Upside Down Kris

The First Hour It was the hour of the street cleaners.  What hour would that be, I hear you asking. 8:00–not that early, but not late either, as far as rising goes. But this is a subjective matter.  In New York the streets would be popping, bustling like a bee hive. But here, the day has barely begun–just  a few  waiters are balancing coffees for the early birds overlooking the sea. Most restaurants haven't opened yet...an Italian-owned café down the street from me has just enough space to see some feet under the shop shutters, still getting things together. How bizarre it is to pass by a place that has become fixed in your brain at a totally different time. I am used to Santa Catalina with the slow stroll of tourists or an elderly cane-bearer, but also to the zigzag of last minute crossers and the rumble of vehicles carrying people and goods. I have even crossed the square at night, heading home after a rehearsal or an event happening there or simply for an evening ...

Vulnerable, Yet Hard There he was: toothless with a grubby yet heavy duty mountaineering backpack      by his side, like always. Yes, I am aware that this description reigns in contradictions, but that's my impression of him–vulnerable yet hard. I don't know how I knew he was toothless. Maybe it was the hallows of his cheeks. They were haloed by a camouflage hat atop a mop of silver hair. His skin was a  wrinkled reflection of his clothes–a topography of time, weather, and living. I assumed he slept there, on the ledge under the display window of a store no longer there. Swirls of gray left  the windows on one side to interpretation. The other was locked under a rolling shutter, shutting out passers-by from  what was inside. The man's eyes–when I dared to meet them–were pinched with pain and defensiveness. I wonder how long he had lived on the street to make them so acute. I see him on my way to Spanish class twice a week, but today I took the boardwalk the...

Who do you want to be? What a central question, one that my brain has been buzzing around for years. It has been in the forefront a lot lately, partly because I just finished the book Atomic Habits (which I totally recommend). It makes total sense now, but I hadn't really thought about the fact that my sense of self dictates the habits that I take on or that don't stick. What we choose/ don't choose to do largely depends on our values and how we see ourselves. Consequently, when we shift our view of our identity that automatically changes our habits. Seeing as how January is generally accepted as the hot spot of resolutions, it's the perfect moment to write down my ideas for my ideal self: *creative     *musically inclined     *sympathetic *nice     *polite     *giving (time + resources) *empathetic     *a good person     *caring *energetic yet grounded     *an avid reader *someone you can count on    ...

Storm Emilia  A great big ball of wind was rolling down the pavement toward me. I staggered under its might. The gale was blasting against me and anyone challenging it. I bent under its force with my head as low as it could go. I tried charging it, but it knocked my breath from me. I was gasping and couldn't take it anymore. I realized my eyes were closed and I forced them open into slits, searching for cover. Two men–one in a pumpkin orange vest that was clearly visible–had taken refuge in a covered alcove to the left. I battled the wind one step at a time until I joined them. I filled my lungs and recharged. Another young women who had been just a few feet behind me stepped off the same course to wait with us. The men stayed content in the background while us women put our heads or hands out at intervals to see if the wind's fury had been placated. At a certain point, the other woman and I both decided to brave the wind even though it was still blowing. We looked at each othe...

Awakening The awakening was signaled by three  bleating alarms and a burst of rain. I definitely did not want to be awake and clutched the comfy comforter for comfort. I certainly was lucky that I could count my blessings wrapped in the warmth of the world of slumber and puffy blankets. I landed softly in the day despite the jarring call of clocks. I lay there a bit, soaking in the pillowy night while gradually accepting the day. How lucky I was, too, to have the time to disregard time and lay there. Then, the rain came like melted butter sliding over the morning. The too bright light in the kitchen definitely pushed me to get up. It was too much for my blindfold to bear, the brightness seeping into my eyelids even though they were shut.  Still, I waited for the impulse to put my feet on the floor to come. Ironically, it was when my partner flicked off the kitchen light and I was left in darkness again that turned on something inside. The bathroom door was outlined with inside...

Thanks as a Practice I can't believe it's been 5 years since I began this blog! So much has happened since that first entry up to now. I have come out on the good side of some major surgeries, learned a new language, moved in the middle of the sea...And now, here I am full circle at the starting point again: Thanksgiving.  It's a good space to be in...giving thanks. Every year I surprise myself by having new things to be thankful for. I re-read my Thanksgiving entries yesterday to get inspiration for today, and every year the entry was different. What I have been trying to work on for years is realizing what I am grateful for every day. During the holidays I am resolute, and make a conscious effort every day to remember. But as time goes on, my resolve becomes more wishy-washy, until I really need Thanksgiving as I reminder. Why is being grateful such a hard habit to stick to? It is a ritual that only takes a few minutes a day–a journal entry, beginning or ending the day wi...