Category: Uncatagorized

Miscellaneous

Do People Make Their Own Happiness?

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Shibboleth (Noun) a word or saying used by adherents of a party, sect, or belief and usually regarded by others as empty of real meaning. (Merriam-Webster)

Or is it just a smug, self-satisfied shibboleth that happy people to tell others that their unhappiness, even their misery, is their own fault. “We’re not to blame. Fate is not blame. You are.” An easy way to write off less fortunate others. That’s how this this banal catchphrase seems to me.

Do the people of Ukraine make their own happiness in the midst of an unjust,, unlawful, land brutalk war make their own happiness? Do the people of earthquake devastated Turkey and Syria make their own happiness? Well, the smug happy person may say. war and natural disasters are different. Clearly those events are not the fault of the victims.

But that’s also true on a smaller scale. A depressive does not choose to be a depressive because it’s satisfying or because in some twisted way it makes them happy. Relieves them of responsibility. Just get on anti-depressants the smug person might say. Anti-depressants don’t work for everyone. They have side-effects such as suicidal ideation. Or just a buzzing in the head like electricity is how one of my friends described it. Those are just a couple of the possible side-effects of anti-depressants.

As for me, being unhappy must be my own fault because I “choose” to live in a state where housing costs keep rising but my income does not. Smuggies don’t take into consideration that moving is also expensive. “Go live with someone” they say but don’t offer their own home to share. Not everyone is made to share living space with another person unless the other person is compatible, maybe a spouse or relative. Co-housing can be sheer torture for an introvert. But what does that matter as long as you have a roof over your head? It matters.

Just take your happiness into your own hands and everything will be peaches and cream. As is often the case, it’s more easily said and done. I’ve lost track of how many jobs I’ve applied for with no success. But, since my happiness is in my own hands. I will keep on keeping on. I do have one last resort housing option: a cemetery plot. It’s a quiet and private place.

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Homeless Plants?

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My anxiety isn’t just for me losing my home, It’s also about the possibility of my plants losing their home. Most low-income housing that I’ve seen has no balconies. So, what would I do with my plants if I have to move to such a place?

For most of every year I have a mini jungle on my small balcony. There is barely enough room for both me and my plants.

My autumn fern is about ready to take over the entire balcony.

I have a friend who rents a house. I’ve thought about asking her to take my plants if I should have to move but she’s in pretty much the same situation as I. She has her own business but sadly too many of her clients don’t pay their bills on time or at all, so she’s hurting, too.. Despite having a husband, two kids, and two cats and a dog to worry about, she kindly made a contribution to help me out. I’m endelessly grateful to her for everything she has done for me.

I miss having a cat but at present, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about a potentially homeless cat, too. The fern has a child. It self seeded in another container and has grown surprisingly big in a relatively short time.

My big gorgeous hosta will soon be competition for balcony space with the fern.

Another balcony resident.

Buying a hydrangea for my balcony garden probably wasn’t the best idea I ever had but I could resist the color or the sale price. It was small when I got it but it’s grown considerably in only two years. We had a pretty fierce cold snap just after Christmas but the hydrangea survived and now has small leaf clusters. I hope it survives the cold snap we’re supposed to get later this week.

The hydrangea has some mystery companions growing in its container. The green shoots are probably three inches tall. I don’t know what they are but I don’t like to yank out a plant until I’m sure it’s a weed. The shoots look like they might belong to some bulb plant.

One of my three geraniums.

Many people treat geraniums like annuals but I’ve succeeded in over-wintering them and getting them to bloom again. I babied the geraniums all winter bringing them indoors whenever it got too cold. They’re going to be coming inside again probably tomorrow. When the weather is good the three begonias live on a tiered, spiral plant stand.

Petunias and bacopas.

If it weren’t for railing boxes, I wouldn’t be able to have as many plants on my balcony. This box turned out especially well. The Anna’s hummingbird loves the pink petunias. I hope somebody in the building has a hummingbird feeder so tiny Anna will be able to get a snack if my plants and I are gone.

Cabbage butterfly on a hosta leaf.

I have room for visitors on my balcony if they’re very small.

My balcony is my haven of peace, beauty, and serenity. It’s calming even when I hear traffic noisy, which seems go go on all day and night. Although I’m not really a morning person, I sometimes wake up at dawn and photograph sunrises from there. I watch Jupiter from there. I have a chair and a tray table on a stand out on the balcony. When the weather is nice, say in the mid-fifties, I bundle up and sit there and write.

Symbolic clouds hovering on the horizon.

Despite the great view, this apartment is relatively inexpensive compare to others in town. Just not inexpensive enough for me at present.

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Nero Fiddled. I wrote.

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The legend goes that the Emperor Nero supposedly fiddle while Roma burned. The only problem with that myth is that the first fiddle was not invented, in Germany, until about 1400 hundred year’s after Nero’s death.

So much for an interesting legend about the indifference of a ruler.

I wrote while my life burned. No more literally than Nero’s fiddling. For a while, working on a new novel provided solace. An escape from unpleasant reality. My new work in progress is a romance novel for Harlequin. Not the first publisher I would choose but they’re one of the very few traditional publishers who accept unsolicited manuscripts from writers without agents. In addition to royalties, they also pay advances. A cash advance, even if it’s something that doesn’t materialize until sometime in the future, if at all, is something I badly need. Not to mention how nice, delightful, wonderful, exciting, thrilling it would be to hold a physical book that I wrote in my hands.

Preferably, a book that I did not pay someone to publish for me.

I’ve even been reading a pretty awful example that I download for free from the Harlequin website. It’s a chore to struggle through the thing but it’s worth it because it gives me confidence that I can do better. Readers deserve better. It also shows me the sort of thing the publisher wants and gives me ideas for my own story.

As for my burning world…housing costs in my state are insanely expensive. Unless some miracle happens, a miracle such as a job or a big jackpot winning lottery ticket, I can no longer afford my apartment. My former employer was a victim of the pandemic. Unemployment insurance has a way of running out. So many people in this state are hurting and need low-income housing that waiting lists are years long. I don’t know how they do it. Not everyone is as fortunate as I in having relatives help about but they’re not wealthy. They can’t afford to keep helping.

I keep applying for jobs but not getting hired, not even in fields where I have extensive experience. Maybe that’s part of the problem–I’m over-qualified. Or something. I’ve been a solitary person all my life so having a roommate would be a last ditch option. Better than living in a cardboard carton under a freeway overpass.

Anxiety is not good for inspireation.

Before anxiety achieved high-tide, my writing was going well. I managed to write approximately a thousand words, four pages, a day. Then, as the anxiety went from chromic to acute, the writing came to a dead halt. That went on for a few weeks. Eventually, not writing got to the point where it was worse than the anxiety and worry about where I would live if I lose my apartment., so I forced myself to write. My production isn’t as good as it was before, but a page a day is better than nothing.

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Sneak Preview

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Coming soon. This is a preview of what the paperback cover will look like.

New cover for my novel.

Līvija Galiņa is a widowed Latvian refugee who, with her family, fled her country in 1944 as the Soviet Red Army invaded. Her husband was lost in the war. She was pregnant at the time of her flight.

After years of floating through war-torn Europe, like flotsam on the tides of history, Līvija finds a new home for herself, her mother, and her seven-year-old daughter, Dzintra, in Seattle, Washington. where they live communally with six other Latvians. But where is there a home for her heart?

On the snowy day after Thanksgiving 1952, Līvija is walking home from her job as a house cleaner. In a fog of exhaustion, she doesn’t notice that a car has skidded on ice and jumped the curb until someone pushes her to the ground and lands on top of her.

The “someone” is her neighbor, dashing fighter pilot, Cameron Quinn. Their mutual attraction is immediate.

Līvija’s mother and their entire Latvian community are against Līvija making a match with anyone but another Latvian. Līvija ‘s housemate, Edgars Siliņš, a single father, feels that he has a proprietary right to Līvija’s affection. Her family and friends agree.

Līvija has always been an obedient, dutiful daughter. Can she find a home for her heart?

Pronunciation: Līvija = Lee-vee-ya. N with a diacritical mark is pronounced like the Spanis N with a tilde ~ Š = sh. Dz is a diphthong pronounced like “ts” in “tsar,” only harder.

This is the old cover photo for my novel. Like WordPress, Amazon is being a pain in the ass today. I can’t change the cover image without help from a living, breathing human being. Who knows when that will be. In the meantime…

Here’s how Vella works. Any mobile device can be used to read books on Amazon’s Kindle Vella. The story is serialized. It’s not a subscription. Readers buy tokens, which don’t cost much, for the chapters (Amazon calls them episodes) they want to read. The first few chapters are free to read. Comments made on the Vella page are very helpful to the author. They don’t have to be fancy, “I like it” or “It’s okay” will do. Of course, more details,, such as why you like it or what you like are appreciated.”

Bad Word, Bad Words…

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Whatcha Gonna Do When You Run Out?

Some people might consider me to be an old fogey because of what I’m about to say regarding bad words. I don’t consider myself to be old. I prefer the French term: une femme d’un certain âge.

I’m not going to tell anyone not to use bad words. I’m just going to suggest giving it more thought before you do so. Then maybe you’ll change your mind. Or not.

You’re going to see a lot of asterisks in this post.

These days people throw around bad words as if they were confetti. These words get used so often that they become banal and boring and lose their power.

Does this sweet little critter deserve to be called an ugly name?

What if you have a puppy that poops on your carpet and you call him an a**h****? The dog didn’t do it deliberately just to annoy you. If you call this innocent little creature who did something you don’t approve of because he didn’t know any better. If a puppy is an a**h***, what are you going to call someone who is truly evil? Someone like a loathsome politician? Are you equating your puppy to that horrible human being?

Why would a little critter like this deserve to be called an ugly name?

A photo of a little owl was posted on a social media page. Someone referred to the bird as a little motherf****er. When I objected to the language the guy said, “You must be fun at parties!” The parties I go to don’t include that kind of language. I didn’t say that to him. Instead, I said, “I’m ignorant. Educate me. Why is a word like this okay? Is it original? Is it clever? Is it witty?” The guy had no reply.

He must have expressed his genuine feelings to someone.

Some psychologist has claimed that people who swear are perceived as “genuine.” The Merriam-Webster dictionary gives a couple definitions of genuine, “sincere and honestly felt or expressed” and “free from hypocrisy or pretense.” Apparently, the psychologist didn’t realize that sometimes expressing your genuine feelings can get you punched in the nose.

Civilization is all about being artificial. We wear clothes instead of running around naked. We use restrooms instead of squatting on someone’s lawn to do our business. If we see someone eating a drumstick and we want it, we don’t grab it out of their hand and take a bite. We say “please,” and “thank you” and “may I?”

Do you suppose a lack of civility, too much expression of genuine feelings, could be part of the problems we have today?

A Concert for Ukraine

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Ukraine’s National flower

It’s been a month since Russia’s savage, brutal invasion of Ukraine. It strikes close to home because of Latvia’s history of invasion by the Soviet Union and nearly fifty years of occupation. And because Latvia also shares a border with Russia. Unlike Ukraine, Latvia is a member of both NATO and the European Union. It’s the same with the other Baltic States, Estonia and Lithuania. If Ukraine falls none of the countries in Eastern Europe can feel safe. Maybe not even the rest of Europe.

So many countries, so vulnerable.

All our hearts are broken. We can all too easily imagine what the Ukrainian people are going through. Our parents, grandparents, great-grandparents went through the same thing. We were robbed of our country and families who were unable to flee or who thought the Red Army would soon be driven out by the World War II Allies. Those who succeeded in escaping expected to be able to go back. They were mistaken. Nobody wanted to prolong the war.

I feel compelled to check on President Zelensky and to see how the Ukrainian people’s fierce resistance is going. I cry for them every day. So do many of my Latvian friends. Music tugs at our heartstrings, as music is meant to do.

This video shows a concert for Ukraine’s freedom that was held in Rīga, Latvia during the early days of the invasion. The song is called, “For the Country of My Birth” composed by a popular Latvian composer, Raimonds Pauls. Lyrics by Jānis Peters.

This song debuted in 1973 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the first National Latvian Song and Dance Festival.

The lyrics reference the year 1905 when Russian army troops opened fire on demonstrators in Rīga killing seventy-three and injuring two hundred people.

The translation is my own. To me, the castle of light symbolizes hope.

Then came the fifth year, rain of blood fell
Destroying the tallest trees.
Let's become soldiers, our song will sow a storm.
Forever a castle of light rejoices from the hill.
The countries of Eastern and Northern Europe aren’t the only ones close to Russia. Alaska is 53 miles from Russia.

Clarification re: Diminutives

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In case I confused anyone.

Yes, diminutives are used as terms of endearment, but they are also used to indicate size. A multi-tasking word.

The blue slice is a small piece of pie chart: “mazs gabaliņš.”

I’ve spent quite a few hours at my computer the last few days. Even though I’ve enjoyed writing, editing, and illustrating my essays and have more to say about diminutives, I’m not sure if I’ll write a blog post again today. I have other projects to work on, too. A couple of them also call for sitting at the computer. I may not work on them, either.

You’ll be hearing from me again soon.

The Latvian word for ladybug is “mārīte.” It’s also a woman’s name, as well as a diminutive for the name Māra. All the tiny insect gets is the diminutive. It’s too small for anything else.

Under the Weather

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Missing in Action

For a while now I’ve been under the weather and unable to focus on much of anything, especially not writing. Couldn’t muster the focus. Couldn’t muster the motivation. Every idea I had seemed stupid. Not worth writing, Not worth anyone’s time to read. I know I’m not the only one who’s ever felt that way. That does not make it any better for me.

A good day would be followed by a not-so-good day. Some miserable nights when I’d have to get up and then not be able to get back to sleep, so I’d get on the internet. Social media. Nights I’d be afraid to be away from my phone, even though I’m not the sort of person to sleep with my phone under my pillow. Lactose intolerance shares symptoms with other, more serious conditions. Add in anxiety and I’d be a real mess. Eventually, I’d feel better, realize I wouldn’t die just yet, and go back to bed. Sometimes I’d be able to get two or three hours more sleep, other times only an hour or so. Every time I thought the sun was going to come out, I’d get another downpour the next day.

It took a while, which was made longer by denial and experimentation, to figure out that I’ve developed lactose intolerance. To figure out what triggers it and what does not. It’s a yucky process. There were times when I thought I’d never be able to eat anything but crackers and white rice without causing my system to rebel.

Even though I now know what the problem’s been, I’m not quite back to so-called normal. I’ve been mean to my tummy and it’s getting its revenge for things such as, coffee, black tea, dark chocolate, salsa by the spoonful (who needs chips?) oranges, hot spicy veggies juice, plus other insults. And that’s not even the dairy products. It seems that everything good is acidic or comes from cows.

Rats! Depressing.

I thin I finally have a handle on it. This time for real, though it’s going to take time to heal completely.

Stay tuned.

I hope this is the light at the end of the tunnel and not just an illusion brought on by wishful thinking.

Latvian Easter Eggs

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Resist dyed eggs.

For centuries Latvians have been using natural ingredients to dye Easter eggs. I know it’s late to be posting this, but I only just found this photo and it’s too pretty not to share.

These eggs were dyed using onions, which go in the pot of water the eggs are boiled in. You need a lot of onion skins. Tiny leaves and flowers are dampened and applied to a dampened egg. Then the eggs are wrapped in gauze to hold the leaves in place, boiled till they’re hard and allowed to stay in the dye bath all night to get color depth. Less time in the dye bath means a lighter color.

To get a marbled effect, wet onion skins are crunched and applied directly to a dampened egg and wrapped in gauze. Adding a dash of white vinegar to the dye bath helps the dye adhere to the egg.

Red cabbage results in blue eggs. Beet juice for red eggs.

Latvians aren’t the only ones who dye eggs using natural ingredients. Instructions for achieving different colors, lavender, green, yellow are available online.

What is it?

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A little mystery. Some of you may have noticed that I like to photograph weird things. I’ve always been a bit weird and seem to be getting more so as I get older. Or maybe it’s that now that I’m older I’m not as concerned about letting the weirdness show.

Ages ago, when we went to Leavenworth, a pretty little tourist trap in the Cascade Mountains of Washington, I didn’t just photograph the faux Bavarian buildings on the main street, I went down an alley and took pictures of their far less showy backs. I’m not sure what happened to those photos, lost when I moved several times since then.

I also take photos of rocks, dead leaves, knotholes in wooden planks, bark, whatever catches my eye and strikes me as interesting.

I’ll leave these as a mystery. One might be less obvious than the other.