Lord of the dance

The big-whig Hindu god is Shiva, creator and destroyer of the universe. So many of the museums we visit have such extensive Asian collections that we go looking for Shiva images and sculptures to add to our mental catalogue. (Well, I do. Matt is partial to fertility images in Japanese lions. Men.)

So it was no surprise when, on a recent guided tour, our docent Nan led us right up to a Shiva sculpture that is, oh, about a thousand years old. She pointed out Ganges, the river god, hiding out in Shiva's hair, and Shiva's decidedly un-PC foot squashing a midget as a symbol of stamping out ignorance. In this particular sculpture, as in so many others, Shiva is cast as lord of the dance, as he whirls and twirls the creation in and out of existence in a continuous, cyclical frenzy.

Every teeny, tiny detail is just gorgeous. Bells, birds, and all manner of b-words set my little brain on fire and gave me anguish. I couldn't decide if I wanted to look at him or scribble notes about him. I knew time was short. Nan would soon lead us to the next work of art, and then what would I do?

I think the best emotion we experience is the simultaneous flood of joy and pain. It's like that moment of enormous pride when your child walks across the stage to receive his diploma, and you know in an instant that what he's learned -- really learned -- is that he no longer needs you and you feel such relief and grief in a single instant. And then you see his whole life like a heap of puzzle pieces on the dining room table -- all of the tragedy and joy you know will make him a man, but only if he fits all of it together for himself -- and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and clasp your hands together and beg God to stop (or is it never stop?) the swell in your heart.

That's how I felt looking at Shiva. I could see the artist lovingly and carefully molding the wax before she covered it with clay and then destroyed the wax by melting it in the kiln. I saw her tiny fingers and nails and teeth and knife shaping Shiva. Did she think about how, just like Shiva, she was destroying exquisite beauty, only to make something much finer?

And what about the back of Lord of the Dance, which is just as lovely and intricate as the front? Whom was she honoring when she took such care, for surely she knew few would take the time to admire it?

And the question that made my throat catch as I took Matt's hand and followed Nan down two floors to Greek antiquity:

If the Artist turns the sculpture of my life inside out, revealing the contours of the back as plainly as the front, is it still a thing I would want anyone to see?

Taking it up a notch

A privilege guaranteed to Angelenos is celebrity-sightings. One statistic has it that 75% of the world's famous actors and movie-shakers live in southern California, so the street corners should be dripping with wealthy, well-known faces, yes? I'm told that Pasadena, in particular, is a haven for movie stars.

Nada. 

We haven't seen one famous person in our 50 weeks here. (Well, okay, Hulk Hogan was on our flight from Tampa to Los Angeles, but I told Matt he didn't count. When he asked me why, I irritably said, "Just because.")

Mr. Chang, the calculus teacher in the room that abuts mine says there's no logical explanation for this. He probes with questions, such as, "Do you walk around a lot?" (we only buy gas twice a month), "Do you eat at ethnic, non-chain restaurants?" (only), and "Are you on the lookout?" (probably not).

I think Mr. Chang has decided that we live in a hole and wouldn't know a famous person if she bit us in the butt. In fact, Mr. Chang said we've seen dozens of celebrities and just didn't recognize them. Mr. Chang can be a jerk. (Not really. He's probably the nicest teacher I've ever met. I'm just mad that I haven't had a celebrity sighting.)

Until yesterday, that is. We were walking down Colorado on our way back from an ethnic, non-chain restaurant when I noticed a gorgeous, hairy beast of the jumbo terrier variety. We stood at a corner with his expensively dressed parents while we all waited for the walk sign, and I said, "Gosh, your dog is stunning. Boy or girl?" His owner/handler graciously smiled and allowed that the hairy beast is male. "Ah," I cleverly replied. What is his name?" She said Notch. My next brilliant query was, "Oh. As in, N-O-T-C-H." She replied, "Well, Notch, as in Top."

Ahem.

As we crossed Los Robles, I pointed out that Notch seemed to know he's a looker, walking with such obvious ownership of his environs that I dared not pat his head. "I should say so," said his owner/handler. "He's just returned from Westminster. He was invited to show." When we got to the other side of the street, she condescendingly explained to me that dogs are either invited to Westminster or they win a lottery. Notch had been invited.

I suddenly lost all interest in Notch and starting skipping and clapping. "Matt," I chirped, "we've had our celebrity sighting!" Suddenly, Matt lost all interest in Mrs. Owner/Handler because she and Mr. Owner/Handler were waving away a meter man who was about to write them a parking ticket. I think Matt lives in fear of meter men and meter maids. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Notch condescendingly explained to the meter man why city ordinances require all meters to accept credit cards, and since the one in front of their car didn't have credit card capabilities, blah-blah-blah, I sang, "Notch, my celebrity Notch, handsome, Notch, what-a-man, Notch."

Notch, of course, didn't give a rip about any of this. No one was complimenting him or putting a ribbon around his neck. He just waited with bored indifference for his owners/handlers to open the door of his Audi SUV so he could step inside.

All confirmation that yes, we had a celebrity sighting indeed.

It's time for Dodger BASEball!

I had a teacher in high school named Cindy Cravey. We all called her Cindy Crazy because this chick was nuts. Well, technically, she probably wasn't certifiable, but she did things that would get her fired today. Once, she paid her nail technician to come to our school and fill in her acrylic tips during sixth period while she told us lurid tales of Greek gods having sex with minors and farm animals. On a field trip to the Renaissance Festival in south Florida, she plopped down in the bus seat next to my best friend and me and confessed that she wasn't wearing any underwear because she'd been too busy to do laundry, and, oh, by the way, did either of us have a tampon?

Okay, maybe she was certifiable ... but also incredibly entertaining.

I mention Ms. Cravey because she said her ex-husband often accused her of being a dilettante. I thought that sounded rather exotic and mysterious until I looked it up and realized two things: one, Ms. Cravey may have been a dilettante concerning art and music, but she most certainly knew her mythology on levels no one could call shallow; and two, it would be far cooler to be a little knowledgeable about several interesting topics than to know every arcane detail about only one thing, like Star Wars, for example, to the point of stupefying your friends at cocktail parties or dressing up as Boba Fett to lurk around sci-fi conventions. Being a dilettante didn't sound exotic or mysterious, but it also didn't sound so bad.

Enter my new, rather surprising, interest in the Los Angeles Dodgers. I've never liked baseball, other than cheering on my little brother at little league games circa 1982. Compared to the testosterone rage of football, baseball always seemed to me to be rather meek and twitchy. Seriously, why do batters fasten and unfasten their gloves, step away from the plate, tug at the seat of their pants, return to the plate, adjust their cap, tap their bat in the dirt, rotate their butt clockwise, spit  ... and so on, until I eventually yell, "C'mon! Hit the damn thing!"

But I love the Los Angeles Dodgers, nonetheless. And since my love for them is about 12 weeks old, am I a dilettante? I accept.

Mr. Forbes and I watch every game of Dodger baseball on television, happily chanting along with Vince Scully, "It's tuh-eye-mmm for Dodger baseball!" at the start of every game.  One Sunday afternoon, Matt shocked me by saying yes to my thousandth request to buy tickets and go see a game live. Well, now, a baseball game on television is fine, but to see the Dodgers in person is quite another altogether. We've been to two games, and I'm begging Matt to take me to a third.

Maybe he's not super anxious to slide me into the seat next to him because a typical 30-second bit of "conversation" with me goes something like this: "Wow, Abreu looks far thinner in person than on television, man do those Dodger dogs smell good, did you bring sunscreen, gosh, I'm thirsty, could I have a swig of water, who the heck is Kennedy, sure do hope Dee Gordon is in the lineup tonight, want some pretzels?"

I love watching these guys. I love the quaint 1960s Dodger stadium with its low breezeway ceilings and tiny concession stand counters. I love that the first 10,000 ticket holders get a bobble head of a former Dodger. I love to wear my Dodger blue hoodie and yell like a maniac when Mattingly screams at the umpire. And I love the way peanut shells stick to the hairs on Matt's legs.

Does this make me a baseball dilettante? Probably. I still don't understand why I'm supposed to aggressively prefer the American League over the National one (or is it the other way around?). Why a batter's performance is noted as a number far less than point-five mystifies me. And the fact that players can be traded mid-season -- or practically mid-game -- makes me nuts. Just as I start to recognize the difference between Mark Ellis and A.J. Ellis, one of them is sure to be sent packing to the Red Sox or the farm league.

However, just the other day, Jairo, a bright kid in fourth period blurted out, "Miss, why do you like the Dodgers so much? They suck compared to the Angels." The rational part of my brain registered that Jairo just wanted me to stop talking about poetry criticism. But the gauntlet had been thrown, so I gamely picked it up. In about two minutes, I statistically -- if not passionately -- flattened Jairo's assertion while the rest of the class raised their eyebrows and dropped their jaws.

Dilettante indeed.

So ... the Dodgers are playing the Astros tonight and are down by three. This is odd since Kershaw is pitching, but so many of our guys -- Kemp, Rivera, Uribe -- are out on injuries, it's a near miracle that we're first in the league. Matt's sound asleep. I'm not going to wake him up.

That is, unless we score.

San Juan Capistrano

One of the loveliest days we've spent here was at San Juan Capistrano. One of 21 missions established in the Golden State by priests from Mexico and Spain who wanted to spread Christianity and social work to native Americans, this particular one was built in 1776. The original stone church is not much more than a heap of rubble with an arch here and there, but the rest of the grounds are in remarkably good (and undoubtedly restored) condition.

Part of the fun of any destination is the getting there, and this trip proved true to that. The Amtrack Pacific Surf Liner was a straight, clean, and stress-free shot to Orange County -- plus, it inexplicably reminded me of the Barbie United Friendship airplane I played with in the mid-1970s (which I should have kept, as it would go for about 70 bucks today on eBay). There's something about items fitting nicely into compartments, including humans, that give me a sense of everything being right side up.

I confidently speak for Matt when I say that our favorite part of the mission was the gardens. Rather than the show-stopping roses we see everywhere in southern California, this courtyard is filled with flowers and trees in much gentler, quieter foliage, perhaps in keeping with an atmosphere of meditation. I don't know what all the plants are -- just that I loved the whites, lavenders, and soft greens, as did the hummingbirds and bees solemnly filling their bellies.

For many decades, the mission was a working and self-supporting monastery.  It was way cool to check out the original olive millstone and wine press. If the little informational sign is correct, this mission produced the first wine made in California. We don't drink wine. But we do like firsts.

We spent quite a lot of time sitting in a pew in Serra Chapel. The ceiling is gorgeously fresco-painted in a tile and vine motif. The dozens of little statues of saints crammed into various niches and alcoves are kind of creepy. The dark, red candles flickering in their carved metal trays moved me, as they always do when I am in a house of worship. We lit two in memory of our dads.

The little town of San Juan Capistrano reminded me a great deal of Mt. Dora, right down to the kitschy gardening and tea shops. We had brunch at the a seriously over-priced Ramos House (well, on the patio of the Ramos House to be exact): one menu, one price, take-it-or-leave-it (we took it). The owner was grumpy, the patrons over-dressed, and the food rich. Or maybe the patrons were rich, and the food was over-dressed?  We snuggled. We chuckled. And we happily filled our bellies.

Nice day.

Send me broken staplers

Yesterday, Matt had a tough day at work. Building a theme park in Shanghai costs a lot of money and takes enormous coordination betwween governments, departments, cultures, budgets, and languages. Throw in multi-hour meetings with type-A personalities, and ... tough day at work.

My big on-the-job challenge was when Martin jammed my stapler. He tried to bundle together about 50 pages using sheer force, and the result wasn't pretty.  I don't have a pair of needle-nose plyers at work, much less a spare stapler, so mild panic set in.  Seriously, my stapler is, umm, a staple in my workday. 

I brought it home for Matt to fix. When we were riding the elevator up to our apartment, I showed him Martin's handiwork. He looked at it, grimaced, and said, "Yikes. That's jammed." More mild panic. I thought about buying another one. I thought about our accountant showing me the number that represents what I spend on school stuff. It's many digits long. More mild panic.

While I started dinner, Matt fixed the stapler. And while he had the plyers out of the toolbox, he took care of a bracelet of mine that had lost a charm, too. He is a very nice man.

When he asked the blessing over our meal, Matt expressed a lot of gratitude, as he always does. Rarely, though, does me make a request. Last night was an exception. Matt's prayer went something like this:

"Thank you that I can help this wonderful woman by fixing her stapler. Thank you for that. And ... please send me some staplers to fix at Disney."

Matt's prayer touched me, not just for its beauty, but also for its truth. We spend so much time in our jobs seeing very little progress and feeling even less appreciation. Now and again, what joy to simply fix something that's broken.