REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

A Genuine Journey to See the Dead Sea Scrolls

Today 16 of my long-time friends from the South Bay journeyed through our unexpected rain storm to San Diego to see the exhibit of the Dead Sea Scrolls at the San Diego Museum of Natural History in Balboa Park. Fortunately, my friend Larry drove me and two other people—and he says he really enjoys driving in the rain. I sure don't! We Californians are rain wimps, unlike you Washingtonians and Oregonians. The traffic was really tough—3 hours down with flooding in the Camp Pendleton area and 2 1/2 hours back, with rain the entire time, and bumper to bumper cars. We did have a nice lunch in the always crowded and worth it Prado Restaurant in the park.

The exhibit, however, was worth the long turn-around drive in the rain—and for those of you in California, it will only be in San Diego through December 31. I don't know where it goes next. I highly recommend a visit if you can possibly make it. It wasn’t the scroll fragments themselves I found the most interesting, but the whole exhibit including incredible photos of the Qumram area, artifacts, interactive displays, scenes from the digs in the 1940s and 1950s, other manuscripts, and the maps and information about the scrolls which I frankly knew little about. The local Barona Mission Indian tribe had actually funded the listening devices for the tour and we spent three hours wandering and becoming educated about this incredible archeological find. Incidentally, the link above has comprehensive information that you might want to explore yourself.

And there was a nice bonus in all this journey. I don’t get to spend quality time very often anymore with our old friends and the five of us in our car spent hours catching up with each other’s lives which would not have been possible if we had simply met for dinner someplace. Barbara had actually printed off an excellent recap of the finding of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the key players, and all the theories that abound about this find and she read it off and on as we drove down. Consequently, we were pretty well informed going in.

So, I’m pooped tonight but I keep thinking of the copper etched scroll fragments, the 10 Commandments and the Book of Enoch fragments. And I learned something I can’t believe I didn’t know, but then no one in our group knew either. They refer to the times as BCE and CE, which more or less refers to what I call BC and AC, but it means before common era and common era. Did you know that?

Approaching Christmas With a Shift in Attitude

This is a Turkish roadside merchant near the ruins at Ephesus trying to lure us to buy our scarves and purses from him--best price--during my recent trip. I wish I had as many of the roadside merchants did ultimately prove to have the best prices versus the larger city merchants in the highly touted bazaars.

But, I’m using this photo to illustrate that I’m bound and determined not to get enmeshed in my yearly rant about the commercialization of Christmas rather than another travelogue entry.

This, my 70th Christmas, has threatened to suck me into its crazy-making vortex. Ever since my grandson moved in August, however, I knew the time had come to scale back Christmas. I don't have the oomph or physical strength anymore to pull it off like I used to. And, it isn’t healthy to drag around negativity about a holiday that symbolizes the birth of Christ just because the real meaning of the season has been blown out of proportion in the culture. Technically, that’s not my problem. As “A Course in Miracles” says, “Choose again.”

The first decision I made was that for the first time in my adulthood, my tree will be smaller. It's time to let go of my perceived Christmas deprivation of childhood because my dad was the biggest “Bah Humbug” of them all. I’ve been overcompensating for the last 50 years. I said I was going all out for “you” or for “them,” but I’ll admit I was doing it for myself all this time.

It was my intent to seriously consider buying an artificial pre-lit tree for the first time, no larger than 5 or 6 feet. After checking out at least six stores and the Internet, I found that artificial trees come smaller than 4.5 feet or larger than 6.5 feet and the boxes weigh so much I wouldn’t have been able to get it out of the car (or maybe even into the car) by myself. And, I quickly found that they lack that utterly enchanting fragrance of forest. Tonight, out of the blue, and I am not an impulsive person by nature, I checked out the live trees at Lowe’s and Home Depot. It’s so early that the lots were virtually empty—and the tree choices were incredible. I got a beautiful 5 foot Noble for $20 and it’s in the yard resting in my outdoor fountain until I have a block of time to deal with it. I have never bought a tree this early or this small, but I used this purchase to herald my positive shift in attitude.

On Saturday I’ll drag it into the house and begin decorating it—with an intent to remember what this season was meant to be about. I’ll begin my Advent season with my tiny tree, my Advent wreath, and I’ll dig around for one of the nativity scenes, and throw in some candles and a Santa or two. I’m giving all my outdoor decorations (automated deers, trees, outdoor lights) to my daughter, and this year the multiple boxes of bears, dolls, angels and 50 years of accumulated Christmas will largely stay in the garage. One entire wall of shelving in my garage is devoted to Christmas. Sigh. Times, they are a changing.

My story may seem mundane and petty to you, but to me I have made a monumental life shift. So, let Advent begin!

Yesterday I Heard the Mermaids Singing

Last night I watched a 1987 Canadian movie written and produced by Patricia Rozema and starring totally winsome and loveable Sheila McCarthy called "I've Heard the Mermaids Singing." 1987 was a very transitional year for me personally, one filled with pain and joy, which all came flooding back after the film was over. This movie serendipitiously opened a Pandora'€™s box but I'm ready to put what came out back in.

On the box of the DVD this question is asked, "Isn't life the strangest thing you've ever seen?" And I give a resounding shout "Right on." McCarthy plays awkward, shy, frighteningly natural, and funny Polly Vandersma, an organizationally impaired temporary assistant to a pretentious, French art gallery owner. This film is considered one of Canada'€™s 10 best films ever. It's avant garde, but I loved it like I have long loved "Being John Malkovich."

But, seeing the characters quirkily interact, the clothing, hairstyles, cultural beliefs and euphemisms for that period of time 20 years ago really did trigger memories. Their exaggerated personality characteristics, the flash backs in McCarthy's life, her report of it on camera kind of like the YouTube we know now, the transitions from color to black and white, her romantic longing, and the music made me soar, laugh and wince especially when I recognized my own self doubts and pretentiousness.

I did take myself very seriously in those days. In 1987 I had been separated 3 years and my divorce after 27 years of marriage became final. I was three years into my "dream job" in downtown L.A. and because I bypassed alimony, I was making enough money to support myself. I sold the family home and began the search for the digs to herald my "new life." I alternated between my taste of freedom and choice and utter despair of making mistakes without a man. I no sooner bought my new townhouse in Redondo Beach when I lost my job. This was tantamount to disaster for someone who always feared being a bag lady deep down inside. I survived working temporary jobs until a full-time one in Santa Monica presented itself. I wrote my case to request a Catholic annulment for my deceased marriage, gut-wrenching and unnecessary in retrospect. I ended a one year rebound relationship that was going nowhere and another clandestine one that had begun to drive me nuts with its unpredictableness, which was also part of its lure. I contracted a bad kidney infection and ended up in the hospital for a week--and I went on vacation to Mammoth for a week with my girlfriend where we both spent time hiking, writing, laughing, and marveling at life being the strangest thing we'd ever observed. Did I say my first grandchild was born that year?

So, that'€™s what happened and what I remembered when I watched "I've Heard the Mermaids Singing." Each week I take an exploratory visit to my local libraries where I glom onto movies that seem to leap Intuitively into my basket. It's always an adventure and this one was utter delight. Yet to come this week are "Born Into Brothels," and "Bukowski Reads at Bellevue."

The Greek Changing of the Guard and Christmas

Just because (no, because there is more to it than I'm letting on to), I'm posting a photo I took in Athens two weeks ago of the changing of the guard in Constitution Square in front of the tomb of the unknowns. But, it wasn't just the "theater" of it all, the virility of the young soldiers, the tradition, but the universality of their dance as a metaphor for life and death that really grabbed me.

As this month counts down its days, heralding Christmas, I keep thinking about my trip to Turkey and Greece and snippets of memory keep popping up.  Those countries, especially Greece, were also preparing for Christmas. It seemed odd somehow to look out at my hotel window in Athens at the historic antiquities lit for night, and to justaposition it with the Christmas lights flashing off and on at the Italian restaurant across the street. I'll admit I've experienced a psychological let down since my return, like we all do when we experience something we have looked forward to for so long. But, more, I guess, I keep thinking about my life, your life, the life of us all woven together whether we admit it or not, whether we agree or not. It's such a cliche, but no man is an island and my travels have made me more aware of my tiny part in the world itself. When I get bogged down in my own details, I think of so many others who are living their own details.  What are some of your details today? 

How Many Artists Does It Take To Change a Light Bulb?

This came through cyberspace from my friends Vicki and Lynne in Portland--and it brought a big smile on this cloudy November morning.

• How many artists does it take to change a light bulb?
• One Minimalist to leave the old bulb in place.
• One Romanticist to light a candle, providing the right atmosphere for changing the bulb.
• One conceptual artist to write out instructions, so others can create the actual bulb-changing process for him.
• One Surrealist to use a fish mouth to unscrew the bulb.
• One feminist artist to smash the bulb because it looks too much like an erect phallus.
• One Abstract Expressionist to strew the broken glass around the room.
• One performance artist to roll around on the glass, videotaping the look of pain on his face.
• One installation artist to sweep the glass pieces into piles of various sizes.
• One assemblage artist to attach the broken glass to a wooden pole.
• One graffiti artist to tag the glass with spray paint once the pole is installed outside.
• Plus one janitor to put a new bulb in the fixture, so he doesn't get fired.

Ric Masten's Poem "Dementia"

From time to time here, I have linked to poet, philosopher and entertainer Ric Masten's website. He and his wife of 55 years live in Big Sur and many years ago I went on a retreat at deBenneville Pines they facilitated. It was Billie Barbara who initiated me into cronedom and I often think of them both. They are the kind of people who light up their world no matter where they are.

Ric has been battling incurable prostate cancer for many years and writes about it at his website, which largely features his poetry, music and art. Today he published a poem called "Dementia" which touched me very deeply. Please click the link above and tell me your reaction when you read Ric's poem about his wife and his afterword explaining his feelings.

Sometimes Making Paper Dolls Can Be an Inner Experience

Well, this is me, Fran aka Redondowriter, as my fantasy red and black cowgirl. By the way, I actually have a pair of red suede boots, but my cowboy hat is brown, a gift from my late friend Donna. Do I wear them anymore? No! I haven't been cowboy dancing since my last relationship broke up 10 years ago. Don't know if the old knees and hips would be up to it these days, but I won't know unless I try, I guess.

I have not fine-tuned this process of making these collage paper dolls. I left my Yes glue at work and tried a few different glues I didn't like. Yesterday I used a fabric glue and today an Aileen's glue I really didn't like. Also, I need a heavier backing, but we learn by doing, yes? What are your favorite paper arts glues?

This was a wonderful weekend--yesterday spent with two women friends who have long been in my life as parents of graduated kids at my school. Now we've stepped out of that role and next weekend we decided to go see Enchanted. Such a girl thing. Today, on the spur of the moment, my friend Kathy asked to attend church with me. As I introduced her to various people in my tiny parish, and later when my neighbor joined us, too, over coffee while the kids broke a pinata, I realized that after 1 1/2 years, how very much at home I feel at Christ Church, Redondo Beach. Today was the Feast of Christ the King, the namesake of the parish, thus the pinata.

Since I turned 70 last summer, I have been thinking and writing a lot about my life as it was, is, --and thinking about the years I hope to have left to me. I'm letting go of a lot of things, including possessions, that don't make sense for me anymore, even if they are comfortable. But, I'm deeply grateful to have long last settled into a church community. All my life I've been a searcher and at this point in my life, I like the church I've chosen for home base, and I'm grateful for all the religions I have studied and tried out. I carry pieces of all them into who I am today. I approach my Christianity far more metaphorically than most Christians I know, but I've found several kindred spirits at Christ Church. On a weekend focused on gratefulness, I'm grateful for my church family--and I'm grateful for my crafts and my willingness to play around and make mistakes. And for my endless supply of books from the library--for my children and grandchildren, for a part-time job that is actually fun to go to, for my plateau of health, and for my beautiful townhouse at the beach. I'm not my fantasy cowgirl, but most of the time I really, really like the life that I have.

Sometimes I have felt like life was living me, but lately I feel like I am mostly choosing to live my life the way that I do. I'm deeply blessed to have this freedom--and I know it. All of this from a cowboy paper doll experience.

Paper Dolls on a Saturday Night

Two weeks ago Saturday night I was fast asleep in a hotel room in Athens with dreams of the acropolis and the parthenon dancing in my head. Tonight I'm in Redondo Beach, sadly breathing the smoke from the big fire in Malibu, and I just finished my first big old collage paper doll. This is Marisa. She was born of a 36" high template left over from the Make It and Take It booth at the Redondo Beach Art Group show several weeks back. All my life I have loved paper dolls so she is simply a variation on another of my passions.

Marisa is made up of items torn from fashion magazines and then accessorized with ephemera. I had been putzing around with making her for a week and after I watched Harold and Kumar at the White Castle tonight (so raunchy and so funny), I went up to my craft room and threw her together. I get all paranoid for fear I'll do something "wrong," but she really nudged me to make her. I can see it all now: dozens of these chipboard dolls hanging on the walls of my house. My next one's face will be my own although I'm agonizing over the wrinkly me compared to the faces of all the fashion models I've been tearing out of magazines. I think I'll make my hair out of brown yarn, or maybe curly ribbon.

Books as Tools for the Examined Life

Those of us who are addicted to books will read anything at hand and if you are a book addict, you'll instantly recognize what I am saying. When I finish a work of fiction, and I don't have another one in the pile to start on immediately, I actually get anxious. Familiar? Consequently, I have bookcases full of books and piles of books near my bed that I check out from the library on spec, just to be sure I won't wake up during the night some night and be bookless.

The two most recent books I finished have really struck me about their plot similarities of using book clubs and literature to see one's own life more clearly. The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler which I read mistakenly instead of Carol Shields biography of Jane Austen (for my bookclub) and Summer Reading by Hilma Wolitzer. (I adored Wolitzer's The Doctors Daughter.) I highly recommend both. Technically they would be called light fiction, I suppose, but for where I am right now--endlessly and semi-continuously analyzing how I got to be 70 and what did I learn along the way--they have nudged me to look at myself different ways.

Each are based on bookclubs, one in the central valley of California, and the other the snooty Hamptons. The Jane Austun Bookclub reads only Jane Austen's works, but each character comes to her books from highly diverse backgrounds and points-of-view. In Summer Reading, a retired woman English professor leads the group. They read Bronte's Villette, Connell's Mrs. Bridge, Flaubert's Madame Bovary, Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, Herrera's Frida: A Biography of Frida Kahlo, Rowling"s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? I could literally start Wolitzer's book all over again tonight. On the surface I thought the water inside was very shallow, but it wasn't.

The book I started last night, Roland Merullo's "Breakfast With Buddha," probably can't measure up to the two I've just finished, but then I'm the kind of person who has a stack of magazines in the bathroom and will read the cereal box or anything with words on it if push comes to shove. I'm also on the last chapter of Ernest Borg's The Heart of Christianity for my church discussion group. This book you really have to munch on.

I love when you all share what you are reading because I often put them on hold at the library. So share what you've read recently and really liked. My favorite book this year, however, remains Water for Elephants.

Happy Thanksgiving From Fran With a Lot of Help From Mary Oliver

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone who visits here. Mine was quiet this year. I had dinner with old friends last night and this morning I went to church. I made my contributions this morning for the Thanksgiving dinner I was invited to: homemade cranberry and apple sauces. Late this afternoon I went to my ex husband's home where his wife, Diana, had worked hard to give us a picture-perfect and delicious traditional dinner. My daughter, her kids, and the kids dad were there, too. Like days of old, we watched football before and after dinner and I had my first-ever apple martini. Now I'm home with Cookie, who is chomping at the bit for her evening walk. I am grateful, grateful, grateful! And how did your Thanksgiving dinner go?

My Work is Loving the World
by Mary Oliver, Thirst

My work is loving the world
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird..
Equal seekers of sweetness,
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums,
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?
Let me keep my mind on what matters,
Which is my work

Which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium,
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart and these body-clothes
A mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam
Telling them all, over and over, how it is that we live forever.