The Rambam's Teachings

A few years ago I ate a delicious macrobiotic lunch in the small neighborhood of Nachlaot, Jerusalem, Israel. The man who prepared the lunch was named Asher, but I knew of him as the Carpathian Mountain Man, as he called his home-based restaurant the Carpathian Mountain House. Asher is a wonderful man who loves sharing his home, good food, and wisdom with others. He opens his home to people all hours of the day and on Shabbat, for meals that feed the stomach and the soul. Usually during a meal Asher gives over a talk about the food he prepared and its healthful benefits, and he ties it to the Parshah of the week or to the Jewish holiday that is approaching. Many times his meals revolve around a certain body system or organ, such as the nervous system or the heart. He prepares dishes that correspond to and strengthen the body in unique and fascinating ways. The first time I went there I was of course bewitched by his extensive library, which covered topics such as Jewish astrology and ancient Jewish healing remedies. There was a book called "Nature's Wealth: Health and Healing Plants based on the teachings of the Rambam." It goes through various fruits, vegetables, and herbs and traced them to Rambam's writings and to the Torah. Since the book seemed rare and probably out of print, I did a search and found it for around $100 online. I could not afford that, so I waited. One day I searched for it again and found it on eBay for only $3! Soon it was delivered to my house and I asked my sister to bring it to me in Israel next time she came. This book is really great because it has information that I haven't seen elsewhere.
The Rambam, or Maimonides, as Julliette de Bairacli Levy points out in "Common Herbs for Natural Health," was a spiritual giant of the middle ages. Born in Spain on Passover eve, 1135, he grew to become a physician, philosopher, and renowned Torah sage. After the inquisition forced his family to flee Spain, he spent his days in Morocco and Egypt. He was known as the "Great Eagle." Amazingly, last night after reading some of the book I had a dream about a great eagle flying above me...The Rambam was ahead of his time and his medical advice and exercise prove to be accurate and relevant to this day. He wrote 10 books, including books about nutrition, poison and antidotes, and a book about healthy living. It was said of him, "Galen healed only the body, but Abu Amram (Maimonides) healed the body and the soul." Besides the many specific dietary and medical recommendations the Rambam made, perhaps the most important teaching of his is that one should make every effort to be happy with his lot during his short stay in this world. There is nothing better for both the body and soul than joy, to make the face shine, the body healthy and strong, and to age at a natural pace. The inscription on his grave reads: "Elite of Mankind."

New wave Cataloging ~ FRBR

art by D.S.A. 2011

how the new approach to information sharing reveals/reflects our expanding consciousness...

FRBR, IFLA, RDF, FRAD...all these acronyms can make a librarian's head spin. But of all the acronyms I have come across so far in my library studies, FRBR sparkles in my eyes. It sounds really boring spelled out: Functional Requirements for Bibliographic Records, and if that's not dry enough, it was developed by IFLA (International Federation of Library Associations). FRBR is an abstract, conceptual reference model that urges information providers/organizers (librarians, archivists, catalogers, etc.) to look at information in a new way. With FRBR, information is seen, understood, and organized in relevance to other information. For example, a book that sits on the library shelf is cataloged not merely by the superficial attributes that traditional cataloging looks at (such as title, author, subject heading, call number, etc); it is cataloged with reference to its brother/sister books/films/e-books/any other formats, versions, editions born of the same original work. In essence, FRBR is like a family tree of information -- linking and tracing a book to its roots, ultimately helping the user to find relevant sources and information that perhaps he/she didn't know they were looking for at the onset. For example, using traditional cataloging, I might search for a book about herbs. I might do a specific search for a book I know about or do a subject/keyword search and find a book related to herbs that way, but that is where it usually ends. The potential for "accidental" or "coincidental" searching is slim to none. If an item doesn't have a common attribute with my search, it is left out of the picture. That ignores millions of relevant items (distant relatives are relatives nonetheless...) and is akin to looking through a keyhole as opposed to unlocking the whole door. With FRBR, I might search for a title I know of and I'd be able to contextualize the item within its place in the universe of herbal knowledge. I might find that the author has ties to a school of thought I never encountered but want to now, or that the book is a distant relative of an herbal that was recommended to me but I forgot existed. I might be led to a topic other than herbs that is still highly relevant to me, because finding it was born of my interest in herbs. FRBR shows me the bigger picture.
To me, FRBR is a reflection of the global world-web that we as a human race are finally becoming aware of/can no longer ignore.  The internet (world wide web, called that for a good reason) has enabled connection and communication with places and people that until now were seemingly isolated and disconnected. Whether or not we realize it, we are experiencing a major shift in consciousness. It is an obvious truth that today everything and everyone is plainly and actively connected, and our daily lives consist of these cosmic-scale cross-cultural interactions. If a person 50 years ago may have lived life believing that each of us is an island (or each of our countries, or cultures), today no person could deny that we live in a world in which everything is constantly connected. The connections have always existed, yet our consciousness of them has ebbed and flowed throughout time. We are now in a time of rediscovering that all things are essentially one.
It is this awareness of connections, and rejection of isolationism that FRBR as an information model stands for. Just as humanity is uncovering the endless "wires" of the web that we are all a part of, FRBR is born of this reemerging world-view. FRBR is about connections, relationships, and links between items. Books are no longer seen as independent, detached entities that stand on their own - they are the children of the years, efforts, expressions, and manifestations of the world itself. I love FRBR because it respects the past, it respects the surrounding information and the journey of each item. It opens up worlds to the user and leads to pathways that might be otherwise hidden. It exposes through information sharing and organization the billions of intricate webs that bring everything and everyone of us together.

The Flower Shop

The flower shop on Palmach Street in Old Katamon of Jerusalem was falling apart. It stood beside a framing store, with mirrors of all sizes hung outside, showing passerby's how they looked walking on the sidewalk, a glimpse of how we appear in the outside world. Some would look at the reflection out of the corner of their eyes, others would avoid the mirrors altogether, and children would stop and stare at their faces and coats and boots surrounded by the street life.
The flower shop was decrepit, with a tin roof that didn't keep out the rain or cold in winter, though rain was rare. On the rainiest days the owner placed the buckets of roses, ranunculae and poppies under the leaks, turning his roofing problem into a blessing. The buckets of flowers lined the sidewalk, often getting in the way of people's feet, of strollers, or stolen wagons from the supermarket across the street. From the early morning when the owner and his wife would leave their tiny two bedroom apartment attached to the shop to open the doors, they'd begin taking out the buckets of flowers and lining the sidewalk. By the end of the day, when the last customer ran in for a bouquet for a birthday or forgotten occasion, the buckets were shoved back into the shop, barely leaving room to close the door.
Often a customer would enter the shop, appalled by the clutter and lack of space, to find no human among the sunflower stalks, the baby's breath, the rotting roses in the back and the newly delivered birds of paradise. It was like finding a monster in a lullaby; where people expected to find beauty and order and another world, they were often horrified at this flower shop left so unkempt, so dirty, so brutally uninspiring.
After recovering from the initial shock of the place, they'd notice a small handwritten sign written on a piece of cardboard that read "next door." And feeling like a trespasser, they'd exit, frantically searching for the owner. Yet even when they found the tiny apartment attached, it was common for the door to be half ajar with no one in the kitchen, but a pot of cous-cous or a frying pan with an omelet cooking, and an ashtray cradling a lit cigarette on the table. The trespasser would stand completely still, bouquet in hand, partly relishing the rare feeling of being in a strange home, uninvited but not unwelcome. After that miniature eternity, the owner would slowly shuffle into the kitchen and nod at the patron. "I'd like to buy these..." he or she'd say, feeling a need to justify their presence in this man's kitchen. "Twenty," the owner would say, though he'd sell that same bouquet to the next man for only 15, or maybe 25. He'd conjure up a price based on a number of variables; mostly the demeanor of the customer, the traffic of the day thus far, and his wife's mood.
It was more common than not that the customer would bargain with the owner for a better price, pointing out that the roses were already wilting, or that there was more filler than blossoms in the bouquet. Sometimes it would work, other times the owner would so adamantly refuse the offer, stating he'd rather lose the business than sell his flowers to such a person.
On nights that I had left over cash from food shopping I would stop at the flower shop for a simple bouquet of ranunculas which I would display in a green mosaic vase on my coffee table. The round, satiny ranunculas in their maroons, pinks, and canary yellows always caught my eye. I would usually buy a bunch for 15, once or twice for ten as the last sale of the night.
One night I noticed a handwritten sign hanging by a piece of purple ribbon near the door, nearly buried among the hundreds of ads and loitering taped up on the windows of the shop by locals. It read: "Help wanted. Inquire within. If empty, Kitchen. If closed, call." The handwriting was that of a man in denial of asking for help. There was a man buying flowers with long dreadlocks who I had seen moments before in the supermarket. I grabbed a bunch of purple poppies. There we were, three of us, all in the same crammed space suddenly. Certain things I prefer to buy alone - free of the gaze or pressure from other customers; flowers being one of them, and certain types of jewelry. Now with the job opportunity, I really preferred the dread-locked man wasn't there too, and he looked at me as I mustered up the money to pay for my bunch and the courage to ask the owner, "are you hiring?"
"Yeah. You know flowers?"
The owner's wife was a Tunisian red head who always had a cigarette and a Turkish coffee. She walked away from the laundry line where she was hanging clothing to dry right there on the street. Her face was weathered and tough, and she barely ever smiled, always looking you right in the eye. She was taller than her husband and appeared to be much younger than him, judging by her hair, her figure, and her clothing. But her face was wrinkled beyond her years and gave her away. She always said, "nothing is ever enough for him," making a bouquet with a cigarette on her lip. Now she was looking at me and sizing me up for the job.
"I love them..I study arranging and I have good hands..." I reassured the two, feigning a confidence I always wished I possessed. She puffed the cigarette and looked at her husband. He was wearing what he always wore: a navy blue ski cap, pajama pants with elastic that was stretched out, argyle slippers, and a plaid jacket. He stuttered slightly and his voice was hoarse and worsening by the day. But he had kind eyes and he was hopeful, and he was the only person to call her by her french name. 
He asked, "can you make a bouquet?" leading me inside to the table with the tools I had never used before. I was unprepared and wanted to practice with my ranunculas first. I thought quickly. "Can I come back? I have the milk in my bags and it's late..." He wrote down a phone number.
"Come tomorrow." He was hopeful, like me. His wife went back inside.
I got home and tried to make a bouquet like they did in the books, but the ranunculas looked best just as they fell naturally in the vase. After trying again and again, I was discouraged and dreaded the performance of making a bouquet to prove my eligibility. I thought about canceling, avoiding that part of the street forever, and not having ranunculas in my green vase on the table anymore.
I never made a sample bouquet, but I got that job. They needed me to start right away. I'll never forget how it felt to sell my first bouquet of yellow and orange roses, when the owner whose name I don't know if I ever really knew (or needed to), smiled at me for the first time since I met him and told me with his eyes, "I knew I could trust you." My days as a florist there were full of life: decaying flowers, flooding rains, flowers for births, flowers in shapes of crowns for children to wear. Roses the colors of love itself, thorns pricking my hands, cigarette smoke mixed with the breath of the flowers, mixed with the demands and stories of the customers. Cats jumping in the holes in the roof, spider webs around abandoned furniture piled up in the back of the shop, shoved aside in reach for the perfect flower to complete a bouquet. I would sweep the floors constantly, trying to soften the place and I'd smile at the customers triple - one for me, two for the owner and his wife. I had a beautiful experience, working for the only flower shop owners in the world who didn't hide their imperfections from anyone.

Joy Unleashed

"There are many kinds of barriers: Those from within and those from without. Barriers between people. Barriers that prevent you from doing good things.

Barriers of your own mind and your own hesitations. There are the barriers that exist simply because you are a limited being...Joy breaks through all barriers."

~Based on letters and talks of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi M. M. Schneerson

Flower Power ~ an Herbal Home in NYC

Last year I was saddened to find that Aphrodisia, my favorite (and first ever) herb shop in NYC had been closed down. I walked up and down Bleecker St. where it once stood, with its lacy curtains and always a beautiful black and white cat in the window, unable to fathom that it had closed. I thought that all hopes for an herbal "home" in NYC were lost, though I did harbor hopes for Aphrodisia to be opened once again (and I still do!) I had to go into the city today for something, and I decided to google "herb shops nyc." The search yielded thousands of results, mostly health food stores and vitamin shops. But at the top of the list was one that seemed legit - Flower Power Roots & Herbs shop in the East Village, on 9th st. between Ave. A & 1st Ave.

Sesame helping a customer

I decided to visit and I am very glad I did. Passing by on 9th st., one might not know that inside there are hundreds of organic/wildcrafted green allies displayed beautifully on the shelves in glass jars alongside books, calendars, salves, healing salts, and flower essences.
The moment I walked in I felt I had found home! The lovely and beautiful attendant Sesame allowed me to take some photos and she was so excited to hear that I am a student of Rosemary's. I was excited to see Rosemary's herbal healing for women book on the shelf. I bought an oz. each of horsetail, hops, milky oat tops, and dong quai. Sesame told me they'd also ship herbs to me in the future if I needed.
On the counter they have a notebook where customers can write favorite herbal recipes/tips - I wrote a recipe for my Loving Nettle Coconut Oil Hair Treatment. It was a wonderful feeling to be amongst the herbs again, right there in the middle of the East Village. Walking out with the herbs in hand, I felt markedly different than I did when I walked in, I guess that's flower power ~

The years teach much which the days never know. 

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Flower People

Tulipe (Les fleurs animées)

In the Winter 2011 newsletter of United Plant Savers there is a short article about finding good herbals online. I looked into illustratedgarden.org, an archive of old herbals and rare books. It houses 131 volumes and most are from the 18th and 19th centuries and have beautiful color illustrations. You can order botanical prints as well. Many of the books are written in French, Latin, and Italian but a few are in English. I looked at Les fleurs animées by J.-J. Grandville, 1847. There are a dozen or so color illustrations of animated flowers such as the Tulip queen (right) that are so charming and quite thought provoking. It reminded me of a book I used to always look at as a child called How does your garden grow? by Mary Hilliard Jackson, 1973.

Pototea of the
Pitcher Plant Family
(How does your garden grow?)

The book goes through what resembles common garden plants but plays on the names and appearances. For example, a "Pototea" of the "pitcher plant family" that "comes to full perfection in the late afternoon. Growth is short and stout." As a little girl I remember not being sure if these were real flowers or not, and hoping to one day find one growing somewhere. Of course all these instances of botanical personification remind me of Alice in Wonderland, especially the garden of live flowers scene, in which the various flowers try to figure out what genus and species Alice is.

It led me to think about which flowers I am like. In the secret Victorian Language of Flowers meanings assigned to flowers throughout history were used to communicate secret messages, called floriography. People would sometimes create bouquets that served as their personal emblems - consisting of the flowers that symbolized his/her characteristics most closely. In my bouquet I would have lily-of-the-valley and lavender which are the herbs of Gemini, a crown imperial for majesty, dragon lily for inner strength, heather for solitude (I need my alone time!) jasmine for grace & modesty, larkspur for my fickle nature, magnolia for love of nature, and a snowdrop for my hopeful outlook. Which herbs and flowers would be in your bouquet?

Loving Nettle Hot Oil Hair Treatment

This is a perfect time to nourish and treat your hair as we change seasons and prepare for the wintertime. You don't need to go out and buy expensive products or chemical-laden masks, all you need is some coconut oil and dry or fresh nettles. If you don't have nettles, you can use basil, rosemary, or just plain coconut oil. I chose nettles for their stimulating and nourishing properties. Lately, I started to feel like my hair is getting dull and dried out and needs some loving. I know that during changes in weather hair can start to shed as well. In Rosemary's book Herbal Recipes for Vibrant Health, she writes that our hair is like a garden. It needs tending to and even some weeding now and then. I just sat outside in the sun and massaged the most luxurious and wonderful smelling oil into my hair - coconut oil infused with nettle. Here's how I prepared the simple treatment:

1. Place about 3 tablespoons of coconut oil in a thick glass bowl
2. add about 1-2 teaspooons of dried nettle or herb of choice
3. boil water in a pot and place the bowl of oil over the pot (double boiler method)
4. stir the oil constantly to ensure the herbs or oil don't burn - the oil shouldn't be smoking or boiling!
5. let the oil become infused with the nettles and keep stirring. around 10 minutes.
6. remove the oil from the heat source, drain it over a fine sieve or cheesecloth into a separate glass bowl
7. let the oil cool down but it should be warm when you apply it
8. sit in a sunny breezy place and pamper yourself as you apply the oil to your scalp and hair. massage it in to help stimulate regrowth and renewal.
9. when all your hair is saturated, wrap it in a warm dry towel
10. leave the oil in for about an hour, then shampoo and rinse it out.
Enjoy!

Discovering the Elders ~ Tasha Tudor

Tasha Tudor and her goat

When we learned to make salves and oils, our lovely teacher Rosemary told us that the beeswax we would be using was from Tasha Tudor's own hives. She said anyone who knows about Tasha would realize just how special that beeswax is. I don't know much about Tasha Tudor, though every time I heard her name (which was only a handful and always through Rosemary somehow) it evoked some deep rooted childhood memory, like when you hear the tune of a favored children's song or recall a recipe your grandmother used to make you. I must have known subconsciously that Tasha Tudor was a well known and beloved author and illustrator, and I believe that as a little girl I was read her books and I traced my fingers across her charming drawings of rabbits, flowers, field mice, and other natural things, all the while imagining I was there inside the scene. I didn't know that Tasha Tudor was a woman who decided to defy modernity and live a completely natural "old-fashioned" life. I haven't read much about how Tasha came to such a decision (maybe it just happened naturally?) but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that Tasha was self-sufficient, in tune with nature, and happy. Tasha published nearly 100 books, one of the most well known being "Pumpkin Moonshine." Since I shelve books in the Children's room at the library, I will definitely be looking at some of her work, as I work. She also wrote books about her lifestyle and one of those which I recently read is called "The private world of Tasha Tudor" which is a semi-auto biography (written also with Richard Brown, 1992).

Tasha's beloved corgyn
painted by her

The book goes through a year at Tasha's beautiful gardens and home, which she says is "east of Vermont and west of New Hampshire," perhaps pointing to its being out of this world and time. I found it interesting that while Tasha had created a lifestyle entirely of her own which was undeniably different from most people around her, she was very practical and not the airy dreamer-type I imagined. She was blunt and honest about herself and her actions, stating that she was a commercial artist who published books to "keep the wolf from the door!" I appreciated this honesty very much because it's so easy to think that people like Tasha who are such independent spirits are almost fictional, or somehow not human, but she was. She accredited her strength of spirit to gardening: "gardening has untold rewards. You never have to go on a diet, at age 76 I can still wear my wedding dress and still chin myself. I've never been depressed in my whole life and I've never had a headache. They must be awful. I attribute it to goat's milk and gardening." Some of the most beloved of her plants were lettuce poppies (my favorites as well), peonies (prairie moon), rein de violette roses, artemisia, iris, pinks, clematis, and forget-me-nots (I am growing a small pot of these now). In the book "Tasha Tudor's heirloom crafts," by Tovah Martin, it is said that every floral border that Tasha ever painted was once a living wreath. This must be why her illustrations are so alive and almost tangible, they enter our hearts through all the senses somehow. Tasha loved her dogs (corgyn was the plural form she used for corgy- she claimed are the best kind of dog and she even said, "Apollo can't hold a candle to my Owen"), her one-eyed cat, her African grey parrots, and her goats, sheep, horses, and other four-legged friends.

Beautiful lettuce poppies from
Tasha's garden

It is clear that she was always creating something - whether it was a basket woven from her homegrown wood, soap and candle making, dyeing, weaving or lace-making, or creating her handcrafted marionettes. She also used Rosemary's recipes for herbal creams and medicines, such as rose hand cream. But again, Tasha brushed off her incredible industriousness to her mere "fiddling with some project or another." But, I think I know better. I think Tasha was a brave soul who crafted a life that she genuinely believed in- and by opening that door (and shutting others) she made the space for the things she loved to do. When we love what we do, we always want to be doing it! Tasha said her credo in life is that "if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours." (Henry David Thoreau) I admire Tasha's honesty with herself. I admire her bravery in going against the grain and living in a manner that was her truth. I admire her passion for creation and her energy and motivation to get things done. She took her life seriously and didn't let a chance pass by for her experience to be infused with meaning. Just because we live in a day and age when most everything we could ever want or need is already made for us doesn't mean we need to go out and buy it. There can still be mystery and magic in our lives. We can still have the deep, true satisfaction of growing our own gardens, of witnessing life's miracles every day. We might all have a Tasha inside of us, just waiting to design the life of our dreams. I can see it now like a vivid illustration on a blank, clear page; living the life we love and loving all that we live.

Herbal Apprenticeship ~ Part 2

Mist over the gardens

Arriving at Sage Mountain on an early Sunday morning, the mountain was filled with a sheer mist that would return every so often throughout the week. Through the mist I began to see apparitions of other apprentices, peeping out of tent doors, admiring the plants, sipping cups of steaming teas. One thing tied them all together - they were all smiling. I found the kitchen and started on a cup of green tea with ginger, and mustered up the courage to announce my arrival to the others who were enjoying breakfast and talking. I was warmly welcomed by all. Joy, my first friend at the mountain, greeted me and made me feel right at home. Her glowing presence and warm heart made me feel safe and joyful. As I sat and looked around, trying to take in as much as possible, Flower, the beautiful and sweet assistant told me I could eat something and then check in at the office when I was ready. I met Robert at the office and he asked if I would be dorming indoors or tenting. When I said tenting, he looked surprised, and said "brave soul!" I was flattered and liked to think of myself as one. I was eager to pitch my tent and unpack. I had about an hour until the first class of the day. I chose a spot near the intern's cabin at the edge of the forest, not far from the office and from Rosemary's home. There were a few other tents there, and I thought it would be a good spot considering I never did this before and the wide open field where most of the tents were pitched was a bit intimidating (and far away!)

My tee-pee in the distance

So I put up my sweet little green tent and brought my possessions, making sure to bring no food at all inside. I had a dream about a bear the week before I left and was very nervous about inviting any wild friends in. There was a sweet satisfaction once the tent was up and I had just a few minutes before class started to use the bathroom, eat something quickly, make another cup of tea, and find the yurt. I was sidetracked on the way there by the herb gardens that cascaded down the mountaintop, the mist creating an incandescent glow around the blooms.

Sweet Heather

Though it was early Autumn and most of the plants were preparing to draw back down and go into winter mode, there was a certain beauty in the garden I never saw before. Maybe because I never realized that gardens can be beautiful even when they aren't in their full bloom time. The dew at this time of year is thicker and more substantial, giving the plants a look of encasement in tiny bubbles of shining glass. The early decomposition stages were beginning and so there were deep ambers, fading magentas, heavy minty greens, all saturated by the heavy dew. I noticed a little heather plant with the tiniest bells of magenta and beige pink flowers, coming out of the edge of the rock near a little fairy cave.

Precious fairy cave

I noticed great attention to detail, with crystals and fairy castles throughout the garden. I noticed many herbs I had never met before but knew I must have heard of or read about and a surge of excitement came over me. Walking to the yurt, I could see in the distance a round room surrounded by trees, mosses, and thickets of green. I saw the other apprentices entering and for a second they looked like little fairies or elves dropping into another realm.

The Yurt, where the magic happens

I took my shoes off, dropped off my backpack, and entered as well. I saw colors, light, candles and incense. Chairs and cushions on maroon and turquoise rugs. I saw flower fairy flags, sculptures, beautiful arrangements of wildflowers and crystal specimens. A table at the front with herbal books, jars of infusions, baskets of dried petals and leaves. In that moment everything came together. I saw Rosemary sitting at the front with Flower and the other teachers I hadn't met yet. She asked, is anyone new here today? And as if watching myself in a dream, I said, "I am!" I was gently guided towards a seat and Melissa, a teacher, gave me an amethyst globe to hold as Rosemary asked me to introduce myself. I said I came because I felt I had to and that I have been interested in herbs and the green world for as long as I can remember. Everyone said I'm beautiful. I cozied into my cushion chair, looked around, and took out my notebook and pen which would become filled with the wisdom and insight of Rosemary, Melissa, Micky, and my new friends over the next week.

Anatomy of a Modern Librarian

Via:Master-Degree-Online.com

Reflections on Anaïs: D.H. Lawrence: An Unprofessional Study

Anaïs poses a question I have often wondered myself: "Why should not an impulse be wise, or wisdom become impulsive?"

A common theme threaded throughout Anaïs' writings is an appreciation of intuition and the voice of the inner self. Here, she praises D.H. Lawrence (whose works I have not read myself, besides a few chapters of Lady Chatterly's Lover) for giving his characters time - to discover their own way and "hour of resurrection." She commends his patience in allowing his fictional characters to slowly "gain confidence in the wisdom of the body." While I prefer non-fiction over fiction usually, I would agree with Anaïs' celebration of a writer who is able to bestow a true sense of individuality into his characters. Lawrence has said: "I know my body is fragile, in its way, but also it is very strong, and its the only body that would carry my own particular self." Here he displays what Anaïs, and myself, value above all - the recognition that each and every one of us is unique in ways that are purposeful, meaningful, and irreplaceable.

Many times in life we confront people who are not individualists, meaning they do not necessarily see things this way. They might recognize that people are different, but they either don't respect the differences or cannot appreciate another person's individual self. This happens all the time. When we argue about a point of view, when we judge another for their appearance or style, when we become disappointed if another person simply cannot see the way we do. We forget that each person out there has an entire set of consequences, circumstances, and experiences that have led him up to this moment. How, where, when they were raised, who they have met, what images they have seen, what songs they have heard, and so on, all conglomerate to create this person's current point of view. But, since the person appears on the outside to just be another person, with the same basic form as the rest of us, we only see the surface of their being. Imagine if a person's entire existence was visible when we looked at them. Their colors, their shapes, their size all affected by what they have done and what they dream of. But of course things are not that way. Things are hidden to us. Rebecca West writes: "...now I think he was doing justice to the seriousness of life, and had been rewarded with a deeper insight into its nature than most of us have." She rectifies a wrong judgement of a person she meets by giving him a second chance, another look. A deeper look. Initially, she perceives his actions as perhaps silly or unsmart. Then she places his actions in the backdrop of his whole self, the bigger picture, and sees that for him, in that particular moment, the action was correct.

The interrelation between time and intuition is key. Time expressed as patience, allowing the inner self to find its way, is of utmost importance in fiction and reality. Until a person has cultivated her own inner self and subsequently appreciates her individuality, she cannot see it in another. This goes back to the question posed by Anaïs, about impulse and wisdom. Impulsiveness does not necessarily mean "quickness."  Often in my life I have acted out of impulse, but an impulse that has slowly bubbled and formed in my dreams or inner mind. Waiting for the ripe moment to act requires patience, and knowing when it has arrived requires wisdom. Anaïs states that "when William Blake was constructing his world he made no attempt to exteriorize his imaginings in his own life; he knew that the time had not come." Blake was ahead of his time and knew this. He did not force his way of life, rather he was able to live out his dreams through writing and expression, which he saved for the future generations. He was able to remain in touch with his individual voice despite restraints placed on his external life by society. Blake knew that the time would come for him and he trusted that fully. Otherwise he would not have been content to live one way and dream another way. As we patiently wait for our own moments to fully express our inner selves, we must also find ways to remain in touch with that deep part of us...

We are each made up of endless "intricacies and entanglements," and this is something we must never forget to remember. In each encounter with another human, we face not just a face, hair, hands, and legs, we face an entire world. Underneath layers of experience there is a spark of individuality, unlike any other that has ever existed. Within that spark is infinite wisdom, wisdom that pertains to that individual's path towards "resurrection." Letting that spark shine through is a form of impulsiveness, since it is not how we operate every day, and might not be a product of rational, careful thought as we know it. But, most likely the action that stems from our inner voice is more developed since it dwells in the realm of dreams and intuition - the realm safe from external corruptions and corrosions, the place deep within that is truest to the soul.

Small Time Blues by Pete Droge (Almost Famous movie)

Star Sayings

Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.

John Milton, Paradise Lost. Book v. Line 745.

Starry-eyed - overly romantic or idealistic.
Star-crossed - thwarted or opposed by the stars; ill-fated.
Starmonger - astrolger, fortune teller (used in contempt)


Zeffirelli's star-crossed lovers in Romeo & Juliet, 1968

Star in some languages:
French - étoile
German - stern
Hebrew - כוכב
Irish - réalta
Italian - stella
Latin - sidera

An Herbal Treasure in NYC

It must have been nearly ten years ago when I began to explore the West Village of New York City as a starry eyed teenager. I'll never forget the experiences there that led me to choose to study at New York University for my bachelor's degree. I so loved the energy and the individuality of the people, the shops, the streets, the mosaiced lamp posts around there. I recall an afternoon when a friend and I met a guitar playing man named Lucas who played Led Zeppelin's "The Rain Song" to us in Washington Square Park. I looked around and thought, I want to live here someday. Some of my favorite shops were the tattoo and peircing parlors on St. Marx, the Mud truck always parked at Astor Place, the used record shops and Matt Umanov guitar shop and of course Aphrodisia Herb Shoppe on Bleecker St. I returned to Bleecker this summer after a long trip abroad and was saddened to find that Aphrodisia had closed down. I walked up and down Bleecker, unwilling to fathom that it was no longer there, especially since I have developed a passion and curiosity for herbs in the past few years.
A nice man at the bookshop next door informed me that the store did indeed close, and he gave me a business card, saying perhaps they'd reopen someday. I remember going into the shop, seeing the lovely lady and her gorgeous cat inside. The shop seemed so cozy and full of life, like an old cottage that was well lived in. I would walk around, trying to take in as much of the products I could. I would read the labels on the herbs, totally lost as to their function and use, but nevertheless aware of their quality and powers. I believe the only thing I ever purchased was a bag of loose tea that I might never have drank properly. Instead, I would go inside there to revisit a world that was otherwise lost to us. It was a place of magic and imagination, with its lacey curtains and dainty jars and decanters all around. The smell of the forests, the fields, and the gardens of the world were all bottled up in there. I never took advantage of the owners' wisdom, perhaps because when I entered, when I was living in that place and time, I didn't feel a need for any remedy or fix. I was content to just look around, and wonder. I miss that place, not because I was a regular customer, but because it holds a place in the dear memories of that time of my life. I miss what that place stood for, and still believe in it. Aphrodisia, like Washington Square Park, and the Rain Song, and St. Marks Place, will always remain the same for me.  I wish luck to the owners and hope they will open up again soon.

Art Nouveau Journals

Finding a suitable, worthy journal to house your innermost thoughts, dreams, and musings is no simple feat. Oftentimes the physical journal itself will encourage and inspire you to write more, merely because of its beauty, its stature. These one of a kind journals will surely not be wasted on to-do lists or budgeting. Though you cannot buy them individually, you get five assorted designs (about $6 each), so you can give them as gifts or have enough paper space for at least a few weeks, months, or days...depending on your writing style.

Anaïs Nin, Kindred Soul

Last week, I read:
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
That old familar fluster in my heart, I envisioned the release and felt close to the subject.
And then:
"Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
A gust of inspiration overcame me as I read more of Anaïs' words. I had never heard of her, but I felt an immediate affinity with her spirit, so apparent in these one or two line truisms. Of course I sought out more of her works, and was led to Under a Glass Bell, a reader. I borrowed it from library, but felt I couldn't yet read it. I kept it beside my bed and glanced at it, wondering when I'd feel ready to pursue it. Just a few moments ago, I felt the time was right. I took the book with me to a private place and read the first short essay, "The Labyrinth." As I read, I was overcome with gratitude that I had been led to her, and more awe of the text's undeniable, unswerving mission; to awaken in me, the imagination I let sleep so long. I feel sure that reading her works will do a great service to my own soul, and also somehow, to the world. Who is this brilliant star, dressed in lace and ruffles? She left behind her diaries to the world, for us to find out. She wrote, in "The Labyrinth":
"My lips moved like the sea anemone, with infinite slowness, opening and closing...forming nothing but a design on water..."
I could envision a tiny, glowing anemone, a dweller in a world unknown to my senses, floating slowly on its journey that none else could embark upon. I could be that anemone in that moment, the distance diminished.
Her description of the labyrinth of her eleven year old diary evokes fantastical, earthy, folkloric memories of that dark green, velvety moss in mysterious, magical forests where as children, our minds dwelt as permanently as they do now, in the largely repetetive, resigned, and chapped world of adulthood. Nin advocates for the existence of that sensual, inconsistent, flower and fur-ridden place that's been buried deep beneath all this time beyond eleven years old.