P52 Week 42 -- Hot

Free associating with hot . . .

The first “hot” trigger for me is a song – of course! “Too Darn Hot” by Cole Porter is a real beauty. Watch the YouTube clip of it with Anne Miller dancing – she’s brilliant! Listen to Ella Fitzgerald’s version of it –she’s brilliant! I think the lyrics of today’s songs are so graphic, but oh, how some of the lyricists back in the day could make songs sensual because they were subtly so.

Weather hot. I love the dog days of summer, much prefer it to cold. Give me a tropical beach over a ski slope any day. No contest!

Food temperature hot. I like hot foods better than cold. I could never subsist on a raw diet. Even salads and sushi take a backseat for me. I enjoy them occasionally but I never tire of a steaming bowl of soul soup, stews, grilled and sautéed meats, and vegetables.

Hot, as in spicy. I like a burning twist to my Mexican food – one of my favorite ethnic cuisines.

Hot – something very popular – like what’s hot on TV or in fashions or in the news. “Hot off the press.” Or a hot topic – like politics right now – Garr – that kind of hot I can do without.

Hot – attractive. Like he’s hot, or she’s hot. Yeah, I’m looking for a hot single guy around age 60, so if you know of one . . .

What comes to mind for you with “hot?”

P52 Week 41 -- Water

What is there to say about water, that ubiquitous, life giving substance that they have now found on Mars? Those of you who have read my blog know that I love water – specifically tropical ocean beaches.

I could write more about that, but have decided to scale down the scope of water to a short stretch of the San Antonio River as it flows through the city of the same name. Last week I spent five days there with my daughter and her good friend. They were both attending a photography conference. I played tourist.

I learned while there that, after a devastating flood in 1921, the city wanted to construct a huge underground storm drain. The women of the San Antonio Conservation Society fought this solution. They helped turn the tide and instead, a flood control system was built.  The charm of it all was that, along with the water channels, dams, and a lock system, a picturesque waterside urban park was created. Yeah, ladies!

I strolled along the River Walk my first morning there. The river was so quiet and still. I could hardly make out the direction of flow.

I marveled at the mosaics on the walls, the designs poured into the concrete paths, the textures of the stones and worn steps. I loved the abundant vegetation, some of which I recognized – bougainvillea, hibiscus, palm trees – many others I did not. Magnificent bald cypress trees overhung the waterway, softening the glare of the humid heat.

A few homeless sat in the shade of overpasses. A battered work barge chugged by with a smiling, weathered-faced driver.  A large net, like a snowplow, was attached to the front of the barge, and it was scooping up the debris that had collected on the water’s surface. A Hispanic gardener sprayed the path clear of leaves and detritus and watered the bushes. He cautioned me to stay clear of the long hose.

Even as I approached the touristy U-shaped loop of the river, hardly anyone was about – at 10 am. That, along with the eerie, deserted urban landscape we experienced on our taxi ride from the airport the evening before, made me wonder whether there was any vibrant life in the city of San Antonio.

Friday’s walk painted a different picture. I marched the half mile from our riverside hotel to the touristy area and was delighted to see a livelier scene. The restaurants were packed; tourists of all shapes and colors strolled about; booths were being set up for a weekend fair. Over the weekend, I had my fill of Tex-Mex food and steaks at riverside restaurants. I also tasted some pretty darn good Cuban and Italian cuisine.

The San Antonio River Walkway: calling it the river of life may be overstating it, but it is the lifeblood of the city’s tourist industry. Yes, it was hot and muggy at times. Yes, there was the smell of urine in some of the corners of the River Walk. Yes, it was kinda touristy. But darn it was fun, and I’m glad I got to experience it.

P52 Week 40 -- Reflection

The first thing that came to mind with the prompt of “reflection” was the slapstick song from Funny Girl “His love makes me beautiful” in which Fanny – played brilliantly by Barbra Streisand – cavorts about the stage as a very pregnant bride in her Zeigfield Follies singing debut:

I am the beautiful reflection
Of my love's affection
A walking illustration
Of his adoration
His love makes me beautiful
So beautiful

Several other associations with the prompt came to mind: I reflect my background certainly; I mirror my parents and siblings, the good and the bad; I reflect my relationships, my lovers, my work and spiritual life, and my environment; my body reflects what I eat and how much I workout.

I am in awe that I am both reflected in and am a reflection of my children.

But I can’t shake that nutty scene in Fanny and that silly song keeps buzzing in my brain. Maybe I am drawn to Funny Girl because she grokked that she was in no way a classic beauty. Moreover, she had the moxie to hilariously act out her acknowledgement on stage.

When it comes to my own features, I have contrasting reactions. Occasionally, I look in the mirror and I think – you look rather pretty today. Other times – more often times – I look aghast at my reflection – the wan visage, the jowls, the permanent frown etched in my wrinkles. Do I have Fanny’s spunk, enough to twist my disheartening aged reflection into humorous acceptance – or at least resignation?

When it came to aging, my mother had Funny Girl’s pluck. She joked about looking in the mirror and wondering, “Who on earth is this old hag?” She was able to lighten up and chuckle about her aging process.

Maybe I, too, can learn to reflect my mother’s humor and lightness when I see my reflection in the mirror.

P52 Week 39 -- Peace

I think of peace when I am in my home. I felt a sense of peace when I found this townhouse, even though it is located in a less than desirable neighborhood.

“I wouldn’t buy here, Liz,” my ex told me when he heard I was interested in this area. “There’s a high crime rate and there are gangs, you know.” I wasn’t fazed by the reports of home burglaries, car break-ins, assaults, shootings and homicides.  

It may sound strange, but I felt called to move here. Do you ever have a sense that just clunks into place for you? Well, that’s how I felt as I first sat in my car outside this condo. It was truly a sense of “peace which passeth all understanding.”

Many in my development live in refugee and subsidized housing, Indeed, my zip code has the distinction of being the most culturally diverse in the country. There is community pride. In the past month banners have been erected along the main street proclaiming “welcome” in over twenty languages – some, I am loath to admit, I have never heard of.

Living here, I have often felt that I am adding to the sense of the collective peace in my neighborhood as I sit on my bed and gaze out the window. When I meditate, write, and reflect, I think I am adding to the zeitgeist, to the spirit of the area. I hope I am helping to balance the unrest, and the violence.

I go on walks on the Chief Sealth trail that abuts my building and share warm greetings with my Asian, Hispanic and African neighbors. I admire the pea patches filled with corn stalks, sunflowers, onions, and many varieties of beans and peppers. I walk with my granddaughter to the library a block from my house and play in the nearby park. She is oblivious to the fact that she is the only blond, blue-eyed child in the group. She climbs and vies for the swings without any sense of self-consciousness.

Peace. I am at peace in this neighborhood. I am part of the peace movement in this neighborhood and it’s up to me to keep peace in my heart and soul and emanate that quality to my surroundings.

P52 Week 38 -- Photographer's Choice -- Autumn

More than associating Autumn with a time of harvest, of abundance, I feel a longing for what I am losing: the expansive days, the warmth and bounty of the dog days of summer.

It doesn’t help that when I wear fall colors, I look sallow, as if I were jaundiced. Rarely have I bought outfits in golds, oranges or rusts. I’m more of an aqua, pink and royal-blue kinda gal.

Of course, I delight in seeing the red tinged leaves appearing on branch tips. I enjoy inhaling the nip in the morning air and feeling its freshness on my cheeks. My soul is moved – and yet it somehow isn’t. Do you know what I mean? It’s like I’m feeling what Autumn lovers feel. I have empathy and appreciation and I love, but it is not my love. It’s not what lies in my deepest heart.

Moreover, I mourn the loss of days that last almost forever, the light and heat of the sun, the verdant foliage, the dazzling colors of geraniums, petunias, begonias, lobelia, dahlias, and the sweetly fragrant roses. I love that I don’t feel cold for days at a time – even in the evenings, that I can wear shorts and flip-flops and forget about carting sweaters around. My body thrives in the matching ambient temperatures.

But fall it is, and I wonder: did I appreciate this past summer fully enough? Did I seize and absorb every opportunity to relish, to frolic, to dance it its deliciousness?

Then I ask myself, how many more summers will I be privileged enough to witness?

P52 Week 37 -- Secluded

Secluded has many shades of meaning.

It brings to mind a glade in the woods, a place to sit and be with nature, a place to commune with nature beings.

Secluded could mean a spiritual retreat, a place to stay in isolation for a time, in order to reflect and discern.

Monks or nuns are cloistered for a much longer period, as a lifetime choice.  

Perhaps secluded is a safe haven in which to retire in order to escape life’s craziness, like locking oneself in a bedroom or a bathroom.

It’s possible to zone out behind an imaginary privacy screen at work, or at a social gathering.

In olden times, pregnant women remained in social seclusion.

Women in some religious traditions are still sequestered when they are menstruating.

Seclusion can mean secretive, as when hurts and pains are held inside.

Many of our prisoners are locked up, in seclusion, in solitary confinement.

And on a lighter note, seclusion can be thought of in a foxy, sexy sense, as depicted in the Jerry Ross and Richard Adler show tune, “Hernando’s Hideaway” from the musical Pajama Game. Imagine dancing the tango as you hum . . .

I know a dark secluded place.
A place where no one knows your face.
A glass of wine a fast embrace.
It's called Hernando's Hideaway, ole!

All you see are silhouettes.
And all you hear are castanets.
And no one cares how late it gets.
Not at Hernando's Hideaway, ole!

At the Golden Fingerbowl or any place you go.
You'll meet your uncle Max and everyone you know.
But if we go to the spot that I am thinking of
You will be free, to gaze at me, and talk of love.

Just knock three times and whisper low,

That you and I were sent by Joe.
Then strike a match and you will know

You’re in Hernando's Hideaway, ole!

What comes to mind when you think of secluded?