Or should the title be "Epic Seattle Tourist Adventures"? Chihuly Garden and Glass has become one of those tourist must-see sites in Seattle proper, and rightly so. The exhibits are breathtaking. Perfect presentation, absolutely wonderful lighting, and photography is allowed. This place is a dream!
There's an oops in my very non-professional photo. Can you spot it, or are you too enthralled by the sculpture?
Two venues in one!
Even the gift shop is amazing!
I don't usually include so many photos in a single post, but I'm sharing these with friends and wanted to give the best of the best. The folks with whom I shared this adventure are as beautiful and complex as any of these works of glass -- but way less fragile!
The more I read good stuff, the more I want to write again. I cannot express how much it means to me when someone asks what happened to the novel I was working on several years ago. It touches me that they would remember and ask, and it grieves me deeply that those manuscripts (plural) have become dry and dusty relics. I think I will write again. My characters are still there, alive after all these years, and maybe there are more stories to be written besides those two. Time will tell.
But I will not dwell on failure -- my own failure to launch. Maybe it wasn't the right time, maybe I wasn't adequately seasoned just then. It sure was fun, though. Time to see what comes next.
I have recently discovered that I have "severe" obstructive sleep apnea. So severe that I wonder how I have managed to put one foot in front of the other each day. Now that I have my very own CPAP machine and am already seeing successful treatment, I wonder what superpowers I will unleash with a few good weeks of sleep. Maybe this writing this could come back into being? And maybe, finally, an increase in physical stamina? I could stand to lose a few pounds, too, so maybe that. Focus is always good. We'll see.
One of my favorite features of blogging is being able to add photo illustrations. However, it's easy to work on my photos OR write the text. If I'm going to write tonight, I need to stick to writing. I'll add photos soon, but not tonight. Words will have to be enough. Words can be amazing, too, on a good writing day. Ha -- the best thing about my photos is that I get to crop them to show the very best of the composition! I've heard that writing is like that. Cropping out the extra, distracting, material in order to highlight the heart.
I've let the compost pile rot long enough. I'd like to write. We'll see what happens.
It was a very long time ago, and no one now living was even a gleam in our forefathers' eyes. But some of my ancestors were on that boatload of people -- immigrants, refugees, sturdy dreamers -- who sailed on the Mayflower.
With all the talk about new people coming to America these days, I can't help but consider my family as immigrants. I'm sorry that my people maybe didn't treat their American hosts very well. That's hard to swallow. I'm grateful that we were able to stay, despite all that.
This week at work (yes, as part of my job!) I was privileged to attend a Naturalization Oath Ceremony. There were a couple of short welcoming speeches. There were 19 people from eight different homelands -- Bahrain, China, India, Korea, Lithuania, Romania, Russia, and Tanzania -- who stood to take the Oath of Citizenship. They pledged to renounce all prior national allegiances, and to take up arms or do whatever was legally required of them to defend their new country. I cried a little. When they sat down again, they were citizens of the United States of America. We joined another immigrant in singing our national anthem. I couldn't help but cry. One of the new citizens led us all in the Pledge of Allegiance. I cried some more. The ceremony was totally official and, for me, completely emotional. (I did not shed any tears during the cheesy inspirational videos. I will not be manipulated, after all!)
When my people landed here, there was no oath, no pledge, no anthem, no flag. Nor was there a city in which to find housing or a job. No established resettlement assistance. No national leader to whom they might appeal for refuge. They had to make things up as they went along, from scratch, and they must have made more than a few errors. But they made it, many of them, and even welcomed more refugees and pilgrims who came later.
There are so many, many stories of pain and loss and peril suffered by those who are new arrivals to the United States. And so many more people who are not yet here. Some of those stories are hard to hear, hard to even imagine.
I think it's my job to carry out acts of welcome and care. But I've been really busy, all my life, just living my life. What needs to change, how must I grow, to expand my personal horizons? That's scary. Already, though, I am supporting English language learning and Citizenship classes through my work at the library. My church reaches out to assist refugees in a variety of ways, and I have done small things to join these efforts. I can do some more.
For the Lord your God is the God of gods and the Lord of lords, the great, the mighty, and the awesome God who does not show partiality, nor take a bribe. He executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and shows His love for the alien by giving him food and clothing. So show your love for the alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt."
Highlights from the ceremony --
I never considered us "weekenders". Sure, we mostly visited our cabin on summer weekends, but we owned that piece of paradise. Owned it. Every tree, every rock, every high and low tide.
My grandparents bought a derelict farm, acres of woods, and several beach lots on lower Puget Sound back in the 1950s. They fixed up the house, tried their hands at raising a steer, and cursed the deer that kept eating Gramma's roses. All my aunts and uncles had a beach lot, and a couple of my dad's cousins came along and built nice cabins there, too. If anything, it was the non-family full-time residents down the road who were "outsiders".
I spent many, many happy hours combing the beach, digging clay and making tiny pots, walking in the woods, hanging out with my cousins, eating hotcakes cooked on an outdoor griddle, and digging clams. Oh, and watching Dad and my brothers fix the tractor. There was always a project to be done, and the machinery was never ready to run immediately. For me, this place and time were idyllic. (For my brothers, perhaps not so much. The benefit of being the much younger sister.)
Many years later, after most of the property had passed out of the family, my Aunt Margret said that she hoped all of us could hold some woods and beach in our hearts where it wouldn't go away. I think this is why I crave quiet, natural places and wild flora. I'm always going back there, to where life was gentle and the silences were companionable.
Following are a few photos from the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge. I had a wonderful, quiet, spectacular day there yesterday, and I'll be going back again and again in my mind. Hope you enjoy these little glimpses of our temporary home.
Polo just isn't as much of a writer as Blackie. He's not even as motivated to blog as Rufus was. In case you've wondered why this is, I offer this explanation. It's worth a thousand words, if not more.
This is Polo's main indoor pursuit. Yes, he is a pro. You might say that he's "prone" to practice this fine art.
The Internet doesn't like me. For several days I was unable to post comments to any blogs. I can't figure out why my photos from my phone aren't showing up on my computer. But, in spite of these technical difficulties, I've had several visitors stopping by the blog each day. (Yay!) The bad news is, many of them are from places such as Spain or France. One person left a lengthy comment... in Chinese. Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. At least I can comment again.
Do you remember your dreams? I've heard that if you wake up right after a dream, it'll stick in your conscious memory for a while. In my experience, it's the emotions that stick hardest. There have been a few dreams that stayed in my mind for a long time.
When I was in seventh grade, Mrs. Cox taught a unit on short-story writing. I think the weekly assignment was something ridiculously short, like 100 words, but we had to come up with something original every Friday. One time, I wrote what I recalled of a vivid dream. I was at home, going between my bedroom and our back yard, and other people were there to wish me well. I was preparing for a secret mission (spying or smuggling) and wasn't certain I'd make it back in one piece. The emotions in the dream were very strong, and it made for a good story except for one little thing. I couldn't write an ending. The dream ended before I left home, and nothing I could imagine matched the anxious drama of my virtual experience.
Just this week, I had another momentous dream. In real life, there's a person who has caused tremendous grief to a family member. Unfortunately, there isn't anything that can be done to resolve the situation at this time. But this dream... ugh! For some reason, my whole family had to go to that person's home and share a meal with them. I was on edge from the moment we set foot in her house. But then, as I finished my lunch, I saw my hand reach down to a ceramic vase at my side. I used a spoon to gouge a hole in the vase! What a horrible thing to do, and I was unable to stop my destructive action. How could we repair it, or where would we find a replacement?
I woke up in a sweat, scared and tremendously upset. What kind of an awful thing had I done, and why? This is the kind of emotional upheaval that could have kept me awake the rest of the night, but I'm happy to report that I was able to deal with it somewhat logically. In reality, I know that I did nothing to cause this person's bad behavior toward my family member. I cannot cure her, nor can I exert any control over her. Beyond all this, I have not done anything to contribute to the pain. Thank goodness!
A clean conscience makes for a good night's sleep, eventually.
