You may be thinking of starting an exercise program for the New Year, so I give you this video for inspiration.
Someone emailed it to me a while ago and I keep it on both my home and work PCs. If you can watch it without crying you’re seriously missing the silly gene.
(As I write this post, the Stealth Cat is kneading my arm—that’s her idea of contributing to my fitness.)
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Pike's the place
There are two things people generally think of when you mention Seattle (unless they’re grunge rockers): the Space Needle & Pike Place market. I’ve not been to the former, but I finally got round to the latter.
Well, I had been before—went the day after my interview in June; but, aside from being cold & wet, it was absolutely crammed with tourists. They were getting off coaches in swarms. You couldn’t move without bumping into someone. & I don’t do well in crowds.
However, a colleague who goes to the market regularly to buy vegetables recommended that I try earlier than late morning. Plus, these days, not so many coach tours.
Turns out that, when you can move around, PP is actually worth the time.
Of course, it being December, not all the smells associated with an open market.
(The ones I’ve been to in France, Germany & Italy are total sensory experiences. Walk past the fruit stalls & your money practically flies out of your wallet because you can’t resist the scent of really ripe peaches & berries & melons. Even the fish aisles entice you with the smell of absolutely fresh varieties. The food—asparagus to tuna—is all arranged in meticulous patterns. & there’s a melodious cacophony of exchanges between the vendors & customers is more connective tissue. You’re sorely tempted to touch, but of course it’s not the done thing.)
Still—a visit to a town market is about the best entertainment going. & Pike Place actually does a good job of carrying on the tradition—if you can avoid the tourons.
The vendors arrange their wares beautifully—clearly you aren’t supposed to touch & disturb the display. (One merchant even put out a sign to that effect.)
The fungi were equally artistic.
Then there was the seafood.
Now, one of the mongers clearly has a sense of humor: this monkfish was hanging out of the display. If you got up close to it, one of the staff pulled the tail end at the back of the stall & bellowed at you. (I have no idea how that works; but I wasn’t the only visitor to jump out of the way.)
I did actually make a purchase—some strange-looking broccoli:
It’s called Romanesco broccoli. At $5 per, I probably won’t be buying it again—it doesn’t taste nearly as good as broccolini.
But I will be back to the market.
BTW—I took a stroll around the downtown area before leaving. I have to say that Seattle seems to have a much higher percentage of panhandlers than I’ve encountered in other urban downtowns. But here’s a variant for the season: a derelict Santa, who intended to make some money by posing for pix with your kids.
Well, I had been before—went the day after my interview in June; but, aside from being cold & wet, it was absolutely crammed with tourists. They were getting off coaches in swarms. You couldn’t move without bumping into someone. & I don’t do well in crowds.
However, a colleague who goes to the market regularly to buy vegetables recommended that I try earlier than late morning. Plus, these days, not so many coach tours.
Turns out that, when you can move around, PP is actually worth the time.
Of course, it being December, not all the smells associated with an open market.
(The ones I’ve been to in France, Germany & Italy are total sensory experiences. Walk past the fruit stalls & your money practically flies out of your wallet because you can’t resist the scent of really ripe peaches & berries & melons. Even the fish aisles entice you with the smell of absolutely fresh varieties. The food—asparagus to tuna—is all arranged in meticulous patterns. & there’s a melodious cacophony of exchanges between the vendors & customers is more connective tissue. You’re sorely tempted to touch, but of course it’s not the done thing.)
Still—a visit to a town market is about the best entertainment going. & Pike Place actually does a good job of carrying on the tradition—if you can avoid the tourons.
The vendors arrange their wares beautifully—clearly you aren’t supposed to touch & disturb the display. (One merchant even put out a sign to that effect.)
The fungi were equally artistic.
Then there was the seafood.
Now, one of the mongers clearly has a sense of humor: this monkfish was hanging out of the display. If you got up close to it, one of the staff pulled the tail end at the back of the stall & bellowed at you. (I have no idea how that works; but I wasn’t the only visitor to jump out of the way.)
I did actually make a purchase—some strange-looking broccoli:
It’s called Romanesco broccoli. At $5 per, I probably won’t be buying it again—it doesn’t taste nearly as good as broccolini.
But I will be back to the market.
BTW—I took a stroll around the downtown area before leaving. I have to say that Seattle seems to have a much higher percentage of panhandlers than I’ve encountered in other urban downtowns. But here’s a variant for the season: a derelict Santa, who intended to make some money by posing for pix with your kids.
Frankly, I wouldn’t let anyone I cared about close enough to this guy to breathe the same air; he was definitely what my mom would have declared to be unhygienic. But I suppose it’s better than the outright cadging for coins.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Walking meditation
Labyrinths have come to me a couple of times when I most needed their help. A couple of years ago I’d been going through one of those grotesque periods that convince you Kafka wrote the script for your life, and Dalí is designing the set. I was participating in Reston’s annual Habitat for Humanity walk that ended at St. Anne’s Church, which, it turned out, had just dedicated its labyrinth the day before.
The only thing I really knew about labyrinths was the Theseus myth and some of the medieval history. I’m not actually a candidate for the contemplative life—the term butterfly brain was coined with me in mind. But I was drawn to the labyrinth and took my first walk.
It was an extremely powerful experience. My body temperature shot up, I started shaking, and tears kept spilling out of my eyes. And I left the sanctuary feeling, well, different.
The labyrinth experience is a walking meditation. Although the form has been around for millennia, they became a part of Christian ritual during the middle ages, when pilgrimages were all the rage. For those who couldn’t afford the time or expense of a trip to Jerusalem, Rome or Santiago de Compostela, the labyrinth built in to the local cathedral floor allowed you to make a symbolic pilgrimage.
To my surprise, I found that most of the time in a labyrinth, I was indeed able to focus more fully on things that were important—without whirling round and round in worry. It’s as close to meditation as I’ll probably ever get.
The thing about the labyrinth is that, as convoluted as it seems, there’s one path to the centre, and one path out. It’s not a maze, which is created to confuse; it’s created to focus.
I decided that, as messed-up as my life was, I could make the labyrinth my contribution to the community, and became a Labyrinth Keeper. LKs set up and take down the labyrinth (a canvas one that was constructed to fit in the altar area). One always stays on duty to help walkers if they find the experience overwhelming.
Being a LK steadied me, gave me something to focus on and provided access to the labyrinth monthly.
As part of my work, I researched other labyrinths and came to know the outdoor one at the Church of the Holy Comforter in Vienna. Starting about a year ago, I walked that labyrinth about once a week—heat or cold, it kept me going. Some walks I seemed to miss the mark; others filled me with new strength.
I’ve made an effort to find a labyrinth to walk in cities I visit. Through March I’d walked at the Association for Research & Enlightenment, Virginia Beach; Grace Cathedral, San Francisco; and St. Margaret, Palm Desert.
When I came to Seattle for my interview last June I found two outdoor labyrinths. I walked the one at Unity of Bellevue the evening before my marathon interview, and the one at St. Paul’s Seattle the morning after—when I’d got the offer. Unity’s is made of stones, which had been kicked around, so you couldn’t follow the pattern, and St. Paul’s is very, very small.
Still—they were something, although not a patch on Holy Comforter’s.
A few months ago I went in search of labyrinths that didn’t require I cross water or go to Tacoma to reach. It wasn’t a rewarding Saturday. Two were no longer around, and the only one I did find turned out to be in a seriously dodgy part of town, dedicated to recovery (which I’m sure is a hot topic in that neighborhood).
You can’t really concentrate on a walking meditation when you’re keeping your eye out for muggers or car thieves.
There are supposed to be outdoor labyrinths on Bainbridge or Whidbey Islands; but that’s kind of a schlep. And, as the names denote, you have to take a ferry to reach them.
Suffering from lack of access to a labyrinth, when I saw the ad in last week’s local Redmond throw-away paper (not the Bellevue one I usually read) for a New Year’s Eve walk at the Lake Washington United Methodist Church in nearby Kirkland, I decided I had to go.
It’s the best I’ve found so far. Or perhaps it’s just the right one for this point in my life. The setting, in the church hall, has been completely thought out. There are chairs with paper and writing implements for you to write or draw your response to your walk. They set up paper and pens for you to write out an intention for the New Year and carry it to the center of the labyrinth to leave in a bowl.
It’s exactly what I needed to close out 2008.
If you’ve not walked a labyrinth, it would be worthwhile to see if there’s one available near you. If not an outdoor one with open access, many churches have monthly walks for their indoor ones, like St. Anne and Lake Washington United Methodist. They’re open to all—no need to be a believer; just a sojourner.
The only thing I really knew about labyrinths was the Theseus myth and some of the medieval history. I’m not actually a candidate for the contemplative life—the term butterfly brain was coined with me in mind. But I was drawn to the labyrinth and took my first walk.
It was an extremely powerful experience. My body temperature shot up, I started shaking, and tears kept spilling out of my eyes. And I left the sanctuary feeling, well, different.
The labyrinth experience is a walking meditation. Although the form has been around for millennia, they became a part of Christian ritual during the middle ages, when pilgrimages were all the rage. For those who couldn’t afford the time or expense of a trip to Jerusalem, Rome or Santiago de Compostela, the labyrinth built in to the local cathedral floor allowed you to make a symbolic pilgrimage.
To my surprise, I found that most of the time in a labyrinth, I was indeed able to focus more fully on things that were important—without whirling round and round in worry. It’s as close to meditation as I’ll probably ever get.
The thing about the labyrinth is that, as convoluted as it seems, there’s one path to the centre, and one path out. It’s not a maze, which is created to confuse; it’s created to focus.
I decided that, as messed-up as my life was, I could make the labyrinth my contribution to the community, and became a Labyrinth Keeper. LKs set up and take down the labyrinth (a canvas one that was constructed to fit in the altar area). One always stays on duty to help walkers if they find the experience overwhelming.
Being a LK steadied me, gave me something to focus on and provided access to the labyrinth monthly.
As part of my work, I researched other labyrinths and came to know the outdoor one at the Church of the Holy Comforter in Vienna. Starting about a year ago, I walked that labyrinth about once a week—heat or cold, it kept me going. Some walks I seemed to miss the mark; others filled me with new strength.
I’ve made an effort to find a labyrinth to walk in cities I visit. Through March I’d walked at the Association for Research & Enlightenment, Virginia Beach; Grace Cathedral, San Francisco; and St. Margaret, Palm Desert.
When I came to Seattle for my interview last June I found two outdoor labyrinths. I walked the one at Unity of Bellevue the evening before my marathon interview, and the one at St. Paul’s Seattle the morning after—when I’d got the offer. Unity’s is made of stones, which had been kicked around, so you couldn’t follow the pattern, and St. Paul’s is very, very small.
Still—they were something, although not a patch on Holy Comforter’s.
A few months ago I went in search of labyrinths that didn’t require I cross water or go to Tacoma to reach. It wasn’t a rewarding Saturday. Two were no longer around, and the only one I did find turned out to be in a seriously dodgy part of town, dedicated to recovery (which I’m sure is a hot topic in that neighborhood).
You can’t really concentrate on a walking meditation when you’re keeping your eye out for muggers or car thieves.
There are supposed to be outdoor labyrinths on Bainbridge or Whidbey Islands; but that’s kind of a schlep. And, as the names denote, you have to take a ferry to reach them.
Suffering from lack of access to a labyrinth, when I saw the ad in last week’s local Redmond throw-away paper (not the Bellevue one I usually read) for a New Year’s Eve walk at the Lake Washington United Methodist Church in nearby Kirkland, I decided I had to go.
It’s the best I’ve found so far. Or perhaps it’s just the right one for this point in my life. The setting, in the church hall, has been completely thought out. There are chairs with paper and writing implements for you to write or draw your response to your walk. They set up paper and pens for you to write out an intention for the New Year and carry it to the center of the labyrinth to leave in a bowl.
It’s exactly what I needed to close out 2008.
If you’ve not walked a labyrinth, it would be worthwhile to see if there’s one available near you. If not an outdoor one with open access, many churches have monthly walks for their indoor ones, like St. Anne and Lake Washington United Methodist. They’re open to all—no need to be a believer; just a sojourner.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Auld lang syne
Well, it’s been quite the roller-coaster year, hasn’t it? Mainstays of capitalist industry—auto makers, real estate, banks—are collapsing like the garden shed your brother-in-law built for you “at cost”. Retailers just announced the worst sales year in 40 years—neither pre- nor post-holiday discounts-to-the-bone appear to have enticed consumers to pull their wallets out. Latest (November) unemployment figure stands at 6.7%, including 30 colleagues at my last company, who were laid off in October. The Gang of Three actually had to drive cars from Detroit to DC on their second trip to cadge loans out of Congress.
If this isn’t the road to Hell in a handbasket, it certainly is playing one convincingly on TV.
On the other hand, Americans voted resoundingly against the soon-to-be Ancien Régime, and against prejudice and fear, electing a youthful, charismatic black man, who focused his campaign on the issues and concerns we're facing, to take the reins of government. Barack Obama has a herculean task ahead of him, but I believe he and his team are going to bring us a new deal for the 21st Century.
That counts for a lot.
On a personal level it’s also been a very mixed year. I left an impossibly ghastly situation in March, pretty much counting on the Universe to help me with the transition. Through a confluence of almost silly incidents, I found myself interviewing for a job in Seattle on 5 June (six interviews from 0800 to 1800—by the time I left I didn’t have two synapses firing in sequence), being made an offer I couldn’t refuse by 0700 on 6 June, starting on 23 June and moving across country on 18 July.
I found the housing market much tighter in Seattle than DC; complicated by realizing I wouldn’t be able to sell my house with the number of foreclosures and short sales in my neighborhood. I ended up in The Rambler, which is definitely a compromise in standards.
And three weeks after moving in my beautiful tabby cat got away and was killed, leaving me absolutely gutted. I still can’t think of her without crying.
I’m working in the company of the World’s Greatest Expert (although thankfully no longer sharing an office with him), who’s a master of appropriating ideas and promulgating them as his original thought. (You also don’t want to get between him and any free food lying about.)
After leaving my snow shovel behind in Virginia, wouldn’t you know in the past two weeks Seattle has had more snow than it gets in years. And it turns out that municipal ideas of clearing roads is to tamp down the snow so that four-wheel-drive cars and front-wheel-drive cars with chains can make it through. Everyone else is pretty much housebound.
Then there’s the issue of the state-owned liquor store monopoly, which I hadn’t anticipated finding in the progressive Northwest—or anywhere outside the South.
Still, I’m learning a good deal at work and it seems to be reasonably secure in a really insecure economy. I have a new area of the country to explore—as long as it doesn’t snow—and have made new friends.
But I’m definitely burning El Año Viejo tonight to clear the decks for 2009.
Plus—shortly after I moved in to The Rambler in August, my neighbor came over to introduce himself & advise me that he & his wife host a champagne party on New Year’s Eve—and they serve Veuve Clicquot. He came by a couple of days ago to remind me that the party starts at 2330.
It’s as good a way as any to wash away the taste of the old year. Up or down, time to put it behind us.
If this isn’t the road to Hell in a handbasket, it certainly is playing one convincingly on TV.
On the other hand, Americans voted resoundingly against the soon-to-be Ancien Régime, and against prejudice and fear, electing a youthful, charismatic black man, who focused his campaign on the issues and concerns we're facing, to take the reins of government. Barack Obama has a herculean task ahead of him, but I believe he and his team are going to bring us a new deal for the 21st Century.
That counts for a lot.
On a personal level it’s also been a very mixed year. I left an impossibly ghastly situation in March, pretty much counting on the Universe to help me with the transition. Through a confluence of almost silly incidents, I found myself interviewing for a job in Seattle on 5 June (six interviews from 0800 to 1800—by the time I left I didn’t have two synapses firing in sequence), being made an offer I couldn’t refuse by 0700 on 6 June, starting on 23 June and moving across country on 18 July.
I found the housing market much tighter in Seattle than DC; complicated by realizing I wouldn’t be able to sell my house with the number of foreclosures and short sales in my neighborhood. I ended up in The Rambler, which is definitely a compromise in standards.
And three weeks after moving in my beautiful tabby cat got away and was killed, leaving me absolutely gutted. I still can’t think of her without crying.
I’m working in the company of the World’s Greatest Expert (although thankfully no longer sharing an office with him), who’s a master of appropriating ideas and promulgating them as his original thought. (You also don’t want to get between him and any free food lying about.)
After leaving my snow shovel behind in Virginia, wouldn’t you know in the past two weeks Seattle has had more snow than it gets in years. And it turns out that municipal ideas of clearing roads is to tamp down the snow so that four-wheel-drive cars and front-wheel-drive cars with chains can make it through. Everyone else is pretty much housebound.
Then there’s the issue of the state-owned liquor store monopoly, which I hadn’t anticipated finding in the progressive Northwest—or anywhere outside the South.
Still, I’m learning a good deal at work and it seems to be reasonably secure in a really insecure economy. I have a new area of the country to explore—as long as it doesn’t snow—and have made new friends.
But I’m definitely burning El Año Viejo tonight to clear the decks for 2009.
Plus—shortly after I moved in to The Rambler in August, my neighbor came over to introduce himself & advise me that he & his wife host a champagne party on New Year’s Eve—and they serve Veuve Clicquot. He came by a couple of days ago to remind me that the party starts at 2330.
It’s as good a way as any to wash away the taste of the old year. Up or down, time to put it behind us.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Santé
As is only proper this time of year, Eric Felten writes about the history of hangover cures. I have to say I don’t think much of his offering; but then I’m not much of a raw-egg fan. Unless it’s in Hollandaise.
This got me thinking, so I had a little root around the Web. A quick Google turned up 749,000 results on “hangover cures”, 517,000 on “hangover remedies” and 424,000 on “hangover cures that work”.
Obviously it’s a subject of great interest to the masses.
Wikipedia gives the overview on causes, symptoms, chemistry and some cures. Evidently enough of Wall Street’s high flyers have post-pissup constricted capillaries that Forbes has weighed in. There is more than one site with prophylactic as well as remedial suggestions such as these. And there are apparently even green cures.
Well, whatever.
Me—I believe Robert Benchley’s dictum (and there was a man who knew from hangovers): “The only cure for a real hangover is death.”
This got me thinking, so I had a little root around the Web. A quick Google turned up 749,000 results on “hangover cures”, 517,000 on “hangover remedies” and 424,000 on “hangover cures that work”.
Obviously it’s a subject of great interest to the masses.
Wikipedia gives the overview on causes, symptoms, chemistry and some cures. Evidently enough of Wall Street’s high flyers have post-pissup constricted capillaries that Forbes has weighed in. There is more than one site with prophylactic as well as remedial suggestions such as these. And there are apparently even green cures.
Well, whatever.
Me—I believe Robert Benchley’s dictum (and there was a man who knew from hangovers): “The only cure for a real hangover is death.”
Monday, December 29, 2008
Disorder in the courts
This is indeed the period for year-end roundups, & the weirder the better. This, from the Times (of London), focuses on the foibles in various courts of law around the world. It being, you know, lawyers & all—it’s almost too easy a target. But, what the hell—a giggle’s a giggle.
Go to.
Go to.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Ending the year
There’s a terrific tradition in Latin America that I like to invoke this time of year: burning El Año Viejo.
You make up an effigy with old clothes and in one form or another (some folks stuff with fireworks, others just straw or paper). Then you add symbols of all your angers, disappointments, frustrations, hurts and harmful associations of the year. You can do this by attaching objects (the handkerchief you used when you drank too much at the office picnic and puked; the ticket to the concert where you saw your ex with a blonde ten years younger and 20 pounds lighter than you; the physics test you tanked on), or you can just write the negatives on slips of paper.
The dummy represents El Año Viejo—the old year, with all its baggage you would be carrying forward into the new one.
Come midnight on 31st December, you light it up and burn that sucker to ashes, taking all the bad things out of your life, at least the ones from the old year. And so you're left with the good and the positive to take you into the New Year.
Entire families or groups collaborate on the event, and it’s quite the celebration.
Now me—people get nervous when they see me stuffing clothes with flammable substances or firecrackers, so what I do is write a list of everything bad from El Año Viejo. Some years it’s longer than others. (This year I may need to go to legal, two columns.) Then I burn it, abjuring all the bad stuff to stay in the past.
I’m a big believer in the power of symbol and ritual. Reducing El Año Viejo to ashes always makes me feel better—lighter, ready to face the New Year.
I share this tradition with you. Try it; you might find it one you want to keep.
You make up an effigy with old clothes and in one form or another (some folks stuff with fireworks, others just straw or paper). Then you add symbols of all your angers, disappointments, frustrations, hurts and harmful associations of the year. You can do this by attaching objects (the handkerchief you used when you drank too much at the office picnic and puked; the ticket to the concert where you saw your ex with a blonde ten years younger and 20 pounds lighter than you; the physics test you tanked on), or you can just write the negatives on slips of paper.
The dummy represents El Año Viejo—the old year, with all its baggage you would be carrying forward into the new one.
Come midnight on 31st December, you light it up and burn that sucker to ashes, taking all the bad things out of your life, at least the ones from the old year. And so you're left with the good and the positive to take you into the New Year.
Entire families or groups collaborate on the event, and it’s quite the celebration.
Now me—people get nervous when they see me stuffing clothes with flammable substances or firecrackers, so what I do is write a list of everything bad from El Año Viejo. Some years it’s longer than others. (This year I may need to go to legal, two columns.) Then I burn it, abjuring all the bad stuff to stay in the past.
I’m a big believer in the power of symbol and ritual. Reducing El Año Viejo to ashes always makes me feel better—lighter, ready to face the New Year.
I share this tradition with you. Try it; you might find it one you want to keep.
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