Since our internet connection was down for most of the day, it seemed like a good opportunity to golf (!), so off we headed.  Today was the first day that our clubhouse was open at the new Aliso Viejo Country Club.  We checked in, got our locker numbers (we're official) and then we were out on the first tee, for the first time.

For the past month or so, we've been starting on the 9th hole and finishing on # 10...so this was quite a change.  My first lesson from golf today is that there IS te order of the holes does make a difference to the difficulty of the round.  If you start on hard holes and end on easy holes...the experience is somehow smoother.

When you start on relatively easy holes and progress to more arduous holes, then golf seems more like...well...

Life.

Such was today's round.

I also learned that you can't always finagle a round with the parties you desire.  Dan and I hoped to be a twosome...but being that two other pairs went off in front of us--and being that the twosome behind us were gregarious?  We were a foursome. 

The life lesson?  It's not a disaster when other's crash your party.  The guys we played with were very low-key.  Let's call them Walt and Steve.  They were happy to be on a golf course this Monday afternoon instead of in an office or on a trip somewhere.  They didn't care about anyone else's golf except their own.  They were polite.

I'd like to think that Dan and I were much the same for them.

My third lesson?  

Even when it feels like everything has gone to hell in a handbasket--like you couldn't hit the side of a barn if you were two feet away and the ball was a watermelon...

Your score is probably better than you think it is.

(And here's the kicker...your score doesn't matter to ANYONE else.)

....silence...

(letting that sink into my brain)

Ah.

It's not about me.

Golf is good for the soul

We made it back home a few minutes ago from our journey to visit our friend in prison.  It's a gorgeous southern California evening.  We're exhausted.

I'm heading out to the fruits of the Great American Landscape project to enjoy the end of a novel (Fatal Revenant by Stephen R. Donaldson) and a nice crisp sauvignon blanc.

We had a lovely visit with the "grands" and two of our godchildren on our trip.  Revin and William are growing up quickly.  Walking.  Making talking noises.  Giving hugs, kisses, love and generally being babies on their way to full toddler-hood.  So refreshing to see life continuing to unfold during the days where we see life at a standstill for so many inside prison walls.

Ta everyone.

Long, long ago, my best friend in Junior High School made a casual observation that proved to be hysterically funny.  "Have you ever noticed," Jeanne Marie asked, "that you either wear blue or you don't?"

It was one of those things that seemed so profound for a moment, before it sank in and we both said, "Duh!"  The saying's become a sort of touchstone for the obvious truth between Dan and I.  An oft repeated joke.

I was reminded of the saying today as I went through the entrance process for prison once again.  The guidelines for visiting prisoners in California tells one not to wear blue chambray shirts but includes the phrase "clothing...in any shade...which resembles "prisoner clothing.

Enter my turquoise and blue striped shirt with white piping.  I bought it, at Dan's suggestion, for the cruise and it's a great shirt.  Comfortable, zips up the front, allows for a breeze to pass through its open weave without being see-through.  A perfect shirt for visiting prison.

Except some folks call turquoise blue.  It would be more dramatic to tell you that I was turned away due to the shirt...but no.  They let me in just this once with the admonition to "stay away from blue" even though the guard admitted that the shirt was highly patterned and not really blue. 

Dan's theory is to find an article of clothing that passes muster and wear it to the prison every time.  Eminently logical.  However, I've decided on a theory of my own.  For the next 13 months, I will be on the lookout for the wildest blue shirts known to mankind.  I will wear them to prison just to see how close to the line I can get.

Of course, I'll take a backup shirt.  It's more important that I see our friend than prove a point by tweaking "the man."  But I will also be doing a field survey to test Jeanne Marie's theory...to prove that sometimes even when you wear blue...

you don't.

It's our weekend to visit our friend in prison.  So no blog today.  Instead, I leave you this poem.  Newly minted.

A Peony Bursts

Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door, the blowzy peony lets go,
unnoticed.

 
On the way back from the greenwaste can,
a trail of false scarlet.
I leave the outdoor offering to wind, dew—
the helpful scatterings of nature.

Petals on the stoop and just inside the door,
I gather into one palm.  They are soft,
remarkably fragrant.
Frangible.  I roll them in my hand,
conjure visions of bone dice and tea leaves.
No use.  The petals remain


inscrutable.

I ran across this quote a while back and wanted to get feedback from blog readers on the thoughts it contains:

"In a time when the notion of goodness has been thoroughly watered down, as politeness is mistaken for kindness, certainty passes for faith, ethics for spirituality and middle-class mores for saintliness, it's good to be reminded that those whom many consider saints are complex human beings who more often than not defy convention."

--Gregory Rodriguez

I can't remember the context of the quote (it might have been around the time that Mother Teresa's private writings came out and revealed her to be a woman with doubts).  Nevertheless, this quote raises a number of questions for me, chief among them--What is my notion of goodness?

My answer to that question will take more than a blog to sort through, but here are my initial thoughts:

Goodness is evidenced by an individual's behavior--it is not merely an ideal (to which we hold others accountable).  A good act is one that considers all parties to the act; self, those directly affected, those tangentially affected (so-called collateral damage)--and contributes most to the common good. 

As such, good acts need to be thoughtful.  They can only happen within the context of critical thinking.  Otherwise, there's a danger of substituting adherence to a code for actual consideration of the situation.

My addendum on goodness is that it's not a static attribute.  One is not "always good."  One is rarely always "bad."  As Dr. Hamlin once urged me, "you may want to consider a dynamic notion of goodness."

I've come to understand that goodness does not happen by "keeping all the rules."  If it did, according to the Judeo-Christian tradition--there would have been no need of Christ for all could be accomplished through adherence to the Law.  But codified laws are tricky things.

They are written in generalities, but we live life in specifics.  They are written in a particular historical context with certain desired results.  Interpreted across the centuries, in different cultures, they lose their impact and their level of "justice" is compromised.

So that's my first stab at understanding "goodness."  I know there are brilliant minds out there who check in on this blog from time to time--feel free to argue, amend, debate, clarify.

When I was in college (the first time around--Pepperdine University in the late 70's/early 80's), one of my first friends was a young woman named Heidi.  She was our dorm leader, surrogate "Mom," friend and soother of broken (or homesick) hearts.  I wanted to be just like her.

Heidi was amazing with more than human hearts.  She was also a talented artist, singer and calligrapher.  Lacking much of a voice, fairly hopeless at art, it seemed natural for me to try my own hand at calligraphy.  Parts of the craft came naturally enough.  I could hold a steady pen.  I could form letters with reasonable ease.  But I was never patient enough to become an artist at the work, to invest the hours of practice required for original script and creations of unique beauty.

Over the years, even though I lost touch with Heidi, I kept up with the craft in a haphazard fashion.  I used calligraphy to address many, many (too many?) Christmas cards and somewhat fewer birthday cards.  I filled out more than a few marriage certificates.  I bought pens.  I practiced occasionally.

And in the process, I developed my own hand--a calligraphic version of my "own voice."  At one point, about 15 years ago, my niece Deanna said she always knew when a card was from me by the writing (with or without calligraphy pen).  Her mother, and my friend/sister-in-law, Donna, took up calligraphy as well.  She is modest about her abilities, but she has a distinctive and beautiful hand.

I've been able to seriously employ my somewhat rusty calligraphy skills twice in the past few years.  In both instances, I was asked by a niece to help address wedding invitations.  Amy was first to ask and we made quite a party of the event at Donna's house.  Donna and I addressed while Amy, her mom, Candy, and her gang of bridesmaids assembled the invitations.

This past Sunday, it was just Deanna, Donna, Deanna's friend Diana (that's a lot of alliteration in one room) and moi.  Donna and I again shared addressing duties.  As I sat and wrote familial, familiar, and unfamiliar names with a brown calligraphy pen, I was infused with nostalgia and gratitude.  I recalled Heidi and her gentle, sweet spirit.  I remembered holding Amy and Deanna for the first time as darling baby girls.  I remembered them growing up far too fast for my liking and the years when my career made me a stranger to them, to my lasting regret.

How was I to know, thirty years ago, when I first picked up a calligraphy pen and scratched it across the practice page that this craft would find employment in such a happy service--announcing the joining of these young women to the men they've chosen to spend their lives with--sharing a day with them at the cusp of this particular dream. 

And if my hand was not as elegant as Heidi's, it turned out not to matter.  What mattered is that long ago, I fell in love with a caring woman's spirit.  And I picked up a pen so that I could, one day, etch names onto envelopes in service of two other women, my nieces, of whom I am so proud; whom I love dearly for their unique spirits--as full of zest, caring and laughter as my long ago friend.

Thanks, girls.

Sometimes the real is surreal. 

Ever since returning from the Baltic, I've been somewhat challenged in adjusting to the California time zone.  The prior two days, I was in bed before 10 and up at 6.  So last night's record of staying up until 11:00 p.m. boded well. 

Not so much.  I awoke at 5:00 a.m.  Completely.  Awake.

So I stumbled to the loft to read my book (the excellent Careless in Red by Elizabeth George).  After a few moments of literary distraction, I became aware of the growing heat.  I shuffled over to open the window to the fog-strewn morning and was greeted by...

Toilet Paper.

Now, I do remember a time when being on the receiving end of a few well-flung rolls of toilet paper was a badge of honor.  My 16th birthday was commemorated by friends with a particular sense of style--using rolls of the pink and green toilet paper that was available in the late 70's.  (Remember matching your toilet paper to your bathroom?)

However.  I am now, as we've established, a woman of a certain age.  And while Dan and I are entirely capable of childlike wonder (and even a childish moment or two), we are definitely past the age where our friends come over in the middle of the night to display their affection with tissue confections.

This had to be a case of mistaken identity.

But mistake or not, the toilet paper was in our trees, on our flowers, strewn about our driveway.  And so it was that I was out, cleaning up toilet paper, feminine hygeine products, and strawberry bath foam from my front yard at the crack of dawn.

Somewhere in our town today, there's group of giggly girls who are going to be disappointed and confused when the young man (or so I assume) who was the target of their mischief seems more obtuse than usual.  I can see them slowly figuring out that maybe, just maybe, they hit the wrong house.

Will they wander by to see whom their real victims were?  If so, should I be ready with a super-soaker or let bygones be bygones?

After all, the strawberry bath foam gave me an excuse to hose down my driveway (something verboten in drought-prone California).  And although I spent the early morning in a state of amused annoyance, it wasn't entirely real since I wasn't entirely awake.  Who can begrudge whimsy when it whisks one back to youth, to a time when what was important was that one's house was festooned with pink and green streamers and, because of that toilet paper, all was right with the world?

Mom and I got home safely on Wednesday night...and were SO pleasantly surprised to see that Dan was picking us up in person (despite rush hour traffic).  We crashed yesterday (Thursday) and she headed home at about 10:00 this morning.

I spent the day cross stitching and catching up on the recent U.S. Open...and then heading out to play a bit of golf with our friends, Tom and Renee' at the club.  I thought I was playing horribly...but I ended up with a 116.  So, it's all relative.  116 is horrible for some folks.

But for me, with jet lag...on antibiotics, not having played for two weeks...well, it's a decent score.

For Tiger?  Different context.

It's nice to be home.  Nice to be settled into real life (complete with laundry and preparing my own meals, etc.).  Nice to be with Dan.

There's no place like home.

Why is it the night before travel is always one of restless sleep?  Perhaps it has to do with anxiety about missing flights, but I also think the brain is actively collating experiences, savoring memories, straightening out the archives.

While I missed the official tour of Stockholm yesterday, I was treated to a view of the city (lovely broad boulevards with greenbelts and parks down the middle) and the surrounding countryside (streams, golf courses, woods, and lupine-lined fields).  It looks like a place that would be fun to come back to for exploration and hiking, fishing and golf.

We toted up the hours we´ll be traveling today and it comes to 19 hours from the time we left the cabin to our estimated landing in Los Angeles.  We have a brief layover in Heathrow, but nothing worth even seeking out the club lounge unless the gates are literally next door to each other.

I´m looking forward to my British Airways pod and a brief nap followed by a private movie-fest during our 11 hours from Heathrow to LAX.  But most of all, I´m looking forward to seeing Dan again.  Two weeks is about 12 days too long to be connected only via email.  Next time, I´m putting him in my luggage.

I am having a lovely day of rest in Stockholm while Mom’s out touring.  I woke with a scratchy throat and cough so I thought a day of leisurely packing, coughing in the privacy of our room, was the best call.  I’m actually not even upset to have missed Stockholm…although Mom may change my opinion if she returns with glowing tales.  It’s nice to have a bit of time to relax before we begin our long (20 hours by my estimate) return journey tomorrow.

Last night eight of us gathered for dinner in the Silk Road restaurant, enjoying sushi, warm mushroom salad, various main courses, wine and convivial company.  It was a great way to begin our trip’s ending—sharing food, stories and companionship with friends new and old.

I’ve got so many wonderful memories from this trip.  Wandering alone through Copenhagen.  Listening to Mom’s poetry reading and watching the response of friends and strangers.  Meeting Arie in London and our lovely dinner. Meeting Gigi on the dock and parting again, too soon.  The white nights in St. Petersburg.  Delicious meals.  Amazing company.  Lush performances by incredibly talented musicians.  An adventure I hope to savor for many years to come.