The Age of Weddings and Funerals

Every week for the last month it's been either a wedding or a funeral. I love both for almost the same reasons. They are the wonderful combination of intimate family traditions, religion, friendship, acquaintances, culture, and fashion, plus history - personal and regional. I had the opportunity to be part of a Buddhist funeral recently, my first. I had no idea that when I offered to help and was asked to keep track of and photograph the floral arrangements, that it was an official job that would be recognized in the printed memorial program. I felt extremely honored (and glad that I had worn dress pants and blouse with heels). The passing of my friend's father took me right to the center of my own world - the aging of my parents and the inevitable fact that this is right where I will be before long: planning a funeral that must be respectful and memorable and honor the man (or woman) who raised and loved me my whole life. It was wonderful to hear about the life of my friend's father, a man born in the United States to Japanese emigrants. He was a teenager during World War II. If you know the history of California, you are already saying, "oooh, nooo." Yes, he spent those years in internment camps. However the focus of his cousin who so eloquently spoke of her beloved "uncle" was not on the hardship of those years, but the "silver lining", which was the fact that he was able to develop his love of art and music during his time in the camps. He was able to turn his talents into a living for his family, and at this funeral there were his seven children and 21 grandchildren. What better legacy? 

The wedding I went to was an intimate affair (code word for small). Again I was honored to be a guest at a ceremony that celebrated life, this time the beginning of life together, and where the guest list was so carefully chosen. Life as a couple in the beginning seems at once so intensely serious, and so very trivial. It's such an easy thing to change your name. To throw a party. To ask for blessings. It's much more serious and difficult to stay in that union when things get sweaty and ugly: through lack of money, choosing paint colors and furniture you both can tolerate, crying babies and lack of sleep, and teenagers. But the beginning of a union is so joyful and lacy and full off pretty dresses and tulle and frosting and candy and bubbly drinks. You just have to smile and dance and rejoice that people still want to get married, to do the hard thing, or try their darnedest to do it. And some day, that wife will be escorted into that church/synagogue/temple by her son or her brother-in-law, in order to honor the life of her husband whom she has loved and shared a lifetime with. A dear relative will tell their story. Their legacy will be present and those present will feel honored to have known them.

I Fought With A Mop Today

Mops should not change. They should be easy to use, simple, and do their job effectively. My old mop died a rusty death so I decided to replace it with something different. Maybe those sad mop commercials got to me, I'm not sure. So I went with a wrap around model that advertised that it was good for tile. I threw out the old mop and now, two weeks later (I'm not hiding that I rarely mop), I opened the new  one. I had actually forgotten I had bought it, so it was like Christmas when I went to get it and saw a bright, shiny, still in the package mop. Let me back up for a second. I work about 10 hours a day, and usually (as noted above), cleaning is not a priority when I get home. I also have a handy husband and cleaners that come about every three weeks (who do a fabulous job on my floors). This week is fall break, so I have some extra hours in my day to contemplate the floor (and go barefoot long enough to notice how dirty my feet get). So the need to mop came upon me as a sudden, overwhelming... well, need. I popped the package open and found that the handle wasn't quite latched into the mop head gadget thingy. Looked easy enough, a slanted peg just needed to be popped into the other side. A half hour later, I was on the floor, sweaty, red-faced, and swearing loudly, with tools strewn about like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Three screwdrivers and a hammer, many loud expletives (my daughter was worried I'd injured myself), and I had finally conquered that mop. The plastic is a little cracked, but it is still useful. Not as effective as I had hoped, however, and I certainly didn't look anything like that relaxed, happy mopper in the commercial. Believe you me, I'll be promptly calling that 1-800 number to lodge a complaint with 3M as soon as I post this. By the way, I took this as a sign that the more infrequently I approach a mop, the better.

Living In a State With a Coastline

I love living near the ocean. It makes me feel so small and so big at the same time. The ocean, powerful and unstoppable, emphasizes the insignificance of my self. Every crab, every bird, every dolphin that I see feels a part of something bigger, something connected to everything and everyone. I have heard that the coast has a plethora of negatively charged ions which can calm us and make us feel energized and focused at the same time. A scientific way of saying "happy", at least for me. One of my goals is to have a small house near the ocean, near enough to walk. I can picture it, I can smell the salt and seaweed, and hear the waves. I sleep better by the ocean, I feel more alive by the ocean, I am closer to heaven by the ocean.