Thursday, October 3, 2013

Turning


Leaves cascade to the ground,
a small music,
played by the wind;
it has begun,
this turning,
detaching
and falling
to freedoms
complicit with windy whims.

It is just the beginning
—we must be clear about that—
the start of a dialogue, a transition;
each leaf, as it turns,
glows, even as it fades
under the Autumn sun,
and, dying, dries,
and when it falls,
this is only a newer
hello,
the very latest one.

A slow dance,
this seasonal song,
is merely one of nature’s
many conversations;
the cold breath of Winter
may find an answer
in the winds of Spring,
or a balmy reply
on Summer’s sunny crest.

To turn,
to burn;
to prance
and dance,
unpinned
by the wind,
upended
(mayhap unintended)
and made free
to flee and be
and to become,
with all and some,
wholly changed material,
electrically ecstatic and
eclectically charged
for both the now and next.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Friday, September 27, 2013

Is it a flu? Is it a cold? No, it’s Hystamine Overload!


Since I was a small child, living in the country, and unto the present day, I have been allergic to many seasonal pollens. My fate was somewhat sealed by a bout of pneumonia at about age 3. I remember that summer illness: the doctor and the shot he gave me (he wore a suit and came to the house); the heat; the cool evening breeze blowing through the curtains, my grandmother (on a rare visit) singing me a lullaby. My respiratory system was always somewhat weak after that. Windy conditions always brought sore throats, and many times, that would turn into a bad chest cold.

When I grew up, as things turned out, I became, of all things, a trained singer.

I cannot remember when it was, exactly (15 or even 20 years ago?), that I noticed a distinct pattern to each illness that would threaten my ability to sing. They unfolded in exactly the same way each time, although the durations was not always the same. Severe swollen glands, severe rhinitis, fluid streaming down the back of my throat into my bronchial tubes. The menu always included severe congestion that decongestants could not tame. I at certain times of the year, I thought I was catching bugs from people, and I might have been.

At some point, I realized that with flu and real colds, there was temperature elevation, as distinguished from the “allergy bronchitis”, which did not.

Five or six years ago, I studied about herbs. I discovered supplements and concocted home remedies that were successful in ways my allopathic doctor could not. Newly armed, I have since had fewer illnesses to deal with, and was able to recover more quickly.

However, every once in a while, an ill wind doth blow, and while my new knowledge of herbs has served me well, the “allergy bronchitis” does pop up now and again, threatening my ability to sing.

Meanwhile, I had moved from learning about herbs to dealing with issues of diet, in order to help with a cholesterol issue experienced by my husband. Having added to the wellness toolkit, we have modified our diet recently, with good results.

Then, my son who wakes up with a clogged nose everyday, came home from school on a windy day, glassy-eyed and sneezing. Uh-oh. Not good. You see, he is going camping with his scout troupe this weekend.

I wouldn’t worry, if it had not been the case that he was hospitalized four years ago with an “asthmatic episode.” My son does not have asthma, mind you, but he had to be hospitalized because he was unable to breathe, owing to severe swelling of all his sinuses, throat tissues and bronchial area. Scary! And, upon his release, we were sent home with steroid inhalers and had to closely monitor his recovery. If it should happen again, the doctor told us, we might have to enroll him in an asthma clinic and have tests taken…

On Sunday evening, just before the third week of school, my son was changing for bed. He came running into the living room. “Mom, Dad! I have this rash!” Sure enough, he had a rash covering his entire trunk and upper thighs!

The squeaky wheels of my mind got to work. Benadryl, the answer popped out. My husband thought he needed to be taken to the emergency room, the rash was so extensive, and now starting to really itch. I drove to the emergency room. By the time we got checked in and seen by a physician, the Benadryl had done quite a lot to clear up the horrific looking rash. We were sent home. By morning, the rash was completely gone. The doctor, after asking us a number of questions, could really offer no explanation for why there could have been such an outbreak.

As we were driving home, because the squeaky I asked my son how many glasses of milk he had drunk that day. I knew I had seen him drink two glasses, at different times in the afternoon. He confessed to having had four, that he could remember, maybe five glasses of milk. Hmmmm… I told him to drink no more than two glasses of milk in a day, and to drink more water. “Milk is a food.” I said, “You need to think more about hydration with water. It could be that your rash was caused by too many histamines in your system.”

Last week, I had drunk a glass of wine with dinner. I took another glass with me as I cleaned up in the kitchen. I found myself scratching my arm several times. Looking at the location of the itch, there was a raised bump, but it was not red. A spider bite? I wondered.

Then next morning, I had a number of cups of coffee. The wind was howling outside, threatening to cancel the America’s Cup races. Uh-oh. This time of year, ragweed, elm, chenopods, every weedy thing in the world is blowing around at 30 mph. The arm was still itching. And then my nose started to water, and my eyes, by the afternoon, I was in trouble, with concerts coming up in the following week.

The squeaky wheels started turning again. I knew this was no cold. I knew this was an allergy attack, but what if there was more to it than just exposure to pollens?

A kaleidoscope of images over the years came flooding to mind: my daughter waking up with “spider bites”, my son wheezing in the hospital, both kids getting clogged sinuses while visiting at a friend’s house (I figured that one out: The friend was using detergent on her sheets that had “timed-release freshness particles”); my son’s rash; my itching arm while drinking a glass of wine.

Histamine overload. Obviously, that was it. But the histamines accumulated in our systems were not just due to airborne particulate allergies and detergent/chemical reactions. Histamine overload due to dietary considerations, that had to be a huge piece of this puzzle!

I started looking around on the internet. Turns out, there is not a whole lot of information in this country about “histamine overload”, but I did find information available on European sites. HIT (Histamine Intolerance) is what people are calling this. The real culprit in this situation is a lack of DAO (Diamine oxidase, an enzyme involved in the metabolism of histamine.

When you look at the list of that trigger, build or bring histamines to your system, you get an idea why doctors here don’t want to deal with this issue: the list of foods is endless; and your favorite snack items and cereals are at the top of this huge list.

The list of foods that don’t trigger histamine release is about a paragraph long. The list of natural antihistamines is extremely short. Here are three from that short list: apples, Vitamin C, quercetin.

Taking the short list of antihistamines, I have mostly recovered from my overload, just in time for the concerts.

Now, I will explore the longer campaign of diet issues, so that I can help my family avoid major problems in the future. This will be the hard part. All of what I have read, so far, tells me that elimination of trigger foods is not the way; rather, one needs to rotate the foods one eats, and realize that nutrition, and also enjoyment, can be the better choice.

And, of course, “moderation in all things, including moderation!”

I may report in on this later, but suffice it to say, the whole family is in for additional dietary changes, including the old adage, “an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Amazing, that this mystery has taken my entire life to unravel! I hope you will wish me good fortune as I continue with my family on the path toward better health, living with allergies and HIT. 

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Anniversary Chard


You were here
long before we arrived
with all our worldly cares
and truckloads of things;
your presence
opened the gates of Spring
with this greeting:
Welcome Home!

Where you are,
we planted;
it seemed an auspicious spot.

You, however,
we could not harvest;
you were our first friend
in this amazing place!

Now, you are lanky,
trunk wrinkled,
falling down;
Maybe, after all these years,
so are we.

But we hang together,
clinging to this mountain
where morning fog crawls,
giving way to sunshine
and shimmer of sea.

Year after year,
we uphold one another,
old friends, together,
as we share this beautiful life.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: V. Dias Cinco


Not quite late, but nearly
—even so, time enough
to roll the dice
with the coffee machine;
guess who won?

To class, to class, to class!
—the last one
in which we attempt to learn
the most complex genre of dance.

The eyes,
the mind,
the heart open;
so this is the truth:
when they took the drum away,
on the continent,
The People were robbed of their language.

Expected to capitulate,
The People on the continent,
nevertheless invented a new language.

But the islands regained the drum,
by way of the invention of the clavés;
the culture survived,
even flourished,
despite unintended changes,
via telegraph and telephone,
that brought a blossoming,
a renaissance,
to the tropical paradise
of song birds
walking trees
and rum.

This is a true story
[though, from his library in Argentina,
Borges would have observed
it is a true story
just made up;
this would be both
right and wrong]:
There are two birds in the forest;
both are holy beings.

One bird desires
union with the other,
to achieve the basis
that is universal:
one.

The male plumps his colorful plumage,
while the female demurs.

Though the female seems plain,
she is the Queen of
sky, sea and forest;
it is she who is mother of all.

The male, the Fourth King,
he who enjoys a good party,
he knows the Queen is best,
so he reaches into the sky,
calling on Thunder and Lightning,
pulling their power
deep into his gravitas,
placido y not.

The Queen,
she can have anyone.

The King,
is he worthy?

Right now, what can he achieve?

Is this the opportune moment
and portal
for encounter
and engagement?

Can this be love,
or merely convenience?

And what will happen next;
what are the consequences;
will the cosmos be changed?

Harmony is a coordination
of chant,
rhythm,
and movement
—one language,
heard and understood
in all times and places;
call and response,
with an outcome,
is a complete revolution,
a return to stasis and rest,
that resets the stage
for a new play.

Oddly,
“The more things change,
the more they stay the same”
is not true;
this drama kicks forward;
the revolution is really an evolution,
but only when the ritual is
correct and also unique;
there is no empty repetition
if there is blessing,
but blessing only comes
when being is engaged.

This is why the true language,
composed of thought,
                        word,
                        deed,
expressed as rhythm,
                        song,
                        dance,
is not a trinity,
but one expression,
that is being,
only when being is fully engaged.

There is no emptiness in being,
nor is there perfection;
there is only engagement with possibility.

If you believe,
if you know,
you realize the future imperfect
need not be tense;
there are no winners or losers,
there is only change,
even growth,
perhaps even understanding
and healing,
if all goes according to what is possible,
while maintaining the integrity of being one.

This, my friends, is rumba.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sunday, July 28, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: IV. Dias Quatro




Mi título al nacer puso en mi cuna,
El sol que al cielo consagró mi frente.
Yo sólo sé de amor. ~ José Martí, from “Vino de Chianti”

The maracas bird
and the electric one, as well,
rattled the sleepers awake,
but no rush, this morning,
just mission:
writings of José Martí.

Verses simple and complex,
exploring the human connection;
Annette and I had planned,
already, for months,
this excursion,
though we did not know
what being here would be like.

No hurry, this morning;
time for breakfast,
time for coffee,
a decent cup—
I’ve got it covered;
I’ll make my own,
with help from
Our Lady of Seattle.

First, however,
to the cadeca queue,
for old world monetary transactions
in silver fiats:
heroes are moneda nacional
;
monuments are for the touristas.

No credit, no cheques,
it is cash, cash, cash.

The lines start before opening,
 and the guard lets each in
one at a time;
if you are lucky, the cadeca
is on the shady side of the street
—even so, the ladies
have their fans out,
beating them furiously.

Cool inside;
a long day for tells,
even with the long lunch break.

Once at the counter,
I present Canadian Dollars,
much better in exchange
than the taxed American.

I ask for Convertible Pesos,
then, further, for moneda nacional;
the teller smiles,
thinking perhaps:
la yuma,
she will spread her money
among The People.

Traveler’s alert:
count and organize your money
while still inside the cadeca;
safely stow it away before you leave.

We (Annette, Michael and I)
make our way along Obispo
toward the sea,
stopping at the guayabera shops
and bookstores,
but the stores do not yield Martí,
at least, not in the forms we desire.

We continue forward,
to Plaza de Armas;
nestled in the shade of the trees,
the portrait artist wanders,
tracing the image of Michael
across a clean white page,
and it is then we discover Martí.

Ah, Martí,
no mere revolutionary;
the vision and memory,
the myth, even,
of a romantic man
who saw the truth,
that was all around to be seen—
the corruption, the inequity,
the prices paid, and by whom
—and felt as powerless
as any patriot might
at the old world’s stranglehold
on the new.

Martí,
the revolutionary of love—
before learning and liberty,
the greatest of these is love,
amor con amor se paga,
love must precede and supercede
all action that love,
like the sun,
inspires and sustains.

Martí,
the friend
who laid down his life
for his friends,
but those three bullets
did not end the revolution;
the seemingly unfinished monument
can only testify to your continuing legacy,
as do the books we carry away.

We cut across to
Plaza de la Catedral,
to see the music cast into stone,
and to pray in air-conditioned chapel
for reconciliation,
for healing,
and for peace
among the nations.

Chicken sandwiches,
with beer and coffee
at nearby El Patio,
are surprisingly good,
though the service is slow
—we are there at the sleepy time of day.

After paying la cuenta,
we retrace our steps,
picking our way over the cobblestones,
dug up and piled everywhere,
making way for new cable
to modernize and expand
the ancient electrics,
returning to Hotel Plaza,
quickly passing through
the district of fortune tellers,
casting cards or cowries;
our immediate future
is already known:
we must quickly prepare
for our first concert.

We assemble in the lobby,
then the bus appears on cue
to take us to
Teatro Nacional de Cuba,
where we meet Ensemble Vocal Luna
to launch our mutual life’s blood:
love by way of song.

We sang apart and together,
braiding our vibrations,
sending them out
over
Plaza de la Revolución,
to meet the memory of Martí,
honored in his monument,
bringing one circle to a close
with the sharing of Guantanamera.


Later, under a full moon,
standing at the parapet of
la Cabaña,
as the canon is fired,
seeing the skyline of Habana
beyond el
Malecón,
I am reminded
that beauty can be found
everywhere
we are willing
to make the effort
to see it,
to engage it,
and to be inseparable from it.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

All Those Expendable People, Where Do They All Come From?


In the wake of the court decision in the Florida case of George Zimmerman, who shot and killed Trayvon Martin, I wish humanity could “wake up” and realize that all people are in need of and deserving of respect, no matter where they come from, what they look like, how intelligent or not they may be. The planet is not likely to survive very much longer, unless respect is bred and nurtured so that all people know they are needed and wanted.

There are so many people of various religious or social orders who feel they can say they are better than other people and that people who don’t believe what they believe or who don’t come from where they come from are outsiders, even worse, people who are no better than dogs. Such people are the vilest of hypocrites.

You are to treat the resident alien the same way you treat the native born among you—love him like yourself, since you were foreigners in the land of Egypt.  (Leviticus 19:34)

We all live on a fragile planet that would work for us better and longer if we were good stewards. The place to begin is for us all to realize that all life is integral, and perhaps even more symbiotic than the material lifestyles we fret about and foster.

Do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner, for you were foreigners in Egypt. (Exodus 22:21)

Since the beginning of human existence, there has been injustice and inequity. Throughout the ignoble and iniquitous social history of humanity, women, children, the aged and ill, people with varying preferences of all sorts, foreigners and travelers, the highly intellectual, the mentally incapacitated and those who have been crippled or maimed, have each been over-run exploited, exiled, oppressed, trafficked or enslaved. In these cases, race might or might not be a factor, but most certainly, domination, generally by power hungry males of the species has been the common factor involved.

The LORD watches over the foreigner and sustains the fatherless and the widow, but he frustrates the ways of the wicked. (Psalm 146:9)

The same moral dilemma exists now, as ever. Is it right to oppress and suppress any group of people? Rhetorically, we know the answer to be NO, OF COURSE NOT. Every exemplar throughout time has advised that it is better to be good. Every monster throughout history has laughed in that person’s face and sentenced that person to death, invoking the “I can do anything I want because I am stronger than you are, so I don’t have to be good” logic of the sociopath.

If you come with us, we will share with you whatever good things the LORD gives us. (Numbers 10:32)

How can it be explained to controlling people, unscrupulous dictators, corrupt business leaders, hypocritical gurus and demagogues that human beings are the biggest natural resource on the planet? And in no way do I mean in terms of expendability. This is the cardinal error of the control monger, the bank executive, the authoritarian, the mob boss; the common thread of thinking, based on common actions and the results of such actions, is that people are expendable, that it is okay to use them, abuse them, even to use them up and dump them.

…when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are an expendable, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"--then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. (Letter from a Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr.; I changed “a Negro” to “an expendable” and added emphasis.)

Here is a truly radical statement: If we each cared about ourselves enough to extend that caring to everyone and everything around us, the entire world would be better off.

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world... (Imagine, John Lennon)

Simplistic? A Pipe Dream? Or could it be an environmentally sound economic plan?

Right now, there is an amoral rationale among a jockeying and ever smaller group of people we might call “the Elite”—certainly these people think of themselves as such, and all the power they have and the decisions they make that affect your life and my life and the lives of people all over the world—who don’t seem to be related to us by anything other than an overwhelming powerlessness—follow the formula that says: use it up, use it all up, now and until there isn’t anymore. This is the formula of expendability. Natural oil reserves, once gone are gone forever. The drill, baby drill and frack, baby frack ethos has created a daisy chain of natural disaster waiting to happen—doesn’t anyone remember that the liquids in the ground are like joint lubricant? Pump it out, use it up, it's gone.

By the same token, we are sold and fed foods that are bad for us, so that we become unhealthy and in need of expensive medical care and drugs that frequently have known or unknown side-effects and unforeseen consequences. We are taxed on income and further taxed on homes, on transportation, infrastructure, indeed we are taxed because we are alive. This is more in the unbroken chain unsound economics; once we are pumped out, used up and gone, what next? Homelessness and worse is the answer to that question for a lot too many people.

I could be a bit in the nutty side—I’ll just go right ahead and admit that—but I think that we could build a better and more equitable community if we work the stewardship angle, where we do the very best we can do for ourselves and other people. If we keep the water clean, and make it available for everyone; if we grow natural food and make it available for everyone to purchase for their families; if we educate people for the sake of educating, rather than money; if we develop urban farming and new housing alternatives, not just here (wherever “here” is for you), but everywhere, we can create jobs that help the environment. Heck, even if all we did right now was to hire people to answer phones, we would improve the quality of life.

Do you see where I am headed? Right now, it is all about shooting down, cutting, eliminating, taxing, spending, expending, ravaging and stealing, diminishing, extinguishing.

Maybe the world would be different if we understood economic growth to be about all people equally (and responsibly) engaged in creating, making, growing, educating, earning, upholding, maintaining and sharing. If such a model were to emerge, it must work top-down as well as bottom-up; all need to be willing, invested and engaged. People: This is how you maintain your tax-base as an infinite resource, not just for earnings and for upkeep, but for GOOD!

If we lived in that kind of world, a man like Zimmerman might not have felt threatened or tweaked by the presence of a man named Martin, and we would be celebrating life, rather than arguing and rioting over laws that do not protect, legal decisions that allow people and governments and corporations to kill and steal, a way of life that makes us all expendable.

… time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity. (Letter from a Birmingham Jail, Martin Luther King, Jr.

Now is, and has always been, the time; not just here, but everywhere.

If not now, when?

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: III. Dias Tres


No maracas bird, this morning,
to raise an alarm,
and the set alarm did not go off!

No time for breakfast,
neither for badly needed coffee.

Ah, the dream of coffee!
The lingering memory
of last night—the singing of
our friend Luis, the dinner,
the music,
dancing and dessert: flan—and
beautiful, rich coffee!

But the memory must suffice,
along with dried fruit:
time for class.


The intricacies of rumba
are the study of a lifetime;
a fluid language
of thought, word and deed,
of clavés, song and dance,
rising up out of the source
in exuberant expansion!

The Masters teach us
about the bembé,
and its unity of
batá, cantando and rumba party.

In the sacred batá,
the drums speak Lucumi,
the timeless language of friendship;
the drum toques call the orishas,
voicing six tones rhythmically
from three drums,
the Iyá, which is the call,
the Itótole, which is the response,
and the
Okónkolo, which is the time regulator.

But this is already too complex;
it is best just to remember
that drums, singing and dance
speak as a single voice.

How can the uninitiated
gain the key to this mystery?

The Masters, they know best;
they are patient and gentle;
to learn about the role of each drum,
they teach us clavé,
the timeless syncopated
two plus three,
or three plus two
pulses of son or columbia forms;
with their guidance,
the clavés transform
from hardwood in our hands
to heartbeat.

The crashing of our small victory
attracts the attention of passersby,
who press their faces against the window:
these songs, we know them well,
but who are these that try to sing them?

The granddaughter of Jesus
does the dance with us,
but has much better form.

This does not dim the joy of our progress;
the sun is bright on the Alameda
as we take our leave
—we feel we have earned our lunch!

Lynne, Dale, Amelie and Elisabeth
decided on the top floor
of Los Nardos;
there we split mixed grill platters,
reveled in the plantains,
delighted in the flan,
and the coffee.

Rushing back to the Hotel Plaza,
we gather our wits,
along with our music;
the tour bus has magically appeared.

To school we go,
in a neighborhood near La Rampa;
there we are met by a motorcyclist,
whose sidecar holds
a keyboard electric.

The instrument once assembled,
the singers assemble also;
we mingle with the young ladies
of Ensemble Choral Luna.

For them, we sing Barasuayo;
for us, they sing Java Jive,
with a Spanish accent;
then we sing Battle of Jericho,
and they sing a fantastic piece
we would love to learn!!

We rest for a moment,
the room warm,
yet cooled by a cross-breeze
through the open windows;
even so,
there is the snap
the cooling swish
of fans,
ancient technology from Spain,
by way of China
[few people, least of all Cubans,
know there is a Hand Fan museum
in Healdsburg, California].

We end our engagement
by mixing to share
Guantanamera.

The keyboard is disassembled
and returned to its origin
via the sidecar on the motorcycle;
both groups enter the bus,
and we are conveyed to Hotel Nacional,
where the ladies have an evening concert.

Coconut palms tower over coral stone
pavements: we walk on fossil record,
feeling cool breezes off the Caribbean Sea.

What more could we do today?

Ah, but there is still dinner to be savored.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen


batá: set of three ethnic, sacred drums ceremonially used in the Santeria faith; these drums have their cultural origin in Yorùbá.
bembé: a Santeria ceremony that includes drumming, chanting and dance.
cantando: song.
columbia: a clavé rhythm also identified as a style of rumba
clavés: two hardwood sticks that beat the 2+3 or 3+2 rhythms key to the rumba polyrhythms
iyá: the largest of the batá drums, the “mother” drum
itótole: the middle sized of the batá drums, the “father” drum
lucumi: a Yorùbá dialect and the liturgical language of Santería
okónkolo: the smallest of the batá drums, the “baby” drum
orishas: a spirit or deity reflecting a manifestation of God in the Yorùbá spiritual system
rumba: a variety of Afro-Cuban dances
son: a clavé rhythm also identified as a style of rumba
toques: rhythm suites played during Santeria rituals