Cheryl graciously invited me to write about my love of hiking in her “Been There/Done That” space. I hope you’ll ‘travel’ around the Intelligent Women Dialogue site, not just to read my article, but to check out the other sections as well.
For example, the current dialogue is U.S. Politics and Women. I have an inside tip that Hillary Clinton will be interviewed very soon on the site.

Hilary Rodham Clinton in high school

(Cheryl and Hillary went to high school together in Illinois).

And, there’s a new topic posted from last week: “Can’t They Just Behave?” I’ll bet you can guess what that’s about… At any rate, there’s plenty to grab your interest, even for men! My thanks to Cheryl for asking me to write and for the opportunity to cross-refer to one another’s websites. That address again is www.iwdialogue.com

The feel of May...

This year, to honor National Poetry Month, I turned to John Keats for a poem that expresses the new life bursting forth in color now. In the following poem, he honors spring with a bittersweet twist at the end:

After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains by John Keats

After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieved of its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May;
The eyelids with the passing coolness play
Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains.
The calmest thoughts came round us; as of leaves
Budding—fruit ripening in stillness—Autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves—
Sweet Sappho’s cheek—a smiling infant’s breath—
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs—
A woodland rivulet—a Poet’s death.

Here is poetry of a different kind, by Joyce Sequichie Hifler, writer of my favorite meditation book, A Cherokee Feast of Days:

A green cathedral

“This is Cherokee paradise—to stand quietly in aged timber and be so much a part of it. Even the tiny creek plays water-harps as it winds its way around clumps of dried leave and slips over round stones that are a part of its past handiwork. This is a green cathedral with shafts of sunlight cutting through thick foliage to turn droplets of water into prisms of color. Nothing is out of place—not even the walker.”

Ben

My return last week to Washington, after 3 months away, has been heartbreaking. In late February, my cat/plant/house sitter called to say that my 11-year old cat Ben was sick. There began a roller coaster ride of vet visits, prednisone pills, B-12 shots, 3-way phone calls and emails with Capital Cat Clinic, and both good and bad days for Ben and the rest of us. At one point, I was out of the country and coming home was impossible. When I could have flown home, Ben was doing well. It all came to an abrupt end last Monday when I flew home and met Ben at the clinic to be with him one last time before he died. He was incredibly weak but wagged his tail a couple of times to say hi. I was grateful for the chance to hold and pet him for awhile. Then the doctor gave him a light sedative before euthanizing him.
Ben and Jerry came into my life at a particularly significant point when I adopted them in April 2001.

Jerry

In the wake of 9/11, the Washington Post invited people to write what was comforting to them as we all adjusted to our new reality. This is what I wrote:
I jolt awake from the horror of people jumping from a black and red inferno. The cats reposition themselves where I can pet them. They are warm and noisy. Their purrs drown out helicopters and F-16s overhead and soothe me back to sleep. I envy their simple instincts—food, water, litter.
Ben and Jerry usually woke me about 6:00 a.m.; we had a morning ritual where I would feed them and then fix a cup of tea. They would snarf down their food and join me on the couch to ‘help’ me write and enjoy my tea.

Master nappers

My son thinks Ben missed Jerry (his sibling who died last August) and wanted to be with him. I like to think of them, high on catnip, chasing each other down some celestial hallway and then collapsing in a furry heap to nap–something they both mastered to perfection.

La Escuela de Espanol San Jose de Viejo

Thanks to the generosity of my good friend, Hunt Kooiker, I’ve just spent 12 days in Guatemala. We spent our first week in Antigua, staying with a Guatemalan family. While Hunt was attending meetings, I took a Spanish immersion class from 8-noon every day of the week. That means speaking Spanish at breakfast and lunch with the family, plus 4 hours of class each day, followed by homework in the afternoon. It was muy intense! I’ve taken Spanish at home for a few years, but haven’t practiced it regularly. In my arrogance, I thought I would be a star pupil at La Escuela de Espanol San Jose de Viejo, and would be fluent by week’s end. My mediocre performance was no reflection on my teacher and tocaya (namesake), Judy.
Antigua is a gem of a colonial city, nestled in a bowl formed by three volcanic mountains. It was the Capitol of the country until two earthquakes in the 1700s almost destroyed the city and the Capitol was moved to Guatemala City. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, nothing much has changed in Antigua since then. Streets are all cobblestone. Horses and horse-drawn carriages are common. The beautiful Cathedral that flanks the east side of Parque Centrale is still used for services in one section.

Antigua's Cathedral

When you enter another door, you find yourself amidst the ruins of the original church. The rubble appears to be exactly where it fell during the earthquake.
There is a thriving expat community living here. A good number of them work for NGOs, serving the immense needs of the people of Guatemala. They describe coming here to visit and knowing intuitively that this is where they belong. I applaud their courage and resiliency. I have been miles outside my comfort zone on this adventure, and that adds to my appreciation of how the Americans I’ve met have adapted to such a different environment.

Happy Rocks inspire our molecular mojo

This year we discovered something especially unique and whimsical—Happy Rocks by Haydn Larson from LaCrosse, FL. Haydn was trained in Texas, India, and Hollywood—a diverse enough background to hint at his unique clay creations, which he calls “portable chunks of optimism.” I chose a cat with a cute little mouse peeking over his ear. My friend chose Twisted Sister. Each piece begins as a ball of clay. They are a combination of crushed quartz, finely ground cement, and magic “fu-fu” dust…
Each of our items was accompanied by these words: “These original designs are handmade artwork brimming with magic. They have the power to change the molecular mojo of your reality in many positive ways. They are grounding and they vibrate at a frequency, which can induce a happy dance in their owners. ROCK ON!”

The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, England

Warm thanks to these wonderful book women who have shared the beginnings of their lifelong affair with books:
Claire Emory: Oh gosh, the Bookmobile! It came to the intersection of Riggs Road and East-West Highway….I remember a picture book called “The Princess and the Strawberry.” I think I was four. I still have the book packed away somewhere. My mother wrote in it,  “First book Claire picked out herself” and the date. I had a tiny bookcase in my bedroom and was so very proud of my “library.” I saved up my allowance to buy the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, the Penguin paperback biographies of Florence Nightingale and Helen Keller.
Janet Hulstrand: I remember from the summer when I was about 9 years old my Mom telling me (after I had read through a pile of books in just a few days). “Okay. We’re going to the library again. But this time you have to get enough books to last you for a whole week.” Fortunately, at that time, at our local library, there were no check-out limits!  
Patricia Leslie: Do you remember those “silhouette” books? When I was about 7, someone gave me a book about Lucretia Mott, one of our women’s rights foremothers. I never forgot that book and I know it influenced my being a women’s rights advocate. 

Dove Cottage, home of William Wordsworth, in Grasmere, England

Leslie Pietrzyk: The Enid Byton section in the children’s room and the stiff blue circular seats built around a pole (so exotic to have a chair that went all the way around!) and those early days of poking around in the Adult Section, which seemed so dark and crowded, compared to the children’s area, but so full of promise and vague danger. Also, reading “Mad Magazine” and feeling so subversive!
Mary Quattlebaum: Every two weeks, my mom would drive me and my six siblings from our country home to the nearest library about 30 miles away. We had to put all our library books in my mother’s huge wicker clothes basket. Two of us would then grasp the basket handles and wrestle it up the stairs to the library’s return desk. Years later, my mother learned that the librarians referred to her as the “basket lady.” Thanks to my mom, the basket lady, for making this effort and to my dad for reading all those books aloud to us.
I’d love to hear about your first book love! 

Shutters announce arrivals and departures.

This winter my sister and I are “squatting” in a nice condo building overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in south Florida. The building has about 140 apartments—all with a view of the pool and the ocean. Each is equipped with hurricane shutters–big white folding vinyl ’doors’ to protect against storms. Some also may use them to close against the intense tropical sun. Linda and I leave ours open all the time. We’re on the south side of the building and never get direct sunlight on our patio.
We were told that most of the annual snowbirds would begin arriving throughout the month of January and there would be an opening-of-the-shutters potluck dinner to welcome the ‘regulars’ back. As predicted, people began moving in from upstate New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Canada, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois…   

Holiday lights and a full moon.

 On January 8, I began logging how many of the shutters were open, how many were closed. I expected this to be easy….record the number opened up from one count to the next. However, I’ve discovered that some were open through the holidays and closed up afterward. Maybe those were short-term rentals. It is possible that some of the closed ones may actually be occupied, but are closed periodically for one reason or another, though I can’t imagine closing them to our spectacular view. It quickly became easier to count the ones that were closed. January 8 it was 41; January 18-32, and January 26-24. The potluck was on January 21st and about 90 people attended.     

Sunrise over the pool and the Atlantic

I suppose I could do more exhaustive research, but these elements—the continuous rhythm of the waves, a salty ocean breeze, soothing sunshine–are having their way with me. I can’t be bothered with anything too ‘exhaustive’….