Short-lived Euphoria

Samba dancers in brightly colored costumes, big smiles on their faces as they swirl to the music; a large float bearing two red and yellow papagayo  figures and curvaceous dancers scantily clad in sequined attire; the entire center of the stadium  arena filled with people dancing in flashes of sweeping colored lights. Soon the Olympic athletes join the performers in one big happy, mad party. My husband is somewhere in that crowd. Later he tells me he made a new acquaintance there, Mustafa, a tall Sudanese man, dressed in traditional garments.

The gaiety and euphoria of the closing event of the Olympic Games in Rio are contagious. In front of my television I smile at the antics of the athletes and sway to the rhythm. Swelling euphoria fills me at the sight of thousands of people of many races and nationalities joined together in brotherhood. This is an example of what humanity is capable of.

            But then I recall the photo of the five-year-old Syrian boy, Omran, covered in blood and I know that men are also capable of terrible violence, hate and destruction. That young boy and the scenes of destruction in Aleppo and the massive crowded refugee camps trigger compassion. Then I feel anger – anger at the leaders (you know who you are) who allow this to happen, not only allow, but order the bombings and the killing, who believe only they are in the right, who are blinded by intolerance for those who are different.

            I want to put my arms around Omron, comfort him and clean his face of blood. But, of course, I can’t. But I can write, pointing out not only the violence and tragedy, which we see live and direct on television newscasts, but also the alternatives.

Hey, World, look at the Olympics. Look at what is possible with perseverance, will power and a vision.

 Feel the joy. The possibilities. The hope.

Then take the next step. Act.

Wanted: Twenty Thousand Words

“How many words does your manuscript have?” asks the editor.

“About forty thousand,” I answer.

“Well, you’re short twenty thousand words,” she says.

I slump in my chair. We’re talking about a manuscript I submitted for my second book. Twenty thousand more words? And not just any words. No fluff. No verbal garbage. No verbiage. But words that add something.

I spend a few days in a writer’s funk. Ideas do not come running towards me like a friendly dog with its tongue hanging out. I must not look for them. Pretend I’m not interested. Then when I’m taking out the garbage, an idea raises its hand.

Today I think: why start from zero? Go to my previous blogs. Maybe there are some that can be expanded or further developed. So I read through this year’s blogs and make a list. I feel better already. Having a list is a start. Isn’t it? If I develop some blog pieces, I figure they will give me another four thousand words. Only sixteen thousand to go.

Of course, the best source of inspiration is life itself. My life is not exactly action packed. I look over my day: cycling at the gym, doctor appointment and more Donald Trump on CNN…. I certainly don’t want to go there. I have an appointment with Andrés to get my hair trimmed. Can I write about haircuts? Hmmm. Maybe something will spark an idea while I’m on the metro. This is beginning to sound like fluff….

The trip on the metro and the visit to the hairdresser provide no inspiration but, as I walk along, I’m reminded that I mustn’t try so hard. The trouble is that it’s not just ideas that play hard to get. Words avoid me. My word retrieval problem grows with the passing years. Those elusive words on the tip of my tongue get lost in the labyrinths of my cerebral cortex. With my peers we laugh and joke about those lost words. But the experience is really quite frightening. What will I be like at eighty or ninety?

Rereading pieces I’ve written sometimes offers consolation. Did I really write that?! It’s not so bad. And look at the sparkling words I magically pulled out of my hat!

 Those sixty thousand words will come, one word at a time, or as writer Annie Lamott says “bird by bird.” 

European Flashbacks

Weeks after our return from Europe, images and newly-acquired information continue to surface in my memory: the breathtaking beauty of the St. Petersburg Church of the Spilled Blood, Adriaen Van De Velde’s detailed depictions of Dutch landscapes and medieval daily life, stories of tsarinas and kings, conspirators and war heroes, battles and treaties.

Musical moments also come back to me, although the sounds of music are more difficult to recall than visual imagery. What I do remember is how the music made me feel, the euphoria it produced. The magnificent organs in every church spoke of the importance of religious music in centuries past. We visited a cathedral just at the right moment to hear the powerful swells of music from the organ that filled an entire wall.

Outside El Prado Museum in Madrid, a man sat on a wall playing on his guitar the Concierto de Aranjuez, perfect for creating the mood to view the paintings of Velázquez, El Greco and Goya.

  Amsterdam’s Concertgebouw, its dimmed chandeliers glittering like fairy candles, provided a magical venue for opera music from Wagner, Massenet, Bizet and Saint-Saens. There the sweet notes of a violin solo rang clear and perfect, glorious and true in that hall famous for its acoustics. When friends ask me what the best of our trip was, I tell them about that evening concert.

Sneak Preview

A warm sunny day in midwinter is delicious. Outside tiny wild canaries twitter in the branches above me. I tell them that I feel like singing, too. I walk with an energized pace along the sidewalk, but then stop and sniff the air. Is that scent what I think it is? Yes, there in a garden – the yellow buds of an acacia are opening, perfuming the air with the fragrance that triggers childhood memories of early signs of spring in California. Acacia and daphnia scents always remind my gardener’s nose of the promise of spring days.

            The memory of brightly colored flowers in the Baltic countries even in the smallest spaces – doorways and windowsills – prompts me to put in some winter blooming plants in pots to shed some light on grey winter days. Just back home, I buy primroses – red, yellow, purple – and primulas. Trowel in hand, I work them into the soil in three large pots. Like the nesting instinct of birds, my gardener impulses are activated by the sun. Maybe having recently come from northern summer climes has them bewildered.

            This spring preview can’t last. Rain is predicted in a few days. But I have the view of my bright flowers. To the patter of rain, I’ll bite into a chocolate bar and return to the biography of Catherine the Great, a story of courage, perseverance and intrigue. With ingenuity she fools her tutors, chaperones and the Tsarina Elizabeth who keep her a virtual prisoner in the palace. She dresses as a boy to escape at night to meet her lover. She pulls a curtain over an alcove in her apartment to hide the friends gathered there.

Now I read of her efforts as Tsarina to determine the shape of Russian society and government and reorganize the legal system. A daughter of the Enlightenment, she aims to abolish capital punishment and the use of torture and guarantee equal treatment for all citizens, even the serfs. She publishes her document, the Nakaz, in 1767.

                                                

How is it possible that these issues continue to be debated centuries later? Today’s leaders and governments would definitely benefit from a large dose of enlightenment.

My Russian Mosaic

A metronome ticks and stops. Music plays. The metronome ticks and stops. Music plays. The transmission of Leningrad Radio keeping alive the hopes of the city’s inhabitants. It is 1944. The German army siege continues to its strangle-hold over the city during the past 900 days. One million people are dead due to cold and starvation.

            I stand in the windowless museum commemorating the heroic defenders of Leningrad (now St. Petersburg). That recreation of the radio’s transmission takes me back in time, more real than the battered army helmets, rifles and photos on display.

            Valentín, our 40-year-old guide, tells how the siege affected his family. His grandmother died of starvation. His grandfather’s brother disappeared. The rest of the family was eventually evacuated through the one route open to the interior. In impeccable Spanish he tells us, “No one is alive today who hasn’t lost someone in the siege.”

Back in Chile, I look over the past three weeks of travel in Europe trying to process all that my senses have taken in. Certain moments and places stand out, like the siege museum in St. Petersburg. Already my memories grow fuzzy. I write to Valentín. What is the music in the radio transmissions? He sends me a recording of the transmission and the popular Russian song on which the music is based. I listen. It strikes me that the ticking of a metronome and the strains of a song can affect me so strongly. Once again I am back to those tragic times. These are no longer just historical facts but real events within my generation’s lifetime.

Valentín takes us to a metro station constructed during the years of Communist rule. We descend into a work of art of marble columns, mosaics, gold carvings of Soviet designs and of workers of different trades, their faces reflecting pride and strength. Beautifully wrought chandeliers light up the spacious hall. We board a train that rattles and rumbles us to the next station. We stand awe-struck at the elegance.

These impressions are mosaic pieces that I must fit together in my mind, constructing a picture of the Russian people, their history, their culture. I have begun to read a biography of Catherine the Great. More pieces to fit into my mural.

Glimmers

It’s not difficult to feel grumpy, irritated and downright depressed in this city of ours, what with grey winter days, carjacking, house and mall robberies, traffic gridlocks and hooded vandals destroying and looting during weekly student demonstrations. These scenes have become our daily bread. Days ago a water main broke on a principal artery of the city. A deluge of escaping water flowed down towards the center of town. Surface traffic and a major metro line were cut. The news showed streams of city folk walking long distances to work.

But, all is not gloom. I laughed out loud at the sight of a young, well-dressed woman, desperate to cross the street, clambering aboard a grocery cart pushed by an ingenious Chileno. For a few pesos he delivered her across the river to the opposite corner. Oh, those enterprising Chileans. At the first drop of rain, they’re selling umbrellas at metro stations, or cellophane wrapped roses for Mother’s Day, or ready-made salads and sandwiches at lunchtime.

I see glimmers of hope and humor as I go about my city.  One night a friend and I decided to go to a concert of the Santiago Symphonic Orchestra downtown, which meant boarding the metro at peak commuter hour. We are not the pushy type but, when it came to a packed metro car, we had no choice but to squeeze and elbow our way in, that is, if we wanted to go anywhere.

The live performance of Tchaikowsky’s glorious Fourth Symphony swept me away on a wave of wonder to the steppes of Russia and the glittering halls of the Hermitage. Unbelievable, the magic created by those violins, violas, cellos and bass.

Returning home on the metro, passengers eyed us as we broke into giggles, lifting our feet to avoid contact with two large balls of hair rolling down the aisle and back again, not an unusual sight in the otherwise clean metro cars.

A sharp clear blue sky greeted me this morning and, in the distance, the snow-covered ridges gleamed. A gaggle (at least a dozen) of rowdy green parrots invaded the liquidambar tree next door, gorging on the seeds of the prickly pods. On the ground turtle doves grazed on the fallen leftovers.

Like the seeds of the liquidambar, abundant reasons for joy and laughter are here for the taking in this urban landscape. It’s a matter of paying attention.

Liquid Contentment

 My redwood tree looks perky and content. The neighborhood robins are out breakfasting on an abundance of juicy worms. Hummingbirds squeal and careen in delight. Wet leaves cover the pavement. Even I feel light and energized after the refreshing rain yesterday. After years of drought, rain is reason for celebration. I also am grateful for the clear skies after days of smothering smog, and for the white ring of snow on the Andes surrounding the city.

            Our current rainfall is three times greater than last year at this time, and winter doesn’t start for three more weeks. I wonder what the rain gods have in store for the next few months.

The rainfall in the usually wet southern Chile has diminished. The city of Coyhaique, set in a bowl of verdant hills, is rated as one of the most contaminated cities in the world. Besides the scarcity of rainfall, its problem lies in a longtime tradition in the damp, cold south – wood burning stoves. They are the heart of all southern homes, providing warmth, heat for baking bread and heating water and a gathering place for the family and friends. Because of the increasing pollution as the city grows, authorities are mandating a change to gas stoves. A loss for the inhabitants of the city, but wood stoves will continue to burn in countryside and small town kitchens.

            Days later we are blessed with two more days of solid rain. This morning the sun makes an appearance in a true blue sky with patches of luminous puffy clouds. A great morning for a walk. Many others have the same idea. The sun draws us out of our dens: runners, some with dogs, cyclists, flocks of showy, squawking parrots, wild canaries and house wrens. The yellow leaves on the ground glow in the sunlight. The air is brisk and hopeful. And the mountains…they have revealed to us their gift of white splendor.