Monday, December 31, 2012

Family Matters


Family Matters...

A lot.

Travelin’, travelin’, travelin...

Worth every mile

Just to catch the smile

Of a gran’pa watching his daughter’s daughter shine.

“No, Gra’Moose, HE does the talking; we just laugh,” says Miss D at 3.5 years. She’s got us down. She knows I like my toast as hard as a brick and that turquoise is my favorite color.

She knows that her Auntie Sid is the best reader of our bunch, and asks her regularly to read every book she’s ever received - especially the ones her auntie has written!

She knows Uncle Mr. Grady Pants is silly, but not as silly as Gran’Pun who is also "goofy."

Mostly, she knows she is loved and safe and going to be kept safe by the larger net of family that extends through many states and involves many hearts beating out a steady rhythm of hope and earnest effort to make things better for children in a world where wicked ways proliferate faster than winter rye under heaps of manure.

She also knows how to pretend and play and put on performances.

Our daughter Mosa invited us to attend one of her MOTH parties Saturday night. The only rules are that the story has to be about you, and that you tell it without notes. You may not read it. The theme was Dark and Light / Beginnings and Endings. She told a story about beginnings and endings that wowed us all. Younger daughter Megan told a story of moving from Chicago to the East Bay that illustrated persevernce and spunk. My husband told a story about the first time he celebrated Christmas with any heart in it - when he bought a tree for my grieving Grandmother Maxwell shortly after her husband died. I was in tears remembering his generosity of spirit and courage to overcome what had been a life-long hatred of all things related to Christmas.

I told a story that is only skin deep... about my freckled dark/light skin and my complex about my complexion. More or less, it's the blog I wrote for December 9, but telling it live is a very different experience! Well... here’s the link:


Others (nineteen of us in all) told funny, poignant, purposeful if sometimes meandering stories. Can’t think of a better way to ring in the New Year than through story-telling.

Barry Lopez observed, “Sometimes people need a good story more than we need food.”

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Now What?


We made it! We’re still here! Yay, Earth! You held on and now hold us at your bosom for yet another day.

How glad I am that the Mayans simply ran out of stone; that the alignment of our dear solar system with the Galactic Center of our beloved Milky Way does not signal the end of time.

What makes us concoct terror-filled stories of doom and gloom? Are we simply externalizing our deepest interior fears to give them a shape to hate or blame?

I remember how satisfying it was, when I was in the throes of my healing process, to bash my fist against the (empty) passenger seat in my car. I was railing against the injustices dished out on little kids who have no power. I was demonizing my father and other authority figures who did me dirty and I was smackin’ ‘em up side the imaginary head. It was good to have a target for that free-floating anxiety, angst and anger. It was goood to ka-pow, ka-boom, ka-vaporize them with my fist while driving the freeways on my way to pick up children from school. It helped me to be a better mom - to get that rage out of me in my alone time. It helped me to be there for my daughters without so many trigger-buttons shining brightly on my shirt for them to push.

It’s the JOB of our children (or spouses) to push our buttons! How else would we ever clean up our act, do our healing work or unburden ourselves of the baggage of the past? Our offspring and significant others are here as helping guides; to point out the smelly left-over bits of our own childhood and beg us to please chuck ‘em, digest ‘em, HEAL them!

So, here we are - post predicted Mayan Apocalypse. NOW WHAT?? Same ol’, same ol’? Or is it time for re-evaluation and truly chucking what isn’t working and adopting some new strategies for surviving together on the planet?

The movie, Life of Pi is a good metaphor for our age. We’re sharing a small life boat with some pretty voracious (internal) beasts. If the world were about to end, how do we envision ourselves making the most of it? Do I want to buy a gun? Do I want to buy some flowers? Or not to buy anything at all, but rather give away all I possibly can, as quickly as I can to those in need of something?

As Solstice yields to Christmas, the list I made of seeds to nurture in the coming year is a growing list. It does include more time to socialize with those I love, and to play on the planet with fearless joy.

All the trite (and true) phrases make sense to me: Dance like nobody’s watching, love like you’ve never been hurt before, sing as though no one can hear you, and live as if heaven is on earth. Friday night, I sang to some friends. I pretended they couldn’t hear me and I was singing for myself. It wasn’t the best I’ve ever sung, but I didn’t die.

Thanks, mama earth, for continuing to spin through space and proving to the universe at LARGE how limited we humans are in our understanding of it all. I’m enjoying  "humilitude" with Deep Gratitude!

May all your celebrations be filled with JOY, light, love, lots of laughter and GRATITUDE!
Humilitude Optional.

Solstice Song  Words and music by Melinda Maxwell-Smith 1989


Solstice, a time when the sun stands still

Four days it seems to rise in place.

At the southern most point on its yearly journey

It stops to fill us with grace

Winter Solstice, a time of dark and cold

At rest, the womb, the tomb of Earth

She holds on to life and She waits for the Sun

And promises all re-birth.


Chorus: Solstice, bring the sunlight back again

Solstice, bring the spring and return and return


So, we celebrate with warmth and joy

And await the return of the sun, our jewel

We kindle our love and our hope with inner light 

As we plant a seed for our renewal.


Chorus…


The Earth, the Water, the Fire, the Air return, return…

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Solstice


Wishing hibernation were an option.

Christmas blues of different hues

not wanting to participate in the gimme, gimme gotchas

not wanting to buy buy, black bird

desiring flames. bonfires. torches. 
candles fighting the dark

wax dripping-hot, stinging me awake from this nightmare of buy buy black bird.

Hating the deadline 

December 25... you’re a dead-ringer for the death knell. You don’t meet the date; you don’t make the grade.

At 20 I cried the mellowdramatic tears of youth convinced the poignant purple flowers of spring signaled the last spring we’d ever have... heart-broken by love, I thought the entire WORLD must be ending.

At 20 I cried mellowdramatic tears - believing that if I didn’t finish all the hand-made gifts I’d set out to complete by 12-25, the world would open and swallow me whole and belch at the aftertaste of unsavory me... poor wretched me. As if Rumplestilskin had set me the task... the urgency felt REAL.

At 60 something I balk at being told to buy, buy more, buy now, buy for later, buy for your uncles, aunties and cousins twice removed. Buy all the Chi in China. Buy for the good of the economy. (Whose?) Just BUY for no damned reason.

What if the Mayans were right? What if there’s no December 22 - or any other date beyond Friday’s Solstice?

I think I’ll wait to shop 'til after the 25th and simply enjoy the “real weather” we’re having in Los Angeles today. Rain, cold (for us -spoiled by fair-weather 350 days a year - it’s C-O-L-D!) and naked trees make me want to curl up and cover up and read by the fire... with lots of candles lit and twinkle lights on. No buy-buy-gimme-gotchas can deter me from hot tea and sympathy for the sorry state of the world and it’s AK-47 frenzies.

Rest in peace, little ones. Rest and heal, mamas and papas, brothers, sisters, grand mothers and grand fathers, aunties, uncles, sons and daughters, friends of the fallen.

There is no sense. There is non-sense, and the scents of fear and terror on the wind. Let’s not let the terrorists win tonight, shall we?

Celebrate what ever makes sense to you and enjoy the light as best you can.

There is a promise to be heard in the sun’s return past this Friday’s longest night.

“I will return. I will warm the Earth and help your seeds grow. I will warm your heart and light your way.”

That’s the promise - simple and true.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Dark and Light


Dark and Light

Ever since I was a kid I wanted to have an olive complexion. When I was seven, my dad  used make-up prosthetics from one of the movies he was working on to build up my cheekbones and change the shape of my nose. He used pancake #7 to give me a smooth and swarthy complexion with one strategically placed beauty spot just like Marilyn Monroe. I was a gypsy for Halloween with a tight scarf covering my red hair.  I thought, “NO one will recognize me!” When I walked into second grade, every one said, “Hi Melinda.” How did they know it was I? Oh, yeah... I was the skinniest kid in the school.

When I was ten, I prayed every night to have flat-against-my-head ears, straight teeth, to be a little bit fatter, and to have tan skin. Blue-white skin with freckles was NOT the "IN" thing in 1958.

By 1960, transistor radios came on the market and they were IN. I had a turquoise one with a battery that smelled funny and knobs that turned to the stations - almost, and a spindly telescoping antenna. One Saturday, Sharon Cordova, Vicky Garcia and I talked our parents into letting us take three busses to get from Echo Park (basically, downtown L.A.) to Santa Monica Beach. We were twelve. They agreed!

We packed bologna sandwiches, chocolate chip cookies, NeHi Orange soda and celery.  I LOVE celery. Of course, we took the turquoise plastic transistor radio and some money for chips and bus fare home. Two hours and three busses later we were near enough Santa Monica Beach that we could taste the salt air and feel the salt fog on our skin. The sun played hide and peek all day, by always hiding, never peeking. We had a wonderful day talking about boys, eating our lunch and listening to the radio, but I never did put on the Sea ‘n’ Ski suntan lotion my mom made me swear I’d use. I wanted to turn dark like my friends.

It wasn’t until we were part way home that I began to feel the burn. Vicky and Sharon felt glowing. I felt like a smelter full of molten steel. I was radiating heat but felt shivery and cold. Evidently, I looked a bit pink, because a guy on the bus said, “Ouch, honey... you look like a lobster. You THAT red!” I learned that you can get sun-burned even on a cloudy day - maybe even MORE sunburned on a cloudy day. Curse of white skin.

In Junior HIgh School I used to cheer my freckles on, “Get together, get together, give me a tan!” By seventh grade, boobs were on my prayer list. Obviously, prayer wasn’t working. Cheering was now added to the list of things that didn’t work - right after prayer.

At the end of eleventh grade, though, I tried out for cheer leader at Belmont High School for the following year. Belmont is an inner-city school just west of downtown L.A. I think the only reason I was selected as cheer-leader was because of my dancing background. I could do the splits and kick really high.

All the other gals on the squad were really beautiful and quite dark of skin. Even Eileen Roehlke, who was a blonde, had that perfect golden toasty marshmallow - before it turns black and blisters - colored skin.

I was white - but completely WHITE. I had a complex about my complexion. Before our first real game of the season, I begged my mom to drive me to Pioneer Market at the corner of Echo Park and Sunset so I could buy a bottle of Coppertone Quick Tanning Lotion. I heard all about it on my turquoise transistor radio - that QT lotion could give you a tan overnight.

Before the first foot ball game, my mom had to sew the yell-leader’s outfit for me from white duck material on the outside with green and black polka-dot pleats and lining. She was sewing well into the night that fateful Thursday before the big game on Friday afternoon. I was stressing about my white legs.  

The bottle of Quick Tanning Lotion said, “apply evenly and let dry.” I was in the bathroom smoothing it on my freshly shaved alabaster legs - well, actually, they looked more like uncooked chicken legs - you know, with blue-white bumpy skin? There were a few bloody knicks along the shin bones with pieces of toilet paper stuck-on to staunch the bleed.

Oddly, the QT lotion smelled like pop-corn. After it had totally dried, I carefully put on my pajamas checked my mom’s status and went to bed. I worried about the outfit. I worried about my “tan” being even.

I must’ve sweat during the night because in the morning, I ripped off my pajamas to admire my handiwork and was horrified to find my legs now looked like a cross between a zebra and a 50/50 Bar - those orange sherbert and vanilla ice cream bars. I was striped orange and white. I smelled of pop-corn with rancid butter. It wouldn’t wash off. It was a disaster. 

To make it worse, Mom’s sewing skills... well.... they say that some skills skip a generation. All the other girl’s outfits were perfect. Tina de Peralta’s mom was a seamstress by trade. Cheryl’s mom was top-notch in the sewing department. Cheryl could’ve made her own, but she was busy with student government, etc. All the other gals' dresses were neatly lined with the school’s colors of green and black. MY MOM let the raw white seams show which was a problem with those high kicks. Threads were hanging. My stomach sank. Tearful and fearful after confronting my mother that morning about her terrible sewing, I declared I wasn’t going to school. They’d just have to play the bleepin’ game without me. I couldn’t be seen in this condition.

“Nonsense,” my mother said. “You’ll go to school and it will all be OK. From up in the stands, no one is going to be watching your legs or the lining of your damn outfit with binoculars, Melinda. It’s not all about you.” 

I pouted all the way to school. I swaggered and swore all the way to Algebra class after shoving my outfit in my locker.  I hoped the lockers would catch on fire and I wouldn’t have to wear the damned outfit. I pulled my knee socks up and my skirt down to its lowest point on my hips to cover my orange zebra legs. I still smelled of pop corn.

Classes over, we cheer leaders were getting dressed in the girl’s gym before heading out to the field. My sweater, which at least covered my skinny white arms, was short waisted. After being measured carefully at the end of the school year in 1965 for our sweaters to be custom made, that summer the Watts Riots broke out.  Albion Knitting Mills burned to the ground.  Because I was in Ohio when it happened, Cheryl became the model for my new sweater at another mill. She is quite a bit shorter of waist than I am. 

I had an ill-fitting outfit, orange and white striped legs, and smelled of pop-corn. I was miserable.

Then, the game began. I didn’t know the difference between a First Down and a Penalty. I only knew when the ball hit the end zone and every one cheered, we were supposed to cheer too. I kicked and jumped and yelled my throat sore.

Miraculously, Belmont won our first home game against John Marshall High School. Mom was right. The dark day yielded to the light of victory. No one gave a hoot about my mottled legs or the ragged seams or short-waisted sweater. The dark truth is that it wasn’t all about me. I felt lighter for learning that... and just a teeny bit disappointed.

Monday, December 3, 2012

What I learned at the Resilient Child Workshop



A lot.

I spent three days in company with two wonderful teachers, Kathy Kain and Stephen Terrell. The workshop was experiential and didactic.

Something that stuck to my ribs is WHY my avoidant behavior comes to the fore when given the opportunity to heal the deepest layers of my own disorganized system. Why would I try to stay out of that briar patch?

Turns out that when we are gestating or newly born into the world in all its wild, wacky, wierd wonderfulness - when we are at our smallest and most vulnerable, if something goes awry, our physiology develops coping strategies to be with what feels like imminent death. It's not a cognitive choice, but rather a direct brainstem command.

For premature babies, or those young ones who require surgery or separation from mom, coping with these major stressors at the core level of our little beings is a physiological event. We don't yet have the tools to cope. It's like asking us to drain a lake with a spoon full of holes.  

While an adult who sees someone at a party, across the room, say, someone with whom she’d rather not interact can step outside for a while in order to avoid that person, a baby so young that she requires intrusive and extremely painful medical interventions to keep her breathing and alive doesn’t yet HAVE the executive function of the neo cortex on line. (Even if she could choose to run away or fight-off the intrusion - she's too little to do so.) She is in survival mode. She cannot concoct an evasive tactic in her thinking brain. All blood is shunted to the brain stem (where Fight, Flight and Freeze are housed). This is pro-survival; it provides the best chance of living through the threatening situation. 

The only coping strategy available in that precarious state, and before the neocortex and right brain are on line, is a physiological strategy. That means: If someone comes near the isolette (that’s what those clear plastic ‘incubator boxes’ are called these days) with yet another poking/proding device for the wee babe inside the box, all she may be able to do is to shut down one or more of her body systems to send her nervous system into a dorsal dive (deeply parasympathetic or Freeze) state where she will feel less pain. 

Simply approaching the baby in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) may cause her alarm because, within 12 hours out of the womb, she’s already become conditioned to expect that human contact hurts. When there’s that much alarm in her little nervous system and she cannot move away from a painful stimulus, all she can do to trigger the dorsal dive (merciful disociation) is to shut down another system that tips her into the dive response - an all system shut-down. Circulatory, digestive, endocrine and respiratory are all systems up for grabs to shut down and so, drop her into the sea of non-feeling numbness. Eventually this habit of shutting down - let’s say digestion - takes its toll and ends up costing the tissue a great deal.

Fast forward this movie called life, and now the grown-up baby has compensated and adapted and adopted ways of being in the world that produced the best outcome of which she was capable. She navigates pretty well until there’s something that feels the least bit threatening and suddenly she’s got another bout of IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome), or her Crohn’s Disease acts up, or a migraine comes on or an asthma attack or an inflammatory episode... or... or... or. 

These are the physiological coping mechanisms and they’re tricky to un-wire or de-detonate. As Kathy Kain says, it takes the delicacy of a veteran bomb-squad pro to do this work. It's not a casual shoulder rub at a dinner party, but rather precise, attuned work - done after perhaps years of building resilience in the nervous system.

The trickier part is that, because the survival states are so terribly uncomfortable, that grown-up human baby with so much pain at her core will do anything and everything to keep herself from feeling that existential angst ever again!

On the healing cot in my office, the way those evasive tactics show up is so subtle, I have to keep dropping down to different levels of awareness to find the survival physiology and hold it gently but firmly and say to it: “Brilliant! Right impulse; wrong experssion and out-come." And say to the client, "In order for you to heal from this syndrome (Crohn’s, Colitis, IBS, Migraine, Asthma, Depression, ADHD, etc.) we have to stabilize your nervous system so you can stand to be with these powerfully uncomfortable states - near death states - and ride through them to the other side. Your amazing life-force already got you through. That early threat didn't kill you. You survived! Let's celebrate tenacity and put into place some cognitive strategies for navigating life that won’t cost your physiology its tissue.”

Hugh Milne, in his book, The Heart of Listening a Visionary Approach to Cranio Sacral Work talks of Peewit Behavior. 
"Peewit is the Scottish name for a lapwing or plover, a dramatically colored bird that makes its nest in open fields and moor land. When a predator approaches, the peewit runs away from its nest and its defenseless eggs, dragging a "broken" wing and crying out plaintively. The predator naturally takes off in pursuit of this "injured" prize, which, once it is far enough away from the nest to have completed its diversion, promptly takes off and flies away." 

This wild and colorful dance of diversion is what shows up in my healing space - in a very muted and subtle way - even in clients who are truly dedicated to healing their archaic wounds. Who would want to revisit those near death states? Who, in her right mind, would be OK with that awful whole-body experience of terror and pain washing over her? I am not. My defensive responses to accessing my own core material are strong and tenacious. I'm grateful for the diligent practitioners with whom I got to exchange practice sessions this weekend.

Mercifully, the path to freedom lies just at the border of the pain. We don’t need to feel it all over again; we simply have to come to the edge and skate along it to the end of the pathway back to wholeness. Slowly we build capacity for holding these big survival states, hang on and ride the waves. Beyond the breakers is where freedom from the syndrome(s) lies.

One of Kathy's stories that stuck to my ribs had to do with a small plane in a big storm. Twenty minutes into a puddle-jumper flight from Vancouver into Calgary, the pilot came on the loud-speaker saying, "We're in for some major turbulence." Seasoned travelers knew that was bad. Before one of the stewardesses could get back to her seat the first bump hit. Every passenger, many of them children, screamed. This stewardess wedged herself in between a seat and a wall and in standing position threw her arms up and said, "Wheeeee! THAT was a BIG one!" Everyone laughed and for the next twenty minutes, the passengers did what she modeled. With every bump and dip, they threw their arms up and squealed like they were on a roller coaster. When the plane landed, these passengers were jovial and boisterous and bantering amongst themselves. Passengers disembarking from other planes, which had also gone through the storm, were ashen and rigid with fear. This singular stewardess helped all the passengers on her flight find self-regulation.

So, my job is: 1) to find a colleague with whom I can explore my own earliest traumas and dismantle the peewit strategies for avoiding them; and 2) to continue to hold these huge survival energies in others who are ready to do this work - normalizing that they are HUGE energies and that it's OK not to like doing this work... but it WORKS! With titration and regulation of the nervous system... Somatic Experiencing helps heal our attachment wounds; helps clear the disorganization from our system - making us more effective and efficient in what we came into life to DO.

Writing about what I'm learning is helping me integrate it.
Thanks for reading. Let me know if anything sticks to your ribs or if it feels too dense to digest.

Resources: In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Gabor Maté
Scared Sick by Robin Karrs
Trauma Spectrum by Robert Scaer

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Gone

Esther, Good night.

Sweetly, serenely, Aunt Esther slipped into that Great Good Night on Wednesday, November 21, 2012.  We were contacted Wednesday night by email just an hour before our family began to arrive from out-of-town for the annual Thanksgiving gathering of the clans.

Comings and goings.

Tears of joy; tears of loss.

**************************************************************

The five day feast here was cozy and included our first-ever official sleep-over with our granddaughter sans mama and papa. Solo sleepovers of grand children may not seem like a big deal to most. To us it does. The fact that THREE adults - my husband and I, and our younger daughter, who is auntie to the three-and-a-half-year-old-cutie-pie, Miss D - were totally exhausted in the wake of the actual solo-with-us-time - made us appreciate immensely how elegantly Miss D's mama navigates as a single mom. She has earned our renewed respect, awe and wonder. How DOES she do it?

Let's see: After D's mom left about 7:30 a.m., Saturday, Miss D and we three adults made breakfast, played games, danced, ran around the house, went in the hot tub, took turns supervising and taking baths and hair washes, and had lunch. My husband and I continued with laundry and putting the house back in order (after 30 folk converged Thursday for turkey, communion and song), while Auntie and Niece had a nap. Then we piled into the car headed for Sportsman's Lodge - an old standby place to see swans. We delighted in finding a few ducks and watching D run around on the bridges over un-troubled - apart from the chlorine - water. Then we drove to Topanga for a continuation of over-eating and over-indulging of sweets at yet another relative's home. Miss D said out loud, to everyone's D-light at the table, "I like everything on my plate and I'm going to eat it all." Them's is words of HIGH PRAISE from a three-and-a-half-year-old!

With P-Js on and brushing of teeth accomplished, we drove home listening via iPod to Hans Conried reading selections from Dr. Seuss. (My husband's idea.) D was intrigued. She slept through the entire night and did not need to follow the trail of stuffed turtles (also my husband's idea) leading from her bedroom to ours. We slept well (if not long enough) and were reluctant to say good bye Sunday morning. Miss D's dad picked her up and they drove off for the wilds of the north listening to Dr. Seuss all the way home. (They arrived safely.)

Younger daughter Megan left a little later Sunday, affording us an opportunity for sweet sharing.

We enjoyed a good cry as we completed the moving of beds, final loads of laundry and consolidating of left-overs. Comings and goings go better with tears flowing.

We went to a screening of Lincoln, which we thought exquisitely done

NOW, can we sleep?

Sweet dreams Miss D...

Great Good Night, Aunt Esther...

... And Good Night, Mrs. Calabash - where EVER you are.






Sunday, November 18, 2012

In The Shadow Of...




Kids whose sibs are sick live in the shadows. Mom and Dad are preoccupied with the health and welfare of the child who is struggling with treatments, hospital stays and feeling awful. There’s no formula for getting through tough times that threaten to undermine families, only cobbled together plans. Neighbors, friends, and extended family members step up to the plate as best they can to care for the “healthy” siblings.

At Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times, they used to show a video to the new counselors, during orientation, to help us understand the sibling’s experience. It was filmed thirty years ago and, though it is dated, it graphically shows the toll exacted from these “lost in the shadows” kids. They suffer losses of love and protection, self-esteem, direction in life and, in some cases, end up with PTSD themselves - just from the vicarious trauma of witnessing their sibling’s grueling medicalized journeys. Sometimes, understandably, they feel totally neglected. 
CRMfGT is a year round cost free camp for children with cancer and their families.

Another camp where we volunteer gives a slide show of the photos taken during family camps to each family participating, and to each counselor. The Painted Turtle camp offers sessions for various diagnoses - including liver transplant, kidney, asthma, PIDD, arthritis, diabetes, hemophelia, skeletal displasia and Crohn’s and colitis. When my husband and I watch the DVD, we see the family portraits taken Friday night followed by snapshots of everyone involved in various camp activities - such as: archery, ropes course and zip-line, horseback riding, woodshop, arts and crafts, carnival, stage night, dancing, making music and campfire.

Watching the evolution of comfort that increases exponentially from Friday evening through Sunday afternoon is nothing short of hypnotizing. I’m particularly ingrigued by the softening I see in the faces of siblings who feel the enveloping safety in this place where mom and dad don’t have to work so hard at jobs, nor do the cooking, driving, cleaning and extra care of the child with the diagnosis all by themselves, but rather have a little free attention and TIME to play with them - the “who-am-I, chopped-liver?” kids!

As families leave, many people are crying out-right: They do not want to leave this magical and sacred place.

Counselors, too, are moved to tears - not only because of the transformative quality of camp, but also because so much healing happens at camp that we have tears of joy to be able to witness it. The families are not the only ones to benefit - not by a long-shot. Our camp family - the bigger family that includes medical, maintenance and kitchen staff, volunteers, and, of course, the families who come to camp - is a crucible where our rough edges are melted off and our true gold has a place to shine and to reflect the beauty of every person who passes through the gates.

As Thanksgiving is just around the corner, I’m drawn to give a BIG shout out to Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times, The Painted Turtle and all the Serious Fun Network camps, Camp del Corazon and all the camps in the world that offer FUN for families struggling with an illness that's grabbed one of their children, while normalizing being a KID - not just a patient. I’m especially thankful to the camps that include the siblings of patients. Let’s bring them out of the shadows.

Happy Thanksgiving.

For more info on these camps please visit:








Each and every one of these camps runs on private donations. If, in the season of giving thanks, you feel moved to include one of those camps listed above, tell 'em "Pun and Moose sent me."



Sunday, November 11, 2012

Babs at the Dance


Last year, sitting in her room while Mama Barbara slept, I observed her stroke-ravaged body in motion in the November light and imagined her as a healthy young woman at a barn dance...

Dozy Babs; dreamy afternoon
Leaves dancing outside the window
Darting shadows and light take her into a 
Dream of hands reaching for hands; 
Dark encircling light; light grabbing hold of 
Darkness - glad handing it with a fierce smile and 
A force field a mile wide.
The square dance begins

The barn is filled with swirling skirts of turquoise, 
Browns, yellows and red
Sounds of boots to boot
Allemande left allemande right 
Perpetually falling in love hand over hand.

Night is sweaty. 
Barn feels too close
Out she goes into the cooler openness under 
Stars laughing 
Holding the hand of the most potentially perfect 
Partner, Bob.
Babs and Bob laughing together heads thrown
To the half moon- 
It and they 
On their way 
To being whole 

Oh, to be forever rising in love with this moment– 
Each and every moment 
Babs notes in the dream, I must remember this –     
That every moment is 
Infused with love if only we have ears to hear 
The music, and eyes to see beyond the Veil.
Is this dream a remembered moment from her 
Real life? It is now.

The dream continues with swirling skirts 
Flaring out and floating down 
To smaller vertical, cylindrical encirclings of 
Waists, hips and thighs 
Boots to boot bang emphatically on dusty wood as 
Sweat circles enlarge beneath muscular arms 
Encased in black, white, yellow and crimson 
Western shirt sleeves. 
White piping points - 
Exclamation points to the 
Perfect pectorals and bulging biceps

Babs has always loved the dance, has thrived on it 
More than food ‘til the stroke took half her body 
Into stillness...

Ah, but the parts that still move affirm life daily 
Knocking out the familiar rhythm that banged her 
And everyone else into existence.
In the dream, too, she remembers the dance and 
Begins to moan softly

She wakes to the sound of her own breathing, her 
Own heart beating in her ears. 
She opens her eyes 
Snorts. Smiles shyly. Sighs. Sees again 
Flickering shadow dance of leaves. 
Hand-shaped leaves waving to her  
Outside the window. 
Wisps of the dream paste smiling faces-
Glistening and fading around
One face 
Bob’s face 
Onto the window where they evaporate like 
Sweat stains fade when the heat has passed - as if 
Nothing happened. 
Only the salt lets us know there was passionate Movement. 

The Glorious, Passionate Movement of Life.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Generosity of Gaia


The elm next door drops confetti in october
Perfect green circles
Pods pouring promise
Of new life
Thousands of them 
Blow ‘round the neighborhood
Generous Mama Nature
Ever envisioning a world
Completely covered in green 
Growing gourgeousness
She plans accordingly

Lobster eggs by the millions
Human eggs by the thousands
‘Though we two-leggeds try 
To thwart her at ever turn, in every city
Paving over fields and concretizing
Our will over Hers with bridges,
Buildings and butt-ugly parking lots,
She persists and perseveres with
Her Project and Progeny

Every blade of grass coming 
Through the cracks - a triumph
Over our denseness

I cannot blame corporate asses
For the thoughtless squelching
Of Gaia’s divine plan
Nor is it the ASS-FAULT (asphalt)
It is I who have allowed it;
Not stopped it from the Git-Go

My heroes - Chief Seattle among them
Warned that Man’s heart, away
From the softening influence
Of The Mother becomes hard

Victor Schauberger, the Austrian forester
Knew the vitality of the Water Course Way
Flying over our US of A in 1930 
He welled-up with tears
Shaking his head, 
He pronounced us a doomed country
For we had the audacity to
Straighten the rivers and 
Dam them up

It’s the wildness that keeps the balance
It’s the wildness that will redeem us
It’s the wildness to which we must return

Embracing wildness is our salvation. 

http://www.utne.com/politics/climate-change-zm0z12ndzlin.aspx?newsletter=1&utm_content=10.29.12+Environment&utm_campaign=2012+ENEWS&utm_source=iPost&utm_medium=email

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Harrowing Hailstorm 1981


The dark and stormy night drives horizontal hail against the windows like a berzerk banshee with handfuls of ball bearings. Wave after wave of ice pellets threaten to crack these sheets of silica shaking in the wind. In an effort to calm my mind, I think of hot sand melting to form this very glass. Vitrification is a process that has always fascinated me. I force my mind to consider this distraction.

As a child, it was a treat when my parents took me downtown to Olvera Street. The old plaza and shops lining the crazy cobblestones just west of Union Station were a great diversion from the stultifying frozen rage inside our house. On the west side of Olvera Street, there was a glass blower - who didn’t blow so much as he fashioned sailing ships, ballerinas, unicorns, dolphins and religious icons by holding slender glass rods in his deft hands before a white-hot flame. I would stand and watch ‘til the afterimage of that flame burned into my retina and persisted for several minutes as I was dragged away still sniffing after the scent of molten glass.

The detour of remembrance has worked. The storm has calmed a bit, and so has my anxiety. Rain still falls heavily, but the ice pellets are gone.

I’m alone in the house with my four year old and eight month old daughters and loyal old Fairfax Dog. The storm raging outside has flooded the street and I’m as electified as the scene lit up by the lightning - as I watch a tree going end-over-end down the middle of Benedict Canyon Drive - while the water is half-way up our driveway. Three cars that were parked on the street have been lifted by the flood waters and float downstream like toys. I’m frozen with shock. Will the river come up to the house? The street light is out, but I can see dim lights in the houses across from us.

Nine P.M.  I hear the mantle clock strike. Thankful the girls are peacefully sleeping, I try the phone again. Still dead. They need me to make the right decision: Stay put or try to drive somewhere. By candle light, I check on them once more, then don my boots, grab the flash light and wade through the deluge at the top of the driveway, through the ivy between our house and the neighbor’s, dodge the off-pouring of their garage roof and bound onto their front porch. Their house is equally dark. My hope that their phone is working fades. I knock timidly at first then, with more urgent  knuckles. 

Ralph comes to the door and opens it a crack. I hold the flashlight so it illumines my face. 

“Ralph! Sorry to bother you. Is your phone working? Ours is out. Mark is on his way home from LAX. I want to warn him not to drive up the street...”

"Come in, come in...”

Carol comes to the entry way as well. I leave my slicker and boots on the porch and squeeze past their huge arthritic German Shepherd. Blindly, he sniffs at my socks and wags his tail - panting moist clouds of doggie halitosis.

Eight year old Pam is still awake. I see her curled up on the couch. By the light of a flourescent camping lantern on the coffee table - she looks more fair-haired and fragile than she is. Karen must be asleep in her bed. Karen and my four year old are good buddies.

“Dan Enright put a car-phone in Mark’s Pontiac last week. I’m hoping I can reach him on the road. Your phone working?”

“Let’s see.” Ralph lifts the receiver. The sound of the dial tone from across the room warms my rigid body.

I blurt out the phone number.

He dials and gets a fast busy. My palms are sweaty. 
A blue flash and thunder that stops our hearts and hurts our ears tells us the storm is moving fast.

“Gotta go - in case Mosa & Megan wake up... will you please try a couple more times?” I bolt to the door and put my boots and slicker on once more.

“Sure thing. Anything else you need?” Carol asks as she writes down the number.

“Just for the storm to stop scaring us, and PLEASE keep that big ol’ tree from falling over! Thanks, neighbors!” 

I run back to our porch and listen just inside the door. All I hear is the rain on the roof, the roar of the river on what used to be our quiet street and deaf ol’ Fairfax shaking himself and jumping off the couch - trip, trip trapping on the hardwood floor.

I scratch his pointy head. Drying off with the towel left by the front door for muddy dog feet, I move down the hallway to reassure myself by flash-light that all is well with my lovelies. The sound of their soft breathing tears at my heart. How can something so magical as their very life’s breath make me feel so powerless to protect and preserve it?

Acts of God include one-hudred year old trees falling over in great storms such as this and onto unsuspecting dreamers asleep in their homes. My WILL is that the rain keeps UP so it doesn’t come DOWN any more this night! My will is that the tree be rooted all the way to the center of the earth and that it hold tightly to its branches. My will is that Mark have an easy return and that he can somehow pull up into the driveway without stalling out the engine; that he come home safely and help melt away this dark forboding that something awful will befall these beautiful daughters on my watch or ever. 

I feel the mama wolf rise up inside me and know I will do ANYthing to protect my pups. I feel like biting something - hard. I open the dark refrigerator and rummage for the head of celery. Breaking off three pieces, I run them under the faucet and bite and bite and bite. I imagine my fangs gleaming in the flash of lightning.

Hot rage, like white-hot flame, liquifies and evaporates my frozen fear. Wish I'd known that trick when I was a child.

Lying down beside them, slowly I settle my breath to match my daughters' steady, even life-breath and wait.  

Monday, October 22, 2012

Kite Staff


My family bought a home in Echo Park the year I was born and we moved in when I was eleven months old. All the while I was growing up - six years behind my brother Mel, I got to witness the nearly daily miracle of light refraction from the ocean - miles and miles away from those beloved hills where we lived. When I was older, I imagined all sorts of stories while watching the light on the sea from my vantage point at the top of the old Eucalyptus tree.

In a previous blog entry, I remember sharing how sure I was that the poor fish out there would be cooked as the sun dropped into the ocean at day’s end. I knew without a doubt that it was the sun’s descent into the water that made it feel warmer after sunset than it had during the day.

Other fantasies included pirate ships, Tinkerbelle, Peter Pan and the Lost Boys - thanks to a Disney record we had with colorful cartoon images emblazoned on the plastic LP itself.* Mary Martin’s role as Peter  inspired even more imaginative play and sword fights - using for lances - the plentiful bamboosa that grew at the base of the old Eucalyptus. They showed that old Kinescope Movie of Peter Pan on TV once a year for several years - until it was lost.

Kite staff was also home to several forts built by hollowing out the five foot high crop of late summer weeds. We’d make a tunnel through the weeds - much like the entrance to an igloo - by trampling a clearing, bending the side weeds into an arch and weaving them down into the ones growing on each side. We found an old rusted-out mattress-inner-spring and put a sheet over it to serve as a couch. Great plots for saving the world or overcoming enemies were hatched in that club-house by Peter, Angelika, Jeffrey, Gary and me. Sometimes Jacky would join us and more rarely Johnny Mayfield. They lived in farther parts of Echo Park - a long walk.

When the weeds were dry enough, we’d take cardboard boxes and slide down those steep Echo Park hills... the closest thing we had to snow-tobaggoning in dry Southern California. It’s a wonder we didn’t all break our tail bones!  It’s also a good thing we never crashed into the Jakonvich’s wood-siding-paneled house at the bottom of the hill!

The only negative experiences on Kite Staff were the occasional cases of Poison Oak, rare fires - one that burned awfully close - well, one wall of our house, and a few back scrapes and bruises on the jagged cracked-off part of the trunk of an old tree that held the rope swing.

Kites? Yes, we did fly kites when anyone had money to buy one. There was a mysterious pipe stuck upright into the center of the level part of Kite Staff. Sometimes we would tie a well-flying kite’s string to it and then keep it from slipping off the end by taking turns standing (balancing) on top of the pipe. The pipe was only three inches in diameter, but it must have gone directly to the center of the earth, for as many rocks, pebbles and handfuls of dirt as we dropped in over the years, it NEVER filled up! 

On a recent Monday, I hiked with a friend in Ferndell. We wound up driving to the Planetarium. From there, the view was lovely. Although the Observatory is closed on Mondays, and I have yet to see the newly rennovated interior, I was so glad to see that magical strip of ocean reflecting sunlight and dreams - just as it used to do in my childhood in Echo Park.

It’s comforting to know that some things never change. Can you see the pirate ship just taking shape on that gleaming horizon?

*LP record stood for "Long Playing" or thirty-three-and-a-third RPM (revolutions per minute). They were about the size of a pizza for two, hence the name "Licorice Pizza" for one recycled record store! The other name that caught my fancy was "Vinyl Resting Place." If all the music sources you know are from CDs, MP3s or iTunes... treat yourself to a stroll in one of these old fashioned record shops. I swear the analog music will nourish you differently from digitally produced CDs!

Treat yourself also, with a trip to the Observatory some clear-day pre-sunset afternoon!