Responding to Ill-Mannered Boors

The everyday kindnesses of the back roads
more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.
~ Charles Kuralt

Today, on the commute in to work, I saw witnessed two gentlemen [out of thirty men, sigh] offer their seats on the train to ladies standing in the aisle. I wanted to thank them even though I was not one of the ladies needing a seat. It was a great way to start the day with exampled of manly courtesy ~ because the day ended less than stellar. A man who I thought was a friend ~ albeit a casual one ~ said something to me that went so beyond the bounds of decency that I could only ignore him in shocked silence.

Perhaps, dear reader, you are tired of reading my complaints about our insufferable and ill-mannered society. At the same time, something must be done about this epidemic of ill-mannered boorishness!

Now, some of you will ask me why I did not slap my so-called friend. Saying nothing was actually a step up for me. Sad to say, I am not perfect in this regard ~ actually I am not perfect in most regards! At times, when confronted with rude remarks spoken either in front of me or to me, I have responded in an equally most ill-bred manner. There is of course, a time and a place to fight fire with fire. But when one returns a rude remark to a boor with another rude remark, it is safe to say that he will only continue to respond in kind. Furthermore, he will usually take vicious delight in escalating the situation, until one’s esteem lies in shreds around one’s pretty little ankles and later, in the privacy of one’s boudoir, to tears. [This is so much worse for us INFPs/ENFPs.]

However, dear reader, you are correct ~ one cannot just let such rudeness continue unchecked and unaddressed. So what is a civilized person to do? I am beginning to believe that the obvious must be stated. “Please do not say such uncouth and disrespectful things to me. I find it degrading and hurtful. Thank you.” I need to practice saying this in the privacy of home, because I would much rather grit my teeth and call into question his upbringing. I can hear my Southern mother saying: “His mama didn’t raise him right!” And it is certainly possible she did not, or it could be that the son refused to listen.

Whether this ladylike retort will have any effect on this particular boor, I know not. But I am convinced that refusing to stoop to a boor’s level keeps up at least a modicum of decency and civility. As they say: “Fake it until you make it!” Continued civility can only eventually beget civility.

What do you think? How have you handled rude remarks made about you, or in front of you about other people?

Hope you have a beautiful [and genteel] rest of the week!

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

On a Roll!

A lot of people are singing about how screwed up the world is, and I don't think that everybody wants to hear about that all the time.
~ Mariah Carey

Well, the Muse is amused tonight, I suppose. Just finished composing a new song! Of course, it still needs polishing, but at least there is a rough form to work with! And stop the presses, fans: it is POSITIVE! [Gasp is heard from the auidience].

It must be Spring.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

Writing Tragedy and Hope

Easy reading is damn hard writing.
~ Nathanial Hawthorne

Lately my writers group has been unable to meet due to distance and schedules. So we assigned each other writing assignments via email. Mine was to imagine a conversation between the late Polish President Lech Kaczynski and a relative of one of the Katyn Forest Massacre victims as they flew to Smolensk April 10, 2010. I am almost at 2,000 words into the project and I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Hawthorne.

This assignment is both difficult and a joy. The Katyn Forest Massacre has always captured my imagination and inspired great emotion ~ as has most of Poland's history. And not just because my father is Polish. It is a history rife with suffering and tragedy and the sheer stubborn will to survive. When I heard about the plane crash on Saturday, April 10, my first reaction was of fascinated horror. Good God! How much suffering can one nation endure? And the irony of the "accident" ~ Polish dignitaries dying on the way to a memorial service for murdered Polish dignitaries from 1940 ~ was not lost on anyone with a knowledge of history.

In doing this writing assignment, I found that I had to fight to keep a certain distance from it. Personal emotions kept blurring the lines ~ literally. It is difficult to type while wiping one's eyes and blowing one's nose. But the emotions and thoughts about this latest tragedy are nothing compared to my other writing project: an intimate story based on my father's experiences during the Nazi occupation of Poland in the 1940s and his time spent in a labor camp in Germany and his subsequent liberation.

This project is born of a deep love and admiration of my father, and the desire to share with others what a great man he is. And writing about the Katyn Memorial plane crash helped to open up some literary and emotional obstacles that were making writing my father's story difficult. God willing I will be able to complete this second project in time for him to read it.

May God be with the Poles during this time of great mourning. St. Stefan, ora pro nobis! St. Vladimir, ora pro nobis!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Winter Correspondence

Perhaps I am a bear, or some hibernating animal underneath,
for the instinct to be half-asleep all winter is so strong in me.
~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh

That is what I have been doing for the past two months: hibernating. Which is why you have not heard from me, dear readers. But try not to scold me too much ~ it was not the snow or even the lack of sun for many weeks that led me to neglect you. In addition to recovering from sleep deprivation, I was also impatiently waiting for not one, but two kidney stones to stop their assault on my person. After many skirmishes, we finally declared a truce with one another, but I am sure they will tire of their immobility and rebel in another year or so.

Well, what can I say? When one is battling kidney stones, one does not have much strength left over to write, much less edit, throw out and re-write. I became a bit like Lucy Honeychurch after playing Beethoven ~ rather peevish. And this writer at least needed the down time. Not that I stopped writing. That would be. . .well, impossible, I think! I once heard that one knew one was born to be a writer if one could not NOT write. As Lord Byron once said: “If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.”

For a long time I interpreted that to mean that one must have a burning desire to write poetry or novels 24/7 ~ as if a real writer limited himself to those two genres. But I have a deep need to write everything. So while I have not been as productive on these pages, dear readers, my quill has not lain idle. I have drafted three poems, three songs, a couple of monologues, begun a play and penned several letters.

Ahh, letters. I believe they are my favorite genre of writing. And winter is the best time for it. The crisp air. The slip and swoosh and crunch of snow under one’s feet. Any excuse to curl up in front of the fireplace with a steaming cup of coziness ~ and by cozy, I mean with a splash of Jack or Jim or Remy or my personal favorite, Chaucer. Winter is made for correspondence.

Or reading other people’s correspondence. Currently, I am snooping in the private letters of various people via Thomas Mallon’s Yours Ever: People and Their Letters. Very well written, but I cannot quite call it a delicious read ~ more an appetizer. Every other page, I am writing down the name of yet another character whose flamboyant correspondence I want to delve deeper into. Mallon offers up morsels to whet the appetite, some with surprising twists. For instance,

it is in truth my fear, that, as soon as I should meditate a letter to be sent you, it should suddenly come into my mind by what an interval of earth you are distant from me, and so the grief of your absence, already nearly lulled, should grow fresh, and break up my sweet dream

is not something I would have expected from the dour John Milton. Yet there it is, the inner workings of a literary master preserved in his own hand. Mallon offers several such literary tidbits, including snippets of the love letters of William and Mary Wordsworth, Woodrow and Edith Wilson, the correspondence of George Sand and Flaubert and Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf, among many others.

There is something about a handwritten note. As Mallon says, “it has an intimacy and force that can never be matched” by either e-mail or even that recent ancient artifact: the type-writer. Writing a letter by hand forces one to slow down, to think through what one will say, how it might come across to the reader who cannot hear tone or see our facial expressions. E-mail, of course poses the same problem, but how many of us really think long and hard while we are tap, tapping away? I have been the recipient of so many electronic missives where the author did not even bother to hit the spell-check button! Not that “snail-mail” is protected from such mistakes ~ but the nature of the medium is such that the artist wielding the fountain pen is naturally more careful in the brush strokes their word choice creates.

As for my own library, this afternoon I ordered a collection of John Donne's letters and another of John Muir's and I already own a book of Tolkien's letters, the correspondences of Evelyn Waugh to Nancy Mitford and Diana Cooper, and a book of letters from George Bernard Shaw. And of course, my desk is crammed full of stationary, several bottles of ink, a large hoard of various writing implements, among which are my highly prized fountain pens.

And now, back to my cave for more writing and inspiration. Sigh. Mr. Donne and Mr. Muir cannot get here quick enough!

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

March Already?

First, I suppose, come letters; then adventure.
~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Goodness gracious me! Can it be March already? My apologies, dear readers, I have been hibernating. I promise to come out of my self imposed cave of silence tomorrow ~ swear on my collection of fountain pens!

For now, I simply MUST share with you website I have only just now discovered: The Letter Writers Alliance. Feast thine eyes! As an ardent devotee of the art of letters, I was shocked that I had not thought to Google to see if other faithful were out there. Hooray!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

It's a Marshmellow World in the Winter!

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?
~ J.B. Priestley

I love Winter. The sharp steely air that rips the breath out of your lungs and creates foggy sculptures in mid-flight. The ground, frozen and hard that crunches underneath exploring feet wrapped in warm woolly sock and pragmatic boot. And if one is really lucky, the magical dance of a snow storm.

Washington, D.C. has had its third snowfall since our white Christmas and they are calling for more this coming week. With all the problems that a large-for-this-area snowfall causes, I am still ecstatic. For the sanguine in me, the snow has put a damper on my social butterfly doings, but the melancholic-phlegmatic in me is relieved to take some time to just rest and be myself.

Oddly enough, it is during storms like this [and especially huge thunderstorms in the summer] that I miss my life in the country. Rachel Carson once said that a rainy day was the perfect day to walk in the woods. So is a snowy day. There is something truly otherworldly about a landscape that you know like your face covered in an icy white mask. The earth is like a person ~ no matter how long you have known them, or spoken to them, there is always something you have not learned, some aspect of their personality or a hidden dream you have not yet discovered.

That tall majestic maple you napped under in June, how different she looks in February! In June, her majesty was almost casual and hidden. Now, stripped of her leafy clothes, she shines like a precious gem with her evening cloak of white ermine. The summer garden, beaten down in late fall, has been laid to rest with dignity under a funeral veil of ice.

Winter lays things bare and then dresses them up in white, bringing out hidden beauties that the other seasons cannot call forth. The snow may be an inconvenience but take it as it comes and use it as an excuse to lay bare your hidden dreams and loves. Get out and rediscover a well-loved landscape. You may be surprise at what you find out.

Oremus pro invicem,

Mikaela

Bethesda Urban Partnership and Bethesda Magazine!'s Essay and Short Story Contest

If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.
~ Toni Morrison

Of interest to all writers in DC, Maryland and Virginia. Posted on The Writer's Center in Bethesda's website:

The Bethesda Urban Partnership and Bethesda Magazine's Essay and Short Story Contest. Winners will be honored at the Bethesda Literary Festival, April 16-18, 2010. Deadline to submit is February 26, 2010.

Essay Contest
Topic: What is your approach to life? Reveal your personal philosophy.

Requirements
Essays should be limited to 500 words or less. Submissions must be sent via email as Microsoft word attachments to essay@bethesda.org. The writer's full name, mailing address, phone number, and email address must be in the email and on the first page of the story itself. Submissions without this information will be disqualified.

Eligibility
Residents of Washington, DC, Maryland, and Virginia are eligible. The contest will take entries in two categories: Young Adult (grades 9-12) and Adult (ages 18 +). Writers must specify whether they are entering the young adult or the adult contest.
Questions? Please email scoppula@bethesda.org or call 301.215.6660.

Short Story Contest
Topic: Open

Requirements
Stories must be limited to 4,000 words or less. Submissions must be sent via email as Microsoft word attachments to shortstory@bethesdamagazine.com. The writer's full name, mailing address, phone number, and email address must be in the email and on the first page of the story itself. Submissions without this information will be disqualified.

Eligibility
Residents of Montgomery County, MD and Upper NW Washington, DC only are eligible. The contest will take entries in two categories: Young Adult (grades 9-12) and Adult (ages 18+). Writers must specify whether they are entering the young adult or the adult contest.
Questions? Please email katryn.norman@bethesdamagazine.com or call 301.718.7787 ext 207
For more information, visit www.bethesda.org or http://www.bethesdamagazine.com/

AWARDS:
First place: $500 and published short story & Essay in Bethesda Magazine.
Second Place: $250
Third Place: 150
Honorable mention: $75
The first place winner will also receive a gift certificate to The Writer's Center

Each second, third, and honorable mention essay and short story will be published on the Bethesda Magazine and Bethesda Urban Partnership Web sites. Up to 10 finalists in each category will be honored during the Bethesda Literary Festival.

Young Adult winners receive: $250, first place; $100, second place; $50, third place. Bethesda Magazine will print the first place essay & short story.

Sad Songs v. Happy Songs

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
~ Victor Hugo

As I mentioned in my last post, I debuted two new songs on Saturday at my annual St. Cecilia's Arts Festival. I have often been accused by my mother and at least one good friend, that I compose too much melancholic music. Even one of my closest friends and supporters joked after the show: "Wow. Between the Rain is your non-melancholic, happy song!?" I retorted that I had never said is was not melancholic ~ just that it was positive and happy in the sense that it was not about wallowing in one's misery or crying over the lost love. Between the Rain is a take on the theme expressed in songs such as Bless the Broken Road by Rascall Flatts ~ every heart break we go through opens us up to receiving the one we are meant for.

Another friend shot me an email a couple of days later and suggested that I try sitting at the piano when I am in a good mood and something wonderful has just happened and "see what comes out." Sigh. Well, I know these friends love me dearly and also admire and enjoy my music. And I am sure they do not want me to become trapped in my own talent.

But after reading that latest piece of advice, I began thinking [always dangerous!]. And it occurred to me, that as I mentioned in my last post, the artist not only works through his own suffering and brokenness through his art, but also enables the receiver of that art to work through theirs as well. Good art is almost always I would venture to say, universal. The audience should not always be conscious that they are listening in to someone else's story. They should absorb it and think "That is exactly how I feel [or felt]! Only I didn't know how to express it!"

That is not to say that any art that purely introspective cannot also do that, it is just that I believe that part of being an artist is giving the voiceless a medium to shout and sing and cry and basically get in touch with their innermost emotions and brokenness. And this leads me back to my friend's comment about writing "happy songs." Let me hasten to assure you, dear reader, I am not an angsty, grunge-esque artist. I do not wallow in self-pity nor do I uphold suffering for its own sake. But neither do I just compose music that sounds more like it is on Valium than the natural high of life.

I have nothing against so-called "happy music." But I wonder ~ does the audience really need my help processing good emotions? Happy memories? I know, I know! Perhaps they do. But so far, I find that my audience responds more to the music that speaks to their deepest fears, profound sadness and heartaches. And even when I am offering something more positive, there is still an element of the bittersweet. Which is how it should be, I think. However, that is just my opinion and perhaps I do need to break out of my minor key comfort zone.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

The Sixth Annual St. Cecila's Arts Festival

Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle.
That is why any authentic creation is a gift to the future.
~ Albert Camus

This past Saturday was the long awaited, much bally-hooed and always entertaining Sixth Annual St. Cecilia's Arts Festival! [Now you know dear readers, why I have been a bit AWOL lately.] We had performances ranging from Vivaldi's seriously classical Sicut Locutus Est to Monty Python's seriously funny The Beekeeping Interview. Our audience members hailed primarily from the Northern Virginia and DC area, but we had a few who flew in just for the event from Southern California, Kansas, New York City, and Connecticut. Fallen Sparrow and Bernardo and Katie Aparicio from Dappled Things were in attendance as well.

Sullivan was Stage Manager and also performed, reciting an original poem, one by Jonathan Swift and another by U.S. Poet Laureate Kay Ryan. Mr. Bob French also showed off his poetic prowess as well, with one original and two poems by Irish poet, Bryan Kennelly. Closely related was Anthony Smitha's enthralling rendition of Shakespeare's ghost monologue from Hamlet.

For classical music enthusiasts, the lovely and lyrical contralto, Imelda Franklin Bogue opened the show with Vivaldi's Sicut Locutus Est from his opera, Magnificat and The Saint Cecilia Players uplifted the audience with Kantori's Rejoice in the Lord Alway and The Virgin's Cradle [as we are getting close to Advent]. In the Broadway musical vein, we were energized by Gregory Grimm's Go Home with Bonnie Jean from Brigadoon and Michelle Jacobeen showed off her vocal range with the comic The Girl in 14G.

Yours truly did not escape the spotlight, but performed two new songs: Ashes and Dust and Between the Rain. I also acted with Sullivan in what has now become a traditional part of the evening: a Monty Python skit. This year, we decided to do the Rowan Atkinson/John Cleese The Beekeeping Interview. I think my character, Mrs. Henrietta Prawnbown, with her frumpy outfit, complete with thrift store hat with netting, was a hit. ;-)

Our Featured Artist this year was Acoustic Stew. I have known Mike Sirotniak, one of the players, for a few years and he has played solo guitar at my house several times, but I had never heard he and Joe play together. They took the stage and the audience's hearts with their incredible fret work and foot-stomping melodies.

In addition to the performing arts, we were very blessed this year to have the art work of none other than the Shrine of the Holy Whapping's Matthew Alderman. I am deeply grateful to him for sending us many of his magnificent drawings. Stay tuned: we will be sponsoring an art show in the DC area Spring 2010 for Matthew.

* * * *

You know, dear readers, I cannot write about an event without talking about the food! We served heavy hors d'ouevres during the intermission. The menu included Asiago Stuffed Dates wrapped in Bacon, Cheddar Sausage Puffs, Blue Cheese and Prosciutto Crostini, Chocolate-Cherry Shortbread Cubes, tipsy Chocolate Truffles [Baileys, Rum and Whisky] and may others, along with red and white wine, mead toddy punch and cranberry punch. Cooking for one hundred and fifty guests over two days is daunting even when you have a consummate crew helping [many thanks to Marlena, Kathy, Amy and Janet for their tireless work], so it is no wonder that tonight I am at home nursing flu-like symptoms. But it is totally worth it!

* * * *

The renewal of culture is a dire necessity. Over in Scotland, Seraphic mused recently that there are a group of people [I hope to heaven they are few in number!] who consider "literature, good grammar, clear speech, education and good architecture. . .as 'posh'." And therefore to be thoroughly rejected and derided. Such an ignorant and misguided rejection of culture is both puzzling and appalling, but it does not ultimately surprise me. Cultural and social philistines abound! Meanwhile, over at Hilliard and Croft, Christina laments that art "according to that [modern] world-view, isn't designed for the masses, it is there to cater to the ego of the artist."

It is appropriate then, that on the same night of St. Cecilia's, Pope Benedict XVI met with over two hundred artists to make the anniversary of John Paull II's Letter to Artists. Papa Benedict asks us "What is capable of restoring enthusiasm and confidence, what can encourage the human spirit to rediscover its path, to raise its eyes to the horizon, to dream of a life worthy of its vocation. . . .?"

The answer is Beauty ~ for it can "remind us of our final destiny [and] give us the courage to live to the full the unique gift of life." Artists ~ whether our medium is clay, canvas, stage, pen, voice or instrument ~ have a special gift and calling. One that carries with it a great responsibility. It is not just about our egos. We are "the custodians of beauty . . .[we] have the opportunity to speak to the heart of humanity." Even when we create the art we do as a way to find our way out of suffering or pain, it should never simply end there. It should reach out, break through the walls of another's heart and enable them to find their way out as well.

It is my hope that the St. Cecilia's Arts Festival provides a forum to do just that for the artists who perform and display their work.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Music for an Autumn Day

It is the stretched soul that makes music. . . .
~ Eric Hoffer

It is raining and gray outside. The kettle is whistling and the tea leaves are swirling in a dance of calm joy. It is the perfect autumn day and I have the perfect music to go with it. Because yesterday I struck music gold twice!

On my regular Starbucks morning stop before heading to the office, I was getting ready to pay for my Earl Grey Latte, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw Glen Hansard. Well, not the real Glen Hansard, but his picture on an album. You may remember him and his singing partner, Marketa Irglova from the hit indie flick, Once [if you haven't seen it, get thee to Netflix right now and add it to your queue ~ you will buy the soundtrack soon after!]

Glen and Marketa have collaborated on a new album: Strict Joy. I immediately snatched it up and took it along with my latte to my desk and spent the rest of the day listening to it over and over while I typed up minutes and proofread and edited reports. None of the tracks have quite the haunting and mesmerizing quality of Falling Slowly or If You Want Me, but the album overall seems a well-thought out effort and both Hansard and Irglova's composing abilities still blow me away.

For instance, Fantasy Man contains the stark and beautiful The story of two lovers / Who danced both edges of the knife ~ a lyric that makes me shiver and wish I had written it! Another favorite is In These Arms with lines like You were restless / I was somewhere less secure. Back Broke is another favorite, with a great melody that weaves in and out, surging in just the right places and pulling you in: I came on your command / Don't give me false hope. Last but possibly the track I played as much Back Broke, is I Have Loved You Wrong for its sheer beauty and the longing ache of a lover who let her beloved go.

Later in the evening, wrapping myself in soft, fuzzy blankets and drinking vanilla chamomile tea mixed with a rather large shot of Maker's Mark to stave off any autumnal virus that might be lurking around, I pulled up my Netflix account and watched Cowboys and Angels which reviewers said was a nice, albeit cheesy, "chick flick". What can I say? I am a romantic and a push over for a good love story.

So there were definitely scenes that had enough cheese to make a pizza. But overall, I loved it! It was well done and the shots of the countryside in Utah were breathtaking. And the love story was beautiful ~ and amazingly for Hollywood ~ clean and closer to reality. But being a musicophile, I was struck most by the soundtrack. I searched everywhere, but could not find one.

However, another fan posted somewhere that he had bought Sasha Lazard's The Myth of Red as the song Angeli is feature in the film. What a voice! Myth is a great album along the lines of Mario Frangoulis or Amici Forever: classical opera mixed with pop ~ a genre I am particularly fond of.

So download these albums, make a cup of tea and relax with Glen, Marketa, and Sasha. It is the perfect day for it.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

The Taste of Autumn

The autumn leaves
Drift by my window;
The autumn leaves
Of red and gold.
~ Autumn Leaves

I woke up Saturday with rain a pounding a steady bluesy rhythm on the shingles. I sighed as I made a pot of Gingerbread Spice tea. Normally I enjoy a good rain. it enhances the coziness of being at home. But this Saturday I had plans to drive out to Delaplane with friends to pick pumpkins and revel in the fiery and golden mountainsides. Now we would have to come up with another way to get our autumn fix. I do not mind walking the fields in a light mist, but a relentless downpour is quite another!

My friends and I decided to spend the morning and early afternoon catching up on errands and what not and then convene at my place around five-thirty for dinner and pumpkin carving. The only requirement was that everyone had to buy their own pumpkins from the store [sigh] and bring a knife. [Mwhahahaha!]

The pumpkin is king of the fall vegetable garden. Its myriad shades of orange and gold and plump, meaty flesh fit right in with the textures and scents of the season: knobbly sweaters and fuzzy blankets; velvety cups of spiked apple cider and steaming bowls of soup. Being versatile vegetable , however, it is not afraid of starring in a custard as well as pie; a soup as well as a fresh-baked loaf of bread. It is a comfortable vegetable.

And one of my favorite comfort foods when evening temperatures suddenly drop is chili. It is economical to make, it is filling and it invites a crowd. And although I usually connect chili with snowy winter days , I recently discovered a recipe that included pumpkins and turkey. Now that combination screams autumn!

To prepare for our pumpkin massacre that evening, I shopped at the Falls Church Farmers' Market and picked up a Fairytale Sugar Pumpkin [they have such an interesting shape and colour!], a few green chilis, and some large, juicy tomatoes. Then I headed to the nearby grocery store to pick up ground turkey and fresh cilantro. Once I arrived back home, I picked the last of our green peppers and set about chopping vegetables and put them in a bowl while the turkey browned.

You will notice that the recipe does not call for juice of any kind: no tomato juice or apple juice or liquid of any kind. I was wondering how this was going to turn out to be chili without it but my fears were unfounded. The ripe, diced tomatoes plus the pureed pumpkin create their own "soup" base. With several dashes of curry and ginger added, and a bowl of sour cream and a plate of freshly grated cheddar on the table, a simple but hearty dinner was ready by the time my friends arrived, pumpkin victims in tow.

Now all that's left to do is dry out the pumpkin seeds and roast them!

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Sanctuary!

Beauty of style and harmony and grace and good rhythm depend on simplicity.
~ Plato

Whether feng shui is real or not, one thing is certain: once I re-arranged my boudoir last weekend, my mood immediately lightened, my soul was inspired and my writing vastly improved. The upside to living with a houseful of women is the opportunity for authentic community and deep friendships. The downside is limited space.

Ideally, one's boudoir should be a sanctuary free of the trappings of the digital age: no phones, no computer. Nothing that whirs, wheezes, beeps or generally makes obnoxious "machiney" noises. However, when space is at a premium and one is an event planner, poet, composer, avid reader, and general social butterfly, the tools necessary for such talents and pastimes must be accommodated. So into my cranberry-coloured sanctuary, I crammed a writing desk, dressing table [where I actually do my correspondence], dresser, stereo, computer, several bookshelves stuffed with the likes of Austen, Lewis, Tolkien, Kreeft and the like and a full size bed. I know, I know ~ I hear designers fainting in horror all over the place. But my dears ~ what else can I do?! Throw out a housemate and take over her room?

It is fascinating how an intimate space can reflect the inhabitants personality or current state of mind. One housemate keeps her room super organized and tidy. No frills and just what she needs in it ~ nothing more, nothing less. It reflects a side of her personality to a tee: pragmatic and efficient and always looking to improve her life and live as simply as possible. Yet, a cozy chair in one corner invites confidences and an attentive ear always ready to listen to the latest tale of woe and heartbreak. Another housemate always seems to have paperwork all over her room and sure enough, she is constantly looking to learn more about herself and life in general and an eagerness to share what she has learned along the journey.

And my room? Ah ~ at once very sanguine and melancholic: definitely a mirror of its bohemian occupant. Perhaps one would deduce a penchant for the romantic and slightly breathless and scattered from the various piles of clothes in different corners [Oh? So you don't try something on and it not fit your mood? I only have so much time in the morning to face the world with grace and awesomeness!] But amidst the ordered chaos I think you can also discern warmth, comfort and an overall invitation to relax and be at peace. A place where beauty and function co-exist. A harbor from which to sail on to the next great adventure. And isn't that what one's room should be after all? Sanctuary.

What does your room say about you?

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Ad Libbing Beauty

When the faithful gather to celebrate the work of our Redemption, the language of their prayer - free from doctrinal ambiguity and ideological influence - should foster the dignity and beauty of the celebration itself, while faithfully expressing the Church's faith and unity.
~ John Paul II

Sigh. I just do not understand it. I forewent my usual attendance at St. John's Tridentine Mass [my first mistake] today and instead attended a Novus Ordo Mass at a local parish. When the organ began playing What Wondrous Love Is This for the Processional, I thought I was safe and could relax.

But then Father started off the Mass by rambling something that no one knew how to respond to. So we stumbled and hemmed and hawed and finally responded "And also with you?" with a question in our voices. Granted this priest was somewhere in his early to mid-sixities, so perhaps he was stuck in a liturigcal time vortex where the Mass is a form of entertainment and ad libbing and improv is encouraged to "engage" audience "participation." But this invariably turns out awful to the ear and painful to the soul. Half-way through the homily ~ which had some good points, but they were lost in the thicket of rambling ad-libbing ~ I wanted to pull my mantilla off and run groaning out of the church. This was obviously not an option, so I tried praying a prayer of thanksgiving that I was able to attend Mass at all, rambling or not.

And reminding myself to not forego St. John the Beloved again.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Love Is Kind

Don’t flatter yourself that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. The nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become.
~ Oliver Wendall Holmes

Common courtesy is not so common anymore. The little polite phrases most of us were taught as children have all but disappeared from our daily conversations and interactions. Why have we stopped being polite to one another? I have addressed this topic before ~ focusing more on courtesy to strangers; now I wish to bring it a little closer to home and discuss proper behaviour towards loved ones.

One would think that such a discussion would not be needed; treating loved ones well seems so obvious. Sadly, such is not the case. Recently, this was brought home to me as I was the recipient on two separate occasions of very wounding and outright rude comments made to me by people I trusted. And while being on this side of the curtain now, I am sure that being a fallen human being, I have likewise said rude and hurtful things to friends and loved ones in the past as well.

Why do we do this? Now, one could posit that I was hurt because the words were spoken by those whose affection and good opinion I desire ~ the heart feels safe in the presence of loved ones and so does not protect itself as it does with strangers. While there is truth to that, in both these cases, the hurtful words I experienced no lady or gentleman would ever speak to anyone, let alone a dear friend or potential girlfriend. They are things that just are not said in polite company. Again, why do we do this? Does familiarity truly breed contempt?

Or perhaps, as Oliver Wendall Holmes points out, we somehow feel justified in “speaking our minds.” Things may be topsy-turvy these days, but I am pretty sure imprudent speech is still a vice and not a virtue. It is one thing to take a loved one aside and caution them about some potentially dangerous behavior [and even then, such ‘fraternal correction’ should be done with love, humility, tact and kindness]. It is quite another to make rude comments about their person, appearance, character and otherwise treat them as a comfortable old shoe. And old shoe you step on and throw into the corner after a long day. We should never be that comfortable with a loved one. If we would never think of saying X to a stranger lest we give offense, how much more careful should we be with the vulnerability of our loved ones, who have trusted us and let us in where no other may enter, save perhaps God.

Society today so abhors formality ~ but formality and courtesy are not the same thing. One can be exceedingly formal and still ride roughshod over everyone’s feelings. A friend once remarked that he was fine with throwing out archaic rules of etiquette as long as new ones were created in their place. Our society did one without doing the other and culture has suffered as a consequence. Courtesy oils the wheels of daily life. It is difficult enough as it is ~ we go about our day battered by bosses, co-workers, and obliviously rude strangers on the train. At the very least, we should expect a little more kindness and warmth from our loved ones.

So the next time you feel the need to “speak honestly” to someone in a way that would be hurtful and pointless, don't.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

Stopping to Smell the Earl Grey

The atmosphere of home beats almost any other place.
~ Alexandra Stoddard

Sometimes you just need a slow morning. I needed one today. This morning, I woke up in plenty of time to catch the bus downtown, but all of a sudden I did not feel so well. So I called in and told them I would be in later. Then I promptly crawled back beneath the counterpane and snoozed for another solid forty-five minutes. I woke up refreshed and feeling a little better, made myself a cup of Earl Grey with local honey and fresh squeezed lemon juice. It was glorious.

Even better, I was able to indulge in the slower pace without guilt. There was nothing pressing at the office ~ everyone who usually needs me is away at a conference. I brought my little plaid tea cup upstairs to my cozy boudoir with its warm and cheery cranberry walls [don't let anyone tell you you can't paint your bedroom red ~ it is fabulous!], lit a deliciously scented candle and sat down to catch up on my personal coorespondance. When I was ready to head in, I felt better not only physically, but mentally, emotionally and spiritually as well. And it showed as I smiled more readily and greeted strangers I met in the bus, the train and on the street.

Granted not every morning can be spent in such a leisurely fashion. Or can it? Is it possible to excuse oneself from the insanity that passes for living these days? How does one deal with the million and one duties that claim our attention and make a slower lifestyle seem like an unattainable dream? Becuase you and I may be forced by current economics to live somewhere other than a bucolic small town, but that does not mean we cannot live like we do. For the past seven years, I bought into the smoke and mirros lifestyle that is part and parcel of the Washington area. But no more!

So, how do we slow things down? Perhaps it means rising a little earlier than usual [O! Perish the thought!] in order to relax with a cup of tea and your coorespondance. Maybe there is an hour or two in the evenings when you can make an appointment with yourself, close the door and do something creative, or take a bubble bath or read a book of Keats' poetry or do nothing at all! Personally, I am not at my best before nine in the morning. But after nine-thirty in the evening, I light a couple of candles, put Pandora on either my Josh Groban or Frank Sinatra station and read, write letters, work on poetry or a new song. I am always amazed at the energy and healing that takes place when you just slow things down to a more normal speed.

Because I assure you, my dear readers, that the current pace we are living cannot be sustained without some insanity creeping in. It is not normal and it is not healthy. And it does not have to be that way ~ no matter where we live.

Oremus pro invicem,

~ Mikaela

Auditions Announced: St.Cecilia's Arts Festival

"Piano Jazz" by Brent Heighton
The St. Cecilia Group announces auditions for

The Sixth Annual St. Cecilia’s Arts Festival

Saturday, October 3rd from 10am - 1pm

and

Wednesday, October 7th from 7pm to 9pm

BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

Show will perform Saturday, 21 November 2009 at the Lyceum at St. Mary’s in Old Towne Alexandria. Musicians and Singers: Please prepare 32 bars of the piece you will be performing and bring accompaniment on CD if needed. Actors and Poets: Please prepare 16 lines from poem or monologue you intend to perform.

To schedule an audition, please contact Mikaela D’Eigh, Artistic Director at mdeigh (at) gmail (dot) com.

Summer Harvest

Earth here is so kind, that just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest. ~ Douglas William Jerrold

It enveloped me as I climbed out of the car on Friday evening, road-weary and exhausted. Tired as I was, I could not fail to appreciate such a glorious summer night: warm, soft and sweet. Slowly, I drew in a deep breath and was immediately intoxicated by the scent of fresh mown fields, gently waving maples and pines and an unknown flower. As I closed my eyes and tilted my face towards the clear night sky, the few cars on the road could not drown out the nearby crickets’ song or the warbling harmony of frogs on a distant pond. I opened my eyes again to the welcoming wink of dozens of lightening bugs and the road-weariness slipped away as I headed towards the back door of my childhood home.

It felt good to be back. More than good ~ it was soul-satisfying. Circumstances at work and at home had kept me away since mid May, but I had finally managed to make it down. This trip was particularly bittersweet as I was bidding farewell to a dear family friend who is being deployed to Afghanistan in a few weeks.

On Saturday, I headed out to perhaps my third favorite spot on earth: Westmoreland Berry Farm. Once again, it did not disappoint me. Blackberry season is still going strong and the bushes were encrusted with large, dark gems the size of a small Roma tomato. It was hot and humid and I made the mistake of leaving the house a little late. Needless to say, by the time I finished filling my fourth seven pound bucket, the sun was directly above me, I was exceedingly tanned and feeling the tiniest bit grumpy from lack of hydration.

But it was worth it. The satisfaction that comes from picking the fruit oneself, in the midday heat, dodging June bugs and stepping gingerly around honey bees and having the most interesting conversation with a gorgeous snake doctor [i.e. dragon fly] ~ who I swear listened intelligently to my every word ~ made the pricked fingers, scratched arms and humidity-drenched skin a relatively cheap price to pay. And once I pop those same blackberries into a heavenly cobbler, the discomfort of a few hours will be forgotten with one bite.

The raspberries I picked are another matter entirely. Have you ever picked raspberries? I had not until Saturday and I told the girl at the country store where I paid for my berries, that I now had a great appreciation for raspberries. Next time you think that $4.99 a pint is too much to pay for raspberries, think of this. Not only are they small and a pain in the backside to pick, one must also battle bumble bees! Thousands of them! All noisily climbing in and out of tiny flowers on the raspberry bushes. I guessed correctly that the best time to pick raspberries was at six-thirty in the morning before the bees are awake and alert.

My berry-picking adventure this summer was not merely one of getting delightfully entangled in the arms of nature or returning to the slow rhythm of the country pace. I also learned something as I worked my solitary way down the rows. The juiciest, largest and ripest berries were almost always hidden underneath the largest clump of leaves and more often than not, on the prickliest branches. If I walked by too quickly, I missed them. Life and love are like that I think: if we hurry by, focused solely on our work or our daily, mundane duties, we miss out on the best and most beautiful moments and people. And be honest ~ what really is your hurry? The work will still be there; the meeting will go one without you; the world will not collapse if you do not get to the pile of laundry today. But someone may need a word of encouragement, a hug of sympathy, a listening ear or just a simple smile. What an incredible relationship you would miss out on by walking by! This week, reschedule that meeting, ignore the laundry and get out and enjoy nature and your community.

And then stop by for some cobbler.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Bear Climbed Over the Mountain: Final

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing which stands in their way.
~ William Blake

We spent more time climbing over boulders the size of small elephants, taking pictures and “drinking it in with our spirit.” Then we turned around and climbed back up and made our way to the trail.

The trees in Swallow Falls Park are royalty. The majority are hemlock and white pine and most are over three hundred years old. The branches of the hemlock resemble lace ~ feathery and delicate. Touching the trunk of one such hemlock, I closed my eyes and was instantly standing in a virgin forest on the brink of discovery, the sound of both pioneer and moccasined feet approaching in the distance. I opened them again and almost wept in disappointment over being stuck in the twenty-first century.

I enjoy the convenience of hot showers, electricity and the ability to speak to loved ones miles away in an instance. But modern man is lacking. He has lost touch with his soul and a sense of the Divine. With that goes his respect for the beauty of creation and the duty to preserve it for the next generation. Thankfully, no all are lost and so we have state and national parks, which are preserved from the plundering of fool and knaves.

The sheer magnitude of the boulders jutting out over the trail continued to astound me. Some appeared to balance by an invisible thread, while others looked like giants had played a game of dominos. They exuded an unearthly quality. I was reminded of the standing stones of Avebury. Oh, to step into the Tardis and be there when they first broke off and fell to their current, moss-covered resting places!

We had not gone more than a few paces, when we veered off the trail again ~ this time to make our way over the rocky giants in the middle of the Youghigheny River. While Ames, Aurelius and Jeanette alternately skipped stones and threw basketball-sized rocks into the river, Marly and I lay on a flat rock smack dab in the middle and watched tiny whirlpools form and disintegrate around us. The science of it eluded us, but we remained there transfixed, laughing like children as we stuck our hands into the miniature vortex.

Everywhere, besides the rhododendrons, were mounds of lush green moss. It was detailed and felt rather stiff, unlike other types of moss I have encountered. It looked almost like a pine tree branch in miniature. The feeling of timelessness continued to envelope me as we hiked up the Youghigheny River. I wanted nothing more than to stay alongside her banks, exploring every nook and cranny. But around about then, yours truly began wishing she had packed at least one protein bar.

I was not a Brownie/Girl Scout long enough to learn the mantra of always “be prepared.” We had enjoyed a substantial lunch (Marly prepared her famous stuffed sandwiches) and had not thought I would be hungry again. But none of us had counted on being enmeshed in the beauty of our surroundings to the extent that it was now fast approaching supper time. However, I had not come all this way to let a little hypo-ness cut short our hike. There were still more falls to see. So on we trekked.

Swallow Falls was a little less exciting than Muddy Creek ~ but I will allow that I was really hungry by then and although I had voted to complete the rest of the loop, I no longer lingered. The amount of more scantily clad people doing belly-flops may have also had something to do with my reluctance to linger and gaze at the falls. There is a place for everything, including belly-flops. But here in this magnificent place, it just seemed just a little. . .crass.

And then we arrived at the last set of falls ~ Tolliver Falls. When we started at Muddy Creek, and I found out that they were tallest falls in Maryland, I wished we had began the trail from the other end ~ so as to build up to seeing the more majestic falls. But somehow, coming up Tolliver Falls at the end was the perfect ending. There was no one else around; the falls were tiny and the pool tranquil. I plucked a rhododendron leaf and placed it in the pool as an offering to Titania or perhaps the descendants of Galadriel. Adding to the air of mystery, was the distinct sound of music. It seemed to come from both far away and somewhere deep within the earth. We stood mesmerized and curious as we watched the water spill over ancient rocks and decaying logs, the spaces between giving back melodic sounds. Who was it that said music is the space between the notes??

Three days is just not enough time to take all the beauty that Garrett County has to offer and we are already planning a return trip either in the Fall [the colour there must be eye-popping] or in February [which is their busy season]. I cannot wait.

Titania and Galadriel and their subjects are waiting for me.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Bear Went Over the Mountain: Part Two

The bigger stones give it character. The rock is what makes this waterfall.

~ Paul Collins

The whole reason we ended up in Deep Creek Lake to begin with was because a few years ago I came across a magazine article about the waterfalls in Garrett County. I had long since forgotten the magazine and the county name, but I knew it was somewhere in the far western part of Maryland. Thank goodness for Google!

So, now the love story [I told you I fell in love with a park]. Friday, we lazed around quite a bit (after a couple of us got our morning jogs and planks in) and then headed off to Swallow Falls State Park.

I love waterfalls. Granted, I have not seen many of them to date, but I certainly love the idea of them. There is something timeless, powerful and romantic ~ in the Byronic sense, not the tingly-luhv sense ~ about waterfalls that has always fascinated me. And now I was going to experience them up close and personal.

The map said that the trail began just past Muddy Creek Falls, so we headed in that direction. The Muddy Creek Falls are the tallest (measuring fifty-three feet) in the state of Maryland. It is the most incredible feeling, to stand on top of the falls, no more than a few feet from the edge and look down into the spray of icy cold whiteness as it pounds the rocks below. No fences. No guardrails. Just nature ~ unbound and unveiled. There is nothing lovelier.

Garrett County receives more snow fall than Fairbanks, Alaska, so I can only imagine Muddy Creek turns into a roaring Mr. Hyde of itself when the snow melts. When we were there, however, we saw only little pools etched into the smooth, flat stone at the top that told us the water level is usually much higher. I do not know how long our party stayed on top of Muddy Creek ~ time seemed to be in slow motion and there was just you, and the Falls and the moss-covered banks and an endless sapphire-blue sky. All I can say is God is an amazing artist and I gave myself over to embracing this particular canvas.

My fellow travelers and I took our shoes and socks off and stepped into water. Whew! Ice. Cold. And I mean ice. It felt wonderful. What struck me most was the power. You know the old cliché: still waters run deep. Well, these waters were not still. And where I was standing, it was not very deep. But the immense power of the current whipped my breath away. If it were deeper, it would have swept me along and over the edge. But even so, I felt profound respect and caution for the invisible power coursing over my ankles.

I did not want to leave; if we had spent our entire weekend just at the top of Muddy Creek Falls, I would have been content. (If I ever get married, I want to honeymoon there; yes, it is THAT awesome.) However, there was still a mile of trail to hike and three more falls to see, so we made our way down to the bottom of Muddy Creek. And promptly took a detour.

The bottom of the Falls is difficult to describe. I suppose it is technically part of the river bed. But it is completely made up of huge boulders. The Falls end in a small but deep pool surrounded by medium to large rocks. Several local teenagers use it as their watering hole ~ several, rather scantily clad ones were diving off the bottom-most rock shelf of the falls. It was the only blot on the landscape while we were there.

We made our way carefully over the boulders and down towards the very bottom of the river, where it forked and joined the Youghigeny River. The entire left bank of the river was covered with rhododendrons. I had never seen so many rhoadies in one spot and I certainly did not know they grew wild. You can take the Bahamas and any number of resorts: this is Paradise.

To be continued. . . . .

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela

The Bear Went Over the Mountain: Part One

Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home.
~ John Muir

Never has a truer word been spoken. And to think Muir penned those words in the 1800s ~ certainly not a time we in the twenty-first century think of as being “nerve-shaken.” Ahhh, yes ~ some things never change, do they?

As regular readers know, a small group of friends and I vacation together every year. In 2007 we stayed on the coast of New Hampshire, eating lobstah and wading in the ice-cold ocean. 2008 saw us in a cabin in West Virginia, which touts itself as being “almost heaven” and I would definitely concur. This year, we decided to stay local again, but went a little farther north. And I fell madly in love. With a park.

More on that later. We arrived while it was still daylight on Thursday. We were staying in a rental cabin this time (no house sound system, alas), and while it was comfortable and cozy, we hardly saw it the four days we were there. There was ust too much to do and see ~ and we did not see nearly as much if we had stayed more than four days.

After dumping our bags off, we trolled into the little town of Deep Creek for dinner. Somewhere, someone had read that the Black Bear Tavern was a good place to eat.

Wherever that was written and whoever wrote it must have had no tastebuds.

Ok, fine. I admit it ~ I am foodie. I have champagne taste and an imported beer budget. I use local, fresh Blue Ridge Dairy butter to cook my local, organic filet mignons. I have friends from New York City bring me a pound of Bayley Hazen blue cheese from Jasper Hills Farms whenever they come to visit, because regular blue cheese just isn’t the same. I am a foodie ~ hear me cook and relish!

I ordered a crab cake. It is Maryland, right? Maryland is known for its crab cakes. I should have had a clue when I asked the waitress if the fresh-water fish on their menu had been caught in the 3900 acre Deep Creek Lake and she said they flew their fish in. I ordered the crab cake anyway. I figured even though we were in the mountains, it was still Maryland and that meant it did not have too far to fly.

The crab cake wept. It practically apologized to me for its sorry demeanor. I looked around at my fellow table-mates and all were having a similar experience with their dinners: uber salty and mediocre. There was much ego stroking as one by one they expressed their anticipation of dinner on Friday as I would be cooking. Did I ever tell you musicians need love? Well, they do and so do cooks. ;-) We live in fear that someone will not eat our creations! I do not think this cook was living in fear ~ I think they had stopped living altogether. All I can say about Black Bear Tavern is: WT heaven. And no, I am not going to spell that out for you, dear reader.

Tomorrow: pictures and more thoughts on the trip.

Oremus pro invicem,
~ Mikaela