Would You Like to Win $25,000?


I had an occasion to go into my bank to make what they considered a sizable deposit. My banker suggested I return tomorrow to make the deposit because they had a hundred dollar deal starting the next day. You put in a certain amount and leave it for ninety days and they will give you a hundred dollars. I really did not want to be bothered with deals and do not usually fall for them, but I knew I would be back that way the next day, so what the heck. Also, I am not planning on using the money anytime soon, so I qualified.

The following day found me holding my check and entering the bank. I was offered special celebratory cookies and fruit. Oh how nice, I thought to myself. I sat at the end of a large important looking desk where I knew many of their transactions have taken place. I noticed that over the years, I have tried to keep a separate identity and feel secure in my dealings. I say this because in order to make this deposit, it is not made by me, myself, and I anymore; it is in the name of a Trust! I am in there somewhere I assure myself. I don’t’ even sign my name without printing the name of the Trust in very small letters so they fit on the back of this not really so sizable check. Such a big deal made with the signing, the $100.00, the ninety day clause, and I was thankful to be getting away. Not so fast Trustee.

My banker had another surprise opportunity for me. She asked permission to sign me up for the $25,000 Sweepstakes.


I said, “Don’t you dare sign me up.” Her eyes bugged out, her mouth turned into a circular lip formation and she said, “You mean you do not want $25,000?”

“No, I do not.”

“Why not?’

I informed her that I would receive ten calls a week, mailings I do not want to read, emails and new opportunities by the thousands over the years and besides enduring all of this unwanted bombardment, I was not slated to win the $25,000.

She rolled her eyes and acquiesced. I left the bank maybe $100.00 richer in ninety days and learned I will not be the winner of their $25,000 sweepstake contest. I drove my car into the Carl’s Jr. next door to the bank and stuffed myself.


The Power of my Pilgrimage to Uman


It doesn’t matter how I got to Kiev and it doesn’t matter what I did there. What does matter is that I was on my way to Uman. Uman? Why would anyone travel 3 1/2 hours from Kiev through the agricultural countryside of the Ukraine, hour after hour in 99 degrees with 99% humidity in a car that sputtered, spouted and stalled every 40 to 45 minutes? I didn’t know why I was on this road, but I was. I had no real idea what to expect, except for the fact that I was on my way to Uman.

One night about a year ago I happened upon a website that told of a gravesite in Uman, Ukraine of Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav (April 4, 1772 – October 16, 1810), the great-grandson of the founder of Hasidism. I learned of the wisdom and the teaching of this Rebbe and how his teachings have carried on for two hundred years after his death.   Rebbe Nachman of Breslov promises that whoever comes to his gravesite and recites the Ten Psalms of the Tikkun K”lali and gives as little as one cent to charity, will be cleansed and protected.

I became convinced that I had a calling to go to this Rebbe’s grave to ask forgiveness for the remembrances of the prejudices towards me so many times in my life for being Jewish and be absolved from my unforgiving attitude towards temple life stemming from the fact that the Rabbi would not let me participate in the confirmation of all of the girls in my class. We had communal confirmations in those days at that temple, not the modern day Bat Mitzvahs. I was called to the Rabbi’s office, fearing the worst and knowing this was something out of the normal; I crept inside his office with great trepidations. I was well behaved and was a good tutor for the rest of the girls when they needed a push along the path to our confirmation. Bar Mitzvah was for the boys and we, all of the girls, twelve of us were dedicatedly happy to be the first confirmation class in our temple. All of us were just turning thirteen.

We studied in an upstairs room of the temple and became best friends. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, we would bounce up the stairs, anxious to hear from all of our friends. We were in a time of our lives of pure trust, pure love and innocence. We had little social acceptance in our outside lives, but inside those hallowed walls we were one with ourselves.

Our temple was not an orthodox temple but held to many of their rigid rules. Women and children were delegated to the upstairs, and they did not even think of wandering the ground level. We did have to enter the temple on the lower floor and descend to use the restrooms, we helped in the kitchen, but we never enjoyed the full breadth of the lower levels.

I dawdled getting to the Rabbi’s office. He was busy with someone else, so I waited. I began to feel very nervous and knew something was going to happen. I picked at my nails and scratched at my elbows; the tic in my face went on a rampage. He finally turned his attention to me and paused for what seemed like hours. I could tell he was composing his thoughts, organizing what and how he was going to say what he said. His brows closed together, he started a low groan, and I began to sweat. My mouth went dry, my glasses fogged and my heart began to beat rapidly in anticipation. The Rabbi looked at me with such distance, such conviction. He said in his very thick accent, “Well, Sheila, you will not be confirmed with the rest of the girls.”

“ What? Why not; what happened?”

“ It is my decision that the cut-off date for confirmation girls is August 31st, and your birthday is September 19th. That means you are not eligible.”

“ But Rabbi, I can speak and write Hebrew better than all of them. I help them. You can’t leave me out of the group.”

“ I can, I just did and you will have to come back for another year. You will be confirmed next year.”

It felt like bomb exploded inside of me. All of the venom I had felt brewing, boiling, fermenting, in me spewed out in a blast. I yelled my childish frustration, “I hate you. I hate this temple.”

I ran from that temple and ran all the way home with tears running and heart breaking. On the way home, I was talking with God, asking questions I wanted answered, answering them myself, screaming out obscenities, not really meaning any of it, but feeling quite powerful by the time I reached home. My parents were pillars in the temple, and I knew I had some pretty big explaining to do. I knew the Rabbi would spill all that I had said and give my parents an earful of their obscene daughter’s mouth and her unladylike manners. I didn’t care by then, because I was never going back into that temple, but I also knew that I would be the best Jewish person I could be on my own without a temple. I knew that I was not giving up being Jewish or Judaism, just the ways of this temple and the decision of this Rabbi.

I began to think in earnest about my journey to Rabbi Nachman’s grave and wondered would I ask the Rebbe, if my parents knew when they moved to that little town that I would be the only Jewish girl anyone had ever seen? Did they know when they put me into school that I would be target practice for future anti-Semites? They had many clubs when I got to high school. They had band, orchestra leadership, the chess club, the radio club, varsity baseball, varsity swimming, gymnastics, tennis, cross country, varsity football, the letterman, future engineers of America, future teachers of America, future medics, future hostesses of America, but the club with the most members was the future anti-Semites of America. No one from this club had their pictures taken for preservation in the annual book of memories and no one from this club even knew they were members. Did I have any good memories as I grew up Jewish, oh yes, but I more strongly remember the ones that hurt.

Last year I visited Auschwitz-Berkinau, this year, after going to Babi Yar in Kiev and standing on the rim of a ravine where tens of thousand of Jews had been shot and allowed to fall into a common grave, I began to feel foolish for my angst over the prejudices I felt growing up in my small California town. Our temple consisted of families from eight neighboring cities. I loved my temple because it was the only place in the outside world where I felt accepted, loved, respected and understood. The Rabbi’s decision not to allow me to be confirmed with my friends temporarily tangled my Jewish mind. I was the only Jewish girl in my elementary school; my brother was to enter three years later along with the Rosen boys. I feel guilty that I needed absolution from a Rebbe that has been dead for over 200 years for harboring the resentment towards the prejudiced treatment and inability to cleanse it from my being. I reached a decision that, I could give myself absolution and I did, but the experience planning for and traveling to Uman to visit Rebbe Nachman was a turning point and a stronghold for my Judaism.

I signed up with Youth Hostelling International for the tour to Uman. I explained that I am a senior citizen, not a youth and they said they were available to all travelers. Remember them when you need help traveling. They handled some the difficulties traveling to Uman with ease, grace and with great expertise. I was picked up at 7:30 a.m. The car would not start. After repeated tries, the engine turned over and we pulled out of an alleyway in downtown Kiev heading for the highway leading to Uman. Luckily the driver spoke English, but unluckily he did not know anything much about Uman except that we were to meet a guide in front of the gates to Sofia’s Park. After a lovely, long ride through agricultural lands we turned into a parking lot, which faced the gates leading to a fairyland park with cascades of lakes, sky-blue ponds, fountains, grottoes, antique sculptures, waterfalls and six miles of intense walking ahead of me. The guide approached by saying, “Welcome to the park voted the most beautiful in the universe.” I was anxious to get to Rabbi Nachman’s gravesite and asked why we were here in Sophia’s Park. The guide stated that this was included in the tour I had ordered. I learned something in the Ukraine and that is when you ask for something and when you get it, it is yours. You go with the program designed for you and usually there are no deviations. The walk in the park lasted six hours. The heat was oppressive and there was not another tourist in sight. When the tour ended I realized that the guide was right, Sophia Park is the most beautiful park in the universe, and although I was spent physically, and was astounded by the beauty, I was especially pleased to learn that Rabbi Nachman used to walk in this park when he lived in Uman.

After a brief rest, we began our short journey to the gravesite. When our car arrived, immediately we heard Breslov songs blasting from speakers giving the center of this little town a festival feeling. The car was parked and within a short walking distance, I spot gates and armed guards. Is this Rebbe Nachman’s grave? Why such security? I feel safe. I didn’t know then about this village being the site of awful massacres of tens of thousands of Jews. In the late 1800’s, the Cossacks swept through Jewish settlements in the Pale, killing Jews, looting and destroying villages. I need not wonder anymore why there are armed guards. I was not allowed to enter the Synagogue that holds the grave of Rabbi Nacnman. I could not understand the full extent of what was happening, so I just held on to one of the bars of the gate guarding the gravesite and began to sob uncontrollably. I was sobbing for all of my petty dreams of being cleansed of my chains, sobbing because I had been denied my dream. I had traveled so far now to be denied, I am not used to being denied. A little old man began to speak to me in a friendly kind voice in a language I did not understand. He began ushering me softly to the side of the building. Nothing. “Nothing is here. Why are you doing this?” I asked. He just kept nodding and ushering me gently now towards the back of the building where more armed guards stood. He gave me a small coin and patted it into my hand. He opened my hand pointing to the coin several times. It was important to him that I realize he had put the coin in my hand. His warm hand was constantly moving me and guiding me on to his destination. He put something on my head and gained entrance for me to continue up the stairs on my own.

I climb the few stairs and enter a new dimension. Women. Everyone in this partitioned area is a woman. They hurried up to me, dried my tears and began to ask questions. When I answered in English, they called on one of the younger women to translate. They found out that I had traveled from California to be with them. They asked why I was wearing pants. I told them that I did not know and did not understand where I was going when I began this journey. Yes, I had completely forgotten about the orthodox rule of women being separated from the men during worship. They smiled and I was thunder struck by their beauty. Each smile sparkled like an orthodontic specialist had expertly crafted it. Each face was deeply chiseled with an artisan’s skill and the skin covering their chiseled bones was a deep rich color of the earth. They embraced me and held up the bank where I was to drop my charity. The guide and driver had locked my purse and camera in the trunk of the car and I was without money, or was I? I instantly remember the little old man giving me a coin. I fished it out of my pocket and it flickered and flashed as I put it into the box amid nods and sighs. Then, there was the reciting of the Ten Psalms of the Tikkun K”lali. I sat for long moments looking at the women lying across the shelf of the grave. As I know it now, there are two shelves coming together in a triangular manner, the Rebbe is buried beneath the triangular arch. One side services the men and the other side services the women.

Facing the shelf on the woman’s side and starting left to right, one woman had a folded wedding gown on the shelf under her hand and she was wailing and talking with the Rebbe. I could not begin to understand her words but her motions and her wailing led me to believe that something had gone terribly wrong with her wedding. The next woman had pictures of children, which she kept moving in a circular motion clockwise. She said something over each child and then moved the photo on as she spoke again about the picture placed at noon. Another woman was just standing there with her elbows on the shelf and her head in her hands. Several women were sitting towards the front actually eating what I would call chips. It looked like chips and dip to me, but I know it was just food I do not have words to describe. The pews were dotted with women of various ages and the children that were there never uttered a peep. When I stood to replace my book on the shelves, I heard loud speaking of words I did not understand until I heard California, loudly and clearly. All of the women moved aside from the shelf and my body was splayed out onto the Rebbe’s grave. I once again felt guilty for my petty problems with prejudice and was able to summon up the courage to apologize to those who have suffered the terrors and murders of their people, and I felt guilt for bemoaning the fact that I had been made to sit in the back of the classrooms and having been denied the wearing formal gowns of the Rainbow Girls and the robes of the Jobs Daughters. The girls who were members would come to school with photos of themselves in their magnificent gowns taken during ceremonies. I did so want to wear one of those gowns and be a part of those ceremonies even though I did not know what they preordained. Carol’s gown was aqua net and Winnie was so gifted that she made her own. They wore those gowns every week and seeing them hang in their closets, I would just melt with envy. The group leaders told me that I was not able to join Jobs daughters even though I had a proper Masonic relationship because they had no place for Jewish attendants. I do not believe that Rainbow Girls has a creed to ban Jewish members, but they did specify that you had to have faith in a Supreme Being. Although Rainbow is not a religious organization, in my hometown their Supreme Being was not one in the same with mine.

Dear God, I am sorry for not having stood up for myself and for not praying much earlier for all of those atrocities that others have suffered on this very spot. The women of Uman and the visitation at the place of Rabbi Nachman’s burial have given me answers to who I am, an inspiration and guidance to live and learn wisdom, plus gain a spiritual light to continue my search for a meaningful Jewish life and to preserve it for those who are yet to come.


An Experience with Recovery Therapy


I used to get the jitters once in awhile, still do. You probably do not get them, so, lucky you. I never know if they are coming, so I cannot plan for them.  I was hoping to work it out with some kind of therapy rather than drug myself into oblivion.  Going far away from home, or worry over the family is a time I have to work at calming down the symptoms of anxiety. Imagine at my age having anxiety. My life is nearly over. I should have been scared to death early on. Perhaps I was, and too involved to recognize it.  It was suggested that I try a form of therapy.  I believe it is written on my paperwork: Recovery Therapy. Recovering from fear I assumed. I made an appointment with a therapist.

The minute I walked into the door the “she” therapist handed me a box of partially used Kleenex. I said, “ I do not have a cold, is there something on my face, do I need these?”  She said, “Well you are going to cry and you will need them.”  I thought to myself then and there, no way was I going to allow myself to cry. The session began and ended with no consequences good or bad.  I did not cry and thinking back maybe I should have.

Miss K seemed like a novice in dealing with my meanderings. I was older and truly it seemed I knew more in some areas, especially the areas where I wanted to find some new connections.  If she had been more in tune, more experienced, maybe she would have been able to help me. Maybe if she hadn’t handed me Kleenex I would have been more open.  I thought perhaps I needed to go back to make sure it was not me who was blocking the therapy progress.  So, I made another appointment. I happened to pass a bakery on the way to my second appointment, so being the kind of person I am, I stopped and hand picked cookies for my family and a bag for the therapist.  When I handed her the cookies, she said,  “Oh is this a bribe? Can I expect cookies every time you come?”  Then and there, I decided there would not be a next time. She seemed so hostile.  It seemed like if I had the problem, I would not be an equal partner in my recovery. What recovery?  We are all recovering in some way or another from birth to death.  After such a traumatic thing as birth is claimed to be, I personally have no recall, the baby needs to recover.  The in between stages of living our lives is a jumbled mess of haps and mishaps, surely needing recovery. In death and dying, it all comes together in a big recovery experience and when you see the white light, “bingo” you are done.  Congratulations, you have arrived at the ultimate recovery. Your behavior heretofore has been structured and developmental, a road to personal growth, challenging, developing healthier relationships, taking responsibility for your actions and deciding to integrate all you have learned. Congratulations, you have arrived at the ultimate recovery and St. Peter is there to tell you, you are several points short, but he definitely appreciates your kind attention to the details and your dedication to recovery.

By the way, I just found out that my HMO is offering something new in recovery called Behavioral Therapy. You do not need to be referred.  You can just call and offer yourself up to this new format. Excuse me please, I do think I will pass, but I would like to know if they offer Kleenex and take cookie bribes.

Screw It!


This is the first time I have been so brazen, but the need be. When I was preparing dinner the night before last, I realized the need to screw caps on and off. I was actually consumed by counting the number of screws it takes to screw off the cap and then, screw it on again. Stop reading, go to your pantry or refrigerator and take out a number of screw on and offs. Count them. Soon you will be consumed by counting and don’t let this happen to you, but if you add up the screws for a day, that’s a lot of screwing.

For example, in the above photo, if you are quite relaxed you get about 80 screws. Skip showed me that if you become more aggressive and work harder at screwing tops on and off, you can reduce the number of screws. Who wants to work too hard and some of you may or may not want to add to or reduce the number of screws. It is entirely up to you.

Now, if you are up to it, you can go into your bathroom and find plenty of screws. The best places for adding to your screwing numbers is in the pantry. Look in the garage, lots of screwing opportunities there too, right?

Arthritis sets in when you grow a bit older and you will find screwing harder. It takes longer, too. If you are not in a hurry, you will find screwing in older age quite practical.

Frankly, this screwing issue keeps me up at night worrying about how much I have to screw all day, in the bathroom, the kitchen, the den and dining room. Look around; you have a lot of screwing to do, too. You probably, and I probably, should not let it keep us up at night because screwing is just a natural part of life.




Recently there was a newsworthy video for television shown on an early summer morning. For a summer morning it was dull with a surprising inland fog. Instead of turning my chair to our buff side garden, I turned it to the television. It was lucky for me to be tuned in because at that moment, I saw a man riding the biggest wave in history.

As one ages, at any stage, there are ruts and pitfalls. You want to be able to help yourself out of the rut and avoid the pitfalls. I think if I learned how to ride a wave, the philosophies gaining that skill would move me up and out again. I would like your comments as well, but here is how I see it with my limited experience, no Internet and a blank page.

Certainly a pre-requisite to riding a wave would have to be learning or knowing how to swim.  Got that covered. Then, I assume you would have to learn how to approach the wave, a strategy you would employ each time you rode any wave.  I say any wave because not all waves are the same or come from the same direction.  You would have to begin an observation program and in observing you would understand and be better able to predict wave behavior. Predicting wave behavior, or any behavior is paramount to success anytime in your life.

In learning to ride a wave, technique is something to ponder. Here is where you will use your observation skills and watch other surfers. You will learn the art of observation and technique. You will spend much time reading about the waves, talking about the waves, learning where to be when the wave comes, how to use your eyes to help your position on the board and learning which side right or left depending on the kind of wave you will be encountering.  All of this observing, reading, talking, and predicting will prepare you with skills you will need to accomplish any task you set. Riding a wave is not the only task that requires the aforementioned skills, but rather life is a combination of skills and I do believe once you learn to ride a wave you will be more equipped to enter all phases of life.

I approached the learning how to ride waves topic because I think it will give me strategies for understanding, observation skills, balance, and the technique required will give most of us the confidence to face much of our life issues.   I think it will offer awareness, an acceptance, and a faith in gathering a new view. I know I will gain the love of truth and forgiveness for my inadequacies and this knowledge will help to fill in the holes. Studying how to ride a wave will gather a rectification for righteousness because of its purity, and its reality with nature. Realizing its fluidity will add grace.  My study will be purposeful and add a justification for existing.

Can I now ride a wave? Maybe or maybe not, but through the study of riding waves you and I can approach life with more self-reliance. Whether you or I ever ride a wave, is not the question or the answer. It is the skills we gain on the way, which is the art of essence.

P’s Comment on the See Me Now Blog made me think!



(If you wish to refresh your memory scroll down and read the See Me Now posting and the comment from “P’)

The comment made by “P’ is this: “When you are behind a rock, what happens if you look behind you and a whole new aspect greets you? Are you still hiding or do you use the rock as a backdrop for something more exciting?”

My answer will take years of looking at the rock as a backdrop for something more exciting, but here is what I have seen so far:

I thought you would be interested in this morning and how “P’s” words created something special for me. I went out early before we went to work 6:40 a.m. to be exact to give the quail some left over popcorn.  I looked up to see a full moon hanging in the sky (facing west) I am all caught up in the hanging moon that forgot its timing, then, I remembered what “P” said and turned around behind the backdrop of the moon and towards the east. Oh my wonder, there was the sun coming up, of course.  So, I think I was one of a few, maybe the only one in my area to witness a full moon and the sun together this morning. Perhaps there are many places in the world where this occurs, but not here.  What a treasure. So again, I thank  “P” for his astute Blog comment.

More kudos for “P.”

This afternoon I was on my way to a luncheon at Mimi’s Café, 7.0 miles, about a 20-minute ride. Shortly after leaving my house and entering the roadway, a car turned in front of me and I slowed to let a car turn into a side street.  Then, a little further, there is an alley way and another car turned in front of me. I slowed once again.  If I would have taken “P’s” advice I would have seen the rather aggravated blond bombshell shaking her fists and moving out and around me on the left, passing through double yellow lines dictating no passing. She was trying to make the go signal. Even though she drove fearlessly and tried her best, she was not successful and I pulled up right in back of her. She was flailing her arms and hands. She had broken the law, put my life and hers in jeopardy and caused me quite a scare, but I pleasantly waved and smiled.

The blonde wild-haired woman turned left, I turned left, right on her tail. She drove to Corbin Ave in a rush and turned right. I was right behind her. We drove on in semi tandem for 7.0 miles. She wove in and out of lanes, trying to shake me loose. No, no Blondie, I’m still in back of you. She stopped at the first red light, glanced in her rear view mirror to find me there smiling and waving.  I can feel this woman beginning to worry. The next light that stopped us found her right across from me in the adjoining lane. Blondie is shrinking and sweating in her seat.  I know she is wondering why I am following her.  I am not following her; I am going to my appointment at Mimi’s. I am still smiling and waving.

Actually, I am very proud of myself. I am driving properly, within the speed limit, have not changed lanes every few minutes, yet I am stuck to this wild sweating woman driving a silver bullet with the emblem to let me know it is a Mercedes. I thought to myself, don’t care what you are driving, I am right here in your sights, smiling and waving. You are sweating and worried.

About five miles have been covered and I have not lost any ground. She has worked herself into a bit of frenzy by changing lanes and dodging cars, still trying to shake me. I am enjoying myself and my realization that I am driving like a law biding hot-rod driver is thrilling. I am up on her and nearly miss my turn into Mimi’s parking lot. I turn my way, go on my appointed rounds and know that wild Blondie, the miserable law breaking, dangerous driver, is still looking in her rear view mirror wondering when I will show up.

So, this is not about me seeing in back of me, it is about someone seeing me when they look back. Glory today is performing a job well done in someone’s rear view mirror.




When you realize you are going to the home of the first Starbucks you know you are in for a treat. You have read that the first Starbucks resides at the Pikes Place Market, the “soul of Seattle”. We got settled in our digs at the waterfront and headed off to Pikes Market, right? Doesn’t everyone do that first? It seemed that everyone in Seattle was at the market because there was shoulder-to-shoulder traffic in every spot in and around the market. It was electric, inspiring and the soul of Seattle refers to the taste of the market. Everything is the top of the top in quality and taste.

Shoulder-to shoulder traffic

Shoulder-to shoulder traffic

My new favorite potatoes are the Rainbow potatoes. You can have fun with a bag of those.



Rainier Cherries: The cherries in Seattle were the most delicious I have ever tasted and plentiful. A handful a day keeps you quite regular.

And Not your mother’s beans.


How about some Elephant Garlic?

How about some Elephant Garlic?

Everyone knows they throw fish across the market stalls in the Pikes Market to get your attention and they do. There is no photo because of the massive crowds surrounding the event. Following are a couple of delicious looking possibilities in the fish market.




Where Starbucks was born:


We did not have the desire to go into this Starbucks because of the crowds, but seeing Starbucks birthplace reminded me of my recent experience in a crowded city center establishment; the ultimate tourist experience. I must admit I am not a youngster. I do not have the Starbucks thing down. I know you go to the counter, order, and give them your name, an alias. Never give your real name, so I said my name is Alias.  Starbucks ethics. You don’t want them to yell out your real name and have someone follow you, yelling your name causing you a stir.

I did not see the line, old, nearsighted, unfamiliar with protocol, whatever, I went in the front of the line that later I saw snaked out the door and into the street. I wondered why people raised their eyebrows, but did not understand until I sat down and got the proper perspective. Sitting in shame, I hear them call, “Alias.” Nothing registered, again, “Alias.”  Oh, that’s me. Sheepishly, in my most old lady persona, I approached the counter to retrieve our drinks.

Heck, it all tasted as good as if I would have waited properly in line and given my real name. But, deep inside I am sorry for my Starbucks behavior and you can be assured I will check out the line and place myself properly on all other visits.  I will continue to use my new Starbucks name, “Alias.”

CHIHULY MUSEUM AND GARDENS: http://www.chihulygardenandglass.com/?gclid=CJW03tiTirkCFeqDQgodew4ASA

We were privileged to enjoy the Chihuly Exhibition Hall, Glasshouse and Gardens before our revolving lunch at the top of the Space Needle at Sky City Restaurant with an unbelievable 360-degree view.


Dale Chihuly is a native of Washington and can still be seen supervising the blowing of glass in his studio. His work is distinctive in the field of blown glass. He became world renown and in the interim he had a car accident, which he recovered from and was still able to blow his glass sculptures. Again, he was injured. This time it was in a bodysurfing accident involving his right shoulder leaving him unable to hold the glass blowing pipe. He hired helpers to do the work he outlined and said when he was able to step back from his work,  in the view. there appeared a new dimension

The first time we became familiar with Chihuly’s work was at the Bellagio and the MGM in Las Vegas. We walked into the lobby and saw everyone staring at the ceilings. We did the same.

The Chihuly Museum in Seattle is well worth the visit and includes a special delicious melting feeling, as if you are melting into everything that exists and that you hold meaningful. Now it is your job to pull the melt apart and examine what it means to you, personally.

I have included a few photos that look so yummy you feel like licking and biting.



The Sky City Restaurant is at the top of the Space Needle and the views show Seattle’s intricacies, vitality, and spirit.

Normally you would pay a fee and be elevated to a perch high above Seattle, but for just a few extra dollars, you can sit in the revolving restaurant, scenes changing every few minutes and dine on gourmet food. We chose the few dollars more and here are some of the views:










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