At Customer Service, I asked for the 13-piece cookware set I’d ordered as a bridal shower gift. “I’ll keep it here for you until you’ve paid for your in-store purchases,” the clerk said. I wandered the aisles, wondering how to wrap that BIG box of 13 pots, pans, and lids. Bypassing the rolls of wrapping paper and large gift bags with handles, I spied an extra-large plastic gift bag. Anyone except me would have known that the huge gift bag was a bad idea. Gift-bagged, the cookware set looked like Claes Oldenburg’s sculpture of a giant ice pack, all lumpy and saggy. The plain fact of the matter is things that look awful are less appealing. Take food. Although sometimes what looks good actually tastes awful—and vice versa—the sweet spot is clearly looks good, tastes good. Sensory perceptions aligned. But back to my bridal shower gift and wrapping perception problem. I slit the large plastic bag along the side and bottom seams, lay the plastic flat, and wrapped the large, heavy box. The corners weren’t overly neat, but the package didn’t stick out like a sore thumb when stacked with others. It was a lovely shower. The bride’s sister and mother decorated everything based on a sunflower theme. Even the bride pitched in, frosting the yellow cupcakes with yellow petals topped with mini Oreo cookies for sunflower seeds. The food looked wonderful and tasted even better. Sensory perceptions aligned.
I never took mushrooms, or dropped acid, or even smoked weed when I was young, though my husband of 42 years enjoyed it all. Now, he and many of our friends are considering psychedelics once again - not for recreation, but to see the world, themselves, their loved ones more clearly in the time they have left - to clear away old patterns of perception and make way for the new while there is still time. But a woman I know who was widowed in her fifties took MDMA and psylocibin with a guide – her trip lasted over 24 hours. She saw her late husband, her sister and her mother who had also passed. She danced ecstatically, and wanted to stay in that place of pure joy. “Take me,” she said out loud. “I’m ready to go.” “What about your kids and grandkids,” her guide asked. “They’ll be fine,” she said. I don’t know how I feel about this.
Early morning perceptions: In the early morning anything and everything is possible, likely, delicious. The light beyond our sliding glass doors slowly brightens, today to full sun, a few finches caw and fly down to the feeder, Coby stretches and makes a big move from his little couch down to the floor, eyeing me on the way to see if I’m ready to take him for his walk. David’s still asleep, tired just back from his trip to PA for his uncle’s funeral. I sip my coffee, read the news, it is still early, not even 7 yet and the whole day ahead is mine, ours. I might write a book, run for miles, sail the seas, we might food shop and cook up a storm tonight, onions, garlic, ginger sizzling on the stove, or chicken hissing on the grill outside, later bring some over to the neigbors for the shelter, swim in the cold bay, me going in slowly, one toe at a time, David diving in, popping up yelling and laughing with the shock of cold, or maybe we’ll swim in the warmer pond, immersing ourselves in the dark oily water. It all feels possible, amazing.
I was standing in Beth’s kitchen, the noise of fifty teenagers chattering over the loud Indie music. The girl from my French class was inches away. Turns out she was friends with Beth’s new boyfriend. We’d been in the same class for almost a year but hadn’t spoken. In classes I just did my work, and waited until lunchtime to talk, when I could hang out with the four other people I knew from secondary school.
I don’t know how Lauren and I got talking, but suddenly we were really chatting, and laughing. After the party, we became friends and our two friendship groups merged.
A couple of years later, Lauren confessed why she’d never spoken to me. “You were like, ‘I’m so cool I’ve got my nose pieced’.” “But you’ve got your nose pierced too,” I pointed out. She just said “Oh yeah.”
It’s been 17 years since the party. I’m not in touch with anyone I went to secondary school with, except for Beth, while Lauren is one of my closest friends.
Think it wise. The mid-day siesta as ritual. What else is there to do in peak sun? Some criticize, the perception being that everyone who participates is lazy, not ready to take on the tasks of modernity. Is there a lack of dedication amongst them, an apathy we don’t observe? I’ve invested years now as a participant. We live thirty minutes west of Granada, an hour up from the Costa del Sol. A siesta exists and continues in Spain, in southern Andalucía, where the questions are less, the in-between accessible, the answers available if you ask the right thing.
As a child, I learned how to ‘read the room.’ When my father lit his Frankincense incenses and played his prized Spinners Live vinyl album, he was focused. The smell of pine and earth and the Motown melodies signaled he was sweeping or mopping in the basement aka “his mancave.” It also meant I had to clean as well or make myself scarce. I couldn’t lounge in the house; I couldn’t watch television in my room while my father [and mother] cleaned. So, I played outside. 😊
Fast forward many years, I’m now a mom who is divorced, but married to chores. My Gen-Zers didn’t inherit my keen perception. When I’m setting up my portable speaker and blaring the online music streaming services from my phone, my young adults are remaining steadfast in their rooms. I’m imagining them organizing their closets or discarding clothes that are too small; and I’m assuming they’re contributing to the cleaning process. But—in reality—they’re watching memes on their phones.
Times have changed, but it’s fair to say their behaviors are innate—maybe they are just like me? Did I unintentionally show them the ropes?
I sense when they have their own homes, they’ll hire a cleaning service.
At Customer Service, I asked for the 13-piece cookware set I’d ordered as a bridal shower gift. “I’ll keep it here for you until you’ve paid for your in-store purchases,” the clerk said. I wandered the aisles, wondering how to wrap that BIG box of 13 pots, pans, and lids. Bypassing the rolls of wrapping paper and large gift bags with handles, I spied an extra-large plastic gift bag. Anyone except me would have known that the huge gift bag was a bad idea. Gift-bagged, the cookware set looked like Claes Oldenburg’s sculpture of a giant ice pack, all lumpy and saggy. The plain fact of the matter is things that look awful are less appealing. Take food. Although sometimes what looks good actually tastes awful—and vice versa—the sweet spot is clearly looks good, tastes good. Sensory perceptions aligned. But back to my bridal shower gift and wrapping perception problem. I slit the large plastic bag along the side and bottom seams, lay the plastic flat, and wrapped the large, heavy box. The corners weren’t overly neat, but the package didn’t stick out like a sore thumb when stacked with others. It was a lovely shower. The bride’s sister and mother decorated everything based on a sunflower theme. Even the bride pitched in, frosting the yellow cupcakes with yellow petals topped with mini Oreo cookies for sunflower seeds. The food looked wonderful and tasted even better. Sensory perceptions aligned.
I never took mushrooms, or dropped acid, or even smoked weed when I was young, though my husband of 42 years enjoyed it all. Now, he and many of our friends are considering psychedelics once again - not for recreation, but to see the world, themselves, their loved ones more clearly in the time they have left - to clear away old patterns of perception and make way for the new while there is still time. But a woman I know who was widowed in her fifties took MDMA and psylocibin with a guide – her trip lasted over 24 hours. She saw her late husband, her sister and her mother who had also passed. She danced ecstatically, and wanted to stay in that place of pure joy. “Take me,” she said out loud. “I’m ready to go.” “What about your kids and grandkids,” her guide asked. “They’ll be fine,” she said. I don’t know how I feel about this.
Early morning perceptions: In the early morning anything and everything is possible, likely, delicious. The light beyond our sliding glass doors slowly brightens, today to full sun, a few finches caw and fly down to the feeder, Coby stretches and makes a big move from his little couch down to the floor, eyeing me on the way to see if I’m ready to take him for his walk. David’s still asleep, tired just back from his trip to PA for his uncle’s funeral. I sip my coffee, read the news, it is still early, not even 7 yet and the whole day ahead is mine, ours. I might write a book, run for miles, sail the seas, we might food shop and cook up a storm tonight, onions, garlic, ginger sizzling on the stove, or chicken hissing on the grill outside, later bring some over to the neigbors for the shelter, swim in the cold bay, me going in slowly, one toe at a time, David diving in, popping up yelling and laughing with the shock of cold, or maybe we’ll swim in the warmer pond, immersing ourselves in the dark oily water. It all feels possible, amazing.
I was standing in Beth’s kitchen, the noise of fifty teenagers chattering over the loud Indie music. The girl from my French class was inches away. Turns out she was friends with Beth’s new boyfriend. We’d been in the same class for almost a year but hadn’t spoken. In classes I just did my work, and waited until lunchtime to talk, when I could hang out with the four other people I knew from secondary school.
I don’t know how Lauren and I got talking, but suddenly we were really chatting, and laughing. After the party, we became friends and our two friendship groups merged.
A couple of years later, Lauren confessed why she’d never spoken to me. “You were like, ‘I’m so cool I’ve got my nose pieced’.” “But you’ve got your nose pierced too,” I pointed out. She just said “Oh yeah.”
It’s been 17 years since the party. I’m not in touch with anyone I went to secondary school with, except for Beth, while Lauren is one of my closest friends.
Think it wise. The mid-day siesta as ritual. What else is there to do in peak sun? Some criticize, the perception being that everyone who participates is lazy, not ready to take on the tasks of modernity. Is there a lack of dedication amongst them, an apathy we don’t observe? I’ve invested years now as a participant. We live thirty minutes west of Granada, an hour up from the Costa del Sol. A siesta exists and continues in Spain, in southern Andalucía, where the questions are less, the in-between accessible, the answers available if you ask the right thing.
As a child, I learned how to ‘read the room.’ When my father lit his Frankincense incenses and played his prized Spinners Live vinyl album, he was focused. The smell of pine and earth and the Motown melodies signaled he was sweeping or mopping in the basement aka “his mancave.” It also meant I had to clean as well or make myself scarce. I couldn’t lounge in the house; I couldn’t watch television in my room while my father [and mother] cleaned. So, I played outside. 😊
Fast forward many years, I’m now a mom who is divorced, but married to chores. My Gen-Zers didn’t inherit my keen perception. When I’m setting up my portable speaker and blaring the online music streaming services from my phone, my young adults are remaining steadfast in their rooms. I’m imagining them organizing their closets or discarding clothes that are too small; and I’m assuming they’re contributing to the cleaning process. But—in reality—they’re watching memes on their phones.
Times have changed, but it’s fair to say their behaviors are innate—maybe they are just like me? Did I unintentionally show them the ropes?
I sense when they have their own homes, they’ll hire a cleaning service.