The "Examined Life" has just been reinvented.
In the interests of more dailiness of writing, and a stronger focus on writing practice - and spirituality - I have created "Penofthemagpie" ... The "magpie" (me) has taken up her metaphorical (or should I say virtual) pen and is committing herself to writing regularly - hopefully three or more times a week in shorter, more zen-like spurts! This not only supports my writing practice, but hopefully can stimulate a larger readership.
I am also making a concerted effort to cultivate a "following" and invite dialogue with my fellow writer/readers... So, please, if you like what you see, and believe in offering some moral support to my new effort, become a "follower." I'll be most grateful!
Hope to hear from you all soon. It appears that the directions in the blog are clear (address of blog: http://www.penofthemagpie.wordpress.com), so come on over and join in the conversation...
with love and appreciation,
Mag
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Monday, July 11, 2016
Friday, July 8, 2016
Offering your words in the darkness...
Every time I thought about beginning again, it occurred to me to apologize for disappearing, but since I'm not quite sure just WHO I should apologize to, that all seems rather silly. So, now almost 3 months since my last iteration, I continue on ... To consider the delights of: feeling like myself again thanks to kicking the Zoloft habit, the exhilaration of reacquainting myself with my manuscript and feeling proud, the comfort of family, and the heart wrenching challenges of accepting our darkly violent society. Somewhere there is connection here, somewhere ... I want to find it.
When I looked at a video this morning that showed a black man shot dead in his car while his girlfriend watched with her camera on the policeman's gun, I cried tears and felt that it was close to impossible to feel happy in this time, despite all my advantages and comforts. The idea of feeling happy when police are gunning down our black population and then cops are executed in revenge seems incongruous. How do those things fit together? When my heart seems to be crumbling, can I find a way into the light? Yes, I can.
I can tell my daughter how much I adore her, hug my grandchild tight, and give that adorable grandson a big fat kiss on the cheek. I can scoop up my small dog Peaches and squeeze her and remind her I adore her as she licks my face with her gentle pink tongue. I can choose the language of love; it won't make the horrors of cruelly murdered young men less grave, less urgent, but it WILL help me hold it in my heart.
Another thing I can do is re-enter the story of my life, read and feel the words I've painfully inscribed there, and sculpt and build and keep telling the story. Why is telling my story so important? Because it reminds me that I'm a living, breathing, feeling human who even at the age of 71 is envisioning a lot more life to live ... A lot more love to be had... It also puts my words, my own sensibility, OUT THERE in the universe. And the more I can do that, the less alienated and sorrowful I will feel. You cannot make peace in the world until you make peace in yourself, the Dalai Lama said, and as I put my precious story out there, I help change the world in my own small, but entirely unique, way. So, I may be invisible to the publishing world and barely worthy of publishing, but I'm not to myself, and I am driven by a wish to spread my words around, and so I will. I will hold the faith that someday they may show up in a book.
And interestingly, and here is where I feel able to tie this all together, my pulling myself out of a drug induced existence and returning to my authentic "self" was the catalyst for all of the above! When you are not yourself, you don't feel, don't think clearly, don't respond with passion -- you can't. The juice is not there. So, you think you're o.k., sort of, and you go on. But you're not. Because you can't cry, don't feel like laughing at a friend's story, and even the beauty of your 16 year old Maine Coon cat doesn't melt your heart. So, you decide you're not really depressed, and you discard the pills. And your sleep is good and gradually you return to who you are. And you see that who you are is really quite engaging, sweet, and good.
We're living in a very dark and chaotic and scary time. Sociopath running for president, hatred manifest almost everywhere, especially in urban communities where the economic/social divide is way too strong, and still we must get up, make our tea, walk our dog, and smile at those we meet on the street. We must smile, because it is in our nature to be kindly. We must pay attention, as harrowing as that is, to what is really going on in the culture, which means watching the news and reflecting as best we can. Ignorance is not an option. As I feel repelled by watching tonight's NPR's account of this week of killing, I will do it anyway, holdng my dog close to me, and trying to breathe into my heart and feel my own loving nature. And I'll be grateful that I'm alive to speak my peace ... Now and until I die.
When I looked at a video this morning that showed a black man shot dead in his car while his girlfriend watched with her camera on the policeman's gun, I cried tears and felt that it was close to impossible to feel happy in this time, despite all my advantages and comforts. The idea of feeling happy when police are gunning down our black population and then cops are executed in revenge seems incongruous. How do those things fit together? When my heart seems to be crumbling, can I find a way into the light? Yes, I can.
I can tell my daughter how much I adore her, hug my grandchild tight, and give that adorable grandson a big fat kiss on the cheek. I can scoop up my small dog Peaches and squeeze her and remind her I adore her as she licks my face with her gentle pink tongue. I can choose the language of love; it won't make the horrors of cruelly murdered young men less grave, less urgent, but it WILL help me hold it in my heart.
Another thing I can do is re-enter the story of my life, read and feel the words I've painfully inscribed there, and sculpt and build and keep telling the story. Why is telling my story so important? Because it reminds me that I'm a living, breathing, feeling human who even at the age of 71 is envisioning a lot more life to live ... A lot more love to be had... It also puts my words, my own sensibility, OUT THERE in the universe. And the more I can do that, the less alienated and sorrowful I will feel. You cannot make peace in the world until you make peace in yourself, the Dalai Lama said, and as I put my precious story out there, I help change the world in my own small, but entirely unique, way. So, I may be invisible to the publishing world and barely worthy of publishing, but I'm not to myself, and I am driven by a wish to spread my words around, and so I will. I will hold the faith that someday they may show up in a book.
And interestingly, and here is where I feel able to tie this all together, my pulling myself out of a drug induced existence and returning to my authentic "self" was the catalyst for all of the above! When you are not yourself, you don't feel, don't think clearly, don't respond with passion -- you can't. The juice is not there. So, you think you're o.k., sort of, and you go on. But you're not. Because you can't cry, don't feel like laughing at a friend's story, and even the beauty of your 16 year old Maine Coon cat doesn't melt your heart. So, you decide you're not really depressed, and you discard the pills. And your sleep is good and gradually you return to who you are. And you see that who you are is really quite engaging, sweet, and good.
We're living in a very dark and chaotic and scary time. Sociopath running for president, hatred manifest almost everywhere, especially in urban communities where the economic/social divide is way too strong, and still we must get up, make our tea, walk our dog, and smile at those we meet on the street. We must smile, because it is in our nature to be kindly. We must pay attention, as harrowing as that is, to what is really going on in the culture, which means watching the news and reflecting as best we can. Ignorance is not an option. As I feel repelled by watching tonight's NPR's account of this week of killing, I will do it anyway, holdng my dog close to me, and trying to breathe into my heart and feel my own loving nature. And I'll be grateful that I'm alive to speak my peace ... Now and until I die.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Expect the Unexpected
Who would have guessed that I would finally find rest in the city "that never sleeps"? Who would have imagined that I would get primo seating to see Placido Domingo at the Met on my last day in rainy New York? Or that I wouldn't cry at the 9/11 memorial, but felt like crying with joy at the splashy joyful "American in Paris" on Broadway? Who could possibly entertain a glass of wine for $25 or a simple steak for $45? Yes - all true -- New York appears to be the city where the unexpected is alive and well, and you need your "don't know mind" with you.
One of the great gifts of this adventure was my arriving at a place of rest in my bed at night, dog tired from all our trekking during the day. Since my insomnia started last fall I have felt plagued by this affliction of no rest, and my brain became ragged and wonky and silly under the influence of sleeping pills. And the second night I was in the vibrating city, in midtown Manhattan, I turned the light off without taking my dose, and I slept. Granddaughter Riley was communing with her Kindle close by, the bed was comfortable, the curtains drawn, and the room quiet. And I slept. It has been a little less than two weeks since I took medication, and I feel like boasting and shouting in delight...
I walked and walked and walked in New York, and my cranky tendonitis softened. How was this? It was cold as hell, and I had no coat, and yet I escorted this young woman through the city and felt a subtle elation -- I was back in a place that I knew, I was with this girl whom I loved and wanted to love me, and I was looking at art, theater, food, and opera - the best of the best - how could I not feel happiness?
I think it was all about love, yes I do. Love of an old home, of art, of all the memories from when I was Riley's age growing up in New York, and of this young person on the brink of becoming a woman. And perhaps her love of me... When love is present, there is safety and comfort. And when there's safety and comfort, we can rest, we can let it all go. In this hysterical and magical city, I could let it all go. And not work so hard anymore to manage my life.
The memories are still crystal clear, and the warm feelings rest in my heart. I am glad I live in a less complicated city like San Francisco, but I'm also very happy to have been a citizen of Manhattan back in the 60's when everyone's life was less complicated, and quite innocent. It makes sense to return in our minds to those times of goodwill and hope when we are faced with as many horrors as surround us today. Yes, humans are complicated, ignorant and greedy, but the presence of love between us is the great winning force.
I am grateful, I am hopeful, I can sleep and laugh and play and write again.
One of the great gifts of this adventure was my arriving at a place of rest in my bed at night, dog tired from all our trekking during the day. Since my insomnia started last fall I have felt plagued by this affliction of no rest, and my brain became ragged and wonky and silly under the influence of sleeping pills. And the second night I was in the vibrating city, in midtown Manhattan, I turned the light off without taking my dose, and I slept. Granddaughter Riley was communing with her Kindle close by, the bed was comfortable, the curtains drawn, and the room quiet. And I slept. It has been a little less than two weeks since I took medication, and I feel like boasting and shouting in delight...
I walked and walked and walked in New York, and my cranky tendonitis softened. How was this? It was cold as hell, and I had no coat, and yet I escorted this young woman through the city and felt a subtle elation -- I was back in a place that I knew, I was with this girl whom I loved and wanted to love me, and I was looking at art, theater, food, and opera - the best of the best - how could I not feel happiness?
I think it was all about love, yes I do. Love of an old home, of art, of all the memories from when I was Riley's age growing up in New York, and of this young person on the brink of becoming a woman. And perhaps her love of me... When love is present, there is safety and comfort. And when there's safety and comfort, we can rest, we can let it all go. In this hysterical and magical city, I could let it all go. And not work so hard anymore to manage my life.
The memories are still crystal clear, and the warm feelings rest in my heart. I am glad I live in a less complicated city like San Francisco, but I'm also very happy to have been a citizen of Manhattan back in the 60's when everyone's life was less complicated, and quite innocent. It makes sense to return in our minds to those times of goodwill and hope when we are faced with as many horrors as surround us today. Yes, humans are complicated, ignorant and greedy, but the presence of love between us is the great winning force.
I am grateful, I am hopeful, I can sleep and laugh and play and write again.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
In the Big Apple with Riley ....
I have been on the road with Riley ... I like how that sounds! We have been marching about New York for the last several days, pursuing such interesting things as "rainbow bagels," the huge MOMA on 53rd St, a number of high end restaurants of course, the 9/11 Memorial Museum, and vintage boutiques in Brooklyn. It has been busy, and it has been COLD. The 30 degree temps have been slicing through the concrete canyons of Manhattan, and I've been quietly cursing myself for not bringing a proper coat. Somehow I thought it would be springlike and balmy in April in New York. But, no, winter is still hanging on...
What's interesting in unforeseen circumstances is that you discover you can improvise. And so I did. I pinned my quilted kimono jacket across four layers of clothes and went out this morning to face the cruel chill that swept down the streets. In the museum shop at the 9/11 Museum I bought a foul weather jacket in black that looked like it could withstand the cold, and then, low and behold, the temperatures started to rise a bit -- to a toasty level of 43 degrees! Riley with her long golden mane of hair and her mother's delightful gray sweater walks like a dancer, with big strides. Sometimes it seems she's all legs! I love to look at that. She is seeing New York for the first time, and I think she rather enjoys it. This afternoon we strolled through Greenwich Village and I showed her where I lived back in the early 60's, long ago enough for her that it's barely comprehensible. She loved the brick, the stately brownstones that line the small streets in the Village, and we both appreciated the quieter rhythm of the streets here. It felt sort of like Brooklyn. I wanted to tell her about Henry James' great little novel Washington Square, the sad story of a selfish father's dominance over his only daughter at the end of the 19th century, but I figured it couldn't have the relevance to her that it does for me. I lived near Washington Square once, And I read Henry James. And I can't help but wonder if anyone reads Mr. James these days!
We had lunch at the Spotted Pig in the Village which I hear has a Michelin star, but most importantly, this place has tons of charm and real honest creative food. It is quaint and feels old, and is authentic. There's old wood, tons of ceramic pigs and other creatures, lots of flowers and and a very lived in vibe. I had an Irish Coffee after lunch and thought of Pete Martin, my mother's third and last husband, the Irish-Italian fellow who loved that drink, and all the others... It was perfect, with just the right balance of coffee, whisky, and beautiful cream on top. I felt nostalgic when I sipped it. There was a similar nostalgia as Riley and I laughed fondly the other night over a beautiful basket of miniature Madeleines, and I told her about Proust and his remembrances of things past... We took pictures of those beautiful little cake-like cookies and tasted their lemony sweetness and we were definitely happy. Everything was as it should be.
Soon Riley will go see her sister in college for a few days and I will be on my own. I will see a play called "Blackbird," which sounds suitably grim, and I may meet up with a very old friend, a man I haven't laid eyes on for over 50 years... I am letting things evolve slowly, and seeing how I feel about them. I am trusting the feelings that arise. There is nothing wrong in that, and I haven't chosen that route frequently, preferring instead to lean toward the choices and preferences of others.
Speaking of feelings, I love being with this granddaughter of mine as she feasts her eyes on this city for the first time, and I love the spaces of silence between us as she takes it all in. I try to still my teacher, guide personality, and just be there. With her.
From the city that never sleeps, I send love. And assure you that she and I will definitely sleep tonight after our adventures.
What's interesting in unforeseen circumstances is that you discover you can improvise. And so I did. I pinned my quilted kimono jacket across four layers of clothes and went out this morning to face the cruel chill that swept down the streets. In the museum shop at the 9/11 Museum I bought a foul weather jacket in black that looked like it could withstand the cold, and then, low and behold, the temperatures started to rise a bit -- to a toasty level of 43 degrees! Riley with her long golden mane of hair and her mother's delightful gray sweater walks like a dancer, with big strides. Sometimes it seems she's all legs! I love to look at that. She is seeing New York for the first time, and I think she rather enjoys it. This afternoon we strolled through Greenwich Village and I showed her where I lived back in the early 60's, long ago enough for her that it's barely comprehensible. She loved the brick, the stately brownstones that line the small streets in the Village, and we both appreciated the quieter rhythm of the streets here. It felt sort of like Brooklyn. I wanted to tell her about Henry James' great little novel Washington Square, the sad story of a selfish father's dominance over his only daughter at the end of the 19th century, but I figured it couldn't have the relevance to her that it does for me. I lived near Washington Square once, And I read Henry James. And I can't help but wonder if anyone reads Mr. James these days!
We had lunch at the Spotted Pig in the Village which I hear has a Michelin star, but most importantly, this place has tons of charm and real honest creative food. It is quaint and feels old, and is authentic. There's old wood, tons of ceramic pigs and other creatures, lots of flowers and and a very lived in vibe. I had an Irish Coffee after lunch and thought of Pete Martin, my mother's third and last husband, the Irish-Italian fellow who loved that drink, and all the others... It was perfect, with just the right balance of coffee, whisky, and beautiful cream on top. I felt nostalgic when I sipped it. There was a similar nostalgia as Riley and I laughed fondly the other night over a beautiful basket of miniature Madeleines, and I told her about Proust and his remembrances of things past... We took pictures of those beautiful little cake-like cookies and tasted their lemony sweetness and we were definitely happy. Everything was as it should be.
Soon Riley will go see her sister in college for a few days and I will be on my own. I will see a play called "Blackbird," which sounds suitably grim, and I may meet up with a very old friend, a man I haven't laid eyes on for over 50 years... I am letting things evolve slowly, and seeing how I feel about them. I am trusting the feelings that arise. There is nothing wrong in that, and I haven't chosen that route frequently, preferring instead to lean toward the choices and preferences of others.
Speaking of feelings, I love being with this granddaughter of mine as she feasts her eyes on this city for the first time, and I love the spaces of silence between us as she takes it all in. I try to still my teacher, guide personality, and just be there. With her.
From the city that never sleeps, I send love. And assure you that she and I will definitely sleep tonight after our adventures.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Love
Well, it has been a long time, friends, that I've been away, and it has been a difficult and dark journey. In February I had my seventy-first birthday, less dramatic and disturbing than the 70th, and I am feeling rather hopeful, not so helpless and frail. It is just a number after all! And we are all moving toward death, no matter how old or who we are. I am sleeping, after a fashion, and feeling ambition to work on something that really matters, which happens to be my book. So, this year will see a new burst of energy as I revise its backstory and peel away more layers of my lonely past...
Since I last wrote, two miraculous and lovely things have happened in my life: I have become a great grandmother, and I have adopted a small gentle terrier who is called Peaches, who comforts me with her gentle spirit and her endless affection. Being a great grandmother is a feat, to be sure, or should I call it a landmark? The arrival of little Eadweard in Oregon has brought warmth and love and community into my family; we smile proudly at the miracle of a new human being in our midst. I am grateful. I am so grateful for the new life, for the love that lurks under the layers in my family, in all families. I am in Oregon now amidst great blustering rain and gray skies, and have been gazing in wonder at this little boy, and feeling bathed in the unspoken love felt by my daughter, granddaughter, and others. I am here with my sweet dog Peaches who looks like a dappled little white greyhound with giant black eyes. She is my best friend these days, for she has shown me how to sleep, to be in the moment, and feel gratitude. She embodies love, as does my little great grandson. As I consider these two, I am reassured again that what really matters in life, the only thing really, is love.
I am going to take this love as I go forward and feel it and create from it. I will persevere. I will complete my creative vision. My gratefulness is limitless, and even in gray and damp Oregon I see the sun shining brightly.
Since I last wrote, two miraculous and lovely things have happened in my life: I have become a great grandmother, and I have adopted a small gentle terrier who is called Peaches, who comforts me with her gentle spirit and her endless affection. Being a great grandmother is a feat, to be sure, or should I call it a landmark? The arrival of little Eadweard in Oregon has brought warmth and love and community into my family; we smile proudly at the miracle of a new human being in our midst. I am grateful. I am so grateful for the new life, for the love that lurks under the layers in my family, in all families. I am in Oregon now amidst great blustering rain and gray skies, and have been gazing in wonder at this little boy, and feeling bathed in the unspoken love felt by my daughter, granddaughter, and others. I am here with my sweet dog Peaches who looks like a dappled little white greyhound with giant black eyes. She is my best friend these days, for she has shown me how to sleep, to be in the moment, and feel gratitude. She embodies love, as does my little great grandson. As I consider these two, I am reassured again that what really matters in life, the only thing really, is love.
I am going to take this love as I go forward and feel it and create from it. I will persevere. I will complete my creative vision. My gratefulness is limitless, and even in gray and damp Oregon I see the sun shining brightly.
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