5/29/11:
Speaking of Music ... Two of the Best Doing One of the Best Covers Ever 5/27/11:
Into the Music I
want to rock your gypsy soul. My neighbor,
Larry Wilder, leads an Americana band, and last week he asked my boys
and a couple of neighborhood kids to join him in a recording studio. He
needed kids' voices for the chorus of a song he'd written about trains.
At nearly 13, Max felt he was too old for it, so Sam and two younger kids
took part. It sounded a bit flat until I asked them to smile while singing
it, and that made the difference. Their voices will be duplicated until
they sound like six or 12 children. They loved the experience and I know
they will remember it forever. My nephew
Karl plays guitar in a heavy metal band. I saw his band in concert once.
It made my ears bleed. I am frequently shocked by their lyrics and I believe
that this music would actually kill plants if played in the same room.
However, I respect that this is what he wants to express at this stage
of his life. Maybe all of those angry lyrics are a way of cleansing and
releasing. Here is a photo of his post-performance
hand he posted on Facebook today. It's not only my ears that bleed,
apparently. At a women's
retreat I attended in October, we matched our voices and vocal vibrations
to singing bowls. It was an amazingly connecting experience. At church
we occasionally have chant-along evenings where we join in the sacred
tradition of chanting in unison. There is something about the vibration
of our vocal chords and our hearts that is powerful and moving. Krishna
Das, who I know embarrassingly little about, is coming to Portland
next week for a chant-along at the Crystal Ballroom. A crowd is expected,
and this demonstrates to me that we long to connect in this way. Dr. Wayne
Dyer, a long practitioner of japa meditation (which uses a chanted mantra
such as om), says that the vibration of our voice connects with
the energy of the Universe in the same way a tuning fork can vibrate a
guitar string. Om is actually the sound
of creation. By joining its chorus, we are connected to Divine Source.
By chanting in unison, we connect with humanity as well. Meet you
in the mystic. 5/19/11:
Sun Worship I can't remember
a Spring where Portlanders complained more about the lack of sun, myself
included. I usually love the rain but this has been ridiculous. Happily,
Mr. Sol has shown his gorgeous face these last two days. As tradition
dictates, I spent the first day of sunshine getting tan lines I will have
to overcome the rest of the season. This year my shoulders and back got
the worst of it: I wore a tank top while weeding the garden, which turned
out to be a bit more of a marathon than I'd planned. Three and a half
hours later, ouch. To top things off, in the middle of yard work my sis
phoned and invited me to a manicure/pedicure session, which I happily
agreed to. But ... have you ever had a sunburned leg exfoliated? Ouch
squared. Today, in
between writing projects, I carefully smoothed SPF15 over the red spots
and began the season-long process of blending in the tan lines with a
blissful full hour of sun worship in my back yard. I hear it's supposed
to rain again Sunday, and I don't want to miss a minute of Mr. Sol's stay. 5/14/11:
Love, Actually I've had
more than one occasion recently to examine the properties of love. Where
does love come from? How does it last? How can a baby squirrel elicit
feelings of love, and heartache when it passes, and an unwanted suitor
nothing but ennui mixed with pity and guilt? My friend
Valinda is deeply, madly in love with Phillip. The fact that they've been
married 12 years has done nothing to temper her ardor; quite the opposite:
she expounds on her love for him frequently and her superlatives keep
getting ... well, more super. Here's her recent Facebook posting: I love
being in love. I love every thought that I have about our relationship.
I love being apart and coming together. I love how the two of us together
are more than just one and one. We're like thousands. I love how the
more time we spend together, the more fun we have and the more inside
jokes we have and the fuller our relationship is. I love knowing that
it's just going to get bigger. Not bad for
12 years. When a
fairly spiritual male friend of mine who had finally found and was deepening
into a committed relationship with his soul mate confided in me he was
thinking of being single again, and in the next breath... expressed
his latest idea for raising consciousness worldwide, I wrote this poem.
If you
want to change the world… love a woman-really love her. If you
haven’t heard your own name yet, you haven’t listened long
enough. If your eyes aren’t filled with tears, if you aren’t
bowing at her feet, you haven’t ever grieved having almost lost
her. We have
given ourselves so many choices Know that
your decision has nothing to do with her If you
want to change the world… love a woman. *
* * Your love
should never be offered Cutting pieces
of your soul off with a knife? Looking for the one who brings the axe
to your head? These sound like human sacrifices, and that's exactly what
they are, exactly what love is: a trading of what's human and prideful
and ego-driven and self-centered and self-protecting for what's Divine.
A laying down of arms. An opening of a chest to expose a naked, beating
heart. And the more
we give of ourselves without holding back, the more we gain. No matter
how it turns out. 5/9/11:
When Boomerangs Don't Come Back I feel like,
at my age, I should have more answers, but I still haven't figured out
why things come into our lives, make us love them, and leave. I drove home
from church Sunday afternoon, Mother's Day, and went to let Boomerang,
our pet squirrel out for his romp in the grass. But when I opened the
cage door he didn't move. He was sandwiched between sheets of newspaper
I'd laid to line his cage floor. I moved the paper off, and saw him lying
there on his side, eyes open, breathing lightly, but very still. I called
to him, and held his treat up to his nose. He didn't move. I brought his
cage into the sun and left the door open and sat vigil over him, and in
a while I saw that he had passed. I had read that this happens with squirrels
sometimes, no warning, but it was still a shock. He'd become a part of
our family for the last couple of weeks. Now I had the hard duty of telling
the boys, who were with their dad. I decided to call before he dropped
them off, to give them the chance to decide whether they wanted to see
him or not. Max took it hard but bravely. Sam was so grief-stricken he
hung up on me, then called back later to apologize. They both wanted to
see him. I didn't
realize how much a part of our lives he'd become until I was slicing an
apple for Sam's lunch this morning and I started to set aside a small
wedge for Boomer. Damn. Sam wanted
to know what he could do to save more squirrels. I suggested he write
to the Audubon Society. He decided to go to the top: "Dear
President of the United States ..." 5/8/11:
Happy Mother's Day Mom! At her Celebration
of Life service in Eugene ten years ago so many people came up to tell
me what a sweet woman she was. I know that. One elderly lady said, "No
one will ever love you like your Mom does." I know that too. She
died too soon, at age 59. I take care of myself because I want to be here
for my boys for a good long time. I know that no one will ever love them
the way I do. In Mom's
honor: if you are over age 50 and haven't had a colonoscopy screening
yet, please do so for the people who love you! 5/6/11:
The Problem with Teenagers I'm at T-minus
52 days until I'm living in the Land of Teenagers. My oldest, Max, turns
13 on June 27. He's been practicing the Art of Being a Teenager with occasional
bouts of sullneness, talking back, leaving his clothes where they fall,
forgetting to do his chores, and taking his homework somewhat less seriously
than it merits. For the last
several months I've been preparing for The Shift by volunteering to facilitate
our church's high school age youth group, the Y.O.U. (Youth of Unity).
We meet on Sundays for an hour, and sometimes when the kids aren't feeling
it those are the longest hours of my life. At other times I come away
having learned something I'd rather not have learned. So it's hard to
know what to wish for. This last weekend I spent an entire weekend with
not only our youth group, but with Y.O.U. chapters from all over the region
at a three-day, two-night camp in Randle, Wash. The theme: Live Agape.
We stayed in dormitory-style cabins, ate terrible food, and participated
in sing-alongs, talent shows, ice breakers, breakout groups, a dance,
and on Sunday, a service. We also held elections for the two regional
leaders for the coming year (only the kids could vote). It was a full
slate. This time
what I learned is that Planet Earth is in good hands. I will have no qualms
handing the reins over to these young people when the time comes. They
demonstrated leadership, poise, compassion, courtesy, bravery, and love.
At one point during the talent show a developmentally disabled young woman
was slated to sing, Just Breathe. She was tone-deaf and it would
have been excruciating to watch except that as she rose to sing, her entire
chapter came up and stood behind her. They clapped in rhythm to the song's
beat. Soon the audience joined them. When the song was over, everyone
applauded and one of her chapter members gave her a hug. The amazing thing
is, this was all done in stride. "Next." Yesterday
I reminded Max, my tweenager, that as soon as his brother got home from
his math tutoring appointment, I wanted them both to take out the garbage
and recycling. I was pretty sure he'd forget, and I'd have to remind him
again when his brother arrived. But a few minutes later he came and told
me that he'd done it on his own. "I just wanted to get it done." The real
problem with teenagers? Sometimes they make us adults look bad. Video:
One of the Y.O.U.'ers signs to The Beatles' Let it Breathe at the
Spirit Share Talent Show, Cuspis Center, Randle, Wash., April 29-May1,
2011. 4/28/11:
The Case of the Disappearing Rugs I bought
two rugs recently: one was a 2 x 3 for the foot of my children's bunk
bed. It My children's
room is accessed through a short hallway that also opens to my office,
the kitchen and the bathroom on one end, the living room on the other.
A few days ago I was surprised to find their rug with its heavy rubber
backing, all the way through the kitchen on the landing to the back door.
My sons hadn't moved it, so I could only assume the dog had for some unknown
reason, although she'd never been known to do anything like this before. I replaced
it, and thought nothing more about it until today, when the smaller rug
went missing. I don't mean I found it on the landing: I mean it is missing.
As in disappeared. As in nowhere in the house: not upstairs, not downstairs,
not in the basement, not in a boat, not with a goat, just gone. I asked both
of my sons about it. They were as surprised as I was. I asked the dog.
She wasn't talking. Ditto with the cat, but she's like that. 4/28/11
Update: Yikes, I Think I Figured it Out As Inspector
Clouseau would say, "The case is solve-ed." Dang. I believe
I know what happened. Someone tried to steal both rugs at the same time,
dropped the larger rug when he/she was caught in the act, and made off
with the smaller one. We only noticed the smaller one's disappearance
today, but it happened at the same time. It's the only thing that makes
sense. There is
a work crew next door at my neighbor's house, all day, frequently without
supervision. 'Nuff said. I left a
note for my neighbor (he wasn't home) and spoke to some other neighbors
asking them to keep watch. We do keep our doors locked, but the dog is
let in and out of the back door, which may have been unlocked at some
point. Again, as Clouseau would say, "Not
anymore." 4/22/11:
In Defense of Editing I
was once in a business meeting where someone actually suggested this for
an email campaign: "Let's include some typos so people will think
it's a real email." Typographical
ambivalence makes me wax nostalgic for Sir Gittins, my old English professor,
who once took an entire class period to hammer home the difference a comma
made in a will: "My estate should be split between Tom, Dick and
Harry" vs. "...Tom, Dick, and Harry." Prof.
Gittins, all four foot, 11 inches of him, turned purple when a handful
of misguided students suggested that both clauses meant exactly the same
thing. I miss that
little man. A friend
who's traveling the world sent me a photo today of the above leaflet promoting
a dance in Ubud, Bali. Professor
Gittins, I hope you're not reading this. 4/20/11:
Be Careful What You Ask For I'm taking
a course called 4 T's: Tithing of Time, Talents and Treasures. I'm It turns
out the squirrel has been running back and forth among the workers all
day. They gave it some water and it wouldn't leave. They were about to
leave for the day, however, and asked if I'd take it in. ??? I said I
would at least call the animal shelter. I picked up the squirrel, who
nestled into my chest and fell asleep. When I got inside I put the squirrel
in my dog's I took the
squirrel back inside. When Sam came with his dad to pick up their clothes
for the evening (they stay with their Dad Wednesday nights) he was enthralled.
Uh oh. Later Max insisted on a visit. We're calling
him Boomerang because he kept coming back. This isn't
what I meant by abundance, but I guess I'll take it. 4/15/11:
Spring, Sam, and Cherry Blossoms At school
each morning I have to wait 10 minutes after dropping Max, a middle schooler,
off before Sam, a fifth-grader, can go in, so we usually pull the car
around to the front of the school, and if the weather's not too bad, Sam
will get out and bounce his basketball before his bell rings. Yesterday
it was sprinkling lightly and slightly breezy, and he was out bouncing
his ball. He said "hi" to several kids who were walking past
(this is something we've been working on), and they said hi back. Kali,
one of his classmates, was one of them and after she said, 'Hi, Sam' she
asked, "Do you remember my name?" He looked confused, so she
supplied it, "Kali," "Oh," he said. "Hi, Kali,"
and then she went on. When he came
to the car to get his backpack, he had this dreamy, far-away look in his
eyes. He said,
"Wow-" and I asked, "What is it, Sam?" "That
girl -" And
I said, "Oh, yes, Monet was very nice, wasn't she?" He said,
"I think … I think she's my friend." I
told him that of course she was. 4/8/11:
I Love Burlesque The people
that love the movie Burlesque REALLY love it. There are no gray
areas. The critics hated it, of course. My friend Holly saw it and raved
about it. Holly is pretty straight-laced, so her endorsement intrigued
me. I've never been a Christina Aguilera fan. It's not that I don't like
her: I just didn't know enough about her to have an opinion. But I've
always been a Cher fan, so when Burlesque became available through
Red Box, I rented it, for $1 a day. I got my money's worth. I watched
it four times and replayed most of the musical numbers and dance routines
another half-dozen times. Christina Aguilera has chops! Cher sang in only
two numbers, and they didn't showcase her talent, IMHO. But Christina
did, such as in Tough Lover (below), where her character is "discovered"
when a jealous colleague shuts her music off (previously all the dancers
lipsynched), I
Am a Good Girl, and in A
Guy What Takes His Time, and the ballad Bound
to You. WOW. She's an incredible performer. The plot? Who cares?
With music, provocative costumes and even more provocative dancing, it's
a treat for the ears and eyes. If you need something for the brain, read
a book. Meanwhile, Holly and I are on the lookout for burlesque dance
lessons... 4/4/11:
Writer, Unplugged It used to
be that I couldn't write without a pen and paper. In fact, even after
my wordprocessing software and I had become bosom buddies, I still had
to start my muse's juices flowing with a Uni-ball and a yellow notepad,
not switching to my laptop until I was ready for Draft 2. But as more
and more of my paid writing work was done online (I've had one client
for more than a decade who I've never actually met), the keyboard became
an extension of my fingertips, a writer's blankie. I've almost
forgotten how to write with pen and paper. Except for my journaling, Revisions
are a snap at the keyboard. I can backspace in staccato, revise on the
fly, edit to my inner critic's content. But therein lies the problem.
What if the first way I wrote something was actually the best?
Often, during my pen and paper days, I'd revisit something I'd scratched
through and find a gem or two. Backspaced into oblivion, my computer-drafted
prose is lost forever, adrift in cyberspace with penis enlargement offers
and fradulent business opportunities from Nigeria. Speaking
of which, the computer sucks up a lot of time. I used to feel smug about
never watching TV, but then I realized how many hours a day I spend in
front of my laptop. Sure, a lot of it is legitimate writer's work, but
some of it is just plain computer candy: Facebook postings, humorous emails,
YouTube videos. I traded one idiot box for another. So my new
plan is to limit the time I spend in front of the Other Box and try a
little longhand again. Slow down, unplug, break out the ol' Uni-ball.
Maybe Uni and I will curl up with a yellow notepad and catch an episode
of M*A*S*H. That show's
still on, isn't it? 4/2/11:
Young Ghostbusters, the Prequel The first
episode of Young Ghostbusters has just been filmed. Episodes 3 and 4 were
shot earlier, out of sequence, ala George Lucas's Star Wars. There's a
10-episode series planned; the other 7 episodes exist primarily in the
mind of Sam. 3/30/11:
The WERD Love Challenge The most
recent one was: "In a stream of consciousness poem or prose in
250 words or less, write what love means to you. It can be romantic love,
love for family, divine love, etc." This one
had me stumped. How do you tackle something as big as love in stream of
consciousness writing? I stewed for the whole two weeks, and was about
to swallow my pride and show up empty handed (our meeting is tonight)
when it came out surprisingly as a poem (I'm a confirmed prose gal), in
a rush, almost exactly as you see it here. I think it was waiting, wanting
to get out. Kaleidoscope -
Yvonne Aileen 3/19/11:
Goodnight, Already! On days like
these, when it's finally time for bed, I can't wait to get them down,
and I have to remind them for the trillionth time to take their vitamins
and brush their teeth, and ask if the cat's box has been taken care of,
and if the dog's been out and --don't bring her in without wiping her
feet--how many times do I have to tell you?--then when they're finally
in bed I have to tell them again and again and again and again and again
and again to be quiet because they keep arguing over nightlights and ghosts
and whether they're real, and--I am not a chicken, am I mom?--and Max
said I was a chicken and --Mom, you know I can't sleep with the light
on!--He's such a baby--why do you always take his side?--just go to bed--just
go to sleep already--I said go to sleep and I don't want to tell you again
-- And later
I notice that all is quiet. They are asleep. And I sigh in relief. And later,
not much later, not much at all, I want to go in there and shake them
awake and hold them tight and tell them that I love them. Again and again. 3/18/11:
The Long-Awaited (well, we waited a month) Sequel
to Young Ghostbusters: Partner Possessor 3/17/11:
Why This Writer Never Gets Bored I am never
bored. If I can find time to do half the things I set out for myself to It's not
that I'm an overachiever (well, maybe I am!); it's just that I find life,
work, people and possibilities endlessly interesting. I'm lucky because
in addition to having people I love in my life (friends, family, my darling
sons, and my spiritual community), I also love my work. Writing is so
varied. I recently took on a writing assignment for a company that makes
thereapeutic gemstones (www.gemisphere.com).
How cool is that? Even some of the more tedious subjects (network synchronization,
anybody?) I usually glean something of interest from, even if it's just
finding a new turn of phrase, or an exciting way of stating something
that might otherwise be a yawner. I find the English language fluid, forgiving
and fascinating. I belong
to a writer's group, WERD, that meets twice monthly (sorry I missed the
meeting last night, guys: I was on a deadline!). Through it, I get my
writer's juices flowing freely with weekly challenges. This last challenge
was to take a Facebook posting and write an essay around it. A friend
of mine posted on her profile, "Today was HarryJack's first foo
foo." HarryJack is her Yorkie, and a "foo foo," I learned
is a haircut, but you'll see what I did with that challenge here.
What fun! I'm also
a regular contributing writer to Conscious
Life News. I don't get paid for that gig (yet) but I get to write
about subjects that fascinate me (spirituality, law of attraction, Universal
energy, quantum physics), and that's almost as good. In the current
economy, we don't all have the luxury choosing the perfect job, so I feel
very fortunate to be working at one I love. 3/8/11:
A Protein Shake by Any Other Name I was out
of my go-to shake, Jay Robb's, so I substituted with a Slim Fast knockoff
called SlimRite. Sounds like a good idea, right? Wrong. Jay Robb's has
110 calories and 25 grams of protein. Slim Rite has 170 calories and 10
grams of protein. But it doesn't
stop there. SlimRite has 17 grams of sugar. Jay Robbs? Zero grams. And
it doesn't have aspartame, either, instead opting for stevia. SlimRite
has 24 grams of carbohydrates. Jay Robbs: 1 gram. The only
areas where SlimRite excelled were the vitamin and mineral content. Oh,
and the taste. SlimRite tastes every bit of its nearly 200 calories. Jay
Robbs tastes like a protein shake. Which it, apparently, is. SlimRite,
on the other hand, is a chocolate shake with vitamins in it. A good idea
if your alternative is: a chocolate shake without vitamins in it. A bad
idea if you're trying to lose weight while increasing your protein. I've ordered
a month's supply of Jay Robb's, and in the meantime I'll be scouring the
health food stores for a better second choice. Maybe I'll look for one
called ProteinRite. 3/3/11:
Reset Buttons I once screened
a prospective boyfriend by asking him two deal-killer questions. He answered
them exactly wrong and I jumped into that relationship anyway. 3/1/11:
What? March? Already? While I did
slip up and date two very lovely men, one of them went away on an extended
business trip after our one and only coffee date (I'm pretty sure that
wasn't my fault), and the other ... well, let's just say he gave me no
reason to continue breaking my Intention. The good
news is, I've got 10 months left to get it right. And, according to the
spiritualist I saw last week, marking time by the calendar year is "so
Gregorian." The real 2011 year begins—according to Mother Nature—with
the Spring equinox on March 20. During this time day and night are approximately
12 hours long and the Sun is at the midpoint of the sky. Our north pole
tilts toward the Sun. So over the
next couple of weeks I'll be doing a little tilting toward the sun (enough
with the rain already!), rewriting my natural New Year's Intentions,
and — who knows?—they might just include dating after all.
Just like way back in the days of old.
Then magnificently we will float into the mystic
-
Van Morrison, Into
the Mystic
The
Universe seems to be giving me themes lately. For a long time I kept getting
reminders of Maui (like I needed them). Then I was shown the myriad faces
of Love in all its strengths and flavors. Lately the Universe hasn't been
talking to me so much as singing to me. I keep seeing different
colors of music: sacred, sexy, joyous, exhilarating.
And
my friend Stasia, who recently fell in love with Jaym, posted this on
her Facebook, written by Alan Shoemaker. I will be among the crowd watching
Stasia and Jaym marry in the Rose Garden later this month. Their love
for one another beams out unabashedly, holding nothing back.
If You Want to Change the World… Love a Woman
by Alan Shoemaker
Find
the one who calls to your soul, who doesn’t make sense.
Throw away your check list and put your ear to her heart and listen.
Hear the names, the prayers, the songs of every living thing-
every winged one, every furry and scaled one, every underground and
underwater one, every green and flowering one, every not yet born and
dying one…
Hear
their melancholy praises back to the One who gave them life.
If you want to change the world… love a woman
-one woman beyond yourself, beyond desire and reason,
beyond your male preferences for youth, beauty and variety
and all your superficial concepts of freedom.
we have forgotten that true liberation
comes from standing in the middle of the soul’s fire
and burning through our resistance to Love.
There is only one Goddess.
Look into Her eyes and see-really see if she is the one
to bring the axe to your head.
If not, walk away. Right now. Don’t waste time “trying.”
because ultimately it’s not with who, but when we
choose to surrender. 
Love
her for life-
beyond your fear of death,
beyond your fear of being manipulated by the Mother inside your head.
Don’t tell her you’re willing to die for her.
Say you’re willing to LIVE with her,
plant trees with her and watch them grow.
Be her hero by telling her how beautiful she is in her vulnerable majesty,
by helping her to remember every day that she IS Goddess through your
adoration and devotion.
If you want to change the world… love a woman
in all her faces, through all her seasons
and she will heal you of your schizophrenia-
your double-mindedness and half-heartedness
which keeps your Spirit and body separate-
which keeps you alone and always looking outside your Self
for something to make your life worth living.
There
will always be another woman.
Soon the new shiny one will become the old dull one
and you’ll grow restless again, trading in women like cars,
trading in the Goddess for the latest object of your desire.
Man doesn’t need any more choices.
What man needs is Woman, the Way of the Feminine,
of Patience and Compassion, non-seeking, non-doing,
of breathing in one place
and sinking deep intertwining roots strong enough
to hold the Earth together
while she shakes off the cement and steel from her skin.
If you want to change the world… love a woman,
just one woman.
Love and protect her as if she is the last holy vessel.
Love her through her fear of abandonment
which she has been holding for all of humanity.
No, the wound is not hers to heal alone.
No, she is not weak in her codependence.
If you want to change the world… love a woman
all the way through until she believes you,
until her instincts, her visions, her voice, her art, her passion, her
wildness have returned to her-
until she is a force of love more powerful
than all the political media demons who seek to devalue and destroy
her.
If you want to change the world,
lay down your causes, your guns and protest signs.
Lay down your inner war, your righteous anger and love a woman…
beyond all of your striving for greatness,
beyond your tenacious quest for enlightenment.
The holy grail stands before you if you would only take her in your
arms
and let go of searching for something beyond this intimacy.
What if peace is a dream which can only be re-membered
through the heart of Woman?
What if a man’s love for Woman,
the Way of the Feminine is the key to opening Her heart?
If you want to change the world…love a woman
to the depths of your shadow, to the highest reaches of your Being,
back to the Garden where you first met her,
to the gateway of the rainbow realm
where you walk through together as Light as One,
to the point of no return, to the ends and the beginning of a new Earth.And
this from Hafiz:
to the mouth of a stranger,
only to someone who has the valor and daring
to cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
then weave them into a blanket to protect you.
When the boys got home they said their goodbyes, then took turns with
the shovel, carving out a small oblong grave in the side yard by the back
fence. We covered him with a white towel, laid the excavated dirt on top
of him, and nearby pounded in a white cross their dad provided for the
occasion. We each said a few words, cried a bit, and Boomer was gone.
I
wear her Mother's ring when I need to feel her strength and closeness,
which is almost every day now. In her short time here on Earth she gave
birth to five children, married four men and left behind a legacy of grandchildren,
great grandchildren, nieces and nephews that spans much of the western
half of the U.S. I owe my hostessing skills to her, my generosity, and
my open heart.
was low-pile, with a red and white geometric pattern, and replaced a tan
and black loopy number that the dog and cat had destroyed. At the same
time I bought it, I picked up a matching smaller version for the kitchen.
Luckily,
dissenting voices prevailed; however, the number of people who care about
getting it right in writing seems to be on par with the head counts for
green-eyed
frogs and Cuban crocodiles.
working
on my prosperity consciousness. As extra credit, I decided to revisit
an audio series I purchased a year ago by Mary Hall, Creating an Abundant
Life. I took the dog, Sadie, for a walk, and played session 1 on my iPod
as we walked. Hall talked about opening up to abundance in every area
of your life. As I neared home, I made sure to walk on the other side
of the sidewalk. My neighbor, Jim, is having some work done at his house
and there's a crew of Hispanic workers there. I didn't feel like going
through the gauntlet. There's something about blondes that Hispanic workers
find fascinating. I, myself, find blondes no more or less fascinating
than brunettes. But to each his own. 
I
noticed, however, as I neared my house and began to cross the road to
my driveway, that my neighbor across the street had crossed over to talk
to the workers. He beckoned to me, so I approached. As I got near I saw
they were all fawning over a baby squirrel on the ground. He seemed very
tame, and kept running up to the workers, who picked him up and petted
him before placing him back on the ground. I put the dog in the back yard
and came back to find out more. 
kennel
with some water and walnuts. He woke and ate, and I phoned the animal
shelter. They said, "Call the Audubon Society." I did. They
said that if he's a baby now he's not a native squirrel and by law they
cannot take him. "Return him to the wild," the dispatcher warned
me. "Baby squirrels are fine but as adults they bite." I told
her if I returned him to the wild he would die. "Maybe not,"
she said. But she knew she was talking procedure and I knew she was talking
procedure, and we both knew I wasn't returning him.
But
I tried. I took him to the place where the workers found him and let him
down. He crawled on top of my tennis shoe. I put him on a fence. He jumped
down and crawled on top of my tennis shoe. I looked for his family. Not
a single squirrel around. Squirrels are like Starbucks in my neighborhood:
they're everywhere. But not today.
Then
another girl I didn't recognize came up and started talking to Sam. He
was bouncing the ball as she was talking, but he answered her, and she
showed him another way to bounce the ball, then she and he played a game
of trying to catch the cherry blossoms coming out of the trees that flanked
the front of the school. She introduced herself as "Monet,"
and asked which class he was in, and told him which one she was in. Then
she said, "We're going to get wet, you know, if we stand here. Let's
go under the tree." So they went and stood under a tree and talked
for a while. Then the bell rang and it was time for him to go in, so I
called to him to grab his backpack. He said, "Bye Monet!" and
I realized that he'd had no trouble remembering her name.
which
I do faithfully every night (when I'm not too sleepy and can find my notebook
under the jumble on my bed), I do all my composing at the keyboard. Pen
and paper now seem laboriously slow. The very word "longhand"
says it all. On a keyboard I type 92 words a minute. If I'm really in
the groove, and have had my daily dose of espresso, I can maybe do 40
the old-fashioned way.
I
belong to a writer's group called WERD (Write, Eat, Read, and the D is
currently up for debate). In addition to our own writing projects, each
meeting we leave with a writing challenge to do for next time. It's an
optional assignment, but it's a point of pride to complete it because
it usually flexes our writing muscles big time.
Love is a kaleidoscope,
Broken bits of fleeting, changing,
Inaccessible beauty
Love is a slamming door,
Cold, naked feet on the kitchen floor
At three o'clock in the morning
Love is gut-wrenching, fist-clenching, wall-slamming pain
Love is how could you and why would you
and what was I thinking
Again
Love is an empty pillow full of broken promises
Lights left on, plans unmade
Sleepy fingers that grasp at nothing
And bare, white arms aching for a blade
Love is jagged angles and splintered dreams
in blinding colors that spin and scream
And when the mad dance stops and the pieces fall
Love shudders and stills, and is nothing at all
Sometimes
my two sons drive me crazy nearly all day long. Arguing with each other,
walking past the clock in the kitchen and coming into my office and interrupting
me when I'm working to ask me what time it is. Interrupting me five minutes
later to have me play referee over whose turn it is to use the upstairs
computer. Leaving their clothes all over the floor, their dresser drawers
gaping open with more clothes spilling out of them. Asking what's for
dinner right after lunch and turning their noses up at whatever the answer
is.
do during the day I'm doing great.
I
started a protein diet recently. I eat six small meals a day, four of
them being protein shakes.
On the same day my computer stopped talking to my modem, my garbage disposal
backed up. The solution for both? Reset buttons.
As I was crawling under my desk and, later, my sink, it occurred to me
that I could use a few more reset buttons in my life.
I once gave $17,500 to a business mentor I didn't like (and later found
out I shouldn't like).
Reset: I can afford to go to Maui eight more times!
Reset: I get four years of my life back with a supportive, open-minded,
caring man I actually have something in common with. Or four years alone.
Either would have been an improvement.
Sucky major life decisions usually do have something to do with either
love, business or money, and the above are textbook examples. But the
trouble with reset buttons in life is that they violate the prime directive:
don't mess with something you know nothing about. Who knows what would
have happened had I not taken those ill-fated detours?
I gained a lot from that business mentor. She taught me to trust my gut
by showing me that she was exactly who my gut warned me she was. Seventeen
grand, while not chicken feed, is a small price to pay to learn something
like that. Now, if something doesn't sit right with me, I know it immediately
and can sidestep disasters like a pro running back. I wouldn't trade that
skill for anything.
And that past relationship wasn't all bad, and I have some nice memories
to look back on. And who knows who I would have dated during that time
if it wasn't him? It might have been someone who was exactly right for
me in every way, which would have been boring as heck and would not have
given me the chance to learn so much about myself, to grow, and to have
compassion for others who get stuck in no-win relationships. I have learned
to proceed with caution, heed the warning signs, ask the right questions
upfront and listen to the answers. I wouldn't want to give that up either.
Life isn't smooth sailing, and it wasn't meant to be. Without the storms
we would never learn how to navigate well, or sail with confidence under
our own flag. And
we would never get tossed about enough to experience new horizons.
Do You Know Where Your Resolutions Are?
We're now in to the third month of 2011 and I'm still writing 2010 on
my checks. That's not the worst of it: my 2011 Intentions have all fallen
by the wayside. Exercise more: [buzzer]; Drink more water [buzzer]; Don't
date at all [buzz... wait a minute, I'm doing pretty good on that one!]
