No House but a Pine

Birds Bathed in Snow by Robin Stevens Payes (c) 2015

No House but a Pine 
  
  /\   

// || \\  

Plucky birds who
balance bravely across
the branched wings that
met at the trunk of the pine.
Like tightrope walkers hunkered
against the wind. Chirping feverishly as streaking

sleet slashed all exposed. Barely sheltered in the nesting
sanctuary of that scantily needled, wavering pine swaying  so
perilously in the wintry wind. Was it terrifying to be so exposed I wondered? 
Watching from my window, coffee steaming, snug in the safety of this strong 
house protecting me from exposure

lucky me whose thin 
skin would never 
withstand the 
buffeting slashing. 

I whose soul 
shivered
with fear for 
those ruffled 
feathers 
weathering all 
elements with 
no house but a pine. 

Robin Stevens Payes | (c)February 2015

Heartsong

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HEARTSONG

   

When I leave this body, do not look for me in the things I have owned or worn, for I am not there.

Memory may serve as only a dim reminder of the times we have shared together. Songs we sang together (or that you suffered me to sing in your presence), jokes and experiences may live beyond me through you. But I am not there.

I cannot know this with certainty, but I feel it is true that I will remain with you as long as the moon shines and the sun rises, in the wind and the blossom of the orchid, in the birdsong and in the beating of your heart.

My breath will live on though my lips can no longer shape it. You will feel me in the ocean’s foam, the spring breeze and the sun’s warming rays.

For the essence of me—of all of us—continues on while our planet pulses and spins around our humble sun in this far corner of the Milky Way.

And you will find me as close as your heart, where I will live forever.

For Ben, Dana and Ari 

All My Love, Mom 

by Robin Stevens Payes  |  ©February 2, 2013

 

Reconciling Me

My email box is full. Helpful tips for holiday shopping. Soothing advice for stress relief. Ways both material and spiritual to part me from my money--of which less and less is coming in. Congress gives the present of sequestration, furlough, giving less and less until my cup runneth over with tears but not contracts.

Give. Take. Buy. Do unto others. Take care of yourself. You're too late. You're not enough. You are too much. It's never too late.

Other messages beckon from the spiritual inbox: I am taught, cajoled, comforted by the teaching that all that I need in this moment is here, now. All it takes is becoming aware of the bounty that fills my every waking hour. How wise. And these, too, I can purchase, download, gift and share. Wisdom for the masses.

Contrast email abundance to the droning news of mass lack, of mass loss, of mass less: typhoon destroys Philippines city; cyclone rains torrents on Italian island; tornadoes ravage American Midwest. Droning drones miss their targets. Hit small children. Where amid this devastation lies abundance?

From the personal to the global to the political. Right vs. Left, a battle for our times. Since when is selfishness a Tea Party? Al Qaeda operatives destroy Iranian embassy in Beirut, collateral damage in Syria's brutal civil war. Is it any wonder that Toronto's mayor and a freshman member of Congress escape to the ravings of cocaine?

And how can we warn teens off that trap of escape that even their would-be elders and wisers can't resist, teens with their flourishing of brain cells firing, misfiring, rewiring. Miley Cyrus is doing it. The Olsen twins are pushing it. Let the wind blow and me inside it: the pressure is too much.

It is our parents' fault. And ours to our children. We couldn't hold on. Didn't know how to pass on the strength to carry on. Forgot that the anthems they marched to in the '60s taught: the answer is blowing in the wind.

Just breathe. In-and-out. In-and-out. Go within. Tune out the noise. This is what the gurus teach an ever wider, more needy audience. But all these prepositions mean nothing when the typhoon twists all around us. When the wind is blowing this strong it is hard to breathe.

It's getting darker day-by-day, but the holidays are coming. We're all supposed to be merry and bright. Families give us strength, and tear us apart. We have trouble holding ourselves together. We don't have the answers, for they lie within. Hidden.

Silence the noise. Our thoughts are not who we are, they are just stories we tell ourselves. Change the story. (I am trying).

Be thankful. Abundance lives in the fact that I am here. Breathing. At this moment alive. Right now the sun is shining and the sky is blue. The skeletons that were recently leaf-covered stand straight outside my window. I am here now.

Just breathe.

Amber Eyes

March mornings wear amber eyes under

which I, a flyspeck, am trapped in morning’s

honey-thickened glaze. I long to fly but my

wings are congealed, sticky-thick.

Winter ebbs, teases with the promise of spring yet-

to-emerge. Green-helmeted buds erupt, setting out

tentative antennae to one day sprout

their joy at life. They are frozen in time.

Crocus, daffodil, narcissus: I whisper their names.

For they are as stuck as I under winter’s heavy coat,

Stilled by snow's tempered passions, trembling

To melt in mud season's messy embrace.

The sun is pointing in the right direction.

Even hunched under the weight of gray gel,

life burbles, planning patiently a return to life.

I long for a glimpse: Crocus, daffodil, narcissus!

“Rise with us, robin,” they urge me. For I, too,

emerge with spring. "Open your wings.” Icy
memories last an unearthly moment until
Dawn's new amber eyes illumine my wakening.

~Robin Stevens Payes
March, 2013        

No Time like The Present

I am completely fascinated by the concept of time and how relative our experiences in it are. Not as Einstein experienced relativity, perhaps, but according to how we live in "real time." As marked by the Atomic Clock on the grounds of the Naval Observatory in Washington, D.C., right next to the Vice President's house, it is exquisitely metered to match the most minute changes, marked to the infinitesimal and mostly unobserved interactions of atoms. This is, in fact, Washington time: moving faster than the eye can see.

So tied today are we to the unfolding of our devices, that my young adult children cannot even imagine wearing a watch. Why rely on such an unfashionable accessory when the time is as close as your cell phone or tablet that signal and ring to tweets and texts as your friends and family clocks in? Most of the clocks in our house measure time in hours, minutes and seconds -- like most of yours, I'd imagine. But, except for timepieces in my bedroom and kitchen (all the better to time the microwave oven, my dear), most of those sporting long-dead batteries are only accurate two times a day. Not a reliable timepiece for the incalculable meetings, class schedules, phone calls and appointments that govern any of our lives. And, of course, we have daylight savings time, an arbitrary adjustment twice a year to give us more daylight around the edges.

This is of more than academic interest to me: having just completed a time travel screenplay that juxtaposes Washington, D.C., today to the slower rhythms of 15th century Florence, Italy, it was not just modern ideas that proved alien as our heroes found themselves moving back 500 years; but even any urgency to act in any given moment that separated my time travelers from their unwitting Renaissance hosts.

It turns out, we've been measuring the pace of life in this way since the 18th century, as a way to bring some order to the chaotic speeding-up of life around us. Prior to that, grand cathedrals featuring astronomical clocks timed with mechanical movements show that day's version of animation sounded the hour and quarter hour in and around towns that centered on their regularity, but these soundings may have varied from town-to-town and even church-to-church, making meetings tied to their appointed chiming approximate, at best.

Here is the daily show at the Cathedral de Notre Dame in Strasbourg, France, where you will even hear roosters crowing as the angels proceed on their mechanical march of time, as they have done since the 12th century.


The clock-keeper of the cathedral played an important role in the community; once overtaken to Swiss perfection by the wind-up clock and watch, to electrical wall socket and, increasingly, in the past half-century or so, by battery. At the same time, the mechanisms that govern its functioning have moved to analog to digital with increasing precision.

So not only has our conception of time evolved, but the instruments of measurement have moved from the town square to inside our homes, wall-to-wrist, and finally wrist-to-digital pocket. But I am interested in a larger question: are we better off today, governed as we are by the ever-changing second hand? Has increasing reliance on chronology led us away from healthy circadian rhythms?

For those of us pondering how our sense of the present has grown so divorced from even recent pasts here is a novel re-creation: The Present. An beautifully elegant new timepiece that marks the passage of seasons may help us renew our appreciation for that most elusive of all moments: the present.


Despite the much-hyped 2012 winter solstice, and apparently inaccurate Mayan predictions of end-times, perhaps we are now ready to usher in this new time, The Present, with the calm and wonder it deserves.

Thinking that, whatever time zone you're living in and whatever system you use to measure that, now is the only time we've got. So here's to now: all in good time.

On Being Right Where I Am

I have been discovering the virtues of mindfulness for quite some time. I define this as the art of observing what's on my mind but not attaching to it. Watch your worries and let them pass.

For those of us Westerners uncomfortable with Eastern practices of meditation, or who associate contemplation with religion and all the baggage that institution conjures, we define this practice as metacognition: thinking about your thinking.

This practice of non-attachment has done wonders for my normally unquiet mind, where I was wont to grab on to every grievance, wrong or seizure of self-doubt and worry it to death.

I don't miss these obsessions with what is only, after all, a passing thought.

But another piece of the mindfulness puzzle still eludes me. It is the idea that wherever I am, that's where I'm supposed to be. I think this means that any situation provides an opportunity for learning. I like that idea, in principle, but that my brain apparently thinks otherwise. Or is it my ego that has grabbed hold and won't let go?

After all, I am the person who has always known she could change the world. Yet, no one else seems to be signing on for that experience, wherein, I save them. I used to receive a modicum of satisfaction in sheltering my impressionable children from experiencing the hardships of life. Yet, as young adults, even they seem impervious to my magical incantations to wish away harm.

So either I have failed greatly in what only I have long understood as my God-given mission, or I have been focused on the wrong goal. Perhaps, in distracting myself to believe I can save everyone else, I have unconsciously distracted myself from appreciating that things don't always turn out the way you want them to. That, perhaps, bad things exist for good reasons - like teaching us to cope in the game of life.

Trying hard to appreciate that, in this moment, I am in the right place, even if it is different from where I have always thought it should be. And that learning to be here, now, IS the lesson, despite my unsalved ego's insistence that I have somehow failed.

Just watching now, to see if I can allow the wind to carry away my attachment to being the one who protects others. And accept that I am right where I should be.

Going From Shame to Joy

University of Houston Researcher Brené Brown on why staying vulnerable and owning even those parts of your story that may be shameful is essential to a joyful life.

April 26, 2012

Psst: don't tell anyone my secret. I spent last weekend immersed in shame. Struggling to maintain my openness. It’s a tough combo that makes most of us want to run and hide. 

The setting: “The Anatomy of Joy,” an Omega Institute workshop, offered lessons from research on vulnerability and shame done by University of Houston social science researcher Brené Brown. In the past year, since going public with her research in a 2010 TEDx talk, "The Power of Vulnerability," viewed now by more than 6 million people, she has lived through feeling ashamed and exposed talking about topics that nobody wants to discuss: shame and vulnerability.  

So Brené and I spent the weekend together. Virtually, as is the way of all modern relationships. “Women and Power” gave me a live streaming video window into a heart she shared freely. Here she was talking to me and 8,500 other virtual friends in New York and around the world about how leaving yourself open, suffering yourself to be vulnerable despite the fear of being humiliated, is what ultimately leads us to joy. 

A paradox.

I was watching with something other than journalistic detachment. Having suffered my own humiliations recently—suffering the limbo of a project I passionately believed in going unfunded, profound misunderstandings with a colleague, a relationship on the brink, I wanted to learn from her. Like you, perhaps, I long for joy. 

If you've listened to her most recent TED talk, "Listening to Shame," you know that the response to her “vulnerability” led to her having what she called a "breakdown", and her therapist characterized more positively as a “spiritual awakening”.

What was the source of her awakening? Finding in her research, after six years and thousands of hours spent conducting interviews with people, that the secret to getting to joy, to embracing life and all its imperfections wholeheartedly is accepting yourself, imperfections and all. 

Wholeheartedness means self-acceptance despite shame, failures, needing others—and not having to be perfect. 

Love and acceptance. The very things we are all looking for. 

This simple finding—admitting your vulnerability could lead to joy--so shocked the “take no prisoners,” former University of Texas party girl-turned-social work researcher that Brown had to step away from her research and go into therapy for a year to figure out this "vulnerability thing", describing her own aversion to admitting she might be less-than-perfect by confessing she “didn’t even hang out with people like that.” 

Coming to Terms

“Happiness,” says Brown, “is circumstantial; joy is internal and very deeply spiritual. The things that bring us the most joy in the long run may not always make us happy in the moment.” 

The things that bring us joy may not make us happy. 

Another paradox. 

It turns out that those people who were truly joyful, wholeheartedly “all in”, had one thing in common:  

“I came across a group of people who were fundamentally different. They woke up every day and acknowledged, ‘I am enough.’” Self-compassion, self-acceptance, these are not just words to those wholehearted people, but a way of life. For most of us, in a society that worships perfection, we are never enough—and think others judge us as harshly as we judge ourselves.

How does this lack shape us and contribute to a culture marked by shame? “We live in a culture of deep, deep scarcity—never enough...relevant enough, popular enough, rich enough...there is "never enoughness". I call these the shame Gremlins: you are never good enough, and who do you think you are!”

Flashback to the perfect job, "acting" as director of external affairs for a nationally-ranked graduate school of public policy. Back in the '90s, before news was a blood sport, I started building the institutions public reputation from scratch working with a brilliant faculty—upgrading "the best kept secret" of a school near the nation's capital into a nationally recognized institution that turned out some of the best-prepared up-and-comers in the worlds of policy, economics, and politics. I started a regular policy series by news makers, news reporters and policy makers, involving students in the process. I orchestrated a globally televised  Presidential Primary debate before that became an Olympic sport, inviting students and faculty involvement, that thrust the school and, indeed, the university, into a wider international arena.  

I so loved what I did that I wanted to make the position permanent. To be hired on permanently do my dream job, I had to interview; I had done my job well, raising the profile of the school and its faculty, developing rapport with my colleagues, trust from the faculty and increasing recruitment in the process of its growing public reputation.  Slam dunk, no?

No. I didn't get my own job. Then I was asked to train my successor, who didn't have the skills the position called for. I mean, are you serious!?

That hurt, of course, but I was ashamed to confess this. I hid away to lick my wounds. 

To mask our imperfections, to deny the very vulnerability that allows us to connect, expand creativity, allow intimacy, we armor ourselves to meet the day without showing our human chinks. It’s exhausting and isolating to live such a guarded life. 

Does the Mask Keep Us Safe?
 Brené argues no. Stuffing down shame, numbing the pain, also keeps us from feeling joy. ”We can talk about joy and happiness, but if we don't talk about what gets in the way…what gets in the way of us being ‘all in’?” To keep ourselves safe, for hiding all our imperfections under the skin we, as a society, have become the most over-medicated, surgically perfected, addicted, anxious, depressed and distracted adult cohort in the history of this country. So it would seem that guarding ourselves from sharing our pain with others—staying vulnerable—has resulted in stress, disease and lack of connection. In a word: shame.

As her data bore out, life is no less difficult for the people who saw themselves as worthy of love and belonging. “But this group,” Brené observes, “in the midst of struggle, said, ‘This is really hard, but I am still worthy of love and belonging.’ 


The whole-hearted folks she was talking to, "also made different choices than I was making. ...things like cultivating self-compassion; like they would talk to someone they care about. They let go of perfectionism. They'd cultivate play and rest and let go of exhaustion as a status symbol and productivity as self-worth. Let go of anxiety as a lifestyle. 

“Here's what I learned is essential: love and belonging,” Brené attested. “These are irreducible needs. We are hard-wired for connection. It is why we're here. Love and belonging are two of the most powerful expressions of connection.” 

The common thread for the wholehearted people in her study was in practicing gratitude. 

Practicing gratitude—I could do that. Being thankful for all what is right here-right now: to wake up with my dog cuddled beside me. To listen to the rain from the warmth of my kitchen with a cup of tea and nowhere special to go. To talk to a friend. 

Everyday moments as the path to joy. Not one moment, but a lifetime of moments adds up to something joyful to celebrate. 

Learning this has been a profound awakening. To acknowledge, “I am good enough.” To own my story and share it—in all its glory and shame. To stay open and not succumb to numbness. 

Ah yes, back to that story of not getting my own job? I was shocked. Needed time to retreat and figure things out.  Out of the ashes, I set to work on a novel, Satan's Mortgage. Transformed my hurt, anger and embarrassment into creative output. Good therapy.

So, of course, it's not all about the defeats. There are triumphs, too. And moments that fill the everyday. Still, it is painful to admit my failings in the story I show myself and the world and not shut down. But, as Brené relates, telling the whole story and remaining vulnerable despite the shame offers our best chance at getting to joy. 

I am practicing. Despite the letdowns, my failures and imperfections, “I am enough.” Good enough. Kind enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough to find joy in life. I am doing the best that I can. 

It's a secret we can all share. And sharing secrets like that earns Brené Brown a standing ovation.

What moments in life have you been keeping secret? 

Digging Deeper:

Books, blog and more www.brenebrown.com

2012 TED Talk On vulnerability

More on the value of self-compassion

Time to Let Him Go

Being the mother of a soon-departing college freshman is not a new feeling - in fact, this is departure number three; the first two have already successfully completed that four-year experience in one piece. They've even decided to take up residence close to home and family, and we enjoy a close relationship where I can watch proudly as they navigate the adult world. It's just that this is the last to go. The landscape for my baby is about to change dramatically, and my own landscape will soon reflect his absence in a quieter, less chaotic home life, but also strangely empty of all that teen energy, angst and exuberance.

I pride myself on not being a helicopter mom: one of those parents buzzing overhead to monitor the life of her child, diving in at any sign of difficulty. But I like to think I am also supportive, available and reasonably helpful. This child's leaving is significantly different from the previous two in yet another way, however: he doesn't like to open up to us. His relative silence means I worry that I won't have any sense of the daily joys and struggles so far away, that he will not want me to get to know his friends, that he won't call, text or Skype regularly, so I won't be able to hear in his voice what's going right, or what's going wrong. "You're so annoying, Mom. I'm fine" is a regular refrain when I push him to share.

This newly emerging young man has some added challenges - not uncommon to many teens. Learning difficulties make school difficult. ADHD means it's hard for him to maintain focus. The fact that he finds it hard to find the words to explain what's going on in his brain leave him reticent to discuss this fact with teachers - particularly when they're strangers in a new setting. I feel for him. I wish I could talk to his professors myself. But I won't. Because he is also proud. And I am not a helicopter mom. So that task is now up to him.

My daughter consoles me that I have done all I can to help her little brother reach this point successfully, and that now it's up to him. I know that, developmentally, she is right, but Number 3 doesn't necessarily follow the clock. It's vexing.

It is not that he's never been away from home before. For the past six summers, he's gone to sleep-away camp in Maine for a two-month stretch. A natural athlete, and patient coach and instructor of younger children, he thrives at camp. But after two months, in an environment I know intimately, under the care of adults I've known since my own teen years, he comes home.

Still, the day of his departure for High Point University is drawing undeniably closer - only a week from today and we will be moving him into his dorm room. In what seems like a "kiss-and-run" policy, the university schedules move-in day on Saturday, a Convocation Sunday morning, and then it's off to the races.

Why does a mother worry about this so much? Is it because the definition of her role is about to change so radically? Is it the thought that our relationship is about to change forever? If this were a multiple choice test, I'd have to leave room not just for a choice of, d). all of the above, but one more option: e). all of the above and more.

I know enough about the brain to understand that this is my limbic system overruling my better judgment. The drive to protect, to nurture, to keep our offspring safe is a primal drive. My rational brain says, he'll be home in just over a month (his college has an extended fall break); he is just a phone call away; Southwest flies to a town close-by in less than an hour. All of these facts sound reassuring, but don't erase the feeling of looming loss and powerlessness.

It is, according to the calendar, time to let him go. He will experience all the newness of college life and adjust easily. Or he will struggle with the freedom, choices and changes of boundaries. He will be away from daily interaction with family and the comforts of home. In either case, I will continue to poke, call, text and be that "annoying Mom" who wants to stay involved in her son's life, even far away.

I am proud of my young man. He's accomplished so much in 17 years. I am thrilled for him that he is strong, autonomous, smart. I know he has the strength to take on life's challenges and I pray that the values we've worked to instill stand up under the pressure of adjustment to this new life, new friends, more strenuous academic expectations.

In a week, we cast our baby out of the nest. I will watch with pride and tears as he spreads his wings to fly. It is all a mother can do. Right?

The Wondrous Waltz of the Daffodils

William Wordsworth's classic verse, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, that ode to spring's temporal dance, evokes the seasonal dance of wind-struck daffodils, "Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Wandering and dancing in the breeze." The poet's gaze - espying clouds of yellow, "Waving their heads in spritely dance" - how can we help but be joyful in their company: "And I, beside them, dance in glee", even as the grey, icy winds of winter give way to the indomitable sunshine of spring.

Garrison Keillor recites the poem on April 15, 2011 in his daily Writer's Almanac (see podcast below). The date for me is meaningful: my father, David Stevens who, well into his 80s would visit nursing homes to read poetry he loved to "the old people", would recite this most beloved poem by heart at every reading. This year, it was as if he touched me from another dimension, channeled by Keillor: my father the accountant would have danced with glee at the conclusion of this day, April 15, that the long tax season, the grays of thousands of 1040 long forms and long days and nights under the sore artifice of office fluorescent lights, could finally give way to fresh air, suddenly lengthened days and the sunshine of spring.

Since my own childhood, when Daddy and I would walk of an early spring day, one of our favorite things to do, daffodil's have evoked the dance of freedom, light and love. So now, in this season of spring and light and hope, I think of him when I take my walk in the woods, and "when oft upon my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, I gaze upon the inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude."

My father was also a poet in his own right. My own yard offers up a meager yield of only three lonely dancers, but I cut them to grace our Passover table and take delight in gazing upon them, as I know Daddy still must. "And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils."

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Note to Self: I Have Promises to Keep

I was grabbed by Orna Ross's Creative Intelligence blog post about the paradox of creative intention. She advises us to look at intention, not as a plan, but as a guiding principle, recognizing that despite the force that focused intention can create to make things happen, there are equally forceful and opposing actions being served up by the universe that may derail us from achieving what we really want.

For the sake of clarity, I am listing "Orna's paradoxes" here:
* To clearly visualise what we want, then let go of any attachment to the outcome.
* To be prepared to do our part while allowing life to do its.
* To work well and make appropriate efforts while also playing well, with lots of rest, relaxation, contemplation and meditation.
* To be persistent but not bull-headed.
* To work towards success while welcoming failure as a learning opportunity.
* To be resilient but not self-satisfied.
* To know what we want at the same time as knowing we are complete without it.
* To fully appreciate what we’ve already (co)created while directing energy towards what we’re (co)creating now.

But what about the question of setting clear intentions - and holding them central? Case in point: my novel in progress, After the Party's Over. Already two years in the writing and 90+ pages in, I have been stymied for months over forcing my seat in the chair to move the plot forward. I am waiting for the main character to tell me what's on her mind. She has revealed quite a bit recently, but I find my eyes glued elsewhere, not to her.

The paradox of inattention has derailed my best intentions. What's keeping me from writing?

First, paying clients. This is a good thing, as we have to eat and pay the mortgage. But there is a paradox. In my social marketing business, I help scientists, educators, researchers, and health professionals tell their stories. Storytelling still - just not my own.

Next, as part of my professional toolkit, I use social media. My professional blog offers a way to amplify client stories, as well as initiate discussions with colleagues and engage in conversations about social marketing. In my novel, some of the characters text and tweet, but no serious social networking is keeping them from living their lives as I write them.

Then, of course, Twitter. I am pretty judicious about turning off the Tweetdeck when it comes to meeting client deadlines. Just not my own. In fact, I had every intention of writing three pages a day during November or, in tweet-speak, #NaNoWriMo. That is, until client deadlines interfered. So I postponed my personal NaNoWriMo for December. And here we are, mid-December, and my poor main character Ellen is still frozen in time waiting at the airport in Detroit, having met up with her ex-husband, the one she walked out on, leaving their three children to his care years before. They are suspended in time until I get my butt on the seat and fingers on keyboard to write them a surprise encounter.

Family, college applications for youngest son, dogs...these are things I have let get in the way.

But it is still December, when miracles do happen. I have high hopes for the week between Xmas and New Year's, when NOTHING HAPPENS IN WASHINGTON, to turn my attentions to fulfilling my better intentions before another year slips away.

Because storytelling is what I do. Fully recognizing the paradox in this plan, my intention is to make my own at least as important as everyone else's.

What about you?

Families that Play Together: The Ultimate Block Party

Simon Says, "Play!" That was the message for the more than 50,000 parents and children making the pilgrimage to Central Park on October 3. While beautiful fall weather played a key role in its success, the Ultimate Block Party (UBP) organized by Play for Tomorrow, was undoubtedly a hit for the nursery through young teen set who engaged in the vast array of activities to encourage kids - and adults - to engage in creative fun at the park's Naumberg Band Shell.

Families came, teachers streamed in, caregivers from all over the city, and even from as far away as New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland. While Gordon from Sesame Street led a sing-along of songs familiar to young children and grownups alike, the myriad other happenings families could explore, decorate and climb on - from the giant brain collage sponsored by the Children's Museum of Manhattan, to the half-million green Legos (to demonstrate that one doesn't need color or special adornment to encourage builders' imaginations) growing into an intricate Lego City - ensured a continuous and enthusiastic crowd at each play station. Stroller jams were seen in the vicinity of a corral of cardboard boxes, where kids eagerly clambered, colored and took cover in newly make-believe caves. PlayWorks offered a chance for children from all over the city to play together in hula hoop contests, four-square and playground games. Sidewalk drawing, drumming and dancing gave families an excuse to engage in the spontaneous silliness, brain and body stretching we normally associate with growing up. Clowns without Borders bent from their high stilts to shake awestruck little hands.

There was a serious component to the joyous cacophony, one that "Play Doctors" wearing white lab coats took the time to explain to encourage parents, teachers and caregivers to incorporate play at home and school on a regular basis. Scientists have confirmed through years of research that play is an invaluable component of child development encouraging socialization, creativity, emotional adjustment, and brain development. To understand the link between play and learning, organizers gave everyone a "Play Book" at the gate - a guide to how kids learn through play and activities to take home. The UBP Web site links to various articles and research reports documenting play's effectiveness. According to Play for Tomorrow organizers Dr. Kathy Hirsh-Pasek, a faculty member and researcher on play and learning at Temple University, and Dr. Roberta Golinkoff who studies play, language acquisition and learning as a faculty member at the University of Delaware, the current school climate in which children as young as five must forgo recess for "test preparation" is taking the joy - but also essential opportunities for brain growth, exercise and motor skills development - out of learning. And yet, play is how children explore their world, create possibilities, socialize and learn empathy, say the researchers.

As Andy Ackerman, Executive Director of the Children's Museum of Manhattan and a co-founder of UBP, put it, "We knew the event was a success because all day long, what we saw was a lot of the back of kid's necks." Everyone was absorbed in activity.

The Central Park event is only the beginning of what organizers envision as a movement to put play back into learning. Other cities, from Baltimore to Denver, are already planning to host their own block parties, with distinctive local flavor. As UBP President Susan Magsamen noted, "The New York Ultimate Block Party may be the kickoff, but it is our vision that cities all over the country will create their own festivals to bring home the art and science of play. We have to make sure parents, teachers and caregivers understand play is fundamental to learning - that it shouldn't happen on just this one day, but everyday."

"Sunny days, Sweepin' the clouds away...," sang throngs of smiling children as Gordon led them in the Sesame Street theme song. It's nice to remember that play is essential to learning. More important, it's vital to a child's development and well-being. Even more to the point, play may be a necessary ingredient to keep our brains flexible, our bodies fit and our emotional life in balance to create, innovate and learn through the lifespan.

So the next time your inner child calls you to stop work and go play - whether it's a walk in the park, a game of Scrabble, or chalk drawing on the sidewalk - pay attention to that voice.

Now go out and play - Simon Says!

Woolly Moves Audiences "Full Circle"

Woolly Mammoth, always avant of the unconventional, has once again created a tour-de-force theatrical experience. Full Circle, playing through November, pushes the envelope - or shall we say, the audience - in every direction possible, from lobby to rehearsal hall, from watching actors crosing a single wire "rope" bridge, to watching action from a descending catwalk in a reconfigured theater-in-the-round. As theater exercise, it is bracing; as art, it doesn't work.

How to "read" a play where Pamela Harriman and Warren Buffet meet in East Berlin at the start of the revolution (Tear down that wall, Mr. Gorbachev!) as Pamela is being left holding a baby until his mother returns, where socialite Harriman and billionaire Buffet then meet up again at wedding feast between a young woman, whom Pamela has hired as a young East German "revolutionary" as the baby's nanny, and both Pamela and the nanny are pursued for "kidnapping" former Prime Minister Erich Honecker's baby (Karl Marx Honecker is the result of a union between the aged P.M. and his young mistress Christa)? Where they escape the Stassi police with the help of the au pair pushing Pamela and baby in a grocery cart that passes for a truck with no transmission? Or where the play-within-a-play that starts the program is performed in ersatz Chinese and German, with subtitles, between a Chinese Communist Party apparatchik and an East German agricultural expert about selling sharing land for rice production? All this with occasional audience sing-alongs, karaoke style, to the Beatles' "All You Need is Love."

I frankly didn't get it.

According to program notes, playwright Charles Mee was inspired by The Chalk Circle, a Chinese "zaju" play by Li Qianfu, which in turn inspired The Chalk Circle by German poet Klabund, finally punching out in Bertolt Brecht's Caucasian Chalk Circle.

The knowledge of the play's antique provenance left me wondering about the "chalk circle" proscribed on the remodeled Woolly stage, where Woolly's Artistic Director Howard Shalwitz portrayed his fictional East Germany counterpart as artistic director of the East Berlin theater, belaboring his alleged artistic "crimes" during a long second-act monologue before being appointed judge for the crime of kidnapping the Honecker baby. His State-prescribed duty was to determine whose baby Karl Marx Honecker actually was - the birth mother (the now-deceased Honecker's ex-mistress), Pamela Harriman (who invited the audience to join her and Warren for their coming nuptials in Biarritz) or the young woman who nurtured the baby throughout the the chase by Stassi officers as they ran from Berlin to Dresden.

Shalwitz, instead of being prosecuted for cooperating with Communist authorities to remove the "art" from his theater, is named judge to determine who should retain custody of baby Karl Marx. As if to underscore the allusion, the police note that the theatrical director's task as judge is of Solomonic proportion.

At one point, while we were gathered in the theater, I found myself sitting next to Bob Mondello, theater critic, taking notes on a manilla envelope. While it was too dark to see what he wrote, I did note that the critic cracked a smile once or twice (the show is nothing if not absurdist humor), but I also saw a wide and undisguised yawn. Once we moved out into the lobby for intermission, which turned out to be an arranged wedding for the young woman with her brother's moronic next door neighbor/auto mechanic who changed tires only, replete with dancing on the table and fortune cookies (!) for the audience, I lost track of Mondello, but did wonder about the accessibility of this play for the elderly, wheelchair bound or otherwise-impaired theater-goer who might want to puzzle out the possibilities of this play.

Though people speculated aloud whether this show was designed to point up how those experiencing the opening between East and West back in '89 could have viewed the replacement of one -ism -- Communism -- for another 'ism -- Capitalism, most people appeared to take away the fortune cookies.

All together now, "All you need is love. Da-dah-dah-da-dah."

I can't say how this was supposed to fit together. Only thing I can say for certain: this show was not about was the fall of the Berlin Wall. Or the trials of King Solomon. Or the wisdom of Woolly.

Chéri

New Miramax film based on Colette's novels, Chéri, and La Fin de Chéri. Is it still taboo for a romance between an older woman and a younger man in our society? This was la Belle Epoque in France, where a "lady of the evening" (Michelle Pfeiffer) found herself too old to court the haute societe of the day but takes on the 19-year old son of one of her erstwhile friends and former rivals (Kathy Bates) and they find themselves, mysteriously, falling in love. But by that time, it is too late. A beautiful cinematic achievement, with lovely performances and gorgeous costumes.

What do we do make of the romantic love of an older woman for a young man today? Is that a romantic notion, or as the young woman who Cheri finally weds observes, do we still think of such liaisons as "debauched?" Is it okay for celebrities but not the rest of us?

Would such a pairing today end up in tragedy? What do you think?

Mortgage-Backed Suspense: Crisis Redux

Hubby and I wrote a novel in the '90s based on his work for the now-infamous Freddie Mac. We didn't know then that Freddie and its sister mortgage finance giant Fannie Mae would today be barely afloat under the weight of a nation of mortgage and derivative investment defaults and under U.S. government control. He was then working out their vast pool of defaulted multifamily loans, as opposed to today's multitudinous backlog of single family and subprime mortgages (what's old is new again). Most of his work took place in NYC, home of the neo-meltdown of 2008-09, among corrupt, greedy and unethical lenders and landlords in some of New York's seediest, pre-gentrified neighborhoods (remember, this was the last housing crisis - in the early 1990s).

The book is out now, the hardships experienced in the wake of this mortgage crisis eerily presaging today's economic melt down. The new suspense thriller is available on Amazon.com.

Check out an excerpt from Satan's Mortgage ©2009 by Robin S. Payes and Richard I. Payes:
It was noon when Tommy, Louis Peller's driver, dropped him off at the corner. Louis told Tommy to meet him back at the same corner at 2:30, sharp. No dilly-dallying in this neighborhood, especially not after 3 p.m., when the hoodlums got out of school and the dope dealers and their couriers took up residence on every-other street corner.

Despite the squalor of the street, Louis was savoring the sunshine on this brilliant blue spring day. The sidewalks, for once, were deserted. This part of the Bronx was generally teeming with life whenever he came up here to check out a building, boiling over with tension. Louis liked to get in quick, and get out.

Suddenly, he heard an explosion, the shattering of glass and the crash of brick on concrete. It sounded like a bomb detonating in his path. As he looked up, he witnessed the top two floors of this six-story apartment house crumble right before his eyes. He watched, dumbfounded, to see the upper third of the mural fold in on itself, leaving only the names and the lower third of the cross to mark the memory of the young victims of poverty.

Peller immediately ran, thrusting himself to safety. He crouched behind a dumpster, the closest cover he could find. He smelled fire. The air was blistering. Through his nostrils, he breathed in acrid smoke. He could almost feel the air singe his eyebrows. Chunks of brick and mortar rained down around him. He crouched down still further, searching for somewhere safer to hide, some cover to protect his head.

He could hear people wailing, whimpering, weeping nearby.

Looking at the luminous sky now choking with flame, he had to shield his eyes against the debris. When he dropped his gaze he saw people crawling from the building on hands and knees like animals, choking in the smoke-filled air, screaming, as panic flowed into the street. Smoky silhouettes of mothers with babies clutched in their arms their cast shadows against the sidewalk partially obscured by billowing smoke and yellow flames that were breaking out in what remained of the top two floors.

Peller was frightened, trembling. He had to get away. He decided to make a mad dash, even though he was partially sheltered now from the fallout of the apartment building. It was difficult to breathe. He must make it out of there, quickly.

No. He felt guilty for his selfish impulse to flee when people's lives were at stake. Could he -- dare he run back to help?

"Quit wasting time, Peller," he lectured himself, angrily. "Do something. The right thing." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He ran.

Maryland Lawyers for the Arts Copyright Workshop for Visual Artists April 4

Maryland Lawyers for the Arts (www.mdartslaw.org) is presenting a workshop for visual artists called "Protecting Your Work with Copyright" on from 2:00 to 4:00 pm on April 4 at Plaza Art, 1594B Rockville Pike, Rockville, MD 20852 “Pictorial, graphic, or sculptural” works are protected by federal copyright law. But that protection isn’t unlimited. Find out where those sometimes shifting boundaries lie and what you need to do stay on the right side of them. Ober Kaler attorney and MLA board member Cynthia Sanders, an IP and entertainment law attorney (as well as a MICA-trained artist) will be speaking. There’ll be Q&A so it’s a great chance to talk to an attorney for less than $250 an hour! Contact info@mdartslaw.org to register. Tickets are $30.

Paris Gems: La Piece de Resistance IS the Louvre

Paris photographer Gadi shows the Louvre Museum as an artwork in its own right. Check out his work as Wee Planet on Flickr for a new view of the planet, Le Petit Prince. Antoine de St. Exupery's famous work about a little boy exploring an asteroid, with charming illustrations of himself standing at the pole of his tiny orb.

The photographers invitation opens to us, voyeurs, to see The City of Lights using his 360 degree vision. Can't wait to see Paris with new eyes this visit, although I certainly will not be able to capture anything like this perspective with my own photography.

Imagination opens the eyes to see what the world has to offer. As the Little Prince observes from his vantage point atop a tiny, lonely celestial body with only a rose to accompany him on his daily journey through life: "What is essential is invisible to the eye. It is only with the heart that one sees rightly."

Awesome creativity helps us see what is invisible to the eye.

Draw Out The Blue Line's Magic

The Blue Line is a DC phenom, four rockers who met out of college and took their passion for music out of the garage and into the nightlife in Adams Morgan and U Street combining musical talents, rocking out with their own tunes to a driving, insistent beat that is at once passionate and musically adroit. The sleek tones and satiny vocals of lead singer and rhythm guitar Ben Payes synchronize with lead guitarist Ross Jacobson's intensely saturated riffs sending out a strong emotional energy. Nick Scialli on bass and Dave Chaletzky's percussion demonstrate strong command of their respective instruments to stand out in harmonic and sometimes dissonant counterpoint to create the band's unique sound.

Aranoyas, Fantasy Girl and Underwater Dreams are first out of the box on the new CD. Hear 'em all at Blue Line Rock.

The band - sounding a high octane blend with mellow notes - creates a magical energy all its own.

Dialogue in the Digital Age

"The act of theater is the act of communion between someone in a living space with other people in that space. What's important about theater is
actually its scarcity. As you enter the digital age and everything can be
digitized, a live event where someone is physically present cannot actually be
commodified" [i.e., bought and sold as a product].

"The core experience cannot be reproduced, and that's incredibly precious."

Mike Daisey, on state of American theater
Quoted in The Washington Post, January 2, 2009

Yoga Shalom

Combining the ancient spiritual practices of yoga with the Jewish morning service that celebrates the Sabbath may seem a bissle unconventional but, in fact, a "yoga shalom" service I participated in this morning provided an ideal immersion into prayer, music, meditation and movement. The Hebrew word shalom means peace - a perfect focus for attuning mind and body, to take a rest from the normal rush and preoccupation that fills our daily lives that too often keeps us from indulging in the day of rest that the Sabbath is designed to afford us.

Cantor Lisa Levine, who led the service, has modified the Shabbat morning service to couple the elements of traditional communal prayer and yoga practice with a very personalized spiritual experience. The congregants from Temple Shalom in Chevy Chase, Md., participating in the service this morning, who traditionally come to services wearing kippahs and talit (yarmulkas and prayershawls) prepared for traditional worship instead donned sweats and workout clothes crowding into a candlelit classroom to the mellow tones of Hebrew prayers on a specially prepared CD, laying down yoga mats, warming up and stretching while preparing to celebrate the Sabbath in this unique way.

The mindset for prayer in Hebrew is called kavanah, meaning "intent". In traditional mediatative practice, kavanah would be the idea of being "in the moment". As a welcome into the service, Cantor Lisa invited us to determine for ourselves what our kavanah would be for this moment, this particular morning of prayer, this day of rest, then led us through a flow of yoga poses to the calming melodies of the Sabbath. It was a wonderful way to pray and a welcome spiritual immersion into Shabbat peace, Shabbat holiness, Shabbat neshama.