In memoriam: eleven years later

What will you tell your children about today? What will you tell your grandchildren about the day New York lost a part of its heart, a part of its soul? 

It is my generations' JFK, MLK, an assassination of huge proportion. We lost lives filled with promise, dreams filled with hope. In those moments on that unbelievable (even now) day heroes were born out of necessity, from the sheer desire to live and to preserve the freedoms of their brothers. It was a day of leadership, a day where the strong led the weak as close to home as they could manage, where souls rather than face Hades accepted their fate and took a literal leap of faith to escape.  That day, the eastern seaboard experienced an unforeseen loss, for in a matter of minutes that seemed impossible to conceive, in a matter of hours where time seemed to vanish into nothingness, our world changed irrevocably. The visually symbolic, 11 became branded as a number and a form forever a part of our memory banks.  

Together as a nation, we wore our grief like black armbands, flags at half-mast; for days and months we recovered from the jarring strike against us on American soil. The Big Apple, the city that never sleeps, lay silent, in mourning. 

So many lives, nearly 3000 mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands, grandfathers, grandmothers, fiancés, fiancees, friends, lovers, enemies--all of whom we would never wish the worst of, who walked into those towers and never came out. All those people lost. There is no other word to explain it; they are lost, lost from their lives, lost from this world without a trace. 1000+ still yet unidentified even now 11 years later. It is inconceivable to me that there are families out there who have had to move on, to bury an empty box, to deal with the insurmountable grief of never knowing, of having closure. 

***

Tomorrow is Tuesday. This will be the 2nd time since its original occurrence (the previous was on the 5th anniversary in 2007) that the 11th falls on a Tuesday. Eleven years later on 9/11, I pray that there is not any significance for anyone seeking vengeance on this day or any day coming. It will be a regular work day for many, a ghostly work day for others--those who survived and lived; those that took a different turn and ended up somewhere else other than where they should have been. It's those small miracles I revel; for some of my friends are among them--and rather mourn their lives, I can celebrate their life. 

***

I was nowhere near the WTC that day; though I was underground in the mall just days before.  And even a few weeks before taking photographs with friends on the photo observatory and its surrounding areas. It was one of my favorite locations in New York City--where you could see the ends of the world, from bridge to ocean, building to tree. I especially enjoyed lying on the marble asphalt just outside the two buildings and staying upward to the sky, the clouds and the sun obscured by the steel gray buildings. There was something mystical about the towers and even now in my minds eye I can see the interior of the observation areas, the displays about the various viewpoints told in 360 degrees. The puffy clouds hanging overhead nearby, almost close enough to touch. 

***

My story, of where I was, is nothing special. It is a series of reactions. An annoyed reaction to my father yelling for me to wake and come quick; a stunned reaction to my relatives in Italy telling me about the towers falling as I watched it live on TV in a 20-second delay; a fast reaction to get as close as I could to help; a helpless reaction when I realized the impossibility of helping anyone other than myself and the people stranded at the subway stop. It is a story of waiting--waiting to hear that anyone and everyone I knew that worked at or near the trade center was safe. It is a story of observation--the silence of the city, where for days there was nary a siren nor a plane in the skies save the Blue Angels and fighter jets surveying our air space; the pent-up racism and rage of long-time neighbors and friends turning on those with Middle Eastern connections; the outpouring of love, the throngs of people who traveled from across the country, from across the world to help us through it all. 

Even to this day, I am amazed  by the warmth and genuine spirit and concern from the strangers of the world, to those affected and afflicted. It is this miracle that has restored my hope, my belief that love will set us free. 

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Slow burn: scar stories (cont'd)

Flashback to the mid-80s, I think it was 1985 and I was a year or two shy of blowing out sixteen candles. 

My parents and I traveled out to Cali to visit family the summer before I transitioned from a coed public school to an all girls Catholic high school. The typical teenager, I harassed my parents to let me spend time with my cousin Elizabeth rather than trek the Pacific Northwest in a Winnebago with them and my older cousins. So, while they hiked the Muir woods, marveled at the largest Redwood, watched buffalo and bison graze the fields of Yellowstone and visited the sheep ranch of a distant cousin (all of which sounds utterly irresistible and fascinating to me now, 34 years later) I lived a John Hughes dream of idle teenage life in the sleepy suburb of Castro Valley.

At the time Liz lived with her mom, half brother and sister, and stepfather. We spent most of the time with her brother Michael, a French teacher who lived nearby, his roommates, and Liz's friends Aimee, Matt, Kevin and Patrick. We had a wonderful week of summer fun and save a nickname, "Izzy Bee" (for the character of the same name from Days of Our Lives our summer obsession), I almost made it through unscathed. 

That is until one afternoon when we decided that the whole lot of us would visit the local supermarket on a junk food run. In California the legal driving age is 15-1/2, so Liz and her friends already had their licenses, and one of the older boys had a motorcycle license too. I was used to riding as a passenger in a car but as a city girl, riding on a motorcycle was too rebellious not to miss and as it was a novelty, something new I found myself eagerly jumping on the back of Kevin's (or was it Patrick's?) motorcycle excited for the thrill ride. 

We were in the freezer section when I sensed something was not quite right, instead of feeling cool and refreshed from the dry summer heat I found myself shivering and feeling faint. Liz noticed the burn (aka crop circle) first, red and grotesque about 2" in diameter on my right calf. The golden rule of motorcycle riding is to wear long pants to protect your legs--advice I neglected to heed before accepting the ride. It shouldn't be a surprise to anyone really that I burned my leg, after all I'm a mere mortal with no master powers like X-Men villainess, Frenzy who can maintain and control fire while remaining immune to the flames.  

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Scar Stories

Scars are unplanned tattoos, the spur of the moment result from a bad *&%$ decision. All around the world it's the one thing we share that defines who we are, where we've been, where we are going. From the rites of passage razor scars when you first learned to shave (legs or face) to the branded tissue left over from a nasty burn to the surgery scars that despite the best efforts of the finest plastic surgeons won't disappear, scars, and the stories that come with them are the tried and true fabric of our lives.  

I have a smattering of scars. The oldest is a check mark on my eyebrow, proof that I had chicken pox as a child. The most recent scars were inflicted by my beloved feline, and they pepper my arms and legs, and occasionally my stomach and upper thighs depending on how frisky Tigger gets on any given day. Funny thing about scars, no matter how hard you may try to forget the how and when of a specific scar tissue's origin, it always manages to come back to you, fleetingly conjuring its own personal memory.  

My most noticeable scar is 4" long just below the big toe of my left foot, the remnant of a bunion removal that included a bone setting with titanium steel pins. Once upon a time, I was pulled out of line at the airport for setting off the metal detector--this was pre-9/11 so it was no big deal and hasn't happened since which makes me wonder about the sensitivity (or lack thereof) of machines available today. In addition to my foot, I have six other surgery scars, two on my arms, one on my left hip, the other on the left side of my neck--these resulted from skin cancer consults and tests from an annual skin cancer screening, and the last two are located on my lower abdomen, reminders of a minor femme surgery.

The crescent moon on my right index finger came from the time I accidentally closed a file cabinet drawer on my finger,  the metal lip gouging my skin. This was back in college, I can still see the military gray cabinet with its nickel-plated handles, the manila folders stained with blood. I was stunned by how much blood there was, and I still get light-headed thinking about it. My knees and elbows are scratched up from bike riding spills and the occasional rough and tumble between my body and the concrete streets, mostly from learning to rollerblade. And then there's the cigarette burn on my right forearm--I can remember where and when it happened (at a local pub with friends, one we frequented often) but I don't recall how. Nor can I remember what the burn felt like, the feel of hot ash against my skin. In fact all that comes to mind from that moment is abstract: dancing, eyes focused on my arm, flailing about in a tiny space and laughing without a care in the world. 

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Teaspoons of love

 One teaspoon of baking soda.

Baking soda, not baking powder. I always get them confused. And how can I not help it? they're both white powdery substances, that sort of taste the same. I'm almost sure that if it weren't for the clever packaging, I would mix them up all the time.  But alas, like many a baker out there I've had to mentally train myself not to do that. 

Baking, it's been a passion of mine since I was a kid. I can't remember the first time my mom introduced me to the wonderful world of creating home baked goods. Some might find that sad but baking has been such an integral part of life, that I find comfort in knowing that the transfer of knowledge was seamless from the very beginning.  Baking is part of our family legacy, and my mom's decision to pass on her love for baking (and her trusty Betty Crocker Basics cookbook with the red gingham cover) forever connects us through space and time. 

As far as I'm concerned, the joy of preparing something from scratch--where the foundational ingredients (i.e., flour & sugar) are the only things found in a box, and presenting the treasure is the ultimate gift for both the giver and recipient. Whether baked for a family or friend, on a special occasion or an average day, nothing else spreads a genuine feeling of friendship and love.  

Mom made pies and cakes, an occasional plate of struffoli at Christmas, but her tried and true specialty were cookies. From oatmeal raisin to almond crescents to frosted sugar cookies on holidays to the staple of our childhood: the Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chip. My brother and I would light up at the first sight of that red, black and yellow bag emerging from the local grocer's bag.

I can still remember Mom teaching me, and the lessons of learning the trade one step at a time. It almost always started with that bag of chocolate morsels. Mom would show the bag to me, then turn to the back so we could read the recipe together. I would check the pantry as she read off the ingredients (or maybe it was the other way around), before gathering them on the dinette table. We would pause for a 1/2 hour or so to ensure everything was at room temperature before beginning.  Then Mom would preheat the oven and adjust the racks. Next we would take out the bowls and utensils, and then tie on aprons as to not soil our clothes. 

Dry ingredients first, then wet.  

Mom would spoon the dry ingredients, the flour and the sugar, each into aluminum measuring cups, leveling the tops over their respective canisters with the straight edge of a butter knife. Next, came packing the brown sugar down into the cup with our fingertips--I always loved how the brown sugar would keep its form until it folded into the batter. Then it was time to add the baking soda and powder to the flour in one bowl (no wonder I'm so confused), while pulling out the stainless steel mixing bowl (with D rings on the side for a better grip, a trick I learned once I was a teenager) to beat the butter and sugars by hand--with a wooden spoon no less!--adding in the eggs and vanilla until creamy.  My mom was a stickler about the vanilla and drilled into my baker's mind that only real vanilla extract (imported from Madagascar if you can get it) would do. No artificial anything could be added, I guess you could say she was ahead of the curve on that one. 

I don't have children of my own but any chance I get I share the process with my nieces and nephew. Many a visit has included making one bowl brownies on the stovetop or dropping cookie batter onto baking pans, only to eat them hot and fresh from the oven with a glass of cold milk 15 minutes later. There's nothing quite like the smell of vanilla and sugar wafting from the kitchen and I feel lucky to be able to share this memory with them, especially since my mom isn't here to do it herself.  

Nowadays its hard to find the time to bake and so when the urge strikes I feel compelled to follow through, even it if that means breaking an egg or two as the clock strikes midnight. The wooden spoon has been replaced by a tangerine KitchenAid mixer but the scents transport me all the same, straight to my mom's kitchen circa 1979. 

Weigh in, oh my!

For the first time in a LONG time I got a comeuppance. If you spend enough time in a pool of laziness and gluttony, it does catch up with you. Sort of like when you realize missing yoga every week and eating all that pizza actually hurts your middling--and then you weigh yourself and there's an extra 15lbs worth of it. I can feel it too, in the spaces I shouldn't, the places where extra padding makes everything too too. so new leaf, new healthy regime, starting with better eating habits, more exercise. Less gluttony, a much better me. And no regrets, but yes I do regret eating that extra large double chocolate chop brownie right now.  

The next day I nearly lost my stomach in a chaotic adventure -- the resolution being that if I never ride a g-force induced amusement again it will not be too soon. To think I was most worried about roller coasters, when in reality anything with any kind of plunging airborne flight from any height was uncontrollably uncomfortable and alas, a newfound trigger for my migraines. As if I needed another one; but at least this is an easily recognized and avoidable one.

This morning I had my BMI screening -- which of course I forgot about and didn't fast as I had intended. My weight is manageable for my height, proportioned. And I'm still 5'8", no shrinking yet. The nurse did warn me that in order to activate my good cholesterol I have to exercise more. An incoming message worth receiving for once. 

Phoenix Rising

Of all the mythological creatures out there the unicorn was always my favorite as a child. I'm sure it had a lot to do with Lisa Frank's colorful stickers--an obsession of mine back when I was 10.


As I've gotten older myths and legends have taken a backseat to the realities of being an adult. If I had to choose a mythical creature to call my own today, one that reflects all that I've learned with the coming of age and maturity, I would choose the Phoenix.

The origins of the Phoenix date back to the Egyptians, where its association with the rising sun god Ra is identified as a sacred symbol in the Book of Dead. Based on drawings and legends that span across many cultural mythologies, the Phoenix is recognized by its colorful plumage and would most likely be an ancestral relative to the modern day peacock. Legend records the Phoenix living to be as old as 500 to 1000 years, but it is its death ritual that most people are familiar. Contrary to JK Rowling's depiction in the Harry Potter series, the Phoenix does not burst into flames until it is near death at which time it builds its own funeral pyre of twigs, laced with frankincense. This death scene is believed to harness magical powers, as a new Phoenix is regenerated from the ashes.

Regeneration, renewal, rebirth. I love the idea of having an opportunity to reinvent myself and find ways to open doors that may otherwise appear hidden, closed. It's the path to those doors that is sometimes a bit tricky. Sometimes the road is filled with rough patches and roadblocks you might not foresee, and are challenged with overcoming. I've found that those paths hold the most truths about ourselves, and are the underlying reason why we are on this journey.


In the early days of the millennium's dotcom bubble, I took a job as an assistant at a fashion magazine.   The position, though way below my previous role in both pay and responsibilities, literally fell into my lap. I had been unemployed for a while, occasionally picking up freelance assignments and working as a temp. I'd been without benefits far longer than I wished and with no other immediate opportunity on the horizon, I didn't have much choice but to say yes. 

The women I worked for were tough, cutthroat sales executives, strategically hustling to book thousands of dollars worth of advertising into the pages of our glossy magazine. The parent company is one of the most prestigious in the publishing world, and though the day-to-day was exciting--great people (for the most part), fun perks ($1 beauty sales, gym membership stipends, a Michelin-rated commissary)--senior management often overlooked the less than fair treatment of its junior employees in favor of the amount of revenue the offenders brought in. 

My tour of duty, where some days were more combative than others, lasted four years. And if it weren't for the support of my Dad, and a few close friends, one of whom threatened to surface contacts in the Mafia to take out my boss, I think I would have had a nervous breakdown.  Years later when The Devil Wears Prada was released in theaters I found myself hyperventilating during some of the scenes as they were so similar to my own experience. 

Madame X would reveal a genteel persona on occasion; these episodes usually coincided with the cleaning out of her office 'wardrobe' (code for the gifts and near to cost-free purchases from the luxe brands she called on).  For a fashionista this would be nirvana but I've never been starry-eyed by brand names so I accepted the seconds (Jimmy Choo stilettos, a Gucci wallet, D&G sunglasses) without much fanfare. I think the lack of expected ass-kissing may have been a source of contention but oh well.  

One such cleansing resulted in my inheriting a Waterford glass sculpture. The sculpture wrapped in a polishing bag, with a wood pedestal was nestled in a felt-lined leather box. Beautifully detailed, the piece had gorgeous lines and curves. It was a crazy thing, this Phoenix sculpted in glass, each feather clearly discernible from the other. It was so ostentatious and cumbersome, and yet I couldn't imagine anyone else taking it. Something about its fluidity touched my soul. 

A few years back I was in the midst of a spring clean of my own and in my swirl decided to auction the Phoenix on eBay. I sent it to a consignment vendor and they found it's sell ability nil and void, and so the Phoenix returned to me. I guess you could say that over the years the Phoenix and I have developed a kinship, for even when I don't think I need it for inspiration, there it is.   It has served a great many purposes in my life, including impromptu conversation starter, at will weapon and muse.  

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Body, mind and soul

Migraines are my Achilles heel, the type of torture I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Each episode vanquishes my brainpower into some mysterious abyss and replaces it with chaos and madness, sometimes with a mass of anxiety and angst rolled in. It can affect my breathing, and in some cases my digestive system but ultimately it affects my mind the most; once it reaches my head that's when I am done for. My experience with migraines has been sporadic but it almost always lies in wait, approaching with a sneak attack:  

Imagine lying on your side, resting, listless, admittedly checked out. Your body retracts into fetal position and finds a comfortable spot, your eyes loll as you fall into a deep slumber. Bliss as you fall asleep on your way to la-la-land. And then there is a slight tremor, then a jolt and suddenly it shakes you awake with an unspeakable throbbing pain. Pain that feels as if a vice is covering your ears on either side, and an invisible demon is cranking tighter with the sole goal to crush the insides of your brain. It gets so bad that you can almost imagine the hangman nearby, looming over you waiting to apply the latest torture before preparing you for the guillotine.  

~

As early as the 17^th century women were treated for maladies that spoke of headaches and fainting spells where the only remedies included smelling salts, lavender compress and rest, lots of rest.  In our modern world, the need for rest is considered a weakness and in any line of work, extended rest isn’t really an option. That is why despite the pain I felt I forced myself to charge through and activate beyond it; and as can be expected, the day progressed with my eyes seeing but not really seeing, my body wanting rest but typing and talking--thinking when sleep was in order.

At the end of the day rather than go home immediately, I had the bright idea that a little bit of yoga might save me. In my mind's eye I hoped for (wished and dreamed really) for an extended meditation in Savasana (corpse pose), but instead found myself in a rigorous hour of Chaturanga (sit ups), downward facing dog, inversions and of all things, shoulder stance--which I abstained from doing, lest I add even more pressure to my neck.

I knew I had pushed myself too far when on the train ride home I found myself shivering in a half wake half asleep fog flexing my body in an effort to keep warm. I could feel the invisible threads wrap their way from the outer edge of my shoulders and creep like vines around my neck. The pain scaling its way one vertebrae at a time, rooting itself onto the lower part of my cranium, unwieldy weeds at the base of a tree. Pausing for just a moment like a jellyfish hunting its prey waiting to release a trigger of poison; the pain that came next could have been filled with venom. It hit my body like a bullet, sending my thoughts off in a million different directions. Nausea was almost immediate and I was certain I would be ill on the train—one of my biggest fears. The struggle to keep my eyes open was tricky, and sleep, the Holy Grail for the evening, was all I wanted. Attaining it seemed insurmountable as the journey lengthened. 

And in the end it was the yoga that saved me: one of the last things I can remember clearly is activating the Ujjayi breath (ocean breath) to bring myself to a center of calm, just enough clarity to get me home all in one piece—body, mind and soul.  

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Dare to draw: unleashing the artist within

A dozen students from across the 5 boroughs (with one visitor from DC) met at the wooden bridge just east of The Pool in Central Park for a day of art.  Rebecca Schweiger, founder of The Artist’s Studio NY led us in a 3-1/2 hour workshop called Dare to Draw 101. 

After we all introduced ourselves and explained our intent for the day, Rebecca, known as the New York Art Whisperer told us about how she discovered art after taking a drawing class in high school. An accomplished painter with pieces exhibited in museums and galleries, Rebecca shared her thoughts about “art as a form of self-expression” and how we each can bring the passion to life by “carving out 10 minutes a day into our planners." Rebecca believes that everyone has a talent to draw, and with practice and a willingness to embark on the journey can truly discover the artist within. 

Free spirit, gentle soul – Rebecca had but one rule for us before we began, and that was to vanquish any doubt or self-criticism for the duration of the course (and hopefully to change our behavior for good). She encouraged each of us to accept our art as an extension of ourselves, and allow it to flow unhindered by our inner critic. 

Let the drawing begin! 

The class gathered around Rebecca, sitting on blankets and benches, The Pool with its flock of ducks as our backdrop. We each selected a drawing board, 2-3 sheets of newsprint, 1-2 sheets of white craft paper and sample pieces of vine and compressed charcoal with an eraser.

Rebecca started us off with line experimentation. She would give us words and phrases and  ask us to visually depict the motion with charcoal, applying pressure to test out the capability of the materials. Something about charcoal on newsprint is liberating, I found myself sketching lots of circles and curves, abstract visualizations of loop de loops. We then moved to shading, where each of us created a gray scale box (copyright Tom M. Casey, for image below) much like the paint chip squares you might find at Home Depot.

Next up: gesture drawing. Rebecca instructed us to pick a scene or object and quickly sketch it for a specified interval of time, before moving onto another scene or image. It was sort of like a speed round of Pictionary--minus the opposing players and guessing. These warm-up exercises were meant for us to meditate on what we see, to make connections with lines and detail so that we could adequately prepare for our final assignment.

Sketch Composition

For our final assignment we were instructed to choose a specific subject that spoke to us. Once we selected our subject Rebecca suggested using our fingers as a viewfinder to help frame its composition. We were given an hour to study and then sketch the subject. Rebecca encouraged us to use the vine charcoal to lightly frame the image in a gesture drawing before using the other materials to fill in detail and lines. She would come around as we were sketching to offer feedback and direction, with tips on how to fill in and add dimension to the scene and/or subjects. 

Choosing a subject

I strolled down the path and eyed a tree close to the edge of the Pool. The trunk of the tree rather than grow straight as its neighbors, grew at a crooked angle and reminded me of Disney's depiction of the old witch in Hans Christian Anderson's Snow White. Located just west of a small inlet where ducks and turtles lazily floated by, it was slightly hidden a a lamppost. I liked how the tree seemed to stretch toward the sky as if trying to reach through the surrounding foliage for the sun. You can see the work in progress of my sketch below. Rebecca likened it to Vincent Van Gogh's Tree Series.

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waking the baby cobra

Morning. I walk through a misty quiet neighborhood, an overcast sky above calling for rain. I left the house in the middle of it all to make an early yoga class. A storefront on the main avenue where I live, not a place you might imagine a peaceful Zen space to mindfully coexist with urban sounds. 

The pitter-patter of rain on the tar roof, the windows floor to ceiling crystal clear. A sisal carpet, the color of sand, flanked walls painted a dewy shade of dawn. There are two people when I arrive, a gentleman in his late 40s, a woman in her late 50s /early 60s if I had to guess.

I roll out my mat, the lotus pattern intact—and see skid marks and dirty fingertips from faraway. The clock strikes 7.45 and we begin. Sun salutations mountain pose, we work on tree and shoulder stands. I come away with an accomplished feeling, just what I needed the flow of yoga and its healing chakras.

The stroll home is in a state of bliss, and I walk mindfully between the raindrops, stopping just once for coffee. 

Baird Hersey's music accompanied today's practice. 

At home, I sit down to write and with fingers on the keyboard, feet flat on the floor, I type. Transcendent, in between spaces; I feel sleepy where the air is light, flowery. The cat hovers nearby eyeing the corn muffin in the paper bag. He can smell sugar a mile away. He climbs over the pillows and onto my lap, warming my forearm. We agree to share this space on the couch just him and I.

The coffee is like sweet water and does nothing to keep me in the moment. Instead, my eyes grow tired and listless, they begin to close of their own accord, rolling backwards as if my mind's eye has beckoned that they take another look inside. I think of no one, nothing.

~

The cicadas buzz outside the window. Two hours have slipped away. My back is glued to the cushion and miraculously my body though stiff, is not numb. My stomach grumbles. There is a radio murmuring in the distance, white noise of consonants and vowels strung together. The rain has stopped, and just beyond the curtains I can see strains of sun illuminating the garden path. The chimes rustle in the wind. 

Tigger has moved to the floor in a child’s pose at the center of the rug. He eyes me once before laying his head to rest. I can feel the film of exhaustion clogging my pores. My arms stretch, my back arches and the tender working of muscles is there, and there.

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Cultural connections

A good friend of mine with a passion for the exotic makes her home in Morocco (Casablanca if you must know).  Her stories and observations about the varied cultures that cohabit the Northeast tip of Africa are fascinating--old world meets new through technology and socialization. Most households have access to Wi-Fi but not necessarily indoor plumbing, it's an anomaly that's hard to comprehend.  The country is very much set in its ways, and despite Niki's place as a progressive modern woman, she shared the all too familiar experiences that result from living in a society that oppresses 50% of the population.

Each vignette that unfurls from her subconscious, paints the most colorful and robust threads of memory--it is no wonder that so many travel books call Morocco the land of contrasts. For a brief moment one can conjure themselves into an ethereal instance that radiates the magic of the Arabic culture and the conundrum that is an Islamic state. All brought to you by the adventures of a single Western woman and the essence of her perspective as she experiences this ancient world.

Morocco is seven hours from JFK by plane, due south of Spain and Portugal, and approximately 4200 miles east of Miami.  I have not yet had the opportunity to visit Nikki in the land of the setting sun but after hearing tales of adventure and intrigue from my friends it is a place that holds a mysticism I am curious about. Reminiscing about my visit to Andalusia, where I traveled to Granada to see the palaces of Alhambra, and then to the sacred Cathedral-Mosque site in Ronda, makes me wistful for the simplicity of another life.

I recently read Cultural Connectives, a book on typography that explains the similarities and differences between Arabic and Latin lettering, presented by the author's Mirsaal typeface.  The book helped me to understand the simplicity of the design and its beauty to transform the language into a storytelling mechanism. I finished the book with a better understanding of the culture behind the script, one that so inspires Niki's calm and relaxed demeanor.

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