Happy Birthday, Mommy.

Today, my mother celebrates her 29th (cough) birthday.  Which is weird (cough cough) when you consider that I am already 30 (cough cough cough).  Mathematically, it doesn't quite work.

But who ever said birthdays and mathematical sense go together? Surely not I.

Alas, I digress.

As the universe would have it, I am once again far away for a beloved parent's big day.  And while I somehow managed to spirit away a gift to her through the mail, it's not quite the same as being able to kick back and spend the day with Mom.  Or being able to call from inside the county, at an obnoxiously early hour, and sing "Happy Birthday" and the top of my lungs.  Not that I wouldn't do that from Norway, it's just… not the same.

The thing is… birthdays aren't about gifts, they are about presence. Birthdays are about being there for a person who, in this case, has always been there back.  They are about looking at a person you love and thinking 'DAMN, I'm happy you're here. (And you got here, 29 years ago {again}, on this day!).'

And the loveliest fact on earth is that I've got so many reasons to be happy for my Mom- happy that she's here, happy that she's there.  If you've ever had the luck to meet Maureen, you know that she's something else.  I frequently describe her as my touchstone, my protector, my best friend.  And this is going to be a short version of her list because it could go on for pages and I can only gush for so long before you'll stop reading.  So here we go…

She has the biggest heart of any person I've met in my life- and she loves with every last bit of it.  Her intuition is huge and stunning which lends a compassion to her that is rarely found in others.  She is funny as all hell and laughs with every iota of her being.

When you are visiting her, she's the 'In-Town Mama.' When she is visiting you, she's the 'Outta-Town Mama.'  It doesn't actually matter what relation you are to her, she'll mother you.  She is exceptionally patient when it comes to the people, or creatures, that she love most.  She's technologically backward, old-school, hates her smart phone, and yesterday described herself as 'squealing like a toddler every time I see you pop onto Gchat (gmail's version of messenger).'  She then proceeded to give me an example of her squealing like a toddler and I very nearly peed myself laughing.  She's the best.


She is one of the strongest people I know.  Period.

And someday, I'd like to be a little bit like her.

But until that day… HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAMA! (Apparently in Norway it's 'Gratulerer med Dagen'… boring), AND WELCOME TO THE FIRST OF MANY BIRTHDAY BLOGS, BABY!!  My advice for the day?  Have a re-live of September 2008, find a river, a paddleboat, and a Pina Colada.  And scene.  Wish I was there. <3

So Far, So Florence

It seems like everyone in Florence has some sort of story to tell. The homeless, the hapless, the helpless.    And they are all begging for their photos to be taken- a visual aide to their tales. 

The people here are tourists and locals, sightseers and philanderers and men and women looking for some sort of break. 

The meat, meanwhile, is looking for a cut. 

These men were sort of deliciously lazing across from a wine bar- the tenders at which were serving them merrily and without a second thought to charge.  They all have stories to tell.  And they tell them to each other.

Old meets new.  I am partial to both, believe it or not.  As much as my heart sings for the ancient world and works- there's something to be said for juxtaposition. 

Ponte Santa Trinita at sunset. 

This dude at morningtime… sheesh.

My first glimpse of the Duomo resulted in a rather emphatic, overly loud "Holy Shit."  It is the third largest church space following Saint Peter's in Rome and Saint Paul's in London. And it's phenomenally stunning- all green, white, and pink granite.  All Holier Than Thou. 

And then you see the sky and remember that it's not really the building that counts at all...

Ah Firenze.  Every time  I see that word, I think about Harry Potter- wasn't the centaur called Firenze? Wasn't he?

Gridwork. 

Gridwork, part sunshine, part two. 

And until next time… Suggestions for gelato flavors?

On Minarets, Microphones, and Magic

It's been nearly a week since my return from Istanbul and I still can't quite shake the feeling that I've done her some sort of injustice by not actually writing about the city.  I can't quite get her out of my head or off my mind.  Go with me on this one, let it flow, because it might be a bit of a ramble.

Despite my decidedly out of control globetrotting, I have never visited a predominately Muslim country.  Most of my travels have taken me to largely Christian, undecided, or otherwise inclined places. There's no rhyme, reason or prejudice here.  In the hierarchies of my travels, where I can go is where I do go- and that is much more a result of funding versus religious affiliation.  I believe I've fairly clearly established my own thoughts on religious systems and spirituality.  The one I don't buy into at all, the other I have the utmost respect for.  No surprise there.

But what may surprise is that the thing about Istanbul that struck me the most- aside from the colors, flavors, scents and scenes, visions of living history- was the religiosity there.  It is woven artfully into the day with extreme precision and delicacy.  It is careful and sometimes subtle and frequently not-so-subtle.

Hagia Sophia near the center, Blue Mosque off to the
far right.  Ten hundred thousand life-stories between.

The religion in Istanbul struck me as both blunt and gentle- there was a constancy to it that was amazingly profound but also a nonchalance about it.  Every man had prayer beads that he was constantly fingering.  Women had traditional scarves.  Scanning the horizon is a riot of lopsided buildings, skyscrapers and unsightly cranes- all punctuated by the jabbing grace of minarets.  Minarets everywhere- minarets beside minarets beside minarets.  All outfitted with microphones.

This place, this history, so steeped in religion and so aware of that, does not let you forget it.  If Istanbul can remember- so can you.

(This is where I'm going to do something very difficult- and skip the part about the Hagia Sophia. If you know me and know what some things mean to me, you'll know that the nearly three hours I spent in awe and reverence in that space were about as close to Holy as I can get.  In those three hours I remembered why History was my first love, and how History is so Holy… Hmm.. I guess I'm doing a poor job at skipping the part about Hagia Sophia.  I digress.)

And now for elementary background (and I apologize for my woeful oversimplification here)… Muslims observe Salat (Namaz in Turkey), one of the five pillars of their faith, with prayers that take the physical, mental, and spiritual aspects of (wo)man, roll them together, and demand respect, attention.  It's a time-out from life, a reminder of the bigger picture.  Salat happens five times a day.  And witnessing  that will change a person- at least for a little while.  Because Muslims pray… beautifully.  The daily calls to prayer (Adhan) which erupt from those microphone-bearing minarets around the city at prescribed times are booming, echoing, tinny, abrasive and utterly captivating.

Yes. That is me: shoulders covered, head covered,
kneeling at the Blue Mosque.  Even heathens have
respect. 

Everyday there- several times a day- I'd pause for a heartbeat, wondering about the strangeness of being included in someone's religion, someone's faith, simply by having chosen to visit their city.  It was an oddly provocative gift.  And how very potent that realization is to someone like me.

Everyday there- all those several times a day- I stood quietly realizing that my adventure now had a new soundtrack.  Instead of jack-hammers and honking horns, I had the call of some appointed Muezzin guiding me through the crowded streets of this ancient place.  And in this ancient place, in those few moments, I felt an ancient magic.  It's the magic made from layers upon layers of civilization, each weighing down on the last, each bolstering the one that followed, building up to something… I don't know what yet.

It's the magic made from Spices, Sultans and Salats.

It's the magic of Istanbul.

There. That feels better- And until next time.

Home*

I'm staring out the window of another plane.  I can't see the landscape through the clouds but I know it's there, passing beneath me.  Or rather, existing beneath me while I pass over it.

I watch the clouds, imagine the land, and wonder where is home?  What is home?

I've never been terribly discriminatory about my use of that word.  'Home.'  I guess because I don't really consider home a place, or maybe that I don't consider it a singular place.  I'm too traveled, too 'miled' for that- far too old for the luxury of staidness.  The plane I'm on at the moment reminds me of this- it's flying me from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris to Stavanger, Norway.  For the moment, it's flying me home.

Or is it?

Because home is Charlotte, North Carolina.  Home is Windsor, Vermont.  Home is the driver's side of a Jeep that will soon be sold to the highest bidder.  Yesterday home was an eighth floor apartment in Istanbul with a rooftop terrace and an evil washing machine.

There it is- home isn't a place.  It's a space.  It's a space that you carve out for whatever small or grand period of time for yourself.  Home is the space that you make yours.  If it's only for a day, cool- that bench is homier than any other around, or that bus seat or that plane seat on a long haul trip.  If it's for a week, even better.  Because at that point, at some point, you're walking along the streets of someplace theoretically foreign and you stop when you realize that you've bought coffee from the same hidden, hardworking vendor for the past four mornings in a row.  You're not home- but you have your own 'coffee shop on the corner.' And there it is again- you are home.

If it's even longer, then you're just lucky. New Jersey, North Carolina, Paris, Maryland, New Hampshire, Vermont, China - all of these place have been my home.  And there are so many more.  There will be so many more.

It's not a place. My parents will move to Florida soon. And where they go, where they wind up, will not be the house I grew up in, but it will be home because of them. Vermont and New Hampshire will always be home because of the people I know there and the love I have known there.  Norway might not work out, I really don't know. But in a little while, I will be landing and making my way to an apartment with a warm, happy dog wanting to say hello…

And 'welcome home.'

And until next time… I'm home.

*I journaled this on a plane- typed it later on.

Istanblog

I literally made myself giggle with that title.  I know that I'm not really funny… but I like to tell myself that I am.

And without further adieu, the Photo Blog from Istanbul…

So far...

The Not-Obessions Confessions

Yes, this is really happening.  I haven't done an obsessions post in a while- not that I don't have a whole litany of music, books, stuff, that I could prattle on about.  But instead I'd like to take a wander through the things that I am currently not loving.  For serious, not loving.

Let's start with old Norwegian men on bikes.

Calm down and lemme 'splain.  My wee little dog has a problem with bikes.  Not that he hates them, he just wants to eat them.  And not that he wants to eat the persons pedaling, no- he wants to eat the bike itself.

So. When Henry and I go for walks around town- around a town where there are many many people on bikes- it's more of an exercise in mind-reading, anticipation, situational awareness, agility, and strength than an exercise in actual walking.  If I see a bike approaching, I can corral the dog to the side of the path and hush him, tell him no, generally try to control him. Which is not easy with a 50 pound blond fur bomb.

And that's when the magic happens, because the charming old Norwegian men, on their charming Norwegian bikes, will slow down.  Yep, they see me with this dog who could qualify as his own circus act, each of us struggling against the other… and they slow down.  To watch.  Yes. Yes, old Norwegian men, that is exactly what I want you to do- slow down to watch the madness that is my dog unfold and prolong his outrageous desperation to eat your vehicle.  Do that.  I really really dig it when you do.

Next up- old Norwegian men in bars.  Especially the super drunk ones. Especially the super drunk ones who think that it's okay to refer to my partner as my "daddy" while manhandling me, grabbing my arm and jerking me around to face him while he's breathing liquid death into my face.  Actually, guy, it's not okay.  And you know what else- that's MY ass that you're grabbing thankyouverymuch, and if you do it again you're going to find a tactically placed knee in your general groin area. Private forking property, buddy.

Or should I say Grandpa?

This book.  Sort of instills in me the simultaneous desire to vomit and weep.  How did this happen? How did the first three happen?!?

I definitely don't love the people who open doors while talking to, and looking at, the people behind them.  Look where you are going, folks, there might just be a girl with a dog… directly in your path.  If I had a dollar for the number of times I've been slammed into by a glass door- only to be given an affronted look by the person who slammed it into me- in the past several weeks, I wouldn't be considering a life of crime to solve my financial woes.

This song.  It was getting nonstop airtime when I left the States a little over a month ago.  It is now getting nonstop airtime in Norway.  I literally cannot escape it. (Also- note here that it's definitely part of the 50 Shades soundtrack).

I'd bring up the apparently never-ending winter, but I think that's pushing it.  I suppose I should have anticipated that when I decided to move to just shy of the Arctic Circle.  And I probably should have packed more warm clothing.  And fewer dresses.

And for now, until next time, that's all dear ones.  Be good on this Summer (laughable) Solstice and this Father's Day.

The View from Across

There is this one view, outside of the apartment.  This one view that... no matter how many times I glance at it, no matter how long I stare at it, I still can't quite believe in it.

I can't capture it on film (believe me I have tried), I can't photo document it (see below for a pathetic attempt), I can't begin to describe it even with all of the words at my disposal- because I just don't believe that it's actually, truly, terrifyingly there.

I don't get how it exists.  My eyes tell me it exists, but I don't understand it and I think my eyes might be lying.

The view?

On good days- days like today that are clear and sunny and the sky is such a bright blue that it's almost white- you can look across the water and see the mountains that bolster either side of our harbor.  But then, it's not just seeing the mountains that has me baffled and dumbstruck. Oh no, you look across that water and it's like you witness the passage of time in that view, in this view.  It is literally like watching billions of years- eons, eras, moments, monuments, minutes- happen in an instant.  The effect of every thrust of the earth's plates and every carving, fluid push of the ocean's waves- right there, right in front of you, me.

It's an impossible thing to take in, and yet I do almost every day.

On foggy, slightly evil and rainy days- every other day other than today- that view is still there, just hiding.  Those mountains are still present behind the clouds, ominous in a way that God or the Devil might be to those who believe.  Those mountains are hiding, but they are very much self-aware and very much alive in the cloudy ether.  Not hiding, perhaps, so much as waiting or biding.  They are steady, so still, yet pull at the marrow of my bones with such a wrenching force that even though I stand there captivated and somewhat subdued, I am utterly overcome with the desire to move toward them.  To be a part of them.

The mountains roll back against the sky for… ever.  One leads to another leads to another and they just don't stop, they never stop…

I think that's what really gets to me- the immensity and endlessness of the mountains- becoming increasingly more blue and shadowed until they match that sky I mentioned earlier and then slowly begin to fade into it.

It is. Unbelievable.

You've just got to trust me on this one, dear hearts.

On (In)Dependence

There are any number of things at which I suck.  In fact, my failures, misdeeds, malfunctions far outnumber my talents.

Like, light years far...

It's actually a little disconcerting.

At any rate, lately I've been counting my fatal flaws, my faults, my issues- the things that make me, much to my chagrin, me.  It is very hard NOT to self-examine and try to relocate yourself within yourself when you've just made a major life change.  In fact it sort of makes sense.  You've done this thing, you've made this monumental decision, and you've followed through even in the face of fear and ad nauseum worry.  Of course you take the time to sit back, take stock, and sort it out- which is considerably headier after the fact rather than when you are in the thick of it, running around making phone calls to the USDA and trying to track down tape-worm treatments and trying to slip in a phone call to foreign authorities every few days.

It's hard not to self-examine when you are essentially existing at the whim of the aforementioned foreign authorities.

I find myself now talking to new people, making small talk.  Hell, I find myself talking to myself, or my dog for that matter, making small talk.  But I hear myself say things like… 'I suck at being sick' (which I do).  'I suck at sitting still' (which I definitely do).  'I really suck at asking for help' (which I really really do).

I don't know if it's a flaw, a fault, a fissure waiting to crack into a canyon- but I'm not a dependent person.  Not even a little.  See all of the above?  All of those 'sucks' stem from the fact that I SUCK at depending on people, on anyone but myself.  Of course there is a lot of psychology behind that statement- but it's about as base and true as I can get.  I literally make contingency plans for everything because I'm so convinced and so sure that I will have to hack out whatever situation on my own. (This, by the way, has nothing to do with a weird or unloving childhood.  My parents are rocks, they are the strongest, most challenging and cherished people in my life.  They are about the only ones who can manage to take care of me when I really need it).

When I'm sick I don't act like it because that would entail me actually letting someone else take my reins for a moment while I collapse.  When I am still I am maddeningly fidgety because I'm not doing things.  I'm not accomplishing things.  I'm not making things happen.  I'm wasting… myself.  Asking for help?  That necessitates relying on someone else to step up and, indeed, help.  Which is when my jacked-up, hard-wired-to-be-hard, brain misfires.  I can't do it.  I can't do it.  I can't do it.

Not to mention that asking for help, sitting still, getting sick- all of those things, to me, means forfeit.  They mean defeat- they mean that I am letting someone else come in and clean my house- my house that I made into a mad one- my house that I built, my bed that I made.  How can I do that?  How can I ever let go of the mistakes, the misfortunes, the bad decisions that I made and let someone else… share them?

So here I am, 30 years and tens of thousand of miles later.  Still ferociously, feverishly, frustratingly independent but having to swallow that ferocity and fever and frustration for maybe the first, most significant time- so that I can make my decisions and my passions and my hopes work.  I have dropped the mantle of stubborn solitude and reached out.

Because one of the things that I do do well… is learn from my mistakes.

And until Next Time…

Norwegian Directorate of Immigration, here we come.

The Sound and The Fury

… And The Salmon (because she does it by tempting my tastebuds at every turn).

It took some time.  It took about a week- maybe a little more- of absorbing, of realizing, of making amends.

When I moved to New England for the first time- when I was, what? 21?- I realized that I was a mountain girl.  There was nothing so soothing to my soul as the sight of land in motion- mountains raising out of the earth, caressing the sky, stopping time.  The mountains feel like a gift to me.  They feel like a part of my soul given back to me after a long absence.  They feel like completion.

And I am now again in a place of mountains- of mountains and earth and sky and time.

But I am also, now, in a place of water.

And the water, the sea, the violent commotion of rain, hail and fog has made herself known to me.  She has recalled herself to me.

For a long time I was an ocean girl, like my mother and her father before her.  I loved the liquid expanse that faded eventually into the horizon- literally.  The sea becomes the sky becomes the same thing.  I grew up taking trips to the beach, swimming, sunning, building sandcastles and baking 'sand'wiches.

The mountains have my heart but the sea has my history.

And here, here the sea is constantly reminding me of that.  She does it in ferocious ways, in the rollicking wakes of boats, in the rolling waves that hit against the side of our building.  She does it in her raining, her hailing, her furious noise-making which rattles our windows and pounds against the skylights.  She does it by her fury.

She does it in gentility, too.  She does it in the purple-pink-lavender of the sunset that I am right now watching.  She does it in the shadows that play on our dining-room wall- the one that faces the open balcony doors- the light and shadows reflected in soft ripples against the harbor water.  She does it by her sound.

The sea is reminding me of herself.

And so far, I am okay with her.

It's a tenuous moment we are having, a tenuous reintroduction.  But she is so much in this place that I cannot ignore her any more than I can ignore the scent of salt water and cool air.

Until next time, Dearests…

Good Morning

I spent some time, this morning, laying in bed and absorbing my room- the one in my parents house where I retreat to when I am off-season or ailing.   It is the room that is cluttered with books, kitsch, photographs, prints and paintings.  It is the room that proved to be a sanctuary over the twenty or so years that in which I have inhabited it- off and on.  The outside reflection of the inside me.

The room from my childhood (actually I had to trade rooms with my brother at some point in the distant past) has cool lilac colored walls and only one window so the mornings are generally a gentle greeting to the day.  This morning was no different, even Henry seemed slightly gentler when he hopped onto the bed for his morning snuggles.  I pet him, stared out the window, and watch the gold spring sunshine begin to creep up the wall, through the shades.

I got a bit misty eyed- but there's really too much to do today to dwell on that.

This morning will be the last of the 'lazy' ones in that room, in that bed- where I can enjoy that view, that parade of light and wonder, only half awake with a puppy tucked in beside me.

Tomorrow will be my last in general in that room and that bed.  At least for a little while, until I either return auspiciously or get the boot out of Norway.

Until then...

I need to pack.

:)