Do You Ever Get Tired Of The Universe?

Do you ever contemplate the unknown? When you look at the night sky and see countless stars twinkling above you, do you ponder the infinite universe? Do you ever wonder if somewhere, there's another being sitting on a grassy orb, breathing life-sustaining oxygen and wondering if you exist?

Thanks to Emi, these aren't merely questions we ruminate over on occasion. It's accepted as reality in our home that aliens do exist. In fact, they walk and talk among us. They are probably benevolent, but sometimes, given certain, er, evidence (like barbies thrown at at an older sister's head, or a secret stash of M&Ms that is suddenly not so secret and not so stashed and dabs of yellow and red and orange smearing supposedly innocent fingers (M&Ms, contrary to their jingle can, in fact, melt in your hand!), we do wonder if there might be a tiny, but not insignificant, malicious streak carried by these life forms that parade around as little sisters. (We do, after all, have laboratory proof that Annie's genetic make-up is not quite the same as the rest of us that live in the brown brick house.)

So the whole alien thing is frequently referred to (sometimes subtly, other times, not so much) when we are gathered around the kitchen table or curled up on the sofa or playing in the backyard or when we are driving in the car...., which is why it came as no surprise when, a few weeks ago, the girls and I were gazing at puffy white trails traversing a bright blue sky. Ever-curious Annie asked what they were. She disregarded my short explanation of airforce jets, instead deciding it must have been aliens. And would you, my friend, like to know why aliens raced across the sky that particular day? As Annie so blithely asserted, "Oh, they're probably tired of our universe."

It Tastes Like....Arkansas?

Guess whose mouth these words popped out of:

Dinner last night was comprised of rolls still steaming from the oven {Rhodes, of course, because when I put something in the oven, I feel like I'm actually baking (as opposed to just pulling an item out of the freezer and letting it rise for a few hours and stopping short of sliding said item in the oven at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.) And that makes me feel like I've done something I'm supposed to do for my family (which is feeding them a well-planned meal. And I did plan well - I remembered to take the rolls out of the freezer in time to eat with the meal for which they were intended!)}. And I made soup.

Really, this soup I actually made. From scratch! With chicken broth (which was not from scratch. Bullion cubes. I don't boil chicken bones. I don't even buy chicken with bones - it's boneless, skinless breasts for me!), chopped onion, diced garlic, a bit of salt and pepper, a dash of nutmeg, some milk, and fresh cauliflower. Oh, and cheese. The soup wasn't too difficult and I really needed to do something with that head of cauliflower that had been rolling around the produce drawer (nice imagery, huh.)

Apparently, when Ryan called on his way home from work and asked what we were eating for dinner (he used to ask me what I was cooking for dinner, then he realized that perhaps he was being a bit presumptuous, assuming I was making something different everyday. So one day he amended his question to asking what we were eating), I told him I was making a broccoli soup. And I guess one of my girls overheard me, because after Ryan arrived home and established that it was cauliflower, not broccoli soup, and we began eating, this child swallowed a spoonful and announced, "Yeah - it tastes like Colorado to me!"

When A Fish Is Named Salmon

We had a nice, sauteed salmon for dinner again last night, which reminded me of this unpublished entry (written on August 19th) that I intended to post about a month ago:

A few nights ago, I sauteed a nice fish for dinner. It was already filleted - no handsome head or bulging eyes or stiff tail (thank goodness!) on display, hinting at a former glory as a champion swimmer against a blasting current. It was simply a nice cut of fish prepared with a smattering of olive oil (but I don't think it was EVOO - just the regular non-extra virgin olive oil. Sorry, Rachel Ray.) After I dished a delicious-looking piece of it onto my plate, Annie's eyes opened wide as she exclaimed, "It's a dead fish!"

"Yes, it is. It's salmon," I replied. I was about to explain how tasty it was and that it was good brain food, but before I got a chance to, Annie then said, "Oh, that's his name? Salmon?" And before I could think of what to say to that statement, she rather matter-of-factly informed me "You can't pet him," and went back to eating her own meal.

Super Novas

"Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward ... but it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later."

"The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life."

"I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something."

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become."

"Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish."

Excerpts above from Commencement address by Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and of Pixar Animation Studios, delivered at Stanford University on June 12, 2005.

In a similar vein, Randy Pausch's Last Lecture: Achieving Your Childhood Dreams:



Condolences and God's peace to the family of my cousin, Evan Nebeker.

I also think of my brother-in-law, Derek Jackson, a super nova who burned bright and fast, but whose light yet extends to the earth.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And here's to all the adventures ahead.

Then There WasThe Time I Went To The Hunting & Fishing Museum By Mistake....

I meant to go to the Deutches Museum. I was looking quite forward to an afternoon of learning interesting facts and gaining appreciation for many intuitive and creative individuals, all the while being filled with awe and wonder at the brilliance of mankind. Sounds like a nice afternoon, doesn't it?

I purchased my ticket at the rather unassuming front desk, thinking, Wow, only 3,0 Euros? They really want this museum to be accessible to the public! After wandering through 3 levels of inventive wildlife displays, artistically arranged cases of muskets and arrows, and beautifully carved old wooden sleighs (with realization dawning that perhaps this wasn't just one small section of the museum - this was the whole thing!), I began to suspect that I was not actually where I intended to be.



I was instead at the Hunting and Fishing Museum. Still interesting, but just not quite what was anticipated - although it does contain the world's largest collection of, er, stuffed animals and fish hooks. There just weren't any airplanes or copper engravings or the first automobile ever built (an 1886 Benz!) or demonstrations with electricity or glass-blowing, and stuff like that. I guess this is the risk one takes when one is not familiar with the language and decides if the building's sign (which proudly states Deutsches Jagd- und Fischereimuseum) contains the words "Deutsches" and "Museum," one needn't consider the other accompanying words (which, it seems, would read "Hunting" and "Fishing"!)*

*And besides, when we had strolled past the building an evening or two previously, Ryan had pointed to it and said, "I think that's the Deutsches Museum. You should go there."

Dachau

An old cement platform stands beside a set of abruptly ending train tracks. I can almost hear choked-back sobs and murmured whispers as hundreds of prisoners are unloaded like cargo and directed through an imposing gatehouse that heralds the entry into Konzentrationslager Dachau or KZ-Dachau, Nazi Germany's first concentration camp. Alongside the silent vibrations of thousands of invisible footsteps, I voluntarily walk through a gate that, wrought in iron, reads: Arbeit Macht Frei - Work will make you free. One-by-one, my feet fall upon hardened ground and cold cement foundations, taking a sobering step back into a dark history. Yet despite the emptiness within the walls of Dachau Concentration Camp, there is a triumphant echo that carries over its bleakness.As I tread, I wonder whose paths my footsteps trace? I listen to records reported by Dachau survivors - men of flesh and blood - who really faced starvation, beatings, being forced to labor despite illness or pain, or made to act as human guinea pigs in horrendous medical experiments. Voices gravely with age do not disguise the aching rawness of long-borne memories.

Inside walls of brick and barbed-wire, I crane my neck to view one of many guardhouses and cringe as I note the openings where a gun barrel would rest - conveniently pointing to the prison yard. I stand on the same square where roll-call was held. The sun is shining brightly and I feel its hot rays upon my back; I shiver as I imagine icy winds and cold, pelting rains penetrating tattered coats and ragged shirts. I peer through a barred opening in a thick wooden door closing off one of many small cells where prisoners where held for interrogation and discipline. I flinch at the thought of punishment extracted on a commanding officer's whims.

The originals have been torn down, but I feel a suffocating tightness in the rebuilt barrack, where Jews, Catholics and Communists, among other defined groups, were housed - crammed into bunks to rest so they would be fresh for unending, back-breaking labor the next day. I experience representations of the degradation forced upon men and women who lived up to their convictions, even as they were dying - some slowly, some quickly - because of those creeds.

My feet are planted on a cement floor in an open room in the crematorium - Barrack "X" - where emaciated prisoners were informed they would take showers. I see the ovens where the stank of decaying flesh was reduced to ashes. I pause in front of the firing range where bullets, not sickness or despair, ended a life.

A barrage of thoughts and emotions accompany me throughout my tour of this prison camp. Conflicting within me is a deep sadness and a profound happiness. I am intensely indignant of the horrors of the holocaust that were enacted within the very walls around me, yet I am sensitive of a profound happiness and appreciation for the indomitable human spirit. I don't want to forget how I feel at this moment!

I head back to the gatehouse and reflect upon the intensity of each moment I have experienced. I pause as my eyes take a final sweep across the yard, and I wish I could somehow show, in a verifiable way, what I feel inside; words and pictures emote a stark fraction. Maybe I can't elucidate it all, but I can try.

And I freely pass through the iron gate once again as I leave.

I'm the Queen of the Castle!

The Sunday I spent in Germany was Castle Day. A fitting way to spend the Sabbath, if you're going to eschew church in favor of sight-seeing, right? (I know, I know: I'm just trying to justify our absolutely enchanting excursion into the Bavarian countryside and Tyrolean Alps!)

Prior to my trip, I read that there are over 25,000 castles in Germany. There are indeed castles everywhere - albeit in various conditions! All that might remain of some castles may be a crumbling wall or turret. Some might be in the midst of a renovation. Others may appear museum-like (in which case, they probably are.)

Can I just say that it's a truly amazing feeling to stand beside these amazing stone and brick structures and think, that for hundreds of years, people (probably many with aching backs, stringy hair, and minus a few teeth), walked through the same gates, stepped on the same stones, and gazed up at the same sky. Their lives are far-removed from mine, but I wonder if we really aren't that different after all, beside the obvious physical disparities - like I have all my teeth, my hair is washed and brushed regularly, and at 37, I still have many healthy years left (I hope!).

I mean, did they stop to breathe in the scent of wildflowers? Did they laugh when their children laughed? Or did they wonder how they were going to accomplish in a day a series of nagging, yet necessary, tasks and then decide that maybe just getting through the day with their sanity intact would be triumph enough?

I can't help but think that yesterday's mothers understand me more than I realize. And if that's the case, I think history's princesses and paupers had to have been just as excited as I was to see all these breathtaking castles!

*Here's a funny thing that Ryan said as we were driving up and down very steep, winding, hair-pin twisting roads: "I didn't expect the roads to be so...alpine." I stared at him and responded (with perhaps more than a hint of incredulity in my voice), "Are you serious? We're in the Alps!"