Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
It was late summer of 1973 when I left my home which was 10 miles from the Pacific Ocean in the San Francisco Bay Area and, out of curiosity rather than a desire to leave California and the Pacific Ocean behind, traveled to the east coast with a man friend who wanted to find a Pennsylvania farm which had been in his father's family from the 1700s until the 1950s when it was sold to someone outside his father's family.
He had a dream of working on the farm and possibly buying it at some time in the future. We found the farm, and although it was a lovely place, it turned out to be within view of Three Mile Island. He didn't see the nuclear power plant as a problem, but I had no intention of settling anywhere near a nuclear power plant and already was seeing a future where we would go our separate ways. On March 28, 1979, the worst nuclear power plant accident in U.S. history occurred at Three Mile Island. I was beginning to learn that I can trust my intuition.
We ended up staying the fall and winter of 1973 and the early spring of 1974 in Wayland, Massachusetts, near Boston, not too far from Walden Pond. A former housemate of mine from California was living near Wayland and doing his psychiatry internship at Massachusetts General Hospital. He offered us a room in his home until we found a room in a house on Dudley Pond in Wayland.
At that time, my grandmother's brother and his family may have still been living in Boston, but because I was traveling with a man to whom I was not married, something not widely accepted at that time, I did not feel comfortable looking up relatives with whom my mother and her mother had not been in close contact.
My great-grandfather and great-grandmother had come separately to Boston from Germany in the middle of the 1800s and my grandfather was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts. My grandmother and grandfather had met and married in Boston. My grandmother's family had come to Boston from Canada and Ireland. Here is a photo of my grandfather and grandmother in the 1920 in St. Paul, Minnesota, when my mother was 4 years old and my grandfather had been home from World War I for nearly two years. He had become a doctor when in his 30s and had served in France as a surgeon during the last days of World War I. This was my mother's favorite photo of her parents. She said that she did not often see them looking this happy.
Currently, I'm reading WILLIAM JAMES: IN THE MAELSTROM OF AMERICAN MODERNISM, by Robert D. Richarson, and am wondering if my grandfather took classes from William James or heard him lecture, because he attended Harvard Medical School during the time William James was still teaching there.
On page 490 of that book, I was interested to find the following because, along with my plans for becoming a massage therapist, I plan to become a yoga teacher:
"James . . . quotes at length from his friend Lutoslawski's experience with hatha yoga, which James calls "the most venerable ascetic system and the one whose results [strength of character, personal power, unshakability of soul"] have the most voluminous experimental corroboration."
That's it for today.
SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE EDIT FUNCTION ON BLOGGER.
WHAT SHOWS ON "PREVIEW" IS NOT WHAT IS PUBLISHED ON THE BLOG.
HOPE BLOGGER FIXES THIS SOON.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
and looking east on the afternoon of July 25, 2007:
Today I learned about this today via Theresa William's blog and added "My Library" to my blog below my archives.
Monday, July 23, 2007
While painting these recent images, starting in March and ending in May, I was listening to a reading of Robert Pirsig's book, ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE , having first read the book around 30 years ago, and then went on to read Robert Pirsig's second book, LILA: AN INQUIRY INTO MORALS, where he mentions an affinity with William James, a philosopher and psychologist and author of the book, VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE.
The next time I was in a bookstore, I came across the recently published book, WILLIAM JAMES: IN THE MAELSTROM OF AMERICAN MODERNISM, by Robert D. Richardson and bought it and am nearly finished reading it.
From Richardson's book, p. 474:
"Like all of us, James had many sides. Like other uninhibited people, he had more layers and more life in him than most, and despite notable blindnesses, he was better acquainted with himself than most. He was always teetering on the brink of collapse, but had been able -- so far -- to catch himself and fall backward to safety at the last moment. The different parts held together in a kind of confederacy. The fundamental condition of his life was, now and always, torn-to-pieces-hood. But the pieces were never just thrown to the winds. They remained loosely if oddly clumped together, never completely unified, but on the same shelf."
I am looking forward to the upcoming discussion of ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE at In A Dark Time.
Some July views from home:
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Sometime by August 17, I will hear if there is a place for me in a 1-year massage practitioner program at the local community college. My entry into the program also requires an anatomy and physiology challenge exam, so I am actively studying for that, enjoying being reminded how amazing the human body is.
While trying to get a photo of a cloud that looked like an animal, a hummingbird flew in front of my camera:
Friday, July 20, 2007
"The substance of painting is light." (Andre Derain)
"Truly, it is in the darkness that one
finds the light, so when we are in sorrow, then this light is
nearest of all to us." (Meister Johann Eckhart)
"Oh mysterious world of all light, thou hast made a light shine within me." (Paul Gauguin)
(Quotes from Robert Genn at painterskeys.com)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
And from a favorite song by Kate McGarrigle, TALK TO ME OF MENDOCINO:
. . . Talk to me of Mendocino
Closing my eyes I hear the sea . . .
. . . And it's on to South Bend, Indiana
Flat out on the western plain
Rise up over the Rockies
And down on into California
Out to where but the rocks again
And let the sun set on the ocean
I will watch it from the shore
Let the sun rise over the redwoods
I'll rise with it till I rise no more . . .