Friday I got it into my head to go to the beach. The weather had been luscious all week long - sunny and in the mid-sixties. My niece is here visiting us from Greece and my husband hasn’t been to the beach in forever, so we decide to just do it. I invite my sister and her husband to join us and they agree. We meet in Mill Valley and traverse over Mount Tamalpias to one of my favorite places in the world — Stinson Beach.

After we get all our stuff settled, we take the obligatory “long walk on the beach” with the dogs, of course. One of the great parts about Stinson Beach is that there’s a dog section and a non-dog section. I’m always amazed by how well all the dogs get along. They seem to be as happy to be there as the people are. Jodie, my sister’s shaggy black lab, runs after balls, birds, and sticks until she drops from exhaustion. Toby, (breed unknown) won’t come to us when we call, so he’s relegated to leash status, and Fritzi, our mini-dachshund, tootles along right next to us, barking at anyone or anything that happens to come near us.

Afterwards, we head to the Parkside Cafe for lunch. The line for the snack shack seems endless, so we go to the dining area and eat a great meal in the warmth of the patio. All day long, we talk about how we can’t believe how warm it is in January. And although we love it, we feel a tad guilty because we know what we really need is rain - and lots of it. Sadly, water rationing looms in our future.

Back to our chairs again, and I lie down for a little nappy. The air is beginning to have a slight chill to it, so I cover up with a towel. That’s my big bootie on the blanket. I listen to the waves booming along the surf line and the call of the crows and gulls as they scavenge for leftovers.

Before you know it, around 5:30 p.m., the sun starts its slow descent into the sea. People line the beach facing the ocean, cuddling with loved ones or watching through the lens of their cameras. How many sunset pictures do I have from this very beach? I feel like I’m part of a California love-fest; here we all are, drawn to this beautiful spot on this beautiful day. I can’t help but think that probably all of us are feeling the awe and mystery of the moment as we watch the sun slip behind the water.

The temperature drops dramatically, and it’s time to go home. But not before stopping at Maria, Maria for some wonderful Mexican appetizers and margaritas. Live music from a guitarist with a lovely voice plays in the background. My lone margarita goes quickly to my head. Soon we’re saying our good-byes.

A perfect day in paradise!

I was thinking about Barcelona yesterday. I spent four amazing days there in the summer of 2007. Long enough to get a tantalizing taste, and short enough not to become disillusioned. Yes, I had a love affair with Barcelona. I think about her often. I would live with her if I could, but alas, it is not to be. This is strictly a long-distance relationship, fed by memories and photographs, some of which I’m going to share with you today.

One of my favorite things about Barcelona is the art and architecture, which through the work of Antonio Gaudi, become inextricably connected. I’m just going to share a few photographs from one of my favorite Gaudi designs - Park Guell.

Porter’s House - Park Guell

My dad and I took a subway ride and made a steep climb to the top of Carmel Hill to get there. As you can see in the picture above, the view is amazing from the top, even on this hazy day.

Park Guell was built between 1900 and 1914. It was originally supposed to be a community of luxury homes, but the development failed, and the land was purchased by the local government and turned into a park. Lucky us!

There are winding paths, terraces, gardens, vaulted ceilings, and colonnades. Many of the surfaces are covered with colorful ceramic tiles. Apparently, they were made from plates and pottery that Gaudi and his workers smashed into small pieces and then used to create intricate mosaics atop many of the park’s structures.

One of my favorite parts of Park Gruell is the undulating bench on the upper terrace. You can really get a close up look at the beautiful ceramic tile work, as shown in the images below. One can only imagine the amount of time and patience it took to create the bench alone. Unfortunately, I was so focused on the details, I didn’t take a single long-shot view of the bench, so I’ve included a couple here from Wikipedia Commons so you can get an idea of what it’s like.

Photo by Deror Avi from Wikipedia


Photo by Baikonur from Wikipedia


Here are some close-up images I took of the tile work at Park Guell.



















Here’s a nice little homemade video of the park by Dennis Callan.

My Dress Hangs Here
from the Tate Modern

Last Sunday my sister, Kris, and I took the ferry into San Francisco to catch the last day of the Frida Kahlo show at the SF Moma. Nothing like waiting until the last minute. The show was there all summer, but for some reason, we never could get out act together to go see it. When I went to get tickets online a few days before, it was sold out, and I thought we’d missed our chance. But when I checked again on Saturday, they had released tickets, so I bought a pair for 5:30. We really didn’t want to go that late, but we figured it would be better than not going at all. Then, Sunday morning, I checked for tickets again, and they had released a lot more. I bought tix for the 3:00 viewing, and then we sold the 5:30 ones when we got to the museum. By then it was sold out again, and the couple who bought them seemed pretty grateful to get the tickets.

Henry Ford Hospital
from Art Archive

The whole point of buying advance tickets at half hour intervals was for crowd control. We were still crammed inside the gallery rooms; not recommended for claustrophobes. I can’t imagine what the experience would have been like if they had just allowed unlimited access. Some of Kahlo’s paintings are very small and detailed, such as Henry Ford Hospital. Everyone, myself included, wants to get right in there and look at all the amazing details. This painting was done with oil on metal. It was the first significant painting in the collection and we formed a line along the wall behind it, patiently waiting our turns. Okay, some people weren’t so patient. I was behind a lady with a stroller and an adorable crying baby. I felt like I’d been waiting a long time and still we weren’t making any progress. Then I notice, people behind us are deciding to walk around us and squeeze in front of us to see the painting. It reminded me of that aggravation you feel when you know your lane is going to merge on the freeway and so you pull over only to have a hundred cars zip by and squish themselves in at the last minute which can alternately make you feel like a sucker and a fool. Those of you who take Highway 37 from Marin to Vallejo and have to make that merge just after Lakeville Road on a busy Friday afternoon will know exactly what I’m talking about. But who am I to say what correct etiquette is in the museum? After all, no one said we had to walk through the exhibit like people waiting for a Disney ride. Okay, so I digress. I continually had to remind myself to take deep breaths and relax so as not to be engulfed with road rage, I mean museum-goer rage.

A Few Small Nips
from Art Archive

But I guess if you’re going to let your emotions get the best of you, a Frida Kahlo exhibit would be a good place to do it. Her paintings overflow with raw passion, and most of it is pretty dark. A Few Small Nips was painted after she found out that her sister had been having an affair with Frida’s philandering husband, Diego Rivera, for over a year. Our little tour brochure said, “Kahlo later confided to a friend that she had decided to paint this scene because she sympathized with the dead woman, since she herself [Frida] had come close to being ‘murdered by life.’” There’s so much pain in this picture that the murdered woman’s bloodstains can not be contained on the canvas and spill over onto the simple wooden frame.

The Broken Column
from Zoe Brigley’s Blog

In fact, Frida never really lets you turn away from her pain, and I think that’s why so many people are drawn to her art. Her paintings are very narrative. When I see them, I feel like I’m being allowed into the soul of her life. I almost want to avert my eyes, but not quite. Through her art, she allows me to be a voyeur to her personal struggles and suffering. She once said, “They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” I love The Broken Column because she paints her strength and her vulnerabilities. Tears stream from onto her cheeks and the background is bleak and barren, but she still shows her sense of determination as well as her sexual power.

Self Portrait - 1930
from The New York Times

Frida said that she painted herself because she was always alone and because she knew herself the best. This self portrait is my favorite among the many that she did. I think that it is in this painting that she allows her real beauty to shine through. Her delicate features, her rosy cheeks and lips, the intricate jeweled orb earrings and the simple hairstyle and dress, seem to depict her at a time when she was healthy and happy. In 1930, one year after marrying Rivera, she moved with him to San Francisco where Rivera had been commissioned to paint two murals. But it was also in 1930, that Frida was forced to have an abortion because of a pelvic abnormality resulting from the bus crash she experienced in 1925.

Frida said in 1938, “I paint because I need to, and I paint whatever passes through my head without any consideration.” How fortunate I am to have been able to see her amazing art work here, and how fortunate we are all that she painted what was in her head as well as in her heart.

For a nice slide show of photographs and paintings, take a look at The Life and Times of Frida Kahlo.

I had a chance to visit the Olema Cemetery in August. It’s a place I’d driven by countless times, but never noticed until last summer. After a two night stay in Stinson Beach, I decided to stop at the cemetery on my drive home, since I was alone and in no hurry to be anywhere. Camera in hand, I walked past the No Trespassing sign and the ugly cyclone fence and ventured inside. Although it was only about 11 a.m., it was already hot and the sun was beating down through a flat blue sky. There was not a single cool, shady spot although the whole place is surrounded and nicely hidden behind a ring of aged cypress trees. Old tin garbage cans overflowed with discarded grave decorations. It was quiet and bright and filled with beautiful statues and stones.

Some of the graves were overgrown and untended. The little angel pictured above was totally hidden behind a clump of vines. I just caught a glimpse of white beneath the green and got down on my belly to investigate. Pulling back the vines I found her hiding there.

Other graves were better tended, like Fred’s. I love all the knick-knacks strewn around his stone. I can imagine family and friends coming by and dropping off little things that remind them of Fred and the things he enjoyed when he was living. Fred was born the same year as me, and it looks like he died in 19- something. I wonder how long its been since someone came by to visit Fred.

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I recently found this poem in the back of a Holton-Curry Seventh Grade Reader from 1914. It’s by Max Ehrman, the same guy who wrote The Desiderata. That poem has always seemed a little overwrought to me, but I really love The Prayer, so here it is.

The Prayer

Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me in the desolation of other times. May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of the quiet river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years. Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit. Though the world know me not, may my thoughts and actions be such as shall keep me friendly with myself. Lift my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars. Forbid that I should judge others, lest I condemn myself. Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my path. Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for life, and for time’s olden memories that are good and sweet; and may the evening’s twilight find me gentle still.

May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit.

The Art of Happiness - Page 45

My summer vacation is winding down. I’m trying to squeeze every last drop out of it. My to-do list has been fairly well completed, but my want-to-do list never ends– it just gets pushed around.

Yesterday I went to school to interview a woman who has applied to teach a history/English combo for 6th, 7th, and 8th grade. It’s a challenging schedule, but her enthusiasm, cheerfulness, and positive attitude about teaching were awe-inspiring. I’m hoping she gets the job and some of her exuberance rubs off on me. After twenty-five years of teaching, I am always looking for new ideas and renewed inspiration.

After the interview, I got my keys and went into my classroom. All the student desks are piled up on one side of the room. I think (hope) they’re getting ready to clean my carpet. I look around, just to get my bearings, and pick up my “First Weeks of School” folder. Time to update my parent/student letter.

The first weeks of school are always exciting. I never fail to get butterflies in my stomach as I begin the first day and see 150 new faces anxiously looking up at me, wondering if my class will be fun and if I will be nice to them. A few years ago I began starting the first day by waiting at the door, shaking hands, and introducing myself to each student. I want them to know that I do care about them and am going to try to make their 7th grade year in English a positive one. When they get into class, I start by reading them the picture book The Teacher from the Black Lagoon. It’s about a boy who dreams that his teacher is a horrible monster, but at the end he wakes up and finds a lovely young teacher there welcoming him. I read it very dramatically (I almost have it memorized!) and I move around the room. I watch to see who laughs and smiles, and who resolves to wear a stony grimace throughout the tale. I know that they are the ones who I will have to work especially hard to win over.

The Art of Happiness - Page 46

The students are on especially good behavior those first two weeks. They’re well-mannered, quiet, attentive. It’s because they don’t know each other yet and are shy about talking. I do everything I can to get them to feel comfortable with each other, and that often becomes my undoing. The more at-ease they feel in my class, the less disciplined they become. They start to talk to each other more, and I find myself having to compete for their focus and attention. I have to start repeating myself and raising my voice to get them to settle down and listen to instructions. The more fun things we do, the more they expect — but we have a lot of serious work to do and I can’t be entertaining all the time. Before I know it, they feel comfortable enough with me to make little comments when something is “boring” (is there anything worse??) I’ve learned that I can’t please 150 twelve year olds all the time, but I do try.

I didn’t plan on writing about school today, I guess I just have some of that start-of-the-year anxiety. What I really wanted to talk about was the fact that I finished eight more pages in my Art of Happiness book.

I’ve been working on this book in spurts for the last four summers. Usually when I start working on it again, I re-read everything I’ve already done. It’s interesting to me to see how my choice of words for the poetry has changed from when I started writing it. I don’t have dates for when I completed the pages, but I can remember events that were occurring at different times while I was working on it. I can get a good idea of when I was feeling blue or when I was feeling more positive. It all comes through in my color and word choices as they unfold on the page.

The Art of Happiness - Page 49

Once school starts, my art has to go on the back-burner again. That’s one of the things that makes returning to work so difficult. I always have to remind myself that I’m lucky that I got so much time to myself in the first place, it’s just that it goes by so fast. Like the last four years working in this book. Four years! Where did they go?