When we adopted our two kittens a year ago, they arrived in a carrier no larger than an overnight bag, with blue eyes, oversized ears, and all the uncertainty of small creatures suddenly transported into a new world. They were siblings, but even then very different beings.

One was thoughtful and observant. The other — Jenga — seemed already prepared to negotiate with the universe.

Now, one year later, they have become elegant young cats with long bodies, shining coats, established opinions, and complete confidence that my home belongs equally to them. Especially the couch.

They remain deeply bonded. They sleep folded into one another like punctuation marks, groom each other with solemn dedication, and race through the house in midnight celebrations that I hope will someday diminish, though I am beginning to suspect this may simply be wishful thinking.

At present, however, we are facing a new challenge: the temptation of the outdoors.

Jenga has discovered that beyond the door lies an entire kingdom of moving leaves, birds, scents, shadows, and neighborhood intrigue. He sits near the doorway with enormous seriousness, as though contemplating an expedition across unknown continents. Every opened door represents possibility.

And yet, despite his explorer’s heart, he is unmistakably a mama’s cat.

He wants adventure, certainly. But preferably with me nearby.

I have begun to realize that what he seeks may not simply be escape into the wider world, but shared experience — sitting together near the open air, watching movement in the garden, smelling the wind, participating in the mysterious life beyond the walls while still connected to home.

There is something touching about a young cat trying so hard to balance independence with attachment. One can almost sense the internal dialogue:

“I love you very much… but there are leaves moving outside.”

Meanwhile, his sister watches all this with what appears to be complete philosophical clarity. In her view, the couch remains an excellent and sufficient universe.

The first year with cats has been both challenging and delightful. They bring disorder, companionship, comedy, affection, and a kind of lively unpredictability into a home. Slowly, they stop being kittens and become themselves — distinct little beings with recognizable philosophies of life.

Jenga’s philosophy, I think, is becoming clear:

“I shall explore the world… but my mother should probably come too.” 🤪

I had been planning my March trip to Mexico carefully. After a winter marked by medical challenges, I was only just beginning to feel steadier. Walking was still difficult—I relied on my poles, and airport assistance had already been arranged. So when I received a message from Alaska Airlines informing me that my direct flight had been changed to a connection, I knew immediately that wouldn’t work.

Fortunately, I was able to rebook onto an earlier direct flight on March 23.

My son Justin drove down from Sebastopol the day before. He spent the night, and early the next morning he delivered me safely to the airport, staying until I was settled into the care of the wheelchair attendant. From there, everything unfolded with surprising ease. The gentleman assisting me even offered to stop for coffee or food, and I chose a sandwich that looked manageable for the flight. That small kindness felt like a good omen.

The journey to Puerto Vallarta went smoothly.

At the airport, my daughter Ariel was waiting. She drove me to the Hotel Emperador, right on the beach in Zona Romántica. I was exhausted—it had been a long time since I had done anything so physically demanding—but I also felt quietly triumphant. I had made it.

That first evening, I stayed in. I still had half of my sandwich, which turned out to be enough. I sat and watched the ocean, the sun lowering itself into the horizon, people gathering for their evening rituals along the beach. It was enough simply to be there. I went to bed early and slept deeply.

⸻

The next morning, I had promised myself a walk along the Malecón.

And I did it.

With my poles, slowly and steadily, I walked all the way to the end and back. It was gentle, pleasant, and quietly encouraging. Afterwards, I sat down for breakfast by the sea—coffee, something simple, and the feeling that perhaps I was returning not just to a place, but to myself.

That day, I walked more than I had in months. I wandered near my old neighborhood, bought coffee to use during my stay, and allowed myself to re-enter the rhythms of Puerto Vallarta at my own pace.

That evening, Ariel joined me to hear my friend Alejandro and his quartet play at Cuates y Cuetes. The music was extraordinary—jazz carried by guitar, violin, saxophone, and bass. There was something deeply familiar in it, something that reminded me of my long connection to this place. I stayed only for part of the evening—I tire easily now—but it was enough.

I returned to my room, content, and again slept well.

⸻

The days that followed settled into a gentle rhythm.

Walking. Resting. Small tasks.

I visited the man who had taken my belongings on consignment when I gave up my apartment the previous year. He surprised me by offering a full payout instead of continuing small payments over time—a kindness that simplified things greatly.

I stopped into a little shop I’ve always liked—La Bodega—and bought a pair of shorts and a beach bag, small tokens of continuity. I had a meal at a favorite Italian restaurant—spaghetti carbonara and even a glass of wine—and walked the short distance back to my hotel under the evening sky.

Each day, I did a little more. A pedicure one afternoon. Ice cream another. Nothing dramatic, but everything meaningful.

⸻

Eventually, it was time to leave for Lo de Marcos, where I had rented a beachfront apartment for the month.

Ariel picked me up, and we drove north. Along the way, we stopped for fresh seafood—simple, delicious, the kind of meal that belongs exactly where it is eaten. By the time we arrived, we were full and content. That first night, we did little more than sit on the terrace, watching the waves and the sunset.

The quiet there is different.

Deeper.

⸻

Soon after, we joined my daughter Laura and her family in San Pancho. They have spent several spring vacations there, and we have made a tradition of joining them.

There were days at the beach, watching the children—now nearly grown—play in the ocean. An Easter brunch at the polo club, a gathering we’ve shared for years. Long, easy conversations. Laughter.

One afternoon, the children held a handstand contest in their pool—three of them, determined and joyful. We served as judges. It was one of those simple, perfect moments that somehow holds more than it seems.

⸻

Back in Lo de Marcos, the days returned to stillness.

Ariel went into town occasionally—for physical therapy, for classes—leaving me on my own for stretches of time. At first, even the stairs felt uncertain. But gradually, I found my confidence again. The beach became manageable. The small town walks, too.

There is a quiet satisfaction in that kind of return.

⸻

Now, my days are simple.

I sit on the terrace and watch the waves. Pelicans glide in long, effortless lines. Other birds—three or four kinds—circle and dive, intent on their own purposes. Watching them, it becomes clear how small one’s own concerns really are.

Life continues, beautifully, without us.

The beach fills briefly in the evenings—volleyball, laughter, families gathering—then empties again by dusk, as if everyone quietly agrees that it is time to go home for dinner.

It is peaceful here.

Perhaps too peaceful for a full life, we’ve wondered. Ariel is considering a house nearby, but the quiet may be more than she wants. For me, right now, it feels like exactly enough.

⸻

I have already asked about returning next year.

The answer was mostly no—already booked—but I managed to secure a few weeks at the end of March and beginning of April.

That feels right.

⸻

For now, I sit, I watch, I listen.

And I am grateful to be here.

Every morning begins the same way.

I wake early—around five—when the house is quiet and the first hint of morning light begins to find its way through the windows.

Breakfast is simple: a rice cake with almond butter, yogurt with berries and granola. Enough to begin the day gently.

By nine o’clock I am ready for my walk.

The destination is modest but meaningful: a cappuccino a little over two thousand steps away. The round trip makes four thousand steps, and by the end of the day I try to reach six thousand.

I walk with poles now.

They are not crutches, but companions of a sort, giving me a little extra confidence and rhythm. I concentrate on posture—standing tall, engaging the abdominals, feeling the support of my back and pelvis as I move forward. The stride is not long, only about twenty-one inches, but steady.
Walking, for me, must remain uninterrupted.

No phone calls.
No music.
No coffee in hand.

The walk itself deserves my full attention.

I notice the plants growing along the sidewalks. Some days a particular tree catches my eye, or a vine that has suddenly burst into flower. I greet the dogs who are out with their owners, and often their humans as well. These small exchanges—brief nods, smiles, a word or two—create a quiet sense of neighborhood life.

The walk ends at the café.

There I sit and enjoy the cappuccino properly, without hurry. Sometimes there are conversations, sometimes only thoughts drifting through my mind as I watch the small morning theater of people passing by.

Then I walk home.

It is a simple ritual, but one that has come to hold more meaning than I might have expected.
​
Walking like this—without distraction—creates a kind of spaciousness in the mind. Thoughts arrange themselves. Memories appear and dissolve. Attention settles naturally on whatever is present: a bird crossing the sky, a dog trotting beside its owner, the particular color of the morning light.

In this way, the walk becomes more than exercise.

It becomes a way of inhabiting the day.

I am reminded of something written by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, who spent much of his life wandering the streets of Lisbon. Pessoa understood that walking without urgency opens a different relationship with the world.
One begins to notice the small things.
​
A doorway.
A passing stranger.
The rhythm of footsteps on pavement.
These details accumulate quietly until the city itself begins to feel like a companion.

My cappuccino walk is not Lisbon, of course. It is simply my neighborhood, with its sidewalks, plants, dogs, and familiar café. Yet something of Lisbon travels with me.

In that city I learned the pleasure of wandering without hurry—moving through streets simply to see what the day might reveal.

Perhaps that is why this modest morning walk feels so satisfying.

It is a small echo of that larger experience: walking, noticing, pausing for coffee, and allowing the world to unfold one detail at a time.

By the time I return home, the day has already offered something valuable: movement, observation, small human encounters, and a moment of stillness over a cup of coffee.

It is a modest ritual.

But it is enough.

And in some quiet way, Lisbon walks beside me—one attentive step at a time.

Reading about the life of Fernando Pessoa, we might be tempted to believe he was a solitary soul, a man without friends. In a way, that was true. From childhood, he spent much of his time alone and often preferred the company of imagined companions. With them, he created projects and games—writing poetry, even hand-producing little newsletters to share with family and anyone willing to read them.
​
He was well regarded by students and teachers alike, yet there remained something set apart about him—a quiet distance, a self-contained world.

Fernando was deeply attached to his family. The loss of his father to tuberculosis when he was only four, followed by the death of his younger brother just months later, must have marked him profoundly. Still, he remained close to his mother.

Not long after, she remarried—a kind man she met on a streetcar—and moved to Durban, South Africa, where he had been appointed consul. For Fernando, this departure was a rupture. He followed later, accompanied by a beloved uncle, and spent his formative years in Durban with his mother, stepfather, and their growing family.

By all accounts, he adapted well and maintained good relationships there. After his stepfather’s death, he returned to Lisbon, once again among extended family—sisters, aunts, uncles—who remained important presences in his life. His nieces and nephews, in particular, delighted in his playful humor.

His adult relationships were few but meaningful. The most significant was his friendship with Mário de Sá-Carneiro, whose early death by suicide left a lasting wound. There was also his tender, largely platonic love for Ofélia Queiroz—a relationship he ultimately ended, believing it incompatible with his vocation as a poet.

One might even say that Álvaro de Campos, his most forceful heteronym, intervened—declaring such a life could not be sustained.
​
Yet the connection lingered. After Pessoa’s death, Ofélia married, but she would later say that he was the only man she ever truly loved. She once told friends that the first time she saw him, he seemed to be walking on air.

Pessoa’s social life did not follow conventional patterns. He worked as a translator and correspondent in business offices, getting along well with colleagues, but not forming deep social bonds there. Instead, he gathered with writers and artists, contributing to projects such as the journal Orpheu.

They met in Lisbon cafés like A Brasileira and Martinho da Arcada. Those who knew him described him as soft-spoken and reserved, yet when he spoke, he was often uncannily precise—almost always right.

His biographer, Richard Zenith, writes that what astonishes us is Pessoa’s ability to live so much of his emotional and mental life on an imagined, literary plane—to “depersonalize” his inner world into multiple selves.
​
In The Book of Disquiet, Pessoa writes:
“I’m the naked stage where various actors act out various plays.”

In The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, José Saramago imagines conversations between Pessoa—now dead—and his heteronym Ricardo Reis.

They stroll through Lisbon, speaking as friends might, often pausing at the Miradouro de Santa Catarina beneath the looming figure of Adamastor. No one else sees Pessoa. Only his shadow appears to others.

Still, the conversations continue—measured, thoughtful, companionable.

So perhaps Pessoa was not without friends. They were simply not always visible to the passerby.

I imagine his walks were not so different from my own: a weaving of observation, reflection, memory, and imagined futures. The more I try to know the “real” Pessoa, the more elusive he becomes.

Even Zenith’s remarkable biography reveals only one version--his Pessoa.

We each carry our own.

And I am content to walk beside him in my mind…
sometimes in Lisbon, sometimes far from it.

Friendship has many ways of revealing itself.
​
Loyalty is one.
​

A few years ago, while visiting the small town of Samois-sur-Seine, I found myself walking along a quiet path at the edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau. The forest floor surprised me—rocky, yet almost perfectly flat—and tall trees rose around me in the deep stillness that only old forests seem to possess.

Then a group of hikers appeared along the trail. They moved easily together, all carrying slender hiking poles. They did not appear to need them for support. They simply walked happily along the path, stylish in their hiking attire, poles swinging rhythmically as they went.

The image stayed with me.

I had come to Samois-sur-Seine because it was the last home of the great jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt. Over the years my life in Puerto Vallarta has been deeply connected to music and musicians, so making this small pilgrimage to the resting place of one of jazz’s most original voices felt quietly meaningful.

The town rests between the waters of the Seine River and the wide green expanse of the forest. Django and several members of his family are buried there, and visitors still come to pay their respects.

One afternoon I decided to walk to the edge of town and continue out into the forest. It was there, along one of the quiet paths beneath the tall trees, that I encountered the hikers with their poles.

At the time, they were simply an interesting sight along the trail.

Years later, after a few injuries left me feeling less steady than I once had been, I remembered them.

That memory eventually led me to order a pair of walking poles of my own.

I discovered that they are not only helpful but rather stylish as well. And so on my upcoming trip to Puerto Vallarta, where I hope to do as much walking as I comfortably can, the poles will be coming with me.

To begin, I will choose flat surfaces. The long curve of the Malecón (Puerto Vallarta) seems perfect. As I walk, the broad waters of Banderas Bay will stretch beside me.

In my travels through Europe I have also noticed many people using these poles on cobblestones and uneven streets. They provide a quiet sense of stability, something that becomes more valuable as we grow older and begin to understand the importance of balance.

There is also an unexpected benefit. The poles encourage you to stand tall. When I focus on engaging my abdominal and back muscles and keeping my head lifted gently upward to support my spine, these simple devices become more than walking aids. They become companions in movement.

Perhaps they will take me further than I once expected—along quiet paths beside the ocean or through small stretches of countryside I might previously have avoided.

And as I walk, I hope to observe the world in a simple way, much as Alberto Caeiro once suggested: seeing nature plainly for what it is, without trying to force magic upon it.

Simply noticing.
Simply walking.

The Portuguese have a lovely way of describing this kind of attention to life. They speak of recolher pequenas coisas da vida—gathering the small things of life.

Sometimes those small things return to guide us years later.

A walk in a forest.
A group of hikers with poles.
A memory that quietly shows us how to keep moving forward.
​

 This essay is a companion piece to an earlier reflection. Both explore Lisbon through memory, literature, and landscape, but each approaches the city from a slightly different perspective.​

“Tudo vale a pena se a alma não é pequena.”  
— Fernando Pessoa, Mensagem

Seagulls stood on sand in the middle of the gallery.

Around them, ghosts of dark figures in wide hats sat at a table as if engaged in quiet conversation, their pale faces emerging from deep shadows. Visitors moved slowly through the room, pausing before the paintings as though they had stepped into a dream. Sacred archeological pieces of Pessoa's life were shown in paintings surrounding the setting of a table from Pessoa's favorite restaurant Cafe Martinho on the water front where he met with fellow artists to plan the introduction of Portuguese culture to the rest of the world.

It was 1981, and I was standing in an exhibition at the Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon. The Portuguese artist António Costa Pinheiro had created the series as a tribute to Fernando Pessoa and the mysterious world of voices he brought to life through his heteronyms.

In the gallery, Pessoa’s universe had been transformed into a kind of theatrical landscape. The figures seemed both familiar and enigmatic—echoes perhaps of Álvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis, or Bernardo Soares. The seagulls standing on sand suggested the harbor and the river, as though Lisbon itself had quietly entered the room.

I did not yet know that this exhibition would open a doorway into Pessoa’s imagination—or that Pessoa himself would eventually lead me to Lisbon.

The artist had lived through the years of the Salazar dictatorship, a time when many Portuguese writers and artists endured imprisonment or exile. When he was finally released, he left Portugal for Paris and later Munich, carrying his country with him through his art. He proved to be a sweet and generous man, willing to correspond and share his thoughts. I was fortunate enough to acquire several of his works, small anchors to a cultural world that was just beginning to reveal itself to me.

Through that exhibition I entered the writings of Fernando Pessoa, and Pessoa, inevitably, led me to Lisbon.

One of the works that affected me most deeply was Pessoa’s small but powerful book of poems, Mensagem. In it he evokes the historical figures who shaped Portugal’s destiny—kings, navigators, dreamers who imagined a nation reaching beyond its shores.

Among them, the figure who stayed with me most strongly was King Dinis.

D. Dinis was known as both the Farmer King and the Poet King. He planted the great pine forests along the Portuguese coast, forests that would later provide timber for the ships of the navigators. But in Pessoa’s poem those pines become something more than a practical enterprise. The wind moving through their branches seems almost to whisper toward the sea, as if the trees themselves were dreaming of voyages yet to come.

The image is simple and haunting: the murmur of the forest becoming the murmur of the ocean.

When I later walked among the pines near Belém, close to the great monastery of Jerónimos where so many explorers once prayed before sailing into the unknown, I suddenly understood the poem in a new way. The scent of resin in the air, the wide river opening toward the Atlantic, the quiet movement of wind through the trees—it felt as though the landscape itself was repeating Pessoa’s lines.

Lisbon is a city where history and imagination mingle easily.

At the Miradouro de Santa Catarina, beneath the brooding stone figure of Adamastor gazing toward the Tagus, the city gathers each evening to watch the light fade over the water. In Chiado, I like to sit quietly toward the back of A Brasileira, imagining Pessoa and his companions among the artists and writers who once gathered there. Along the river in the afternoon, the broad movement of the Tagus seems to carry centuries of departures and returns.

Other writers soon joined Pessoa in guiding my understanding of the city. The elegant social observations of Eça de Queirós, the philosophical depth of José Saramago, and more recently the searching psychological voice of António Lobo Antunes all reveal different facets of Lisbon’s soul. I also discovered inspired lovers of Portugal like the Swiss Pascal Mercier and Italian Antonio Tabucchi whose writing has brought Lisbon to me through philosophical and poetic images in works like Night Train to Lisbon, Requiem, an Hallucination, and Pereira Maintains.
​
Together they show that Lisbon is not only a place but a cultural inheritance—one that extends across centuries of poetry, philosophy, and memory.

A line from Night Train to Lisbon has often returned to me: we leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, and there are parts of ourselves we can recover only by going back there.

Perhaps that is why Lisbon never feels entirely distant.

Some part of my life still sits quietly at a café in Chiado. Another part walks along the river in the afternoon light. And somewhere among the pines near Belém, the wind still moves through the branches, carrying that soft murmur Pessoa heard so long ago.

The whisper of the pines calling to the sea.

And when I think back to that gallery in Lisbon in 1981, I realize that the journey had already begun there, among the seagulls and the silent figures gathered around Pessoa’s table.

A few months ago a friend asked me to give him a rundown of the jazz clubs I frequent in Paris.  I love Paris and I love jazz but that does not make me an expert.  However, when in Paris I have my little haunts.  

Years ago I never went to Paris without spending every night I could in a club called Le Bilboquet.  This sweet little club on the left bank at 13 Rue St. Benoit, originally an old cellar first operated under the name of the Club San Germain frequented by Django Reinhardt and all the jazz performers who were fascinated in those days by the be bop from America. They chose the caves because they were available and cheap and they could play what they wanted without being criticized by the classical jazz fanatics who were suspicious of the new wave of music, considering it to be unworthy of the name jazz.  In these clubs young and old gathered to dance and listen and Django loved to play there.

When I first visited Le Bilboquet in that same location, it was both a restaurant on the upper levels overlooking the club and the music and a jazz club of the old style with small tables and red velvet stools or red covered couches and was a very friendly place to listen to the bands who played there. I loved the nights they featured Ahmet Gulbay’s band. Ahmet on the very hot piano and with a tremendous smile was of Turkish descent and welcomed friends and visiting musicians to join in the fun.  One night he had invited a young high school student visiting Paris with his parents from Berkeley, California to play with him. It was delightful. 

I met many interesting and friendly people both French and from other countries including Turkey during the time I was a regular. One sad night I showed up to find the club closed for ever! I felt absolutely lost.
On subsequent visits to Paris I searched for other clubs but never found one quite like Le Bilboquet although they have opened a new club called Le Bilboquet rive doite near the old opera house with a dance floor and featuring Swing, Be Bop and Shuffle which could be worth a try. 
​
On a trip dedicated to following the footsteps of Django Reinhardt I came across a listing at a website I follow for a club featuring jazz manouche on Thursday nights. That night they were featuring Simba Baumgartner. Recognizing the last name of the first son of Django from a first marriage, Lousson Baumgartner, I learned he was the great grandson of Django. My daughter and I hurried over to the Jardin de Cluny where the club MONK is located and were blown away by the music and the intimate atmosphere there. Simba was sweet and shy and his music was out of this world. MONK in La Taverne de Cluny (5th arrondissement) is one place I will visit every time I am in Paris, especially on Thursday evenings when they feature jazz manouche.

I wanted to show my daughter some other authentic venues so we visited another “cave” venue called 38 Riv. on Rue de Rivoli (4th arrondissement). It was so cool and the group from Brazil who played that night was great.  The club itself is worth the trip.

The site I use to locate the jazz I want to experience is parisjazzclub.net. They give you a run down of who is playing and where and it is very complete. 

 With their help I visited several clubs including Duc de Lombards in the 1st arrondissement, with a high quality of jazz musicians. I was happy to take in a show by Hugo Lippi, a very talented jazz manouche guitarist who had just released a new album entitled Comfort Zone with the favorite, Manoir de mes rêves. The music was great and the atmosphere oh so French. 

Conveniently Due de Lombard is surrounded by less formal clubs like Sunside in an adjacent alley-like street filled with jazz clubs and cafes. Some of my all time favorites artists have played outstanding concerts in the intimate space of Sunset. You never know who might be booked!  Bireli LaGrene for example was booked there for three concerts just after I missed a very fancy concert of his at a beautiful site due to Covid issues.

There are numerous clubs all over town so if you are courageous, just try some out. New Morning in the 10th arrondissement,  Baiser Salé in the 1st arrondissement where I see Sylvain Luc an extremely accomplished jazz manouche player is playing January 26! Caveau de la Huchette in the 5th arrondisement. That is just to name a few!

If you look carefully you will find all kinds of venues in Paris featuring a generous  variety of music.  Just go and have fun!

Mafra central to Saramago's wonderful saga of Balthasar and Blimunda

Luxurious evenings in a neighborhood park.

Antonio Tabucci offers recipes in his wandering amongst old friends in search of answers to old questions In Requiem, an Hallucination

Strolling on Avenida Libertad.

A literary group still meeting here after 40 years. The conversations continue at Brasileira..

You cannot cross the same river twice as the River goes on and on. (Heraclitus)

My son Justin was down last weekend for a much needed visit. I had been very down physically for three or four weeks and actually off and on for most of the winter. Justin’s visit just gave me new energy. 

Somehow my illness began turning around and we had a wonderful day, chatting and eating together and during that time, since he had brought his animal spirit cards with him, we looked at my year and my spirits for this year. 

My animal spirit for the year is the elephant, a very good omen and a very appropriate animal, I believe, to guide me through this year.

ELEPHANT
UNSTOPPABLE, AUSPICIOUS, WISE
The Elephant is arguably the most auspicious figure in the deck. Like Ganesh, the Elephant represents immense wisdom, as well as good fortune. It is said that the great Elephant is the destroyer of obstacles, so if this card appears when you feel
"stuck," rest assured the path will soon become clear. To add to the mystery, the Elephant is also known to create obstacles in order to steer us in the right direction. Trust this gentle, noble creature.it illuminates the way with the light of self-knowledge.
WHEN IN BALANCE: one-pointed focus, generous, loving
WHEN OUT OF BALANCE: misunderstands fate
TO BRING INTO BALANCE: trust.

In fact, I had been feeling stuck with this extended “illness” that had me in pain and in and out of bed which is very unusual for me. It was something I could not understand and still do not fully understand but feel I am overcoming.  I had lost hope and lost the belief I could move forward with my dreams of an energetic future. The elephant has helped me to see this as an obstacle I can overcome and I am resuming the forward looking attitude I have treasured most of my life. 

The tiger, my February card, encourages me to take in the wild darkness of this “illness” and awaken my own power!

TIGER
LUNAR FORCE, EASE IN DARKNESS, FEMININE ENERGY
The Tiger hunts at night...at one with the silence... fearing nothing. This card reminds us to take in the wild darkness, to allow the lunar forces to soothe and heal our spirits. Sensuality, receptivity, and devotion are all heightened in the midnight hour, and the Tiger takes advantage of these boons. spend some time in silence this evening, drinking in the potent calm. There is nothing to fear in the stillness except the awakening of your own power.
WHEN IN BALANCE: passionate, strong, sensual
WHEN OUT OF BALANCE: over stimulated
TO BRING INTO BALANCE: trataka (candle gazing)

Thank you Justin for your visit, your kindness and your inspiration!

Two of my favorite writers were featured in the New York Times last week: Orhan Pamuk and Haruki Murakami. And they weren’t obituaries. They are both alive and well and producing wonderful images of their experience.

I am giving you pieces of these articles because the New York Times often limits viewing of the entire articles unless you are a subscriber.  However I wanted to give you a taste via these quotes.

From The New York Times article on Orhan Pamuk:

“Six years ago, the Turkish author and Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk received the plot summary of a planned television adaptation of one of his most celebrated novels, "The Museum of Innocence." As he flipped through its pages, he was horrified.

The production company had taken liberties far beyond what Mr. Pamuk considered reasonable in condensing for the screen his 500-page-plus tale of obsessive love in Istanbul in the 1970s and '80s, adding plot twists that he felt egregiously diverted his narrative.

So he struck back, suing the producer to reclaim the rights to his story.
"I had nightmares during that period, paying a lot of money by my standards to the California lawyer and worrying about, what if they shoot it the way they wrote it?" Mr. Pamuk said, speaking in his book-lined office on the top floor of the apartment building that his family built in Istanbul and where he grew up.”

I will be watching for the February 13th release of Museum of Innocence on Netflix and hope you will give it a look as well. Pamuk finally worked hand and hand with the Turkish producer of the film to ensure the story portrayed the Istanbul he knew without embellishments. It took 4 years but apparently is well worthwhile. 
My interest in Pamuk came from my sister who lived in Turkey during the same period and her close friend went to school with him. When he was awarded the Nobel prize she called to tell me of it. His many novels include the celebrated mystery of manuscript illustrators of the Ottoman period called Red, Snow, an intriguing story of politics and daily life in the eastern Anatolia region of Kars, and Istanbul, which paints the picture of his childhood and family life.  Of course there are so many more!

From Murakami article in the New York Times:
"I don't have any plan, I'm just writing, and while I'm writing, strange things happen very naturally, very automatically," Murakami said during an interview in New York in December.
"Every time I write fiction, I go into another world — maybe you can call it subconsciousness — and anything can happen in that world," he continued. "I see so many things there, then I come back to this real world and I write it down."
Murakami doesn't regard himself as a masterly prose stylist or a brilliant storyteller. In his telling, his one unique skill is his ability to travel between worlds and report back.”
Murakami’s novels have fascinated me ever since I read my first of his novels, The Windup Bird Chronicle, and was blown away. Here Murakami passes from one reality to another in his telling. Since then I have read at least 10 more including the marvelous Killing Commendatore and Kafka on the Shore. I am always tantalized by his style and magical adventures. 
A great fan of jazz—in fact in his 20’s he had a jazz bar in Tokyo—his writing is peppered with references that invite you into the experience. His culinary accounts also bring one into everyday life in Tokyo.

At 77 he is still writing and loving it. There are several new books I am anxious to read including one to be released in the fall, Abandoning a Cat, which apparently takes on his relationship with his father. Because of this article I have discovered many titles I must explore.

The beat goes on and I am pleased to be able to report to you these pleasant surprises from our international artistic community inspiring us even in these otherwise dark times.

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/02/12/world/europe/orhan-pamuk-istanbul-turkey-museum-of-innocence.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/02/08/books/haruki-murakami-profile.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share