The Genius of Wisdom

Genius and wisdom are not always combined.  Take the advent of the atomic bomb…please…

I hate to think that it is only in the face of our own mortality that true wisdom kicks in, granting us understanding and peace at a final reckoning.  Is it too much to ask that we grasp the fleeting nature of creature-hood; the ridiculous lightness of ego and esteem before we realize that both are little more than self-reflection?

Perhaps, it matters not when we experience the epiphany but that it IS experienced. Steve Jobs gave us the ability to communicate in ways we never imagined even two short decades ago.  He lived, arguably, half a life-time.  And, in all his achievement, notoriety and wealth, in the end, he understood the base meaning of this life we hold as true:

The physical is fleeting; the ephemeral, eternal. There is genius in wisdom.  I wonder if the opposite is true?

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

Thank you, Steve Jobs, for sharing your genius and your wisdom.

The universe is better for it.

May we all use it well.

The Music of Life

I believe that the timeline of life can be understood through a thoughtful list of one’s favorite songs:

Born To Run, Be My Baby, Smells Like Teen Spirit, Light My Fire, When A Man Loves A Woman, Our House, My Girl(s), You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling, Help, Bridge Over Troubled Waters, At Last, I Feel Good, You Can’t Always Get What You Want (But You Get What You Need), and, inevitably, Stairway To Heaven…

OK: MY life from Billboard’s Top 100.

Now playing? The Times They Are A Changin‘.

The children are grown, scattering to their own exciting lives and, after twenty years of bliss at the lake’s edge, we’ll be moving in the fall.

No small feat for an Aquarian water-baby-at-heart who has enjoyed the daily possibility of dipping at least a toe into the deep blue.  I have dreaded the change.  Yet, in all my years I have learned that life is nothing but change.  Trite words, to be sure, but true, non-the-less. The fact they are oft repeated proves their worth.

For me, the idea of being away from the water creates a sense of loss;  a void that I hope to fill with the excitement of a new home, a new project; anything to create a fresh happiness.

Another trite-ism: When God closes a door, He opens a window.

Enter, the surprise of a branch of family I had never known: Accepting, engaging, loving. The truest meaning of the word, family.

And, once again, I am reminded of a trite saying: The best thing to fill a void born of loss is love.

On the radio now, the Semisonics sing…..Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

And so it goes.

Lemons and Figs

Just received a box of summer-ripe Meyer lemons and figs from a friend in California. Time for the perfect al fresco dinner, reminiscent of those years I spent in Rome when fragrant lemons from The Amalfi coast and soft Tuscan figs graced the open markets of summer. The menu?

Fettucine al Limone,

a insalata mista dressed with olive oil and lemon juice  and
fresh, ripe figs with Dolce Latte Gorgonzola cheese and a drizzle of sweet, thick Balsamic Saba for dessert.  A simple, quick celebration of summer.

Fettuccine al Limone, serves 4-6.  Add butter to a saucepan big enough to hold cooked pasta later.  Melt 4 Tablespoons butter and add 1 cup cream.  When it begins to boil, add 2 Tablespoons lemon juice and the grated peel from 4 lemons. Stir thoroughly, reducing the mixture by half.  Turn off the heat.  Cook 1 pound of egg fettuccine in a large pot of boiling, salted water.  When cooked but firm (al dente), drain and toss in the lemon sauce for a few seconds to coat well. Add a little grated Parmesan and serve with a nice glass of Caprese or Sardinian white wine.

Close your eyes: You are summering in Roma! 

I Am Your Father

Parenthood is an odd thing.  

Just knowing a life had been created is often enough to engender a deep love for the unborn. Other times, the heart waits to swell until a child is held for the first time.  Once in a while, the planets align to offer a star-crossed gift: Parent and child, separated from the time of conception lay eyes upon each other for the first time.

I have experienced all three.  I can tell you the magic is the same.  

The similarity?  Each introduction is filled with the unknown.  No baggage serves to taint the deep and abiding relationship.  The freshness of the moment in that initial spark of love allows affection to burn clear and bright.  Neither yet knows the other’s secrets; neither yet knows the other’s pain or glories.  No matter the relationship the two of you had or will have, like meeting a soulmate for the first time, the universe surrounding you is pure.

If we were to reflect on that initial spark more often, the chafe of years might more easily fall away, tarnished love, renewed.

And, while the secret to life may be to ever look forward, perhaps the secret to love is to ever look back.

Top Gun

What does one get the freshly turned 25 year-old who has most everything?

An experience.

Any Way You Look

Space, the final frontier, right?

Well, here are two different perspectives: one real science; one spoof….and, oddly, saying the same thing….

The sublime:

And then there’s the ridiculous:

Or is it the other way around?

Online

For those of you who follow my blog, I’m back.

After a death in the family and a rough few weeks, I find that sitting back down to a “blank” computer screen may be good therapy.

Tempted as I am to recite the drama of the past month, I will refrain.  Suffice-it-to-say, the phrase “family dynamics” is an ever-changing palette; sometimes light; sometimes very dark indeed.

My initial reaction to death: a time to come together, in love, for the person passed.  The reality is often a wide chasm created by grief and fear.  Isolation is the result, mostly for those who need company the most and the gap widens.

In the end, there is no way to cross it without reaching out a hand.

Penance

According to Reuters, a Thai man is keeping scorpions as pets to atone for years spent cooking them as snacks to sell in the streets of that country.

Four thousand-six-hundred of them, to be exact…though I’m not quite clear on how one arrives at an exact figure for such a thing.

Now, I love to cook.  I’ve cooked a few chickens, steers and even rabbits; crabs, prawns and lobster live, no less, and in boiling water.  Personally, I’ve never had the urge to repent but, I confess, it’s early.  I just recently passed the half-century mark (recent, in terms of universal time, that is…).  There’s still time to do the Rosary.

I’ll bet the Thai “Pirate of Penance” is older.  I would say he sees his end in sight but, with forty-six hundred scorpions in his basement, that seems obvious.

Experience

One hears about writers who put pen to paper (or fingers to the laptop ) for years until they are published.

And then there are these stories, heartening only if you have not yet sat down at a key board:

The Outsiders was written by a fifteen-year-old, who published it at seventeen…it sold over one million copies.

The Far-Distant Oxus, hailed as a classic, was penned by two teenagers.

Maghanita Kempadoo was only twelve when she wrote Letter of Thanks, a parody of “The Twelve days of Christmas”.

How the World Began was written by four-year-old Dorothy Straight.  It was published when she was six.

Lesson:  I should have started earlier…

San Juan Sojourn

I got a late start on the boat this summer.  Usually, I head for Canada July 5 and stay along the Inside Passage until late September.  Most of the time I spend alone, reading, kayaking, exploring.  A few days each month are reserved for family and friends who fly up to join me.  I love being alone; I love the company–I love summers on the boat.

But this season I didn’t make Canada until this week, and I won’t make it as far north as usual.  Too much going on at the home front.  Now the islands are dotted with foliage turning to red and gold, the nights are cool and the mornings, crisp, and the anchorages are far less crowded, even in the busy San Juan Islands.

Normally, I bypass the San Juans all together.  I’ve grown too accustomed to the solitude offered further north.  I boat to leave civilization, not to raft up to a flotilla of happy sailors.

Alas, this year I have no choice, so I follow a path taken thirty-some years ago on my maiden voyage afloat.

First stop, Sucia Island at the northern-most region of the San Juan group.  It offers multiple coves and crannies for anchorage and a wind-swept, rocky perimeter to explore by kayak.

One side of the island offers Mt. Baker in view:

The other, gorgeous sunsets:

Next stop, Roche Harbor.  I have an affection for Roche, even though it has grown from it’s once charming, tranquil self into somewhat of a boating frenzy: myriad mooring buoys and a marina that nearly puts Newport Beach to shame.  But, the ancient Hotel de Haro still stands and the small chapel where I was once married marks the spot of that first crime.

Spencer Spit is another one of my favorites, and Jones Island, too.

Even though fall is in the air, the islands are awash with boaters determined to get one more weekend of sunshine into the ships log before the autumn drizzle begins.

And I resolve to venture north much earlier next year, back to the Desolation of those northern waters I love.

Eden