Mathew, Mark, Luke and John. Where's Paul?

That was my first question as I began yet another article in the New Yorker, this one on Paul, from the Bible. As a person of Sunday school - student or teacher - from three years of age until I went to college, I was appalled that I couldn't place him. I once had to memorize all the books from the New Testament.* Going to the black box, I found my answer.

Whew. While not much of a believer any more, I thought I still had some basic knowledge. After reading this morning, I'd like to say I have lots more, but really, test me in a week and I won't remember a lot of it, just the thought that it was a history or comparison of various works on how and why Paul was so important. And I can't even explain that now. 

What I came away with was the wonder of it all, most specifically, that we humans want faith, belief in change, and love and compassion. 

If that came from Paul, good for Paul, even if he doesn't have a book named after him.

In Many, Not One

*Our church, when I was growing up, was more affiliated with the New rather than the fire and brimstone, going-to-hell-in-a-hand basket Old Testament. I knew some stories of the Old, of course, but really what I took away was the parables that were taught in the New. 

Painting and Prayer

I was looking forward to learning more about the painter of The Girl With the Pearl Earring when I began a review of a new book on Vermeer, but, of course, I came away with so much more. Interesting even if sometimes above me, it ended with a thought that left me thinking. Of course. 

Mulling the thought, I was drawn to the light shining on my geranium, the first flowers of the season of the overwintered pot. Light in Vermeer's time became light in my time. 

Vermeer: "Suffusion of Grace"

I Do That

 

All the time! Supposedly an intelligent person, I can't break a habit nor read PULL when it's right in front of me. 

Doh!

Party in Syracuse!

Yarn came to Funk 'n Waffles again this year, and again a group of us traveled the hour to spend an afternoon at the museum, with dinner at Dinosaur BBQ before an evening of great music and more fun back at the hotel. Telling a new friend I'd met and danced with and beside for a good share of the night, I realized this was my tenth concert for Yarn. It did not disappoint. 

Across from our hotel, but wall art was everywhere.

Sign and random chair at the water's edge.

Somehow I connected them and thought a story.

The next morning, meeting for a quick breakfast, with a trip to a record store and walkabout, we headed home, only to become derailed with a lunch break in Schenectady where I had the best chicken tenders with the best coating ever. 

Arriving home around three, we took a break for a few hours before heading to Hopshire for our usual Friday night music. Getting older? You bet. It took many of us two days before we'd caught up with our energy, but hey, so worth it. Memories made, laughter shared.

 

Second Trip, Good as the First!

Wishes

 

Reality

Where to Look?

Weather

Sleeping Cat

No Contest!

Sam Altman and Me

I take many photos of words. Quotes I love, passages that make me laugh (or cry) and statements that hit home. Words are our lifelines to the world but also to ourselves. 

Started an article in New Yorker about Sam Altman, the leader of ChatGPT, and I saw myself.  As usual, it was a one-off on his dress attire, not his knowledge of computers or his business savvy, that resonated with me.

Altman connected his choices in what he wears to the stress in his life. It seems he wears the same color, gray, for his outfits. Not all the same gray, making a comment that even choosing between the different hues is hard for him. 

I'm not sure when I began having a 'uniform' but it happened sometime in the '80s. I was a teacher, and while I didn't go so far as one color, I did go to one look. In the beginning it was pencil skirts sewn by me with a top and 3 inch suede heels, matching the heels to the colors in the outfit. I had at least 12 pairs. 

From there, it was denim knee-length jumpers with turtlenecks, the denim being solids, plaids, flowers, different hues. Other looks were colored denim jeans - green, red, purple, and more - enough for two weeks or more of not wearing the same pair - before going to various corduroy jeans of various colors and finally, overalls, again various colors. For a number of years I wore the same black suede Maryjanes for shoes (still have them), until that became sneakers in the style of Rocket Dogs, again of colors to match the look. 

One year, a student dressed like me on Dress Like a Teacher Day, and another year I had the Home and Careers teacher use me as an example of finding one's style, which might be stretching the definition of style. 

Some years I laid out the whole week's worth of pants and shirts on Sunday night. I wanted no thought to my work attire. Today, subbing, I have broadened out (?!?) to jeans or cords, yes, you heard right, a choice. Not much of one but there you go. 

Did I ever go to one color? No.  And did I ever connect it to stress? No. But. 

I've often wondered why I did what I did. And not just in clothes. I did and do the same with lunches, breakfasts too. I don't like to have to think about choices. Related to stress? Maybe, but am I that stressed now that I'm retired? Not really. Sometimes I wonder what I do think about; I mean, all this nonthinking should leave me with lots of time, right?

Who knows why I do what I do. I do know, though, that I'm not making the world into one mega data center, using up energy for AI. Nor am I making more money than a person could ever need. Maybe my lack of decisions gives me more time to read, walk with friends, write, and enjoy life. I can sure hope it does.

Stylin'

Take a Minute

Spring comes one flower at a time. On the trail or at our steps, bushes of yellow forsythia everywhere or green sprouts of orange ditch lilies to come, it's a joy to witness. 

Red Trillium

Lenten rose

Sun and warmth are fickle in April; one day cold and dreary while another day blue and bright, we look for signs of hope. Nature waits not for the perfect day to bloom but for its internal clock to tell it's time. We humans rely not, believe not. We need external harbingers. Flowers are that. 

And, no surprise, not only a joy but good medicine for the soul. Just as I take photos every year in early spring, so too does the media remind us of how beneficial they are. 

I don't stop and smell but stop and look. Good enough? I think so. 

Enjoy the Flowers

Life Can Be So Crazy

And predictable. This cartoon was exactly what I said walking on Sunday. Diverting, distracting and misdirecting, that's what we think of when this administration speak. Never do we think, "Ah, finally doing something for the good of the basic American." Never.

It'd be just like the idiots in the White House to use Epstein to make us blink on Iran. Well, so they think, and some might, but so many (not indoctrinated) won't. 

In the White House

What's better Than One?

Two. Two pileated woodpeckers flitting around the yard! I tried to get them at a tree stump, one on either side, but they were behind another tree and then went  flitting from tree to tree. I couldn't get a bead on them. Finally quit on getting both and thought I'll try for a shot of each. 

Looking at my one good-enough photo, what did my wondering eyes see? 

Two!

A+

"Support Your Local Wildlife." So read a sign on the way to volleyball. Standing at the corner was a man with a guitar. I'd never seen him before. He made no mention of his woes or of god. Just wildlife.

For creativity, neatness, presentation and humor (always the teacher), I gave a gift, telling him how much I liked the sign. He smiled; we drove on. 

Effort Counts

Ps. Another wonderful sign. I stopped because the sentiment was unique - turning a seemingly negative word into a positive one - but also because I'd just heard of a cat who liked being put into the coat closet while dinner was being made. It seemed a perfect description.

The Way I'd Like to Go

From New Yorker, a recognition of a man’s passing. Back in the fall I’d read the journal entries they mention here, remembering the last one, and his last. To have lived a good life, doing what one loved, and still, at the end, able to acknowledge the problems but with grace, well, I can only hope.

Wouldn't That Be Wonderful?

To Endure

 The art of life is to know how to enjoy a little and to endure much. 

                                                                                                           ~ William Hazlitt, 1778-1830

I am struggling with technology at the schools. They keep changing access, and so, for the last three days I have spent my time losing it and getting nothing done. Actually, even worse. I wrote a post, worked diligently on it, finally got it right, and then lost it….for eternity. I’ve spent time with one who tried to help me yesterday and will now with another next period. I am frustrated to say the least.

But, even in this moment, there is much to enjoy. I’m in a room across from another. A sunflower hangs in the window. The empty room has a light shining on a beautiful orchid. 

To Enjoy

Then and Now

Taken from an op-ed in Vanity Fair, May 1927

e. e. cummings, one of my favorite poets, speaks from the grave. Taped to a wall in a high school classroom the other day I found words to ponder. We did move forward in 1927, and hopefully, we'll move forward again. 

But, if satire, is there hope there, or not? Hmm...

America

Ponder This

 

Words of wisdom. 

Calvin and Hobbes

Back to Brooksville

With the Brothers Comatose headlining Friday night, we were back to Florida for the last days of March. Sunny, hot and dry, it was a great place to have an early spring festival. All but one morning I had a fire. The quiet, the cool-enough-but-not-cold weather and the ability to watch the campground wake up was a wonderful way to begin my day. 

One morning, walking around the festival, I also found a tree of whimsy. A complement to one on our site, I enjoyed looking at all the trees that just wouldn't die. Let's hope they're a metaphor for nature's ability to keep on going even in the face of human denial of climate change.

Gawking the campsites and getting a walk in before the music, it was a way to get moving before all the sitting to be had later. 

The festival itself, having a new promoter and one known for promoting a bit different vibe, was okay. The day bands weren't the best and were overbooked so they were on stage a few different times. Also, while a dinner break is welcome, three hours isn't. 

But, the night? Those bands were varied and good. Along with the Brothers, there was Mason Via, Sister Sadie, and the Infamous Stringdusters. I liked them all. 

Added bonus, the guys found a person from Albino Skunk who had a photo of me from my time on stage with Comatose. I've got a goofy expression (of course), a beer in one hand, with the guitar in the other. In short, embarrassing but apt. 

What started out as an extravagance, going to Florida twice in one winter and this time just weeks after my trip to Mexico, now seems like a great way to finish out the dreary month of March! 

Friends, Fun and Music

A.Word.A.Day

On the way south to lots of fun, turpitude was the word of the day. I laughed as I read the story using it, because, of course, it was me at one point in my life. Well, sort of. 

After an overnight at a wedding, and feeling terrible the next day, I thought I'd over-served myself, but by the magical hour of 5pm, I felt even worse. 

At the hospital in trying to diagnosis me, they'd asked about beers. As it had been my first time in years without responsibilities and with the fun going long into the night, I told the nurse I'd had probably 10 to 12 beers, and again, with no one to take care of, a couple of hits, all told honestly to her, and then to the doctor. (An aside: When the doctor explained he was actually looking for harder drugs, I did ask if he could then erase my answer on pot, as it was still illegal at the time. I don't think he did.) 

It turned out to be appendicitis. It was caught in time and home I went after the surgery (and another story of a fall, my fault and no injuries.)

Later in talking to my nurse friends, I found out exactly what this story said, that medical people knew not to believe the patients. 

I was appalled. It's still funny to think that somewhere there could be a nurse and doctor and any others who think of me having had two dozen beers - an impossibility even for me who loves her beer!

I'd Told the Truth