See no Evil, Hear no Evil

I look at myself in the mirror in the morning as I brush my teeth and I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.  I guess I look like any person who’s just woken up but the image does not provoke any rejection from me.  A few minutes later I look at the same reflection with my glasses on and yikes!  “Who is that old lady in the mirror?” I wonder. Ignorance was bliss.  Now I’m looking at myself as I am now.  Earlier I was looking at myself with the image that is imprinted in my brain.  I looked pretty good there for a little while.

“Speak louder…I can’t hear you” I tell my daughter on the phone wondering if we have a bad connection.  That same evening a friend who is watching TV with me tells me to turn the volume a little higher because she can’t hear.  I wonder what her problem is; I can certainly hear my TV, which is a few feet away from us.  Then I realize that it may be that we are both starting to have hearing difficulties, which manifests in the everyday things such as a phone conversation or watching television.  I can hear the commercials because the volume seems to increase for those, but then when it returns to the program and the voices dim a little is when it becomes difficult as if someone is playing tricks with me.

A friend phones and we chatter along only interrupted by lapses in memory, accompanied by profuse giggling.  She’s telling me about a movie she just saw last night. “What WAS her name?”  She ponders about the main character.  “Oh give me a minute and I’ll remember!” She says as she frantically searches for the name on Google during our long distance call. Whatever would the over 60s do without Google! “It’s Michelle Pfeiffer” she triumphantly announces. We carry on and talk about something else until the next memory hurdle comes along.  I can’t remember the name of a book I read a couple of weeks ago.  She can’t remember the name of the little town that she visited in Italy only last month. Sometimes, its words that I can’t seem to retrieve from my mental computer.  My sister reminds me that she has an extraordinary vocabulary and yet can’t seem to recall a specific word that she needs to describe something. She can complete the most difficult crossword puzzles and yet, when we’re chatting, her memory fails her.

And then it hits me.  These are pretty normal signs of aging unless one has an elephant’s memory and will deteriorate in every other function except remembering apparently trivial details of things past or try to be erudite and use a word that we’ve stored in some safe place and can’t find. Happily for most of these things, we have our trusty computers.

And you know what?  It is a good thing.  I don’t need to see every little thing clearly.  Without glasses, my image in the mirror is photo shopped!  Yes, that’s right.  I can see the outline of the curly hair which once was dark and now is totally white and still full and way healthier.  I cannot see any blemish or wrinkle on my face and my lips still look plump and sexy specially when I apply lipstick which I’ve done without a mirror for years.  If I need make up I can always put my glasses on for a little.

In terms of hearing I believe that the loss is to soften words and emotions.  Don’t scream at me,  only I can decide what I want to hear.  And as for remembering every little thing…well, that’s not beneficial to my mental health.  I remember every single joy and I can put to rest the stuff that I don’t need to relive. I remember every detail of my babies’ births.  I remember my husband’s face, his touch, his voice, his wisdom and his love.  Those are the things that age cannot erase.  I can’t wait to get older and totally forget the things that gave me pain and sadness in the past. 

Don’t feel sorry for me.  I am meant to live a more introspective life and this way I can enjoy the things that really matter, that  I am meant to remember. Things that I do like to see, hear and enjoy. So stop shouting!

The Summer of 2014

I had my first child in the Summer of 1974 and since then, the season has always been focused on spending time with my children. We've travelled extensively together and made castles, found crabs and creatures in the water to enjoy with other beach goers before releasing them to the ocean in many places around the world. In 1985 we were transferred to Miami where we lived in an enchanted house in Coconut Grove. It was the most impractical of places but also the most seductive. When we actually bought it and my husband and I were in our hotel room congratulating each other on the amazing choice, I briefly thought that the layout was totally inconvenient and asked myself "does it have a kitchen?," that's how unusual it was and how much I didn't really care about practical things like kitchens. As it turns out, it did have a kitchen and it was a lovely one at that. We lived in that house for only a year before we had to relocate back to New York and then Tokyo. Funny, we had always thought of Miami as a place to visit and had discovered that living there with young children was wonderful.

That summer was a festival of Daddy coming home at 4PM and having barbecues and swimming all afternoon till dark, often with family and friends, often skinny dipping en masse. He had summer hours and was able to do what he liked best which was to spend time with his family. Returning to New York after such a short stay made us all sad and leaving that wondrous house still stings me and I will always consider our time there of upmost importance in our lives as a family. We spent a brief time in New York and again we were off to Tokyo, a place we all loved and where three of my four children were born. Now we would get a chance to live there with our four children (Alex being the only American born in the group)and continue to develop our relationship with our beloved Japan.

We made our pilgrimage to New York and spent part of the summer in Miami, this time living in a house in Pinecrest that we bought initially as an investment and a place to hang out during the time that we spent in the US, but which turned out to become our headquarters here and a place of play and fun for every member of our family. We could not bring ourselves to rent it nor sell it. When my husband became ill, we all came here to spend Christmas and again it gave us solace and warmth. My husband's wish was to be cremated and his ashes strewn in the Bay of Biscayne. When the time came we flew to Miami with some friends who accompanied us and brought him to his resting place. For the purpose, we rented a fishing boat in the Port of Miami and sailed, escorted by a couple of Dolphins all the way to the Gulf Stream where we said our final goodbye. During the days we were in Miami for his memorial at our home and the boat ride to his resting place, we went to Versailles and to the beach in Key Biscayne in his honor. I remember going for a walk and leaving my group behind, still hearing the offers of company which I refused. I needed to be on that beach, walking it as we had, by myself with him on my mind, I walked and walked and then lay down and fell asleep. I was woken by our friend Rudy and his daughter Steph who had come to find me after they noticed that I wasn't coming back. I was sorry to have worried them, but that walk and that brief sleep were good for my soul and I needed to be where I was.

After returning to New York, Miami in general and Coconut Grove in particular still had a strong hold on me. I almost commuted between New York and Miami, since whenever I felt the need, I flew down to spend some time here. Every time I came, I looked for a place in Coconut Grove with my friend and realtor who was kind enough to humor me because he was sure I would never leave my home in New York. I did not feel comfortable living in the Pinecrest house by myself. I needed my own place for my new life on my own. One night, sitting at my computer I googled "houses for sale in Coconut Grove" and up popped a picture of what is now my patio. That was it, I flew down to see it, made an offer and bought it. Some time later, I sold our home in New York and moved here. My cottage is close to my old house which has ceased to enthrall me because I now have my place in the Grove, in the world. It is not big enough to house my children and their families so they stay at the Pinecrest House when they visit and I commute from my house to theirs. They do the same.

These are the photos I saw on the internet




My children married in quick succession and just as quickly, I became the grandmother of seven beautiful beings who with their parents, visit often and certainly in the summer. They come from Singapore, Brooklyn and Ottawa and they stay in our house in Pinecrest which seems to have been designed with them in mind. Lots of space where the little ones can roam and play without fear. Where grownups can gather or be on their own with a good book or chatting with a friend and a cold drink. With a pool that has become the meeting point and where we've hosted countless reunions with friends and family. We go to our old haunts and discover new ones.

This year they came in the winter to celebrate my birthday and again, the first visitor of the summer was from Singapore. My son, his wife and two little daughters came to start off the season. A little later, Brooklyn was in the house and quickly followed by the Canadian contingent. Their time here is a soft breeze of loveliness in the scorching heat. Picnics at the beach, partying in the pool and visits to Grandma's house where they can play with my dogs and cats and paint in my studio.

Here's Steven with Ruby and Lily in the Mexican Market

...and Max playing with his Legos in my dining room table

...and Alex and Max at Graziano's




...and Natalia holding baby Stella at the beach

...and in my house



...and Marisa with Max and Sam at dinner

...and me with Eva and Stella

...the many faces of Noemi and Uncle Adam

Today the last of my visitors left and while I started missing them a few days in anticipation and my life winds down to only my plans, my needs and my regular activities, my heart is fuller, my senses heightened and my gratitude endless and deepened. I've often said that my joy of becoming a grandmother to this growing tribe is mainly watching my children with their children and I get that chance by the strong connection that I've built with each one of them. I love to see their interactions with their children and build their own relationships with each other and their kids like their father and I did when they were young.

Yesterday my twin grand-daughters spent the afternoon in my house playing with my animals, swimming and watching movies. When they mentioned that they were going home tomorrow, I reminded them of how nice it is to return home and play with their toys, see their friends and sleep in their own bed, that like their grandfather used to say is "the sign that you've had a good vacation is being happy to be going home."

Back to mornings in my studio and my solitary visits to Key Biscayne where I sun, swim, read and smile thinking of the wonderful times we've had here and looking forward to more to come.

World Cup 2014 - The Best Seat in the House

Steven and his family in Singapore. Like father like son

I enjoyed the World Cup. Not because it was always pretty. Not because my team always performed as I would have liked nor whether they remained or left the competition. Not because referees always made the correct call or decision. Not because of the endless droning of the commentators who bring with them their need to fill dead air and banter in the middle of a game while one is trying to really focus on what’s going on in the field. In the beginning of a Miami summer, I was invited to feel those feelings that one is not always able to bring up all in one place, all at one time, all in one event. The golden trophy was not on my mind. That came at the end.

I enjoyed the passion and the skill, those human emotions evident in every single player and in the people who train them, prepare them, take care of them and of course, the fans who ultimately watch them represent their country.

The World Cup is all of those things and many more to millions around the planet. As I watched each team, I was reminded of trips I’ve taken to many of their countries and of places I’ve actually lived in. Many times it was hard for me to take sides. When Japan (where I lived for 12 years and 3 of my 4 kids were born) played Colombia a country where I’ve also lived and which welcomed me when I was a bride I was hardly able to look at the screen on my TV. When I marveled at the US team or watched Brasil. When I rooted for Costa Rica, a spunky team to which I have no connection. When I saw the Mexican fans or the Nigerian fans with their painted faces and big smiles filled with hope of glory, when I saw that Brazilian kid crying mournfully for their loss, it was just as if I was there, in Rio, taking it all in.

I was born in Buenos Aires and learned how to kick a soccer ball as soon as I learned how to walk. While I was not yet a fan, my best friend Pepito kept me kicking a ball on the street in front of my house every day. As a kid I also played other popular Argentine sports like Polo and Pato on my bike with a broomstick. The sound of GOOOOOOOOOOOL was as familiar to me as the smell of my father’s parrilla and the siesta that my parents took after the gigantic meal. Kids playing futbol (like it is called in Argentina) were everywhere. You could find them in backyards, in empty lots, on the street and in parks. An Argentine boy is not complete without his ball either at his feet or under his arm going to play outside. Babies are given a foot ball at birth together with their parents’ favorite team’s jersey. They speak football echoing Dad’s opinions on the heavy matter of yesterday’s game and while they may not watch the whole game Dad and his chums are watching on TV, they certainly know how to stop their play to celebrate a goal with the rest of the family.

My own Dad was British and lived in Argentina for most of his life. When a British team came to play with ours he would root for England, which infuriated all of us. His reasoning was “it’s not that I prefer the British team, it’s that I have to live here if Argentina wins!” I found this excuse to be rather lame at the time. Of course we (and by “we” I mean every country) can be somewhat obnoxious in terms of sportsmanship. I had trouble speaking to my Spanish friends last World Cup because of their incessant boasting.

Sports and fitness in general are a very important part of Argentine life. If you drive past the parks of Palermo in Buenos Aires, and you look on one side of the beautiful avenue you’ll see the many sports clubs with people playing tennis, football, basketball and all sorts of other sporty activities. If you look on the park side, you see the joggers, a little Tai Chi perhaps or people warming up to do something athletic in one way or another. You also see older men with their beer bellies walking briskly in hopes of getting fitter and women and their friends speed walking around the park under the many beautiful trees as traffic passes them by. That has always impressed me. It is not a “fashion” or a trend. It is a way of life for so many.

At Northlands, the British school that I attended, we had an English curriculum in the morning where all that was spoken was English and a Spanish curriculum in the afternoon. The only thing that the two parts of the day had in common was what we called “gym” which was PE twice a day every day. We were taught every sport and could choose to play and join the team of the ones that we were adept at. My sisters were both field hockey stars, which left me the youngest, rebel against the sport and choose tennis instead. I also chose tennis because the courts were far away from the school buildings and us tennis girls could take a break and sunbathe and chitchat on the grass adjacent to the courts. It was a very strict school and I still don’t know how we got away with it.

One of the most important things that I learned at Northlands was sportsmanship. After a hockey game with another school’s team we would convene at the school or club or wherever we were playing after the game to have tea with out rivals regardless of who had won. We were meant to socialize with them and mingle, no more rivalry, just camaraderie. We learned to see our rivals as girls just like we were. Never speak an ill word, or gripe about a call or a play. Just hang out as a reminder that it was “just a game” after all. I will be forever grateful to my school for teaching me that and for learning to be a good winner and a good loser.

When I was growing up in Argentina, I had no idea what the rest of the world was up to soccer-wise. There were no televised foreign games. Television was in its infancy and nobody imagined that one day we would be able to see ALL soccer games wherever they were played while we checked our Iphones and our Facebook page and record the game, just in case someone missed it.

Then I was more aware of what was happening between rivals River Plate and Boca Juniors. As a River fan, I was vociferously against Boca and couldn’t believe anyone would favor them. I got excited every time my parents drove past the River stadium. I have never been inside it but it was my temple of perfection. When I visit Buenos Aires and drive by it now I still get the same feeling. Next time I go, I’ll try to get in and actually see the inside of the structure.

I married Esteban, a wonderful Argentine man who encompassed everything that a sportsman or a man for that matter, should be. A gentle man, a very fit man who was a Puma and represented Argentina in Rugby but whose heart was in football and taught me and his son and daughters everything one could ever possibly want to know about the sport and then some. We lived in 7 cities in 4 continents together and he brought his interest in sports to all. In England he even watched Cricket on TV which I consider to be the most boring sport on earth to watch – hopefully it is entertaining to play! He played Golf and watched endless hours of the sport on TV and found it thrilling as the commentators whispered their impressions of a complicated shot. In Colombia he dragged me to my first soccer match in a stadium and convinced me that it was OK, that I would not be uncomfortable and I wasn’t. He followed all football games wherever they were played and was fiercely supportive of so many teams.

In 1970 when Brasil won the World Cup we watched and cheered for them living in London. At the end of the game a group of us expatriate Argentines, walked over to the Brazilian ambassador's house and offered our congratulations. He not only thanked us but also invited us in to celebrate with champagne with his family and friends. I will never forget the joy of that day nor his graciousness.

In 1994 we flew from Tokyo to the US with the hope of attending at least one game of the World Cup hosted here. We saw Italy vs Nigeria with our four kids. It was thrilling for all of us. The connection that my children continue to have with soccer is due to his passion and his ability to convey that knowledge and enthusiasm to his kids. My son has inherited his father’s passion and is as athletic and sports minded and knowledgeable about sports as he was and my grandchildren wear the Argentine jersey proudly although they have yet to visit Argentina.

My husband died in April 2002 just a couple of months before the Japan/Korea World Cup. In mourning and still feeling shell-shocked, we watched the games with his best friend Rudy with whom he had seen a thousand games before, with his family all appropriately draped in Argentine flags and eating all the right foods. For those two weeks we could feel his presence with us . We have watched the subsequent championships together or closely connected through computers and phones. My son is now our football guru and my little grandchildren do what we did as kids, they run around and play while the grownups watch the game and acknowledge our excitement trying not to stand in front of the TV.

A mixture of joy and nostalgia accompanied this World Cup for me. I know that my husband would have been very proud of Argentina for reaching the final. I know the emotions that he would have had during each and every game. He was with us in spirit in Miami as he was with his son and daughter in Singapore and also in New York with his best friend Rudy. Like our friend Peter remarked, “he has the best seat in the house.” He managed to be with us all.

Spring Shibori

Spring is pretty much standard weather in Miami but I guess I still function with my New York state of mind and all of a sudden I'm emptying drawers and tidying up closets and clearing clutter as if compelled by the season. I also go to my studio for my pots and pans, my silk or cotton and my hope that something good will come out of my labors. I dip a piece of cloth into the pot of Indigo dye which I had set up in the patio under the bougainvillea. My two cats watched me from the studio and the dogs napped uninterested close by. I stirred the pot slowly waiting for the transformation to occur before fishing out the wrapped and pressed cloth. It occurred to me at that moment that they used to kill women like me in Salem. Alchemy of course is part of what I do and the appearance of magic is all around me. It is very comforting to know that one can make something beautiful with so little. Here's some of my work. Preparation is key.

This is the witches' pot

Some of the results. I've names this one "Sakura"

This one is "Cosmos"

"Anemones

These are a couple of the scarves I made this morning

...and to finish off...some purple Shibori

Random art

Looking at some of the work I've done lately, decided to see it all on my blog. So here they are...

The Nun

Wallpaper

a la Klimt

Gesso

Pink Lady

Meditation

Our Family's First Thanksgiving

For our family, one of the most enriching aspects of living in many different countries has been to participate in local holidays and special traditions. Our favorite adopted traditional holiday is Thanksgiving. What is unusual about this is that we are an Argentine family who began celebrating an American tradition in Tokyo.

The first time we lived in Japan, our eldest daughter Natalia, then two years old came home from her playgroup at the American School and wanted to know what we would be eating for Thanksgiving.Her teacher had told her that it was a very special holiday and that it was celebrated by eating turkey (not that she was quite sure what a turkey was all about) and all sorts of other delicious things. As I began a complicated (for a two year old) explanation about how we did not celebrate Thanksgiving because we were not American, I thought to myself, "so what!" and made an instant decision to have a celebration. My husband would be away on a business trip at the end of November so that would leave just the two of us to participate in the festivities. Her baby brother Steven was nursing at the time so he would not really be one of the diners. Well, not directly although we did place him in his bassinet at the table.

Natalia helped me to decorate our dining room table for two plus baby with fine china and lovely wine glasses - she insisted on those for her apple juice. We shared mini portions of mashed and sweet potatoes, cranberry relish,and the piece de resistance was a Cornish Hen which I told her was a "baby Turkey!" She was very satisfied with our dinner and more delighted yet when I told her years later about our experience that first Thanksgiving together.

Since then, Thanksgiving dinners have included more and more family members. Her brother Steven grew to look forward to our celebration and was joined by sister Marisa who was born a few days after Thanksgiving in 1977 making it an even better reason to celebrate. When we moved to New York in 1978 and a few years later our only American born baby Alexandra joined the family, we were glad that we had acquired some experience in the celebration of "her" holiday. Their father never went away for Thanksgiving again and while he didn't do much cooking, he always made sure that we had a few bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau for this lovely harvest festival and insisted on going out for a chilly walk after we had consumed massive amounts of food.

Every year, we go around the table and everyone shares what they're thankful about. As my children and our guests make their speeches, I often think of that first time. I think about how enjoyable it was when we all lived together in New York. The holiday was preceded by a visit to Arthur Avenue with Fran to stock up on all the food for our respective celebrations and while the kids watched the Macy's parade on TV I cooked like a fiend and delighted in the wonderful smells emanating from my kitchen. I remember our Thanksgiving partners Margie, Paul, Joanna and David. I remember the sights and sounds and I am filled with gratitude for having had the best possible partner anyone could wish for and for having invited these four children into our lives. Now I am thankful for their partners and their families and the beautiful babies they've brought into the world to delight us all.

Our family has grown and so have our turkeys since that first miniature one in Tokyo. For us, an adopted tradition has acquired a very special significance. We claimed it as our own without letting minor details like nationality or origin discourage us from celebrating the true meaning of this special day which belongs to everyone.

A little more doodling...

Thought I'd try the doodling with acrylics this time and this is what happened

And then I got seriously crazy and made her with some help from The New York Times

Finished my doodling with this crazy one entitled "Traffic"