Color Therapy

Sometimes when we travel, if we're lucky, we get changed, transformed by the experience.  A few weeks ago, I was in DC and thanks to a thoughtful friend with tickets, I got to see two extraoridnary exhibits.  (previous blogs)

To say both exhibits--the Janet Echelman tsunami of color at the Renwick, and the Kusama exhibit at the Hirschhorn--are colorful would be a gross understatement.  They pulse, vibrate, ooze color.  After falling into a color trance in those exhibits, back home I'm longing for that kind of deep saturation of color in my life.

The prayer cloths hanging in my office--saffron, gold--give me a boost of color.  But I want more.  I want to breathe in color, to be surrounded by it, to vibrate with it--like at the Hirschhorn exhibit.

Sweaters in my closet.

My closet has bursts of color, especially my favorite reds.  Could I live with a room entirely in red?  Then I remember I tried that once.  Years ago,  a much younger version of myself painted some rooms the color of my lipstick, and the result was a terrible experience.  A red foyer, a red hallway, and a red bedroom.  Ugh.  What had I been thinking?  What had I wanted to achieve?  That the wandering, unfaithful man in my life would be attracted to the color of my walls?

Maybe the lesson of this recent positive experience of drowning in color is to savor bursts of it wherever it appears.  And to understand more deeply the therapeutic power of color.  The Santa Monica Mountains are alive now with the yellow-chartreuse color of mustard plants.  Last weekend on the way back from Montecito the mountains were mind-glowingly gorgeous--pulsating in vibrant yellows.

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A Fresh, Interesting Read

I heard this author, James E. Ryan, interviewed on a podcast, and I thought, I need that book.  The book, which started as a graduation speech, celebrates the art of asking--and answering--good questions.  He proposes five questions in particular that he promises will bring clarity, curiosity, courage, compassion, and conviction.  (see the 5 questions below)

What's so refreshing about the book is that although the author is Dean of Harvard's Graduation School of Education, the writing is fresh and funny, and the anecdotes are mostly personal and revealing.  No Ivy League-Harvard somber and serious here.

I had occasion to put one of his questions to immediate use.  My stepson was going through a bad patch, and I kept calling and asking him how he was.  But it began to feel more like I was grilling him, nagging him to get out of bed, and go do something, anything.   I decided instead to try Question 4: "How can I help?" which Ryan says is at the base of all good relationships.

Yesterday I called my stepson, and I listened to him say once again that he was resting (depressed), and I asked, "How can I help?"  I told him I loved him, and I truly wanted to help.  That question changed the tone and tenor of our conversation, and he told me I'd already been helping.  

This 138-page book also falls into the newly popular category of a short, easy read.  It could be read in one sitting, straight through, or as a meditation question-by-question, which is more how I read it.

Blown Away...By Kusama

Two weeks ago in Washington, D.C., thanks to a good friend, I got tickets to the sold-out Kusama exhibit at the Hirschhorn Museum.

I'm back home in Southern California, but Kusama's powerfully seductive colorful images linger and beckon.  Last night when I couldn't sleep (again), I wandered downstairs, sipped hot tea and looked through the pages of her book Give Me Love.  I wish everyone could read her introduction where this artist writes...And I want to tell people across the earth: Stop nuclear bombs and wars, now see your shining life With my longing for eternity.

Having lived in a psychiatric institute for some 40 plus years, Kusama speaks freely about abusive childhood, her mental illness, and her suicide-prone life.  After I googled her and learned that her art explodes from the depths of her mental illness, this new understanding couldn't help but color how I felt about The Obliteration Room, for example.

At the Hirschhorn Museum, we were each handed a small sheet of colorful stickers to apply wherever we wanted to what had once been an all-white room. It felt playful, happy, colorful, and participatory.   We were  helping the artist "obliterate" the white room.  I mean, when is any museum-goer ever asked to add their two cents, or colorful stickers, in this instance?  Most of the time we're told, Do Not Touch The Objects.  But here we were enthusiastically encouraged to slap on our stickers wherever we wanted.  It was fun.  And Ed even sat down and played at the colorful Kusama piano.  But after I learned that Kusama's mental illness had led her to want to be obliterated, to obliterate herself, my reaction to this exhibit is more complex and nuanced.  And I suspect yours would be, too.

Infinity Mirrors at the same exhibit.  So mesmerizing I didn't want to leave after the guard told me my 20 seconds in the room was up.  

Thank you!

This morning in the WSJ Bob Greene writes "I Actually Thanked a Teacher."  He's writing about picking up the phone and thanking his first-grade teacher, Miss Ruoff., who is now 88, and long retired.

After explaining why she was so important to him--she taught him to read Look, his first word--he tells her that he's sure many other men and women, now grown, must have called to thank her over the years.

"None," she said.  "No one ever has." 

It reminded me of calling one of my teachers--Sherry Billings, my speech coach--and thanking her.  But it also reminded me of thanking a artist, Robert McCauley.  My husband and I had bought one of his paintings of a bear.  It was a perfect fit for our place in Montana where we'd had a bear in the house once.  McCauley's painting of the bear gives the bear personality,  In many of his bear paintings he includes a microphone to facilitate communication.  So he can hear what the bear has to say and vice versa. 

I was so thrilled with the painting that I wrote him a thank you note, and invited him to stop in and see his painting front and center in our home the next time he was in Montana.

Robert--we're now on a first name basis--was floored by my thank you note and invitation.  He said that in the four plus decades he'd been painting he could count on one of his dog's paws how many times he'd been thanked for his work.   

I was dumbstruck.  People acquire his art work, hang it in their homes or offices, and never reach out to the artist in appreciation? 

It's another reminder of a important lesson I learned from my mom.  "Thank yous are never too plentiful," said Babe. 

The Passing Hello --Sewanee University

Before visiting the campus today, I read about "The Passing Hello."    This is where Sewanee students, faculty, and residents tend to greet one another on the street even if they are complete strangers.  I read that you would be hard pressed to make it from your dorm to the dining hall without exchanging at least a few passing hellos.

I loved the idea when I read it, and wondered if the four of us--my husband and myself, my husband's sister and her husband--would qualify for a few passing hellos.  Sure enough, as we wandered from the science building, to the chapel, and the cafeteria almost everyone greeted us with a smile, a hello.  It was lovely, and so simple, and civil. 

i wonder if it would be possible to transfer this lovely, simple, friendly idea to my community in Southern California?  Maybe if not the entire community, at least my neighborhood?  Or, I can start with my street, my neighbors.  I see it now ""The Passing Hello" on Broad Beach Road.  I'll put a note in everyone's mailbox, and stay posted.   I'll let you know how it works out.  And maybe you can try it in your community.

Attending--and Evacuating!--the Masters

Many weeks ago, Myrta, my husband's sister, informed us that we'd won the Lottery!  

No, not that Lottery where you win millions of dollars.  Instead we'd won the golf lottery--4 tickets to the Masters, the biggest event in golf, played at the most beautiful course in golf in Augusta, Georgia.   Now I know next to nothing about golf--I can't tell a birdie from a bogey--but I had caught bits of the Masters on TV, so I know it's beautiful: All those acres of the greenest grass and those clusters of gorgeous azaleas.

My husband, Ed, and I flew from our place near LAX to Washington DC to South Carolina, to join Myrta and her husband, Dave.  We had tickets for Wednesday for the practice round, which the 4 of us agreed was even better than tournament day.  Because practice day would be more relaxed, less crowded, we'd be able to see more,

On Wednesday morning we drove out of Myrta and Dave's driveway at 6 am to make it Augusta by 9 AM.  We'd packed raincoats because of weather alerts--rains, 2" hail, thunderstorms, lightning, even tornados.  In spite of the alarming weather reports, we were in high spirits.  We figured we'd get to see most of the practice round because rain wasn't predicted until the afternoon,

Along with thousands of others--most carrying a umbrella--we passed through the Masters-TSA screening devices around 9:30--no cell phones, no large bags--and marveled at how well organized everything was.  But because of the recent cold spell, the clumps of pink azaleas, at least the ones near the North entrance, looked freshly planted from a nursery.  

Everywhere there were serious Weather Warning signs.  The signs read: 

Suspension of play will be signaled by the sounding of an air horn or similar alert.  You should seek shelter immediately upon hearing the alert. 

The four of us made  it past the main clubhouse, the concession stand where a hundred people waited for coffee, and to the first tee.  We walked to the second green, and across to the ninth.  We were as happy as little kids allowed into a super-special event at the circus, and that's exactly when the horn sounded!  At 10:00 the horn blared with an announcement for everyone to evacuate!  So we turned around and started out, as did tens of thousands of other disappointed fans.  No one had a choice.  As we were walking out, I said, I wonder if the organizers over-reacted? The weather report said the rain isn't supposed to start until 2:15. We'd flown clear across the country to attend the Masters, and we'd gotten to see exactly 30 minutes?

I was also surprised at how orderly, mannerly, courteous, quiet and civilized the evacuation was.  No one said, Hell, no! I won't go!  I bought my expensive ticket and I'm staying!  You can drag me out.  And just as we made our way back to our car, it started raining.

On our way to our next destination--Nashville--the rains were pounding down so hard it was creating almost impossible driving conditions.  The car directly in front of us had the best safety trick in such low visibility:  he was driving the freeway with his emergency red lights flashing, and then we copied him.  Later, we weren't surprised to learn there had been almost 2 inches of rain in Augusta that afternoon.

I walked on the fabled greens at Augusta, and though I still know next to nothing about golf, I get golf bragging rights because I can say, I was at the Masters.  If only for 30 minutes. 

19th century (female) doilies turned into 21st century (male) art?

I was dumbstruck today at the Renswick Gallery in Washington, D.C., when I came across a larger than life-size "figure" by Rick Cave called Soundsuit.   The art is made of numerous, colorful doilies of all sizes and shapes sewed onto a life-like shape.

My grandmother, Josie, a woman born in the 19th century, used to crochet doilies exactly like the ones the artist used.  I wondered how she'd feel if she were still alive and she came upon this work of art?  Would she be proud or puzzled, ashamed or flattered?

And I also wondered from where did the artist get his hands on this treasure trove of handmade lacey doilies?  From the older women in his family? 

And I bristled a bit at the idea of what was always a woman's hand work turned into a man's art?   I don't want to be part of the gender wars, but I would probably have embraced this work of art more warmly if it had been done by a woman.

Crossword Puzzles

I was telling a friend about my crossword puzzle work.  

I don't do crossword puzzles.  I don't understand them, all their obtuse clues--Bestselling Michale Buble album--make my eyes glaze over, and all those blank squares waiting-to-be-filled-in make me tense.  So why every morning am I cutting these puzzles out of the newspapers we get delivered--The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times--and  decorating them with stickers?  I wait until I have a pretty big pile and I stuff the whole bunch into a colorful envelope--turquoise, pink, orange--and send it to my niece in El Paso. 

"That's a random act of kindness," said Johnnie, bequeathing unto me a huge, unexpected compliment out of the blue.

I hadn't thought much about my crossword puzzle "work;"  and I hadn't labeled it one way or other.  About a year ago, my husband and I were visiting Chris, my nephew, and his wife, Jennifer, and somehow she mentioned about loving to do crossword puzzles.  She said they help her relax.  As the 30-something mother of two young boys, I could see how some relaxation, just for her, could be helpful.  She also said that she never gets any mail in her mailbox.  It would be fun for a change to get some mail.  

I had been so uninterested in crossword puzzles that I'd been oblivious to their existence.  I hadn't realized most newspapers carry them regularly, daily.   As soon as we got back home, I noticed crossword puzzles everywhere.  In the second section of the Wall Street Journal, the Arts section of the New York Times, even the sub-par Los Angeles Times has a crossword puzzle. 

Every morning I started tearing out the puzzles, and because I wanted Jennifer to remember me,  just a little, as she was solving the puzzles, I decorated them.  Depending on the season, and what stickers I had on hand, I glued on stars, pumpkins or Christmas trees.  I was careful only to put on the stickers where they wouldn't interfere with the puzzle.  

Jennifer said getting my colorful envelope was the highlight of her week.  That might be hyperbole.  But still nice.  She said that when she went away, she'd take the envelope on the plane and it was her way to relax.

When I started tearing, clipping, decorating, and mailing these puzzles I had no way of knowing that this activity would assume the quality of a daily zen ritual, and also send a message: We may live 1,000 miles apart, but I think of you daily, Jennifer, and I care about you.

I certainly had no way of realizing that once I started, I wouldn't stop.  And I had no way of knowing that my friend, Johnnie, would say, This is a random act of kindness.

The Lady in Red

Yesterday Flavio, my trainer, said, "You're the lady in red.  Do you like that song?"

I didn't know what he was talking about.  Lady in Red?  I'd never heard it.

While I'm doing my neck exercises,  Flav starts playing the song, and explains that he and fiancee dance at home (he's Brazilian), and when that song came on his playlist, he told his fiancee that it reminds him of me.  She said, What, are you in love with her?  And he said, No,  Jo always wear red.  She's the lady in red.

Right then at the gym I was wearing a red striped top and my glasses with red frames.  I asked Flav if he knew that I wore a red dress when I married?  He said, Yes.  I didn't mention that when my late husband died, I'd worn a flaming red Norma Kamali coat to his memorial service.

"You're always wearing red," said Flavio, who mostly sees me at GOLDs, the gym in Venice.

The genesis of my affair with red was undoubtedly because of Babe, my mother.  When she was pregnant with my sister she wore a a striking ruby red maternity dress with pleats that flared from the neckline all the way to the hem. I was nine and I've never forgotten when she leaned over the flowing crimson cascade of red pleats.  It ever there was a power-red dress, that was it.

I'm leaving for D.C. next week, our nation's power center where most people day and night will be wearing black.  Dull, fade-into-the crowd, black, widow's black.  You'll be able to spot me:  I'll be the Lady in Red.

Helicoptering to Milford Sound

Yesterday Ed and I took the obligatory tourist helicopter ride from Queenstown to Milford Sound.  After helicoptering around New Zealand for 2 weeks, the 2+ hour helicopter-ride above Fiordland National Park didn't seem quite so magical.

Until. Our helicopter landed on a glacier high on an alpine peak!  That was crazy-wonderful.  Our pilot shut off the plane engine and told us we could wander on the glacier as long as we stayed close to the helicopter, and didn't go near the cracks in the ice, which could be deep.

My husband, who'd been jittery in the small 4-passenger helicopter we'd used for heli-fishing and heli-hiking, found the larger 7-passenger model more stable, less turbulent, less scary.  But still, his palms were sweating!

Ed Warren on a glacier high above Milford Sound.

Helicopter-Hiking, New Zealand

When my husband and I signed up for a trip to New Zealand, the option to do heli-hiking caught my attention.  I love to hike, and to be dropped into a totally remote, untouched area, miles from anywhere seemed like a dream come true.

Years ago I had a friend who went helicopter-skiing in British Columbia, and at the time I thought that sounded elitist.  I mean, there's a lot of ski opportunities in British Columbia without resorting to heli-skiing.  But in New Zealand there are many spectacular mountain areas that are only accessible by helicopter, so this seemed like a practical option.

When I mentioned--okay, gushed--to friends, non-hikers, that I'd be helicopter-hiking, the unanimous response was: that will put you on at the top of the mountain.  Cool!  Then you don't have to walk up!

But seasoned hikers know that walking down is the hardest, most stressful part.  And in New Zealand helicopters don't put you in at the tippy-top, the summit of a mountain.  As Dion Mathewson, the pilot of the R40, the 4-passenger Robinson helicopter at Cedar Lodge, explained, "There are no tracks [trails] up there, and the slope is mostly scree."

I just had a quintessential helicopter-hiking experience in a remote area called Boundary Creek, near Lake Wanaka. It turned out to be my best day in nature--ever.

Ready for an adventure with Ket. 

In the morning Dion flew Ket Hazledine, my guide, and myself into Boundary Creek, and dropped us into a valley in the middle of nowhere, exactly like I'd imagined.  With the propeller still whirling, he said he'd be back for us at 4, 4:30--about 6 hours later.  The valley floor was crisscrossed with streams and spectacular mountain ranges rose on all sides. We hiked toward a waterfall through a swampy, muddy marshland. Each step took enormous effort--to place your foot safely where the land seemed secure and then to lift your foot up from the oozing mud and find another safe place to put it down.

But the sight of the waterfall with no one else around was worth wading through the swampy creekbed for over an hour.

The crisscrossed streams and mountain ranges.

Made it to the first waterfall.

Next, we crisscrossed the creek, often wading in freezing mountain water up to our knees, 60 plus times, until we reached the second waterfall.  Ket called this one "Spectacular," and it was.  To reach such a glorious sight, untouched in nature, unnamed on a map, is a once-in-lifetime hiking experience.  And it was available to us only because we got helicoptered into a remote valley.  At the top of the 70' vertical drop, there was no viewing ledge with a protective guard rail for tourists because there were no tourists.  There was also no green and yellow government sign like at all other hiking tracks in New Zealand because this waterfall is off the charts.

The "spectacular" second waterfall.

Camped on rocks, and wearing raincoats, we ate lunch, while getting sprayed by the cool mist of the waterfall.  I was having my best day in nature--ever.  Thanks to the R40 helicopter.

Enjoying the cool mist of the waterfall.

Huka Falls, Taupo, New Zealand

I am a waterfall junkie.
I love everything about them, so first thing after we checked into the Huka Lodge, my husband and I immediately rushed to walk the 10 minutes to the Famous Huka Falls.

I stood on the bridge and watched as the falls powered with hydroelectric force down the river, and I have to admit my first impression was--That's it?
I was expecting to be blown away by the falls.  Instead the famous Huka Falls seemed dinky.  I'm used to spectacular waterfalls in Montana that have stupendously stunning vertical drops of 100 feet or more.  Or the super-wide falls at places like Ousel near Big Sky.

On the other hand, the color of the rushing waters here--turquoise!--is unexpected and spectacular!   I'm sure someone will accuse me of photoshopping, but I haven't touched the extraordinary gem-like color.

And the sheer force of the current is sobering.  This is not a place to mosey down to the shoreline to get a closer view, a tighter photo, of the rapids.  The speed of the roaring, rushing waters demands respect.

Then yesterday Toby came for us, and landed his helicopter on the front lawn of the lodge.  (That was pretty exciting.  Another guest commented that I was jumping up and down with excitement.) The first thing the pilot did was swoop low and hover along the river.  Viewing the Huka River from above gave us a feeling of its breadth and majesty that was lacking when we stood on the viewing bridge, shoulder to shoulder with other tourists.

Viewed from above, I understood and appreciated the glory of the famous Huka Falls.

Traffic!

Before we left for Montana this June the NYT had an article about the most dangerous things people do around the country.  In Los Angeles the people who were interviewed said that the scariest, most dangerous thing they did was drive.  I agreed completely.  

In LA one has to be super-hypervigilant, always on the look-out for the other driver, who is probably using their cell phone.  These distracted drivers obviously haven't read Matt Richter's brilliant book A Deadly Wandering about the tragic consequences of texting-while-driving, or even using-the-phone-while-driving.

The 405 on a typical day in LA traffic.

When you take into account how crowded the roads have become, how much the traffic has increased, how frustrating it is that it takes so much longer to get anywhere, it's not surprising when people are road ragers.

So, it's no wonder after a summer spent driving the tranquil, pastoral, rural roads of Montana, a big sky, wide open place with less than a million people in the entire state, I felt rattled when I returned to LA highways.  I look around me and think:  Where did all these people come from, and all these cars?

I've heard recently about people who have left LA because they can't stand the traffic.  I'm not there.  Yet.   

The road to our home in Montana.  

Beach-Walking

Last night was a full moon, and so this afternoon was one of those rare extreme low tides.  A -0.5 tide.  It's an invitation beckoning one to take a beach-walk. 

Once I stepped foot on the windy beach, everyone I encountered was happy--happy to be walking on the soft damp sand, way out into the Pacific, happy to be saying hello to our neighbors.  

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Lynn, my sister-in-law, suggested it was perfect conditions to find treasures.  Often on this beach I find beautiful stones--a solid stone with an uninterupted band of white encircling it.  A stone a friend has named Lucky Stone because you can make a wish on it and the wish will come true. 

 There were no found treasures today but treasures of another sort found me.   Anne Morrow Lindbergh in Gift From The Sea writes: The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think.  I couldn't agree more.   It is a place to breathe in the kelpy sea air, to marvel at the pelicans flying in perfect formation overhead, to get lazy along with the rolling of the waves.  I end up glowing.