Story Jar - Peace, Love, Flowers and Ribbon: The Wedding

Peace, Love, Flowers and Ribbon
Story Jar, November 2007





I want these words to turn to butterflies, rainbow wings floating with spicy scents amid the rich voices of a thousand violins but of course it’s not possible. Still, that’s what it would take to tell you how wonderful Emilie’s and Josh’s wedding was. I can’t pack the sights, the tears, smiles, pride, energy, love or even the colors of that wonderful day into words but their first anniversary is nearly here so it’s time to do my best.

Emilie and Josh were married. Allow me pause to smile and sigh. On that day Josh was no more our son than the day before because he’d already been in our family
for 6 years.

You might think that because you’ve been to weddings you have a pretty good idea about this wedding but it wasn’t like any other wedding I’ve seen. They were joined by Rev Connie Dutcher in an intentional, purposeful, conscious Celtic Handfasting Ceremony. Let me explain.

They were married at Peace Abbey outside of Boston. That’s where the Dali Lama and Mother Theresa stayed at times and it’s the location of a national registry of conscientious objectors. The chapel holds the holy books, prayer beads, prayer wheels, vestments and flags for all major religions – so many that it barely has room for people so Em and Josh were married in the library.

People who know Josh and Emilie realize that the library was THE place for these two readers, writers, masters of words, thinkers of thoughts, holders of ideas and histories and connections. The library was totally fitting.

Across from the entry door is a finely-crafted fireplace and seating is arranged in a U facing it. As people entered, they took a candle. Karn was there to light it for them. All the candles were placed on a table near the entry and then everyone sat and talked spreading the energy of anticipation. When the guests were seated Rick, Jay and I came in and we each put flowers in what Emilie called our “family vase.” Josh’s family (Patti, Dave and Johanna) added flowers to the vase blending our families and then it was time for Josh and Emilie.


Somewhere in the process I began to worry a bit about the vase. Emilie asked me to make a large vase but clearly I didn’t get it large enough. It was full when Em added her bunch but Josh had more flowers. How would they fit? One of them was a sunflower with a stem about the size of a broom handle. Josh paused a bit considering the situation and then grabbed the vase and shoved those stems in. His smile of triumph was well earned.

They walked to the center of the room, in front of the fireplace, within a circle of rose petals, holding hands, smiling, looking young and happy and whole.

Handfasting is an ancient tradition common in Scotland until 1939. For hundreds of years, only wealthy Europeans could afford to marry in a church. Peasants would fasten their hands together in public (“tie the knot”) as a sign of their commitment. The practice is also associated with the custom of shaking hands to seal a contract. This ceremony was an elaboration on tradition.

Emilie and Josh stood in the circle of flower petals and Connie welcomed everyone and then Emilie began reading her vows to Josh. I started crying, not that I was the only one. Emilie spoke of being a fierce friend and partner. She talked of loving and of being purposely and intentionally together.

Rick had tissues in his pocket so I nudged him but he was absorbed in the moment and ignored me. It took some powerful sniffs and a couple of pokes to get a tissue out of him and by then Josh was reading his vows. He talked of admiring Emilie for her spark, creativity, courage, compassion and sense of justice. There was a lot of crying by then.

They held hands through all of this and then the tying began. Jay was first with the blue cord representing water. He made the cord of ribbon and lace and described how it represented emotional depth, peace and security. Then he tied their hands together. (Sorry, I was crying then. Here's Jay and Em dancing.)


Johanna was next with the white cord made of ribbons and marble discs and representing air. Johanna said that the air-cord represented strength of spirit, healing and protection. (I made this cord and the others after spending hours in Joanne Fabric choosing from thousands of ribbons, cords, braids and fabrics and then sewing them together with embroidery threads and beads.)

Kyle presented the orange chord of ribbons and rope and shinny gauze. Orange represents fire and Kyle talked of passion, liveliness, kindness and encouragement while he fastened the cord.


Kjersten was next with the green cord representing earth. Green stands for energy, success and a full and happy life.

Adding to that was Patrick with the gold cord for metals. It represents activity, intelligence, unity and learning.





Finally was their friend Josh with the brown cord. Brown is for wood and represents skills, talents and love for animals. Like the others, Josh’s tying ended with hugs.




Then Connie spoke to pronounce them partners for life. People stopped wiping their tears long enough to applaud and as the fireplace log burned low, Em and Josh removed their hands from the cords which fell nicely into a wreath – now hanging on the wall in their living room.

Story Jar - British English

British English

I’ve had difficulties with my English communication skills from time to time and place to place. I remember having several problems in 1984 when we went to Zimbabwe and the Queen’s English confounded me. Gill asked me if I wanted to use the loo before leaving her house and I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’d been tripped by this foreign English on several occasions already.

Everyone knows that a car has a boot and a bonnet but during the visit I learned that robot = traffic light and trolley = shopping cart. It was quite the thing when I learned that pants = under garments and trousers are the only pants that other people see. By the way, women do not discuss undergarments with store clerks under any circumstances.

One puts things into a pocket or a punnit and not a paper sack or bag. One eats biscuits, not cookies, and sweets, not candy. Juice is not the liquid squeezed from fruit but rather it is the carbonated soft drink. So, when Gill asked me about the loo, I answered honestly asking “Is that something I’ve done before?”

Now, if you are laughing, may I say to you that the spell check on Microsoft Word doesn’t know “loo” yet. Had she asked if I wanted a water-closet or even the WC, I’d have been right at home. I just didn’t know loo.

I had a conversation about my speaking ability some time in 1988 when I was standing at a bus stop in Butterworth near the island of Penang in northern Malaysia. I visited with another tourist there and we passed the time talking about where we’d been and what there was to do and what to eat when she asked where I was from.
“I’m from the US.” I told her.
“No, you can’t be,” she said.
“But, I am.” I assured her.
“But you speak English,”
“Americans speak English,” I said wondering what had suddenly gone wrong. “English is what we all speak.”
“Americans speak garbage,” she scoffed. You have grammar, diction, you can’t be American.”

Well, I don’t know where she had been or who she talked to. She was convinced that I was lying – some kind of spy in hiding perhaps. Curious.

Curiouser still I was in a taxi with the children not long after and the Sikh driver asked me a question. I couldn’t understand him so I asked him to repeat it. I tried to process his words and his accent with my English but just couldn’t figure out what he said so asked him to repeat it a third time.
“Don’t you speak English?” he barked.

It was uncommon for someone to lose patience in Malaysia. It quite startled me. I wanted to tell him that I’d been told I speak very well. I wished I had a note from the woman at the bus stop to show him as proof of my abilities but I think I just sat there feeling hot and defeated.

Then there was the time that Emilie wanted to go to Ina’s house to play. Ina’s mom asked if she could give us “a tinkle.” My face, I presume, took on a totally blank look while my brain tried to figure out what the heck “tinkle” meant. Maybe the cab driver was right.
“On the phone,” she said. “I’ll give you a tinkle on the phone.”
“Ohhhhh,” I answered. “Yes, of course.”
“Don’t you tinkle in the United States?”
“Yes,” I said, “we do but it doesn’t involve a phone.”
Had I known the word I might have mentioned the loo.

Story Jar - Movin' with Joe

Movin’ with Joe
His name was Joe Mover. “Mr. Joe Mover,” Melvin said in introduction and I wondered about the truth of it. Joe Mover, taxi driver in New Orleans. What were the chances?
Joe’s cab was a Lincoln Town Car, not new but don’t let on about that. It was white with gold lettering: Taxi - New Orleans - Reliable driver.
Melvin, doorman at the Monteleone, promised to find a taxi for us at two, in spite of the crane and trucks that had turned Royal Street into a construction zone. Sure enough, just before two, Joe was at the corner, beyond the crane and its human and mechanical trappings.
“That’s Joe Mover. He’s a good man, Joe Mover. He’ll take care of you.” Melvin seemed proud to know him, proud to have a part in the transaction.
At the corner, Joe opened the trunk and smiled. Polished shoes, pressed pants, satin jacket, smartly brimmed hat – he was the perfect image of a taxi driver. Better because he was real.
His trunk was lined in custom-cut carpeting with a small whiskbroom in a corner. Across the back, in a customized pouch, there were bottles of cleaners, polishes, rags - an army of small soldiers for Joe’s battle with disorder. Inside the cab, it was clear that victory was complete. The royal blue leather seats were as smooth and shiny as polished marble. There was no lint on the carpet, no dust on the dash, no smudge on the glass.
Joe started our trip with a short cut, turning down an alley, cutting through the parking garage of a smaller hotel, popping out the other side to greet another cabbie. This young upstart in his new minivan goosed the throttle, nudging Joe aside, never a glance at the town car or driver.
Joe scolded, “See that? See that? Wouldn’t even give another cabbie his due. If was the other way, he’d be cussin’. What goes around comes around. Comes around. You got that right. Comes around.”
Joe’s voice was a little raspy but strong. Seventy-five years of saying what he saw and knew colored his tones. He used words not for telling but for showing. He repeated words, enjoying the cadence. His conversations were soothing songs in frantic city traffic.
“You know what Naw’Leans is famous for? Do you know? Good food and a good time. You got to have good food to have a good time and Naw’Leans has plenty of good food. You got that right.”
Driving past the Louisiana Superdome, Joe sang out facts and fantasy. He watched it being built as he inched through traffic jams for four years of construction. It was fascinating, he said, to see the sections of the roof, “lowered by helicopters and fit right in place just like acoustic tiles in a ceiling. Folks rubber necking to see it sometimes stopping and putting their whole necks into it. Fascinating.”
Joe focuses on people, though, so his real fascination was with the audiences there. “You know the biggest crowd it had? Go ahead and guess. I ain’t gonna hold you to it. It was the Pope. The Pope had ‘em standing in the field on top of each other. You know the biggest crowd for a concert? Come on and guess. I’ll give you a hint. It was 1981. It was a rock group. It was the biggest crowd ever for a concert. You guess this one. Can’t you guess?”
“The Rolling Stones?”
“Is that your final answer? The Stones? Final answer? Well, that’s right. You got that right. Now Elvis, he would’ve beat that, if he didn’t die. Beatles would’ve beat that too but they broke up. It was the Rolling Stones and they had 87,000 people there. The Rolling Stones.”
Joe could draw a pretty good crowd himself if they gave him a chance but he seems pleased with movin’ through the city, driving folks and singing about Naw’Leans.
Go to www.keylesspiano.blogspot.com to see The Story Jar with photos.

Antoni Gaudi

Jean Miro and Antoni Gaudi

While in Barcelona, we went to the much-lauded Jean Miro museum where we were much disappointed. After being inside comfortable and interesting Gaudi buildings, the Miro felt, sounded and looked harsh, angular and rough. The sounds of people moving and talking became as prickly as the cacti on the hill we had just gotten lost on. The temporary installation on the lower level included staccato music that bounced like verbal glass shards and after a while sitting in the museum made contemplating anything other than the fact that Gaudi could have made a great museum instead of having construction crews pour a pile of concrete walls and floors.

I can’t say that Miro's work soared above the building. The large weaving near the entry was impressive and a two sided tile had nice color and texture on the hidden side. The egg sculptures here and there were pleasing and some of the landscapes were pleasant enough but the black and white “fireworks” and the contemplation for a recluse (or something like that) were depressing and many of the works were titled “painting”. Was that the best he could do?

Person after person walked through whispering “Brilliant” and I didn't get it. Couldn't even figure out what "it" was.

When we were in the Gaudi buildings, the rooms were easily as densely populated as the rooms in the Miro yet the noise in Gaudi-spaces was always a dissipated hum. The rounded corners and doorways didn’t bat the sounds around as if they were huge wings on pinball machines but they guided voices to listeners and absorbed footfalls. The Gaudi buildings were designed to be comfortable and to provide for the flow of air and sound. The art museum was designed as a surface for display with no thought for the comfort of visitors or workers.

Casa Batllo was marvelous with shiny tiles, unexpected door panels, curved wood work, stained glass windows, fish scale details on walls, a mushroom-shaped nook with a chocolate brown fireplace and ceilings that swirl.

La Paderera is a mass of creativity and comfort. It's modern but ageless and nothing if not different.

Having said that, Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's cathedral, isn’t my favorite place. Eighth wonder of the world though it may become when finished in 2050, I find the facade of the Nativity to be roughly swirled – a concrete head with naturally curly hair that has been in humidity and wind for 100 years already and twists in every direction with no pattern or place for the eye to rest. Rick says it is like a super large candle that has melted and dripped and then solidified into a huge waxy glob.

The spires are impressive and I think I like the multicolored fruits and eyes of god on top of them but there is so very much happening on the exterior walls that just looking at the shapes and shadows might drive a person mad. How did the workers ever manage to create it?

Inside it’s different. There are many calm surfaces and great stained glass colors and more stained glass to come in the next 4 decades and the massive amount of materials (rock, concrete, steel, glass, marbles from around Europe) staggers the mind as does the idea that the cathedral has been in progress since 1888 and won’t be finished for another 43 years.

It’s exciting to see a cathedral be constructed because it is such a massive and complex object. It’s an interesting project. Outside there's a lot of this and that - stuff I won’t live to see finished to make a final assessment. Inside, I like it. The columns have lines from floor to ceiling. The exterior walls are clearly defined and the stained glass installed so far puts blurs of orange and blue across people and floors. Again, hordes of people stand, walk and explore while construction workers pursue their tasks but the noise is never deafening and there are lots of shapes to look at and enjoy with places to draw the eye onward as well as to give allow pause. Inside, it feels like Gaudi while outside it's gaudy but everywhere it's a heck of a building.

Barcelona, Sunday

Barcelona

Barcelona looks and feels like the definition of variety – people, vehicles, food, architecture. It doesn’t have the polish of Madrid or the endless sea of ornate buildings of Prague or the charming tiny metro of Budapest but it does have the work of Antoni Gaudi and for mind-boggling architecture Gaudi is the winner.

We strolled on Sunday looking at buildings, taking photos of doors, finding fresh vegetables and exotic fruit at a market, snacking at restaurants joining Barcelonans in what feels like a spontaneous and endless parade on La Rambla.

We’ve seen so much here that it’s hard to remember it all. In the old days, before digital, we’d have used three or four rolls of film in a week and hoped to remember something when we got it developed later. Now we take photos by the hundreds each day and hope to identify them when we download in the evening. For me, the review helps to set the memories.

We went to one of many of Barcelona’s (free) cultural museums to see the ruins of the prior Roman city. The excavations under a 14th and 15th century building are extensive and the museum offers video programs to show how the area was uncovered and what it would have looked like in Roman times. Drainage ditches defined the textile dye shop and the bottoms of large, round, clay vats used for wine making were intact in the winery area. Like many museums there is a free audio tour in a choice of several languages.

The port seems an enormous see urchin with its spiny coating of sailboats side by side and end to end almost totally coating the water, locked inside a bay where a pedestrian bridge swings open to allow boat traffic. (After a warning alarm the bridge moves. People stop at the edge – no guard rail, no security person – and the crowds back up along both sides of the bridge filling the space so that when the bridge goes back into line again it takes a while for the traffic to unplug and flow again.)

At the far end of the bridge is a shopping center with Starbucks, Ben & Jerry’s, restaurants, clothing stores of enormous prices and lots of places to sit and wonder. At the shore is a huge monument to Christopher Columbus surrounded by lions whose backs frequently have tourists sitting for a photo.

On Monday we had a Gaudi day starting with Cassa Calvet. We couldn’t actually go inside of Cassa Calvet. Surprisingly, the building has straight lines – rounded corners but straight lines. The balconies glide out from the windows and doors and the building wears a stately crown.

The sandstone blocks are of different sizes and the balconies are supported by curvy and intricate carved stone. Inside, they say, all the wooden furniture and walls are individual sculptures.

Then we found Cassa Batllo. Holy Cow.

The building is nick-named “Bones” because of the organic pillars on the outside. Rick seemed taken by the windows with large, circular glass pendants seeming to hang from filaments of lead within a free structure of glass. I think they represent air bubbles in the water. The building was created on an aquatic theme with dark blue tiles inside the courtyard at the top and lighter blue toward the bottom so that deep into the courtyard the colors would be more reflective.

The doors were flowing panels of wood and the ceilings had the curves of water-moved sand. The walls were painted in fish scales and the air moved through channels in the walls as if currents of water. On the terrace were ceramic gardens and on the roof the chimneys came together to form a small coral reef. Fish scale tiles defined the roof’s wave-contour – or is it the shape of a fish’s back? Whatever it is, I see why Gaudi was thought to be either a maniac or a genius. His imagination was enormous, his skill undeniable. The building felt good from the inside. I want to be able to think that that in many materials. Wow.

We stayed in a Spanish apartment (less expensive than a hotel). Our apartment entrance was a marble hall with marble stairs and a lift in the central courtyard. Our kitchen window opened into another courtyard and all kitchen conversations in the building blended together there with aroma of dinners (often involving garlic).

There were other windows that opened into other internal courtyards and at the rear was a little balcony looking out into a huge courtyard along with 500 close neighbors. In the center of the area was a school and a play area. Sometimes there were a few people out on their balconies but generally outdoor time seems to be spent in the streets or in the squares.

Our apartment had a kitchen, bathroom, central hall, 4 bedrooms (2 quite small) and the living/dining area that opened to the balcony. I don’t mean to give the impression that the balcony was large. It was little more than a place to hang clothes, sit on a small stool and balance the computer on an ironing board, our makeshift table. Voices carried there also floating with the sound of a distant TV, an opening window and silverware finding those garlic-filled dinners.