tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14815235462262877182024-03-17T22:00:32.089-07:00MemoirousAutofiction is the word the French use for a form somewhere between truth and a kind of distilled truth. Memoirous is about memories, real and unreal. What we think happened.Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.comBlogger1767125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-4360490688848018842024-03-17T22:00:00.000-07:002024-03-17T22:00:00.141-07:00 Lightweight Jacket <p>After three months I see you again,<br />old friend, hanging around.<br />I get you off the hook and we<br />go out together, for drinks, dinner,<br />a walk to the store in twilight’s new warmth.<br />You’ve always been steady, by my side<br />in rain or shine; you’ve got my back.<br /><br />As the season’s turn and our love for each other<br />wans and waxes, I hope I never lose you.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mZBKyLNO_XEX9T8Cp6HJf3odB2mGtVFbD7yil6n7tA3OOwIcG8bhFTNQU1zNmuUtq6bKVVAWaab4i30hvVc4Z7GAIXG0bpvPzRioLhUxfT3LCfdLuNVy4A4h3lDviN2xzVIsJ5YUK_jsFMiif1eGiB551nUPWZN9HmU8vQjdM8g-_gwmqvDZvVhVHI59/s550/001021-YW-01-venturelite-waterproof-jacket-yellow-womens-lifestyle-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mZBKyLNO_XEX9T8Cp6HJf3odB2mGtVFbD7yil6n7tA3OOwIcG8bhFTNQU1zNmuUtq6bKVVAWaab4i30hvVc4Z7GAIXG0bpvPzRioLhUxfT3LCfdLuNVy4A4h3lDviN2xzVIsJ5YUK_jsFMiif1eGiB551nUPWZN9HmU8vQjdM8g-_gwmqvDZvVhVHI59/s320/001021-YW-01-venturelite-waterproof-jacket-yellow-womens-lifestyle-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-56887152732075749602024-03-14T22:00:00.000-07:002024-03-14T22:00:00.153-07:00 Catching Up <p>I think I’ve shared here at the blog that 2023 was a very
successful year as far as publication of various pieces: both micro, blended,
and the short story. Thus, I began 2024 knowing I needed to produce.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I felt so much pressure that it stymied me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It seemed I only had time for the blog entries. I was
keeping up with three posts a week—just. But ongoing submissions and writing
down new ideas was taking a hit. Not to mention actually beginning a project
that would take multiple sittings. I get very anxious leaving things undone. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For one month I’ve had loose ends as I’ve strived to
complete one short story. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the past month I’ve had exactly 3 days off—and even then
off is relative. One was unexpected as I showed up to work early voting at the
municipal center and they said they didn’t need me, and the other two days I
still helped with child care as I took Jack to the library and playdate with my
friend Sepi. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have even been cutting down the amount of time for
exercise, runs consist of lapping a couple of blocks; I’ve been so driven to
complete a single story.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This quiet rainy morning before leaving for work I can
finally say I’m turning a corner. I’m reading over what might be a finished
story—a first draft, but words on a page, butt in chair story. Thanks to the
heavens and the space/time continuum.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many more to go, yet, to fill the quiver of new work.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dxsp_TIM8kbm1DMQUkhLMkrtJcMtWwIPmZjF7uIHe9gzcZN3zFk5N117i7OUFOLpY073vvItfTh2Zwf3Nj13czpD5OWaeswglkzZKjBjcKuR50sYeut0AOc9IsQIR1v0YmB2_EzW-pp-1NKfftZ-FV0WF1ODk_EQg1JNTcO_lnY9WyE3uCFX3pPSdxVI/s1023/depositphotos_109149528-stock-photo-tired-woman-runner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1023" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dxsp_TIM8kbm1DMQUkhLMkrtJcMtWwIPmZjF7uIHe9gzcZN3zFk5N117i7OUFOLpY073vvItfTh2Zwf3Nj13czpD5OWaeswglkzZKjBjcKuR50sYeut0AOc9IsQIR1v0YmB2_EzW-pp-1NKfftZ-FV0WF1ODk_EQg1JNTcO_lnY9WyE3uCFX3pPSdxVI/s320/depositphotos_109149528-stock-photo-tired-woman-runner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-62308442604226798552024-03-12T22:00:00.000-07:002024-03-12T22:00:00.133-07:00 Yesterday I rode home without a coat <p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Early March, unbelievable. We were sitting outside after a
run in shorts enjoying the weather before I quickly changed to ride my bike to
work. I didn’t need a coat, but took one just in case after work I’d need one. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thus, I forgot to take my safety vest. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I left for work at 11 a.m. wearing a flannel over my work
t-shirt and also wearing sunglasses. It truly felt like spring. No overpants.
No boots. Is this even right? I wondered. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Never fear—today when I woke up it felt heavy inside my Tiny
House. Especially dark outside the windows. I opened my French doors just as
the first drops were beginning to fall from the sky. At the same moment my
daughter and grandson were watching from their sliding glass door. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An audience for a cacophonic symphony.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span>The back and forth rhythm of spring.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23VnH_HV9nmrswi8ByUCd4EzUP2rqIK_BUACH7cfAgzbO8i4J6I-YT3pq5jI80Od2-YBQiDunm5a0JM26cJbvOVD0B1hStN_LBeblruodeTFe4OC05PihDMWiCKLSnYxfPSRmfpb0ayYefjz9rwhFpM2V-1kgQoxFKzt38JPMC6Fao1GA9KASaOlABngz/s4608/IMG_20240305_082138577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23VnH_HV9nmrswi8ByUCd4EzUP2rqIK_BUACH7cfAgzbO8i4J6I-YT3pq5jI80Od2-YBQiDunm5a0JM26cJbvOVD0B1hStN_LBeblruodeTFe4OC05PihDMWiCKLSnYxfPSRmfpb0ayYefjz9rwhFpM2V-1kgQoxFKzt38JPMC6Fao1GA9KASaOlABngz/s320/IMG_20240305_082138577.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-22381371418927082432024-03-10T22:00:00.000-07:002024-03-10T22:00:00.148-07:00Flashback to spring 2022I’ve learned a new word: vernal ponds. Here in Michigan in the spring I ride my bike past snow-laden fields that slowly give themselves over to marshes. In the woods the trees are submerged into run-off pools. From Wikipedia:<br /><br /><span style="background-color: #cccccc;">Vernal pools, also called vernal ponds or ephemeral pools, are seasonal pools of water that provide habitat for distinctive plants and animals. They are considered to be a distinctive type of wetland usually devoid of fish, and thus allow the safe development of natal amphibian and insect species unable to withstand competition or predation by fish. Certain tropical fish lineages (such as killifishes) have however adapted to this habitat specifically.</span><br /><br />This description almost makes them sound magical—ephemeral, but they are temporary and are slowly, even now, fading. Everyday there is more field than pond.<br /><br />And, on the really nice days I can hear the boisterous bull frogs, the chirpy peepers, and all the other members of the vernal pond orchestra camouflaged in the forest.<br /><br />Hopefully I will be hearing more from the band as the season progresses.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjR-iZx72GxnztnzEziDYQq-gmcZzxKMj7wUlzlYjfGFmNnBaU8Ge_e97X1vce7da3yAts3Q983ZE-whlF1ztlhe8fJHetNcjRJfL_7_gD0bOmHPy1mcVDgwfgarY2tj0qU8qqNzvLhNLCJg86Gr2LLul2B79_OvHBAlIQ_vGZOAKevFxgt1HaAvBw3Ht6/s259/download%20(15).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjR-iZx72GxnztnzEziDYQq-gmcZzxKMj7wUlzlYjfGFmNnBaU8Ge_e97X1vce7da3yAts3Q983ZE-whlF1ztlhe8fJHetNcjRJfL_7_gD0bOmHPy1mcVDgwfgarY2tj0qU8qqNzvLhNLCJg86Gr2LLul2B79_OvHBAlIQ_vGZOAKevFxgt1HaAvBw3Ht6/s1600/download%20(15).jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-12572906678516781992024-03-07T22:00:00.000-08:002024-03-07T22:00:00.141-08:00 Growing Sunlight <p>My job at the bike shop involves an array of hours. Some
days are 9 – 5, some 11 – 7, some, lie today, 10 – 6. In deep dark winter after
the time change, when leaving after close, I’ll have to turn on all lights and
my blinking helmet while riding home. As we get close to spring equinox I’m
having to less and less. The sun currently is setting around 6:30. Seven pm
close it definitely is dark, but 6 and 5 I can now ride home in light—sometimes
taking a detour through the woods and onto a board plank bridge that straddles
a marsh. I am more likely to stop at Aldis before coming home for few items as
it also isn’t so cold as to freeze my TP before arriving in my driveway.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The whole idea of growing light at both ends of the day is
lending me a better attitude. Two days ago it was 18 degrees as I rode to work
wearing my lobster gloves reserved for the coldest days. I was not ready to
head back to those after a day before of 70 degree temperatures. But, it is
spring. Or at least we’re getting there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Leaning toward sunlight.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_-qbus9zE7EFqOZTwSKA5gFEFSFZMA3TBUrsh0m9ZInMpJN6fJLIjoGvtxStlLCbInE47mkbsxad6F7nIsKgaSWhmDZo03iniANoZsF4hyUxmRp6T_8kyBGHSfJTwhrzZUdj8N-2XHVnSIhTMH0zO8ayfRLDC9eq98Q7kDc6ZGf_yPh6s1MTTXiFskh0N/s4608/IMG_20230705_063641098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_-qbus9zE7EFqOZTwSKA5gFEFSFZMA3TBUrsh0m9ZInMpJN6fJLIjoGvtxStlLCbInE47mkbsxad6F7nIsKgaSWhmDZo03iniANoZsF4hyUxmRp6T_8kyBGHSfJTwhrzZUdj8N-2XHVnSIhTMH0zO8ayfRLDC9eq98Q7kDc6ZGf_yPh6s1MTTXiFskh0N/s320/IMG_20230705_063641098.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-16028746434502370692024-03-05T21:30:00.000-08:002024-03-05T21:30:00.141-08:00 Nature is busy this morning <p>I was just sitting by my computer putting off writing when a
neighbor cat showed up outside my French doors. He (who knows!) has a black
coat and beautiful chartreuse eyes. He played around on the back deck and then
spied, probably a squirrel, stood stock still then went off. I came outside and
looked for him.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In Oregon there was a neighbor cat (there were many in fact)
that used to prowl around. My roommate called him Frank (maybe he called all of
the outside cats Frank). We kept our doors open as we rarely used the heat and
there was no AC, One time Frank just walked in. Because of my daughter’s cats,
I am not inviting this cat indoors or habituating it by petting it or trying to
pick up. (We just got done with running to the vet for anxiety-ridden Cato).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, while out on the deck I heard a flapping of wings,
much like the sound my underarms make when I run. I looked up and saw a black
crow overhead with a twig or pieces of grass in its beak. I thought if I were
Mary Oliver all this observing would be a poem.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then I remembered just yesterday observing the tree right
outside my door adjacent to the deck and my French doors. Yes, it is just the
beginning of March, but there are hard little buds at the end of twiggy
branches, buds set to open very soon. I was reminded that spring is coming.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whoosh, as I’m typing I thought “Frank” was back. Out of the
corner of my eye I spied black furtive movement—it was a black squirrel. I’d
seen him earlier scurrying up a tree—perhaps chased by Frank.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All this nature, busy this morning. There must be a poem
here, a story. Some kind of connection I can make. Maybe I’ll start by holding
each of these in my heart.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAGUTmsXzUeyAWZei1ssV6iJ1uD-bWqwW2bbO4r77sdwPVyG4q-BIFsoCSiqRVWSb9D-mdBZffNbHUAuQtLRwqwqurQtPRij97QauhYeGceQPdXS-bPITwbjo9nLnpeOvGNsM71TwudYzz479dMv992xph-ZEBxUHH4cAyVIwg3xnmIoLaNFu94bdA6QX/s740/beautiful-black-cat.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="529" data-original-width="740" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAGUTmsXzUeyAWZei1ssV6iJ1uD-bWqwW2bbO4r77sdwPVyG4q-BIFsoCSiqRVWSb9D-mdBZffNbHUAuQtLRwqwqurQtPRij97QauhYeGceQPdXS-bPITwbjo9nLnpeOvGNsM71TwudYzz479dMv992xph-ZEBxUHH4cAyVIwg3xnmIoLaNFu94bdA6QX/s320/beautiful-black-cat.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-82529671047469901472024-03-03T22:00:00.000-08:002024-03-03T22:00:00.255-08:00 New Work Out--Pure of Heart, Fathom<p>Check <a href="https://www.fathommag.com/stories/pure-of-heart-0">out Pure of Heart
online at Fa</a>thom.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fathom has an ambitious mission: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our goal is to approach everything we publish with an eye
for intellect, wonder, and story and a conviction that our beliefs have
consequences for ourselves, our communities, and the world. Our hope is that in
the wonder of God’s presence, we can help one another cultivate an embodied
faith that furthers the kingdom of heaven on earth.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Somehow there was a mix-up and they accepted one of my
pieces and I discovered they’d actually put it up without having ok’d. Usually
there is a bit back and forth if a submission is accepted for publication. For
instance, this particular piece had already found a home when I made the
discovery. I had Furtive take it down. But—<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I sent them Pure of Heart as it also represented the themes
they advanced. Thankfully it was accepted and now is out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From the story:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #cccccc;">One night on the “L” train, the car she was sitting in
emptied out. A man got on at Clark & Division. She must have nodded off,
lulled by the side-to-side swaying of the train. Suddenly he was on her. Leanne
fled in terror, realizing only later that she had left her purse and take-out
gyro sandwich on the seat. It would be weeks before she was able to replace her
ID and checkbook; she spent hours trying to cut through red tape. All of this
caused her to lose faith, not only in the human race but in herself.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: #cccccc;">Pastor Ted sat and listened to the diminutive girl—he was
surprised to learn she was twenty-five, she appeared so childlike. She reminded
him of a shelter pet, in need of a good home and a hearty meal. Pastor Ted made
some calls and found Leanne a job that included room and board, working for a
family from his church.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thus, begins the story about the relationship between a “domestic”
and her employers that goes way beyond a working relationship. It is a story
about a poor white girl who becomes part of a bigger family: a black family on
the Southside of Chicago and the community at large. She sacrifices herself for
the children. What appears to be an ordinary character, who lives and dies in
near obscurity—except for her faithfulness, radiates. I wrote this story
thinking of "A Simple Heart" (short story), an 1877 short story by
Gustave Flaubert.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, <a href="https://www.fathommag.com/stories/pure-of-heart-0">click on it</a> and
enjoy—this is for you Mary Kay.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwZ-hUm0FoQYAh1_wOILstT1pI1ZiFK5xHp3OlpnDyKCtgqHJDY1cTN1wEj1aG-8FVZ4AB3cgDrFNDYIpH55HJr1G42IHPDsUp9OwAp1zFCG_3IhXTUUEpqsp5Fr6lqSdhU2PtNmkgJ-2WaI3R4xE_iQpGCNo52bBMeiC35SYSBCbEEJBFXDbjdeVBzzs/s2000/kelly-sikkema-4le7k9XVYjE-unsplashx2000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1258" data-original-width="2000" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwZ-hUm0FoQYAh1_wOILstT1pI1ZiFK5xHp3OlpnDyKCtgqHJDY1cTN1wEj1aG-8FVZ4AB3cgDrFNDYIpH55HJr1G42IHPDsUp9OwAp1zFCG_3IhXTUUEpqsp5Fr6lqSdhU2PtNmkgJ-2WaI3R4xE_iQpGCNo52bBMeiC35SYSBCbEEJBFXDbjdeVBzzs/s320/kelly-sikkema-4le7k9XVYjE-unsplashx2000.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-7458540960109334302024-02-29T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-29T22:00:00.144-08:00 A Big Boy Bed <p>We sort of built up the idea. The box arrived and sat in a
corner until time to assemble. New sheets and pillowcases were ordered. The
crib was taken upstairs for the baby.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Would this next level be accepted or rejected? Would he miss
the security of what he was used to or would the new bed be received as a sign
of being a big boy?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">With all the changes of a new baby would Jack feel he was
being replaced or “losing” parts of himself?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not at all. He loves the new dino sheets and the
independence that comes with being a big boy. At night he runs to settle into
bed while we read stories. Before turning off the light we turn on a turtle
light projector that splays stars on the ceiling and put a card in his Yoto
player, with bedtime stories. Thankfully he falls right to sleep.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mainly because he is growing out of the afternoon nap. We’ll
still put him down after lunch with high hopes. We’ll do the whole routine and
close the shades and turn off the light. On the monitor we can see him get out
of his toddler bed and gather up books to “read” or bring into bed a basket of dinosaurs
that take up precious mattress real estate. He’s up and down, gathering,
tossing, singing, not sleeping. About forty-five minutes later he’ll open the
door, come out to the hallway, and announce I’ve had a good nap.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So much for that. We’ve now lost those 2 hours we could
count on to get things done. The changes that accompany change.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuEPRSTliI842_L53dm_4DS7Z18DR71jUjh7ufubd7luz41ScfrLYCfB39DtxqIDJ2SclK_4CvhJRsg3hP-UVGhZGk6-DyMc4GmkGuTlSiUIKFdDgzV6M6kGsxWsjMlMolgfKU6YxsPg2-ZTwKb-rDOGN6gP-5dgvy0EgyZH76YizfyHHmdWwBXDjvXn7d/s1600/71rwjpKHirL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuEPRSTliI842_L53dm_4DS7Z18DR71jUjh7ufubd7luz41ScfrLYCfB39DtxqIDJ2SclK_4CvhJRsg3hP-UVGhZGk6-DyMc4GmkGuTlSiUIKFdDgzV6M6kGsxWsjMlMolgfKU6YxsPg2-ZTwKb-rDOGN6gP-5dgvy0EgyZH76YizfyHHmdWwBXDjvXn7d/s320/71rwjpKHirL.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">not the real bed</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-72978530030603545852024-02-27T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-27T22:00:00.153-08:00 Is that a little vacuum? <p>For the longest time Jack was in a “resting” period before
active with language. We rarely employee baby talk—with the exceptions of owie
for a cut or scrape and coldie, something I picked up from living in community in
Chicago. We always said it was coldie, maybe to soften the winter blasts, the
wind blowing off the lake that turned a summer day into parka weather. Coldie
didn’t sound as bad.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At library toddler storytime there were the children that
sat in their caregiver’s laps, quietly listening, while Jack ran around in the
background. Or the little girls with complete vocabularies interacting with the
story. I doubted Jack recognized there was a story let alone that any of us
existed. He was the center of his own orbit, interrupted by having to put on
shoes, time to eat, etc.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was my Swiss friend Monica, a professional speech pathologist
working with special needs non-verbal children, who used the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">resting</i> when I referred to Jack not
really speaking. I knew he had a lexicon of words inside of him. He understood
everything we said. He just would rather lead us to the cupboard where snacks
were then ask for them. Or hand us the remote for TV time. We’d encourage him,
but I thought it would all eventually work itself out. Then a lady at circle
time at the library asked me: What does he call you? Meaning grandma, nanna,
meemaw (ughhh), hey you? Nothing, I replied. He doesn’t call us anything. He
rarely said Mom or Dad or refer to himself. Especially not grandma.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So the question troubled me—was there something wrong?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He turned 3 at the end of December. He’d been in nursery school
for three months. We invited the neighbor children all younger than Jack to a
party. Of course they were all talk-talking. As was Jack, just whenever he felt
like it. But, then, the flood gates opened.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Suddenly he could tell me everything on his mind. It wall
all in there, resting. I have a Dirt Devil to pick up crumbs and the lady bugs
always getting into the house. Is that a little vacuum? he asked. Mom was
leaning over, changing the baby, her back to Jack, Is that your butt, Mama? He
begs to go to Grandpa and Grandma Garvey’s house or their beach or ride their four-wheeler.
He calls me Grandma and playfully says, hey you! to me. He plays with rhyme and
word sounds. He gets nuance and giggles about stupid stuff. We can now ask him
about school and he’ll tell us—if he feels like it. He likes to “write” his
name or spell it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His “new” thing is prefixing a request as if it were vital
by using REALLY. Such as I really, really need a snack. Or I really, really
want my dinosaur paint book. Sometimes I’ll respond that I really, really need
him to be patient.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">NEXT installment, a big boy bed<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9uJ31rNyuNxZ1z8cAxtAeyic6fKO3Mz-RrRqG0Hp7QUuv_mmusUeifTJU5vZpF6uxZUtXGz7Hrew5yxB-8age-CFZv94SyJdI4hIuQHfld8qYvZf2umQz7autbLJvgpMEOoXa0kN5UIRDQmXxSyuTgZ67SgpNjnknb35y_nYfwKsRbqXUfgMUgUNyiYA/s600/420098193_10160785099631628_2554648385024377720_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="579" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9uJ31rNyuNxZ1z8cAxtAeyic6fKO3Mz-RrRqG0Hp7QUuv_mmusUeifTJU5vZpF6uxZUtXGz7Hrew5yxB-8age-CFZv94SyJdI4hIuQHfld8qYvZf2umQz7autbLJvgpMEOoXa0kN5UIRDQmXxSyuTgZ67SgpNjnknb35y_nYfwKsRbqXUfgMUgUNyiYA/s320/420098193_10160785099631628_2554648385024377720_n.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-45280911668170959402024-02-25T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-25T22:00:00.353-08:00 This morning when I awoke <p>This morning I was awakened not by my alarm but by a train
whistle. I lay there confused—Why was there a train inside my room?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Where I live in Michigan, in Okemos, right outside of
Lansing, I am bounded by train lines. A very active line parallels the library
and on the way to work is another line heading to Canada, which Amtrak also
uses. Both lines access the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence Seaway for
shipping. It seemed an unseemly loud train whistle awakening me, pulling me out
of sleep.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After being in Chicago for over 35 years, there are times
when I wake up and wonder where am I? That hazy middle place between dream and
day. I could be anywhere, except in reality. I’ve sometimes been on a bike
trip, traveling an open road, or back in my childhood home on Princeton Ave. in
Kettering, or in the dining room back in my Chicago community.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In Chicago there were different sounds that accompanied
going to bed and waking up. Gunshots, for example. Because I lived between a
fire station and a hospital there were always sirens on Wilson Avenue. They
were a constant reminder that I lived in a big city, that I lived on the
hairpin trigger of danger.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Waking to a train whistle is a new experience, one not
entirely unwelcome. I have a sense of going places, traveling along with the
bumpety-bump of the wheels on the tracks, waiting to arrive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I climb
out of bed to soapy grey skies.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqHW-IW4LjMJqnpp3Jm-BsSrFeBLbP3zxsWjQZjF7qOBlFvEi4lOWfhO7ePvPQaipzMgrUACIEFOqFixhDpRCgt8n9S_y82Hev4iLNSiWehS1bsjdHtCrlU9nR2zD1eVnPlLzvYAQ_3Q53SkFensxoYyR1j9BAczoBQJckK_my4Wg9dOlWbFJxbaV_8Ta/s275/images%20(12).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqHW-IW4LjMJqnpp3Jm-BsSrFeBLbP3zxsWjQZjF7qOBlFvEi4lOWfhO7ePvPQaipzMgrUACIEFOqFixhDpRCgt8n9S_y82Hev4iLNSiWehS1bsjdHtCrlU9nR2zD1eVnPlLzvYAQ_3Q53SkFensxoYyR1j9BAczoBQJckK_my4Wg9dOlWbFJxbaV_8Ta/s1600/images%20(12).jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-53340638279888756562024-02-22T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-22T22:00:00.153-08:00 Orchids! <p>Hello, kids! How is it that for months you lay dormant,
scrubby, blah—and then, open? I saw activity about a month ago in bleak January
when it was cold but snowless, a little snow, always cold: There were brimming
buds. Of hope, I thought. This is new, my heart said. Ah!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is only so much I can do to beat back the blanket of
depression that falls on me in weak light, dark mornings, early evenings, a day
that never ripens but stays a leaden gray. I light candles, turn on my grow
lights over the spider plant, eat comforting hot oatmeal, get a Netflix
subscription. I plan a garden and reread my blog where I ride my bicycle . . .
everywhere. For example, last year at this time I was dreaming about my upcoming <a href="https://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/2023/08/rhine-river-ride.html" target="_blank">Rhine River trip</a>. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Five hard little buds formed at the end of what appeared to
be a dead stem. (I never know whether to trim them back or tack them up.) I did
a bit of research. Orchids like cold nights and warmish days; they love
sunlight but not direct light. So I trained my grow lights to cast a warm glow
beside them and, of course, set my thermostat down at night. Perfect conditions
for the buds to grow into marbles, green walnuts, tiny perched apples. And, I
waited.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And waited.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This past week two of the nuts popped open and I have two
little white faces staring at me. The arrangement of petals and colorful column
and speckled lip remind me of eyes, a nose, actual lips. They are my children,
come to visit for these winter weary months. Hello, kids!<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVXdRSpfJzZGS1ULyO8eYe5yUGNo67Ay09PAwlz6stqxVrJUxA0M0FslaMFbeN8PZyqVGt2NToO2qsD1sLAzQCopcasCC5WI554C9PE7LEecGtD7hNicOc9ZEgwEasEUm2fAUpt8_ek8xvenhXiO-9WfIIdHh80FjtkxgpH3VyRHMD4ZkgypdfflbMbrh/s4608/IMG_20240217_082812371.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVXdRSpfJzZGS1ULyO8eYe5yUGNo67Ay09PAwlz6stqxVrJUxA0M0FslaMFbeN8PZyqVGt2NToO2qsD1sLAzQCopcasCC5WI554C9PE7LEecGtD7hNicOc9ZEgwEasEUm2fAUpt8_ek8xvenhXiO-9WfIIdHh80FjtkxgpH3VyRHMD4ZkgypdfflbMbrh/s320/IMG_20240217_082812371.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2MU25fZyqqFewRkMHbnALRM9HZ0QiJWOT3Md1_6uLMInWNGo7i1c-Da_5Sa5WEYKZyS0o_k9O730aE-z_CYFn3oQDPiyhMIqwxvKsCOoj8581pesFjjvTV7ASYWCqerziJf5cSCm58Esfj5Ybmj5a-y05tjm4FvU_-SpXWEqfPU-wDTIsnXBO5vGmshyphenhyphenb/s4608/IMG_20240217_082818524.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2MU25fZyqqFewRkMHbnALRM9HZ0QiJWOT3Md1_6uLMInWNGo7i1c-Da_5Sa5WEYKZyS0o_k9O730aE-z_CYFn3oQDPiyhMIqwxvKsCOoj8581pesFjjvTV7ASYWCqerziJf5cSCm58Esfj5Ybmj5a-y05tjm4FvU_-SpXWEqfPU-wDTIsnXBO5vGmshyphenhyphenb/s320/IMG_20240217_082818524.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">winter snow outside</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-29797146595871811942024-02-20T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-20T22:00:00.131-08:00 Slow Looking <p>I’d like to remind readers, both of you, about my seminar at
Calvin University (Grand Rapids) coming up in April. If the schedule for the
Festival of Faith and Writing wasn’t already jam-packed, attendees have the
option to sign up for Lunch Circles where they pay for lunch and sit with
others and discuss their writing in a casual, relaxed environment. It’s a nice
way to 1. Have a lunch plan and not have to worry about what to eat or how to
source it on the busy campus 2. Network with a group of others who have an
interest in writing and literature, and finally 3. Not be the kid holding a
lunch tray wondering where to sit or with whom. Festival Lunch Circles solves a
number of “problems.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My seminar—I use that word because it will be a discussion—revolves
around Sister Corita and her unique way of viewing the world and helping her
students to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i> things from another
perspective. We can all get bogged down in editing something over and over and
not seeing the meat through the sauce. By narrowing the picture, we can make
inroads into finding a center, a place to rest our eyes. Something new. A new
facet can unleash our writing, get us unstuck, move us in another direction.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sister Corita came to prominence during the turbulent 1960s,
when the Vietnam War was heating up and along with her fellow comrade in
ministry, the radical poet Father Berrigan, were using their talents to give
voice to a generation of seekers, In today’s divisive and war-weary world we’ll
try to leave the distractions to the side and lean in on minutia, the ordinary,
the everything everywhere to find a new focus—if even for one hour. Come join
me!<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://ccfw.calvin.edu/festival-2024/2024-festival-registration/festival-lunch-circles/" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAArWAquBtatJZFcBrwLaZYLkO8ukN4doaVl5PUvrUXZda0EVUcfgUcvVHX4k0sYCNXvUlq7C5y5NScHWfkkuB3R5mHHjun3DGjg471Y6tgX4GBGd-yN2WSryjJ618Ej-IlTDiLJVK5bgGmFkORnw3TsS0vr2ie2-ENvFD_pQ2AnzlvEOaHa3VfoIu50Yw/s320/HERTENSTEIN.png" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">click on image to go to registration page</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZNwOI_59FQMNoPNDw_XxA7gjQgPt6hhoo3VUV3WcYPd0wMzlFPe2e3n4JCbhBW29PsxKivhH3xxDq4rn_IRK7xx_r8UMr_XiUcu7Qb_W7Qez9GFVGZCUlEjGYUDeXayZrY37O8PoPhMGxeMXFRITrFGaAjsM50iIYpMr3an9XRQJIdH3Kg8F_-fhUtsm/s1945/SisterCorita1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1945" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZNwOI_59FQMNoPNDw_XxA7gjQgPt6hhoo3VUV3WcYPd0wMzlFPe2e3n4JCbhBW29PsxKivhH3xxDq4rn_IRK7xx_r8UMr_XiUcu7Qb_W7Qez9GFVGZCUlEjGYUDeXayZrY37O8PoPhMGxeMXFRITrFGaAjsM50iIYpMr3an9XRQJIdH3Kg8F_-fhUtsm/s320/SisterCorita1.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br />Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-11006776978095818142024-02-18T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-19T05:32:26.763-08:00 Springtime <p>I just read a great piece by the wonderful <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2024/01/17/age-acceptance-love-hate/">Annie
Lamott in the Washington Post</a> about aging and acceptance. About resting in
the idea that most things will work themselves out, I’m hoping that spring will
make up its mind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Okay, maybe the problem is winter, not spring’s fault.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The neck-snapping whiplash of the seasons is killing me.
Yesterday me and my son-in-law were sitting out on the deck with hot tea, the
baby snoozing in a stroller while Jack combed the backyard for “worms”; we were
basking in sunshine and warmth (while still wearing knit hats and hoodies).
Nevertheless, it felt great. I cast a glance at the snow shovel and thought, I’m
gonna have to put that away.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Right now, this morning, ten hours later, it is
snowing an inch an hour. Big fluffy flakes coming down. I’m thinking of Lamott’s
piece and wishing I were retired, a famous writer, not having to ride my bike
into work in 30 minutes. What’s up with this weather? Finally, thinking, There’s
nothing I can do about this and accepting that it is spring, a season that
cannot make up its mind.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Through mutual encouragement a friend of mine, my writing
partner back in Chicago, has started <a href="https://getonthebus56.blogspot.com/2024/02/age-is-just-number.html">a
blog</a>, a sort of morning pages exercise to unblock her in her writing
process. Her first few posts have been about aging. I guess we’re all at a
certain age where we’re thinking about getting older—as we go about our daily
lives. Not old like my senile aunt who lay in bed with scraggly white hair and
talked nonsense when we went to visit, but old in the sense of needing some perspective
on what is happening to us, our bodies, in the world. I hate it. The mass gun
shootings, Gaza, the crazy weather, the fact that I’m so busy in this season of
life that I have little time for writing the great American novel. My critique
group told me yesterday that I’m being hard on myself.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to believe that spring is coming while at the same
time relinquishing control over my surroundings.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s going to be a long election year with force-fed ads,
outrageous news, possibly violence, definitely division: I must be ready to
believe and hope and pray for brighter days.</p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">More NEXT time on Slow Looking my upcoming
seminar for the Festival of Faith and Writing—where, by the way, Annie Lamott
has spoken.</span><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBrdp2eIxs6CMjBL2mbwyv-GRKYDHA4FyOHcP-Ia6wO_8-tLUITCkB0uJymNHzur5CTr-QpF9Hi6HeRjmsWbbePm4CWate8mpoEwLCL_-uU2b9ucFgiuTR5Lsw44Bo8Xs0ZYfhhamjte86RZoFUIv2_75XCgN-1uNMx8jTXjpk_9JzM5640XBdiUF_6ou/s4608/IMG_20240215_080826473.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBrdp2eIxs6CMjBL2mbwyv-GRKYDHA4FyOHcP-Ia6wO_8-tLUITCkB0uJymNHzur5CTr-QpF9Hi6HeRjmsWbbePm4CWate8mpoEwLCL_-uU2b9ucFgiuTR5Lsw44Bo8Xs0ZYfhhamjte86RZoFUIv2_75XCgN-1uNMx8jTXjpk_9JzM5640XBdiUF_6ou/s320/IMG_20240215_080826473.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div></div>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-54004731634019270892024-02-15T22:30:00.000-08:002024-02-16T04:36:43.224-08:00Origin and Fast-Car Ecstasy, movie review<p>I left off my last post in the Bebelplatz in Berlin, atop
the glass covering the Empty Library below. The swirling colored lights
bouncing off the buildings added to the hallucinogenic feel to being there. I
wasn’t quite sure where I was.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet, watching the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Origin</i>,
I recognized the location and déjà vu—personally and historically—washed over
me. It’s happening again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Book banning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Isabel Wilkerson’s book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Caste</i>,
upon which <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Origin</i> is based rests on
the premise that the othering of Jews in early 20<sup>th</sup>-century Germany
and how we treat people of color here in the States informed each other, The
writing and examples in the book are irrefutable.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The end of the film goes back to an interview Wilkerson did
with a subject who as a young boy, white, growing up in what is presumed a
southern town, though I guess it could have been Illinois, when his Little
League team wins a championship and is rewarded with a day at a town pool. The
whole team goes, even the star player who scored the winning run—a black child.
Yet, this child is singled out to remain outside the pool club gates. The coach
and parents bring him the complimentary hot dog and a drink. His mates come to
the fence to speak to him and see if he’s doing okay. The young man smiles and
waves. Finally the grownups convince the pool warden to allow the boy into the
pool. A scheme is organized where he steps onto an inflatable lounge where he
lays stiff as a board because the warden warns him NOT TO TOUCH THE WATER
because if he does they will have to drain the pool, a costly and
time-consuming endeavor, all because he has contaminated it with his black
skin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m nearly cried out by this point in the film. I place my
hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. I want to crawl under the comfy theater
recliner. “Wilkerson” or the actress Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor playing Wilkerson
asks the subject now an old man what he thought at the time. Of course, awful,
helpless; he knew he should have done something, made a stand, his apathy or
powerlessness haunts him. He’s never forgotten the shame and horror of that
injustice. As now shall we, the viewers. Our complicity, complacency. In this
system.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Which brings me, like Wilkerson, weaving and zigzagging with
her theories of iinterconnectedness, to the 2024 Grammys. I watched a small
YouTube snippet of Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs singing a duet—a duet, they
sang together and also took turns with the lines—Chapman’s hit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fast Car</i>. Cut to the audience, yes,
other musicians, but white and black, they’re all standing and rooting, hands
raised to these accomplished artists on stage. My point: The words and sense of
the song apply to all people. We all feel it, being outside, wanting to be
someone, to make it: we all want better. The last line in book and movie: Wilkerson
asks whether a “world without caste would set everyone free.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For one moment I saw it in the faces of those celebrating in
the audience. A coming together in fast-car ecstasy. If only we would shed our
misconceptions of how people look, the prejudice that lies in our
subconscious—what Wilkerson asserts is not so much racism, but caste. There is
no other, other than what we have strangled our mind into believing.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBv9P-fFwJfOomjkBX5mtnhi1GT4nd_Ta3XmRrjHeK_hsEpP1ST8lhOlC9luxTEdTFKjy_LiBod0_UNf9z3uFnaHSPdSr1ewxMybjLUndThcZwgDGCBGZ7l2dN6HYeilphrWg3wMEaTRomnCrt6qUxlB6yVJwRBKqwBYh-e4OXc4R1dzFmLdyV5aVqY8wD/s1484/MV5BYmU2ZDk1MDgtMzhiMS00NTc0LThkYjItOTMwM2RiMjc5NzhkXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTkxNjUyNQ@@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1484" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBv9P-fFwJfOomjkBX5mtnhi1GT4nd_Ta3XmRrjHeK_hsEpP1ST8lhOlC9luxTEdTFKjy_LiBod0_UNf9z3uFnaHSPdSr1ewxMybjLUndThcZwgDGCBGZ7l2dN6HYeilphrWg3wMEaTRomnCrt6qUxlB6yVJwRBKqwBYh-e4OXc4R1dzFmLdyV5aVqY8wD/s320/MV5BYmU2ZDk1MDgtMzhiMS00NTc0LThkYjItOTMwM2RiMjc5NzhkXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTkxNjUyNQ@@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zEqb6xbeuCo" width="320" youtube-src-id="zEqb6xbeuCo"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-34480293418961145272024-02-13T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-13T22:00:00.139-08:00 Early Morning, Valentine’s Day <p>I remember as a little kid waking up on Valentine’s Day and
coming downstairs to find a little plastic cup, pink and red, filled with candy
hearts, heart-shaped redhots and a package of Reese cups beside my breakfast
plate. My Mom did that every year on up through high school.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I need to Google those cups—do they make them anymore, is it
possible to source them from Marketplace, a vintage store?? Or do they exist
only in my memory?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anyway, this memory now stands in contrast to the bitterness
of my parents writing me out of their will, dismissing me from their lives and
legacy. I’m not sure how to feel about this memory. For Mom there was this
attention to detail, almost a slavish exertion to celebrate the holidays—even Sweetest
Day, which I’ve never heard of outside of Mom—again giving redhots. She kept
the home spotless, fixed terrific meals, made cake and cookies from scratch. While,
on the other hand, the “loving” part, the emotional side of the relationship
was difficult for her. The hugs, kisses, the cuddling, tucking in bed at night—were
much harder, almost never happened.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Demonstrative love—is not always in the big acts, but the
small, easily overlooked moments, is at least my take away . . . as I listen to
my grandson sing in the bathtub.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Xdnc4S6a6adcp7s_ffQoEcl2E8zs2eRpQjmPRNd9NJFqHlvSjK0zhSWeWHkj3oZnAokLVymi9_ljHcj7fOpJ5Z5LNpFojdVj_wzeJ1RhIwQAqvG1jQl22lApOyp85Rg9wXwG7EgXp5RMD2rXFXWPsbpQegqsPQ0I6iL_roO0tXuClMmG4oiEjSI_dZqd/s1059/il_794xN.4736868886_bpqw.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="794" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Xdnc4S6a6adcp7s_ffQoEcl2E8zs2eRpQjmPRNd9NJFqHlvSjK0zhSWeWHkj3oZnAokLVymi9_ljHcj7fOpJ5Z5LNpFojdVj_wzeJ1RhIwQAqvG1jQl22lApOyp85Rg9wXwG7EgXp5RMD2rXFXWPsbpQegqsPQ0I6iL_roO0tXuClMmG4oiEjSI_dZqd/s320/il_794xN.4736868886_bpqw.webp" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this is sort of what they looked like, available from Etsy</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-62054864279240840322024-02-11T22:30:00.000-08:002024-02-13T08:34:30.892-08:00Origin, movie review<p>I went to see the fictionmentary: <i>Origin</i> written and directed by Ava DuVernay based upon Isabel
Wilkerson’s book <i>Caste: Origins of our
Discontents</i>. It takes a particular skill to adapt nonfiction to the screen;
you’re actually telling a couple stories at once and most or all of it has to
be TRUE. On a personal note: I couldn’t stop crying through the entire viewing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Am I highly emotional? Maybe, but I’m the kind of person you
want in the middle of a disaster because I tend to keep my head without
panicking. But once you start intuiting a lynching—I’m gone, and the movie
opens with the murder of Trayvon Martin, the young man/teenager who was killed
merely for walking home in the rain on a dark night wearing a hoodie. You know
the end of this story before it even begins, and you get a sick thud in your
belly just watching the Skittles slide across the convenient store counter.
It’s all going to go so bad.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is a complicated story to tell, weaving the history of
black oppression in this country with the histories of other outcast people. At
one point the author at a home dinner party is accused of pursuing a flawed theory.
She feels temporarily setback, but continues to seek interconnections between
how Germany in the 1930s handled their “Jewish Problem” and how the United
States created apartheid under Jim Crow laws after the abolishment of slavery.
You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i>, it is complicated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And complicit . . . as this one reviewer’s story will
emphasize.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was there. Through my tears as the author’s personal story
unfolds as well as her writer journey, I couldn’t help but relate. I totally
understood that feeling of trying to relay an emotional concept and intertwine
it with historical fact, give it present-day context. I’ve been pedaling
(intentional pun) a bicycling manuscript of my End To End in England with the
story of an overlooked 19<sup>th</sup>-century activist named Frances Willard.
On top of that—I was there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In my comfy theater chair I sat up. My eyes glued to the
screen. I was there just 4 months ago in that square in Germany where they
burned the books in 1933.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I described in earlier<a href="https://memoirouswrite.blogspot.com/2024/02/transcendence-in-berlin.html" target="_blank"> posts</a>, the night I arrived
in Berlin was somewhat chaotic. There was the elevator/escalator debacle, Mia
going to the wrong train station, and dancing at midnight in the Alexanderplatz
outside the station. Then the 2-hour detour to the city before going back to
her apartment.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I saw Berlin through a newcomer’s miasma. In general, it was
all too much to take in on little sleep, in early hours, on a bicycle: my brain
was in a fog. On top of all this, there was the Berlin Festival of Lights,
where a light show was projected onto historic buildings and monuments to add
even more meaning. Here we are at the Brandenburg Gate:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmngYSI5L6Gx1jGBbsYCWKPFXTG25DJtcm83WBzd3UcOVbiktqZH_DvknYGFMJdaP6Y-geHJWKxVDR-oGzqs0rezKexAUdanpTZ51MBQmDlANMAa4PgsN4XZypK4-hPdFhzmewjWdIMnnc8ZstNbaX_vQ63qVE11-nEPPZebmz02TOcJxNvo8Ye3xhZc9/s800/FB_IMG_1696577221537.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmngYSI5L6Gx1jGBbsYCWKPFXTG25DJtcm83WBzd3UcOVbiktqZH_DvknYGFMJdaP6Y-geHJWKxVDR-oGzqs0rezKexAUdanpTZ51MBQmDlANMAa4PgsN4XZypK4-hPdFhzmewjWdIMnnc8ZstNbaX_vQ63qVE11-nEPPZebmz02TOcJxNvo8Ye3xhZc9/s320/FB_IMG_1696577221537.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><o:p> </o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because this was Thursday and the Festival didn’t officially
begin until the weekend, the engineers were doing a dress rehearsal. We got to
see the show, the lights thrown out in a dramatic spectacle before the festival
crowds. We rode to the Bebelplatz where with one other person we watched the
lights blaze, waver, alter—much like flames.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Bebelplatz is a sizeable area—perhaps big enough to hold
a Trump rally—surrounded by the Former Royal Library and across the Unter den
Linden from Humboldt University, the State Opera, and Humboldt's law school to
the right, with St. Hedwig's Cathedral behind. At the moment I lacked
orientation, language, the historical context to know where I was standing.
Except, below my feet was a clear Plexiglas window looking into an empty underground
library—some kind of art installation. Mia explained that this is where the
Nazis burned books. Right here in the midst of so much culture, in front of the
library and a law school. My head already hurt and at the moment I could not do
the mental gymnastics. In the theater watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Origin</i>, I recognized the place.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a writer who treasures words, I abhor the destruction of
books. Even a lonely book at the book box gets my sympathy—Who would leave
this? Another reason to stifle a sob in the theater, the horror of removing
books for ideological/political gamesmanship, something we are seeing these
days with Moms for Liberty and governor Ron DeSantis. But this situation is not
limited to Florida. Even libraries here in Michigan are under attack. School
librarians, the heroes of my youth, are coming under intense scrutiny, their
jobs at risk. In the movie those who did not want to go along with the
political tide walked on eggshells, until—</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The movie kept running. The terror, the Holocaust, so many
lives. Because of a presumed bias, where a group of people are made to be
“other.” Like the author’s sister in the movie agrees—they’re all white people,
just as in India the Dalits or untouchables are, in our eyes, just as Indian
looking as the Brahmin, the highest-quality caste. All this goes to Wilkerson’s
point that not all racism in the US is about color, but caste. A blanket
perception that this group is inferior, “blacks to whites.” Even the term black
does not adequately define color.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">TO BE CONTINUED<o:p></o:p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZibdvwjymAodyZ1Aeb5gpr4Fx3yggoJZrnAM5smneYuYUjR3R0vU56m9OCCPdN0IR5kUCZMr04b818Ac5mtX2GkLcEXuIQ_Y8G4IbqhS7wpE6o57h47-_Bp9t7rc9gQE3Mw7ES454P0K33F8FrXJhdje_pw619UOOm5hzXEsxOmfp-gnGKU7g6VwIl_8/s800/FB_IMG_1696577210328.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTZibdvwjymAodyZ1Aeb5gpr4Fx3yggoJZrnAM5smneYuYUjR3R0vU56m9OCCPdN0IR5kUCZMr04b818Ac5mtX2GkLcEXuIQ_Y8G4IbqhS7wpE6o57h47-_Bp9t7rc9gQE3Mw7ES454P0K33F8FrXJhdje_pw619UOOm5hzXEsxOmfp-gnGKU7g6VwIl_8/s320/FB_IMG_1696577210328.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOhtXLZNRapxHTvA4BS_0RrCH8nd3nxeH20w71L4P9X18-9nz7Xe3PlHm02JtBEUNtFMwH9_2LfG8jVF9X0vSzmKC-qonwuiFw04YibxXNuawCeSf5QytlkV3y60FhW8W9DZjzDEUQJJVjFa6PzPvUaI9b7aGM8Bx1BeWitOtG-xeJczCJdmp8l10gpKy/s1124/FB_IMG_1696577201655.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="843" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOhtXLZNRapxHTvA4BS_0RrCH8nd3nxeH20w71L4P9X18-9nz7Xe3PlHm02JtBEUNtFMwH9_2LfG8jVF9X0vSzmKC-qonwuiFw04YibxXNuawCeSf5QytlkV3y60FhW8W9DZjzDEUQJJVjFa6PzPvUaI9b7aGM8Bx1BeWitOtG-xeJczCJdmp8l10gpKy/s320/FB_IMG_1696577201655.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-34247879992369823342024-02-08T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-08T22:00:00.155-08:00Transcendence in Empty Church Sanctuary<p>One other memory, moment of transcendence—though I didn’t
have the language to call it that—occurs to me. A time of mystery and innocence—and
genuine enthrallment with the unseen, the unknowable, with the Holy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was maybe four or five years old. At the Methodist church
we attended in Kettering there was a spaghetti supper fundraiser. The whole
family went. Afterwards in one of the side rooms was a craft sale. I begged my
mother to buy me a bookmarker made out of felt shaped like a mitten that
clipped onto the page. I kept that trinket on up through high school in a treasure
box. Anyway, the fundraiser was a perfect time to explore the church outside of
regular Sunday-service. Remarkably, it was just a regular building now empty of
people, the pastor in his robes, the choir, the booming organ (no worship band
with its fake rock and roll hipsters). I wandered into the sanctuary, lights
out, dimmed, street lamps radiating in through the stained glass windows. There
was a holy hush, the carpet muffling the spaghetti supper down in the fellowship
hall. Again, I didn’t have the language, but I felt like a trespasser—most assuredly
my mother had no idea where I’d gotten off to—as if I was somewhere where I
shouldn’t be, but at the same time invited, where I belonged. At home.
Welcomed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I knew that this place was meant for me. My heart. I felt
safe.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe I was thinking of communion where I’d slug back grape
juice like a cowboy at a bar and pop the papery wafer into my mouth and let it
dissolve. There was a moment of connection. In this quiet place away from the
gaze of my parents and family, I raised my hands ceiling-ward into what seemed
the cathedral depths above. It was a movement without purpose, certainly
nothing I’d seen grownups do in our conservative mainline church, but I wanted
to be close to God. There was a yearning deep inside of me, hurting my chest,
of wanting and needing a relationship with the infinite, with Whoever was
behind the Design. In my child’s mind I knew there was something out there, a
goodness waiting for me, and I reached for it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A second later I pulled my arms down. Stupid. Feeling dumb.
I returned to the bustling fellowship hall and asked my mom if she missed me.
Of course not; she hadn’t even realized I was gone. Perhaps, it had only been
minutes and not as long as I thought. Nevertheless, this moment alone in the
sanctuary has always stayed with me. In fact years later as a teen when I did
pray to receive Christ I felt the remnants of standing there, hands raised,
asking for the universe to accept me.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSk-XLemFqVA7pvIxBN79qQAcP9mLZkF98p6VgkYmlgt4z1FCBwVDe3kbwrmAws0vcXOvvOsEBpMcF2H00BO-W4Egimi_e-FRi3lQhrqQz3dTKxaBOFjtqZDKZsLAv6Tjj8Yvv88NyJ4dmY8I10khkQV7Nmwv5KY0nCoLGXWhijYyW4c00ipZ6jsyrfTka/s698/IMG_20231011_164106218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="524" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSk-XLemFqVA7pvIxBN79qQAcP9mLZkF98p6VgkYmlgt4z1FCBwVDe3kbwrmAws0vcXOvvOsEBpMcF2H00BO-W4Egimi_e-FRi3lQhrqQz3dTKxaBOFjtqZDKZsLAv6Tjj8Yvv88NyJ4dmY8I10khkQV7Nmwv5KY0nCoLGXWhijYyW4c00ipZ6jsyrfTka/s320/IMG_20231011_164106218.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral in Strasbourg, where I was once again--awestruck</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-68209132240798408552024-02-06T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-06T22:00:00.172-08:00Transcendence in Berlin<p>Lately I’ve been exploring transcendent moments. I’ve tried
to let go of the strictures of dance, override the bodily chemical reaction of
fear, the memory of shame that surrounds the times I’ve allowed myself to move and
react with a whole heart to a spiritual impulse. But it’s hard.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since my divorce I knew if I wanted to travel, I’d have to
go alone. It’s okay, I almost prefer it, then I don’t have to worry about if
someone else is hungry, overtired, their feelings. I only have to worry about
me—and getting lost. When I traveled this past fall, I’d already overcome many
anxieties that come from traveling solo—with a bike. I managed to get me and my
bike on the train to Berlin despite the fact that it seemed I had no real seat
assignment, despite a fellow passenger telling me in English that I must have a
valid ticket to ride. Thankfully, when the person coming through the cars
asking for papers scanned what I produced from my backpack, all was settled. Then
at the Berlin station, humongous and chaotic even at midnight, I discovered
there were no working elevators. I watched as a woman got onto an escalator
with her bike and was nearly swallowed by the moving parts when her bicycle
fell over on her. Lesson learned, I would manually move my bike down to the
ground floor, first carrying it and then running back up for my bags. What a
relief, I thought, when Mia gets here to pick me up.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But where was Mia?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She’d gone to the wrong train station. I tried to tell her,
using the German flip phone loaned to me, that I was on the side of the Bahnhof,
the Alexanderplatz side, before we hung up. I still wasn’t sure if we’d make
the connection.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet, she arrived. I’d worried that we would need lights to
ride at night and pulled a headlamp out of my bag plus my front and rear
taillight. No matter—she wasn’t even wearing a helmet. The belt of her raincoat
dangled inches from her drivetrain, able to be sucked into the gears. She
hugged me as a busker played in the background. I relaxed into her arms. Yay! Then
she laughed and swayed to the music. Still holding onto me she made me dance. I
was as stiff as the bike frame I held onto. Wearing my helmet, I moved like a robot
at first. I can do anything for a few minutes. As it turned out we danced for
nearly an hour, In joy, laughing, unbelievable that I was here with Mia, the platz
all aglow, the lowering Berlin skyline, after so many years, a pandemic, the
ravages of relationships. I eventually relaxed and let go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This would all become my memory of Berlin, those first
fraught moments of feeling lost, incapable (certainly how I felt for half my
trip) versus the feeling that I was actually doing this thing, dancing, biking
through new countries, meeting people, strangers and friends. It was happening
to me. Now.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Transcendent moments, unplanned serendipity, the joy in the
journey. I was giving into it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, before long, I tired, returned to my body, said I
wanted to leave the square, go to her apartment. For sure! We got on our bikes,
whereupon Mia took me all over the city on a two-wheeled tour that extended
into the wee hours of morning.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKXbYexcZpUJ2wtMmfvIxUJnBpqYhlbEIiPTzeI3cCAkv9pAm6zOkUfBt93KIOGE076nUWtA4QcGUnQRrdKJ5rAYoKR4PuylW_lE3bdBowHwQicbYBCKSeDLUro_2QftBK2VGX8oc7i7FTcxiXYql1TTR1z5jcZY4DqYLykbeG_5na7BAvuPu6G123eJLU/s800/FB_IMG_1696577221537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKXbYexcZpUJ2wtMmfvIxUJnBpqYhlbEIiPTzeI3cCAkv9pAm6zOkUfBt93KIOGE076nUWtA4QcGUnQRrdKJ5rAYoKR4PuylW_lE3bdBowHwQicbYBCKSeDLUro_2QftBK2VGX8oc7i7FTcxiXYql1TTR1z5jcZY4DqYLykbeG_5na7BAvuPu6G123eJLU/s320/FB_IMG_1696577221537.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-55999494543241119312024-02-04T22:00:00.000-08:002024-02-04T22:00:00.254-08:00Transcendence at the Metro<p>After reading <i>Transcendent
Kingdom</i> by Yaa Gyasi, I’ve been contemplating moments of transcendence I’ve
experienced. Many of these occurred while on my bike—or maybe it was simply
being in the zone, a state of mind achieved by athletes, a process of chemicals
in the body allowing the brain to detach, rest, while being physically active.
I’ve also been in a zone while writing—able to get down pages and pages that
seem like true art, until I reread them, mortified that nothing makes sense.
Leaving me questioning the validity of these moments of transcendence. Are they
actually delusions?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mini psychotic breaks? A vacating of my body and “normal”
personality to adopt a persona, a person who takes risks and enjoys making a
spectacle of herself. For instance, dancing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m oblivious to rhythm; I clap on the off-beat. Four/four
time means nothing to me. It’s as if the gene for dance is missing from my DNA.
Yet, I longed to move to music.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In not too subtle ways I’ve been told I lack what it takes.
My father after a recital told me he could tell which of the dancing ducks was
me: The one out of step (and with the biggest butt when we turned around to “shake
a tail”). Back in the 80s when U2 was taking off, there were a number of bands
that sang passionately about faith, playing around the edges yet defying the
label Christian. I loved the Call, their song I Still Believe seemed an anthem,
a cry in the darkness: I still believe/Through the pain and through the grief/Through
the lies, through the storms/Through the cries and through the wars/Oh, I still
believe!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At one point, after a chorus, he sings Everyone up!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was there, at the Metro, my husband and I had scored
tickets. I remember the sweater I was wearing, a sort of pop art orange and
pink blobby number. My hair, a frizzy late 80s mess, a kind of couture punk. I
was excited, happy, bubbly. Then, I made the mistake of dancing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My husband let me know I had embarrassed him. The little
duck memory flooded over me. Of being blindsided. I thought the experience was
GREAT, WONDERFUL, when in reality it was stupid, dumb, pathetic. Humanity was knocked
down a peg. As was I. Not that I was going to join the band as a backup dancer—I
was only feeling something I couldn’t explain, a literal Everyone Up! as well
as a figurative soaring of the soul. A transcendence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I got rid of that sweater. I would never again be so
radical.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Every now and then I feel the urge to dance, but like Pavlov’s
dog, I will not return to that moment where I stood under the glare of
revelation, the pain of shame.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchdXfuZaoDefrCg_1JYKbvISDqYe1hzjnWR_EbTbLKtretOnB1oLKrwCWt8wy84WBpZx9Ph2nmKtT-VGt5TgSDjwzSwHpi7bGS-KVyLx4S4RLK3_om5HKH2lM7Ww7FxsV2DhmvNekwhc6A88tJo5f3bm1mp27060QPTehE4e_QRMTlrq2j4VLJlnPDpX1/s251/download%20(14).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchdXfuZaoDefrCg_1JYKbvISDqYe1hzjnWR_EbTbLKtretOnB1oLKrwCWt8wy84WBpZx9Ph2nmKtT-VGt5TgSDjwzSwHpi7bGS-KVyLx4S4RLK3_om5HKH2lM7Ww7FxsV2DhmvNekwhc6A88tJo5f3bm1mp27060QPTehE4e_QRMTlrq2j4VLJlnPDpX1/s1600/download%20(14).jpg" width="201" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/tHj6ifjMCfY" width="320" youtube-src-id="tHj6ifjMCfY"></iframe></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-42698092554915839112024-01-30T22:00:00.000-08:002024-01-30T22:00:00.247-08:00Transcendent Kingdom, a book review<p class="MsoNormal">In preparation for the upcoming Festival of Faith and Writing
at Calvin University April 11-13, I’ve been a mad woman putting books on hold
at the library and checking titles off my Reading List. There are far tooooo
many workshop leaders to read all the books, so I’ve concentrated on the main
ones, the plenary speakers. This past week I read Yaa Gyasi’s <i>Transcendent Kingdom</i>.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Several things put me off at first. If you judge a book by
its cover—which WE ALL DO (it’s the relevance behind that axiom)—I hated it.
There was a sticker Read with Jenna (not a fan), the colors—sort of a putty
puke contrasted against a charcoal not quite black with the figure of a woman
awkwardly praying. Nevertheless, I opened up to page one.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I was reminded of Daniel Keyes’ <i>Flowers for Algernon</i>, there is an experiment using mice that will
ultimately impact the story, the scientist doing the research, and hold
parallels for the universal reader. I would also critique the first
sentence—“Whenever I think of my mother”, just like on a first date, talking
about one’s mother is a turn-off.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Yet. I was entirely blown away by this novel.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Yaa Gyasi is a young, up and coming author, A recipient of
the National Book Foundation's 2016 "5 Under 35" Award. This is her
second novel after a brilliant debut with <i>Homecoming.</i>
I felt like I was under the spell of a master, someone who knew how to use
language to communicate the esoteric, the emotional spiritual journey that the
main character had been on and eventually abandoned, maybe. Just as the title
indicates, I’ve never read someone who so effectively described the
transcendent, the phenomena, the experience of Christian conversion particular
to the US and to evangelicals, As a scientist she referenced that it was a
paradox, but also as someone who worked in the language of hypothesis, she was comfortable
with the mystery of faith and belief. She had gone to college, been scrutinized
for holding beliefs, in a world of radicalized undergrads sometimes voicing
belief is itself radical—and unpopular, then slowly letting go and allowing the
tide of other voices and the current culture to wash over her. If she were to
keep going in the sciences it seemed there would be no room for her Pentecostal
background,</p><p class="MsoNormal">A background that would ultimately stand in contrast to her
research. Such as the hard and fast faith of her mother, doctrines of
absolutism, letting go and letting God take over, the healing power of prayer,
that all things work together for good. Even the death of a beloved brother? What
about the pervasive racism against people of color? The low expectations of
superiors toward women in the sciences? How does one square the recent
political vehemence of White Evangelicals? Gifty, the voice of the novel, is up
against a lot, but is still motivated to see her experiment to the end—in both
an internal and external journey. This story holds so much power.</p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">So do not be put off by the cover, by the idea that the
author is perhaps someone you never heard of, by the confluence of vowels and
consonants in her name, and read through the first sentence into the heart of a
story about a woman who defies her brain, who transcends the message of media
to go beyond—to the squishy side of the soul.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzpUpUmPUkV66PBOgGa8MWsGOKZUtrCpvMfDjnm1d2FuZ2VTROjIMQWJvGdgX4oFNjr2SRh06_i7XDxX6p0GxppUrDpBHkoB0lXaUvGfElHcC1GIefAO7ejuo3SqI0Xdbm_JCHLeMfll3CbcasNvuGg-ghhcWDSbVVvz3MdbqUUgqh_lV5Uu1C4_VWA-0/s372/Transcendent_Kingdom_(Yaa_Gyasi).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzpUpUmPUkV66PBOgGa8MWsGOKZUtrCpvMfDjnm1d2FuZ2VTROjIMQWJvGdgX4oFNjr2SRh06_i7XDxX6p0GxppUrDpBHkoB0lXaUvGfElHcC1GIefAO7ejuo3SqI0Xdbm_JCHLeMfll3CbcasNvuGg-ghhcWDSbVVvz3MdbqUUgqh_lV5Uu1C4_VWA-0/s320/Transcendent_Kingdom_(Yaa_Gyasi).png" width="215" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-17828643720595038562024-01-29T05:29:00.000-08:002024-01-30T06:16:27.719-08:00The Doldrums of January<p>When a schoolgirl I remember January as being the s l o w e
s t month. There was always the flurry and excitement of a new school year,
textbooks, meeting new teachers, the feel of being one year older and in a new
grade, a sense of discovery, perhaps. Then from the weeks preceding Halloween to
Christmas and New Year’s, time flew. Until January. Gloomy mornings, cold, wet.
Either we were stuck inside at recess or forced outdoors to freeze, huddle
against the brick wall out of the biting wind. I remember chapped cheeks, wet
mittens, the smell of soggy wool.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I look out my window now, at age 65, as the morning yolk of
sun cracks the horizon. Slowly. We sit at the end of a calendar page, almost
February. Now that I’m older, I have a different perspective on time. It seems
to move irretrievably faster. And, January, despite the fact that there is a
national holiday now inserted, still is as dull and boring as when I was a
child. I’m struggling to find things to write about, the motivation to sit down
and write, the “press” of life around me is less defined, more a blurred
figure. Last night on my PBS station, I had my choice between recommended shows—a
series on the Holocaust, updates on the War in Gaza, something about the
struggle for Mariupol in Ukraine, and a show on aging. Why, I wondered
existentially, do I even bother?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, as I ready for work, pull on pants over my pants
before heading out, don an extra hat and thick-as-carpet gloves, open the
garage door and straddle my bike for the short commute, I realize there are
birds singing and I hear the song the wind makes in the highest boughs of the
fir trees across the street, and—<o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> face a new
day.</span><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndJ0YVFfPsjMW8ygzxz09jiZ2tKw7RmZZD6g3RbIB8WcTxZ2QK5Rjt_NLVVrjMLG4H88QWTREnNDWTzBEhelp_7cuAr-anDBuuDJH9sqf2MPtMiABsgdWBszfCeYyHEuuVjSyY93b8QWdpCS24fW7mbM02OYR3a1CgJSlhJ_fA2kY8py4Ulr73alaWg4u/s887/IMAG0517.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndJ0YVFfPsjMW8ygzxz09jiZ2tKw7RmZZD6g3RbIB8WcTxZ2QK5Rjt_NLVVrjMLG4H88QWTREnNDWTzBEhelp_7cuAr-anDBuuDJH9sqf2MPtMiABsgdWBszfCeYyHEuuVjSyY93b8QWdpCS24fW7mbM02OYR3a1CgJSlhJ_fA2kY8py4Ulr73alaWg4u/s320/IMAG0517.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me, a few years back, while still in Chicago</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div></div>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-4852217902120998762024-01-25T22:00:00.000-08:002024-01-26T04:25:27.171-08:00Visitor to Tiny House<p>I’ve had a Tiny House visitor. I told her to pretend she was
in a cozy cabin tucked into the woods. She responded, I’ll just think about being
on an island off of Norway in a cottage. You see, she actually has one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There, she has no running water and they use an outhouse when
visiting. The kindly neighbor offers their facilities for a shower and for them
to carry over jugs to fill with water to take back. I’ve seen pictures: there
are exposed rocks with ancient runes scraped onto the surface, where they
lounge after a swim, sunning themselves. Just like here there are pine trees—though
maybe not as tall as the wind scours the island in poor weather and stunts
their growth. At one time the only access was by ferry, but now there is an
underwater tunnel where cars can cross back and forth. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She got up in the morning and had her coffee looking out the
windows. For breakfast we ate from a rustic loaf of bread I’d bought just for
the occasion and in the evening we lit tea candles and sat and chatted while
darkness gathered outside. Just like in Scandinavia. We took long walks in the
snowy woods.</p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">I was happy to offer refuge from her hectic city
life. </span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmY4joYPKG4L2xy_EghANgSs0icfBqn0NS42IY5rL2TNT5DBhaBbv0rE8BSw1LzCk-H305XGWAP8qLzYqjgeFP75KWGgEk6GJ9k3-bxoeY8nXTW86EdaIR5TDBZPJq6eVSj0CsJoVLYqqcDcTMVn9vYyYr-WXT6NXdr4uoUd4MMvDNuP_F1VMKRGTHQsBg/s600/421878112_10160785099426628_1529760030483465656_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmY4joYPKG4L2xy_EghANgSs0icfBqn0NS42IY5rL2TNT5DBhaBbv0rE8BSw1LzCk-H305XGWAP8qLzYqjgeFP75KWGgEk6GJ9k3-bxoeY8nXTW86EdaIR5TDBZPJq6eVSj0CsJoVLYqqcDcTMVn9vYyYr-WXT6NXdr4uoUd4MMvDNuP_F1VMKRGTHQsBg/s320/421878112_10160785099426628_1529760030483465656_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-B8DSDVX7bkLFb6uBhOt9YCl9nSXOFhSovZbnbWoO4sQ8iQ1KiQXNa3-Ycd_D853fua8DGVpDudjjjPfAcaJG-lO6h_IV_XPrigvMfL4zDHgfgH_-RmaMEAK5Za_0ozxswfeNR6bfrVROR3A-HlnAHVs-Qtx_8EPz6b3TiBA3W4i7HvkOcj0bx4s5_ib5/s600/420065428_10160785099461628_4335522738541255372_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-B8DSDVX7bkLFb6uBhOt9YCl9nSXOFhSovZbnbWoO4sQ8iQ1KiQXNa3-Ycd_D853fua8DGVpDudjjjPfAcaJG-lO6h_IV_XPrigvMfL4zDHgfgH_-RmaMEAK5Za_0ozxswfeNR6bfrVROR3A-HlnAHVs-Qtx_8EPz6b3TiBA3W4i7HvkOcj0bx4s5_ib5/s320/420065428_10160785099461628_4335522738541255372_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgrvDW7_P9CPKSG9kk34brNMQDgTUTr2EpR6PJ_RwsaiN2F6dGkwd6AfO70FRcoxSoEWJ78cccvFe5ofzh9fvM-JEA7UKoCYH2ggHlODSThG3qVKvrv8J5h2ulQtBn-9k5m8LBozTEvu-VOdLsLAhQgmCEjWLBnhtDfElxlYeGKFGElgFK8tj8J54bA8u/s600/420098193_10160785099631628_2554648385024377720_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="579" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgrvDW7_P9CPKSG9kk34brNMQDgTUTr2EpR6PJ_RwsaiN2F6dGkwd6AfO70FRcoxSoEWJ78cccvFe5ofzh9fvM-JEA7UKoCYH2ggHlODSThG3qVKvrv8J5h2ulQtBn-9k5m8LBozTEvu-VOdLsLAhQgmCEjWLBnhtDfElxlYeGKFGElgFK8tj8J54bA8u/s320/420098193_10160785099631628_2554648385024377720_n.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-40597299927424862622024-01-24T07:00:00.000-08:002024-01-24T07:08:30.929-08:00 Winter Fog <p>Is what happens after days and days of sub-freezing
temperatures followed by an unseasonable warm-up. To be clear, I don’t mind
winter in winter. I love sledding, skating, and skiing. Walks in snowy woods </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This a.m. I awoke to a gloomy fog. The weekly forecast calls
for temps to rise to near 50 degrees. It’s still January.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The low cloud cover harbors a murky odor: diesel from the
distant roadway, methane, perhaps, laundry detergent, eggs cooking on a
stovetop, something musky and earthy. The ground softening after the intense
cold. Mother Nature confused, once again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then, onto a barren twiggy branch, alights a cardinal in his
red dress and I’m startled into joy.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2IjBSyNktLB_Z3yKDVqekddoCVtlTne2UZXq80Wxuqi8sjYiC65k-AbYIrY3XwOCIZtg_yYsvOc4KTQeaZoqobvDtS1QhXI9Fp_ERRBtmBJhqLu9uYwtxYYc91U_ig5YvrMO8oxwwolJsoz-EaOZnI0QS79EDJCnVqS0Rd9AUBZbD9cYgYOHgOS-33XA/s360/raf,360x360,075,t,fafafa_ca443f4786.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit2IjBSyNktLB_Z3yKDVqekddoCVtlTne2UZXq80Wxuqi8sjYiC65k-AbYIrY3XwOCIZtg_yYsvOc4KTQeaZoqobvDtS1QhXI9Fp_ERRBtmBJhqLu9uYwtxYYc91U_ig5YvrMO8oxwwolJsoz-EaOZnI0QS79EDJCnVqS0Rd9AUBZbD9cYgYOHgOS-33XA/s320/raf,360x360,075,t,fafafa_ca443f4786.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-70477181363835950252024-01-18T22:00:00.000-08:002024-01-18T22:00:00.137-08:00Negative Two<p>What does it feel like . . below zero</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So during this cold snap it got down to -2, then 2, then a
few days the high was 8, 9, then 10. It’s all relative. Freezing. Lung burning.
Eye tingling.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The big difference is feeling like I might actually die.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I ride my bike everywhere. No matter the temperature.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The first really cold day was the worst and scariest. Even
though the commute is only 1.7 miles, I worried about ending up as road kill, a
forlorn little match girl on the side of the road. Much like the opossum that’s
been there for a week already now turned into s mogul. Anyway, I left wearing
three pant layers and a thick blanket-type sweater over my work t-shirt.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After the negative two benchmark, everything else felt like
a moderation. One less layer, or slightly not as cold.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Outside of the extra clothes, I’ve been packing in the
calories. Hot soup, yes, please! Never say never to hot chocolate! A little
more pasta on the plate! I feel like a Russian peasant making it through a
Siberian winter instead of a Michigander with electric heating. Where, even,
the garage is heated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I didn’t die and yesterday went for a run. I’m being
careful. It’s just that after almost a week of freezing cold, I’m a bit stir
crazy and need a break—even if it means getting out. Onward and upward, in long underwear.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cHTR2Aq20Vhhgv7ywRDsNsr5G77rzhWD-nz8ArjtqjAHlSZmlbo3rEKBMnb36FQeSxURqnjFICZvDxtgVnl51S-U9UXZwQGu_gdLU6LYM6gcRCw9OWtmpwmR9fehatTf1EpqVs7IID8CsxJmPw0u0cNEIkRSjJsNtyJv0mJlWCbhd0GQqKRCEBR3NIUi/s612/istockphoto-1305760827-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1cHTR2Aq20Vhhgv7ywRDsNsr5G77rzhWD-nz8ArjtqjAHlSZmlbo3rEKBMnb36FQeSxURqnjFICZvDxtgVnl51S-U9UXZwQGu_gdLU6LYM6gcRCw9OWtmpwmR9fehatTf1EpqVs7IID8CsxJmPw0u0cNEIkRSjJsNtyJv0mJlWCbhd0GQqKRCEBR3NIUi/s320/istockphoto-1305760827-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1481523546226287718.post-71934939181049675022024-01-16T22:00:00.000-08:002024-01-17T06:27:20.881-08:00Tiny House Morning Routine<p>I wake before dawn—which is easy because it doesn’t start to
get light until 7:15. I turn up the heat on my way to the bathroom, after
which, I take off my sleep slippers and put on my regular slippers with rubber
tread. On the back of my door are coats and fleeces; I put on my corduroy
shirt, more of an overshirt with pockets, and turn on the lights and flip the
switch on the kettle. The ceramic tiles are still cold as I get down and do a
series of stretches—yet the exertion also warms me up. By the time I’m done the
tea is ready.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At the same time I’m firing up the computer. At night I
close the lid and put a throw on top. Corners of the Tiny House can get cold
and, since I know nothing of how these things work, I comfort and baby the
machine that runs my life. The computer whirls awake and I’ll click on NPR news
and select the stories I want to hear. Sorry no Gaza, no school shootings—mostly
weather and politics (which is scary enough). By now the Tiny House is warming
up, the mini split set at 67 or whatever. The fan on the light pushes the air down
into the cold corners. Nevertheless, I put the computer throw over my lap and begin
to tap away at morning pages, what might turn into a blog post. I’m thinking
about writing about the blizzard, how the store shelves were cleared of snacks,
how despite the dire warnings people were still out driving, their animal
instincts telling them to fill up on chips and soda—just in case.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not sure that equates.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After writing for a while, whatever we want to call it, I
think about breakfast. On these cold mornings I want hot oatmeal or grits,
Perhaps, a grapefruit. This a.m. I squeezed oranges for a quick juice. Still
coming back from the upper respiratory bug which hit me over the holidays. Also still
musing about the scramble for snacks during a crisis—is there a story there?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I do more serious writing after eating. Writing, meaning, I
work on submissions, revising, organizing notes. Mostly, again, sitting and
thinking, hoping for an interruption. By now the sun is up, out, white, pale,
not really shining, casting no shadows nor illuminating, but just there,
announcing a new day, revealing the blobs of snow decorating tree boughs, the
strip of snow blanketing the fence top. Or perhaps new snow, flakes falling
from the sky, drifting down. They’re not thinking about Gaza either, they have
no capacity for school shootings; they just are. Come what may—in a few days
melted away or piled up by the driveway, sooty from car exhaust, trampled upon
on our way to the garbage bin. For nature it is about the cycle of life—then why
do I take it all so personally? By now it is time to stop all this
introspection and get dressed—either for a run before work, or if I’ve left it
for too late, to actually hurry and get ready to leave.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whereupon I turn down the heat, turn off the ceiling
fan/light, but turn on the grow lamps for my plants, for the orchid about to
break out five new blossoms, the buds hardening into fat balls, while the other
orchids lie dormant, wondering what it’s like to be vibrant, alive on this cold
winter’s day. I shut the door behind me.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_ux8uchu3pFUWLwJR6ZEgrxE5XaTElVlNn4uCnTdCUkdwBvMz4JIiIQX0oIfD1XEVNo8gyWKDhYz9Px6nul6chQ1GxoUnAPVienVfwxV0PHXQZSjvG5fvIWZ7qhMHDCuzDTPwkRBHOV23ZFei70fbcBGyrRf4olD5-hbHfus1pXOqkRa9JxoB-0NIXPh/s4608/IMG_20240115_092747625.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_ux8uchu3pFUWLwJR6ZEgrxE5XaTElVlNn4uCnTdCUkdwBvMz4JIiIQX0oIfD1XEVNo8gyWKDhYz9Px6nul6chQ1GxoUnAPVienVfwxV0PHXQZSjvG5fvIWZ7qhMHDCuzDTPwkRBHOV23ZFei70fbcBGyrRf4olD5-hbHfus1pXOqkRa9JxoB-0NIXPh/s320/IMG_20240115_092747625.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Jane Hertensteinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16335521537709379750noreply@blogger.com3