Upside Down Kris

  Taking a Breather Last night the world stopped breathing. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that it took a breather. It took a breather from the sounds of the evening–no dogs reprimanding their owners, no pigeons fluttering, no cars screeching their need for fuel or to be let out of garages, no shouts or squeals from the neighborhood kids, no guy gruffly conversing on his phone, no steps up the stairs leading to slamming doors. Nothing. How strange the scarcity of sound was. The air felt the full weight of silence. We felt it, too, clinging to us like the humidity of the day.  "Listen...it's like all sounds have stopped..." I announced, hoping the release of the sense of suspension would soften the silence somehow.  But how can one soften silence? Sometimes it seems to hang around all the more if you pay attention to it. The silence was tangible even as I spoke and then was sucked into it.  My love and I listened for a while, which really only lasted a nanosecond.

Ode to Red Ah, the redness of red: scarlet overtones and undertones outlining its boldness. Red is so intriguing, so sanguine, so Bordeaux or wine of Judas.  It's the telltale ring of a glass after dinner on the tablecloth or the ring around the mouth from strawberries. Even the fakeness of phosphorescent gummy bears pertains to red, or the brick tone of my words. It could also be the slap left smarting on skin–or should the mark be pink? It is definitely the blood blushing of a scar after a drinking indulgence...maybe even the puffiness of the face after too much sun or heat. So, too, it's the smell and glow of heat. Why not the burners of the stove signaling readiness? Red is my dress for swing night, the one that makes me feel like a femme fatale. Red are my cheeks after a lewd comment, or sometimes a compliment. Red are the leaves of the maple in autumn, or the carmine yarn of  my hat in winter. Red is the color that helps me remember, that paints my memories with emotion,

Dealing Your Cards Every morning we cut our own deck of cards. Some days we cut the deck evenly, laying both the good and bad fortunes on each side to be shuffled. Sometimes we overlook the positive half, and still other times the negative half. In the end, we believe that we never know how the cards will be dealt. We could have a surprising hand in which something happens that we would never have expected. Other times, the hand is exactly what we had anticipated. Some people face the same exact hand everyday, and come to know that it will always be that way. Or, will it? How much say do we have in its shuffling or distribution? Could we stack the cards from the very beginning so the day is more likely to go in one direction or another?  The brain expert Jim Kwik says we do. He's sure that we can put our stamp on the day by creating good habits in the morning. (Like not looking at our phone for the first hour, journaling, and writing about how we want to be and feel for the day. So

  Intelligences How much of our intelligence is based on the belief that we are intelligent? Is there a fine line between "being" and "feeling", or are they really the same thing? Psychologist Howard Gardner has codified eight types of intelligence: linguistic, logical, musical, spatial, kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, and naturalistic. I'll bet there are even more, but the idea that different people develop different intelligences is a breakthrough that makes so much sense to me. If we are all unique, it only makes sense that each one of us has a special intelligence to offer. The vast world of creation and invention would be so limited if diverse capabilities didn't exist, just as problem solving often benefits from a new angle to reach better solutions. I am convinced that we need to discover our own particular intelligence in order to release our personal power. We must cultivate it, develop it, and polish it until it becomes a pearl. Just as

Rain We hope he will bring coolness, the Rain. Sometimes he gathers up, only to stay in the atmosphere as humid as can be. Other times Rain washes out a kind of static, moving molecules once again so the sky can cry. Rain wraps me up in his soothing sound, cradling me with his mellow tones. Is Rain singing? Or maybe he's humming, hoping his subdued notes will lead to sleep. Rain is a hopeless romantic, wishing us to stay inside with our loved ones, curled on the couch, listening to the humming of the house. You might think he is lonely, seeing as how everyone escapes inside at his arrival. Often he is the only one left outside to bring us our much needed water respite. But Rain is an inward-looking guy, full of introspection. He enjoys observing families from a window, or a couple in an embrace. He tries to add a softness to his outpour of emotion so the image remains in the air for as long as possible. Then, with a brimming heart he returns home with his memories as close company.