Since I am a senior, my blogs would probably appeal most to seniors...though not always limited to that audience. However, many seniors still don't understand what a blog is and are apprehensive about it. Quite a few have told me they read the blog frequently, and it shows up on a sitemeter map that people in that area have been onto the site, yet they rarely leave comments. I think the site should be interactive. Silence does not convince me that what I write is agreed to by most readers.
It frustrates me that those who claim not to know what a blog is, make no attempt to look at one to learn. Some think looking at your blog downloads it to your computer. Others seem not to understand that the site is a URL...or even understand what a URL is or that the Internet is full of many interesting blogs, full of informationand far more informative than many other sources.
I checked blogs by category and none fit mine. There should be a category of Miscellaneous. I write random subjects that come to mind or events to which I respond. Sometimes I just share some of the things I've learned in life. I've learned that life is not lonely when one is in touch with lots of people in lots of places. A blog is one way to touch people, as is the telephone, chats, letter writing, and personal visiting.
Blogs are safe. Even if strangers disagree, (hopefully you have given no personal information) you make no plans to personally meet. All practical rules of safety and precaution should apply in everything one does.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
HEAVEN SENT
The chapel was filling gradually, slowly (Greek time as we call the disregard for the clock), some stopping to light a candle and place it with others then stooping to kiss the framed icon before taking a seat. The two front rows on either side were reserved for 'memorial families'. My only living brother, his wife and I were there at 9:50 and waited for the mnimosino service to start at 10 AM, as congregates flowed in steadily. On the left stood the motley crew of choir, some in Aegean blue robes with yellow trim in the back, some in street clothes, one woman with her young son, about eight, by her side.
The priest usually spoke with his back turned away, visible through the door in the center of a wall of religious figures, a couple of them doors through which the altar boys passed. To the right were two trays of 'koliva', one in memory of my brother and the other for another family. Apparently, if you are Greek Orthodox, your soul wanders in limbo for 40 days until a priest mumbles a ritual that cleanses it of earthly sins and sends it along to Heaven. Nothing is mentioned of any other route to the hereafter, suggesting it is a sure thing you will get to Heaven if you go to church and do this.
As the priest chanted and read into the mike, a Cantor, sounding like an audio tape being played backwards, echoed him randomly. The choir dropped a 'kyrie elaison' now and then. The congregates seemed to know when to rise, cross themselves, or sit down again. Tediously, each section was given successively in Greek then English. As more candles were being lit, consuming more of the oxygen, the priest then walked around the chapel shaking the smoke from incense burner until those of us with compromised lungs were left coughing and struggling to breathe. After one hour, the smoke was so thick I believe I did stop breathing and coughed constantly for the second, unbelievably tortured hour. The choir chanted a frequent 'allelujah'.
Apparently time stands still in religion. I heard the priest say, "The Apostle Paul said today in his epistles....". I wondered why the church was still making the air unhealthy with the candles and incense, stuck in their time warp of parables and fiction. This day's reading was the parable of Lazarus from the Gospel of St. Luke, again given in two languages...the parable of the great reversal of riches in life. (Lazarus means God's help, we were told). His poverty ended with God, in Heaven. While in Greece the government has traditionally taken on the major expense of the church, in America the congregates shoulder the entire burden, making the plight of Lazarus easier with which to identify.
After 70 minutes, the liturgy repeated in both languages, the Lord's prayer said multiple times over, people knelt though there were no kneeling pads. As a child in the church I was taught that one of the distinctions between Orthodoxy and Catholicism, is that we didn't kneel. At this point I felt as pained as someone being water-boarded and would have confessed to any sins just to be out of there. This was not to be. The church was full of small children, speaking in that loud voice in which the deaf and small children do. As I wondered why the parents had them here, I saw it was communion day for them. We sat as they filed up to the priest, who held the same red napkin for all of them to breathe and drool onto, as he popped a demitasse spoonful of wine in their mouth. This was followed by the chaser, a square inch cube of bread. Any adult, wishing to receive communion, was next. We went back to the getting up, sitting down, making the sign of the cross, with an occasional kneel for variation.
As the priest now stood before the two trays of Koliva, an altar boy coughed, trying to hold the incense burner for the priest whose hands were busy blessing the koliva. The incense smoke rose to the altar boy's face so he held it away from his body. I smiled as it blew into the face of the priest, who then also began to cough.
The word 'dead' was never spoken, only 'those who have fallen asleep'. I longed for the religious equivalent of Mr. Clean, fast-acting and thorough, to cleanse one of the 'earthly sins'. It was not to be had. After two hours, the priest pronounced the two being memorialized were now without sin and sang Omonia, with the choir, or Memories, which had been sung ad nauseum at the funeral a few weeks before. The service ended with local announcement and news before the two plates were passed, one for the church and one for the ladies society. People filed forward to kiss the hand of the priest and receive a cube of bread. This must have been sinner's communion for not having fasted. I finally had enough. Two full hours of my life had been wasted. Amidst glares, I walked to the end of the pew and escaped out of the chapel muttering, "I'll be damned if I will kiss a priest's hand". Who knows, maybe I will be, but will I know why, when or where?
The priest usually spoke with his back turned away, visible through the door in the center of a wall of religious figures, a couple of them doors through which the altar boys passed. To the right were two trays of 'koliva', one in memory of my brother and the other for another family. Apparently, if you are Greek Orthodox, your soul wanders in limbo for 40 days until a priest mumbles a ritual that cleanses it of earthly sins and sends it along to Heaven. Nothing is mentioned of any other route to the hereafter, suggesting it is a sure thing you will get to Heaven if you go to church and do this.
As the priest chanted and read into the mike, a Cantor, sounding like an audio tape being played backwards, echoed him randomly. The choir dropped a 'kyrie elaison' now and then. The congregates seemed to know when to rise, cross themselves, or sit down again. Tediously, each section was given successively in Greek then English. As more candles were being lit, consuming more of the oxygen, the priest then walked around the chapel shaking the smoke from incense burner until those of us with compromised lungs were left coughing and struggling to breathe. After one hour, the smoke was so thick I believe I did stop breathing and coughed constantly for the second, unbelievably tortured hour. The choir chanted a frequent 'allelujah'.
Apparently time stands still in religion. I heard the priest say, "The Apostle Paul said today in his epistles....". I wondered why the church was still making the air unhealthy with the candles and incense, stuck in their time warp of parables and fiction. This day's reading was the parable of Lazarus from the Gospel of St. Luke, again given in two languages...the parable of the great reversal of riches in life. (Lazarus means God's help, we were told). His poverty ended with God, in Heaven. While in Greece the government has traditionally taken on the major expense of the church, in America the congregates shoulder the entire burden, making the plight of Lazarus easier with which to identify.
After 70 minutes, the liturgy repeated in both languages, the Lord's prayer said multiple times over, people knelt though there were no kneeling pads. As a child in the church I was taught that one of the distinctions between Orthodoxy and Catholicism, is that we didn't kneel. At this point I felt as pained as someone being water-boarded and would have confessed to any sins just to be out of there. This was not to be. The church was full of small children, speaking in that loud voice in which the deaf and small children do. As I wondered why the parents had them here, I saw it was communion day for them. We sat as they filed up to the priest, who held the same red napkin for all of them to breathe and drool onto, as he popped a demitasse spoonful of wine in their mouth. This was followed by the chaser, a square inch cube of bread. Any adult, wishing to receive communion, was next. We went back to the getting up, sitting down, making the sign of the cross, with an occasional kneel for variation.
As the priest now stood before the two trays of Koliva, an altar boy coughed, trying to hold the incense burner for the priest whose hands were busy blessing the koliva. The incense smoke rose to the altar boy's face so he held it away from his body. I smiled as it blew into the face of the priest, who then also began to cough.
The word 'dead' was never spoken, only 'those who have fallen asleep'. I longed for the religious equivalent of Mr. Clean, fast-acting and thorough, to cleanse one of the 'earthly sins'. It was not to be had. After two hours, the priest pronounced the two being memorialized were now without sin and sang Omonia, with the choir, or Memories, which had been sung ad nauseum at the funeral a few weeks before. The service ended with local announcement and news before the two plates were passed, one for the church and one for the ladies society. People filed forward to kiss the hand of the priest and receive a cube of bread. This must have been sinner's communion for not having fasted. I finally had enough. Two full hours of my life had been wasted. Amidst glares, I walked to the end of the pew and escaped out of the chapel muttering, "I'll be damned if I will kiss a priest's hand". Who knows, maybe I will be, but will I know why, when or where?
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Symphony Review
My habit is to not read reviews prior to a concert or a play. Most reviews are subjective because I rarely agree. The program started with a piece written by Mozart when he was 9; with all the depth and passion and musical genius of that age whose life had so far consisted of playing the piano or violin all day. As the brief Symphonic piece progressed, it speeded up, indicating that the composer had anticipated the audience wanting it quickly over.
The next piece, by an Australian in 2006, Brett Dean, was The Lost Art of Letter Writing, better titled The Lost Art of Musical Composition. Composers really can't write words with musical notes that create the same picture by pretending the ears are eyes. It was another composition in which the orchestra tuned up for four movements, the first featuring Temple Bells. If a theramin had been added, it would be great background music to a remake of Spellbound.
The piece was written with violinist Frank Peter Zimmermann in mind He played so many high notes so fast, it looked as though he was bowing on his nose. After crescendos ascended for several measures, it resembled nap time at day care. Even the orchestra looked bored, waiting for some music to happen beyond soft temple bells and lots of low notes on the basses. Meanwhile, violin notes high enough that only a dog could hear them were leaving the older audience nodding off in their silence until sudden crashing music woke them. In the next two movements, the full orchestra was engaged in playing unique solos, in random keys, and tempos sounded like an off pitch a cappella choir of strings. The movements each represented an historic letter. Since it was unlikely many in the audience had read these four letters (Hamburg-1854, The Hague-1882, Vienna-1886, Jerilderie Letter-1879) it added to the difficulty of identifying the images. Despite the high decibels, an approximately four bar theme emerged, quickly obscured by the atonal accompaniment and, finally, cavalry arrived (light snare drums and lots of running sounds) to rescue the orchestra just in time for Intermission.
The third piece was Mozart's violin concerto No.2, written when he had grown up to 17. It was played beautifully by Mr. Zimmermann who was loudly applauded to four stage call-backs, though he used a fraction of the virtuosity he displayed in the Dean piece. This suggested I was not alone in my lack of appreciation of the 'modern piece'.
Finally Schumann's Symphony No. 2, melodic, rhythmic and pure vanilla brought it all back to the real world.
The next piece, by an Australian in 2006, Brett Dean, was The Lost Art of Letter Writing, better titled The Lost Art of Musical Composition. Composers really can't write words with musical notes that create the same picture by pretending the ears are eyes. It was another composition in which the orchestra tuned up for four movements, the first featuring Temple Bells. If a theramin had been added, it would be great background music to a remake of Spellbound.
The piece was written with violinist Frank Peter Zimmermann in mind He played so many high notes so fast, it looked as though he was bowing on his nose. After crescendos ascended for several measures, it resembled nap time at day care. Even the orchestra looked bored, waiting for some music to happen beyond soft temple bells and lots of low notes on the basses. Meanwhile, violin notes high enough that only a dog could hear them were leaving the older audience nodding off in their silence until sudden crashing music woke them. In the next two movements, the full orchestra was engaged in playing unique solos, in random keys, and tempos sounded like an off pitch a cappella choir of strings. The movements each represented an historic letter. Since it was unlikely many in the audience had read these four letters (Hamburg-1854, The Hague-1882, Vienna-1886, Jerilderie Letter-1879) it added to the difficulty of identifying the images. Despite the high decibels, an approximately four bar theme emerged, quickly obscured by the atonal accompaniment and, finally, cavalry arrived (light snare drums and lots of running sounds) to rescue the orchestra just in time for Intermission.
The third piece was Mozart's violin concerto No.2, written when he had grown up to 17. It was played beautifully by Mr. Zimmermann who was loudly applauded to four stage call-backs, though he used a fraction of the virtuosity he displayed in the Dean piece. This suggested I was not alone in my lack of appreciation of the 'modern piece'.
Finally Schumann's Symphony No. 2, melodic, rhythmic and pure vanilla brought it all back to the real world.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
STAY OUT OF THE HOSPITAL TO STAY WELL?
Hospitals are supposed to be places to make you well. Many question that today, with toxic cleaners being used and fast food being served. When you visit the next person in the hospital, or, God forbid, you are in one yourself, notice how many times your nurses or other medical personnel who touch you, wash their hands between patients.
Even hospitals are writing about the lack of safety offered their patients. Gone are the days when your doctor took total charge of you health and records. Today you need to manage your own health care. I cringe when patients tell me they don't know what medicines they are taking or have taken. They tell me their doctor has the records. I ask if they are sure the doctor's records can't be burned in a fire or that they will keep the same doctor to their death. (Fat chance of that in today's world...they are lucky if they get to see the same person for long.)
The lesson here is similar to the one I saw in the sign behind the desk in a hospital once" "Pick up after yourself; your mother doesn't work here." One might say something similar: "You can do a lot to take care of yourself; don't expect the medical profession to do it all for you."
Even hospitals are writing about the lack of safety offered their patients. Gone are the days when your doctor took total charge of you health and records. Today you need to manage your own health care. I cringe when patients tell me they don't know what medicines they are taking or have taken. They tell me their doctor has the records. I ask if they are sure the doctor's records can't be burned in a fire or that they will keep the same doctor to their death. (Fat chance of that in today's world...they are lucky if they get to see the same person for long.)
The lesson here is similar to the one I saw in the sign behind the desk in a hospital once" "Pick up after yourself; your mother doesn't work here." One might say something similar: "You can do a lot to take care of yourself; don't expect the medical profession to do it all for you."
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
HALLOWEEN
Today's statistics on what adults spend for Halloween costumes was alarming. Where do they wear them? No one I know is giving a Halloween party, but then I am not a young single. Is that the market for those expensive costumes? My celebration of the day is to walk upstairs and fetch three or four Halloween decorations to put on the porch for the little munchkins to know that this is still a house that gives out candy.
The decorations are a witch statue, about 14 inches tall, a little pottery pumpkin with a votive lite inside, a pumpkin scarecrow nut cracker, and another little thing that should work to bubble up a candle light which doesn't work. Tomorrow, those things will be put back in their closet home from whence they came, for next year.
I know none of the children on the street though they usually seem to know me. I guess I figured out the reason. The little darlings' faces are not seen by me the once I year that I see their little costumed bodies. Even if I did see their faces, by next year they won't look the same. I won't remember their names, and I won't really care. All they want is the candy and all I really want is to give them their tooth rotting candy and send them on to the next house, meanwhile hoping that the evening will end quickly and that I won't find raw eggs on my car in the morning.
The begging custom has been odious to me since my children were of age to Trick or Treat. I used to tell them that I will buy all the candy they want if they will just stay home. I remember a cute little 7 year old, freezing, nose running, who was almost in tears. He just wanted to go home. I asked him why he didn't go home and he said his mother and sister were waiting for the candy and told him not to come home until his pillow case was half full. It makes one wonder whom the candy really feeds. For shame on the adults who can't buy their own candy rather than push little kids out on a cold night. I suppose global warming has made that a bit easier since it is rarely freezing on October 31 in the East. Somehow that still doesn't justify sending kids out to beg.
The decorations are a witch statue, about 14 inches tall, a little pottery pumpkin with a votive lite inside, a pumpkin scarecrow nut cracker, and another little thing that should work to bubble up a candle light which doesn't work. Tomorrow, those things will be put back in their closet home from whence they came, for next year.
I know none of the children on the street though they usually seem to know me. I guess I figured out the reason. The little darlings' faces are not seen by me the once I year that I see their little costumed bodies. Even if I did see their faces, by next year they won't look the same. I won't remember their names, and I won't really care. All they want is the candy and all I really want is to give them their tooth rotting candy and send them on to the next house, meanwhile hoping that the evening will end quickly and that I won't find raw eggs on my car in the morning.
The begging custom has been odious to me since my children were of age to Trick or Treat. I used to tell them that I will buy all the candy they want if they will just stay home. I remember a cute little 7 year old, freezing, nose running, who was almost in tears. He just wanted to go home. I asked him why he didn't go home and he said his mother and sister were waiting for the candy and told him not to come home until his pillow case was half full. It makes one wonder whom the candy really feeds. For shame on the adults who can't buy their own candy rather than push little kids out on a cold night. I suppose global warming has made that a bit easier since it is rarely freezing on October 31 in the East. Somehow that still doesn't justify sending kids out to beg.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
AN UNCLUTTERED MIND
Years ago I visited a friend whose living room had a few pieces of furniture on the floor, most of the rug showing, and a totally bare mantelpiece. I commented on how uncluttered her house was as compared to my own. I had more than a full time job and three small children at the time; their toys strategically dropped for me to trip over, baskets of little girl dresses lying about to be ironed, and everything else visible (in a place with too few closets and places to put things). My friend calmly said "an uncluttered house is a sign of an uncluttered mind." I began to suspect that I had the dreaded 'cluttered mind' for which there is no cure.
Many years later the children are grown up and in houses of their own. I live in a relatively large house, but I still don't have enough space for everything. Nature and I abhor a vacuum.That conversation with my friend came back to me (wherever it was stored amid the clutter of my mind) with the realization that I will never (in this life) have enough room for everything I accumulate. I have a CLUTTERED house as well as a cluttered mind!
Laurence Peter wrote: "If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the significance of a clean desk?" Ah, someone else was on my same path of thought. An empty head never sounded great to me. I found a site that said: "The Cluttered Mind is Resting its mind in hopes of slightly uncluttering it a bit. It will be returning to the uncluttered state on 11/22/07. Please come and visit the site then." Other sites suggested hiring an organizer. I find that is helpful in acute situations but mine is definitely chronic. Within hours of organizing, I am back to clutter. I examined my own problem. I diagnosed myself. A cluttered mind may not have enough space in which to put everything. Since WWII my life has been a blivet: In traditional US Army slang, a blivet was defined as "ten pounds of manure in a five pound bag" (a proverbial description of anything egregiously ugly or unmanageable); it was applied to an unmanageable situation. (Wikipedia)
Meditation works for some people to empty their mind of unwanted thoughts and fill it with "Oo-hm" or something equaling calming. My mind is totally uncooperative. It never empties, nor does my living space. People who have stomach reductions are supposed to be cured from over-eating but many fail to realize the surgery is only step one. Eating habits must also be totally revised. There is a dilemma for me here. Do I want to completely revamp my life and get rid of the glass stored for when I return to making stained glass stuff (when I make space to work on it), the yarn and needles in bags (should I take up knitting again), the oil painting and water color supplies (for when I can get enough time free to return to being artistic), all my hobby and craft stuff, the books I plan to read someday (when I have free time), the CD music I plan to listen to (when we get snowed in as we will when we rid the world of global warming)? (note: only a partial list of my dilemma) This is the external dilemma. The internal one, to empty my mind and stay mentally healthy, is a far greater one. But then, to whom does it matter that I solve it? A dumpster, when I rock off, will solve it for those to whom I pass on the detritus my problem leaves behind.
Many years later the children are grown up and in houses of their own. I live in a relatively large house, but I still don't have enough space for everything. Nature and I abhor a vacuum.That conversation with my friend came back to me (wherever it was stored amid the clutter of my mind) with the realization that I will never (in this life) have enough room for everything I accumulate. I have a CLUTTERED house as well as a cluttered mind!
Laurence Peter wrote: "If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, what is the significance of a clean desk?" Ah, someone else was on my same path of thought. An empty head never sounded great to me. I found a site that said: "The Cluttered Mind is Resting its mind in hopes of slightly uncluttering it a bit. It will be returning to the uncluttered state on 11/22/07. Please come and visit the site then." Other sites suggested hiring an organizer. I find that is helpful in acute situations but mine is definitely chronic. Within hours of organizing, I am back to clutter. I examined my own problem. I diagnosed myself. A cluttered mind may not have enough space in which to put everything. Since WWII my life has been a blivet: In traditional US Army slang, a blivet was defined as "ten pounds of manure in a five pound bag" (a proverbial description of anything egregiously ugly or unmanageable); it was applied to an unmanageable situation. (Wikipedia)
Meditation works for some people to empty their mind of unwanted thoughts and fill it with "Oo-hm" or something equaling calming. My mind is totally uncooperative. It never empties, nor does my living space. People who have stomach reductions are supposed to be cured from over-eating but many fail to realize the surgery is only step one. Eating habits must also be totally revised. There is a dilemma for me here. Do I want to completely revamp my life and get rid of the glass stored for when I return to making stained glass stuff (when I make space to work on it), the yarn and needles in bags (should I take up knitting again), the oil painting and water color supplies (for when I can get enough time free to return to being artistic), all my hobby and craft stuff, the books I plan to read someday (when I have free time), the CD music I plan to listen to (when we get snowed in as we will when we rid the world of global warming)? (note: only a partial list of my dilemma) This is the external dilemma. The internal one, to empty my mind and stay mentally healthy, is a far greater one. But then, to whom does it matter that I solve it? A dumpster, when I rock off, will solve it for those to whom I pass on the detritus my problem leaves behind.
Monday, October 29, 2007
A PAUSE TO REFRESH
Saturday night's Red Sox game, followed by their taking the World Series tonight, as well as the Patriot's win against the Redskins 52-7 this afternoon, took all thoughts from my brain. Even for those of us who don't enjoy spectator sports, the air is captivatingly enthusiastic and uplifting.
The projection of effort and pleasure at their competence radiating from both teams draws one in for that reason, if none other.
The projection of effort and pleasure at their competence radiating from both teams draws one in for that reason, if none other.
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