February Survival Kit

I dread February, the longest shortest month of the year. Armed with a survival kit this year, the month isn’t just tolerable but often rather lovely. My reward: a February 29th this year!

Smacking the Little Yellow Ball

Lots of Sunshine
Photo Credit: Whit Chandler

Reads Worth Reading

Mizzou's Spectacular Basketball Season

The Complexity and Simplicity of Bluegrass Music

Writing in the Sunroom

The Love Of and From Family and Friends
(& Dogs and Cat)

Blizzard in Columbia, Mo., Feb. 1, 2011

Ann "Annie" Rogers Heading Down Providence Road, 2-1-2011

The University of Missouri, Stephens College, Columbia College, and the City of Columbia shut down in the wee hours of February 1 in anticipation of a record-breaking blizzard to hit Boone County. Say what? The University closes the entire campus due to weather only several times a century. It just doesn’t happen.

When I woke up on February 1 it was blustery and very cold but little snow. I wondered to myself if it would be another prediction that failed to pan out; regardless, the thrill of an adult snow day ignited the Peter Pan in me. By 11 a.m. the snow was falling at a rate of about 2 inches an hour and the winds picked up--blustery turned to plain wicked. 

Noon, February 1, 2011.

I realized then it was Now or Never for me to commune with this storm. The window of opportunity dwindled by the minute.

Providence Road was an open playground.

The night before, I carefully waxed my two sets of cross country skis. Ready for action, I bundled, tested each set of skis on my driveway, and set off for Providence Road in downtown Columbia. Mind you, this is one of the busiest streets in town, often with logjam traffic. With the road almost entirely to myself I embraced the snow, the wind, the forces of nature, and my penchant for adventure. Locals will understand my route: I skied from the intersection of Providence and Burnam down to Taco Bell and then turned around to climb back home on skis. 

No heart attack. I’m very fit but this was the most demanding workout in the past decade--maybe ever. Back home, when I took off my Gortex shell everything underneath was soaked. After ringing out my clothes and hair, I joined the rest of Columbia with a cup of hot chocolate and stared out my picture windows in awe.

The Blizzard of 2011 proved to be the real deal, dumping almost 20 inches of snow while bringing wind gusts over 40 mph. The fact that Interstate 70 closed from St. Louis to Kansas City for almost 24 hours meant little when getting out of a driveway or neighborhood was almost impossible for a few days.

Note: February 1, 2012, brings sunshine and a high temperature of almost 60 degrees.

Hartley Rogers, February 3, 2012, Clearing My Driveway
Hartley drove his Kubota to help dig out Columbia. This
was his day on the "playground."

The Plant Doctor's Hospital

View from the Plant Hospital

I covet two nicknames that my Mother has given me: The Plant Doctor and Superwoman. The Plant Doctor refers to my knack for bringing seemingly dead plants back to life and bloom in my sunroom while the Superwoman name is a hat tip to my physical strength.

Mom likes things to look just right so any plant that struggles makes its way over to my house. Some go straight to the compost pile but a number of plants in my sunroom serve as testaments and metaphors to strength, nurturing, and eternal life. Here are a few of my favorite plant stories:

My Christmas Cactus is one of my pride and joys. I believe it is 20 years old this year. With each replanting (4 times), I have increased the size of the pot, and the plant triples in size and strength. The one thing I learned (notice where part of the “tree trunk” has rotted away) is to not overwater this spectacular plant.

When my grandmother died in 1990, my Mom found a philodendron several months later that had not been watered since before her death. She watered it several times and the plant snapped back to life. This summer Mom decided to clone it as a gift to her Plant Doctor. When she was in the hospital for two extended stays in both May and September she reminded me several times to make sure the plant cuttings in her laundry room had water in the jar. I thought it was an odd request. When she gave me the potted clone (see picture above) late last Fall and told me how it survived and thrived through the years, I couldn’t help but think “yet another example of eternal life.” 

My best friend from college Denise Harrod gave me a small cutting of this rabbit foot fern. In addition to the two hanging in my sunroom that grew from her 6-inch cutting, I have made several additional plants as gifts. I believe Denise received her cutting from her mother who started hers from a friend’s plant. Clearly, the rabbit foot fern is a unique (and lucky) gift that keeps on giving.

Recently Repotted (above)
Soon to Re-Bloom (below)

Orchids. They have a reputation for being difficult. Since I’ve never had a problem having my orchids re-bloom, my mother sends hers to the Plant Hospital during the dormant phase, declaring them hopeless. Several orchids from my Mom later, I firmly believe that patience is the key to orchids. They really do not require much care. I’ve only repotted one over the last eight years and have enjoyed dozens of orchid blooms throughout the seasons and years.

Over five years ago, my Mom sent an almost dead jade plant to the Hospital. It was soaked to the root. I put the plant, roots exposed, on my deck table to bask in summer heat for at least a week and then repotted. Several repots later, I have a jade “tree” and another jade plant that survived being dropped on the sidewalk when I moved it from my work office.

These are just a few stories that my plants can tell. When I look around my sunroom I realize that almost every plant has a history of importance in my life. Many of the planters do also. I see celebrations, gifts, funerals, weddings, and life milestones. These thriving plants are another face of family and friends and experiences fully worthy of my loving attention.

A few simple tips from The Plant Doctor: don’t overwater, be patient, and enjoy the stories and memories that healthy plants can offer.

Jim's Plant

A Clone of a Clone from Miss Margaret Neate

Gene Moore: Your plant is in good hands!

Tikal and the "Mayan Prophecy"

View From the Top of Pyramid 4

Late December and early January of 2009-2010 found me traveling solo in Central America, exploring the countries of Belize and Guatemala. What I anticipated to be a beach, snorkeling, and reading vacation turned into an exploration of the inlands of these two countries rich in Maya history and archaeology.

On New Year’s Day 2010, I explored Tikal, the most significant Maya archaeological site in the world. The evening before, I queried the expatriate owner of the small but lovely motel where I boarded, about Tikal, living in Guatemala, and the "Mayan Prophecy." He promised that if I listened, asked questions, and opened my heart that the message behind the prophecy would be revealed at Tikal. With the knowledge gleaned, he told me I would have the spirit to interpret the prophecy in a way that made sense to my heart and intellect. When I asked him what he thought, he smiled wryly and said: “Business has always been slow but steady here. I expected better when I bought this property.” I then asked what he anticipated December 2012 would bring. With that question, his guarded smile turned to a wide grin, “I’ve got a full house with deposits and a long waiting list. Let’s just say I’m planning on a happy new year 2013!”

The heat of Guatemala and the exposure to sun in Tikal National Park required one to start their explorations at the crack of dawn. I set off with my new friend I met in Belize, JoAnne Jackson from Toronto, who was not only a wonderful travel partner but also comfortable with the Spanish language. 

The Climb to Pyramid 4

Several experiences stand out on the way to the Grand Plaza, the center of activity in Tikal. When walking in the jungle, the sounds of howler monkeys filled the air. JoAnne stopped and then pointed up. The tree was filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of monkeys howling, swinging, and perching. My jaw dropped; I've never seen anything like it! The cut trail through the forest would unexpectedly open up to reveal a massive temple, palace, pyramid, residence, or other limestone structure and then the jungle would reabsorb us once again. On the path, one of the spectacular early structures was Pyramid 4. Visitors are allowed, at their own risk, to climb many of the temples and pyramids. JoAnne was unable to climb but I had the monkey spirit in me. The reward of climbing Pyramid 4 was a view of temples seemingly growing from the forest canopy as the sun burned the early morning fog from the sky (see picture above). I glowed; divinity at its finest. 

My hotel-owner friend said to pay special attention to the Grand Plaza, which was the center of Maya life when Tikal was at its peak both in population and influence (c. AD 700). He recommended I find a guide to explain about how the temples align with the Maya calendar. This is what I learned: 

The seven temples of the Grand Plaza align precisely with the solstices making a large format sun dial. Maya life revolved around time and they had various calendars and cycles for different life events. The largest Maya calendar operates on a 25,000 year cycle and ends when the light reaches the end of the cycle, which falls in December 2012. Despite the popularity of apocalyptic claims and prophecies, the Mayas never predicted the end of the world but rather the end of the calendar cycle that will bring a global transformation of consciousness and evolution. 

The Grand Plaza, View One

Grand Plaza View 2

Now, sitting at the beginning of 2012, I can think of nothing more hopeful than a global transformation of consciousness and evolution. Whether this is brought by the Maya calendar or the grace of God the game could change this December. What if the world becomes a more compassionate, peaceful place because of the Maya's forecast of transformation? It's up to me and you and everyone else to make it happen. The "Mayan Prophecy" is a fun and timely way to share this hope. 

Another Angle on the Temple of Great Jaguar, Grand Plaza

Note: Art historians, epigraphers, and most archaeologists continue to prefer the use of Maya, both as noun and adjective, over Mayan. Therefore, against my natural instinct, the term Maya is used except with the distinctly modern term “Mayan Prophecy.” 

Hope, Feathers, and Useful Poetry

I possess hope, feathers, and useful poetry.

This week called for a couple of birthday gifts.

I gave hope, feathers, and useful poetry.

Hope     

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

(Emily Dickinson, circa 1861)

A River of Stones

"The Turning Point"
Acrylic on Canvas,  30" x 40"
by John P. Lackey
Provenance: Personal Collection of A. Rogers
For more information: http://home.insightbb.com/~j4lackey/

My friend Madeline Sharples (Leaving the Hall Light On, Lucky Press, 2011) invited me to participate in a River of Stones, January 2012. 

Today, I would like to invite you. It’s a bit belated but just as sincere as if I sent you a card in the mail last week. Please consider participating in this New Year’s challenge that offers immediate satisfaction and no competition. It can be personal, or if the inkling strikes, the Stone may be shared on the River of Stones website.

The exercise is simple: notice something every day and write it down. That’s all. Next, if inclined, make this “something” into a Small Stone, which is a short piece of writing (usually a couple of sentences) of prose or poetry that captures a simple mystical moment each day. I’ve found the experience of finding that Small Stone more rewarding than the actual writing. It encourages me to pay attention; this morning I marveled in the way the brown liquid stream filled my coffee cup and the sounds from my dogs circling my writing desk in anticipation of breakfast. Neither will be my Stone for the day but the engagement and awareness of my world around me is increasing each day. What a positive reward on a very small investment of time!

As of today, my Small Stones sit on scraps of paper scattered around my home. I haven’t posted any to the blog nor have I added them to my journal. The latter will be my first step this morning. Regardless of what I “do” with my Stones, the oft-talked about experience of “being present” can be practiced through this exercise by children, teenagers, and adults alike. 

For me, it is a wonderful reminder that God is in the details.

For more information on a River of Stones, join the Facebook page for daily reminders: https://www.facebook.com/riverofstones or go directly to their website: http://www.writingourwayhome.com/p/river-jan-12.html

Ramadan & Christmas in Morocco, Part 2 of 2

Christmas Eve, Sahara Desert

Note: Part 1 of “Ramadan & Christmas in Morocco” can be read here: http://annie-allthingsimportant.blogspot.com/2011/12/ramadan-christmas-in-morocco-part-1-of.html 
It sets the experience in time and context and contains terminology and background information pertinent to Part 2 below. 

The rain and cold in Casablanca continued for days. We decided to leave the city earlier than planned for Marrakesh. Like my visions of Casablanca being the city of romance, I also had notions of what Marrakesh would be like. On some level, I expected it to resemble a Grateful Dead concert. The pictures in my travel guide showed the central square covered in colorful food stands and bright lights with people dancing. It looked like a festive place to celebrate Christmas. 

Challenging travel conditions continued on our long bus ride to the magical city enshrined in the Crosby, Stills, and Nash song, “Marrakesh Express.” Looking at the world through the sunset in your eyes/Trying to make the train to clear Moroccan skies/Bugs and pigs and chickens call/Animal carpet wall to wall/Would you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express/Would you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express/All on board that train/. Fact was there was no sunset in our eyes and the “express train” was an old bus. Within the first thirty minutes the rain started to pour again and the window above our seat dropped a continuous stream of water. Girls tend to get their way: FBF (former boyfriend) swapped seats with me shortly thereafter. 

One of Many Food Stands on the Square In Marrakesh

When we rolled into Marrakesh I felt the magic I expected. I soon met a man named Aziz who offered to take us to the Sahara Desert. I said yes without asking FBF. He was leery; regardless we left for our journey through the Atlas mountains the next morning (December 23rd) in an old-style, mid-1970s Mercedes Benz with Aziz at the wheel. The temperatures rose and the sun shined brightly and for a few hours I allowed myself to relax and absorb the Vitamin D that my body craved. Late afternoon brought a jolt as the mellow drive turned into a manic car race on a winding, single-lane mountain road. Two inches off either side and the Mercedes and its passengers would tumble thousands of feet in the Atlas Mountains. The genuine fear of death smacked hard for the first time in my life. FBF thought Aziz had flipped a lid and I thought he might be taking us hostage. He shouted angry words in Arabic to other drivers, us, and the world in general. When the car finally skidded on two wheels in front of a village cafe it all made sense. Break fast. Dozens and dozens of men milled in the streets and on the cafe porch waiting for the mosque to sound.

Aziz (right) and His Friend

With the sun setting, Aziz and a young man from the cafe drove the Mercedes Benz to the end of the road and straight into the Sahara Desert to camp for the evening. He pulled out a makeshift tent and the chicken bought that morning from the floor of the trunk. “I will NOT eat that filthy chicken” pulsated through my head. Before long, Aziz siphoned gas from his car to fuel a small stove. With each ingredient he added to the tajine pot, Aziz mumbled “preparation chicken, preparation carrots, preparation bread” and on. All I could think was “Preparation H!”

Dinner 

Aziz knew limited English and French and his friend spoke only Arabic. Most communication was conveyed through gestures and laughs. When I tried to tell where we were from, drawing a map of the U.S. in the air and other tactics, the young Berber man finally had a bright look on his face and said with clinched teeth and a tone of voice that I will never forget: “George W. Bush!” Our vacation followed the 2000 presidential election and the Bush-Gore battle for the White House. In fact, unknown to us, the official winner had been declared back in the States just days before. 

Early on Christmas Eve morning, we mounted our camels (they had been tied to the back of the Mercedes and followed us in the desert the night before) and went on an exploration guided by a Berber man that seemingly appeared from nowhere. Without a doubt the Sahara ranked with the most awe-inspiring natural wonders that I had ever experienced. The vastness of the space was a fabulous exercise in insignificance: the land mass is roughly the size of the United States. By noon, I had stripped every piece of clothing except undergarments because of the blinding sun and suffocating heat. Soon Aziz had us on the way back to Marrakesh arriving at the hotel by early evening. We spent Christmas Eve night on the square, eating our way from stand to stand and drinking orange Fanta while dreaming of a beer in a country that bans alcohol.

Christmas Morning

When the mosques sounded at 5:30 on Christmas morning to break the fast, we ventured into the square to watch the sun rise and the bustle of activity surrounding another day of Ramadan. We Christmas shopped in the covered Medina of Marrakesh, eyeing all the vivid colors of the foods and crafts. 

Back at the hotel we found Aziz waiting for us. He extended an invitation to join us at his home for an evening meal with his family, acknowledging that he knew it was Christmas day. The gesture reminded me of something that I read in my Lonely Planet travel guide: “Moroccans are friendly people and open-minded tourists will likely get invited to a private residence.” Aziz and his family warmly welcomed us for the evening’s feast and the mutual feeling of an experience shared ensued among us all. As Christmas night came to a close, FBF kissed me goodnight. Here in Marrakesh we had luxuries lacking in Casablanca: two single beds and heat in the room.