Song LInes and D's First Beach Camp-Out

Song Lines

For much of the night, a lone mocking bird has been throwing his heart to the sky on the wings of his song. I imagine his poignant pauses are to invite a reply from the love he seeks. While there are many birds squawking, I hear mostly mockers with some crows and seagulls which chime-in near sunrise at Pismo’s North Beach, I sense that our lone guy’s love, so far, is unrequited. But, oh, how he tries to woo the lady birds!

Mockers are adept at copy-catting sounds from the environment. When I was a kid growing up in the hills of Echo Park, one of those cocky white-wing-tipped gray birds mastered the particular jingle of our Irish Setter Mike’s tags against his collar and neck. My brother and I were fooled, on more than one occasion, into opening the back-door for Mike, only to discover a curious Mike-mocking bird at the top of the acacia tree across from our glass bedroom door. Mike would be curled in the kitchen on the radiant-heat-warmed cement floor - waiting for breakfast, and oblivious to the drama outside the door.

This morning, lying in my sleeping bag in the mist-drippy tent, next to my beloved, who miraculously is still sleeping, I listen intently to this Central Coast mocker and discover that he too is an adept copy-catter! I hear, in his song-phrases, the croak of frogs, the sound of a phone ringing, and a wolf-whistle! 

Fifteen years ago, I read Song Lines (published 1987) by Bruce Chatwin. In it, he describes how the aboriginals of Australia’s Outback establish property ownership by singing the landscape. The idea is that each family clan creates a song which names the features of the land on which they live - "from the bilabong to the out-cropping of rock that looks like a nose..." It is understood that you “own”, or have use of what you lay claim to in your song lines.

I’m speculating that mockers may, in a similar way, “own” whatever they can sing. This morning, I believe this love-sick-mocker I've been listening to all night has some big real-estate holdings - all the way from the marshy inlet where the frogs live, past fifty or so camp sites, where he may, indeed, have heard wolf-whistles, and all the way to the camp host’s huge twinkle-light-lit residential motor palace where the phone sounds exactly the way the mocker has foretold it. I heard the phone when I walked by the motor home last night!

Which ever lucky lady bird is attracted to this fellow, she will surely swoon over his eighteen different tunes! We’ll call him “PM” for Prolific Mocker AND because he sings all night long!

Good thing there’s some strong coffee ahead this morning!

First Camping Trip for D Who is Three

What a privilege to accompany our granddaughter on her first beach camp-out! Her aunt, our younger daughter, moved to California’s middle coast last fall, and lives within walking distance of the very campground where our whole family spent several summers camping when the girls were seven and ten to ages eleven and fourteen. For D's spring break, my husband and I drove from the south, D and her mom from the north.  Here we are - middle coast camping!

Because she was a willing scout, and made a reservation for us ahead of our arrival at Pismo’s North Beach State Campground, we got the best site of all, and only had to show up and set up!

D’s eyes glowed when she saw where she and her mama were going to sleep - in Auntie Sid’s BIG tent with their very own sleeping bags and cushy-brought-from-home mattress topper. Gran’Pun and I slept in our standard-issue, tried-for-decades-yet-true pup-tent. We’re thinking that, after two nights of folding up like pretzels to get in and out of it, we may be ready for an up-grade next camping trip, to a tent in which we can stand up. (Maybe middle-sixties-bodies don’t bend the way they used to do.) Definitely, the thirty-seven year old foam mattress needs replacing! Auntie Sid joins us in the afternoons, but leaves after dinner to complete her work and sleep at home.

Our first night here, after downing with delight a delicious dinner, we walked over the dunes and through the trees to the beach in time to watch some crazy kids brave the icy waves, and see the seagulls, ducks and fleet-footed sand-pipers catch their evening meals. 

Pismo is famous for its clams. There are also dozens of dollars in the sand. D, her mama,  Auntie Sid, Gran’ Pun and I collected several bits of sea-offerings - some broken; some intact. It’s amazing how wet shells that look so very beautiful in the rosy glow of sunset, lose their luster when they dry out. Still, the razor clams and mussels on the picnic table this morning remind us of the fun we’ve had playing wheel-barrow, running, jumping sea-weed “rope”, making moats and maybe a sand turret or two, walking and talking and flying a kite! Gran’ Pun and Miss D did many magic tricks. She and I danced a pre-bed crazed tarantella on the soggy foggy meadow - she in her pink skeleton pajamas.

Recognizing Orion and the Big Dipper always creates wonder - as do the sparks from the crackling dry wood as they ascend from the fire into the black velvet night. A song or two with the old guitar and some improvised rhythm instruments on the second night end when the mist becomes a steady drizzle. Our last morning here, we dodge the rain drops by having breakfast OUT at Huckleberry’s Restaurant, and, after the sun comes out, we attend a Shell Beach community Easter EGG-STRAVAGANZA - a fitting end to  this quality-time-camping adventure.

Rape

Rape is on my mind, in the news and all around us.

In Somalia, Rwanda and India; in choir lofts, cars and confessionals, in homes, on streets and on a college campus near you, rapes are happening at a frightening rate.

What can have happened to a human being to make him (or her... for not all rapists are men) think that THAT was a good idea? What can have tortured these souls, who are walking around with such seething rage, that they feel justified in violating another so violently?

When you touch someone’s insides with the intent to subjugate her (or him... for not all rapes are perpetrated against women), you must know that you sever her connection with herself on a very deep level. You transform her from a human being into something she does not recognize as Self. She feels like trash - without value; thrown away, relegated to the rubbish heap. 

It takes a long time to heal from forcible entry into our innermost core. It takes a very long time.

Again, I ask, “What can have happened to a person to make him/her grow up to be a rapist?”

One theory is that sex addiction is a brain imbalance - much the same as any addiction. The compulsion to find relief for too much energy building up in one part of the brain must be acted upon, the part of the brain that should decide that forcible sex is not a good idea is without enough energy. The rapist rapes, but the relief is temporary and so short-lived.

Another theory is that rape is a time-honored way of subjugating and integrating conquered tribes into the dominant culture.

My theory is that a paradigm shift is on the wind. The patriarchy is faltering - perhaps sputtering to a halt. We’re beginning to glimpse the dire consequences of our actions against our mother. Each rape of the earth, whether it is preceded by defoliation ( à lá Agent Orange) as foreplay or not is felt by the Mother of us all as a painful insult to her being and body. By drilling for oil, damming and polluting her waters, spewing chemicals into her lungs and strip-mining her breasts for coal and copper, we seal our fate. We kill her. No earth: No human race.

Could it be that Earth is revolting against the way she’s been treated by her children who plunder under those who brainwash us that humans are meant to have domain OVER all creatures? Could all the seismic activity, hot-flashes (global warming) and the extreme cold shoulder treatment she’s been giving us be her way of saying, “Get off my back, you vomitous vermin!?"

As she bucks and hisses, Mother Earth frightens her children. Scared kids have a lot of adrenaline coursing through their veins. Fear makes us behave bizarrely. Our brains CAN get out of balance - with the executive functions shutting down completely - only fight and flight are active options. We seek whatever will help us calm the imbalance. Forced sex can become a go-to behavior. This is true for pedophiles, date rapists and overly forceful husbands/wives. Remorse and self-loathing after the fact are optional. Some folks have it, some do not. 

I’m intrigued by the idea that condemnation is not helpful, but understanding is. If we frame addiction in terms of a brain imbalance, and if that imbalance can be corrected, then a person might come to recognize his interconnectedness with all beings, discharge excess energy in a healthy way, and become a more balanced being - hurting no one - including himself.

Lee Gerdes, in his book Limitless You: The Infinite Possibilities of a Balanced Brain, spells out some brain-treatment protocols to restore balance where it has been disrupted. Peter Levine, in Healing Trauma, offers ideas for restoring self-regulation.

PTSD is increasing world wide. Famine, drought, war, genocide, natural and man-made disasters are taking a toll on us humans all over the planet. If we could learn to do trauma first aid for all victims of violent upheaval, I believe we’d begin to stem the tide of acting out that seems to be drowning us in more and more violence.

Gaea, the Goddess of Earth is emerging. The feminine is rising. It’s not surprising there would be some hearty upheavals in the death throes of the patriarchy. My hope is that the yin will balance the yang. My deepest hope is that we will begin to recognize our interconnectedness. Can we see the futility of punching a hole in our enemy’s side of this blue marble life raft adrift in a peculiarly indifferent Universe? Can we see our neighbor’s fate as our own?

Gratitude of Place

The upstairs healing room, in which I get to work, is lined with mirrors which reflect the deodar pine, bamboo and tall privets outside. It has soft beige carpeting, high beamed knotty-pine ceilings, and light from the four directions. Every day I climb the stairs to the “tree-house” room, I feel grateful. Each step up fills me with more and more gratitude - ‘til I’m overflowing.

Since 1988, I’ve been privileged to work here in our home, seeing clients day after day, week after week. The room is permeated with the residue of healing and ceremonies past. The walls absorb the gifts of relief and revelation, inspiration and "a-ha" moments, while the steeply pitched roof serves as a chimney to take out the exhaust. It doesn’t land on anyone. All the grief, loss, madness, terror, anger, frustration, disgust, rage, fear and  loathing evaporate into the skies and rain down as pure energy somewhere - flowing to the oceanic reserves of pure energy to be used by the Universe to make new stuff.

Because my work space is surrounded by trees, nature plays a part in each session. A disclaimer on the door should read: “Urban Shamanism Practiced Here.” Some clients attract the woodpeckers, others car horns, sirens, hummingbirds or chickadees. Crows are common and make such a wide range of sounds as to need a glossary. Mocking birds have been clocked with no less than fourteen songs. Each sound may punctuate what’s happening in the client’s body, my body or in the field between us. One slanting privet branch provides a rakish angle for squirrels to run from our rooftop to our neighbor’s, or to lie on and rest while absorbing the slant of winter afternoon sun. In summer, they cool their bellies on it in the dappled shade. Their soft round eyes look in directly at the clients who need squirrel energy and furry blessing. They remind us how important it is to savor creature comforts in the midst of doing all we have on our to-do lists to do.

It pays to pay attention to the elements. Each signal from the surrounding hug of nature goes into the mix of the session. On the menu might be: Acupressure today with a side of hummer’s thrumming wing-beats; yoga therapy with crow-click serenade; or tracking the nervous system against the backdrop of rain on the roof - restoring fluidity to a dry system. Whatever the need, nature surrenders up a gift that supports us. If not fully healed, at least we feel met in some way. Sometimes I note silently what the world of nature offers during the session, other times I speak it and delightedly call my client’s attention to it, if s/he hasn’t yet noticed the support from outside. 

Once a pair of chickadees frantically tried to get through the glass windows  - hitting them again and again with their small brown beaks. There seemed to be some urgent message this client needed to tend to and the feathered ones were the messengers: A reminder to remember the half-forgotten dream.

I am humbled by the participation of the natural world and reminded of my place in it all.

How fortunate am I to show up to work here!

Celebrate Dance!

Generous friends treated me, my husband and two additional friends to a dance concert Saturday. The six of us sat smack-dab in the middle of the fourth row, mezzanine of the Alex Theater in Glendale - the PERFECT spot to see it all - and were mesmerized for two hours. 

Eight different dance troupes explored innovative movement, communication styles, spatial and emotional relationships, and the human condition. I was enthralled. Each of the six of us seemed to come away with a different favorite. 

Mine was the very first which was choreographed and performed by Jacob Lyons and Teresa Barcelo, who are also known as “Kujo” and “Toogie.” The reason their piece spoke to me most particularly can be summed up in one word: “Visceral.” Quick transitions between approach and reproach, outreach and shun, stormy emotions and harmonious glide intrigued and kept surprising me. It wasn’t so much a duet as a duel. Ultimately, I think she was a little hard on him - parrying his gentler approaches with feigned elbow slams to his torso. I liked the use of capoeira, gymnastic and break-dance moves which were as seamlessly incorporated into the dance dialog as a handle is slipped onto a cup thrown on the wheel by a master potter. I felt the impact of their explorations in my gut - viscerally. Their piece was titled: Human Flotation Devices. Their company is Lux Aeterna.

Twyla Tharp wasn’t the first, but is perhaps the best known (to me) for coining humor with quirky flexed-foot-anti-classic-ballet-moves. Kujo and Toogie made liberal use of these iconic moves and showed unbelievable control in conveying disdain, angst, longing and outrage with muscles in their torsos over which most people do not have volitional control. HOW did Toogie say, “WTF” with her pectorals, abs and rhomboids? It wasn’t simply facial expression, but rather, whole body expressions of exasperation, excitation and glee. Masterful.

Recently, dance has been recognized as the best exercise to increase brain function. It’s a good thing because I was dancing in my seat all night Saturday. I’m inspired to renew my practice of jiving around the living room to some of my favorite music.

What’s YOUR favorite kind of dance?

From Mercy Center, Burlingame

Sweet Sisters of Mercy cloak us in calm

Invisibly they hold us with prayer and powerful intention.

Sacred space, hallowed hallways, singular sleeping cells, silence.

From the fringes of the big meeting room,

Extending feelers to palpate the emotional temperature of fifty four participants,

Honing hearing as students of this advanced Somatic Experiencing training exchange healing presence in the break-out spaces,

I assist and learn to listen for activation, settling, “A-hahs” or misattunements.

Perturbations in the field, like stimuli for jellyfish, cause contractions in the whole, tendrils quiver.

Settling and flow return cycle after cycle, day after day for six days of leaning.

Exquisitely calibrated for survival, our nervous systems manage stress, perceived threat, real danger.

When miscued, our physiology continues to prepare for non-existent battles. 

Exhaustion ensues. 

Syndromes arise.

Somatic Experiencing is an antidote.

Streamlining function.

Organizing agency.

Humanity sighs.

Relief reigns.

Joy returns.

Blessed to be working here

Blessed to be here

Blessed to be