Football is life

My team has missed the playoffs again, but life goes on and there are still games to be played. Their names will not be mentioned in the same breath with the elite, but yet they slog on, which is what they are trained to do, not to mention paid to do. Yet, what about the fans? We're not paid to root for our teams long after the hope of playoff contention and the hoopla that entails has passed. Fans are made of nobler stuff, we cheer out of love of the game, nobody needs to pay us. After receiving a gift of tickets to a meaningless game, I mustered the energy to attend with my son. After all, time spent with my college age son is a rare treat but I must admit, even though I'm a noble fan with a love of the game, I wasn't too keen on spending the afternoon under an umbrella in the pouring rain with sodden feet in an effort without playoff consequences. The day dawned with dense fog and cloud cover, but I made up my mind to go as far as was humanly possible without catching pneumonia because I knew my son had his heart set on it. Heading to the game as soon as we passed through the tunnel, the skies were clear and the sun was shining. A good omen I thought. We made it to the stadium with time to spare and after paying a small fortune to park in a muddy field, we picked our way hopping over puddles and made it to the stadium parking lot. From some distance away the inviting smells of barbecue wafted on the air, punctuated by the happy sounds of boys playing catch and the echo of pigskin slapping against outstretched hands. People were laughing and not at all troubled that the team had not made the playoffs. There was a game to be played, wieners to be grilled, life goes on. I have to admit the atmosphere started a stirring in my heart, memories of other games, a twinge of excitement. By the time we reached the spot where a wannabe D.J. fan had set up a sound system and the beat of The Eye of the Tiger pulsed through the loudpeakers, I was pumped. I stepped up my gait to the tune as we made our way to the entrance. After a cursory frisking and a brief glance in my bag, we negotiated the turnstile and we were in the stadium. We joined the line of people scaling the escalators to find our seats. The stadium throbbed with excitement and among the throng I felt like a blood cell in an orderly passage to the heart. On our way there, we passed through the bowels of the stadium and the roar of the crowd gave me goosebumps, and as we emerged the bright green grass and the familiar colors of the players' uniforms were just as bright as if they were playing for a playoff berth. The sun shone down like springtime, but there was just enough nip in the air to know it wasn't, and I pitied the poor fans of those eastern teams braving ice and snow. The Star Spangled Banner rang out and 60,000 people were as one for a brief moment and then I knew... there's more to life than winning or losing- it's all about the game.

Mt. Diablo Snow Redux

Mt. Diablo

Sacred Mountain of Indian lore

Of stone primeval history speaks

Boulders rising from the ocean floor

Spirits of the Ancients guard your peaks

Hills cascade like tendrils to your feet

Rolling slopes and golden pastures sweep

Across the fields of acorn and wheat

Vistas of grazing cattle and sheep

Stately beacon from the plains afar

You guide the pilgrim from his sojourn

Framed by the heavens, the moon and star

For your gentle air his heart does yearn

Written by Jeanette Kermaninejad

Snow on Mt Diablo

Can anything make your heart soar like a dusting of snow on the mountain? Such a rare and chilly sight for us, my car had a blanket of snow on it early in the morning.

Manhattan Skyline

Steel ribcages reach upward
Framework of humanity
On a granite bed anchored
Surface of insanity

Gun metal grey enclosures
Border the far horizon
Protect within them treasures
That Gotham so enliven

Gems of culture and fashion
Literature, song and dance
Makind's outward expression
his existence to enhance

Giant Skeletal Vessels
Team with life helter skelter
In each a story nestles
Cradled snug in its shelter

Testament to man's genius
The jagged skyline stands tall
Structures like ancient sphinxes
Scrape the sky witness to all

By Jeanette Kermaninejad

New York, New York

I don't care what anyone says, New York is the center of the universe! Whatever Paris or London have, they've got nothing on New York. Yes, people are not as laid back by California standards, they're in a hurry, places to go, but on more than one occasion a kind stranger helped me out in what can only be described as a friendly way. The streets are teeming with hustle and bustle and the bite in the fall air can sting, but it makes the pleasure of finding an open seat in the jam-packed Starbucks even more intense. And let's talk about the food... there is food everywhere, a bagle shop on every block, chopped salads, delis, gourmet shops, little Italian, Indian, Chinese, German, Spanish, name your country restaurants. New Yorkers live life with gusto and breathlessness in a city that never rests, symbolized by Lady Liberty with a freedom of expression that translates in all forms of art which is the stuff of life. The city is a huge tableau, a work of living art and everyone there adds a splash of color from the most neutral to the most vibrant.

Wild Animals

Taking Anthony to the Martinez shoreline to view the wildlife, but who is wilder?

Fall Is Here

Autumn Leaves

Leaves falling russet, brown and gold like rain

Coasting on the wind they drift to the ground

Summer's epilogue, her farewell refrain

Dancing on the breeze, they settle in a mound

Spreading a mantle crisp and resplendent

An autumnal shroud shielding dormant spring

A withering blanket, softly attendant

Cradling the unborn, warm and nurturing

Tokens of nature, heavenly bequest

Bestowed upon earth, falling leaves are blessed

Written by Jeanette Kermaninejad

Heartbreak in the trash heap

My family and friends know me as a "go all the way" type of person. I don't do anything just a little bit. It is not an enviable quality; I eat too much, I talk too much, I want too much, I love too much. Loving too much is not restricted to my children or grandson, whom I love with all the loyalty and ferocity of a mother tiger, but I love things too much too. I love gadgets and electronics, cameras, the Buffalo Bills, hotel rooms and karate tournaments. It is the karate tournament to which I turn your attention. Many parents have experienced sports with their children, we hear about "soccer moms", and dads that coach little league or football teams. Tiger Woods' dad coached him in golf and Serena Williams' parents coached her in tennis. We see the parents of olympic athletes sitting in the stands cheering their children on after years of sacrifice, finally getting to travel abroad to world's biggest stage to watch their children compete. I have so often envied them and sympathized if their child lost, but only fleetingly, because after all they were among the chosen few of the whole world. What does this have to do with karate, you ask? I am a karate mom... and not just any karate mom, a dedicated, addicted karate mom. A mom who will sit all day through activities that are akin to watching grass grow just for a few minutes of heart wrenching excitement when my child enters the ring to spar. In case you don't know, sport karate is single elimination. That means you may fly across the country for a 2 minute match that you will lose only to return empty handed with your pocketbook depleted. As long as you win, you advance, a loss too early and you are out. Is it any wonder it's so addictive? Others may feel the odds are stacked too high against them to make it worthwhile, but if you're an excitement junkie, this is the stuff of legend. I had the opportunity for a few years to drink from this well and I am intimate with the highs of victory and the depths of defeat. From the borders of Canada to the turquoise waters of Acapulco Bay, I enjoyed the time I spent with my children in the pursuit of being king of the ring. I was a pain in the butt karate mom, my children will testify to that, and I thank them for letting me tag along for the ride. But like all good things, it came to an end. Adulthood brings increased responsibility and less time and dedication to childhood pursuits. Quite simply, my kids have grown up and moved on. I saw it coming, but closed my eyes to it and hoped that somehow by some intervention, their passion would be rekindled. It did not help when one of their mentors passed away, a little bit of them died too. I suppose I should be happy that now I have more time for my own pursuits, more money at my disposal, but what I wouldn't give to drink just one more time from that well of excitement. I would swell with pride and accept hearty congratulations from friends and strangers knowing that my kid was a contender, a force to be reckoned with. And if I were granted that one last chance, I would want more, I would never be satisfied with just one more time. All of these thoughts cross my mind as I prepare to move, put the trophies out for trash collection because the kids don't want them and I don't have room. What seemed so important, all boils down to gilded plastic idols and I know I can root for my children in so many more important ways as they become responsible adults. Still, Michael Phelps' mom must be a happy woman, right?

Downsizing

There is something liberating about packing up your life and designating your wordly goods as keepers, items to be stored or trash. I realize the "to be stored" pile is at least 75% the trash pile of the future. This collection consists of things I don't need for my immediate future, but someday might want to revisit. This includes fine china, baking pans for the most exotic goods, crystal and serving dishes. It will include beds and furniture items that won't fit into my future abode of one third the size of present. The "to be stored" items are in purgatory, waiting to see if they will be delivered to the promise land or banished to hell- let's say they have a temporary reprieve. The keeper pile is amazingly smaller than I ever thought it would be. After years of collecting cookbooks and reference tomes that I just couldn't be without, it turns out the internet is the world's largest cookbook collection and almost any recipe can be had there with hundreds of variations. But books aren't the only things I collected, there are boxes of holiday decorations, momentos of time spent in Iran, gifts presented and long forgotten and half finished projects of every ilk. So as the process of elimination continues, the trash heap grows, and I ponder as it stacks higher and higher, how I ever accomplished anything under the weight of such accumulation. Is it any wonder that I feel overwhelmed, top heavy and clumsy? Why do we humans do this to ourselves? In our distant past we (humankind) were hunters and gatherers, now we hunt in Nordstrom's and gather our trophies in our homes and put them on display. Everything must be magazine perfect, but it's all so temporary. One strong wind such as the economy is feeling right now and it's all gone, just dust in it's wake. Then we're left with only what we can carry and hold in our memories.

I had a daydream...

While packing up boxes for a forced move, feeling very sorry for myself, I decided to polish up an old copper pitcher and put it on e-bay. I picked it up and heard the rattle of something inside and turning it upside down over the trash can, watched as various and sundry items spilled out. Among the rubber bands, nails and a discarded baby bottle, I saw some folded papers. Fishing them out I discovered them to be play money one of my children stuffed in there years ago. My imagination took over and I stood there for a few moments indulging in childhood fantasy thinking if maybe I rubbed the base of the urn, the money would turn real and what I would do with it. Of course my thoughts did not immediately turn to paying bills or buying groceries, but to travel to an exotic locale and other purely selfish pursuits. And even after reality came intruding into my reveries, I felt lighter, and happy for a short respite from life as I know it.

In the beginning...

Inspired by the movie Julie and Julia, I've started this blog, but since I doubt anyone will actually look at it I have named it appropriately. Today marks the end of a dream I had, a dream to recapture my youth and freedom. I put my brand new 3 wheel bike up for sale. Laugh if you will, but it was a symbol of all that I was going to regain. I would use it for exercise, I would become slim and strong, I would feel the wind through my hair and be able to cycle to the far corners of my neighborhood. The cruel reality is that the conveyance is heavy and unweildly and instead of feeling like a free spirit, I felt terror unleashed as I streaked down the street barely able to stop, nearly tipping over. After only a block or so the dream had been seriously damaged when the reality of pedaling the thing back up the slight incline home blew to smithereens what few illusions remained. After feeling guilt everyday for the last three months for not riding and giving it another try, I have listed it on Craig's list and I cannot express the relief I feel.