Photos from Obama rally #5

As the crowd became so massive that it was filling up Memorial Drive and spilling into the downtown proper, park rangers began letting people move into an area that had been roped off. I like that you can see the courthouse in the background.

A goal to call my own

Everyone has goals for their life. Small goals or significant goals. Hopes. Dreams. My aspirations are varied but one thing I’ve always fancied was to create a word or phrase that would be added to the lexicon. If the lads from Google can do it, why can’t I?

Naturally that ambition has led to a rampant curiosity about phrases and sayings that color our language indiscriminately. Where’d they come from? Who was the first to use them? And even though I understand the common usage of everyday phrases, I do pause at times and wonder, “What the heck does that mean?”

So I selected a few top-o-mind sayings, did a little research, and am sharing the information below. What better way to start than with…

“Coin a phrase.”
Meaning: To create a new phrase.
Origin: Coining, in the sense of creating, derives from the coining of money by stamping metal with a die (permanent impression). In the 16th century the ‘coining’ of words was often referred to. Though Shakespeare made reference to coining words in 1607, it wasn’t until the l9th century that ‘coin a phrase’ originated in Wisconsin. And you thought their only heritage was cheese.

“Spill the beans.”
Meaning: To divulge a secret, especially to do so inadvertently or maliciously.
Origin: Thought to have roots in ancient Greece where voting systems often consisted of using white beans or black beans and the decision had to be unanimous. If your color was shown early, then the cat was out of the bag….oops, there’s another.

“Behind the eight ball.”
Meaning: A difficult position from which it is unlikely one can escape.
Origin: From billiards, the game is forfeited if a player’s cue ball hits the eight ball first. A ‘behind the eight ball’ position leaves a player in imminent danger of losing. Earliest citation came from an Ohio newspaper in 1916. I could never remember if the eight ball is a good thing or a bad thing to be “behind.” Now I know.

“As easy as pie.”
Meaning: Very easy.
Origin: From the 19th century, pie was used to denote pleasantry and ease, i.e., nice as pie. The earliest example of the actual phrase ‘as easy as pie’ comes from a comic story in the Rhode Island newspaper in 1887. Obviously it caught on.

“Push the envelope.”
Meaning: To attempt to extend the current limits of performance; to innovate, or go beyond commonly accepted boundaries.
Origin: Originally derived from a mathematical context that refers to limiting factors; made popular by Tom Wolfe in his book, The Right Stuff. To paraphrase, “..pushing the outside of the envelope…seemed to be the great challenge of the flight test.” I feel better knowing this cause I never understood the reference.

“Dressed to the nines.”
Meaning: Dressed flamboyantly or smartly.
Origin: From the 18th century where phrases “to the nines” or “to the nine” were used to indicate perfection – the highest standards. Use of nines is thought to derive from the nine muses in mythology and the nine worthies in the bible. I think there is a bit of serendipity in that I looked this up on the day Mr. Blackwell passed away.

On a more personal note, my grandmother had a saying that she used quite frequently and it’s one I never heard anyone else say.

“Well, I’ll swan”.

I’ve always wondered about its origin. Was it something she made up (you know, like Rachael Ray says “Oh my gravy!”)? Or was it passed down through kinfolk. (If you’re going to say, “I’ll swan” then you’ve got “kinfolk”). I find it coming to my mind every now and then as a reflex when surprised or bewildered. That’s pretty much how my grandmother used it.

In doing research for this post, I popped the phrase into Google. Gosh durn. A couple references actually came up. While no one had distinctive information about it’s origin, they did agree that it had southern influences (my grandmother WAS from southern Illinois), it was used to convey mild surprise, ala “Well, I’ll be”, and it was a way to let loose a tepid curse without actually swearing.

For now a few riddles are solved. Somehow I feel more empowered knowing this. More than ever it gives fuel to my desire to coin a phrase of my own. But in my current self-altered state (Let it be…..Ommmm), I know that it will bubble up when I least expect it. And then forty, fifty, sixty years from now, someone will be plugging it into a 22nd century search engine and finding my name. How cool would that be!

What phases do you most like, or which ones give you pause?

Attenzione!

Several years ago I participated in an Artist’s Way group. The course (and subsequent book) developed by Julia Cameron is a 12-week curriculum in discovering your creative self. Or as the book subtitles it, “A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity.”

It was a fun and enlightening study that guided me to look at the world and the quality of my life in a new and refreshing manner. Along with being inspirational, Ms. Cameron also offers a very practical approach to prodding your creative being into play. Each chapter dispenses tasks, assignments, projects, affirmations, quotes and exercises that effectively take theory into practice.

Of all the thoughtful and motivating lessons, I latched more deeply on to one and still am directed by its influence today. That was the lesson of attention. Powerfully stated by Ms. Cameron, “The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.”

Read that quote again…out loud. Now doesn’t that just resonate? Similar to “Stop and smell the roses,” but that guidance really is more about slowing down. Attention takes you to the next level….now that you’ve wound down, discover all that is delightful around you. Slowing down is physical; attention nourishes the soul.

“Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music – the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.” – Henry Miller

More than anything else, Cameron teaches, attention is an act of connection. When you observe the light in a child’s eye. When you notice a delicate flower in a dusty lot. When you appreciate the fragrance of orange blossoms in the air….delight becomes a welcome companion. Joy is your co-pilot. Miraculously you are connected to a big, bright universe.

Today, at this moment, give yourself the gift of attention. Marvel at how you can expand so easily your capacity for delight. Enjoy an enriched, spectacular life

Ode for the times

Hair that’s piled
high on her head,
a wave
a wink
strange words are said
thoughts awry
facts askew
can’t help but laugh,
how ‘bout you?
at gloomy times
a sunny ray
I yell, God bless
Ms. Tina Fey

Vocabulary 102

In an earlier posting, I talked about my respect for language and my inferior feelings about the depth of my vocabulary. That dealt primarily with knowing – or not knowing -- the definition of words. There also exists in my world the fear of mispronunciation.

There are a few words that I read rather frequently but do not use in conversation. They are not necessarily intricate, highly convoluted words but rather ones with the potential to be pronounced in different ways. Heaven forbid I should be the cretin who says them incorrectly.

The first two in this series are: banal and ribald.

In researching the correct pronunciation, I made the most interesting discovery. On the Merriam-Webster dictionary Web site, there is a function that allows you to actually hear the words. Type in the word of choice, the definition pops up, but also next to the phonetics is a little icon resembling a speaker. Click on that and a nice man or woman speaks the correct pronunciation for you.

Here’s what Mr/Ms Merriam-Webster says:

Banal – (beh-‘nal, beh-‘nahl, bay-‘nal): lacking originality, trite.

Yes, unfortunately banal has three choices for pronunciation, still leaving me vulnerable to picking the most uncommon usage.

Ribald – (‘reh-buld): bawdy, crude, offensive

And ribald is not pronounced how I’ve been hearing it in my head for years (‘rye-bald), so my comfort level using it remains low.

But at least I can have fun using them in a written sentence: The governess pulled together her ripped garments and rebuffed the Manor Lord’s crude advances thinking him ribald, then quickly retreated to the west tower and the banal existence she had come to accept as her destiny.

Next up: largesse

Who's a sissy?

Getting old isn’t for sissies.
- Bette Davis

When did it happen? When did I merge into the realm of ma’am instead of miss? When did I cross into the official time zone of middle age? When did the sad realization hit me that Bette Davis is right? Getting old is definitely not for sissies.

When we are in our twenties we live glorious, self-centered lives. We are strong and tan and full of vitality, oblivious to a future of paying the piper. In our thirties we come full into adulthood and embrace our responsibilities, while hanging on to a sliver of youthful abandon and defiance of what is yet to come.

In our forties we settle comfortably into our lives, keeping a stalwart denial that things are changing. We laugh about how our knees pop when we get up or how we will feel less than perky the morning after too much wine. It’s still amusing. It’s still not real. Not me. Unhuh. No way.

Then we cross the threshold of fifty and after suffering the surprising damage of eating cucumbers or red peppers, we can no longer refute the possibility that our bodies are just not the same. The popping knee is no longer a joke. The vino impairment a sad awakening.

I don’t know about you, but my body continues to taunt me with the consequences of aging. I can remember with stark clarity the day I looked in the mirror and realized my butt was no longer where it belonged. The tight little touché that once audaciously perched just below my waist, now spreads itself over the top of my thighs. Time had stolen my bum.

All of us mid-lifers know too well the dread of sagging skin. The elbows, the neck, the mid-section that we’ve come to know as “muffin top”. But, alas, it also shows up in startling places. One morning, as I was doing my Child’s pose yoga stretch, with head leaning forward, I noticed my field of vision was obscured. I sat up. Vision was okay. I leaned forward. Obscured. With alarming awareness I realized that my cheeks were sliding up into my eye wells. Ahh, that’s just cruel.

But there are other remarkable qualities that come with aging. Determination. Grace. Tenacity. Wonderful characteristics that if adopted with enthusiasm, help us get past the heartburn, the hair growing in the wrong places, the gas, the aching joints and flapping skin. Reticence is replaced by joie de vivre. Uncertainty by clarity. Ego makes way for acceptance.

There’s another anonymous quote that I like:

Youth is the gift of nature,
But age is a work of art.

So as we waddle down the road of the inevitable, we have a choice: Live artfully, or whine like a sissy.

Wish I'd written that #1

My post on Oge.e.ku (September 8) got me reading some of my favorite poems again. There is one memorable verse that offers such vivid imagery you can see, hear and smell the story it tells.

I’m posting a shortened version of it here as the first in my “Wish I’d written that” series, hoping that you will savor the grit and texture of it, and appreciate how a snapshot of everyday urban life can be so dramatically reflected.

Preludes
by T. S. Eliot

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
………..
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.