Snapshots With Words

Finnley reflections (2020)

2022-08-01T00:22:00.001+02:00

I have not written much of anything in years, I suppose I just didn't have the heart to. I often wanted to write, and would get the computer out and open it up in order to begin, but then I just could not write. I don't really know that I would call it writer's block; I don't consider myself a writer and, in any

case, it was more like broken heart syndrome. Yesterday I watched the Netflix documentary on Shania Twain and honestly it spoke to me a great deal. I never realized who she was, really. Basically, a strong woman who speaks her mind and ended up living in Europe and divorced after having a kid and just kept having to pick up the pieces and keep going, many different times. This is not meant to be a blog about her story; rather it is a testimony to the power of stories and honesty. What it means when you hear a story about what someone went through and you can relate to that; there are no words to describe the way that that can change you forever. Here is an entry that I found today, I never published it. The emotions of love for my son and the agony of any separation from him and feeling like I was to blame for breaking up his home... they were so intense. I could barely breathe so many times. Finally when I read this today it didn't hurt, and was only adorable and heart wrenching in a bearable manner. Time and love really do begin to heal wounds, if we let them.

June 28, 2020

Wow, I feel like I can breath again. I have been wanting to write for ages but just didn't have the heart to. Everyday, or every third day when we have Finn, I want to record all the anecdotes of adorable and smart and funny things that he does, but of course I make no move to write. The only record of his life up until now - he turned 3 and a half on June 19, are the multitude of messages I sent to Dave and to Kim and sometimes my mom. I need to go back through those and do some copy pasting, then I can salvage some of the moments for posterity.

Lately he came in our bedroom one morning where I was trying to get some more sleep - he still wakes up really early and now it is summer in Sweden so it is hard to go to bed early; and he had found his other viola bow. So he was like "mommy, look, I found two viola bows!" and it was adorable. And then he brought me out of bed because he wanted to learn the names of the parts of the viola. Then he showed me that he had taken down my music bag that has "Austria" written on it, with a picture of a violin and bow and also of all the parts with their definitions written down beside the depictions. He wanted to take that and also his viola and my viola and my violin and my two bows and his two bows... and talk about and learn all the parts. From that morning he now knows "bridge, fingerboard (hand), tuning pegs (big), scroll (scrwall), (cont. now in 2022) all the strings, the f holes I think and more.

Full circle... My confession

2019-05-28T15:16:00.003+02:00

I am sitting here. Again, in the dim light of an afternoon, while my now two and a half year old son is sleeping in the next room. Normally I love the light. The more natural lighting, the better. But ever since my son was born, many of my most peaceful and quiet moments have taken place in darkness, so he can sleep peacefully, and as early as possible. The latter of course is for both his benefit and mine. Sleep breeds sleep, so "they" say, and it is so important for the development of busy young brains that are learning about everything in the world around them. For parents, sleeping children also offer succor and relief that is much needed.

The physical need to write comes to me as I awaken to find that my landscape has changed dramatically. Places have changed, players have been added, and roles of some players have altered. Truths about myself have come to light, some good and some not so good. I don't know what I need to say, but I need to write. I need to be heard. It is important for me that my voice makes a difference. We all have something to offer, something to say, something to do, whether it is big or small. And as always, I find that for me, I struggle in the real world sometimes. I don't always know what to say or how or when to say the thing I don't know how to express. Words don't come out when I speak; at least not the right ones. I have been foolish and selfish and rude. And sometimes in trying to do good I have done evil. I have said hurtful things to people I said I loved.

One good thing has come out of all of these changes. After making mistakes and losing things that mattered to me, I realize that I have nothing to lose. Well, everything to lose and nothing to lose... we cannot go back, we can only go forward. The only value is in moving forward. Taking lessons from history and moving ahead. Now, finally, I am not afraid. I understand that I only have one life to live. And I am not going to be afraid of saying what I think, or doing what I believe is right, or loving who I love.

(In that spirit, I have put a picture of a painting from one of the recent apartments I've lived in. My son thinks that it is a painting of "mommy." I feel very flattered. Sweet little man).

The day after Christmas

2018-12-26T14:15:00.001+01:00

In Sweden, as in many other countries in Europe, Christmas is celebrated on the 24th, or Christmas Eve. So the day of (the 25th) is rather quiet and although it is not a day of celebration, most shops and things are closed. That is perfectly fine. Now, the day AFTER Christmas (26th) is a bit rough, because on this day things are still not up and running. Of course you have everything (almost everything) that you need at the local grocery store, but it feels just a bit odd to have a sort of day after (25th) the day after (26th) kind of pause. Especially if you have chosen to stay in town for the holidays. And this particular year that is 2018, the day before the Eve, or if you prefer, the day before (23rd) the day before (24th) Christmas day (the 25th, even though it sort of is the 24th), many important shops were also closed. So we really have had a sort of 23, 24, 25, 26 type of holiday-not-holiday this year and it feels a bit odd and in this particular post, a little bit like math. But with eggnog...

Cameos on the pier are mom and dad. Photo taken on Christmas Day (not to be confused with Christmas Eve, which is the Swedish day of Christmas but not the Swedish Christmas Day). So we found something to do after all... After we got home we ate delicious baked food by grandma (Flo) and then I made eggnog because that is important for making it feel like the holidays. And even being away from store bought eggnog in the USA is not enough to deprive these expats (and visitors of expats) some holiday cheer!

The future

2018-08-23T21:35:00.001+02:00

I love this shot I captured the other day with my "camera phone" (Brooklyn 99, Greg Holt). When we were preparing to leave Graz with our baby boy who was just a few months old, I read this article about how you should move to Sweden if you want to move to the future. (I did a quick Google search right now and did not come up with the same article). This picture basically embodies the "Dreaded" version of the future in my mind; the one where colors have ceased to exist because the soil is no longer fertile, and the concrete jungle looms over everything. And yet I find the lines and the light exquisite and not at all dreadful.

The light on this particular day was what made me look up and see the birds perched by the window. I had never noticed this building before. We have now lived in Gothenburg for one year and some weeks, and I've walked by the building in that picture probably hundreds of times on my way to buy baby diapers and formula. Never stopping to look up and see a building, think about the architect who designed it, the contractors who built it, or the year in which it was built - and what was happening in Sweden, Europe, and the world in said year. Yet the building stood there and stands there, with or without my knowledge of its presence.

Light by itself is magnificent. The way it changes based on particles in the air or times of day that affect the juxtaposition of the sun and the earth. That pure reflection of light in the windows seems fathomless, perfect, timeless. Just as as easily though, that view could have been obstructed like it is in the window on the left whose view of the sky and its light is blocked by a building across the way.
This was not supposed to be an essay on ethics, philosophy, religion, or self awareness. Sometimes it is nice to let things be what they are and progress as they may, without trying too much to tame them or alter their course.

So I am going to keep watching for the moments when the window panes catch the light of the sky on a perfectly cloudy day, and try to keep the obstructions at a minimum.

Why do I love winter so much?

2016-11-15T08:56:00.002+01:00

Why do I so love winter? The cold and desolation speak to me and without fail call me out of the house each year on a truly cold day. I like the muffled sounds of the cold; when only the brave venture out of doors and the birds don their plush winter layers. Fog and chimney smoke and the white of my breath dancing all around are intoxicating, and the air is so refreshing I take satisfying gulps.

My only companions around "Hilmteich" this morning are a couple of dogs in coats with their owners, and one solitary student wearing shorts and leggings and walking fast in order to stay warm, be on time for class at the university; or both. She chose a daring outfit for -6° C (21° F) at 7:30 in the morning.

When I exited our building this morning to embark on my restless need to escape into nature, I walked right into the busy world of a school morning. Children getting on and off of the tram and hurrying in their ear muffs to one of Graz's many schools muffled with teachers going to work. I only had to survive two intermittent stops in the tram, so it was only a few minutes until I made it to my destination. The thankfully empty park with its frost lined benches, lingering rust shaded leaves, and its pond laced in rising steam and the ever present ducks, was waiting, calm and undisturbed by the bustle of the city.

Austrian law prohibits soon-to-be-mothers from working eight weeks before giving birth and eight weeks following the birth, unless you are self employed. Although I do not appreciate being strong-armed into giving my music students into another teachers care for the next four months, I am now taking advantage of my newfound freedom. Now I have more time to focus on my studies and attend as many concerts as I like while my days and evenings still belong to me and not a little cuddle bear who needs to eat and sleep and do other unmentionable activities constantly. So I am told.

The case of the elusive muffin...

2016-10-20T10:34:00.002+02:00

Living in a foreign country has its advantages and disadvantages. One particularly fun aspect is hunting for foods that remind me of home. Somehow they just taste that much sweeter for being so elusive. Here in Graz we have bakeries everywhere, and all of the pastries offered are delicious. Croissants, chocolate filled and whole wheat variations, Topfentasche which are filled with a fluffier version of cream cheese, and Nuss Schnecke which is the Austrian version of a cinnamon roll. But we like what we like, and the beauty in the details of life are the scents and sounds and tastes that are linked to our favorite memories of our youth or certain places we've lived and people we have known.

You might be wondering how I can write about pastries with all the unrest in the states with the upcoming elections. I am doing my part to vote from abroad and live well one day at a time, because that is what we are all fighting for the chance to do; live our lives to the fullest. With a baby on the way in a couple of months, it is my responsibility to create a home environment where he can be nurtured and loved, with parents who take enough time in each day for the little things that enrich a child's life. I tend to focus on the big goals and often miss the small moments that make a life, so for me this shift in focus is vital.

Back to the topic at hand: blueberry muffins. One day a couple of months back I went with my husband to one of the multiple bakeries on my street, and we sat in to enjoy coffee and a Nuss Schnecke to fulfill some of my pregnancy cravings. There in the display cabinet sat a beautiful blueberry muffin. I had a feeling I would not easily forget what I saw, and sure enough, a few days later I was craving a blueberry muffin. I waited a few weeks before I decided to go and try one, but when I arrived at the bakery they were all sold out. This was my fault for going too late in the morning, after most of the bakery-goers had finished buying their breakfast pastries. Long story short, the next few times I went to buy a muffin, they were not there, and I eventually ordered two for the following morning, which was today! There are a couple of other places with blueberry muffins in town, though not many. The muffin is fairly new to Austria. Each attempt at a replacement was unsatisfactory. Finally I realized why this was so important to me; trying this particular blueberry muffin, and of course, it is because it reminds me of my mom's homemade version, with a little whole wheat and crumbles on the top!

Now my belly is full, and my heart is warm, thinking of my mom and our cozy kitchen in the house in Montana overlooking the lake and the Rocky Mountains... and I am encouraged about memories I will make with my own budding family in the future.

Startling sounds of evening

2016-08-27T23:10:00.001+02:00

Some might call this evening in the mountains boring, quiet or slow. For me the opposite is true. Each sound is so loud it almost hurts my ears: The river rushing relentlessly past, with no break in the momentum; small creatures of the night declaring their existence, and the occasional far off motorized vehicle making its way home or to the gas station for a pack of cigarettes. From our 8th floor balcony I can hear the occasional family as they walk, bike or drive back to the hotel from town.

Summer evenings are enchanted. The world is at rest, happy and content, with no deadlines or places to be for several hours at least.

The river is a paradox of racing, rushing fervor and soothing sounds that have the ability to lull one to sleep. An organized frenzy of activity that, when observed from a distance creates a sense of peace and clarity. We can suddenly see the big picture; we know the direction of the current. And it will continue on to its destination without our help. Perhaps it is this perspective that frees our minds from their petty concerns and gives us a much needed "other centeredness."

I wish that with a camera or a paintbrush I could capture the stars that gleam above, and the way the haze of evening lights mingles with fog to obscure the mountains that nestle the inhabitants of this cozy town. I will have to content myself with this narrative. Another inhabitant is beginning to make his presence known, but I'm starting to think it might be a fish rather than a tiny developing human. Tomorrow marks the beginning of month six, and I am starting to talk a bit forcibly at times to my little son, telling him in no uncertain terms to stay safe and keep on growing in his liquid cocoon.

I think I am starting to like motherhood.

When time stops

2016-08-20T22:30:00.000+02:00

I sit in the candlelight on a mild summer evening, the sounds of neighbours mingling with the farther off noise of sporadic traffic on the nighttime streets. The German conversation drifts in amidst laughter while the neighbor below is watching some type of African television show from his home. A slug near my elbow startled me, and I watched him crawl around the candle lantern and slowly and painstakingly off of the table.

To think this all began because the cat Misty and I spotted a moth inside the apartment and this was my master plan to lure him back outside where he belongs.

Who we are

2016-01-16T14:40:00.002+01:00

A new way to blog.

This is something I wrote last year in my journal. I decided to take pictures and share it this way.

In summary, these things make up who we are, and we can remember and cherish and put into perspective both the good, the great, and the "bad."

Betrayal; a dream story

2016-01-16T13:19:00.002+01:00

Dreams can be so vivid. Sometimes mine are dramatized like a movie, complete with the subtleties of emotionally charged acting and a soundtrack tailored to fit the story and add to feelings of intensity and moments of suspense. Last night's went something like this...

Two companions on a journey through vine filled jungles, along the banks of large bodies of water and up steep mountainous climbs. The first woman is our point of view and has offered to guide the second woman on this journey to safety. Risk is uppermost in this story, as the antagonist serves a dark cause and is uncertain whether her guide will lead her back to her people's ship on a far away sea. But the danger is too great in this unknown part of the world and so the antagonist chooses to trust. She is an attractive adventurer, with chestnut dreadlocks falling over her shoulders and she is clad in loose fitting clothing of neutral browns and beige. We only see through the eyes of the protagonist but we know that both women fit the description of adventurer.

As their journey begins, through swamp-like terrain, the women share very limited dialogue and the distrust and uncertainty are thick in the air. But as the road becomes more challenging, through hot jungle climes and up steep pathways where sometimes the only way up is clinging to ropes from what appeared to be a fallen bridge, the focus turns more to survival. Tough journeys have a way of bringing people together and the atmosphere gradually grows more trusting, until you almost feel a friendship beginning to emerge. It is at this moment that the antagonist looks down from where she is climbing to say to her companion that the area reminds her of a different part of the world than where they are supposedly headed. We are shown a flashback where the protagonist is being asked by a friend how it is that she intends to lead this woman not to her ship but rather to her death, and in that moment we realize that she will sacrifice herself in order to complete the deed.

Suddenly the music builds to a crescendo with the low strings repeating intervalic motives with strong rhythmic drive, and the violins naturally soar above with long legato strokes. The women reach the top of their climb and gasp to look over the edge and see the most devastating drop... one no human could ever recover from. (I can only compare this to films and pictures I have seen of mountainous regions in China) The distance is so great that one would likely only consciously be aware of half of the fall. The betrayal and sacrifice are complete in this devastatingly dramatic ending.

The ending rehashed. Both women choose to continue over the other side of the mountain when they reach the top. It's as though the betrayal cuts too deep, and the chance of rescue is impossible now that she realizes she has been led to the end of the world, and the guide could never get back alone and alive. This is why she knew the sacrifice all along, because the journey was too great to make again. Also the feeling of hopelessness while suddenly suspecting the betrayal, reaching the top, and when she thought she would see her ship across the sea, instead she sees only the end. No civilization, no hope, the end of the world; her unavoidable destiny.

Venice and the Theorbo

2013-10-16T01:12:00.000+02:00

The melting snow drips on my balcony in an unsteady rhythm, and sounds of Bach's cello suite in C minor arranged for theorbo fill my dining room. The theorbo is an old lute-like instrument developed in Florence Italy in the 1580's, according to lutenist Lynda Sayce. This particular recording was played by theorbist Pascal Monteilheit. It makes me think of the old instruments my husband and I saw in Venice during our trip just before Christmas of last year. My parents and Christopher and I had separated for the afternoon to do our exploring in pairs, and after meeting up at the end of the day discovered happily that the four of us all stumbled on the Museo della Musica, a museum of old stringed instruments. Some of the instruments dated as far back as the 16th century, and among the instruments we saw an Amati crafted double bass. As a violist I particularly enjoyed seeing the viola d'amores, viola da gambas, and finally the modern viola.

Before finding the museum we escaped from the bitter cold wind into a small pizza shop. That was the best pizza of my life! My husband used his tenor acquired Italian so we could be gracious guests, and I realized that having learned German was not helpful to me in the least. In Italy, that is. We stood in the small standing space with another couple and ate our pizza, gratefully protected from the vicious weather.

Once home, I was looking at my viola and realized what a lovely antique treasure of an instrument I have. This instrument is not imprisoned in a glass case, away from loving hands to make it sing. In that moment, I realized that if I don't use it to make beautiful music, as long as it is in my home, its purpose in the world will be unfulfilled. Happily I accept my task.

Controversy

2013-04-30T12:39:00.000+02:00

Ah... controversy, such a friendly topic. Healthy controversy is welcome. I just have a few thoughts on the subject. Speak freely and don't pretend, but remember that each individual person and situation has its unique problems, strengths, goals, etc. One very unhealthy train of thought that I am only now identifying as being very silly, is the tendency towards thinking that because one thing is healthy or "right" for one person or one group of people, that it should be healthy or "right" for me. That is a very unhealthy personal philosophy to have. God made us all individual. That's not an excuse to be lazy, sloppy, wasteful or rude, but it is a good reason to do what we understand to be right for us. Group thinking is pretty much always a bit dangerous if taken too far, and I think that extends to religious views as well. If one thing is made very clear in the Gospels written by the Apostles of Jesus, I think it is that our heart motivation is the most important factor in life. Only God knows our hearts. Therefore our individual walk and life and choices has to be a personal one. So don't let controversy lead us astray. Keep our heads up, keep on the path, and don't miss even a minute of this beautiful blessing called life!

Wintry

2013-01-15T21:50:00.000+01:00

Meandering down a wooded path on my husband's arm, absorbing the beauty of this wintry, fresh snowed paradise, finds me in the only place I want to be in this moment. As we walk along slowly I can feel the roughness of his wool coat brush my cheek as I turn to look up at him and tell him how beautiful this day is to me. We walk to a familiar park, but on an unfamiliar path. The discovery makes life new again. Around each bend treasures wait, and every time it surprises me to find the beauty of nature in a city.

I grew up in the countryside, miles away from even a small town, so finding a breathtaking path by a stream or through the trees seems miraculous.

The wooden fence along this particular stream has almost two inches of snow balancing on its ledge. The stream is a dark shadowy color in late afternoon with only an hour or so before darkness envelops it, and the snow white trees on its bank create a breathtaking contrast.

My husband waits excitedly for me to catch up with him so he can show me where the stream makes a turn and goes straight through an avenue of snow covered branches hanging over the very cold, gently gurgling water. The rocks in the middle of the stream have snow white hats, undisturbed by the days events. The snow rests on even the most delicate of branches, as though practicing a balancing act. All is still, and I feel like I am in a painting, frozen in time for the last two hundred years. A day of such beauty and transformation beckons the eyes and the soul to gaze and reflect. The temporary nature of this beauty is what makes time stand still for me. I know that it is only a matter of days before the sun or the rain will melt the snow away, transforming it back to what it was. Then spring will take its turn of redecorating, and the wonder will return.

A City and Its Thoughts

2012-11-25T23:43:00.002+01:00

Here is a glimpse into my mental musings of late. To my left on the coffee table sits the sheet music for "Four Hymns for Tenor and Viola" written by Ralph Vaughn Willams. My husband and I are working on the last two hymns for an upcoming concert. Outside the window to my right I can hear the intermittent sounds of a tram or a car passing by. At this hour on a Sunday evening most people are at home relaxing and preparing for the week ahead. The bells at the Graz Herz Jesu Church ring every weekday evening at 7:00, signaling the end of the workday. On Sunday mornings the bells toll at 9:15, just in time to remind you to start making your way to church. Sundays in Graz are quiet; with all of the businesses closed save cafes, restaurants, and one Spar supermarket at the Hauptbahnhof. Klimpt, my faithful viola, reclines on the love seat to my right, and sounds of my husband cooking drift down the hallway from the kitchen to my left. The mood in here is warm and peaceful, now that we replaced the light bulbs in our living room lamp. Soft golden beams of light reflect off of the zigzag hardwood floor and the dark wooden cabinets that grace the wall opposite where I sit. All is right in the world. Even the labored sound of our struggling computer fan somehow seems to fit.

Now that our tram passes have expired and we have not replaced them, I have been forced to walk the 30 minutes to the conservatory for viola lessons with my professor. The walk allows me to enjoy the heart of the city as it leads me meandering through Stadtpark, and then under the archway leading to the city's only official cathedral. The street turns to cobblestones as it winds down through Hauptplatz with its food vendors and street musicians; sometimes playing an accordian or a guitar, and on occasion a violin. As the street crosses the river there is a lovely view of Schlossberg high up and to the right. I will never tire of hearing the sound the river makes as it rushes beneath the bridge and passes by the old buildings of Graz on its way to the Slovenian border. Wandering through the city on foot allows for a pace slow enough to chew on the food for thought that lies in its walls and its people. Life is much slower here, and there is opportunity for living a simple life; one where you can walk or ride a bicycle to work through cobbled alleyways, past beautiful churches, and soak in the artistry of it all along the way. There is an attitude that makes time feel like it is moving so slowly somehow; like I have all the time in the world. I know that having a sense of urgency can be important, and not taking life for granted is essential, but taking time to soak it all in each and every day and to let things unfold at their natural pace, is a lesson well worth the time spent learning it.

Life abroad... so romantic. Or is it?

2012-10-30T10:04:00.000+01:00

Having just passed our one year anniversary of living in Austria, my perspective has been tilting along with the earth's axis, albeit in its own unique rhythm. I'd say we're just coming out of winter and into a warm, lovely spring, as far as my mood is concerned. One thing I have always valued in life is honesty. Nothing gets my goat more than when parents leave out the challenging portions of their youth through the retelling of stories to their children. If human kind suffers from feelings of inadequacy, then only telling people about the sunny days will make them wonder if the world as they know it is coming to an end every time a bit of a storm gathers overhead. I am speaking metaphorically, though my thoughts are drawn to the first images of hurricane Sandy's devastation in the Eastern portion of my country. They should be waking up in a few hours to see what kind of damage occurred during the night.

The leaves are gathering in the courtyard behind our apartment building, as winter has decided to overtake fall. Two days ago came the chill, followed yesterday by snow, which was hurriedly melted by the pesky rain, and today all that remains are branches getting more naked by the hour. The leaves are falling like snow. And yet, for me, the sun is out. After having traveled for a considerable amount of my life, seeing places like Thailand, Hawaii, Jamaica, Mexico, Canada, the UK and a good deal of Europe, my suspicions are confirmed; traveling is only romantic when you are reading about it or plotting your next journey. The everyday realization that most locals are not jumping up and down for joy that foreigners, or ausländer, are invading their comfy lives is not so romantic. Somehow discovery is so rare and precious that the few moments spent actually seeing the world in a whole new way are brief in comparison with everyday life. Like when the dark clouds gathered above and around me in Thailand when I was twenty, making me feel as though centuries of opposing religions and cultures were colliding inside of me; or when I stood on a bridge in Prague and looked at the memories reflected in the city's beautifully restored architecture, restored because of past destruction. Images at once of beauty and terror, viewed to the soundtrack of music from street performers.

Life really is made up of those special moments, and we just need to survive the time in between, while keeping our character in tact. Those glimpses come when we least expect them, and we need to have our eyes open. Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best: "Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we will find it not."

Thinking Outside the Box 101 - encountering other cultures

2012-04-15T15:26:00.000+02:00

While traveling by train from Stuttgart, Germany, to Graz, Austria, my husband and I who have been living in Austria for nearly eight months had the privilege of overhearing a fellow American. We were sitting across the isle from a lovely couple who looked like newlyweds. The pair spoke to one another in German as well as a middle-eastern sounding language, and they used English to order coffee and to politely ask if we could take their picture. Here in Europe one has the privilege of intermingling with people who have learned to dedicate time becoming familiar with other cultures and languages.

Stuttgart Marktplatz

While we enjoyed a beautiful view out of our picture window of the German and Austrian landscapes, our serenity was interrupted momentarily when we heard a man's voice utter in a southern American accent the words, "dumb ass." It was not long before we had confirmation that he was a traveler with little interest in learning about new cultures, when he could not understand the attendant asking if he would like "kaffee." The attendant kindly translated to the English version by saying, "coffee." Not speaking German is one thing, but traveling in Austria by train and not even being able to identify that "kaffee," means "coffee," is just a bit embarrassing. Oh well. He soon disembarked from the train.

Living in a foreign country is an experience that I would never exchange. The way that it alters your perception of life and helps you to understand entirely different mindsets by entering into their perspective via language, is an outstanding education. I have traveled a great deal throughout my life, thanks to my family, and that was for me an indispensable education. But I feel that living overseas and diving into the culture and language is like going from "Think outside the box 101" to "Thinking 600." For me at least this is true.

Austria and Croissants

2012-04-04T15:13:00.000+02:00

I must clarify one thing before I begin: The country listed in the title of this post is Austria. A horrifyingly popular belief among American citizens is that this is the land where kangaroos live. Oh wait, I said Austria, not Australia. This country with a rich history including Roman occupation, Napoleon's failed conquest of Graz, the birth of the Viennese coffee tradition, and the truth about Croissants is located in Europe. Austria neighbors Germany, Hungary, Switzerland, Slovenia, Slovakia, Italy and the Czech Republic.

Popular belief has named the French as being the inventors of this deliciously delightful pastry filled with tender, melt in your mouth, buttery goodness, but the truth as far as we know it gives "croissant genius" credit to the Austrians. The legend of the croissant is one shrouded in mystery, with references to the Turks as possible originators, and Budapest is also included on the list. It is even said that monks around 1000 AD began making this lovely treat for the Easter celebrations, as the monasteries held the first bakeries. But the croissant that we know with its crescent shape most certainly found its birth place in Vienna.

This delightful pastry may have maneuvered its way into French hands via the lovely Marie Antoinette, the wife of Ludwig XVI, the king of France. Marie Antoinette was the daughter of Maria Theresa of Austria, and being a good Austrian, she took her love of fine pastries to her new home in France. The French have a love for all culinary delights and wisely embraced the croissant, helping to bring the new rage worldwide. The next time you think you hear someone mention Australia, be sure to double check.

High Ceilings and Oceans

2012-04-01T20:02:00.000+02:00

I am sitting inside of our old fashioned Graz apartment, with high ceilings and windows that overlook the street where the Straβenbahns, or street cars, pass by every few minutes. If I am feeling poetic enough they sound like waves crashing on the sea shore. I can imagine seagulls flying overhead and a soft blue heaven with delicate clouds accentuating the scenery composed of sand, rocks, and gentle bluffs that embrace the foaming sea.

Our Austrian apartment is on what Americans would call the second floor, but what to a German speaking European is the “Erste Stock,” or first floor. My favorite room is the living room, where I am sitting now, with its high ceiling, tall windows, and an old wooden floor that is perfect for reflecting the softened light from the sun as it sneaks past the tops of the many storied buildings and comes in through our windows. The structures are all built together so that they look like one and the same building, or gigantic walls on either side of the street with rows of windows running up six layers or more to the sky.

In contrast to the busy street with its street cars, autos, cyclists and foot traffic is the dining room of our apartment which looks behind our particular building into a satisfactory yard of sorts, complete with trees that to my surprise and delight have erupted over the past few days with blossoms! The most notable being the large tree whose white blossoms grow daily to create a natural garden in the middle of the city, and whose name I have yet to discover. I know that I am not the only one to have noticed, because I hear the birds singing happily everyday in this little untamed bit of nature.

Winter Musings | Authspot

2012-03-31T22:26:00.001+02:00

Winter Musings | Authspot Follow this link to read my short story.

When I Lived in a Run-down Apartment Complex

2012-03-29T12:20:00.001+02:00

When I lived in Saraland, Alabama where I attended college at the University of Mobile, I moved off campus the second semester so that I could afford my living expenses. Thankfully, my tuition was covered with scholarships and grants, but I still needed to come up with my basic living expenses. I lived in a three bedroom apartment with two roommates, and with the high humidity levels and less than impressive building methods, the floors creaked and the outdoor wooden stairs leading to our second story apartment, as well as the wooden railing on our balcony were considerably weathered.

I remember my early twenties as being the time in life that I was the most inspired to change things. Everything was new, and my optimism was at its highest. Next door to us lived a woman with her husband and young daughter, and I often stopped to chat with her on my way in or out of my apartment. I desperately wanted to spend time with her, as she was a lovely woman, probably not much older than me, who had not enjoyed the benefits of a life of reflection in the shadows of dedicated world changers like I had. One day I invited her over for tea, and I used my new tea set that my sister-in-law had sent me for my birthday. We talked about life, and she told me that when she and her family had tried to go to church, people looked down on them because of how they were dressed. We only managed to have tea that one time, and then, as had often happened in my life, I moved.

Four years later I had completed my bachelor’s degree and was commuting to Hattiesburg, Mississippi for my Master’s degree. I was in Saraland one day having tea with a friend of mine at a new tea shop, and our waitress was my old neighbor who I had invited over for tea. She was so happy to see me that she practically beamed, and she told me that she was so excited about her new job working at a tea parlor because she so loved that time that I had invited her over for tea.

Unfinished Musings While Escaping Humidity

2012-03-29T12:15:00.002+02:00

Here I am at a MacDonald’s restaurant in Mobile, Alabama escaping the deadly humidity and ironically drinking hot coffee in the air conditioning right across the street from L & M automotive where my car is sitting. The shop is now closed, as it is mid afternoon on a blistering hot Saturday, and all of the mechanics have left. Thankfully I brought my laptop, books and bag that doubles as a very full purse slash laptop bag. I knew the possibilities of waiting for a ride where great, as the noise around my tires sounded pretty serious this morning on my way back from volunteer work in Prichard, Alabama, a primarily African American neighborhood known for having the highest crime rates in the state. I had the opportunity to speak with an African American woman who came in with the weight of the world on her shoulders. A woman in her situation with a husband and family to care for, who is trying to make it in society with a professional career has many issues to face because, while things for her may seem great now on the outside, she has emotional baggage from growing up in an environment that was not the kindest to girls of her color and economic upbringing…

Stalking Music Students

2012-03-29T12:09:00.001+02:00

Lobby of a music building, Hattiesburg, Mississippi. August 30, 2010. (Written during an assignment for my qualitative research class).

Vintage String Quartet

The foyer for the music building leads into the auditorium on one end and up to the hallway by a flight of stairs on the other. It has mirrored entrances on either side made of double glass doors that open on one side to a lawn and on the other to stairs that lead down to the university museum. There are two sets of light colored wooden double doors that lead to the auditorium; they are closed and sounds of brass players practicing are coming from inside. In the center of the sunlit room are four sections of circular couches with one move-able round side table sitting too close to one of the sections. The couches are a drab brown in color with a circled pattern. Around the edges of the windowed room are upholstered chairs; some with dark wooden arms covered in striped blue and tan upholstery, while others have no arms and are upholstered in a brown paisley design. The humming of the air conditioner acts as a sound blanket that warms the activity of students walking in and out, moving furniture, and talking in distant hallways. As students come in and sit down in groups of twos, some are eating lunch and whistling sections of Tchaikovsky’s fourth symphony that was just being rehearsed, while others unpack laptops to study…

Later..

… It is just after dinner time. Sounds of the violin mingled with two or three voices talking and laughing in a mixture of Spanish and English are wafting in from the hallway just up the stairs. A solo musician who appears to be Latin American and in his mid twenties hurriedly walks down the stairs and then exits through the glass doors, down the outside stairs, around the corner of bushes, and finally disappears from my view. The orchestra conductor appears from the stairwell and calls to the one young woman besides myself who is sitting in the lobby. He asks whether or not her cello has been repaired. She rises to walk over to him and responds in very broken English; the conductor helps her occasionally to find her words. The conductor leaves after their brief exchange, she returning to her seat in the lobby and him exiting through the glass doors and disappearing down the stairs and around the corner. Now the lobby is quiet, with sudden bursts of motion and sound when musicians and professors walk through carrying their instruments, presumably on their way to practice or to teach. As the violin playing starts up again at the top of the stairs, I realize it had paused for several minutes. One woman in her early twenties with dark hair and a dark brown complexion walked through carrying an acoustic bass. She asked pleasantly for assistance with the door from a male student nearby who happily complied…