet, sugary.
This year, I felt the old magic again. My sister and her husband drove in from Memphis and we spent the day before Thanksgiving buying fresh vegetables, assembling ingredients and making two fresh Karo pecan pies - the pecans coming from my nephew's back yard - and doing what we used to do. Except, of course, that we had no piano to gather around, no mother to play for us, no gravelly bass voices to fill the air. Someday we may play the old cassette tapes we made, and see if we can make out the individual voices.
For now, it was enough to be surrounded by family and by people of good will - 22 of us in all - as we circled the table, said a prayer, filled our plates. Enough? More than enough -- overflowing.
Funny about these holiday gatherings. There are those of us who are fortunate enough to have family with us that we enjoy being with (count me among them!) and then there are those whose families are broken, dysfunctional, or just plain absent. Sometimes Thanksgiving leaves us with a bigger hole in the heart than before.
When I was a child, we had many family gatherings, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas. My favorite memories were of all of us gathered around the piano singing with gusto while Mother's tumbling notes tried to keep up and often failed. It didn't matter. We were family and we were where we belonged.
Sometimes Dad accompanied her on his trombone, using his old felt hat for a mute. I loved hearing him play "Sugar Blues" and imagined myself - then a child of 8, 9, 10, 11 - sitting in a smoky nightclub listening to jazz greats like Louis Armstrong.
The mystique of music was our holiday mainstay. On Christmas Eve we gathered again around the piano to sing familiar carols from the old Cokesbury Hymnal. "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "O Come All Ye Faithful," one of my favorites because Dad and Granddad always sang the bass notes. Then came "O Holy Night," another favorite, with Aunt Iva Jeanne's beautiful soprano sending the rest of us to hushed tones of accompaniment. We all came back to belt out "Joy to the World" and ended with a peaceful "Silent Night."
Altogether we probably spent less than half an hour around the piano, but it was always the highlight of the evening. Afterward, the adults would drift back to their eggnog and conversations, we children having nothing to look forward to now but the impossible task of getting to sleep so that morning would come and we could open the gifts we had poked, pinched and shaken. We were too old to believe in Santa anymore, so our gifts now were all wrapped, but the excitement was still there. And though I don't recall a single gift I received in those late elementary school years, I recall going to bed with my stomach in a knot of anticipation.
But back to Thanksgiving - although we didn't have gifts, it was a time of great thanks, feelings of glowing well-being. That same knot of anticipation was there before dinner, knowing the feast that awaited us would be delicious, sweet, sugary.
This year, I felt the old magic again. My sister and her husband drove in from Memphis and we spent the day before Thanksgiving buying fresh vegetables, assembling ingredients and making two fresh Karo pecan pies - the pecans coming from my nephew's back yard - and doing what we used to do. Except, of course, that we had no piano to gather around, no mother to play for us, no gravelly bass voices to fill the air. Someday we may play the old cassette tapes we made, and see if we can make out the individual voices.
For now, it was enough to be surrounded by family and by people of good will - 22 of us in all - as we circled the table, said a prayer, filled our plates. Enough? More than enough -- overflowing.
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