Today I look at the lowest branch above my head. It is too high for me.

This same limb would not have hindered me. I would have jumped, twisted, pulled myself up onto a branch, looking up. Looking up to see where I would put my arms and legs next.

Today, I looked up and didn’t jump. My arms remained by my sides.

Will I no longer peer from a secret perch, be hidden by leaves, look up, look out from sturdy branches? Seeing. Imagining.

I did not climb a tree today. But maybe another day I will reach my arms overhead, pull myself up, enjoy rough bark graze gently against my skin as branches beckon me.

We have probably taken pictures of ourselves since photography’s inception–although those unwieldy instruments made it notably more difficult.

And I can readily recall numerous photos posing in front of this structure or landscape or at that event. But I do not recall the primary subject of our own photographs so often being ourselves.

The selfie is ubiquitous. It has become a validation of self: a necessary emblem that we exist.

The words Smile Your Beautiful are painted in large letters on a brick wall. They are visible from the Manhattan Bridge.

If I had a beautiful, what would it be? And how could I get it to smile?

Is my mind my beautiful, my heart,  my soul,  my dreams, or some part of me?

Smile your beautiful.

Smile your beautiful for all to see.

My visits to libraries had always been enjoyable. Rows of books represented promise and discovery. Enclosed booths provided quiet sanctuaries and all kinds of knowledge was literally at my fingertips.

I remember going often. And then something changed.

My visits stopped altogether.

The other day I decided a visit to my local library was long overdue.

Free lessons in Spanish, Chinese, French, Japanese, Portugese, Russian, and English were given throughout the day. I applied for a card and took out a graphic novel in Spanish. I discovered a lesser known novel by William Faulkner and took that out as well.  An exhibition of egg tempera paintings was on display in the lobby. Workshops in writing, computers, and fiber arts were offered, among others, all free of charge. And the rows and rows of books were dutifully waiting to be read.

Its cafe was serving fresh pie, food, coffee and tea, and tutoring, reading, writing, chatting, and daydreaming were in evidence at the tables nearby.

I hope to go often, again.

One day a year, perhaps it was Thanksgiving, the local radio statio I listened to in my tweens played The Beatles music, only The Beatles. It was a cherished day. But at some point, probably when Wings was on the airwaves, and Joni Mitchell sang directly to me, I tired of their music.

Years later if Pandora chose a Beatles’ tune, I gave it a thumbs down. I had heard enough.

There is a local spot I went to for lunch a few days ago. I like the long counter and easy atmosphere of the place. Music was playing. It sounded fresh, seductive, profound, yet familiar. I listened with pleasure to the harmonies, the complexity, the beauty, and innovation of the tunes.

It was Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

In second or third grade I was noted to be a fast reader. I recall being placed in a darkened room with a projector that would display only a single word of each sentence, at increasing speeds, on a screen. How often I went there I do not recall. But the experience was not unpleasant as I displayed my prowess at decoding a rapid string of words. I was in fact a very fast reader.

Around that time my mother asked me about a story that I had read for school. I probably said it was okay. It did not make any particular impression upon me. The story somehow interested her and she began to read it aloud by my side. The characters came to life. I was spellbound. The details of the story are faded, but at the end with tears welling up in my eyes I said, “Oh, that’s so sad.”

My mother was surprised. “Hadn’t you already read this?” she asked.

Apparently my reading fast and comprehending the words I was reading were two very different things.

Up until sixth grade, I was required to wear a skirt or dress to school.

In kindergarten, I recall wearing a dress that ended a few inches below the knees. Over the years it inched up, with my increasing height, somewhere above my knees. I do not recall anyone taking notice. But from second or third grade on it seemed that everyone’s eyes were on my hemlines, and they had to be just so.

According to the fickle rules of fashion, there was the two-fingers rule above the knee one year, the two-fingers rule below another, and there was the year that the hemline was to fall mid-knee. The hemlines of my dresses and skirts rarely adhered to these strict codes.

Some years later girls and women, guided by their daily whims, were wearing minis, midis, maxis, and various lengths in between.
Oh happy day!

Ilya, the charming protagonist in the classic 1960 film Never on Sunday, was convinced that all the characters in the Greek Tragedies lived happily, and instead of dying all went down to the seashore.

Her outlook on life was equally joyous. Ilya’s optimistic perception of the world is contestable, but it is undoubtedly a lovely one.

When I was a child, I wished that I could remember everything. I was told that this might not be a good idea.

There is wisdom in these words, but do we choose the memories we retain?

Some people in Japan, called denshoshas, are spending years with Hiroshima bomb survivors.

The denshoshas will be sharing the survivors’ memories for posterity after they are gone.

I am hoping, despite the horrors, there will be memories of joy as well.