Red Shoes

Pete Seeger penned this marvelous song made popular by The Weavers during their 1980 Reunion Concert at Carnegie Hall.  It’s a classic that speaks to Baby Boomers like me who may remember, if we still have memory, the political activism of our youth.

Get Up and Go 

How do I know my youth is all spent?

My get up and go has got up and went

But in spite of it all I'm able to grin

And think of the places my get up has been

Old age is golden so I've heard said

But sometimes I wonder as I crawl into bed

With my ears in a drawer, my teeth in a cup

My eyes on the table until I wake up

As sleep dims my vision I say to myself

Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?

Though nations are warring and business is vexed

I'll still stick around to see what happens next

How do I know my youth is all spent?

My get up and go has got up and went

But in spite of it all I'm able to grin

And think of the places my get up has been

When I was young my slippers were red

I could kick up my heels right over my head

When I was older my slippers were blue

But still I could dance the whole night thru

Now I am old my slippers are black

I huff to the store and I puff my way back

But never you laugh; I don't mind at all

I'd rather be huffing than not puff at all

How do I know my youth is all spent?

My get up and go has got up and went

But in spite of it all I'm able to grin

And think of the places my get up has been

I get up each morning and dust off my wits

Open the paper and read the obits

If I'm not there I know I'm not dead

So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed

How do I know my youth is all spent?

My get up and go has got up and went

But in spite of it all I'm able to grin

And think of the places my get up has been

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   

I always wanted to have this bumper sticker:

You never can have too many pairs of Red Shoes.

Why do I love red shoes? Maybe because…

-The Red Shoes Ballet as danced by Moira Shearer got stuck in my brain at an early age?

-I grew up in Echo Park near Downtown Los Angeles. A hot-bed of communist activity, Echo Park was called “Red Hill?”

-Red Shoes conjure for me Native Peoples who spoke of two roads: the Red Road (Life) and the Blue Road (Spirit). I’m fond of walking the good red road, preferably in comfortable red shoes?

-I want to hold onto my youth, like Ronnie Gilbert, female vocalist of The Weavers, whose slippers were red in her youth in the song above?

-The first pair of Capezio Spanish Dance Shoes I purchased, when I was an impressionable seventeen-year-old studying classical Spanish dance, were made in 1920 of bright red leather and I loved those shoes?

I love red and used to wear a lot of red clothing and, naturally, a girl’s got to have shoes to match!?

The Wizard of OZ probably always will be my favorite film and those Ruby Slippers have the power to move me to tears as I contemplate like Dorothy, I too always have had the power to “go HOME.”

No place like it, right?

Ram Dass says, “When it comes right down to it, we’re all just walking each other home.”

I like to imagine those times of red-slipper- wearing when I could kick up my heels right over my head. I like to re-member at the cellular level the certainty of conviction coordinated with muscular discipline in my more youthful body back then when it bent to my bidding. 

Not so long ago it seems, I walked, wrote letters, marched, and protested government actions I believed to be wrong. I marched with Congress Of Racial Equality, Students for a Democratic Society, Progressive Labor Party, and Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee against segregation in Los Angeles County and City Schools 1964-1966. I marched against the war in Viet Nam every year from 1966-1971, and was part of the Great Peace March send-off that started in down town Los Angeles with Holly Near singing us into an easy walking pace in 1986. A friend and I played guitars and sang songs at one of the early Earth Day Celebrations in L.A. 1972. More recently, like millions of women around the world, I knit and wore a bright pink Pussy Hat at the Women’s March and rally on January 21, 2017 and again in 2018. I’ve worn rainbow attire at nearly every Oakland Pride Parade since moving to the Bay Area from Los Angeles in 2014. For June 2018’s action of solidarity with families separated at our borders, I marched to and rallied around one of the detention centers in Alameda County. 

Marching feels right. Eighty percent of Life is just showing up, says Woody Allen. 

As I enter my seventies, I foresee that I will keep going for as long as ever I can to speak my mind, and use my will, voice and marching shoes for changing the world for better, if not for good.

Maybe, I need to buy some gently used red marching boots... that were made for walking, 'cause that's just what they'll do...

But that's another song.

Masters of War

When Dylan’s Masters of War song plays on my car radio in 2018, my head warbles to the sound of an off-screen harp, as if in movie flash-back-mode to… 

Danny and Teddy Simonovsky’s living room. Echo Park. Downtown Los Angeles. Any Friday night in 1964, ’65, or ‘66. 

The darkened room is filled with angst-ridden and pock-marked sixteen to eighteen-year-olds, trying our damnedest to look and sound like Buffie Saint Marie, Joanie B, and Bob D. 

We know all the words and chords, all the harmonies, and all the meanings which we discuss endlessly at lunch in our inner-city school cafeteria. Over time, too many of our male classmates leave their graduation gowns in a pile, sunny days in June, stash their tassels and year-books with family, and don the dull khaki green of bright shiny new Army recruits ready (yet also green) for sardine box-shipment off to the jungles of Viet Nam. 

These Friday nights are a time to let down our center-parted hair, to air our grievances, and to plan the next march against the insanity. Too many of our buddies are coming back in boxes or severely and permanently bent by what they see or are made to do while dodging Napalm - our own country’s lucrative (Dow Chemical Company) invention of Hell on Earth - a gift that keeps on giving to succeeding generations. 

War leads to more war. Betcha can’t have just one! Try one, and you’ll see. But this one is a Just War. Hah! We fall for that unjust justification too often. There is no just war if the motive is tainted one bit by greed. Do you know one that isn't? 

In 1967, I see the Joffrey Ballet production of Kurt Joos's The Green Table in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion at Los Angeles Music Center. The ballet is the most searingly visual anti-war statement I have ever seen up close and personal. Joos and Fritz Cohen first presented this scathing depiction of how wars are planned and war's true cost in 1932, winning first prize in a choreographic festival of new ballet works in Paris. 

Black and white photos and videos of the war in Viet Nam grace our television sets while we eat our modern TV dinners in front of the sanitized gore.

*.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  

My own brother was one of Viet Nam's casualties. Granted, his body came home but much of his mind went missing, obliterated by attempts to forget his part in the war with liquid libation, dubious prescriptions, or beautiful as white-snow-coke. He’s quite a reader now, closer to eighty than seventy. Just don’t ask him what he’s reading, or to socially engage. That’s beyond his shingle anymore. The ears are gone, the stutter is pronounced. Reclusive is his modus operandi. He’s a survivor; not a thriver. He’s in compliance: Not drinking anymore but certainly not in recovery. I have almost as much survivor’s guilt as he does. I was lucky to be female, born half-a-generation later, and to avail myself of the healing modalities to which I had access for getting over what our father who aren't in Heaven, Howard was his name did to us both. Brother Mel did not choose a healing path. I miss him, or the "him" he used to be.

*.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  *.  

A friend who saw lots of action in ‘Nam, and who was exposed to Agent Orange is now battling for his life. “Charlie,” as he calls his sternal cancer which has metastasized to his gut, is getting the upper hand and I’m pissed as Hell. I feel the rage against the very idea of war being shoved into the lives of young people. I rail against corporate greed. The letters I write to Nestlés, Dow, (now DowDupont), Monsanto, and Bayer nearly self-incinerate with fiery anger before I can get the stamps on with shaking fingers.

There are no just wars. 

On Sunday, our dear Pastor Ben Daniel at Church of Last Resort (AKA: Montclair Presbyterian in Oakland) offered a Peace Sermon. In it, he supposed getting rid of Hitler should have been accomplished long before 1930 wherever seeds of discontent and inequality were planted during and after WWI. When Adolf was not got rid of, the world was finally forced to remove his war engine with the Big War.

War begets war. Pastor Ben is right: Only Peace begets Peace.

I’d like to subscribe to this premise: War is avoidable, IF (longest word in any language), IF we sense in our fellow humans build-up of resentment of and struggle to get out from under indignities and inequalities, and IF WE WORK ACTIVELY TO RIGHT THE WRONGS.

Here's how Dylan sang it:

Come, you masters of war

You that build the big guns

You that build the death planes

You that build all the bombs

You that hide behind walls

You that hide behind desks

I just want you to know

I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'

But build to destroy

You play with my world

Like it's your little toy

You put a gun in my hand

And you hide from my eyes

And you turn and run farther

When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old

You lie and deceive

A world war can be won

You want me to believe

But I see through your eyes

And I see through your brain

Like I see through the water

That runs down my drain

You fasten all the triggers

For the others to fire

Then you sit back and watch

While the death count gets higher

You hide in your mansion

While the young peoples' blood

Flows out of their bodies

And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear

That can ever be hurled

Fear to bring children

Into the world

For threatenin' my baby

Unborn and unnamed

You ain't worth the blood

That runs in your veins

How much do I know

To talk out of turn?

You might say that I'm young

You might say I'm unlearned

But there's one thing I know

Though I'm younger than you

That even Jesus would never

Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness?

Do you think that it could?

I think you will find

When your death takes its toll

All the money you made

Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die

And your death will come soon

I'll follow your casket

On a pale afternoon

I'll watch while you're lowered

Down to your deathbed

And I'll stand over your grave

'Til I'm sure that you're dead

• 

         Bob Dylan

Here is a write-up of Kurt Joos's The Green Table with music by Fritz A. Cohen, (1932):

https://balletwest.org/news/the-green-table-at-85

Campity Camp Camp Camp

Starfish fingers feel the world. Myriad sensors on each tip. Digit-eyes devour information. This wonder child of six short years lost his vision quite recently to a nasty tumor. Rumor has it Neuro Blastoma is a sleaze-ball. I hate cancer.

Little N, a new camper, is adapting quickly. Making sense of his world. Mom and sis seem still to be reeling from the huge changes required in their family to watch out for and support N in navigating without the use of his big, now sightless blue eyes.

N delighted in playing the strum end of the guitar while I played chords on the neck end. Swift were the fingers that took in the shape, heft, and sound of the bass strings, comparing them to the smooth continuity of the nylon trebles. We played a couple of songs together and he graciously let a little girl in our Saturday morning session group have a turn at strumming. Vibrations from the body of the guitar filled his lap and torso while S plunked and tugged on the strings. N patiently awaited his next turn to explore different directions of strumming and various volumes.

Sunday, Pun the magician empowered N with a sound effects machine during the show, while counselor K and I alternately whispered play-by-play descriptions of the visual stunts in his ear. How quickly he mastered the array of buttons on the four by four inch device. He could “boo” or hit the “applause” key, make “farts,” “arrow twangs,” “YEE-HAAAWS,” “burps,” and “sawing sounds” with purpose and appropriately timed responses to what Pun was doing. What a privilege it was to witness the plasticity of neuronal connections around N’s lost visual cortex. 

Once we counselors discovered the young lad’s ability to whistle, his skill was often rewarded. During the Sunday morning session, N whistled and promptly, as if on cue, two dozen wild turkeys ran/flew toward the Art Yurt where four volunteer counselors and eight campers were gathered. What a rush for N to suppose what we said was true: that his whistle brought those wild turkeys - all rush and gobble toward us. Perfect serendipity. N was beaming.

For WE CAN Do Anything Stage Night Saturday, R got up out of his wheel chair and walked across the stage to the thunderous applause of the one hundred strong audience of families, staff, and volunteers. C told jokes. L danced and sang. E, now fourteen and out of danger from his brain surgery, performed an amazing Bass Beat sound effect with his mouth and a mic to our delight. A performed an appealing singalong and dance routine to a Beyonce fave, and J, who three short years ago was so shy she would not speak or engage, shared a song she made up! So at home is she now in her body and in her new-found family of twenty-seven now familiar families that she speaks her mind, climbs trees with her strong side, bringing her weaker side along, shares her own therapy dog F, and bonds with the other hired-for-the-weekend therapy dogs! 

Good byes are always heart-wrenchingly hard at the end of camp. We bond so deeply during a brief weekend. After brunch on Sunday, family appreciations, and summations from the camper groups of their favorite experiences during the Friday through Sunday Pediatric Brain Tumor Network Camp session, there is a slide show presentation. We all get to relive delights and triumphs. N’s mother gave him descriptions of each photo and video, while his sister huddled across the dining hall with her new-found friends. Siblings are given special attention too in the break-out groups. Camp changes lives for the good. Cancer affects the whole family. 

Hate cancer. 

Love camp.

750 words has been a good practice for me to get the wheels spinning and the gears oiled.

It began the last day of June and continued all through July and one day into August before I was abruptly thrown off because 750.com wanted a $5 per month retainer for me to continue, so I let it go. Younger daughter, who first invited me to try 750, sailed forward with the wind beneath her wings and $5 in hand. 

The month of August promoted a special: If you wrote 750 words for 31 consecutive days during that month, you would be logged onto the "Wall of Awesomeness!" Then, you were supposed to declare your reward for yourself. Daughter chose to treat herself to a massage.  Another feature of August's special was a "Wall of Shame." Most people said, if they failed to write daily, their penalty would be to send $5, $10, $25, or $100 to the organization. One person said he'd eat Brussel Sprouts for dinner 21 days straight. (One person's penalty is another's reward, I guess! 'Though I think I might tire of the yummy mini cabbages by day 9... unless I made them with caramelized onions, maple syrup, and bacon.)

Daughter dear is still going strong with the 750 words. A neighbor I suggested try it is also swimming upstream with the program and gaining writing muscle.

I'm missing out. I'm languishing in the back-water-eddies of my mind and slothitude. Sigh... Procrastination, I've perfected. Putting everything before writing is not a great way to get writing done. Not writing has become my new tilt button.

Perhaps this is the week it all changes. Perhaps with this blog, which I hope will come to 750 words, I'm on a new roll. (Hold the poppyseeds, they get stuck in my teeth.)

The question then becomes: What to write on a Sunday night?

Pride Day in Oakland? I wasn't there this year. But I remember fondly last year's event and still have a rainbow colored umbrella (sun shade!) to show for it. Oakland's is the most family friendly Pride Day March in the country. Don't believe me? google it.

Say, here's another topic: If you google a person, will s/he giggle? For real, can we tell if someone is googling us, I wonder?

Finally, Saturday, I finished taking notes on a book from which another woman at the "Church of Last Resort" and I are teaching in October.  We've got three classes to cover Roger Walsh's Essential Spirituality: Seven Central Practices to Awaken Heart and Mind 

Thirty-three pages of notes later, I've got the whole thing practically memorized. It helps that much of the content comes from sources with which I'm familiar... like Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, Saint Francis of Assisi, Confucius, Lao Tsu, Mohammad, Gandhi, Gautama Buddha, Maimonides, and Jesus. Like cultural anthropologist Michael Harner, who distilled the world's shamanic practices to create "core shamanism," so he could re-introduce this deeply healing practice to cultures that had been squashed by the subjugating culture, Roger Walsh has put forth these seven practices that are part of what he calls, "Perennial Philosophy" - ideas enduring across centuries and across cultures and taught by sages of all times to nudge us all along on what should be our most important goal in life: Self Realization. 

The timing for me is perfect. The chaos covering the globe, and the endless news cycle covering the chaos has made me weary to the bone. The only thing holding me together, besides green juice daily and hard physical exercise is my yoga and meditation practice. He-who-shall-not-be-named is good for something after all! His whiplash style of leading the country has nudged me back to daily practice! Yay! Thank you for that! Orange you glad we have incentive to become the best equipped we can be to handle what comes next?

In case you're interested, these are the seven perennial practices:

~Transform our motivation: reduce craving, find our soul's desire

~Cultivate emotional wisdom: Heal our heart and learn to love

~Live ethically: Feel good by doing good

~Concentrate and calm our mind

~Awaken our spiritual vision: See clearly and recognize the sacred in all things and all beings

~Cultivate Spiritual intelligence: Develop wisdom, and understand Life

~Express spirit in action: Embrace generosity and the joy of service

Well, it looks as though I’m nearly at 750 words for tonight. (742)

So wrapping up, the ethical conclusion would be...  "the name of the rabbit was Peter!"

757! 

Pppfpfpfpfthththtrrrkkzzzzptptpt!

Water and Air

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink

Air, I want fresh air, not this smoke with a terrible stink.

Richard Spencer wants a race that's Lily White and pure.

Don't trust atoms, they make up everything! That's for sure!



Atoms dance and atoms whiz. Building blocks of all that is.

Chemical brews their maker eschews puddles of poison fizz.

Fire transmogrifies, melts, and morphs matter to ash and smoke

Floods take all to the lowest level, toxic soup makes us choke



Whole wide world gonna be mixed up; ain't nothin' pure no more

Plastic fills the ocean blue. Albatross keeps the score.

Our inner tides bring micro-beads to every organ's shore.

Let's take the challenge; clean up our mess. Can Earth be restored?



No such thing as racial purity. Richard has that wrong.

Even with best security, there's none who doesn't belong.

Don't be a dick, Dick. Humans long for all the rainbow hues.

I don't wanna bleach my freckles; to hide gives me the blues.



Each decision that I make soon affects the whole world wide

That this Lifeboat we all live on spins cannot be denied

What we do on our side now spills soon to the other side

"Homogeneity makes us weak," Diversity cried,




"For strength, our colors must be mixed, perspectives listened to."

Human folly, prideful boasts, may hasten punishment due

For cutting out those who differ from us as if they don't belong.

Beneath dissimilar outer husks human hearts beat strong.



When it comes right down to it, we are mostly empty space

As planets circle our good sun, electrons 'round nuclei race.

Rearranging patterns, atoms dance in conscious grace.

Pure consciousness is all we are: A fact we all must face



Actions not of healthful vision ought to be curtailed

To hold a brighter vision greed and fear must be derailed

To focus on pure consciousness a little bit each day

May reconnect us each with each, let kindness be our play.



A pristine planet spinning round our nucleus, the Sun

Will gladden hearts and lift us up rememb'ring we are ONE

One human family choosing well to act in harmony

Moving forward thoughtfully, I see light for you and me.