Visitors' Return

Lucille Iacovelli

With the warm weather my wild visitors return. Right now, the furry variety seems to have overpowered my feathered friends. In an attempt to divert the squirrels from devouring seed intended for the birds, I thought I would entice them away from the bird feeder with tiny crackers spread with peanut butter. I offered this in addition to their usual ration of cracked corn.

My plan backfired. Now they have increased in both number and appetite with a newly acquired taste for peanut butter...and so spoiled as to leave the cracker behind after licking off every molecule of peanut from its surface. I will allow them their peanut butter feast until the jar is empty. After that, they will have to eat the corn or find another human willing to indulge their extravagant taste!

My Special Visitor - Part II

August 15, 2007

Gray Squirrel, and his girlfriend, Redhead, turn up every day. As they methodically munch their way through morsels of peanut butter laced corn meal, meticulously lick their nimble little paws clean, and end this repast with a long drink of water, I sit sipping tea, a few feet away, taking in the spectacle.
More often than not, I find myself confined to home, with ever more time to become better acquainted with my animal friends. This piece of glass which allows me the privilege of watching these charming creatures has become monumentally important in my life.

I have learned some of the ways in which physical limitations raise one's tolerance for the inevitable dust and detritus of life and from necessity, have let go of my former compulsion to keep my apartment as scrupulously clean as I would like. It is still clean, but not obsessively so. I was bothered by the fact that I could not keep the glass door crystal clear, as extending my neck for the job of cleaning is nearly impossible. Yet my longing for a perfect view of my visitors' antics impelled me to action. So, dragging a chair out to the deck, and teetering atop it's seat, I polished my window onto wonderland until it sparkled. .

Continued...

A Gift from Mumbai

Dec. 29, 2007 Lucille Iacovelli

November left in its wake the bitter aftermath of yet another frustrating medical "encounter". After nearly 10 years of dealing with doctors more proficient in duplicity and prevarication than healing, I should not be shocked or angered when they continue on this path. Yet some small part of me always clings to the hope of an impossible miracle... that one of these highly educated and skilled physicians will develop a conscience; allowing them to break the destructive rules by which they sacrifice patients' well being to protect their negligent brethren. It will never happen in my lifetime, but when things get particularly difficult for me, I take some solace in knowing that my voice has focused attention on the conspiracy of silence in the medical profession, and in regard to iatrogenic injury caused by cosmetic surgery in particular.

Still, the advent of Christmas was not something I looked forward to with any degree of pleasant anticipation. December began with increased physical challenges, and the holidays would once again come and go, not in celebration with friends and family, but quietly uneventful, in the company of my loyal cocker spaniel companion. I was feeling rather despondent when I found a notice in my mailbox that a package was waiting for me at the post office. I was not expecting anything and could not think what it might be. I managed to drive the few miles to the post office, barely making it to the counter to sign for the parcel.

I was surprised and a bit confused when I was handed a package which carried the return address of my favorite sari walla in India. It had been several months since I last purchased a sari, but the size and shape of the package indicated that it was , indeed, a sari. The suspense was too much for me. I did not wait to drive home, but opened the package while in the car. Inside was a beautiful sari, with a note from this most gracious and generous man, wishing me a Happy Christmas and New Year! I cried and cried... such warm and joyful tears! This thoughtful gesture from someone half way across the world so deeply touched my soul, bringing warmth and light into the cold dark corners of my heart.

I will never forget this most memorable and meaningful gift and can only hope that my favorite sari walla knows how his kindness has brightened my holidays.

May the blessing of his generous spirit be returned to him a thousand fold!

My Favorite Sari Walla

Sari

Aug 5, 2007 Lucille Iacovelli Leaving my tiny flat is increasingly more difficult, as preparation to get out the door requires more breath and effort than I can muster these days. So I try very hard to make the most of times I am able to venture forth, precariously driving with one hand on the wheel and the other pressed to my throat, allowing me to breathe and lift my head enough to see where I am going. After wrapping myself in a brilliant vintage sari from my treasured E-Bay sari-walla I headed for the library, where the librarian ladies vicariously enjoy my Indian garb while nibbling the home made treats I bring to them. It was a hot and sunny day when my old reliable 1990 Toyota overheated, forcing me to pull off the road and consult the user manual to see what I should do. After a struggle in raising the hood and finding the coolant chamber empty, I approached a woman working in her garden and asked if she would be so kind as to give me some water for my car. She looked surprised, then smiled radiantly and said "Oh! Your gown is beautiful!" The annoyance of my overheated engine eased as her pleasure in my sari lightened my concerns. I thanked her for the water, filled the coolant chamber and headed for the nearest garage. I stopped at a place where I had done business in past weeks. The same man who attended me before was seated in his little enclosure. I got out of the car and once again battled with the hood, trying to quell the ever present angst at the reason for my physical limitations, hoping to get this car problem fixed with the least amount of effort possible. I looked toward the enclosure to see if the man was heading out to assist me. He was not. He was sitting with his feet up on his little desk, hands behind his head, just watching me with a perverse smirk on his face. I waited and waited. He continued to sit and stare, until I finally walked towards his enclosure. Meanwhile, another man from the business next door must have seen me waiting and was headed toward the enclosure, perhaps thinking the garage man was unaware he had a customer. I stepped into the presence of these two men and the body language displayed by the garage man hit me like a slap in the face. He eyed me from bindi to sandals, taking in my "unconventional" (for Cape Cod) attire, with a look of pure contempt. I turned to the other man. His face was open and friendly, willing to help as he inquired about the overheating of my car. He seemed shamed by the garage man's behavior. This gracious man deftly handled the rather dangerous looking job of opening the radiator cap as a cloud of hot vapor escaped, then bubbled and gurgled as he filled the radiator with water and advised me on where I should go to have the car checked out thoroughly. This garage was not even his business, yet he was kind enough to assist me and even refused to take my money when I tried to pay him. All this time, the garage man sat, watching with his vile smirk which transformed his rather nice features into an ugly visage. I have stopped at this garage several times in the past, and this man has always attended me with prompt courtesy when I was dressed in western clothes. I left that garage with half my heart sinking at the attitude of the garage man, and half lifted by the other's kindness. What makes people react with contempt at the sight of something different? What would make a person so judgmental at the sight of a foreign garment as indisputably lovely as sari? I wish this man's bigoted attitude was a rare exception in the American character, but as I later went shopping for groceries and caught disconcerting looks from every direction, I fear this intolerance is more common than I care to ponder. This experience has not dampened my love for wearing saris. It has only strengthened my determination to adorn myself in them as often as possible.. for my own enjoyment and hopefully, to expose my narrow minded countrymen to the beauty of another culture.. As I look around and see virtually everyone dressed as if they are ready for a day of cutting the grass or pulling weeds in the garden, I know my sari momentarily enriches its immediate environment..a bright and beautiful gift from India. Dhanyavaad, favored sari-walla. You brighten my days. Namaste. Lucille Iacovelli Website of my favorite E-Bay sari-walla

My Special Visitor

~August 11, 2007~
The light rain brought a flurry of activity to the tiny deck just outside my kitchen door. I had just replenished the nectar in a glass hummingbird feeder, scattered a few hands full of seed along the railing and floor, then filled a clay dish with a mixture of corn meal and peanut butter that sends the squirrels and chipmunks into paroxysms of delight. My friends were all waiting..perched in the oak branches forming a graceful, protective canopy over their miniature sanctuary. They began to alight even before I closed the screen behind me. Calling their friends to breakfast, they chirped and chattered, filling the morning with sparkling bird song. Blue jays, chickadees, goldfinch, sparrows, Mr. & Mrs Cardinal.. even the cranky crow made an appearance, but found the offered fare not to his liking..a relief to his smaller avian relations.

The squirrels arrived in flying leaps from tree trunk to deck, noisily announcing their presence with a commotion before settling down to feast. Reliable as clock work, Redhead and her boyfriend, Gray are bold and incorrigible, wreaking havoc with my potted plants when made to wait for their breakfast.

Then, as sudden as a flash, there she was..my special visitor. Her tiny body flitting from flower to feeder.. Her iridescent feathers luminous as jewels in the rain-gray morning. Yes, it was she.. hovering before me, looking me straight in the eye, I swear. She knows me. Does she remember?

Continued.. part II

My Special Visitor

2007

My Special Visitor - Part II

~August 14, 2007~ My flat is small, but just right for me and my canine companion, a 13 yr old cocker spaniel I call Girlie. We live on the second floor of my landlord's garage, set far back from the main house. A wide glass door opens from my kitchen onto my private little "wildlife sanctuary" where bird feeders and a casual array of fragrant herbs and blossoms reside. Enchanting creatures of feather and fur are drawn out of their woodland habitat to this tiny space. Lucille Iacovelli class="statcounter">http://www.statcounter.com/free_invisible_web_tracker.html" target="_blank">http://c44.statcounter.com/3631817/0/37827719/1/" alt="website tracking" > To be continued... My Special Visitor 2007

My Special Visitor - Part III

August, 2007

Exhausted from the simple task of window washing, I went inside for a brief rest. As my labored breathing became more regular, my eyes closed on pleasant thoughts of sitting at my sparkling clean window with a nice cup of tea and enjoying the view. Just as this lovely image brought me to the edge of sleep, I heard a tiny thud on the glass.

My heart flew to my throat as I hurried to the door. The precious hummingbird lay motionless on the straw mat. She was on her back, eyes closed. Kneeling before the mat, I gently, reverently, placed her in my hands. I was overwhelmed by the intensity of an indescribable emotion as I held this nearly weightless, beautiful creature; her heart beating so fast as my own raced with it. My mind flew in a thousand directions at once. I heard my own voice cry "Please, God, do not let her die!" while simultaneously admonishing myself for cleaning the glass to invisibility.

I stood helpless, holding the helpless bird, my heart and soul filled to bursting with my pitiful prayer for her life. As tears streamed down my face, I vaguely recalled reading something about reviving stunned hummingbirds. With her tiny head held gently, ever so gently, between my thumb and two fingers, I dipped the end of her long, slender beak into the cone of the nectar bottle. Suddenly, her eyes opened as her unimaginably long tongue extended and reached for the nectar.

continued....

My Special Visitor 2007

My Special Visitor - Part lV

(Photo: Visitor of a different feather..from the Finch family. I found this sweet bird on my deck during a brutal snow storm last winter, motionless and nearly frozen. I placed her inside my jacket, next to my heart, and left her there while I lined a box with an old tea towel, as my canine companion eyed me suspiciously. I then settled her into the box, covered it with a screen, then frantically searched for the number of the nearest wildlife sanctuary, thinking she would need professional help. After one hour, she was able to move, but only a bit. I fetched the camera while she nestled in my hand and captured this shot. From the moment the bird entered the flat, my dog excitedly paced back and forth in the tiny 2 rooms, giving me jealous glances, then sneaking an occasional jump, curious to see the creature that had stolen my attention. Finally, the little finch energetically fluttered her wings and appeared completely restored, I brought the box outside, removed the screen, and watched with relief, as she flew away as good as new.) Lucille Iacovelli Holding one of God's perfect creatures in one's hand is a blessing profound as life itself. As the hummingbird revived, I watched in awe while its tongue continued dipping into the nectar. I was overcome by an intensity of awareness at the wonder of this moment.. this blessing bestowed upon me and this breathtakingly exquisite little bird. She allowed me the opportunity to see, up close, every magnificent detail of her body.. her tiny feet! ... her oh, so lovely and perfectly feathered little body!.. and her eyes, trusting and looking straight into mine with an awareness we, as human beings, will never know in our present bodies. The tiny bird blessed me with its trust and filled me with humility. My Special Visitor 2007

My Special Visitor - Part V

	~September 3, 2007~ Each day, the call is conveyed in chirping and bird-song, amongst the woodland creatures: "Hurry! The lady with the wild gray hair is serving breakfast! " Lucille Iacovelli 2007

Tech Support, Indian Style

```` ```` ``````` ````````` `````````` Yesterday I had occasion to contact Dell tech support online as my new printer/scanner was not working properly. What I thought might be an ordeal, turned out to be the highlight of my day. I was so impressed by the friendly manner of my Dell Representative, whose name was Shweta. While we were waiting for files to download, I asked if Shweta was in Hyderbad, as I recalled reading in 'Planet India' that Hyderbad is known as the second Silicon Valley. As it turns out, Shweta was in Chandigarh. I mentioned that I was reading 'One Night @ the Call Center' and she replied that she also read this book and found it enjoyable. I responded that reading it gave me a better appreciation for the work she was doing in helping computer-ignorant Amerikans like myself ;-) She responded with a :) and said it was her pleasure to help me. As we waited for a large file to download before she could install it to my computer, we had a lovely chat as she graciously answered my many questions about India and exchanged opinions about books and other topics until the file download was complete. What could have remained a dull and silent interlude turned into a delightful interaction with this highly efficient, enormously courteous and friendly person half way across the planet. After Shweta solved my computer/printer problem, I was almost sad that our chat had to end. I was most pleased, however, when she asked if I would be willing to take an extra minute while she transferred me to her supervisor, who would like to know if there was anything she could have done better to serve my needs. With great pleasure, I assured the supervisor that Shweta could not have done anything better as her assistance was perfect in every way. My computer problem turned out to be the most enjoyable part of my day. Thank you Shweta... Dell is lucky to have you! Lucille Iacovelli

Return of the Cicadas

i Mother Nature has turned up the volume on my tinnitus to a nerve-wracking cacophony. The "Peridiocal Cicadas" known by entomologists as Brood XIV are emerging here on Cape Cod right on schedule. Every 17 years, these cicadas complete another life-cycle when nymphs buried under ground emerge to molt and mate in unimaginable numbers. They remain in the nymph stage for 17 years and because of this are considered the longest-lived of all insects. I first witnessed this remarkable phenomena when I moved to Cape Cod in 1991. I awoke one day to a deafening noise. I opened my door to investigate the source of this racket. The shock! I thought I was still asleep and in the midst of a nightmare! There were *thousands* of these HUGE insects in various stages of shedding their armour-like shells, emerging into winged creatures of spectacular proportion and coloring. With their bulging red eyes contrasted against plump black bodies and veined transparent wings, their sheer number made the sight and SOUND surreal and unforgettable. I had never seen anything like this before (except in horror films.) Since earliest memory, I have had a "phobic" reaction to large insects. It has taken a conscious effort to bring this irrational fear reaction under control over the years. Gardening helped in this regard, and I learned to appreciate the uniqueness of the insect realm, but I confess there are some insects I still prefer to observe from afar, and the cicada is one of them. After my cicada initiation in 1991, I forgot about them... until now. As I write, their unrelenting "singing", which will continue for another month, pervades my auditory sensation...akin to the nerve-grating scratching of fingernails on a chalk board, to a meditative-like white noise. The return of the cicadas mark my 17th year on Cape Cod, where flora and fauna give rise to endless fascination. Lucille Iacovelli

Just for fun!

~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ Bonomo Click on the link above and begin "fancy doodling". Whether you use it as a creative tool or simply for fun, this program can become addictive! Best to set a stop-time alarm if you are unable to tear yourself away from your computer. (Note: Bonomo will NOT work with Internet Explorer. At present, only users of Foxfire, Opera and Safari are able to enjoy using this online application) I recently started using Foxfire and find it faster than IE. Actually, I use both.. some online applications work better with one than the other. You can download Opera, Safari and Firefox for free. Firefox also has versions in Gujarati ગુજરાતી and Punjabi ਪੰਜਾਬੀ You can save your masterpiece as a .jpg or screencapture it and save it in other image formats. Bomono is by Phillip Lenssen, the blogger/owner of Google Blogoscoped. He is seeking submissions of bomono works of art. Once you have finished your piece, just click on the @ sign button in the bottom corner to send your work to him.

Help Free Greenpeace Activists

	Help Free Greenpeace Activists Japanese police have arrested two Greenpeace activists for exposing a whale meat scandal involving the government- sponsored whaling program. The two activists, Junichi Sato, 31, and Toru Suzuki, 41, are being investigated for allegedly stealing a box of whale meat which they presented as evidence. Sign the petition

A Special Kind of Medicine

Almost a decade ago, I had a negative experience with cosmetic facial surgery. I was left with serious functional disorders which effect breathing, swallowing and ability to lift my head and close my jaw. I will not go into the clinical details, for that is not what this story is about. However, to clarify what follows, it is fair to say that I was blacklisted by the most competent surgeons here in the US after going public with my story. There were a few truly compassionate doctors who tried their best to help me, but not being plastic surgeons themselves, their hands were tied to a great extent.

One of these doctors is my primary care physician. She is from India, and I could not hope for a more highly skilled, kind and compassionate doctor. I had the good fortune to become her patient when she first arrived on Cape Cod, as patients gravitated to her practice like bees to blossoms. As her patients became numerous, she was forced to refer newcomers to her colleagues. As my primary care physician, my situation has been deeply frustrating to us both, as she does everything within her realm of specialty to see that I receive every possible diagnostic that might help a surgeon work out a method of corrective surgery that may improve my situation. However, in today's medical system, particularly in the realm of cosmetic plastic surgery where surgeons' egos tend to expand to phenomenal proportions and practitioners remain behind the 'White Wall of Silence', patients with iatrogenic injuries often become the untouchables of the patient population, unable to find a surgeon willing to treat them.

As my condition disabled me to the point where surviving every 24 hours has become a toss of fate and I struggle to accomplish the most basic tasks to maintain independence, I begged a highly skillful surgeon I had consulted in the past to see me again for reevaluation. This required months of e-mail communication, and I am certain he agreed to see me against the advice of his colleagues, who warned him against any involvement with my case.

After an appointment date was set, I was scheduled to see my primary care physician. I felt very hopeful on this day. My heart felt lighter than it had for years, and I looked forward to telling my doctor about this long awaited breakthrough. This was the first glimmer of hope in years of an otherwise gloomy state of existence. I am rarely able to leave my flat these days, and my monthly visit to my doctor is understandably frustrating for us both as my condition worsens with no available help in sight. I am acutely aware that my situation has made my doctor feel helpless, and my heart aches for her because she is so sensitively attuned to her patients' needs.

On this day, however, I knew our visit would be brighter than she could know. I decided to mark the occasion by wearing a lovely muted gray-green sari in honor of her homeland, India, a country I have always longed to see. I usually dress very simply and plainly these days, as adornment is low on the list of priorities when managing to do needful things requires all the energy I can muster. But this was a day worthy of a special effort. As I draped my sari that morning, I worried, just for a moment, that it would not be done properly to her eyes! However, I am used to wearing a sari, which I believe is the perfect garment for every woman, versatile as well as beautiful and suitable for every occasion. My doctor's eyes lit up when I walked into her examining room in my sari. When I told her about the appointment with the surgeon, the room filled with hope.. my hope of possibly being restored to live a normal life, and her hope for my well being.

She then began the practical part of her exemplary doctoring and gently but firmly reminded me of the risks of surgery and the possibility that things might get worse. She wanted me to think about this decision very carefully. We discussed the status of my health, and she again expressed her happiness about my upcoming appointment with the surgeon.

Then she said something that will stay with me forever. My heart fills with great emotion and my eyes fill with tears as I recall this moment. She pressed her hands together in Namaste and said "I will pray for you". I do not know if this beautiful expression of faith and hope is often spoken by Indian doctors to their patients, but this is the first time a doctor ever said these words to me. I was overwhelmed with her heartfelt expression. Her words and compassion went straight from her heart to mine and will remain with me always. I have had the good fortune to be a patient of doctors who expressed true compassion and a deep desire for my well being, but never has a doctor said they would pray for me, though I believe some of them have done so. Hearing these words spoken with such openness and sincerity is truly a very special kind of medicine. Prayer...A treatment to last a lifetime.

On my way out of her office she turned to me and said "Thank you for wearing the sari". I left there with my heart so full! I said my own prayer then, for my exceptional doctor's life to be filled with blessings always.

The Wild Turkey Families of Shawme-Crowell State Forest

	Wild Turkey Families Lucille Iacovelli Please excuse this post! Silly, I know, but still cannot not resist. (Yes, I love this tune Mera Naam Chin Chin Choo : ) Watch the video ~ Lucille Iacovelli

Time

Time

I find myself in an incomprehensible position... a situation real enough to kill me, should I lose my balance on a fraying tightrope. Yet so surreal I sometimes think my death will be nothing more than an instantaneous vaporization of the molecules I call my body.
I am dying... we are all dying.

For most of us, living life prevails over the ever present pull of entropy.
This is as it should be. We are born to experience life to its fullest until our death. But like breathing, it is that space between the breaths which sets the tone for what follows.

I do not fear death, nor do I invite it.

I reside in a world full of high tech medical miracles and doctors who perform them. It is, therefore, inconceivable that amidst these doctors and their state-of-the-art 3D scanners capable of turning the human body with its every secret and function inside out to see how things work or might be fixed when they don't, that the simple mechanics of what is killing me remains a mystery.

I am dying in real-time,
begging at the same-time,
to be fixed, or at least, that an attempt be made,
before there is no-time.

Doctors.. made of special stuff, or so we think.
Different from us.
Different from each other.
Different.




~ Lucille Iacovelli