Our old Buckeye tree

One of the smaller Japanese maples,bordering the pathway up to the house.

One of the first things I noticed when returning to my house after a year away were the unusually bare branches on a large Japanese maple tree in the front yard. On further inspection, it looked like the leaves were all wilted. Later, I discovered that the other slightly smaller maple was also showing signs of stress. A third maple tree, small and unique because its produces delicate pink leaves instead of red, also seemed to be losing it leaves unusually early.

I knew right away something was wrong with the big maple. I found myself in a state of mourning for this tree, which a previous owner had planted and we had watched grow into a big and showy drama, almost self-conscious in its prime placement and bright red leaves. At one point we had considered adding a garage next to the house near this tree but I balked when I got the price quote–and when I learned I would have to take out this maple tree to create access to the garage.

I asked different people what could have happened with this tree and the others. Some thought maybe they had gotten too much water. Another friend thought they might have a disease common to maple trees and spread the disease to each other through their root system. Finally, I called a plant pathologist, thinking that if they had a disease, it might be reversible. A woman showed up one morning with a spade and small saw in one hand and a bag for collecting the samples in another. She sawed off part of the trunk of each tree and took it back to her laboratory. She conjectured, however, that the maples were simply stressed. They had been planted in sunny locations and couldn’t tolerate the sun after so many years. A few weeks later I received a letter telling me that no disease had been detected and giving me a list of possible replacement trees better suited those locations.

Maybe it’s no surprise that even trees can get stressed, just like humans, if not supplied with the right environment and food and water. During the plant pathologist’s visit, I had walked her around the yard and showed her with pride the bumpy old Buckeye tree in the backyard. It looks to be 100 years old. She said it was likely a true native California variety and looked to be in good shape. If that tree ever dies, it will be a tragedy. It is huge with big knobby protrusions that look like elbows and knees. In May it unfurls beautiful big white flowers and through the summer and fall it sheds balls like acorns. I was very happy to hear that this tree is a native. I wondered if the tree had been planted by some previous owner or it just sprung up there itself and I pictured it alone and happy on an empty rolling hillside before all the houses and yards came and surrounded it.

I also showed the pathologist one more tree, and this one I was most curious about. It is the Dutch Elm tree that borders the street. When we moved into our house 14 years ago, the street was lined on each side with old Dutch Elms, which grow in a spreading manner, so that their top branches create a canopy. The street was lovely and even well-known in the neighborhood for its Elms. However, one by one, the trees succumbed to Dutch Elm disease. Each year city inspectors would draw a big red X on a dead tree and a few months later come and remove it. The sound of chainsaws was like a death call and the sight of one branch after another falling to the ground was almost too sad to watch. Fortunately, the city had money in their budget to replace the trees with Sycamores, more hardy street trees, but not nearly as lovely as they grow vertically and don’t create a canopy.

Somehow, our Dutch Elm and a few others have survived all this. There were a few years when our tree looked pretty bad. Very few branches leafed out. The branches were so bare of greenery the most prominent sign of life were huge birds’ nests perched in the Vs of the empty branches. This year however, our tree looks the best I’ve seen it in a long time. I asked the pathologist why. She surmised that it could be the fact that our sprinkler system supplies a small bit of water to that portion of the sidewalk. Or perhaps it is because most of the other Elms are gone and it is no longer threatened by diseased trees. It’s true that both our neighbors lost their trees early on; maybe that helped ours survive. Then again, it may just be a good year this year and it might not survive another year.

Everything has cycles of growth, including trees and people. Pruning in our own lives can feel painful. Recently I’ve had to cut out many foods to accommodate a new diet. Things I used to be able to eat now create inflammation. Each day is like learning to walk as I reach for new foods and discard old ones. Just yesterday I tried a substitute for soy sauce and I made quinoa instead of rice for a stir-fry we’ve eaten for years. It is a slow process to change a lifetime of eating. At the same time, we are readjusting my son’s environment as we recently discovered he is allergic to dust. Last night we encased his mattress and pillows with protective covers. But there are also changes in then house. We’ve rearranged practically every room, realizing that our sons are entering new stages in life and so am I. I moved into my kids’ big room a few months ago and put my bed under the window where one healthy backyard maple fills the window. Now they share my husband and my old room. New rooms signify new patterns and new growth.

Sometimes so much change can be disorienting. It used to be disoriented when waking up in my new room. Now I know where I am and I know what I can eat for breakfast. Coffee is a habit long in the past. I watch for signs of inflammation to detect what is happening with my diet. I listen for the sniffling sounds of my son. I hear our bird wake and sing as the light pours into its room.

How much control do we really have over anything? That is the question I ask throughout this time. The death of the trees, the pruning and the growth in our lives–it all seems to happen in a sphere out of our control. We seem to be aware of so little of this bigger energy that is pulling us along. The best thing seems to be to submit to it but also be in great expectation. Whenever something is lost, something new takes its place. If we take the time for it, we see God’s hand crafting that new thing. We can anticipate it, feel the energy of it and almost be breathless in waiting.

I look at my house from the street and no longer are there big maple trees framing the view. The house seems more visible, maybe more open and less hidden. Very soon we are hoping to buy a trampoline and place it at the end of the driveway where a garage might have been. Everyone walking by will have an unobstructed view of this trampoline. There will be no soft red leaves to obscure the motion and noise. The best part is that if we jump facing one way, we’ll be able to see the old Buckeye. If we flip the other, there will be the tall Elm tree on the street.

Propelled. That’s the only word that seems to capture my experience these days. Ever since I became sick last spring and started on the long road to recovery, I have felt carried by a force not my own. I think it must be prayers but even that doesn’t seem to explain it. There is a force at work, not of me and not human, that seems to be driving me and I just follow. Some days, like today, bring not just one, but many wonderful surprises, most often in the form of meeting friends, old and new, and wonderful conversations and discoveries. Sometimes there are no people involved, but a meeting with nature. I’ve never noticed the natural world so closely. Today there was a moment when both came together at once. I “bumped” into a friend from church and as I talked with her and told her my story I was almost distracted by the beauty of the plants behind her. Her joy at meeting me unexpectedly and my joy in sharing with her seemed like a complete moment in time. It was one of those moments we seek to create but never can on our own. These moments only come when they choose to, or when perhaps God or nature aligns in such a way that they are knit together effortlessly, laid out for our enjoyment.

Joy is a word I think about a lot now. I am attracted to it. I read about saints and other holy people who experience joy and I wonder if that is what I am experiencing. I still don’t know the source of my illness but there is something in me that has released my ability to control whatever it is. I suppose when you release control you experience joy. I think that is what the saints experienced. Those mystics long ago who spent hours in prayer were releasing their control of the world to God and they often found joy and even laughter.

These moments I experience probably seem small and unremarkable to other people, but to me they are miraculous intersections of people and love in space and time. There was a time a few months ago when I asked God to stop. It seemed like I couldn’t take in all He was showing me. Now I wonder if it is a permanent state of being. Or, maybe it is just a temporary phase of life. I can’t say for sure.

About a week ago I learned that my biological grandmother, whom I’ve never met, died. My birthmother, whom I’ve never met either, sent me a picture of my grandmother waving goodbye. I looked at her face and I saw my face, at age 90+. I saw a tenderness in that face, the look of someone well-loved. Her name was Esther and she suffered from Alzheimer’s for many years and was cared for by my biological mother. I’ve been around quite a few elderly people and there is a quality in some of them that seems like a softening, like all the hard parts have disappeared as they’ve lost control of their world and accepted their new self. Other older people fight against the loss until the end. But those who don’t exhibit a quiet kind of peace. When I saw the photo of Esther I felt I could understand her just a tiny bit. At least in that photo she seemed at peace. And perhaps that is not unlike what I feel too these days. Released, propelled and at peace.

Losses. I’ve been thinking a lot about losses lately. Lost dreams and lost hopes occupy my mind. There is much to be said about those losses, but I’ll save that for another day. Today I’m thinking more about people I’ve lost, those who have left this world behind for another. Most of us know that those people who are gone aren’t really gone; they are always with us.

Sometimes I’m reminded about those people by the tiniest of things. Yesterday I picked up an almost empty box of cereal and removed the inner bag so I could fold up the cardboard part for recycling. I looked at the last remnants of cereal in the plastic bag, the one or two squares of mini-wheats sitting on top of a pile of crushed brown bits. I suddenly remembered our babysitter Carmela and how she announced frequently to the kids and I with a twinkle in her eye that these bits were the best part of the box and then she’d pour them into her hand and eat them up. That small act was part of her larger-than-life personality. Everything brought joy to her, even a tiny bit of cereal. I remember looking forward to her grand entrance to our house a few times a week when the kids were small and she babysat regularly. She would always have a story to tell in her somewhat broken English and usually her story involved her joy in sharing her faith with the checkout person or mechanic or whoever else she encountered in her day. I often wished I had her gift of free expression. The funny thing is that now, years after she has left this world, I do have some of her gift, and I realize that the role I played for her in listening to her stories each week, being an audience for her life, was just as important as the example of vivacity that she was for me.

Last night my husband and I drove through the wet and rainy weather to see Mary Oliver, the poet. I have enjoyed Mary’s poetry for many years. I was curious to see the woman who wrote sublime poems about nature and life. The auditorium was packed with people. We had to sit in the balcony section. My husband estimated that there were maybe two or three-thousand people in the auditorium. It was a less-than-ideal setting to hear poetry that exalts the individual and his or her connection with nature. It even felt wrong. But the most surprising part was that Mary instantly reminded me of my mother-in-law’s best friend Elizabeth. Her bobbed gray hair, her matter-of-fact voice, her interest in her audience (several times she said, “it appears you are listening, aren’t you?”) and her self-deprecating persona (as if to say, “why is all this fuss made about me?”) brought me into the quiet, peaceful living room of Elizabeth.

I remember Elizabeth’s positive attitude and her eagerness to hear about our lives whenever we went to visit. She didn’t get out much in her later years and I suppose visitors were a welcome spark of life in her small apartment. We would tell her about our latest activities, plans and trips. She would tell us about the squirrels she watched out her window or the fact that wild turkeys were now roaming about the neighborhood. Until her last day, after she turned 100, her mind was sharp and she still tried to keep up with the world, even though her declining eyesight had made it harder and harder to read the newspaper or watch TV. Last night I felt the loss of Elizabeth as I thought about how she is no longer sitting in her peaceful apartment anymore. I can’t go there and find a receptive audience for my life.

One day Carmela came to our house and said she had a big surprise. She drew me and the kids close to her and unveiled a giant plastic diamond on her finger. Look what I have! She joked that she had a boyfriend and was engaged. It was all fun and games for her. The truth is that she had been divorced many years before and had come to the United States on her own, looking for a new life. She had some male interests but mostly she was too busy blessing people to date anyone. In the last years of life her mother came from Mexico to live with her. It was a dramatic change of events as Carmela had to reconcile her relationship with a woman who had never really been a mother for her but now needed her to be a caretaker.

Elizabeth had never been married. Her friendship with my mother-in-law, which only started after she was well into her 70s I think, was probably the closest human relationship she had. When my mother-in-law died before she did, she was very sad and alone. Likewise Carmela was very sad when her mother died. They had made amends and reconciled but it had sapped a lot of energy from Carmela. Carmela died very suddenly a few months later. Out of the blue one night her vivacious spirit was taken by God. She had a massive brain hemmorage at age 67 or 68 (she never told us her real age) and she was gone.

Perhaps Elizabeth and Carmela are looking down on me now, still interested in life here on earth. The best of what they had to offer is still alive here, every time I remember them. Although they were very different people, they both shared a rare gift, an eagerness to genuinely connect with others just for the sake of connecting, nothing more or less. The world needs people like them more than ever.

The 10th anniversary of 9/11 was only 15 days ago, yet we’ve already latched onto the next tidbit of news, whether it be the latest political infighting among the Republicans or the newest celebrity gossip. Our society moves fast. We grieve too quickly. We celebrate too quickly. In the Old Testament you read of people sitting at the city gates ripping their clothing for days after someone has died. Perhaps some cultures still do this. In Indian culture traditional weddings last a week or more. Everyone stops their daily routine and celebrates. If Americans were able to slow down we would experience a richer life: richer in meaning but poorer in material goods. I think we would be more content.

I recently came across a great blog, written by a woman named Rebekah. She lives in New York City and her blog is called “Of Course New York.” I recommend it highly. This post was written on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, two short weeks ago:

9/11/11 from Brooklyn

On the 10th anniversary of the Twin Towers attacks, I found myself in a Brooklyn Catholic Mass. As we approached this anniversary, the wounds of the event we are all remembering today, stung in the hearts of the country. It is felt all over, but here in New York, they saw the smoke in the sky and stood in their streets watching it rise. Here in New York it was people they knew that worked in those towers and performed the services of going in to search for the living and the dead.

In Windsor Terrace, a neighborhood that was established around blue collar workers, cops, and firemen, 9/11 was more than a national tragedy — it was a local tragedy. Yesterday afternoon I sat out on my stoop and smelled meat grilling a couple streets over. Windsor Place residents were having a block party. They were gathered to remember, and I suppose, try to forget a little too. While Samuel played in the driveway with our neighbors, blissfully unaware that 10-years-ago tomorrow, the United States stood stunned and helpless as the Twin Towers were hit by two airplanes and came crashing into Manhattan with a destructive force. 10-years-ago the Pentagon was plowed by this same force.

Samuel doesn’t know that 10-years-ago I woke up to the news report of the first tower being hit, only to then watch live, the second. And now, 10 years later, I find myself living in New York during the tragic anniversary. As I sat on my stoop yesterday, Maria, my landlord’s wife, shared a few memories with me about the event.

She is not one to mince words. She is a very matter-of-fact, Italian-Catholic with jet-black hair and eyes almost as dark. She is an immigrant to this country, and she is a Brooklynite to the core. She was pregnant with her son Anthony when the 9/11 attacks occurred. She was the one to tell me she could see the smoke from the impact of the planes. Then, as the dust began to settle, so did the debris. It settled as far as our street, but the affect was felt across the nation.

She said she watched people flock to the churches, crying for mercy and understanding. She watched anger and resentment wash away — it was replaced by deep and confusing wounds. She hoped people would see why they need a saviour and she told me she secretly knew that most of them would forget.

And we have. We go back to normal, you have to. When the attacks happened, I was sixteen-years-old. I was floundering and lost myself, and I had never really felt the impact of this global war we are in. 9/11 was the first time I really saw the horror and senselessness of ignorance and hatred illustrated in a tangible way. It did that for all of us. It opened our eyes that we are not immune to terror, and it made us feel less isolated and powerful in this world we are all unsuccessfully trying to share.

So, today, we went to Mass at our landlords church. We didn’t go because we were in pain ourselves — as I said before, the wounds we felt definitely lessened over the years. We had actually been planning on going to a service for a while. Maria told me there would be a special commemoration for those who were lost in the towers, as there were quite a few from this neighborhood who were. We went to be a part of where we are, where God has planted us. We went to remember this tragedy and the hope that came out of it, with people who felt it deeply, with people who watched it happen on their stoops and from their balconies.

The message was one of forgiveness and living as an example. It was not an alien message to me, and it was delivered with conviction — not religion. There were elements of Mass that I will never understand, and don’t need to. Religion is a foreign concept to me, but to Catholics, it is very sacred and important to them. I am strong enough in where I stand to sit in their service and respect their religion. I am strong enough to know that it is a form of faith, and not be threatened by that. There were moments where I sensed the spirit, and was thankful to be there for it. I watched them take Communion and was blessed by my landlord and his wife for being there.

She then introduced us to her friends and the Priest named Father Jim. She told them all we were Christian and that was met with smiles and acceptance. They do not want to convert us, they want to share their faith, and they like us to share ours. They liked when I asked questions, and I genuinely wanted to hear and try to understand the answer.

On the anniversary of the 9/11 tragedy I got a chance to do something the people who took down the towers will never get to do — share in an expression of faith that is different from my own and not be afraid of it. Tolerance begins with not trying to change. Change is up to God. I worshipped God in a Catholic Church today, and I mourned with Brooklyn for those who died 10-years-ago. 10-years-ago that is not something I could have done.

Today is the tenth anniversary of 9/11 and I am not watching the news but rather thinking quietly about this marker of time in a bedroom of my brother’s Utah home. It is quiet in this bedroom. The kids are awake and playing downstairs but during this brief moment I only hear the sound of toy helicopters flying, my brother’s voice, and the hum of the air conditioner. You would never guess this day was different than any other day or special in some way. For me, that tells me that the terrorists completely failed on 9/11.

Yesterday we drove up into the mountains surrounding Salt Lake City, on our way to find a nice restaurant in order to celebrate my brother’s 40th birthday. On the way up, we noticed activity at the Olympic downhill training center. We pulled into the parking lot and discovered that several skiiers were practicing their sport on a long practice ramp. They started high up at the top of a ramp (there’s no snow yet but it didn’t matter) and they shot down the ramp at an incredible speed. At the end of the ramp they did aerial stunts, twists and turns and somersaults in the sky. We were mesmerized. They landed in huge pool of water. My brother, my cousin and I took photos and joked that we would never have the nerve to do such a thing; maybe we would have tried it when we were younger but we were all feeling a little old. It wasn’t long before our kids started sliding down the grass next to the observation area, trying to re-enact the stunts they were seeing.

After watching the spectacle for 20 minutes or so (and wondering how these skiiers ever survived) we went inside the training center’s museum. Salt Lake City hosted the 2002 Olympics and the museum documented how they the opening ceremonies included a memorial to the victims of 9/11. Here is more proof that the terrorists didn’t win. The Salt Lake City games went on without skipping a beat and since then the world has continued to host Olympic games. The last games were in China in a bird’s nest stadium and the next games are in Brazil, in some new stadium which I haven’t seen yet. It seems nothing can stop the Olympics from continuing. And the organizers have not only continued the games but they have been bold in choosing these host cities, cities that represent the most active and growing economies of the world.

Many people love to complain about the sorry state of politics in the U.S., the bickering and stalling and disagreements. They say the country has never been so divided. This is wrong. What about the civil war? We fought a civil war and we were only more powerful afterwards. I think the bickering is a very good thing. Many times we are annoyed with the comments of extreme politicians on the right or the left, but the fact that we have public debate and the public participates just shows that democracy is alive and well. This is a good thing. The terrorists of 9/11 may have wanted to squelch democracy and our Enlightenment way of thinking. But debate in our country has only increased. The fact is, we’ve always had heated debates. At one time, politicians or their goonies shot each other or challenged one another to fist-fights on street corners. I haven’t heard of this happening recently, although it could. And as much as I don’t like the angry rhetoric of some groups, I’d rather have that than no rhetoric. Plus, the angry rhetoric is actually about things that count, like our values and our goals as a nation. In Spain, where I lived last year, there was almost no meaningful rhetoric. Everyone just accepted things as they were, feeling that they could change nothing. Only at the end of my stay in Spain did the people begin to express political thoughts. Unemployment that hovers at 20 percent for adults and 40 percent for college graduates was the crisis that drove young and old people onto the streets to demand change. This is what Obama and every other American wants to avoid. That is why he is pushing for a jobs package.

There has been no large-scale attack on the U.S. since 9/11. Who knows if there will be another one. I believe most airports and landmarks are on high-alert today. I wonder how it will feel flying home today. I doubt there will be problems. I haven’t heard of any stores closing or airlines canceling flights. If the terrorists had any truth at all to their storyline, it was that American consumerism drives our lives more and more. The terrorists didn’t stop our consumer culture from flourishing. That has only grown bigger. In my mind this is the real threat to our power as a nation. Our obsession with buying things will be our downfall; political infighting only stalls us from getting to this real problem. Almost nobody talks about it, but our thirst for goods is sure to kill us one day, unless we change our lifestyles dramatically.

The wisdom of GK Chesterton, a little known author in secular circles, but a giant in Christian ones (along the lines of CS Lewis), never ceases to amaze me.

“The devil can quote Scripture for his purpose; and the text of Scripture which he now most commonly quotes is, ‘The kingdom of heaven is within you.’ That text has been the stay and support of more Pharisees and prigs and self-righteous spiritual bullies than all the dogmas in creation; it has served to identify self-satisfaction with the peace that passes all understanding. And the text to be quoted in answer to it is that which declares that no man can receive the kingdom except as a little child. What we are to have inside is the childlike spirit; but the childlike spirit is not entirely concerned about what is inside. It is the first mark of possessing it that one is interested in what is outside. The most childlike thing about a child is his curiosity and his appetite and his power of wonder at the world. We might almost say that the whole advantage of having the kingdom within is that we look for it somewhere else.” ~GKC: ‘What I Saw in America.’

Artwork: ‘L’oiseau Chéri’ (Dear Bird) by William Adolphe Bouguereau. Oil on canvas, 1867.

To me this means we all need to be careful when someone says the Kingdom of heaven is within you. Yes, God has left the holy spirit with us on earth and we are supposed to be working toward the creation of God’s new kingdom, the one Jesus talked so much about. But “The Kingdom is within you,” maybe only really applies to children or very old people. At least that has been my experience. You want to experience true joy? Spend a day with a child or someone very old or mentally ill. Perhaps Henri Nouwen had it right when he committed the last years of his very distinguished ministry to serving in a community of mentally-challenged people. Perhaps Mother Teresa knew the same thing. They truly experienced joy and a taste of the coming kingdom. If we avoid children and the disadvantaged, we are starving ourselves of the kingdom and the ensuing joy.

My hunch is that GK Chesterton also spent a great deal of time in English pubs with his friends (I think CS Lewis was one of them). There is no better place for philosophical musings than a bar with friends. Personally, I’ve had some wonderful conversations at two bars in my hometown, the Albatross and the Pub on Solano. I think GKC and Lewis would love these places.

My last plug for both CS Lewis and Chesterton is that they found the time to write children’s books and mystery novels. That proves that their fantasy lives were only enhanced by their philosophical discussions. Imagine two college professors at Oxford finding time to write children’s books. I think they had much joy in their lives….In fact, Lewis, the curmudgeon of an Oxford professor that he was, ended up marrying a woman named Joy and writing a book called “Surprised by Joy”. I suppose he didn’t think there was room in his life for love or a wife. Sadly, his “Joy” died of cancer. A movie was made of this story, but it is almost too sad to watch. I don’t know whether Chesterton every married or not. If anyone knows, tell me! In any case, his impact lives on. In Madrid my last day, the ceramic saleman was reading a mystery book by Chesterton. Several months before that I received a free card when I purchased books at a religious bookstore and the card had a wonderful quote by Chesterton. The great thing about being an author is you have posterity through your writing. Same goes for being a parent or perhaps any other thinking, caring human being. Gracias a Dios para este regalo.

Our father, who are in heaven,
   hallowed be thy Name,
   they kingdom come,
   thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses, 
   as we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
   but deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory,
   for ever and ever. Amen.

O Lord, show they mercy upon us;
And grant us they salvation.
Endue thy ministers with righteousness;
And make thy chosen people joyful.
Give peace, O Lord, in all the world;
For only in thee can we live in safety.
Lord, keep this nation under thy care;
And guide us in the way of justice and truth.
Let thy way be known upon earth;
Thy saving health among all nations.
Let not the needy, O Lord, be forgotten;
Nor the hope of the poor taken away.
Create in us clean hearts, O God;
And sustain us with thy Holy Spirit.

 –from the book of Common Prayer.

These beautiful prayers are suggested once in the morning and once in the evening. The first part is the Lord’s Prayer, the only pray Christ taught his disciples. The second part is written by the authors of the book of Common Prayer (I imagine.) Imagine if everyone prayed these prayers twice a day. I know Muslims who pray five times a day. When we were in Morroco a man showing us his rug store suddenly pulled out a rug and kneeled down and prayed. He was ready to do business again in 5 minutes. I imagine most Christians are not so diligent. If they were, we woud see some incredible things happen. For one, perhaps our nation would not be in a deadlock of politics. We have smart people. We can launch spaceships and create ipods. Why can’t we feed and educate our own people?

Recently I have been finding great comfort in praying set prayers. I am using my father’s book of Common Prayer, given to him on his 50^th birthday by my mother. My father experienced a tremendous spiritual transformation at age 50. Today he is a seminary professor at one of the few growing seminaries in the world, based in a nation that is experiencing a huge growth and interest in Christianity. My dad has written two wonderful books, one of the life of Christ and the other an overview of the whole Bible in layman’s terms. I keep telling Dad he must put his books on the internet. Yesterday I met a taxi driver who told me his grandfather was a past president of the Southern Baptist Convention. He wanted a copy of my dad’s books but I didn’t have any. I am hoping that next week I can help him get his books on the internet and the taxi driver, who goes by the name Neighbor, can get a copy. Unfortunately Neighbor is just as tired of politics as everyone else. Our political conversation was a little heated (I still like Obama but he is disappointed by him) but our spiritual conversation was very fruitful.

Billy Joel was in a NY state of mind. I am in an English state of mind.

The blog name: “The Jolly Packet Postwoman”…..a take-off of the children’s book “The Jolly Pocket Postman”….packet=data packet. postwoman=me. jolly=my state of mind (most of the time). post=I’d rather send letters by post than write a blog but these blogs seems to be the wave of the future. (If you’ve never read “The Jolly Pocket Postman” it’s one of my favorite books…and it proves that blogs will never be as good as printed material-in my opinion. To see the JPP, go to: http://www.amazon.com/Pocket-Postman-Viking-Kestrel-Picture/dp/0670886262/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1312100172&sr=8-1

I had a great picture of the book cover, the english desk, the pew and my MG, but still I don’t understand how to upload photos onto this blog. I’m ready to just take my typewriter out to the street corner and blog from there. Technology is frustrating.

I also won a dance contest today with my bunny. It was national dance day. Hooray!

I was planning to write something today about the state of the world and the many strange and nonsensical things, such as why Amazon can send you a book overnight but we can’t get out of Afghanistan….then I thought I’d write about Benjamin Franklin and why he could convey his messages better than anyone, even better than people today with all their technology. Now, since I have only five minutes to write, I’ll pass on this advice I gave to my 13-year-old son on the key points to winning a woman’s heart:

#1 Pecs (as in pectorals). Some women think this is important. If the woman you are attracted to thinks so, you should pay attention to that. But other women don’t care.

 #2 Learn to BBQ really well. If you can control fire, women will love it. If you can cook a few things, that’s great too, but the fire part is really important.

 #3 Listen well and long. Almost every woman I know (even those who seem quiet), have a lot to say. If you can build up your listening skills to a minimum of one hour per day, you have a chance. You must appear interested even if you are not. Try not to play a video game or push buttons on an electronic device during the talking.

 #4 Save someone’s life. My brother once saved a man drowning in the Bay. He was a hero and I bet women would still like that story. I have told a few men that I saved a man drowning in the bay and they just think I’m a nice person. They expect a woman to help someone in need.

 #5 Most important, treat your woman with love and respect, especially respect. This is easier said than done. Women and men need about 50 years to learn how to do this so if you really want to get expert advice attend a few 50-year anniversary parties.

 #6 Be chivalrous. Woman want to be respected as equal partners but they still love the chivalry stuff, even if they pretend they don’t. I guess there may be exceptions but I haven’t come across any.

 #7 Dress well. If you have to, go to a nice men’s store and ask someone for help. A few women don’t care much about this, but many do pay attention to appearance.

 #8 When in doubt, pray.

I guess there should be 10 points but that’s all I can think of now.  After I shared this with my sons, my younger son said, “You talk to Dad for an hour a day?” I said yes. He said, “What do you talk about?” I said, “I don’t know…food, the weather, Obama, the economy, cell phone chargers….” Then he said, “Wow. I don’t think I could do that.” I said, “Well, start practicing now. What do you like to talk about now?” He said, “Well, I do talk about gaming for a few hours a day to my friends.”  I said: “Great. Just find a girl who likes gaming and you are all set!” His response: “Mom, I’m never getting married.” I said, “OK, just keep these points in mind in case you change your mind.”