In Between

What’s Winnie the Pooh’s middle name?

The.

What’s The’s middle part?

H.

That stands for Half-Way.

Pooh’s creator, A.A. Milne, wrote a poem about that potent half-way place.

Half way down the stairs is a stair where I sit.

There isn’t any other stair quite like it.

I’m not at the bottom, I’m not at the top.

So this is the stair where I always stop

Half way up the stairs isn’t up and isn’t down.

It isn’t in the nursery, it isn’t in the town,

And all sorts of funny thoughts run round my head.

It isn’t really anywhere! It’s somewhere else instead.

My beloved and I are presently in an in-between place. Not completely moved out of L.A. and not all the way moved in to the new place in Oakland. Up to our keesters in cartons, evaluating each item we withdraw from box after box, room after room. Stuff tells its own story... and there’s way too much of it in our lives at the moment.

This is a story about the potency of that in-between space, and how taking time to inhabit it adds value, depth and appreciation to my life.

In yoga there’s a word for it: dvaadashanta, which translates to “that peaceful (shanti=peace) place in-between.” When a swing has reached the zenith of its arc, it pauses just before it begins to swing the other way.

In between our in breath and out breath, there is a little pause. There’s another when we reach the end of our exhale - just before the breath turns around to come back in. Yogi’s say, that it’s in those little pauses where we’ll find our true nature; what I call our “Big S Self.” The Self that’s beyond gender, job description, status, race, beliefs, or age. Those are all part of us… but those descriptions are the ‘little s self,’ or personality, and just the tip of the iceberg. The Big S part is so vast and incomprehensible that we cannot grasp it except for the wee glimpses which the half-way down the stairs contemplations afford us.

Saturday and Sunday evening, I got to watch the sunset over San Francisco Bay. That ‘not fully day / not yet night’ is another in between place. The beauty of it lent extra enjoyment to the extended in-between-ness. Mark and I just hunkered down on the beautiful green hill all mud-luscious and puddle wonderful after the rain, and just WERE in the moment. It was found time, set apart, and all sorts of funny thoughts seem to leave my head, allowing a sense of peace to permeate all my cells from the inside out.

This move from one city to another offers various transitions which I’m relishing: from seeing a lot of clients, to anticipating seeing way fewer; from being an off-handed gra’ma to being a very hands-on sort of gra-ma.

Change allows me to re-evaluate what’s essential - just as the activity of boxing and unboxing possessions affords me an opportunity to question do I need/want this item? And further, who or what is possessing me? Do I really possess anything?

It feels as if I am possessed by my possessions. Finding the juicer seems all consuming… yet patience yields more benefit than does frantic searching through all the as yet unopened boxes.

In Between allows me to question every action, every choice, every thought. It seems I have a lot of weeding to do, in order for my internal garden to flourish.

With gratitude, I embrace this transition, even while struggling with some of the loss of familiar friends, family, and neighborhoods. I foresee a time when the now home will be bustling with new friends, colleagues, and neighbors, and the familiars will come to camp out here too. Then, we can all be in-between together!

Have Yourself a Merry…

We’re HERE!

Christmas Eve, and we’re slowly coming out of the boxes and seeping into the new digs - every bit as much as the new home is seeping into us. I didn’t stub my toes last night on all the boxes in the path to the bath, and, as of this evening’s dinner of soup (again), I made toast on a genuine cookie sheet, instead of on an aluminum pie tin from the camping tub. Progress!! We’re finding stuff slowly, by slowly… and we will be BETTER PREPARED to move again, should need arise, before we’re outa this life feet first! We learned a LOT doing this, and feel so grateful for the Expert Team moving crew who stayed with us every step of the way - even when the larger of the two trucks couldn’t make it up the steep hill from 580 to our street without a tow chain to help it along. Blessings on Julio and his loyal workers: Francisco, Carlos, and Jose. Christmas Spirit reigns. Glad tidings: The job is well done. 

Today, we got connected to the inter webs thanks to a lovely AT&T man named Ron. 

Tomorrow, will be a luxurious, do-nothing-but-unpack kinda day! Yay!

Turns out, there are a LOT of moving parts to moving farther than just around the same city. Did I mention, we learned a LOT!?? Label every item that’s in every box... it’s worth it! Where IS that box with real onions?? OH... follow the smell... THERE you are! And the toaster?  Not yet sighted.

Happy Holies. Toasty, Cozy 25th!

Eager to see the Grandie for longer than the 15 minute visit we allowed this evening, before she went off to her dad’s house. We've got some germs that moved with us. Drat! Looking forward to feeling well enough to PLAY, after we recover from whatever malady got shared at little brother’s BD, December 20! Coming out from under. Every moment is better than the one before.

Looking out on the SF skyline this December 24th, it’s the gratitude that makes the tears flow so that the lights have tails and topknots, and arms splaying out in all directions. Pure, full-bodied GRATITUDE that we get to have this adventure; this next chapter; this opportunity to be of service and to meet new folks who like doing something for kids too. Enjoying my honey so much... just sifting and sorting and casting out still more crap that we accidentally moved with us, is a joy with him as companion.

Both of us were gob-smacked by the outpouring of love over the weekend, and we are still leaning into buoyant love .

May every holiday celebration bring you joy. May you thrive as light returns to the northern hemisphere.  Know that you are loved.

Culmination

It's been just over 21 years and a couple of months since I sang eleven of my songs to some 150 friends and family members in celebration of my 45th birthday. I called 45 my "record-breaking year." I got together a few friends to sing with me, and a little back-up band. A Phoenix Rising Yoga buddy played keyboards, and I swapped her sessions for transcribing the music. I'd done a lot of healing of my childhood wounds, and was ready to come out of the shadows… I thought.

At the party, a dad from our school carpool asked if he could arrange one of the songs, and we were off and running on an adventure in learning the ins & outs of a small corner of the record business. Well, Ian (Freebairn-Smith) knew the record business. He had Barbra Streisand's Evergreen on his list of Grammy Awards as her arranger.  I knew nothing, but got an education over six months or so. Ten thousand dollars later, we had an audio cassette of my daughter's friend's mom Shirley Cavallero singing, "I Cry for the Children," a song I'd written in 1989.

We shopped that song around to movie producers, Oprah, and Streisand herself. No one seemed interested then, in a sad song about child abuse. Maybe, since its victims are coming forward almost daily, the timing is better now, for the song to be heard.

I hope so, because I just finished a recording project - singing that song, arranged this time by Barry Dow, sandwiched in the middle of eight other songs. I may not be out of the shadows yet, but I'm ready to let 'em fly, like fledgelings off a branch to see where they land.

Thanks to some very talented and very generous friends, the support of my honey Mark and my family, and some prodding from other friends, I forged ahead from August through November in Barry and Lynn Dow's basement recording studio, to capture sketches of nine songs. Barry took the pressure off by saying, "Look, Melinda, you're not making a 'record' down here; you're recording a few melodies that have popped into your head over the years… just so they don't get lost." (Or he said something like that, and it really helped. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and kept singing.)

The CDs are ready to give away. If you want one, let me know. 

Thanks to all the supporters and well-wishers, and especially my midwives: Barry and Lynn.

It feels like a timely culmination… just before we move north in a week… YIKES! Pass the packing tape and another box, please!

Unanswerable

How does a fourteen year old hang herself?

The news drifting in from another state is vague and oblique.

Upstairs, I remove dry tablecloths from the rail on my landing. 

They’ve been there since just after Thanksgiving. I wonder...

Her mom and I Skyped in the spring. 

I could see a railing behind her at her house. 

I heard a dog.

All seemed cozy and normal.

Did the girl use a strip of pink checkered bed sheets? 

A bathrobe tie, a couple of belts, or her terrier’s leash? 

Did her fingers shake with fear, or were they 

Steady, sadly resolute?

Morbid curiosity of how persists where 

Wise ones know that whys are… 

Unanswerable.

November. No sun, no warmth, no birds, no answers. 

November is when she did it. Just before Thanksgiving.

Friends are still moving through molasses 

Trying to comprehend the act. Trying to be helpful.

Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December

But the days grow short when you reach September...

The days dwindle down to a precious few

September, November...

And these few precious days I’ll spend with you…*

How does a mother survive her young daughter’s suicide?

No amount of chicken soup, sermons or pretty cards can 

UN-do this,

Nor return normalcy.

There is only a suffocating new-normal. 

Every sunrise, a new slug in the stomach.

Each holiday, birthday, anniversary, and 

Recollection of a shared private moment conspires…

Compounding interest on pain -

Like pulling nails from nail beds, pouring acid in the mouth, 

Taking our words which would effort to explain, 

Express, or exorcise the deed

Making us - numb and wordless - want to 

Join the dead in their freedom.

Too many movies? News stories? School lunch room banter? 

Playground taunts?

Whys persist. They can never be answered.

Pain persists.

If we’re lucky, it diminishes by increments over decades.

Compassionate Friends, like Twelve Step meetings, 

Proliferate.

Every city has one. The need increases.

Bullying is epidemic. 

Skin is thinner - or over exposed through social media. 

Is it climate change?

*September Song by Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson

Building Bridges

Sitting in the living room in Southern California on a gray Sunday, I pull my sweater closer about me. I’m projecting myself into the new (for us) house in Northern California, where it is a bit cooler, and rainier, and more exposed to the elements.

Heretofore, I’ve been unable to imagine living anywhere else but here. Today, the image of the new living room pops in my head as I sit on this old couch that will be against a new wall, but in similar relationship to the coffee table and other furniture as it is now configured in the old house.

Old house. New house. Same spouse. I can’t grouse.

Together, we decided to move. Together we are chucking and packing. Together we grumble about how hard it is to say G’Bye to friends, family... even familiar strangers - like María, the egg lady at Sunday’s Farmer’s Market. We’ve watched her kids grow from lap-sitters to minding their own stalls on Sundays. María always asks, “Como está la nieta?” How is your granddaughter?

Today, I hugged her. Who knows whether I’ll ever see her again? Perhaps not, but it's the amazing heart magnet of that very granddaughter María asks about that pulls us northward. Go we must! Irresistible!

 *  *  *  *  *  *  * *         

Younger daughter Megan made a scrumptious apple pie for Thanksgiving here. 

I watched Thursday morning, and marveled at her adept fingers as she double-crusted her creation and adorned it with shiny egg-glazed dough leaves.

Some of the dough is left-over in our ‘fridge. 

I roll it out to make some heart-shaped sugar cookies for Mark to take to the new house. He’ll hang out there for a few days, and meet with some carpenter folk to get some odd jobs done before we move-in. I'll stay behind, finishing up my work with clients… oh, and packing and chucking, chucking and packing. 

Building bridges from old to new seems easier with continuity. I hope he may be able to taste the love… here and there.

It is odd, and a little bit sad to think of not being in the familiar surround. It’s odd, and a little bit exciting to think of all the newness we must acclimate to... it’s the “top of the roller coaster” kind of exciting. I must remember that it doesn’t go straight down, but rather round some curves and up again. Aaah... that’s better. Knitting a bridge takes imagination. I can see myself crocheting and looking out at the rain falling on the new backyard. I can hear the same thirst of the land slurping up the divine moisture.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  

I wonder if all Californian’s can manifest rain by imagining it falling where ever we live?

Did a conscious Creator whomp up the Garden of Eden by imagining it? 

Could we build a bridge from this crazy world in which we live, to one in which life is valued, Earth is honored, and animosity, greed, and war are such dim memories that we cannot find our way back to the old way of being - simply by projecting ourselves into the future by way of our imaginative thought waves? 

I’m going to try it out. I’ll let you know how it goes... from Oakland; site of the next adventure.