Deforestation --wax and wisdom

Tuesday August 12, 2009

 

My RV has now arrived in Colorado but I must admit that I’m finding it hard to leave the comfort  of  Erica and Jeannes ranch house.  It’s become my home away from home and they sure know how to treat a guest.  For example, a few days a week Erica wakes me up and takes me on the greatest horse back riding adventures, in the most outrageously gorgeous places on earth.  I get to ware chaps, sport a cowboy hat, walk with a swagger and occasionally spit without having to explain myself.  It’s fabulous.

This morning we got a late start but we went anyway.  As Zella (my horse… ok, Jeanne’s horse) and I duck and weave amidst a stunning Ponderosa Pine forest thriving along side a sound filled river, with water falls raging over rocks and fallen trees, in a canyon so beautiful that my eyes don’t know which direction to look in first, I can’t help but think about how I treated Erica during her last visit to Cocoa Beach.  I too woke her up and took her on an adventure of sorts into in the forest…her own forest.  I took her to Trudy’s for an early morning Brazilian bikini wax deforestation treatment. 

A Brazillian forest, according to Trudy, is the opposite of a Sicilian forest which is apparently what Erica was sporting upon her arrival.  I don’t suppose that density or coverage matter when we’re spitting and wearing chaps but when we’re about to wear a bikini, its best to do some clear cutting around the edges so that the shorter children on the beach who might run into us while chasing a Frisbee won’t come face to face with a hairy scary situation due to their vantage point. 

Of course, I can always count on Trudy to make my guest feel at ease and in true Trudy style she uncovered the situation and tactfully announced her concern that I hadn’t booked enough time for a bush waking of this magnitude. She hymned and hawed about how she would have to move or cancel her adjoining appointments, questioned Erica about how anyone could see the forest through these trees and told us hair curly stories about a woman who wanted her money back because she claimed to have been scared or worse within her forest walls by the hot, hair ripping, root lifting effects of the deforestation process. 

I’m not sure if the humiliation or the eye crossing outcries were the high points of Erica’s visit but I am sure that in this now moment, several hours into this most amazing ride, I’m starting to feel that its possible that Erica has out done me in the hospitality department.  Just as these thoughts cross my mind I notice the dark clouds that are now surrounding us, the same clouds I questioned Erica about an hour ago to which she responded, “not to worry”.  Within minutes the sky opened up and thunder began to rumble at our backsides, followed by the ominous sounds of lighting bolts hitting the tree branches beside us.  I now began to realize how the downed trees in the raging river probably got there as I remember that just yesterday a horse in a neighboring ranch was struck and killed by lightning.  We quickly did an about face and started racing back toward bluer skies. “Stay at least 25 yards behind me” Erica screamed out, “so if one of us gets hit by lightning the other can perform CPR.” . “Well that’s just great!” I thought to myself. I don’t know CPR and so now I’m hoping its me who gets hit by lightning or surely we both will die.  “Do you want your rain parka?” Erica cries out as the rain turned to sleet and the wind began to howl through the trees.  I sometimes wonder where Erica comes up with some of the things she says. I’d have to dry off to enter a wet T-shirt contest at this point, so I’m not sure why we should stop under a tree while its lightening to prevent further wetness.  I’m really missing Ranger Jeanne at this point as we galloped around corners, my head frequently hitting branches that seemed much higher in the peace and calm of our earlier experience.  The horses were now spooking around every turn, lightning crashing down like a whip, accelerating the heart pounding madness that’s driving us like Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid to the edge of canyon walls, sliding and traversing until finally we could see our lone trailer hitched to our rescue vehicle sitting on the side of a rural mountain road with a beautiful beam of Light shinning right on it, not a drop of rain falling.  Soaked to the bone we laugh hysterically and high five like high school kids who got caught in the rain on a beautiful Tuesday afternoon.

Whether physical or emotional, we can use the electrifying storms in our lives that rip our trees out by their roots to reveal smoother and calmer places within ourselves, where we can genuinely appreciate what it means to Feel Alive.

 

High and dry and thinking of you my friend.  May your paths be naturally “smooth”…Rosalie      

Surfing

July 9, 2009

 

I have that crazy eye disease and I just can't see us as anything but lucky, brilliant, inspired, creative, lovable, radiantly healthy, and outrageously abundant.  The entire Universe is conspiring to bring us bliss, so why resist it any longer.  It's like trying to hold back the ocean.  Trust me, I've tried this.  Just recently, I put my surf board between me and an enormous wave being created.  Watching it manifest was truly a site to see.  It was exactly what I had asked for and the only reason I was standing in the water with a surf board the size of Elvis's first Cadillac.  I watched in wonder as the Universe orchestrated all of the events necessary to create exactly what I had imagined and then, just as it was time for me to receive, enjoy, hoot and holler and ride that big boy in... I got scared.  I quickly turned and squared off against the ocean, digging my feet into the sand, insuring the full weight of my might was standing behind that board... GREAT PLAN BIANCO.  It wasn't until I was flying the surf board like a kite by my ankle, grasping for air, head first in the huge universal washing machine, topless and sharing the rest of my bathing suit with a disrespectful crab,  that I realized.... It's our greatness that frightens us.  

On line dating

February 28, 2009

 

My happily married friend Erica may be secretly living a single life vicariously through me.  Last night she began a search on her computer which started with ski clubs, progressed to social groups and deteriorated to dating sites. 

Her computer screen became inundated with photos and self profiles of playmates looking for companionship.

 It was hard to tell them apart because everyone’s description of themselves went something like this;

 

“ I love life and it loves me!  I’m intelligent, confident, talented, fun, creative, child like yet mature.  I stand for peace.  Strong yet sensitive, I possess just the right mix of wit and charm.  I have no needs, or short comings, lots of free time and no responsibility.  As a passionate romantic with a 007 flare for adventure, I am looking for the perfect gorgeous model who is independent yet needs me.  I want a woman who is sensitive, resilient, fun, rich, intelligent, fit and voluptuous with whom to share my amazing self.  (Please be aware that the camera has added ten maybe twenty pounds to the photo I have posted, and the tattoo is not as large as it appears.)”

 I think there should be a section where the ex girlfriend gets to write a description of the person in question.  That section might go something more like this;

 

“Life time member of the “Catch and Release Relationship Club”.   Emotionally unavailable and immature.  Gassy. Possessive, with a flare for drama and just the right mix of guilt and sociopathic tendencies.  Self centered, always right and never satisfied.  Good cook.  Great legs.”

 Both of the descriptions above could be accurate at any given time.  Never the less they are just masks.  Who are we really? 

 

About a year ago my friend Julie asked me what I desired in a life partner.  My answer at the time was, “I don’t want one.”  We talked about it anyway and she wrote up a list for me which another friend recently gave to me. It had stuff on it like romantic, spiritual, caring, respectful, honest, generous of heart, etc.   Yesterday when I added,  “Lets me into vulnerable places where she is without the protection of self love. Willing to take emotional risks because she trusts my intensions as her beloved.” , I realized that I am my own beloved.  Marianne Williamson once said that there is nothing missing from my relationship that I’m not bringing to it.  I believe that now more than ever.  Relating is always witnessing the self extended. 

 

Getting to know my beloved.  Rosalie

Valentines day

February 15, 2009

 

It’s mid February and Paula has now safely returned to her regularly scheduled life after five weeks of cross country hysteria.  She is still out and about somewhere in the country but at least she’s not dangling from a chair lift.  She’s been a courageous companion and I will miss her morning smile and her unwavering optimism.   Ok.  I’ll also miss the laundry, bell hop, chef and house cleaning services, none of which were on her resume.

 

Yesterday I celebrated my first single Valentines day in 18 years.  I wanted to spend the day in the company of people who are in completely dysfunctional relationships to ward off any feelings of euphoric nostalgia but I couldn’t find any in Colorado, so I flew home to my parents.  It worked like a charm. 

 

My mother slaved in the kitchen all day to prepare this fabulous lamb dish, complaining the entire time about how she was certain that my father wouldn’t eat it because he never likes anything she makes.  (For the record, my father is allergic to lamb.)  

 

It’s hard to understand her until you spend some time with him.  He was in the garden, yelling about how we make a big deal about Valentines day so that we can sell chocolates to diabetics and flowers to people who think potatoes grow on trees, pointing out that I would starve if Publix closed for a week because I can’t even grow parsley.  “Valentine’a day shes’a like’a Munday, Toosday, Fryraday.  Is’a no special day.” he exclaimed, ripping out the roots from lasts summers eggplant, insuring a thick and muddy layer of black top soil from his trousers would end up on my mothers newly mopped floor, all the time forgetting that it was also his 54th wedding anniversary. 

 

From the outside looking in, my parents relationship is not something I would sign up for, yet somehow it seems to work for them. 

 

A very good friend recently told me that a relationship “seems” to work when the person we are in relationship with loves us a little bit more than we love ourselves.  The reflection they show us is better than the image we have of ourselves so we stay and keep looking in the mirror.  She then pointed out that a little more than self hatred doesn’t feel like love because its not…  It’s a cry for love.  Our own.  Maybe we should answer it.

 

Wishing you blissed out, mind blowing Self love and the reflection it shows you. 

 

Happy Valentines day…Rosalie     

 

Sherpa services

Feb 2, 2009

 

Sherpa services aren’t what they used to be.  Apparently Paula believes there should be some sort of equality in the way things are carried from the car to the ski lodge.  I know this because she says things like, “I’ll get the back pack and the skis if you’ll carry the boots and the bag” even though she is perfectly capable of carrying all of it if she was willing to make two trips.  

 

We’ve had other misunderstandings which have required clarification.  For example, there is only one backpack for a reason.  That reason is that only one of us will be carrying it and there are numerous reasons as to why it couldn’t possibly be me. One of the reasons is because I am the one who needs access to its contents on the most frequent basis.  Glasses, lip balm, water, sun screen, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, snickers bar, more lip balm, tissues, binoculars, face mask, hat on, hat off, spring gloves, more lip balm, power bar, hand warmers…you get the picture.  I do most of this exchanging on the lift chair so it doesn’t interfere with skiing time.  Of course this means that Paula is required to sit sideways so that I have access to the backpack. 

 

One thing in particular that I need to exchange often is my sunglasses for my goggles and visa versa depending on the time of day, the conditions and the run we’ve selected.  I keep my glasses in the top compartment of the backpack and when I want to make the exchange I simply strap my goggles to the outside of the backpack and let them dangle a bit. 

 

Now, when Paula is doing her part and sitting sideways there is no problem.  During one fateful ride up to the top, she whimsically assumed that she could sit back and relax on the chair lift like all of the other skiers, since she had faithfully performed all of her other duties as the backpack carrier.  She was wrong.  

 

Unbeknownst to her, when she sat back, the goggles strapped to the backpack became lodged between the slats in the back of the chair and twisted sideways for a secure lock in.  Since there was no contingency plan for this error, when Paula stepped off the lift, her backpack did not.  Within seconds she was dangling off the side of the mountain, dragged around by the carousel, hanging by the straps of the goggles.  

 

Of course, I was doing my part.  I was flailing my arms in the air, yelling to the lift operator, “Shut down the lift! Shut down the lift!!”   What I had forgotten was that it was Saturday morning, the morning after a 21 year old Friday night.  And we all know that ski lift operators, who answer only to the name “Dude”, have a diminished reactionary response time on Saturday mornings. So, there was no way in heaven he was going to wake up from his hang over and notice that there was a person dangling from my goggles, whom, as angelic as she is, was not going to sprout wings. 

 

Seconds from death, and I’m talking about me, I immediately moved into action by tackling the nearest 80 year old skier.  While I was wrestling his nitro pills from his oxygen pack, some guy getting off the chair lift behind Paula grabbed her and saved her from plummeting to her death.  Show off.   

 

Sometimes, when it feels like I’m dangling from my own goggle straps, not certain if they will hold long enough for me to set my feet on solid ground again, I remember my friends are on the chair lift behind me.  Even if I don’t know them yet. 

 

Grateful and faithful…Rosalie

 

Italian Driving Lessons

January 28, 2009
As soon as I could reach the gas pedal, which is how my father determines driving age, he immediately taught me to drive. I remember clearly one of my first questions, “What do you do when you come to a four way stop sign daddy?” His answer began a long series of Italian 101 driving classes which explain clearly why you should never drive in Rome. He matter of factly said, “You come’a to a foola stopa… and dena it’sa your turn.” Think about that for a minute.

From that moment on, I was exposed to lots of similar driving ideas like, “What’sa behinda you is'a no important.” and “We no hav’a roads’a in Italy, we make’a dem.” To reinforce the validity of his methods, he regularly announced that he had never been in an accident himself but never included the ones he’d caused.
Clearly, my father didn’t teach Paula to drive because she keeps pointing out pesky little details like, “This isn’t a fire truck.” and, “One way means the other way.” Details that my father would have taught her to simply overlook.

Of course, once you put skis on her feet, she really doesn’t have room to talk. Yesterday, while skiing effortlessly down a gorgeous groomed steep, a skier who could not have been Italian cut me off. I know he couldn’t have been Italian because he did not adhere to the reverse of the “what’s behind you is not important” rule which is clearly, what’s in front of you is! And I was obviously in front of him before he illegally crossed over and skied over the front of my boots, forcing me to significantly reconsider my placement on earth! In the midst of my bewilderment, another personal foul occurred, again from a non-Italian player, namely Paula, when she latched on after slamming into me from behind (notice the lack of adherence to the what’s in front of you rule) and we became entangled in this “oh shit” interpretative ski dance, swaying and dipping from time to time but always coming back to that cheek to cheek, we’re sooo gonna “eat it” style of dance, which for those of you who haven’t seen it would look like a cross between sumo wrestling and a beginner cirque de sole.

“Don’t fall!” she yelled as she finally let go, cart wheeling into thirty inches of new snow at the base of a huge Aspen. Great words of advise I thought. I haven’t seen her since.
Living in the present where the past is forgiven and the future is germinated are also great words of advice and they help me to realize that maybe my father had a point. It’s just not the one he thought it was. “What’s behind you is not important.”

Looking for Paula…Rosalie

Sundance Film Festival

Paula and I have been doing the Sundance film festival thing all week, watching one excellent film after the other. People watching is even more interesting than watching the actual films. We’re laughing, and then crying but mostly we’re dehydrated and starving because we can’t get into any of the restaurants or bars for a drink or a bite to eat. Apparently, Sundance Film Festival sells lots of $3000 tickets to people from Hollywood who are driven up in black SUV’s, wearing black clothes and black sunglasses at night, sporting sidekicks with furry boots, fake boobs and swollen lips. Every place in Park City is closed for a “private party”. I mean, you need an invitation to use the public restrooms. A guy in line last night asked a bouncer at the door when the club would open up to the public. “Tomorrow morning at 9am” he said, to which the young man replied, “but I’m drunk now!”

Away from the hustle and bustle of the masses in Park City is Sundance itself where the true Sundance film festival experience can be had. Robert Redford smiled at us a few days ago as we walked past him on a secluded pathway that leads to an intimate theatre where we saw our first film, “No Impact Man.” At the end of every showing the directors and sometimes even the main cast do a question and answer session. It’s really been fun…until tonight…

Tonight Paula surprised me with some tickets she’d purchased, to a terribly depressing film about depression starring a depressed woman. I’ve never seen anyone so excited about watching depression as Paula was about this film. She then added that the showing was in Park City not Sundance. Now I was depressed. Oh, and did I mention, the film started at 11:30pm. Get me a double espresso with a Prozac chaser please.

I have to admit that her enthusiasm about the whole film festival thing has been fun to be around. She reads endless reviews and circles lots of possibilities, talks with her sister about the directors and then drives to the box office, returning with tickets for things she’s never even heard about, without ever showing any disappointment. So even though we’ve not yet discovered increments small enough to measure my desire to see this film, I sucked it up and got in the cab thinking I’d be in bed by 1am. I mean how depressing could it be really?

Well, thank God it was a one-story theatre because by 1am I was standing on the window ledge, ready to hurl myself out and I wasn’t even awake for most of the film. Just then, Paula grabbed me and sat me back down only to announce that she wanted to stay for the question and answer session. Knowing how close to the edge I was, I abruptly stood up to walk outside for a breath of fresh air which was obviously mistaken by the director as a ploy to be discovered. ”Do you have a question?” She asked over the microphone as the spotlight glazed over the room and landed on me. Oh this can’t be happening! Surely she’s not talking to me. There are three hundred people in this theatre that didn’t sleep through this film.

“Yes.” I said with confidence, “I have a question.” And I actually did have a question. As a matter of fact, it was one of those double questions that would require a lot of thought and possibly even referring to staff, like the ones they ask politicians at press conferences. “Yes, I have a question.” I said, “What kind of film festival closes their Starbucks for a private party while showing depressing films ‘til 1 am in the morning and, as a follow-up please, do you know where I can get a Mocha Vodka Valium Latte at this late hour?”

Flying high without caffeine. Rosalie
* This log has been certified as being 97% accurate. – Paula Langguth Ryan


An important observation about this subject: The Greek philosoper and novelist Nikos Kazantakis once said that the secret to happiness is “a simple frugal heart”. But today, as many of us have become experience junkies and emotional consumers, always comparison shopping in an outer driven world, we’ve added fire to very real and life debilitating diseases like depression and alcoholism. I wish to extend “a simple frugal heart” to those suffering and to the families of those in pain. I understand first hand how very real this pain is. Although medication and treatment is necessary, it’s love and understanding that is the basis of all healing. May we all know the peace of Love now.