openings and choices

Creation does not exist without openings, or — closings.

Just look to the camera’s shutter for a lesson in this. 

Closed/open/closed equals image.   Never open gets you nothin.  And, open all the time? 

Well — that’s over exposure.

If you’ve spent time behind the lens of a camera, you also know the importance of timing. 

There’s a right time — when you know the shot is good and you take it. 

And there’s length of time — which can mean how long you are willing to wait for the right shot, or how long the exposure should be.

Then you must also consider subject.  Is your subject willing?  Familiar?  Engaged?  Ready? 

What about conditions?  Is this the best light for what you intend?  Can you hold your position to get the angle you want?  What might change before you can get the shot off?  Is it in your control?

And we could go on and on.

Bottom line — from the millions of facets that could make or break the shot, you gotta choose one and then open and close the shutter.

Award winning magazine photographer Jim Brandenburg showed how powerful this concept is when he set out to make a portrait of the north woods in upper Minnesota over the ninety days between the autumn equinox and winter solstice, turning up the heat on this challenge by allowing himself to take one — and only one — exposure per day.

No second exposure, no second chance.  

A spectacular testament to divine force and content for the photographic bestseller “Chased by the Light”, the 90 photographs tell the story of “less is more” with trust and discipline cast in the lead roles.

Though a tiny bit daunting, I am looking hard at my life to determine how and where this practice applies. 

And it’s easy enough to see how this benefits my art —

But when it comes to relationships, which are also creations, it gets tough.  Cause really, in this sense, aren’t we talkin’ about synchronizing two people — both playing photographer and subject?

She’s holding the pose a little too long.  He’s running like a wild animal.

She wants a closer shot.  He’s thinkin’ he’s got all the time in the world.

Kinda makes your head hurt, huh? 

http://www.jimbrandenburg.com/flash/index_flash.html

peace like a river

Watch a pair of dancers for more than two seconds and you will know.

They are either in the flow — or just executing movements to the music.

Same flick of the head, bend at the waist, release of the shoulder.   Same footwork moving from point A to point B. 

And yet.

You know the difference.  This one just looks like it feels sooooo right.  And it is.

There’s knowing the steps, and then, there’s letting yourself become the steps.

Fusing with the energy in your partner, the crowd, the beat of the music — and anything that is part of that moment that you can pull in through your senses and simply, let it flow through you.

How simple it seems when you are in it.

And how abysmally hopeless it can sometimes feel — when you are not.

At times my experiences with romancing the flow resemble Frank Costanza’s “serenity now” — a command yelled at the top of my lungs while clenching both fists and holding my breath.  

And as you might expect, my stubborn insistence — okay, tantrums — only serve to remind me that I’m hangin on way too tight to something or someone. 

“Drop it!” followed by going limp like an actress in a fainting scene seems to unstick me most of the time these days. 

And then, ever so lightly, I am peace like a river.

It is well — it is well with my soul.

when sandrine knocks

The breakdown of body and mind is eventual and unpredictable — yet inevitable.

Whether we are moving along our unique continuum with the best intentions — or in denial — it matters not.  We will all reach a state where we are less in body and mind than we once were. 

And if we are lucky, or blessed, or enlightened — whatever you wish to call it — we will not be diminished.  In fact, we will become more.

This has never been more evident to me than in the moments of grace spent with my soon-to-be-97-year-old grandma. 

A week ago I tucked her in before leaving her, a process that took both physical and emotional muscle on my part.

“Turn me on my side,” she says, waving an arm in the direction of the bed rail.  I place her hands on the bar so she can help me shift her upper body from her back to her right side.  The lower half will be all mine.

“Now move the fanny!  Get behind and push,” she commands. 

“Geez grandma, kinda bossy, aren’t you?”  I find some leverage, lift and then heave.

“I’m a bitch — that’s me,” she laughs.  I come back around to face her, bend to pull the covers closer to her chin. 

“Oh, that’s not true.  I think you’re nice.”

“I don’t try to be good or bad.  I just am what I am.  Some people think I’m nice, others think I’m naughty.  It doesn’t matter — it’s only what’s in their minds.”

I kiss her forehead, nose and both cheeks before flicking the light off. 

“Good night Grandma.  I love you.”

“I love you too.  Let’s do this again real soon.”

After a day of family chatter that included Last Rites, hospice arrangements and packing funeral dresses, I thought I was there to say good-bye. 

Instead, I left filled with peace and deeper understanding. 

The words of Jean-Dominique Bauby, a victim of “locked in syndrome” at age 43, touch me profoundly at this time.  Imprisoned in an inert body, able to communicate only by blinking his left eye, Jean-Do wrote a book using a communication system devised by a brilliant and selfless speech therapist. 

Her name was Sandrine.

“Quite apart from the practical drawbacks, this inability to communicate is somewhat wearing.  Which explains the gratification I feel twice daily when Sandrine knocks, pokes her small chipmunk face through the door, and at once sends all gloomy thoughts packing.  The invisible and eternally imprisoning diving bell seems less oppressive.”

Blessed are the Sandrine’s of this world.

They bridge heaven and earth.

I dedicate this piece to my sister Jackie who is the Sandrine in Grandma Trudi’s life.  She’s made sure Trudi has choices and access to what matters most to her — a phone with braille speed dialing, clean clothes, her favorite tunes and rosary channel, conversations with loved ones who cannot visit.  Now, as we enter “end of life care”, she has arranged to give Trudi more control of her days and nights.  Even how often she bathes — which is something others may have something to say about if she wants visitors.

hanky envy

You might say former Twins manager TK and I shared a certain special vibe in 1987.

A high vibe — so to speak — that brought us both to the floor of the HHH Metrodome for the opener in 1988. 

TK with his reigning World Series Champs and me with my Class AAA State High School Danceline Champs.

Him in the third base dugout with Hrbek and Puckett and the likes — me off to the side of the first base dugout with a swarm of dancers formerly known as the Bravettes (an awesome name reduced to Blazettes in the politically correct 90s).

My stomach fluttered.

And I couldn’t tell you why at the time.  But looking back —

It was definitely an omen.

The Burnsville Bravettes were the main event in the home opener’s equivalent of a halftime show.  They would be performing their State Championship dance to “Hearts of Fire.” 

But first — the plan was for us to stand by and watch the 2nd and 3rd place lines perform. 

Since I never let them watch other lines before performing in competition, this felt ominous — like breaking a ritual — and contributed to my growing unfounded at that time angst.

So here we stand, watching the Skipperettes make their perky little entrance, move into an opening formation and begin their performance. 

Nothin too impressive to start.  A bit over bouncy in places, perhaps — but nice kicks, I’ll give ‘em that.  

Oh, what’s that they’re doin?  Looks like something borrowed from a spirit squad.  A pyramid — now how flippin clumsy lookin is that? 

I wrinkle my nose, catch the eyes of the captains. 

And then —

One brave Skipperette, ten feet above the rest of her line, feet in the hands of two of the strongest on the top tier, begins her ascent.

And we are spellbound.

She gracefully unfurls her body until she is poised perfectly atop a throne of royal blue and white.

Proud.  Magnificent. Beaming.

The crowd is clapping hard now.  My line is clapping with them.  And I’m moving my hands politely, thinking ‘we can still top this.’ 

Then the little bitch whips out a homer hanky and waves it like she’s Courteney Cox pulled on the stage by Springsteen in 1984. 

The dome roared.  Our jaws hit the Astro Turf. 

Had it not been for the equalizing force of my physical proximity to The Bad Boy of Baseball (1988 AL MVP), I would have died of envy.

Damn, I wish I woulda thought of that.

comb down artist

“Oh my god Julie, you should have seen it the other day!

“She looked like a rooster!”

Picturing Grandma with a gleaming silver mohawk makes me grin, but I’m also a little distressed. 

Ten minutes ago my phone rang and “Trudis” flashed on the screen.   I said hello to silence.  Then coughing. 

“Grandma!  It’s Julie, are you there?

“Grandma!  — Grandma!”

Silence.  Faint breathing.  Another cough.  Slighter this time. 

I’m afraid to hang up.  I don’t want to break my connection with her.  But she’s not responding —

So I call my sister.

“I’m serious,” she continues, “they’re down staff and a mad man’s got the comb —

“Yesterday, Alli and I were there and it was combed straight down.   One long sweep from the back of her neck to her forehead.”

Premeditated, I think.  Some kind of signature?

“And then, I go out into the TV area where they’re all lined up,” she stops to take a breath, “and you are never going to believe this —”

Oh, yeah?

“Every last one of ‘em — heads hangin’ down — with the same hair!”

I’m roaring now, imagining this joker armed with spray bottle and comb going down the assembly line.  Just doin’ his job. 

Efficient little devil.

 

that’s enough

How do you know when you’ve had enough? 

I mean, really.  Just stop to ask yourself this question about something you’re doing or that’s going on in your life — and you’ll see — this is a question you don’t have the answer to ahead of time.

Oh sure, you can do all the scenario planning you want. 

If this, then that. 

Then this happens —

And you think, well — just one more bite.

And is that enough?  Could be — 

Or not.

“Grandma I think you’re really gonna like this,” my cousin Peter coaxes, loading the tip of a spoon with a tiny tidbit of peach. 

The minute it hits her tongue she screws up her face.  Opens her mouth wide in protest, hoping she’ll be allowed to spit it out.  When it’s finally down, she announces “I’m not a lover of fruit.  Enough.”

He flips the lid off a frosty cup of orange stuff.  Puts a dab on the spoon. 

“Does it taste like orange?”

“No, I can’t say it does.”

“Do you like it?’

“Well, fair— it ain’t the worst.  That’s enough.”

“Do you like cucumbers?”

“No!,” sticking out her tongue.  Aggressively.

“How ’bout a sip of this pink cocktail?”

She bares her teeth at him.  “All right now — that’s enough.  That’s enough bull.”

Oh, Grandma, I hear you. 

God bless you, you have had enough.  But I —

I have not. 

I want one more bite.

One more call.

One more prayer.

One more kiss —

prosciutto pizza

The unique combination of flavors in this pizza make it a winner for any occasion — serve it up casual or for very special dinner guests.   Change your wine pairing and it’ll go down good — winter, summer, spring or fall!

You absolutely must make your own pizza dough for this.  I recommend the recipe in The New Basics Cookbook (Julee Rosso and Sheila Lukins).

You can make the topping a day ahead of time if you want.  It’s actually better if all the ingredients sit together for awhile.

Topping (makes one 12-inch pizza)

1 c. grated fontina cheese

1 c. shredded mozzarella cheese

1/2 c. finely chopped prosciutto

1/4 c. finely chopped red onion

2 t. minced fresh rosemary

salt and pepper to season

Put in a container with a cover so you can shake it up and distribute all ingredients evenly.

Preparation:

Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.  Put corn meal on a pizza stone.  Stretch out dough.  Baste with olive oil and minced garlic.

Bake 5 minutes.

Take out of oven and top with prosciutto mixture.  Back in oven for 15 minutes.

Take out of oven again and top with sliced roma tomatoes and parmesan cheese.  Bake until bubbly brown.

Take a bow, then chow.

sliding barn doors

There is nothing more sacred and beautiful than the glimpse of another soul. 

By invitation only and temporary in nature, it is one of life’s most reverent acts. 

Not about possessing, eclipsing, shadowing — or becoming one, the bonding of two souls is based in recognition and understanding.   They orbit in a kind of truth and beauty that closes earthly distance while respecting the divine mystery that both separates and draws them together. 

plant me if you will

in the wide open

the field of possibilities

where fingertips can touch

and sometimes do

where the wind blows

between affectionate differences

exposing a consoling contrast

and ordinary sense of peace

 

let me have in my view

the strong and steady place

where he is home

and all is well

where barn doors slide

open and shut

and by grace I find myself

received quietly on the threshold

where in a temporary opening

I behold the wonder inside

thankful for cellulite?

Chemistry is an amazingly spooky thing.

Especially when it comes to relationships.

Because let’s face it — if there was predictive modeling for finding two people who are on the same page, both thinking the same thing about each other and what they’d like to do next — well —

the only time it would be right would be —

when it was wrong.

Because relationship chemistry is just that — spooky. 

Consider a friend’s play by play coverage of a match.com second date.

“We were saying good night and he said, ‘I bet you have a good body.’

‘Do you?  Do you have — a good body?’

“I said, ‘well, yes — if you like cellulite.’  I mean,” she continued, outraged, “can you believe he asked me that?”

“Oh c’mon,” I snorted, “if you thought he was hot, it’d be a whole different story.”

And we all know it would. 

Whether we think someone’s hot — or not — has everything to do with whether they get cellulite — like a crucifix thrust at a vampire — or the big green light. 

So, I must ask, what is it that makes someone hot? 

Is it what they wear?

Hmmm.  I have a personal embargo on plaid shirts — double embargo on short-sleeved plaid — and I don’t even like to think about tucking plaid.

But then again.

I’m picturing a certain man right now gracing me with his plaid — and well, he’s nothin if not — hot.

So if it’s not what they wear, maybe it’s what they do — their table manners?

I dubbed a guy “broccoli chomper” to explain to my friends why I could not possibly be interested.  And my friend nixed a guy for a slow swallow.  She even told him so.  To his face.

“Just swallow it!  I can’t believe how long you’ve been chewing that!”

But then again.

The right guy can eat a whole bloody steak without even cutting it, and he’s “cute.”

So there.

Aren’t we just wasting our breath with words like —

“Nail biter.”

“Toothy.”

“Grabby.”

“Cheap.”

“Scuffed.”

“Over-scented.”

“Zubaz.”

— when it all comes down to just one word? 

Chemistry.  Chemistry rights a million other things you might find wrong.

Ok — maybe not Zubaz.

blowin in the wind

Like the corners of a beach blanket on a windy day, seems like certain aspects of life are forever flappin free.

But, hey — is that a bad thing?

A stubborn streak of wind can pick up a lot of answers.

And if we’re not too busy trying to keep things the way we think they should be —

If we are able to stop and listen —

Well, we might just hear something to help us on our way. 

Sure, there’s good that can come from putting things in order.  But I find that the more time I spend straightening, labeling, and stacking things in neat little piles — the more panicked I feel when the wind picks up again.

So why not just let the wind blow through your life?

Let it turn your perfect hair into a fright wig.

Pick up things you think you can’t live without — and scatter them beyond your reach.

Maybe some new dust will do your piles good —

And anyway, you can always pick out the cigarette butts and go on.

That’s easy enough.