tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18356573872904522022024-03-18T19:44:00.952-07:00Patty CabanasBook Publisher, Publishing Consultant, Avid Reader, Passionate Baker and a BankerPatty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-18757824132630383912020-04-17T12:42:00.001-07:002021-01-17T09:31:41.469-08:00Memory of MotherSaturday May 9th, 2015<br />
<br />
Spent some time with Nicole, Ella and Big little CJ (Christian) this afternoon. I took them to Van Wagner’s beach in Stoney Creek where we spent some good time, walking on the sand, skipping stones, photographing birds and each other, taking selfies then off to the ice cream parlor for some black cherry, chocolate and cookies ice cream.<br />
<br />
I packed some blankets and healthy snacks but never got around to it because—we all wanted ice cream!<br />
<br />
This little outing drained me, but I drummed-up enough strength to go for a 5-mile walk to Bayfront. I purposely left my camera at home. Took a shower when I got back and convinced Sean to take me to Ola Bakery downstairs for an Americano and something sweet. I didn’t have time for coffee this morning and I feel a little sluggish and a bit of a headache.<br />
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Taking a 20-minute nap was my plan when we got back to the apartment. Immediately after I laid in bed, something shifted. Memories of my mother came pouring in—so were my tears. I long to be embraced by Mother. I long to have a conversation with her—feel her close to me—touch her beautiful skin—inhale her scent and tell her how much I miss and love her. Even as I write this piece, my tears flow—unstoppable. The lump in my throat won’t go away. I wallow in her memories, and the feeling of emptiness remain.<br />
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Suddenly, I was being pulled out of bed by some unexplainable energy. Grabbed my purse and keys—ready to be led by this energy—a visit to the cemetery! Unfortunately, Sean had made plans with his long time friends. He noticed my tears. I tell him why. Although he was willing to let me have the car, I wasn’t about to spoil his plans with friends of whom he rarely spend time with. Tomorrow, on Mother’s Day, I’ll make the drive. My energy was on overdrive—this poem is the result of that creative energy wanting to be expressed.<br />
<br /><b>Memory of Mother on Mother’s Day</b><br />
<br />
she knew he would be home soon<br />
from where, she had a good idea—<br />
all day and into the evening<br />
she’s been reaching into<br />
a hiding spot inside the rice bin<br />
where she stashed her bottle<br />
of whiskey—taking swigs<br />
as if an elixir that would<br />
wash away the feeling—<br />the pain—anxiety—the fear<br />
of what might come<br />
when he gets home—<div>tired and drunk<br />
<br />
or is it what comes after<br />
that she tries to numb<br />
that if she took swigs after swigs<br />
of whiskey, she will<br />
develop thick skin<br />
<br />
his words whip like barbed wire<br />
his hands quick to throw slaps—<br />
punches and hair pulling—<br />
she begs him to stop<br />
but he doesn’t hear her<br />
he whips, he grabs, he slaps<br />
until she’s down<br />
on the ground<br />
<br />
a little girl cowers in the<br />
corner of one room—helpless<br />
hands clasp on both ears<br />
she breathes deeply<br />
whispers to no one in particular<br />
she promises to be good—<br />be different—<br />
to her own children </div><div>when she’s grown up<br /> just make this go away<br />
<br />
she’s the little girl<br /> who wanted to be good<br />
the perfect little girl<br /> who was favored<br />
the little girl who sang<br />
to her daddy during school recess<br />
the little girl who pulled her daddy’s<br />
whiskers until he fell asleep<br />
he was mellow—<br />
<br />
she’s the little girl</div><div>who wanted to please everybody<br />
the little girl </div><div>who bears the weight<br />
of the whole world<br />
<br />
she’s grown up now<br />
but still remembers—<br />she’s stronger—</div><div> loving</div><div> caring<br />
she’s not perfect<br />but there's one thing she has—<br />
<br />
her Self!<br />
<br /></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-73284421094166125182012-10-13T23:00:00.001-07:002022-08-30T20:05:22.293-07:00MySpace—a Few Years LaterWendy is a friend I met online in 2006 when by fluke I was led to open a MySpace account—a social network that later became more than just—a social network. More on this later . . .<br />
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Tonight, I also met Earl, her husband of 30 years? He bought dinner. It turned out to be a very lovely evening. I came home—my heart spoke . . .<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wendy and Patty</td></tr>
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<br />
'twas a rainy Saturday night<br />
two women and a nice looking man<br />
shared a table by the fire place<br />
at Faloney's<br />
Ancaster's steak and smoke house<br />
<br />
She's my friend Wendy<br />
she calls me Patty<br />
the nice man is Wendy's Earl<br />
he likes his coffee<br />
he builds litter box<br />
out of fluffy grass<br />
<br />
two women and a man<br />
who woulda' thought<br />
he may even had some fun<br />
we talked about Facebook<br />
MySpace and even books<br />
<br />
My grilled salmon was perfect<br />
Wendy's grilled basa looked great<br />
Earl's pulled chicken<br />
dripping sauce<br />
invading the bed of fries<br />
would it be okay<br />
to reach over<br />
for the closest fry?<br />
I wondered.<br />
<br />
we talked<br />
we ate<br />
we drank<br />
then it was late<br />
but no, wait!<br />
kodak moment<br />
<br />
Earl aims and shoot<br />
Wendy examines<br />
No! retake<br />
again…again…again<br />
we're not done yet<br />
out in the cold<br />
shoot…another<br />
Yes! It was perfect<br />
made it to FB profile page<br />
<br />
Thank you Wendy<br />
Thank you Earl<br />
the dinner was lovely<br />
the company exquisite<br />
let's do this again<br />
soon, and not a year later!<br />
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Saturday, October 13, 2012</div>
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Faloney's Steak and Smoke House, Ancaster</div>
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Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-15938215647899181182012-07-02T20:43:00.000-07:002012-07-08T12:14:18.155-07:00Guide to Treating GuiltThe Clinician's Guide to Treating Guilt<br />
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<a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=10&products_id=97" style="clear: left; color: #b45f06; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjic1YBD8tR7bZEu9DCpXMd7ynmVqmAyyPdqzkkypNh6xZZLV-v0gIEv7fRxm-NsZmwAq8MP9d02H7ZgcSE02PkIIHA65fb1MlFmPbfVTKwH_Jv5dl8XrPDJNppOwDZwrPQefKTGqAXNEQT/s320/guiltcure_gold.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-color: initial; border-left-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 5px; position: relative;" width="248" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></div>
<i>The Guilt Cure</i> proposes a new theory of guilt that can be very helpful to therapists. It puts guilt in a totally different perspective that can help alleviate the pain and suffering it inflicts. Existing theories of guilt are based on the conventional idea that guilt’s primary function is in the protection and maintenance of morals. While guilt certainly contributes to the protection and maintenance of morals, most guilt, in fact, stems from thoughts, feelings, and behaviors that violate no religious, divine, or legal ordinances. Thus, guilt is far more morally neutral than we would ever suspect. Guilt’s moral neutrality stems from its more important psychological role in the creation and maintenance of consciousness and in the workings of the self-regulatory system of the psyche. It is consciousness of guilt’s significant moral neutrality that helps alleviate its pain.<br />
<br />
This seminal body of work about the psychological implications of guilt reaches deep into humanity's collective experience of guilt and finds persuasive psychological reasons for guilt's role and purpose that go far beyond conventionally held religious explanations. <i>The Guilt Cure</i>examines the many faces of guilt, including its function in the creation and maintenance of consciousness, its place in the self-regulatory system of the psyche, its effects on our psychological development, and its impact on our mental health and wellbeing.<br />
<br />
Order from the Publisher - <a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/shop/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=10&products_id=97" style="color: #b45f06; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Fisher King Press</a> Order from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1926715535/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=as3&camp=211189&creative=373489&creativeASIN=1926715535" style="color: #b45f06; display: inline-block; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a><br />
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<br /></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-86996408809824288512012-03-05T22:18:00.000-08:002014-06-03T23:05:46.262-07:00"Help . . . my mother is driving me crazy!"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7cMb0wQI1YtpIOZzHE4NdqB-LbRJALwVd3uH5-_93AFoXvWzpr7uoASvJPnSWrLCbeITyJz7ey7aIK3n2jzSArdKT6txbs9qmJkExKDhjnlnM-lTGamBDa1ADdApWwPnHlnJKk4SKlal/s1600/Stress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7cMb0wQI1YtpIOZzHE4NdqB-LbRJALwVd3uH5-_93AFoXvWzpr7uoASvJPnSWrLCbeITyJz7ey7aIK3n2jzSArdKT6txbs9qmJkExKDhjnlnM-lTGamBDa1ADdApWwPnHlnJKk4SKlal/s320/Stress.jpg" height="236" width="320" /></a>That was the phone call I woke up to this morning. My fifty-three year old friend Jo is a little stressed today.<br />
<br />
She's single, lived at home her entire life until a little over a year ago. She decided it was time to unfold her wings, take 'em for a test-flight and meet life on her own—head on. She bought a two bedroom condo in November 2010. It took her all this time to realize there's a healthy amount of freedom in leaving home and being on your own. In her own place, she was finally beginning to enjoy life differently, and often she'd have friends over just to hang out, share some laughs, lovingly pick on one another, drink a little, eat a lot and sing karaoke all night. Freedom was good and she was loving every bit of life.<br />
<br />
She barely had time to process her leave-taking when things took a sudden turn. In the fall of 2011, her mother left her matrimonial home, by choice, and moved in with Jo. She's not the only child but, the <i>only single</i> child. No threatening daughters and sons-in-law to rain on her mother's parade.<br />
<br />
The first time Jo confided in me about her mother, I took her frustrations for granted. I listened, but did not<i> hear</i> her. "Just leave her be. She's old and doesn't have much time left in this world. You'll miss her when she's gone. Don't pay attention to her . . ." I dismissed her feelings and acted as if I knew her mother like I knew mine. Her mother is not like my mother and I did not know her like Jo did. My mother never rejected my friends nor listened in on my telephone conversation from another extension. She never cussed about my friends or meddled with how I lived my life. She didn't ask where I was going or whom I was going out with or what time will I be home. She trusted and supported my judgment and kept respectable boundaries. There was mutual respect. I miss her beautiful soul more than words can describe.<br />
<br />
I don't know much of what goes on in Jo's household, but I know the kind of person she is, and making up stories like this is just not her style. I can't help her about the swelling family dysfunction, but can lend an ear for support and openly give my personal opinion when asked. There are seven children in the family—all married except Jo. None of the other siblings are offering their home to their mother. It's a sticky situation because the mother receives a healthy pension and is financially capable of getting a place of her own. She's eighty, and here's one sad part, "If I rent I won't have any money left for casino."Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-26372892362860680282012-03-02T20:20:00.000-08:002012-03-06T19:56:15.683-08:00The Pink Room<div class="post-body entry-content" style="color: #443737; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 614px;">
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It's pink!<i> I need to repaint it before Sean moves in</i>. That was my first thought when I saw the second smaller bedroom to an apartment we viewed back in November. Except for the white baseboards, and the trimmings that hugged the two small bedroom windows, the entire room was pink—not baby pink or cotton candy pink but a brighter rosy pink. I like pink, but this was going to be Sean's bedroom. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Contrary to popular belief</td></tr>
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We moved in. Sean didn't care much that the room is pink. It's his bedroom and he likes it. He is actually quite content in his bedroom—his own little pink sanctuary. His own creative oasis—to work—paint—write—sing—strum his guitar—listen to music and stream <i>Lost</i> videos—or just, simply be.<br />
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It took nearly three months before it got repainted—Sky Blue.<br />
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Two weeks ago, I've been itching to paint. What I had in mind was acrylic on paper. So from the black duffle bag, I pulled out a pad of paper, paint brushes and paint tubes but they just sat on my kitchen table for days. No image was coming to me—until a few days ago—the image of a small bedroom in the color of sky blue—'azzurro' in italian—a word I later learned from an italian friend. All along, my desire to paint was not of acrylic on paper but wall paint on pink walls.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Sunday afternoon the time is 5:30, I assemble my paint tools in the empty pink bedroom. I need music to do this kind of work. </span>The headset attached to the iPod gets in the way. It has to go. <span class="Apple-style-span">On top of a wardrobe sits my laptop that plays shuffle music from Abba to U2. It's 7:30. </span>I feel hunger pains.<span class="Apple-style-span"> I am too hungry to keep the momentum. To wash my hands, change my clothes, or check my appearance in the mirror is a drag. Keys in hand and some pocket change, I descend two flights of stairs, out the front, and enter the next door </span>immediately to the left—into the bakery.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">There is a good number of patrons enjoying their cappuccino, lattes and pastries. I suspect a few wonder what planet I come from by the way they look at me. I move forward to the counter and asks the bakery owner, Victor for 200 grams of prosciutto and two buns. He walks to the back. A few seconds later he comes back and asks if I have a good knife upstairs in the apartment. The answer is yes and the result—a two pounder prosciutto hock, absolutely free. I pay him 70 cents for two buns. It must be the drywall compound powder I was covered in, and the azzurro paint that generously smeared my hands and dotted my nose that gave me away—hard at work, and hungry! My landlord and I share a mutual regard. I fix up his place—he makes sure I'm healthy and be around to pay the following months rent.</span></div>
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My stomach is content and I go back to the pink room. In the background, Celine Dion is singing <i>Halfway to Heaven</i>. How fitting. I look around, and the pink room is now half blue—the color of sky—the color of heaven, so and I've been told as a little girl.</div>
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The bedroom is now the color of light sky-blue. But something is wrong. The beige drapes I picked up at Walmart clearance rack has to go. </div>
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</div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-76665776224686107712012-02-20T17:05:00.002-08:002022-08-30T19:59:56.432-07:00Teenage Life Crisis<div style="text-align: justify;">If midlife crisis exist, so does teenage life crisis, at least in my world. I'm not talking about me as I didn't have much of a teenage life growing up under the influence of a father who came from a very strict Spanish blood and family upbringings. To this day, I could hear his voice echoing in some nights. "I don't believe in daughters dating or having boyfriends and long engagements! You are at once to be married as soon as I find out you have a boyfriend!" My father actually made me believe—he can tell when a girl had been kissed, or a girl can get pregnant by kissing. But this will be in another blog post.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My younger son turned eighteen last June, and in another four months he will be nineteen, the age where you can legally drink at a bar and enter a Casino here in Ontario Canada. At this point of my blog, I hope and pray to the cyber gods he and his brother will never come across this blog piece I write about them. If so, I will be confronted with . . . well, I'll cross that bridge when I get there.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My youngest son is eighteen and has no girlfriend! Not that there's anything wrong with that, but he's missing out on being goo goo eyed over a cute girl who could be a potential girlfriend he can take home to mama—someday. He's not a bad looking young man or a troubled child—he's just the complete opposite. Sean is a handsome young man with such a gentle soul and he tells me, the latter is a trait he acquired from me and it's not to his advantage when it comes to girls. I'm not sure what he was trying to tell me but I suppose in this day and age, perhaps some girls prefers the more aggressive type and it is not what he is. I want more than anything for him to have a girlfriend already! A few months ago, I was singing a different tune, but since he had his ears pierced last month, "the girls love it," he exclaims, I thought something has to change. He needs a girlfriend! Who am I to tell him what he needs? He has to figure this out on his own.</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">His older brother is sort of—the more aggressive type. Just before Christmas in 1998, at age eleven when he was in grade six, he had his first 'love' for a girl. Her name is Josie. One early evening, he approached me in the kitchen while I was fixing dinner. This is how the conversation went:</div>
<br />
"Mom, how much money do I have in my bank account?"<br />
"Umm, I don't know, why?"<br />
"Well, I'd like to buy Josie a Christmas gift."<br />
"Who's Josie?"<br />
"A girl from school that I really really like."<br />
"What are you thinking of getting her for a gift?"<br />
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</div>
"A diamond ring."<br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdORPyWn7UBCS9hsTYLMbYzfcmzgmxliZMHfnGrgaDIgXyb9zRbEe_ZG8N007rTyx8lJcksdCl1qzCQozqt8cwJdHJ1wm7WFWv1RWKptSUPLdRc4S86VarNGzXSyj7Cum9GEVPMBwEiffp/s1600/DR33400100_main.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdORPyWn7UBCS9hsTYLMbYzfcmzgmxliZMHfnGrgaDIgXyb9zRbEe_ZG8N007rTyx8lJcksdCl1qzCQozqt8cwJdHJ1wm7WFWv1RWKptSUPLdRc4S86VarNGzXSyj7Cum9GEVPMBwEiffp/s1600/DR33400100_main.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I don't remember exactly what happened after that. Everything seem to be a blur. But when the clouds were lifted, I vividly recall sitting down, and holding him by the hand, I carefully walked him through some very important facts and details about a girl and a diamond ring. In the end, he went shopping with his aunt to buy a set of silver fashion jewelries for Josie. He got over this quickly.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around the same time the following year at age twelve, he came up to me again and . . . well, this time no diamond ring in the conversation but a different scenario with a different girl. Believe it or not, another Christmas came and same ol' story with yet another girl. Her name is Victoria of whom he still friends with to this day. Josie's mom, Lucy and I became friends and occasionally, I see Josie. It was last year when I finally had a chance to tell her about my conversation with my son, some thirteen years ago about a diamond ring. She thought it was funny and sweet and she went on to tell her friends who will tell theirs . . .</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My youngest on the other hand seem to be having a hard time implementing a relationship with a girl. He seem to be attracted to girls who like someone else. Other girls like him but his feelings toward them is not the same as what they feel towards him. "I don't feel anything for her but friendship, and I don't want to lead her on," he says. A girl I will name Boots liked him at one point, but he didn't like her at first. Then he started to like her, but then she started liking someone else. This Boots girl has a friend named Di who has a boyfriend. Sean and Di are always hanging out and if I didn't know any better, I think they are an item. I didn't know any better—they're just friends. Then there's Sara who keeps Sean on the phone till wee hours, but they're "just friends." Oh, how can I forget Kaelan, Emily, Alexandria, Christina, and what's the other girl's name again? Teenage life—teenage crisis—So complicated!</div>
<br />Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-21313220816571418402012-02-10T00:28:00.001-08:002022-08-30T20:03:12.106-07:00Art Crawl<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuGcBUc1xZJ_lM1eoZ0qp0qYTNuik47PlG_OFYYexyCJuf4Bl0-hlOphH8Mo-vDM-GGpSWZUfZJi6xCfY3F_E1ruMG0CC6g7ODe9-c_sDlbu4DhXJglJWLs06bzulUg_yM8nYoI5d3aN6/s1600/JamesStN_ArtCrawlBnko.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuGcBUc1xZJ_lM1eoZ0qp0qYTNuik47PlG_OFYYexyCJuf4Bl0-hlOphH8Mo-vDM-GGpSWZUfZJi6xCfY3F_E1ruMG0CC6g7ODe9-c_sDlbu4DhXJglJWLs06bzulUg_yM8nYoI5d3aN6/s400/JamesStN_ArtCrawlBnko.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Art Crawl was something unfamiliar to me until a few months ago when I started hearing about it from my two sons Phil and Sean who are, in my opinion avid art crawl-ers. Sean would try and switch a day off work just to attend this every second Friday, monthly social event. Phil may have had skipped work a time or two just to be in the crowd of mostly young and a handful of not-so-young art crawler folks.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A little over two months ago, we moved into a small two bedroom apartment on the street that hosts Hamilton Art Crawl. Tonight was my first unplanned Art Crawl experience by accident when we went for dinner at Ola Bakery that became like a second home to us. Lo and behold! The place was packed with art crawlers and Friday evening regulars, and a table for one was not in sight let alone a table for three. The owner ushered us to sit with a nice looking young man—a regular and a friend of his—seated solo at a table for five, polishing off a sandwich. After a brief but not awkward moment of introduction, Alex proceeded to take smaller but still healthy bites of his sandwich while managing to fill us in on bits and pieces of his family history. He grew up in Hamilton and used to live in Stoney Creek with his mom and dad until his retired parents decided to split their time between Portugal and Canada, so he ended up moving to downtown core of Hamilton. When asked what part of Portugal he was from, he looked up at a map of Portugal that was posted on a wall next to him and conveniently got up from his seat and pointed his index finger to Aveiro.</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As we visited while waiting for our BBQ chicken dinner, the front door to the bakery opened and closed while people piled in and the tray of the ever popular custard tarts was quickly thinning down. Across from our table, a group of loud regulars composed of a few men and a babe with half exposed chest, were far from having a 'nice' conversation the way they were throwing words at one another but I tell you, no eye contact was happening for the woman. Imagine this: A woman sitting among men and while she spoke with hand gestures, a group of synchronized heads bopped along. Additionally, the stronger the hand gestures, the higher the bouncing of the twin balls and the bopping heads. Thankfully, our dinner arrived and my partner was able to avert his attention from the pair of giant meatballs.</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Alex finished his sandwich and got up to leave as more art crawlers came in for their evening sugar fix, and a full tray of fresh custard tarts was now placed in the showcase. Taking a break and leaving his wife and employees to manage the growing crowd, Mr. Victor came and sat with us to enjoy his chamomile tea and shared us some of his family history. Two hours later, we were on the street art crawling it too! Art stores, coffee houses, bars and more, are open to the public until midnight to fill the eyes and appetite of interested patrons. It was a beautiful crisp night and the slight pour of white flakes coming down made me imagine walking along the Central Park of New York. I could have kept walking until my ears and nose became numb and cheeks beet red but opted to walk slowly home.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">September 10, 2011, a portion of James Street was closed off to accommodate Supercrawl, an annual event that celebrates the diversity of Hamilton’s James Street North district, our multi-disciplinary arts community, and the incredible spark that results with our unique mix of cultures, businesses and creative people. It's a free afternoon and evening of art, dance, music, or anything one's little heart desire, from 1 PM till Midnight.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Art Crawl last December that we had planned to experience didn't pan out. We were grumpy and exhausted from the move, we had fallen asleep before 7 pm—slept through the loud music that was playing downstairs at the Bakery.</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">January Art Crawl didn't appeal from the quiet street that appeared down below. March promises a new beginning for the Art Crawl year. We have been told today that a Columbian musician will be performing at the Bakery. I look forward to art crawling on the eve of Friday March 9. I'd like to reserve the best table on the house for this event, please!</div>
<br />
Below is a short list of what's available on James St. N:<br />
<br />
This Ain’t Hollywood<br />
Artword Artbar<br />
Blue Angel Gallery<br />
Books & Beats<br />
The Brain<br />
The Factory Media Arts Centre<br />
Hamilton HIStory + HERitage<br />
Hamilton Artists Inc.<br />
James North Studio<br />
Loose Canon Gallery,<br />
Mixed Media<br />
Tribal Gallery<br />
Ola Bakery<br />
etc...<br />
<br />
<br />Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-52200127858484763452010-12-18T17:38:00.000-08:002010-12-25T22:18:16.565-08:00The Motherline<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4b-_T-IIpdhNZkNSpGzlBHJdwF97WqEWyNQRETVoPUQRYMeC25SU-r4DpE3_EFg7aNEPgXprsDKoo4kTSvRDuQq5qauZArAGtwEzWpL6EAwsI0JTUiPNOOyJNlPnHxhaH-oRkwHLs17NB/s1600/Mother_C1.1.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4b-_T-IIpdhNZkNSpGzlBHJdwF97WqEWyNQRETVoPUQRYMeC25SU-r4DpE3_EFg7aNEPgXprsDKoo4kTSvRDuQq5qauZArAGtwEzWpL6EAwsI0JTUiPNOOyJNlPnHxhaH-oRkwHLs17NB/s320/Mother_C1.1.5.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Motherline-Every-Womans-Journey-Female/dp/0981034462?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">THE MOTHERLINE:EVERY WOMAN'S JOURNEY TO FIND HER FEMALE ROOTS</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0981034462" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />by Naomi Ruth Lowinsky<br />
(Recent recipient of the for Obama Millennium first prize writing award.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Our mothers are the first world we know, the source of our lives and stories. Embodying the mysteries of origin, they tie us to the great web of kin and generation. Yet, the voice of their experience is seldom heard. The Motherline describes a woman’s journey to find her roots in the personal, cultural, and archetypal realms. It was written for women who have mothers, are mothers, or are considering motherhood, and for the men who love them. Telling the stories of women whose maturation has been experienced in the cycle of mothering, it urges a view of women that does not sever mother from daughter, feminism from “the feminine,” body from soul.</div><br />
Here what a few reviewers have had to say about <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Motherline-Every-Womans-Journey-Female/dp/0981034462?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Motherline</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0981034462" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />:<br />
<blockquote><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">“(In) this perceptive and penetrating study . . . (Naomi Ruth Lowinsky) imaginatively applies Jungian, feminist and literary approaches to popular attitudes about . . . mothers and daughters and movingly, to personal experience.”<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">—Publisher’s Weekly</span></div><br />
“A combination of years of scholarship and recordings of personal journeys, this book belongs in every woman’s psychology/spirituality collection.”<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">—Library Journal<br />
</span></div><br />
“In this accessible volume, Jungian psychologist Lowinsky explores the pain that women feel when their mother-love is undervalued or erased.”<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 85%;">—ALA Booklist<br />
<br />
</span></div></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">In addition to <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Motherline-Every-Womans-Journey-Female/dp/0981034462?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Motherline: Every Woman’s Journey to Find Her Female Roots</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0981034462" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /> </span>and<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sister-Below-When-Muse-Gets/dp/098103442X?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Sister from Below: When the Muse Gets Her Way</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=098103442X" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /></span>, Naomi Ruth Lowinsky is the author of numerous prose essays, many of which have been published in <span style="font-style: italic;">Psychological Perspectives</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Jung Journal</span>. She has had poetry published in many literary magazines and anthologies, among them <span style="font-style: italic;">After Shocks</span>: <span style="font-style: italic;">The Poetry of Recovery</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Weber Studies</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Rattle</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Atlanta Review</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Tiferet</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Runes</span>. Her two poetry collections, <span style="font-style: italic;">red clay is talking</span> (2000) and <span style="font-style: italic;">crimes of the dreamer</span> (2005) were published by Scarlet Tanager Books. Naomi is a Jungian analyst in private practice and poetry and fiction editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">Psychological Perspectives</span>.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Naomi Ruth Lowinsky has recently been awarded first prize in the Obama Millennium contest for her poem “Madelyn Dunham, Passing On” in which she imagines the spirit of of Obama’s deceased grandmother visiting him as he speaks to the crowds in Chicago after his election. The poem will be published in the literary magazine <span style="font-style: italic;">New Millennium Writings</span> this fall. <a href="http://www.sisterfrombelow.com/">www.sisterfrombelow.com</a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Motherline-Every-Womans-Journey-Female/dp/0981034462?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Motherline: Every Woman’s Journey to Find Her Female Roots</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0981034462" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br />
—ISBN 978-0-9810344-6-1<br />
Published by and available for purchase directly from Fisher King Press.<br />
Also available from your local bookstore, and a host of on-line booksellers.<br />
Publication Date: June 1st, 2009<br />
<br />
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</div></div>Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-29484081325782067952010-06-09T02:51:00.000-07:002010-07-12T09:40:56.601-07:00Cries of pain<!--StartFragment--><span style=";font-family:Times,Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><br />to you I will not bow<br />nor blink an eye<br />cruelty and deceit<br />you’ve crushed my spirit<br /><br />how dare you speak<br />of twisted lies<br />you have no remorse<br />of my constant cries<br /><br />midnight shadows<br />lurk in the dark<br />through the windows<br />moon dressed in cloak<br /><br />your sharp words like a dagger<br />pierce through my heart<br />your sweltering hand<br />harshly grips my neck<br /><br />I cannot breath<br />my body limps<br />engulfed with heat<br />from limb to limb<br /><br />roughly you swing<br />one hand over<br />the loss of your bearing<br />made you crave for more<br /><br />swing after swing<br />infused your ignition<br />hostility becomes your ally<br />increasing with passion<br /><br />blood gushes out<br />as I cry in pain<br />no one hears me<br />there’s none to gain<br /><br />my eyes completely shut<br />from the wild clout they took<br />yours become wide<br />I can feel you are hooked<br /><br />you left me in a heap<br />as you walked out the door<br />I rock myself to sleep<br />in a pool of deep horror<br /><br />let the night be over<br />let the music begin<br />for when the morning comes<br />the birds will sing<br />the sun will come<br />so will the day<br />I will not bow<br /><br /><br /><!-- AddThis Button BEGIN --><br /><a class="addthis_button" href="http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&username=xa-4c13e70d79f4bc27"><img src="http://s7.addthis.com/static/btn/v2/lg-share-en.gif" alt="Bookmark and Share" style="border: 0pt none ;" height="16" width="125" /></a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#username=xa-4c13e70d79f4bc27"></script><br /><!-- AddThis Button END --><br /><br /><br /></span> <!--EndFragment-->Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-43303126844627388492010-06-05T14:45:00.000-07:002015-04-20T18:53:25.660-07:00Ralph and his Magical Zucchini<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluzOmuBXxQQYlVlX7Bvm0U4Gy5aEM8U0KJE2Wjh_4Zbj74z60JZ-OknEUMF6tetb3JxyzZzel7YggELJ0zffSknT6BUBX2X105cpJo6fn0SFpdQe86-dJPJIdFwbUGHjJelkIZMaMX_Vj/s1600/IMG_1679.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluzOmuBXxQQYlVlX7Bvm0U4Gy5aEM8U0KJE2Wjh_4Zbj74z60JZ-OknEUMF6tetb3JxyzZzel7YggELJ0zffSknT6BUBX2X105cpJo6fn0SFpdQe86-dJPJIdFwbUGHjJelkIZMaMX_Vj/s320/IMG_1679.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479548375915750002" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a>Ralph has 22 zucchini plants, so we were told. I can't tell you more about Ralph because I barely know him, but he's got lots of zucchini and apricots and word is, he's got money too, lot's of money. He lives alone and probably not lonely. He came by the house the other day and dropped off a bag of these fast growing green giants. He was telling us how one day they're just little buds, and like magic, the next day, full-grown greens ready to fulfill zucchini lovers' appetite. He said you can literally see them grow if one stand long enough to watch. I wonder if he's done that before and spent the night with a zucchini plant. Did I already say he lives alone?</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">So yesterday for dinner, I whipped up zucchini stir fry. First time! Extra virgin olive oil, garlic, green onion, tomato, thinly sliced pork, shrimp and julienne zucchini. Of course salt and pepper to taste. If the stench of fish sauce doesn't bother you, use that in lieu of salt. If you've never used fish sauce before, consider yourself warned! Serve over steamed white rice....mmmmm... buono!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today, here's something I made. First time, too! Surprisingly, it turned out amazing if I may be so bold. Here, try this!</div>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Naughty Nutty Zucchini Bread</span><br />
<br />
Ingredients<br />
<div class="ingredients" style="margin-top: 10px;">
<ul>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 3 cups all-purpose flour</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 1 teaspoon salt</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 1 teaspoon baking soda</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 1 teaspoon baking powder</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 3 teaspoons ground cinnamon</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 3 eggs</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 1 cup vegetable oil</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 2 1/4 cups white sugar</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 3 teaspoons vanilla extract</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap">3 cups grated zucchini (do not drain off liquid)</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap">1 peeled and grated apple or crushed pineapple</li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap"> 1 cup chopped walnuts makes it <span style="font-style: italic;">Nutty</span></li>
<li class="plaincharacterwrap">a jigger of fruit liquor makes it <span style="font-style: italic;">Naughty</span> (totally optional)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Directions</span></div>
<div style="border-top: 1px dotted rgb(204, 204, 204); margin-top: 20px; width: 300px;">
</div>
<div class="directions" style="margin-top: 10px;">
<ol>
<li><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> Grease and flour-dust or sugar-coat two loaf pans. Preheat oven to 325 degrees</span></li>
<li><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">In a medium bowl, </span><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">mix and sift, flour, salt, baking powder, soda, and cinnamon. If you don't feel like sifting, it's okay.</span></li>
<li><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">In a large bowl, dump</span><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> eggs (without the shells of course unless you want your zucchini bread to have that extra crunch), oil, vanilla, and sugar and get to work and develop good muscles with your whisk. Mixer works wonder especially if you're lucky to own a Kitchen Aid. Is it creamy? Yes? Then stop! Slowly add dry ingredients to the mixture, and beat or mix well. If you want to look like you've slaved yourself over these, go ahead, pour the dry mixture in one heap, and turn the mixer on high. </span><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">'Have a blast'</span><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> (no pun intended). It will be very sticky, but this is not the time to worry. Stir in (do not use a mixer at this point) zucchini, apple and nuts until well combined. Pour batter into prepared pans. Now worry. The oven is hot!</span></li>
<li><span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> Bake for 30, rotate pans, and bake for an additional 15-30 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in pan for 20 minutes. Remove bread from pan, and on cooling rack. If you're like me, cut into it when it's still warm. Slap a generous spread of butter and let it melt in your mouth. Ah, this is soul food! Stays moist for days and they freeze well.</span></li>
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When baking, don't be afraid to use your imagination and be creative but most of all, have fun! Very seldom I follow a recipe to a T. Some turn out to be flops and most turn out to be good, and better the next.<br />
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Tomorrow, pork and zucchini kebobs.<br />
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Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-62297259229285688652010-06-03T21:04:00.000-07:002012-09-21T17:57:10.151-07:00A night spent in the garage<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTJm_5GQEByqx7ypnho6vxbx0IiFHwqJw0azhjOy7-eeJ1OR3rA58aNAoSp1-YqWuaETWcWTeGlBZTMi3qWollBBr-CSWIAEEpLCMo4qbdGDQI0so2qoHcvuhLsHtKdFkX0xeN2hVnTry/s1600/IMG_0961.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479574766896390946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmTJm_5GQEByqx7ypnho6vxbx0IiFHwqJw0azhjOy7-eeJ1OR3rA58aNAoSp1-YqWuaETWcWTeGlBZTMi3qWollBBr-CSWIAEEpLCMo4qbdGDQI0so2qoHcvuhLsHtKdFkX0xeN2hVnTry/s400/IMG_0961.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 106px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>It was just a few minutes before midnight after a long three and a half hour drive from the coast when I pulled into the driveway of the totally empty Grangeville house. A long refreshing shower was in order and I know this was the place to take one. As I enter the front door, I announced my presence to the emptiness with a tune from the 1982 movie, <span style="font-style: italic;">Annie</span> that went like this, <span style="font-style: italic;">'the sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, come what may . . .</span>' Forgetting the line that came after that, I decided to whistle instead. I imagined Mr. Warbuck probably whistled better than I did and would have had a better way of masking his fear, if any. Flashlight in hand, this tune carried me throughout the round to make sure all four walls and windows of each empty room were intact. When satisfied and convinced myself that all the bad spirits have left the empty building, I opened the garage door and by design, backed the car into the garage in case of a quick and easy getaway . . . well, now is not the time to think about ghosts and goblins. I rummaged through a small suitcase in the trunk to find a fresh set of clothes to change into.</div>
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Not wanting to alarm anyone in the neighborhood, I decided to leave all the lights out except for the lamp on auto timer that was lit up on the kitchen counter. It gave enough light in the hallway to the bathroom as long as the door was left open. So, left open it was. The much needed shower was soothing, and instantaneously washed my fear away. It was short-lived— so was my shower. Thinking I heard a scuffing noise from the kitchen, I quickly rinsed, shut off the water, dried off, dressed, brushed my teeth, all in a matter of five minutes. <span style="font-style: italic;">'Forget the lotion'</span> I thought. Gathering my belongings was done in a jiffy. I already knew where to spend the night—in the car—in the garage.</div>
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Like a stranger in the night and making sure that no traces were left in the house, I made for the car, locked myself in, and did a quick check. Flashlight, keys, garage door opener, cracked-open windows for air, and to fill the hunger pain—a Fiber Bar. I decided to opt out on the latter in case it did its job before the sun came out. The thought of having to run to the bathroom in the dark made my stomach more nervous. After a long hard day, it wasn't difficult to doze off as soon as my head hit the lumbar pillow that often traveled with me in the car.</div>
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I'd like to think I was already fast asleep and just dreaming about the noises that came that night and the people peering through the dusty, spider web-covered-blinds that hung sloppily over the garage window. I've always wondered why a window and such a large one in a garage. In the <span style="font-style: italic;">'dream,'</span> an older woman was peering through the crack of the car window inviting me to go inside where it was more comfortable while Papa and Meme paced outside by the window calling out my name. This seem to have gone on forever until I woke up at the first crack of dawn. My mobile phone read 5:16 a.m. Drowsy, a bit confused and aware of the ever presence of knots and a kink in my neck, I sat up and decided to move to the passenger seat. Placing my computer bag on the floor and reclining the seat, I was able to get a good stretch and slept till 8 with no interference. I should have taken the passenger seat from the start.</div>
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The house that goes back three generations was under the care of a property management and I didn't want to be found in the premises should he show up with prospect renters. It was still early, so I decided there was time to put lotion on after my morning shower.</div>
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As I roam the dairy farm town that morning and right through the early afternoon, hunger pain struck so I decided to stop at Panera bread for a bite to eat. As I situated myself comfortably in a booth with an Asian salad and a turkey panini, I decided to write about last night's dream. The night's experience in the garage was so vivid that when I was about to start typing on my computer, the most unusual thing happened. I had hairs standing up and it made me wonder . . .<br />
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I never had the opportunity to meet her, but they called her Grama Van.</div>
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<!-- AddThis Button END -->Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-87915733808471426892010-06-02T19:36:00.000-07:002012-10-14T18:33:21.284-07:00A Place I call Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GgEy6cjSxcm-nao4-cTCv0g7L9ntEerKBpPbMmzp6_d_kyXKXqgs3RLC4Z_lBkVtlh3m-Arf6ig8ZaZQILKYhcvROtpTauZeAu4mc1a3fS04yI4StnEkAaT4_-eSsswpnk0Fg5OltsSw/s1600/Dove.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478467978111413778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GgEy6cjSxcm-nao4-cTCv0g7L9ntEerKBpPbMmzp6_d_kyXKXqgs3RLC4Z_lBkVtlh3m-Arf6ig8ZaZQILKYhcvROtpTauZeAu4mc1a3fS04yI4StnEkAaT4_-eSsswpnk0Fg5OltsSw/s400/Dove.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 194px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>What is a Home? How should a Home feel like? Where is Home?<br />
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span>
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Not sounding like a nomad, these are some of the questions that come to mind when I'm battling with 'nostalgia.' I once had a home—a beautiful home. Not so much in a physical or structural sense but the unmistakably oozing warm feeling of homeyness. Toys strewn and two boys running around making their presence known. The occasional loving and sometimes not-so-loving screams of defense from one child to the other was their way of relating and making sure that someone especially a parent was listening. The fuss made over a spilled hot chocolate on a rug that had every flavor of each day's family meal only played a small part on a chapter about growing pains and growing up. The aroma of home-cooked meals that permeated the walls including a hand woven wall decor that hung ominously above the family room brown sofa was hard to forget especially after a two day cook-a-thon in preparation for a Christmas eve dinner and later finding out that the offensive-to-some smell during Midnight Mass was made up of the family's Christmas dinner menu. My eyes wander among the various ethnic groups during an Advent hymn as I try to match the different smells that lingers in the packed church. I can bet the 'collection basket' that a perfect match each time was right on the money.<br /><br />Sounds like a stinking chaos? But it's my definition of 'Home'—a real Home! Not according to Merriam Webster or Wikipedia or anyone else for that matter. I yearn to be in that kind of home again. A place to call my own, to do whatever I darn well please. Where without fear of complexity, bacon will sizzle in a frying pan and tilapia fish baking in the oven will send out a stench as far as the Carmel river runs. Where I could freely walk around naked and not have to worry about anyone seeing my unwanted hanging love handles as a sign of a well-fed soul. So maybe the latter is just a bit much and won't stand a chance but it's definitely going on my Bucket List.<br /><br />Here's a letter I wrote to a friend shortly after the move to a place that briefly felt like Home:<br /><br /><i>Yes, we’re just about settled in at our new place. What I love most about the area is the beauty of nature that surrounds us. Looking out from our third floor apartment living room windows are lush green mountains with a few houses randomly slapped on them. From our small veranda, if allowed, one can almost touch the various birds that land on the huge pine tree with limbs that partly dip into our balcony. Yesterday, a Wood Pecker worked a hole and today was a Blue Jay that landed on a large pine cone. Directly behind the apartment building, although pricey, is a nice little market to make a quick run for basic necessities. Yes, they even carry a lot of organic produce and serves a variety of hot meals for the Village yuppies and worker bees. This small quaint village of Carmel offers about half a dozen wine tasting outfits and a variety of cozy restaurants and a neat little library where a free membership was issued without any troubles.<br /><br />Tourists flock here mostly on weekends, and soon, the entire summer. Waking up to the song of birds and the scent of pine trees that travel through the slightly opened windows along with the rays of morning sunshine is refreshing especially when mixed with a hint of eucalyptus flowed in from the nearby trails. At night, the chorus of frogs can be heard from a river a mile away. That, combined with the sound of the neighbor's soothing wind chime is something that makes me wish of breezy nights. <br /><br />About 4 miles into the mouth of Carmel is Garland Ranch Park where we hike. Among many wild animals, it is known to inhabit mountain lions, rattle snakes and poison oaks. Fortunately I have only encountered the latter and quickly learned to recognize their season colors and avoid them. I hike alone when a partner is unavailable . The feeling when on top of the mountain looking down at Lupine loop that marked my starting point, and the winter green mountains that cradle the village is exhilarating. No fear for mountain lions will take that away. Not even the two-legged creatures they strongly warn female hikers of. </i><br />It was an honest feeling that seem to have dissipated too quickly by a force of random disposition. The recipient of this letter responded with a "wow" and adding "this was written beautifully and very descriptive. Thank you for allowing me to participate and giving me the feeling of being there."<br /><br />I hope to someday feel like I have a Home again, and where? Who knows. Like the healer of all wounds, Time will tell.<br /><br />This photo of a mother Dove with her two babies on a glass pie plate is a classic example of 'being Home.' The 'pie plate-turned-nest' sat on a corner pillar of a patio gazebo built between the house and a swimming pool. The Dove, oblivious to the small gathering in the gazebo cooed as she played with her babies.</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-24461921344344580022010-05-25T13:54:00.000-07:002010-05-28T11:57:33.149-07:00Fire, where's the fire!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAY8_60NWzJ8fivcxuv039LIZeFQOzD06_L9bHAqiFtghA9JGdO1DW1uKl6VTYHEcCLg_nWslpHSTuh8F5g5L5sIJYS7VlTKjiYqha1xIlfClmx9zE1PC-eCuTqWvRxJGM00HBcvaktqX8/s1600/11_27_10_thumb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 83px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAY8_60NWzJ8fivcxuv039LIZeFQOzD06_L9bHAqiFtghA9JGdO1DW1uKl6VTYHEcCLg_nWslpHSTuh8F5g5L5sIJYS7VlTKjiYqha1xIlfClmx9zE1PC-eCuTqWvRxJGM00HBcvaktqX8/s400/11_27_10_thumb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475320406507818450" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It was three o'clock, early Sunday morning on May 23, 2010, I had just turned off the reading light after a few chapters of Tatiana de Rosnay's novel, <span style="font-style: italic;">Sarah's Key</span> and barely dozed off when I heard my name excitedly called out from the living room. Disoriented from the intrusive sudden awakening, the first thing that came to mind was 'fire', where's the fire! Literally, there was a fire. Hungry flames engulfed a building among the few homes that were randomly slapped on the mountain not far from our apartment complex. It looked mean with a promise to full destruction. I felt a sudden pang of sadness as we stood from our third floor apartment living room window watching a horrific site and can't help but wonder and worry that there may be people trapped in that towering inferno.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">As we stood by the window for what seemed like an eternity, it was apparent from the movements of revolving red lights, that fire trucks were having to drive back up and down the hill to what we suspected was due to poor water supply in that location, therefore water had to be hauled in from the nearest point of origin.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Later on that day, we learned from the local news that it was the Robles Del Rio Lodge—a vacation destination that sat idle for more than a decade that was completely destroyed by the fire. Sadly, Carmel Valley California had just lost an iconic structure to what the local newspaper reported, 'Fire officials called 'suspicious blaze'.' Although the building can be replaced, the artifacts that were once held inside will never be seen and admired again. But fortunately, no one was injured in the fire.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Never before have I witnessed anything like it. My mind was racing with the consequences and the 'what ifs' as I stood and watched helplessly. It wasn't difficult to figure out when the water supply had run out and when it was in full blast judging from the rise and fall of the blaze. Spent from this awful tragedy, I decided to go back to bed an hour or so later. Sleep didn't come easy and when it finally did, it didn't last very long. It was shortly after 8 when I woke up and immediately got up to see the progress made by the fire crews. A thinning smoke rose and danced with the obvious slight morning breeze into the horizon. I felt at ease knowing that the blaze had been successfully extiguished and the unharmed fire crews were able to contain the fire. This triggers a childhood memory about a time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grow up. "A firefighter." I beamed with purpose.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is a brand new day, a sad day for some, but for the most part, no one was injured and in some ways, it is a good day! Thank you to the many men and women who have chosen firefighting as a career. Truly, you make a difference!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Patty Cabanas </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >, is the co-editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">Feasts of Phantoms</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Sulfur Creek</span>, and copy editor of several Fisher King Press publications, including T<span style="font-style: italic;">he Sister from Below</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Re-Imagining Mary</span>. Her <span style="font-style: italic;">Out of the Shadows</span> </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > book cover design, </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >have garnered rave reviews from </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">a chorus of Jungian enthusiasts.</span></span> Find out more about Fisher King Press at <a href="http://www.fisherkingreview.com/">www.fisherkingpress.com</a> and Genoa House at <a href="http://www.genoahouse.com/index.html">www.genoahouse.com</a>.<br /></div><br /><a class="addthis_button" href="http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&username=xa-4bf44e401905318e"><img src="http://s7.addthis.com/static/btn/v2/lg-share-en.gif" alt="Bookmark and Share" style="border: 0pt none ;" height="16" width="125" /></a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#username=xa-4bf44e401905318e"></script><br /><br /><!-- AddThis Button END -->Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-86960814467117376422010-05-14T22:59:00.000-07:002016-01-28T19:00:27.383-08:00Farmer's Market<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaS1kUnepTxV2iVruQ2-0ZVdz3qzV0cQfTdHcdm5WZvvmN2KQiJHkwTjDM-903BDqWUR577_lAOh5V4JdjYXD3hTCTW6WJHoxdFNf2Uotf0HHTENex3sVqllfRWjJtL-S_ZAXybFBP9mk0/s1600/Farmer's+Market.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471805650328670178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaS1kUnepTxV2iVruQ2-0ZVdz3qzV0cQfTdHcdm5WZvvmN2KQiJHkwTjDM-903BDqWUR577_lAOh5V4JdjYXD3hTCTW6WJHoxdFNf2Uotf0HHTENex3sVqllfRWjJtL-S_ZAXybFBP9mk0/s320/Farmer's+Market.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a>It's Thursday—Farmer's Market day on Irwin Street. I've had my first Farmer's Market experience at the coast last summer. It was good but not like my experience on Irwin. The previous night, my 'sorta like' dad was talking about his day at the opening last week. Just listening to him made me ache for that same experience minus the aching and blistering feet. "Can you take me with you tomorrow"? what sounded like a little girl's voice excitedly asked. "We leave at about 5 to get a good parking spot" came the immediate reply. The last thing I remember before falling asleep that night was my grandiose plan of taking in as much of the day including a sno-cone, funnel cake and corn-on-the-cob.</div>
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Oh how sweet it is! Shortly after 5pm the next day, I walked the sidewalks and the blacktop of Irwin Street. To my right was my 'sorta like' dad and to my left was my 'sorta like' mom who skipped work as an RN because I like to think she wanted to take me to the Farmer's Market too. The crowd was thick and the delicious aroma of different food was playing 'catch' with my increasingly excited nostrils. We caught the smell of steaming jambalaya 3 tables down and soon had our first flavor of the Market. The man at the next table was not so lucky and displayed an empty food shelf as the work of a dysfunctional portable fryer. He supposedly has one of the best fried food at that event. It must be my lucky day! I've been spared a few steps into coronary.<br />
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As lady L and I walked and browsed the line of tables, our plastic spoons rhythmically worked from the jambalaya to our mouths until we hit the bottom of the container. We had no trouble finding the next Market flavor at a table that offered Portuguese donuts and rolls. Few tables down, a clump of politicians was quickly paced by many people including myself. At the corner intersecting two streets were two side by side long lines that were hard to miss. My 'sorta like' mom, Lady L walked the long line for funnel cakes while I patiently took the longer line for roasted corn-on-a-cob. We smiled and waved at each other as we got closer to our respective windows. Corn-on-a-cob on a stick was first bathed in butter then liberally smothered with mayo then generously sprinkled with parmesan cheese and for a little bit of heat, finished with a quick dash of cayenne. We needed to sit down to thoroughly enjoy our newly acquired taste buds pleasers. But wait, at the next table, I see giant sno-cones in all sorts of flavors. I walked up and ordered a favorite flavor—mango. It was a difficult task to juggle a corn-on-a-cob on a stick with one hand and a sno-cone in another and not expect an accident. Well, I lost the top of my sno-cone to an avalanche and it hit the crook of my arm then slid right down to the sparkling rhinestones of my left shoe. I was more upset in losing the best part of my sno-cone than the sticky yellow syrup that landed on my new shoe.<br />
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I found Lady L sitting on a pile of bricks that made a flower bed and I joined her while 'sorta like' dad chatted with Bingo and his girlfriend named Mary something. We sat there and devoured every bit of what we had while we laughed at the scary thought of shrunken feet. Perhaps it's just a scary optical illusion when one gains weight and see that their feet seem to have shrunk.<br />
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Next, we checked out the array of fresh produce. We see the first 'Organic' sign at a table. The three of us looked at one another and smiled. JR, was with us then! Later on, a bunch of organic freshly rooted garlic, non-organic daikon radish, kettle corn and another container of Jambalaya are among the items that went in our free bags compliments of a local hospital.<br />
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Stuffed and fully content, we slowly made our way to the car. People stopped and chatted with my 'sorta like' parents while I mused myself watching people dance to a live country music. On the dance floor, a woman in her 2 sizes too small green t-shirt that exposed her bulging waist line when she raised her arms was dancing with another female whose bra size appear to be...well let's just say my minus A cup was no match for her triple D , and beyond. This is one of those times when I say "life is just not fair." I looked away but only to the site of a man who wore his funnel cake including whipped cream topping and strawberries when he completely missed his mouth trying to shovel in a much bigger piece than his mouth was capable of taking. My little mishap wasn't that bad compared to his ultimate food accident of the day! He won the medal and wore it too!<br />
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That night, I slept soundly like a little girl who appreciated the many blessings of simple pleasures in life!<br />
<br />
There's a story behind the words 'sorta like' which I am going to blog about 'sorta like' soon!<br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: "lucida grande";">Patty Cabanas </span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">, is the co-editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">Feasts of Phantoms</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Sulfur Creek</span>, and copy editor of several Fisher King Press publications, including <span style="font-style: italic;">T</span><span style="font-style: italic;">he Sister from Below</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Re-Imagining Mary</span>. Her <span style="font-style: italic;">Out of the Shadows</span> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"> book cover design, </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">has garnered rave reviews from </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: "lucida grande";">a chorus of Jungian enthusiasts.</span></span> Find out more about Fisher King Press at <a href="http://www.fisherkingreview.com/">www.fisherkingpress.com</a> and Genoa House at <a href="http://www.genoahouse.com/index.html">www.genoahouse.com</a>.<br />
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Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1835657387290452202.post-91536672797163020182010-05-06T23:46:00.000-07:002010-11-19T22:03:29.606-08:00Perogies Wanted<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8IxZ3oFN6yXDm7HE_Emi8RoeNFCBLWR9GYaVON1nPurNfMQ1lEohlDG6ycwz1NpQIhi-ODmr4XHXOhyadrwEjKyo3tjcyFAgZmRnQpcsvJW4wt2Viq8HSMwo89JqYl74nqr8tsRdHaqK/s1600/209330.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473054963343875538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb8IxZ3oFN6yXDm7HE_Emi8RoeNFCBLWR9GYaVON1nPurNfMQ1lEohlDG6ycwz1NpQIhi-ODmr4XHXOhyadrwEjKyo3tjcyFAgZmRnQpcsvJW4wt2Viq8HSMwo89JqYl74nqr8tsRdHaqK/s320/209330.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 250px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 250px;" /></a>Who would have thought, at 12 midnight I'd be sitting here at my desk writing my first personal blog about Perogies? Yes, it's a craving but not what you're thinking. In Canada, Perogies are in every freezer of most Supermarket. And if you're fortunate enough to be in a community of larger Ukranian or Polish population, well what better way to have Perogies than freshly made, sauteed with bacon and onion then generously smothered with sour cream and topped with cheddar cheese? Oh, the site of sour cream and gooey cheese running down the side of a mountain of Perogies in a plate is almost sinful yet guilt-free when eaten in slow-motion and letting it roll around your mouth while identifying the various ingredients that's in every bite. In California, most people I have come across with have never heard of them. I've not seen them anywhere in California either, so it doesn't surprise me that not too many Californian know about Perogies, just like I don't know about the addictive Chin-Chin that Kehinde spoke of. Denninger's in Hamilton have the best Perogies I've ever had.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />
What brought this on? I was having a conversation with an ex-tractor salesman and I used the word "prerogative" and Bingo! One spoke and remembered the first experience he had with Perogies while visiting Canada. Needless to say, this California native is no longer a Perogy virgin. Hah! It's his fault that I have this craving and the feeling of nostalgia is so high that I will attempt to make my own perogies at the crack of dawn while he snores and play tug-o-war with a little spider hanging from the bedroom ceiling.<br />
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California is beautiful and has a lot to offer, plenty of sunshine, miles and miles of sandy beaches, hiking trails with snakes and mountain lions and great Mexican Food, but not big on Canadian favorites such as Perogies, Poutine, coffee crisp and crispy crunch candy bars and Canadian Bacon, just to name a few.<br />
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</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Patty Cabanas </span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">, is the co-editor of <span style="font-style: italic;">Feasts of Phantoms</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Sulfur Creek</span>, and copy editor of several Fisher King Press publications, including T<span style="font-style: italic;">he Sister from Below</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Re-Imagining Mary</span>. Her <span style="font-style: italic;">Out of the Shadows</span> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"> book cover design, </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;">have garnered rave reviews from </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;">a chorus of Jungian enthusiasts.</span></span> Find out more about Fisher King Press at <a href="http://www.fisherkingreview.com/">www.fisherkingpress.com</a> and Genoa House at <a href="http://www.genoahouse.com/index.html">www.genoahouse.com</a>.<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: lucida grande;"></span><br />
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It is a book for women who have mothers, are mothers, or are considering becoming mothers, and for the men who love them. Telling the stories of women whose maturation has been experienced in the cycle of mothering, it urges a view of the psyche of women that does not sever mother from daughter, feminism from "the feminine," body from soul.<br /><br />It argues that the path to wholeness requires us to reclaim aspects of the feminine self that we have lost or forgotten in our struggle to free ourselves from constricting roles. It describes a woman's journey to find her roots in the personal, cultural, and archetypal Motherline.<br /><br />Our mothers are the first world we know, the source of our lives and our stories. Embodying the mysteries of origin, they tie us to the great web of kin and generation. Yet the voice of their experience is seldom heard. We have no cultural mirror in which to envision the fullness of female development; we are deprived of images of female wisdom and maturity. Finding our female roots, reclaiming our feminine souls, requires us to pay attention to our real mothers' lives and experience. Listening to our mothers' stories is the beginning of understanding our own.<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Reviews<br />“(In) this perceptive and penetrating study . . . (<a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=22">Naomi Ruth Lowinsky)</a> imaginatively applies Jungian, feminist and literary approaches to popular attitudes about . . . mothers and daughters and movingly, to personal experience.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;">—Publisher’s Weekly</span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“A combination of years of scholarship and recordings of personal journeys, this book belongs in every woman’s psychology/spirituality collection.”<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;">—Library Journal</span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />“In this accessible volume, Jungian psychologist Lowinsky explores the pain that women feel when their mother-love is undervalued or erased.”<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:100%;">—ALA Booklist</span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />About the Author<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=22">Naomi Ruth Lowinsky</a> is the author of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sister-Below-When-Muse-Gets/dp/098103442X?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Sister from Below: When the Muse Gets Her Way</a></i><img alt="" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=098103442X" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" border="0" height="1" width="1" /> and <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Motherline-Every-Womans-Journey-Female/dp/0981034462?ie=UTF8&tag=wwwmalcolmclc-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Motherline: Every Woman's Journey to Find Her Female Roots</a></i><img alt="" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=wwwmalcolmclc-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0981034462" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" border="0" height="1" width="1" /> and numerous prose essays, many of which have been published in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Psychological Perspectives </span><span style="font-size:100%;">and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Jung Journal</span><span style="font-size:100%;">. She has had poetry published in many literary magazines and anthologies, among them </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery, Weber Studies, Rattle, Atlanta Review, Tiferet and Asheville Poetry Review. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Her two poetry collections, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >red clay is talking</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> (2000) and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >crimes of the dreamer </span><span style="font-size:100%;">(2005) were published by Scarlet Tanager Books. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times and the recent recipient of the Obama Millennium Poetry awarded for "Madelyn Dunham, Passing On.” Naomi is a Jungian analyst in private practice, poetry and fiction editor of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Psychological Perspectives</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, and a grandmother many times over.<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><!--StartFragment--><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Helvetica,Arial;font-size:100%;" >Order <a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=22"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Motherline</span></a> and the many Fisher King titles directly from<br /><br /><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/"><b>Fisher King Press</b></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255);"><u><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/"></a><br /></u></span><br /><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=19"><b>Amazon.com</b></a> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255);"><u><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=19"></a><br /></u></span><br /><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=20"><b>Amazon.co.UK</b></a> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255);"><u><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=20"></a><br /></u></span><br /><a href="http://fisherkingpress.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=22"><b>Amazon.CA</b></a> </span><span style="font-size:14px;"><span style="font-family:Times,Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><!-- AddThis Button BEGIN --><br /><a class="addthis_button" href="http://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&username=xa-4bdd43dc2a06ae5f"><img src="http://s7.addthis.com/static/btn/v2/lg-share-en.gif" alt="Bookmark and Share" style="border: 0pt none ;" height="16" width="125" /></a><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#username=xa-4bdd43dc2a06ae5f"></script><br /><!-- AddThis Button END --></span><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span> <!--EndFragment-->Patty Cabanashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03728286039161219722noreply@blogger.com0