Photo attempts

Here are some pictures of flowers I've taken over the last few months in my travels. Some are good, others, you can just tell what they are. They are actually easier to see well if you click on them to make them larger. I enjoyed taking them and I hope you enjoy looking at them.

Lily pond at Mission San Juan Capistrano.

Hibiscus at the Mission

Mandeville in our backyard

I saw this odd flower on a very fuzzy big-leafed plant

up at Lake Gregory, Crestline.

A pumpkin blossom in my garden

Solucia, Branson Missouri

These are some sort of Calla Lily

Prospect Park, Redlands

On the vacation trail

Sam and I have had the pleasure of having a visit from my cousins from New England. (Their pictures aren't on here since we don't have permission to use them here). Here is a shot from our cruise out into the bay at Long Beach.

We also took a great stroll along the Promenade at Santa Monica. There were three huge vine-covered dinosaurs with menacing looking metal sculpted heads. You can see one of them spewing water directly behind us.

We had a nice little jaunt up to Jenks Lake in the Angeles Oaks area of the San Bernardino National Forest. The lake was like a mirror and the temperature was a mild 69 degrees, while the valley was burning up in 99 degree heat.

Here I am trying to get back to the days when I ambled up and down mountains, conquering peaks and feeling immortal. Ha! Here I am wondering if I will slide off into the algae or sink into the hollow log.

Overall, it was a wonderful few days with family. We have vowed to do a lot more of these short day trips. It helps to go back to work with a new perspective, even if the break was only a few days.

Day Trip

We decided to take a drive this afternoon so I could introduce Sam to Pine Springs Ranch up in Idylwild. I used to drive up there when I lived here in the early '80s and I wanted Sam to see where I'd done some silent retreats and where some of my first speaking appointments took place. So we took off up the mountain.

You can see where some fires burned at the side of the road. This was on Interstate-10 out toward Palm Springs.

It was about 100 degrees up there and the sun was blazing down mercilessly, so we didn't stay there very long. We would have melted. The receptionist at the camp told us that the road down the back way home--via Hemet--was closed due to fire. We had the choice to either go back over those challenging mountain turns all the way back to the Interstate, or we could follow Route 74 over toward Palm Desert on a road unknown. We took that road less traveled and it was a wonderful albeit, a lengthy drive. The terrain changed from tall, stately pine trees to scruffy Manzanita bushes and finally, the rocky, dry terrain that you can see in the above picture. If you click on the picture and look closely, you can see the highway winding back and forth as it goes down the mountainside.

We stopped and took a picture of ourselves on a Vista Point. We were unsure what there was to see except for rocks, sand, and the rare boulder.

It was a terrific drive and a delightful time to get to be together.

Life Goes On

I was thinking today, as I watched part of the tributes given to Ted Kennedy, how life keeps going on even after people die. The tributes that I heard were humorous and touching. The camera panned over the Kennedy family and I could see traces of Bobby, Ted, and Jack in the faces that were present. Their lives go on in their likenesses and traits of those whom they have left behind.

It made me wonder what traits and characteristics I have taken from my father. Now, three years after his death I see myself saying and doing things that sometimes remind me of him. I'm not nearly as close to the way he was as my younger brother is. Their voices sound the same and they both have that John Wayne curl of the lip and swagger, ready for a good fight. And their humor is quite similar--except Brother is hysterical and Daddy was corny most of the time.

So now I'm thinking about what I will leave behind and more than that, who will be the ones who carry on anything at all from me. That would be my students and my neice and nephew. But I hope I can also pass along these lilies to whomever will have them when the time comes. You see, they are from my great-grandmother's garden in Chittenango, New York.

She gave these lilies to my grandmother, Nana, at some point when she and my grandfather had a home in Manlius, New York. They were up against the house and I remember looking at them, all lush and green in the shade. They were also in the back yard under the trees. When Nana died and the house was up for sale, Mother made sure that she dug up a few of Nana's lilies to keep her memory alive. They were at the side of the house for many years.

When I finally had a home of my own in Indiana, I needed hosta lilies to go up against the front of my house in the shade. So on a trip to New York, I dug up five of Nana's lilies that Mother had and brought them back to Indiana. They went into the ground and thrived. But only for one year, because I had to dig them up and carry them off to Washington where we lived for two years. They resided in the back of the house in the shade. Mother asked me if they had ever bloomed, but they hadn't. They just must not have had the right soil or light there.

When we moved down here to Southern California, I dug up Nana's lilies and put them in an old enamel wash tub to bring them here in the back of our car. When we pulled into the hotel for the night, I made sure they were watered and not too hot. As we got closer to California, I began to worry that we wouldn't be able to get them across the border because of the agricultural restrictions.

We came up to the agricultural checkpoint and it was closed! We sailed right on through. Nana's lilies came to live on our back porch in two big pots for two years. They were either too hot, too dry, or in too much sun, so they didn't do too much for us. It was a major feat just to keep them alive. One doesn't see these kinds of lilies out here in this arid climate very often, so it was likely that they could die without constant attention.

When we moved to our current house, I was thrilled that Nana's lilies would finally have a home. We have a shady spot in the front garden under the front window where I put them in amongst a philadendron, calla lilies and star gazer lilies. The sprinkler keeps them moist and they get just about an hour of sun a day--it is just right. What a shock to come home last week and see that not one lily, but all of my lilies have buds on them. The bloom you see above, is the first blossom of this plant since it was dug up from Mother's garden six years ago. I am so delighted to have something of my Nana and her mother, as well as from my parent's wonderful country home--all right here in my garden.
As I contemplate leaving influence, experiences, and what I am, behind for others to whom any of it will be useful, I look at Nana's lillies and know that beauty and dear memories can continue on even in the absence of those who were once here.

A wonderful weekend!

Make a Smilebox scrapbook

Bizarro

Have I mentioned my before, my belief that some people are stranger than strange?
I attended a funeral this evening and much of it was shocking. One of the dead man's sons launched into what seemed to be an esoteric political satire-esque type of tribute to his father. Among his statements, in which he proudly called his deceased father a heretic, he recounted that his father had died alone, a victim of some sort of ---I don't even know what the word was that he used. Some kind of political system or something. He ended with a shouted sentence that only the very erudite understood. One man sitting in my row with two doctoral degrees, guffawed. I had no idea what he was talking about, and I'm no dunce. It was such a shocking display that I looked at the floor, concerned for what else this son might yell out if provoked.

Another son who seemed opposite tempered from his younger shouter, seemed stilted and rather religious. He gave a tribute to his father that went on and on, complete with obscure stories of his father's childhood. They were so obscure that few people laughed, although the son thought they were quite funny. He seemed to have little personal to say about his father, calling him by his given name, not "Dad." Until the very end of his 10 minute speech.

A third son spoke warmly and the most sensibly about his father, calling him "Dad," and saying how much he loved and missed him. He was the most sane presenter the whole evening.

Perhaps the signature atrocity was the homily. It was given by a man who is extremely intelligent (read, high IQ) but not terribly attuned to people (read, low emotional intelligence--EQ). He started out by making three "confessions," as he called them:
1. If this man died alone, it was not the fault of hospice. People should just call these folks earlier and get them involved with their loved one earlier on. Everyone got tense when he said that.
2. He then discussed the ethical issues when an individual no longer "knows they're alive and they don't want food or water." He gave the assurance that it was fine to withdraw food and water at that point in order to allow them a "good death." That seemed a bit insensitive, given that no one knew what had really happened at the end of this dear man's confused life (he had severe senile dementia). But given that this man had already rebutted one son's perspective about hospice care, what was one more surprising comment?
3. He then said, "Sitting on my right and your left is Dr. Barbara Couden Hernandez" (I almost fell through the floor. What on earth?) "Her research is very important on this topic of people who have to watch others slowly die and their experience of ambiguous loss. You will want to follow her writings and research--very important." I could hardly breathe, I was so stunned at how inappropriate this comment was at such an occasion.
Then off he went into a tangled web of a homily. At one point he said, "I don't know if [the deceased] has any money and who will get it." I could hear someone in the family behind me gasp softly. He continued, "I don't know who will get [the dead man's] books. Save the ones with his personal notes in the margins and give the rest to Goodwill." Now why would someone weigh in so boldly on such a private matter?
This man was so far out in left field as he meandered through the field of grief, kicking every sacred cow within reach. At the end, he did segue into the final congregational hymn, but as I looked around behind me, everyone looked pretty disconcerted.

What ever happened to good, old-fashioned, halting but heartfelt comments about how much the dead person is loved and will be missed? Why not refer to scriptural passages that provide comfort in the face of grief and loss? We got served up a confusing tangle of platitudes and esoteric musings. Lord, preserve me from having anyone like that rattle on when I am the one in The Box!

Live Entertainment

I am sitting here in the den working on a talk for this weekend. Suddenly, there was a flurry of wings and several sparrows flew into the sliding glass window. They seemed to be in a hurry to get away from something. Something indeed! A young hawk had just flown into the yard and sat perched on the edge of the fence. I've been watching him for several minutes now. He appears to be a red-tailed hawk and is about a foot high from tail feathers to his head.
He isn't very noble, actually.
He's a teenage hawk.
This little guy is wobbly, trying to keep his balance on the fence. When he scratches himself he looks like he might fall off into my lavender below. I think his feet are cold because he keeps drawing one or the other of them up into his feathers and trying to stand on one leg. Perhaps this is "The Hawk Perch" that all adult hawks need to learn how to do in order to be cool. He is not very swift looking... He is quite a sight: a wobbling, bespeckled hawk, gawking around the yard, turning his head as though it is resting on a ball bearing. Very goofy looking as he scratches himself and sways to the left, nearly falling.
Such a teenager! All the equipment is there but he's not got command of it yet and he's still trying to figure out how to do all those things that adults do. He did scare the begeebies out of the birds in the yard, so he is an intimidating sight. But he's got a way to go before one would call him a proper, noble, fear-inspiring hawk.
Isn't it interesting how teenagers act the same way? He has speckles over his chest. Teens have spots on their faces. He looks a bit cuddly, as though he would be most comfortable cuddling up under his mother's feathers and his eyes look a bit sleepy. Not unlike the kids who, although they are out doing pretty interesting things in their techie lives, still want nothing more than to be close and comforted by their mom. They just don't often admit to it.
This guy finally swooped off across the neighbor's lawn and disappeared into the trees beyond. I hope he'll come back again. I'd like to see him again. It is fun to see how life develops over time.

Cat TV

Found here

My little Otis has seemed to be suffering from lassitude recently--if it is possible that a cat can experience more lassitude than he does. He has been wandering through the house meowing, listless, and bored. It seemed time to do something to bring variety to his life. But what? He can't go outside because he will run away.Otis is a cat who, when you open the door for him, looks up at the sky and takes off. He's afraid to be outside, for some reason. It could be that it's because he was found wandering as a kitten, and that's how I ended up with him four years ago. He may have deep psychological issues about this. Or, he might just be a ditzy cat. Always a possibility.

Anyhow, I decided that it would be a good thing to put a bird feeder outside the sliding glass window on the other side of his bed and his cat tree. Bingo!

Every morning, Otis reminds me to put out the birdseed--usually around 5:50 or so. As soon as it is out and the birds start coming to eat, he is crouched down by the window, partially obscured by his cat tree. He lies there with ears flattened to his head, only his eyes following the birds and his body perfectly still. Occasionally he lunges at the screen and they all flutter off. Then he turns and walks with an air of disinterest, toward his dish in the opposite direction. After a bite of food, he's sneaking back toward the window, around the ottoman, stealthily slinking up next to the couch. Plastering himself to the floor, he again inches toward the window, hiding behind the cat tree. There are dramatic moves from time to time on his part. And from time to time he swears at the sparrows and finches that squabble over the food dish, only a couple feet from Otis' squinty green eyes. To relieve his sense of impotence, he will dash straight up his cat tree and from the top, look down on his subjects.

Otis' cat TV has restored his interest in life. He is now more receptive to being petted, less clingy, and more energetic. And he sleeps better now, too. After all those adrenaline rushes he has in the morning watching the birds, he is worn out.

What a life!

Embarassed

Did you ever do something inadvertently that left you chagrinned, mortified, flummoxed, humiliated (did I get all the synonyms for this awful state?) Well I realized this weekend that I have been remiss in some major areas of my life. I was brought face to face with weaknesses of which I was unaware. You know, some things just slip by. It might be a character flaw, an annoying habit, a missed opportunity, something that hasn't been dealt with properly and that keeps popping up.

I collided with three of such instances in the last two days. What is of particular interest to me isn't necessarily the problem areas. I'm a smart girl and can figure out what to do about these things. But I'm struck with the perspective of being a performer of perfection vs. being a learn-as-you-go bumbler. The latter is how people gain more in life, even though it is a messy business sometimes.

I even tell my students this in class. "If you're having trouble with something, tell me what it is. Don't try to pretend that everything is fine and bluff your way through this class. If you give me work that demonstrates your area of challenge, then we can figure out how to help you improve if it is out in the open."

This is remniscent of voice master classes I've attended. Some renowned performer meets with singing students. The goal is for the more experienced singer to listen to the students and assist them with technique to get them past the areas of challenge. How do you think the singer can help? First, the error in voice production process has to get out in the open. The students come to master class prepared to sing a song that gives them problems in some way. Even though it is much more tempting to sing something that sits perfectly in one's voice, it is so much more productive to be prepared to fall flat in front of the singing guru. So when your voice cracks, or you run out of breath, or the quality of your voice changes over a passage when it shouldn't, and you know it will happen that way yet still perform it, other master class students are embarassed and think ill of you. How embarassing to look so bad in front of all those people! Yet after the singing teacher offers suggestion for how to eliminate the problem, you can sing forever without the hitch in the voice. Those students who bring one of their best pieces and who don't demonstrate any problem, really don't gain much from their performance except a pat on the back of their self-esteem and determination to hide their weak vocal proclivities.

Why is it so difficult to live life with our problems showing? Isn't every event in life an opportunity to learn, to improve, and to move ahead without the problem behavior? If we can just think of life more in terms of the voice master class, perhaps in the long run, what feels like glaring flaws, are only pointers toward self-improvement. Places for God's grace to be applied. Things to pray about and problem-solve. As a wonderfully wise woman told me once, "This is just one more time to realize how much God loves you."

The embarassment only comes when we assume that we should be perfect all the time, which is precisely what I do. There are expectations that at a certain point in life, we should have modulated behavior, impeccable manners, and full command of our emotions. There should be no unresolved issues from the past to rear up and create havoc for us. We should feel comfortable in our skin 100% of the time. It ain't necessarily so, from what I can see from my vantage point. It certainly isn't true of me.

It's all about keeping a humble, teachable spirit. Recognizing that we are all on a journey to become more developed, more like God.

These three issues that made themselves known this weekend are giving me the opportunity to do something about them, rather than muddle ahead in blissful ignorance.

Growth, not plastic perfection.

Sigh.

I have my work cut out for me!

A Pretty Day

Yesterday I received this email from a location abroad where a colleague and I will be presenting some lectures:

Pleasing to greet it and that to the Good is blessing

it God greatly in the work that comes realising.

That joy to again have it in our university

together with the students of the new group.

The reason for the present is for asking

for the complete name of the person who will come with you.

Dr. Hernandez, that it has a pretty day!

I showed it to Sam, who is a man of few words.
"Terrible everything," he said.

I'm still chuckling.

I remember one time when I had just learned the German art song, Das Erlkonig. This gripping story is one of intrigue and is very exciting to sing, especially in German, with fantastic sounding words adding to the emotional climate of the song. One can hear the hoofbeats in the pounding piano accompaniament--an image of furiously galloping horses to get away from this nightmarish apparition. The singer must imitate the sneaky Earlking, the frightened child, and the father as he tries to reassure the child that the Earlking could not hurt him. Particularly dramatic is last line sung about what happened when the man finally reached his destination:
"In seinen Armen das Kind war todt!" (You can see an inaccurate but interesting attempt to act out this song here).
Very proudly, I sang some of this for my German friends. It would be wonderful for them to see that I had some command of their language--I was decidedly not one of those dumb, monolingual Americans. As soon as the last tortured words were out of my mouth I realized that something was quite wrong. Uli was struggling to find just the right, neutral comments to acknowledge that I had sung in German without telling me that out-and-out, he couldn't understand much of it.
Andy, his brother, was a bit more forthcoming in a sweet way. "I could understand a few words, maybe."
I was absolutely mortified after such a proud display on my part.

This reminds me of being 10 years old and very keen on learning Spanish. Someone gave me an old Spanish language textbook and I was trying to teach myself to speak it. For some reason, it was easier to learn than other languages that I heard in our town: Italian, Polish, Korean and Russian. A lovely family moved to our little town and lived there for a couple years. They came from El Salvador, I think. They had two beautiful daughters, Betty and Eunice, who were about 10 years older than me and I thought they were the most lovely creatures I had ever met. Always smiling, delightfully gracious, and very talented.
After they left, I wrote Betty a long letter in Spanish. I told her all of the things that my limited language skills allowed me to: that I missed her and her family, that I was still studying Spanish, and that the flowers in the front of their house still bloomed, etc.
A couple weeks later I received a letter from Betty telling me all about her new home, etc.
In Spanish. I had to get out my little dictionary and look up everything, but everything couldn't be found.
Folded inside her letter was my miserable little letter to her--all marked up with a red pen. She had corrected all my errors. The whole page was one red blur. I was devastated that all the work I had been putting into learning a new language hadn't paid off the way I imagined it had. The letters got put in the bottom of a drawer and I never tried to speak the language again.
Silly me.
I wish someone would correct all of my miserable attempts to speak other languages now--they are laughable and in the U.S. we don't have the opportunity to learn languages like people in Europe or Asia do, crossing borders weekly into countries with different customs and languages.
Now I do have the opportunity to learn Spanish--and have had this opportunity in a very real way for the last six years in the person of Sam. Every now and again I try to say something to him, be it romantic, descriptive, or a casual comment. Mostly, it elicits a confused look from him. "What are you trying to say, honey?"

Bless the heart of this dear little university assistant who wrote me such a confusing email. She is trying, and that is more than I do.
I think I will study Spanish in earnest.

And yes, I will have a pretty day.