Una Canción

This first came to me in Spanish... here is how it sounds:

Una canción, llena de alegría, 
con la retintín de una campanilla delicada, 
y emoción profunda me arrulló en los oídos 
después de la cena.  

Estaba quitando malas hierbas del jardín. 
Al otro lado de la paréd, entre mi jardín 
y él de mis vecinos, oí a una niña cantando; gritando la canción suya con fuerza, convicción, y verdad. 

Yo estaba un poco triste por causa de los periódicos, la televisión, y el radio llenos de cuentos trájicos, pero ésta canción de una jovencita de dos años cambió todo.

Ella cantó con la esencia de la vida propia, 
desde el centro de la planeta; la Madre Tierra. 
Sí su voz tuviera palabras, posiblemente declararían: Para toda la gente que sufre... 
Hay Esperanza. 

Hay causas significantes y pequeñitas que debemos celebrar con todo el corazón. 
Celebremos juntos in este momento 
con la música del alma. 

Entonces, yo canturreé hasta la puesta del sol, quitando las malas hierbas. 


Muchísimas Grácias a mi cuñada preciosa
Vicky Gutierrez-Kovner para su ayuda gramática.


Here is a rough translation:

A joyful song, sounding like a tinkling bell, yet filled with deep emotion landed in my ears after dinner.

I was weeding in the garden. 
On the other side of the fence between my garden and that of my neighbors, I heard the youngest daughter singing; shouting her song with strength, conviction, and truth.

I had been a little bit sad because of tragic stories in the newspapers, on television and radio, but this song from a two-year-old changed everything.

She sang with the essence of life itself, 
from the center of the planet, from Mother Earth.
Had there been words with her tune, they might have said: For everyone who suffers, there is hope.

There are grand and tiny reasons we should celebrate with our whole heart.
May we celebrate together this very moment
with the music of our Soul.

Then, I hummed as I pulled weeds, until the sun set.


With thanks to my precious sister-in-love, 
Vicky Gutierrez-Kovner for grammatical help.

Our Mother / Father G_d

There's a reason we celebrate Mothers in May and Father's in June... I just don't recall the reason.

Do you?

Too tired for wiki-ing my pedia...  how 'bout never, is never good with you?

If you're going through Hell, keep going, Mr. Churchill said.

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger said Ernest... (how much does a Hemingway?), now he's dead

When the going gets tough, my fingernails get rough

Of gardening in heat, I've had quite enough

Pulling foxtails and gathering seeds... weed 'em and reap, then fall in a heap

Word play while birds play

Sun shines, so make hay

Plums are ripening on the front tree

Gums aren't tightening teeth working free

Growing old is not for sissies

Growing bold makes better histories

So, where ever you be, whatever you see

Go boldly where none have dared to be

Split your infinitive, write what's derivative

May not be art but it sure is a curative

Good day to all fathers

May it be worth your bother

To bring up the young-uns you know

Whether yours or the worlds, everything unfurls

So, enjoy the ride as you go

Sculpting With Hair and Foot Notes

Cows were present in the delivery room when I was born and they really loved me up, or they just thought me very salty and that’s why I have so many cow-licks. A hairdresser told me recently that I have SIX separate cowlicks. This explains a lot. My hair goes in multiple directions at once. I have to sculpt it into place or it sproings.

With my husband away at camp for the summer, I got so involved in a story on the radio that I forgot to brush my hair before leaving the house Sunday morning. I had put a wet washcloth on top of my head while in the shower trying to tame the biggest whorl near the back of my head, but I forgot to brush it. I'm not fond of the trampled grass look - you know, like when a dog has walked around and around in circles trampling the grasses to prepare for sleep? When I got in the car, I remembered that I forgot to brush.  So, I poured out some water into my hands from the bottle in my car and dragged my hands through to try to tame the hair. It's that one whorl back there that really bothers me. I tried to cover it over - that exposed part of my scalp at the center of the whirl-pool. Without a mirror to view the back of my head, I kept pinching and sculpting it and hoped for the best.

Arriving at church, I sat half-way between the entrance and the stage, where the choir and chamber ensemble were all ready to perform Mozart and Haydn. I sat between friends Ann and Anna, and made a gesture at the back of my head meant to pull my hair over the cowlick patch. Then I let it go, thinking: Just Fuhgeddaboudit! (It's a New Jersey thing.)

My seat gave me a vantage point from which to observe backs of heads of half the congregation. Pew-bound folks seated before me seemed vulnerable, dear, disarming, and innocent as newborns - each with her or his own “head-navel” peeping out from even the most carefully coiffed do. I loved that I could see our common humanity in the whorls on all those heads.

The music began. I got all teary-eyed with love for my fellow humans. Sort of like watching babies sleep and knowing they are angels come to earth. My heart swelled with the music and heaved with barely containable love. People are so dear! 

Why do I struggle so to tame my own cowlick and ban it from being part of my hairdo? Why do I abhor what seems like vulnerability - like being seen naked? On the one hand, I deem the crown as evidence of opening to Spirit; the point through which we may download celestial energy.  On the other hand, (or foot) I can imagine Earth energy entering my feet and rising through my body to spritz out the top of my head like a spouting whale. If I expect the two polarities of Earth and Sky to meet and marry in my heart, why am I so embarrassed to let my cowlick show? Why can't I view myself as compassionately as I view my pew mates and all humanity who got up this morning and either did or did not brush their hair? 

Everyone has at least one whorl where the hair began to whirl and swirl around and around to cover our heads with downy softness before we were born. I wonder what happens to the cowlicks when baldness happens. Is there still fuzz in which we can trace the circular pattern? I think mine goes clock wise - at least the most persistent one near the crown. The other most pesky one is above the outer corner of my right eye brow - right at the hairline. I can’t tell what direction it spirals… it’s just another wonky place where my hair goes kafoogeldie. 

When I was nineteen, I worked as a telephone switch-board operator for a non-profit. One of the public relations fellows had identical twins. Mirror twins. The only way Lloyd and his wife Lois could tell Danny and Stevie apart was that one of them had a clockwise whorl; the other, anti-clockwise.  

No complaints. I’m happy to have hair. I’ve been happy with it at times and I’ve been miserable with it. At this stage in life, the hair and I have reached at a truce. I’m no longer putting it on the ironing board to iron the curl out of it, as high-school buddy Judy and I used to do in the sixties. It’s a very short do now, not flowing down past my waist. Having the cowlicks identified and charted has been helpful. I know what I’m up against. I’m grateful for “product” that can (sometimes) glue it down. Most often, I feel a more like the character Alfalfa from The Little Rascals - with my cowlick sticking straight up, than like a shampoo model. 

I wake up early enough to do a modicum of grooming before going out into the world. I try not to leave before the bed head and chenille marks on my face have been tamed. Still, I wish there were something I could do to cover that spot atop my head. Maybe next lifetime, I’ll order only one whorl, dead center, on top of my head and be done with worry and embarrassment over my dumb-ass hair... or become fond of hats.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

I celebrate my bare feet being in contact with and open to Mama Earth’s electrons. She gives them freely to us as part of her packaged deal to hold us close to her breast through gravity, and to keep us healthy with her Vitamin G. (G, for Grounding.) Those free electrons carry a negative charge. Even more so when we’re walking by a large body of water. It can promote a feeling of well-being as we balance our bodies electrically. Walking barefoot is the best anti-inflammatory and it doesn't cost a penny. All we have to do is take our shoes off! (Just be mindful there's no broken glass or stickers, eh?)

A toddler girl at the school  where I was teaching in 1983 delighted us all one hot August afternoon. We took the class outside and filled some wading pools just to cool off. Little Marsha took off all her clothes and threw her arms skyward, squealing with joy, “Look! I’m barefoot all over!”  Amen.

From head to toe, may you be well and held in the comfort of Mother Earth's lap. And when a cow comes by, let her lick your head. You'll be in good company.

Pieces of Eight

Aaarrrrrrgh!

Ye be wealthy, indeed, Master Jim Hawkins! You've got pieces of eight to delight Long John Silver.

Lucky me to be wealthier than thee, Jim Hawkins. I am grandmother to a lovely girl-child who IS eight! She celebrated being herself this past weekend, and shared the wealth of her humor, graciousness, and tender kindness with six of her gal pals of similar age. They swam, they ate, they played a child appropriate version of Dungeons and Dragons with the help of her Dungeon Master father. They ate more, watched an age appropriate movie, slept very little, and in the morning, they made slime. Slime is made with Elmer's White Glue and Liquid Laundry Detergent. Ooshy gooshy slime! Such fun,

One of the best gifts her weekend celebration gave me was a party with the child's mother, and our younger daughter and new son-in-love from Grover Beach. Lovely visits.

Another gift: Recollecting what it was like to be eight.

Memory meanders. But IF it serves...  I think it was 1956 when my folks built a playhouse for me and I was given a black cat named Eight Ball. He had a white spot over his purr box. The slab of cement with handprints on it that served as the doorstep to that playhouse is dated 1952 when I was only four years old. Perhaps my folks were forward thinking and made the doorstep four years before use?

I do remember playing in that playhouse. I think I was older than four when it was finished. It had a sleeping loft and a workbench that served as kitchen area, desk, and eating table. Once, one of my brother's thirteen rabbits went missing and was found with a swelled head upside down inside the wall of the play house. We massaged his head back into shape and he seemed to be OK until we took them all to Great Uncle Ed who was a butcher. I couldn't bring myself to eat dinner that night at my Grammy Maxwell's house where Uncle Ed lived with her, nor dinner any night after that if it came from our overstocked-with-white-freezer-paper-wrapped-bunnies. I was sad for a long time.

I remember roller skating and having to sweep up all the eucalyptus pods so the metal wheels wouldn't stop short and throw me flat down on the red cement patio. I remember playing with Peter and Angelika Fox, Jeffrey Killen, Gary Davis, and Glen Gillis. We had dirt-clod fights, played Mother May I, Red Rover, Red Rover, Bombs Over Tokyo, and Kick the Can. Hide and Seek was the fall back, most important game and we played it well past twilight - swatting mosquitoes as we called out Olly olly oxen all in free. I can still remember the good scents of sunshine, grass stains, and sweat, and the acrid smell of iodine on skinned knees.

How very different is my granddaughter's life from the one I lived in the wild hills of Echo Park near downtown Los Angeles. She must make dates to play with other busy children her age. Her time is spent at three different homes: his, hers and ours. Mama's house at least has children in the neighborhood. Dad's house is isolated, walled off, and has a security fence all around it. No kids live nearby that I've ever seen. Our home has a handy nine year old boy across the street who often comes to play. He's great with scooters, skateboards, and bikes. She's good with horses which are only available during her weekly riding lesson. Still, Anthony and Miss D find plenty of common ground and points of interest to be creative together and play.

Play is the greatest wealth, is it not?

All things are possible in play.

Viva Play. Viva being eight years old. Viva communities that create safe places for the children to play. Cat Stevens reminded us to safeguard those places where PLAY can happen. Those places are GOLD.