Sunday, December 27, 2015
Post Patron Blues
Bridgette, considered the Patron Saint of Ireland, has left the building.
She was here for Solstice. I sang her invocation composed by Mara Freeman. I felt her in the room. I’m carrying around the list surely she inspired and that I wrote Solstice night, adding to it this week as more list-worthy things occur to me - both personally and globally. Like how could I forget that I wanted to nurture the seed of personal right livelihood and global climate stabilization? It’s sixty-five degrees in New York, for Christ’s sake, and thirty-eight in Southern California!? Action is required, let’s get fired. Up. Set this sorry world back on its ass-tronomical course corrected warble through the universe.
Now that solstice is over, and Christmas too, I feel let down after all the anticipatory hype. Business as usual isn’t boring, exactly, but it lacks the high-octane rev of hustling to put some effort out to pull in the predictable comfort wrung from assembling red and green candles, pine scented soaps, and goo gaws with which my Gram enchanted me - all for the benefit of enchanting the enchantress herself, the six-year-old Grandie. I didn’t decorate much, but decorating is a must. Just to get in the spirit. So, Solstice early evening - before the sun set -found me plugging in lights, assembling the candles, and pulling out the little hagadas my friend Wendy Z and I assembled years ago to support others learning the tradition we’ve been practicing for over thirty years.
Tomorrow starts Kwanza. Maybe assembling Rastafarian artifacts will give further testament to the idea that busy trumps depressed.
Ultimately, I still believe that we’re meant to be depressed S.O.B. hibernators in the winter months. Lethargy and ennui serve a purpose. When you sit across the cave from Glurg, who keeps belching and farting, fowling the air in the only shelter you know for the tempest months, there’ve got to be times when you just want to get up and deck him. Lack of light yields a natural lack of endeavor and energy trickles to a slothful minimum. So maybe I’ve simply stripped down to the pro-survival human trait of sitting still and not killing Glurg. It’s in-born pro-survival of the species.
Bridey will kick up her heels when the sun returns. Giving a stir to our loins and blood. A quickening to get the work of survival for another winter in gear. Planting. Gathering. Hunting. Drying. Weaving. Sewing. Curing. Fermenting. All those hearth-felt arts must be pursued for the species to continue.
* * * * * * * * *
What would the world really look like if peace broke out and didn’t let go? Would we recognize it without its opposite pastime? Can we appreciate truly or even recognize any yin minus its yang?
The war-weary dream of a lasting peace. (Do the celibate dream of a lasting piece?) Sorry, that just slipped out… so to speak. But grass is grass: green is a spectrum. Is the imagined grass on the other side of the fence only a spectral green?
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Solstice
Darkness yields to light within the next four days.
December 21 marks the longest night, the shortest day.
It’s all in the tilt of our axis. That’s what makes the seasons.
Traditionally, early agricultural folk in the deep of winter culled the seeds, roots, and tubers that were not viable, and pursued other quieter activities than they enjoyed during summer.
Soul-stice. Be still my soul.
What’s the bustle about?
Why such human doings?
Hibernation is the appropriate activity at this time of year.
Conserve.
The reality from end of November through January First, in our modern consumer culture, is more like this:
My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
We modern folk thumb our noses at tradition.
Oh, ye of bright light cell phones and instant iTunes, the world is at your fingertips - 24/7.
When do YOU go dark? When do you turn within to inquire what is true for you?
Taking inventory, I see what a year it’s been. I see where I came from; where I want to go from here. I see where some of my shortcomings are. Others are invisible to me. 20/20 hindsight being what it is… I have regrets, and a plan to use whatever resources are at my disposal to rectify my ooopses.
May this, the shortest day, be spent exactly as you like. May the dark fall gently about your shoulders in a comforting hug of welcomed absence of things to do.
This is the first year I have not decorated one whit. Not a card is up, not a candle is lit. Not a pine bough to be seen…
In some ways, I feel I should pull out all the stops for the Grandie’s sake, but just don’t seem to have it in me to do so. I only just got Thanksgiving put away!
’tis the season for folks to find their exit. One friend is dying. One died on Monday.
I’m glad our daughter has hosted several snow-flake cutting parties and has decorated to the nth degree over at her house! Their winter tree couldn’t hold one more ornament! Tiny as it is, it is gorgeous!
On the actual factual solstice, we will do our same little ceremony here by the fire - writing out what hasn’t worked during the past year, burning that, and writing out a seed to nurture in 2016 - symbolically planting it in the deep receiving earth to be kept safe ’til the light returns. I've kept over thirty years worth of seed lists.
Reviewing them is a trip through what has seemed important. The list gets simpler, shorter, distilled. Redux. Music is always in that seed to nurture, as are friendships, good communication with family, and between countries and all fractious factions.
There was a lovely Advent Celebration and Christmas play Sunday, presented by the children at the church I've been attending irregularly here in Oakland. I cried and took to my marrow the dearness of community working together to make a better world, honoring the children whose hopes and dreams are worth keeping alive.
Whether you write out resolutions, seeds, or shopping lists, may your candles burn bright against the black velvet night. Only one end burning is enough.
May peace and cooler heads prevail.
Deep peace be with you.
December 21 marks the longest night, the shortest day.
It’s all in the tilt of our axis. That’s what makes the seasons.
Traditionally, early agricultural folk in the deep of winter culled the seeds, roots, and tubers that were not viable, and pursued other quieter activities than they enjoyed during summer.
Soul-stice. Be still my soul.
What’s the bustle about?
Why such human doings?
Hibernation is the appropriate activity at this time of year.
Conserve.
The reality from end of November through January First, in our modern consumer culture, is more like this:
My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
We modern folk thumb our noses at tradition.
Oh, ye of bright light cell phones and instant iTunes, the world is at your fingertips - 24/7.
When do YOU go dark? When do you turn within to inquire what is true for you?
Taking inventory, I see what a year it’s been. I see where I came from; where I want to go from here. I see where some of my shortcomings are. Others are invisible to me. 20/20 hindsight being what it is… I have regrets, and a plan to use whatever resources are at my disposal to rectify my ooopses.
May this, the shortest day, be spent exactly as you like. May the dark fall gently about your shoulders in a comforting hug of welcomed absence of things to do.
This is the first year I have not decorated one whit. Not a card is up, not a candle is lit. Not a pine bough to be seen…
In some ways, I feel I should pull out all the stops for the Grandie’s sake, but just don’t seem to have it in me to do so. I only just got Thanksgiving put away!
’tis the season for folks to find their exit. One friend is dying. One died on Monday.
I’m glad our daughter has hosted several snow-flake cutting parties and has decorated to the nth degree over at her house! Their winter tree couldn’t hold one more ornament! Tiny as it is, it is gorgeous!
On the actual factual solstice, we will do our same little ceremony here by the fire - writing out what hasn’t worked during the past year, burning that, and writing out a seed to nurture in 2016 - symbolically planting it in the deep receiving earth to be kept safe ’til the light returns. I've kept over thirty years worth of seed lists.
Reviewing them is a trip through what has seemed important. The list gets simpler, shorter, distilled. Redux. Music is always in that seed to nurture, as are friendships, good communication with family, and between countries and all fractious factions.
There was a lovely Advent Celebration and Christmas play Sunday, presented by the children at the church I've been attending irregularly here in Oakland. I cried and took to my marrow the dearness of community working together to make a better world, honoring the children whose hopes and dreams are worth keeping alive.
Whether you write out resolutions, seeds, or shopping lists, may your candles burn bright against the black velvet night. Only one end burning is enough.
May peace and cooler heads prevail.
Deep peace be with you.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Hair Pollution
As a child, I learned from my Grandmother Florence May Banham Stern to clean my hairbrush, with a comb to remove the stray hairs, and to wrap them around my finger. She put hers into a round Deco-design amber-colored plastic box made especially for that purpose. It sat on her glass-topped mahogany dressing table, where she kept the annual school photos of all us kids - slipped between the wood and the glass. Her commodious bedroom was papered blue, with long-stemmed Navy and red carnations running diagonally from floor to ceiling. I put my swirls of hair into a plastic margarine tub through a hole I’d cut in the center of the lid. It sat on a small chest in a bathroom I'd paneled with aromatic cedar closet lining. Not as elegant as my Grammy’s Deco tub, but about the same size, and satisfyingly serviceable.
As a young woman, my hair hung lower than my hips. One morning, mid hair-saving ritual, my daughters asked, “What’re you gonna do with all that hair, Mom?”
“Someday, I’ll stuff a pillow with it, so you can pass it down the line to your children and grandkids.” The thought of it made them scrunch their noses.
Eye-rolling was perfected that day along with deep sighs of disgust and disbelief.
* * * * * * * * *
At the Healing Light Center Church, in the 1980's, fellow long-haired student Joe Janosko and I got to talking about this ritual, for some reason now lost to me. He assured me it was far kinder for the environment to collect hair than to put it outside. Many people do, put it outside Joe told me. He was a Viet Nam Vet with a port wine birth mark covering half his face a brilliant deep blue, purple and magenta. He had a distinctive limp where a war injury had fused his right hip to the femur. Gentle soul that he was, he explained that birds pick up stray bits of hair like the ones I described all curled around my finger. It is soft. The birds line their nests with it - unwittingly subjecting their young to those treacherously tough tendrils, which can wind around a wee wing, cutting off the blood supply thus deforming the developing bird - or worse, strangle the little hatchlings.
I'm still waiting for the sewing elves to complete that pillow stuffed with Gran'Ma's tresses for my granddaughter. Right now, the hair collection, that ranges from auburn to Bozo-red, to silver-white, resides in two large zippered plastic bags at the back of the sewing closet.
* * * * * * * * *
As the spectacle of Donald Trump holds a lens to America’s values, I’m beginning to think that hairspray must contain lead. Surely these heavy metals account for his idiocy. My husband asks that this “birther,” who demanded that Presidential Candidate Barack Obama show proof that he was born in the United States, produce a similar certificate showing origin of his (Trump’s) hairpiece. Certainly, what’s under that toupee is polluting our air-waves and engendering hate. Talk about heir pollution! His daddy must be turning over in his grave.
Every day Trump holds court in his buffoonery, is a bad heir, hair, and air day.
As a young woman, my hair hung lower than my hips. One morning, mid hair-saving ritual, my daughters asked, “What’re you gonna do with all that hair, Mom?”
“Someday, I’ll stuff a pillow with it, so you can pass it down the line to your children and grandkids.” The thought of it made them scrunch their noses.
Eye-rolling was perfected that day along with deep sighs of disgust and disbelief.
* * * * * * * * *
At the Healing Light Center Church, in the 1980's, fellow long-haired student Joe Janosko and I got to talking about this ritual, for some reason now lost to me. He assured me it was far kinder for the environment to collect hair than to put it outside. Many people do, put it outside Joe told me. He was a Viet Nam Vet with a port wine birth mark covering half his face a brilliant deep blue, purple and magenta. He had a distinctive limp where a war injury had fused his right hip to the femur. Gentle soul that he was, he explained that birds pick up stray bits of hair like the ones I described all curled around my finger. It is soft. The birds line their nests with it - unwittingly subjecting their young to those treacherously tough tendrils, which can wind around a wee wing, cutting off the blood supply thus deforming the developing bird - or worse, strangle the little hatchlings.
I'm still waiting for the sewing elves to complete that pillow stuffed with Gran'Ma's tresses for my granddaughter. Right now, the hair collection, that ranges from auburn to Bozo-red, to silver-white, resides in two large zippered plastic bags at the back of the sewing closet.
* * * * * * * * *
As the spectacle of Donald Trump holds a lens to America’s values, I’m beginning to think that hairspray must contain lead. Surely these heavy metals account for his idiocy. My husband asks that this “birther,” who demanded that Presidential Candidate Barack Obama show proof that he was born in the United States, produce a similar certificate showing origin of his (Trump’s) hairpiece. Certainly, what’s under that toupee is polluting our air-waves and engendering hate. Talk about heir pollution! His daddy must be turning over in his grave.
Every day Trump holds court in his buffoonery, is a bad heir, hair, and air day.
Monday, December 7, 2015
Joyful Human Animals
When The Painted Turtle has a party, I want to go.
My beloved and I did just that over the weekend.
Leaving Oakland on Friday morning, we toodled down 5 - the desertified core of California, to Los Angeles to see a young camper whose condition is to fragile for him to go to camp anymore, then to a dear friend’s annual artistic offerings party to stock up on Karen Fox’s beautiful gifts and cards, then to see my older brother and his wife, dear friends, and finally to dine with my younger brother and his wife before heading back up 5 a brief way to The Painted Turtle Camp in Lake Hughes, California.
Arriving about 10:45pm, we found staff putting finishing touches on the preparations for a fabulous weekend of merriment. We enjoyed some brief catch-up visits and hit the hay.
Saturday afternoon, four-hundred and fifty members of families, whose kids have attended camp, partook of lunch, arts, crafts, creating gingerbread houses, horse-drawn sleigh rides, carnival games, archery, remote control race car racing, teen tech corner, fishing, boating, dancing, singing, and magic & mayhem during a faux snowball fight in the huge gymnasium. It was a chilly day. I was glad of being assigned to arts & crafts - indoors! Dancing out on the grassy slope for the final closing and Jingle Bell Ball, was a toot-chattery experience. Warm hugs, and the families were on their way.
When the last family left, the generous staff went into Volunteer Appreciation mode, providing opportunities for us to partake similarly of the joyful activities named above. We had a pizza party, followed by fellowship and opportunities to make our own crafts (modge-podge on glass candle holders, painting mugs, building snowmen & snow women from disks cut from tree-branches), and game playing over hot cocoa and cookies. There’s a new feature at TPT which I saw for the first time Saturday night. It looks like a tall robot talking head, but is a camera that you can pose before with friends and props, then e-mail the photo to friends and family. Trippy technology! Evidently, the teens loved that feature during the afternoon options.
Sunday morning, there was a polar bear plunge. Those dozen or so hardy (fool-hardy?) folk jumped into the pool for a true ice-breaker. It was about 31 degrees. After that there were many options. Silk screening T-shirts, and climbing the rock wall were my two choices. Even with a “hurt-paw” shoulder, I was able to scramble up the wall and ring the bell at the top. I suppose it’s my white hair that causes the double-take reaction, but several people came up to me during brunch to exclaim, “You looked like spiderman gliding up that wall, Moose!” Just FUN! So grateful to the belayer folk who literally have our back.
This volunteer appreciation day was a first for The Painted Turtle. The staff efforts are MUCH appreciated by those of us who lingered to enjoy being on the “other side” of these marvelous activities which we usually supervise for campers. The invitation to be a kid again helps us understand how potent a little freedom to explore, endless supplies, and a little encouragement from loving staff members can help bring us back to center and back to the JOY of being a human animal.
If Camp has a party, I wanna BE there!
My beloved and I did just that over the weekend.
Leaving Oakland on Friday morning, we toodled down 5 - the desertified core of California, to Los Angeles to see a young camper whose condition is to fragile for him to go to camp anymore, then to a dear friend’s annual artistic offerings party to stock up on Karen Fox’s beautiful gifts and cards, then to see my older brother and his wife, dear friends, and finally to dine with my younger brother and his wife before heading back up 5 a brief way to The Painted Turtle Camp in Lake Hughes, California.
Arriving about 10:45pm, we found staff putting finishing touches on the preparations for a fabulous weekend of merriment. We enjoyed some brief catch-up visits and hit the hay.
Saturday afternoon, four-hundred and fifty members of families, whose kids have attended camp, partook of lunch, arts, crafts, creating gingerbread houses, horse-drawn sleigh rides, carnival games, archery, remote control race car racing, teen tech corner, fishing, boating, dancing, singing, and magic & mayhem during a faux snowball fight in the huge gymnasium. It was a chilly day. I was glad of being assigned to arts & crafts - indoors! Dancing out on the grassy slope for the final closing and Jingle Bell Ball, was a toot-chattery experience. Warm hugs, and the families were on their way.
When the last family left, the generous staff went into Volunteer Appreciation mode, providing opportunities for us to partake similarly of the joyful activities named above. We had a pizza party, followed by fellowship and opportunities to make our own crafts (modge-podge on glass candle holders, painting mugs, building snowmen & snow women from disks cut from tree-branches), and game playing over hot cocoa and cookies. There’s a new feature at TPT which I saw for the first time Saturday night. It looks like a tall robot talking head, but is a camera that you can pose before with friends and props, then e-mail the photo to friends and family. Trippy technology! Evidently, the teens loved that feature during the afternoon options.
Sunday morning, there was a polar bear plunge. Those dozen or so hardy (fool-hardy?) folk jumped into the pool for a true ice-breaker. It was about 31 degrees. After that there were many options. Silk screening T-shirts, and climbing the rock wall were my two choices. Even with a “hurt-paw” shoulder, I was able to scramble up the wall and ring the bell at the top. I suppose it’s my white hair that causes the double-take reaction, but several people came up to me during brunch to exclaim, “You looked like spiderman gliding up that wall, Moose!” Just FUN! So grateful to the belayer folk who literally have our back.
This volunteer appreciation day was a first for The Painted Turtle. The staff efforts are MUCH appreciated by those of us who lingered to enjoy being on the “other side” of these marvelous activities which we usually supervise for campers. The invitation to be a kid again helps us understand how potent a little freedom to explore, endless supplies, and a little encouragement from loving staff members can help bring us back to center and back to the JOY of being a human animal.
If Camp has a party, I wanna BE there!
Monday, November 30, 2015
Slumber Party for Seventeen
Family converges for three or four days
From New York, Phoenix, and L.A.’s haze
The weather has turned; it’s icy here
Our guests in the “smoking room” may freeze, I fear.
Conscientious, they won’t pollute our house
They puff on the porch and don't even grouse
Braving the wind and the temperature drop
Still, they light-up why won’t they stop?
Stronger than addiction to sugar are cigs
Hopeful they don't grab our nieces' teen kids
What can we do but love ‘em up?
Invite ‘em in for hot drinks and sup
There is so much for which we are thankful
Music, family, friendship, and reserve tanks full
Of love so easily exchanged among folks
Who are family we’d choose as friends - like spokes
Relating to a central hub of kin
From which we spring; family all under the skin
Thursday’s feast, only for twenty, was smaller this year.
Extending the circle from our hearts, we send good cheer
Our Cousin Palooza Saturday gave rise
To connections made real, and teary g’byes
Forty four or so meeting, and making merry
Exchanging contact info and promises to ferry
Hellos back home to those unable
To join the festivities at the table.
Kids in the basement, kids in the stairwell
Kids in the playroom hating to bid farewell
To hordes of cousins they’d only just met
And played with so well and will never forget
Off to Alcatraz the final six go
This morning’s chill, freezing each toe.
They’ll fly off this evening for New York
Remembering how their road led to this fork
They leave behind echoes of laughter
Stuck to each wall, floor, heart, and rafter
So grateful are we for all our relations
Matakweasan, from every nation
Happy Holidays from our hearts
May your leftovers be yummy, and not give you gas
(With heart-felt gratitude to my honey Mark
Who supported the rhyme scheme, like a walk in the park.)
My grateful heart enfolds also our daughters and grandie
Whose expertise in the kitchen sure came in handy!
With two ovens acting up and unreliable
The dining schedule applied was pliable
No one here went hungry this week or feasting either day
Ovens fixed or no, next year, we'll eat too - either way
Lucky, lucky, we count ourselves blessed
We'd do it again in a heart-beat unstressed
After the ecstasy there's always the laundry
Where to put beds is the biggest quandary
Upstairs or down, garage or broken sauna
My honey can decide because I don't wanna!
From New York, Phoenix, and L.A.’s haze
The weather has turned; it’s icy here
Our guests in the “smoking room” may freeze, I fear.
Conscientious, they won’t pollute our house
They puff on the porch and don't even grouse
Braving the wind and the temperature drop
Still, they light-up why won’t they stop?
Stronger than addiction to sugar are cigs
Hopeful they don't grab our nieces' teen kids
What can we do but love ‘em up?
Invite ‘em in for hot drinks and sup
There is so much for which we are thankful
Music, family, friendship, and reserve tanks full
Of love so easily exchanged among folks
Who are family we’d choose as friends - like spokes
Relating to a central hub of kin
From which we spring; family all under the skin
Thursday’s feast, only for twenty, was smaller this year.
Extending the circle from our hearts, we send good cheer
Our Cousin Palooza Saturday gave rise
To connections made real, and teary g’byes
Forty four or so meeting, and making merry
Exchanging contact info and promises to ferry
Hellos back home to those unable
To join the festivities at the table.
Kids in the basement, kids in the stairwell
Kids in the playroom hating to bid farewell
To hordes of cousins they’d only just met
And played with so well and will never forget
Off to Alcatraz the final six go
This morning’s chill, freezing each toe.
They’ll fly off this evening for New York
Remembering how their road led to this fork
They leave behind echoes of laughter
Stuck to each wall, floor, heart, and rafter
So grateful are we for all our relations
Matakweasan, from every nation
Happy Holidays from our hearts
May your leftovers be yummy, and not give you gas
(With heart-felt gratitude to my honey Mark
Who supported the rhyme scheme, like a walk in the park.)
My grateful heart enfolds also our daughters and grandie
Whose expertise in the kitchen sure came in handy!
With two ovens acting up and unreliable
The dining schedule applied was pliable
No one here went hungry this week or feasting either day
Ovens fixed or no, next year, we'll eat too - either way
Lucky, lucky, we count ourselves blessed
We'd do it again in a heart-beat unstressed
After the ecstasy there's always the laundry
Where to put beds is the biggest quandary
Upstairs or down, garage or broken sauna
My honey can decide because I don't wanna!
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Thankfully, There's YOU!
Wishing you and your dear ones a delightful day of doing nothing but celebrating whatcha got to be thankful for.
Whether it's a home, or a garden, a favorite tree or birdsong, person, puppy, pussycat, place, or thing, my wish for you this season is that you can feel the visceral delight deep in your core when you connect with that person, place, critter, or thing, that you can let the delight register in your marrow, and that the glow may sustain you on these long winter nights.
I'll resume writing after company returns to NY, AZ and So Cal.
With grateful heart,
Melinda in No Cal
(Does No Cal mean I can eat anything I want and that it's calorie free??)
Pass the Paleo Pumpkin Pudding, Please!
Whether it's a home, or a garden, a favorite tree or birdsong, person, puppy, pussycat, place, or thing, my wish for you this season is that you can feel the visceral delight deep in your core when you connect with that person, place, critter, or thing, that you can let the delight register in your marrow, and that the glow may sustain you on these long winter nights.
I'll resume writing after company returns to NY, AZ and So Cal.
With grateful heart,
Melinda in No Cal
(Does No Cal mean I can eat anything I want and that it's calorie free??)
Pass the Paleo Pumpkin Pudding, Please!
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Noodling and Doodley Doo Time
Noodling is the thing I do when I'm trying to figure something out. I noodle out a melody on the piano or guitar, I noodle with the rhythm and rhyme scheme of a poem, my granddaughter noodles with a shoe lace willing the magic of knots and bows to manifest and hold fast.
When I was a kid, the hills of Echo Park were vast, expansive vistas to be explored. We didn't have much actual obligatory homework in elementary grades, so after the Mickey Mouse Club was over, we'd be out IN those hills, with seemingly endless hours of doodley doo time. Climbing trees afforded us the best views of the valley and Wilshire's Miracle Mile, way out there in the distance. Beyond that was a wee silver strip (or gold - depending on time of day) of The Pacific Ocean. It was a glorious place to grow up, and I'm grateful for the more user-friendly concept of the 1950's that allowed us kids to use our doodley do time as we chose.
Witnessing the pernicious and progressive whittling away of that precious un-dedicated time on the calendars of so many children worries me. Dance classes, science/math enrichment programs, and piano, oboe, viola, trumpet, or drum lessons may be important, but not at the expense of being out in the natural world being a scientist, musician, or dancer.
I am pleased that my granddaughter's new school seems less intent upon turning the kids into colorful parrots of useless information, and more intent upon supporting them to conceptualize the world around them, by giving them opportunities to manipulate it with their own two hands. The difference in her affect is striking. Instead of doing mimeographed (well, now Im' really dating myself... but at least, I'm dating!), let's say Xeroxed sheets (but since when did a corporation become a verb? I know a corporation is now a person, for gosh sake, but that's a topic for another blog), she now has time to run around in a pretty cool park with other kids working out whether their own loosely supervised play will take a Lord of the Flies bent or some other more humane path. These things have to be noodled out on the individual level, is my belief, not spoon fed with no ties to the creepy feeling in our stomach when someone is usurping power, putting others down, or we ourselves get carried away with extreme behavior.All this exploration needs to be done in doodley doo time.
All if favor of Doodley Dooing say Aye.
When I was a kid, the hills of Echo Park were vast, expansive vistas to be explored. We didn't have much actual obligatory homework in elementary grades, so after the Mickey Mouse Club was over, we'd be out IN those hills, with seemingly endless hours of doodley doo time. Climbing trees afforded us the best views of the valley and Wilshire's Miracle Mile, way out there in the distance. Beyond that was a wee silver strip (or gold - depending on time of day) of The Pacific Ocean. It was a glorious place to grow up, and I'm grateful for the more user-friendly concept of the 1950's that allowed us kids to use our doodley do time as we chose.
Witnessing the pernicious and progressive whittling away of that precious un-dedicated time on the calendars of so many children worries me. Dance classes, science/math enrichment programs, and piano, oboe, viola, trumpet, or drum lessons may be important, but not at the expense of being out in the natural world being a scientist, musician, or dancer.
I am pleased that my granddaughter's new school seems less intent upon turning the kids into colorful parrots of useless information, and more intent upon supporting them to conceptualize the world around them, by giving them opportunities to manipulate it with their own two hands. The difference in her affect is striking. Instead of doing mimeographed (well, now Im' really dating myself... but at least, I'm dating!), let's say Xeroxed sheets (but since when did a corporation become a verb? I know a corporation is now a person, for gosh sake, but that's a topic for another blog), she now has time to run around in a pretty cool park with other kids working out whether their own loosely supervised play will take a Lord of the Flies bent or some other more humane path. These things have to be noodled out on the individual level, is my belief, not spoon fed with no ties to the creepy feeling in our stomach when someone is usurping power, putting others down, or we ourselves get carried away with extreme behavior.All this exploration needs to be done in doodley doo time.
All if favor of Doodley Dooing say Aye.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
The Old Lady and the Whippersnappers
Moving from one city to another necessitates finding new doctors and all manner of support people.
So far, and it’s less than one year ago that we moved, I like the optometrist doc and the dermatologist. Each is similar in age to me, and quite conversational - verging on over-interested and flirting with me!(?) At least, I feel seen, heard, and attended to in the areas of eyes and skin.
The young whippersnapper GP, who I believe pretends to be more of an expert than he is about bio-identical hormones and life in general, is my least favorite new support person. I keep trying to find a reason to stay in his practice other than it’s a drag to start over and search-out qualified practitioners who provide what I'm accustomed to receiving. Because he has two different practices two doors down from one another in the same building, I sometimes get lost in the informational black hole between the two doors. “No, sorry, you’ll have to call the other office for that information." or "You'll have to make an appointment at the other office to discuss this with Dr. K.”
Unlike having two different docs for skin and eyes, I’d like my primary care doc to consider me a whole person whose body cannot be compartmentalized into hormone system and the rest of the bod. I distinctly dislike feeling as if I’m being had because I must make separate appointments to have all my parts checked. Medicare covers some parts, but not others. So, for now, I’m paying for gas and wear and tear on my car and calendar, in order to be seen as a part-filled whole person in this fellow’s practice. Bummer.
What I have to ask myself is this: What’s it going to be like in twenty years, when all the docs who are my age now are long retired, and all medical personnel look like whippersnappers? Will I be able to trust that they know what they’re doing? Will I be an impossible old lady with un-reachable standards?
I remember my Grammy Stern being so kind, sweet, and easy-going at every appointment. I remember my mother out-living most of her health-care-providers.
Maybe in twenty years, the Star Trek vision of Dr. Bones McCoy’s little cell-phone-size scanner will be a reality, and this pondering will be a moot point.
I’m hoping I can remain civil to all folks, no matter their age, experience, or business practices. Just remind me that I don’t need to stick around if the practice doesn’t suit me.
So far, and it’s less than one year ago that we moved, I like the optometrist doc and the dermatologist. Each is similar in age to me, and quite conversational - verging on over-interested and flirting with me!(?) At least, I feel seen, heard, and attended to in the areas of eyes and skin.
The young whippersnapper GP, who I believe pretends to be more of an expert than he is about bio-identical hormones and life in general, is my least favorite new support person. I keep trying to find a reason to stay in his practice other than it’s a drag to start over and search-out qualified practitioners who provide what I'm accustomed to receiving. Because he has two different practices two doors down from one another in the same building, I sometimes get lost in the informational black hole between the two doors. “No, sorry, you’ll have to call the other office for that information." or "You'll have to make an appointment at the other office to discuss this with Dr. K.”
Unlike having two different docs for skin and eyes, I’d like my primary care doc to consider me a whole person whose body cannot be compartmentalized into hormone system and the rest of the bod. I distinctly dislike feeling as if I’m being had because I must make separate appointments to have all my parts checked. Medicare covers some parts, but not others. So, for now, I’m paying for gas and wear and tear on my car and calendar, in order to be seen as a part-filled whole person in this fellow’s practice. Bummer.
What I have to ask myself is this: What’s it going to be like in twenty years, when all the docs who are my age now are long retired, and all medical personnel look like whippersnappers? Will I be able to trust that they know what they’re doing? Will I be an impossible old lady with un-reachable standards?
I remember my Grammy Stern being so kind, sweet, and easy-going at every appointment. I remember my mother out-living most of her health-care-providers.
Maybe in twenty years, the Star Trek vision of Dr. Bones McCoy’s little cell-phone-size scanner will be a reality, and this pondering will be a moot point.
I’m hoping I can remain civil to all folks, no matter their age, experience, or business practices. Just remind me that I don’t need to stick around if the practice doesn’t suit me.
Monday, November 2, 2015
First Year: Sketches from October 2014 to October 2015
October 2014… Electrical Banana
I like typing Banana and Berkeley too... only one vowel each, appearing three times so they’re rhythmic to type.
I have a 5am waking thought at our daughter's house in Oakland, where I'm staying after completing a workshop, and receiving keys to our new house! Mark has gone back to L.A. Tonight is All Hallow's Eve, and I relish the opportunity to Trick-or-Treat with the Grandie. The thought went something like this: Electricity is a current topic. There was a whole riff... I got a charge out of the process.. after a day of dreaming about where to put our furniture, I cannot remember the electric riff... Oh, well.
The house on Englewood was almost ours. We made an offer. Luckily it fell through. We realized after the fact that smokers lived there for over twenty years, and the stench of stale smoke permeated every particle of the house to the floorboards and studs.
Not lost on me was the fact that this could have been our last house. Born in Inglewood; die on Englewood? Bookends.
Mercifully, Mark found another great house on line, and we are now due to move in December or January!
How do you move a household of 26 years?
Book by book.
How do you stay in touch with friends and family who remain 380 miles away?
Visit by visit, card by letter... then there’s email... which you can’t touch, smell, hear, or hug... only eye candy when friends fall into your inbox. Rats! It’s hard to say goodbye.
Writers! What about that Friday morning community of pen to paper people? I will miss them soooooooooo much! And Miss Andrea, our fearless leader!
Perhaps there’ll be groups up in the bay area to join. Different. Give it time. Don’t judge because they’re not yet familiar. Remember how shy and awkward and embarrassed you felt about reading out-loud, in the beginning, and how quickly these folks became your safe space for sharing from your heart.
Colleagues! What about the networks I’m part of professionally?
So many of them are up here as well.
What about my dear clients?
Grateful for my therapist's support on this one! Guilt hangs me up. I want to free them, and myself, to move forward. I shan’t be returning to L.A. every month or so, as I previously envisioned. Bless Sharon's brilliant strategies to help me through this one!
Writing by the Bay sounds pretty sweet!
Being with the grandie is the best lure to be here. Time spent with her is precious.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 2015
A year later, I’m looking out at the bay typing away, while seated in one of the blue chairs that used to be in my upstairs healing space, but both now reside in the new living room - not at the Englewood house, but rather a different one. We love this home. In some ways, more than the Studio City house, which was a lovely home for us for twenty-six years!
The essential rooms of this new place are all on one floor, so paramedics have straight access to us from the street - not even a step up or down from the front walk. Amazing. And comforting, too, as we plan to be here ’til we’re taken out feet first. A year of looking seems to have paid dividends.
This house comes as close to perfection for us as anything we could imagine… and someone built it seemingly knowing our taste! We didn’t have to lift a finger to change it to our liking. Well, there is one major repair of a garage beam to deal with, but apart from that, we’re even delighted with the color schemes: a green kitchen, a red, white and grey half-bath, with trivia wallpaper, and basic off-white paint in most of the rest of the house.
Oh, and a view came with. It surprised us. The day we met with our realtors a year ago, here to receive the keys, we had a toast and looked past the orange glare bouncing off the bay, and there, floating in the golden hour of molten sky, was the city of San Francisco.
“How did that get there?” Mark gestured with his glass of bubbly. “Was that view there when we came to look at the house before?” It truly is spectacular. From the lights of San Leandro, Oakland airport, San Francisco’s skyline, to the Bay Bridge, and way in the distance, a wee glimpse of the Golden Gate. Binoculars are a plus, but we rarely use them - preferring simply to take it in with naked eyes.
All good connections have a beginning point. Neighbor Jean is mine. One day, she said, “Why don’t you come with me to my ‘Church of Last Resort’ one Sunday?” I did. And through that simple introduction, a whole world of possibilities opened up. From that first service, where my tears were touched by words read, hymns sung, and invitations issued to be politically involved and active, and a story-tellers event that landed me next to a gal who invited me into a writing group that led to another writing group, and now a third, and a brand new friendship with that gal so similar to me as to be a long lost soul sister with a birthday in the same month, same year, and a family of origin configuration almost identical to my own. She invited me to meet with a group of writers with whom she’s been meeting for twenty three years. I feel so met and held and appropriately challenged to show up as my writerly self that I’m again moved to tears.
Colleagues are plentiful. I will perhaps take over hosting an occasional gathering of Somatic Experiencing Practitioners so we can support one another in our practices of listening to people with big owies, terrible knowledge, horrific stories of human suffering. It helps to be heard. It helps to be held by our peers. It helps to let fall from our shoulders the weight of all that impact of vicarious trauma. If it can flow through us and not land and take up lodging within us, we will be of better service to many more folks for many more years to come.
I plan to invest in a circular fire pit similar to the one my colleague uses, when she hosts these monthly gatherings. She is moving away to her family’s ranch a few hour’s drive south. A fire circle burns away the chaff; helps gold to coalesce.
Even though I’m so busy that I wonder how I ever had time to work as a trauma specialist, and am heading toward complete retirement and only writing, I like keeping in contact with these colleagues whose work inspires me.
The other night, when we were driving the Grandie back to her house for bed-time routine before her mama got back from her Montessori training, we played a word game volley, from back seat to front seat.
A: My name is Alison and I come from Albuquerque, my partner’s name is Alvin, and we sell Alabaster.
Our granddaughter loves these games. Perhaps I’ll change my name to Bertha and sell Bananas electrical in Berkeley. Or maybe I'll be simply a Berkeley writer for Halloween... and beyond...
I like typing Banana and Berkeley too... only one vowel each, appearing three times so they’re rhythmic to type.
I have a 5am waking thought at our daughter's house in Oakland, where I'm staying after completing a workshop, and receiving keys to our new house! Mark has gone back to L.A. Tonight is All Hallow's Eve, and I relish the opportunity to Trick-or-Treat with the Grandie. The thought went something like this: Electricity is a current topic. There was a whole riff... I got a charge out of the process.. after a day of dreaming about where to put our furniture, I cannot remember the electric riff... Oh, well.
The house on Englewood was almost ours. We made an offer. Luckily it fell through. We realized after the fact that smokers lived there for over twenty years, and the stench of stale smoke permeated every particle of the house to the floorboards and studs.
Not lost on me was the fact that this could have been our last house. Born in Inglewood; die on Englewood? Bookends.
Mercifully, Mark found another great house on line, and we are now due to move in December or January!
How do you move a household of 26 years?
Book by book.
How do you stay in touch with friends and family who remain 380 miles away?
Visit by visit, card by letter... then there’s email... which you can’t touch, smell, hear, or hug... only eye candy when friends fall into your inbox. Rats! It’s hard to say goodbye.
Writers! What about that Friday morning community of pen to paper people? I will miss them soooooooooo much! And Miss Andrea, our fearless leader!
Perhaps there’ll be groups up in the bay area to join. Different. Give it time. Don’t judge because they’re not yet familiar. Remember how shy and awkward and embarrassed you felt about reading out-loud, in the beginning, and how quickly these folks became your safe space for sharing from your heart.
Colleagues! What about the networks I’m part of professionally?
So many of them are up here as well.
What about my dear clients?
Grateful for my therapist's support on this one! Guilt hangs me up. I want to free them, and myself, to move forward. I shan’t be returning to L.A. every month or so, as I previously envisioned. Bless Sharon's brilliant strategies to help me through this one!
Writing by the Bay sounds pretty sweet!
Being with the grandie is the best lure to be here. Time spent with her is precious.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 2015
A year later, I’m looking out at the bay typing away, while seated in one of the blue chairs that used to be in my upstairs healing space, but both now reside in the new living room - not at the Englewood house, but rather a different one. We love this home. In some ways, more than the Studio City house, which was a lovely home for us for twenty-six years!
The essential rooms of this new place are all on one floor, so paramedics have straight access to us from the street - not even a step up or down from the front walk. Amazing. And comforting, too, as we plan to be here ’til we’re taken out feet first. A year of looking seems to have paid dividends.
This house comes as close to perfection for us as anything we could imagine… and someone built it seemingly knowing our taste! We didn’t have to lift a finger to change it to our liking. Well, there is one major repair of a garage beam to deal with, but apart from that, we’re even delighted with the color schemes: a green kitchen, a red, white and grey half-bath, with trivia wallpaper, and basic off-white paint in most of the rest of the house.
Oh, and a view came with. It surprised us. The day we met with our realtors a year ago, here to receive the keys, we had a toast and looked past the orange glare bouncing off the bay, and there, floating in the golden hour of molten sky, was the city of San Francisco.
“How did that get there?” Mark gestured with his glass of bubbly. “Was that view there when we came to look at the house before?” It truly is spectacular. From the lights of San Leandro, Oakland airport, San Francisco’s skyline, to the Bay Bridge, and way in the distance, a wee glimpse of the Golden Gate. Binoculars are a plus, but we rarely use them - preferring simply to take it in with naked eyes.
All good connections have a beginning point. Neighbor Jean is mine. One day, she said, “Why don’t you come with me to my ‘Church of Last Resort’ one Sunday?” I did. And through that simple introduction, a whole world of possibilities opened up. From that first service, where my tears were touched by words read, hymns sung, and invitations issued to be politically involved and active, and a story-tellers event that landed me next to a gal who invited me into a writing group that led to another writing group, and now a third, and a brand new friendship with that gal so similar to me as to be a long lost soul sister with a birthday in the same month, same year, and a family of origin configuration almost identical to my own. She invited me to meet with a group of writers with whom she’s been meeting for twenty three years. I feel so met and held and appropriately challenged to show up as my writerly self that I’m again moved to tears.
Colleagues are plentiful. I will perhaps take over hosting an occasional gathering of Somatic Experiencing Practitioners so we can support one another in our practices of listening to people with big owies, terrible knowledge, horrific stories of human suffering. It helps to be heard. It helps to be held by our peers. It helps to let fall from our shoulders the weight of all that impact of vicarious trauma. If it can flow through us and not land and take up lodging within us, we will be of better service to many more folks for many more years to come.
I plan to invest in a circular fire pit similar to the one my colleague uses, when she hosts these monthly gatherings. She is moving away to her family’s ranch a few hour’s drive south. A fire circle burns away the chaff; helps gold to coalesce.
Even though I’m so busy that I wonder how I ever had time to work as a trauma specialist, and am heading toward complete retirement and only writing, I like keeping in contact with these colleagues whose work inspires me.
The other night, when we were driving the Grandie back to her house for bed-time routine before her mama got back from her Montessori training, we played a word game volley, from back seat to front seat.
A: My name is Alison and I come from Albuquerque, my partner’s name is Alvin, and we sell Alabaster.
Our granddaughter loves these games. Perhaps I’ll change my name to Bertha and sell Bananas electrical in Berkeley. Or maybe I'll be simply a Berkeley writer for Halloween... and beyond...
Monday, October 26, 2015
Lost: One photo...
taken by my father, Howard Maxwell, of one Mr. Dougherty, a hermit who lived in Elysian Park near downtown Los Angeles in the early 1950’s. Before the term “homeless” entered our daily lexicon, Mr. Dougherty lived out-of-doors in the park. He wore a shabby tweed sports coat, with half a dozen short, stubby sharpened pencils, points up, in the breast pocket. He also wore an enigmatic smile.
Intrigued by his demeanor, the pristine pencils, and small pad of paper displayed with care in that pocket, Howard interviewed and photographed Mr. Dougherty for a human interest story that ran in the Los Angeles Times, where my dad was employed as a staff photographer. Mr. Dougherty told my dad that he could not read, that he signed his name with an “X”, but that he kept his pencils ever at-the-ready, just in case inspiration struck him. Dad said there was a bright twinkle in his eye as he spoke.
Hearing this story, when I was a child, touched my heart. It troubled me that the grown-ups relayed his tale looking down their noses, pinkies up, with a touch of meanness in their voices, as if his “preparedness” was a joke only they could understand.
What if inspiration did strike him, and he didn’t have the tools at hand to capture it? I’ve certainly been caught-out with no paper and pencil, when a song has entered my head, while driving down the road, and I wanted to jot it down, or a particularly gorgeous cast of the light was showing off in the sky and I wanted to capture it. Alas, no camera.
Perhaps, Mr. Dougherty’s deep connection with the “out of doors” from which many of us house-dwellers are disconnected, was something that inspired him daily, and he was only waiting for divine inspiration to teach him how to capture it on paper… with words or pictures. He certainly knew how to speak, and didn’t seem at all reticent to converse with my father.
I’d like to think that my dad’s intent was pure; that he saw in Mr. Dougherty a quiet dignity, and that it troubled him too, that his colleagues and friends, and even my mother, were off-base in their derision. I’d like to think Howard wanted to inspire Los Angeles with the simple, unaffected dearness of one corner of humanity.
Kindness and open-heartedness inspire me.
Recently, a colleague shared with me how she figured out a way to connect with an elderly woman she’d seen several times from a distance in her neighborhood. It seems that the image of the woman’s bent figure, painfully slow gait, and utter aloneness touched my colleague’s heart with compassion. After perhaps a week, J finally recognized her stooped posture right up close, in front of her, in line at the grocery store. A conversation unfolded organically. The old woman’s face lit up, J said, just to have another human reach out to her. Now they wave and smile at one another in passing. I was moved to tears by J’s tender persistence to find just the right bridge to walk over and acknowledge and say “howdy” to a familiar stranger in her hometown.
I certainly know very shy places inside myself, that at times keep me from reaching out to others, even when I’m longing to give or receive contact.
What might our world be like if we erred on the side of thinking that everyone, on some level, desires contact with others of their species? What if we, like my colleague J, sought and found an opportunity to acknowledge the humanity of a seemingly lost soul? A simple smile with eyes open to receive another’s human essence may shift something in both hearts.
Namasté is a greeting on the streets in India, not just an oooey, ooooey saying at the end of a yoga class. Ram Dass is credited with this definition:
Namasté… I honor the place in you
in which the entire universe dwells.
I honor the place in you which is of love,
or truth, of light, and of peace.
When you are in that place in you, and
I am in that place in me,
We are One
God/Nature/Humanity has many faces - including our own.
A woman I got to know a little bit at a recent women's retreat shared a practice of setting aside 50 one dollar bills each month to be kept ever at-the-ready. When she sees someone who looks as if s/he could use a buck or two, she extends her hand, her heart, and a genuine eye-to-eye smile with a couple of bills. Such a simple act, honoring that place which is or light, of love, of truth, and perhaps hungry and down on her/his luck.
I wish I could find the lost box of photos that was always in the living room cupboard as I was growing up. So many of my father’s photos were brilliant capturings of beautiful souls, tortured souls, and the wreckage of acts of human souls gone astray from the blueprint of their uniquely human and perhaps meant-to-be humane journey.
Is there a GPS App for getting our lost parts back on track?
Monday, October 19, 2015
When the sky is the color of a New England slate gray, clap-board house that teeters on a rocky promontory, the kind of blue-gray that mirrors the stormy sea, then all plants dressed in green come alive in such a way as to make their singing audible. Can you hear them?
“Vwuhbba, Vwwwuhbbbaaa,” they sing. “We’re alive! We’re alive, a-l-i-i-i-iv-e!!! And we can feel the moisture in the air, so we’re celebrating with little thirsty tree dances, and bristly bush dances, and dry twiggy-straw-in-the-dust dances.”
That perfect gray is the color of pure potential and impending good.
It’s not only the color that electrifies mammals and causes crows to crow and owls to hoot. The color coincides with a particular freshness in the air, a coolness, a quickening, a curious unknown, yet familiar, palpable unknowable something; a change for the better.
People come alive.
Often, these pre-storm skies come in October in northern latitudes; once the laziness of summer has been booted. A friend, Lynn Lopez, once wrote, “October, and finally the air has some authority.”
I find myself bouncing, not walking. Grinning ear to ear, not simply smiling. Eyes wild and wide. Blood dancing. Toes alternately digging into the earth in exploratory joy, and sproinging off of it into the rarified realm of air-borne leaves and bird glide. I cannot sit still. I must be out IN it. IN the electrified atmosphere.
Thanks be to the change. Thanks be to the change of season, the change of trajectory, the change of dry into moist.
Yet, the suddenness of the change gives me pause.
Flash floods caught so many unawares in Southern California last Friday. A friend had to be pulled from her car on Lake Elizabeth Road. The Grape Vine, a mountain pass between northern Los Angeles County and California’s Central Valley became the Scrape Vine… as many cars had to be scraped out of the settling mud-flows.
Near our beloved Painted Turtle Camp in Lake Hughes, cars were buried up to the level of their roofs!
Fires, then floods, fooey!
Nature is truly an awesome force.
But the pre-transition from drought to deluge? Beautiful! That in-between place… Dva da Shanta (Peaceful Place in between, in Sanskrit), Half-way-down-the-stairs, that isn't up and isn't down, as A.A. Milne tells us, between day and night, between night and the coming dawn… that place where what we’ve been no longer has hold of us, but our new self is not quite gelled… Powerful places to be.
May we pause to appreciate the pauses, however minuscule, between what we're leaving behind, and what we're embracing the next moment... and the next... and the next...
San Francisco skyline, between dark cloud cover and drench of morning sun. 10-19-15
“Vwuhbba, Vwwwuhbbbaaa,” they sing. “We’re alive! We’re alive, a-l-i-i-i-iv-e!!! And we can feel the moisture in the air, so we’re celebrating with little thirsty tree dances, and bristly bush dances, and dry twiggy-straw-in-the-dust dances.”
That perfect gray is the color of pure potential and impending good.
It’s not only the color that electrifies mammals and causes crows to crow and owls to hoot. The color coincides with a particular freshness in the air, a coolness, a quickening, a curious unknown, yet familiar, palpable unknowable something; a change for the better.
People come alive.
Often, these pre-storm skies come in October in northern latitudes; once the laziness of summer has been booted. A friend, Lynn Lopez, once wrote, “October, and finally the air has some authority.”
I find myself bouncing, not walking. Grinning ear to ear, not simply smiling. Eyes wild and wide. Blood dancing. Toes alternately digging into the earth in exploratory joy, and sproinging off of it into the rarified realm of air-borne leaves and bird glide. I cannot sit still. I must be out IN it. IN the electrified atmosphere.
Thanks be to the change. Thanks be to the change of season, the change of trajectory, the change of dry into moist.
Yet, the suddenness of the change gives me pause.
Flash floods caught so many unawares in Southern California last Friday. A friend had to be pulled from her car on Lake Elizabeth Road. The Grape Vine, a mountain pass between northern Los Angeles County and California’s Central Valley became the Scrape Vine… as many cars had to be scraped out of the settling mud-flows.
Near our beloved Painted Turtle Camp in Lake Hughes, cars were buried up to the level of their roofs!
Fires, then floods, fooey!
Nature is truly an awesome force.
But the pre-transition from drought to deluge? Beautiful! That in-between place… Dva da Shanta (Peaceful Place in between, in Sanskrit), Half-way-down-the-stairs, that isn't up and isn't down, as A.A. Milne tells us, between day and night, between night and the coming dawn… that place where what we’ve been no longer has hold of us, but our new self is not quite gelled… Powerful places to be.
May we pause to appreciate the pauses, however minuscule, between what we're leaving behind, and what we're embracing the next moment... and the next... and the next...
San Francisco skyline, between dark cloud cover and drench of morning sun. 10-19-15
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Expanding Vision
How fortunate I feel to have been embraced by a thirty-five strong, supportive, and spirited women during a three day retreat this weekend in Mill Valley.
Our facilitator, Julia Cline, shared this poem, among other inspirations.
May you enjoy it.
May this find you well, and seeing your world exactly as you'd like to see it.
Monet Refuses the Operation
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the House of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Lisel Mueller
Our facilitator, Julia Cline, shared this poem, among other inspirations.
May you enjoy it.
May this find you well, and seeing your world exactly as you'd like to see it.
Monet Refuses the Operation
Doctor, you say there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the House of Parliament dissolves
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and change our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
Lisel Mueller
Sunday, October 4, 2015
I Feel Bad About the Trees
Redwoods are losing their crowns to the drought.
No more green bower. What can crows crow about?
Sycamores look sick. Olive bark's darker complexion -
Is burnt to a crisp with no watery protection.
Brown pines pine away,
Carpet of needles deeper than hay.
I think they’re depressed. Who wouldn’t be,
When losing one’s beauty and crowning glory?
Chemo cuts for conifers. It looks simply hell-ish.
They need their needles, they’re not needless. They tell us:
Water us, drench us, nourish our tap-root.
We hold up our arms, to hear hummers hum and owls hoot.
If we’re supposed to be guardians of the earth,
If that’s been part of our job since our birth,
The way we’re doing it is certainly crappy.
Climate change makes no one happy.
Time and energy go to make products and packages
Bits of the natural world for sale: Organic this-es and thats-es,
Broccolini splays in plastic trays,
Sandwich wraps under wraps - Saran Wrap, that stays,
Oil’s burned to make plastics, then to transport the goods,
Then, there’s cooking the foods in our own neighborhoods
We heat ‘em and eat ‘em, all virtually dead
We’re heating the planet. We’re boiling our bed
Fire storms are the norm. Golden State, Oregon, Washington
All at the effect of major drought dragging on.
No doubt, we could do without the extraneous extras.
Living in Simplicity might reduce what hexes us
Who was it said: Live simply so others may simply live?
To forestall global disaster WTF would we give?
In the bustle of our busy day, dare we say, “Nay!?
I’ll bring my own cloth bags, make my meals each day
From scratch, all natch?” How long before we succumb
To the siren’s song luring us with lies so dumb
About luminous luxurious leisure when we buy the ease,
The convenience of pop-up food? Such a tease.
How long before we splinter ourselves along seas sharp shoals,
Shriveled on sandy shores, withered our souls?
Buy these. Save time. Do it all with disposables.
We’re made dumber, not smarter, by our thumbs opposable,
While our less digitized brethren who war not, want not,
Live free ’til we encroach on their lairs with our self-righteous rot.
Feel the fire raging at your feet?
Sub-human? Mad-Womb-less-men gestating heat?
Sub-Saharan desertification
Spreading like wild-fire to every nation.
Where a typical modern home has burned,
The ground is so toxic, hazmat suits are earned
No, required to stir the dirt,
So you don’t get hurt.
Building anew is delayed in that spot
Economy’s declining and going to pot
Our chemical footprint is larger than those
Of Jack’s beanstalk Giant including his toes
Our carbon footprint so huge that it eats
The stratosphere, creating more heat.
Our wireless contraptions’ pollution is grandiose,
Sending invisible “fuck you’s”, I suppose
To the children’s children’s children's children's children's children's children.
Our governing bodies are governed by greed.
Greed binds us and blinds us to what babies need.
Humans and wildlife all live in one boat,
Yet humans are who have the world by the throat.
How do we let go? How do we SEE
That what happens to “them” is what happens to ME?
May cooler heads prevail. May each do her part.
May we question each action with one beating heart.
The planet is precious; just one like it so far.
Like dinosaurs, we’re drowning, but in our own gooey tar.
May the trees prevail and stand the test.
Under their GREEN shade, I’d like to rest.
I feel bad about the trees.
Help me pray for them, please?
No more green bower. What can crows crow about?
Sycamores look sick. Olive bark's darker complexion -
Is burnt to a crisp with no watery protection.
Brown pines pine away,
Carpet of needles deeper than hay.
I think they’re depressed. Who wouldn’t be,
When losing one’s beauty and crowning glory?
Chemo cuts for conifers. It looks simply hell-ish.
They need their needles, they’re not needless. They tell us:
Water us, drench us, nourish our tap-root.
We hold up our arms, to hear hummers hum and owls hoot.
If we’re supposed to be guardians of the earth,
If that’s been part of our job since our birth,
The way we’re doing it is certainly crappy.
Climate change makes no one happy.
Time and energy go to make products and packages
Bits of the natural world for sale: Organic this-es and thats-es,
Broccolini splays in plastic trays,
Sandwich wraps under wraps - Saran Wrap, that stays,
Oil’s burned to make plastics, then to transport the goods,
Then, there’s cooking the foods in our own neighborhoods
We heat ‘em and eat ‘em, all virtually dead
We’re heating the planet. We’re boiling our bed
Fire storms are the norm. Golden State, Oregon, Washington
All at the effect of major drought dragging on.
No doubt, we could do without the extraneous extras.
Living in Simplicity might reduce what hexes us
Who was it said: Live simply so others may simply live?
To forestall global disaster WTF would we give?
In the bustle of our busy day, dare we say, “Nay!?
I’ll bring my own cloth bags, make my meals each day
From scratch, all natch?” How long before we succumb
To the siren’s song luring us with lies so dumb
About luminous luxurious leisure when we buy the ease,
The convenience of pop-up food? Such a tease.
How long before we splinter ourselves along seas sharp shoals,
Shriveled on sandy shores, withered our souls?
Buy these. Save time. Do it all with disposables.
We’re made dumber, not smarter, by our thumbs opposable,
While our less digitized brethren who war not, want not,
Live free ’til we encroach on their lairs with our self-righteous rot.
Feel the fire raging at your feet?
Sub-human? Mad-Womb-less-men gestating heat?
Sub-Saharan desertification
Spreading like wild-fire to every nation.
Where a typical modern home has burned,
The ground is so toxic, hazmat suits are earned
No, required to stir the dirt,
So you don’t get hurt.
Building anew is delayed in that spot
Economy’s declining and going to pot
Our chemical footprint is larger than those
Of Jack’s beanstalk Giant including his toes
Our carbon footprint so huge that it eats
The stratosphere, creating more heat.
Our wireless contraptions’ pollution is grandiose,
Sending invisible “fuck you’s”, I suppose
To the children’s children’s children's children's children's children's children.
Our governing bodies are governed by greed.
Greed binds us and blinds us to what babies need.
Humans and wildlife all live in one boat,
Yet humans are who have the world by the throat.
How do we let go? How do we SEE
That what happens to “them” is what happens to ME?
May cooler heads prevail. May each do her part.
May we question each action with one beating heart.
The planet is precious; just one like it so far.
Like dinosaurs, we’re drowning, but in our own gooey tar.
May the trees prevail and stand the test.
Under their GREEN shade, I’d like to rest.
I feel bad about the trees.
Help me pray for them, please?
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Periodicity of Sloth
I like Sunday Drivers, on Sundays.
They remind me, as they plod along at 45 mph in the fast lane on the freeway, on which I’m trying to race to the Farmer’s Market, that I could choose to chill, to lay back, to let the world come to me at its own pace without me hurrying out to get it, as quickly and as resolutely as I possibly can. What would it matter if I didn’t get the best parking space, the springiest greens, the sweetest berries, and freshest fruits. That’s all dependent on too many factors beyond my control anyway. My going fast won’t fix anything regarding that produce which the farmers have already rushed to market in hopes of getting the best prices.
What will it change if I
s - l - o - w
w - a - y
d - o - w - n
?
Periodically, it’s good to switch things up, right? Whether it is my pace, route, or mode of transportation, it creates new synapses to switch it up.
In Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, Betty Edwards tells us how it can help balance our brain hemispheres when we use our non-dominant hand to, for instance, brush our teeth, or write our name, though maybe not to sign checks.
The idea of a sabbath appeals to me; a counter pose to the bustle of busy-ness most weeks bring, and setting aside a time, not to do, but just to be. Don’t just do something. Sit there!
Sunday drivers may have their priorities straight: To spend a day in leisure pursuits, visiting folks, conversing, discussing important topics, relaxing with a good book, playing, and dancing to a different drummer’s slower rhythm, to help re-set the hot busy-busy with a chillaxin cooler and easier tempo. Maybe it makes the week ahead less hectic. Maybe it fills a well where we can drink deeply of a refreshing brew throughout the next six days.
It isn’t important to me which day folks put aside to lift the needle out of the groove in the record (Wow! am I dating myself… but, hey, at least I’m dating! As long as this is not my vinyl resting place!) As it is, I see Sunday drivers on the freeway every day of the week.
Many cultures build in a day of rest and spiritual development or renewal. Saturday, Sunday, Fun-day or Choose-day. No me importa. I’d like to try it. One day of rest. My family of origin didn’t do that, nor did my husband’s. Consequently, we’re not so good at resting, recreating, and recollecting ourselves.
Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, has just passed. It’s a day of atonement. When we break-down that word, it makes sense to me: it’s a time to be AT ONE. Maybe At-One-ment with all there is? For most of us that means putting aside grudges, so we may be close to all beings, and recognize our concurrent residence with all we know on a singular blue marble, third planet from our Sun/Star, on the fringes of a magnificent galaxy, in an unknowable and vast Universe.
Sunday drivers deserve not only my compassion, but my gratitude for reminding me to slow down!
The Blood Red Super Moon of 9-27-15 would have been missed by me, had I not been out with neighbors at a FUNdraiser, slowed down enough to go outside and LOOK at the sky. Ol’ ginger colored Cheshire cat smiling down on us warmed my heart.
May you find the tempo that lets you stop to smell the roses, see eclipses, and your fellow human travelers on this beautiful spaceship earth… even if only periodically.
To Sloth!
They remind me, as they plod along at 45 mph in the fast lane on the freeway, on which I’m trying to race to the Farmer’s Market, that I could choose to chill, to lay back, to let the world come to me at its own pace without me hurrying out to get it, as quickly and as resolutely as I possibly can. What would it matter if I didn’t get the best parking space, the springiest greens, the sweetest berries, and freshest fruits. That’s all dependent on too many factors beyond my control anyway. My going fast won’t fix anything regarding that produce which the farmers have already rushed to market in hopes of getting the best prices.
What will it change if I
s - l - o - w
w - a - y
d - o - w - n
?
Periodically, it’s good to switch things up, right? Whether it is my pace, route, or mode of transportation, it creates new synapses to switch it up.
In Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, Betty Edwards tells us how it can help balance our brain hemispheres when we use our non-dominant hand to, for instance, brush our teeth, or write our name, though maybe not to sign checks.
The idea of a sabbath appeals to me; a counter pose to the bustle of busy-ness most weeks bring, and setting aside a time, not to do, but just to be. Don’t just do something. Sit there!
Sunday drivers may have their priorities straight: To spend a day in leisure pursuits, visiting folks, conversing, discussing important topics, relaxing with a good book, playing, and dancing to a different drummer’s slower rhythm, to help re-set the hot busy-busy with a chillaxin cooler and easier tempo. Maybe it makes the week ahead less hectic. Maybe it fills a well where we can drink deeply of a refreshing brew throughout the next six days.
It isn’t important to me which day folks put aside to lift the needle out of the groove in the record (Wow! am I dating myself… but, hey, at least I’m dating! As long as this is not my vinyl resting place!) As it is, I see Sunday drivers on the freeway every day of the week.
Many cultures build in a day of rest and spiritual development or renewal. Saturday, Sunday, Fun-day or Choose-day. No me importa. I’d like to try it. One day of rest. My family of origin didn’t do that, nor did my husband’s. Consequently, we’re not so good at resting, recreating, and recollecting ourselves.
Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, has just passed. It’s a day of atonement. When we break-down that word, it makes sense to me: it’s a time to be AT ONE. Maybe At-One-ment with all there is? For most of us that means putting aside grudges, so we may be close to all beings, and recognize our concurrent residence with all we know on a singular blue marble, third planet from our Sun/Star, on the fringes of a magnificent galaxy, in an unknowable and vast Universe.
Sunday drivers deserve not only my compassion, but my gratitude for reminding me to slow down!
The Blood Red Super Moon of 9-27-15 would have been missed by me, had I not been out with neighbors at a FUNdraiser, slowed down enough to go outside and LOOK at the sky. Ol’ ginger colored Cheshire cat smiling down on us warmed my heart.
May you find the tempo that lets you stop to smell the roses, see eclipses, and your fellow human travelers on this beautiful spaceship earth… even if only periodically.
To Sloth!
Monday, September 21, 2015
The One That Got Away
Is it Chance that has me sit beside the young woman and her father at the table farthest from the stage, way at the back of the dining hall? The camp director is giving us a run-down on the day’s activities. I wince as the the air goes jagged with the microphone’s piercing feedback. Twenty-seven families and two dozen volunteer counselors register the toe-curling sound also. The young woman next to me does not. She sits placidly, her head supported by the chair, her slender hands with colorfully striped fingernails resting very still on the table. I touch and admire her meticulously manicured nails, and tell her I’m glad she is here. She does not respond. Dad speaks for her, saying N is very sleepy.
At a camp weekend sponsored by WE CAN Pediatric Brain Tumor Network, one doesn’t ponder or ask about the necessity for the wheelchair. One plunges in with light-hearted introductions. I cannot help but notice the single focus gaze emanating from this dark-haired daughter whose eyes are riveted on her father. There is no other communication between them save her continuous fixed witnessing of her father’s face, and his intermittent return of that penetrating contact. He makes small talk with the rest of us at the table. Mentally, I ascribe meaning to the look on the daughter’s face: Adoration. I will find out later, how much more meaning her eyes were conveying.
Introductions made, among the eight of us at table, the whole-camp game-fest begins. In the bustle of each table coming up with a team name, a song, and an animal sound, I register, but only dimly, that the mother has come to whisper into the ear of her husband. Shortly afterwards, the father, waves a vague goodbye, and prepares to wheel his daughter away from the table and out of the dining hall. Just before they exit, I again make contact with the quiet one, saying simply, as I imagine that she is going to their cabin to take a nap, “Qué duerme con los angelitos.” May you sleep with the Angels. I have an eerie premonition that I may have overstepped a linguistic boundary, as if Sleeping with the Angels may be a more permanent state for this fourteen-year-old girl child. Off they go, away from the noise and chaos of the dining hall.
* * * * * * * * *
The crowd breaks-out into the age groups to which we’ve been assigned and the day’s activity periods commence. Parents gather in the dining hall, to meet with intuitive, knowledgable, and compassionate Dr. K, while social workers and volunteer counselors gather up each group of youngsters - some of whom are patients, others siblings, to find our rooms or outdoor areas where we’ll be for the next two hours.
The infirmary is an indoor space and mercifully air-conditioned. We five counselors and our nine 1.5 to 5-year-old charges appreciate the coolness. It is HOT in Livermore, this September Saturday. Our space has been set up with a play-dough table, book corner, building block/Lego area, puppets on the couch, and me on a blanket on the floor fingering chords on my guitar while the young-ones strum it. We make up all sorts of new verses for Wheels on the Bus, and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
One of our kids is virtually blind, so she takes in her world by bringing it within two inches of her face, or into her mouth. We must wash each toy she has tasted. Another, with double hearing aids, seems enamored of the sound of the running water, so runs to the sink in the main room at every opportunity to turn the water on, her giggles like a tinkling stream. It seems to soothe her, or perhaps just delights her having the power to make adults get up and turn it off. Drought consciousness makes us surprisingly spry.
Because the infirmary houses the nearest bathroom for a few of the other gathering places, its glass door opens and closes many times during our use of the room. The interruptions make it hard to sustain attention in any of the play areas. For some of our youngest ones, every time the door is opened by a counselor with one or more campers who need to use the loo, it is a reminder to her or him that s/he is with a bunch of strangers, and that mom isn’t here, but went out that door!
One of our youngest, E, a boy not yet two-years-old, is having a particularly rough time with each interruption. He runs to the door as it closes and he cries and cries. Each of us volunteers tries her/his best to soothe, commiserate, reason with, or distract young E. We are fortunate that his four-year-old brother is also in this youngest group. I ask C if he’s willing to give his little brother a hug. Little brother’s ear is on older brother’s chest. I imagine he is being soothed by the familial smell and the sound of C’s heart beat. I crouch beside the hugging brothers and begin patting a rhythm, chanting softly something I learned recently from one of my colleagues: “I can hear my heart beat, I can hear my heart beat, Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song. Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song. When I feel that beat in me, it can set my spirit free. When I feel that beat in me, it can set my spirit free.”
During the course of our two hour morning session, and two hour afternoon session, we sing that chant together more than ten times - each and every time the door opens and chaos ensues. C gets used to suspending his making snakes with play-dough or building towers with Legos, or strumming my guitar, to hug his little brother, or simply lets the little guy hug him. By the end of the day, many of the kids are singing the heart chant to themselves, patting their chests.
* * * * * * * * *
After dinner, the counselors transform the dining hall. First it becomes a theater, with chairs facing the stage, for the “We Can Do Anything” stage night. We never call it a “talent show.” Kids are empowered to tell a joke, sing a song, dance, play an instrument, hula-hoop, do magic - anything! Parents and counselors are moist of eye from the joy of watching the children shine and be loved-up by heartfelt applause.
Chairs are then put to the side and the dancing begins! Camp director Mike plays DJ and camp appropriate songs from Electric Slide to Macarena to Pharaoh Williams’ Happy Song are beamed over the loudspeakers and everyone who wants to dances, wielding glow sticks. During the dance, I have a wonderful conversation with a nineteen- year-old whose speech is very slow as a result of his brain tumor. I will my ears to slow down, so as to catch every word. He tells me of his triumph beating dad sometimes at games of chess. I observe he is also a gifted engineer, as he figures out the tricky part about fashioning the glow sticks into bracelets.
My beloved runs his Pun and Games activity on the big screen TV, to one side of the stage, to the delight of the non-dancers and resting, recovering dancers. By 9:30, the ones still standing are encouraged to head to bed to rest up for the final activity periods and all-camp-closing on Sunday.
As the counselors, social workers, director Mike, and the good doctor K are in the final debrief Saturday night, we are told that N's family has taken her home for hospice care. There is nothing more that can be done for her medically. There is un-ease in the air. This is the nightmare each family fears.
* * * * * * * * *
We live close enough to this camp in Livermore, that we easily drive home to sleep, which Pun does Friday night, while I am with our granddaughter. We both enter our home Saturday night - emotionally and physically spent. He returns to camp Sunday, while I tend to other commitments.
I awaken Sunday morning thinking about N. I am haunted by her look that lingers longer than any other mental snapshot of my fourteen hours at camp. I hate cancer.
Sunday afternoon, after church services, a friend and I share a bite to eat and a stroll. I confess to her my hatred for cancer and how emotionally wobbly I feel in the wake of the news that the one camper who got away from the table could not get away from cancer. The family delayed leaving long enough for N’s seven-year-old brother to go to his age group in the garden to say hello and goodbye. This is reported to be a huge breakthrough for him. So often, siblings of children stricken with this equal opportunity destroyer called cancer, pull so far into themselves, it’s hard to extricate them and learn what’s really going on in their hearts and minds. In the case of this sibling, he is spared a long period of witnessing in-home hospice care. I’m glad of his reach-out to his peers, and hope that he may return to a sibling camp.
Sunday afternoon the camp director calls us to say that N died Sunday morning. She is, indeed, sleeping with the Angels.
I’m left with the uneasy feeling that I wish there was more that I could have done to ease or acknowledge the family’s pain. I wish I could have seen the deep truths of anguish and wrenching goodbyes N’s gaze was conveying to her father. I wish I could have seen into the future and let the family know I would be holding them in my heart pocket. I am holding them, but it went unspoken.
The opportunity was one that got away.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Mentor Me, Margaret
Inspired by sitting next to the woman who facilitates the writer's group twice monthly. At this Sunday's Service
Pure of pitch
True in tone
During eight brief decades
Her gifts she’s honed
Alight in the pew
Beside her, enraptured
I hear hymns of honey
Her sweet voice has captured
Teach me, Ms. Margaret,
I pray, to sing clearly
Show me the path
You cleave to so dearly
Is it your faith
That all will be well
Gives the tilt to your chin?
And a stride that won’t tell
The insults and injuries
Life surely has dealt you?
What is your magic
Please, tell me true
Such dignity beams from your
Form and your countenance
Clearly, you are a woman
Of substance
Mentor me, Margaret
I’m searching for meaning
Beyond daily maintenance
‘though I shan’t be demeaning
I want something more
That I can hold on to
Something at core
As burnished as this pew
Is your strength born of pain
Or having to tussle
With challenges that have
Given you muscles
To bear with equanimity
Each and every adversity?
You show hospitality;
Welcome diversity
God grant that I reach
More decades than these
Numbering closer to seven
Than six, if you please
Would that my voice
Become a bit bolder
Like yours, dear Margaret
As I too become older
May I also exude warmth,
Eyes a-twinkle with light
To inspire as you do
Courage and calm despite
The slings and arrows
Of outrageous fortune
I’ll have what she’s having
May I now name that tune?
Thank you, dear Margaret
For forging a path
That speaks to my heart,
That knows no wrath
Sing with me, dance with me
Bring me along
No cold pedestals,
In soft hearts you belong
Pure of pitch
True in tone
During eight brief decades
Her gifts she’s honed
Alight in the pew
Beside her, enraptured
I hear hymns of honey
Her sweet voice has captured
Teach me, Ms. Margaret,
I pray, to sing clearly
Show me the path
You cleave to so dearly
Is it your faith
That all will be well
Gives the tilt to your chin?
And a stride that won’t tell
The insults and injuries
Life surely has dealt you?
What is your magic
Please, tell me true
Such dignity beams from your
Form and your countenance
Clearly, you are a woman
Of substance
Mentor me, Margaret
I’m searching for meaning
Beyond daily maintenance
‘though I shan’t be demeaning
I want something more
That I can hold on to
Something at core
As burnished as this pew
Is your strength born of pain
Or having to tussle
With challenges that have
Given you muscles
To bear with equanimity
Each and every adversity?
You show hospitality;
Welcome diversity
God grant that I reach
More decades than these
Numbering closer to seven
Than six, if you please
Would that my voice
Become a bit bolder
Like yours, dear Margaret
As I too become older
May I also exude warmth,
Eyes a-twinkle with light
To inspire as you do
Courage and calm despite
The slings and arrows
Of outrageous fortune
I’ll have what she’s having
May I now name that tune?
Thank you, dear Margaret
For forging a path
That speaks to my heart,
That knows no wrath
Sing with me, dance with me
Bring me along
No cold pedestals,
In soft hearts you belong
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Ya Gotta Have Heart
Four climate zones in one day is invigorating! Going to cool Muir Woods, on the second day of September, from Oakland Hills where it was about 85 degrees starting out at noon, was an exercise in “let’s make the best of a disappointing situation.” Turns out that even mid-week, Muir Woods National Park is a huge draw for tourists and local hikers. No place to park. My L.A. pal and I followed the double-yellow-brick-road-line out of the park area and toward Green Gulch Zendo Retreat Center, about a seven minute drive down the winding road.
What a beautiful acreage they sit on! Organic gardens with row after row of flowers, espaliered apple trees and broccoli, collards and kale, oh my, invited us to kick off our shoes and steep in the tranquility.
My old flip-cell-phone would not have allowed the documentation of the courting ritual you might notice posted here, but the new phone, that’s smarter than I am, does!
Ya gotta have heart, so enjoy the slide show of what Andrea and I saw first Wednesday in September.
By the time we got to the beach it was FREEZING for these So Cal gals! Fog obliterated the sun except for the narrowly focused brilliant arc-light tracings across the dun colored hills. Pelicans filled their bellies - diving into the spraying sea. Two nubile nine year olds body surfed in the waves. I ventured over to some tide pools at the edge of the cliffs to see what I could see before the sea's high tide could seize me!
What a beautiful acreage they sit on! Organic gardens with row after row of flowers, espaliered apple trees and broccoli, collards and kale, oh my, invited us to kick off our shoes and steep in the tranquility.
My old flip-cell-phone would not have allowed the documentation of the courting ritual you might notice posted here, but the new phone, that’s smarter than I am, does!
Ya gotta have heart, so enjoy the slide show of what Andrea and I saw first Wednesday in September.
By the time we got to the beach it was FREEZING for these So Cal gals! Fog obliterated the sun except for the narrowly focused brilliant arc-light tracings across the dun colored hills. Pelicans filled their bellies - diving into the spraying sea. Two nubile nine year olds body surfed in the waves. I ventured over to some tide pools at the edge of the cliffs to see what I could see before the sea's high tide could seize me!
Monday, August 31, 2015
Kicking Tires
“You’re so lucky! This is the last one of this model on the lot.” He escorts us to the far end of the impressive expanse of asphalt real estate.
Mark registers mock horror as a game show “wrong answer” buzz emanates from his pocket.
“What was THAT?” the car salesman asks.
“Oh, so sorry… that was my ‘Bull-shit detector’ going off.” my husband replies.
Our two daughters and I giggle. It's really funny. I feel for the guy, but I'm only the teeniest bit embarrassed for him.
Undaunted, the salesman walks on, looking from one to the other of us, guffawing in a jovial, good-sport sort of way. Maybe he really believes his is the best dealership in the world.
We look over the Dodge Caravan and decide it really isn’t for us after all.
Next stop is to test drive the new Toyota Van at yet another dealership. In 1983, we've had to put $100 down simply to get an appointment to look at this hot ticket item from Japan, where its prototype has been test driven for a decade or more as a taxi. We like it fine, but Mark balks at the price tag, lack of wiggle room for negotiating, and the arrogance of the individual salesman. Eventually, it will be the car which we buy, after some obligatory haggling. We enjoyed that car for eight years before trading it for a coffee table made by an artist friend.
If you’re in the market to buy a car - new or used, there’s no better companion to bring with you than my husband. He and his inspired questions, choreography, and patented bullshit detector are guaranteed to get you the best deal.
Imagine, then how hard it is for him to sit back on the side-lines and only be an online cheerleader. (Online as in telephone consult, not computer contact... and not in person.) Our daughter is in process of negotiating with various car dealers in the Bay Area. She knows what she wants, and has been doing R & D to narrow the field for the specific details on her wish list, and to find out who is offering the best deal.
I’m so proud of her for standing her ground with several prototypical sleazeball salesmen.
The tricky parental-involvement-dance between gentle encouragement / cheerleading, and sharing just the right amount of information borne of experience deserves careful practice. We want her to feel empowered, and also get the best deal she can.
So far, so good. She’s got the dealership, the salesman, and the car lined up… now it’s a simple waiting game while the details are being ironed out. By tomorrow afternoon, we hope she has a new car! (well, a new for her 2013 car!)
If not, it's back to Research and Development and more kicking of Tires.
Mark registers mock horror as a game show “wrong answer” buzz emanates from his pocket.
“What was THAT?” the car salesman asks.
“Oh, so sorry… that was my ‘Bull-shit detector’ going off.” my husband replies.
Our two daughters and I giggle. It's really funny. I feel for the guy, but I'm only the teeniest bit embarrassed for him.
Undaunted, the salesman walks on, looking from one to the other of us, guffawing in a jovial, good-sport sort of way. Maybe he really believes his is the best dealership in the world.
We look over the Dodge Caravan and decide it really isn’t for us after all.
Next stop is to test drive the new Toyota Van at yet another dealership. In 1983, we've had to put $100 down simply to get an appointment to look at this hot ticket item from Japan, where its prototype has been test driven for a decade or more as a taxi. We like it fine, but Mark balks at the price tag, lack of wiggle room for negotiating, and the arrogance of the individual salesman. Eventually, it will be the car which we buy, after some obligatory haggling. We enjoyed that car for eight years before trading it for a coffee table made by an artist friend.
If you’re in the market to buy a car - new or used, there’s no better companion to bring with you than my husband. He and his inspired questions, choreography, and patented bullshit detector are guaranteed to get you the best deal.
Imagine, then how hard it is for him to sit back on the side-lines and only be an online cheerleader. (Online as in telephone consult, not computer contact... and not in person.) Our daughter is in process of negotiating with various car dealers in the Bay Area. She knows what she wants, and has been doing R & D to narrow the field for the specific details on her wish list, and to find out who is offering the best deal.
I’m so proud of her for standing her ground with several prototypical sleazeball salesmen.
The tricky parental-involvement-dance between gentle encouragement / cheerleading, and sharing just the right amount of information borne of experience deserves careful practice. We want her to feel empowered, and also get the best deal she can.
So far, so good. She’s got the dealership, the salesman, and the car lined up… now it’s a simple waiting game while the details are being ironed out. By tomorrow afternoon, we hope she has a new car! (well, a new for her 2013 car!)
If not, it's back to Research and Development and more kicking of Tires.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Road to Enfeeblement
The Road to Enfeeblement
How does it begin?
The spokes of the wheel on the one-horse-shay never even began to give way.
In this mortal flesh and blood body, is it the subtle increase of arthritic pain, the limitation of range of motion in certain joints, or the increasing awareness that memory and hearing definitely are not what they used to be that signals we’ve just switched over from cruisin’ the highway of life - in relative comfort with good brakes, shock absorbers, and mileage - to the less desirable byway I’ve named The Road to Enfeeblement?
I’m hopeful Enfeeblement is not a destination close at hand, for you or me, but one never knows, do one?
When illness or injury happen, what can we do to find our way back, at least temporarily, to cruise speed on the more desirable highway?
What practices are tried and true?
What’s really working for you?
Yoga’s always been my go-to.
Meditation too.
In a stew? Self-reflective writing will do.
Walking, dancing, following through
On all those lists of things to-do
Hike with a buddy, Epsom soak, massage
Healing with the feeling that illness is a passage
Giving thanks for every bit of function I enjoy
Helps me find compassion for each girl and boy
As we encounter one another on the road
Can we stop and offer help with a heavy load?
Viewing up close and personal the reality of each stage
Of life may help prepare us for the decrepitude of age.
We don’t have to like it, but can we find some grace
To help us on our travels and the pot holes we all face?
Making time for the practices beyond the distractions and resistance is quite a trick, eh?
Maybe our equations need a revamp. If I factor myself into the equation of twenty four hours I’m allotted every day, I hum along so much better than if I drop that factor out.
Jokingly, I’ve been known to say, “If I did everything I want to do first thing in the morning, it would take me until four O’clock in the afternoon!”
Guess what? No joke, I’ve found I must do at least one of those practices each twenty four hours, or else… or else the spokes on the wheel begin to creak, splinter, and give way to enfeeblement.
Busy as I may be with projects for the house, the occasional client, personal care, writing, time with the Grandie, music, friend/family support, socializing, gardening, etc., I have to remember that in my world, I am a hub for my personal wheel. If I’m off balance, it’s a rough ride!
Oh, and coffee helps. I get so much more accomplished on those days I imbibe!
Sleep is a tonic, lest my speed become super-sonic.
Hug a hub central
Let me stay ventral
Like a bubble bursts all at a go
Let me evaporate fast, not slow!
Below is the original poem of inspiration...
“The One Hoss Shay"
by
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1858)
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it ah, but stay
I 'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
A chaise breaks down but doesn't wear out
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
The deacon inquired of the village folk
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
"Naow she'll dew"
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
"She was a wonder, and nothing less"
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
"Deacons and deaconesses dropped away"
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Eighteen-hundred...
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; --it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
and FIFTY-FIVE...
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
Its hundredth year
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You 're welcome. No extra charge.)
"A general flavor of mild decay"
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
"In another hour it will be worn out"
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. - Off went they.
"The parson takes a drive"
The parson was working his Sunday's text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill
"All at once the horse stood still"
- First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
"something decidedly like a spill"
-- What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
"Just as bubbles do when they burst"
End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
"End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay"
How does it begin?
The spokes of the wheel on the one-horse-shay never even began to give way.
In this mortal flesh and blood body, is it the subtle increase of arthritic pain, the limitation of range of motion in certain joints, or the increasing awareness that memory and hearing definitely are not what they used to be that signals we’ve just switched over from cruisin’ the highway of life - in relative comfort with good brakes, shock absorbers, and mileage - to the less desirable byway I’ve named The Road to Enfeeblement?
I’m hopeful Enfeeblement is not a destination close at hand, for you or me, but one never knows, do one?
When illness or injury happen, what can we do to find our way back, at least temporarily, to cruise speed on the more desirable highway?
What practices are tried and true?
What’s really working for you?
Yoga’s always been my go-to.
Meditation too.
In a stew? Self-reflective writing will do.
Walking, dancing, following through
On all those lists of things to-do
Hike with a buddy, Epsom soak, massage
Healing with the feeling that illness is a passage
Giving thanks for every bit of function I enjoy
Helps me find compassion for each girl and boy
As we encounter one another on the road
Can we stop and offer help with a heavy load?
Viewing up close and personal the reality of each stage
Of life may help prepare us for the decrepitude of age.
We don’t have to like it, but can we find some grace
To help us on our travels and the pot holes we all face?
Making time for the practices beyond the distractions and resistance is quite a trick, eh?
Maybe our equations need a revamp. If I factor myself into the equation of twenty four hours I’m allotted every day, I hum along so much better than if I drop that factor out.
Jokingly, I’ve been known to say, “If I did everything I want to do first thing in the morning, it would take me until four O’clock in the afternoon!”
Guess what? No joke, I’ve found I must do at least one of those practices each twenty four hours, or else… or else the spokes on the wheel begin to creak, splinter, and give way to enfeeblement.
Busy as I may be with projects for the house, the occasional client, personal care, writing, time with the Grandie, music, friend/family support, socializing, gardening, etc., I have to remember that in my world, I am a hub for my personal wheel. If I’m off balance, it’s a rough ride!
Oh, and coffee helps. I get so much more accomplished on those days I imbibe!
Sleep is a tonic, lest my speed become super-sonic.
Hug a hub central
Let me stay ventral
Like a bubble bursts all at a go
Let me evaporate fast, not slow!
Below is the original poem of inspiration...
“The One Hoss Shay"
by
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1858)
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it ah, but stay
I 'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
A chaise breaks down but doesn't wear out
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
The deacon inquired of the village folk
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
"Naow she'll dew"
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
"She was a wonder, and nothing less"
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
"Deacons and deaconesses dropped away"
Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Eighteen-hundred...
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; --it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
and FIFTY-FIVE...
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
Its hundredth year
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You 're welcome. No extra charge.)
"A general flavor of mild decay"
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
"In another hour it will be worn out"
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. - Off went they.
"The parson takes a drive"
The parson was working his Sunday's text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill
"All at once the horse stood still"
- First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
"something decidedly like a spill"
-- What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
"Just as bubbles do when they burst"
End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
"End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay"
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Mom Support
A volunteer spaghetti squash plant is growing in the front yard. At least, I think it volunteered. Perhaps, it was purposefully planted by the former owners of our new home. However it got here, I’m grateful for its golden oval offerings, and a friend taught me how to ensure there will be more.
Donna showed me the difference between the male and female flowers, and taught me how to “tickle” the male stamens with a cotton swab, and drop that golden dust onto the eager and waiting female flower centers. Both are golden, and wide open from early morning through noon. There is a discernible difference! (I’ve just been using my finger, because I don’t carry cotton swabs in my pocket.)
The pollen transfer seems to be working. I’ve harvested three plump beauties so far, and a couple more are growing.
An interesting phenomenon seems to be tipping the balance between male and female flower production, however. Deer have found the squash vine. They must step over the low brick wall enclosing the growing area in order to graze on the large succulent leaves in the pre-dawn hours. I stepped out one morning to admire and water the plant, with my patented “gray water system”, meaning I take a dish tub that happens to be gray, in which I catch the run-off from rinsing dishes or washing hands in the sink, and use that to water the few plants growing through the “brown-is-the-new-green” redwood-bark “lawn”, only to find the twenty foot wide sprawl of the plant transformed into a sea of green but leafless stems. The already fruiting out buds continue to grow into squashes, but I spy no more female flowers with my little eye!
Ain’t Nature wonderful? I believe She is saying, “Well, there isn’t enough photo-synthesis available with so few leaves to nurture new life, so best act hopeful that a buzzing bee will take this male pollen to a nearby female flower in another garden!” There are at least a dozen male flowers - wide open, but not a single female flower since the day of the deer mow-down.
The female of all species needs support to bring forth new life - leaf support for photosynthesis for plants; adequate range, and variety of food for critters, and trust, nurturance, and emotional support for human females mothering their young.
Support a local mom near you today. Cotton swabs for tickling non-essential.
Monday, August 10, 2015
In the wake of a family wedding...
LUV.
Family.
Love ‘em up.
Accept them as they are.
Encourage stepping out into the unknown.
Support brave attempts to make a difference in the world.
Everyday, ordinary conversations can be peppered with loving affirmations.
Boundaries that are resilient but not rigid may morph to maintain sanity for all concerned.
Cradle to crypt is a mighty short trip. Best to let small stuff slide off the back.
Does this one take in love through his eyes, or stomach?
This one feeling unsure, unworthy, unknown?
That one dreaming of love?
Love ‘em up.
Simply.
Love.
Family.
Love ‘em up.
Accept them as they are.
Encourage stepping out into the unknown.
Support brave attempts to make a difference in the world.
Everyday, ordinary conversations can be peppered with loving affirmations.
Boundaries that are resilient but not rigid may morph to maintain sanity for all concerned.
Cradle to crypt is a mighty short trip. Best to let small stuff slide off the back.
Does this one take in love through his eyes, or stomach?
This one feeling unsure, unworthy, unknown?
That one dreaming of love?
Love ‘em up.
Simply.
Love.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Human Doing
Accomplished is how I feel.
The cost of hiring a plumber was averted by fixing the clogged drain in the bathroom sink myself. (Note: Coconut oil used on skin, and washing one’s face with cold water to save the water needed to warm it up, really CLOGS things up very well.) I took apart the drain plug mechanism, used an old toothbrush to scrape out the congealed oil, and poured boiling water down the pipe. Ta Da!
Before that, I figured out how to install and rev-up a new back-up device for my computer. It had been forty days since the old one got too full to handle any more data, so I’m feeling relieved that I’m now relatively “safe” from losing data.
Before that, I installed a new phone system that has better reception and reaches into the farthest flung room of this sprawler of a house.
The above two electronic tasks may not seem like a big deal, but to a Luddite such as I am, and while my much more tech-savvy husband is away, it really felt like a big deal to me!
The garden is a work in progress, but I was able to trim back two of the five oak volunteers on the hillside out back. An arborist told me that hear in Oakland, we’re not allowed to cut back any trunk greater than four inches in diameter. These two inch shoots were cut nicely by using the long-handled lever pruning shears. I wove some of the slenderest lengths into circles. Either they’ll make good kindling - like the rest of the sticks I laid straight (seven, eight….) OR perhaps little tiny baby shields with leather or silk stretched over them, and symbols affixed to them with paint or appliqué. Right now, they look cute as their four to seven inch diameters lay about - drying in the deep pine needles on the patio.
Sunday’s task was vacuuming the refrigerator condenser. A little light came on to say DO IT NOW, so I found the manual and followed directions - trusty Phillips head screwdriver in hand.
Pot-luck supper at the Church of Last Resort, as neighbor Jean calls it, was a lovely venue for socializing. I met a gal who began a grief group for families after her own husband died unexpectedly. She seemed very interested in We Can Have Hope, the camp for families that have lost a child, which takes place twice a year at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times. It’s part of We Can - Pediatric Brain Tumor Network.
Networking is gooood.
I feel accomplished.
The cost of hiring a plumber was averted by fixing the clogged drain in the bathroom sink myself. (Note: Coconut oil used on skin, and washing one’s face with cold water to save the water needed to warm it up, really CLOGS things up very well.) I took apart the drain plug mechanism, used an old toothbrush to scrape out the congealed oil, and poured boiling water down the pipe. Ta Da!
Before that, I figured out how to install and rev-up a new back-up device for my computer. It had been forty days since the old one got too full to handle any more data, so I’m feeling relieved that I’m now relatively “safe” from losing data.
Before that, I installed a new phone system that has better reception and reaches into the farthest flung room of this sprawler of a house.
The above two electronic tasks may not seem like a big deal, but to a Luddite such as I am, and while my much more tech-savvy husband is away, it really felt like a big deal to me!
The garden is a work in progress, but I was able to trim back two of the five oak volunteers on the hillside out back. An arborist told me that hear in Oakland, we’re not allowed to cut back any trunk greater than four inches in diameter. These two inch shoots were cut nicely by using the long-handled lever pruning shears. I wove some of the slenderest lengths into circles. Either they’ll make good kindling - like the rest of the sticks I laid straight (seven, eight….) OR perhaps little tiny baby shields with leather or silk stretched over them, and symbols affixed to them with paint or appliqué. Right now, they look cute as their four to seven inch diameters lay about - drying in the deep pine needles on the patio.
Sunday’s task was vacuuming the refrigerator condenser. A little light came on to say DO IT NOW, so I found the manual and followed directions - trusty Phillips head screwdriver in hand.
Pot-luck supper at the Church of Last Resort, as neighbor Jean calls it, was a lovely venue for socializing. I met a gal who began a grief group for families after her own husband died unexpectedly. She seemed very interested in We Can Have Hope, the camp for families that have lost a child, which takes place twice a year at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times. It’s part of We Can - Pediatric Brain Tumor Network.
Networking is gooood.
I feel accomplished.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
PBX
P? Yes, I have to, but Mary Hitchcock’s already on break
B? A ballerina please. Toe shoes gleam in the light beneath my desk
X? SÃ, Señor, puede obtener un X-Ray en éste dirección
I rattle off an address in English or in Spanish, more likely,
In the heart of the City of Angels, Ciudad de la Reina de los Angeles
“Good afternoon, Tuberculosis and Respiratory Disease Association of
Los Angeles County.” A mouthful. A bounty of
Cumbersome spittle creating consonants. My tongue’s dry by ten a.m.
At 19 in my second year of pushing and pulling brass nibs into or out of
Exasperating round holes, I shorten it.
“Hi! Christmas Seals, how may I direct your call?”
No one the wiser, but me. I learned a lot of Spanish in two years.
Forty years later I still have the small Pacific Bell tin of brass polish
My now grown girls loved to play dress-up with the worn out toe shoes.
Dreaming of other than menial labor.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Sunsets
Rain storms make beautiful sunsets.
Los Angeles slurped up the recent dump of the wet stuff on its parched soil. My husband reported that Saturday was soggy at camp in the low foothills.
Some of that blessed moisture made its way north. The sunset Sunday evening in Oakland was one of those never to be duplicated displays by Mama Nature wearing her most flamboyant dress. Purple islands floating in a coral sea were shot through with the kind of slanting golden rays that makes me imagine I can hear angels singing. The colors had staying power, and didn’t slough off their warm oranges and crimsons until well past 9pm. The golden glow permeated the house, but I had to be out IN it, in the warm soft air. Perfect temperature. A colleague, who stayed a few days here while attending a training, and I basked like a couple of marshmallows, turning golden in the light.
I thought about my honey in southern California, how the sunset looked at camp with all that rain. Later he told me that he’d been of service as the kids were forced inside by the deluge for most of the weekend. His Magic (show), his gift of creating cozy energy to contain and entertain kids whose laughter is the best medicine for pain, is such a boon for so many.
Yet, I couldn’t help but miss him this sunset. Aren’t we in our sunset years? Aren’t we supposed to be together. No supposed to’s, Melinda… that’s only for movies and romance novels. But, I DO miss him. Absence makes the heart grow… confused. Three months is a long time. I can rationalize that three months is small potatoes in the context of forty three years of marriage, but my heart has trouble with numbers. It understands addition and simple multiplication, but struggles with division.
In 1952, my father took a classically beautiful photo of his brother, my Uncle Bob, with his wife and daughter at Malaga Cove, where our two families spent many Sundays in summer. The three have their backs to the camera, facing the setting sun as it drops toward the ocean’s broad horizon. Although the photo is black and white, you can tell it’s a beauty of a sunset. Aunt Nora and Uncle Bob always loved beach walks at sunset. They instilled in their children and in me that sense of awe and delight in Mother Nature’s artistry.
The recent tropical storm coming up from Baja has drenched Southern California, and deposited a Mother Lode of golden sunrises and sunsets all the way up and down the coast.
I look forward to a glorious reunion at the end of August, when Pun returns and the sun comes out edging the clouds with pinks and purples and golds.
Perhaps next summer we’ll find a different soul-lution more supportive of our viewing beautiful sunsets together.
Los Angeles slurped up the recent dump of the wet stuff on its parched soil. My husband reported that Saturday was soggy at camp in the low foothills.
Some of that blessed moisture made its way north. The sunset Sunday evening in Oakland was one of those never to be duplicated displays by Mama Nature wearing her most flamboyant dress. Purple islands floating in a coral sea were shot through with the kind of slanting golden rays that makes me imagine I can hear angels singing. The colors had staying power, and didn’t slough off their warm oranges and crimsons until well past 9pm. The golden glow permeated the house, but I had to be out IN it, in the warm soft air. Perfect temperature. A colleague, who stayed a few days here while attending a training, and I basked like a couple of marshmallows, turning golden in the light.
I thought about my honey in southern California, how the sunset looked at camp with all that rain. Later he told me that he’d been of service as the kids were forced inside by the deluge for most of the weekend. His Magic (show), his gift of creating cozy energy to contain and entertain kids whose laughter is the best medicine for pain, is such a boon for so many.
Yet, I couldn’t help but miss him this sunset. Aren’t we in our sunset years? Aren’t we supposed to be together. No supposed to’s, Melinda… that’s only for movies and romance novels. But, I DO miss him. Absence makes the heart grow… confused. Three months is a long time. I can rationalize that three months is small potatoes in the context of forty three years of marriage, but my heart has trouble with numbers. It understands addition and simple multiplication, but struggles with division.
In 1952, my father took a classically beautiful photo of his brother, my Uncle Bob, with his wife and daughter at Malaga Cove, where our two families spent many Sundays in summer. The three have their backs to the camera, facing the setting sun as it drops toward the ocean’s broad horizon. Although the photo is black and white, you can tell it’s a beauty of a sunset. Aunt Nora and Uncle Bob always loved beach walks at sunset. They instilled in their children and in me that sense of awe and delight in Mother Nature’s artistry.
The recent tropical storm coming up from Baja has drenched Southern California, and deposited a Mother Lode of golden sunrises and sunsets all the way up and down the coast.
I look forward to a glorious reunion at the end of August, when Pun returns and the sun comes out edging the clouds with pinks and purples and golds.
Perhaps next summer we’ll find a different soul-lution more supportive of our viewing beautiful sunsets together.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Taming Emotions and the Beast
Saturday found me with older daughter in the iconic Grand Lakes Theater here in Oakland. I’d never been inside, only seen its imposing curved corner presence while driving by, or from a the Saturday Farmers Market across the street. It houses a truly grand pipe organ, ornate columns, and plush old seats - just right for viewing Inside Out, Pixar’s new flick about emotions.
We went to preview it with the six year old in mind who features prominently in our hearts. While we concurred that the film is not right for her yet, it offers a useful springboard for jumping into conversations about emotion.
Daughter and I found it to be a three hankie event, and were so glad to have seen it together. Any
time spent with her is golden time, for me!
After the film, we drove to one of the venues hosting BEAST CRAWL. What’s that? Lit Crawl, Lit Quake, and Beast Crawl offer readings and open mic opportunities for writers to share their work. In Oakland they call it Beast, which in Pig-Latin, of course, is East Bay.
We heard some wonderful works shared, and doubled our exposure by each of us going to different venues of the thirty offered over the course of five hours, hosting one hundred and fifty authors. We compared notes Sunday.
At my first venue, Sweet Bar Bakery, I met two of my writing buddies for readings from a group called Bay Area Generations, which pairs two writers of different generations who read somewhat on a theme. Funny and fine readers included: Colleen McKee & Jon Sindell; Eileen Malone & Kathleen McKlung, who is going to lead a writer’s workshop at my home later in July; and Nina Serrano & Garrett Murphy. We enjoyed wonderful music from Stella Peach, who played violin with the new technology I first heard used by Wah! at Shakti Fest, and Lisa Fischer, most recently, at Kate Wolf Festival. It allows the musician to sing/play with her/himself by way of recording and playing back the loop.
At the second venue, The Beer Garden on Telegraph, my most memorable readers were Peter Bullen, who does a stream of consciousness flow that is so in the moment, you can’t believe he’s reading it from the page. The dude only began writing when he was 49 - a couple decades ago. Think Kerouac, but sober. (Maybe.) His work may be found at WETRIEDOURBEST.WORDPRESS.COM
Then there was Maisha. This woman is eloquent. I want to keep track of her skyrocket to success! This is from the program: Maisha Z. Johnson is an Oakland-based writer and activist of Trinidadian descent. She writes poetry, fiction, and essays, and works at the intersections of the arts, healing, and social change. Maisha has an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University and she is the author of No Parachutes to Carry Me Home (Punk Hostage Press 2015), Through Your Own Words: 51 Writing Prompts for Healing and Self-Care(Inkblot Arts 2014), and three poetry chapbooks. Her work has been published in numerous journals and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and she writes for online publications including Black Girl Dangerous and Everyday Feminism. Visit her at www.inkblotarts.org.
At the third venue I visited were readings from published authors Joshua Mohr, Ethel Rohan, Janis Cooke Newman, founder of Lit Camp, which I plan to submit for this year, and a recent Lit Camp attendee, Morgan Davis. Truly, an inspiring group reading from beautifully rendered texts.
Sigh… my work is cut out for me. Butt in chair, fingers poised over keyboard, ready set...
I think I’ll take a nap, now…
We went to preview it with the six year old in mind who features prominently in our hearts. While we concurred that the film is not right for her yet, it offers a useful springboard for jumping into conversations about emotion.
Daughter and I found it to be a three hankie event, and were so glad to have seen it together. Any
time spent with her is golden time, for me!
After the film, we drove to one of the venues hosting BEAST CRAWL. What’s that? Lit Crawl, Lit Quake, and Beast Crawl offer readings and open mic opportunities for writers to share their work. In Oakland they call it Beast, which in Pig-Latin, of course, is East Bay.
We heard some wonderful works shared, and doubled our exposure by each of us going to different venues of the thirty offered over the course of five hours, hosting one hundred and fifty authors. We compared notes Sunday.
At my first venue, Sweet Bar Bakery, I met two of my writing buddies for readings from a group called Bay Area Generations, which pairs two writers of different generations who read somewhat on a theme. Funny and fine readers included: Colleen McKee & Jon Sindell; Eileen Malone & Kathleen McKlung, who is going to lead a writer’s workshop at my home later in July; and Nina Serrano & Garrett Murphy. We enjoyed wonderful music from Stella Peach, who played violin with the new technology I first heard used by Wah! at Shakti Fest, and Lisa Fischer, most recently, at Kate Wolf Festival. It allows the musician to sing/play with her/himself by way of recording and playing back the loop.
At the second venue, The Beer Garden on Telegraph, my most memorable readers were Peter Bullen, who does a stream of consciousness flow that is so in the moment, you can’t believe he’s reading it from the page. The dude only began writing when he was 49 - a couple decades ago. Think Kerouac, but sober. (Maybe.) His work may be found at WETRIEDOURBEST.WORDPRESS.COM
Then there was Maisha. This woman is eloquent. I want to keep track of her skyrocket to success! This is from the program: Maisha Z. Johnson is an Oakland-based writer and activist of Trinidadian descent. She writes poetry, fiction, and essays, and works at the intersections of the arts, healing, and social change. Maisha has an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University and she is the author of No Parachutes to Carry Me Home (Punk Hostage Press 2015), Through Your Own Words: 51 Writing Prompts for Healing and Self-Care(Inkblot Arts 2014), and three poetry chapbooks. Her work has been published in numerous journals and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and she writes for online publications including Black Girl Dangerous and Everyday Feminism. Visit her at www.inkblotarts.org.
At the third venue I visited were readings from published authors Joshua Mohr, Ethel Rohan, Janis Cooke Newman, founder of Lit Camp, which I plan to submit for this year, and a recent Lit Camp attendee, Morgan Davis. Truly, an inspiring group reading from beautifully rendered texts.
Sigh… my work is cut out for me. Butt in chair, fingers poised over keyboard, ready set...
I think I’ll take a nap, now…
Monday, July 6, 2015
On Furniture
If tables turned, and furniture could talk, and people could sense how different elbows feel, when placed just so upon them, it would be an interesting conversation, I think.
Cousin June’s elbows captivated our Megs. Whenever June came to visit, little Megan would make a bee-line for Junie’s soft lap and reach around to touch and gently pinch her soft elbow skin, all slack and gappy around the knob of her bone. I’ll bet the table liked June’s doubly soft elbows too, and how padded her forearms were say, compared to mine - all bone and angles with hardly any flesh at all over them.
To this day, I expect there are dents from my butt bones on that chartreuse Naugahyde chair of my youth - where ever it is. I wonder what it would say, you know, if the tables turned, and furniture could talk. “Ouch?” Or, “Go get something to eat, little girl, and fatten yourself up, child!?”
What do you suppose Winston Churchill’s wooden suit valet would say when it accepted the weight of the world as the Prime Minister let slip from his shoulders, and dropped his suit coat onto its oaken rack just before getting into bed?
Or, Einstein’s desk. Do desks get head aches? All those numbers would make mine spin. I wonder if its surface developed a groove from the movement of his calculating hand.
I don’t know if it’s possible, but how loving a cradle might feel toward the weight of a couple’s first newborn placed so tenderly there with hopes that her first sleep in it would be restful for all.
I’m fairly certain that the wheel chair of my friend from the 1970’s, Frances Rainbow, felt very proud to be her understanding and to stand under her every day and every night of her too short life. Frances used to give tours of her chair to all who would listen: “This lever makes it go backwards and forwards, this one is for steering, and this is the all important eject button which no one but I, Frances Rainbow is allowed to touch.”
Brittle Bone Disease made her lighter than a feather, and her voice sounded as if she’d inhaled helium, or like that of a small child - delicate and high pitched. Imagine how proud of her that chair felt the day she piped up and testified before the Los Angeles City Council on behalf of all people in wheel chairs. Frances’s testimony and her sturdy chair helped so many folks with accessibility issues in the city. Pretty soon the idea caught on all over the country. Her chair’s cushions must be puffed with pride.
When I was no more than six years old, I wished for a chair that could hold and rock me, like a pillowy, bosomy mama, whose enveloping softness would almost swallow my angular boney self, ’til I could hear its inner-workings, and it could hear mine. How would it interpret the gurgles of my always hungry belly? What would it think about my pockets full of pill bugs and foxtail filled socks? And what would it say about my dreams of running so fast that I’d take off - lifting into flight?
I imagine furniture made my humans has a lot to say. Conversely, I believe we humans have a lot to learn about how it feels to be interacted with respectfully.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Festival Flying
Atop the light fixture, Stellar Jays have built a nest for five - mama, papa, and three hungry hatchlings. The folks staying in Cabin Five don’t turn on their porch light for fear of creating cooked little “squab” jays. I stayed the night in adjoining Cabin Six, compliments of an invitation from my new Berkeley friends Daphne and Don. Camping at the Kate Wolf Festival in Laytonville, California is for the birds, the young, the stoic, or insane. The average temperature is “in tents” - ranges between 98 to 106 degrees in the afternoon.
While I did bring my tent, by Saturday night I was droopy of wing, having left Oakland that morning before sun-up. By 10:00 p.m., after Smokey Robinson had reminded me why he was one of my favorite heart-throbs in the sixties, and after glowing orbs were tossed by merry-makers as high as the buttermilk clouds that swallowed the moon, I followed the path of least resistance, and we three festival goers went twenty minutes further up 101 to a peaceful place on the banks of the Eel River. I was grateful to spread my sleeping roll on the futon in the living room of Cabin Six.
Up by 6:00, I observed the elder jays feeding the youngsters, then side-stepped poison oak on the narrow path down to the river. The rush of water over smooth stones filled my senses. Eyes registered the hypnotic drought-defiant tumble and swirl; ears were nourished by the nearly forgotten sound of gush and gurgle; the ol-factories, (not on strike), picked up the scent of cool mud, damp mosses, and mugwort. Mugwort! Good! It’s a repellant to mosquitoes which found my skin boundary permeable and stepped up to the bar. Mugwort is also good for inviting lucid dreams when tucked under the pillow. I crushed a leaf and swabbed and daubed myself with its fragrant essence on face, neck, hands, and feet. Dang mosquitoes got through my jeans! Must be the genes. Sweet blood eggs ‘em on, my Daddy used to say.
At the Festival Sunday, I guarded my energy, knowing I wanted to stay for Lisa Fischer’s gig at 8:00pm, and still have enough meewee to drive safely, the three hours to home. Mercifully, Sunday afternoon, some strong winds kicked up. By opening all the doors and tail gate of my car, I could nap fairly comfortably. Gorgeous sounds of Judy Collins' lilting voice as she led a singalong of favorites were a perfect lullaby. Who Knows Where the Time Goes, when listening to Judy Blue Eyes? I was glad I got to hear and see her on the main stage Saturday afternoon.
Truly, when I first saw the flier for the 20th Anniversary edition of the Kate Wolf Festival, the first “must hear” name that jumped out at me from the screen was Lisa Fischer. In the documentary film, “Twenty Steps from Stardom,” her astonishing voice is featured. Her precisely perfect passion poured into my soul through ear canals as hungry and wide open as those baby birds' mouths. She’s been stuck to my marrow ever since. I watched that film three times! Ms. Fischer is one of the most in-demand back-up singers, and has performed with Sting, Stones, and Nine Inch Nails.
I left the concert filled with the sounds and images she gave us to keep. My favorite of her short seven song set is called Freedom. Memorable lyrics are: It’s just another bird in this house, bumpin’ into walls, dyin’ to get out… Free my mind, free my soul… I just want to be with my own kind and know that I belong…
This bird flew home and didn’t get cooked. I’m hoping the same is true for the bird family atop the light fixture of Cabin Five at the Big Bend Lodge.
It was a fine festival.
While I did bring my tent, by Saturday night I was droopy of wing, having left Oakland that morning before sun-up. By 10:00 p.m., after Smokey Robinson had reminded me why he was one of my favorite heart-throbs in the sixties, and after glowing orbs were tossed by merry-makers as high as the buttermilk clouds that swallowed the moon, I followed the path of least resistance, and we three festival goers went twenty minutes further up 101 to a peaceful place on the banks of the Eel River. I was grateful to spread my sleeping roll on the futon in the living room of Cabin Six.
Up by 6:00, I observed the elder jays feeding the youngsters, then side-stepped poison oak on the narrow path down to the river. The rush of water over smooth stones filled my senses. Eyes registered the hypnotic drought-defiant tumble and swirl; ears were nourished by the nearly forgotten sound of gush and gurgle; the ol-factories, (not on strike), picked up the scent of cool mud, damp mosses, and mugwort. Mugwort! Good! It’s a repellant to mosquitoes which found my skin boundary permeable and stepped up to the bar. Mugwort is also good for inviting lucid dreams when tucked under the pillow. I crushed a leaf and swabbed and daubed myself with its fragrant essence on face, neck, hands, and feet. Dang mosquitoes got through my jeans! Must be the genes. Sweet blood eggs ‘em on, my Daddy used to say.
At the Festival Sunday, I guarded my energy, knowing I wanted to stay for Lisa Fischer’s gig at 8:00pm, and still have enough meewee to drive safely, the three hours to home. Mercifully, Sunday afternoon, some strong winds kicked up. By opening all the doors and tail gate of my car, I could nap fairly comfortably. Gorgeous sounds of Judy Collins' lilting voice as she led a singalong of favorites were a perfect lullaby. Who Knows Where the Time Goes, when listening to Judy Blue Eyes? I was glad I got to hear and see her on the main stage Saturday afternoon.
Truly, when I first saw the flier for the 20th Anniversary edition of the Kate Wolf Festival, the first “must hear” name that jumped out at me from the screen was Lisa Fischer. In the documentary film, “Twenty Steps from Stardom,” her astonishing voice is featured. Her precisely perfect passion poured into my soul through ear canals as hungry and wide open as those baby birds' mouths. She’s been stuck to my marrow ever since. I watched that film three times! Ms. Fischer is one of the most in-demand back-up singers, and has performed with Sting, Stones, and Nine Inch Nails.
I left the concert filled with the sounds and images she gave us to keep. My favorite of her short seven song set is called Freedom. Memorable lyrics are: It’s just another bird in this house, bumpin’ into walls, dyin’ to get out… Free my mind, free my soul… I just want to be with my own kind and know that I belong…
This bird flew home and didn’t get cooked. I’m hoping the same is true for the bird family atop the light fixture of Cabin Five at the Big Bend Lodge.
It was a fine festival.
Monday, June 22, 2015
A Watched Pot...
I'm watching the pot. In it are simmering onions, leeks, and potatoes.
At the Farmer’s Market, I ask the vender which potatoes she thinks are best for Vichyssoise.
Not familiar with the dish, she asks, “What’s vicious saws?”
“ Vee-she-swahz,” I say, “Leek and potato soup.”
“Oh, sounds good. Depends on if you want it chunky or creamy?”
“Doesn’t matter. It all goes in the blender”, I say.
“I think these German Butterballs might be just right.”
“Should I worry about German potatoes acting up in a French soup?” I ask her jokingly.
“They still don’t get along well, do they?” she chuckles
“Seems the whole world doesn’t get along recently… except maybe here in Oakland since the Warriors victory has united folks. Thanks for the guidance… Say, do you want to hear the recipe for Vichyssoise?”
“Yeah. What is it?”
“First, you take a leek (leak)…”
(Her puzzled face slowly draws into a grin…) “Ewww… I get it. I’ll try and remember that one! Good day to ya.”
“And to you,” I say, walking away with fresh leeks, potatoes, kale, cukes and chard in the bag.
I wish we humans could get along as well as veggies in the pot seem to do.
The Kingston Trio sang their Merry Minuet in the ’60’s:
They’re rioting in Africa, they’re starving in Spain
There are hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls;
The French hate the Germans, Germans hate the Poles
Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch
And I don’t like anybody very much!
But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud
Man’s been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud
And we know for certain that some lovely day
Someone will set the spark off
and we will all be blown away
They’re rioting in Africa, there’s strife in Iran
What Nature doesn’t do to us
Will be done by our fellow man.
Blessings on Pope Francis who’s thrown his two cents into the pot about global warming being caused by humans.
I’m hopeful the actions he proposes we take are not too little too late!
And Thank You, Barack Obama for suggesting that grieving along with the community in Charleston, South Carolina,
now at the effect of Dylan Storm Roof’s insanity, is not enough. We have the power to change our status in the world as the country with the highest death rate due to gun violence perpetrated by citizen against citizen.
When will the NRA be proven wrong for saying that guns don’t kill people; people kill people? People without guns are less likely to kill other people with their bare hands.
According to the Wall Street Journal, the winning states in the contest for most deaths perpetrated by people with guns, whether suicide or homicide are:
1.Louisiana
2.Mississippi
3.Alaska
4.Wyoming
5.Oklahoma
6.Montana
7.Arkansas
8.Alabama
9.New Mexico
10.South Carolina
States with strong gun laws have seen dramatic declines in violence, while states with weak gun laws have not seen declines. Overall, there has been a 10% increase in gun violence in the last ten years.
Can we say, “insanity,” boys and girls?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Something palpably magical is happening here in Oakland. Having won the Basketball Championship over the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrations are occurring, and the whole city seems to be melting. Hearts are expanding, eyes are twinkling, bliss seems to unify all the citizens as if Joy is the common heart rhythm. Who knows how long this tide of commonality in ebullient elation may wash over us? Not even the events in Charleston have re-erected the barriers.
Dare I hope this heart-warming effect may linger long enough to become the new norm?
Standing in line at the post office late Friday afternoon, I asked a mom and her ten year old daughter if they had been to the parade.
Their eyes glistened beneath the bills of their Warriors caps. Their chests puffed proudly, expanding the lettering on their Warriors T-shirts.
“Oh,YES” they exalted, and regaled me with their favorite highlights until it was their turn to be served at the window.
They waved to me as they left. I was warmed by the nourishing exchange.
Oakland is a good place to practice what my husband calls affirmative inter-action. There’s a rainbow of possibilities when I have choice to rub shoulders and share conversation with folks who, on the surface, look different from how I look. Once rubbed, we find we’re made of the same material - driven by the same human heart rhythm thrumming away.
Friday a week ago, several colleagues and I gathered at a friend's house for fireside camaraderie. Two of the gals taught us this “repeat-after-me-song.” We chanted after Brandy and Andrea, each of us patting the rhythm with palm over our heart.
I can hear my heart beat
(I can hear my heart beat)
Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song
(Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song)
When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free
(When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free)
I’m liking this pot of heart-melting soup here in Oakland very much, and being nourished by it.
At the Farmer’s Market, I ask the vender which potatoes she thinks are best for Vichyssoise.
Not familiar with the dish, she asks, “What’s vicious saws?”
“ Vee-she-swahz,” I say, “Leek and potato soup.”
“Oh, sounds good. Depends on if you want it chunky or creamy?”
“Doesn’t matter. It all goes in the blender”, I say.
“I think these German Butterballs might be just right.”
“Should I worry about German potatoes acting up in a French soup?” I ask her jokingly.
“They still don’t get along well, do they?” she chuckles
“Seems the whole world doesn’t get along recently… except maybe here in Oakland since the Warriors victory has united folks. Thanks for the guidance… Say, do you want to hear the recipe for Vichyssoise?”
“Yeah. What is it?”
“First, you take a leek (leak)…”
(Her puzzled face slowly draws into a grin…) “Ewww… I get it. I’ll try and remember that one! Good day to ya.”
“And to you,” I say, walking away with fresh leeks, potatoes, kale, cukes and chard in the bag.
I wish we humans could get along as well as veggies in the pot seem to do.
The Kingston Trio sang their Merry Minuet in the ’60’s:
They’re rioting in Africa, they’re starving in Spain
There are hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls;
The French hate the Germans, Germans hate the Poles
Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch
And I don’t like anybody very much!
But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud
Man’s been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud
And we know for certain that some lovely day
Someone will set the spark off
and we will all be blown away
They’re rioting in Africa, there’s strife in Iran
What Nature doesn’t do to us
Will be done by our fellow man.
Blessings on Pope Francis who’s thrown his two cents into the pot about global warming being caused by humans.
I’m hopeful the actions he proposes we take are not too little too late!
And Thank You, Barack Obama for suggesting that grieving along with the community in Charleston, South Carolina,
now at the effect of Dylan Storm Roof’s insanity, is not enough. We have the power to change our status in the world as the country with the highest death rate due to gun violence perpetrated by citizen against citizen.
When will the NRA be proven wrong for saying that guns don’t kill people; people kill people? People without guns are less likely to kill other people with their bare hands.
According to the Wall Street Journal, the winning states in the contest for most deaths perpetrated by people with guns, whether suicide or homicide are:
1.Louisiana
2.Mississippi
3.Alaska
4.Wyoming
5.Oklahoma
6.Montana
7.Arkansas
8.Alabama
9.New Mexico
10.South Carolina
States with strong gun laws have seen dramatic declines in violence, while states with weak gun laws have not seen declines. Overall, there has been a 10% increase in gun violence in the last ten years.
Can we say, “insanity,” boys and girls?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Something palpably magical is happening here in Oakland. Having won the Basketball Championship over the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrations are occurring, and the whole city seems to be melting. Hearts are expanding, eyes are twinkling, bliss seems to unify all the citizens as if Joy is the common heart rhythm. Who knows how long this tide of commonality in ebullient elation may wash over us? Not even the events in Charleston have re-erected the barriers.
Dare I hope this heart-warming effect may linger long enough to become the new norm?
Standing in line at the post office late Friday afternoon, I asked a mom and her ten year old daughter if they had been to the parade.
Their eyes glistened beneath the bills of their Warriors caps. Their chests puffed proudly, expanding the lettering on their Warriors T-shirts.
“Oh,YES” they exalted, and regaled me with their favorite highlights until it was their turn to be served at the window.
They waved to me as they left. I was warmed by the nourishing exchange.
Oakland is a good place to practice what my husband calls affirmative inter-action. There’s a rainbow of possibilities when I have choice to rub shoulders and share conversation with folks who, on the surface, look different from how I look. Once rubbed, we find we’re made of the same material - driven by the same human heart rhythm thrumming away.
Friday a week ago, several colleagues and I gathered at a friend's house for fireside camaraderie. Two of the gals taught us this “repeat-after-me-song.” We chanted after Brandy and Andrea, each of us patting the rhythm with palm over our heart.
I can hear my heart beat
(I can hear my heart beat)
Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song
(Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song)
When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free
(When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free)
I’m liking this pot of heart-melting soup here in Oakland very much, and being nourished by it.
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