restingmotion

Defining Books of 2015

I am not going to post a list of all the books I read in 2015.  I now keep such a list on LibraryThing, and therefore have no need of duplicating the list here.  The feature of my previous lists that was useful however, was the notation of favorite books, and that I shall continue.  This may be particularly useful this year, as I more or less stopped reviewing books in the middle of 2015. It is a decision I regret, but it is too late to go back and catch you up on thoughts and processes past.  I believe I just needed to make some decision about what I would and would not write as I am not inclined toward a traditional review, and, by nature, it is very rare that I actually regret reading a book, or find that my time was wasted, even with a book, that I may find seriously flawed and lacking.  So I will occasionally write about books, but not all books. 

 

In the meantime, here are the books that I enjoyed the most in 2015.  For the most part the books I enjoyed the most are also the books that in some way changed my way of thinking and seeing the world.  Since I find it difficult to both rate and rank books, they are listed alphabetically by author's last name.

 

How to Fly a Horse by Kevin Ashton is a book about creativity and how humans are creative animals by nature.  In fact it is about our struggle between the creative impulse and fear, or the need for security.  Not reviewed, but mentioned here and again here.

 

Necessary Targets by Eve Ensler.  We need to build walls to make life tolerable; and yet those same walls which protect us, can also separate and destroy us.  We occasionally need to be reminded of this fact. Review here.

 

The Episcopal Call to Love by Rob Gieselmann.  The book was written in response to a particular time and place in Episcopal Church, and I initially read it for two reasons: We were addressing a related issue in my parish home, and Rob Gieselmann was one of the candidates being considered in our search for a Priest-In-Charge.   I went back to the book later however because it resonated deeply with me in my own explorations of how we listen, relate, and ultimately love our neighbors.

 

Travelling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor.  Lent to me by a friend, I was initially put off by the opening sections of this book.  Yet I stuck with it and ultimately found it rewarding. It proved to have strong connections to other books I read this year, including Ashton (above) which I read later.  It proved to be a fascinating exploration, through memoir, of the role of creativity in life, of the search for meaning, and in finding and embracing one's true calling.

 

H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald.  A book I wish everyone could read.  Yes, it delves deeply into the darker sides of human nature, but it is only by reconciling ourselves with darkness and pain that we become most human.  Review here.  And also, see Mater's review here.

 

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. A rich, complexly rewarding novel.  I see no point in repeating myself.  Review here.

 

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami.  This is a book I wish I had reviewed as I cannot say enough about it in this brief format.  That said I will read it again as it has played so deeply in my insights and thoughts that I am sure I will see things with new eyes upon my next reading.  Although I have read all of Murakami's other novels, and  I purchased the novel when it first came out, I realized when I picked it up, after our new Priest (see above) mentioned it in a sermon, that I could not have read it before now. Is Tsukuru colorless because he has closed himself off to emotion and love due to grief? But he saw himself as colorless before, whereas his friends had color.  Or is it is self-perceived colorlessness that has allowed him to live out his dream to create?  A novel that exists on many levels and raises more questions than it answers, but once again touches on pain and joy, the struggle between safety and creativity, and what makes us human.

 

Globalization, Gender, and Peacebuilding by Kwok Pui-Lan.  This brief book on interfaith dialogue was assigned reading in last year's EFM class.  I read it early in the year and found it be a persuasive and thought-provoking analysis of the roots of religious conflict.  It really challenged many of my perceptions and assumptions and I found myself looking forward to a class discussion that never occurred due to many conflicting circumstances.  I will probably read it again, in an attempt to come to some understanding between my initial perceptions and any evolution in my personal insights into the world  (in lieu of actual dialogue).  Academically written so not for everyone, but worthwhile for those so inclined.

 

You've probably noticed that there seems to be a theme, or some consistency in what stuck with me this year.  I am sure that to some extent this often occurs, as what we see and are drawn to in any book depends on where we have been, what we have learned, and our own understanding of the world, ie. the perspective we bring into the dialogue between ourselves and the book.   Since I tend to read several books simultaneously, this habit may also affect my perspectives.

 

I have therefore decided that it may be fun and informative if I occasionally list the books I am currently reading.  They may not all get reviewed.  They may not even all get listed, as I view this as an occasional snapshot kind of post.  But I'd be interested in seeing how my memories and perceptions of a book relate to the other books I was reading at the same time, if they relate at all. I'm thinking this will be a monthly snapshot, but it may be more or less frequent, depending on how much or how little I read (2015 was a short-listed year).  I'll put up the first post next week.

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Away: A Midpoint Review of the Season

This year I did something different for Christmas.  I went to Florida for Christmas week, the week that ended with Christmas Day and the beginning of the Christmas Season.  My step-daughter's husbands' family has a condo in Sarasota, which they are planning on selling, and on this, their last family trip, she invited me and her brother's family to join them.  And so we did.

It was a mixed blessing for me.  Sarasota was unseasonably warm, as has been most of the eastern United States, and 86 and very humid was not kind to my bronchitis.  In fact I was much worse, aggravated by my mold and mildew allergy I'm sure.  Even in this there is a blessing in that I am now fairly certain that I am not destined to be living in Florida.

Things were much better out at the beach however.  The breeze and the salt air cleared my lungs and I could actually breathe, at least until I crossed the threshold into the vegetative interior.   Wednesday evening we took a sunset cruise.  It was fairly overcast, and the clouds dampened the sunset, but it was lovely anyway.  In the top photo we are looking back at the gulf, in that little gap between the two  keys, and the photo above, is of downtown Sarasota as we head in to port, the almost-full moon beckoning with promise of light and joy to come.

 

There were adventures I missed, like a trip to Myakka park, simply because I could not breathe everytime I stepped outdoors in the interior, and it seemed like a trip to misery from my perspective.  But I happily stayed indoors, wrapping gifts, drinking tea, and reading some light fiction. Perhaps someday I will return, at a time of kinder weather, without dragging bronchitis around. 

 

And there were moments of great joy as well.  One such time involved sneaking back into my step-daughter's condo after Owen had gone to sleep on Christmas Eve, in order to populate the area under the tree with gifts and brightly wrapped packages, and fill stockings.  I wanted Owen to wake up that to moment I have always relished, of seeing all the gifts under the tree, that moment of immense hope and joy.  (but I forgot to take a picture of the tree fully loaded).  Besides one of my grandmotherly duties was to see that Santa's gift arrived.

Even though I did not still believe in Santa by the time I was 9.  I have always believed in the joy of Christmas, and in gifts, in the joy and hope of Christmas morning, and the promise and love that is symbolized by gift giving.  We give gifts, hopefully out of love and joy, not obligation, as both a reminder and a promise.  I still love the Christmas Day rituals, seeing the gifts under the tree, and the joy of opening the gifts.  I am still often the first one up on Christmas morning, even if I have been up late at midnight services.  Apparently, one mile apart, Owen and I were both up at 5:30, filled with joy.  He staring at the tree and reading a book, me singing Christmas carols as I took Tikka for a walk and puttered about in the kitchen, making coffee and browning meat for the Christmas Pot Roast.  Cooking and the rituals of preparing food, setting tables, and celebratory meals, the rituals attached to the meal,  all of this is a kind of service, a sharing of joy and love, and it is true that I was singing and dancing in the kitchen as I cooked.

I arrived early, before everyone else was up. I still don't understand it, to me the joy is palpable and I cannot sleep.  I turned on the tree lights for Owen and we took Tikka for another walk. And then, of course, there was the great unwrapping.  I adore watching everyone's faces, and the flurry of paper and ribbon, the anticipation and joy of it all.  In fact I want to watch everyone else, more than I want to unwrap my own gifts, although my gifts were all wonderful and included a couple of books I might not have found on my own, but which I will thoroughly enjoy reading, and a photo of my handsome grandson.  Then we had breakfast and trooped off to the beach to join the Christmas throngs, where everyone had a good time.

 

On Saturday I packed up my condo and met with two friends who have each relocated to Florida, in different cities, having lunch with one, and dinner with the other and long fabulous conversations with both.  I was reminded that I have been remiss, and it is long past time that I begin making a greater effort.

Then on Sunday we drove to Atlanta for a couple of days, returning home yesterday.  We stayed in midtown, where I had not stayed before, and it was a perfect spot for us.  We were two blocks from Piedmont park, where Tikka and I took long walks every day, and 5 blocks from the High Museum, in an area that was lovely to walk in with a very people and dog-friendly mix of business and residential areas and a variety of restaurants as well.  Even though it was still unseasonably warm, the cooler temperatures were better for both of us, and Tikka seems to enjoy these brief forays as a city dog.  But yes, we are also happy to be home.  Tikka couldn't wait for a walk around "her" neighborhood, and I was happy to once again sleep in my own bed.

(sunrise from our hotel room in Atlanta)

And there were more presents.  We came home to a big box from my aunt which contained two beautiful red glass vases, which I already know how I will use in next year's decorations --  promises of Christmas future.

 

 

 

Needlepoint Gifts Revealed

You got a glimpse of one of my Christmas projects earlier in the month, when I posed a shot of some needlepoint I was working on.  Here is the finished piece, a luggage tag, for my step-daughter.

There was a second project as well, for my daughter-in-law, finished just in the nick of time.  This photo, taken in my Florida condo, just before wrapping the gift, does not do it justice.  Forgive the little bits of fluff as well, I didn't notice that until after the gifts were wrapped, too late to take more photographs. The photo doesn't capture the shimmery colors of the bit of metallic thread either, which is not just gold but golden-colors,  and it frames the flower perfectly and the bit of sparkle suits the gold leather frame for this small mirror.

Just to give you a little perspective, both pieces of needlepoint are 3 inches in diameter, and are done on 18 count canvas.  The threads on the luggage tag are silk and silk and ivory, a wool silk blend, with cotton used for the veining in the leaves.  The pansy is a mix of fibers, silk, cotton, and some silk and ivory as well, mostly in the background.  The glittery thread is actually a machine embroidery thread, but alas I don't have the materials with me (and I am not yet home), so I can't provide the details.

 

Both projects seem to have been well received, and I am grateful as they were both spur-of-the-moment inspirations, and I am mostly happy with how they came out.  Making them proved to be a joy and an inspiration as well, and now I need to find more small projects.

A Few Seasonal Treasures

I'll be spending Christmas with my fabulous step-children and their families and will not be posting on either Christmas Eve or Christmas day this week.

Rather than a long post, I thought I'd share a few small ornaments and decorations, little things that spark joy.

 

This little angel was the first ornament I ever purchased for myself, back in my early 20s.

 

Like the angel, these paper mãchè balls aren't precious in any monetary sense, but just bringing them out each season makes me smile and a tree without them seems lacking.

If you celebrate Christmas, may it be filled with Love and Laughter.  No matter what your traditions, I hope that the light of the season will suffuse your life with joy.  I'll be back next week.

Cheery New Coat

Last winter was cold in Knoxville, certainly the coldest winter we've had since I moved here.  Well, technically the previous January may have reached a single lower temperature, but the overall trend was colder on average last year than the previous couple of years.  I still have a couple of New York coats, so I didn't freeze.  Nonetheless I wasn't happy. The styles, the colors, nothing seemed right for the life I have now.

 

This fall, I decided I needed to find a new coat, a real coat, not just vests and light jackets, which actually get me through most of my running around town on the average Knoxville winter day, but a coat that could adapt to weather, that would be suitable for both running around and walking the dog.  A coat that would make me smile.  And I found one, this one, from Patagonia.  Technically, I guess it is three coats, as I can wear the components separately.  

 

So far I've mostly just worn the outer shell, although I wore the lining once, on a cold night, when I needed something slightly dressier.  Both components make me happy.  The color makes me happy.  The lining alone is perhaps a little bright, but that makes it more festive, and I adore the rich but muted color of the outer shell.  Perhaps, since I've had a cold or bronchitis most of December, it plays up the flush in my cheeks and redness of my nose, but this too shall pass.

The coat perhaps looks more sleek in the photo than on me, but I've come to accept that I'll never quite manage to pull off elegant sleek sophistication.  I am more comfortable being a little mussed, a little bit not-quite-pulled-together.  Perhaps that was part of the problem with my old coats. The were more aspirational than I could ever quite pull off. I wore the black Moncler down coat, shown below, for a few years, but it always felt like it was wearing me more than anything else.  Aside from the fact that it is black, perhaps it just had more polish than I can ever quite manage. 

 We'll see,  I'm considering wearing it to New York later in the winter, if warranted.  Is there still a remnant of my old New York self hidden deep inside?  Or is she in the wind?  I suspect it will be our last trip together, black coat and I.  Time for new adventures.

 

 

 

 

 

Beauty Surrounds Us

Three Things at Three

The power was out this morning. I hadn't written my post in advance, which means it didn't get written at all.    Until Now.

These tiny crèche figures make me happy, staring out from the bookcase, like a little secret.

Shimmery turquoise toenails make me happy as well.  I suppose they aren't really a Christmas color.  But they spark joy nonetheless.

As does a warm bowl of West Indian style curry.  While I worked at the reception desk at my church this morning, I read the new issue of the Art of Eating, which has gone digital.  As I read about food and spices, I was thinking about cooking, and about the nice bowl of curry that was awaiting my return.  After a morning of work, and a few errands, I was more than happy to curl up on the sofa, in front of a fire on this rainy Thursday, with warm stew and bare toes, thinking about the simple pleasures and the joy they bring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Potato Chip Reading

Late Saturday afternoon I was sitting at Walgreens waiting for a prescription.  It was not really the best time, the place was crowded, and I just wanted to be home.  I entertained myself by settling into one of the chairs in the pharmacy department with a Stone Barrington novel by Stuart Woods.  This one, Hot Pursuit was fairly typical, although I've apparently missed quite a few recent installments regarding Stone's life.  No great loss there.  Bourbon, women, wine, food, a bit of high society.  The book is predictable, the characters suitably vague so that one can project upon them what one will, and entertaining in a glossy surface kind of way.  In fact perfect for tuning out the surrounding drama at a Walgreen's on a Saturday night.  I was about a third of the way through the book when I left the store, and finished it up when I got home.  The experience was, in fact, a lot like eating a bag of potato chips, without the residual feeling of "what was I thinking".  Stone is the same, an aging lothario who doesn't seem to know that he is aging, and whose life actually seems pretty shallow and uninteresting, except that the reader is distracted by the gloss and the name-dropping and hint of power-plays.  Not bad for an hour and a half when reality is less appealing than a bit of fantasy, and probably an improvement over staring mindlessly at the tv, in that at least something can be left to the imagination.

 

It was, in fact, an improvement over the last two Reacher novels, both of which I read in the evenings of my drive to and from Texas in November.  Like Stone Barrington, Jack Reacher hasn't really evolved at all, and that is not necessarily bad in that I like the way Reacher is willing to stand for his own personal code.  But the books are getting tired, and it seemed like Lee Child was really reaching for plot ideas, especially in the first of the two books I read, Personal which put Reacher in a situation where he was really the target, a situation that was the opposite of everything Reacher believes in.  The second book, Make Me, was more typical in terms of plot, but still seemed like a bit of a stretch, as if the author is having trouble keeping the series going.  Like Barrington, Reacher is not evolving.  That is probably realistic; I suspect most of us don't really evolve or change much as we age.  Unfortunately it doesn't make for particularly interesting reading.  Or perhaps the lack of sugar (the name-dropping gloss of the Barrington novels) makes the emptiness of the read all the more apparent.

 

On a lighter note, Graeme Simsion's romantic comedy, The Rosie Project, was light-hearted and charming and proved to be a cheerfully entertaining read.  I had some doubts about it, despite the hype. Or was that because of the hype?   The main character, Don Tillman is a socially awkward scientist, who has Asperger's, but isn't particularly aware that he has Asperger's, and the author seemed to do a good job of getting into his head and making his oddness charming in a rather self-deprecating way.  There were perhaps a few too many jokes at his expense, but they were pulled off with grace. Most of the characterizations are shallow and rather predictably stereotypical, but again, they are handled with a light hand, and the general humor carries them.  This is not true in the sequel, which I do not recommend at all, as it devolves into a rather painful morass of cliche and incomprehensible obliviousness, and seems to dive into all the pits the first novel manages to (barely) avoid.

 

Of these books, I would say The Rosie Project would be the only one I would recommend.  It too is a fast read and probably will not stand up to critical reading, but  it is the only one that seems to have claimed any particular place in my memory.  Or perhaps, given my own penchant for reflection, Don Tillman reminds me that our own conception of ourselves is perhaps more telling in terms of who we become, even when our perceptions fly in the face of other's perceptions of us.

 

 

 

Rise and Shine

I woke up with gladness this morning, and a song in my heart..

 

The sky was beautiful when I took Tikka out.  These photos were snapped with my phone about 20 minutes before sunrise.

A warm soft wind was blowing, bringing the clouds in for the rain that is expected to begin shortly.  Still, we should revel in the glory when and where we find it.

 

 

Broken/Freed

I am mostly over my cold.  The cough apparently will remain with me for a while.  I don't know what changed, if it is just age or happenstance, something I did or didn't do when caring for George, but somehow, my colds have evolved from being mostly head colds, to being mostly chest colds, colds that seem inclined to develop into bronchitis.  I'd like to blame it on Tennessee, because the first time I had bronchitis was my first winter in Tennessee, but I am sure that is coincidence more than anything else.  But I'm here and doing pretty well, and I wanted to write this post, although it is not really very finished and really isn't likely to be.  I ask your patience with unfinished thoughts and random musings, all I really seem up to at this point.

 

 I've been thinking about little things, perhaps a series of random little things, yes, but the way little things can sometimes lead us toward insight.  The path may be slow, it may be even a bit circular, but eventually we hopefully get where we are supposed to be. 

 

For example, I walked into my office the other morning to  find a good sized piece of glass sitting on the floor.  I certainly didn't expect it, and initially I couldn't figure out where it might have come from.  It seemed as if it had just miraculously appeared.  But it was early, and I had not yet had my coffee, so perhaps my neural synapses were not quite up to full speed. It was also the first day of this recent cold, although I wasn't yet aware of that either.

 

Later, when I sat at my desk, coffee in hand, I noticed that there were fine glass shards on my desk as well. It was then that I noticed the candle, which I had been burning the previous evening, and which had obviously broken after I extinguished the flame and the candle was cooling. I was somewhat saddened by this loss of my favorite candle.  It had not burned too low, according to the directions on the candle at any rate, I had not burned it over 4 hours (as directed) and I wasn't sure quite was had caused the problem.   It is a small thing, and I yet I was saddened by the loss, and spent a disproportionate amount of time fretting about it.

 

Why was such a small thing so important?  Things break.  Life changes.  Sometimes it is simply time to move on to something different.  But I think we all hold on to the familiar, we all want to hold on to comfort, to what we know, to past happiness, and we tend to be nervous about change.  We all hold on to things that are symbols of love, or warmth, or comfort, and sometimes we put too much weight in the small thing, and perhaps not enough weight in the big thing that the symbol commemorates.

 

A month or so a job I used to do was sent out.  I wasn't consulted, and really there was no reason that I should be consulted.  It wasn't my decision to be made.  But that doesn't mean that I wasn't sad.  I had enjoyed this particular task; I found it relaxing and grounding in a way, although truthfully there were also times when I was busy and it was time-consuming and I would have done other things.  But when faced with losing that task, all I could think about was what I had lost, and it took me a little bit to recognize what I had gained. 

 

Perhaps the candle was simply a metaphor.  Perhaps I need to stop doing the same things I've always done the way I've always done them.  I know this is true.  I know that there are particular skills I have, skills that I've used in my career and my life, skills that have gotten me where I am now, and sometimes people ask me if I want to use those skills to help small business or do certain things, but at the same time I realize that although I do have those skills, I have not perhaps used them in the way that is best for me.  I have used them in the way that is best for others, for what my job needed, or what I perceived others to need, or to help other people realize things that they needed, but I haven't used those same skills in ways that let my other gifts and talents flourish for my own growth and benefit.  I keep repeating the same patterns because I am good at those patterns.  And forging new paths is somewhat unsettling because I don't actually know that I will be good at these new things.  But that doesn't mean that I don't need to try them.

 

Like lighting my familiar, favorite candle, I keep repeating the same paths, because they are comfortable and fulfilling enough, and I accept that good enough is perhaps all I need.  But perhaps this is a mistake. Perhaps I need to stop treading the same old paths, wearing down my resources until my own glass weakens and breaks.

 

I was at a funeral yesterday.  We sang Amazing Grace.  I've written here before about how I held George's hand and sang Amazing Grace when he was dying, how he died during the final verse.  A door was opened and he slipped through.  For a long time after George's death I physically could not sing Amazing Grace.  I would start to break down in tears, and then I would just shut down, lock the door and drop the key, afraid that I would fall apart.  I couldn't sing, and because I couldn't sing I couldn't cry.  I was thinking about what I had lost, and I was holding on desperately to that loss, trying to keep the door from opening again.

 

Eventually I let my sadness in, let love in, let grace in.  And I was able to sing that song, and share my loss and sadness and also my joy, because there was joy mixed in with all that sadness and grief.  That is what the song is about.  And I remain grateful to those who stood by me and held me and helped me to sing again, and again, and again. 

 

Yesterday, singing Amazing Grace, I wasn't sad at all.  I realized that I was singing for the opening of the door, and that is what grace gives us.  The bridge between those universes.  As we all sang, it was as if a bubble in time, a bubble in dimensions even, had opened, and for that moment we could be in touch with all those universes, all our loved ones, together, singing.  Not broken glass, but open doors.