My Secret Valentine

Today, just before Valentine’s Day, I found an old love letter from a “soul mate” from years ago, a restless, poetic man who stirred and quickened my heart with his artistic brooding and literary references.

Some 30 years later, I was touched again when I read the intimate thoughts, revelations and literary allusions we shared in expressing our exciting chemistry and the irresistible attraction of the power of the words we gave to each other.

We were both struggling to be understood and self-realized through our writing.

We wrote to each other with great fervor and flourishes, the struggling Irish poet submitting his work to New York magazines and a cocooned woman who wanted so much to just be free to express herself, trapped in her stable but stifling middle class life.

Our real passion was expressing our yearnings and desires as writers to be understood and connected in a creative sharing where we dared to write our personal and confessional thoughts, touching with our minds and heartfelt outpourings.

Looking back, it was a secret love as if written in another era, a series of lovers’ letters in a Victorian novel.

The idea of being with each other through our love of language was more exciting than any other intimacy. It was a “love match” of words where we indulged ourselves in our intimate correspondence.

At times it was excessive and very much like a suffering Lake Poet speaking to a love he could never have, but the wanting brought such ecstasy of what could be and fueled desire.

How ironic that the letter should reappear just before Valentine’s Day. I’ve been single for a long time, and it’s been years since I’ve had a “real” valentine.

I found myself holding the letter against my heart as if hugging it would bring back the sentiments expressed by my “unrequited” love.

It spurred me to see if I could find my restless poet online, but I didn’t; and even if I had, who would he be now?

I prefer to preserve the memory of my long, lost love because it’s part of the romance that will never end. It will always be there in the letters.

I returned the sweet, weathered letter into its envelope and safely back into the nightstand.

It is a cherished reminder of a brief, romantic period of writers’ passions awakened but not fulfilled, that were never meant to be.

For me, it was the beginning of the woman who would eventually set herself free to someday write from her heart.

Today, just before Valentine’s Day, I got a valentine that warmed my heart.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010-2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Valentine photo by Billy Alexander
Envelope photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski

The Meaning of Pearls

Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but for me it’s always been pearls.

All gems have attributed meanings and qualities, especially when we look at birthstone definitions.

Pearl’s origin and meaning:

"The pearl is the oldest known gem, and for many centuries it was considered the most valuable. Unlike all gems, the pearl is organic matter derived from a living creature - oysters and mollusks.

It was said in some early cultures that the pearl was born when a single drop of rain fell from the heavens and became the heart of the oyster.

Pearls have been called the 'teardrops of the moon.'

Some believe that pearls were formed by the passage of angels through the clouds of heaven.

Over time, the pearl has become the symbol of purity and innocence and it is often sewn into bridal gowns, or worn as jewelry by the bride." http://crystal-cure.com/pearl.html

I’ve never been a diamond girl. Pearls suit me better and represent singular moments in my life.

At 22, fresh out of college, I received my first strand of long, lustrous, cultured pearls as an engagement gift.

My fiancé and I shopped at Marshall Fields for the perfect strand to wear at the engagement party his aunt was giving me in the Chicago suburbs, a gathering for her friends to meet her nephew’s bride-to-be.

The pearls stood for his love and commitment. Pearls were also sewn on to the bodice of my wedding gown.

The next time I received pearls they came directly from the Orient. My second, shorter pearl necklace was strung with more refined, dainty pearls.

They were sent from my Army husband from Hong Kong where he, like so many other soldiers of that era, spent an RandR from their tours of duty in Vietnam.

The pearls arrived along with a 12-place setting of porcelain china, and the latest stereo and camera equipment of the time. Most GI’s sent similar care packages to their waiting wives in the late ‘60s.

When I turned 40, elegant pearl earrings were gifted to me again, this time from a new love for my birthday.

The problem was that the earrings were pierced, and my ears weren’t.

The pearls were beautiful, and I had only one choice. I dreaded the thought of punching holes into my earlobes, but I could hardly wait to wear the earrings.

My teenage daughter accompanied me to the mall to get the job done. She held my hand, like a patient mother, as the stapler popped the openings for my new pearls of love to rest.

The pearls joined my collection, and my daughter enjoyed them too when she wore them for special occasions.

At 47 when I married the second time, I thought it was only fitting that my daughter, my maid of honor, should have her own pearl earrings.

They were my gift to her on that day of love. Pearls were sewn onto the sleeves and hem of my tea-length bridal gown.

I have added to my pearl treasures over the years. They stay cloistered together in their own jewelry box, and I still favor them over other gems.

They connect me to wonderful memories and gifts of love. Over the years, my affection and fascination for pearls has deepened.

I’m especially drawn to pearls that are irregular, created in an emerging state and preserved in the process of transformation.


They are known as blister pearls, "mabe (ma-bay) pearls" grown in a Mabe oyster.

I still love traditional pearls but find a different kind of beauty in the unique shapes and free forms of the blister pearl. Unlike the attempt at perfection of the cultured pearl, they are imperfect and more interesting reminders of life itself.

"Eastern cultures believe that pearls symbolize purity and spiritual transformation. Simply wearing a pearl reminds the wearer to be honest, pure, wise, and to walk with the utmost dignity."

From the Meaning of Pearls: http://www.articlealley.com/article_27059_28.html

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Photo of Strands of Pearls by wemedge

Snooki and the Book Signing by Brian Leiken

Snooki isn't a name. It's slang, a colloquialism of informal speech best used for stuffed animals and cute pets, a name befitting puggles and hamsters.

(My first pet was a hamster with a name ironically similar to "Snooki"; I named him Snoochi - until he died of wet tail. There was a Snoochi II, III, and IV - they died of wet tail too. Don't ever name your hamster Snoochi unless you want them to die of wet tail.)

Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi, better known as Snooki, is a reality TV star from the hit show Jersey Shore, an MTV show about eight Italian roommates from New York pretending to be from New Jersey having to share a house together.

There's Jenni "JWowww" Farley, Paul "Pauly D"DelVecchio, and of course Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino; Jersey Shore is a mash-up of MTV's the Real World blended with HBO's the Sopranos.

Four foot nine with poofed hair, fake tan, big boobs and enough mascara to rival a raccoon, Snooki is one of the more popular characters from the show. Snooki isn't pretty, most men wouldn't give her a second glance, but what Snooki doesn't have in looks she makes up for in humor.

Girls adore Snooki, because of all the cast members on Jersey Shore, she's the one most of them would like to hang out with.

She even has a book, A Shore Thing. Written by Snooki's ghost writer, Valerie Frankel, A Shore Thing is a novel about a girl named "Gia" who resembles Snooki and has lots of hot sex with a beefy Italian firefighter named Frank.

Valerie Frankel may have written the book, but Snooki gave her lots of ideas, and Snooki's face is on the cover and on the back, so it's almost like Snooki wrote the entire thing all by herself.

So why am I writing about Snooki, you ask? Good question. I'm writing about Snooki because I went to her book signing at the Grove.

When I saw the sign at Barnes and Noble promoting the book signing, I immediately texted Parrish, who is a huge fan of Jersey Shore. I didn't think Parrish would want to go, but she texted me back almost instantly. "Let's Go!!"

What the hell, at least I'll get a blog out of it.

When you attend a book signing, most stores will demand you purchase a copy of the book from the store for the author to sign.

Because Snooki is a high profile reality TV celebrity, Barnes and Noble is handing out alphabetized wrist bands along with brand new copies of the book for $26.95.

Grumbling, I pay it. They won't let me stand in line with Parrish if I don't have my own book. We are given a flyer with a number of guidelines and rules:

. Posed photography WILL NOT be allowed. Photographs may be taken from the signing line only.

. Other memorabilia WILL NOT be allowed.

. Personalization WILL NOT be available.

It's only four o'clock, we've got some time to kill. We hit the Cafe Moza and people watch.

Two and a half hours later after eating a feast of fine french cheeses and bread and beer, we trek back into the store.

People are already lining up, but I cut through to the front and find that because we purchased our wrist bands early, we can move past the majority of the people waiting.

I estimate there are probably about 300 people here, most of them young women with their mothers and a handful of hapless boyfriends.

A trio of teenage girls behind us begin giggling and screaming uncontrollably as soon as Snooki appears. "Snooki!" one of them screams. Snooki waves, escorted by an entourage of security guards, managers, agents, photographers and book store staff.

She's short, tiny, would be forgettable except she is surrounded by the aura of celebrity, and that makes her the most envied person in the room.

"Oh my God!" one of the girls behind us gushes. "She is so short!"

"Quiet!" another girl admonishes her friend. "She'll hear you!"

"Are you girls from LA?" I ask.

"No, we're from Newport." (That's the OC.)

"Have you met anyone famous?"

"Well, we met the cast of Jackass!" the prettiest one titters. "But I'd really like to meet Justin Bieber."

"If I met Justin Bieber, I'd pee my pants," another girl cuts in. "Why are you here?"

"I'm writing a story for my blog."

Her eyes go round. "You have a blog! Are you someone famous?"

Parrish gives me the eye, trying to hide her smirk. I sigh, oh the lies I could spin, the lies I could spin. "No, I'm not famous. Only in my own head."

Snooki comes back out and girls at random begin screaming, WE LOVE YOU, SNOOKI!

A member of the staff opens up a copy of the book, instructing us to have the novel open to the front page for Snooki to sign.

I pull out my iPhone, attempting to figure out how to zoom in the camera. Should have checked that out earlier, because the line is moving forward like a waterslide at the park, people being processed in groups as Snooki signs her name over and over again in book after book in a bright pink pen.

There must have be at least 50 people in front of us, but the store crew has them filed past Snooki in under ten minutes.

Books primed, we hand them to a store clerk who passes the books to Snooki. I try to get in close to take a picture on my phone, but security stops me.

"Sir, you'll need to turn off that phone. No cameras past the line."

I shut it off. Risking my phone to get a close up of Snooki just ain't worth it.

As I walk up for a brief moment, Snooki and I glance at one another. I permit myself a polite smile, and give her a small nod. To her credit, Snooki doesn't pretend that I'm some super fan who has been just dying to get a chance to meet her.

Beneath the makeup, the tan, and the poofed up hair, she looks tired, weary, a five minute celebrity running a marathon because the moment she quits, it's over.

She signs the book, and I move on.

As we exit, a member of the staff cuts off and collects our wristbands, preventing us from selling or giving them away to other people.

"Wow, I can't believe we met Snooki!" Parrish exclaims. "I can't wait to read this ghost written book! What are you going to do with yours?"

"Not sure yet," I reply. Tax write off maybe?

The inanity of fame; how could someone like Snooki, a girl with no talent, accomplishments, or beauty, become an instant celebrity?

Snooki is a celebrity precisely because she has no talent, accomplishments, or beauty - she's the young woman many identify with because they all think they could be the next Snooki.

You don't need skill, or intelligence, or looks to be famous; just timing and luck. Who wants to be the next lottery winner, step right up and get a chance to meet Snooki, buy her book! Maybe some of her fame will rub off on you!

Snooki. Like everything else in this country, she's instant and effortless, even her name is disposable. Cultural fast food to be consumed and forgotten.

But hey, at the end of the day she's $26.95 ahead, because I still ended up buying her book.

Definitely a tax write off.

Copyright 2010 Brian Leiken

LA Teacher
http://leiken.blogspot.com/
Crossed Out by Brian Leiken at http://www.lulu.com/

Brian Leiken is an LA inner-city, special ed teacher and author of Crossed Out, a book about and for his students. Oh yes, he's also my son:)

A Perfect Day in Tuscany

Every now and then, I experience a perfect day...where everything seems just right. I had such a glorious day last September in the magical city of Lucca, northern Tuscany, Italy.

Lucca dates back to 180 BC as a Roman colony. Today it is a charming, hillside town fortified with double thick, massive red-brick walls built from 1504-1645 that provided centuries of protection and defense to its citizens from invaders who sought the wealth of the thriving silk merchant families.

Lucca managed to keep the marauders at bay and then had the good fortune to be protected and ruled by Elisa, Napoleon's sister, so its beauty was enhanced and its history preserved.

Even now there are portals with massive gates for entering the town where pedestrians, mopeds and small cars wind their way around shops, cafes, open markets, piazzas, and gelato stands in the gentle bustle of the town.

Today the walls, wide enough to be a two lane road, tower above the city as a 3-mile park circling the city that offers views of the medieval look-out towers and exquisitely landscaped gardens of the villas it rings and embraces. Outside the wall lie the newer city and the countryside abundant with olives and grapes.

The top of the walls are like a park where families stroll with their children, lovers walk hand-in-hand, cyclists stop for a picnic lunch, and runners jog under the shade trees.

A garden show and exhibit hug the wall's banks where local flowers and plants are artfully displayed to the pleasure of passersby.

My perfect Lucca day started with a stop at a small grocer's inside the walled community where Gina, my traveling companion and guide from http://villavita.net/, and I select the ingredients for a fresh sandwich plus fruit and cheese for our bike ride and picnic atop the wall.

Next we rent our bikes at the foot of the wall and begin our climb onto the multi-story high walls and ramparts to enjoy the ambiance and the magnificent vista on our bike ride. The weather is just right, sunny, comfortable and clear, so we can see for miles.

We could have been in Central Park with people leisurely enjoying the day on the promenade along the tree-lined wall. Midway we pause at a grassy spot to eat our delicious lunch of prosciutto, tomatoes, pecorino (sheep-milk cheese) and fresh, juicy peaches.

Gina shares a legendary story of the great jazz musician Stan Getz being incarcerated for a month for smoking pot. The locals sat outside the jail and listened to him play from his cell every night as if they were at a concert.

After our relaxing ride, we enter Lucca through one of its portals and stop at a famous cafe where Puccini and other creative artists of his day sipped their coffee.

We wander through the city's narrow lanes, still intact in their ancient Roman street plan, to the piazza where a bronze of Puccini, legs crossed, sits and looks out at the square.

Children climb on top of his lap while adoring parents take their photos with the composer.

The shops nearby display the latest fashions of stylized, supple leather and haute couture from Milan and Rome's finest designers.

For dinner we decide to eat at a small cafe that was recommended by Elizabeth Gilbert in her book, Eat, Pray, Love; like her, we had the risotto with wild mushrooms and a fine red wine.

The most magical part of the day was yet to come. We went to the cathedral, where Puccini was once the organist, to hear aspiring opera students, accompanied by a grand piano, sing Puccini's famous arias.

A small audience, seated in folding chairs, listens in rapt appreciation. The night is balmy and the music enchanting. Some of us are moved to tears.

It was the perfect ending to a perfect day in Tuscany. Bellissimo!

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http://villavita.net/workshops/creative-travel-writing-workshop/


Lucca, Italy photo by laurab
 
toscana2 photo by Gabriella Pataky

Our Christmas of Catastrophes

Most Christmas memories blend together, a collage of moments in the scrapbook of memories we all carry in our minds.


But there is one from my childhood that stands out.

It was our Christmas of Catastrophes in 1953 when I was 10 and living in a small apartment with my two brothers, my parents and our cat, Kitty.

Chicago was under a snow and ice siege…freezing, slippery conditions that kept us inside as the biggest and most anticipated holiday of the year approached.

We were excited. Our Greek mother had taught us to sing “Silent Night” in Greek to impress our relatives when the big day arrived.

We decorated our tree that just missed the ceiling and sat tucked into the corner of our small living room. The ornaments were vintage now, mostly glass tinted with silver and gold designs and old world themes, from my parents early Christmases together.

Some of our strung colored lights were candles with rising bubbles that appeared when they were lit. Once decorated, the finishing touches were slivers of silver tinsel hung from the branches. It was a happy time for a working class family in the immigrant neighborhood.

Nothing seemed different this particular Christmas except for the nonstop severe weather and the sheets of ice everywhere.

The most popular Christmas song that year was Nat King Cole’s recording of “The Christmas Song.” My father who loved to sing in bars and at weddings had to have it. He called all over the city to find a copy of the 78 record platter and finally found one.

Under other circumstances, my father would not have ventured out in the Arctic grip the city was under, but he was obsessed with the song and was determined to have it for Christmas. So he cleared the car of its snow and ice and began his trek to the record store.

Our cat Kitty, we discovered, was fascinated by the slinky, snakelike glimmering tinsel dangling seductively from the branches. It was a new cat toy to play with and bat with his paws.

However, it didn’t stop there. Kitty wanted to taste the tinsel, and with one stubborn tug pulled down the tree.

Branches snapped, ornaments rolled across the floor, some broke, and we gasped. With tears and laughter we put the tree upright and repaired the damages as best we could to restore it to its pristine state.

It was dark now and my weary father returned with his precious record only to find worsened street conditions for parking his big Caddie. As he attempted to seesaw into a spot, he hit the car in front and in back of him.

Totally exasperated, my dad now had car insurance and damage issues as well as unhappy neighbors to deal with. He finally gave up and came inside in a foul mood. The earlier excitement and family cheer were now gone.

But there was still one more catastrophe that day.

My dad unwrapped the coveted record from its packaging only to discover it was cracked and unplayable.

We did recover from that awful day and still had a good Christmas in spite of the cat, the tree, the car and the broken record.

It was an unforgettable Christmas, our Christmas of Catastrophes.


Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cat photo by Palmer W. Cook

Hearts & Teardrops: A Geography Lesson

Years ago, sitting in my English professor's office, I found a curious wall map of the U.S.

It was a canvas divided only with states' borders; instead of cities, the painting was dotted with partial and broken hearts and teardrops like pushpins marking an emotional geography.

I asked my professor what the hearts and teardrops represented on the non-topographical map. He told me they were placemarks for locations where hearts still lingered and tears still stained the people and relationships of the artist's life.

It got me thinking as to where I would place my hearts and tears around the country. I have lived in the Midwest, East Coast, and now the West and Southwest.

How many hearts and tears would there be for my sixty some years of living as my relationships changed: marriage, divorce, separation, and friendships that touched me, a mix of love and hurt, joy and sadness?

Some relationships, no matter where they happened, stay with me; others are gone and not stood the test of time.

My personal geography, like the painting, has its share of both symbols marking my emotional terrain throughout the years.

They represent some of the happiest and some of the most painful experiences of my life.

Nevertheless, my emotional geography is not a map I would change. My map is filled with geography lessons that are part of the journey I have known and have shaped me into who I am.

Did I take the roads less travelled? Did I end up in places I never thought I would? Looking back, does it really matter? The detours were often the best parts of the trip.

I'm still traveling and expect I will add more hearts and tears along the way. What's important are the experiences they represent of a life fully lived.

Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Broken Heart by Billy Alexander

Gateway

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

As I take deeper, longer breaths, in my mind, I am transported.

I stand before an arch looking at the path that takes me into a golden field on the way to the garden, my beautiful, tranquil garden.



I follow the path to the water and the secluded garden where my guide awaits.

It is a spiritual retreat, and only I have access.

It is an inner resting place I have created when there is nowhere else to go. Life’s pressures and stresses are not allowed in my secret garden.

When I enter the garden, I escape the cares and weight of life. My guide is always there …when I am afraid, uncertain and alone. We are connected. We sit beside the water, and my guide listens to my doubts and apprehensions.

I know I can rely on my guide to help me when life is too much, and I need refuge. This is our time and place, an inner world untouched by others, where there is peace and comfort from external reality.

In the garden, I am soothed by my gentle guide. We are detached from the material world.

Protected in my meditative oasis, I transcend responsibilities, worries and anxieties.

In my garden I am calm. I am safe. I am free.




Copyright © Erana Leiken, 2009-2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Archway photo by Maureen McGarrigle