My New Crush

I've got a new crush. And it's not on a silly boy band member or a member of the Heroes cast.

This guy is crush-worthy in the same way MacGyver was. He might not build a bomb with tube socks and a squirt of toothpaste, but he does save the day. William McDonough is an architect, designer and professor practicing ecologically, socially, and economically intelligent architecture and planning in the U.S. and abroad. What does that mean? What does he do? His book Cradle to Cradle, Remaking the Way We Make Things, is a "manifesto calling for the transformation of human industry through ecologically intelligent design". Experience for yourself the elegance of his ecological vision.

"Though human industry in the past 150 years has resorted to brute force rather than elegant design, the making and trading of goods can still be a wellspring of creativity, productivity, and pleasure. Think of the thriving marketplaces that have enlivened the world's great cities, the cherished objects and materials that transform shelter into soulful dwelling. These need not be sacrificed to protect our forests, rivers, soil and air.

"Indeed, human industry and habitations can be designed to celebrate interdependence with other living systems, transforming the making and consumption of things into a regenerative force. Design can perform and preserve the extravagant gesture -- in the marketplace, in the human community, and in the natural world."

- William McDonough and Michael Braungart, *Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things*

You can offer your thoughts in the Cradle to Cradle forum.

My hero. Sigh. Excuse me while I swoon in eco-utopian-anti-industrial-save-my-planet geek love.

Masters of the Universe

I used to date a Bond trader who called New York the 'center of the universe'. And it felt like it - 10, 5 even 2 years ago. However that universe collapsed upon itself this weekend, on the eve of the wine full moon. The giants of Wall Street - Bear Stearns, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers toppled in dizzying succession. In the past 2 weeks the government took over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Tuesday past, the Federal Reserve announced it would loan $85 billion to my employer (so far) AIG, giving the government a 79% governing share in the stock.

What the hell's going on? Says Daniel Altman of the Herald Tribune:

These are big, significant changes. Though they may be signs of trouble in the short term, they have to be healthy in the long term. The financial industry, as we have learned in the past year or so, had some very deeply ingrained bad habits. A cleansing was in order.

Interestingly enough, many finance pundits while staggered by the events of a cataclysmic September predict the same future: It's time for change. Roger Cohen, professor and financial expert offered this insight in his article The King is Dead.

So that's what "financial killing" really means. No better illustration exists of a culture where private gain has eclipsed the public good, public service, even public decency, and where the cult of the individual has caused the commonwealth to wither. That's the culture we've lived with. It's over now. Some new American beginning is needed.

The spiritual community has it's own take on the economic events. Andrew Harvey, founder of Sacred Activism (loosely defined as grounded spiritual vision is married to a practical and pragmatic drive), offered this in an interview with Grace Cathedral, an Episcopalian Church in San Francisco:

Given the current economy and state of world affairs, many people feel they're undergoing some sort of dark night.

See, the power that is doing this to us is coming towards us simultaneously with terrifying destruction and extreme grace and prosperity. The destruction is, in fact, a form of that extreme grace. It's quite clear that humanity is now terminally ill, and can only be transfigured by a totally shocking revelation of its shadow side. And this is what we're living through, these shadow sides exploding in every direction because we have done nothing but betray the sacred in us.

We have lacerated the sacred in others. We have betrayed the sacred in an orgy of fundamentalism. We have brutalized the sacred in nature. We are now terminally destructive.

So only an almost terminal destruction that reveals to us the full extent of our responsibility in this destruction can wake us up. And that is what is happening, and it will get worse. It's bound to get worse. But it is only being done to us for our own redemption.

I'll try to remember that as I review my Lehman Brothers and AIG stock shares and contemplate a postponed retirement. Or recalculate my financial investments as Jon Stewart so adroitly recommends:

For anybody out there who’s been living in a cave: congratulations. You’ve apparently made the soundest real estate investment possible. (9/23/08)

Throwaway Summer

August was a throw away month. My house existed in a constant state of chaos: a kitchen renovation estimated to take 2 months dragged on for 4. My house was never devoid of visitors, ergo never bereft of slamming doors, smoked cigarettes tossed in planters or the withering and unmown lawn, the blare of video games, deliveries of kitchen appliances, chairs, sofas, or just plain yapping gums in the already mentioned unfinished kitchen. I confirmed a universally held belief with painful lucidity this summer: the kitchen is the heart of a home.

One day when all my guests had left I sat in my newly renovated kitchen. It looked exactly as I envisioned it. Spacious, rustic yet dramatic, gorgeously lit in sunlight and in candlelight. Equipped with stainless steel appliances that somehow maintain a homespun ambiance. And most importantly, pretty. And yet, yet it felt oddly cold. The melted butter-hued walls captured the exact mood I desired: the sun setting on a Tuscan kitchen. The paintings and mahogany framed mirrors hung to my specifications, rooster-themed trivets and jugs propped strategically for maximum color and textural impact.

Still my kitchen felt oddly alien. Matter of fact my entire house felt foreign and intrusive, like a man I was sleeping with and suddenly didn't know. I walked listlessly through the house, dreading for the first time much sought after silence. I took solace playing music that fit my mood: Sarah Maclachlan, Alison Krauss, anything by the Judds. I found particular comfort in A Home by the Dixie Chicks.

The state of self perceived alienation continued for a long week, lonely despite visitations from dependable and supportive friends. Unable to bear the distressed expression on my dog's face I took remedial measures. No I didn't burn candles or smudge my house with a burning sage stick while playing Basia. (Ok, ok, I might have some a bit of this...) I went for a more direct and pragmatic approach, which in itself is a remarkable accomplishment for a woman with Pisces rising AND Pisces moon. I spent one entire weekend assessing the state of the why-does-this-feel-like-a-house-not-a-home residence. As usual, logic could not be confounded. Matter of fact, it won out in aces.

Case in point, I own a gorgeous, comfy, energetically sympatico house. So the lawn might be shaggy from lack of mowing. And yes, the rose bushes need trimming, as do the Lilac and Rose of Sharon shrubs. The bedroom needs to be repainted and the tile laid around the jacuzzi.

But the house is still MY house as much, if not more than it's ever been. Difference being the absence of a human body. But given my extensive family and prelidiction for throwing dinner parties it will not be a party of two for any period of time. It will certainly be filled with new energy, new memories and yes, men.

Ah, the men.

Seasons of Upper Greenwood Lake

Wrote this piece a while ago but never posted. If you can think of pubs interested in this type of nature commentary, let me know.

Summer on Upper Greenwood Lake and my beloved takes me to his parents’ summer home in Northern New Jersey. Night cloaks the pink and warm blue air. BBQ for breakfast. We dock the power boat and take wild rides on the jet ski. The dog hunts chipmunks and dresses himself in the stench of anything dead and decaying. Finger sized bats dark through the lowest tier of tree branches guided by the murmur of late bees and mosquitoes fat from a days suckling. The lake warms to a temperature that ducks, dogs and women find enjoyable. All find reason to dawdle in the late day water, unmarred by the chop and whirl and whine of electric motors. At night fireworks ascend the sky in bursts of white, red and blue for no other reason than to give the stars a break from illuminating the sky.

It’s Fall - herons, gulls, geese gorge on the seaweed and algae in preparation for their long migrations. The sky is so blue it hurts your eyes. The water of the lake becomes so deep and still you can see fish surfacing, causing softly undulating waves. Solitary ducks float languidly by the dock, honking hello to kayakers and fisherman in silent hydrafoil cruisers. I help plant fruit trees - one cherry, one sugar pear. We scavenge local nurseries for late perennial bargains of clematis, creepers and spring bulbs. We pick wild purple salvia from the sides of the road.

Winter and the lake freezes in time for Christmas. Stumps of old trees breech the surface giving the appearance of an antler graveyard. Shorn of protective foliage the trees expose homes that huddle on small hills, trying to shield themselves from the wail of wind and bluster of cold. Fishermen trek on the ice, drilling 7 inch holes wide enough to pull out striped bass and trout. Smoke escapes chimneys. We gather by the fireplace to grill nuts and roast toes. The pine cones hiss and crackle as gas pockets escape from the tiny dried pyramids. We pore over seed catalogs - planning floral spectacles for the next year. The neighbor builds a magnificent snowman 3 balls high and 5 feel tall. To accompany the snowdude he fashions a snow dog after his Shi Tsu - Petey. The snow dogs looks so lifelike my dog trots over for a sniff and adds a shot of yellow to the snow dog's leg. The wood ducks wear black oily coats from lack of sun and water.

Spring - crusty ice begins to melt. Daffodils spring between alpine creepers like Mountain Laurel and Dew Drops. Early ducks scout prime real estate – a large boulder, a swath of raspy grasses, an alcove within easy reach of the lapping waves - staking claims that will last the year. The surface of the lake, devoid of human and animal life begins to show signs of rebirth. Fisherman edge carefully over the thinning ice, reluctant to succumb their sport to frozen water. Streams of melted ice trickle from the highland cliffs, carrying earth and spore that will nourish the petite lake ecosystem. Forsythias poke golden flames of petal, despite the wind and chill. Bears forage at night to feed their resuscitated bellies and offspring. Eagles soar high in the sky, keen to any movement. They mistake your little dog for a rabbit and you have to drag the little guy indoors before piercing talons attempt to hoist him skyward as an avian meal. You leave the lake reluctantly, deriving solace only in the knowledge that you will return soon.

© April 2005

This is the summer I've endured so far

The demolition of my kitchen.
Dining al fresco everyday, morning, noon and night.
Dog sitters unaccustomed to my tough Irish kid.
Hiring a landscaper since I haven't been able to garden for the first time in my life.
Delightful Polish visitors.
Not cooking for 60 consecutive days.
A flooded kitchen not once, but twice in the same weekend. On brand new hardwood floor.
The anguished face of your dog as you entertain a man that is not his father.
Adorable visiting lesbians from Australia.
Not one but two eclipses in Leo.
Plant sitting for friends as they depart for a month's stay in Italy.
A white old refrigerator sitting in my living room for 3 months.
Power tools strewn about my house; on the makeshift tables, in buckets piled high with assorted construction gadgets, on the dogs sofa (and yes he has one!)
Learning what meine Liebe means.

Death of a Tiny Blue Dragonfly

Emotional is not a word I'm afraid of. Matter of fact the emotional realm is my playground, in which I wallow from morbid melancholy to celestial joy. When time and energy are stolen from me due to personal and career commitments, my capacity for emotional yoyoing settles at zero. When I have not refueled my stocks of beauty, pleasure or solitude the sentimental scale wavers at despondent and nothing more.

That was me yesterday, enjoying the breezes from my garden, but not really. They were cool and unusual for August with a hint of moisture befitting the month. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of blue and metal. A tiny blue dragonfly flitted around my head. He was so stunning and fearless I watched his flight for long minutes (remember the need to restock my reservoirs?).

The next morning I emptied out the garbage can after a heavy nights storm. Floating in a puddle of water in the garbage lid was the dragonfly! I cupped him in my hand and could feel the hum of his weak wings. Knowing the forecast called for a heavy downpour I knew I couldn't leave him to die the most Hemmingwayesque of deaths: To die, alone, in the rain. So I placed him on a shelf, under the patio table that protects my shears and gardening gloves from raindrops.

I forgot about the little guy till the next day when I looked for his body. It was gone. Perhaps he resuscitated and flew off. Perhaps a neighborhood cat walked by and took him for a snack. Or, perhaps he flew off to the place that dragonflies go. Ah see? The optimism's back.

Alicia's Bachelorette Party

Some of you might have heard me refer to my friend Alicia before. As Thomas' baby cousin I often refer to her as 'the kid'. Not to be demeaning, but because when she lived with us she was literally just a kid. My friends and colleagues took great glee in us, a childless couple suddenly becoming the stand-in parents for a fully grown girl.

Despite the age difference (and no, I'm not going to expound on it. Suffice it to say I am indeed old enough to be her mother) we became fast friends. So when she sprang the news of her impending nuptials I jumped at the chance to throw her a bachelorette party.

Now Alicia has a thing for men in uniforms. Case in point, her husband to be, Bryan is an Iraqi-war veteran. Knowing this I desperately sought a 'man in uniform' to provide entertainment for our festivities. Unfortunately, my kitchen is under renovation. which means my entire house is in temporary chaos until the kitchen is completed. For example, the butcher block knife set sits on a chair in the living room. More disturbing, the refrigerator taking up precious real estate next to my chaise and between my bookshelves.

Even more appalling is the fact that there's no real seating space. The only available spot is on Duke's couch. Yes Duke has a couch, get over it. He needs space to stretch his legs. And roll and wiggle on his back so his loose hairs can fall off, which they do in alarming frequency and quantity. Can you imagine the, ahem COP sitting his buff, oiled ass on Duke's couch?

I had to fall back on Plan B - a male revue. Now for some reason the only shows happened to fall on a Friday night. My party was being thrown on a Saturday night which meant, you guessed it, no meaty male parts for the bride.

However I'm nothing if not creative so I planned a series of fun, female-oriented activities. One of which was a visit to the Pleasure Palace Video on Rt 46. And let me tell you, those thoughtful folks sell a heck of a lot more than just videos. Lingerie, games like Sex Monopoly (I kid you not), party favors (penis-shaped Skittles, penis straws, larger than life blow-up schlongs), a fascinating array of lubricants, penis accoutrements and fetish props. Although I must admit the sex swing was a bit much...

The best part of that expedition was taking the bride's mother along. What a trooper, although I must admit she didn't listen one whit when we sternly told her, now don't look anywhere but straight ahead!

No stripper but we did cram in bar-hopping (Tequila shots to kickoff the night), gift opening which compromised of lingerie, perfumes and kick-ass body glitter, snacks and more cocktails, a limo to escort us to our nightclub driven by the glummest limo driver I've even met (too bad we spilled orange juice and champagne!), and finally dancing all night long.

From the looks of the pix we had a pretty dandy time. the bride was radiant and glowed. The girl actually glows! And we, the party of escorting women were tipsily enjoying the rite of female passage.

Disclaimer: no I'm not drunk, my eyes just happened to blink at the exact moment the flash went off. Seriously. Just ask the glum limo driver.

Nadal Wins Wimbledon

Raphael Nadal triumphed over Roger Feder in a 5 set thriller upsetting the Swiss's domination of the grass championship and ending his 5 consecutive win steak. Bjorn Borg's record has been tied, not broken. Nadal has proven himself as not only a clay wizard but also an astute student of grass, and of of tennis overall. And the kid's only 22!

Felicitaciones Rafa.

Nuff said.

Tree-age

Ever notice how trees are like army veterans? I know you're waiting breathlessly for that one. It occurred to me one day as I was lounging in the sanctuary of my garden. The pansies had died out, the portulacas were blooming as the temperature neared dessert-like heat, and my 50 plus year-old Cherry tree was bearing splendid cherries. Stop Woody Allen or anyone else from telling you otherwise, bugs are notorious tree killers. Other branches extended majestically into the neighbors yard. But what caught my disturbed eye was a stunted tree, limbs puckered into a rounded wound.

I know you've seen them before, vets, homeless people, beggars. India has them in profusion, and they wave their stumps to alarming effect. That was precisely the image the Cherry tree evoked. Some branch, useless or diseased had to be amputated by a handsaw, or worse, chainsaw. And like a human limb the injured appendage had to heal. Months, years of bark and sap and the alpine nervous system finally closed the wound until all the remained was a puckered stump.

In a Tolkienesque moment I imagined myself chatting with the weathered Oak in Mr. Garcia's yard. Or with the 100 foot+ pine across the street. But then I remembered that I don't speak tree and settled for fancifully imagining that their leaves whispered and murmured a language long forgotten by men. At least I can hug them, eh?

When a Woman Wants a Baby

This is not a gentle, warm hearted story of a miracle baby birth. It’s a tale about the power of desire. This is a story of femininity unleashed in all its aspects: ability to create, to destroy, to heal, to love.

My cousin Radha is the focal point of this entry, and a more befitting name could not exist. In Hindu divinity, the relationship of Radha and Krishna is the embodiment of love, passion and devotion. Radha's passion for Krishna symbolizes the soul's intense longing and willingness for the ultimate unification with God. Fitting I say for my cousin is a woman of unnerving beauty and a hunger that won't be denied. Sometimes that passion finds its focal point in the love for family, for a man. At other times it seeks all things dark and forbidden. And no, she’s not a Scorpio, that’s for another entry.

At the time of her 40th birthday last year she had embarked on a divorce. Wornout after 5 years with a man who gave up pretence of a normal life and descended into his own dark journey, she devolved into the phrase I most loathe: the woman she thought she should be. So she treated herself to a getaway weekend with big cousin Rake on the outskirts of NY. We smoked a lot and drank even more. We ate dim sum, fabulous Mexican finger foods and talked our tongues raw. Came 3:00 am Saturday night - the witching hour. Fatted and still not purged of our thoughts we sat in my garden sanctuary, burned an outdoor fire and sipped far too young Chardonnay.

"Read cards for me," she asked. When the birthday girl asks I comply. So I read, quite a lovely spread for it promised love, wealth and progeny. "You know" she said, "all I want right now is a child. I don’t want a husband, I don’t even want a boyfriend. All I want is to be a mother."

Now this is where the cautionary part comes to play. I don’t care if you’re not burning an outdoor fire in a charming garden. I don’t care if you’re not sipping wine or reading a deck of Tarot. What I will say is this: when you proclaim to the stars, to the universe, to your God a statement of such longing and unadulterated desire, the forces that be listen.

They listened to Radha which is why Monday, June 30 at 5:23 pm I was holding her hand while her baby girl Sophia was born. The child is so perfectly beautiful it’s almost a shame. I almost feel bad for spotty, pointy headed babies who squall and flail their bald heads uselessly. Sophia has a rosebud mouth - dark pink, pouty already accustomed to the perfect moue. Her bottom lip quivers when she cries, which she does often to showcase her robust lungs. In direct contrast to her tiny, barely 6 pound body. But a perfect 6 pounds. I remember a friend who upon birthing a premature baby told me how tiny her wee one was. “I feel like I had a cat,” she confessed. Sophia in no way resembles a cat, except for the fact that she adores sleeping. The warm crook of an arm, a snuggly bosom and she’s snoozing with her impossibly teeny fingers curled about her binkie. Territorial, that one.

One thing I will always remember about her birth. When the doctors slashed open her mother, jostled and dragged her out. And forced her to breathe her first breath of cold, human air. When she was only minutes old after being wiped clean of chalky, sticky, bloody amniotic fluid by a kind but rough nurse. Careful I wanted to scream, that's an INFANT as the nurse balanced her in one open palm while typing data into the computer with another. When she was placed in my terrified arms (Don’t trip Rekha, don’t trip was my mantra) and I held her close to her mother, she opened her gray-green eyes and looked directly at her mom. As the Bard would have said: "tis a consumation devoutly to be wished for."

You know the old dictum - be careful what you wish for? Rubbish I say. Rejoice, cajol, demand your desires. For this life is for no one else but yourself. Discover your deepest wish and tell the stars, the mailman, your husband from dawn til midnight. I don’t care if you’re 4 or 40, unearth that which is your ultimate love and seek it.

You might not birth a perfect child but I’m guessing it will be perfect - for you.