Upside Down Kris

Imposter Syndrome   I felt revered...like a rising star that everyone wanted to emulate. The eyes of all these madams, these women so carefully dressed-a gold chain matching with a hanging belt, jeans embroidered with a lace edge–were fixed on me. If I grabbed my foot to stretch out my thigh, the woman with the Egyptian elongated eyes grabbed hers. When I bent over to touch the floor, another cooed: "Ooo, how flexible you are." The others bobbed their heads in unison as if in the chorus of a musical. I wanted to stay staring at my feet, but I was also flattered. As my high school stage director Mr. Heitkamp once expressed in exasperated tones: "You want to be on stage, yet you don't want to be seen! I don't get it."  I don't get it either, Mr. Heitkamp, even after living for almost 50 years and being part of a good amount of productions. Back to the scene at hand, the embarrassment increased when the main teacher told me to demonstrate the dance in front...

Billowing Blue Beauty I am walking home with large strides for my short legs. The pavement supports my rubber soles rather rigidly. A Snickers' wrapper shivers as I pass by while someone's tissue wads to the ground, keeping a low profile. I lift my head and pause for a moment at a large store window. All that's left inside is a sturdy wooden desk to the right and a row of hangers in a wood paneled open closet to the left. The woman who used to own the shop would sit at that desk day after day waiting for someone to enter. Rarely did I see anyone other than herself in the shop: the price of the clothes was prohibitive as much as the expression she wore every day... Oh! There is a gust of wind that makes me squeeze my jacket around my neck. As I observe my movement in the glass in front of me I glimpse a billowing behind me. I turn around. There is an elegant man walking on the other side of the street. His gray hair is cleanly cut around his ears, making his moka skin stand ...

2 O'Clock  A tooting–no, fluting–invited my ear into the night. Focusing my sense of sound on the the evocation, I became sure that it wasn't a flute. It had none of that tinny sweetness that I associated with a flute. No, it was fuller, broader...the notes were rounder than the sometimes shrillness of a metal flute. I say it was a recorder, a recorder passing under my window to charm me out like in the story of the pan piper and his rats following the sound to and into the river. The sea is so near that he wouldn't have to lead me far... The night piper was playing a familiar tune, one usually accompanied by a drummer. And although my brain was a mass of melma (mush from half consciousness), I searched and searched my memory banks...I beckoned it to come ashore and give my mind the name it needed. The song was percussive and had a modern feel, yet I knew it came from a more complex, classical piece. The melody became stronger until it swelled beneath my window. Then, the s...

Daily Deed He was poking around the spigot, hoping for a few drops, wishing the faucet was running. And although he was a seagull, I could feel his want. I approached at a slow gait while he gave me the side-eye. When I got too close, he waddled away. I decided to wash my feet then and there, though I had been planning a longer walk through the sand. I would take the short way home instead of de-sanding myself at the next washing station. I jammed in the metal knob that was as hard to press as it was high (how did children manage, I wonder?) It was just in my reach and I kept my eyes on the gull as I lifted one foot under the strong stream of water. "Look, I turned it on, Buddy!" I announced.  He looked at me askance.  "Hey, I finished!" I called out to him when my feet were wet with no grains of sand sticking to them. "And I left the water on!" He wouldn't come near, however, until there was sufficient distance between us. I watched from the railing a...

Into the World  My head's out in the world while my body's inside my world. (That is, my apartment.) I close my eyes and suck in warm moisture, letting it grace my skin. It is my favorite wake-up tool–sticking my head out of the window. Forget about coffee or even tea...all I need is a good whiff of morning air.  I remember establishing this ritual in Northern Italy. During the winter the first inhale of the day was so frozen that it stung my nostrils. Still, I loved it and still do. It creates a connection that helps me land in the world after being in Slumberland. It signals to my brain: Hey! It's another day!  Sometimes the pistons in my head are firing before I'm ready for the day to begin. Thoughts are shooting off in all directions as if sparking even if I don't remember turning the engine on. It's like I am in the middle of an old Western movie shooting my gun in the air, trying to get control over the horses galloping around me. I often have to get up an...

The Boon of Wrinkles Those crinkles under the eye that mean movement, the creases of my cheek almost matching a semi-circle departing from the edge of my mouth travelling into the caverns of my nose and down the other side...these are the markers of time that I'm so excited to see because they mean momentum: they mean change. You have no idea how hard I've worked to get here–to regain lines of feeling. It has taken four years to see my face almost even; that instead of strange tingling pins and needles I sense cool fingertips touching my chin. My eye still trembles under the force of keeping my cheek taut, like my legs in some yoga positions. I am more proud of my face than my legs, however. In yoga stretching and softening, softening and stretching leads to less shaking in a fairly short time with regular practice. Physical therapy, on the other hand, means coaxing muscles which are dormant under sleeping nerves into action. When you can't sense your muscles, it's an i...

On Carnival   I lift my chin to the soft air, slightly humid molecules caressing my skin. Few sounds float to me, and muted ones at that. After the partying from last night, the city is sleeping in–apart from me and a couple of people on the street...and the guy in the window in the building to the right observing the strollers like me.  Last night it seemed like all of the island was here, on the streets filling up cafes and restaurants–even convenient stores–buying anything they had to offer. Chatting and chortling, glasses clinking, the business of moving and voices, costumes glittering and the joy bursting from being out and celebrating.  Listening to the main concert were two guys with elaborate teddy costumes. Someone (maybe themselves?) had taken a slew of plush animals and swirled them onto a black robe and top hat...crystals sparkled from the teddy's tummies. A friend of mine had make-shift boots that upon closer look were just some lucid fabric wrapped around hi...

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...

  Sick  Simple Never are the wants simpler than when one is sick or at the beginning of one's life. The head clears–or rather clouds out–other thoughts. You only see the image of your bed or a couch or your favorite afternoon nap spot. You dream of being surrounded by fluffiness, of cuddling on the couch...and sleep, much invited sleep. All the rest seems trivial. Your throat gets dry so water/gatorade is always essential. But the driving need is to nap and nap again. Not even food interests you. You force something down the hatchet just to keep your strength up, but you gain no pleasure from it. Your taste buds are as numb as your nose. No, you just want to rest. Most of the year you rush around trying to fill your time with diversions or worrying about what it is you truly want to do (in that moment, in your life.) Now, all the extras have been taken out of the equation...just the couch and the tv to pass the time. (You don't even like the tv!) You want nothing more because ...

Me vs. the Cockroach   I have to say that cockroaches are a daily occurrence in these parts. You can see them scuttling across the sidewalks or legs-side-up on the stairs. We have tried so many methods to evict them from our apartment, yet they always leave something behind–their exoskeletons, a nest, a lone survivor scampering. I don't doubt that they will far outlive us. They are incredibly resilient and make homes out of anything, anywhere. They are the past and future of this planet. Just recently I found one in my purse. Actually, it was the second time one had taken refuge there, but I'm not sure it was the same roach. I imagine it crawled into my purse because I often leave my bags on the floor. I have to applaud this insect on its ingeniousness. Would I have thought that a pocket in a purse could double as a hiding place? Of course, that wasn't my first thought upon meeting the roach. Wonderment set in after the screaming and tarantella-type dance had died down. As ...

  Considering Rain I never expected my feelings about Rain to change in coming to live on an island. I used to always feel bad for/about Rain, and viewed him as a misunderstood and frustrated character (hence the capital R.) For most of my life the general consensus was that he was an inconvenience at best and dangerous at worst, and of course that affected my view of him as well. I remember once the sky was pummeling down so tremendously in Italy that the authorities announced a public emergency for three days, closing schools and everything possible. Not owning a t.v. meant I had no idea how bad it was outside and faced the downpour with an umbrella which quickly turned into a bunch of  spokes with a canvas dangling off of them. Of course the school where I worked was quite shut. I splashed home with my shoes sopping and followed the motherly advice of taking a hot shower to avoid getting sick. Many streets, basements and stores were flooded for days or even weeks. Rain had ...

Autumn on the Island   Autumn has swept in. Not with boughs bending in the wind releasing flames in the form of leaves...that's not part of the nature of palms, the most prevalent plant on this island. Their heads are not so full of fire that they burn their own leaves, leaving them to brown on the grass like a maple. No...it's the air rising on the boardwalk, the walkers beginning to clench clothes to their chests that are signs of Autumn. And honestly there are so few walkers left. The summer strip of restaurants even at 10 or 11 at night were pleasantly clinking large, round pizza plates or dessert dishes drizzled with chocolate left over from a delectable crêpe. Now there is only a select group of people facing the air which sometimes carries some wisps of warmth at 9 or 10. The rains have come, particularly in the morning. The stones lining the roads are often damp. Sometimes this wetness lasts throughout the day, hardly ever a full-fledged rage of a storm: just a light s...

  Animal Compassion It wasn't the man with the gaping mouth and bulging eyes that drew me in. No, it was the dog shouting, trying to save him. He had the courage the size of a  St. Bernard bursting out of a compact, ivory Benji. You could see that the Benji look-alike was a sweet boy. His owner and his owner's friend bent down often to pet him and convince him that everything was o.k. But he knew that everything was not o.k. There was a man being pulled on a leash, his body and face writhing. The dog, too, was on a leash–albeit held by a loving hand. Maybe he would have run into the scene if he was free–barking at the aggressor, perhaps even biting him. But his owner kept him close, a calming hand on his head or back. But Benji was no fool. He felt the pain of the man being treated like an overworked mule. That's what the amazing thing was: he was trying to stop someone else's pain.  Anyone who says animals are not sentient beings has never truly observed them. Animals ...

Insiders and Outsiders He looked up after fumbling through a bag and smiled as he handed her a cigarette. Nothing remarkable, you might say. It was the smile that got me   - a nd the purple glasses-neither of which I had seen him wearing before.  She was disheveled–her hair frizzing around her head and crowding her back, badly in need of a kneading of her knots. He seemed better kempt than she was, his locks shiningly clean like they usually were. Maybe it was their bodies that showed their "sameness"-her belly protruding from under her fuchsia t-shirt in an untucked fashion, his swollen ankles sticking out from the borders of his too-short pants.  Maybe they also shared colors. I had seen him in pinks and violets, although usually more pastel than his friend's shirt. But still, something was connecting them, hence the grin that I had never seen him direct at anyone, not even the child who had stopped to say hello one day. Maybe they were both beggars or druggies. They se...