Our Capitalism Day Celebration was delayed by two months. December 25, 2015 found each of the six of us too busy to gather, so February 26th we did!
Younger daughter (AKA Auntie Sid) and her fiancé (AKA Uncle Mister Grady Pants) came up the coast from the wild environs of San Luis Obispo, while The Grandest Grandie in all the land and her Mama Mo came from twelve minutes away to our newish to us house on the hill for a weekend of play.
We took a field trip to Berkeley for lunch, and to a shop called Daiso, where items from Japan can be had for very few coins. Stationery, household items, sugary sweets whose ingredients are all written out in konji, which I cannot read, so the effects of the sugar don’t count and won’t hurt me, (right?). Art & craft supplies, and toys galore were bought and enjoyed by all of us. We brought back bubbles that, when you blow them on the wind, scatter, but supposedly can be caught and stacked if blown in calm air, and we blew it, then attempted to catch bubbles that mostly flew skyward so fast that we got stiff necks watching 'em!
Films were watched, games were played; plans were hatched, we’re so glad they stayed.
Now Oscar night is upon us. I’m feeling an Oscarly grouch and similarly blah about all the hoopla as I felt about Super Bowl.
Having watched a fair number of the contenders this season, I’m underwhelmed by the offerings. L.A. Weekly had a play on words headline: “Whites, Camera, Action.” The accompanying cover page cartoon showed half a dozen aging caucasian males with the same face, but with different facial hair and degree of recession of their hairlines, and different clothing - each caricature enacting a specific role related to making a movie: director, cinematographer, gaffer, make-up artist, editor, etc.
Where is the color? I don’t mean Technicolor. Where are the non-white actors, performers, writers, directors, editors, and set designers? How do we crack open the old-guard barriers to ensure advancement of all talented folks?
Well, it looks as if Chris Rock made an attempt - inane and unfunny as most of his efforts may have been.
For me, the biggest impact of the night was Lady Gaga’s song Til It Happens to You, a song about being sexually assaulted, and she had dozens of survivors stand with her. It helped that Spotlight won Best Picture. It helped that Vice President Joe Biden made an appearance and an appeal - ON the Oscars stage - that this country have a real conversation about stopping sexual violence against women.
Does it really all stem from the sexual repression brought to these shores by the Puritans who founded this land in the name of non-indigenous Europeans? Every repression has a reaction. It seems that we’ve been reacting and acting out for nearly four hundred years. (In 2020, we will celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock. May our vision be less myopic by then… sorta match the year… 20/20.)
Degradation of the feminine aspect has such a long history that her story is not even part of the contract or the conversation. Mama Earth’s degradation by those whose hubris is lots bigger than their prickitude is the final travesty. It may by the lynch pin that lynches us all. Bless his ego for using his Oscar win for Revenant as a bully pulpit to defend the environment. Leo DiCaprio did well. May we take to the streets and make a difference - not just nod politely while photos are snapped and and we appear to be on the right (uh, read that as correct) side of the current debate.
I think it a capital idea to take to heart our individual responsibility to promote our common welfare.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Sunday, February 21, 2016
What's Afoot?
Bronze kitties inspect new transplant from Buddy Marc's household...
Moon Mania
Full she is beyond compare
Pale luminescence peeping
From behind three palms
Whose bearded trunks bend - - -
Bowing in the wind to her
Silvery fronds sparkle in
Manic magic light this night
Muir Woods Hike-About
Entitled narcissism
I’ll take a dump here
Someone else will flush
What wrapper? Huh?
Oh, that there on the path? I’m done with it
No, the rubbish can’s too far to bother
What? you can’t enjoy the redwoods
With aluminum flashes gleaming on the ground?
Too bad for you. I don’t see it, (bitch).
Why is it always city dweller’s voices
That keen and pitch way above those
Of squirrel chitter and birdie chatter and
Fainter insect buzz?
Why would I find the story of your double hernia as
Interesting as earth scents or wind through thousand year
Old Redwood’s crowns?
They’ve witnessed more than we’ll ever know.
I come away wondering,
Wandering on de-cluttered paths
With senses renewed and a handful of trash
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Trauma and Yoga: Creating a Portal to Spirituality
When Bessel van der Kolk, Granddaddy of Trauma Research, spells out which modalities reliably remove the imprint of traumatic impacts from the physiology and psychology, people listen.
At the first Trauma Conference in Berkeley, California in 2007, in his keynote address, Dr. van der Kolk pronounced Yoga, Meditation, and Somatic Experiencing as the most effective tools.
This past weekend, I was lucky to be in the audience while Peter Levine, originator of Somatic Experiencing put forth his ideas about trauma as a portal to spirituality, when we can ground the high charge of trauma in the body.
As it turns out, extremes at either end of our nervous system's responses to perceived life-threatening stressors, can take us out of our bodies and into ecstasy. Here's how it works...
Threat is instantaneously assessed by our good ol' reliable brainstem as something we can fight or flee from, OR as "uh-oh, the best bet here is to freeze." These "decisions" are made far below the radar of the neocortex: the "thinking" brain. Actually, in these cases, blood flow is shunted away from the neocortex in order to secure the best possible outcome for survival of the organism. Fight, flight, and freeze are three graces we're born with. They are automatic. Whether we become extremely aroused to run away from danger, or to mount a counter attack OR we freeze - playing opossum, depends upon the reptilian brain's assessment of the situation, and our prior trauma history.
Extreme adrenalized states can lead us to ecstasy. A cinematic example is in the movie Fearless wherein Jeff Bridges survives a plane crash in the Andes and develops almost super-human powers - helping many others to survive. Later, he tests this phenomenal "high" by driving at break-neck speed, and eating strawberries which historically have caused in him a hyper-allergic response - to the point of anaphylaxis. His is a spiritual awakening to the possibilities of human potential.
Our dorsal vagal response, at the other end of the spectrum, causes all systems to shut-down; to conserve energy. It potentially saves a baby from drowning if s/he falls into the water. Digestion, respiration, and motor movement are slowed waaaaaaaay down in order to conserve as much energy as possible. This freeze response buys the organism time for rescue, or for predators to move away. (Most predators are hard-wired not to eat dead flesh. They need the fight response from their prey to stimulate their kill response. This also may save them from eating decaying flesh which may sicken them.)
Other times we go dorsal are post coitus, because it optimizes fertilization, and during meditation, because, when we're not fidgeting, there's a better chance of us catching a glimpse of our Big "S" Self and feeling that ecstatic state of being one with Everything!
Ecstatic states which do not get grounded in the body can deposit us on a slippery slope of wanting to re-create the high we may have experienced under extreme stress. Some of our super athletes may be addicted to that adrenaline rush. Extreme down-hill skiers, sprinters, and ball-players may be trying to replicate an ecstatic experience felt, let's guess, during a near death experience at birth, or with early childhood stressors such as medical trauma or abuse.
Leaving the body can mark us with a profound imprint and hunger (compulsion) to replicate that Ecstatic sense of not being bound to the physical confines of bones and flesh. So, how do we ground these experiences in our flesh? Dr. Levine's approach is: "A little bit at a time."
Yoga is an ideal practice to explore sensations a little bit at a time.
Staying curious, and expanding our awareness of the sensations that accompany an ecstatic state can help. Asking ourselves questions can also help unify our brain. "What else is there to explore in the realm of sensations? Is it menthol cool? Boiling hot? Are there tight, expanded, or floating sensations?"
Curiosity and trauma cannot coexist in the same moment. Survival and not developing PTSD may depend mightily upon our staying curious, and engaging our higher (executive function) brain.
The invitation is to stay conscious while doing a practice of some kind, whether it's a yoga or meditation practice, and to keep asking ourselves, "What am I aware of now?" and, "Who is the 'I' who is asking what I'm aware of?"
At the first Trauma Conference in Berkeley, California in 2007, in his keynote address, Dr. van der Kolk pronounced Yoga, Meditation, and Somatic Experiencing as the most effective tools.
This past weekend, I was lucky to be in the audience while Peter Levine, originator of Somatic Experiencing put forth his ideas about trauma as a portal to spirituality, when we can ground the high charge of trauma in the body.
As it turns out, extremes at either end of our nervous system's responses to perceived life-threatening stressors, can take us out of our bodies and into ecstasy. Here's how it works...
Threat is instantaneously assessed by our good ol' reliable brainstem as something we can fight or flee from, OR as "uh-oh, the best bet here is to freeze." These "decisions" are made far below the radar of the neocortex: the "thinking" brain. Actually, in these cases, blood flow is shunted away from the neocortex in order to secure the best possible outcome for survival of the organism. Fight, flight, and freeze are three graces we're born with. They are automatic. Whether we become extremely aroused to run away from danger, or to mount a counter attack OR we freeze - playing opossum, depends upon the reptilian brain's assessment of the situation, and our prior trauma history.
Extreme adrenalized states can lead us to ecstasy. A cinematic example is in the movie Fearless wherein Jeff Bridges survives a plane crash in the Andes and develops almost super-human powers - helping many others to survive. Later, he tests this phenomenal "high" by driving at break-neck speed, and eating strawberries which historically have caused in him a hyper-allergic response - to the point of anaphylaxis. His is a spiritual awakening to the possibilities of human potential.
Our dorsal vagal response, at the other end of the spectrum, causes all systems to shut-down; to conserve energy. It potentially saves a baby from drowning if s/he falls into the water. Digestion, respiration, and motor movement are slowed waaaaaaaay down in order to conserve as much energy as possible. This freeze response buys the organism time for rescue, or for predators to move away. (Most predators are hard-wired not to eat dead flesh. They need the fight response from their prey to stimulate their kill response. This also may save them from eating decaying flesh which may sicken them.)
Other times we go dorsal are post coitus, because it optimizes fertilization, and during meditation, because, when we're not fidgeting, there's a better chance of us catching a glimpse of our Big "S" Self and feeling that ecstatic state of being one with Everything!
Ecstatic states which do not get grounded in the body can deposit us on a slippery slope of wanting to re-create the high we may have experienced under extreme stress. Some of our super athletes may be addicted to that adrenaline rush. Extreme down-hill skiers, sprinters, and ball-players may be trying to replicate an ecstatic experience felt, let's guess, during a near death experience at birth, or with early childhood stressors such as medical trauma or abuse.
Leaving the body can mark us with a profound imprint and hunger (compulsion) to replicate that Ecstatic sense of not being bound to the physical confines of bones and flesh. So, how do we ground these experiences in our flesh? Dr. Levine's approach is: "A little bit at a time."
Yoga is an ideal practice to explore sensations a little bit at a time.
Staying curious, and expanding our awareness of the sensations that accompany an ecstatic state can help. Asking ourselves questions can also help unify our brain. "What else is there to explore in the realm of sensations? Is it menthol cool? Boiling hot? Are there tight, expanded, or floating sensations?"
Curiosity and trauma cannot coexist in the same moment. Survival and not developing PTSD may depend mightily upon our staying curious, and engaging our higher (executive function) brain.
The invitation is to stay conscious while doing a practice of some kind, whether it's a yoga or meditation practice, and to keep asking ourselves, "What am I aware of now?" and, "Who is the 'I' who is asking what I'm aware of?"
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Don't Forget to Flush...
In Flushing Meadows, New York, the Aquacade during the 1964 World's Fair was known as “The Flushing Bowl.”
For my taste, we could have flushed all the hype around the just completed Super Bowl Sunday in Santa Clara, too! While it may have been a real treat for some, I cannot feel the excitement. I didn’t drink the Kool-Ade. I’m a dunce or dummy, perhaps. Un-informed by choice, for sure, because, “Frankly… I don’t give a damn!”
******************
Saturday’s festivities in Walnut Creek for The Painted Turtle’s Camp On The Move was my idea of fun. Kids came to play with their families, and a whole bunch of goofy, caring volunteer counselors, and, just for a day, forgot about the medical challenges they face.
What delightful revelry to make hobby horses, musical instruments, and puppets, decorate tee shirts with melted on crayons, bowl, play carnival games, have recycled water bottle boat races, and create their own “stage-day” performances! All that and a free lunch with extra special birthday cake for our camp photog Sherry trumps (oooh, hate that word these days!) Super Bowl.
I hear the Broncos bucked the Panthers. Wonder if that would happen with those same real animals in the wild?
Wouldn’t panthers claw those buckers to shreds?
Let's flush what doesn't serve, and find something real to root about.
And remember to wash your hands after you flush.
For my taste, we could have flushed all the hype around the just completed Super Bowl Sunday in Santa Clara, too! While it may have been a real treat for some, I cannot feel the excitement. I didn’t drink the Kool-Ade. I’m a dunce or dummy, perhaps. Un-informed by choice, for sure, because, “Frankly… I don’t give a damn!”
******************
Saturday’s festivities in Walnut Creek for The Painted Turtle’s Camp On The Move was my idea of fun. Kids came to play with their families, and a whole bunch of goofy, caring volunteer counselors, and, just for a day, forgot about the medical challenges they face.
What delightful revelry to make hobby horses, musical instruments, and puppets, decorate tee shirts with melted on crayons, bowl, play carnival games, have recycled water bottle boat races, and create their own “stage-day” performances! All that and a free lunch with extra special birthday cake for our camp photog Sherry trumps (oooh, hate that word these days!) Super Bowl.
I hear the Broncos bucked the Panthers. Wonder if that would happen with those same real animals in the wild?
Wouldn’t panthers claw those buckers to shreds?
Let's flush what doesn't serve, and find something real to root about.
And remember to wash your hands after you flush.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Kindness
Naomi Shihab Nye (1953-)
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the
Indian in a white poncho lies dead
by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night
with plans and the simple breath
that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness
as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness
that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
My friend Marc heard this poem, as was his wish, within the last hour of taking his last breath.
A couple of us were singing What a Wonderful World, when he stopped breathing. It was the line, "I see friends shaking hands, sayin' how do you do, They're really sayin' I love you...", that he heard last. His caregiver and I noted the time: two nineteen pm, Thursday, January 28, 2016
With such attention to detail, training up his care-givers, friends, and community members about his wishes, his was the best choreographed death I've ever attended, except perhaps my mother's which was four years ago today. Barbara's was similar, in that the last thing she heard was her family singing her favorite song.
All we have is this moment. Why not make the most of it?
Kindness counts.
Speaking our truth and preferences makes life hum.
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the
Indian in a white poncho lies dead
by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night
with plans and the simple breath
that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness
as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow
as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness
that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day
to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.
My friend Marc heard this poem, as was his wish, within the last hour of taking his last breath.
A couple of us were singing What a Wonderful World, when he stopped breathing. It was the line, "I see friends shaking hands, sayin' how do you do, They're really sayin' I love you...", that he heard last. His caregiver and I noted the time: two nineteen pm, Thursday, January 28, 2016
With such attention to detail, training up his care-givers, friends, and community members about his wishes, his was the best choreographed death I've ever attended, except perhaps my mother's which was four years ago today. Barbara's was similar, in that the last thing she heard was her family singing her favorite song.
All we have is this moment. Why not make the most of it?
Kindness counts.
Speaking our truth and preferences makes life hum.
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