Light that requires no ray
Flower that requires no pedal
Wind that requires no air
Queen who requires no king
Stairs that require no steps
Roof that requires no thatch
Rain that requires no water
Queen who requires no king
River that requires no bed
Dreams that requires no sleep
Soil that requires no planet
Queen who requires no king
Path that requires no trail
Moutnain that requires no valley
Fire that requires no flame
Queen who requires no king
Have you ever traveled by air on a full moon? The first full moon I recall flying was the Full Harvest Moon on October 2, 2001. Yes, just a few weeks to the one month after September 11. I flew from Fresno to Tampa, Florida. I may have flown earlier during a full moon, but the 2001 Harvest Moon is the one I remember as the first.
I flew during a waxing moon this week, six days from being whole. So it was pretty bright. As I stared out the window at 33,000 ft, the moon appeared bright and large, reflecting off the left wing. Snapping a few photos for my memoirs, I pondered my flying life.
Flying for me started with that first flight from Illinois to Connecticut in 1984. Travel served as a significant component of my journey. The number of boarding passes bearing my name I can only determine with painful research. However, I noticed that my Apple Wallet contained many of those passes since 2017. It's too bad Apple Wallet was not around in 1984.
A quick sort of my Apple wallet revealed 92 boarding passes. Indeed, many have traveled more, but I have many miles flying around the planet. I only sometimes choose to travel. Travel was a function of work, time off work, and simply seeing friends and family. Work was a condition of employment, which put me in a position to travel as a function of living.
For the record, I never missed a flight; I have had many on-time arrivals and several unexpected adventures due to travel disruptions. The weather causes the majority of disruptions, with the occasional airplane maintenance. My bags made it with me almost 100% of the time, and if they missed the plane I was on, they caught up with me in a day or two.
When I travel, I can appreciate my experience. I carry a relaxed demeanor and a sense of mental preparedness to accept disruptions. I welcome disruptions and an opportunity for unexpected exploration.
Journey onward.
I reflect on all that I have done and not done.
My reflection, I stand on my soles.
My soul hangs on the soles of my shoes.
On shoes, I picked, buckled, and laced, maybe not.
My reflection, woven through yours, maybe not.
A pedestal or a pylon, either, if flipped around.
You can judge how much pedestal or pylon, hopefully, some of both
I have a judge, but I deny you not.
My reflection has judgment fractures, too.
Your reflection is not mine;
well, maybe I did block your light, sorry.
Maybe I gave you light, that feels good.
I reflect on all that I have done and not done.
But not too much, just enough to know,
My reflection stands on my soles.
My soul towers into the stars.
Maybe not.
My soul stretches into infinity below my soles
Maybe not.
I reflect on all that I have done and not done.
~jennwren
The sun had recently set, and the remnants of the ebb suggested this seaside town was ready to pull the shades and slumber. A brisk offshore wind picked at my garment seams for a way to get inside and chill my skin. The occasional gust did manage to lick my neck. The idea of hot tea or coffee lurked in my immediate wishes. Despite the cold sensations, the homes and restaurants glowed. The foreboding weather emptied the streets, and the village seemed indoors, performing end-of-day routines such as dining, visiting, and winding down.
The last family outside passed across the courtyard, struggling to keep their dog focused on getting to the front door. My dog-loving traveling girlfriend, Sarah, did not necessarily help. Her gentle demeanor attracts everything in his world, including the young, slobbery-snouted dog. The happy dog paid Sarah handsomely in slobbers from head to toe. We spent five minutes wiping the drool off her new all-weather jacket.
I love to experience and share moments like these. Come with me or invite me, and be ready to explore.
Stepping into the world against the normal currents may seem complicated, scary, and impractical. Perhaps not. It is a bit of work. But the work does have rewards. The secret is to keep paddling and rest in the eddies. Keep moving upstream, swimming, resting, and repeat. No promises, but one day, you might reach the source of life for your river or solid muscles and good bone density. No matter what, paddling upstream will elevate you to new heights. Otherwise, there is nothing wrong with kicking back and floating down the river. Drifting with the current is a suitable way to pass the time, taking in beautiful scenery. Enjoy, encourage, or taunt the occasional passing paddler going in the opposite direction. Floating down the stream is less work. No paddle is required; keep going downstream until you eventually flow onto a stagnant body of water and settle to the bottom, taking place among the fossil records.
It was many moons since my most valuable treasure sailed away from the shores of my soul. Every day, I walk these piers alone, hoping that perhaps one day, my gem will sail home. I may miss my treasure, but I know that my treasure is also missing me. The feeling grows even harsher, like a giant storm roaring in from the sea, knowing that your ships and shores may never pass again. Some understand this feeling well. Some may know what it is like to leave the metaphorical shores of your daily beloved. The feeling in the heart comes from the longing to connect with the missing pieces.
Unlike the other tourists, I headed out to see the city of York in the very early hours of the morning. I seriously enjoy seeing places in the early morning hours. There is something to be said about watching a town or village waking up.
Ponder the thought that every day, every hour for millions of years, we have formed a human wave around the planet by waking up in the morning.
I take part daily in that wave from my small, self-centered view of life. I cannot see the wave. It's not like our Stadium of Life is shaped like a bowl.
I walk the area during the day and nonpeak hours as much as possible when I visit a place. Seeing a place at least twice affords me the license to say I actually visited.
The scene is from Clifton Street facing South East. Time of Day 0728 and the sun rising (0732)
The tour guide asked, "Do you know why they call this the shambles?" I mumbled too loud, “Because they are a mess?” “Not exactly, but I will share with you shortly,” said the tour guide, throwing mystery words and rolling his eyes back in my direction.
The street is called the "The Shambles" because the road is full of shambles. I was like in my head, “Duh,” I am still not there. What the heck is a shamble? The suspense was stringing me along. Finally, we arrived at "The Shambles." Filled with anticipation, I was ready to see my first shamble. Was it metal, wood, or a combination of both? Turning the corner onto The Shambles, my eyes scanned high and low, looking for anything I had no term. The medieval scene drove us tourist imaginations into a curiosity of the life in those years long gone. The human’s ability to manage and interrupt the world in the 12 and 13th centuries was very different from the 21st century. Reading medieval history often feels cruel and unusual. So, what could a shamble be in the context of my literature readings about the early centuries when people believed in ghosts, evil spirits, and demons as real entities?
The guide stood before a shop window, leaning slightly on a large window ledge. Or at least what I thought was a simple large window sill. Then he explained using a visual illustration that the window ledge is the shamble. I spoke up; that shelf is a shamble? Yes, this is a shamble. The merchants hung their meats over the storefront window shelf. Above the shamble was an old rod with original metal hooks. The meat hung from the hooks, and some smaller pieces for sale were sorted on the shamble. The tour guide added that these hooks were originals and, in medieval days, hung meat for sale and that the large shelf below was also original and held other meat items for sale. The street became known as the Shambles, named after the storefront window ledge.
So, the word shambles entered my vocabulary with meaning and a visual. I had wrongly assumed that Shambles met something, being a hot mess. That was yesterday. Today, the word has meaning. :)
There is a story behind why I eat this way. It was October 2021.
"Jenn, you seem to be more alert today. You're doing well"" noted the doctor. "Do you have any questions for me today?" asked doctor. "I do. What happened to me?" I replied.
I listened intently as the doctor explained, "Yes, of course, let me tell you about what happened. You have a part of your small intestines that does not rotate correctly. It's a malrotation that creates a severe life-threatening twist in the intestine. It's called midgut volvulus.”
Although my wits had returned, and I could listen to music and read, I could not understand the words midgut volvulus. I asked the doctor to spell out the medical term for me. I wanted to research the condition after he left to finish his rounds. He kindly scratched the diagnosis onto a piece of paper and left it in my hand. Fortunately, my purse and phone made it with me to the hospital. I was able to contact the kids and research what had happened to my body.
I was lying in a hospital bed on the 8th floor in the Darmzentrum (Intestinal Center) Marienhospital (Yes, it's one word), Stuttgart, Germany. Lifting my hospital gown, I could see the fresh wound on my abdomen. The staples gave the appearance of a railroad track that carried shots of pain the length of my core. It was not a straight line but a scenic railroad that curved through the terrain of my skin, making a gentle curve to avoid falling into my belly button. Tubes extended from a bag on my bedside through my face, down my esophagus, and into my stomach. An IV with painkillers and meds dripped into the back of my right hand. Another tube stitched to my skin served as a drain tube for fluids in my internal cavity.
Lowering my gown, I began to learn about my situation and surroundings. I decided to start from the beginning and revisit how I got to this bed in the first place. My sudden hospitalization started from my desk at work. A sharp abdominal pain rapidly took all my time and energy. Office mates dialed 112 (911 for Europe). Within an hour, I was full of morphine and utterly reliant on the skills of a medical team to save my life. The world had collapsed around me, and my ability to think and take care of myself completely vanished. The only route to safety was the operating room.
I recall thinking a hot, jagged steel rod had to be jammed through my abdomen. The pain seared through the morphine. The technician demanded that I lie still for the entire CT scan. The technician dove behind a protective wall as the machine roared to life and slowly swallowed me whole, tasting vigorously for the hidden morsel causing my pain. The ultrasound in the ambulance ruled out appendicitis, leaving the emergency medical team and doctor puzzled. I could hear the doctor ordering the CT Scan from his handy (Mobile phone in German).
I was rolled to a small room where a team of nurses began preparing me for surgery. The doctors held a conference call in another room to review my scan. They found the problem. Later, I learned that the distinctive "coffee bean” shape on the scan was my small intestine knotted, blocked, and swelling fast. My small intestines became deprived of vital blood and oxygen, and the swelling and pressure-filled my body cavity, cutting off room for my organs.
The world and words blurred, and my head dizzied when the doctor, who I later learned performed the Ladd Procedure, told me I needed immediate surgery. She held my hand and arm to let me know that they would operate and that my life depended on it. At that moment, I felt my entire life flash across the back of my eyelids. I realized quickly that without action, I was on an immediate path to the end of my life. I had zero control, little agency, and even less constitution. The familiar triangle-shaped gas mask lowered over my face.
I learned afterward that the surgery lasted well into the night. Later, the doctor who performed the surgery told me the team worked on me for about five hours. By the light of a nearby window, I knew that it was about mid-day. The anesthesia slowly wore off, finally freeing my brain to comprehend my situation. I was still among the living; however, I had yet to learn about my body and what went wrong. I could not move. Tubes surround me, either giving my liquids or taking away fluids. The room was a typical recovery room with ever-present staff and monitors. Beeps, hissing, and soft shoes walking the floor were the only sounds I could hear. I could not see, and I had no idea the whereabouts of my eyeglasses.
By evening or 24 hours after my arrival, I was wheeled to my home for the next two weeks. Initially, I would not eat for three days. My digestive tract required time to heal and reduce swelling. The trauma to the small intestines meant a drastic dietary adjustment for months and years to come.
On day two, the nurses had strict orders to get me on my feet. My first task was to stand. It was hard to believe that a few days earlier, I rode my bike nearly 46 km a day several times per week to and from work. As I sat up, I immediately became schwindlig (dizzy). Using the wall and IV stand, I lifted myself and quickly became overwhelmed by dizziness. I promptly returned to my bed, feeling a little sweaty but encouraged. I passed the first test toward recovery. By the end of the next day, I would have not only stood but walked to the door of my room with the aid of my IV pole and its three bags and tubes connected to my body.
The staff fed me soup and a Jell-O mixture on the third day. On day four, the food service served a mushy mix of potatoes. I woke on the morning of the fifth day feeling uncomfortable. The staff delivered another no-fiber soft breakfast. However, my stomach and abdomen felt under pressure, and I could not bring the food to my lips. I tried to eat a few portions but quickly had to stop.
The staff returned about 30 minutes later to collect my untouched plate. The food service staff noted my untouched food, and the accompanying nurse asked if I felt okay. I told her that I had felt pressure in my stomach, and despite very little food for three days, I had no appetite. She asked me if I needed more nausea medicine, and I said, "No, it's not nausea." She asked if I needed more painkillers. I replied, "No, it's not a sharp pain. it's more like pressure." She checked my IV and vitals before leaving the room. The pressure continued to increase.
The doctor's rounds were not for another hour. A second nurse stopped by my bedside. She seemed frustrated with my inability to eat. I told her the pressure was getting worse. Taking my news, she left my room. Within a few moments, that pressure spiked, and I felt like I would burst. My head instantly filled with beads of sweat. I was not experiencing nausea, but I could tell that I was about to lose everything inside my system.
The wound was screaming at me and tugging hard at the staples muzzling its lips, which should never again open. I needed to get up to find a bucket or sink fast. After mastering standing and moving with three bags and an IV pole the day prior, I got myself to my feet and started the 100-mile journey to the sink. My trip halted after three steps. My body convulsed, forcing me to the floor. Landing on all fours, the pressure inside my system released just as the nurse returned. I was unable to comprehend much around me as I fought the pain of the wound and the pressure on my organs. After what seemed like years, I realized that a nurse was asking me questions I could not hear and that a dozen legs and feet moved in the scene before me.
After several attempts to get her words to my brain, she shook my shoulder hard enough to drag me back into the moment. Suddenly, words accompanied her moving mouth. She was asking me if I was okay. I found a yes that meant I was in the moment and not lost to the world and by no means conveyed that I was actually okay. Her eyes were blue, revealing urgency reflecting my dependency on her actions. Seconds later, a small crew entered the room and moved me back onto the hospital bed.
The bed suddenly became a transformer and shifted from a luxurious bed fit for a queen to an operating table. A nurse was ordering me to swallow while she was guiding a tube back into my nose. Instantly, the clear plastic tube filled with a high-volume flow of green liquid. The tube led to a two-liter bag. The level in the bag was rising fast, and the nurse ordered another nurse to get another bag quickly. Halfway through the second bag, the pressure in the room eased as the fluid in the clear tube slowed to a trickle.
After a slight pause, the doctor issued new orders that I understood too well, back to the CT scanner. The second CT scan was much easier than the first. I was in less pain and with more painkillers. I lay slightly relaxed as the big machine tasted my body for the same morsel it found earlier in the week. I was hoping that the machine would go hungry. Unfortunately, the scan revealed that my intestines were again mal-rotated. The chief surgeon, previous doctor, and another doctor approached my bed in the acute care room and informed me that they needed to repeat the surgery immediately. It was a matter of saving my organs and life.
It was only moments before I was in the surgery preparation room. I specifically recall the pleasure of having my body wrapped with a hot cloth blanket while several people moved with purpose and intention. I heard my vitals called out loud just as the familiar triangle mask lowered toward my face with the command to take a deep breath. My last thought felt like I had just drawn the go straight to jail card with no way out while playing Monopoly.
I woke again in the recovery room. I cried, and that was a good thing in hindsight.
The flight from London to Dulles passed quickly. Good reading and light headwinds found our triple-seven arriving early. After collecting my bags and catching the Silver line to Foggy Bottom, I hopped a quick Uber to the historic Watergate apartments. I entered their lives after completing chapter 17 of the author's book. Sue greeted me at the door like a daughter returning from a long vacation. Welcome home!
My friendship with Sam led me to the door at the end of a long, curved hallway. Earlier in the summer, we planned to ride our bikes from Pittsburgh to Washington, DC, using a combination of the Great Allegheny Path (GAP) and the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal (C&O) trails. Unfortunately, Sam became ill hours before our tag-up at the Watergate and follow-on Amtrack train to Pittsburgh to start the trip.
I had no reservations about going solo, and Sam provided remote support despite having a nasty bug. And besides, the overall logistics for the trip were already in place, so why not go and enjoy it.
Landing in D.C., I relished fantastic hospitality, food, and opportunities to see bits of history. Sue and Sandy have a vast network of friends and experiences. They are a Smithsonian of history all to their own. I wish I could have visited more, but I had to assemble my bike and catch a morning train to Pittsburgh.
I rose at my usual time of 0500. The Potomac from the guest room's window reflected the light between mean twilight and sunrise. Cyclist were already commuting to work along the bike path, and rowing crews were preparing for their daily training. Finding my way downstairs to the kitchen, I found myself to coffee and cereal. I soon had my bags on my bike and headed to the train.
The route to the Union Station took me along the Mall and around the White House. I recently read up on John Brown's Raid at Harper's Ferry, knowing I would stay overnight in a local Harper's Ferry, West VA hotel on my bike ride back to Washington, D.C. Given the current division among the Union, I could not help but reflect on the challenges we faced in 1859 over abolition compared to modern perils reflected in our contemporary politics. Traveling does offer priceless perspective and observations.
Eventually, I boarded my first-ever Amtrak train. My life's train experiences come primarily from the Deutsch Bahn (D.B.) in Europe. The Amtrak train was short and double-stacked as compared to the DB. The DB rides across Germany and Europe from stop to stop without blowing a horn. In contrast, Amtrak lays hard on the horn at every rail crossing. I could only imagine living in one of the many homes along the tracks. I wanted to run up to the conductor and quiet them. The railroad crossing safety mechanisms in Europe may be why the trains do not use their horns so often in Europe. Who knows? I just noted the difference and returned my thoughts to the upcoming ride.
The following morning in Pittsburgh, I rode my bike to Heritage Park, the western terminus of the GAP. I took a moment to soak in the three river scenes and admire the words on the terminus marker: Point of Conflict, Point of Renewal, Point of Confluence. I had never been to Pittsburgh. The destination from here was a five-day ride to the "0-Mile Marker" terminus of the C&O trail in Washington, D.C.
The stops included overnight stays: Connellsville, PA; Cumberland, Maryland; Berkley Springs, West Virginia; Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. The route from West to East route on the GAP trail offers two days of climbing on a gentle grade from Pittsburgh to the Eastern Continental Divide. The GAP traces along the Youghiogheny and Casselman Rivers and terminates at the start of the C&O Trail in Cumberland, MA. Once over the Continental Divide, the trail is a steeper and fun 20-mile descent into Cumberland.
In Cumberland, the C&O terminus is well-marked just outside the city visitor center. The C&O follows along the Historic C&O Canal and Potomac River to its terminus behind Thomas Boat Center in Washington, D.C.
The CAP and C&O route is approximately 350 miles in total. The course is in excellent condition, minus two rough sections. Cumberland East for about 25 miles and the last 15 miles into Washington, D.C.
I recommend 38mm tires operating slightly soft for maximum comfort. I drove a Cannondale Topstone with 35mm tires about 10% low from maximum pressure. I used a rear pannier system to carry my food, clothes, and safety and repair items for cargo. Although the Topsctone can mount front panniers, I chose not to mount anything on the front fork. I did carry two standard water bottles. Water is no problem on the GAP; however, on the C&O, I recommend keeping two more water bottles in the panniers to make comfortable leaps between towns on hot days.
Speaking of which, I rode on sweltering days. During my 5 days on the trail, I had full sun with daytime highs around 33-35 degrees Celsius (Mid 90 F).
I would love to ride with you; feel free to recommend and plan a multi-day trip with me. ~Jenn
Have you ever wondered how North Americans came to speak so much English? You can credit Italy. I knew English came from the English, but that little history lesson about how drifted far into my old memory. Far away, of course, until I came across a statue of John Cabot while strolling through Bristol, England, last weekend with Sarah. Sarah suggested we stop to get some chips along the old harbor, now lined with restaurants. I chose an outside table adjacent to a statue. Reading the nameplate, I discovered it was a statue commemorating John Cabot (1450-1498). My brain went into high gear, digging into its old archives, wondering where I had heard of this name.
In 1496, King Henry VII commissioned John Cabot to discover the Americas for England. John Cabot was looking for a shorter trading route to Asia. John Cabot was born Giovanni Caboto, a Venetian. As an Italian maritime explorer, Giovanni gained extensive navigational skills by commanding sailing ships throughout the Mediterranean and South Asia along the naval silk trading routes.
Giovanni Caboto (aka John Cabot to the English) moved to Bristol seeking financial support to explore the Atlantic. With King Henry's help, John Cabot sailed 7 ships from Bristol, England, to North America. John Cabot arrived in North America on 24 June 1497, landing near northern Maine and New Foundland. After returning to England with his findings, which included 3 Americans, the European migration to North America (the New World) began. And in doing so, he started the settlements that led to England's claims in America and brought English to the American continent. And if you are a North American, you most likely speak English as your native language. Minus the French and Spanish-speaking parts, of course.
So how did I get this photo? Funny Story. We were sound asleep in our hotel. At midnight, a prankster pulled the fire alarm. What a great opportunity. I threw on my clothes and grabbed my camera. I knew it would take time for the fire department to arrive and clear the building and alarm. I walked the waterfront area returning to the statue among many spots of interest. The street lights spread the gold hue. I took the shot, handheld 1/15 sec, 30 mm, f2.8 ISO 10000. Once home, I masked the statue and inverted that mask. I dropped the saturation removing the gold hue to everything but John Cabot. And there it is.
I arrived before sunrise, eager to see the first light. The plants and trees dripped with dew, and the air sounded like a philharmonic of bird chatter. With the day officially starting, sounds, smells, and vistas coursed life into all creatures urging everyone to join. Morning life surged higher as the many scavenging crows’ outwardly taunted us all with inspirational vigor and strength to start the day. But the crows were not the only creatures that would shine inspiration across the landscape this morning. Shortly, she would pass by this spot on her way, and I did not want to miss this momentous occasion. Her time has come.
Today, she is the Master, having graduated from the esteemed university with no books, where she became both a virtuoso and maestro of her world. Her education, exclusive and refined, could only be attained by the vulnerable, repressed, and disadvantaged. All others remained excluded by the haughty rules of social order.
As an apprentice, the earlier curriculums she attended filled her mind with fear and depressive thoughts. Later courses and post-graduate studies added hope and strength. Today as the Master, her mind owns a dramatically different definition of fear and endurance. Semesters with laboratory lessons groomed her wit, intellect, and vision. She became distant from her old friends, doubt and insecurity. Now she moves with grace and complete impartiality to the choices and decisions that often come alive from her thoughts alone.
And now, across the way, I see her standing in all her glory at her new trailhead. This trail, she knew, was unlike any other she had hiked. This trail was fresh and of a different terrain than past hikes. It did not matter that a light fog hugged the ground. It would burn off soon. Weather will consistently be an element of the journey. Agnostic to the weather, she casually turned to face the new path and the sunlit fog. Then without hesitation, the new Master began walking the trail. Her forward motion into the fog left delicate puffs of eddy curling mist that highlighted a light wake behind her gliding body as it faded out of sight. I will see her again, without a doubt. She can never again become lost.
To her, losing sight of the path would prove impossible. Her internal guidance is calibrated to the highest of precision by past emotions and struggles. The trail itself appeared warm and comfortable, supplying all her needs. Love and respect surrounded her with a magnetic ora of openness. Life seemed drawn to her natural charisma.
In stark contrast, she was not blind to the fields aside from the path. She knew the hardships of traveling off the trail. Gale winds sheared cold and icy across the landscape she knew all too well. Aside from the path, the frozen terrain lay littered to the horizon with undergraduates shackled to jolting fears and insecurities of the virtuous. For these apprentices, training had just begun with no mercy. Among the tundra, comfort appeared among the fledgling souls as they huddled in groups attempting to shield each other from the winds of righteousness. The Master knew she could only observe and not interfere with the underclass. They had to progress toward the end of their bondage being defined by another. ~jennwren
I woke with a slight pain coursing through my body. While brushing gravel bits ground into my clothes and hair, I glanced back toward the hut. Facing the hut lie the smoldering shoes on the gravel path. Wow, those heavily burdened shoes must have exploded with enough force to toss me like a rag. I pulled myself up and returned to my hike with a slight limp relieving the moments just before nearly being killed by forces unimaginable to all but a few.
The Hawthorne-lined trail flooded with songbirds was drastically interrupted by a hidden graffiti-splattered brick hut. The words marked on the bricks raged outward, harsh and hateful, into my eyes. The facing wall shared a jagged message for the passing hikers. One can never know what another thinks, but the words from the unknown artist left little to imagine. I was curious to understand why. I took a moment to try and put my feet in the author's shoes. The fit was not great, the style and color horrid, and I am unsure I could get them on my feet. No matter, I stood on those shoes and ventured into a journey of the mind of another.
Instantly my spine snapped tight with pain from anger and fear. I could feel the heat course through my veins. I was suddenly transported to a store selecting paint pens. I could feel the burn taking the pens home and hiding them out of view. Anxiety filled my soul as I waited for the dark hours to start my night raid to a waiting brick canvas. A canvas of bricks ready an artless and unknowing of the invasion of the artist's fears and pent anger.
The artist smeared names onto the wall and labeled them with indignities. Once started, the artist could not stop scripting the hate. The hands paint strokes directed by the whopping command of oppression and suppression. The wall suddenly became small and insufficient to dissipate the heat of hurt molded by hatred. The bricks began to glow red hot. The artist's last statement was made without the benefit of a proper period suggesting more to come.
I woke with a slight pain coursing through my body, wondering what next from this pained soul.
ME: I write with pride today. Pride in self. It's okay to enjoy a moment and savor personal satisfaction.
YOU: Jenn, What makes you feel so proud, so accomplished today?
ME: Glad you asked.
I moved to a place where my world was instantly flipped 180 degrees to the other side of how I was normalized.
My capable mind proved decisive in coordinating the actions to do the basic and complex oppositely.
I Love it! So Fun!
The process leads to beautiful motions of the blinker, bling, the shifting of gears, the over-the-shoulder clearing of the baffles, flowing hair, and flawless, graceful, and dignified adjustments in navigation.
Sometimes my left-hand enterprise gets noticed, but otherwise, I am just one of the locals moving in the people scape.
I get from point A to Z, and often, I add in destinations between.
The road is not always Autobahn smooth. Thank you, Germany. Often rough, rocky, and cratered. No worries, I find a mix of speed, steerage, and timing as suitable tools to clear the hazards.
I find safety in the new—safety procured by giving attention to the basics of life and slowing down just a little, making time and space to attend to errors.
All this joy does have a view less friendly. The rear view, behind me, the aggressive time traveler late to nowhere and missing nothing, fogs my rear bonnet with troubled breath. I feel the need to move aside, give up my space, give up my joy and give up my precious attention to the basics.
Assuming good intentions for the madness, I curtsy as you slip on by carefully to retain my enterprise, never to be comprised.
Please don't argue with me. You cannot stay; it's that simple.
I don't care that you are a flower. You are a Tulip, and we are Daffodils. You Don't belong here.
I am sorry this is where you have roots. You should have thought about that before you sprouted.
Please quit arguing with me. I would not make this too personal, but since you keep insisting, you attract the wrong bugs.
Oh, please stop with the argument. Of course, you could have been a Daffodil. I blame your parents for failing to teach you to be a proper flower.
Now stop getting all crazy acting. It's not like I am beating you. I am teaching you the proper ways to flower. My goodness, so ungrateful.
Today I learned a fun new word, or is it a phrase? Regardless, it is Victorian in origin. How? I'm just going to tell you a little story. Take every opportunity to practice writing or subject one's [few] readers to silly muses.
It was a long day working the swing shift. I left the office just after sunset. I am not a fan of driving home in the dark. However, driving after the sun sets comes with the demands of working swings. I often wonder what my life would be like confined between two lines of longitude; I wonder if I would have such issues as driving in the dark. An alternative is having a chauffeur, but I need help keeping a staff. Don't we all?
I pulled into the small private drive that afforded access and safety to me and my three other neighbors. Easing my Subaru just past my driveway, I safely reversed into my parking space in front of the garage door. Posturing my auto to leave a parking spot without using the reverse gear has been my habit for years. During the kid's Girls Scout days, I learned this was safer for pedestrians and children overall.
As I shut the engine down and turned off my headlights, I immediately realized that, once again, I had failed to leave my outdoor safety porch light on. My rural village is pitch black after the sunsets, and we don't have that many street lights in our area. With a basket of my day's leftover lunch items hanging heavy from my left elbow and keys in my left hand, I fidgeted through my key ring to find the house door key.
I quickly became familiar despite only being friends with this key for about 10 days. Fortunately, the key's shape is odd enough that I can identify it by feeling. Finding the right key led me to the next hurdle, slipping it into its chamber of tumblers without the benefit of light. Being confident after years of unlocking doors and breaking down barriers, I had little worries that I would be inside my house in moments.
A flash of accomplishment charged my soul as I entered the door, triggering the entryway safety light's motion switch. At my feet, greeting me like the excited dog I do not own, sat a medium size envelope begging for a charitable donation or a pat on the head. The accepted items included clean clothes, handbags, shoes, belts, accessories, unwanted gifts, and Bric-a-Brac. Bric-a-Brac, my mind immediately questioned. What the heck, Bric-a-Brac?
I now know, thanks to a quick query using my internet search engine. Interesting.
The shutting letter slot in the front door let me know that my doormat likely just became littered with eine Werbung. I am still trying to figure out why my mind chose a German word to describe the scene in my mind's eye. In some cases, my thoughts find the German words more descriptive. I like that about the German language. Some of the terms get to the meaning seemingly faster than English. To say German phrasing is kurz and direkt contradicts the everyday experience of German idioms. Often when gathered at Beir Gartens, we American Expats would chortle at some of the lengthy German words and phrases we experienced.
Walking to the door, I find an A4 sive paper looking dead on arrival, lying face down on the doormat. Lifting the lifeless page from the mat, I slowly rolled it over to see if I could identify its purpose for taking a death leap through my mail slot. To my surprise, it was eine Einludung (an Invitation).
I recently landed in the United Kingdom to work for a few years. And here I stood one month into my adventure, and I had just received an invitation to celebrate the Coronation of an Englisch King. Could you let that sink in for a moment? The invite to a coronation is rare, catching me in awe for a brief moment. How often does this party happen? Has this happened to you?
I took the opportunity to work in the United Kingdom, fully expecting to enjoy my blessed life of opportunity with amazing people and places. We are off to a good start. I will be in England for the coronation of the King! Whether I celebrate in my local village or London, this invitation goes into my scrapbook.
A poem on thought structures.
Read MoreIt was getting late, and time was running out for me to get some sleep before a long flight in the morning. The outfit that I wished to wear was dirty and needed cleaning. Not wanting to wait on a washing machine, I partially filled the bathroom sink with water and hand-washed my comfy shorts and soft v-neck t-shirt. The amount of dirt that was collected in just one day felt embarrassing. It was a mild and arid high desert night that allowed me the efficient use my time.
I set my clothes on the sill of an open window and turned on the ceiling fan to dry my clothes with the night air while I slept. I slept for a few short hours before the early alarm dragged me out of deep sleep and into my fresh, dry, slightly stiff clothes. I could not help to inhale more deeply through my nose as the clean night air aroma slid over my face. Suddenly I was wide awake.
It was before 5:00 AM as I walked to the terminal, heading to my gate. My body is still bathing in fresh air-dried clothes. The light blue t-shirt was adorned with a beautiful screen print of a free-standing classic road bike. Stacked atop the tattered leather saddle were three books, a guitar, a clock, binoculars, an hourglass, an upside-down skateboard, flowers in a pot of soil, and a balancing cat reaching a paw toward the handlebars. My shorts were nature hiking utility-looking, topping mid-thigh. My arm served as a lease to a cabin-sized roller bag. On my back was a trusty day pack containing my traveling essentials.
Arriving at the gate, my gamble to voluntarily check my bag paid off. The desk clerk tagged and took off with my bag, free of charge, usually collected back at the check-in desk. With the leashed arm hanging free, I headed for the nearby coffee shop. The plane was boarding, but with no line at the counter, I could quickly grab a fresh morning brew to get me started. Returning to the boarding process, I was called to the cattle chute line of my zone. Like corraling cows, we moved our way to the door with a bit of prodding by the staff. I minded little as I added to my morning joy a warm fresh coffee.
Glancing up, I found myself looking at a man in the herd so tough in appearance that I just wanted to hand him a cup of nails smothered in ketchup and a sheet of sandpaper for a napkin. Queer scenes such as these trigger my imagination into a frenzy of perception. The power of perception stood as the experiment of the day. To make matters more bizarre, multiple delays in the airport provided ample opportunity to walk the terminals filled with scenes. I employed terminal-wandering hours to find my internal versions of unique imaginative stories. It could be a passing time defense mechanism. Indeed, a challenging endeavor as long the story in my mind stays in my mind, then no one gets a conflated ego or finds a need to defend their honor.
Kalkweiler Tor, Rottenburg, Germany
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