...nor Egrets

The Los Angeles River was a favorite “back yard playground” for me as a kid. Vicky Garcia, Sharon Cordova and I used to ride bikes there.

One memorable day, the three of us friends, with our brown bag lunches of bologna, pickles and PB&J sandwiches, set off from Los Feliz Blvd, zig-zagging down the steep incline of cement to the bottom. We found that the river had accumulated a lot of sand since our last visit. Trees and marsh plants were growing right there in the river! Statuesque Egrets and Blue Herons mimicked the tall straight bamboosa.

As we pedaled up stream, the sand, mud and water got deeper and it was harder and harder to make the wheels move. Each of our bikes got mired and stopped moving forward at all. Balancing was tricky enough while moving so slowly and impossible once we stopped.We were a sight with feet lifted high so as not to touch the yucky water. Vicky’s bike was the first to tip. In slow motion she toppled over sideways –landing in the mucky murky water… a fate worse than death for a 12 year old girl. The splash startled a beautiful tawny tan snake which jumped in the air and began scooting incredibly fast up the slope by configuring and reconfiguring its body into “S” and reverse “S” shapes as it moved… like a side-winder. 

Sharon and I, in one motion, dropped our bikes and leaped out of the water as fast as we could go. All three of us ran screaming as far away from the snake as we could get but also up the concrete bank. A whole flock of long-necked gawky birds rose skyward - their cries drowning out the squish of our shoes. By the time we got to the top ledge we were laughing and gasping for air. Two of us had managed to bring up our lunch bags. Vicky’s was impaled by the fallen handle-bar so it didn’t float away, but no one was going to eat whatever touched that "snake" water!

For years we laughed about that day the snake drove US out of the river. Of course, we had to go back down and retrieve the bikes after sharing lunch. We never saw the snake again but it’s length grew with every retelling of the story.

Yesterday, driving up the 5 to Oakland I passed a good sized pond on the East side of the road about fifty miles out of the Gapevine.  Snowy, long-necked birds so graceful in flight look dorky and clumsy coming in for a water-landing. The sight of them brought me back to those times as a kid when my friends and I were allowed to have real adventures. 

If I were raising kids in today’s world there’s no way I’d feel comfortable setting them loose in a natural area without first securing it – at least visually. By that I mean I would check the wild area for a different kind of “wild life” - vagrants, drug dealers, gang-bangers and thugs. I used to do that for my kids in a nearby stream-bed. I'd take them there after scouting it out and stay at the mouth of the creek so they could have their own direct experience with a riparian ecosystem. They'd find delicate fox skeletons, read the patterns water made in the sand, wonder at the force of the wind and marvel at how high the water rose during a storm as determined by sand and algae displaced to the tops of the trees.

The world has gotten so complicated. Maybe video games ARE the only way today’s city kids can get adrenaline rushes without getting into too much real trouble. It makes me sad that so many of them will never know the scent of white sage or green clay or a skunk in the wild, nor recognize the sound of a red-tailed hawk or owl calling to her mate.

Seeing those Egrets as I drove north today made me happy and a bit nostalgic for simpler times when we kids could have a direct experience in the natural world, build forts, manipulate our environment, change the course of water and learn about sun, wind, mud and critters without having to read about them on flat pages of a book or see them reduced to two-dimensional scan lines on TV screens.

I’m grateful for those years spent close to Mother Nature. I worry that my grand-daughter may never have a close encounter of a bird kind… neither with flocks of Blue Herons nor Egrets. I have no regrets nor Egrets to show her. But we did manage to see a vibrant green grasshopper last evening on a leaf in the front yard. Her curious finger reached to touch its strangeness, but stopped shy of making contact. Blowing on it she learned the effect wind has on grasshoppers. They HOP! Perhaps Mother Nature reveals her treasures even in this overly complicated world - bringing us again to her breast.

Parting Gifts

The sun is setting. I see and pick-up from the sand a butterfly clam shell that mirrors the coral, crimson, and violet of The Artist’s rendered sky. My inquisitive nine year old fingers pry it open – realizing too late that my curiosity has cost the creature its life. Shocked and sorrow-filled I weep salt tears into the wet salt sand. What I learn from this death is to be respectful of all life and habitats; to walk softly on the earth. 

Thank you, little shell.

When Stepfather Leo’s mother Sonia dies, I refuse to look into the open casket and I have nightmares for more than a year which sorely interrupt my sleep. My imagination at thirteen is far more terrorizing than any reality could be. I learn from the experience to face any and all opportunities to know the truth… rather than fantasizing what it might have been. 

Thank you, Sonia Kovner.

Aunt Nora’s two cats, Alice and Mustache have kittens within a week of each other. Each nurses the others’ brood and all the cats nest cozily – their little fur bodies draping over one another’s water-balloon-like bellies. Aunt Nora finds one of the kittens, dead, in the backyard and puts it into a shoe box and buries it. Those two mama cats go crazy looking for the missing kitten. They look under the washer, back of the stove, under beds… just everywhere – meowling the whole time. Aunt Nora realizes what is going on and in her wisdom, digs up the shoe box and opening it for the mama cats. Each of them nudges that kitten and licks it from head to toe, then look at one another and walk away. Aunt Nora re-buries the kitten. I learn from this experience to find closure, to say good-bye, to finish the business with the living before they die and that after they die it is good to do the rituals of farewell so there’s no uncertainty. There is a need to know what happened. The hardest death of all to accept is the one where there’s no body of evidence to know they’ve died. Then, we have to make up the rituals as we go. 

Thank you, Alice and Moustache.

My Dad is in a coma for more than a week before he dies. In the absence of any sign of consciousness it is impossible to tell what is going on in his mind/brain – IF anything. I determine, in my sixteen year old mind, that it could be pure torture or pure ecstasy or anything in between. In the absence of consciousness it is always best to assume that full consciousness is present and to speak lovingly and reassuringly and freely as if s/he could hear me. I decide that it is NOT OK to “play God” and end life without some signal from the body in question, except when a creature is suffering and it is clear that our choice is merciful. Hopefully a signal comes from a person while s/he still is in command of her/his faculties. I do not believe in the sustaining of life by artificial means like feeding tubes and respirators, unless it is a temporary measure and reasonable recovery may be expected. I DO believe in palliative measures to comfort the dying. 

Thanks, Dad.

When Harvey Nassatir falls from a 15 foot ladder onto the concrete floor of the warehouse where he works he lapses into a coma. His family and friends and I (then 25 years old) gather in a lounge at the end of the hall near ICU where he is being monitored day and night. For the first week our intent is to pray for his full recovery, which we do religiously – when we are together and when we are at home. As the days turn to weeks we begin to explore the possibility that he is hanging on for us and that the extent of his injuries prevents his full recovery. We shift the intent of our prayers to letting him go, releasing him to the light and his own journey, asking forgiveness for our need to hold on to him. We grieve together as each in her/his own way makes peace and says good-bye. Harvey dies within 12 hours of our intentional shift. I learn that it is important to let go and surrender to the movement of life whether it is toward recovery or toward transition into death. 

Thank you, Harvey.

Aunt Clara lived to be 100 years and six months. Her peaceful, grace-filled death provided the most beautiful first teaching about the mystery of life for my daughters, apart from the Hamsters and other small animals who’d come and gone under their competent care. Mosa was 6 ½ ; Megan 3 and their loving fingers fashioned small bouquets from the tiny coral and white flowers growing in the cemetery grasses. They wove their questions into small garlands and we talked simply about how all life begins, lasts for some time and ends… and that this is true for every living thing. The wind helped carry our flower offerings, our tears and gratitude into her grave to accompany Aunt Clara on the rest of her journey. 

Thank you, Aunt Clara.

During an 18 month period spanning part of 1989 into1991 my family and I attended 13 funerals. We wondered if we’d inadvertently signed up for the “death of the month club.” Included in those who departed in such a short time span were both my husband’s parents, both my maternal grand-parents, my step-father, our gardener of 12 years, and friends we lost to AIDS, cancer and car crashes… and that was even before we’d signed on as volunteers at a cancer camp for kids.

Each parting gift is unique but the cumulative effect is like the simmering and reduction of a fine sauce for some elegant, sublime dessert. Ultimately, the dying teach us about living – HOW to live… what works and what doesn’t work so well.

Eulogies highlight the good stuff. Those of us who live day to day with love for any other human being know that without exception we are human and we do err. Still, with all of our foibles we are perfectly imperfect. The point of taking lessons from the dying is to learn from the errors of their and our ways and not have to re-invent the wheel.

For each of these parting gifts I am grateful.

Healer? How?

In 1984 my grandmother had heart bi-pass surgery at age 90.  I was in the recovery room with her at Brotman Memorial the moment she came out of the Operating Room. Her Doctor said she came through just fine. Maybe other family members were in the waiting room. I don’t recall anything else but the details of what happened in that recovery room that would be the catalyst for me to explore HOW HUMANS HEAL.

A heart monitor on the wall above her head tracked her now “in-the-clear” heart with a green line. Other vitals were likewise tracked with other colors on the monitor, but that dancing green line caught my attention. It read the beat of her heart, its rhythm, frequency and strength.

I loved my Grammy Florence. She had saved my butt more than once when I was a child. In particular, she stood as a staunch buffer between me and my father’s sometimes erratic behavior. Yet, when I put my hands on her feet and spoke softly to let her know I was in the room with her, a strange thing happened that seemed beyond the effect that simply loving her would have. The heart monitor’s green line was rhythmic, steady and smooth. When I took my hands off, the green line wobbled all over the screen. Hands on - steady heart beat; hands off non-coherent beats. I was fascinated and stood by her for quite a long time - reassuring her and telling her how glad we all were that she’d come through surgery and was on her way to healing. She was still under anesthetic, but I talked with her as if she could hear and take in everything I was saying.

In fifth or sixth grade, my class saw an animated feature film called Hemo the Magnificent. Dr. Frank Baxter narrated the scenario of what happens when there’s injury in the body while cartoon dump-trucks carted away the debris through the bloodstream and brick layers were dropped off to do the work of rebuilding. I described to Grammy in detail how her body was already in healing mode and that the bricklayers were in there laying down new cells and “mortaring” them into place. The details of how her body was going toward health with every breath seemed important to me in that room where soon she would wake to some amount of confusion and discomfort.

All the while I was talking to her about the cellular level healing going on within, I put my hands -in turn- on her feet, knees, elbows, shoulders and beautiful face. Both of her hands were involved with IV needles so I barely touched her fingertips and wrists. The heart monitor’s green line continued its dance and I was observing and making mental notes the whole time.

After about forty minutes, maybe an hour, she was more stable, breathing easier and I was singing to her Wynken and Blinken and Nod -just as she used to sing it to me. 

I left Grammy’s bedside and drove home to my family - thinking over what I had been privileged to witness. I concluded it was something more than the love I felt for my dear Gram that effected that green line. Something mysterious was going on and I wanted to find out WHAT that was.  

In 1985 I entered massage school to legitimize putting hands on people. On completion of the course, I signed up for one class after another and began to practice what I was learning on any friends and family members willing to lie down on my healing table. Energetic modalities intrigued me most of all. In 1986 I became a Reiki practitioner. In Japanese, Rei means universal; Ki, like Chi, means life force. Reiki energy is on the cool end of the light spectrum. It is blue-ish so it has soothing, cooling and anti-inflammatory effects on the body. Reiki is very useful for (among other things) pain, swelling and recovery from surgery.

In August, 1987, during Harmonic Convergence, a friend of ours barely survived a horrific collision with an eighteen wheeler. His aorta was sliced; his ribcage broken. His wife had been driving when they were hit.  Our friend's wife and five year old son were both killed in the crash. I offered my newly developing skill set to him - going to see him every four or five days for six weeks or so. 

They say you get a few successes as a new healer to hook you. Our friend was one of those. He credits the sessions we had together during his recovery with allowing him to switch from heavy-duty drugs to simple Tylenol for the pain within the first two weeks out of hospital. It was important for me to understand that I was not a healer, but rather a witness to the body's ability to heal itself. Being a willing channel for energy is different from "being a healer." Attachment to outcome is hard to shed when you care about people. Ego can spread its jaws and trap you if you think you have something special to share other than unconditional presence. 

In 1988 I began what turned out to be, for me, a six year program at the Healing Light Center Church, founded by Rosalyn Bruyere. In 1994 I earned a second BA in Shamanic Healing.  My first was in Child Development in 1975 from CSULA. Rosalyn taught me laying on of hands. It is an ancient form of healing belonging to all indigenous cultures and is even practiced in traditional settings such as in Christian, Jewish, Islamic and Buddhist religious rites. Her brand of healing brings earth's energy through the hands and is more on the red end of the light spectrum. Very useful for energizing, charging the system and providing a buffer from the ravages of emotional and physical blows.

Over the years, I’ve continued to study those modalities which help me to heal. Currently, I imagine my tools to be like colors on a palette. Which ever one best matches the client’s need for the day is the one I use.

I'm ever grateful to my Grammy Florence for watching over me and for helping me to find my calling.

Thanks, Lynn D for asking me how I ended up doing this work.

Stories of Echo Park

Echo Park Lake is a fixture near down town Los Angeles. Man made and many years neglected, it is currently a work in progress. This morning when I drove by I tried to peek through the green woven cloth covered chain link fence that surrounds it while they "bring it back to life."

My friend and fellow writer, Jaimsyne Blakely is contemplating gathering several stories about Echo Park Lake to celebrate its reopening in 2013. I happened to share this one with her yesterday at a writer's meeting in my old stomping grounds... the hills of Echo Park.

I KNOW what I threw into that lake on my way home from Belmont High School back in the day. I can only imagine what else they found in that murky water (now drained) and what they will find in the layers of luscious silty mud at the bottom.

May you enjoy the story and may we all enjoy the return of the lotuses and a beautiful new park surrounding the lake in a couple of years.

Without hesitation she dove in to rescue me. My toes had just found the bottom's slimy softness only to feel it yield and part with my weight. If I slow down that moment I recall in vivid sensory detail the nubbly firmness of the plant roots, the minnows and carp brushing my legs in quick retreat from my falling six year old body and the sky and trees twirling above me where they had been reflected below me a moment ago in Echo Park Lake. I honestly don't know if my friend Danny pushed me or if I simply slid and fell.


Danny's mom Helen was brave and fast! Quicker than my mom she leapt into the water only to find it just breast deep - deep enough to be over my head, but shallow enough that after she scooped me into her welcoming an welcomed strong arms we both began to laugh. She started it and it was catchy and made the sting of one scraped elbow fade into the background.


I'm sure if it had been my mom who leapt in after me that elbow would have been center stage - her worry at the sight of blood or any battle scar made the wounds hurt more not less. This time the obligatory iodine dutifully applied after the fact only rekindled the memory of laughter and a tiny stinging throb.


Bless Helen Fefferman and her down to earth solidity. Solid feet, solid body, steady mind, playful, cheerful and as fretless as a violin.

If we were meant to be serious creatures, we would not have been given smiles

It’s Sunday Night… do you know where your blog posts are?

Not a clue, thanks… but I’ll keep writing and maybe they’ll come home wagging their tails behind them.

Camp this weekend was a hoot. Hanging out with families whose sole purpose is to recreate through play is really fun. Liver Transplant Family Weekend at The Painted Turtle = a joy too profound to capture in words. Since I can’t post photos of same on line… I’ll have to end my post with the words of another:

Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in square holes… the ones who see things differently – they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you cannot do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.

                                                                                              -- Steve Jobs

Have a marvelous week.