Hearts

        The spring I turned 9 was the same spring I discovered bleeding hearts.  I remember

the moment well.

  I can still smell it.  Lying in the grassy slope by a rock garden in our new backyard, I was captivated by the little pink and white hearts that dangled from the stems of a mysterious plant.  The hearts swung a little in the breeze.

The intricate perfection of this flower's form filled me with awe.  

I wished I knew the name of this flower.  In fact,  I remember that moment of regretting my misfortune in not being born as the kind of person who knew the names of flowers, of sea shells, and of night time constellations.

Eight years later, when I was almost twice as old, I met this guy.  He knew the names of things.  It wasn't so much a case of being a certain type of person, he explained to me.  He just looked this stuff up in books.

What a talent.  I wanted in.  I married the guy.

All this time and no regrets.  Now I can recognize bleeding hearts and dahlias, scallops and cowry, Orion and Cassiopeia.   And more.

Ban Ki-moon and UNA USA MUN

    This picture, taken just a couple of hours ago, is of Ban Ki-moon, Secretary General of the United Nations.  He is in the General Assembly Hall, talking to 2000 teenagers.   These students have travelled from many U.S. states and from 17 countries to take part in a 3 day model United Nations conference.

     Ban Ki-moon is both relaxed and animated.  I think he likes young people.  He speculates that a future United Nations Secretary General might well be in the audience and he encourages all to consider a life of public service.

     Public service. In spite of what the skeptics think, it's a powerful idea that is still alive.

     Students from the audience ask him questions.  They are so earnest, so idealistic.  Some questions are undisguised challenges.  Ban Ki-moon is also earnest as he replies.  He is respectful of the idealism.  He is respectful of the challenges.   He tells the students that he can learn from them.  "So can the adult delegates who usually sit in these chairs," he says.  "They, too, have much to learn from your energy and enthusiasm."

     We were dismissed after Opening Ceremonies.  By luck, the discharge pattern put me out early.  I walked south on 1st Avenue past the whole United Nations complex.  Groups of lively students crowded the sidewalks.  There was a bench at 42nd Street.  I sat down.  It was twilight and a light rain had started.  Throngs of students moved past.  They looked particularly alert and happy.  Occasionally something would reveal a bit about a student's cultural identity - a group of laughing girls in kerchiefs, three boys running through an open space shouting out to each other in Italian,  a nun in habit with teenagers crowded against her sharing one umbrella. 

     Mostly though, differences were not apparent.  All those young people looked the same: bright and competent.

     Even the warmest supporter on the United Nations, like myself, recognizes serious flaws in the organization.

     But even the most cynical opponent of the U.N., had he sat listening in the General Assembly Hall this evening or watching on the park bench at 42nd and 1st a little later, even the most pessimistic could not have failed to recognize the hopeful promise of these laughing young people eager to carry our future.    

     

     

May Day Joy

     On another May 1st, when I was 10 years old, my mother described the custom for using flowers to spread spring's joy.

     This is how it works:  On the first day of May, you gather bouquets of flowers from spring's floral bounty.  You tie each bouquet with a ribbon or put it in a lace doily cone.  Then you bring it to a neighbor's front door, leave it on the doormat, ring the bell, and run away quickly to hide.  The neighbor answers the door.  Nothing is there but the beautiful flowers left anonymously on the door step.    The neighbor's heart is filled with the joy of spring.

      Really? I was skeptical.  Why hadn't I heard of this custom before?  Mom assured me that children all over the world practiced this delightful May Day ritual.

     Children like the ones that went to my new school?

     Yes, children everywhere, she said.

     But then why hadn't we given flowers to our neighbors last May Day when we lived on that lovely hillside outside of Portland, Oregon?

     Mom didn't have to explain.  I knew why.  On one side our neighbors were a bunch of sheep.  They would have eaten the bouquet and with no particular joy.  There was an open meadow on the other side - a sea of tall grass surrounded by evergreens.  When I played there, grass almost hid me.  There was not a natural recipient for the May Day joy in the direction of the meadow any more than on the side of the sheep.   Behind the house was woods as far as you could go.  If you were a kid.  In front, there was a stand of pine trees and a forgotten garden that still offered up rhubarb every year.

     In San Gabriel, California, where my mother introduced us to the May Day custom, houses were closer together.  Mom thought it would be a good idea for my brothers and sister and I to deliver a bouquet to our next door neighbors.

     I was resistant.  Two cranky old ladies lived next door.  They kept their window shades down.  They didn't like us.  It didn't seem as if they had much use for joy anyway.  But in this matter my mother was insistently persuasive.  We agreed to bring them May Day flowers.

     There was another obstacle though.  Where were the flowers?  We had a magnificent yard in San Gabriel.  There were 14 fruit trees, not counting the huge walnut tree or the non-bearing grapefruit and avocado.  There weren't any flowers except the lovely camelias on the patio and surely those were out of bounds for picking.

     We selected the best from the ample supply of dandelions.  The milky fluid in their stems ran down our arms and got on our clothes.  There were some violets too.  We added some other pretty things, like feathers and little sticks, to fill out the bouquet.  It looked pitiful.  The short-stemmed dandelions and violets wilted before delivery.  We didn't have any ribbon in the house on that particular day and I doubt we ever had lace doily cones.   Nevertheless, we deposited our homely bouquet on the old ladies' doormat, rang their doorbell, and ran for cover.  The crabbier of the two opened the door.  She looked around, but not down.  She put her hands on her hips and muttered something out of keeping with the spirit of the happy season, and went back inside.

     There weren't any other frolicking children leaving spring joy on their neighbors' doorsteps.  However many children followed this custom elsewhere, it was apparently unheard of in southern California.

     Although my May Day adventure was unsuccessful then, I find myself enchanted with the idea now.  Lilacs are blooming just outside my front door.  They are so pretty.  Their fragrance is is an elixir.  I'd like to leave them on your doorsteps.

     Perhaps their magic can be transmitted electronically.  For anyone who chances upon my blog, I leave you these lilacs, and the spring joy that comes with them.

      

Chandelier

This is the chandelier in the French Embassy on 5th Avenue.  Outside the windows you can glimpse dusk over Central Park

computer room

     Eight of these students set up a blog yesterday.  They're teenagers, so they all learned this stuff fast.  Faster, actually, than I taught.  Some of their blogs push the limits of propriety.  Perhaps that's to be expected.  You can check them out tomorrow when I enter links.  

sunlight

     Late afternoon sun lights up one's heart.  Here it is on my mantle piece.

     Probably bringing photos of my life into this blog will safeguard my way back out.  This kind of sunlight is always something to return to.

Not Quite Yet Swallowed Whole by the Blogosphere

     Last month I couldn't have confidently explained the difference between Blogosphere and Blagojevich.  Now I know.  Rod Blagojevich is a foul-talking and corrupt politician purveying as much sleazy charm as he can muster on the talk show circuit in an effort to undermine the rule of law and win acquittal in celebrity court.  The Blogosphere is much more pernicious.

      This blogosphere business came into my life innocently enough.  And late.  Even as recently as mid February, I'd never read one.  Didn't know how.

     Then a friend set up a blog for our literature club.  What a delight!  We all thought so.

     Once I realized this is an outlet accessible to people actually older than 23, I tried my hand.  It was easy.  It was fun.  I set up three.  I used different names and each blog has a different focus.   Then I set one up for a friend and then a customer and then my bookstore.  What a blast!  That wasn't the pernicious part, although I can see that it could still become so.

     Browsing the blogosphere, that's where the real danger lies.  Wow!  There's so much interesting stuff!  Douglas DC airplanes and trips to other countries and tips on extreme survival and witty writers and quirky photographers and  Nathan Bransford.  And more. 

     It's so fascinating that real life can't compete.  The blogosphere becomes real life because that's what occupies one's consciousness.  Well, not to go Matrix on you.  But I'm saying this: the blogosphere is compelling and persuasive.

     I'd like to say I'm giving it up.  And maybe I will.  Sometime later.  For now though, I'm going back in.  Going to check out some random blogs.  Maybe leave some comments.  I hope this is not "goodbye" to my formerly fine life.   But even if it is, hello fellow bloggsters.