tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6138593253261479352024-03-05T05:18:10.531-08:00Micheline Brierre's Writings and MusingsMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-53637880853362649772014-09-22T18:26:00.000-07:002014-09-22T18:26:25.046-07:00COMPASSIONI just went for my first session of physical therapy. I was told by many to be prepared because therapy hurts. It did not. She massaged my hand and it actually felt good, and later, with her many exercises, gave me a sense that my hand, eventually, would be able to do again what artists do. Like all of us do. Use our hands for so many things. The incredible power of hands: the tools of our brain. The pain came later as I tried some of her "homework" but pain was something I had come to accept as a way of life since the accident.<br />
<br />
It happened so quickly, close to home, as I sat next to my husband who was driving my car. The next thing I knew, was coming to the reality of many cars, ambulances, police and a medic asking me how I felt ... I was absently looking in front of me and seeing double and trying to figure out what had happened. <br />
I came fast to the realization that we had crashed. A bad crash. My car was totaled. I felt numb. Pain came later as the shock wore out.<br />
<br />
When released from the hospital after a few days of examinations, x-rays, CT scans, and the soothing presence of my daughter and a friend as I drifted in and out of sleep, I realized my total dependency and total vulnerability. I was frightened to look at myself in the mirror. My whole body was covered with black and blue marks, the right side of my face was scratched, lacerated and bruised; I had a concussion, my right hand was in a cast and my left thumb in a splint. Later my right thumb was operated on. Despite having injured his back and hands, my husband was doing everything. He cooked, fed me, did the dishes, gave me a shower, drove me to the doctor, took care of the lawn and garden, watered plants, was busy most hours of the day despite having to go himself for physical therapy for his back. I felt useless, devastated. I had always been independent and my sudden utter state of absolute dependency drove me to a state of great sadness.<br />
<br />
I went to doctors, and stayed home and read. Books accumulated. They took me to places and events where my mind wandered and roamed. I wanted to be cocooned, protected, safe. I stayed home. Friends and family came, sent cards, gifts, cooked for me, told me that being so limited in my movements gave me a break, that it was normal that my husband took care of me, that I would do the same if I was in his place. None of it registered. I had a great sense that the accident with its immense shock kicked a part of me somewhere and It got lost.<br />
<br />
But as people came to visit they told me about what had happened also to them. I began to realize that most of us carry our own wounds. A neighbor showed me her hands where she was missing two parts of her fingers. I had never noticed! Yet she did everything with her hands. She became emblematic for all the human beings who talked to me relating their accidents or their losses or hurts. I was humbled listening to all of their heart wrenching stories. The chaos in their lives. Being wounded triggered others to tell me how they had overcome their own pains or how they were still in the grip of so much sorrow.<br />
<br />
We humans are fragile and are creatures that live with darkness and light, pain and joy. A life is a trajectory of many great events and others that torture our soul. It is hard to be human and avoid such a pattern. I came to think that a state of utter vulnerability and pain opens the door for others to share the terrible obstacles that they had to face. In many ways it connects us. It creates the link where we share of our humanness and fragility.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the greatest joy is this immense compassion that awakes sometimes in our heart and helps to bring the understanding that each of us has been through some ordeal and becomes a better being--so we hope.<br />
<br />
Now after three months my body and hands are healing. It will be awhile before I can grab my tools and crayons or brushes and feel totally me. But I am on my way and much is added to my feeling of humanity and community and while the pain is still with me, I can see the light ahead. <br />
<br />
Copyright Micheline Brierre 2014<br />
<br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-41361058699778092842014-04-09T19:44:00.000-07:002014-04-09T19:44:10.485-07:00A Bird's Eye ViewWhen I was a little girl with long braids and skinny legs (seems a long time ago!), I had a french girl friend who was called Sylvie. She lived in a large house on a corner street. It seemed huge to me then and maybe it was. Many balconies, large terraces and a grand attic, hot as could be under the Caribbean sun and full of what we imagined attics can hide. Old gowns with faded fraying fabrics, antique furniture, books and ancient porcelain dolls. We climbed there through a dark, airless passageway both suffocating and tantalizing. We held our breath until we burst through the door of the attic and could breathe again. Revived, we could explore.<br />
<br />
But downstairs the place was actually a guest house with mostly french people and Sylvie's aunt who was an artist and quite lovely. She was an ex-beauty queen and looked it. The whole place was a receptor of my dreams and imagination. I had huge powers then along with my friend. We sometimes took a look of offense and told Sylvie's little cousin "we will turn you into a frog." Young enough to believe us, she would cast on us a look of horror and disappear from our sight. We were the fairies and believed in this temporary incarnation.<br />
<br />
Often we climbed up a very large old Banyan tree between old branches, leaves and green lizards and high, unseen to the passers by; we watched. People strolled by, people talked and behaved as most humans do on the ground. We observed and laughed sometimes but mostly looked.<br />
<br />
This gave me a bird's eye view over the behavior of other humans. The detachment of being above them and watching. I find that this habit is sometimes most necessary if I want to detach myself from the mundane and see a situation with new eyes and spirit. The ability to rise above and see things for what they are and not as they seem when we are involved with them. Often as I sit with a group of people I imagine myself flying above and listening with the detachment of an observer looking at the scene under me.<br />
<br />
It is not always easy. Sometimes I am too involved to do this. But as I get ready to go to sleep, quietly laying down on my bed, I replay the situation in my head and realize that I am creating the distance necessary to see what was hidden to me by my own emotions.<br />
<br />
I imagine myself in the tree again up high and seeing what was needed to be revealed. In a way growing older is like flying above and having a long and amazing perspective over our life. The way we acted, the way we did things then, the way we did not like something, the way we created, the way we loved and the way we used our imagination. Mistakes we made, also things we learned. Life becomes an evaluation as the years accumulate. We, at this point, not surprisingly, reach and do our best. Often not always. So many artist and musicians reached their peak when older and their mastery over a medium only echoes the spiritual attainments of their soul.<br />
<br />
So flying is not only for the birds. We can fly in our mind and look down, or look over life and turn on the beautiful capacity to evaluate and discover. Our older years are sometimes our better years having learned so much from how we have lived. It is true that they often come with aches and disease, but also how much we have learned and how well we can still perform in our fields!!<br />
<br />
Copyright Micheline Brierre April 2014<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-13146930001675943212014-02-16T10:34:00.000-08:002014-02-16T10:34:33.023-08:00RememberingIt has been a long void between the written words and me. I have been in a period of absorbing what life throws our way. Life and death, early morning light, winter and snow, silence and memories, ideas and a new key word for the year: expand.<br />
<br />
Now I find myself every day working in my studio; the silence and peace a constant companion as I listen to the gemstones and beads and follow the organic shapes and lines that flow through my mind. I absorb the days and the books I read at night. Objects around the house remind me of stages of my life of a time when my youth thrived and now brings a smile to my lips. Remembering! It is not always easy but our memories are one way to trace the trajectory of our lives.<br />
<br />
I look over by my window and I see my blue bottle collection. Cobalt blue glass in diverse forms that filter the morning light and cast a soft glow over the plants nearby. When I lived in Peru I remember going to a woman's studio. She made glass in her furnace and all over her shelves were the vessels reminding me with their color of late afternoon ocean from my Caribbean island. I was bitten by an urgent need. A need to have some of them on my own window sill. They have followed me from country to country and now on that South facing opening they are gloriously again speechlessly speaking to my soul like filters of the light.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxDcHiu9bvBFHt-g0Azrl1jyZfdv2p3WLNeZf3eB68iZ4uBuY-gCwTXX7-WORoOQvuzUM0hlwD8MeZU69u5EBI2xbou8JzWgLX83LIjThrz5HAvCS_ty1OXJpeG1plOiirDMKUt4KF7Q/s1600/IMG_2889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxDcHiu9bvBFHt-g0Azrl1jyZfdv2p3WLNeZf3eB68iZ4uBuY-gCwTXX7-WORoOQvuzUM0hlwD8MeZU69u5EBI2xbou8JzWgLX83LIjThrz5HAvCS_ty1OXJpeG1plOiirDMKUt4KF7Q/s1600/IMG_2889.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
In my living room there is a clay woman with huge buttocks and a long strand of large beads hanging from a hook in the ceiling. She comes from Santa Fe. Magical city. Strolling around with my daughter I saw two of those clay figures identical and proud framing the entrance of a store around the main Plaza. I loved them. Squat and solid they evoked to me the strength of womanhood. We took a trip to the flea market which is filled, as all who have visited would testify, with artistic creations from so many artists and where fleas have no place.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I suddenly ran into the little woman in clay. The artist was there selling them. I asked him why they had such big buttocks and he smiled: because they have a long way to swim to the ocean. That was enough to convince me to get one. Now it brings the spirit of a town that I loved, where I stayed a month in the joint quest of my husband and I to find a new place to live out West. It proved to be way too expensive to buy a house in Santa Fe and we moved here to Colorado.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SthJFkUeak3fJetCQiOr5L9DL3JbPpHA7jVBC-dTNSL11StkY7pWnMqYg2beEaEAv72aqBjrtZWjoCbMVI0v2Uq8P4J3OVjjl7UjioOdXRy6hJoOuCrmSrNsX-wv1pIim5vglBG_ung/s1600/_MG_5780web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3SthJFkUeak3fJetCQiOr5L9DL3JbPpHA7jVBC-dTNSL11StkY7pWnMqYg2beEaEAv72aqBjrtZWjoCbMVI0v2Uq8P4J3OVjjl7UjioOdXRy6hJoOuCrmSrNsX-wv1pIim5vglBG_ung/s1600/_MG_5780web.jpg" height="320" width="175" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-0yWdIL1xkZa-gpW-DqbiEMMhBQ13ibb832XgqWxBjz4XVSS4yzOS2-xdqJU63PkHkxN5vKESPgvmThbuDO_Par2W5IZRP790DNryB7f7FHpj42tMDOhNRaBm_Gczu9katFdH4kI23I/s1600/_MG_5779web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT-0yWdIL1xkZa-gpW-DqbiEMMhBQ13ibb832XgqWxBjz4XVSS4yzOS2-xdqJU63PkHkxN5vKESPgvmThbuDO_Par2W5IZRP790DNryB7f7FHpj42tMDOhNRaBm_Gczu9katFdH4kI23I/s1600/_MG_5779web.jpg" height="320" width="188" /></a></div>
<br />
When I first came here to stay, I loved all the variety of leaves that seemed foreign to me. I collected them, dried them in my studio and they covered a huge area of tables and shelves. To me they evoked the appeal of old forests I have seen here and their secrets and inhabitants. They made me dream and wonder about the past they enclosed and the stories they held. One day, I painted this watercolor and kept it for me. A memory of my move here because my husband was in love with Colorado where I had never been and the west was calling us.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xuxXfjLm0-tjISygRY_1Nlsw7A747N0ZwLLzngijbGFfaWIFu-pSBINVw8Ghh0t9DVwAxnir8g5z9OMFCXrlKULW237vaumDlaOFnbFGchOLgQ4LWa6OzA1CiM5c0X-3q15vHK21-lU/s1600/_MG_5777web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xuxXfjLm0-tjISygRY_1Nlsw7A747N0ZwLLzngijbGFfaWIFu-pSBINVw8Ghh0t9DVwAxnir8g5z9OMFCXrlKULW237vaumDlaOFnbFGchOLgQ4LWa6OzA1CiM5c0X-3q15vHK21-lU/s1600/_MG_5777web.jpg" height="320" width="242" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 1996 Micheline Brierre </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Hands have been a constant in my life. Hands speak to me. Everybody's hands. Our hands do menial work or meaningful tasks like a fine surgeon working on a heart. I just think of the absolute necessity of hands to express so much of what we mean or want to convey or express. Hands are a vital appendage ready for an artist to pick a brush, a pencil, a needle to bead as I do, to type, to cook, to hold tools to fabricate or to extend in greeting, or to join in respect as so many Asian cultures do. Our hands are one main form of expression and say without words what we have on our mind.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjvVAMEQAie-jMtc7I3259IXiEdWbRynzrGoGj6KAqDZ-Vrj-uqNjMclvjUmifvl2MA5TICLyTUF_ML9cPvQlfcFBTzimq7BpVKTHtwkwznDa3ptVpB5YC2fFqa8MzyTq9YQMMsqsGAc/s1600/IMG_2891.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjvVAMEQAie-jMtc7I3259IXiEdWbRynzrGoGj6KAqDZ-Vrj-uqNjMclvjUmifvl2MA5TICLyTUF_ML9cPvQlfcFBTzimq7BpVKTHtwkwznDa3ptVpB5YC2fFqa8MzyTq9YQMMsqsGAc/s1600/IMG_2891.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
I have a small collection of hands. The most colorful one is a collage of many pieces of ceramic that I bought in a Kansas Art Show from a lady. It symbolizes my life long love for hands.<br />
<br />
In fact so many of the objects in this house have a history. They seem inanimate but hold a whole part of life and its stories. I would love to take a quick tour of your home and stare at the objects and listen to their stories that make you laugh or cry in remembrance, or smile contented with what life has taken you through.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2014 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-37023846328050755312013-10-28T07:25:00.000-07:002013-10-28T07:25:47.108-07:00TribeThis summer we had been sitting outside on the terrace of a restaurant basking in
an early morning sun and chatting about our work, some of our challenges
and life in general. We were all artists. Career professionals. One
of us mentioned how she missed her tribe. She used to have a studio in a
building with many other artists and now her new studio was much
bigger and certainly more beautiful. This new space was isolated from the other like-minded people
that she used to interact with in the old location.<br />
<br />
Missing
her tribe. It impressed me as something quite meaningful. What is this contingent of people we call our tribe? Who has their name branded in my mind as members of my tribe?<br />
<br />
When
I was a teenager I felt quite isolated and alienated from a lot of
people my age. My few friends were older and I had a friendship with their parents as well. I was bookish and stuck in my inner circle of happenings. My life was spent on a section of our roof turning pages, dreaming, thinking. There I was isolated and brewing what I would later write and create and show at the galleries of the time. One of my friends
called me "The lonely light of Debussy." I lived in Debussy; a neighborhood courting the mountains in
Haiti. My tribe was very small but it was mine and important. It help define who I was.<br />
<br />
As I grew, it grew with me and then I left my whole tribe to go live with my artist cousin in Puerto Rico.
And living there and moving became a trend. Find a tribe in a country, like it a lot,
move to another country, grieve and create another tribe. Living here in
America gave me a sense of stability. But I still wonder about all
the people whom I love but that are away and yet still a part of me. They
are like a magical part of my previous reality and at times with a quick e-mail or a phone
call, they fill my heart with joy and drown me in memories.<br />
<br />
I have finally
accepted that the tribe is composed of different people in different
places even different countries and what links us all is the warm, unseen feelings
we have for each other. They are a tribe because I like or love them
all. Even though some people had come to challenge me and are now better forgotten. Yet they are alive in my mind and brighten my soul with a few words whether
written or told.<br />
<br />
My family is only a part of it. They are the tribe I was born into but never had to choose. They
include a big sense of shared memories of a life lived close to one another
and the common bond of having been raised in the same context and knowing the
same crowds and loving or disliking what they had to give. There are some members we do not see as our tribe. They seem like aliens and difficult. So unlike us. Even when attached to us by some blood bonds. I guess they are best becoming a part of someone elses tribe but their skeletons remain a part of our path.<br />
<br />
I also have a family of
friends that mean so much and are chosen to be my companions along the
way. They did not come into my life with my birth or theirs as is in a family. They
were chosen because we shared a common ground, an affinity, a natural connection, maybe a specialty and met by
circumstances that created our closeness. Sometimes they come and go sometimes they stay as beloved sentinels. They keep our soul intact.<br />
<br />
But between
all of those people, we have our inner tribe. The ones so very close to
us that understand us truly and seem to touch us with simple words or
simply a look. The ones that give solace and inspiration, the ones that
seem to create a road that we follow and always lead us to joy or inspiration.<br />
<br />
So how is your tribe? Do you have different ones and collected a few along the way? And where do you stand with them all? How do you feel about living with the inevitability of a tribe?<br />
<br />
Life
in its complexity provides us at different times with different
connections. The people that like us have a similar goal, a like or dislike or a simple
affinity and path that bind us to them. Sometimes we also run away from people in our tribe and that is our choice. That makes them an elemental and fulfilling part of our growth, our aspirations and of course our tribe here on earth.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2013 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-21811915464161937772013-08-09T15:46:00.000-07:002013-08-09T15:46:14.120-07:00My HomeIn Colorado Springs it has been hot and dry this spring and summer. The grass in the city was brown and the sun was like a relentless furnace on our heads. Many trees have not come back to life from winter and their dry silhouettes are like dead ghosts all over town. Now the landscape has greened with the rains of July and August and wild sunflowers pop their radiant heads everywhere.<br />
<br />
When the Black Forest fire hit, I was returning to town with my husband and the huge column of smoke towered over us and could be seen from far away; I approached the town with apprehension wondering where it was. Smoke was everywhere and as we got closer we knew that a fire had erupted nearby.<br />
<br />
The next day, it was all over the news. It even made national news and emails began pouring in from concerned friends and family. The result of all this after a week of evacuation, pre-evacuation, and a huge amount of bravery from all the firefighters and care from all the city officials and the army, was five hundred and nine home burned and many more partially touched by the fires. I was just floored. I think that the fires have left a profound mark on the collective psyche of the town.<br />
<br />
My heart went to all the people that lost it all. Lost their home and were homeless in shelters, with family or with friends. Worst of all, the family that watched their home burned on TV.<br />
<br />
It was a painful reminder of last year with the Waldo Canyon fires that devastated the mountains and hills, came to town and burned more than three hundred homes. I felt vulnerable and helpless.<br />
<br />
It prompted me to think about the meaning of a home. What is it to lose it and what is it to see it go along with the flames of the forest around it? It never happened to me so I can only guess and imagine what it would be like to see it all go to ash.<br />
<br />
My home now of 20 years is like an oasis where I can breathe happily and that over time I have filled with so many memories. I have the silver goblet that my grandmother used everyday when brushing her teeth and old black and white portraits of my grand uncle who was a poet and so very good looking. Old french books published in limited editions in the island with the verses of talented poets of my family who felt every word and put them on paper for us to assimilate and inspire us.<br />
<br />
My mother and father's photo is still in my studio looking at me from their grave. So are my old friends and my much loved mother-in-law. My studio is full of old writings of mine sleeping between the sheets of paper. Lots of jewelry supplies and art supplies fill my shelves and closets. Then there are the photos of all the grandchildren and my son and daughter and my great daughter-in-law. And of course books. Filling shelves, cabinets, guest room and even the garage and storage room. I read a lot.<br />
<br />
On my walls are so many art works of mine and of artist friends here and from other countries where I lived, and many artful objects that I collected over the years. The greenery... I have twenty one house plants that grow and bloom under my care. Plus, I will not list all the dear objects that fill me with delight. My house is the center of my life, the place where I have my studio and where I dream each night and share my hopes and desires with my husband.<br />
<br />
Should all of that burn I would be devastated. I had lost a great part of my home to Hurricane Andrew in Miami and lost many precious books and art work and art supply that looked as if they had been put in a huge blender . <br />
<br />
I imagine what would it be to lose my home completely. To see everything turned to ash. Maybe if I walked out with my husband, untouched, I would feel so very thankful; but the loss of what is so dear to both of us would be a unique, powerful and painful experience that opens my heart to all the ones who are now homeless and with them, I grieve. <br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-92000966928102465152013-03-18T19:31:00.001-07:002013-03-18T19:31:47.191-07:00A Life's End<span id="goog_538969035"></span><span id="goog_538969036"></span>She stopped breathing and ended, by so doing, a lifetime of goodness, integrity and generosity. She was my husband's Mom but also my "love Mom" since only love linked us and she was to me another Mother after mine passed away.<br />
<br />
I was very lucky having had two formidable women to serve the role of mothers, the later more of a dear friend since she did not have to raise me. It was hard, was sad and was so final. In a way, it was the farewell to the connection with such a dedicated generation that valued what we often forget; quiet and unspoken courage to go through life, illnesses and challenges as well as success. They made something really good and brave out of themselves and stood proud but not asking for any recognition.<br />
<br />
We buried her on a cold, windy, gray and snowy day with a graveside ceremony. The whole family sat in the front row under the tent fighting tears that got caught in our throat making it so hard to talk. As her casket got lowered into the ground, Mirah, the four year old granddaughter of her daughter-in-law, walked to the grave holding her grandma's hand and dropped a card that she had made for Grandma Ruth onto the casket. We all looked at such a miracle gesture only a four year old could do, so endearing, so meaningful and inspiring. In a child's eyes death is not final. The note was there to be read. Most likely in spirit and in peace, Ruth read the final note with its colored crayons drawings and laughed. Mirah always made her laugh!<br />
<br />
Death has its gifts. Being able to see so many people we had not seen in a long time and visiting with them, reviewing their memories about Ruth to add to the long store of images and words that we carry with us about her. The rabbi at the graveside service said it so well. "As long as you live her memories will stay with you."<br />
<br />
So it is with all of us. The long lineage of the previous generations are stored in our heart and souls and since we cannot be born without dying, it is in a way a form of immortality. One that is precious.<br />
<br />
After a few days, her two sons and wives revisited the grave. The sun shone on us but it was cold. Steve, my husband's older brother had been generously taking complete care of Ruth's needs with his admirable wife Deana and both had done so incredibly much compared to us living here in Colorado limited by distance; only sending genuine love, making phone calls, writing notes, e-mailing and in my case, sending snail mail letters. Their grief was great but her illnesses had them prepared for her final departure. My husband was still very much in shock.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrZcexbGT_U67AeY3qaJX00flSw-dU5EqX2OH2zt7pa3E0D29MMxeD1rz26KEyscViHq6nJzs5rpVcG-B41Tz-Z2x6GwRVozIZmSeyEEM1Vo8ZSRWwICHCdm0kw_XCAPppvIrmn9prOw/s1600/IMG_2028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnrZcexbGT_U67AeY3qaJX00flSw-dU5EqX2OH2zt7pa3E0D29MMxeD1rz26KEyscViHq6nJzs5rpVcG-B41Tz-Z2x6GwRVozIZmSeyEEM1Vo8ZSRWwICHCdm0kw_XCAPppvIrmn9prOw/s320/IMG_2028.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Steve read something he wrote inspired by the Lincoln museum they had visited the day before in Springfield IL and mentioned the importance of spending a lifetime reaching out and touching favorably other people. He said that not all people influence so many as Lincoln did. But within our own circles we do. We hear it all the time. Make a difference. I believe that we touch many other beings that we either inspire or actually work with in life and often the difference it makes is not obvious to us, but it is present like a beacon of grace that gets passed on to others.<br />
<br />
This chain is the never ending link that all humanity shares. It perpetuates what humans recognize as our basic goodness and all the qualities that go with it. We are born, live and die but we live through others that come after us or around us and the beauty of it is infinite.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7xlS7h2ZVPczNtZLFeAe_7qG97oiCGxoQOEpjxVodiruhUJSUOAtBiuVgyLfx4Hw7m_jqWsoa-8QLNFuHKvv11qbeqe-WIyLYwTH76ZDq_0y6YygGLBcY2aTmgq_8UeZEVzOVs5O1aE/s1600/IMG_2008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7xlS7h2ZVPczNtZLFeAe_7qG97oiCGxoQOEpjxVodiruhUJSUOAtBiuVgyLfx4Hw7m_jqWsoa-8QLNFuHKvv11qbeqe-WIyLYwTH76ZDq_0y6YygGLBcY2aTmgq_8UeZEVzOVs5O1aE/s320/IMG_2008.JPG" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve and Mirah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJf6iMWnR21K7sQibYiB5JHXJceH_D7K3Y3LoLA4NeW5m5ZxkmVPh9fSQMRf0AZH_ApxoccuqWxOBQOv0DJbpULJtNKh-ZQe3ZInsz6p_rneK1mfJ2E4D6w3JuHYsQjHGvDkNbDr5MTQ/s1600/IMG_1075adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRJf6iMWnR21K7sQibYiB5JHXJceH_D7K3Y3LoLA4NeW5m5ZxkmVPh9fSQMRf0AZH_ApxoccuqWxOBQOv0DJbpULJtNKh-ZQe3ZInsz6p_rneK1mfJ2E4D6w3JuHYsQjHGvDkNbDr5MTQ/s320/IMG_1075adj.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruth and Barry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Copyright Micheline Brierre March 2013<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-13072777501183819042013-03-01T19:37:00.002-08:002013-03-01T19:37:48.430-08:00Fragile StrengthWe contain within us a duality that is not evidently apparent. We are both very fragile and also very strong.<br />
<br />
At times, only the fragility is apparent and at other times the strength is overwhelming. Where do we stand with both?<br />
<br />
A good friend of mine was leaving a shopping mall heading for her car when suddenly she was hit by a vehicle. A very young woman of only eighteen was late for her work at the mall and hit her in her hurry to get to work on time.<br />
My friend had to be taken to the hospital and checked and she ended up with broken ribs and a broken ankle. She could not go to her work and she was home-bound and full of pain and frustration. She felt very vulnerable and fragile. Yet her spirits kicked in making her inner strength emerge. She was capable of healing her wounds that were a lot more than the obvious physical damage.<br />
<br />
She is not alone. The earth is loaded with great examples of human beings that were hurt in their fragility but found the strength and inner power to transcend their situation and go on. <br />
<br />
I am now being surrounded with many friends who are experiencing a very hard time. Some have cancer, disease of some sort and some have sprained ankles, some are sick spending time in a hospital. Lots of pain. I witness all of that and know that only their inner power carries them beyond the body ailments. I do feel sad when my thought goes to them and it happens often. I feel inside me the moments of immense fragility and realize that being in a body makes us destroyable or at least susceptible to all kind of disease and accidents. The nature of being humans. Our mind and emotions can also trigger a full moment of fragility and utter vulnerability. This happens more often than we want to remember.<br />
<br />
At the same time our spirit can carry us to great height over the disease, over the discomfort or over the strain in our minds. We do have a brain that can think or be redirected and a great ability to transcend what our body experiences. I know having been very ill myself.<br />
<br />
So our days are dictated by our feelings. They oscillate between either the pole of strength or our pole of mere fragility. States that can emerge at times or can stand apart while we stand in the middle. We are beings of fragile strength and get to deploy both emotions at all times.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2013 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-59925401641501772302013-02-17T09:51:00.000-08:002013-02-17T10:24:47.770-08:00GratitudeMost days as I go to bed, in the dark, I go through my routines then review the day past. I look at what I did or did not do very well and review what I could have done better. This is like a mental play over the facts of life and internal resolutions. I store in my mind the things that I consider lacking in my participation, my remarks, or my response. I try to see the good of what often comes my way and see the reason behind what has been. For instance, an article sent to me by a dear friend who holds a very different view of the world and is contrary to my beliefs. I started to think of why she sent it to me and came to the conclusion that she wanted me to have similar thoughts to hers; and she cares. How could I get upset?<br />
<br />
Our life is full of little and big events that show us the way to growth and also to help us pay attention to the intention behind each action. Ours and others. I have been focusing for a while to the importance of gratitude. I wake up each day (so far), take breakfast to my dining room, eat then focus on what I could be grateful about. And there are plenty of things starting with the fact that I am alive, breathing, creating, writing, moving and reflecting; many things to be immensely grateful for each day. Not mentioning loving and being loved.<br />
<br />
Gratitude I believe is the key to a sense of well being and a feeling of great abundance and peace. I keep a small little book that I was given that has a beige real cork cover and write in it some of the things for which I feel most grateful. Often it is simply that I am grateful for being alive and sometimes it is for my daughter having called me or a note from my grandchildren, friends or my sister, or snow when we need so much moisture here or my husband who gave me a great shoulder massage that I badly needed. Life brings us so much joy if we are able to receive it or simply pay attention. And we do not need to travel to the end of the world to find its rewards. <br />
<br />
My husband and I went last week to a park here in the black forest covered with light snow in parts. We both walked in the quiet of the forest and I observed all kinds of life in the middle of winter down at the ground level. Besides the carpet of pine needles, there was lichen, little trees making their long journey to the top of the canopy and sometimes paw prints of some animals that dwell there. I came home with such a good feeling having breathed the outdoor air mingling with the smell of the pine trees above me. The feeling of having been close to the mystery of nature and life.<br />
<br />
Was I grateful? I was elated and the feeling still is with me. So I try to make room for a bit of gratitude in my days and enjoy the abundant results. I could focus on what is missing but I choose to focus on what is there in front of me and that is gratitude.<br />
<br />
Try it, it will change your outlook on living. <br />
<br />
Copyright 2013 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-60757403658088002312013-01-22T08:50:00.000-08:002013-01-22T08:50:42.175-08:00The Alligator in the BedroomHe waits for me at night. When I wake up from a deep sleep and leave my dreams behind to go to the bathroom, I walk a few sleepy steps out of my bed only to find -- to my horror -- a big alligator on the floor, at the entrance to the bathroom. He lays dormant apparently and I slowly recover from the scare, suddenly breathing hard, to step quietly on his head satisfied that he is but a long shadow cast by my vanity chair.<br />
<br />
This happens many nights. The shadow startling me many times. The night is full of illusions playing on our nerves. It also plays on my fears, but my worst fear is certainly finding a snake writhing on the floor in the house. <br />
<br />
I had to confront that fear once. My husband was away on a trip so I was alone in the house. I came in through the garage, having parked the car outside, looked down the stairs to my left only to find a live snake also looking at me! Suppressing a scream, I looked at the creature with a desperate horror trying to figure out in a jiffy what to do. Only one small flight of stairs separated us and he was facing the laundry room. Perhaps he was as surprised as I was because he was not moving. Just looking at me. Panicked, I suddenly hurried upstairs and thought it out. How was I going to sleep that night when a snake was in the house capable of moving ANYWHERE. He could come to my bedroom, coil around my neck. I was petrified. My heart was beating in fright. I peered from behind the wall, nothing. He was gone! I stopped to think again. After a few minutes, I got a huge roll of wide tape that I use for shipping jewelry and art orders and slowly and quietly descended. Perhaps he came out of the laundry room through the drainage hole made in the floor to let water out in case of flooding. Otherwise, I could not figure how he got in my house. So, I tiptoed to the place where I saw him last and cut a length of tape and stuck it from the bottom of the laundry room door to the carpet, hoping to contain him. I sealed, I hoped, all accesses to the rest of the house. I slowly retreated and wished with all my heart that I guessed right.<br />
<br />
My night was spent awake, eyes on my door wondering about and fearing the apparition of the snake coming up one floor to my closed bedroom. I think that the simple idea of a snake spending the night with me in the house was enough to make me shiver in fear.<br />
<br />
The next day, I was up at the crack of down and went to look. To my huge surprise, the snake was glued to the tape at the bottom of the door, full length, unmoving and apparently dead. I was too scared to touch it so waited a few days until my husband returned to peal off the dead snake and tape and give me back the use of the laundry. My hero. Although I was sorry to have killed the creature, I was thinking that I did something to face my fear. It was, in a way, an act of daring and it taught me a huge lesson.<br />
<br />
Our fears no matter where they come from are not overwhelming and can be handled and confronted. We are a lot more resourceful than we think. Be it alligator or snake, our minds can come up with instant solutions to relieve our worst fears.<br />
<br />
Now the hole in the laundry room floor is closed a with a fine metal mesh and I can sleep a full night -- in peace.<br />
<br />
Copyright January 22, 2013 Micheline BrierreMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-89414317558529554322012-09-13T09:33:00.000-07:002012-09-13T09:41:50.800-07:00Hard SummerIt was a hard summer. Many horrific happenings in the state like the shootings in Aurora in Denver and so many fires in state and out West.<br />
<br />
Here a huge wild fire suddenly started in Colorado Springs where I live and to our horror the wind pushed it suddenly down the mountain into town and it burned three hundred and forty seven homes and killed two people. The air was filled with smoke and debris and the heat of the days was intense. <br />
<br />
I was sad. Too sad to work the first days and so often finding myself looking at the images on T.V. I could feel the tension in the city. I received countless emails from family and friends and spent my time at the computer. By the time the fire was contained with the hard and dedicated work of more than one thousand firefighters, it was declared the worst disaster that ever hit the state of Colorado. I was humbled.<br />
<br />
It reminded me of a few other disasters that I lived through. Plane crash, terrible earthquakes in South America, hurricane Andrew in Miami. All events to remind me - and all others - that nature is unimaginably powerful and faced with it, we do not mean much even though we often think of us as top guns. The fires here left me really focused on what can happen and does happen so often as we read in the news or hear from other people that made it through a disaster. So many humans die of natural related events and we can only acknowledge the vulnerable state in which we live.<br />
<br />
Which means I thought a lot about death. Life is finite and death is a part of life. It does not matter what we believe, or what age we are, one day we cease to breathe and that is the end. Are we ready? Death is the big unknown. A territory that is so unexplored as to be totally foreign despite what all humans have written about it. Where do we go? Do we survive death or do we plunge in total oblivion into the nothingness of non existence? Is there a God? Do we reincarnate? Do we go on to perfect ourselves and come back as better beings? Do we matter as humans? Is our life worthy, not worthy? Do we survive death and live forever-after in a form of bliss we often dream about?<br />
<br />
What do you believe?<br />
<br />
Belief dictates our way of life, our actions, our ability to act and to think and feel. I like to think that I will come back a much better being, enlightened, cleansed and renewed. The thought makes me smile. After all, nothing like going through the unfathomable door of the unknown so many humans have talked about and debated since eternity. Death will certainly bring answers. <br />
<br />
Being friendly with death enables us to better live, to appreciate the subtle forms of life and its many expressions that evolve every day under our eyes. The little things as well as the important ones who are dear to our heart. Life as it comes daily and brings the joys of all the things we are familiar with.<br />
<br />
I was once at a friend's home and offered to do the dishes. She told me "no, it is my meditation." It was great to see this simple act of cleaning the dishes as profound a happenings as a meditation can be.<br />
<br />
I plan to greet my days with the humble approach of daily gratitude and as Casteneda has written in one of his books "carry death on my left shoulder."<br />
<br />
Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-60566384486447559172012-05-11T19:26:00.000-07:002012-05-11T19:34:01.407-07:00Champagne for My MomSo much has been said about Mother's day that it is hard to talk
about anything new. I feel left alone to be a complete adult on
this earth since many years ago my mother died. Even though we
lived in different countries, we kept a lively correspondence and I
remember traveling to the old island when she died and with my sister
going through all of my mother's things to find boxes and boxes of
old letters of mine written on blue and fine paper all enclosed in
their envelopes and a testimony to my whole life and hers. I was
stunned. I was sad.<br />
<br />
My memories of vacations in her home were a day to day
accumulation of joy. I reverted to being a child again since
she made all the decisions about food and things and her maid
Ghislaine knew everything that pleased me and how I liked to eat
anything. She catered to all my desires under the watchful eye
and directives of my Mom. I did not have to think. In a
way, it was like a long meditation when we talked about all and
nothing. She often asked me "don't you want to see a movie,
a play, go out?" My pleasure was just to bask in her
attention and being like a little kid again able to forget the
challenges of living in her treasured presence.<br />
<br />
I was spoiled. I was received by her at the airport and
later in her house toasted with champagne. Her favorite drink.
On her death bed she asked for a glass of champagne. What a way
to go! I remember when she was a few minutes away from dying, I went
to wake up my dad who was taking a brief nap and he knew instantly. He spared me the words. We
walked hand and hand to her bedroom. I admired her body, her
beautiful skin, we used to say she had a perfume skin, so fit to
retain the French scents she applied on it. After a few minutes she
was gone and no tears would fill the void.
<br />
<br />
I look at her photo now and wonder where she is, where she has
gone to and the silence is my answer. In Haiti, long time ago,
the ones who had lost their mom wore a white rose for Mother's day
and the fortunate ones who had their Mother wore a red one. The
tradition is still alive in my imagination and maybe that is why I
never buy or plant white roses. The pain drips out of their
petals to invade my soul.<br />
<br />
<br />
Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre<br />
<br />Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-39082977814043265362012-04-20T10:16:00.000-07:002012-04-20T10:16:52.099-07:00A Time of RenewalNot long ago we celebrated Easter. A time of renewal and rebirth. It is spring time here and all over town the cherry trees both white and pink are in bloom and my forsythia is all yellow and most every plant alive is coming out of the ground. The city is slowly greening after a dry winter and a drought. But the perennials are not shy as their sturdy stems peek from my flowers beds. The lack of rain does not seem to disturb them.<br />
<br />
I am wondering what I want to renew or see reborn in my life. I am aware of such transformation having happened many times as I went along my days. I still remember when my cousin and I, both of us artists, decided to organize an art exhibit outside of Haiti. It was novel for us as we only used to show in local galleries. But we were young, had plenty of dreams and were quite affected from the terrible and oppressive dictatorship of Duvalier.<br />
<br />
We contacted a few friends, moved a few mountains to get out of the country and shipped all of our art work to the Carib Hilton Gallery in San Juan Puerto Rico. Neither one of us spoke Spanish then but were warmly welcomed by the director and all the staff. We had to find an apartment, find our way through the city and most of all, we had to sell some of our art to survive. I was eighteen and loved the freedom, the absence of horrible killings, of whispering in the dark or looking over my back. I did not miss the blackouts, the heavy atmosphere that existed before under such a dictator. After a few days, I thought I had reached paradise.<br />
<br />
With our new friends, we used to go to the beach on weekends. We carried lemons and knives and swam to the nearby island that was just a rocky kind of place in the middle of the ocean. There, we collected quite a few sea urchins and cracked them open under the direction of our french friend and cut our lemons to pour over them. They were as good as oysters and we turned very brown and hot under the sun until it was time to swim again to return to the mainland. Our life had become so different, so carefree that I realize how great we felt and that our life in Haiti, despite family and friends, was not the way to be. I made up my mind then to return to Puerto Rico and that was the beginning of my life abroad.<br />
<br />
It was a real rebirth. I had many challenges to face, but I had new horizons and found many friends to share the time I created for myself. It was the beginning of a new life and some years I visited Haiti for a few days or a few weeks at a time to see my family and friends.<br />
<br />
Now living in the mountains, I want still to create jewelry plus go back to drawing with pen and ink. I miss the dark flow of the pen as it glides over the white paper and create shades and forms as if some magic was happening at the end of my hand. I like the simplicity, the unforgiving honesty but streamlined approach of just using a pen loaded with ink and my paper that I can also carry anywhere. My studio can stay at home and yet I can be creative with such uncomplicated elements wherever I am.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6b5-4YL-py2vsOke0xWTKesxdA_hCuFrTTN_Z9695wkVgDCGfaw-PPjHtte18JxHqFYVd8Dw-P0abnCucnPYZgYpwd0uQdi8mO1inROsBkCU9n6Kbm5qaRh8ZDXVuwGOVy7wg2D5bmoU/s1600/Scan-1-bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6b5-4YL-py2vsOke0xWTKesxdA_hCuFrTTN_Z9695wkVgDCGfaw-PPjHtte18JxHqFYVd8Dw-P0abnCucnPYZgYpwd0uQdi8mO1inROsBkCU9n6Kbm5qaRh8ZDXVuwGOVy7wg2D5bmoU/s320/Scan-1-bw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRRQCaGKPCNu8_EanayAlTPaqypAmFTl3C5rCelG6SUEJ1U4-yc-NmhFY7tMHpP_lkOPPcRb5Jrx84vdvFUvpOWe5M5fdgbkbNnJ59jTh9l24u4OxrNtsLnyWgKnpHmrbjAobhnGCaaM/s1600/Scan-1a-bw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFRRQCaGKPCNu8_EanayAlTPaqypAmFTl3C5rCelG6SUEJ1U4-yc-NmhFY7tMHpP_lkOPPcRb5Jrx84vdvFUvpOWe5M5fdgbkbNnJ59jTh9l24u4OxrNtsLnyWgKnpHmrbjAobhnGCaaM/s320/Scan-1a-bw.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<br />
I became aware of this need by looking through my things and finding a little collection of simple pen and inks that I did some years ago. I completed some of them and they are ready to frame.<br />
<br />
Life provides us sometimes with a reminder. I find that it was so for me who found the reason for my renewal and the rebirth of one of the many mediums I love.<br />
<br />
What about you? Do you want to find a whole new but old love you want to bring back to your life or find a whole new one? What would make you happy and feel reborn? Life gives us many opportunities to do so but first of all, ask yourself many questions and the answers will be all yours to ponder. I will wait to hear from you.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre<br />
<br />
If you want to leave a comment just click on "comment" and follow the easy steps.Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-87842150682514919302012-03-31T18:35:00.004-07:002012-04-01T06:24:40.160-07:00Carnival in my MemoriesMany countries celebrated carnival not long ago. I am so used to spelling it Carnaval (the French way) that I have a hard time accepting the English form of a word that evokes so many memories and many of them are quite mixed.<br />
<br />
In Haiti, it used to be a yearly huge thing. In my family we planned our costumes and most of the time I ended up as a pirate, maybe because unconsciously I relived the life of this old pirate under the orders of Napoleon who traveled to Haiti, fell in love with one of the natives and started the beginning of our family. I remember drawing carefully with a black pencil a line of some imagined elegant mustache on my upper lip and draping a sash around my waist while ample sleeves of white cotton fell on my arms. I was transformed into a fierce buccaneer with knives and sword on my waist. I was menacing, at least in looks. I used to dress my friends and dribble gold specks on their hair while I transformed my sister into a fawn ready to roam the slopes of our nearby mountain. And we danced like crazy. All hot nights at Choucoune, the night club en vogue at the time. I loved it. I even remember one night of Carnival when we danced all night, ending the ball at the beach, sipping on coffee and worrying my parents to death (I realize, now that I am a long time parent and grandparent.)<br />
<br />
In the afternoon we used to gather on top of a friend's house on the Champ de Mars, the big park close to the National Palace and watch as each group of dancers paraded around a float where the queen and king would salute from their height while around them people would dance ardently, wildly gyrating while the music blared leaving me nearly deaf. Group after group competed to be the craziest dancers in the crowd, loud and probably somewhat drunk and I wished then to be back in the quiet of my home with my books or brushes in my studio. Carnival was becoming too crazy. Too loud or too wild.<br />
<br />
While living in Peru, my husband had business to do in Rio and it was Carnival time. Was it a coincidence? I prepared what I thought was a very fancy outfit with a long skirt, slit on the side, a bra-like top, all in satin hot pink with jewelry and hairdo to match. We watched the schools of Samba with dazzled eyes realizing that what I was used to in Haiti was a pale version of Carnival. It was an incredible, awe inspiring spectacle that we waited for as each school of Samba announced itself with its own music, its own amazing costumes and singing with percussion and passion. A sound we could hear coming around the corner and announcing a total feast for the eyes. The elaborate, unimaginable, magnificent costumes, the bodies and legs undulating to the sound of the drums had me in a trance myself. It lasted all night and I stayed awake to watch it all, completely mesmerized and astonished.<br />
<br />
But the ball the night after was something else. I got to wear my costume and packed into a car with some American couples from my husband's company and we all went anticipating an evening of dancing like in any well-behaved night club. We were wrong. Poised on a balcony we watched the immense ballroom as it filled up and by ten o'clock it was packed with the most extravagant unimaginable costumes I had ever seen. It was obvious that it took them a year to prepare such elaborate and often diminutive costumes and headdresses versus mine that took me only a day to create, and looked like a nothing and forgettable pale dress. Around us were a group of women clad in so little as to derange the minds of the men that accompanied us. With wild eyes they were looking at them and obviously were drooling, senses ablaze.<br />
<br />
At the table next to us was a beautiful woman with some tiny little red lights magically lit on her naked nipples, a small beaded V covering her sex, and otherwise naked with a huge green feathered boa around her neck; she got close to total drunkenness as were most people and of course, could she dance! If you want to call the amazing motion of her waist and rump a dance. Her laughter was also an irresistible draw. Pretty soon, my husband was dancing with her and so were the pale, mild men who were at our table leaving us women wide-eyed looking at each other with astonishment and disbelief. It ended up with the green boa woman spread on the table, legs open, while some of her companions held her with delight. When they popped a camera to remember the sight, I nearly jumped in fright for her. But she only laughed! It lasted all night. Once you got in the ballroom, you could not get out. Somehow at dawn, we managed to leave and collapse in the car, exhausted with so much stimulation while my husband was green with little feathers that littered the car and later our hotel room. I will never forget!<br />
<br />
My memories of carnival were mixed. Some enchanting and some obviously not so. A friend of mine sent me a video of the carnival in Venice and I loved the amazing old world, imaginative masks and costumes and it made me dream. I keep seeing myself drawing the elaborate frilled tulle, gorgeous rich embroidery and lace framing the many white masks with pearls and crystals glittering from marvelous headgear by the Adriatic sea. In a way, we espouse a new identity while we hide carefully under the masks and veils and it gives us the liberty to act so very differently than we would in real life. A chance to borrow the image of a new self and be the person we would never dare or imagine to be in normal life.<br />
<br />
Carnival, this very old feat, can be inspiring and give us a chance to be a confident double. But for me, it is now safely in my memories where I can just recall it while quiet and purposeful in the mountains of Colorado.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2012 Micheline BrierreMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-26359701790707490682012-02-16T19:10:00.000-08:002012-02-19T09:52:56.707-08:00Living With a Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkt8U6PXEbsUFJmhU8lEHhIvY06ajwFKhxqTd7tI82_8OuTAVkAyF-dAAXxL_N38qcbh7C7v1dLGGLnAscPJjkPpGN4jbV8U1gQ335-0NqQ8UjVK0MPSUlJZxOHOf2YE8kvKw31AaSRCk/s1600/_MG_2119adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkt8U6PXEbsUFJmhU8lEHhIvY06ajwFKhxqTd7tI82_8OuTAVkAyF-dAAXxL_N38qcbh7C7v1dLGGLnAscPJjkPpGN4jbV8U1gQ335-0NqQ8UjVK0MPSUlJZxOHOf2YE8kvKw31AaSRCk/s320/_MG_2119adj.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
At night, on velvety paws he sneaks up on me. He startles me awake with whiskers close to my eyes and the soft sound of purring in my ears. I forget my dreams as I curl around on one side and the cat nestles up next to my skin. He lays there patiently unless my electric blanket gets too hot for him-- furry being that he is. He lets me sleep in peace, sometimes settling between my feet. Not the most comfortable position for me.<br />
<br />
But as I wake up, I find the fabric little mouse that we fill with catnip in the hallway or my yarn or even my new knitting that I forgot to secure in a bag --- he loves yarn. It is a testimony to his hours of play during the night. But now he runs down the stairs, sits by his bowl and waits. I am supposed to feed him but I open the fridge, get the almond milk, get my home made granola, my fruits to greet another day. Eventually he gets fed; he runs to the spider plant to munch on it, his dessert I guess; then settles by the window to look out and eye the landscape over Colorado.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqk-oacIXiKEUSTsOprH4BNV1w1kP57r0oLzszHrPJbETh6yOLF194Fh1W1PQxcv9vOfmKWsV7Ha8YH5I5p3fLYSUxW4-GCVsKhWGtPCz3RQzcxUTKBD91ZyFNVDYCb0s-nxcH2CfPYCA/s1600/_MG_2109adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqk-oacIXiKEUSTsOprH4BNV1w1kP57r0oLzszHrPJbETh6yOLF194Fh1W1PQxcv9vOfmKWsV7Ha8YH5I5p3fLYSUxW4-GCVsKhWGtPCz3RQzcxUTKBD91ZyFNVDYCb0s-nxcH2CfPYCA/s320/_MG_2109adj.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
He is my winter Tabby cat. He spends time with us until we get too busy traveling and doing Art Shows to really care for him. A great arrangement that I have with my daughter. I love to touch his fat belly, the markings on his coat mesmerize me as does his sleekness and his talent for jumping high that he manages to show always. Sometimes he climbs across the most crowded places but nothing falls, adept as he is to travel carefully between object not disturbing any.<br />
<br />
All the cats that I have had in the past have been healers. They seem to draw the sickness out of your body by sitting legs stretched on your chest and eyes closed purring until you are lolled by the heavenly sounds that I wish I could carry with me always. They purr their love and their enjoyment. <br />
<br />
He is hugely attracted to the outside but hardly ever wants to go out by himself. The little rabbits, birds and squirrels catch his eyes and sitting on top of my credenza by the window, he clicks his tongue, moves his tail, all hunter in action with the body flat on the glass ready to jump, but I laugh knowing his stance is nothing but a motion and he is safe in my home.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I peer over his looks disbelieving that a foreign creature like him has chosen us, the family of man and dare to be our friend. He has that look of the wild, and I know that left on his own he will return to the long ancestral habits that his specie has nurtured before it got domesticated. His tame looks do not fool me.<br />
<br />
But he does follow me like a dog would do. When I go to my studio, he runs after me down the stairs and looks for his favorite chair just close to mine and sits. After grooming himself thoroughly he closes his eyes but still stays aware as his ears move in the direction of any sound. I am sure he hears so much more than I ever will. That it why he is a cat and makes the nights his time to roam.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04FUNruRo-Xq_VL3q7ydIebySUy_ustkFTPbBwgKvFkvdTMNVuPUHWw8D6bNf1HDF9hFGpg1TvYQvACR2yKjJaVXk5IKG-6eeMdqvJRlOQeQhjgIv-dUi1oyX4uvcac4nfb-qC_gMnJ4/s1600/_MG_8383adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04FUNruRo-Xq_VL3q7ydIebySUy_ustkFTPbBwgKvFkvdTMNVuPUHWw8D6bNf1HDF9hFGpg1TvYQvACR2yKjJaVXk5IKG-6eeMdqvJRlOQeQhjgIv-dUi1oyX4uvcac4nfb-qC_gMnJ4/s320/_MG_8383adj.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We put up with his cat litter that I clean every morning, his crying in the middle of the night sometimes, his walks between our legs and once in a while, the gentle bites he takes on my husband's ankles as he comes down the stairs. He knows that the man in the house is the one who gives the treats. The cat sits on him by the TV while I beg for him to join me. Males win sometimes!<br />
<br />
Now he lays down at my feet, belly up soft and beige as tabby cats like to show and he dreams of catnip and of our hands gently caressing his fur. He is all within himself but I know that he is also all vigilant.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHHpgsk4I9GaFg6J_fDt7V9LZ-TfQleVZbwueY9Hwh27gODHQJNnJ_t8LEmERsnzl0P5qItqe5lFGXfCPF7OXHpc09N3GEtQHirg0yFOmkdeWDiMPI3cz9kN7jwmfXNSWzwcHgnNhr0Q/s1600/_MG_2192adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHHpgsk4I9GaFg6J_fDt7V9LZ-TfQleVZbwueY9Hwh27gODHQJNnJ_t8LEmERsnzl0P5qItqe5lFGXfCPF7OXHpc09N3GEtQHirg0yFOmkdeWDiMPI3cz9kN7jwmfXNSWzwcHgnNhr0Q/s320/_MG_2192adj.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> <b>The Cat</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All sinuous and curves of fur</div><div class="MsoNormal">he stretches and yawns, his markings</div><div class="MsoNormal">a pattern of a thousand lines.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now stretched by my chair he lays</div><div class="MsoNormal">mysterious companion </div><div class="MsoNormal">who walks by my feet </div><div class="MsoNormal">and looks with eyes</div><div class="MsoNormal">of eternity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stare at the yellow-green of pupils open on my life</div><div class="MsoNormal">long looks reminiscent of time immemorial</div><div class="MsoNormal">when he roamed the earth, wild and proud</div><div class="MsoNormal">as a creature of lonely nights and vivid days.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have dreamed of long journeys when we travel </div><div class="MsoNormal">in lands lush and humid, mossy and green </div><div class="MsoNormal">a solace for his paws and for my feet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I sleep, legs warmed by his body</div><div class="MsoNormal">and I escape in immense voyages</div><div class="MsoNormal">of the soul where he leads the way</div><div class="MsoNormal">as cats can only do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Copyright 2012 Micheline Brierre <br />
All photos copyright 2012 BD Kaplan Photography <br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgr6sKI2UzBiaYn3h-yVTayTN78-u4-1PuW_DkswHa0kh7JiXVzAlUHfsJrPYFN66tD-SiUhaxjF5aiJyv6S49klQhtkdkJKm8D-TbGO3Jcjj-Z-rJFJ8t05Az8WoQNk06NDgJi6KNdR4/s1600/_MG_2124adj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgr6sKI2UzBiaYn3h-yVTayTN78-u4-1PuW_DkswHa0kh7JiXVzAlUHfsJrPYFN66tD-SiUhaxjF5aiJyv6S49klQhtkdkJKm8D-TbGO3Jcjj-Z-rJFJ8t05Az8WoQNk06NDgJi6KNdR4/s320/_MG_2124adj.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-49357507970251093212012-02-01T17:13:00.000-08:002012-02-01T17:13:29.409-08:00The Love of PeopleThe end of the year was a mixed event. I got sick with a bronchitis and was alone in my house because my husband had gone to St Louis. He planned to bring back his mom's car that she had decided to give me. At her age she thought it was best to stop driving. I guess she loves me! I felt weak and had an exhausting cough that kept me many days in bed not doing much but reading all the books I could find at hand. It was not easy.<br />
<br />
My daughter's best friends came and shoveled the snow out of my driveway and I stayed indoors as much as I could. Miso the cat was my companion. He was my daughter's tabby, a huge cat who had come "south for the winter" as her friend said. I do live south of her, although in the same town, and his voyage to my house lasted less than 20 minutes! This is his second visit at this time of the year since I stay home then and do not travel. He gets to remember his favorite spots in the house and knows that I am his winter companion.<br />
<br />
This gave me time to think. I reviewed the year and found so much good in the everyday living and all the people I got to see and correspond with. This year brought old friends back to visit me and at many art shows I got to hug many that I had not seen for a whole year.<br />
<br />
I also got to think of all the things that happened to me and to them this year. The people were certainly the most fulfilling aspect of every day. I realized that looking at a person in the eye to follow the tracing of their words, plus the words they might not dare say but that reveal their absolute consciousness is a treat. I was able to understand them with an empathy of the heart. It was the best of the year. Not traveling, even though going elsewhere is exciting and enriching. Not reading some of my best books although I love reading; it was simply sharing a great moment with soul friends, people who listened and talked straight from their gut and heart.<br />
<br />
This particular pleasure is like eating great pastry or like going inside of me to search for the traits I most love; or spending time alone investigating the many quirks in my head when dreams linger by and echo in my soul.<br />
<br />
People are it. Fascinating, interesting, crazy at times, sad, fulfilled, passionate, inquisitive, quirky, present and so terribly satisfying. I line them up in my head and I feel blessed with so many who share so many characteristics and offer so many disparities, enough to satisfy me for a lifetime. So this year of 2012, I dedicate to all my friends and my family that brings me the joy of following their life, of sharing their sorrow, and of laughing with them when their excitement is high.<br />
<br />
I thank all of those who wrote to me, who talked to me, whom I dreamed of, whom I remembered, whom I rediscovered as well as the ones whom I missed and never got to see. I want to celebrate us, the people who roam this earth and make my life worthwhile and prodigiously happy.<br />
<br />
I used to think that bread was a huge and very simple pleasure. So satisfying. A nice chunk torn from a baguette and so good to the tongue. I think that the huge flow of humans that populate my life and let me enter their lives is the greatest satisfaction and the most enthralling and interesting aspect of living.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2012 Micheline BrierreMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-81034368547118306922011-10-24T19:12:00.000-07:002011-10-24T19:12:10.462-07:00The TransitionThere are fallen Aspen leaves in my driveway and over the lawn, in the garden and all over the streets in town. Trees seem on fire with yellows, rust and red gloriously back-lit by the sun. I drive on some streets that seem like tunnels of radiant colors and I sing to myself a few internal songs. It is Fall in Colorado and the air is cool and fresh while nights are cold.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyPsBg-UQo57h_4ZJgVIvBfxglk9qdMWOEWF_xAlEv8H96fA-LyjHx_styhAcUBU47yUlePL1dNZWqj2-hQdcvZFUvZFyAcTu5EK4zb2kgu9OGh5x-xxZct5Lm7eShBY86PvjhE2MLF3U/s1600/IMG_1347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyPsBg-UQo57h_4ZJgVIvBfxglk9qdMWOEWF_xAlEv8H96fA-LyjHx_styhAcUBU47yUlePL1dNZWqj2-hQdcvZFUvZFyAcTu5EK4zb2kgu9OGh5x-xxZct5Lm7eShBY86PvjhE2MLF3U/s320/IMG_1347.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <br />
My husband and I went on Old Stage Coach road, up in the mountains, west of the city. It is as the name says, a very old, unpaved and very narrow way with tunnels, blind curves and nothing, not even occasional guard rails to keep you from tumbling in the void that is often on both sides. But the views ... the views make all the effort of taking that drive worth it. Aspens line the many mountain sides and present a huge, astonishing warm palette of immense beauty.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJV33ONFhaseOANB4VOgOhhJlksl8nq8oyVCjbbO4z0s3BIC85v4PgvG_tBSOKGgkUulT5zyG-nXSTdaMbRXa2c00KYNZTeSzHZPlmQOYw2Ccl5kbthp3xakIxcrBXvAflvRou-X8c6rs/s1600/IMG_1341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJV33ONFhaseOANB4VOgOhhJlksl8nq8oyVCjbbO4z0s3BIC85v4PgvG_tBSOKGgkUulT5zyG-nXSTdaMbRXa2c00KYNZTeSzHZPlmQOYw2Ccl5kbthp3xakIxcrBXvAflvRou-X8c6rs/s320/IMG_1341.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-hihp_WLp2L_pW4ZCj5viuG3L6GoZvgA_kVGDxZCPEPxXPCVRabJoNoUM-3eUX-5fbmYbixdGFB8WHEMP9FjrtHKFURjv7uIM074QVeUnE1_Jd4IfHr40aArTAKsaHF3nJgW-Jal7jI/s1600/IMG_1342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-hihp_WLp2L_pW4ZCj5viuG3L6GoZvgA_kVGDxZCPEPxXPCVRabJoNoUM-3eUX-5fbmYbixdGFB8WHEMP9FjrtHKFURjv7uIM074QVeUnE1_Jd4IfHr40aArTAKsaHF3nJgW-Jal7jI/s320/IMG_1342.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> <br />
It is this time of the year again, when we have to let go of the exuberance of summer and contemplate the changes that come with Fall. It is a precursor to Winter and as such it is the exciting in-between time of the year that comes with a magnificent splash of colors and lets us know that it is time to settle down within and think and reevaluate the year. Nature presents us with the transition, the entrance to this state of awareness and whether we sense it or not, life is coming with its packet of changes.<br />
<br />
For me, transitions are the beginning of retreating into myself and finding simple joys that I had forgotten in the rush, work and pressure of summer. Like waking up before my husband at dawn and walking quietly to the living room where with open windows I can see the sunrise and greet the day; a form of silent meditation about what might happen and also a form of salutation to the budding sun.<br />
<br />
I can knit with the fabulous selection of yarns that I have collected through the years and see patterns of color develop while my thoughts are silent and the day unfolds. I can write in my gratitude journal and mention things that are so basic and real to me. I am grateful for taking a breath at a time and being alive. I can send love to my family and friends and imagine a security circle around each one of them. I can dream of the next piece of jewelry I will create and imagine the curves and the stones plus the shades offered to me in my studio. Most of all, my priorities become more obvious as I let go of the non essential and embrace the most important. I also like the joys of reading a real paper book that I can hold in my hand and let the the words evolve into a story with a character leading a life so unlike mine. It is great to dream a bit!<br />
<br />
It is my time to reevaluate. Life has so much to spread in front of me but choosing one thing is of utmost importance. It is good to have a single main goal and go in its direction. <br />
<br />
I can think about all the persons that I have met and loved and that have gone out of my life for many reasons, especially the ones that I will never see again because they have died. I can think of the finality of death and the strangeness of life. The way we come on the planet, learn and live each day with awareness or not and create a trail of questions that life answers if we are lucky. We can also add our name to the long list of beings that have come before and left a legacy to admire and try to emulate.<br />
<br />
My loved ones march in front of me in my mind's road. I love to follow this stretch of my days and look at the beings alive before me that stand in their own glory and grace and by so doing are so deserving of my attention and love. I can put aside the people which are indifferent to my life and do my best to enhance the life of all the other ones that walk with me and present challenges and growth to my days, or let me embrace the example that they present.<br />
<br />
All of this comes with this slow approach of Winter that serves to focus us on what we had tuned into in the Fall. In a way, regroup our year and set the tone for what in the next year will happen, surprise us, challenge us -- or simply, delight us.<br />
<br />
Life is such a journey and it helps to discover more of ourselves with each passing season as we meet the day and continue our life fully aware and conscious. I believe that humans were not meant to live with passivity but make happen what is close to our hearts, and Fall is the time to get in touch with our wants and what brings a smile to our face.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline BrierreMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-47870730941309559202011-09-14T21:46:00.000-07:002011-09-15T09:53:15.278-07:00Living in Different Places"You have to be invited to a baptism or go to a funeral to really feel you belong." <br />
Words of my first husband when we lived in countries other than ours. And of course, he was right. Living in a foreign country is getting to know different cultures, different food and maybe different languages and clothing but also the same people with the same emotions as ours. Once we get passed our veneers and the outer look of a new place, we are met with the same humans: our great family of Earthlings.<br />
<br />
Going to live in Mexico City for the first time I was dazzled by the culture. The beauty of multiple handmade things that sold in stores of "Artesanias" and the many villages with an astounding array and specialty of food, great dances, special hand-embroidered dresses and twists of the language caught me totally wide-eyed and receptive to it all. I loved the songs, the romance of the mariachis at midnight on plaza Garibaldi, the markets, the flower vendors everywhere even at night and the restaurants filled with huge tables where three generations of people got together united by the need to visit and eat together as a family. A real treat that made me remember with nostalgia my own family, hours and hours away in my Caribbean island. I also loved the fields at the foot of the volcano where we picnicked with flowers all around us while the smoke in our our grill smelled of fresh tortillas and new found food.<br />
<br />
I was in awe at all of what the country offered that seemed so different, and delighted me so much. The play of vibrant colors, the accents, the play of words used everyday and the music had me marveling each morning. As I got to know the friendly people, I felt a great empathy, as they corrected my budding Spanish and laughed at my mistakes as I translated too literally from the French, I carried a dictionary everywhere. But more importantly, later, I felt like I belonged when we were invited to share family dinners or asked to weddings and when friends took me to their favorite markets and later taught me how to cook their specialty food.<br />
<br />
Sometimes my husband would drive us to some villages around the country whose specialty was one item only; like the one that produced so many guitars and where so many open little factories lined the main street. I delighted in the lavish sensual curves of the wood, the shine induced by the rubbing of assiduous hands and when I heard people sing and play the instruments, it was as if their souls opened up to cry their love or sorrow. It brought me close to the silent pain in my heart that life sometimes creates and about the nostalgia that resonated within me through the cords of their guitars. I was entranced.<br />
<br />
Living in Peru was an exercise in endurance because of the frequent earthquakes and the fluctuation of food and restrictions of the use of our cars. It was the time of the generals and things weren't easy. A recent agrarian reform made all food scarce and our German pilot friends brought us steaks from outside the country. But there was the discovery of strong woman: worldly and open-hearted that I learned to love and the resurgence of my own voice as a person and an artist. My children were bigger and I could lead a group of creative people with their art, show it and sell it.<br />
<br />
I thrived, I felt like I was back to my roots. I learned to make jewelry with Mary Traver in the Miraflores center. I learned to conquer metal and silver and also let it speak its voice and met many life time friends friends like Therese or Guillermina dear to me forever. Between carrying the duty of a welcoming hostess present at parties and fiestas that we gave, I learned to embrace the family of people that I met and that nurtured my soul. Making an international phone call was a true adventure. You screamed, they did not hear you, they screamed and you still did not understand. My ex husband used to say " If I scream some more I will not need a phone!"<br />
<br />
After a particular strong earthquake in the middle of the night, my mother who was visiting helped me carry the children fast asleep as usual to the middle of our garden while the maid yelled "Salvase Senora" save yourself! but she ventured all the way inside the house, courage on her side and we retreated running into the darkness of the garden. When it was over, we made tea for and illusion of strength, or so we hoped. My mother, silent until then, finally told me in French "Micheline what are you doing in this hole?" My husband was away on a trip so all of us woman returned to our bedrooms, but I never slept. I thought of her comment but realized it was indeed a very interesting hole and mostly-- a beautiful one. I was far away from my country, but in many ways, I was home.<br />
<br />
The high country was my favorite with the smell of the Spanish Broom filling the valley with their scent and the yellow flower floating on the air on their slender stem. Huancayo was one village that pulled on my heart, a village with a huge market that I would walk and explore with the children and that my husband would photograph beautifully. I would sit and sketch, attracting a group of kids marveling at what I considered mere traces of my pencil. The handmade things varied incredibly and never ceased to fascinate and tempt me. I went from the unique pottery or silver filigree jewelry (light as a dream) to an incredible family of multicolored potatoes so incredibly varied and fun. I made many friends that later died or got dementia or simply disappeared later from my life but live forever in my memory.<br />
<br />
Eating out was a delightful adventure and a surprise, like when my husband ordered oysters and they started to move when he put lemon on it ... I guess freshness was of utmost importance as was the huge size of all the sea food and vegetables there.<br />
<br />
I was peacefully at home when my husband walked in one day to tell me "Pack your bag we are going to Bogota Colombia." I was in mourning. My friends came to tell me how sorry they were. I was going to live in Bogota, a dreadful, dangerous place and they were so sorry for me. I had just moved to a new house and our things were still in boxes. The high Jasmin climber was transplanted by our much loved gardener and was starting to reach the balcony of this new house smelling delicious on the wind. Moving? I was distressed but packed I did and was on a plane with the family, sad and fast as I could pack. <br />
<br />
But what a surprise! Bogota was a large handsome city, women held important roles in the government, artists became my friends; and even though we had a Wakenhut guard in front of the house, I started to love the food, the gold museum, the haunting song on the guitar and the particulars of this land where people spoke a most beautiful Spanish and received us late at night for dinner. Pretty soon I was exhibiting my work, having my paintings praised, participating in the art field and having a blast. The butcher was my friend and sent us his best cuts of meat by a delivery boy on bicycle. We had a baby deer for a few months that our friends found on their Finca and that ate the whole garden but was my joy and pride until much bigger when we gave him back to our friends to release to nature.<br />
<br />
I had a studio and worked with the Inner Peace Movement, traveled, had lectures in my home and did many counselings.<br />
<br />
I learned a lot. I realized that each country carries its own flavor and look but that it was up to me to belong. They were born there, it was their land and they were used to its idiosyncrasies, its joy and its music, its language and charm. It was up to me to make myself at home and get others to respect my presence. Up to me to keep a wondrous eye and show an open heart. To try all the food, to dance the rythm of the day, to be the person who would be invited to funerals and celebrate the baptism of the new baby.<br />
People all over have the same aspirations as mine and seem different only at first sight. Once having shared a cup of tea or or the drink of the land, people are astonishingly the same and that make us a huge Earthling family; a set of souls sharing the same thoughts, the same worries the same hopes and the same sadness or joy as ours. The Spanish spoken there was very different from my native French but it brought a new language to me that still delights my ears and that I miss.<br />
<br />
Living in other countries and in South America has made me more receptive and more open, more accepting, more flexible and understanding, more myself. It brought me a beautiful memory of so much that lives in my heart and sometimes creeps into my dreams. The eternal gift given by many lands.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline BrierreMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-73973986579669129312011-07-13T19:53:00.000-07:002011-07-13T19:53:03.022-07:00The Faces of WorkMy life of late has been immersed in work. I work most of the time but recently it has been at a furious pace to keep up with the outdoors juried fairs for artists and mostly to maintain my inventory at a decent level. We did five shows in a row, one every weekend and that meant waking up very early each day and going to sleep quite late at night. It meant traveling to those shows or never leaving my studio but for an occasional break. <br />
<br />
It made me think about how "Work" take its place into our lives. After all, once we are out of school and in many cases before, we are working at one job or the other. And that is for a long life until we retire and many of us, artists included, never retire completely since our art is an expression of who we are and how we see the world.<br />
<br />
Artists are different and the art scene is full of graying hair people who need to express the feeling they experienced all through their life. Art is the result of a filter that we all possess and that seeps through our emotions and finally yields what we have seen or felt or heard in the form of our art.<br />
Go to an art show and each artist has a different vision and their unique way of seeing the world. Walking an art show is like peeking into someone else's consciousness. Quite a feat.<br />
<br />
But work could be just as creative and take another form of expression. It could be the doctor who makes sure our health is good and actively fights every threat to our state of being. It could be the fireman, the nurse, the teacher, the chef, the engineer or the truck driver to cite a few. I think there is a difference between work that is a calling, an urge to do it no matter what; and the work that is just boring; a simple routine that we do just to earn a living.<br />
<br />
Working when our soul is not there is a difficult task. We often look at the passing of time and cannot wait for the weekend to come and give us a sort of relief through other occupations. That form of work leaves us frustrated and sad. We go home at night and try to forget the day and its activities. There is nothing to nurture our soul. <br />
<br />
Work as a calling is different. It pursues us once we leave the job, gets in our dreams and incubates thoughts and ideas during the night. That work is rejuvenating, it brings our mind to the current problem to solve with a form of eagerness and fulfillment. So why are more people not doing it?<br />
<br />
Sometimes infancy presents a very small vision and people, once grown, go to work as a convenient and easy road to provide for life instead of searching their soul for that thing that makes them tick. Sometimes life is tight and the circumstances do not permit people to choose. Sometimes one does not know what would the pleasing thing be and how to make it a daily opportunity. Such people are like butterflies and jump from one thing to the other never feeling satisfied. Circumstances do vary an awful lot. But often work is no more than a burden.<br />
<br />
One thing that I know as an artist is that no matter what you do, there is a part of it that is always work. It requires discipline and sometimes the tedium of doing what you have to do. But when our work is also our life passion, despite all, we thrive with what we do and each day brings us the joy and the wisdom of creating something new. Not only us artists but what all people do in their own field. Creativity is not jut a privilege of artists.<br />
<br />
Whether work is a pleasure or a bore we all have to work and earn a living unless presented with a rich background and our monthly expenses are covered. So let us bring our body and soul to work as my friend does who works for the government in helping poor immigrants solve their problems and so find a way to give back to the community -- a real service.<br />
<br />
There is also the artist's form of work changing as we change and evolving as we do and that we can do for a lifetime and and never find tiring or boring. I believe we were born to do it and I guess a calling is just that.<br />
<br />
Copyrighted 2011 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-78212442648439611782011-05-07T13:45:00.000-07:002011-05-07T13:45:28.548-07:00Memories on Mother's DayMy children were born when I was very young in Mexico city at a Spanish hospital. My Spanish was not very good then. The nuns, also our nurses, spoke a clipped Spanish from Spain, so quickly I could not understand them and my husband daily translated what they had to say.<br />
<br />
It was a wonderful hospital. My room had a great view on the flowery garden and for lunch I was served Paella which is a chicken base, saffron, chorizo and rice dish with many more things added and it was delicious. Gourmet food in the hospital! Quite rare. I walked at the end of the corridor to see my son and my husband was happy to smoke a proud cigar. When they brought me the baby, he was always wrapped like a sausage with only his head showing. So I unwrapped him marveling at this minute pink body moving in my arms. This was the time women stayed a few days in a hospital and it gave me time to get used to the feeling of being a mother.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless when the day arrived for me to go home, I was feeling so anguished and scared wondering if I was up to the task of caring for this little baby. My mother had applied for a visa to Mexico that was slow in coming so I gave birth without her.<br />
<br />
Coming home was a strange mix of joy and worry but the baby and I bonded quickly and I would sit in silence in front of him with wonder in my heart.<br />
<br />
We had a good maid then. But she told me as soon as I came home that she had found a job who would bring her to the USA. How could I not let her go? It left me with the task of caring for the baby and his many diapers and cooking and taking care of the apartment and the laundry plus all else. At that time we had cloth diapers and no diaper service.<br />
<br />
My husband prepared the bottles for the baby in the morning and it was a great help. But one afternoon he came in the door and I burst into tears. I did not expect to do so but the tasks of living were catching up with me. We had a good friend who brought me a maid to help. I was elated. My husband and I went shopping and his camera films - films were only used at the time - disappeared. We went on a search and it yielded nothing. No film in all the empty bags from the grocery store. But I found them the next day -- in the freezer...The maid did not know better and to her the freezer was a safe place to put the films. She did not last very long.<br />
<br />
The next maid was much better and my mother arrived in Mexico. Help was available. It saved me a lot of work.<br />
<br />
This little baby is now a grown men with a wife that I love and a family of two boys living in Maine.<br />
Sometimes I remember him, wild kid on the roof of my house or swimming in the canals of Miami and I remember all his many stages of growth plus all the ones my wonderful daughter went through and I marvel at the force of life reproducing itself through us - mothers.<br />
<br />
All over the world mothers carry their babies, give birth and raise them as best as they can. The dedication, the patience, the loving, the pain and worry and also the rewards are enormous. Babies come with so many lessons for us parents to learn. They act as our teachers when most of our education is done.<br />
<br />
I remember at night looking at my kids sleeping and thinking their presence was such a gift. A marvelous fact of life and a new addition to the world population. And the world population is growing everyday. In so many countries the birth rate is high and the question is: How can we cope with and feed so many people?<br />
In my case I only reproduce us -- the parents. But the future is something to consider as we face those little bodies with so much love. <br />
<br />
When my children became teenagers they had a very good friend from Nicaragua who used to come and visit all the time. Even after my kids were gone he kept coming just to see and talk to me. One day I realized he was my other son. Not born of my body but a spiritual son whose family I love as well.<br />
<br />
I wonder why mother's day is not also fathers day and childrens day as well. The bond are obvious and celebrating them at different times puzzle me. So I did survive raising my children, learned a lot and loved being a mother and I would never give up what I experienced as a parent. I can face myself in the mirror and say: I did the best I could and I know many mothers around the world will be thinking the same.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-78677991952039812272011-04-25T21:02:00.000-07:002011-04-25T21:02:26.251-07:00The ChangesOur planet has become much smaller than we ever thought. The news travels at tremendous speed and our economic life on Earth is interrelated. Ideas float from one country to another and long is gone the time of isolation. Are we better for it?<br />
<br />
It means enormous changes in the way we think and our ability to stay within the compound of our personal consciousness. We are now multinational beings involved one day with the news of Japan and the other, news of Yemen. In between, we stuff the news from Egypt, from Libya, from Africa or Haiti and we add to that the news from our speck of earth plus many more places or countries that may interest us. Plus there is the economic crisis, unemployment, budget deficit, tax cuts, weather damage and death in the southern USA....is it not a lot?<br />
<br />
What has all of this done to our psyche? <br />
My grandson told me the other day that he was most concerned by the news of the nuclear leaks in Japan. He is 8 years old. He told me that they discuss it in class. I think that all the involvement with so many happenings on different countries opens our minds very early to the fact that Earth as we know it has become so very small in terms of communication and interconnection. As a consequence, there is more to think about, more to worry about, and more to stay on our minds and keep us awake at night. The information is crammed in to us through TV, videos, CD's written articles by reporters all over the world, social medias and text messages. It is unavoidable.<br />
<br />
Because of this, it seems that now, more than ever, this Earth is undergoing tremendous changes and not all for the better. There is the problem of climate change, the scarcity and rising price of oil, the possibility of water shortages, the climbing cost of food to cite only a few. We are facing huge problems and as we see it, there is no solution at hand now.<br />
<br />
Of course at the same time, so many groups, institutions or individuals are creating wonders and propose a different vision, therefore a different consciousness in the people they touch. On one part some destroy while many others build what they can. I, by nature, tend to be on the side of hope but I often feel invaded by all of what I read or hear. Especially when I am unable to do anything about it. It is not simple or easy and even harder to escape. Our life is more accelerated and there is much more to do in one day.<br />
<br />
We have e-mails, text messages, phones, TV, CD's videos, many electronic gadgets to facilitate reading or writing, a whole assortment of high tech things that have an effect on us human beings. Are we relating to each other as best as we could? Do we take time to pause? Does it make us more anxious?<br />
<br />
Little children take anti-anxiety medicine and the other day, I talked to a friend who takes 2 drugs to stay calm and serene, or at least try to. Drugs and pills are so prevalent and can mask our behavior in many ways. Scientists are finding little by little the effect on us of all this relatively new technology. They are divided and so are we. I find that more people are having a hard time coping with all the delivery of high tech gadgets and long for a more relaxing yesterday. Only, this can be true for the ones who remember yesterday. But the children? <br />
<br />
Do we live on a more violent planet? I wonder sometimes reading all of what the earth has been through. The history of our past is loaded with conflicts, wars, many challenges and epidemics and terrible things to face. We have evolved, but we are still the same human beings that lived off the land and raised our kids the best we could or hoped for a better shelter or a more lavish life. Our aspirations are no different from country to country. The basic human being has not changed that much over so many years. But changed it has, with the discovery of so many ways to make things happen and to change our lives. Horrible things like mass killings, suicide bombers, drone killings, latent terrorism, wars, unrest, inflation and unemployment has become a way of life. That is not pretty or even desirable in any way.<br />
<br />
If my grandmother was alive now, she would have a hard time to integrate herself to all we play or are involved with everyday as if nothing. Even now, I write snail mail to my mother in law who does not use a fancy phone or the internet and to her sister for the same reasons. When my grandkids are here, they play video games and relish their Facebook accounts. Of course they also play on their bike or skateboard. My childhood was spent reading, painting and perched up in trees! The kids behave like kids to a certain extent. Compared to the way I grew up, there is a huge difference. But each generation faces the same changes.<br />
<br />
So here I am with many questions and just a few answers. What do you think? Where are we going as a specie? What is happening to this Earth? What is on your mind? What about violence? What concerns you? What keeps you awake at night? Are we better off today?<br />
<br />
Please leave your answers. Consider this blog as a forum for your thoughts and our common feelings as humans. As the planet evolves, there is a price to pay and as we express our worries and our appreciation as well, things become clearer. Let me hear about you. You can leave a comment, become a follower of this blog and we can touch a reality that we can create commonly as humans. I will be waiting.<br />
<br />
Some links to read that illustrate my text:<br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotOptimizeForBrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <br />
<a href="http://video.pbs.org/video/1883045635">http://video.pbs.org/video/1883045635</a> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/03/age-of-man/anthropocene-photography">http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/03/age-of-man/anthropocene-photography</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/japan-earthquake-and-tsunami">http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/japan-earthquake-and-tsunami</a> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ourcivilisation.com/signs/chap7.htm">http://www.ourcivilisation.com/signs/chap7.htm</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-13089758">http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-13089758</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-13185499">http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-latin-america-13185499</a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div> Copyright 2011 Micheline BrierreMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-10686403236587707872011-04-02T07:45:00.000-07:002011-04-02T13:49:24.393-07:00In Anticipation of Spring<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLs5VWz1rujMxpDap8KQF3YghVmtqsjokNaubvBgtI68X-4OynQOmYNOvVrrGwHzixKx819c5W9laYdLFJLogGhLc0x1V_9KQCDBxI_ycdx5F-CGizAl-yzt1v6ENOWodTiPAIzDFDEE/s1600/_MG_2780.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLs5VWz1rujMxpDap8KQF3YghVmtqsjokNaubvBgtI68X-4OynQOmYNOvVrrGwHzixKx819c5W9laYdLFJLogGhLc0x1V_9KQCDBxI_ycdx5F-CGizAl-yzt1v6ENOWodTiPAIzDFDEE/s200/_MG_2780.jpg" width="135" /></a><br />
I was going to write about the marvels of Spring and to my surprise this morning, I woke up to a thin layer of snow and temperatures well below the fifties as we had been getting used to for the last few weeks. In Colorado we get our snow in the Spring and it is hard to know when to cover up and when to let a little skin show. Days vary so much. But Spring is in the air, not just on our minds. The little Forsythia I planted a few years ago between my neighbor and us is showing many leaves or petals and the trees in front of our house are greening.<br />
<br />
I, like many people tired of winter, am giddy over the coming Spring and we all relish the warmer temperatures that bring us closer to this beautiful time of the year. I never appreciated before the difference between the cold days of winter and the rest of the year. I lived in Miami years ago when a rare cold spell would strike sometimes, but the trees and plants forever showed a lush look with bushes full of blooms, rapid growth and exotic colors. A very exuberant environment that clashes with our semi arid climate here and the plants that manage to grow in it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pBljCOdcNhzYjAiDS-s5asyl876SgFDnp0cHu1rvOUUr5NoqvZ-bE0t28OPfbU9KdU0l2l8VJK0oPKl3Q4QnKVxcoUnRDnrSEUw57RXFD7O-sW9EoT23Ry-aWe_XZhfhvwP_EsD-gGU/s1600/_MG_2801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pBljCOdcNhzYjAiDS-s5asyl876SgFDnp0cHu1rvOUUr5NoqvZ-bE0t28OPfbU9KdU0l2l8VJK0oPKl3Q4QnKVxcoUnRDnrSEUw57RXFD7O-sW9EoT23Ry-aWe_XZhfhvwP_EsD-gGU/s200/_MG_2801.jpg" width="84" /></a></div>This is a fantastic time for street performers. I was in Boulder yesterday with my husband. We had gone to Greeley to see the "Riverdance" show which was just fantastic. We admired the Celtic dancers that enticed everybody to get up and move wildly with their elaborate step patterns that contrast with their rather stiff upper body. We both loved it and the haunting music still rings in my ears. Boulder was not too far, so we slept in a hotel there to go to Pearl street the next day. It was full of people and street performers who bring their talents and their ability to gather a crowd on this pedestrian mall.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTylPzFzUoHUdauZS7ZpOQshTUa_nWR8SF-ITKuSzn9UIn7bXOzp9Ggd36CZry-y1VOFTDZOWO-fxIHSrLTMBsCyimZ-HIdqvWotEQB-POWS3oIIvoN5_QbXb7TY4qTqS8LhouoLJDvNc/s1600/_MG_2818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTylPzFzUoHUdauZS7ZpOQshTUa_nWR8SF-ITKuSzn9UIn7bXOzp9Ggd36CZry-y1VOFTDZOWO-fxIHSrLTMBsCyimZ-HIdqvWotEQB-POWS3oIIvoN5_QbXb7TY4qTqS8LhouoLJDvNc/s200/_MG_2818.jpg" width="133" /></a><br />
As we strolled down the street looking for our favorite art galleries we came across a man with a great sense of humor and acrobatic abilities who was perched high on a unicycle talking to the crowds and doing his tricks. In his hands he had a few lit batons that he juggled along with a sword. He got a little boy to be a part of the show. And as high as he was, managed to catch his hat with his raised foot while still up in the air. People happily gathered around him and most everybody was happy to drop a few dollars in his hat when he was finished.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwNTnrQGjtdXOq3ZZRxw6EaifsNiMGU-AwlTCz_eWcnw-lkW-TyTT3Lds6Fi9TiorYK-5YqwPBdGjE0-DjBnjqXCbdwooVbrmTeHqzZ8pht7y0N0oWxUIh_mip8xQCuPY7vx8y6GdLJKo/s1600/_MG_2837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwNTnrQGjtdXOq3ZZRxw6EaifsNiMGU-AwlTCz_eWcnw-lkW-TyTT3Lds6Fi9TiorYK-5YqwPBdGjE0-DjBnjqXCbdwooVbrmTeHqzZ8pht7y0N0oWxUIh_mip8xQCuPY7vx8y6GdLJKo/s200/_MG_2837.jpg" width="86" /></a></div>A bit further down was a lovely girl with a violin that played beautifully some classical music themes, full of longing and memory. The sounds she created were so beautiful it made me think of my mother who was so fond of the violin and would cry sometimes when it played.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmg-vP5x2TVRh7TFuYa5jqf0MguPhg-3TqTS3y2CP6RFVNsmwBYfTmGe9UVJwDNldEqDKz6dGx9Muka5SY73KJ_8VSnu9Dtig94WoAYFpOY-56f0SjZegXTP7XCol3B6xDEce6rT4LTtw/s1600/_MG_2963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmg-vP5x2TVRh7TFuYa5jqf0MguPhg-3TqTS3y2CP6RFVNsmwBYfTmGe9UVJwDNldEqDKz6dGx9Muka5SY73KJ_8VSnu9Dtig94WoAYFpOY-56f0SjZegXTP7XCol3B6xDEce6rT4LTtw/s200/_MG_2963.jpg" width="84" /></a>We visited a few more blocks and found a man against a huge boulder preparing to play the didgeridoo. He had nailed to the instrument a few rasps and had one more in his pocket. Then with his eyes closed he proceeded to touch lightly his heart chakra and retreat obviously into his creative and higher self. Then he began to play. The sounds were amazing as he blew in his didgeridoo and struck his rasps with a stick both on the one he had attached to his instrument plus the one in his pocket. The result was very soothing and quite deeply haunting and most unexpected. I liked it a lot. My husband photographed him.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDsCrNN9gs1LKryZRh38yviBcLzW7b05U1xzsUDclEh6yAe8650XruaiyGaTlvpvSaFK5vDlxXZnYw4yK_pe0D3OoP5o3M2sor3GxfpP4ey29mA4VGMEnW0NVIa_HUPuRDPZKFoEKOlY/s1600/IMG_0833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDsCrNN9gs1LKryZRh38yviBcLzW7b05U1xzsUDclEh6yAe8650XruaiyGaTlvpvSaFK5vDlxXZnYw4yK_pe0D3OoP5o3M2sor3GxfpP4ey29mA4VGMEnW0NVIa_HUPuRDPZKFoEKOlY/s200/IMG_0833.JPG" width="200" /></a>After a full day, we started the ride home. We had spent the whole time outdoors and observed the tulips coming out of the grounds, the early daffodils, the budding trees and their reflections in nearby windows. So many people traversed the mall laughing and taking pictures, eating ice cream, thriving on a balmy weather to let us know that even though it snowed today, Spring is coming around here after all.Michelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-80047974725513643532011-03-19T20:46:00.000-07:002011-03-19T20:46:19.432-07:00We Live on a Trembling EarthWe live on a trembling earth. The new earthquake in Japan with its horrific tsunami, the unimaginable loss of life and the nightmare of a possible nuclear meltdown remind us, after the earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, that nature runs us in a big way. Earth is very old, it has gone through its cycles and repeats again what it has done in the past. Mankind is a new phenomena on the planet and even though we have become the top dogs here, we are no match for the land when it shows its moods, its might and power. <br />
<br />
The awful destruction in Japan reminds me of how vulnerable and insignificant creatures we are after all. Even if we construct the incredibly tall buildings like in Dubai, and set huge bridges across the water like the Kobe-Awagi bridge in Japan, carve long tunnels like the Delaware Aqueduct in New York, set rails across countries, all our tectonic plates have to do is shake a bit and we are at risk of losing it all.<br />
<br />
In 1974 I lived in Lima, Peru, when a very bad earthquake took me by total surprise early in the morning as I was bathing my young daughter while my son rode his bicycle outside in the front of the house. The noise started slowly at first and intensified to an indescribable roar; a sound I will never forget. I hurriedly took my daughter to the middle of the garden where the terrified maid had already taken refuge and handed her my daughter. I went back inside the house while the earth was shaking and books and things were falling down all around me; the earth, normally always under my feet, was failing my every step, undulating wildly. I found my neighbors all in a circle hugging each other on the moving street and my son, on his bike. He ran toward me and said innocently "Mom, is there something wrong?" I grabbed him frantically, ran again inside the house and rejoined the maid and my daughter. It was still shaking and the walls of our living room were parting in the middle like a big mouth opening and closing. Our cat was trying frantically to climb over the tall wall covered with ivy. I thought the shaking would never end. My husband came home horrified, took his cameras and went through the devastated city numb under a cloud of dust and debris that hovered for days. Lima was a sad sight.<br />
<br />
The aftershocks were so many one could not find a Valium anywhere in town. It lasted over a month with some tremors strong enough to scare the daylight out of you. I went to bed every night with my car and house keys and my purse next to my bed in case I had to wake up the kids and quickly escape the place at night. It was a sheer nightmare. This was "only" an earthquake of 7.2 on the Richter scale compared to Japan's recent 9.1. But it killed 304 people and devastated over 4000 buildings. I had been in earthquakes before in Mexico where the maid had jumped in my arms after my mother, who was visiting was telling me the advantages of having an older maid who would be the responsible one. We both had a good laugh over it afterward. Because of my familiarity with many earthquakes and their aftermath in many countries, including Colombia, I identify enormously with all the human beings that suffer through them and their inevitable aftershocks and huge destruction.<br />
<br />
I found out that the earth shakes all the time. Most days and everywhere. Many of its movements are felt and many are barely noticed. But once a big one happens, the whole community of countries is alert since we have become this global village with the speed of our instant communications and instant messages plus the world-wide presence of the internet.<br />
<br />
So we are not safe ever. Safety is an imaginary feeling, the calming thought that we are okay, but it is just a dream. I think of the importance of living life doing what we love and loving all the people that touch us and inspire us to be more than we are. I think of all our family of friends and blood and the need to share our love and our feelings. The need to say what we think and express who we are. The need to be honest with ourselves and honor our integrity.<br />
<br />
After all, we are just creatures moving on big tectonic plates fighting odds against the planet with the possibility of seeing our creations destroyed. It may happen and it may not. We can only hope for the better. It takes a lot of courage and a sort of huge arrogance to do what we as humans do. But earth will survive. It has been a part of the galaxy for eons of time. Our beautiful Milky Way that we observe in total awe at night.<br />
<br />
We may go on and survive as a species and we may not. Time will tell.<br />
<br />
See the links:<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_earthquakes_in_Peru">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_earthquakes_in_Peru</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pbs.org/wnet/savageearth/">http://www.pbs.org/wnet/savageearth</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/">http://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes</a><br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre<br />
Edited by Barry KaplanMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-90583937278058298522011-03-15T20:31:00.000-07:002011-03-21T17:56:11.091-07:00When a Cat Comes To VisitThe cat looks at us from his high perch on top of the kitchen cabinet. Big round eyes glowing with discovery stare at me. The tail flicks in the air. This is Miso, my daughter's big cat. He is spending time with us so she can be on vacation. He entered our quiet life and brought with him the old concerns about his safety that we used to expend upon our children long time ago. My husband, Barry, created for him soft landing spots on our sofa in the living room so he could jump from his high perch unharmed -- but he never looked at it and lands carefully by its side.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UzYszwHjuDxzpkvohwLds7ehtI0qXwA1GARL_Rd2AE_x8wfgWT603Pq9zziV3A4r8qVnpj-QQjTg57IbCeak4rdF88Vr1cPHy_AqRsycNfqqYKJBIkFDNex9juG7AUPFiZoPuTyUE3w/s1600/IMG_0742F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-UzYszwHjuDxzpkvohwLds7ehtI0qXwA1GARL_Rd2AE_x8wfgWT603Pq9zziV3A4r8qVnpj-QQjTg57IbCeak4rdF88Vr1cPHy_AqRsycNfqqYKJBIkFDNex9juG7AUPFiZoPuTyUE3w/s200/IMG_0742F.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miso the Cat</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX9FRR6V9ZjCcYPGJM5SFYKe5bPnZis7f1KwddL3IzZSbhwb7yBgdE4uOe5IVNoar4x1Xzn5B0fsgFxSjEG6KgrM3CdHhDANq7yZ4feB35tcaVkDiUKt6RXxRmP47ZsVTIKM7dM0R3TU/s1600/IMG_0718aaF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzX9FRR6V9ZjCcYPGJM5SFYKe5bPnZis7f1KwddL3IzZSbhwb7yBgdE4uOe5IVNoar4x1Xzn5B0fsgFxSjEG6KgrM3CdHhDANq7yZ4feB35tcaVkDiUKt6RXxRmP47ZsVTIKM7dM0R3TU/s320/IMG_0718aaF.jpg" width="123" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miso jumping to his perch</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Then Barry created a step on our bookcase leading to the high spot by adding my thickest books to its top but the cat ignores it and just jumps amazingly where he wants to go. It is a big distance from the shelf top to the perch but he does it as he would take a stroll in the garden. Daringly and elegantly.<br />
<br />
In other words, we have become like new parents while he does of course what he wants; prideful creature that cats are. He also showed us incredible catlike affection, turning his tummy up for us to pet him, sitting on Barry's lap while he would tell me "Answer the phone, I cannot move!" I would look at his face in total bliss and laugh watching his hands stroke the cat's fur. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8qkkPVGoRODxZdAK5cYV1x96SHVO_LdCIMh1acqY2m50URlkwkdwu-sLUtnqCchxy-3q99rGR9aFSbxb8o0KCzD5vmO-c-vlODvPeTAfy-Haw1Ihpe_97yUU3ci7bpOwr-hZjx2lZU0/s1600/IMG_0723aF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8qkkPVGoRODxZdAK5cYV1x96SHVO_LdCIMh1acqY2m50URlkwkdwu-sLUtnqCchxy-3q99rGR9aFSbxb8o0KCzD5vmO-c-vlODvPeTAfy-Haw1Ihpe_97yUU3ci7bpOwr-hZjx2lZU0/s200/IMG_0723aF.jpg" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miso allowing Barry to pet him</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The pets in our life pack with them a whole lot of joy and activate new concerns, keep us entertained, bring us the happiness that our unpredictable life sucks out of us at times. I remember a friend in Florida who photographed pets, told me that they were our kids especially after our children were gone and had started their adult lives. I had proof of that with so many people around me loving the furry, feathery or fuzzy creatures we have as pets.<br />
<br />
I sometimes look at Miso with wonder thinking how another specie has come to be our friend and adopt us as foster parents although our pets run our lives in many delightful ways. I peek in the mystery of Miso's green eyes and wonder often about his allegiances, his choices, his ancestors past as an older predator and his familiarity with us, his human friends now. It is itself a great mystery and a marvelous step in our development. I know the scientists have their theory but I retain the mysterious approach of the cat to my life as a compelling tale of friendship and attachment. <br />
<br />
It is a proven fact that pets are important to our well being and keep us alert, alive, involved. They are our companions, often our lifeline, as many handicapped people can attest. <br />
<br />
We have had many cats. Mimi was one of our favorites. We went with him through the destruction and the horrors of Hurricane Andrew and traveled with him from Miami to Colorado when we took my small Honda and explored the state. I remember the big orange tabby that he was, looking out of the little car, waiting every day to eat until we reached a motel at night even though we had provided him with his cat litter and food bowl to no avail. We would stop at dusk at a motel that would not always welcome pets. We would sneak him in at night and hope for the best only to find him at the window in the morning innocently looking out giving his presence away.<br />
<br />
The day he died, he came to my studio already so bony and sad and I petted him till he retired in the adjacent guest room to die silently. I discovered him later and wrapped him in my best shawl to grieve alone until my husband came home.<br />
<br />
In our case now, we cannot keep a cat when show season starts as we are often gone for several weeks at a time. We tried with Coz, a brown tabby, but once when we returned from a trip, my friend the cat sitter had left me many notes telling me that she never saw the cat who hid under the bed every day when she came to change his cat litter and check on his food and drink. The cat would miss us horribly and we would miss him as well. After a while he became almost neurotic and we gave him to a good family with children where he thrived.<br />
<br />
But we miss all our furry ones and I envision the day when a cat will delight us again. Not just for a few weeks as it is now, but every day as I want it to be. I like cats since they stand for what they want and not what I want; their sense of self and undeniable regal attitude, their great dignity and purr and their quiet affection. They would climb on me if I was sick and lay on my stomach purring. They were great healers concentrating at making me well in the silence of the night.<br />
<br />
Of course people like all kinds of creatures that add to their life in some manner. Our pets are our companions that speak in their own way and tell us tales of love and loyalties. For many that is enough, but for me, their mystery enhances my life and adds a taste of the wild even though they are tame, and make me a constant care giver.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchDOOO3uoR8kw6KcpCAa5Csh0DV5nSCGjk3_iWbwNubxxUlTFtBzOLpb1M7CljKpAzgFbHSWSmo7-QCLUqCoGjd8PMy9223oh13venKucw4Xt-ITTuerry6V__hNeFrVMJXu2ihhbFN0/s1600/IMG_0707F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchDOOO3uoR8kw6KcpCAa5Csh0DV5nSCGjk3_iWbwNubxxUlTFtBzOLpb1M7CljKpAzgFbHSWSmo7-QCLUqCoGjd8PMy9223oh13venKucw4Xt-ITTuerry6V__hNeFrVMJXu2ihhbFN0/s320/IMG_0707F.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mystery of Miso</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre<br />
Edited by Barry KaplanMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-41601420394735392332011-02-21T08:19:00.000-08:002011-02-21T08:19:20.265-08:00The Self ImageI have made a huge decision. For me it is huge. I have decided to let my hair go natural which is most likely... all white. I have decided this because I have lost a lot of hair and it is a way to avoid all the chemicals of hair color. It should be simple, but for me, it is a big change. When I talked to my grandchildren about it, they told me "We cannot imagine you with white hair." I told them "Neither can I." <br />
<br />
Since I was a kid my hair has been dark brown. This is the image of me that countless mirrors in many parts of the world have reflected to me. Over the years, I started to grow gray hair that came relatively early in my mid thirties. I guess it was a family thing since I remember my mother and grandmother both with beautiful white hair. But my grays had an easy fix. A colorant, and my hair was like it always was before. Dark brown. That went on for a long time.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijverUyGjG-M0NcgerY4ATxAOSxnw9uJhXrmrDMzAlRWrYSBskTvOvKodbUMxyXRvnkHO6v-W3-QWQda_P3ng34eji5zJ8PXGLiWJhx_JD3Lq6IIbasex2IK5uo-NIqpz0xbjDgLS0OnA/s1600/_MG_1869.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijverUyGjG-M0NcgerY4ATxAOSxnw9uJhXrmrDMzAlRWrYSBskTvOvKodbUMxyXRvnkHO6v-W3-QWQda_P3ng34eji5zJ8PXGLiWJhx_JD3Lq6IIbasex2IK5uo-NIqpz0xbjDgLS0OnA/s320/_MG_1869.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My "raccoon" self</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Over the years, my hair would get thinner until I looked at myself in the mirror one day and thought "I need to put a stop to this." The result is big white roots and the look of a real life raccoon. I know, I could have my hair color stripped at the beauty salon but it means more chemicals and that was not acceptable to me. So I keep it short, cut the dark tips and hope for the best.<br />
<br />
Women have been coloring their hair for a long time. Since Egyptian times there was evidence that they used hair colorant like Henna. In old Egypt, women spent a great deal of time on elaborate coiffures and wigs; over the years people wore their hair powdered, gray, propped, curled, long, tied, frizzy or wavy, treated; now we let hair fall mostly unnaturally with the help of many salon experts, products and many colors and additions to choose from.<br />
<br />
Here in Colorado many men and women let theirs go gray naturally and the impact is lesser than going suddenly white like mine. I can imagine other people looking at me and wondering "What happened?" which brings me to the idea of self image. I will have to get used to this new woman who will look back at me from the mirror and smile as if I should have known her all my life. But no, she is new to me and will be new to many others.<br />
<br />
How is the image we have of ourselves? I have had skinny friends who see themselves as fat. And fat ones who seem to think that they have a slim body. We create an imaginary self not necessarily anchored in reality who says "hello" to others and walks the streets with us like our own double.<br />
<br />
Many women do not like to have their photo taken. The image they see on paper or on computers does not reflect the idea they have of themselves. Faced with having to see an image they do not like, they stay far from the lens.<br />
<br />
Celebrities like movie stars have a look that is often man-made and the image we see of them in films or on TV is not the one they have once the make up person is gone. But we like their double and their image stays in our memory. I have a tendency to imagine friends as they looked to me the last time I saw them, which is pretty far out and wrong. Many I have not seen for a long time. I imagine a full grown woman I knew as the lovely child she once was, and never got to rid my self of that image since we only e-mail now. The same goes for many others that I knew in the past.<br />
"How," I wonder "do they see themselves?"<br />
<br />
I once was on the plaza of San Miguel de Allende in Mexico and saw a very old lady with jazzy boots and pink leggings, a belt with a riot of rhinestones and a top covered by a glorious design accented with gold and silver. Her face was made up outrageously with blond hair cascading in curls over her shoulders. Like a tragic-comic icon, the image stayed with me and I can see that she never accepted her age; her self image was that of a fantastic youth whose looks then beckoned others.<br />
<br />
How do you see yourself? Young, thin, fat, not so fat, hair unchanged even after years of living? Good even if it is not how others see you? Bad even if you look fine to your friends?<br />
<br />
Do not worry. Most people are too busy to care truly. They see us through lenses of friendship or love (bless them) or through distracted lenses while they are busy thinking of something else. We live at such a hurried pace, forever ahead of ourselves, or focused on children, TV, the phone or the computer; the next meeting, the next presentation, the visit in front of the boss, or what to shop for and cook for the family; we hardly remember the looks of others no matter the care they put into their self image. Yet the world seems to demand and market a great look. Each company battles the other for our infatuation and loyalty.<br />
<br />
After all, we dress and use makeup primarily for us. Or so it should be. Our length of hair, our haircut or its color should be of no great importance in a world that supposedly would keep its priorities on hearts and feelings, thoughts, discoveries, wisdom and its results. But as long as our looks matter as greatly as they do in our world, we will keep on getting implants, operations, Botox injections, body enlargements or reductions, hair coloring and clothes to stay ahead of what is only -- a game; and at that, a game perpetuated by big business.<br />
<br />
Now, I better go back and get used to that woman who is calling me in the mirror. After all, she is the real me now.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre<br />
Edited by Barry KaplanMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613859325326147935.post-63464339843485884092011-01-29T10:27:00.000-08:002011-01-29T10:27:24.450-08:00Our ChoicesWhen I was very little, I knew I would be an artist. I spent hours drawing and painting, I took classes with other famous artists, I believed I could do it. I had my first exhibit when I was sixteen. I am still an artist after so many years doing one of the things I know how to do well: art.<br />
<br />
So these were my choices and every day I feel entranced with the joy of creating, of harboring new ideas, of dreaming about my art and never failing to visualize or to imagine -- a way to fill my consciousness and a gift I share with so many.<br />
<br />
Life, I learned, is about making choices. Some of our choices are conscious and some are not. Some are made for us by others and we go along or we rebel. Some choices are insinuated to us and we are in for the ride. Some choices we feel we have to do, whether by tradition or to please someone dear. All of our choices have multiple consequences. Not all are good and not are all bad.<br />
<br />
First, it separates us. Choosing a career, a job, a partner, a friend, or a lover is a great separator. It dictates a course and no other. It is like choosing a certain path and ignoring the other road. A door opens and we walk through it while many possible others close along the way. If I were an architect I would live my life with others in this field and envision new styles for homes or buildings, talk to contractors, investors or entrepreneurs and in no way would I live the life of a singer or an actor. The separation is obvious then. <br />
<br />
Doing my art is great but as a consequence I work every day all by myself in my studio facing my beads, my pen or my colors. I have to travel to show my work, I work hard some times late into the night, but so many do. No co worker. No one to talk to occasionally but my husband when I take a break. My good friends are mostly artists, my husband is a photographer. Walk into my house and the amount of original art, mine and from others, the yellow and purple walls, the red door, says right away that this is the house of an artist. I made a choice. These are some of the consequences.<br />
<br />
We are aware of our path in life by the way it shapes our lives; restricts it or enhances it. Choosing and making decisions is the essence of living.<br />
<br />
If we go to buy a shirt, so many are offered in multiple stores that choosing one becomes an exercise in decision. I will take this one and no other. But sometimes, we cannot choose. We wander down the store and walk out with our hands empty. No choice is a choice as well. We spend all day making decisions about everything. Thankfully, our tastes and habits dictate many of our choices so they are made automatically. Sometimes.<br />
<br />
Coffee in the morning or tea. Eggs or toast. Shower as we wake up or at night? Pink lipstick or red one. Lunch out or at home. Afternoon at work or afternoon in front of the computer? What to cook? Do I choose to paint or to watch the latest movie? Do I kiss him or not? Do I discipline my kids or not? So many choices. Every day and all day. How do we know which choice is the best?<br />
<br />
I have taken the habit to listen to my intuition for everything. It works. Most of the time. My husband's training was in engineering. His mind functions in a radically different way. He asks me how long do I cook this. I tell him "Usually I know it is ready by the way it smells around the house." It leaves him completely frustrated. But my nose is as good as his timer.<br />
I get a feeling to go shopping and lo and behold the pants I wanted are on sale. He relies on the sales adds. We approach life in a different way. But who is to say that my way is THE way?<br />
<br />
We all make choices according to our character and the consequences vary enormously. If I choose to paint my sky yellow on a new canvas, it is fine with me, but to the viewer it could be outrageous. It gets to be complicated. Our choices have different effects on others. They could like them or hate them. Most of our friends are people who support our choices and are themselves part of our path.<br />
But once in a while, we meet someone so different, someone who walks a whole other way than ours and takes us to investigate their domain. How fun to discover someone elses different choices and consider how, if we would have chosen them, our life would have unfolded? <br />
Sometimes we even move to someone elses territory and adopt the choices that they inspired us to make. <br />
<br />
Many people find that they have to make mid-life changes of careers to fit their personality better. They have evolved and need a new choice. I know a man who used to be a great executive with a large company who now is a father-house- husband while his wife is a new teacher. Another friend of mine used to be an artist and is now a physician assistant. Another switch and another choice.<br />
<br />
If tomorrow you are conscious of all the choices you have to make, you can be more effective in making them, or you can simply smell the room and you will know when the chicken is ready ... that is my way. Let your intuition guide your choices and have a good meal. Or set your timer -- for many, it works just as well.<br />
<br />
Copyright 2011 Micheline Brierre<br />
Edited by Bary KaplanMichelinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08558486718535284307noreply@blogger.com4