On Sunday I heard a sermon given by the pastor of the Seattle First Baptist Church. He read an email he'd received from a soldier in Iraq. The soldier wrote that he and his buddies listened to the pastor's sermons and the choir by logging on to the church's website at

http://www.seattlefirstbaptist.org/Default.asp?Header=%26nbsp%3B%26nbsp%3BSermons&Locator=Sermons

It's not often that I feel bursts of patriotism, but the words of this lone soldier coupled with what I know about this particular congregation offered me that rare opportunity. Seattle First Baptist has been picketed by conservative Baptists for its stand on equal rights for gays and lesbians. Seattle First Baptist is not crazy about Bush or the Iraq War and its members are willing to talk about it all. The congregation does not waver. It just keeps doing the right thing.

So the fact that this soldier in Iraq took comfort in the pastor's sermons and apparently has logged on more than once seems a very good sign. Wasn't the war turned into a vehicle to 'free the Iraqi people'? And freeing people should mean freeing them - and all of us - to be how we really are and all we can be.

Merry Christmas.

Today is Sunday. Perused two newspapers while comfortably in bed - the Houston Chronicle and parts of The New York Times - and then spent precious time buying several catalog items on line. One purchase is definitely not necessary. Maybe it will not fit or will ook like the picture so I can return it and feel that I've not made another frivolous purchase.

Now my day truly begins with weekend catch up that includes running at least two loads of laundry, taking a left-over chocolate cake break with a mug of yerba mate tea (my quiet cup of confidence) and giving three cats some extra weekend attention. Also made a call to my parents - I consider it sheer luck and good fortune that I can dail ten numbers and talk to my 86 year old mom and dad. Any time I want to. They are alive and well both at the other end of the line and at home in Seattle.

Mom says she has two more purse stories for www.pursestories.com. She told me one and could not remember the second. It will come back to her. Mom and Dad are headed off to church - the Sunday ritual she dreads, but she dreads displeasing the Lord even more. Habit of a lifetime. Her reward for getting out of the house and driving to the church service is knowing that she and my father have done their duty for another week. Dad will stop at a taco stand on the way home and she will order a bean burrito. Her weekly indulgence, she says.

So, now I will print out purse images to make at least 20 greeting cards to give to a group at Parkway Place next Saturday. Irina and I will make new acquaintances and gather purse stories with recorder and digital camera at this senior living retirement community. I've not done much with my www.pursestories.com in over a month. Five weekends in a row were taken up with what I call 'life in general', meaning 'not my job'. On the last Saturday in September was a wonderful wedding in Galveston, followed by a week in Seattle with my family (add two weekends here), a two day trip to Chappell Hill, TX, with my American Leadership Forum classmates followed by another very special wedding weekend that brought two daughters to town. We three produced over 900 photographs for the bride and groom. And while the bride and groom were away on their honeymoon, the bride's mom and I were the first to see the photos of this beautiful time.

All of these good things and my job leave no time at all for anything more in my life than attempts at consecutive and reasonably good nights of sleep.

After a week at work, Friday nights can be rocky - or more specifically - sleepless. Last Friday evening, I went to a birthday party for a short time, ate two slices of pizza (a mistake, it turns out - did the sausage have sodium nitrate in it?), and fell into bed soooo tired. Up at 1:30 a.m. with the beginnings of a headache so took a headache pill that is laced with caffeine. I really have to make an effort to fall asleep again quickly before the caffeine kicks in. Instead, I chose to look at notebooks of negatives and so was up until daylight, very happily immersed with thousands of images. Part of thinking ahead to what I need to create for my part of the group FotoFest exhibition "Women On The Verge Of Something Else." Realized that all of my work hits this subject. However, I do want to shoot one beautiful new image of a woman with arms thrust skyward in celebration. She is no longer hidden. She is here, alive and well and strong.

Strong this woman will be in this future photo, but that sleepless Friday night left me so weary that I spent all of Saturday in bed and missed another afternoon birthday party for a very dear friend.

I have not yet been able to balance a goodly number of hours of sleep with a 48+ hours/week job and the 8 - 20+ hours that I like to spend on my website and related art projects. I've learned to make conscious decisions about seeing 1 or maybe 2 friends during a week or scheduling one personal social event every 1 - 2 weeks. If I see more friends or more movies or go to more personal social events, my second career as artist loses traction and momentum.

Back to 'Women On The Verge Of Something Else'. I've decided to make a piece for this exhibition from that old square green board with its hooks and keys that I got from the storeroom at Baker Hughes several years ago. Working title is 'When One Door Closes, Remember to OPEN Another'. This piece will also have a subtitle that references a comment George Krause made to me 5 years ago. Subtitle may be any of the following:

1. Test strips may be the real thing.
2. Pick and choose the very best. The best may be blurry, indifferently exposed and just about perfect.
3. Test strips - life's bookmarks.

After this morning's early rain, the sun is shining in full golden fall glory. My garden's orange cosmos and mutabulis roses sparkle in the light. Surely this is the day for a long walk - after the cards are glued and made ready for next weekend's story gathering time.

And then there was the project called 'putting all the sorted piles on the bedroom floor into file folders and then into a box'. Did I really promise myself I would not have to step over these carefully edited piles for another week? I don't remember.

Today is Sunday. Perused two newspapers while comfortably in bed - the Houston Chronicle and parts of The New York Times - and then spent precious time buying several catalog items on line. One purchase is definitely not necessary. Maybe it will not fit or will not look like the picture so I can return it and feel that I've not made another frivolous purchase.

Now my day truly begins with weekend catch up that includes running at least two loads of laundry, taking a left-over chocolate cake break with a mug of yerba mate tea (my quiet cup of confidence) and giving three cats some extra weekend attention. Also made a call to my parents - I consider it sheer luck and good fortune that I can dail ten numbers and talk to my 86 year old mom and dad. Any time I want to. They are alive and well both at the other end of the line and at home in Seattle.

Mom says she has two more purse stories for www.pursestories.com. She told me one and could not remember the second. It will come back to her. Mom and Dad are headed off to church - the Sunday ritual she dreads, but she dreads displeasing the Lord even more. Habit of a lifetime. Her reward for getting out of the house and driving to the church service is knowing that she and my father have done their duty for another week. Dad will stop at a taco stand on the way home and she will order a bean burrito. Her weekly indulgence, she says.

So, now I will print out purse images to make at least 20 greeting cards to give to a group at Parkway Place next Saturday. Irina and I will make new acquaintances and gather purse stories with recorder and digital camera at this senior living retirement community. I've not done much with my www.pursestories.com in over a month. Five weekends in a row were taken up with what I call 'life in general', meaning 'not my job'. On the last Saturday in September was a wonderful wedding in Galveston, followed by a week in Seattle with my family (add two weekends here), a two day trip to Chappell Hill, TX, with my American Leadership Forum classmates followed by another very special wedding weekend that brought two daughters to town. We three produced over 900 photographs for the bride and groom. And while the bride and groom were away on their honeymoon, the bride's mom and I were the first to see the photos of this beautiful time.

All of these good things and my job leave no time at all for anything more in my life than attempts at consecutive and reasonably good nights of sleep.

After a week at work, Friday nights can be rocky - or more specifically - sleepless. Last Friday evening, I went to a birthday party for a short time, ate two slices of pizza (a mistake, it turns out - did the sausage have sodium nitrate in it?), and fell into bed soooo tired. Up at 1:30 a.m. with the beginnings of a headache so took a headache pill that is laced with caffeine. I really have to make an effort to fall asleep again quickly before the caffeine kicks in. Instead, I chose to look at notebooks of negatives and so was up until daylight, very happily immersed with thousands of images. Part of thinking ahead to what I need to create for my part of the group FotoFest exhibition "Women On The Verge Of Something Else." Realized that all of my work hits this subject. However, I do want to shoot one beautiful new image of a woman with arms thrust skyward in celebration. She is no longer hidden. She is here, alive and well and strong.

Strong this woman will be in this future photo, but that sleepless Friday night left me so weary that I spent all of Saturday in bed and missed another afternoon birthday party for a very dear friend.

I have not yet been able to balance a goodly number of hours of sleep with a 48+ hours/week job and the 8 - 20+ hours that I like to spend on my website and related art projects. I've learned to make conscious decisions about seeing 1 or maybe 2 friends during a week or scheduling one personal social event every 1 - 2 weeks. If I see more friends or more movies or go to more personal social events, my second career as artist loses traction and momentum.

Back to 'Women On The Verge Of Something Else'. I've decided to make a piece for this exhibition from that old square green board with its hooks and keys that I got from the storeroom at Baker Hughes several years ago. Working title is 'When One Door Closes, Remember to OPEN Another'. This piece will also have a subtitle that references a comment George Krause made to me 5 years ago. Subtitle may be any of the following:

1. Test strips may be the real thing.
2. Pick and choose the very best. The best may be blurry, indifferently exposed and just about perfect.
3. Test strips - life's bookmarks.

After this morning's early rain, the sun is shining in full golden fall glory. My garden's orange cosmos and mutabulis roses sparkle in the light. Surely this is the day for a long walk - after the cards are glued and made ready for next weekend's story gathering time.

And then there was the project called 'putting all the sorted piles on the bedroom floor into file folders and then into a box'. Did I really promise myself I would not have to step over these carefully edited piles for another week? I don't remember.

[ Wed Oct 08, 04:22:25 PM | Mary Margaret Hansen | ]
A Week of Discovery

October 8 2003 is quintessential fall – brisk wind, blue blue sky, moments of rain, yellow leaves falling. I enter the park at the gate near the money plants. Ahead of me is a grey haired man in denim jackets and khaki pants. His stride is slower than mine. I can’t decide if he is beginning or ending his walk or how I should pace myself to overtake him. His walk appears aimless and I am suddenly happy to see a young woman approaching us. I am not alone. The man cracks off a tree branch far too lean for a walking stick and heads up a minor path into the trees. I am not liking this man. I look back and see that he is simply standing among the trees. A swift decision changes my walk to a jog. The most I want to be surprised by in this park is a rabbit.

Damn. Dissolved are years of visiting Seattle and walking Discovery Park trails without a look over my shoulder. I head for open space where is it always possible to see Puget Sound – and distant figures intentionally walking, jogging, seeking the view.

On the bluff, a walker approaches, a greeting is shared. He looks prepared to make the entire Loop. Off we go, he unaware of his follower. At the junction of South Beach Trail and North Loop Trail, he heads down toward the beach down the steps through sunlit trees and brisk wind. Halfway down the bluff, I decide I am being foolish for following. The beach is not my destination.

Take back the park, I say, and turn back up the steps through falling leaves. Common sense says that the man with the lean walking stick will not walk this far into the park. Back on the Loop trail, I pass a woman with headphones and see a couple in the distance. This is my experience of Discovery Park. I return the same way I entered the park and pause to watch the light on the trunk of a medrona tree. There is no one on the path but me.


[ Sun Oct 05, 06:34:59 PM | Mary Margaret Hansen | edit]
Brilliant bouquets of sunflowers, asters, roses and mums at Ballard's Farmers Market. Jeanne bought a bouquet for Dan, Caroline found a bright yellow oil cloth baby bib scattered with hibiscus flowers and I bought the world's tiniest set of Tarot cards for Mary's Christmas stocking.

There were a few other things I couldn't leave behind. Seduced by an $8 flat of fresh blue berries - the last of the season, a handmade cake of citrus lavender soap and 3 totes made from bright funky Mexican oilcloth. No resistance here. I will photograph the totes and post on my website with a story.

After the Wedding

Yes. After a promising bright blue morning, it rained hard. The southwest sky turned dark and moved east just as predicted. An executive decision was made by the bride's brother and sister to move the wedding ceremony from the garden to the carport and tent that extended down the driveway. Even the wedding cakes were arranged under the car port adjacent to the arch of autumn flowers where the judge presided over the bilingual service just after 4:00 in the afternoon. Nothing happened quite as Elizabeth had planned. Yet family and friends gathered, enjoyed and celebrated. Elizabeth and Manuel are man and wife. Photos posted soon.

Wedding Day

Weather reports are not good. After two weeks of sunny dappled light and blue skies, severe stormy weather is on the way - just for today. Then a front will blow through bringing cool clear weather. During today's severe stormy weather - or between bouts of it - Elizabeth and Manuel will be married in Sally's garden. A very beautiful ravine garden where white lantana is now blooming as planned just infront of glorious orange cosmos. White pumpkins are ready to be set at the garden entryway, white tents cover the driveway and strings of white lights hang among the ropes of English ivy in the trees. The garden is ready for this wedding. Mariachis are coming and the families and friends have gathered from Mexico, Oklahoma, Wisconsin and Texas.

National Weather Service reports suggest "My Big Fat Monsoon Wedding" with the emphasis on monsoon. We've vowed to dance in the rain with mud between our toes. The bride and groom are delighted with one another and their happiness is palpable. Rain or shine, we'll gather at 4:00 this afternoon - perhaps with umbrellas and yellow ponchos - to celebrate with Elizabeth and Manuel and all the people they love the most.

Signs of Life From a Closeted Blogger

I’ve been yearning for my own blog. The entire idea of blogging or on-line journaling is becoming irresistible. My feelings about it are approaching those I have when I rush out on a weekend after a 60 hour work week to spend a clandestine hour at Border’s perusing periodicals, meandering through elaborate wedding books (Vera Wang’s is so beautiful) and checking out new paperbacks – I found Pamela Ribon’s “Why Girls Are Weird,” a novel about a young woman in Austin who blogs – I bought it. No resistance there.

Writing is becoming easier and easier and it was never hard. I spend time at my job writing – newsletters, proposals, sales letters, thank you very much letters. A definite rhythm develops. The words flow like dance steps, without effort, one phrase leading to another. Then there is the pleasure of editing. Rereading generates different words, better words that come straight from that unconscious universal soup reservoir. The final edit is almost a game, tightening each paragraph with a read-through that focuses on words to be eliminated or exchanged for words shorter and pithier. There is sport in compressing a sentence by removing enough words to delete one line. Have I said it better with less – I stand corrected – FEWER words? (Check out your grammar books folks. If you can count the things you speak/write about – use the word ‘fewer’. If you cannot put a number on the subject – use the word ‘less’. I am so aggrieved that even the NYT no longer follows a rule of grammar that, for me, defines a real distinction.

What a blog digression. My days of grammar lessons go back to the 1950s. I am remembering childhood and adolescence as a time when I wrote plays and novels and won prizes for my essays. I thought I was going to be a writer when I grew up but never figured out how I was to make a living at it.

Much of the time, I actually think in expository essay form. That in itself is a worthy notion on which to write more. I remember a road trip from Atlanta to Houston in 1995. I was by myself – very happily by myself – stopping where I wanted, seeing what interested me, sleeping late and driving late. I had no car radio, just the hum of the highway and the expectation of discovery. That was heaven to me and driving time became the space for assigning words to thoughts and running words into sentences that came together as essays quickly lost. No notes scribbled as I drove, but I knew that I’d written pages on that trip without benefit of pencil or keyboard.

www.pursestories.com began as Purse Stories, an installation of handbags and photo collages with hand written sentences and a few paragraphs on the wall. As intended, the website draws stories from far-flung people, newly posted every week. But just as often the purse stories one the site are those that I’ve heard and transcribed or are stories I pull from my day-to-day life (See “My First E-Bay Purse Purchase” and “Every Purse Should Be This Practical”). What began as visual art is becoming oral history, story sharing.

www.pursestories.com led me to the Creative Capital Professional Development for Visual Artists Workshop hosted by DiverseWorks. That did it – somehow I took the potential for blogging from that weekend experience. I never remember talking specifically about blogging at the workshop. What I remember was being called an artist for three whole days, hearing the precise steps I can take to transition into living and supporting an artist’s life and meeting other artists on common respectful ground. That weekend broke the creative egg.

That hidden secret world of writing rolled out like a marble. Are we mixing too many metaphors here?

I was onward toward blogging. In quiet moments in bed in the morning and late at night, paragraphs jumble in my mind. A friend counseled the need for a hand held recorder.

My youngest daughter tells me “A blog is perfect for you, Mom. You want to tell people all kinds of stuff. I don’t, but you do. It is perfect for you.” And as she says it I feel the longing, the irresistible urge like a wave covering me in words and paragraphs and simile and narrative and memory and space and, I am sure, a life long lack of grammatically parallel sentences. But that is another blog entry.

When does it begin? I am ready.