Bird's eye view and mine too

Some different photos from this past week--watching the magpies from my kitchen window congregate on the rooftops and chimney of the buildings across the street. And then watching the incredible cloud formations and the plane that made its way across them. 

Patterns and beauty

I took this photo of a halved red cabbage a while ago, and posted it on a photography blog that was active some years ago. I no longer post to it, but the other day, I received an email telling me that someone had commented on this older photo (see below). It was a very nice comment, telling me that it was 'great that I celebrated the red cabbage'. The commenter went on to tell me that her faith in God had been restored while chopping red cabbage, because of its sheer beauty, and that she was surprised that she had not noticed its beauty before, because here was the proof she needed that God existed. I agree. It is the lovely patterns in the cabbage that amaze me. Beauty in the humblest of things.

So much wild beauty at Rockwood

This past August, when I was driving around in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, I revisited Rockwood Hall State Park, which was simply Rockwood to us when we hung out there as teenagers. The park, which is located in the town of Sleepy Hollow, faces out onto the Hudson River; you can read more about its history here: http://www.nynjtc.org/hike/rockwood-hall-sleepy-hollow. I've written about Rockwood before in this blog, about how beautiful it was many years ago, and how if we just wanted to get away from it all for a few hours, that was the place we drove to so that we could walk and talk, especially during the summers. One of my last hikes through the park before I moved away from Tarrytown was during the early spring, when the grounds and trees were just starting to recover from a cold winter. The park hasn't changed much in all these years; in fact, if anything, it's more overgrown and wilder than it was before. One thing that was new was that there were wooden benches placed here and there for those who want to just sit and rest or read, as I saw one young man doing. But it's the wildness about it that I love--the overgrown bushes and trailing vines, the many trees, the open meadows, the lush greenery, and the gorgeous views of the Hudson River. I met one or two other visitors on my walk, but otherwise I had the park mostly to myself on this sunny August afternoon. I enjoyed being alone on a warm summer day, happy to be outdoors and to be back in a place that meant a lot to me as a teenager. I'm including some photos of Rockwood as it looked in August, as well as a photo collage of Rockwood from over thirty years ago, taken during the month of March.

Hudson River and view of the lovely Palisades

Tappan Zee Bridge in the distance

Remembering my mother on her birthday

Had my mother still been alive, today would have been her 94th birthday. Unfortunately, she passed away in 2001. The cause of death was sepsis, which is not a very uncommon cause of death among elderly people for reasons that are not well-known. My mother had been in very good health until she neared her 78^th year; I can recall only two times in her entire adult life when she was hospitalized, once for a viral infection in her middle ear, and the other for an operation to remove an inflamed appendix. When she was in her late seventies, she began to have problems with her back. She was eventually diagnosed with osteoarthritis of the spine, again, not an unexpected diagnosis for many of the elderly. Having been a great walker for most of her life, my guess is that she looked ahead and did not like what she saw—a future with limited opportunities for walking, perhaps the use of a wheelchair and/or walker—in short, a more restricted life than the one to which she was accustomed. She was independent and stubborn; when she was hospitalized initially for medical tests, she was in good spirits and was sure she would be able to return to her old life. Sadly, that was not the case. She ended up at a care center so that she could undergo physical therapy to get her back on her feet again. For some reason, she became quite stubborn (more so than usual) and refused that help. And that refusal was her undoing. Had she worked at her physical therapy, she might still be alive today. All these many years later, I understand that she simply could not accept the idea that she would be dependent upon anyone or anything, and the idea that she was suddenly infirm did not appeal to her. My mother had no patience for being old, for the various small irritations and physical limitations of old age. She was vehement about not giving in to old age. What is surprising is that she did not understand her role in her own recovery, even when it was explained to her; had she taken the reins and insisted upon therapy, had she done what it took to get better, she might still be alive. But she had no personal experience with chronic or long-term illness, even though she had taken care of my father, who had debilitating heart disease, until his death. Taking care of him had not prepared her for suddenly being afflicted herself. Her two brief hospital stays must have convinced her to get out of the hospital and back home as fast as possible. I understand her at the same time that I question her actions during the last few months of her life. But I accept what happened even though I don’t understand completely what happened.

In the intervening years, there have been other illnesses and deaths--family members and friends alike—and I have had a chance to witness first-hand how these people tackled the illnesses that preceded their deaths. Illness does some surprising things to people. Some of them simply accepted their diagnoses and the accompanying conditions, others fought against them. Those who fought were mostly younger or middle-aged people. I also know older people who have done what it takes to get well, who were assertive about getting back on their feet again; interestingly, they are still with us. I've also known older people who did what they had to do to get well, but death took them anyway. Along the way, I've learned that you simply cannot know how you would think or feel if faced with a similar situation. And until you step into the shoes of a person who is ill (with a terminal diagnosis or long-term illness) you have no real idea of what they’re going through. It’s best to be there for them, to help out, to listen, to advise when asked for advice, to offer hope, to be positive, even if we don't always understand their situation or their response to it. Not much more is asked of us. 

Hot air balloon flying over Oslo

I happened to be looking out my kitchen window late this afternoon, and I saw a hot air balloon straight ahead of me. On closer inspection with my new telephoto zoom camera lens, I saw that it was a commercial balloon advertising the company Steria, an information technology company with headquarters in France. It has operations in many different European countries, including Norway. I took a fair number of photos as it ascended and descended; at one point, as it passed by close to our apartment building, I could actually hear the noise of the hot air as it was vented. The photos I took are somewhat misleading and interesting as a result, as some of them look as though the balloon was actually in contact with an apartment building, a suspended wire of some kind, and a chimney stack. I was pleased that I was able to get some good photos as it passed by us. Here are some of them:

Thinking about waves...........

Thinking about waves this week, must be because I posted my new poem Wave yesterday. The word stays with me. And this song comes to mind---Waves by Mr. Probz. Enjoy........

Wave (a new poem)

In the autumn of her twenty-seventh year

Life took another road

As she remembers it

The darkness of discovery, the shock

The sheer affront of upset

Cast into an arena

From which she would emerge

Years later

Stronger, wiser

But not without those intervening times

That tossed her unprepared

Into a sea of angst

The need to change, how hard

To meet the onslaught of the waves

That threatened drowning at every turn

Labored breathing

Struggling to swim, not knowing how

Alone at sea

Sometimes in dreams

The waves were huge, tsunami-like

Rolling in over sea and land 

Nowhere to run

No land high enough to scramble to

Flooded, smacked flat

Watching from a distance

As the gray wild water roiled

Spitting, angry

Waiting for the wall of water

To roll over all in its path

Alone on land 

-------------------------------------------------

Copyright 2014

Paula M. De Angelis

Four songs by Deep Forest

This is a Deep Forest kind of day for me--I wanted to hear these songs again and to share them with you. They made such an unforgettable impression on me when I first heard them in the 1990s--reaching inside me to grab my heart. Enjoy........


Forest Hymn





The Sound of Africa





Sweet Lullaby





Night Bird

September update

For those of you who may be reading my blog for the first time, I sometimes use my blog to promote the books I've written. I haven't done that in a while, so today's post will be one of those times. I'm the author of two books of poetry and two books about modern workplaces. You'll find all my books here on my Amazon author page: http://www.amazon.com/PhD-Paula-M.-De-Angelis/e/B002BM8OLW

Thank you for your support and encouragement.

Twenty-seven years ago (a new poem)

Twenty-seven years ago

Wednesday early August

Left New York City for London

British Caledonian night flight

An airline that exists no longer

Her first trip abroad

Landed early morning Thursday

Her hotel on Charlwood Street

1850s building

Charming bed and breakfast

Recommended by student travel guide

Attic room with shower down the hallway

Almost Dickensian

Sunlit dining room on first floor

Her first English breakfast

Served by owners, Italian couple

Pork sausage, collar bacon, tomato, fried egg, toast, and marmalade

Had waited years for that

Anglophile parents leave their mark

English afternoon tea was yet to come

Plans to sightsee London

Friday morning bus tour atop a double-decker

Open upper deck, blue skies and puffy clouds

It mostly rains in Britain she was told

Not so when she was there

Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey

Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace

Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus

Then she commenced her walking tour

Through Hyde Park to Oxford Street

And then to Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square

Fed the pigeons at Trafalgar Square

Like so many other tourists

Heart-touched by that experience

Visited St. Martin in the Field Church

Near Trafalgar Square

With its bookstore in the crypt

And walked to Charing Cross Road

To see for real what she had only pictured

Since seeing 84 Charing Cross Road

With Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins

Down to the Thames River

To Cleopatra’s Needle

Found her way to Strand Street

St. Mary Le Strand Church

Met Kirsten the proprietor, lovely chat, lovely woman

Onward to Covent Garden to see the shops and bookstores

Then Parliament and Big Ben

Westminster Abbey--strange feeling standing on the graves

Of monks who suffered the Black Death

Lunch on the grass in St. James Park

Tomato, cucumber and cheese sandwich on Italian bread

Evening descended, daylight remained

Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square

Timothy Dalton’s Bond--The Living Daylights

Took a London-style black taxi back to Charlwood Street

A tourist in Britain

Early Saturday meet-up at Grosvenor Hotel

Bus tour 20 to Stonehenge, Salisbury and Bath

Twenty-three pounds took her to Salisbury Cathedral

Then on to Stonehenge in Wiltshire

Disappointed—small, too many tourists

Wanted vastness, overwhelming, otherworldly

Last stop Bath in southwest England

Hanging flower arrangements, beautiful

Ancient Roman Baths, ancient history

Thousands of years ago

Ate lunch in nearby restaurant

Lamb, potatoes, carrots and mint sauce, rice pudding for dessert

Back in London late

Took care of hotel reception, answered phones

For owners while they went out

Mutual trust felt safe

They looked out for her

Sunday morning train to Cambridge

From Liverpool Street Station

On her way to Cambridge University

Science conference with colleagues

Lovely ride through English countryside

Met Wynn from London, so kind

Her daughter and granddaughter in Cambridge

They drove her to the university

Lovely people in Britain, her father was right

He spent three wartime years in England

Conference registration at Corn Exchange

Large hall fit for meetings and concerts

Imagined farmers selling corn there

Dormitory room in Wolfson Building, monastic

Bed, desk, chair—little more than that

But more than enough for her

Meals in Trinity College dining hall

Sat at long wooden tables reminding of Oliver Twist

And later Harry Potter

Under the watchful gaze of Henry VIII

Beef in burgundy sauce, excellent wine

Post-dinner visit to Trinity College Pub with colleagues

No problem sleeping afterward

Five-day conference, a setting

No one could forget, ever

Home to brilliance in so many fields

Watson and Crick, Darwin, Hawking, Newton

Among the scientific luminaries

Mind-expanding atmosphere

Morning and evening talks, afternoons free

Pub life after hours, some great dinners and social life

Punting on the river Cam with colleagues

Climbing over a hundred steps in St. Mary’s Church bell tower

To see the city—breathtaking

Walking along the college backs, taking photos

Drinking afternoon tea at an outdoor café

Finally--scones and jam and clotted cream

What she’d dreamed about from early on

A tall blond man from northern Europe

Sat down next to her in St. John’s pub

Talked to her about sitting in churches to find peace

The darkness of the Cambridge streets

Kissed her when he walked her home

Still together

Twenty-seven years later

-----------------

Copyright 2014 Paula M. De Angelis

A visit to Duke Farms

Living overseas has its challenges, especially when it comes to visiting New York once a year. I usually make the trip back to my birth country and hometown during the summer months, and there are usually a myriad of places to go and people to see. Since I have limited time in New York, I have to plan how to use that time well. Every moment counts and I don’t want to spend my precious time doing things that are meaningless or that don’t give me joy. So I am together with the people who are dear to me, and I frequent those places that make me happy or that have the potential of doing so. In that way, I can include places I’ve never visited but want to visit in that category. Most of them are in New York State, but some of them are not. This year, on a hot sunny August day, I had the privilege of visiting Duke Farms in Hillsborough New Jersey together with my good friends Stef and John (married thirty-five years this year) who live in Hillsborough. We have talked about visiting Duke Farms together for a few years now; they’ve been there many times. Oddly enough, I lived near that area of New Jersey for four years before I moved to Oslo, but never visited Duke Farms before now. This year we managed a visit, and it was well-worth it, as the following photos will document. I include two links to Duke Farms here so that you can read more about this wonderful place: http://www.dukefarms.org and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duke_Farms

near entrance to Duke Farms

sycamore allée--Duke Farms

unsure what kind of bird this is

notice the frog sitting on the rock

algae-covered pond in background

the foundation for a mansion that JB Duke never built

dead tree in algae-covered lake

the Great Falls empty into Vista Lake (not much flowing water at the time this photo was taken)

Pride before a Fall

In the wake of your unbridled hubris

Lie the remains of those who sought to serve you

Misguided attempts to appease

The ever-growing monster that you are

When you have sucked dry the bones

Of those about you, what have you left

Where do you begin anew

What is next on your agenda of annihilation

Did you not seek the obliteration of your fellows

To enhance your own self view, pride-gorged

Did you not speak to them with a forked tongue

And wonder why they cursed you silently

How many have sat out into the universe

A curse upon you, a pox on everything you hold dear

Why do you deserve better than those around you

That you ate up and spit out like carrion

You are a monster with a pretty face

That now shows the ravages of time and defeat

You too will suffer scorn at the hands of those

Who come after you

One can only hope

That you suffer as you have made others suffer

That you feel the slings and arrows

Of repudiation and ill will, that you so richly deserve

copyright 2014

Paula M. De Angelis

--------------------------------------

A new poem, that will be part of a soon-to-be-published new collection. 

Realizations

When you’re on vacation, you have a real chance to take a good long look at your life and the world around you, to assess the strengths and weaknesses of choices you’ve made, and the advantages and disadvantages of living and working in a certain way. My recent vacation in New York State made me realize that I have reached a point in my life where I prefer small to large—small towns, small companies, and small groups of people I care about. The preference for small towns instead of big cities will surprise some people who know me, I’m sure. The largeness of city life no longer appeals to me the way it did when I was starting out in my career; city life energized me then, and that is perhaps as it should be. When you’re starting out, ‘the world is your oyster’, as the saying goes. I don’t know the origin of that quote, but it most likely has to do with opening an oyster and finding a pearl inside, or opening many oysters in the search for pearls. In any case, the world of a large city is amazing and attractive for its energy and excitement. New York City is a perfect example; at one time in my life I worked there and loved that time in my life. But I would not want to have that work experience again. I grew up in a small town--Tarrytown, and every time I return to it on my annual trips, I realize how lovely it is. Part of that has to do with its smallness; it is manageable and familiar to me, even though it is no longer the same town in which I grew up. I don’t require that at all. Nothing stays the same, so it would be a waste of time and energy to try to keep things from changing. In fact, I like the changes that my hometown has made; I like what it has become. It is a lovelier town, and I feel comfortable there, with the people, the atmosphere and the landscapes. As one of my friends said, it is a mixture of people from all walks of life. I like that—a microcosm of the world. In the same way, I have come to appreciate small companies and ventures. If I could, I would work for a small company rather than for a huge bureaucratic organization where you are just an employee number at best. That’s not to say that large companies don’t function well or that they don’t treat employees well, they can and they often do, but the work experience is impersonal and it’s tough to find people who care enough about your career for it to really make an intellectual and emotional difference in your life. That’s been my experience, in any case. Bigger is not better, for many reasons that I won’t go into here.

I alternate between wanting to take new risks/start on new adventures (residual impulses from my past that continue to exert a small pull on me), and wanting to play it safer in order to focus on the people and activities that matter most to me. I am past the point where I need to take risks to prove anything as far as my career is concerned. I’ve achieved the personal career goals I aimed for and I now have other ideas about how I want to use my time, e.g. writing, as I’ve often talked about in this blog. I am already well-underway in that venture; I am currently writing two books, one a new poetry collection, the other a book about the town where I grew up. Writing feels right, even though it feels scary at times to feel that way. Am I really writer-material? Can I do it full-time instead of in my free time? I don’t do it full-time as a way of making a living, at least not now; it would not pay the bills. And that’s what’s needed right now—a job that pays the bills. I work to live, rather than live to work as I did when I was younger. That feels right too. If I don’t have to worry about the bills, I am free to write. That’s how I look at it. And if I focus small, i.e., don’t worry about the big literary world out there, full of would-be authors and budding writers, I’m fine. I can write in peace and believe in what I’m writing, without worrying about how it will be received generally. What drives me now is the desire to share my thoughts and feelings that make up the stories, poems, and novels that I am creating. The desire to create is what satisfies me now, followed by the desire to share what I’ve created. Quite a new thing for me. 

Mostly, I’m happy with my life at present. I am letting go of older ways of thinking and doing things, and that feels right. I’m preparing for new life phases, and am grateful for the time to think about those phases and to prepare for them. Not everyone gets that chance, for different reasons. I am grateful for the peace and harmony that vacation has imparted to me. I am also grateful for all those who are dear to me, whom I care about and who care about me. Not everyone has those kinds of people in their life, for different reasons. I’ve realized too that letting go leads to peace and to the understanding that living life is not about controlling it or its outcome. It’s about living life and being present in your life.

A summer poem by Mary Oliver

I love this poem........

The Summer Day 

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

A summer poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer Sun 

Great is the sun, and wide he goes 

Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.