Door, A Photograph of Lisbon, Portugal

“There are such moments in life, when, in order for heaven to open, it is necessary for a door to close.”
– José Saramago

The first post from Lisbon, Portugal, or anywhere for that matter, should be a door. After all, upon entering a new place, you have to open the door first.

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A Mongolian Symphony

“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

First came my birth….and my orchestra.

— When my parents brought me home from the hospital the day I was born, my siblings asked why they had brought home a “Chinese baby.” I only knew of my Italian, Irish and Eastern European roots while growing up. It’s what we all knew.

— Upon seeing photos of my two sons, most people ask if their father is Asian. He’s not – his heritage is German and Italian.

— I had a boyfriend once who would tease me, always joking that I must have Chinese in me because the way I held my face.

— A few years ago I had some body work done with a well-known physical therapist. To assess the alignment of my body he measured each of my bones that he could feel. When he came to my pelvis he said, “Hmm, that’s strange. You have an extra floating bone. It’s rare and I’ve only seen it in Asian women. Are you of Asian descent?” I told him no.

— I frequently dream of horses – riding horses, seeing horses in a barn, helping injured horses and watching wild horses.

— When my brother got married many years ago, his wife’s co-worker asked, in her thick southern accent, “Is that boy white? Or Asian?”

Throughout the years, we’d all shake our heads, shrug our shoulders and laugh at the comments; never thinking beyond the extra bones, slightly slanted eyes and wild horse dreams.

Then came a blood test.

A few months ago my parents decided to have a blood test done to chart their individual DNA, and as you can guess by my post, we found out an interesting piece of information about my ancestors. It seems a small percentage of my mother’s DNA is of Mongolian descent.

Then an old theory I read once.

Some scientist believe that within our DNA there also lives memories. Memories not formed by us, but our ancestors. Passed down from generation to generation the imprint is so strong, that it can even influence our decision-making. I suppose this cellular memory is also linked to quantum physics, as cells are energy matter.

Along with an idea.

While driving and considering my next article for The American Mag on…you guessed it… DNA and cellular memories, I decided that the next new continent I’ll visit will be Asia – Mongolia to be precise. Yes, Mongolia.

Europe is always near and dear to my heart and I’ll continue to split my time between Here and There, although my travel to Mongolia next year will take precedence within my wandering mind. And from what I can tell, much planning must be done (something I am generally loath to preemptively do so this should be interesting.)

I don’t know how long I’ll stay. I assume it will be a few weeks to a month maybe. I don’t what I’ll do either, though horses will surely be involved at some point or another, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll acquire another instrument for the symphony inside of my soul.

Pretty, A Photograph Lacking

“Let us leave pretty women to men with no imagination.”
– Marcel Proust

Although not my typical photo style, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to snap it. The fake skin, the fake nails, the fake drink – the clock ticking in the background. Also considering I am a Proust fan, his words added just the right touch…and honesty.

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Ruins, A Photograph of Advancement

It seems, in fact, that the more advanced a society is, the greater will be its interest in ruined things, for it will see in them a redemptively sobering reminder of the fragility of its own achievements. Ruins pose a direct challenge to our concern with power and rank, with bustle and fame. They puncture the inflated folly of our exhaustive and frenetic pursuit of wealth.”
– Alain de Botton
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Bread, A Photograph of Kindness

“Are you upset little friend? Have you been lying awake worrying? Well, don’t worry…I’m here. The flood waters will recede, the famine will end, the sun will shine tomorrow, and I will always be here to take care of you.”
– Charles M Schulz
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Auspicious Blackbirds

Yesterday while walking my dog, a flight of birds flew over our heads and I stopped to watch them. There seemed to be hundreds of them but I couldn’t tell the variety. Five minutes before the bird dance I had been listening to Eddie Vedder’s version of Blackbird while doing my dishes. “Auspicious” I thought to myself. Or perhaps hoped.

They moved in complete synchronicity with one another; darting one direction and then another. The movements seemed playful to me and I envisioned smiles on their little beaks as they followed the leader before filling a tree close by.

I dream every night and have since I was a child and many of those nights I’ve been flying like a bird. I’ve never dreamt I actually was a bird, just that I can fly like a bird. Not surprising, if I should come back in another life, I’d like it to be as a bird. You may be thinking, “Oh she wishes to have freedom,” as the bird is so representative of freedom. Although that’s only part of it really. My desire is much simpler than that – I only wish to see things from a bird’s perspective and I like the playfulness of the little creatures.

In my bird-like dreams, after my air exploration, I always have a hard time landing back on earth…and if that isn’t a complete representation of my essence, I don’t know what is.  And so in honor of the flock of birds, my bird-like dreams and auspicious events, I give you Eddie Vedder —

 

Still, A Watercolor with Pablo Neruda

“Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.”
– Pablo Neruda
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The American | In Italia: Living: Lost in Translation: The Deep End, A Prose Poem

Below you will find a link to my column Lost in Translation and my most recent piece, “The Deep End” which is not a typical article, but more-so a prose poem. Anyone who knows me, knows that poetry is near and dear to my heart. Although the magazine does not typically publish poems, this particular prose was allowed – this one time.

http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=4326

Couple Holding Hands Underwater

Deep, A Photograph

“There’s no value in digging shallow wells in a hundred places. Decide on one place and dig deep. Even if you encounter a rock, use dynamite and keep going down. If you leave that to dig another well, all the first effort is wasted and there is no proof you won’t hit rock again.”
– Swami Satchidananda, The Yoga Sutras
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The Path, A Photograph of Spain

“Let each man take the path according to his capacity, understanding and temperament. His true guru will meet him along that path.”
– Sivananda Saraswati

This church, sitting on a hill in the middle of a small neighborhood, was possibly the prettiest place I found on Ibiza. I can’t remember where it was as it was found during an exploratory drive. The beaches, coves and sunsets were lovely too, but I’ve found them other places as well. However, this church on the hill, with all its white walls and cobbled pathways was special.

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Aimless – A Journal Post

Travel

The first 24 hours after arriving home is always the most exhausting for me. I’m lethargic, I’m tired (I don’t sleep on airplanes unfortunately) and I tend to either wander my house aimlessly (something I am prone to even when not tired) or lay down. Upon this return, I charted my 24 hour life. For fun. Maybe you can relate. Maybe not.

6pm
– plane lands in seattle. warm and sunny day. summer is here. feeling worse for wear i find my car and drive home.
– call parents to check in. mom tells me she knew i’d fall in love with france.
– wishing i would have given my fruit away before i left. the smell of rotting oranges and bananas stinks up my otherwise clean house. there are starving kids in africa and i selfishly let my fruit go bad. guilt
– take garbage out and open windows. discover the rotting fruit was possibly the only food source in the house.
wander around aimlessly, dreading unpacking. neglect suitcase
– hot shower.
– walk across the street to the market for coconut milk, fresh fruit and pasta
– notice i have new neighbors in the townhouse beside mine. they like cats. their windows are full of ‘cat trees” – weird
– hug and talk to boys
– suitcase? what suitcase?
– can’t keep eyes open anymore. curse time change
9:00pm
ignore suitcase and wet hair. head falls on pillow and lights out. blackness

3:30am
– wide awake. trip on suitcase heading to bathroom. curse. make mental note to move it later.
– after lights on glance in mirror. wet head the night before not a good idea. look like a member of an 80’s hair band. another glance shows that i’ve shrunk slightly. make mental note to research how eating cheese and bread in france actually makes one thinner.
– wander downstairs. only half-dozen nespresso capsules left. have lots of coconut milk though. decide i now like hot coffee instead of iced. weird.
– take double cappuccino to bed. almost spill from tripping on suitcase. curse suitcase.
– respond to emails ignored for weeks. order nespresso capsules. pay bills electronically, and otherwise read news via computer. decide i am behind the times in world events. shameful
– another cappuccino
– research cars online. decide dorky volkswagon will need to last. new car not worth it. money better spent living in europe a few months next year. research flats in nice, france. much better than cars.
– try to wake younger son.
– try to wake son again.
– try to wake son again.
– lay in bed. eat banana. consider another coffee. stomach says no.
– wake young son.
– take son to school.
– wander the house. ignore suitcase. tell myself i’ll unpack later. knowing i won’t. back to bed
– pick up dog from daughter’s house. drive home with dog. reminded how much i missed her. decide never to get another dog again because of her shedding all over my car. dog looks at me, knowing I’m full of it.
– walk dog. realizing as she drags behind, she is getting old now. tell her i love her and walk slower. apologize for nagging her about all of her hair
– remember plans to see girlfriends tonight for drinks on the waterfront. decide to take nap.
– phone call with girlfriend while laying on couch. make plans for summer road trip
– nap on couch
– lay on couch
– consider brushing crazy hair. too tired. stay on couch
– decide to unpack tomorrow

Something True, A Photograph of France

“if you wanted to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.”
– Richard Yates

I leave Europe in a few days, although take with me wonderful new experiences and a few new friends. I’ll return soon, no doubt. Eventually I’ll just move here I’m sure. However for now, it’s time I go back to my daily life instead of photographing the daily lives of others (which I love so much.)

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Comfort, A Photograph of France

“Comfort has its place, but it seems rude to visit another country dressed as if you’ve come to mow its lawns.”
– David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day

This is my first real visit to France. I’ve stopped in a time or two on the way to somewhere else, but never stayed long enough to truly meet the people. The only French man I know happens to be one of the nicest people I’ve had the pleasure to meet though as an American, I was told virtually my entire life that the French would be rude should I visit. I should’ve known better and tsk tsk on me. How is it that I can go my entire life defending us “obnoxious” Americans while abroad, yet, because of what others say, have a preconceived notion of what the French are like. I feel rather stupid, to say the least. 

In fact, having been to Italy more than a dozen times, I never quite fit it. Don’t get me wrong though, I love the country. I love the history and I love the people. Although my Italian friends tell me that I don’t look or act Italian. I stick out like a sore thumb; I don’t wear that much make-up, my personal style (which I do love fashion) has always been more conservative or “vintage” and lastly, I talk and smile with people – I’m friendly. Here in France though, nobody stares at me like they do in Italy, I dress the same as most women here and when I smile – they smile back, they hold doors, they say thank you and even the women wish you a good day – and no, you don’t need to be purchasing something to gains smiles and chatting.

This morning at breakfast I sat and chatted with a nice German couple on their way to see the areas around Grasse. The owner of the Bed & Breakfast, Monique, showed them on the map how to get to their destinations. I found myself envious of their plan – I had none.  After they left, Monique asked me what I’d be doing today. I told her I had no clue, maybe Cannes, and asked what she recommended. “Cannes is full of tourists. You don’t look like you would like that. I see you don’t like those things. Let me show you where I go.” she responded. Music to my ears.

By the end of the day I had driven through the beautiful countryside, chatted with numerous locals and in some villages, felt I was the only one in the streets – completely safe and decided that my trip to France would be the first of many yet to come. My relationship with Italy is by no means over, it’s just a good friend now, instead of a lover, that’s all.

Below are a few photos I took today while exploring. They show the simplicity, yet elegance of the French style.
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