Upside Down Kris

Small Victories I puckered my lips today and accompanying the air flow was the hint of a note. I was whistling! I hadn't been able to whistle for almost two years   because of my  paralyzed  bottom lip. I recorded a weak but melodious whistle on my phone and sent it to my partner as sonorous proof. This is a landmark day.  "All my tiny progressions should be marked with signs!" I declared to myself. "These were her first swing steps a month after surgery."  "This is where her right dimple started to crease again."  And today: "This was when she got her whistle back!!!" If all those micro moments (and many more) were recorded, then my progress would be tangible. I could go back and choose the right way again and the way of enthusiasm. I would be able to get out of pessimistic situations saying, "Look! Look at how far I've come! And with such small steps!" The truth is improvement is hardly ever in the leaps and bounds, but in all

Beach Walk I never truly noticed that the sand reflects the sky until today. I stopped in my sopping tracks, beholden. Yes, that's the best way to describe it– I was beheld by the sand mixing with the sky in tones of rose and baby blue. I was smitten by how the sand could hold so many hues–its own grainy sable, of course, but also grays and violets.  The wet sand formed a slate for the sky, but it also held many prints of feet or claws. I followed a zig-zagging display of three-toed tracks. At first I thought they must have been left by a seagull, but then I noticed pigeons weaving on the shore. Funny creatures they are:no rhyme or reason dictates their choice of direction. Do they suddenly change their idea or do they have no idea where to go? Besides the birds for company, there were also leisurely walkers like me carrying their shoes in one hand. A barefooted runner passed me by, planting the idea in my head to do the same tomorrow. Other than those in movement, there were also

The Mystery Bag I am in the center of a bizarre bazaar: clothes for every season, old boxes and stockings from Christmas, dish towels with   the price tags still on...an assortment of stuff that can't be sold or given away.  The thing is, all these things mean something to me. They represent times of old or new memories to be told. For instance, there are recent purchases in preparation for our imminent move. We are lucky that many people are trying to help us, giving us items to begin a new life. I open some suitcases I haven't seen for five months, their zippers teeth finally able to chatter once again. I am dying to hear the mysteries they are so eager to reveal. I stretch the zip as long as possible in order to savor the anticipation–aannnnddd..tada!   I am flabbergasted. There is nothing "useful" in the smaller case. What is  in there is the "important" stuff: books that mean something to me, my old blue blankie, and Yogurt.  I sit back on the floor and

Gran Canaria I can't believe it–   the ancient, solid lava under my feet, the air swirling softly from the sea, the jutting hills streaked with copper red resembling a scene from Mars... I can't believe I'm on a bench near the breaks of the ocean writing this–breathing this. The spray from the scene mists up mystically only to disappear in a sprout-like mini-fountain. This is home. I don't know for how long, but it doesn't matter. We are free to go or to stay as we like. A six month housing contract is the only written hold on us. There is no rush here. The lone white butterfly reflects the sun in her wanderings from island flower to flower. Someone pedals by behind me. Sunday strollers on a Monday parade by with shoes matching sweatshirts or shorts. The island has its own time and tempo. It is upbeat without feeling frenetic. Even the people running in place in an exercise class held on hardened sand run steadily but not in a hurry. I stand up and continue my wande

Leading Lights The fuzzy red plane blanket lays in my lap like a cat.   It matches the color of the flowers on my water bottle in the seat pocket in front of me. All that's left is to buckle my seatbelt and then I'm set. All set and yet not settled. Moving is one of the most unsettling things, in particular leaping over the sea to it–the new settlement, the settling into a another life. Blue and green torches light up the plane's path with red in the distance. Those are the colors I felt today. Blue was the color of the button to the elevator to go upstairs and look for my check-in desk. Monitor after monitor blinked blue but none nominated my air company. The blues led me to a no-nonsense worker motioning to wait as she no-nonsensed into her walkie talkie. I checked my boarding pass. Oh, no–terminal C! Terminal C, not E! In fact, the no-nonsense lady explained in as few words as possible that I had to go back downstairs and exit the building. I rushed to find the green–the