So Close To Amazing, Part II

True Home Confessions

Today is all about keeping it real. The realest of the real. In the spirit of a little hygge, I'm treading where souls illuminated by wellness and conviviality have trod.

I can’t wait to tell you all about it.

Every.Last.Detail.

I think I'll start by using white placemats and for a centerpiece, root English ivy cuttings in a $.99 milk glass vase from Goodwill. (Aside: do not pay more unless it’s super cute; then you can spring for $1.99. The 20% discount on senior day can be a game changer.)

But what's a Country Living table setting without good carbs like Second Granddaughter's Italian garlic bread and dessert like Younger Daughter's caramel-poke brownies? 

They're even more delicious for snacking when you later curl up on the Big Bed to watch Captain Underpants or A Million Little Things. (Check the latter out on Hulu. It's marketed to make you think of This Is Us, boasts a good cast, and champions friendship.)

Maybe have warm gnocchi soup... nothing too fancy. Or wine with Muenster cheese and rosemary chips and bacon-wrapped scallops with Hubby and perhaps, neighbors and church friends. 

And heed Second Granddaughter's advice to not be a fuss and ditch the umbrella because a little bit of rain won't hurt. I'd cross my eyes like her, as she imitates her Daddy's low growl of a voice. 

And sip mocha peppermint coffee and munch on a cinnamon roll with Youngest Daughter. Or get another tattoo?! Or learn to wrap gifts Furoshiki-style with fabric.

Or watch Hallmark shows for reference, particularly when I have to make difficult life decisions. MI-Fallout is also OK. Hubby and I watched it on Roku at a discounted price. Recently, I went to see The Grinch. As in years past, the reclusive green character decides to ruin Christmas for the cheery citizens of Whoville. But the story is revamped just enough to feel fresh and pretty fun. And I smiled because it was hands-down the greatest movie I’d ever seen specially in the company of a little girl and her Mama.

Perhaps enjoy the joyful notes of Beethoven's Ode from First Grandson as he practices with his Mama, and sit by him as he dutifully completes Achieve (an online reading comprehension app) each day ... and then... look over his shoulders as he air-drops out of a moving plane, and Fortnite-battles it to survive as the play space slowly shrinks to force people into combat. 

Or just like First Granddaughter, be a 'jammer' and become her favorite animal... (is it a cheetah?)... explore exotic Jamaa and meet other children from around the world who share their love for animals. Or in her favorite pink outfit, wearing a new sequined headband with cat ears, feel the wind on her face as she rides her new 'big girl bike' without the training wheels. And run and soak up the sunshine and dance to the sounds of the ocean. 

And like both First Grandchildren, perform the Baby Shark dance learned at Summer Fun. Or break out spontaneously into dancing infinite dab, boogie down, and orange justice by the marina in between bites of cookies n' cream and gummy worm frozen yogurt. 

Or watch Dirty Dawgs Coach in a huddle with his fierce flag football team. And as you sit and cheer your team to victory, before you know it, you understand that if the player with the ball has his flag pulled or if he goes out of bounds, he is called 'down' and the ball is dead. And all of a sudden you’re an expert. And you jump up and down with Eldest Daughter who's wearing a fan shirt with a matching cap at a touchdown because you know it scores six points. 

And since nothing says quality time more than shopping with your firstborn whom you get to see only four months out of the year, how about scoping out rows and rows of urns and picture frames and pillows and bird’s nests marked with yellow stickers for a mere 100 yen per item (equivalent to $1) at the new Daiso? And after that, savor chocolate mousse by candlelight in a French cafe? 

Or share all the really important things in life with Hubby. Like catching up on TV with the global high-stakes mission of SEAL Team and the inner workings of New York's FBI. And battle it out, loudly shouting out the answers on Jeopardy, framed in the form of a question, no less.

Or look at the back garden to watch the neighbor's cat Pifko cavort with the baby squirrels in the woodpile. And grin, remembering Andy Bubba's pleading face on my knees with a look that said, I'm not being fed enough. Or smile in anticipation of Meeka doing two happy laps inside the house before a walk. Or watch Asool fall asleep while nibbling his sunflower seeds. 

And how about growing my own tomatoes in the spring, drying my own mint for use in the winter, baking banana bread, and raising chickens, or just quail?

Yes, it’s true. Life isn’t about what you don’t have. Or what you want. Or what you are going to get.

Instead?

It's about taking a moment with family.

It's about celebrating all the gifts you have already been given.

It's about reminding yourself about what's truly important.

Not just at Christmastime but for all time, it's about focusing on the heart of living that is filled with

Hope 

Love

Peace
and 

Joy

And that will be so close... NO, not just so close,
but truly AMAZING!

So Close To Amazing, Part I

True Home Confessions

Welcome to the latest edition of As the House Redecoration Turns.

It has been three-and-a-half months since my crusade, and I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself... like I’m in the finals for decorator of the year and someone is about to knock on my door with a trophy and a blue ribbon.

After all that scurrying and deciding and planning... now the great room looks like it has stepped out of House Beautiful and can well be pinned a zillion times on Pinterest.

I know, right? If you have been following this series, you are nodding with me.

I’m in a committed relationship with my house. I can’t help it. Every time I pad through in my American Airlines-provided socks, my heart smiles. And just between us? I will re-live every step of the journey for this moment.

I never dreamed. 

I’m not overstating it.

I never imagined my slipper-type air carrier hosiery would ever walk so far.

So, it won't hurt... if I take Just.A.Small.Peek into what's trending in home design and life style. 

Hygge.

Eeekk! What??!! You’re just chilling and drinking coffee and trying to figure out if spaghetti squash is a thing. And then you blink….

…and someone says, Who-guh? (Aside: that's how this Danish word is pronounced.)

My palms become sweaty, my throat dry, as I read on. Do you know where your anxieties are?  For a happy life filled with wonderful moments, whatever the time of year, bring more hygge into your daily life.

Hygge means to live in and savor the moment, deep down inside. Drop that into conversation in the deli aisle at Meijer and heads will turn with respect. The concept is an emerging movement espoused as an antidote to the trying times we find our society in. 

It’s about the everyday small pleasures that nourish the soul - a beautiful design, a walk.

It’s about creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. 

It is the invitation to get together, the beauty of simple things, the heart of conversation, the details of hospitality.

Say what?! My head is spinning. Just when you think it cannot get any better, you are nudged toward the idea of a life that is lived to the fullest... 

... and where every moment counts. Wow! All that sounds close to amazing. 

Is it possible?

Noah had his rainbow. Jacob had his ladder. Sarah had her son. God knows I'm into creating the coziest home ever, so he has sent me a sign of his faithfulness in the form of hygge.

I already feel more in touch with my emotions.

(To be continued)

Pure As The Driven Snow

True Home Confessions

I was looking around the great room when inspiration struck. What if I challenged myself and made this room more great? 

Raise your hand if you have a big opinion.

Oh, good. Please come sit by me and let's discuss.

Do you notice that behemoth grand piano that's blocking the view? What if...

 ... what if I pull it toward the back and trade its spot with the seating area? 

You agree? 

So that morning, I tugged... and pulled... and pushed. And tugged some more. And as the Shigeri Kawai found a resting place on the far corner of the room, the sky parted and a chorus of angels sang praises on the new living arrangement.

Their blessing upon the room overfloweth!

But something was lacking. You know, that look of lightheartedness. The stylish simplicity that I had seen in Pinterest photos. White interiors, neutral decor, organic materials, plants, and lots of light. How about (I'm not even asking your permission on this one)...

... a bright, spare, Nordic interior?!  

I was obsessed.

I didn’t think.

I simply did.

I was a lunatic.

I went thrift-shopping for white ironstone dinnerware and decor at Goodwill like it was my full-time profession.

I spray-painted side tables and folding chairs and trays and an entire wrought-iron deck furniture set with Krylon super glossy white. To say I painted a few things was like saying 90210 was just a zip code (look this up if you don't know). I was on a mission to Nordicize anything that didn't move. 

(Aside: Hubby must have noticed me eyeing the black-speckled kitchen counters, so he decided to get them professionally re-done. Needless to say, white quartz was our color of choice.)

When there was nothing left to paint, I went all Thomas Kinkaid getting a glow on all available surfaces with twinkling lights and white taper candles in glass holders.

For greenery, I rooted English ivy and spider plant in milk glass vases.

In the past, some of my projects didn't turn out as I had expected. But this time, the stars aligned. And the universe decided to cooperate.

And all was as pure as the driven snow.

(To be continued)

I Got This!

True Home Confessions

I have to go all George Washington and the cherry tree today. I cannot tell a lie.

I.Was.Overwhelmed.

Truly.

So I rallied myself with a renewed sense of purpose. I squared my shoulders and began to surf the Internet for answers. 

Guess what word repeatedly floated like a lifebuoy in bold letters when I googled, SOS Drowning in Clutter?

Minimalism.

Control your own destiny. The easiest way to organize your stuff is to get rid of most of it. 

I saw the light. I needed to know my clutter. The word was derived from a middle English word clotter which meant 'to coagulate.' 

Marie Kondo's Spark Joy, an illustrated master class on the art of organizing and tidying showed the way out of my 'coagulated' rut. You held an object in your hands, as close to your heart as possible. When something sparked joy, you should feel a little thrill running through your body. That was the sign for a keeper.

I got this! 

I hugged my prized possessions that didn't pass the spark test, looked at them with a thank you in my tear-filled eyes, and tossed them in a Goodwill donation sack.

Stalwart survivors got united, segregated, and desegregated by category and neatly piled in bins and baskets. A few doubtful ones were quarantined to be dispositioned later.

I became a Marie disciple, folding Hubby's and my entire wardrobe, big and small, each into a Konmarie four by one-and-a-half inch free-standing roll. Check the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lpc5_1896ro

And triangulating empty plastic grocery bags in small reservoirs of delight.

Even my spices were purring in alphabetized contentment. And my leftovers were color-coded.

I’m happy to report that the clutter disappeared (most of it, anyway) and the house is clean.

Full of joy.

Contented.

I know. Did you sigh, too? 

I can now breathe easier.

(To be continued)

Lurking In The Shadows

True Home Confessions

In this four-part series, I'm inviting you on my journey from the bedlam of everyday living to the peace of a beautiful and tranquil existence. If you are not already on this road, I hope that this would inspire ideas as you mold a space that you will love. 

I had come to grips with domesticity. For the first time in a long time, my life was coming together. And it felt good. 

Until that day.

I walked to the refrigerator, flung both doors open, and stood there until the hair in my nose iced up. That was when I noticed weird things growing restlessly within. Ciabatta rolls had turned blackish green. I knew from experience that there was no known blackish green food. If you saw it, it signified death. 

A hundred dollars worth of half-eaten food in varying shapes and forms that didn't snap, crackle, or pop were in the pantry. A shelf below could have been a memorial to Taco Bell salsas and an assortment of condiments from fast food bags including napkins, fortune cookies with the fortune still inside, and chopsticks.

Bread ties, rubber bands, and keys that no longer opened anything were in a catch-all drawer. It was also the breeding place for writing implements which started out as single Sharpies, gel pens, and pencils. These, however, had coupled through the years and given birth to children and grandchildren which could easily constitute the entire pen population of my current home state.

I fled to my wardrobe closet for solace. I almost hurt myself, opening its door. Clothes that had magically shrunk but which I'd never donated because I just knew I was going to fit in them again one day assaulted me. 

Hotel bath freebies, goodie bags from the dentist, a Plumb-Away plunger, and double-action Polident tablets (no one in the house wore dentures) were safely ensconced under the bathroom vanity.

The living room cabinet was a time capsule filled with Hubby's manuals for the microwave, car, computers, vacuums, TV, etc. I wasn't even sure if we had some of that stuff anymore. There were also cassettes, CDs and DVDs, just in case he'd want to play/watch one of them, and the Carpenters, Barbra Streisand, and Simon and Garfunkel vinyl record collection from the 70's which could be worth something someday.

I was downhearted. I thought of sending myself a note of consolation, but couldn't locate the sympathy cards that were bought last year on clearance. But I found extra Christmas photo cards from the last five years. You'd never know when we would want to see family portraits from years gone by. Even if they were saved on the computer.

I was in a crisis situation, hounded by what lurked in the shadows. What was I to do?

[To be continued]

In The Beginning

Second Blogging Anniversary

Life is too short not to celebrate nice moments. - Jurgen Klopp

Why take a picture when you can write a thousand words? Or maybe just a hundred, or three on a good day. In other words, blog. It's an idea I copied from Younger Daughter.

Did you know there are 114 posts on this blog, plus almost ten month's worth of drafts?

I know, right?

Just between us, I’m as surprised as you.

Two years ago on this date, I sat down at the computer, clicked publish on the first one, and never looked back.  

I wrote.

And wrote a little more.

Of course, I've had surges of anxiety. Writing is like high school. You walk up to the popular table in the cafeteria, hoping that someone will invite you to sit down.  You stand there trying to make eye contact, holding your tray awkwardly, shifting from side to side, and waiting.

Waiting and hoping... hoping that someone will like you for you.

This blog has been a lot like that. My first post was about a bonfire (see In The Beginning). Since then, I've lined up travel memories and experiences. And musings on sundry, random topics. Divulged childhood tales and talked about my fav literary works. And all that time, I've wondered how my readers will like the writing. 

And as I typed and posted and typed and posted...

(Disclosure before I go on: my current readership consists of three, maybe four - and that's by choice.)

... two of you have sent kind comments on a regular/semi-regular basis, even suggestions for a diversified style. (Spoiler alert: an attempt to do just this will be reflected in next month's series.) A third one rendered a single verbal comment, It's all over the place! (I heard it.) At least, you've confirmed how my mind works - hither and thither. Sort of unfocused, for the most part. Like a dandelion that parachutes its seeds in the wind. My fourth non-family reader sent an encouraging note, Keep writing, and I will keep reading. 

So, I guess that I'd keep on writing and remembering.

And dreaming and blogging.

Thank you for being here for post 115 on this historic second blogging anniversary.

The blog wouldn’t be the same without you.

P.S. Speaking of 'bonfire,' I lit one on Halloween, but I'd have to think of a series of four to blog about it. 

Do Small Things With Great Love

Life Lessons

We can do no great things; only small things with great love - Mother Teresa 

The place has a welcoming feel, a scene of vast repose. The sky all heaven, and the earth all grass. Meeting the land is water in which are immersed dozens of stilt wooden structures, home of about 6,000 people and the scruffiest property around. We've just navigated our way toward the floating village of Siem Reap in Cambodia. 

Today, we're bringing freshly-baked Cambodian-French baguettes to the children.

The crowd is already buzzing. Barefoot, tanned children with stained and torn clothes sit in a huddle on a bare patch of earth, giggling shyly, their voices tinkling, waiting. I catch snippets of sampeah! - the word for hello as well as goodbye in Khymer. A few stand up, soon followed by all the rest of them, placing both palms together like a lotus flower in front of their chest which is their formal way of greeting. 

There is an expectant hush as we start handing out longish loaves of bread. Num pang, a child says. Bread. At first they speak in church whispers, but soon, it becomes a noisy chatter as of buttonquails on the trees overhead. Their varied reaction is a delight to behold. I'm touched by the soft sadness on a child's face as he looks up on me after I've given him a small bagful. A little brown face squints against the light, purses his lips, then breaks out into the widest grin as he receives a goody sack. Orgoon, thank you, is said many times with a grateful bow.

Several are already eating their loot with gusto. I laugh as I see someone take a large bite, then bite again before he'd swallowed any. His cheeks are bulging, and the bite sprays flecks onto the air. A few have started to run back home to share the bread with younger siblings waiting on the stairs. 

I walk closer to where a mom is watching the scene with pleasure. She is holding a baby as if she were in a painting, surrounded by light. The baby is making funny noises. Gurgles and hiccups. It makes me laugh and when I do, he yawns and stretches and makes more noise, and I laugh some more. Beside her is a much younger mom with a baby on her lap. It is a comforting feeling, a child in one's lap. The baby is so supremely unimpressed that when he first lays eyes on me, he yawns and falls fast asleep. 

It feels like spring. The breeze is chilly, but the sun is shining cheerfully on these children who feel invisible, unnecessary in the world, but who are now suddenly cherished. 

The day couldn’t have been better, if God were to plan it.

For Every Pulse A Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day

My cup is overflowing, and I’m grateful for many things.

I'm grateful for twinkling lights and speckled maple leaves and thrift shops.

I'm grateful for home-baked crustless pumpkin pie with hot apple-cinnamon tea and precious smiles in ohana calendar pics and the best Haitian rum bundt cake in the history of boozy dessert ever.

I’m grateful for the cutest, fanged vampire and the most adorable 'floss' dancer with her energetic arm swinging, and the deadpan, comedic display of butt crack of a piano virtuoso to-be.

And most of all?

I’m grateful for all of you for being part of my quirky, flippant, sometimes shallow and full-of-myself life.

When I count my blessings, I count each of you twice. 

And let there be for every pulse a Thanksgiving
and for every breath a song.

Hold Onto Your Ears

Life Lessons

As I grew up, my Mom had many sayings that I term Mom-isms. On windy days when I played in the backyard, she would say, 'Hold onto your ears, or you'll blow away!' I believed her. - Excerpted from Eldest Daughter's Mom-isms written in honor of Mother’s Day 2018

I'm elated that Eldest Daughter has honored me by putting into writing my top five sayings. It makes me smile, thinking that these are the same ones that my own Mum schooled me in.

Dwelling on those times, I can't help but get convinced that perhaps, mothers are all slightly insane. When they ask, Do you want a piece of advice? - it is mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it, anyway. What's more weird is that the advice doesn't seem to make sense, but we heed the admonition all the same.

Like holding onto my ears on windy days, lest I blow away.

It's temperate most of the time in my city of Where-The-Nilad-Grows, but sometimes, the habagat southwest monsoon wind prevails. That's when a breeze starts stirring the canopy of the acacia tree in the backyard, ruffling its branches like a skirt. Come in now, Mum yells from out the window. It's getting windy. Uulan na! It's going to rain soon!

I heave an exasperated sigh. The light breeze blows strands of black hair across my eyes. Kaunting laro pa. I want to play a little longer, I plead.

A sudden gust stirs the treetops. I plant my feet firmly on the ground, reeling in the wind that turns my skirt into a flaring tulip. The wind is catching debris which it is whisking up and down behind me in an angry spiral. Sensible pipit and maya birds have already taken cover under the shade of the mango tree. My heart starts to flutter wildly like a kite in the whirlwind. Naku, hold onto your ears, or you'll blow away! Mum says with a stern nod, her concern genuine.

Heeding the urging, I gently grip my ears and close my eyes. The current of air rises and moans around me, then slowly fades until the lamenting becomes a low murmur, like voices. I wait. Except for a small gust of wind rattling bare alagao branches, the scene has now otherwise become quiet. I open my eyes. The breeze has tangled my hair, but it's all safe and clear. I quietly sigh in relief.  

Lessons learned in the home last the longest. To this day, my mouth quirks in an amused smile as I catch myself tugging at my ears whenever the wind starts to blow sharply cold around my face. As it kicks harder and more brisk, a reassuring feeling falls over me. I know that all will be well, just as long as I heed the lesson learned in the schoolroom of my Mum's heart: hold onto your ears.

Nothing But The Truth

Life Lessons

Excerpts, which are italicized, are from a 1978 unpublished essay, A Promise To Tell: Nothing But The Truth.

Children are simply their own little wonder. - Unknown

We are taught to let go of things and move on, but I've held on to Brown Bear, Jen The Lion, and their stuffed company - precious keepsakes that for me evoke the confident grace of childhood, a careless disregard that fades with maturity.

They make me think of that day a mother dreams about. The house was obscenely bright, the curtains stretched wide apart. We were moving to the Valley of the Sun's anchor metropolitan city in three months so our current ranch-style, three-bedroom home had been tidied up and put on the market for sale.

The boxwood hedges were trimmed, grass mowed, carpet vacuumed, furniture dusted, and the most-challenging chore of all - toys neatly stashed in the playroom closet. And the days went by. We eagerly waited for realtor John to call. The girls would longingly look at the closet, wanting to do one of their most-favorite things - to take out their entourage of play stuff and build a tent in the family room. Almost two weeks, and John hadn't called. I relented. 

Almost immediately, out came the Holly Hobbie printed sheets, the Alvin the Chipmunk quilt, the Strawberry Shortcake tea set, Goldie, Raggedy Ann, Theodore, and who-knows-what-else. It was a merry sight, with the girls happily chuckling, pulling chairs together to tie the sheet ends to. Inside the tent, it felt as enchanting as the first time we had put it up. The tea was hot and the cupcake was delightful. Toto was scolded, as usual, for messily putting up his paws on the covers.

Then the phone rang. My heart skipped. It was our realtor cheerily announcing that he and a client were on their way to our house. I turned into Super Woman, single-handedly throwing sheets and toys back in the closet. And right in the nick of time, as if from some magical fairy dust, the place was once more immaculate.

Chatty and overly-accommodating, I led the merry procession into the house, with John reciting its virtues, inside and out. Our prospective buyer was clearly pleased. But just as John was to end the tour, Younger Daughter made a face and giggled. 'You haven't seen our toys and tent yet!' I bit my lips, declaring, 'Next time, sweetheart.' That's when Eldest Daughter averred, 'Oh, but they're right here.'

Our visitors obliged, walking with a grin toward the playroom. Younger Daughter continued in a very clear voice, 'In there!' Her big sister helped by pushing the closet door apart, revealing a mishmash of soft and Fisher Price toys intertwined with sheets, and lidless pots and pans. I was horrified and utterly at a loss for words, but the girls looked proud, their ear-to-ear smile completely dazzling. 

One of Toto's eyes had been replaced with a chipped button, and Froggy is worn with drooping shoulders like an over-used dish towel. Looking at these stuffed toys, now threadbare on some parts and floppy, reminds me of that single moment of insight.

I thought that I had schooled the girls all about life, but they in fact were the ones who showed me what life was really all about. 

Hold Hands And Stick Together

Life Lessons

Gratitude is the most exquisite form of courtesy. In this season of thanksgiving, I look back in appreciation of the childhood teachings that have modeled my life. 

It is still true, no matter how old you are - when you go out into the world,

it is best to hold hands and stick together. - Fulghum

This story has already been written. Right down to The End. During a family outing, I will almost always end up getting lost, a captive to Dreadful Distraction. 

The narrative starts like all others. Mummie courageously embarks on the requisite pilgrimage to Carriedo for classroom supplies and a new pair of shoes with wriggly school-aged and ­under age kids, plus the ubiquitous toddler of the moment. I hear the drill, Hold hands and stick together! 

Amid a riot of color and noise on the dusty street, our mini convoy is soon swept up among a throng of shoppers.

The scene is enthralling. Despite the heat and humidity, store fronts hum with sales girls proclaiming the virtues of their wares, Buena mano, Manang. Buena mano is a Spanish phrase that literally means 'good hand.' In local business practice, it means the first sale which is believed to bring good luck for the rest of the day. On the sidewalk, rolls of cotton fabric and woven blankets entice, alongside a garish array of plastic and stuffed toys on make-shift stands. Ambulant hawkers enjoying a brisk trade in roasted chestnuts are weaving in and out of jeepneys that beep their horns as they wait for the road to clear.

Then, it happens.

Around the corner, my nemesis comes into sight. Today it is the disheveled, one-legged street musician simultaneously blowing into a harmonica strapped around his face, plucking guitar strings, and rapping on a drum with a stick attached to an improvised rod that is activated by a foot. 

I know that I'm awake and aware of everything around me, but as images and sounds tap in my mind, I unknowingly release my grip from the rest of the world, beguiled by this musical wonder.

As the final notes of the performance fade, I turn my head behind, but find no familiar faces, just an endless view of the street. Shadows are blotting the sun, and I'm now just a speck in the wide expanse of people everywhere walking by in a hurry to get home to dinner. A hideous feeling comes over me. I'm lost, I mumble, my voice trembling. As much as I want to stay strong, there is an odd tear that has crept up at the edge of my eye and I have to keep wiping it off. Sweeping away welling tears, I stumble to my feet and start walking without paying attention to where I'm going. I want my Mummie's hand. 

But just when all seems hopeless, a familiar tug from behind reaches out to my slight shoulders, interrupting my worries. Dios mio! My God! I told you to hold hands, Mum blurts out with all the control she can manage, as she hugs me exuberantly. I hear her words, but for a few moments, I do not comprehend their meaning. She's trying not to let her voice quiver.

I wear a chastened attitude, swallowing the wedge of emotion in my throat. I take in her comforting attention weaving together with my remorse. I nod.

Lesson learned.

High Roller

Transporter

Never once have I paused to think about my mortality. Until this moment. 

I give out a short hoot. Why didn't I review my Last Will and Testament? Or at least, I should have named someone in my POA to make decisions for me, if I'm ever permanently or temporarily unable to do so. 

Glancing at the famed High Roller at the east end of the Las Vegas LINQ Promenade, I cower at the thought of my impending tragic demise. Opened to the public in 2014, it is currently the world's tallest ferris wheel - nine feet taller than its predecessor, the 541-foot Singapore Flyer - and the world's largest observation wheel with 28 transparent pods that can hold 40 passengers each.

Everyone else seems to be grinning, exchanging greetings. Am I the only one convinced that I'm about to depart the land of the living 550 feet above ground? A sense of gloom creeps over me as I picture it taking me for a spin, providing a 360-degree view of the city. It doesn't help that the pedestrian mall is decked out in its Halloween finest, including some impressive ghouls and werewolves. I'm certain that the macabre images are ominous of my imminent doom. 

Against the lump in my throat, I murmur anxiously. The die is cast. I'm voluntarily trading the serenity of the ground for the chance to be tossed through the air like a vegetable in a 44,000 pound rotating glass food processor. I'm a fool, I whisper to the teasing autumn wind. My entire world will be drained through a sieve and I cannot imagine how it can be reconstituted.

Wringing my hands in front of me, I pause, but then drop them, recognizing that the behavior appears weak. I reluctantly but resignedly enter one of the capsules mounted on the wheel's outboard rim and individually rotated by electric motors to smoothly maintain a horizontal cabin floor throughout each full rotation. 

I try to stem the flow of my thoughts, or at least divert their course, by looking around the interior that is garishly illuminated by a 2,000-LED blue, red, green, and purple color system. About 22 feet in diameter with a 300 square feet of glass surround, the cabin is equipped with eight flat-screen televisions and an iPod dock. 

Peering out into the abyss, I feel as though it will suck me under like the rising of a huge wave. For just this one time, I want to stop working at my faith and simply be assured that everything will be fine. My voice, though soft, is curiously charged. I need a sign. But, really, what an an absurd statement, I'm thinking. Laughably meaningless.

Momentarily frozen, I hold my breath as the giant mechanism starts to move. Below, the city shimmers with light so vivid that it hurts unshielded eyes and makes the many nooks and crannies carved on the edges of buildings dance. I watch how quickly the terrain changes. Much to my surprise, I'm spared the assault of stomach-turning weightlessness. There is little sensation of movement throughout. I reach the summit. 

There are no angels in white. I try not to sound too surprised. No pleasant warmth tingling through my body either, I promptly observe with a nervous laugh.

And just as quickly, I descend back to earth. There is no cymbal-like crash vibrating through the air as the wheel reaches bottom. The 30-minute revolution has gone quickly. I sway for a moment. A few more minutes and I'm outside in the fresh air. I'm alive, I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I stifle a smile. The ride is over. 

The High Roller? No big deal.

On Wings Of Sleep

For Andy Bubba

He went to bed.

He was tired.

His eyelids sagged until sleep overtook him. 

Tonight, he's buoyed up on wings of sleep - floating easy and undisturbed.

DaBus

Transporter

There is no reason to believe that human life is correct only when it straightens out. Maybe at root we are coils of possibility in constant rotation. - T. Moore

You'd think that this public transport would have been more creatively named Leilani, Hawaiian for 'heavenly flowers' or 'royal child.' Or Wicked Wahini, for a playfully mischievous woman; or even Kanaka, a term of ethnic pride among native Hawaiians.

But, no. Its managers have chosen to call it simply TheBus or, as locals say, DaBus.

At least, its literalness nixes any confusion as to its intent - to provide daily ridership service to people in Oahu on 110-some routes. These motor vehicles are bicycle-rack equipped, most of them low-floor for accessibility. A kneeling bus, I amusingly note the written description on its side.

That morning, I was all set on what for me was a requisite to daily living. Shopping, I whispered to myself with a grin. I walked to the closest stop, just two buildings to the right of the condo and waved DaBus Number 19. Please hold on. I obeyed without hesitation or question as I got on board. The bus is departing. The sonorous recorded-summons was soothing. 

Call it the sun, the wind, the smell of the sea - it made for a pleasant morning. Sunshine was streaming from the window. The sky was like a huge inverted bowl of purest blue. 

I looked out the window and absently watched the passing scenery. Along the right side of Kalakaua Avenue, I caught small sightings of Waikiki beach, its waters washing through sand. The fragrant whiff of blooming plumerias mixed with that of salt, the smell of a city whose people live life outdoors.

To the left, DaBus passed a wedding party gathered in front of a water fountain. Newlyweds, I said, dividing a glance between the bride and the groom, both of them smiling back, showing plenty of teeth. They were posing for a keepsake photo. 

It went around the narrow end of Kapiolani Park, veering left away from Diamond Head, and circled around to Kuhio Avenue. On an outlying  grassy area, I saw a handful of elderly folks executing graceful tai chi movements and school children kicking a soccer ball. An elderly wahine had a handful of bread crumbs that she tossed a few at a time. Hele mai. Come here. She was enticing the koloa ducks with a toothy smile. They eyed her suspiciously at first, but then arrowed in from all directions.

Reaching the Starbucks corner, we turned away from the waters toward the city. Stop requested. DaBus wobbled to a stop. A swarm of tourists got off by the Marukame Udon cafeteria on Kuhio Avenue. Waiting to get on board were some students from the community college. DaBus was crowded. Please hold on. The bus is departing. Again came the summons from a soft, fluttering voice.

I watched the land flow by in. When the light was just right, the window became a bottomless mirror reflecting both myself and the land in odd unity. You can't miss the smallest nuances. The slight sound of a nene bird honked adorably, Ah-ahrk! in two notes, over and over. The vehicle halted with a lurch at my Ala Moana Center stop. I hurriedly walked toward the shopping mecca just a short block across. After two full hours filling my shopping cart with great enthusiasm and a guilty conscience, I headed back and caught the same route on the other side of the mall. 

Comfortably snug on an elevated seat close to the exit doors, I gave a sidelong glance at familiar sights. It was a re-run of the landmarks in the early morning, but in reverse. DaBus was going back where it started. I mused, with a knowing smile, So, life is not always straightforward. Perhaps it's a summons to live it in widening circles - moving forward, then coming round again.

Stop requested, a silky voice said through the speaker after I tugged on the pull-cord.

Funny how routine could be made suddenly interesting in the space of a few hours in a day.

Túk Túk

Transporter

The name is onomatopoeic, mimicking the sound of a small, two-cycle engine. Túk túk.  

It's a small, open-ended taxi with a canvas roof and an open-frame body made of sheet metal that provides cheap and efficient transportation in Asia. 

Today, we're in this auto rickshaw, seated at its rear passenger and cargo space for an up-close-and-personal ride through the convoluted world of Old Delhi in India. From a small cabin at the front, our driver, controlling the vehicle with a handlebar, is taking us to the crowded and dilapidated heart of the walled city of Shahjahanabad toward Chandi Chowk. 

What a place! I mutter, raising an eyebrow, as I peer behind drop-down side curtains. 

I let the details of the view seep into my mind - the whispering of chiffon saris, lights in the street, the chanting voices of Hindu priests that never stop. The air has that festive holiday feeling.

All surfaces seem to be grounded in colors of orange, gold, and red. Incredible vistas of yellow curry and other spices mounded in large baskets are everywhere. Everything is shiny and involves a lot of metallic trim. 

I feel sweat on my brows as the túk túk weaves in and out of vehicles, zooming along narrow alleyways. A steady buzz of traffic, stray dogs, and small, running footsteps continue to hit the senses with beeping and curses. I smile brightly, gazing out at the growing crowd of people milling about over piles of loose debris. 

There is a loud tooting of horns, just as a bus unloads across the street. Nobody seems to yield the right of way to carts or pedestrians who are pushing and shoving along the street. I snort out a laugh when our driver sounds his horn to encourage a skinny goat to clear out of our path, but get distracted quickly by a shopkeeper calling without looking up to advertise his tangy and spicy snack from his roadside food cart. Chaat!

As I glance around, my face brightens at the variety of delicacies and sweets. Samosas. Kebab. The smell of chicken tandoori and the allure of chole bhature, a dish that combines spicy chickpeas with fried bread and a dollop of chutney, entice me. I try to keep my voice level, as I spot the sugary sweetness of gulab jamon flaunted on open shelves. 

Time unravels. The world outside seems very distant. But in my face, right now, is a whole city with its shabbiness and glory just waiting to be discovered. Breathing deeply of the dry, warm air, I shake my head and laugh under my breath.

I want to explore every single part of it.

Traghetto

Transporter

NOTHING BEHIND ME, everything ahead of me, 

As is ever so

ON THE ROAD. - Jack Kerouac

It's long, black, and slightly crooked.

Here near the Piazza San Marco, on the bank of the lagoon in Venice, I'm peering at a water taxi that looks like a cross between a canoe and a coffin - without keel or rudder and flat. Unlike the traditional gondola, it is unadorned: devoid of any bow decoration, brocaded chairs, and other luxury trimmings.

A traghetto! My voice is loud with excitement. A couple of people turn and stare at me. 

The word means ferry. Our trusty Europe Through the Backdoor guide book recommends it as a simpler and quicker alternative to hiring a gondola. A traghetto crossing of the Grand Canal only costs €2, whereas the official fare for a 40-minute gondola ride is €80, or €100 after 7 pm.

The single oarsman standing on its keel announces that it's bound for the glass factory on the island of Murano - and the ride is free. What a deal! 

Without hesitation, I wave a hand, pleading like a spoiled child. Andiamo! Let's go!

We board and find a place to sit. Although Venetians traditionally stand during the crossing, we opt to sit as it seems safer to do so in a bobbing boat.

I'm grinning like an idiot as I survey the cross-breed of land and water that unfolds in the early morning light.

White phantom city, whose untrodden streets 

Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting 

Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

How can something I have only imagined be so suddenly upon me? 

There's the Bridge of Sighs, I blurt out, as I spy its other-worldly silhouette lifting from the green of the Adriatic. A lacework of interconnected canals surrounded by beautiful buildings and churches, some of which date back as far as the thirteenth century, comes into view as the ferry gently propels down the waterway and under the Ponte de Rialto.

Quello è il palazzo laggiù. That's the palace over there, our boatman drawls, his eyebrows tilted. He gives us a smile.

Leaning forward, I place my fingers lightly on my parted lips as I take in the domes, gilded spires, and majestic arches in the Doge's Palace. I'm nodding speechlessly, my eyes wide and animated. The grime of centuries eats at the stones of majestic palazzos. But the decay is luscious, I mutter, my voice purring with contentment.

The entire scenery is a romantic combination of art and history, old trade, and the beauty of the sea. I can feel the breath of the waterway on my skin as it rushes past. I feel light. 

My voice warm and fond, I give our gondolier a wobbly, crooked smile and whisper, Continuiamo su. Continue on.

I lean back, dreaming vaguely of a new existence of idleness.