Easter night and Wester Too

Preparing for Easter

Knocked me on my keester!

I'll keep this brief

And save you the grief

Of all the details

The rants and rails

Short and sweet

'til next we meet

May your Wester be better

(Differs by one li'l letter)

When do we celebrate it?

Oh, we already ate it?

Was it good

In your neighborhood?

Celebrate the rising

It isn't surprising

When Spring is seen, All is green,

May this be your best yet,

That's my request, yet...

It's possible that others,

Like sisters and brothers

May come to mind, too

From Easters behind you

But this I will wager

You'll remember your age when yer

Gifts from the Bunny began

And cherish the mem'ry again

Sweet dreams and g'night

May your troubles take flight

And your sweetest of wishes come true

Some Bunny Loves you, eSPECIALly you!

Is it True Happiness, or is it the Coffee?

I am so incredibly hyped up on Caffeine that I can hardly sit still.

Why does my body CRAVE coffee?

This afternoon, I’m drinking DE-caffeinated Earl Grey tea. Probably filled with terrible chemical residue, but it sure tastes good. I feel my heart thrumming.

Years ago, friend Linda Dare sent me a post card I still keep visible: Line drawing of a wiry gal with angular features holding a huge cup & saucer. Here's the caption:

She thought for the first time in her life she was truly happy, but it was only the coffee.

I do get so much more done in a day that includes at least one cup. I cannot sleep soundly if I have more than one or ANY past noon.

Do I learn? Nope.

What cranks me, though is this: the hyper nature doesn’t necessarily make good choices regarding HOW to use the energy my innards seem to generate when high on a cuppa. More hours go into answering email and the black hole of FaceBook than into writing - which is what I proclaimed I came to Oakland to do… and being with the Grandie… which is also more fun when my caffeinated self can match her seemingly boundless energy.

The other night, she seemed to have had an IV of double shot dark roast. She asked for lullabies then bounced on my supine form giggling maniacally at my inability to sing while her fingers pressed up against my Adam’s apple. Actually, we both giggled like mad! There was LOTS of vibrato in that night’s rendition of the Beatles, “Now it’s time to say good night…”

Then, today, I met with a mentor over the telephone (and over a cup of coffee). She is such a gem, and is guiding me to sharpen my determination to write, helping me to sift and sort through pieces I’ve already written, and to see which pieces hang together well. I had the image of a great gal pal standing next to me with the pieces spread out on the floor - like articles of clothing - and the two of us holding each one up, and squinting, to see which pieces go well together. Soothing image.

Perhaps, the coffee may be useful, when I neeeeeeed to stay up late to meet a publisher’s deadline. Until then, may I have enough wisdom to discern: Does this day call for mediCation or for mediTation?

(On the first day of time change) Riffin', Missin' Plain Old Time

At sixty seven, close to heaven

time is fleeting faster

death’s round the bend, life has an end

a small miss step could mean disaster




Standing proudly, speaking loudly

seem a distant memory

epidemics and pandemics

friends’ lives but ephemery



murmurings of losing love

sift down from the eaves

cooing, chewing mourning dove

builds with rotting leaves



it is not as if rot

can support a nurturing nest

hatchlings, snatchlings

fitful rest, under mother’s breast



She is still, but her skill

at architecture pales

wind has flung her dear young

ones, unfeathered wing fails



hungry cat craving fat

finds the appetizer

base of tree, soul flung free

to the Great Realizer



to big nest fly in the best sky

with your soul wings spread

There, you’ll find, all are kind

Only problem is you’re dead!



Is writing like fighting?

who wins in the end?

coffee brews and toffee chews

brain jitters, days blend



into night’s fading lights

into the dark mystery

sip your gruel, life is cruel

all you lived is history




slime mold burbles, slithery gerbils,

leaping for the light

quivering masses, lads and lasses

live through drought and blight



what’s the story, Morning Glory?

why so down and blue?

Sun comes up, cat and pup

show that they love you



tails un curling, wings unfurling

take flight to your kin

fear not, tear not, drink your beer not

unconsciousness a sin

Anniversary of a Conversation Overheard...

“Grandma, does dead really mean Daddy’s never coming back?”

“That’s right, sweet heart. He’s up in heaven with Grandma Joan – your mommy’s mother - who never got to meet you.

“Are you and grandpa going to die soon too, Grandma?”

“No, darling. Grandpa and I are very healthy. What happened to your daddy happens sometimes. His heart wasn’t healthy… that’s why he died. He’s so happy where he is up in heaven watching over you, your brother, sister, and mommy. We miss him… but he’s in a place where he can cheer for you in all that you do in your life. What he can't do is be here to hold you and hug you, or play ball with you, or read to you anymore. Mommy and Grandpa and I are here to hug you and hold you tight and take care of you. We will always make sure that you are well taken care of. You are safe and we love you and your brother and sister so much, we’ll make sure you stay safe.”

“Hey, Max… Do you remember how your sister found that little silver cross right after her gymnastics meet on Sunday? And how she put it up on her dresser with her medals because she was sure it was your daddy’s way of showing her he was proud of her? Well, we can be on the look-out for signs from your daddy too… it might be the comfort of a cool breeze on a hot day or a butterfly or humming bird coming close… anything you think might be your dad coming to comfort you or just his way of saying, ‘Hi I’m thinking about you and I love you,’ just might really be his spirit essence.”

“How do we know?”

“Well… we can’t know for sure, Max. Death is such a mysterious thing and not a lot of people talk about it. But we can make it up as we go along… comfort is comfort. I’m so glad you and I are talking about it now… and I hope we can talk about it anytime you have questions or want to talk about your daddy… or about anything really. Your daddy was my younger son and I’m always going to think of him as my baby. It’s hard to think I’ll never see him again. I know it’s hard for you too thinking you’ll never see him again. This is the sad part about death. We really miss the people we love so much that it hurts awfully bad some days. Yesterday when I woke up my tummy hurt…”

“Me too, Grandma! Mommy wanted me to eat breakfast with her and Al and Ellie but my tummy hurt too bad to eat so she just gave me extra toast in my lunch. I ate it at recess when I felt better.”

“How smart of you to listen to your body that way, darlin’. Your body knows what’s right. I wish I’d have listened to my body yesterday and NOT eaten breakfast until my tummy felt better. I’m glad you listened, Max! I’ll try to remember that one. I think we’re going to find a “new normal” together. Everything is going to feel topsy turvy for a while… but over time I know we’ll get used to it.”

“I love you grandma.”

“And I love you, Max.”

A Capital Idea

Our Capitalism Day Celebration was delayed by two months. December 25, 2015 found each of the six of us too busy to gather, so February 26th we did!

Younger daughter (AKA Auntie Sid) and her fiancé (AKA Uncle Mister Grady Pants) came up the coast from the wild environs of San Luis Obispo, while The Grandest Grandie in all the land and her Mama Mo came from twelve minutes away to our newish to us house on the hill for a weekend of play.

We took a field trip to Berkeley for lunch, and to a shop called Daiso, where items from Japan can be had for very few coins. Stationery, household items, sugary sweets whose ingredients are all written out in konji, which I cannot read, so the effects of the sugar don’t count and won’t hurt me, (right?). Art & craft supplies, and toys galore were bought and enjoyed by all of us. We brought back bubbles that, when you blow them on the wind, scatter, but supposedly can be caught and stacked if blown in calm air, and we blew it, then attempted to catch bubbles that mostly flew skyward so fast that we got stiff necks watching 'em!

Films were watched, games were played; plans were hatched, we’re so glad they stayed.


Now Oscar night is upon us. I’m feeling an Oscarly grouch and similarly blah about all the hoopla as I felt about Super Bowl.

Having watched a fair number of the contenders this season, I’m underwhelmed by the offerings. L.A. Weekly had a play on words headline: “Whites, Camera, Action.” The accompanying cover page cartoon showed half a dozen aging caucasian males with the same face, but with different facial hair and degree of recession of their hairlines, and different clothing - each caricature enacting a specific role related to making a movie: director, cinematographer, gaffer, make-up artist, editor, etc.

Where is the color? I don’t mean Technicolor. Where are the non-white actors, performers, writers, directors, editors, and set designers? How do we crack open the old-guard barriers to ensure advancement of all talented folks?

Well, it looks as if Chris Rock made an attempt - inane and unfunny as most of his efforts may have been.

For me, the biggest impact of the night was Lady Gaga’s song Til It Happens to You, a song about being sexually assaulted, and she had dozens of survivors stand with her. It helped that Spotlight won Best Picture. It helped that Vice President Joe Biden made an appearance and an appeal - ON the Oscars stage - that this country have a real conversation about stopping sexual violence against women.

Does it really all stem from the sexual repression brought to these shores by the Puritans who founded this land in the name of non-indigenous Europeans? Every repression has a reaction. It seems that we’ve been reacting and acting out for nearly four hundred years. (In 2020, we will celebrate the four hundredth anniversary of the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock. May our vision be less myopic by then… sorta match the year… 20/20.)

Degradation of the feminine aspect has such a long history that her story is not even part of the contract or the conversation. Mama Earth’s degradation by those whose hubris is lots bigger than their prickitude is the final travesty. It may by the lynch pin that lynches us all. Bless his ego for using his Oscar win for Revenant as a bully pulpit to defend the environment. Leo DiCaprio did well. May we take to the streets and make a difference - not just nod politely while photos are snapped and and we appear to be on the right (uh, read that as correct) side of the current debate.

I think it a capital idea to take to heart our individual responsibility to promote our common welfare.

What's Afoot?

Bronze kitties inspect new transplant from Buddy Marc's household...






Moon Mania

Full she is beyond compare

Pale luminescence peeping

From behind three palms

Whose bearded trunks bend - - -

Bowing in the wind to her

Silvery fronds sparkle in

Manic magic light this night











Muir Woods Hike-About


Entitled narcissism

I’ll take a dump here

Someone else will flush



What wrapper? Huh?

Oh, that there on the path? I’m done with it

No, the rubbish can’s too far to bother



What? you can’t enjoy the redwoods

With aluminum flashes gleaming on the ground?

Too bad for you. I don’t see it, (bitch).



Why is it always city dweller’s voices

That keen and pitch way above those

Of squirrel chitter and birdie chatter and

Fainter insect buzz?



Why would I find the story of your double hernia as

Interesting as earth scents or wind through thousand year

Old Redwood’s crowns?



They’ve witnessed more than we’ll ever know.



I come away wondering,

Wandering on de-cluttered paths

With senses renewed and a handful of trash

Trauma and Yoga: Creating a Portal to Spirituality

When Bessel van der Kolk, Granddaddy of Trauma Research, spells out which modalities reliably remove the imprint of traumatic impacts from the physiology and psychology, people listen.

At the first Trauma Conference in Berkeley, California in 2007, in his keynote address, Dr. van der Kolk pronounced Yoga, Meditation, and Somatic Experiencing as the most effective tools.

This past weekend, I was lucky to be in the audience while Peter Levine, originator of Somatic Experiencing put forth his ideas about trauma as a portal to spirituality, when we can ground the high charge of trauma in the body.

As it turns out, extremes at either end of our nervous system's responses to perceived life-threatening stressors, can take us out of our bodies and into ecstasy. Here's how it works...

Threat is instantaneously assessed by our good ol' reliable brainstem as something we can fight or flee from, OR as "uh-oh, the best bet here is to freeze." These "decisions" are made far below the radar of the neocortex: the "thinking" brain. Actually, in these cases, blood flow is shunted away from the neocortex in order to secure the best possible outcome for survival of the organism. Fight, flight, and freeze are three graces we're born with. They are automatic. Whether we become extremely aroused to run away from danger, or to mount a counter attack OR we freeze - playing opossum, depends upon the reptilian brain's assessment of the situation, and our prior trauma history.

Extreme adrenalized states can lead us to ecstasy. A cinematic example is in the movie Fearless wherein Jeff Bridges survives a plane crash in the Andes and develops almost super-human powers - helping many others to survive. Later, he tests this phenomenal "high" by driving at break-neck speed, and eating strawberries which historically have caused in him a hyper-allergic response - to the point of anaphylaxis. His is a spiritual awakening to the possibilities of human potential.

Our dorsal vagal response, at the other end of the spectrum, causes all systems to shut-down; to conserve energy. It potentially saves a baby from drowning if s/he falls into the water. Digestion, respiration, and motor movement are slowed waaaaaaaay down in order to conserve as much energy as possible. This freeze response buys the organism time for rescue, or for predators to move away. (Most predators are hard-wired not to eat dead flesh. They need the fight response from their prey to stimulate their kill response. This also may save them from eating decaying flesh which may sicken them.)

Other times we go dorsal are post coitus, because it optimizes fertilization, and during meditation, because, when we're not fidgeting, there's a better chance of us catching a glimpse of our Big "S" Self and feeling that ecstatic state of being one with Everything!

Ecstatic states which do not get grounded in the body can deposit us on a slippery slope of wanting to re-create the high we may have experienced under extreme stress. Some of our super athletes may be addicted to that adrenaline rush. Extreme down-hill skiers, sprinters, and ball-players may be trying to replicate an ecstatic experience felt, let's guess, during a near death experience at birth, or with early childhood stressors such as medical trauma or abuse.

Leaving the body can mark us with a profound imprint and hunger (compulsion) to replicate that Ecstatic sense of not being bound to the physical confines of bones and flesh. So, how do we ground these experiences in our flesh? Dr. Levine's approach is: "A little bit at a time."

Yoga is an ideal practice to explore sensations a little bit at a time.

Staying curious, and expanding our awareness of the sensations that accompany an ecstatic state can help. Asking ourselves questions can also help unify our brain. "What else is there to explore in the realm of sensations? Is it menthol cool? Boiling hot? Are there tight, expanded, or floating sensations?"

Curiosity and trauma cannot coexist in the same moment. Survival and not developing PTSD may depend mightily upon our staying curious, and engaging our higher (executive function) brain.

The invitation is to stay conscious while doing a practice of some kind, whether it's a yoga or meditation practice, and to keep asking ourselves, "What am I aware of now?" and, "Who is the 'I' who is asking what I'm aware of?"