P52 Week 21 -- Still Life

An extraordinary hibiscus plant sits on my kitchen island next to a Corion cutting board. On the other side, adjacent to the island, is my granddaughter’s high chair. On the golden wall behind is a framed photo – taken by Stephanie, of course – of a beloved tropical scene: a profusion of yellow hibiscus flowers amid palm trees with the deep blue sea in the background.

I had bought several beautifully full and flowering hibiscus plants before, but once in my home, they withered and dropped their leaves. As if in silent protest to be wrenched from their tropical home and dumped into the colder Northwest, they wasted away and refused to bloom ever again.

I even attempted to grow frangipani trees. With excitement, I carried tree twigs home from Hawaii, gently stowing them in my carry-ons. I planted the sticks according to the perforated cellophane package instructions and waited and waited for the unfolding of the fragrant essences. I became overjoyed when a few feeble leaves appeared, but with growing dismay, watched them shrivel. Then, the trunks collapsed, rotten to the core.

A year ago, a saucy vermillion hibiscus plant flirted with me at Trader Joe’s. In a weak moment, I placed her in my shopping cart. Why not try again, I thought to myself, even if it’s just to enjoy the blooms that are already on the plant. I wanted that reminder of tropical paradise – in my home – now!

And so I brought her home and soaked up the glory of the bright red blossoms. The initial blooms dropped off. I held my breath. The plant’s leaves remained intact – drooping a little as a reminder when I was late with my watering.  

Then, a few weeks ago, I espied a tiny bud on one of the branches. I hardly dared to hope. “Look Ada, a new bud on the hibiscus plant,” I exclaimed to my granddaughter perched in her high chair, spooning ice cream in and around her mouth. (Grandma is a softy when it comes to treats.) Ada poked her nose toward the bud (we sniff flowers all over the neighborhood on our walks.) “Not yet,” I smiled.

I was fascinated as the bud grew day by day. And then, it sprung open into a gorgeous four-inch spanned gift of the divine. The bloom lasted hardly more than twenty-four hours – but oh, what enchantment! Each time I spread butter or chopped or sliced, my tropical companion brought a glow to my heart.

That particular branch of the hibiscus has been generating bloom after bloom. Yesterday, I was startled to see the stunning beauty of yet another flower as I turned from the fridge to set milk on the island. In your face, she announced to me in her full glory. In my face, indeed, for I have been feeling sorry for myself.

I have no travel plans. I have no trips scheduled and everyone around me is flying to exotic destinations: Hawaii, Mexico, San Diego. I’ve even succumbed to sulking about it: I have nowhere to go; no one wants to travel with me; woe is me!

But my hibiscus blossom, in my face, on my kitchen island, reminds me of all the many travels I’ve enjoyed, and she points out that I have a piece of tropical heaven right here, right now. Soak me up and revel in me, she urges. And my god, there are other buds waiting in line to open up and open me up to that same lesson. In my face, indeed.

P52 Week 20 -- Photographer's Choice

 Musings On the Polarities of Self

Grey and sunny

Vibrant and dingy

Happy and sultry

Satisfied and yearning

Fortunate and passed over

Sated and needy

Thick and thin

In and out of shape

Focused and foggy

Bien maquiller and frumpy

Reverent and thoughtless

Extreme or in-between

Empty or full

To do’s galore or QED

Mindful or clueless – love that word!

Blessed and blessed

Always

P52 Week 19 - Architecture

I knew the townhouse was the place for me when I first drove up to it. It was a somatic feeling: my body settled into a smooth, even hum. My face relaxed and I felt my presence meld with the surroundings: the air, the plants and the building structures. I was drawn to much more than the architecture.

I ended up purchasing the townhouse. The fact that it was located in a less than desirable neighborhood didn’t deter me. Of course, it fit my requirements in several practical ways – it was in the price range I could afford, it had an enclosed garage; it had two bedrooms (sometimes I wish it had three, but really, for the few times I needed the extra room, it hasn’t been a big drawback.) And it was move-in ready.

So how do I reconcile the feeling with the architecture of the place?

The entryway to my townhouse is narrow and actually not very welcoming, but up a flight of stairs, the living area becomes more inviting. It has graceful arches, spanning higher-than-code ceilings that separate the living room from the dining area, and the dining area from the kitchen. The lines of these arches give the place a warm and homey feel. I immediately felt at ease when I first viewed the unit with my real estate agent – and I still feel the same pleasant contentment every time I return home.

I have large sliding glass doors off my living room, opening onto a cement patio. Direct access to the outside has been important to me. I once lived in a second floor apartment that had small windows and no private outside access and I felt horribly penned in and claustrophobic.

My unit faces southeast and so I am blessed with lots of light, another really important requirement. My bedroom has large double windows and I gaze at sunrises as they migrate along the mountain silhouettes north and then south through the seasons. Even on the often-cloudy Seattle days, my rooms are infused with plentiful soft rays. My favorite place to hang out is in my bedroom – no, actually, I find every room in my house delightful to be in – each in their own way.

So, does the feeling come because of the architecture, or does the architecture create the feeling?

As I’ve pondered and stewed over this week’s Project 52 prompt, I’m not sure I’m any closer to solving this dilemma. My experience with two Seattle cathedrals hasn’t helped.

The interior of St Marks, the Episcopal cathedral, is a rather unsightly huge concrete box – and yet I have a lovely feeling whenever I enter. A sacred sense resonates in my body as a sweet ache in my chest that radiates into my belly, my throat and eyes. I often experience deep insights as I sit in a compline or Eucharist service, or when I walk the labyrinth.

St James Cathedral, the seat of the Catholic archdiocese, is a recently refurbished gorgeous Renaissance Revival style structure. It is architecturally stunning. I’ve spent some time here as well, meditating and occasionally attending mass, and yet the depth of feeling hasn’t been the same. Is it because of the baggage that I have around being raised in the Catholic Church? I don’t think so, as I’ve had profound experiences in other Catholic churches – even quite humble ones.

Is it the building itself that carries the energy/aura/mojo – whatever – independent of the architecture? The feelings that I experience are so ephemeral that I cannot completely grasp their origin. Nevertheless, they are grounded in my body and are very, very real.

So I ask the question again: does the feeling come because of the architecture, or does the architecture create the feeling? My experience with churches and my home makes me wonder if it’s the feeling that predominates. Maybe it’s a chicken and egg phenomenon. Maybe it’s both and maybe it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is to take in the experience as a glorious whole – both the visual and the feeling – and not nitpick about the particulars. 

P52 Week 18 - Landscapes and Nature

This week’s P52 prompt states that landscape/nature photography shows “little to no human activity or presence of any sort.” On the Chief Sealth trail, which runs right behind my townhouse, the signs of man are all around. The trail itself runs along a power line: clones of skeletal Eiffel tower-like structures linked with electric wire necklaces. The trail’s swath is a couple of hundred feet wide with a one-lane-car-width black top path running alongside the metal towers. Modest houses abut the trail. I also pass by a church, a grade school and a pea patch on my early morning walk.

But nature abounds alongside the human edifices. Some of the grass on either side of the pavement is waist high; other patches have already had their spring shearing. I smile, remembering how my granddaughter squealed as I swooped her through the softly waving blades, tickling her face. “Again Gaga. Again!” she cried with glee.

I see dozens of earthworms in all stages of hara-kiri, ranging from dried, curved toothpicks to juicy, writhing squiggles, dotting the pavement. I want to urge them to scurry back to the protection of the lush, moist, cool grasses, but they plod on, as if part of some collective destructive ritual, like lemmings tumbling en masse over a cliff and into the sea.

A crow flies by me, completely disinterested in the exposed worms, as if the pavement has somehow tainted them, or perhaps the prey is too easy a catch for her – or is it that she doesn’t want to scratch her beak on the hard tar surface? Instead, she’s much more interested in a discarded sac of garbage and pecks and pokes at it.

I look up and see the early morning sun gleaming on the glorious peak of Mt Rainier. It forms a stunning backdrop to one of the power towers. Sometimes the marring of the mountain-view irritates me, but not today. I ponder humanity and nature and how we must co-exist in harmony.

And as I stroll, I am reminded of another new trail that has recently been reclaimed from an old railroad line in the suburbs east of Seattle. The line ran from Renton north to the Chateau San Michelle Winery in Woodinville and a delightful dinner train used to run its length. I once enjoyed a lovely gourmet steak dinner as the train rolled north. We stopped off to taste some delicious wines at the Chateau and re-boarded the dining car to complete our meal with a scrumptious dessert on the ride back. The train clacking along and whistling at road crossings leant an Orient Express-like atmosphere to the elegant dining experience.

The dinner train was discontinued when construction on a freeway expansion in Renton encroached on the railroad line. The remaining track lines lay abandoned for years.

For a while, there was talk of converting the old railroad to a light rail route to help ease the gridlocks that snarl the Eastside highways with aggravating regularity. The Seattle area has the dubious distinction of ranking in the country’s top five for the worst traffic congestion. The proposed transit plan seemed to make sense as the railroad line was already established and would thus provide some cost savings for the project. But moguls such as Kemper Freeman, who owns much of the downtown in the eastside city of Bellevue, adamantly opposed the mass transit project, claiming it to be a waste of taxpayers money and more evidence of big government’s spending follies. His almighty dollars and power mongering won out and the project was tabled.

Later, the decision was made to convert the old railroad line to a trail, named the Cross Kirkland Corridor. Environmentally sound you say? A wonderful way to increase green belts? Perhaps.

I walked the trail with a friend a few weeks ago. I didn’t like that a large portion of the trail ran by warehouses and commercial areas. But then, how is that different from walking next to power lines on my neighborhood’s Chief Sealth trail? Man and nature must learn to co-exist, I thought to myself, but my emotions were mixed and I voiced them to my friend. I thought that a light rail system along that route would have served the community well.

 The traffic snarls in the Seattle area continue to grow and grow.

And I wonder: how would it be for communities to take planning decisions into discernment, letting go of biases and special interests, and for them to consider what is best for the long term, for the earth, for future generations? Would the result of that discernment be that the old railroad trail might best be served as a light rail line rather that a walking trail?

Hard to say.

And then I think to myself: I, too, have biases; perhaps I’m just as opinionated as Kemper Freeman. How do I get beyond myself and look for the greater good? That is my work – and the work of humanity.