On suffering

Courtesy of Beliefnet:

"Suffering, pain, sorrow, humiliation, feelings of loneliness, are nothing but the kiss of Jesus, a sign that you have come so close that he can kiss you. Do you understand, brothers, sisters, or whoever you may be? Suffering, pain, humiliation—this is the kiss of Jesus."

--Mother Teresa

Couldn't resist ...

After living under a pop-culture rock for much of my life, I discovered who Mr. T was about two years ago. I have the convert's enthusiasm for all things Mr. T now, so without further ado, I share with you this commercial I saw tonight. (This is not an endorsement of the product).

Happy Thanksgiving!

Among the many things I'm grateful for: family, friends, health, my job, my education, my kitty, a place to live, all five senses working (as in, sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch), and freedom (a big thank-you to all the troops sacrificing this time with their families to serve our country).

Not included in that list, but vital to the holiday is ... food! So I share this:

A gripping escape

I finished Kathryn Stockett's debut novel The Help at 4:30 this morning, refusing to spend another night not knowing how the plot would conclude. I will say that I loved quite a few things about it:

• Getting to glimpse 1960s Mississippi from the perspective of three women (two black maids, one white woman) Every few chapters, the narration switches between the women. While the chapter that changes from one woman to the next is named after the woman speaking, the label was really just a gesture because Stockett did an excellent job of distinguishing the three voices.
• Seeing life in those times (shockingly recent) from an under-reported perspective: the non-white view. To quote one of the main characters in the book: "Everyone knows how we white people feel, the glorified Mammy figure who dedicates her whole life to a white family. Margaret Mitchell covered that. But no one ever asked Mammy how she felt about it." 
• Digging into the complex relationships and social conditioning resulting from the absurd idea of segregation.
• Gaining Stockett's insights to human nature, relationships and life that are surfaced periodically in the thoughts and words of one of the three women. She manages to include them without making the narrative feel contrived -- something few authors who wax philosophical do well, in my view.

My critical opinion of the book is shaped by the following three factors:

• Experience: Given that Stockett drew on aspects of her own life as the foundation of this book, she is able to create a much more compelling situation and cast of characters than someone like myself who never lived in the Deep South during that period or who never even had a maid at home. That being said, the novel was still written by a white author putting herself creatively in two black women's shoes. I have to wonder how someone who had been in that situation would assess the characters and the reality conjured by the book. 
• Doubt: Stockett does an excellent job of incorporating real-life figures such as Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. and real-life events such as the Birmingham church bombing, Kennedy's assassination, and the march on D.C. as a means of situating the reader within a familiar context. She also uses some of the characteristic violence of organizations like the KKK to reinforce the high-stakes gamble the characters brave in embarking on their communal project. That being said, I was (relieved but) skeptical when I finished the book that we the readers hadn't seen more of that behavior shatter our characters' worlds.
• Oomph: Finally, I felt the book had progressed at such a steady clip, unfolding with such gripping conflict and suspense, that the ending, while logical, underwhelmed me. I had glimpsed Stockett's genius laid bare on the pages leading up to it, I wondered if she couldn't have left the reader with a more dynamic finish.

Overall, though, I found myself fading from my own world's parameters and inhabiting Miss Skeeter's, Aibileen's and Minny's realities with an increasing eagerness as I worked through the book's 464 pages. Having walked with the women through their struggles and triumphs, I closed the book's cover with a renewed faith in humanity's capacity for nobility and absurdity, and a profound love for three women I had had the honor of getting to know in the previous pages.

A favorite commercial ...

Unfortunately, embedding is disabled but if you're interested in checking it out, you can see it here. You go girls! :)

Humanity between two covers

I've always believed that books choose people, and reading Kaye Gibbons' A Virtuous Woman only convinced me of that further.

I picked the book up back in May at a used book sale benefiting a D.C. library. It was one of two dozen that I carried out in a 11" by 15" cardboard box provided by the volunteers when they saw me struggling with my newly purchased loot.

There was a rawness that resonated with me from the back cover's description: 

 "When Blinking Jack Stokes met Ruby Pitt Woodrow, she was twenty and he was forty. She was the carefully raised daughter of Carolina gentry and he was a skinny tenant farmer who had never owned anything in his life. She was newly widowed after a disastrous marriage to a brutal drifter. He had never asked a woman to do more than help him hitch a mule. They didn't fall in love so much as they simply found each other and held on for dear life."

I didn't reach for the book until last night and finished it this morning. Gibbons allocates alternating chapters to Jack and Ruby's reminiscences of their lives before and with each other, told at various points of time -- and in the case of Ruby, from the grave (something the reader discovers on the first page of the first chapter).

Gibbons' book feels less like a novel and more like time spent chatting on the porch with someone you've known most of your life. Her writing in a consistent Carolina dialect, her attention to detail in constructing a believable world, and the complexity of her characters' emotions in the face of life's heartaches allow them to step off the page fully formed.

The conclusion of the book, though moving and somewhat satisfying, felt rushed and tacked on to the otherwise thoughtful narrative, however. The entrance of an omniscient narrator who had never appeared before the last chapter was jarring and the last few pages felt as if Gibbons ran out of steam in trying to tie up the loose ends. A reliance on an increased amount of internal dialogue also was introduced in the final chapter, adding to the reader's disorientation. Lastly, the book seems to be set in the peak of 1950s life in the South, which includes allusions to racial inequality and prejudice that offends modern sensibilities. (I understand it was written to reflect realistically that time period).

Those weaknesses aside, A Virtuous Woman is worth reading. The themes of struggling with man's quest for immortality and wrestling with society -- both in trying to conform to its demands and in aiming to beat its expectations -- were portrayed with vulnerability that comes from a compassionate author's alertness to human nature and the world around her.

I'm richer for having been picked by this gem of a book.

Blowing the dust off the blog ...

During my blogging hiatus, I put reading on pause, too. Between giving up writing and reading, well, you can imagine I felt like a stranger in my own body. But sometimes, you get so busy living, thinking and observing that you have to step away from what gives you security in Life and just follow your Self's lead.

The tidal flow of expression in my life is something I long ago had to accept. There are times when my thoughts crash upon the shore with a steadiness and reliability in the rhythm that it's hard to imagine that ever changing; but then, just like that, the waters calm and I know I'm in the resting phase when it's time to go out and seek inspiration in the world around me before my next creative phase comes.

Thank you for not giving up on me. Here's to the past and future.

Retreat from city life

Beauty and peace in a sunrise at Cavas Wine Lodge in Mendoza. 

(Photo by M.G.H.)

Keeping it real

While traveling recently, I had the privilege of flying in business class for a leg of the trip. Thankfully, it came after a flight traveled in coach class, which prompted the following reflection:

I must admit a dichotomy in my senses: awe and appreciation for the feeling of limitlessness and pleasure in the taste of luxury; but also, discomfort and disillusionment at the implications, especially in the stark contrast in treatment between coach and business classes.

It is a reminder in humility and staying grounded that the same person can be treated without significance on one flight and waited on hand and foot 4 hours later. If ever there were evidence that money rules our society, it is this situation. Nothing about me has changed in the last four hours, except perhaps the newly acquired (and much-bemoaned) stain on my shirt. And, if anything, in today's image-conscious world, this would make me less likely to be the subject of groveling.

Note to self: Remember this, should you ever be in situations where others esteem you. Attention is fickle and the only thing that could be more uncomfortable than coach class is facing yourself when others' opinion of you deflates and you realize you bought into the illusion of being more important than you are.

12 months

A year ago today I received the "last word" from my ex-boyfriend via an email. The past twelve months have brought freedom, struggles, independence, sadness, but above all, a renewed sense of self. Today I celebrate my growth, the distance I've traveled and the way Life marches on.

My "last word"? Silence.

Long time no see!

I've been out of the country for the last two weeks. I had hoped to do a setup post beforehand but after pulling two all-nighters before my departure, I realized that wasn't going to happen. I'm back now after a wonderful trip to Argentina (more on that to come), but for now, this is how I feel after traveling for 30 hours and then working a full day.

Happy 'tails'

If Friday's post examined the cruelty and double standards of human treatment of animals, let this one tell the story of redemption and love. Check out the new beginnings of these lovable little ones and the fantastic humans who went to great lengths to save them. Be sure to vote on your favorite dog story and, of course, the kitties' too!

A closing thought from St. Francis of Assisi:

If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.

Update 8/23: Voting is now closed.

Questioning Tradition

 When a man wants to murder a tiger he calls it sport; when the tiger wants to murder him he calls it ferocity.  ~George Bernard Shaw

A story out of northern Spain reported today exemplifies this perfectly. Spectators in the stands at a bullfight had the tables turned when the bull jumped the barrier and used his power against them. Let me preface my remarks: My heart and prayers go out to the injured, especially the 10-year-old boy who is in intensive care as a result. Having said that, I can't help but question the senselessness of this situation.

I remember silent tears sliding down my cheeks when I attended a bullfight in Spain more than a decade ago. The injustice of a system entirely stacked against this mighty creature; the indignity of a death wished for and cheered by hundreds who paid to see it (i.e., to bring it about) sickened me.

I was an unwilling, albeit ignorant, accomplice. While I knew there would be a man teasing a bull, I had no idea there were two other men assigned to weaken the bull's neck muscles by stabbing it repeatedly (if acrobatically). The punctures are "gentle" enough for the paying public to be satisfied with a drawn-out dramatic event, in which the best case scenario would include the unscathed matador delivering the final blow to the bull and being awarded the animal's ears as a trophy. Not all "fights" unfold that way, as we saw this May when a matador was gored in the throat.

French musician Francis Cabrel wrote a song from the bull's perspective called "La Corrida." Two favorite verses from that song roughly translate as such:

Ils ont frappés fort dans mon coup [They struck my neck hard]
pour que je m'incline [so that I would bow]
Ils sortent d'oú, ces acrobates? [They're coming from where, these acrobats?]
Avec leurs costumes de papier? [With their costumes of paper?]
J'ai jamais appris a me battre  [I never learned to fight]
contre des poupées [against dolls]
...
Je les entends rire comme je rale [I hear them laugh as I groan]
Je les vois danser comme je succombe [I see them dance as I die]
Je ne pensais pas qu'on puisse autant s'amuser [I never thought one could have so much fun]
Autour d'une tombe [around a tomb]

The saddest part of today's story is that the bull was killed for acting on the instincts it was bred to have and for venting its rage at the indignity of its existence.

Who's ferocious now?

***

From beasts we scorn as soulless,
In forest, field and den,
The cry goes up to witness
The soullessness of men.
~M. Frida Hartley

Just learned about ...

... yarnbombing! This NYC image is courtesy of KT Tunstall's Facebook feed and the term tip-off was from her FB friend who encouraged everyone to check out other examples online. I have to admit: I love the concept: "...reclaiming and personalizing sterile or cold public places" (Wikipedia).

I love the sense of play, the non-destructive nature of it and the push to make the urban landscape a little more friendly. Knit on, yarnbombers, knit on!

Coolest pots ever?

Around the corner from one of my most favorite places in D.C. - Busboys and Poets. Next time you're in the area, stop by and have a drink or snack. Sink into one of the couches, bring a good book, or peruse the bookstore's shelves and buy one.

It's a place I would truly miss if I left this town.

And we're back

My apologies for the inactivity on the blog. I just returned from a weekend retreat that proved to be especially restful and fruitful, due to the atmosphere of silence that prevailed. I'll write more on that later, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm here and planning to blow the dust off this page shortly. ;-) Thanks for stopping by!

A tribute to resilience

Despite the sad situation, this story is surprisingly uplifting. I'm so glad this kitty is surrounded by loving caretakers. Here's to the hope of a loving purrrr-manent home in her near future!

Bite-sized inspiration

"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."

Dr. Leo Buscaglia
(1924-1998); Professor, Author

Dos años más tarde ...

My mom's got a point. "Even physical wounds would have healed by now," she says, while urging me to fix the two-year-old hole in my wall. When the event first happened, I was too ashamed to go to the leasing office to have them fix it. Then, I thought it served as a powerful reminder of what I left behind; I'd look at it in my moments of weakness.

But now it's just a downer.

We brainstorm ways to beautify it. I could ask the office to fix it, but that creates other complications -- namely raising awareness that I have an undeclared (feline) roommate. I could stick a photo there but that seems pretty random in the general scheme of my apartment's decorations. My mom sent me two pieces of art from Colombia a few months ago that I hadn't hung yet because they had gotten lost when I held them up on other walls. I decided to start with one. Tonight seemed as good as any other to take the bull by the horns and say "Hasta la vista!" to bad memories.

Before:

After:

Much better, no? :)

Some welcome levity ...

This blog fully owns up to taking on some heavy topics, but that's not to say this writer doesn't love the goofy or absurd. Without further ado, I present the most memorable Save the Date ever: