There is nothing an introverted melancholy Finn likes better than trying to figure out the meaning of life. I have even looked up "the meaning of life" on google. Today I found what makes me happy in a list on Virtual Finland. Lists make me happy.
Finnish feel-good factors
1. Home sweet home, a home of one's own
2. Sunny weather
3. An honest relationship
4. A trusting relationship
5. The freedom to be oneself
6. A freshly cleaned home
7. Friendship, gestures/words in a relationship
8. Friendship, actions in a relationship
9. Fidelity in a relationship
10. Security in a relationship
The explaination of each of those was right. I feel just like the author says, " It never takes long in a country where people on the whole lack a small-talk culture, but are ever ready to open a seminar on "Why are we here, where are we going?"
So why are we here, I ask? Where ARE we going? I need to find another Finn to discuss this with. He Who Must Be Obeyed is Norwegian and they know why they are here and where they are going and they do not like to waste time talking about it.
"Instead of materialism we're in for more relationships, but not before number six, which is a freshly cleaned home." Deep meaningful relationships and a clean house are everything.
We Finns "are obviously content with simple, honest pleasures such as the smell of newly washed laundry, falling in love or walking in the countryside.
The first direct reference to money appears at number nineteen and it is that great feeling: "there's more money in my account than I remembered". It is true. I taught school for twenty years and never really cared how much money I made. My paycheck was direct deposited and I never knew what I was earning.
Joe Brady who wrote for Virtual Finland got it right. Maybe now we should have that discussion on The Meaning of Life.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Perfect Parent Pretense
He Who Must Be Obeyed is still in denial about the roof. I know it is about the $350 stainless steel tarring gun he bought. He probably doesn't even know that is what drives his denial.
The new roof was expensive, but worth it in every way imaginable. Financially, our home insurance went down 17% and that is no small matter. Emotionally, I have quit thinking about black mold creeping through the ceiling in our bedroom and I no longer think I am going to start a fire when I turn on the light switch. I found brown water streaming though the ceiling fixture almost as unnerving as the little blackness I see where crown molding should have been put up 25 years ago.
He still mentions that if only he had retarred the spot that leaked... I really find that annoying.
Fifty years of marriage can get a person down sometimes. We have a married son and family visiting in the city this weekend. Every time we expect grown children, we have a little discussion about not argueing or disrespecting one another while they are with us. One of them told me, I can't recall which one, he hated to hear us argue. Every person wants perfect parents. It simply cannot happen.
Carrying on this facade sometimes works and sometimes it doesn't. One thing leads to another and the perfect parent-farce collapses into an unfortunate scene. I suppose in the grand scheme of things the practice is good for us.
The new roof was expensive, but worth it in every way imaginable. Financially, our home insurance went down 17% and that is no small matter. Emotionally, I have quit thinking about black mold creeping through the ceiling in our bedroom and I no longer think I am going to start a fire when I turn on the light switch. I found brown water streaming though the ceiling fixture almost as unnerving as the little blackness I see where crown molding should have been put up 25 years ago.
He still mentions that if only he had retarred the spot that leaked... I really find that annoying.
Fifty years of marriage can get a person down sometimes. We have a married son and family visiting in the city this weekend. Every time we expect grown children, we have a little discussion about not argueing or disrespecting one another while they are with us. One of them told me, I can't recall which one, he hated to hear us argue. Every person wants perfect parents. It simply cannot happen.
Carrying on this facade sometimes works and sometimes it doesn't. One thing leads to another and the perfect parent-farce collapses into an unfortunate scene. I suppose in the grand scheme of things the practice is good for us.
Friday, October 22, 2004
"Crazy Woman Creek"
Fifteen women contributors gathered to read and sign "Crazy Woman Creek" books Wednesday at the Center for Great Plains Studies in Lincoln, NE. I was one of them and it was a good first experience to both read and to meet the other writers. In fact it was very enjoyable.
The place was called the Great Plains Art Collection but the term on the brochure says it is the Center for Great Plains Studies and was called one of the Paul Olson Seminars. The room was walled with artwork from the region. At the corner entrance were bronze sculptures of the Lewis and Clark, a magnificant Indian, the little Sacajawea, and the Newfoundland dog. To the north of the door was a beautiful young homestead woman in a bed of natural prairie grasses and flowers that haven't been wasted by a frost yet. They both were beautiful scenes in our American prairies.
There seemed to be almost 200 that attended the event. I tried to have good eye contact with my audience, but I couldn't bring myself to look directly at WILLIAM KLOEFKORN who is such a distinguished poet in Nebraska. If he is even a little bit as personable as his pretty wife, both of us could have dealt with it. Instead I gazed at some of the harmless looking students who were taking notes. I, too, have had that kind of class assignment. It would be nice to get a look at their notes. There would be an honest critique for a wanna-be writer. A person would know right there whether to go back to the cello or spend more time with a camera.
He Who Must Be Obeyed drove me there, with 20 minutes to spare.. I wonder what he really thought when he saw me in this setting instead of flailing on my back, in the back yard pulling weeds, or chasing dirt with a wool duster on a stick.
The place was called the Great Plains Art Collection but the term on the brochure says it is the Center for Great Plains Studies and was called one of the Paul Olson Seminars. The room was walled with artwork from the region. At the corner entrance were bronze sculptures of the Lewis and Clark, a magnificant Indian, the little Sacajawea, and the Newfoundland dog. To the north of the door was a beautiful young homestead woman in a bed of natural prairie grasses and flowers that haven't been wasted by a frost yet. They both were beautiful scenes in our American prairies.
There seemed to be almost 200 that attended the event. I tried to have good eye contact with my audience, but I couldn't bring myself to look directly at WILLIAM KLOEFKORN who is such a distinguished poet in Nebraska. If he is even a little bit as personable as his pretty wife, both of us could have dealt with it. Instead I gazed at some of the harmless looking students who were taking notes. I, too, have had that kind of class assignment. It would be nice to get a look at their notes. There would be an honest critique for a wanna-be writer. A person would know right there whether to go back to the cello or spend more time with a camera.
He Who Must Be Obeyed drove me there, with 20 minutes to spare.. I wonder what he really thought when he saw me in this setting instead of flailing on my back, in the back yard pulling weeds, or chasing dirt with a wool duster on a stick.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Does Putin Really Know?
Reading Itar Tass this morning I find a quote from Russian President Vladimir Putin at a new conference. He said, "The attacks of international terrorists in Iraq are aimed against George Bush personally. International terrorists set the goal to inflict maximal damage to Bush, to prevent his election to the second term.”
After a month in Norway a few years ago, and enjoying Aftenposten advertisements in the rail stations, I read it fairly regularly. Today, the Norwegians are much more concerned about the King's bloodline than the American election.
If you are interested about midwifing a pig click on Life Of Onni in the Helsingin Sanomat. There you have a little movie complete with subtitles and ambient sound. The little boy asks, "What was he doing in there?"
Some Kurds have lived in Finland for 'many years' according to one of them. That and the fact that Nokia is important to Finnish economy is more important than our presidential election.
Of the few foreign newspapers I read, only The New Zealand Herald mentions that tomorrow is a "Black Anniversary for the Stock Market." Of course today is tomorrow there, so that makes sense. We had a son call home that day to see if anyone was jumping out of the upstairs window.
Closer to home, the folks at The Wichita Eagle seem calm in this Monday edition. I have an inlaw who is employed there. His responsibilities at The Eagle include leading editorial board meetings, writing and editing editorials, and editing opinion columns. He also writes a personal column and is a regular guest on "Kansas Week" on KPTS, Channel 8.
Finally, our own Omaha newspaper has the poorest online edition in the world in my estimation. I did a double take as I was getting ready for church Sunday, I was certain that NPR said they had come out for Kerry along with a list of other papers around the nation. Reading the paper, they didn't. I still wonder if I was half asleep or somebody at NPR was not quite awake. Maybe they really meant The Des Moines Register, which looks as credible online as it is on newsprint.
I once team taught Intro to Journalism with an up-and-comer who touted the wonders of that paper. Both liberal, both excellent at what they do. He has gone on to teach Journalism at Lawrence, KS at the University.
Those were the good old stressful days. I love newspapers.
After a month in Norway a few years ago, and enjoying Aftenposten advertisements in the rail stations, I read it fairly regularly. Today, the Norwegians are much more concerned about the King's bloodline than the American election.
If you are interested about midwifing a pig click on Life Of Onni in the Helsingin Sanomat. There you have a little movie complete with subtitles and ambient sound. The little boy asks, "What was he doing in there?"
Some Kurds have lived in Finland for 'many years' according to one of them. That and the fact that Nokia is important to Finnish economy is more important than our presidential election.
Of the few foreign newspapers I read, only The New Zealand Herald mentions that tomorrow is a "Black Anniversary for the Stock Market." Of course today is tomorrow there, so that makes sense. We had a son call home that day to see if anyone was jumping out of the upstairs window.
Closer to home, the folks at The Wichita Eagle seem calm in this Monday edition. I have an inlaw who is employed there. His responsibilities at The Eagle include leading editorial board meetings, writing and editing editorials, and editing opinion columns. He also writes a personal column and is a regular guest on "Kansas Week" on KPTS, Channel 8.
Finally, our own Omaha newspaper has the poorest online edition in the world in my estimation. I did a double take as I was getting ready for church Sunday, I was certain that NPR said they had come out for Kerry along with a list of other papers around the nation. Reading the paper, they didn't. I still wonder if I was half asleep or somebody at NPR was not quite awake. Maybe they really meant The Des Moines Register, which looks as credible online as it is on newsprint.
I once team taught Intro to Journalism with an up-and-comer who touted the wonders of that paper. Both liberal, both excellent at what they do. He has gone on to teach Journalism at Lawrence, KS at the University.
Those were the good old stressful days. I love newspapers.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Nation's Center News, Buffalo, SD
My hometown newspaper, Nation's Center News, is one thing I look forward to on weekends. The local columnists write with a knowledge of their neighbors activities. Reading them makes me lonely for home. I would include a link for the paper, but unfortunately there is none.
Four writers are my favorites. One has a short column of pure cowboy humor and I never know if it is true or not. He has written of the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale that was started by an ancestor of my husband; and he writes of the days and nights of ranching with cowboy humor.
Another writes of women cattle ranchers doing what all ranch people do. It is inspirational to read of women who are competant on a horse, working cattle, or in an investment group. They are people with a work ethic, individualism, and a depth of intelligance and good sense. Women widowed or divorced, with children to raise, and ranches to manage. She is one of them and writes from experience and close friendships.
One woman writes of the battles of the ranchers and the State Game and Fish folks. She writes of politics without political correctness. She takes on the State over a Branding Inspector despute. She writes of mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes killing livestock and a cousin of mine that she calls "Chicken Man" who is contracted by ranchers to hunt coyotes by small plane. She spats out her feeling of what she calls "do-gooder environmentalists."
A home town son taught English in Saudi Arabia for 20 years and retired to our home town, Buffalo, SD. He now writes a column of Mid-East history with the inside information of personal anecdotes. Last week he wrote of his father, who was one of the original county cowboys and bronc busters. This week we read of his kidney stone and gout. He concludes his column "that the difference between a doctor and God is that God doesn't go around believing he is a doctor".
It is a darned shame that small town papers are not read by more people. It only goes to 1,800 subscribers.
Four writers are my favorites. One has a short column of pure cowboy humor and I never know if it is true or not. He has written of the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale that was started by an ancestor of my husband; and he writes of the days and nights of ranching with cowboy humor.
Another writes of women cattle ranchers doing what all ranch people do. It is inspirational to read of women who are competant on a horse, working cattle, or in an investment group. They are people with a work ethic, individualism, and a depth of intelligance and good sense. Women widowed or divorced, with children to raise, and ranches to manage. She is one of them and writes from experience and close friendships.
One woman writes of the battles of the ranchers and the State Game and Fish folks. She writes of politics without political correctness. She takes on the State over a Branding Inspector despute. She writes of mountain lions, wolves, and coyotes killing livestock and a cousin of mine that she calls "Chicken Man" who is contracted by ranchers to hunt coyotes by small plane. She spats out her feeling of what she calls "do-gooder environmentalists."
A home town son taught English in Saudi Arabia for 20 years and retired to our home town, Buffalo, SD. He now writes a column of Mid-East history with the inside information of personal anecdotes. Last week he wrote of his father, who was one of the original county cowboys and bronc busters. This week we read of his kidney stone and gout. He concludes his column "that the difference between a doctor and God is that God doesn't go around believing he is a doctor".
It is a darned shame that small town papers are not read by more people. It only goes to 1,800 subscribers.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
The Presidential Debate Tonight
He Who Must Be Obeyed has gone to encourage a brother. The brother is about to take on 40 radiation treatments for cancer. They are together in Wyoming tonight in an elegant RV. I miss being there in spite of my reasons for not going.
I was glad to stay home for several reasons. The only time I can throw useless things away is when he is gone. Even my own useless things find their way back out of the trash cans to be stashed here or there. Tonight a lot of stuff is on its way to the land fill.
Quite a while ago I learned not to clean his closet. He came close to not talking to me. That lasted a couple of hours, I suppose, and every time he did talk it was to wonder how I would feel if he threw away my yard shoes, or my painting shirts. To tell the truth, it wouldn't matter much to me.
Before he drove out a couple of days ago in the morning darkness, he kissed me like he meant it and said he might call a couple of times while he was gone. He called twice before the first day was over. I asked him when he called today if my phone calls were over. No answer. So who knows?
This morning I heard a presentation on "Healing Touch." It was interesting and I know first hand that it works. There was a time before and after a back surgery, before the Pain Clinic, that if it weren't for the warm, healing hands of my husband, I might have committed hara-kiri. (I looked it up, it is right.)I told him how healing and soothing it was to me then. At my age a person better tell people how they appreciate them.
In a half an hour we have a nephew that is on the camera crew for the Presidential Debate in Arizona. Having taught television production, I am going to be watching those camera shots. I prefer the split screen in the debate situation if the correct camera is on the candidates, otherwise it looks like they are looking away from one another. Maybe they are! The shots looking down on people are demeaning in my mind; and the ones looking up at them are a little grandiose, don't you think?
I had a camera crew on the "...and you are not John Kennedy" remark. The spin room went absolutely still for what seemed a long time and when it was over I thought the place would explode. Actually my students were in the spin room to do interviews when it was over. It was a memorable experience for this teacher and her high school students.
Work was and is good. I have great memories; and cleaner cabinets today.
I was glad to stay home for several reasons. The only time I can throw useless things away is when he is gone. Even my own useless things find their way back out of the trash cans to be stashed here or there. Tonight a lot of stuff is on its way to the land fill.
Quite a while ago I learned not to clean his closet. He came close to not talking to me. That lasted a couple of hours, I suppose, and every time he did talk it was to wonder how I would feel if he threw away my yard shoes, or my painting shirts. To tell the truth, it wouldn't matter much to me.
Before he drove out a couple of days ago in the morning darkness, he kissed me like he meant it and said he might call a couple of times while he was gone. He called twice before the first day was over. I asked him when he called today if my phone calls were over. No answer. So who knows?
This morning I heard a presentation on "Healing Touch." It was interesting and I know first hand that it works. There was a time before and after a back surgery, before the Pain Clinic, that if it weren't for the warm, healing hands of my husband, I might have committed hara-kiri. (I looked it up, it is right.)I told him how healing and soothing it was to me then. At my age a person better tell people how they appreciate them.
In a half an hour we have a nephew that is on the camera crew for the Presidential Debate in Arizona. Having taught television production, I am going to be watching those camera shots. I prefer the split screen in the debate situation if the correct camera is on the candidates, otherwise it looks like they are looking away from one another. Maybe they are! The shots looking down on people are demeaning in my mind; and the ones looking up at them are a little grandiose, don't you think?
I had a camera crew on the "...and you are not John Kennedy" remark. The spin room went absolutely still for what seemed a long time and when it was over I thought the place would explode. Actually my students were in the spin room to do interviews when it was over. It was a memorable experience for this teacher and her high school students.
Work was and is good. I have great memories; and cleaner cabinets today.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Petrichor
Once I wrote about favorite words. I recieved an warm response to it. Today I write about the word for an indescribable occurance. I mentioned it in an email to cousins, but couldn't for the life of me recall the word for it later on. The word is petrichor.
Petrichor is the pleasant smell that often accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions. According to Australian researchers who coined the word in an isssue of Nature magazine in 1964, Petrichor is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed into neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain. The word is derived from the Greek words petros, a stone, and ichor, the Greek term for the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.
I wasn't there after a rain, but I suspect that the rain on Uluru, Ayer's Rock, in the Australian Outback smells the same as the rain on Sweet Pea hill behind my childhood home, and in the Cave Hills of northwestern South Dakota.
It is hard to describe the sweet pungent smell of home after a long awaited rain. That, and the song of a Meadow Lark, are two of the sweetest things in the world.
Petrichor is the pleasant smell that often accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather in certain regions. According to Australian researchers who coined the word in an isssue of Nature magazine in 1964, Petrichor is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed into neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain. The word is derived from the Greek words petros, a stone, and ichor, the Greek term for the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.
I wasn't there after a rain, but I suspect that the rain on Uluru, Ayer's Rock, in the Australian Outback smells the same as the rain on Sweet Pea hill behind my childhood home, and in the Cave Hills of northwestern South Dakota.
It is hard to describe the sweet pungent smell of home after a long awaited rain. That, and the song of a Meadow Lark, are two of the sweetest things in the world.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Mount Michael Benedictine Abby
Yesterday we had lunch at Mount Michael Abby. Actually it was at the St. Benedict Guest House. Reservations were made two months ago. I understand the backlog. The food was served in elegant warmth. One does not order from the menu. One is not presented a bill. No, we eat what is being served that day, with wine and dessert, and donate whatever we are moved to.
My own experience there was enhanced by the aesthetics, the early elegant Nebraska farmhouse, the period table setting, the music, paintings, the food of course, and by our host, a servant in the truest meaning of the word, Brother Jerome.
As I visited with Bro. Jerome, over purchasing some greeting cards, I discovered that of the ten I had chosen, he had painted five. They are perhaps the most beautiful cards I have ever seen. I asked him if one could come to purchase cards at any time. "Yes," he said, "these are the envelopes for the money." He motioned to a few legal sized envelopes beside the cash register. The door is never locked. People are not always there. I was amazed at the unconventional wisdom of that.
He intoduced me to robed Novice, Cori, who was behind us during that little visit, who was washing our dishes by hand. He told me he was from Oklahoma, but not that he was a 1999 Creighton University graduate. Bro. Jerome had been there for 40 years, arriving when he was 21.
On Friday mornings 10 to 12 people gather in a cozy conversation center to pray and meditate in the lectio divina discipline. Being guided through that Benedictine way of prayer several years ago, I found it life changing.
I am truly a conflicted Lutheran.
My own experience there was enhanced by the aesthetics, the early elegant Nebraska farmhouse, the period table setting, the music, paintings, the food of course, and by our host, a servant in the truest meaning of the word, Brother Jerome.
As I visited with Bro. Jerome, over purchasing some greeting cards, I discovered that of the ten I had chosen, he had painted five. They are perhaps the most beautiful cards I have ever seen. I asked him if one could come to purchase cards at any time. "Yes," he said, "these are the envelopes for the money." He motioned to a few legal sized envelopes beside the cash register. The door is never locked. People are not always there. I was amazed at the unconventional wisdom of that.
He intoduced me to robed Novice, Cori, who was behind us during that little visit, who was washing our dishes by hand. He told me he was from Oklahoma, but not that he was a 1999 Creighton University graduate. Bro. Jerome had been there for 40 years, arriving when he was 21.
On Friday mornings 10 to 12 people gather in a cozy conversation center to pray and meditate in the lectio divina discipline. Being guided through that Benedictine way of prayer several years ago, I found it life changing.
I am truly a conflicted Lutheran.
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