Roasted Vegetables

I had some beets, parsnips, carrots and potatoes. This is what I came up with. It takes two pans: one for the slow vegetables [the roots] and one for the quick vegetables [the fruits and fungi.] Some great alternatives would be tomatoes, eggplant or zucchini, etc.

These would go well with beans and with whole grains such as brown rice or quinoa, or with corn muffins.

Roasted Vegetables

The Sauce/Marinade:

juice from one lemon; lemon zest
one tablespoon pomegranate juice [if you have it; see the pomegranate post]
some extra virgin olive oil
a teaspoon of ground rosemary

Pan One: The Roots:

cut up two potatoes, 3 carrots, 5 parsnips, and 3 or more beets
place in baking pan lined with foil or parchment paper
throw in several whole peeled garlic cloves [very healthy: you don't really have to eat them but they smell great]
sprinkle with sea salt and non-ground rosemary [needles or whatever they are]
bake at 400 degrees and set timer for forty minutes [total will be one to two hours.]

Pan Two: The Fruits Etc:

slice one yellow onion and separate the rings
quarter one yellow and one red seeded bell peppers
clean and cut off the end of the stem of 1 pound or so brown mushrooms
place in pan with some more peeled garlic cloves
sprinkle with rest of sauce [or, if you ran out of sauce like I did, with balsamic vinegar and olive oil]
sea salt and rosemary
Pan Two goes into the 400 degree oven 40 minutes after Pan One.
Pan One can stay in there and keep baking; continue baking all of it 30 to 50 more minutes until root vegetables are done.

007 Calories

We watched Die Another Day yesterday. I'm sure I'm not the first person to notice this, but neither James Bond, the beautiful spy girls, nor the bad guys [unless somewhere there's a Bad Fat Guy snacking on cats] ever actually eat anything.

I watched Pierce Brosnan spend two years in prison being waterboarded every day, then clean up and travel to three continents in two days, have sex, mix it up with the bad guys, have a tremendous and exhausting swordfight, have sex, drive an invisible car and then a really fast ice car, save the world, and have sex, and nothing passes his lips except one or two shaken-not-stirred. And there was a rumor of lobster at one time, but I'm not sure he got to it. He was busy having sex.

Okay, my mistake; I believe Halle briefly nibbles on a strawberry.

No wonder these people are so cute and height/weight proportional.

He Maketh Victorious Whomsoever He Pleaseth

I've been immersing myself in the CD "Temple of Light." There's a verse I'm entranced with today-- please don't ask me the artist, the CD is still in the car--which seems so much more powerful put to music. The tune is simple and penetrating.

He maketh victorious whomsoever He pleaseth, through the potency of His behest.

~The Bab

Do you know where that is from? I had to look this up online on the Baha'i Reference Library. For Baha'is, how many times have you read this verse? It's in the context of the very powerful Prayer For Protection by the Bab. Listening to the CD, I didn't recognize it. That one sentence struck a chord with the artist and they put it to music.

Today I'm just glad: glad to know Baha'u'llah, glad to have my new job, and glad to prove myself wrong.

Arlene Reeducates that Three-Year-Old Once Again:

Everything I've learned in the last two months completely contraindicates what I learned in about 1960, when I was about three. I thought that stuff was buried, but it still comes up. First of all, I thought I would never amount to anything. I'm something, at least.

Also, my theme song in 1960 was "guess I'll go eat worms." My favorite music was Grieg's mournful "Morning Song" from Pier Gynt. It seems funny now, but I really believed that while it's nice to have people around who are going to take care of you [after all, I was three] otherwise, you can't trust them, and you certainly can't tell them what's on your mind. Life seemed safer and less painful to me if I just left the people out. But I still spent a lot of energy striving to feel included. Logic, schmogic.

There was a time when I would have read that verse and thought God would probably make anyone else victorious, but not bother with me. [Ooh, the self-pity. Milk it, milk it!] Now, I think, "Why not?"

Now I'm absolutely bowled over by how much love and support I'm receiving from my friends and family. I realize how simple this sounds. I just never let it into my heart before.

The Atom and the Drop

I spent a delightful evening at the Thursday Devotional Meeting with our friends George and Bonita, sampling treats. Not the tea, which was wonderful, but observing the gentle dance of spirit between these two steadfast, and very different, yet absolutely united friends. Their varying approach to the wonders of life is fascinating. My heart is still singing with their love and friendship, and my body vibrating with the prayers and music.

Both George and Bonita greatly enjoy listening to all sorts of music. Her hearing is sensitive, and in music, I feel Bonita likes to stand at the edge of the music free to dive or to dabble, but not to have her senses overwhelmed with the volume. At one point she said, so sweetly and gently, "I can feel the music vibrate in my heart muscle, and I don't think it's good for my heart," when the volume reached a certain level [she was seated near the speaker.] George tends to edge up the volume, and my intuitive feeling is that he enjoys being completely immersed in the music, up to his ears.

It reminds me of the differences in Christians in regards to the practice of baptism; some feel it is sufficient to sprinkle, and some like to submerge their entire body in water, in their symbolic reunion with God and commitment to His Faith. I would say, in music, Bonita is a sprinkler, and George is a dunker.

With food, Bonita has achieved a high level of mastery in her fascination with cooking, creating complex flavors, colors, scents, and combinations of nutritious foods in her dishes. In cooking, Bonita is a dunker. George benefits from her cooking, taking delicious entrees and tempting tidbits to work for his lunches, as well as their camping and picnics for which she prepares food.

I had this flash of thought which in a tiny way may answer a question I had about what God loves about us. I was thinking about all the various and joyous spirits, all the beautiful souls I know, and how in a way I wish I could just jump in and spiritually immerse myself in enjoying their soul. Love is not a spectator sport.

When God is in our hearts, does he not love us so much that he might delight in being with us? We are not perfect, but we were created noble. Although God, being the Unknowable Essence, does not reside in any physical place, still could He be, on the spiritual plane, attracted to us and immersing Himself in the miniscule flashes of wonderfulness reflected in the human heart, however humble? Maybe God is a dunker of sorts.

How resplendent the luminaries of knowledge that shine in an atom, and how vast the oceans of wisdom that surge within a drop.

Baha'u'llah

Connections

I decided to give Facebook another whirl and discovered I was already on it but didn't realize it. I was deep with my nose in connecting with friends when someone came to the door I haven't seen since Pearl got married in 2005.

My former husband came to pick up Pearl and take her to a Moto Guzzi Christmas party and to see her grandfather later on. He is so energized, we were talking a mile a minute trying to catch up. I think he is flourishing in his new circumstances. He took a photo of one of my cats which I am hoping to adopt out, to see what his wife thinks about it. I showed him the improvements I made on my house, and we reminisced about our old cat, who unfortunately was taken apart by pit bulls during the Worst Year of my Life.

I was able to talk with him . . . I'm trying to think of the right words. With a fresh slate. As a person I no longer have any issues with. More assertively. As a grown up.

And it was fun.

Service

I have decided for the hundredth time to reinvent my life. There are a whole slew of behaviors that were spawned by the belief I would never amount to anything, which I have decided to ditch, as they weren't doing me or anyone else any good.

The great good news is that, in this starry-eyed stage of orientation to Mountain View, it seems that this corporation values positive, happy people working in a positive, happy manner. Little I have seen on my first day orienting "on the floor" contradicts that. I have rarely felt so welcomed. So I am determined to turn over a new leaf, that determination starting before I ever started working here.

I like to carry a clipboard at work to keep my papers and thoughts organized. I created a cover sheet for the front [we do, after all, make notes about private information] from an 8 by 11 section of a calendar with a photo of a field of poppies, with a quotation on the front, inserted into a plastic sleeve.

My quote, which involves service:

O Lord my God! Give me Thy grace to serve Thy loved ones, strengthen me in my servitude to Thee, illumine my brow with the light of adoration in Thy court of holiness, and of prayer to Thy kingdom of grandeur. Help me to be selfless at the heavenly entrance to Thy gate, and aid me to be detached from all things within Thy holy precincts. Lord! Give me to drink from the chalice of selflessness; with its robe clothe me and in its ocean immerse me. Make me a as dust in the pathway of Thy loved ones, and grant that I may offer up my soul for the earth ennobled by the footsteps of Thy chosen ones in Thy path, O Lord of Glory in the highest.

~'Abdu'l-Baha

Good News

Just a short note: For all my hundreds of well-wishers, good news. I was offered a job by "Mountain View"-not the cemetery, not its real name- for a nursing position somewhat similar to what I was doing at Homeland. It's been a real roller coaster. Hope I remember my learnings. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has been so supportive to me during this time.

How To Feel Like a Toad

"I thought you was a toad"--O Brother Where Art Thou.

How to feel like a toad:

1] List all your weaknesses and failures.

2] Listen to someone else list all their strengths and successes.

3] Compare yourself to them.

4] Accept it: you are a toad.

The Wrong Planet

I distinctly remember bawling in the shower about five years ago upon termination from a job. When that sort of thing occurs I focus on all my failures and on the ways I fail to fit into the conventional world of work. I remember asking God why I was even created, since I don't see how my efforts add much to the world. So when I read the following from Jules Verne, it sounded a chord of recognition.

The book is Paris in the Twentieth Century, The Lost Novel, an early satire which was never published until the manuscript was found in the effects of the author more than a century later. The author at this point had published one work, but he was far from the enormous success he eventually attained, and I can't help wondering how much of Jules Verne is in his main character, however silly he may have written him. From the vantage point of 1863, the very year Baha'u'llah in another country was declaring His Mission, Jules Verne was envisioning life in Paris in 1960, a materialistic society dedicated to industry and money making, and shunning or bastardizing the arts.

In the Paris of 1960 there are fax machines, internal combustion automobiles, giant computers, and an elevated train run on compressed air. And quill pens, as well as the cessation of warfare.

Into this brave world he plants a young poet, Michel Dufrenoy, who, by his artistic nature and lack of pragmatism, fails in the banking industry and even in modifying plays to suit the pedantic tastes of the times.

"My dear Jacques," Quinsonnas observed, "by introducing you to Michel Dufrenoy I allowed you to make the acquaintance of a young friend who is one of us--one of those poor devils Society refuses to employ according to their talents, one of those drones whose useless mouths Society padlocks in order not to have to feed."
"Ah! Monsieur Dufrenoy is a dreamer," Jacques replied.
"A poet, my friend! and I wonder what in the world he can be doing here in Paris, where a man's first duty is to make money!"
"Obviously enough," Jacques replied, "he's landed on the wrong planet."

[Copyright 1994, Random House, New York.]

Deer Like Birdseed--Who Knew?

Our highlight during the Thanksgiving meal was the arrival of a deer leaping over the fence into the neighbor's yard. It was brown with black tips on the fur and a black tail, a different variety than those I have seen here, which have white tails and brown fur with no tips. There were two pencil-thin antlers. It entertained us by emptying a two liter bottle of birdseed in the course of twenty minutes, greedily sucking or licking the seeds from the feeder.

Bellingham Adventures

Monday, November 22, Tacoma WA was hit with a blizzard that made the local roads treacherous. I could hear sirens most of the morning; my foray out to return library materials was aborted due to ice. [Usually snow in the morning melts by the afternoon.] I had decided to travel to Bellingham for Thanksgiving week with my daughter, going early in the week to be able to visit with my niece and her nearly three-year-old boy while they were in town. As my finances are gravely restricted, my sister bought us train tickets. It was dicey catching a cab to the train station, due to high demand, but we made it early and had a pleasant evening ride to Bellingham. The train halted many times on leaving stations, to send the conductors out to clear the switches.

My first view of Bellingham was of sheets of ice on the roads, which my sister and family navigated with ease, whether walking or driving. I was terrified of falling, and reminded why I moved away from Eastern Washington. Our visit was wonderful, and our longest visit since my sister married and moved away in 1968. We revisited our childhood, trying to solve mysteries explaining my peculiar emotional roadblocks: since Jean is about 7 years older, she was in a position to observe what went on in the family while I was an infant. We compared notes. This was illuminating and healing.

Tuesday my daughter and I, along with Jean and my niece and great-nephew, visited my nephew Robin and his twins who are just about 2 1/2. He has a daughter and a son, as well as a thirteen year-old stepson. Three toddlers playing with trains on wooden tracks in the living room. This is the first age where they were able to interact, not just parallel playing. I had brought a small frog puppet from Teaching Toys in my pocket, not sure when the time would come for him to make an appearance.

The two boys, Paul and Hewson, made an instant male bond on our arrival, and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Hazel alone and bereft. Suddenly a frog tapped Hazel on the shoulder and they were instant, delighted friends.

This house was delightful, purple on the exterior, purple, lavender, lime green on the inside, with wooden dulcimer, mandolin and so forth on the walls and a concertina on the very piano that was in my house while I was growing up. It has found a noble home. In the kitchen was a gas stove [how I miss cooking with gas!] and a butternut and delicata squash on the counters. I felt quite at home.

At the Thanksgiving table with ten family and friends, all adults, I realized there was one person with Cerebral Palsy, a very bright and intelligent young man; someone with Parkinson's, someone with a past brain injury, and someone with Autism who communicated with a lettered board. With her mother assisting her by stabilizing her hand while she spelled out words, I thought there was a slight Ouija Board aspect to the process, but it worked. She mainly wanted to return to the motel for peace and quiet, which I could relate to. But quite a bit of medical diversity.

Friday we returned by train, this time by daylight. I tend to assume that Amtrak tracks will meander by themselves off into the wilderness so there will be a lot of scenery to look at. While the train does follow the coastline and we could look out across the ocean at groups of plovers [?], white-headed ducklike birds resting in flocks on the waves, and cormorants perching on poles in the water, we also saw a lot of backyards sporting household detritus, antique autos in various states of repair, and so forth.

At Tacoma again, we called another cab and I returned just in time to turn around and head out to a Holy Day observance called the Day of the Covenant, which is celebrated because the Center of the Covenant, 'Abdu'l-Baha, did not wish His birthday celebrated, and appointed this day in lieu of that. We read some tablets concerning the Covenant in the Baha'i Faith, unique for the first world religion to have a written covenant securing the succession of the heads of the Faith and preventing the Faith from splitting into countless warring sects.

It has been a wonderful journey and a break from the stress and strain of continual job-hunting.

The Root, Part 4--Martha Root

O that I could travel, even though on foot and in the utmost poverty, to these regions, and, raising the call of "Ya Baha'u'l-'Abha" in cities, villages, mountains, deserts and oceans, promote the divine teaching! This, alas, I cannot do. How intensely I deplore it! Please God, ye may achieve it. ~'Abdu'l-Baha.

When I reflect on the Baha'i law of the Right of God, which entails returning to God a fraction of my excess income, which rightfully belongs to God, with increasing clarity I remember what I think of as the "Martha Root Standard." Martha Root was a Baha'i who traveled the world, beginning in 1915 and throughout the 1920's and 30's. She sacrificed everything to teach the Baha'i Faith, traveling around the world in the utmost poverty and illness, but teaching a multitude of people the Baha'i Faith.

All I can really remember from reading about Martha Root, however, is that she lived very simply for the sake of economy. I remember reading that a typical dinner for her was a boiled egg. She was completely consecrated to Baha'u'llah. Clearly, Martha Root lived only on what she actually needed. So when I think of Martha Root, I think of boiled eggs. And vice versa.

What am I doing here? All the time I made so much income, the bulk of which was virtually wasted on this house, I was in a way miserable. Partly because of the misery and stress of the job, and partly because I had lost track of why I am here. To travel this journey in the path of God and rely on God for every step. To derive my joy, not from what I can buy here on this material plane, but from doing whatever I can in the path of God.

The Root, Part 3

This is the way I became blind when I was earning so much income. I have little to show for it now. I became attached to my income, attached to my house, and eventually confused and unable to discern what is necessary to live on, as opposed to what is merely delightful, pleasant, or even comfortable. Aware that middle-class Americans live like royalty in comparison with many inside and outside the USA, I felt guilty.

I was striving to express emotional independence by my financial independence, and ended up with an attitude somewhat lacking in humility. Money was not an object. If I wanted something, I bought it. Yet I was confused how to apply that Baha'i law, the Right of God.

This is the beauty of living in a world replete with adversity. I became so stressed in my work that I lost my job, lost my income. I was seized with mortal terror. [I have to confess I still have that, when I pay attention.] I have responsibilities. It was necessary to contact the companies I pay for services and humbly inform them why I could not meet my obligations.

Baha'u'llah informs us that while we see calamity as fire and vengeance, inwardly it is light and mercy. This is the beauty of adversity. Although it can be painful and terrifying [and often unjust] it presents a golden opportunity for growth and learning.

Although I am a long way from a complete understanding of the law of the Right of God, in this situation where it has become monumentally significant how I use every cent, the difference between what I want and what I actually need has gained enormous clarity.

The Root, Part 2

Our purpose in being created as spiritual beings is not just to survive, have fun, or dominate the world. We are here to unfold and develop our true nature as spiritual beings, connect with each other in positive ways, and connect with our Creator, that Unknowable Essence. This is our opportunity while we are here. We may use it or not.

We cannot grow and flourish without adversity. That is the great advantage of the material plane. It forces us to overcome tribulation. In this era of the maturation of humanity, we have been given laws which we adhere to by choice. Although the material substance, wine, is not allowed by Baha'u'llah, He uses wine repeatedly in His Writings as a potent metaphor. Think not that We have revealed unto you a mere code of laws. Nay, rather, We have unsealed the choice Wine with the fingers of might and power. ~ Baha'u'llah.

One of the Baha'i laws I have struggled to understand is called "The Right of God." The idea is that whatever income or assets we have, since they come from God, by right belong to God. So there is a tax, a small percentage of whatever assets we have over and above what we need in order to live, payable to the Universal House of Justice.

Well, what do we need in order to live? That is the big question. There is no Baha'i I.R.S. There is no governing body telling us, dictating to us, what we truly need, nor standing by to wrest it from us. This Right of God is not acceptable unless given freely, with joy. We pick and choose, according to our conscience, what is necessary to support us.

My theory is that the more attached we are to the material world, and the more money we have, the harder this discernment can become.

The Root, Part 1

During my last two jobs I earned almost more money than I could spend, at least at first. I became blind. If I wanted a book or CD or a doodad, I bought it. By the end I was eating meals out daily, sometimes more. And I was completely attached to a house that I did not own and may never own.

When I started my last job I felt I was making an agreement to work there by choice. I wasn't forced to do anything. This was necessary, due to a habitual emotional stance as a victim of life.
By the end I was so stressed out I had forgotten about choice, the economy had changed, and I felt trapped.

Earning so much, I did not focus enough on using it wisely. I was totally engrossed in making it through each day, due to the demands of the career. I lost sight of one important spiritual fact: although on this plane we are producing income by our own efforts, on the spiritual plane our income comes from God and belongs to God, that Unknowable Essence.

Think about this: although many people believe we got here by emerging spontaneously from nonbeing into being, like a mushroom, Baha'u'llah teaches that we were created. Spiritual beings housed for now in physical bodies on a material plane. Our purpose in being here is not merely to survive--we fail in that, ultimately. Nor is it to entertain ourselves.

Our purpose has something to do with growing and unfolding and opening up our true nature and developing the capacities latent within us, according to our capacity.

"Disappointed!"--Kevin Klein in a Fish Called Wanda

R.e. the phone call Thursday: I spent all day Friday trying to connect with this employer but she apparently was in meetings all day. I was disappointed.

Back to the coal mines Sunday [for internet-based job searches] and Monday.

Reading a very good book on emotions in all aspects: biology, energy, spirituality, etc. I think I'll become a Fear Warrior.

Gratitude

Update: [I hate to keep using "update" as a blog title, so I thought I'd put in something more uplifting.]

The top thing I've been learning since losing my job is how caring and supportive everyone in my family and circle of acquaintances is. I really should join the Human Race one of these days. ; >

Today I had to think about what you put for "Accomplishments" on a resume if you're a nurse. I clock in, get to work, work really hard, hurry to do my charting, and clock out. Resume: "Accomplishments: Most of my patients were still alive by the end of the day." Well, it made me laugh.

I've been spending a lot of time at WorkSource, which used to be named the Employment Security Office and nicknamed by some the "Unemployment Office." I've learned that there are a number of agencies all associated with the name "WorkSource"; that so far every staff member there has been friendly, caring, knowledgeable and just stellar. I've learned some rudiments of Word and PC's, and today learned more about cover letters and resumes and spent time beginning a revamped resume using a program on their PC's.

I realized it's a good idea to use a professional email for this type of thing such as a job search. Especially because much of my job search has been online and posting my resume has resulted in a virtual spam of things such as cosmetics at Macy's [I don't even use make up], mystery shopper, nursing jobs in Tennessee [no offense, but I don't live there.]

I made a friend named Timothy at WorkSource, just by being compassionate and friendly. Not that we exchanged info or anything, but it felt nice to be helpful.

I came home already in a good mood from learning and useful activity, turned on my cell phone to find a message from actually the first job I applied to, which was listed in the newspaper. So I'm elated just to hear from someone and will phone them in the morning. We'll see what happens.

Pilgrimage to the Mountain

Yesterday the National Parks entrance fees were waived for the Veterans Day holiday, so I decided it would be a great time to drive up to Mount Rainier. For years I used to have mountain dreams: each one was different, but the theme was climbing or ascending a mountain. Usually in the "graphics" part of the dream, there wasn't much to the mountain; I wasn't ascending the peak. More recently the dreams were more specifically of Mount Rainier, although still not realistic. I was never quite sure what the symbolism was--achievement or accomplishment, or some more mystical goal.

I decided to make a "pilgrimage" to Paradise, the highest spot on the Western aspect of the mountain that can be reached by driving. I wanted to say prayers, maybe take a hike or walk. I had a time deadline to be home so I could attend the Holy Day observance of the Birth of Baha'u'llah held on campus at the University of Puget Sound. From the south end of Tacoma it took from 1145 to 1400 or so to drive up there. The distance is not so far, but with the winding roads it takes longer. The weather was dry and mostly sunny, which made a terrific drive.

I took some photos after I passed the park entrance, of the mountain with the top shrouded in fog, and of some nice little waterfalls in the sunshine. The road became covered in spots with frozen slush and I dithered about continuing, but I had come so far, so I continued. Just short of Paradise I encountered a Cascade Fox in the road, looking at me with a "where's my treat?" expression. I discovered later it is a member of a family which hangs out and begs for handouts. It's unfortunate that this behavior is reinforced, but otherwise I probably wouldn't have seen it.

Paradise was spectacular in the snow. I stood and turned 360 degrees taking photos. Every needle on every branch on every conifer was coated in snow. Fog lent a mystical atmosphere to the area. Families and children were sledding, building snowmen and trading snowballs. Indoors I watched the educational movie, then in my car I read the Tablet of Ahmad before heading back as it started to snow, small round rapid flakes. I emerged refreshed. I think I drove about 154 miles round trip.

I still don't know the "meaning" of my mountain dreams, but I have a feeling they relate to the unfoldment of whatever I was meant to become. And it's nice to look at the Mountain, when it's visible, and remember when I had a clearer, closer view.

No Camel

I was just on Baha'i Views, which had a link to the promotion of a book called The People With No Camel, by Roya Movafegh. It is the true story of a young girl escaping from Iran with her family after the Revolution.

The title comes from the Muslim law of shariah that if a Muslim man is murdered, the family is to be compensated with the price of a hundred camels. If a Muslim woman is murdered, the price is fifty camels. If a Baha'i is murdered, "no camels apply."

When I have an income again, I am buying this book. http://thepeoplewithnocamel.wordpress.com.

Karmic Relief

Every day I'm feeling better, probably from the release of stress from my previous job. Today, among other things I accomplished, I prayed fervently and put my issues in the hands of God [about which I always have to laugh at myself, because my life is in God's hands anyway] and I bought a Sunday paper. This is the third week I have bought a Sunday paper, and nursing jobs in the last two editions have been minimal to nonexistent, but I enjoy the comics, so what the heck. I had the idea this morning of putting a sign in the back of my car, "RN For Hire", but I'm not sure about the unintended consequences.

I think the lack of newspaper listings is partially due to a lack of jobs and partly due to a change in technology. Everything is done online that used to be done in the newspaper. Maybe that explains why the Sunday edition is now up to $2.00. Well, I did find a possibly appropriate job, which I hope would not be a frying-pan-into-the-fire situation. The main thing is that it helped me become motivated to update my resume, which I am mailing tomorrow to this outfit. So that feels productive.

Suddenly I'm reading all these articles in the papers about my "social networking" presence online, and its relevance to a job search. The writers encourage people to have a positive "presence" online, and not look too bad. They mean Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, etc etc etc. Last time I tried to get onto Facebook it had me create a password, and then rejected it--over and over again. Just my karmic way of feeling rejected one more time, I guess. I keep meaning to try again. Anyway, for better or worse, potential employers will just have to get to know me without Chatter or Spacebook. Karmic relief.

I went to Farsi class this morning, which is really a children's class for Farsi-speaking children who are learning to read and write in Farsi script. I've been going since last spring. The class is held in Farsi, so following instructions is a challenge. I'm actually learning to read in Farsi. Whoa. Today I learned to spell the words "Allah" and "Hovallah", which are actually Arabic but used in Baha'i Writings and shared by Farsi, as well as being spelled in the Farsi alphabet.

Although I have been studying the alphabet for some time, I think what helped me start making the connections [pun intended: Farsi script is connected as in cursive writing] was the assignment of looking into a dictionary to find words beginning with each letter. At first I was rather resistive and sullen about it, but with practice it got easier. The last homework I did was to list numerals from one to one hundred, which have different symbols than Arabic numerals, together with the Englishified transliteration and the Farsi word for each number. I didn't actually learn each number, but I did write them. Twice. It just got to be so much fun after I got the hang of it.

It's because I don't watch TV. You have to get your fun where you can.

R.e. Wimmin Presidents

I hasten to clarify that the foregoing was merely satire. I have no opinion on female presidents as long as they know their place . . . doggone it! I just can't help it.

Reset:

Okay: men = women. Okay?

"Woman" Is Not An Adjective

The other day I got off work where I was working with a man nurse. He used to be a man sergeant in the Army. Then I went to see my man dentist, but driving home I got a ticket from a man police officer, and when I got home it turned out my house was on fire, but it was saved due to the courage and persistence of the man firefighters. I was upset due to the fire, so I had chest pains, and I went to see my man doctor. He made a mistake and I had to sue him with the help of my man lawyer. I took a trip recently and arrived safely due to the skills of the man pilot. Tomorrow I'm taking my cat to a man veterinarian. We just had an election and across the country many people voted for man senators; every day I thank God we have a man president.

I sure would worry if we had a female president.

The Work Begins

Still emotionally devastated by the circumstances surrounding my transition away from Homeland, it's time to do whatever needs to be done to heal myself and find a new income source. It's a position that's terrifying, and I'm grieving too, although over what I'm not exactly sure. I'm feeling that there's a well of grief, anger, and fear in my mind on the child level. I'm looking into the phenomenon of post-traumatic stress disorder as a possible explanation. Also I've had a sudden insight.

I attended the teaching campaign during the last two weekends, and whenever I was thinking or sharing about my relationship to children, however tangentially, I kept thinking/saying, "I don't do children." I have a spotty history of feeling traumatized and unsuccessful anytime I had the misfortune to be involved in children's classes. There is a lot of fear there. So I was also asking myself why. It popped into my head--"because I am one." For whatever reason, I realized that I have been emotionally operating on the level of a child. Hard to make good judgments, hard to make wise decisions, under that condition.

I can't fix this right away. But I have received a wonderful amount of support so far.

Also I have been able to reflect back to Miss Lisa her wonderful level of success, and many ways to be supportive of the children's classes occurred to me, which I shared with her yesterday. I have some ideas and resources which may prove helpful.

Although I look at it as the coward's role, I spent both weekends in prayer in support of the teaching. It has helped anesthetize my pain, stopped the whirling thoughts, and made me feel better. People also reported they could feel our prayers. So that has been a comfort.

As William Sears said, sometimes the best prayer is "HELP!"

All The Pillars of the Dwelling

We went to the celebration of the birth of the Bab, the forerunner to Baha'u'llah, yesterday evening. It was held in the community center at Salishan, the recently rebuilt, tremendously successful, and wonderfully diverse public housing development in Tacoma. For Baha'is who have been roaming the streets interested in conversing with people about spiritual community-building, it has been a mine rich in gems of inestimable value.

To gather jewels have I come to this world. If one speck of a jewel lie hid in a stone, and that stone be beyond the seven seas, until I have found and secured that jewel, my hand shall not stay from its rest.

~Baha'u'llah

As I drove up to the center and could see the action through the window, I was appalled. We were in trouble. Children were sprawled across the floor with crayons; some hugging books obtained from the library in the lobby. There were children climbing the curtains, dangling from the ceiling, hovering in the air, popping out from doorways. Dozens of them.

I could also see that they all, without exception, passionately adore and instantly obey Miss Lisa. She works at their school and lives in the neighborhood; now with the support of the Baha'i community she host children's classes and other core activities nearly every day in her home. These children were now here, attending the Baha'i holy day.

At the opening of the celebration, Lisa's son Liam enthusiastically recited a memorized prayer; he knows several. The children sang songs from their classes. We read Baha'i writings about the Bab, and Tim exquisitely told the tale of the Bab's first attendance at school at the age of five. [Tim has developed his storytelling skills to a wonderful degree.] Then children and youth vied with each other in lining up to sing more songs that they had learned.

Also, my favorite new star appeared, a youth I'll just call "Badi." I first saw Badi Saturday at the home which hosted the base for the neighborhood teaching activities. I came to hide there and say prayers while the brave miners went off, whistling, to dig up more gems. They returned with this youth they had scrounged up. He appeared positively glowing, dutifully phoned his mother, and wasted no time informing the participants [estimated lowest age about forty--sorry!] that it would be advantageous to have more youth out in the neighborhoods engaging people in conversations.

I believe Badi's primary interest is becoming involved as a "youth animator." [Most of the young participants of last night's holy day already seem pretty animated.] Anyway, Badi's glowing visage seemed like an outstanding expression of this verse:

For thus the Master of the house hath appeared within His home, and all the pillars of the dwelling are ashine with His light.

~Baha'u'llah

Alive!

Transitioning out of my job at Homeland, I feel like the man, spat out from the maw of a monster as indigestible, who, though escaping with his life, experiences a sense of rejection.

As children when pretending, we used the expression, "Let's say." "Let's say we're starving in the wilderness, and . . ." Homeland would cast me as the monster. "Let's say Arlene is a monster."

My place at Homeland, my belonging there, is something I can no longer emotionally support. The income was terribly addictive, and there were aspects of the position that were tremendously enjoyable and fulfilling. I also learned a lot. There are staff members there of such a high caliber both personally and professionally that I will miss them terribly. Yesterday, after saying goodbye, I could not restrain my tears. I was embarrassed in front of all the staff taking their breaks, as I emptied my locker and removed my name from the door.

There is no individual at Homeland who worked harder than I did. I saw nurses blow off charting and a multitude of other tasks, just to clock out on time. I stayed until the work was done, no matter how late.

I have long felt, however, that my job would be perfect if the people would just go away. While I relished the challenge of meeting whatever comes up at any moment, there can be no break from it. Between my difficulty in focusing and my introversion, and the pressure of completing work and dealing with emergencies while frequently changing gears to meet people's needs, I rarely crossed the threshold at night except in a cloud of sadness, frustration, anger, and a profound need to be alone.

What I would have needed to continue, was support and validation from the Director of Nursing.

I think I reached a point where my chief fun at work, besides doing admissions, and the childlike entertainment I derive from peel-and-stick labels, was honing my deadpan humor. Nothing is more fun than cracking people up. I've had many shining moments there, but others not so shining. Eventually I became aware, from the hostility drifting down the hallway, that the DNS and I have irreconcilable differences.

Lately in my deep sense of isolation, as I strive to overcome my material roots, I have been yearning for some sign that I could feel for myself that I am loved by God. I think this is it. I have been pulled out of this field by God, uprooted like a beet, with my health and best interest at stake. I do not wish to drop in my tracks like L. [See previous post.]

For those who wish to know my next step, I will let you know when I know. I trust I will find a more suitable field. Inshallah.

Purple Potato Salad

I took my daughter to the pumpkin farm Saturday, where we picked up the obligatory pumpkin, but also some giant apples, several jars of honey, and pickled green beans which we remember fondly as my sister in law makes them. Irresistible and addictive. When they sell blueberry, raspberry, and even pumpkin honey, I can't help wondering how they know which blossoms the bees frequented to collect their nectar. Do the farmers hold a little huddle with the bees and only send them to specific plants?

My focus on nutrition is usually on plants, and when I put them together, although I think plants are a wonderful example of organic unity in diversity, as almost any vegetable can get along with any other vegetable in harmony and unity--still, my dishes often have a face that only a mother could love. I had some beets and decided they would be lovely in a salad, and so would potatoes, and it all ended up as a delicious, funny-looking mess.

Purple Potato Salad

3-4 beets, cooked
4-5 red potatoes, cooked
half a yellow onion
three large garlic cloves, or to taste*
one large apple
5 or 6 pickled green beans
one can or [one pound cooked] black or kidney beans
fresh basil
3-4 tablespoons dried dill
a splash of seasoned rice vinegar
vegenaise to taste [vegenaise is the non-egg version of mayonnaise.]

*I tend to treat garlic as a vegetable, slicing it up and throwing the chunks into a soup or salad. Not every tongue is ready for this, however.

Cut up beets, potatoes, onions, apple, stir it all together and refrigerate.

Allegaters VERSUS Justice

There's allegaters at Homeland. Recently the faceless entity designed to torture skilled nursing facilities, called "The State," cracked down on phoning in to The State every thing that ever happened to anybody at the facility. Bruises, falls and complaints, mostly. Anyway, that's Homeland's interpretation of the rules.

Suddenly, karmaically, this situation has mysteriously attracted a multitude of complaints and accusations, which were rarely mentioned before. I think it's the scent of blood.

Homeland is turning into a police state. Anytime one of our residents, who all have at least some amount of short term memory loss, God bless 'em, opens their mouths and mentions that they thought it took too long for staff to answer their call lights, or they thought the staff performed a transfer wrong, or forgot a medication, bam, there went four hours of somebody's time filling out investigational paperwork and calling The State. And worst of all, an accusation is treated as fact.

Mrs. O'Hunnie couldn't remember two hours later getting her inhaler, but twelve hours later she can still remember that the nurse supposedly forgot it. Mr. Dunnfore claims that someone assisted him to stand by the bedside commode using the walker, but the nurse just walked off and left him there instead of completing the transfer to the commode.

I've noticed that the personnel hearing these allegations are usually the contracted therapy staff, and I've come to the conclusion that the next time one of them comes trotting up to the nurses station to mention one of these allegations I'm going to point to the paperwork and say, "Go ahead, there's the investigation form."

The Forms: the first page of which I am quoting an excerpt is cribbed from the incident report form, so most of it doesn't apply. It is an "Occurrence Report Checklist:
X Check off all items completed.
X All questions on the occurrence report must be answered.
X Review the resident's care plan--was care provided according to plan of care?
X Caregiver/Witness Report MUST be completed at the time of occurrence by the person reporting the occurrence AND the person assigned to care for the resident . . . etc etc etc. REMINDER: Washington State requires (RCW 74.34.035(3) you to notify the DSHS Hotline 91-800-562-6078), if the occurrence involves Abuse/Neglect, Abandonment, Mistreatment, or Misappropriation. Facility Protocol requires you to notify the DNS and/or Administrator of any occurrences of Abuse/Neglect, Abandonment, Mistreatment or Misappropriation.
State Hotline Notified? _____No ______Yes, Date/Time:_________.

LN is responsible to complete the following for all ALLEGATIONS OF Abuse/Neglect, Abandonment or Mistreatment:
X Intervene, immediately, and provide safety for the resident(s)
X Remove perpetrator immediately (employee, visitor, family, another resident, etc.)
X Initiate the Occurrence Report, obtain witness statements from all staff on duty
X Notify the DNS &/or Administrator: Date/Time:_________
X Notify Tacoma Police: Date/Time:_______________ (non-emergent Phone Number 253-798-4721)
X Notify Physician:________ Date/Time:___________
X Notify POA/Responsible Party: Who:__________ Date/Time:__________
X If appropriate, arrange for immediate transport to hospital/ER for evaluation
X Complete occurrence report, initiate alert monitoring/charting."

I will stipulate that we care about our residents, they are in our care and vulnerable, and that all the staff must do the utmost to keep them safe and secure and healthy. That is our goal. However, the process involved in dealing with these issues leaves something to be desired.

I'll spare the reader the rest of the extensive paperwork, except for the "CONCLUSION" section. I ask you to remember that nothing that someone claims to have occurred is actually proven to have occurred. Here is the dictionary definition of the word "allegation":
"The act of alleging; also, something alleged; an assertion made by a party in a legal proceeding, which he undertakes to prove; an averment; sometimes, a mere assertion without proof."

Listen to the language of this portion of the form:

Who was involved in the allegation?
What was the allegation?
When did the allegation occur?
[When was the complaint voiced, or when did the supposed event happen?]
Where did the allegation take place?
[Where was the complaint voiced, or where did the supposed event happen?]
Why did the allegation happen?
[Why was the complaint voiced, or why did the supposed event happen? Which, as you can see, the form assumes actually happened.]
How did the allegation occur?
CAUSE/REASONABLE CAUSE of the allegation was:___________.

Okay, the dictionary does say that an allegation could be "something alleged." I have issues with language that uses the fact of someone saying something interchangeably with the idea an event actually occurred. As soon as the questionaire is asking the staff to say when the "allegation" occurred, where it took place, why it happened, and how the allegation occurred, and what was the cause of the allegation, a line has been crossed. The language of the form is now assuming that an actual event took place. Guilty until proven innocent.

I have major issues with that.

"The best beloved of all things in My sight is justice."

~Baha'u'llah

A Messenger of Joy

It is an honor to be of service to patients and their families, especially in supporting them while the person passes on to the next world.

To an experienced and organized nurse, having a death on ones shift is an event one can be well prepared for. Experience tells us, for example, that it is an advantage to have a mortuary previously selected, because a newly-bereaved family member can find choosing one at the last minute too overwhelming. So as nurses we have learned things which make everything go more smoothly.

So, even though I sometimes say [to myself or staff], "Don't die on my shift," it's not too difficult an event to deal with. At the previous nursing facility where I worked, a woman was on hospice, had some falls during her stay, and as she was currently dying [hospice folks sometimes use the word "transitioning"-- I don't know why], had sublingual atropine drops to help control oral secretions. The family in California phoned that evening to see how she was, and instructed me to tell her to "hold on until the weekend," as that was when they planned to visit. She did not hold on, but had a couple of atropine drops, a harmless dosage, and quietly passed on.

The family freaked out, questioned the atropine drops [as a different dose and route can be used as a potent medication for cardiac events]; brought up her history of falls; demanded a head-to-toe x-ray and a full autopsy. Guilt. The assigned physician phoned the family and sorted them out. Things can be a little rough.

So. At Homeland yesterday, "Mr. Scot" transitioned away from us into another realm. I had a particular affinity to Mr. Scot, as he was two years older than me but wasting away from cancer mets to the brain when he was admitted to Homeland from Harborview on Hospice care. Over the last two months or so, he lost a significant amount of weight, lost the ability to swallow, developed an open area on his behind which was unavoidable due to his lack of ability to take in nutrition and his cachexic [skeletal] condition. We managed his pain with morphine, which was appropriate.

At last he was failing, and died just before I came on shift yesterday. He had a non-related friend assigned durable power of attorney for medical and financial affairs, and a selected mortuary. The day shift nurse was from agency but had seemingly done everything she should: notified Hospice and the MD, and placed a "STOP" sign on the door to warn people not to enter. She had been unable to contact the POA, who came into the facility to see him just after change of shift and was informed of his passing. She asked us to delay phoning the mortuary until 5 PM due to expecting a friend of his from out of town who might wish to pay her last respects.

About an hour later, this friend arrived harried and breathless after battling traffic for two hours on the way down and getting lost trying to find the facility. She asked for Mr. Scot at the front desk [the agency nurse had forgotten to notify the receptionist] and breezed past the nurses station and the STOP sign, into his room, and right back out again, crying that he wasn't breathing. She was horribly shook up. We took her into the nurses station and sat her down, gave her tissues and water, and did what they teach in school as "therapeutic communication", i.e. listening to the person until they feel better. When she was ready to go I gave her a hug and directed her to the nearest Starbucks and some restaurants near I-5.

At five PM I phoned the mortuary, who let me know that a power of attorney appointment ends with the death of the patient, and asked if we had listed any next of kin. I gave the number for the POA, the number for the ex-spouse, and was asked if there were adult children. I said, names were listed but not numbers, and I had no idea of their ages. [This is often why people assign POA's: there are no viable next of kin.] The director said he would look into it and call me back. I pointed out that a significant period of time had passed and asked how soon they could pick up the remains. He stated that there was a law that he had up to twenty-four hours to collect the remains. I said that I could guarantee this gentleman was not going to remain in my facility for any twenty-four hours. We were at an impasse.

I was whining about this to another nurse and she explained that a durable power of attorney means that the relationship continues after the patient is deceased. So I called the mortuary with this information. Over the next two hours I phoned the mortuary three times, speaking to the receptionist, to find out whether or not they would accept this patient. Finally I phoned the Hospice to explain the problem. I was talking with the social worker when the mortuary called and said they had spoken with the POA and would be on their way ASAP.

Meanwhile the CNA's discovered that the day nurse had forgotten to remove his Foley catheter. I had just finished with this task and was emerging from the room when the two morticians arrived, status-post teenagers in suits. They were courteous to me, I think because they saw me with a garbage bag in my hands and thought I was a flunky. They were quite rude to the other nurse, eye-rolling, probably thinking that she was the head honcho. Mr. Scot exited the facility 8 1/2 hours after his passing.

Anyway, I imagine Mr. Scot got a kick out of the whole thing.

"Death is a messenger of joy."

~Baha'u'llah

A Moat of Tears

Two days before I returned from vacation, a nurse at work, L., collapsed and was taken to the hospital. Without going into medical details, it looks like she had an internal brain injury. She has been in the ICU and minimally responsive ever since.

Various nurses from Homeland have been visiting her and returning with reports, "she seems better," "she squeezed my hand," and so forth. I have to say that she and I have opposite personalities, so in the past, occasional sparks have flown. I looked at her as a golden-retriever-type; she thought I was a cold and snappy bitch. Eventually we have come to understand each other much more.

The issue came up yesterday that she might be admitted to Homeland to recover; the social worker asked the aides who were on duty at the time how they would feel about personal care for a staff member they have worked with. Later, the information faxed to the facility regarding any prospective admission arrived at the nurses' station, with three nurses in a small circle quietly reading pages of the information, and then being reprimanded for it by the social worker, which hurt some feelings.

Yesterday was a watershed day for discussing L. all day, and how would we feel if we were incapacitated and had to stay in a skilled nursing facility. The response was universally 1] I would be deeply embarrassed to receive personal care from people I knew, but 2]we all feel Homeland would be the best place to receive care, and 3]we would be receiving care from people who knew us and cared about us. We all ended up in tears.

I mentioned something about L. resuming her position in the facility. Another nurse, who has been to see her, said she doesn't see that happening. I find that difficult to accept, and decided to pray very hard for her recovery. When I got to the point I could no longer concentrate on my work I went out for a hamburger. But the good thing was feeling part of the rest of the group. A fellow earthling.

Today on my day off, at last I took time to go to the ICU and visit. L. She was recognizable, although her hair, usually kept rather wild, was pulled into improbable ponytails at the top of her head. She lay on her side with one arm above the covers. When I walked in, wearing the silly anti-droplet mask I was given, and said, "Hi, L.!" her eyes opened, I swear I saw a flash of recognition and irritation. I took her hand, which she released after a few minutes. She didn't do any squeezing. She kept her eyes closed most of the time.

This was an awkward place for conversation. I said the stupid things I always say when speaking to someone who isn't likely to answer me back or give clues what to say next. In my imagination many times I had carried on with sparkling wit, told scintillating stories about Homeland, or prayed aloud. I did none of that. Finally I told her that I would stop hovering over her and looking at her, go sit in the corner and say prayers in my head, so I wouldn't bother her.

Twice when her eyes flashed open and she looked right at me I thought I saw a smile. Her mouth twitched. I wasn't sure if it was irritation or an attempt to smile. Finally I said goodbye and left the hospital. I had difficulty with the automatically locked exit doors from the ICU and a moment of claustrophobia. And then I was out. Driving away, I thought, Why do I have to cry? Can't I just stipulate that I'm sad and move on?

For the first time I'm seeing that the castle that I'm in doesn't have to have such extensive walls or such high ramparts. I might be able to lower a drawbridge once in awhile and feel one with the rest of the human race. And if people see me cry it's not the end of the world.

I'm just afraid I won't stop.

Bogoli Pelloh a la Amrika [Dilled Rice American Style]

At the conference, at the buffet, there was one vegetarian dish [other than salad, rice and dessert] that Enayat could eat: dilled rice with lima beans [ he called it "bogoli pelloh".] He couldn't eat enough of it. Today at Eatonville I made stir-fry, so I was going to make brown rice with it. Then I saw a bag of dried dill and remembered the baby lima beans in the freezer.

Enayat really liked my bogoli pelloh and said it was far more satisfying than the typical dish made with white rice. It reminds me of when I was routinely making things such as boxed macaroni and cheese and could eat a whole pan of it. Although white rice tends to be good at soaking up dishes such as chili, refined grains are never really satisfying.

Enayat has the quality of applauding and cherishing my cooking efforts, even at times when they are rather feeble.

Dilled Rice With Lima Beans

in a large pot, pour about:
1 to 2 tablespoons olive oil,
2 cups water
salt to taste
at least 2 tablespoons dried dill
a 1 pound package of frozen lima beans
and bring to a boil, then add:
1 cup brown rice.

Bring back to a boil, simmer about 45 minutes or until rice is done. Size up the concentration of dill in the pot and maybe stir in another 1 or 2 tablespoons dill, then crack lid to let steam escape and turn off heat. Let it sit 5 or 10 minutes.
This is really good with plain yogurt, too.

One Day

One day gone from two days off. Two days off are not enough.

I had at least 17 things on my list this morning.

I dreamed about tiny deer the size of mice. Boy, were they fun.

Invited my hermit daughter to lunch and errands. [We leave each other books on the kitchen table. I left her the Funny Times when I finished it. She left me Oishinbo: Rice. That was in response to my introducing her to Oishinbo: Vegetables. I write grocery list items on the dry erase board: she illustrates them. She illustrated gloves and potatoes, so I wrote "Eiffel Tower."] At Chili Thai, we ate veggie fresh rolls with basil and ? leaves, cellophane noodles, rice and tofu in rice paper; ginger chicken; brown rice; Tom Kha, my new favorite soup, with tofu; Thai Iced Tea; and she had coconut ice cream and I had mango ice cream, and we both had leftovers.

To the library where we discovered not one Isaac Asimov book on the shelf. Not one. In the seventies there would have been three shelves worth. Also, it looks as if it's possible to put movies on hold now. She checked out some Bill Nye the Science Guy DVD's for nostalgia sake; I can't remember what I checked out, plus paid 15 cents-worth of fines. Did you know old typewriters used to have cents signs on the keyboard? I learned to type on an antique [even then] typewriter which had all its innards exposed, very long stems attached to the cutest round letter keys [somebody local makes them into jewelery.] And with every character typed, you got to watch the whole key and stem assembly rise up in front of you and crash into the paper with a terrific whack. Typing as an aerobic activity.

Drove by an apartment complex recommended by someone at work. Too busy for me to really check it out. I'm trying to figure out how to move out of my house, rent it out, and move into an apartment all at the same time so as not to pay double rent/mortgage.

Went shopping. They stopped carrying cases of Silk soy milk, so I have to buy it 2-3 boxes at a time. Tried a variety of other brands, some mistakenly vanilla [retch.] Many are much thinner than I am used to. Found large brown mushrooms for a change.

Washed clothes. Made cabbage soup with dried green peas, tomatoes, fresh [yum] basil. Went on the internet while waiting for soup to cool. Looked up all the suggested ways to get Sharpie marker stains off my pants.

I love carrying retractable Sharpies at work, but twice they've stained the pockets of my white pants. Now I keep them in my pocket in a ziploc snack bag.

Last week there was a doohickey in the exhaust system of my CRV that was shot and the whole repair plus scheduled maintenance was almost $700.00.

Also on the internet I started buying Farsi language books and stuff; also bought a copy of the VHS The White Balloon that I and my original husband really liked when we watched it 15 to 20 years ago at the Grand Cinema. At least it has subtitles.

I still mean to drive to Eatonville.

Journey to Chicago, Part 7

Sunday we listened to more lovely music and the talk by Roxana Saberi, which I already discussed. In the evening after the program, we had one more laborious walk through the convention area and the hotel, searching for friends and acquaintances Enayat might have missed before. I was okay with this up to a point, but then I finally lost it.

Two years ago I suggested to Enayat that, rather than continuing to cut his chin shaving, he just grow a beard. I was thinking, a genteel, pleasant little beard. It was motivated by mercy. Now he has a scraggly beard down to his abdomen, hair down to his shoulder blades, and a lot of miscellaneous growths of hair all over his cheeks. The beard that ate New York. In vain I have asked him to have it trimmed.

Therefore, every individual we met criticized his beard. And every woman we met somehow held me personally responsible for this beard and long hair. I finally just lost it.

Monday we drove to the House Of Worship where we at last had a lengthy, uninterrupted visit, and I had plenty of time for that peace to soak in. Then we went home.

Journey to Chicago, Part 6

On Saturday I decided to sign up for the bus running from the Renaissance to the House of Worship in Wilmette. It cost $20, and Enayat could not understand why I wished to pay that much for a bus when I could just drive. The truth is, I quickly became sick of driving. I don't have the endurance of a robot.

The bus was simply a blast. For once I was alone with the driver and 40 Persians. I'm sure this was a trip the driver will never forget. As soon as we were underway, people were asking for the microphone. Since it was attached with a cord, several individuals took turns making their way to the jump seat at the front of the bus, laboriously strapping themselves in, and sharing the most beautiful, gloriously chanted prayers and songs. I was glad I had my one memorized Persian prayer when they passed the mike to me [a good-looking gentleman in his seventies had invited me to sit next to him in the front seat.] My one trick pony of a prayer. They seemed to like it.

Cost for a bus trip to Wilmette: $20.00. Cost for the Prayermobile: priceless.

For lunch outside the grounds of the Temple I ate two slices of whole-wheat bread, some cashews, and some water. My sojourn inside the Temple was this time somewhat interrupted by my new friend wishing to take photos with me. I forgave him easily.

That evening we visited Enayat's aunt, his father's younger sister, her daughters, and multiple other cousins, feasting on dilled rice with lima beans [bogoli poullou], sabsi-whatever [stew with greens], salad, yogurt with cucumbers, and that wonderful stew made with pomegranate paste. I promised one of the American inlaws to send my recipe for Stealth Soup, made with butternut squash and red lentils.

Journey to Chicago, Part 5

Weather in Chicago was hot, muggy and wet. Fortunately I had made a pancho from outdoor material which worked well in sudden showers without making me too hot. I just don't associate rain with heat. Also, it was odd that when the air conditioner was on, condensation formed on the outside of the windows.

Music at the conference was outstanding. At one point I approached a flute player to find out about his flute, a "ney." It was wooden, vertical, with holes of course for the notes. In all flutes, a way must be found to separate the flow of air. In European flutes, the flute is held horizontally and the player blows across the hole. With recorders and penny whistles, etc., "fipple flutes," the mouthpiece is designed to separate the air flow, and the player simply blows into the mouthpiece. I found out that with the ney, the air flow was separated with his tongue.

While in home health nursing I became very good at finding my way around, so I was surprised that every time I drove from the Renaissance back to the Days Inn, I became confused and lost. It became a complex for me, raising my level of anxiety whenever I faced the drive. Complicating this was my partner's tendency to play off my anxiety and add to it by making unhelpful comments such as "this looks familiar," or "this doesn't look familiar."

While I realize most women would be impressed with a man who wishes to stop and ask directions, I really don't want to ask a lot of total strangers for directions, as they usually aren't very helpful. Especially since I think his real motive is that he just loves to talk to people. I became very irritable with this whole process, and had to tell myself to stop trying to control his behavior, and make agreements with him instead.

Journey to Chicago, Part 4

I visited the Baha'i Temple for the first time in 2001 when we went to the Kingdom Conference at Milwaukee. Ever since then, I was in the habit of asking people who had visited but were not Baha'is, whether they "felt" any peculiar sensations within the auditorium. Usually they said no. On my first visit, I felt my whole being suffused with a profound sense of peace and love while I was inside the Temple.

When we got out of our car at Linden Avenue someone informed us that "it is about to close at 5 PM." Thinking they meant the actual auditorium of the Temple, I was suddenly in a great hurry. The gentleman who greeted us on the steps clarified that it was only the Visitors Center below which was about to close.

When we went into the Visitors Center and met the attractive Persian woman who greeted us, Enayat exploded into raptures of delight, "Bah, bah! How are you doing!" I thought, sheesh, you've seen pretty women before. It turns out this was another of his thirty or forty cousins from around the world, doing service at the House of Worship. The gentleman upstairs at the temple was her husband, who Enayat had not met before.

She kindly took charge of us, showed us around, showed us the Cornerstone and some other things. Quickly I bought some literature at the bookstore: mostly things with both Farsi and English, and a Farsi Kitab-i-Iqan, so I can identify [with help] specific authentic passages to memorize.

Upstairs in the Temple, I didn't really feel this awesome peace. Mostly I just had angina from climbing the stairs. I said as many prayers as I could, then we left in time to attend the opening session of the Friends of Persian Culture Conference back at the Renaissance Hotel.

Journey to Chicago, Part 3

All my mapquest trips I had printed up: from Days Inn to the Renaissance Hotel in Schaumburg; from Days Inn to the House of Worship/Baha'i Temple in Wilmette; and from either location to O'Hare Airport, included too many turns and expressway voyages, which I had no intention of taking. I considered this a vacation.

September 2nd we moved to the newer, much better Days Inn on W. Devon, having gotten excellent directions from them, and checked in. I got a map at the local gas station, but no hand lotion [mistaken assumption the motel would have lotion.] We discovered there was a mall off of Meacham on route to the Schaumburg hotel with a Ruby Tuesday, which we eventually found. At Ruby Tuesday we got very good directions to the Baha'i Temple in Wilmette: follow Euclid, which becomes East Lake, which fetches up on Sheridan, the street which cruises along the lake shore where the Temple resides in all its glory.

Towards the end of my stay I realized why distances were so long on this map. The scale is one inch to two miles. On my Tacoma map the scale is probably one inch to a half a mile. Anyway, with distances so out of proportion, it led many times to a lot of confusion in my mind, thinking we must have passed a particular turn. Driving from Schaumburg to Wilmette along this surface street late in the afternoon took about a rather tedious hour.

At last we reached Sheridan, turned right, passed some smaller streets, crossed a small bridge and then, whoa! There it was, this breathtaking, beautiful, enormous white lacy dome. One is never prepared to see it. Here we are driving through a beautiful residential neighborhood, and then here is the Mother Temple of the West. My real reason for coming to the Chicago area.

Just as at the World Center, where we saw the Shrine of the Bab and the terraces, a jewel-like and holy setting, set in the midst of an urban center in Haifa, I wondered about the people living there mundane lives with this gem in their midst, so replete with meaning for the Baha'is. Do they notice?

Journey to Chicago, Part 2

At O'Hare airport we had no difficulty finding our way to baggage claim and finding the bag he checked. Then we followed the signs for car rentals, expecting a department within the actual terminal. This is how it works at SeaTac and at the Milwaukee airport when I went to the Kingdom Conference. But we found ourselves out on the curb, with a few signs but no rental offices. There were a few shuttles but none for Advantage. I tried asking the uniformed attendants at the curb and received a variety of conflicting information.

We were hauling a backpack, a small tote bag [me], a small suitcase, a large tote bag, and a santur [him.] We ended up hiking down to the end of the terminal and crossing the street, where I phoned the national office for Advantage [I had failed to secure the address and local phone number for the office at O'Hare.] Perpendicular to the terminal was a very long building and curbside which was the Hilton Courtyard, with shuttles coming and going. With husband and baggage I hiked the length of the building, hoping to speak to an actual human at a counter. This was a lady at a counter for buses. She directed us back to where we started at Door Number One.

Back and forth we hiked, between Door Number One and the curbside sign for Car Rentals 60 feet away, asking shuttle drivers and being directed to either location. At last we found a shuttle for Advantage, which we boarded, and discovered that the actual rental office was four miles off site.

I had Mapquested directions from O'Hare to the Days Inn in Elk Grove, but those directions, not only were confusing, but were going to be invalid from this other location. I got some wonderfully direct instructions from the shuttle driver: turn right out of the rental office, turn right on Touhy, which becomes Higgins, and follow about five miles, and Days Inn will be on the right.

Meanwhile we waited over an hour at the car rental office behind three other parties, one of which was very angry because he apparently had discovered that it would cost him significantly more to have more than one driver on the rental agreement. He kept saying, "I'm screwed!" There was only one clerk at the desk. At last I had the keys to the Nissan Sentra, and learned to use the automatic door lock; later I realized that the electric control for moving the side mirrors was discombobulated and we had to lower the windows to set them manually [they were probably broken by someone doing this initially.]

Down Higgins I drove until I came to a Days Inn and attempted to check in at the desk. Despite making a registration weeks before, they never heard of me. It was now nine thirty at night. We checked in anyway. At this point I realized it might have been better to just arrange for a shuttle from the motel and have a rental car delivered to the motel later.

It was a king, not a queen bed, and though my reservation was for a nonsmoking room, reeked of smoke. I was puzzled. I called the desk: "What is our address here?" "1920 Higgins." I compared this to my address on Mapquest: 1000 West Devon. Wrong Days Inn. I called the W. Devon Days Inn and explained where I was and arranged to check in there in the morning. We ordered a vegetarian pizza and watched actual tapes of the Frost-Nixon interviews on PBS.

Journey to Chicago, Part 1

Sept 1st we boarded the Shuttle Express to SeaTac and had a good conversation with the driver who was a Christian. He ended up asking us whether Jesus Christ is worthy of worship. I thought that was rather a poser, and I was allowing Enayat to lead the Baha'i end of the conversation. I really wanted to get into the Kitab-i-Iqan [Book of Certitude] material which better illuminates the dual station of the Manifestation, but didn't have much of a chance.

I instructed Enayat later that when people have these deep convictions, it is counterproductive to say things which invalidate their point of view, such as saying the Bible has been translated wrong somewhere. It's much better to meet them where they are and lead them out of the jungle, shedding light on issues and assisting them to focus on the inner and spiritual meanings of scripture, rather than on the outer and physical meanings which people tend to be trapped in.

Our flight was excellent and we sat next to a woman about my age whose parents were born in Latvia, so we learned some things about that country, and the music.

Lost in Evin Prison

The final day of the Friends of Persian Culture Conference, Sunday, there was a talk [fortunately translated] by Roxana Saberi, author of Between Two Worlds, My Life and Captivity in Iran. Later I bought a book and she signed it. I told her, "I'm glad you got out!"

This is the journalist who was arrested on suspicion of spying and spent 100 days in Evin Prison, who met the two Baha'i ladies, members of the Yaran, who were incarcerated there. That section of the prison was for "political prisoners."

Still extraordinarily emotionally and physically fatigued by my journey, I'm wrapped up in this book, which I started reading this morning. It seems to complement and exacerbate my depressed feelings.

Running For the Bus

I was feeling my usual level of anxiety about catching my flight, and decided to do a little time traveling to explore it. It's always about catching the school bus.

Here we are, the four Elwood girls in a line, braiding each others' hair, gulping down overboiled oatmeal on a frosty morning. There's a brother too, but not braiding hair until much later. For some reason there's always a terrific hurry. In twelve years of riding the school bus, I don't remember ever missing it on the way to school. But if we had, it felt as if the consequences would be dire.

So here I am galloping across the little park called the Schoolyard, for an old school which used to be there, my red fourth-hand tights down to my knees by the time I'm halfway to the bus stop, and I haven't even passed the Black Dog yet. The line at the Bus Stop has a Lord of the Flies aura of disorder and confusion without adult supervision. People with clout can take cuts. I usually go for the back of the line.

Right up the hill from the stop is a stair-step family of Mormons with a collie dog they are forever trying to send home. "Go home, Goldie, Goldie, Goldie." They show up last because they are right there by the stop. And here is the bus.

I step on. Suddenly, forty years later, I can smell it. It doesn't smell horrible, but it is a distinctive odor. I've caught the bus. Where to sit? The first day of school I actually engaged in conversation. I hated sardines. I had never even seen a sardine. I became Arlene Sardine.

I used to have Borrowers-sized people rafting down the water in the ditches. Welcome to my world.

A Real "Bahai Blog," Or Not?

I noticed the other day that not everyone counts Weaner Pigs as a real "Baha'i Blog." This could be a valid point of view. There's just too much real life in it.

My intention is usually to use this at least partially as a forum for discussing the principles of the Baha'i Faith. However, doing this requires a fresh mind and a positive outlook, both of which I find in short supply due to the long hours I work and the overwhelming challenges I face there. So, even when I have time to make an entry, usually what ends up there is whatever is on my mind; typically, real life.

Just a parting shot before I fly to Schaumburg, Illinois for the Friends of Persian Culture Conference and meet some new friends there.

Traveling

We're just on the cusp of leaving for Chicago area for the Friends of Persian Culture Conference. I'm going to try to pack just one bag [my leather backpack] for carry on luggage.* Enayat is planning to take his santur, which is still out of tune. He has a hard time cutting himself loose from his obligations at home and leaving on time, especially at the first of the month. I've been occupying myself with sewing, thinking that if I wear gauze fabrics they will take up less room. We'll see. I also made a pancho with heavy duty outdoor [rain] fabric, which isn't very long, but folds up very small. They are anticipating hot but rainy weather.

*I really feel the phrase, "Carry on luggage" deserves a cartoon with a vulture boarding a plane with some sort of roadkill.

I'm trying to learn to say "I don't speak one word of Farsi" in Farsi.

It's a joke.

Salad In a Bag

I've discovered another route to portable, durable nutrition besides soup. It's a challenge when I don't cook with meat, and try to avoid dairy products, to come up with filling sandwiches.

The whole idea is this: prepare the salad ahead of time with firmer, less wet ingredients. Add the wetter and softer ingredients the day you take the salad to work or wherever. So I've been making a lot of salads with chopped cabbage as the base. Other firmer vegetables which can be added include carrots, peppers, usually raw sunflower seeds, sliced almonds, corn cut from the raw cob, onions [always] and cooked [canned] beans for protein. I chop up these and place in a gallon-sized freezer bag. Then before I go, I take a sandwich bag and mostly fill with the prepared ingredients, then cut up the other ingredients and add, with dressing of choice, just to the sandwich bag. The freezer bag stays very fresh for several days. The perishable ingredients can include tomatoes, cucumbers, avocados, and even fruit such as grapes or diced melons.

The other option I discovered was to add leftover rice and lentils to the short-term salad for a change and extra protein.

Bag Salad

Durable Ingredients: [place into a one gallon ziploc bag.]
one fourth green or red cabbage, chopped or grated
two carrots, chopped or grated
one bell pepper, chopped
kernals from one ear of corn
1/2 cup raw sunflower seeds
1/2 cup sliced raw almonds
one can beans such as kidney or black beans, rinsed
one yellow onion, diced

Perishable Ingredients: [Add to one cup of above, in a sandwich bag.]
one tomato, cut into wedges
one fourth cucumber, diced
&/or one avocado, cut up
&/or cut up melon, apple, or grapes
olives
&/or pickled beets or jalapenos

Scoop about a cup of durable ingredients into a sandwich bag. Add perishable ingredients and some dressing of choice. Off you go to work, not even late. Eat the salad with a spoon or fork right out of the bag. If you feel ecological, rinse out and reuse the bag.

Dissolving Into Work

I'm dissolving into my work. I just try to do whatever I do with joy. I lost so much sleep in the last week, when I had a day off today it's taken all day to swim up from the depths. I have a lot of regrets about some of my nursing work; honest errors, or times when just one of me and a few hours were not enough. I'm not buying into the self-loathing quite so much about it. Although I have not had time to formally recite prayers from the prayer book, I'm entirely relying on God. I'm trusting that I'm being put wherever I'm wanted, and that when it's time to move on I'll be put somewhere else. That helps relieve some of my fears.

I'm looking into the astonishing concept that I'm the sole authentic judge of my own behavior. It hasn't sunk in yet.

We accomplished a lot. Monday we had four admissions between 2:30 and 6:30, and the amazing teamwork we developed between the other charge nurse and myself made it doable and bearable. In the morning yesterday I had to face the music and be accountable to one of the nurse practitioners for not phoning their group to confirm orders [I faxed, instead, which for another doctor is completely satisfactory. He trusts us.] It's tempting to say, Ok, next time I'll phone really late . . . which would be childish but satisfying.

I'm reading [very slowly] a book about joy. One of the main threads is to approach and embrace uncomfortable feelings and encounters, rather than avoiding them. I find myself sort of "witnessing" my feelings. "Oh, anxiety. Hello. Where am I feeling that? What does it feel like?" Which provides relief and gets me through it, rather than shoving it into the feeling closet to emerge later on, or never.

I have to say, even that encounter with the ARNP did not take away from my heroic feeling from accomplishing what I did the night before. And last night I was able to meaningfully connect with the POA for a 54 year old man with mets to the brain, looking for some actual care and compassion after his hospital stay. She was, of course, completely fried from their journey from the hospital out of town, and the whole transition, but when she heard I was working twelve hour days she burst into laughter. I guess she realized she wasn't the only one feeling fried.

Two days off are not enough.

Up From the Bog

Laugh out loud: www.Engrish.com. Posted recently: "No swimming if you can't swim." Sign on a cash register in China: "I really don't know how to apologize to you. Please move on to another cash register." On a menu: "Sizzling noodles of you," and other even better entrees which escape me now.

My first day off after three grueling days of work, I swim up from the bog of extreme fatigue, headache, and general nothingness of ambition [Engrish is getting to me] always wondering what I need to do to recover and spend the most refreshing and useful [to me] two days off that I can. I've been catching up with Baha'i Views to realize the Yaran have been sentenced to twenty years in some other prison . . . I half expected them to be executed. Perhaps world opinion is making some dim impression on the administration in Iran. It's horrible. I hope they have beds.

I spent quite a few minutes reading the message posts on the CNN blog about religious rights. What hatred, what close-mindedness, what innocence about what's really happening in the world. People fascinate me, even the passionately ignorant. I'm interested in how people's minds work. How did they get to where they are?

Trip planning. Trying to decide whether to drive to the airport and pay enormous parking fees on our upcoming trip, or to use one of the shuttles which are never quite as convenient as one thinks. Looking forward to the Friends of Persian Culture Conference in Schaumburg [Chicago] Illinois over Labor Day Weekend. AKA All Farsi All the Time. As Mahnaz put it the other day, "Oh, you poor baby!"

I don't mind standing around in a forest of Farsi speakers. What I mind is making small talk and having to smile too much. Please, just let me disappear.

What I'm looking forward to is music!

Ammonites, Part 2

I became obsessed with making a messenger [flat profile] purse with the outline of a spiral, i.e. ammonites shape. I argued with myself over the next couple of weeks about what material to use, whether to try to reproduce the interior sections of the fossil ammonites on the outer surface of the purse as a decoration, and how to do that, and how that would or wouldn't fit with pockets, and so forth. I haven't come to any conclusions yet. It sounds like a lot of work. But so is hauling around my purse.

Meanwhile I became obsessed with this fossil. I wasn't sure I remembered the name. I was thinking, "ammonite," but then that sounded a lot like a religious group. No, that is Mennonite. I started thinking of all the things that could be called "ammonites" and thus the source of the recent, rather silly, series. Also, I found that it says something about the principle of independent investigation of truth. People will believe anything, although nothing of what I said in my posts was meant to be believable.

The reason I love ammonites was that a good friend of my husband, a Seventh Day Adventist, [the friend, not my husband], told a bald-faced lie last year. With a straight face he mentioned that the earth is only six thousand years old. The next time I was at the Gem Faire, I bought up a bunch of beautiful ammonite and other fossils, which were reputed to be three million years old. Take that, Mr. Bible Believer. Plus, they occur in that magical spiral shape.

According to Wikipedia, not Pikiwedia, ammonites are an extinct group of marine cephalopods, related to octopi, squids and cuttlefish. Their name came from their spiral shape, as the fossilized shells were thought to resemble the horns of a ram [not a goat. Oops.] There is an Egyptian god named Ammon who was depicted wearing ram's horns, for which Pliny the Elder named this fossil. The soft body of the creature occupied the largest segments of the shell at the end of the coil. The smaller, earlier segments were walled off and the animal could fill these with gas [from what source is not mentioned] and thus maintain its buoyancy.

The above paragraph is a blatant ripoff from an article in Wikipedia, with some words rearranged to suit me. Thank God for fourth grade.

Ammonites, Part 1

A few weeks ago I was thinking about making a new purse. By thinking, I mean that my mind became obsessed with the subject. This is part of the creative process and nothing to be concerned about. At Ethnic Fest I looked at purses of all sizes and shapes [this is what introverts do; sit and study people.] I came to the conclusion that flat purses suspended from the shoulder, also generically called "messengers," are appealing due to the lack of bulk.

My purse, which I love, is very heavy, partly due to the wallet, which is heavy even without the contents. It's also similar to a small suitcase. I'm thinking of making a change. The outline of this purse I was also trying to decide, and the jury is still out. One of the shapes in a book of patterns I recently bought, is a teardrop shape, reminiscent of the supposedly ergonomic purses that came out a few years ago. I've never tried one, so I don't know. Really, a force field designed to follow you with all your objects hovering near would be best. No privacy, though.

I used to go purseless and it was great. Except that I started adding more and more objects to my pockets until I felt like Harpo Marx, or the Tom Baker Dr. Who.

In my sewing room I was rummaging around and for some reason opened the top drawer of my beading desk, and saw an ammonite, made into a pendant. The graceful spiral shape was so appealing, I thought, "Aha!' What a great purse shape . . .

A Religious Sect

[To the undoubted relief of the few souls following this blog, this is the final entry in the Ammonite Series.]

Ammonites are members of a religious sect, "Ammonia," which hold as its fundamental principle the harmony of science and religion. Ammonites believe that if there is an apparent conflict between science and faith, either the relevant branch of science is still in the process of discovering the truth, or the religious adherents are clinging to materialistic and narrow interpretations of the teachings of their faith.

One of their chief arguments is to point out the thousands of natural objects and phenomenon which grow or appear in a spiral form, which is based on a mathematical formula. From pineapple whorls to pine cones, sea creatures to nebula, there are countless objects which form this shape. Ammonites view this as a profound sign of intelligence in the universe. Their religious symbol is a spiral, and they subsist principally on goat's milk.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

New Trends In Psychology

A new psychological disorder, ammonites, has been added to the DSM IV. A subset of depression with anxiety, ammonites is characterized by confused feelings and a sense of pressure, combined with a lack of focus. Sufferers report the experience of thoughts whirling around in their heads, and a particular sense of vulnerability to criticism. "It's just too easy to get my goat," reported one client, who chose to remain anonymous.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

The Island of Ammon

Nestled in the Adriatic Sea is an island called Ammon, its only claim to fame a series of giant sculptures of goats, referred to as ammonites, placed in ancient times in a spiral formation. It is unknown what tribes performed this feat using only primitive tools, or why goats were considered important. Also odd are the curious spirals carved on the surface of the udders of the goats.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

Goat Disorders

Ammonites is a peculiar rash found on the udders of goats in a spiral formation. The cause of this is uncertain, but is thought to occur from eating an excess of purple fruit. The goats do not express discomfort, and it does not seem to be contagious. The remedies are a simple lotion, and to remove the goats from the fruit; or, conversely, removing the fruits from the goats.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

A Delicious Fruit

Ammonites are large, purple fruits found in Eastern Europe with inner flesh which is formed in sections which grow in a characteristic spiral pattern. Usually the flesh is mild and sweet. Picked too soon and it is bitter. Ammonites are used in preserves, jellies, juices and a local specialty, blue goats milk pudding.

Goats are fond of the fruit, and must be staked a good distance from ammonite trees to prevent their milk from taking on a strange, bluish hue.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

A Nebula

Ammonites [Pron: am-on-night-ease] is an spiral nebula recently discovered in the sky in the neighborhood of Taurus by a middle school student. It is unremarkable.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

A Delicacy

Ammonites are a delicious bun made with poppy seed flour and goats milk, baked in a spiral shape. They are refreshingly fragrant, said to leave one almost lighthearted with joy. Originating in Eastern Europe, their popularity is now world-wide. Set aside an entire day to make these delicacies.

Ammonites

Oven 350 degrees, 35 minutes

4 cups poppy seed flour
1 cup goats milk
2 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon yeast + 1/2 cup water 110 degrees
1/2 cup poppy seeds
1 stick goats milk butter

Mix yeast with water and let it develop. Stir together salt and flour. Stir together goats milk and eggs. Stir yeast mixture into egg mixture and gradually stir in flour, mixing with hands. Form a ball of dough and let it rise until doubled. Knead; the dough will emit a faint squeaking sound. Let rise for one hour. Punch it down and knead until the squeaking resolves into a low moan of resignation. Let rise for one hour. Take small handfuls of dough and roll into 8" lengths. Coil into a spiral shape on a baking sheet. Brush buns with goats milk butter, sprinkle with poppy seeds, and bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes or until brown. Enjoy.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

An Ancient Civilization

Ammonites were an ancient tribe of people living about 700 to 200 B.C.E. centered in what is now known as Eastern Europe. They are believed to have been related to the Picts and the Chavelles. Building their huts from clay and reeds, they built their villages in the form of a spiral shape. Their main contribution to civilization was their advanced husbandry of goats. They came to care for goats more than they cared for humans. Eventually, they elevated the station of goats to the degree that goats were kept within the huts, and the Ammonites slept out of doors in tents.

As a people, they mysteriously disappeared around the time of the Common Era. Some anthropologists believe this was due to the onslaught of viral infections, exacerbated by prolonged exposure. Others believe they were assimilated into neighboring tribes, who took pity on them and brought them in from the cold.

It is not know what became of the goats.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

An Egyptian God

Represented in hieroglyphs between the reigns of Vacumen X and Telefon VIII, Ammonites [pron: Ammo-Nighties] was an ancient Egyptian God of Turbulent Weather. He was usually depicted with the head and hooves of a goat, holding a long wooden spoon or paddle in his hands. Legend goes that whenever trouble was brewing in the world of men, Ammonites stirred up the atmosphere with his wooden spoon, causing the clouds to whirl in a vast counterclockwise motion.

It is remarkable that, from the ground, the ancient Egyptians were able to perceive the circular and spiral motions of the clouds in enormous weather systems and storms.

Source: Pikiwedia.calm

More on Ethnic Fest

George's post on Baha'i Views on Ethnic Fest today was rather sweet.

Between Rock And A Hard Prayer

Years ago I attended a study on zikrullah, the remembrance of God, the symbolism in the Baha'i scriptures, and so on. I was so excited to hear one of the very familiar verses in the Long Healing Prayer in [I think?] Arabic. The verse goes,

Thou the Sufficing, Thou the Healing, Thou the Abiding, O Thou Abiding One.

The verse in Arabic was so rhythmic, to my heart it was beautiful.

Today I was a little weary and listened to selected contemplative tunes on my iPod to try to stay focused on prayers at Ethnic Fest. Again I sat behind the booth and off to the side, so as not to be noticed or associated with the booth [who's that weird, large redhead muttering to herself?]

In the afternoon the proprietor of the Walk Fitness booth across the way returned with her light aerobic "walking" routines, a microphone, and extremely loud, rhythmic music. "Who says that just walking is not a good workout! You can do this right where you are! I lost seventy-seven pounds on this routine! Anyone can do this at whatever level you are! Work those abs! Walk walk walk walkwah, kwaw kwaw qua, quacquack . . .

The music was loud and strident.* So I gave up the narrative prayers in my prayer book, gave up the iPod, and sat on the bench by the Baha'i booth to say prayers along with the rhythm of the music. No one passing could have known, as I said them in my head. [Okay, maybe my lips were moving, like in first grade.] It's better not to resist, but to join the flow.

If you ever need to do this, here's the secret:
Ant al kafi, vant al shafi, vant al baqi, ya baqi,
Ant al kafi, vant al shafi, vant al baqi, ya baqi.

Thou the Sufficing, Thou the Healing, Thou the Abiding, O Thou Abiding One . . .

Just call me the baqi lady.

* There's a pun in here.

Ethnic Festing

I'm sorry about not posting sooner. Extremely busy. I also haven't brought my computer out of town with me when I go.

Today I left early for Ethnic Fest in Wright Park, downtown Tacoma, WA, arriving on time for a good parking spot and in time to help set up the dual Baha'i booth for teaching people who wander by. One side of the booth is full of information for people to look at or take with them as they learn about the most recent messenger or reflection of God for this day. The other side of the booth is dedicated to children and their parents. It's very simple: using different colored "pony" beads reminiscent of diverse human skin shades, children are assisted to construct a simple bracelet to take with them. They learn as they do this about the principle of unity in diversity, which is pretty much the underlying theme in Ethnic Fest.

My self-appointed task is to sit well behind the booth, I hope unobtrusively, praying for the success of the teaching efforts. I bring a portable chair, water, prayer books, and go for it.

To my surprise today, there was a booth for a walking fitness organization across the way from the Baha'i booth, demonstrating their walking routine with joy and enthusiasm, which I appreciated. The surprise was that I recognized one of my co-workers. This is an individual with whom my relationship at work has always been very difficult. However, the prayers I was saying were very powerful, so I think I was much more willing to let go of previous feelings about this lady. I went to greet her at the end of her routine, gave her a balloon and a hug. We're scheduled to work together on Wednesday and Thursday, so I'll continue to pray and to visualize us being happy and working together with harmony.

Saying prayers for an extended length of time, especially aloud, is strenuous. Saying prayers aloud feels too strange in my house; I used to have a critical husband, so I got used to reading prayers to myself. In the surrounding cacophony of the festival, with several stages of music in various parts of the park, my voice is conveniently swallowed up, so I feel more free to read aloud. Anyway, I think tomorrow I'll bring much more water.

When I say prayers for most of a day it tends to remind me of the Babi heroine Tahirih who prayed all night prior to her martyrdom; then she donned a gown fit for a wedding, and handed a lovely handkerchief to her executioners with which to strangle her, and in a spirit of great love, devotion and detachment, went to reunite with her Maker.

I'm working at memorizing the authorized Farsi version of this verse from the Kitab-i-Iqan:

How resplendent the luminaries of knowledge that shine in an atom, and how vast the oceans of wisdom that surge within a drop.

~Baha'u'llah

My non-official transliteration into Anglicized syllables:

Cheh aftahb hawyeh
mah'aref keh dar zareh
mastur shadeh
va bahrhawyeh
hekmet keh dar qatreh
penhangashteh.

See the rhyme? We don't get that in English. Cool, huh?