Spirited Woman Blogger Team

Glass and Gardens

“I want people to be overwhelmed with light and color in a way they have never experienced.”

That is the introduction to the new Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum.  From beginning to end it takes the spirit of creativity and flings it to the heavens. The colors, the shapes, the arrangements, the mixed media, the lighting—all amazing.

The first exhibit gives you the sheer magic of Dale Chihuly. His glass replicates Native American basketry but his uniqueness is in how he blows a small basket inside of a large one.

From there you enter several rooms, each with hundreds of glass pieces rising from a black mirror floor. The rooms replicate gardens, forests, or sea life, all flowing from Chihuly’s bold imagination. I walked around each display twice, trying to take it all in.

There is a hall of chandeliers, with Chihuly’s signature brilliant colors, massive structures, and flamboyant style—curly pieces of glass jutting out from a central stem. His chandeliers are recognizable around the world: the Tower of the David Museum in Jerusalem, the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, the De Young Museum in San Francisco, just to name a few venues.

Several years ago I had my aura read and was told to put more red, yellow and orange in my life. So you can imagine how much energy I felt when I entered the Glasshouse to find red, yellow, and orange, flowers in a serpentine arrangement suspended from the ceiling. If you have ever seen the Chihuly ceiling at the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, you’ll know what I mean.

Sometimes people decorate their gardens with a piece of art glass on a rod. They should see Chihuly’s garden. Glass mixed with beautiful landscaping. Round purple flowers mingling with purple stalks of glass. A Japanese maple shading glass flowers. Fuchsias and lilies blended with glass reeds. For a beautiful moment he makes you believe the glass is growing from the earth.

A series of short videos fill in background information. What I took away from them is the freedom with which Chihuly works. Now blind in one eye, he uses a team to create his sculptures. He sketches out a concept and they experiment. “Try this. . . try that,” you hear him say.

My take-away was a lesson in confidence. He doesn’t know exactly how a piece will come out, but he experiments, believing that something great is in the works. We should all be so courageous.

For people on the East Coast, Chihuly has a temporary exhibit in Richmond at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. My travel buddies just Facebooked me all about how much they enjoyed it.

Chihuly’s desire is to blend glass and nature. It’s fun to go and see how he makes it all work.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

The Homestead

Sometimes I just want to get away to a place that’s historic, elegant and quiet, a place where the remnants of America’s glorious past surround me and carry me back. The Homestead in Hot Springs, Virginia is all that. The hotel is a National Historic Landmark, and one can almost visualize Thomas Jefferson taking afternoon tea or stepping down into the covered hot springs to cure his rheumatism during his twenty-two day visit.

It was the hot springs that drew Thomas Bullett to build the resort hotel in 1766. Though the current hotel was rebuilt around 1901, visitors can still take a dip in the original Jefferson Pools, where our third president bathed in 1818. Preservationists maintain the octagonal white wooden Gentlemen’s Pool according to the original 18th century architecture. It represents the oldest spa structure in the US.

While my husband and sons went into the Gentlemen’s Pool House, circa 1761, I took a dip in the Ladies Pool, added in 1836. Naturally spring-fed, these pools (as well as the Allegheny Pool) maintain a warm-to-hot temperature all year.

The hotel, though updated, remains true to the historic appeal of the property. Rocking chairs line the front porch. Inside, high-ceiling rooms with period furniture create an early American ambiance, quaint and comfortable. Because I am an early riser, I grabbed my novel each morning and quietly retired to the President’s Lounge, where I never enjoyed reading so much.

The highlight of my dining experience was the formal dinner in the Main Dining Room. The menu offers delicious cuisine and the tables are organized around a wooden floor where live music invites people to dance. Anyone can take a spin, but the floor is often graced by experienced ballroom dancers, who add a touch of elegance to the evening meal.

Fortunately, my kids didn’t complain about donning ties for dinner. But their real fun came from mountain biking, swimming, and riding.

The Homestead is now under new management and has added some major pool and miniature golf amenities to attract more families. If you are traveling alone or merely seeking the serenity of the Allegheny Mountains, the golf course, or the spa, request a room in the Tower Wing, which is furthest from the pools and will have fewer children.

As you can imagine, The Homestead is not cheap. I went because I got a good deal. And my take-away from reading the latest Trip Advisor is that the more positive reviews come from people who arrive with special rates from Living Social or Groupon. But no matter how you go, I still say, if you love the feel of history, you’ll enjoy the Homestead.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

Shakespeare Season

The curtain is rising on the 2013 Shakespeare Festival season. I’m excited. Shakespeare inspires me and makes me think. His topics are universal and ageless, working on so many levels: the psychological, social, and spiritual. His staging is readily adaptable to address the zeitgeist of our time.

I am writing from Ashland, a quaint theater community in southern Oregon. Though I’ve also been to Shakespeare festivals in London, Stratford-Upon-Avon, and Stratford, Ontario, I must say that the Bard plays just as well in the US.

Reporter Candace L. Brown describes this Ashland season as the year of “Feisty Women,” including Kate the Shrew, Cordelia (Lear’s favorite), Eliza Doolittle, and Blanche DuBois.

Last night’s modern rendition of King Lear explored the issues of parenting—favoritism, the aging parent’s relationship to adult children, and sibling rivalry. What topics could be more timely?

As I left the theater I was compelled to examine my own parenting style. Do my kids find me fair? I hope I do better than Lear.

The genius of the staging fed my creative spirit. Played in the round, Lear resolved performance challenges with a trap door and clever illumination. The trap door allowed rapid scene changes and the symbolic transport of bad guys to damnation. The variations in lighting— spots, lamps, candles, flashlights, and lightening—symbolized ways to see the truth (or miss it).

Because Ashland is a small town nestled into the Rogue River Valley, you meet people, actors even. I met Lear’s Butler, who told me that one day he landed wrong in the trapdoor and gashed his head open to the tune of thirty stitches. What a scar! But the show goes on.

Some people eschew Shakespeare out of lingua-phobia. But there are ways to tune your ear into the language. You can go online and read a plot summary or practice with the actual text of Act I. Or you can attend a “Prologue,” a thirty-minute pre-show explanation of the director’s concept, themes, and artistic discretion.

Some festivals, like Ashland, offer works by other playwrights. The Tennessee Williams classic, A Street Named Desire, is fresh and powerful. Two Trains Running shows August Wilson at his most optimistic.  My Fair Lady features a true spirited woman, Eliza, and the best Alfred Doolittle I’ve ever seen.

We on the West Coast are privileged to have festivals from British Columbia (Bard on the Beach) to San Diego—a lot of them outdoors. Googling “Shakespeare Festivals” will show theater opportunities all over North America.

So give the Bard a chance this summer. You might just agree with Ashland’s Artistic Director, Bill Rauch, who believes that Shakespeare is “eternally relevant.”

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

Ah, There’s the Rub

Massage, I am sure, has lengthened my life and enriched my spirit. When lying face down in  semiconscious bliss while muscles unknot and tension drains away, it’s impossible to stay angry or stressed. Massage provides a soothing one-hour break from everyday life.

Living and traveling around the world has introduced me to many types of massage. And paying $15 per hour—as opposed to the American rate of $1.80 per minute—has increased my options. 

Throughout my travels - to such places as Kerala in southern India, Russia, and Port Townsend, Washington - massage themes have emerged

Kerala specializes in Ayurvedic massage, which improves one’s emotional balance, focus, and health. A practitioner determines the person’s dosha, or mind-body type, and develops a treatment in conjunction with the physical, emotional, and mental characteristics. Each session involves quite a bit of oil, which moisturizes your skin but can also stain your clothes or sheets, so rinse well.

The Ananda Spa, high above the Ganges River in northern India, specializes in Ayurvedic massage. And after one visit, I realized why it was one of Oprah’s favorite places. The check-in interview lays out a program for your particular dosha. You may choose from several treatments. I highly recommend the synchronized massage: two well-trained practitioners simultaneously massage each side of your body with identical movements. It’s paradise.

When I lived in Africa and in the Middle East, I had weekly massage therapy from women trained in Russia. Massage therapy focuses on muscles and pressure points to give pain relief and healing. Practitioners use their elbows a lot, which I love. Lena, my therapist in Africa, healed a nagging muscle ache from a ten-year-old weight-training injury. (I think she was also a Russian spy, but I learned how to evade her questions.)

Some women are squeamish about removing their clothing. I was. Yet a well-trained masseuse will maintain your privacy. But if your trust factor is low, there are two other options. A Thai massage has you dress in a loose karate kind of suit for an hour of being stretched. It can be intense, and you certainly won’t doze off, but in the end you’ll feel refreshed and limber.

Another option is reflexology, or zone therapy. You may think that a foot massage is nothing more than a balm for tired toes, but a competent therapist can detect issues. Mr. Boateng, my reflexologist in Ghana, was trained in Kerala. When he pressed on a certain zone on my foot, tears came to my eyes. He said I had spleen issues. I brushed it off until a few years later when an ultrasound revealed a calcified spleen.

To save money in the US, I look for deals. Living Social has a lot. Massage Envy also has a reasonable introductory offer. I avoid hotel massages. They are expensive and often disappointing.

If you choose massage, you'll need to choose your oil: Sandalwood? Lavendar? Almond?  Then relax and enjoy the rub.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

Be Careful What You Assume

Scandinavian life agreed with us. People spoke English, kids were blond like ours, society was compassionate and logical - except for one May weekend in the late 90’s.

On General Prayer Day, we traveled to the Danish island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea below Sweden. It’s known for its historic Romanesque churches and art. We felt lucky to get a hotel reservation as we assumed tourists would be flocking there.

Our near-empty ferry arrived late in the afternoon so we rushed to the round Ǿsterlars Church to see its 14th century frescos. But the church was locked - on Prayer Day. Lutheranism is Denmark’s state religion, making its ministers civil servants with public holidays off. Go figure.

On Saturday morning we arose to our inclusive breakfast expecting, what else, Danish pastry. But we got Sun over Bornholm, a stack of toast, smoked herring, raw onions, and a raw egg—with a chaser of schnapps .“Why?” I asked the waiter when he handed me a shot glass of aquavit at 9 a.m.  “Because fishies gotta swim.”  Okay. . . .

With the churches closed, we turned to art. Bornholm has special light, they say, that attracts serious artists. We located one of the best glassblowers on the island, and his studio was open. Why? Because he wasn’t Danish. He was American, a professor on leave from the University of Montana. He explained his fascinating new technique, colored glass with transparent windows, and we dropped several hundred bucks just to thank him for being around.

Driving back, we searched for a restaurant as the one in our hotel closed after breakfast. Town after deserted town had lights out. Finally we saw an inviting place. Candles lit. Diners along the windows. A roaring fireplace at one end. "Hygge," I thought. Cozy.

After parking, we rushed to the restaurant, rudely passing a herd of people headed that way. We hung up our coats and then stood in the waiting room and watched the kitchen staff. When no one seated us, we asked one of the cooks for a table. She just stared.

“Do you speak English?” we asked. “Of course.” “Could we have a table?” More staring. Finally my husband’s hopeful expression drooped. “Is this your home?” he asked sheepishly. “Of course,” she replied. “It’s, uh, lovely.”  We gave them a few seconds to welcome us in, but they declined.

Totally discouraged, we turned to leave just at the arrival of the herd (aka, invited guests). They hung their coats on top of ours and blocked our exit. We had to shake hands with each one, with a few asking, “Who are you?” Eventually we stood alone in the foyer. Still, no one took pity on our hungry souls. After we dug out our coats and skulked to the door, the owner kindly said, “There’s a pizza place in the next town.”

There was. We all assumed it would be open, too.  Never assume anything in a foreign country.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

The Humanitarians

A few months ago I explained that the strife in Syria is a great loss to tourism. I am now hoping that the turmoil does not spread south to Jordan.

Having lived in Jordan for three years, I find the country inspirational. The Hashemite royal family, descendants of the Prophet Muhammed, established modern Jordan in 1921 and have ruled with open mind and steady hand ever since.  They lead with a strong respect for women.

Education, among other issues, is important to the royal family. King Hussein bin Talal (who ruled until 1999) sent his son and heir, Abudullah,  to the exclusive Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts and then to Sandhurst in England. King Abdullah, in turn, recruited Deerfield’s headmaster and began a replica school in Jordan known as the King’s Academy. Abdullah’s goal was to create a co-ed, multicultural environment where divergent ideas are freely discussed, a rare find in the Middle East.

Their spouses, Queen Noor (from Washington, D.C.) and now Queen Rania are revered as champions of women’s causes. I met the charming and brilliant Queen Rania in 2004, when she wanted to consult with me on the Middle School she was starting. She needed to discuss  interfacing the American educational system with the British system. Yet, she was so well versed in education theory, I almost wondered why she needed to consult.

Queen Rania has appeared on both Oprah and Sixty Minutes. If you saw either interview, you would agree that she is the true Spirited Woman of the Middle East. 

But lately, Jordan concerns me. In its role as negotiator and peacemaker of the Middle East, the country is being stretched to the limit.  Whenever there is turmoil, refugees flee to the most stable place, which has been Jordan for quite a while.

In the mid- twentieth century, Palestinians came from the west and now represent the majority of Jordan’s population. More recently, Iraqis fled from the east. The poor ended up in refugee camps along the border. The wealthy, carrying trunk-loads of US dollars, came to Amman, using cash to scoop up land and mansions, which disrupted the buying power of the average Jordanian. (Saddem Hussein’s daughter, received political refugee status and was my neighbor in Amman until 2007.) Now Syrians are flooding in from the north and setting up refugee camps near that border.

The Jordanians have gone far out of their way to help their neighbors in need. My prayer is that they will be able to sustain themselves long enough to be rewarded (not destroyed) for their humanitarian spirit.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

Logic-Free Zone

Just before I flew to on my last trip, TV news announced that the Sequester would affect the airports first. I followed their advice and arrived early. At security I commiserated with the TSA officer and asked how it was going. He replied, “We are saving time and man-hours by x-raying only one shoe.”

As I put my right shoe in the bin, I stressed over how fast a terrorist would figure this one out. When I got to the metal detector, the other TSA officer said, “You forgot to take off your left shoe.” Cue flushed cheeks of embarrassment.

Why didn’t I pick up on the joke? Because airport security is often a logic-free zone. There are so many rules that don’t make sense—I just thought this was another.

When I was working overseas, I tried to return from Portland with a new tennis racquet. As a varsity tennis coach, I figured my players would respect me more if I had a Babolat, like the pros. I decided to hand-carry it to protect it from rough baggage handling.

But the TSA screeners turned me back claiming tennis racquets are weapons and I was contaminating a secure area. I said, “You’re making this up, right?”  They insisted I give it back to my driver. I said, “Give a  $200-dollar Babolat to a cabbie?” Then they suggested I mail it to myself from the airport post office. I asked if it was open at 6:00 a.m. Of course not. I wanted to scream. Nothing they said made sense.

Instead, I politely asked to speak to a supervisor, who would surely know a tennis racquet is not a weapon. But she said, “Didn’t you ever see Octopussy?" Well, yes, I had to admit that tennis star, Vijay Amritraj, fended off some goons with his racquet. But she eventually agreed to let the flight crew hold my racquet until landing. Things work out if you stay cool.

Recently the TSA announced the return of small knives on planes. Where’s the logic in that? Congress is against it, and so are some airline personnel, who evidently were not consulted about the change.

They’re also allowing sports equipment such as billiard cues, ski poles, hockey sticks, two golf clubs and wiffle-ball bats. I did not see a ruling on tennis racquets one way or the other.

But leave your pitch forks, grenades, nunchucks, and box cutters at home. They are still verboten. Whew!

Many people get nervous when they travel, and the security screening intensifies it. Yet, you have to admit that being a TSA Officer at a security check point can be a thankless job. Their main goal is safety. They do not make up the rules, but they must enforce them, no matter how illogical.

So as a true Spirited Woman, I vow to remain patient and respectful—no matter how many jokes they play on me.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

In Search of Vortex Energy

For thousands of years Sedona, Arizona has been a spiritual site for Native Americans.  Some stayed, some merely passed through. The shamans had divined aquifers (scientifically confirmed) which could provide water in the afterlife for souls residing in the earth.

It wasn’t until 1980 that another group of people were drawn to the region, following medium and columnist Page Bryant, who arrived on a vision quest. She was not seeking water but rather Vortexes [sic]  with special healing powers that were located among the red rocks. The Vortexes (conceptualized as tornado-shaped, spiraling energy) contain either magnetism from the iron in the rock or electricity.

But to physically feel the effect, the human spirit must converge with the right vortex, in a metaphysical experience, so to speak. Each seeker must be sensitive, willing and able to open up to a heart chakra, where compassion, love, tenderness and well-being can flow.  Insensitivity, they say, impedes the flow.

I think I’m sensitive. In yoga/meditation, my brain waves reach the alpha state, with its rush of warmth and sense of euphoria. In my backyard, I grow awe-struck—immobilized, even—as the view across the lake to the verdant, snow-capped Cascade foothills fills my soul with joy.  So a few days ago, I believed I qualified for a Vortex experience.

Where to start. Posing Vortex questions to an archaeologist is a mistake. Their jaws lock shut. But modern clairvoyants and seers are plentiful downtown.  I could have had a guide, someone to conduct a shamanic journey into my past, see where I needed healing, and lead me to the most appropriate of the four Vortexes. But the subject of a few hundred bucks was a non-starter, especially for my husband.

As a Spirited Woman, I am sensitive, remember—and lucky—so I would find the source myself. And off I went on a hit-or-miss journey.

I started at the Airport Mesa. At sunset the red rock walls across the canyon glow gold and then fade from reddish orange to pink to purple. Spectacular. Yet the energy I sought did not come. Perhaps because this was the wrong Vortex for me. The mesa is a masculine site, elevated, where electrical energy comes in an up-flow from the earth.

Adulthood, Part 2

American volunteerism is exceptional. In Arizona, it makes the world go round.

As I wrote last week, I’m in Phoenix, primarily for Spring Training. And it’s the volunteers at the ball parks that make this experience so affordable. $7 for outfield seats on the grass. $26 to sit right behind home plate. Such low prices increase the number of games we can see.

The volunteers not only work the aisles and booths, they also greet fans at the gate with a joke or a smile and with information and directions. In exchange they get to extend their working life beyond age 70 (or 80) and see some good baseball. It’s a win/win.

On off days we travel. Last Saturday we spent the entire day at the outdoor Desert Museum in Saguaro National Park, Tucson.  Surrounded by gorgeous red mountains and billions of saguaro cactai, we hiked the trails, reading the nature labels and visiting the animal habitats. I finally got to see the elusive mountain lion up close. What a stunningly beautiful (and frightening) creature.

We also took advantage of the activities. At 7:30 every morning volunteers conduct a free bird walk, and all day long bird enthusiasts have the opportunity to stop along the trail to see the netted hummingbird house and the aviary.

Twice a day, volunteers give raptor shows. While the birds fly back and forth between perches—so low some observers get flapped—expert seniors tell the fascinating story of each bird. Indoors, other volunteers explain desert denizens, introducing the audience to the likes of a porcupine and a javelin. They also disseminate valuable details about reptiles, like don’t ever rely on TV westerns for information when dealing with a snake bite. Sucking out the poison is a bad idea.

Just like at the baseball games, volunteers at the museum greet visitors at the gate with maps and information. They sell tickets and work the gift shop, the gallery, and the restaurant. They make possible the unbelievably low price of $14.75.

What impresses me most about Arizona volunteerism is how much the seniors increase the educational experience at their local schools. When Sun City was first built, the Del Webb retirement community was an annex of Peoria that did not pay school taxes. What at first annoyed people soon became a blessing because the highly educated retired people have become a free asset that the schools rely on.

Arizona has inspired me thus far, particularly the talent and the generosity of spirit among the seasoned volunteers who want to give back. But now I also know that you never really have to retire from work or from life. If you’re flexible enough to reinvent yourself, Arizona—and probably much of the rest of the US—needs you.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.

Spring Training

My friends wonder why I would travel all the way to Phoenix for baseball. “It’s spring,” I said. “Time to energize and renew the spirit.” But I couldn’t really articulate my feelings until my book club read Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird a few weeks ago. She loves baseball. It gives her hope.

It’s human nature to want to be part of a success. The young guys who hit the field in March hope to make the team. The mid-career guys hope for the resilience to come back from injury. Older guys just want to come back, to extend their youth one more year. The fans, if we cheer loudly enough or buy  tickets enough, hope we can make our team, our city, us, essentially, into winners. The best in the US.

Baseball was always important to me. It meant spring, friends and exercise. It meant summer evenings in my backyard with the neighborhood kids and a whiffle ball set. I got so into it, I wanted to take it to the next level, hoping my reputation could get me onto the roster of the Cub Scout summer league.

I showed up at every game—my parents thought I was boy-crazy—and hung out in plain view in case the score was ever tied with a kid on third and the team needed a hero. One day a coach approached me, complimented me for my loyalty, and offered me a role. I could serve ice cream sandwiches after the game. I was crushed. I wanted to be a player, not a waitress. I never went back.

When my kids were old enough to walk, I bought a T- ball set to prep for Little League. By high school the young one with the broad shoulders hit a home run almost every time, and the quick, agile older one never let a ball get lose in right field. And I served oranges after the game.

One day, well into adulthood, I was invited to join a women’s softball league. Finally the invitation I’d always wanted. I said I had no experience, which I think was true. I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
But, as they sing in Damn Yankees, I seemed to have heart. After the first game my kids overheard people talking about me—in a good way.

As with any new endeavor, hope comes with goals. Mine were limited to the fact that my career might be short. I wanted to make the tourney and hit the huge fence that divided our field from the pool. Women rarely did that. But in the tournament, I did. And earned a triple and two RBI’s!

And after the game, someone else served me—beer.

So now another season back in the bleachers.  The desert sun shines bright, not a discouraging cloud in sight, and the Mariners are smacking home runs every game.  I hope the world flows smoothly this year, so my focus can rest on the diamond.

- Nancy Adair  nancyadair2002@yahoo.com
Click here to read more of Nancy's posts.