Cardinal Power

July 31, 2013

I’d forgotten, until I peeled back my eyelids and sat up in bed, we, as people, are here to face challenges. Overcoming the formative problems and shaping issues, spread our years out like undulating prairie grass, feeding our youthful souls, while gracing our sunken faces with wisdom lines. 

Thirty five years ago, graduating from Middleton High School in Wisconsin, walking across the unmemorable platform, I could have swore my life was just beginning. As I confront those flashbacks of a self, long gone from this earth, reconfigured into a benevolent and gregarious woman, up-to-something, yet not much to show for it in the outer world, I accept my way of being, versus societal recognition. As I pack for whatever weather Wisconsin can throw at me, I welcome the chance to see as many as 178 classmates attend; who they are, what they contribute, when they show up in the world as a light of energy, and why they, once again, connect with me directly. We were the mighty Cardinals.

I do so love a good party. Hate to think there will be dancing involved, when I cannot gyrate for another month or so, for it is too strenuous on my recovering ankle. Though I am boot-free, compression sock-free, progressing through my physical therapy exercises, it is not strong enough to boogie with my classmates. Drat.

Taelor comes back into the country, after being in Thailand for six weeks. Her shiny, adventure-filled, adorable face is seared in my heart. In another week, I will collect her from the airport in Minneapolis and hear, firsthand, of her wild and life-changing journey.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Landlord lamenting

July 30, 2013

Landlord has no cahoonas. He snuck through the gate, late in the evening, meandered around the overgrown yard, too obviously peeking in my room, to see me, standing at the end of my bed, chatting on the cell phone, then pulled his magical disappearing act. Gone, in a poof of hot air. Wow. Guts. My limited patience has me wondering if he is of integrity. Is he even consistent about paying the mortgage with the substantial monthly rental income. Skirts around the property, like a little girl with a secret. Hm. Needs to work on his conflict resolution skills. Doesn’t respond to texts, phone calls, voice mails or mental telepathic messages.

Picked up enough garbage, on my stroll with Ty, to fill the giant trash can in the back yard. Fortunately it has wheels, though one is flattened due to the weekly burden, so I won’t contract a hernia, while hauling it to the curb on garbage day. Down to one guy, manning the rubbish truck these days. At least they don’t have to run alongside and heave it up, by hand, wrecking their shoulders and sloshing trash all over their spiffy florescent uniforms, as in Brasil. The waste management employees are young, viral men, until they are not. Wish I could convince the upstairs neighbors to stop tossing recyclables in with the refuse. Too nasty a job for me to pick through their smelly black bags to sort out the useable plastics, metal and paper goods. Ish.

Finally, all of the inoperable vehicles (five in all) have been removed from the street, driveway and back parking area. Grandpa (?) was swearing like a deranged sailor, while bent over the hood of the various vehicles. One grandson, who will be attending a college I have never heard the likes of, in North Dakota, playing on the basketball team, was handing over unidentifiable tools and ineffectively supervising the repair job, while eating lunch out of his Styrofoam container. Denzel Washington handsome, relatively tall, polite and sloughy, he appeared responsible enough. The two of them, whom I had never set eyes on, prior to the auto repair shop opening in front of the house, were here for several days on end, adding to the noise level of the dubious trompers. I have not seen nor heard the little ones for days. I miss John John asking if Tyrus can come out and play in the back yard with her.

Bay Bday

July 29, 2013

It is my nephew Bay’s birthday today. He is an extensive traveler, stellar skate-boarder, devoted fan of his girlfriend, Lisa, and emotionally close to his mother. His nickname for her is “Smother” so, you get the picture. He is a free spirit, dances to a different drummer and happy-go-lucky. He is an artist and I expect he will figure things out one day, in terms of the talents and skills that he has, leading to a right livelihood.

Vaguely recall what it was like to be in my twenties. Felt I knew what was in store for me, what I was interested in, what path to take that will lead me to fulfilling dreams and goals, financial freedom, and love. I honestly still do not have a clue, what I have learned between then and now is questionable. May not be fully aware of what this life is all about, until I am burned up and placed in a box, eventually scattered over some remote rock, over the undulating waves of the ocean. The Buddhists believe we will not manage to complete our purpose for several life times. I cannot even decide what to have for lunch, based on the slim-pickings from the frig, let alone what I could be doing for the remainder of my days. We live in a messy, silly, much anticipated retirement, unsustainable world. How can we possibly know that we are progressing. What helps us check-in with our demonstrating our success as human beings. Where can we discover that we count and matter. When are we done. Who are we here to be.

In my writing, each and every day, I slather on the adjectives, regurgitate the words I believe I understand, and pray it makes a difference for someone, somewhere, out there. I mainly write for me, to share my expectations that hopefully do not turn into disappointment, or stimulate something that leads to a sudden death.

I sent a long, introductory letter, to one of the local Community Centers, within spitting distance to my place. Wish to start a group for young women, to find a way for them to support one another in being aware of who they are, what they have to offer to the community, as well as each other. I consider what I could have done with my life, had I dug around in my spirit, understood my natural talents and skills, to spread around to others with confidence and integrity. Hope to encourage stepping out of their world and into a resource of committed goals and aspirations to change their lives, their children’s lives and beyond. The agency representative, whose name could have been a woman or mans,  responded by sending me a volunteer application and asking me to call about the hours and my availability. I requested he/she review my initial inquiry and asked to meet in person. I have not heard back. This agency is one of several I requested a response to, and plan on bringing my work to the young women, one way or the other, by the end of the year. I remind myself, it is not about me. This effort is for the women who can make a difference in the future of this particular changing neighborhood.  

Bug the Bunny

July 28, 2013

The last mile around Lake Harriet was grueling. I remembered it as being a cinch, more often than not I chose to take another loop and enjoy the mirror of the water, a thousand well-behaved dogs and their attentive owners, stretching the other end of the leash. My ankle swelled and pinched in the crease, right leg became uncomfortable and stiff under the strain of misuse. Bound and determined not to have to succumb to the Big Black Boot wear and tear on my tender muscle, just below, and to the left, of the knee.

I annoyed the hell out of the waiter, first asking the difference between the black bean burger and the veggie burger. Can never remember which one was mushy and globby in the center. He insisted he prefers the black bean yet he was in error. The outside was crispy but inside jelled into the bun with each bite. Our coffee malt was delish, though. The take-home container was Styrofoam. I thought twice about requesting another option but could not bring myself to walk out carrying the white non-biodegradeable material. Styrofoam never goes away. He rolled his eyes in exasperation and told me I could burn it, sure, then it would permeate the air, good. The fat, most likely underpaid waiter didn’t have much to say to me after handing over a triangle of tin foil for my doggie bag. Sigh, it is hard to try to educate people about saving the planet from our ignorance and poor judgment. I am tired of that conversation.

Walking Ty around the neighborhood tonight to meet some of the other dogs and lookalike owners was pleasurable. We met Judge, the basset, Harry an American Pit Bull, Spot, a mixed breed (“tipped-over can” in Portuguese) and quite a few cats. Ty never spotted the bunny, hunched down in the newly cut grass which must have masked its scent. I swear I could detect relief on its little face. Or maybe it was a sneer of superiority. 

Gray day

July 27, 2013

A four year old, her black and white striped t-shirt dress plastered to her thin, pasty legs, stood in the soft rain, sucking on a miniature candy cane leftover from Christmas past. The slick face glanced at me, desperate to portray her unreliable future. Her little sister, a mirror image of the bigger one, babbled incoherently, while I peeked under damp towels and shower curtains, protecting one woman’s junk from saturating showers. Only a few brave souls were willing to canter across the busy road to meander around in a cave-like garage and sort thru the sale items. Scavenged quite a number of glassware to double as vases for my best friend’s new flower business.    

The unfamiliar neighborhood had quickly segued gone from impressive acre, well-manicured lawns to tired vehicles, biodegrading in the side yard. Saggy porches and lean-to mailboxes hinted at indifferent poverty.

A sizable mother, grateful for the $1.35 I handed over, puckered her meddled nose in the direction of the darkening sky and sighed with utter despondency. How on earth was she to trade her wet towels, broken baskets, frayed and soiled men’s t-shirts and utensils tossed out with begrudging apathy.

The urchins waved their sticky now white candy canes goodbye as I crossed between the cars to sit in my dry car, grateful for the well-endowed life I lead.

Hair "B" Gone

July 26, 2013

Hair mostly avoids the dust pan and rolls around the slick, well-worn hardwood floors as I sweep. I am choosing to purchase a vacuum versus adding to my daily frustration. Want a little used one (still committed not to buy anything new,) a canister, which is definitely more versatile than an upright, given my pet-hair-pick-up needs. From my house cleaning days, I have experience with every new-fangled machine. I know what I want, and am sticking to it.

A friend of mine turned me onto her family store in St Paul. All arrows pointed to A-1 and, after relating what I wanted, needed, and my miniscule budget plan, the loaner vac came out of the backroom. A week and a half after that conversation, I have the slick little unit in my house, scaring the bejesus out of my pets, and having more fun than I have had in awhile. Chasing ‘round the dust bunnies and going to town on the grungy sun porch and questionably clean grandfathered-in upholstered furniture is a giggle. The efficient serviceman cleaned it thoroughly (even removing the sharpie warning “A-1 LOANER” plastered every which way,) put in a new Heppa filter, ordered all of the accessories for my personal pleasure, and loaded it into the back of my vehicle, in the pattering rain. What a deal.

Then I went to Target for a seam ripper to start my curtain project, and made the mistake of checking the prices on new vacs…the latest version, of my very same contraption is the exact same price. Oh well, I can admit the integrity of supporting a local business, and not breaking my “nothing new” promise to myself. My lips smack in satisfaction, after a bit of whining.

Guido's Chance

July 25, 2013

Jazzy guitar music engulfed me as I stepped into the dark room, to meet my group of Brazilian wannabe’s. Hadn’t been to a Meet-Up group since before I left the country in October of last year. Came bearing gifts-several newspapers from Sao Paulo, to divide amongst the guests. I adore being mistaken for a Brasilian as I open my mouth to share my deranged saga. Must admit, it sounds pretty far-fetched, even to me. Ordered dessert and coffee and was the first to leave the vibrant restaurant. Americans speaking spattered Portuguese, eating Mexican food, pretty entertaining! The strong, silent-type, pockmarked face and wide toothless grin turns out to be of Portuguese descent. His thin, red triangle-haired wife is a Brit. Gregarious and uncharacteristically heavy Japanese guy, seemingly unaware at just how awful his Portuguese accent actually is, boldly interjects his opinion and vast outrageous stories, without the slightest hesitation. A wide-eyed dark haired beauty is fashionably late. She scans the five page menu, inspects all of the pseudo photos of the platters for twenty minutes, before deciding upon a fruity smoothie, made to order. Pale as a piece of paper, thick black glasses and stark white button-down plops in the dad’s seat at the table and consumes all of the leftovers on the plates within ape-arm’s reach. Guess he is strategic about his timing, as to not have to pay for a full meal. One more cheerful dude joined us, yet didn’t say much. I suspect he knew I would be writing about him later.

Finally out of my heavy black boot, not even wearing the tell-tale compression sock, the limp is slight, yet noticeable still. I have the Handicapped tag for my vehicle for another few months. That gives me the confidence to shop, dine, and play wherever I choose, since I am not forced to park miles away and walk. Lucky me.

Neighbors continue to torment me with there clomping up and down, well into the night. My unfortunate guest gets the brunt of the revolving front door activity as well as the blast of smoke drifting down from the livingroom window. Hard to imagine how things can turn out well, in the end. Either they get evicted or I find another place to live and have to take legal action, to get out of the lease, and my significant deposits reimbursed. Gads. I just acquired all of the furnishings I need, and hate to think about having to haul it all someplace else. I have a lengthy list of incidences to report and yet, the law tends to be on the landlord’s side. I adore the Stepford-Wife-quiet wide streets, vast parks nearby to run Ty, old-style architecture and the friendly neighbors (aside from the folks upstairs, of course.) So, if I can’t get the law on my side, there is always the chance I can get my cousin, Guido to come for a visit. Won’t they be surprised?

Crash

July 24, 2013

She was quaking sideways, off to the left of her caved-in, once pristine, stark-white vehicle. A booster seat tossed onto the floor in the back, miraculously vacant of a little form. The child had been reluctantly left behind, with her father, earlier that evening. Bits of plastic scattered the entrance ramp, I collected what might have been useable. Her accident magnet hobbled its way up to a wider spot on the road, to avoid another unforeseen collision. As the thin, twenty-something exited the borrowed car, she seemed to hear my words of comfort and promptly burst into a fountain of tears. I held her wobbly body and whispered non-absorbing phrases. “The police are on their way,” she assured me, as she punched familiar numbers to seek aid in escaping the scene.

The other driver, just as young and inexperienced, bolted from her car and paced the accusatory landscape, immediately clutching her driver’s license and insurance card. As I handed over my contact information, as an observer to the abhorring play, she asked me what I witnessed. “I saw you careen across three lanes to exit the freeway and smash into the driver’s door of the car, that was minding its own business on the off-ramp.” She nodded in agreement, seemingly sans emotion. She was not as gloomy as I expected her to be, not at all crushed from the consequence of her actions. I suspect it was not her first accident. Initially, I thought she was going to give us the slip, for she pulled ahead quickly, and eventually stopped her grey, very dented car. Pretty and appropriately dressed-to-kill, her fashionably clipped hair swayed in the wind. She appeared unaffected as she approached the quavering victim. I left them to their own devices, after suggesting they could call me, if need be.

A black Toyota truck had pulled over as well. A stubby man, with little buried eyes, and a sullen look parked on his face, gathered his information to hand-over to the Barbies. We both drove off, shaking our heads in despair.  

Unfortunate Job Carnival

July 23, 2013

The Job Fair wasn’t well-marked. The address was deliberately incorrect to check our adaptation and orienteering skills, though I followed my nose to the butter cookies, glazed with brilliant good-for-me pink frosting with multi-colored sprinkles spilling off the sides. Gotta love all of the complimentary pens, band aids, expensive unrelated-to-landing-a-worthwhile-job brochures, chance to win a free cup of Perkins coffee for the remainder of my days, and an occasional pocket flashlight. The event survey table was clean, vacant of anything but a half a dozen chairs awaiting hopeful rears, sporting a dark business suit, shiny shoes and a plastered smile running across the desperate mug.

They call it a Fair yet it resembles a Carnival, quick gut-wrenching rides that instill fear you don’t dare project or you will be forced to do it again and again. The City of St Paul had two loaded catering tables, Ramsey County was present, Health Partners and UCare, Avon, a coupla Not-For-Proft tables, a young gentleman who claimed the organization offered a starting salary of $8.35 per hour but parking at the airport runs $37 per month, although you are reimbursed $25 if you have a good attendance record within the first month of Union employment. Oh boy. When I claimed I could hardly live off of the generous salary, he thanked me for being honest. Another enthusiastic participant suggested their employees receive an exemplary $32,000 a year, plus bonuses. Great.

The only promising conversation was with Julie, a woman who encouraged me to go to their website and apply for the Recruiter post. She is the Business Development Representative and was most likely the closest to my age than anyone else within 50 miles.

I could also attempt the Accommodations Scheduling Coordinator position listed on Pearson’s site but they may arrest me for impersonating someone who is qualified to do the job.

Tall tale heart

July 21, 2013

They are well into their 80’s, at my best guess. She had on a petite pale salmon suit, delicate unique accessories looped around her ears, matching bracelet graced her snap-like-a-twig wrist, and the chunky necklace mostly complimented the inevitable mass of wrinkles. He sported a button-down with vertical stripes and bared no jewels, a stark contrast to his beauty. They have been in relationship for four years and live apart, happily, or so he suggested. The optimistic couple met at a dance so he recommended I take ballroom lessons to meet my future mate. When I declared things must have certainly changed regarding partnerships, since the time he was a young man, he told me of his barber, who is pregnant and living with her boyfriend. I barked back, “Well, it could very well have been a woman partnered with another woman and having a baby-“anything” goes now!” He just chuckled and agreed with me, which caused her to pay attention to our conversation.

I appreciated the fact that the elders were interested in visiting with me, and hearing of my adventures in Brasil. Still wearing my infamous plastic boot and it is a fall-back conversation-starter. The guy was expressing his concern about the healthcare system in South America, though suspecting it could be just as perilous in some parts of the United States. Of course I was afraid, I assured them, when asked about my accident and subsequent hospital stay, yet I had to be positively convinced surgery was the best option at that time, and in that particular place.

Revisiting my harrowing experience is always precarious for me because I can Beam right Up to that gurney, lie prone in the busy hallway, awaiting the operation, accompanied by my friends Trepidation and Consternation, tears streaming down my face, loading up my ears. I cannot be responsible for my reactions to questions, once I spiral back to the hospital in Registro. Makes for a Vincent Price tale in a chair, in the middle of a room, in a church basement.

Massage the day

July 20, 2013

The Maltipoo had been living with a hoarder and due to poor nutrition, had to have all of her teeth pulled, get shaved, ear hair plucked and mite treatment before the little thing was placed. The chopstick thin woman in a purple sweatshirt twice her size, white turtleneck gaped from the saggy collar, blue denim skirt I had not seen the likes of for decades, and size ten men’s white tennis shoes showed their obnoxious selves as she parked on the cushioned chair, with her back to me. The story of the pathetic dog she adopted, distracted me from my duties. I was charged with providing Qigong to her face, trailing to the top of her head, along the back of her spindly neck and down the shoulders. The class lasted three hours and I was able to have work done on my pained foot and throbbing hip area. St Thomas is a welcoming campus yet I floundered around a bit before finding the workshop in the non-designated building. The elderly woman with the horrible dog tale seemed nice enough though I was tortured over the course of the morning with her saga several times since I could hear the scratchy voice through my long deep breaths and decisively closed eyelids, I commend her for accepting such a miserable species yet so wished she wasn’t so compelled to regurgitate her drama to every single participant at the workshop.

On the route home I discovered several back alley sales. Vehicles attempting to blast their way through, to the tired and well-worn items, mowed down the tall brilliant orange lilies, planted on the sides of the asphalt. I was astounded by the murdering shoppers, who seemed to follow me, from one locale to the next. One man had mostly small breed dog attire; little shiny sweaters with ridiculous phrases, frayed collars, knotted leashes, chewed dishes, smelly dog carriers, a rotten bed and glassware. When I approached him with a pale green lightweight blanket to inquire about the size, he told me he thought it a full, he bought it at J.C. Penny two years ago for $23, on sale. He wanted $5 and grimaced as I placed it back on the table, explaining I have a Queen bed. He then insisted it must be a Queen size, and scoffed at my inability to find a tag to legitimize the item. Another house further down had all black gadgets. Three young men sat on dated lawn chairs drinking Leinenkugel and talking about nonsensical crap. They did not seem very interested in parting with their black coffee maker, electric black can opener, black tent and matching down sleeping bags, black shelving units, black television stand, black weight machine with accessories. Nothing of interest.

Around the corner down yet another alley was another garage sale with long tables full of red and white Christmas things. She had $5 Disney glasses, plastic earring sets, mix-and-match dishes, chipped mugs, clothes hangers with large men’s shirts, slacks and jackets, massive tv’s with ugly stands and a few vases I purchased for $1 each, only to discover she had glommed onto them from the neighbor’s recycle bin. They had tin tops like that of a canning jar for the elderly couple could not unscrew a cork with their arthritic hands.

She threw-in the $.25 shirt. By then, I had enough of the junk people were trying to pawn-off as gold and returned home. The dog was ecstatic to see me, as though I had been gone for a decade.

Nair Daze

July 18, 2013

Body hair, facial hair removal in particular, consumed the better part of an hour this afternoon, poolside, in the smoldering intense heat with home-made snacks, Bloody Marys, sun block, swim suits of all fashion, Styrofoam noodles, kick boards and a fuzzy, overly affectionate guard cat. We pondered wax, lazer treatments, shaving, stubble, ingrown hairs, and painful, mostly ineffective tweezing. The conversation ensued. Which product rules, Sally Hansen versus Nair, where to obtain the best treatments, who bleaches instead of plucks, how many times to shave a week and since none of us can see anything anymore without reading glasses, does it really matter that we battle this extra coat.

Outrageous prices were thrown around, duration of treatment times and effectiveness of the various options. It is a major aggravation for women “of a certain age,” lead to much laughter and total agreement, in that, we would welcome the chance to live in France and not have this hair anxiety. We also look so forward to aging and not having fur be such a big hairy deal. No, we really do not want to resemble Sasquatch at the bewitching hour of 4:00 in the afternoon.

Sideways Grief

July 17, 2013

Undeniable shark-bite hurt seeped into her heart, shockingly betrayed, savagely dismissed, she struggled with unfulfilled expectations that shattered her morning. She lashed out with articulated vengeance in subsequent, infrequent long-distance phone calls. Grief and loss take undistinguishable forms. He unwillingly succumbed to unconscious absorption of the empty space in his soul, after losing his canine playmate.  And became acutely unavailable, vaguely disappeared into the shadow of laborious out-of-state employment, undeniable peer pressure, exhaustion from sword fighting with tireless emotional beasts.

According to John Gray of Men Are From Mars series, males lash out with flippant language, sacrificing common sense when they are obliviously unaware of how the women in their lives are responding, have responded to their inappropriate communication since before the first kiss. Men don’t comprehend the persistent Round Robin of support from women within their clan, much like life support, after a tragic crisis or emotional upset.  

Why are we not taught how to communicate, resolve conflict with our intimate partners, lovely children of the opposite gender, deal with conflict at our jobs or with our neighbor, who throws the dog feces over the fence, into your pristine yard.  

Stuck in the spasmodic reaction of our greatest fears, we take on the burden of consequence. Then it becomes far easier to allow yet another day to go by, then another, week, month, year without addressing the real buried issues. By Then, we have long forgotten what the initial challenge was, buried under a pile of rotting manure, stinking up the immediate vicinity with guilt, shame, savage scars of unforgiveness.

It is such a relief to reach out, shake hands, hug until your ribs are cracked to shatter the barrier between old friends, lovers, cellmates in a typically stick-to-it-tive-ness world. Raucous belly laughter, heartfelt solid storytelling, a well of tears of consequential searing pain, dividing agonizing suffering clearly relieves the awkwardness. Truth and regurgitation of sentiment for one another cures all failings.

Big Beau

July 17, 2013

Last night my great friend, Beau died suddenly and left an inexplicable abyss in my heart. Now I do not have my wiry buddy to sleep with while wrestling for the covers, while having a slumber party in Princeton, no one to try and “lay one on me” with an exuberant Tigger hello, no youthful Boxer to play with my Tyrus, no bouncing pal to crowd me, as I curl up on the hairy couch. I miss him already. How he maneuvered his way into the souls of many, with his antics and Joker face.

Our pets are not really ours, as a possession. They become a sounding board, someone to love on, hug and kiss with abandon, sans pouting or complaining, no hard feelings when we leave them behind to go to the store or on vacation, it is all the same to them. No necessity to apologize, buy dozens of roses or boxes of chocolate, that only seem to emphasize our guilt. 

Tears appear abruptly, taking me by surprise.  A small token of gratitude or tissue commercial leave me shaken and spent. Grief and loss roll around me in a fluid motion that resembles a promising kiss without a second date. I turn a corner and observe a half empty dish of specialty salmon flavored dog food on top of the cabinet or a fur-laced collar, abandoned tennis ball or vacant canine cushion. Jarring reactions call-in Beau’s chappy (happy and cheerful) face, all wiggles and big energy.

We mourn your loss and can only expect you are in the best place.

Family jewels

July 15, 2013

A shiny blue malt ball sized ring, raised in plated gold, caught her eye. She simply “had to have” the jewel, then exclaimed out loud, it is unlikely she has anything to “go” with it in her closet. The group of women standing around the square of glass counter-tops didn’t need any encouragement to clamor their disagreement. “Wear it everyday,” I shouted, “why not?” Have experienced so many people, in their last decade of life, who are sorting through their charms, collectables, fine china, Sunday best attire, cloth-laden “good” silver, heirlooms that are admired from afar. Why not use it every single day and enjoy the hell out of it all while you can still identify the mark. “I might break a dish,” declared one faint-of-heart soul. Well, then, who will care, but you, since there is no one to inherit the treasures or are remotely interested in the pattern. They all have their share of goods, packed away for rainy days.

As of late, I find myself choosing foot items I would have avoided in the past, especially the more spendy ones in magnetic, shapely glass. Garlic-filled olives floating in oil, local jellies that seem to drip fruit from the lid, crackers spattered with delicate seeds, fumy cheeses gracefully merchandised in the specialty case, edible granola with nuts and dried fruits, ice cream in containers smaller than my head. It is far more fun to shop though I keep the items down to one grocery bag per trip. Money does not grow on trees you know.

Mumbo Jumbo

July 14, 2013

Kids hear voices, they see things in the dark, have imaginary friends, believe they can fly, walk thru walls or cupboards, perhaps, into another dimension, describing the world before this one, communicating with people who have died, can speak with the family dog and house plants, bend spoons, and heal the planet. Depending upon how we handle these incidences, a child can create various interpretations for their future. How do you think Science Fiction was envisioned. We must have read the Philip Pullman series a dozen times when Taelor was little.

Did our freedom of imagination go into hiding to be tuned-down until just before we die. I have witnessed a number of deaths. Many people observe someone standing in the room with us, as the end draws near, a loved one usually, seemingly communicating with them. They describe visions of the next place, as though they have gone for a brief visit, and wish to enlighten me with details upon their return. There is a peace and acceptance, letting go, if you will, that appears comforting,  even welcoming.  

As soon as children get the stink eye one too many times, they shut down, shut up, shrink into their imagination only when alone, and don’t have to manage someone else’s fear and pretentious viewpoint. Creative, artistic, out of the norm children are corrected when the sky is lavishly painted purple versus the proverbial robin’s egg blue.

       

My good friend’s pragmatic granddaughter recalled the voices she had heard when she was very small, maybe three years old. She almost immediately stopped hearing voices, and now, at the legal age of eighteen, has tuned-into them once again. Fortunately, her family has not deemed her insane and taken her to the nearest psychologist. Instead they are allowing her to talk about her experiences, in the safety of their home, to discuss it as a family. How does she feel about it, how can they support her in the process of discovering the possibilities, versus shutting down in fear and upset. It takes courage and commitment to strive forward into the things we fear the most-the unknown, inexplicable and mysterious.

On an HBO special series I riveted to, about First Nation Tribal members in Northern Territory in Canada, I recall the interviewer asking a small child if he could speak their native language. “Of course,” he replied, “how else could I communicate with my ancestors?” How else, indeed.

The Pumas

July 13, 2013

Its been two months since my surgery. My how times flies. Hideous night back pain causes the sweats, agonized reach for the pain pills in between rolling over and throwing the down comfort off of my legs, in another twenty minutes, returning the white quilt to it’s original position. No wonder I am bleary-eyed and at times unable to complete a full sentence.

Went to the soccer fields in Blaine today, to see one of my ten nephews bobble the ball around the grass with his friends. It gave me the chance to spend time with my baby brother, his wife and sons. They are a chatty family, informative and friendly, intense about soccer, and finding their way from field, to hotel with a pool, to dropping me and picking me up, then back, only to repeat the process tomorrow. I admire my brother who is one of the nicest men I know, a superb father and, unexpectedly, a social butterfly. Eager to jump out of the vehicle, to say hello to someone he knows from Rochester. Maybe he just wanted to get away from me, the sister who constantly nods off, mid-sentence. I had never known that gregarious side of him, since I have not spent probably more than an entire week with him, since I left the family home at eighteen. How do we get hatched from the same incubator and become strangers, knowing our friends better than our siblings? 

I saw my friend, the then ancient fifty-six year old, playing goalie. I was a “striker” and my best friends were on defense twenty-four years ago when I sauntered onto a soccer field in Sacramento. It was an “Over 3o League” yet I snuck on as a gal whom had never put on a pair of soccer cleats before and had the time of my life for four years. We made tamales for fundraisers, shared stories of heartbreak, laughed a lot, traveled a bit, and failed to win many games though we tried very hard to get our old butts moving in-sync. Our coach was one of the players husbands and I doubt he got paid for the toil. When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, it was just after our tournament and all of the teammates were furious considering what disasters could have happened, though none of them did. It was a wild and glorious time with friends I’ll not forget. We were called the Pumas. Some of them continue to play together and I admire their weary bones.

Debbie Downer

July 11, 2013

No one really cares whether I write this. My life is ordinary, nothing extraordinary and this blog certainly doesn’t have plans to head into the spotlight and become an HBO series. It is me, simply my thoughts, ideas, experiences that create something and eventually gets posted to a blog that roughly 6,000 read. I won’t attempt to be anyone special. Me, making my mistakes, stepping out of the box, finding myself in the wrong line more often than not, and things do not go as expected. I get down in the dumps just like the girl next door and wonder what I am doing here, after all.

Date night and I am hearing the cat scuttle something across the floor while the dog snores in the other room not bothering to find out when I will come to bed. He got his food, fresh water and a walk. What does he care?

The washer and dryer have gone missing from the basement. I suspect the landlord decided he does not want to put the energy bill in his name so he has swiped it out from under my nose. Of course, I was not here to bar the door or be able to talk with the hired guy to find out the scoop. The head honcho does not even have the common courtesy of phoning me up and explaining his decision. The renters are still upstairs (hence the condom) and I have not been informed of their new and improved departure date. Oh boy. Are we having fun yet? Remember the next time you see me, jeans are supposed to be worn more than once.

No, this one isn't funny, Debbie Downer.

The spot

July 12, 2013

Found an at fault used condom, lying on the black aligatored asphalt out back. It is shocking and revolting, disgusting and absurd to discover this ugly form of life nestled in a curve, awaiting my displeasure. Scooped it up with a large stick dropped from the tree, planted on the ground at my feet for this purpose. A sadness came over me to imagine I had been lying in bed, asleep, feet away from a couple, trembling in the dark just a stones throw away from my forgotten dreams. Later a car was over-involved, with the engine idling, while the girls were primping in the mirror, waiting for a girl to come out of the house. I bent to the window to reveal my news, letting them know that someone in their midst may have set up the children for a fright. Neither one seemed overly concerned and wondered aloud who it could have been, that evening before, in the dark, out back.

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Each person is born with an unencumbered spot, free of expectation and regret, free of ambition and embarrassment, free of fear and worry, an umbilical spot of grace where we were each first touched by Universe. It is this spot of grace that issues peace. Psychologists call this spot the Psyche, Theologists call it the Soul, Jung calls  it The Seat of the Unconscious, Hindu masters call it the Atman, Buddhists call it the Dharma, Rilke calls it Inwardness, Sufis calls it Qualb, and Jesus calls it the Center of Our Love.  

To know this spot of inwardness is to know who we are, not by surface markers of identity, not by where we work or what we wear or how we like to be addressed but by feeling our place in relation to the Infinite and by inhibiting it. This is a hard lifelong task for the nature of becoming is a constant filming over of where we begin while the nature of being is a constant erosion of what is not essential. We each live in the midst of this ongoing tension growing tarnished or covered over only to be worn back to that incorruptible spot of grace at our core.

Mark Nepo

Drown memories

July 10, 2013

With six sisters it is hard to get away with anything like putting on several more pounds than I admit to, claiming I do not dye the grey out of my hair, I have a great boyfriend that everyone will fall in love with once they get to know him better, I will stay put for more than eleven months this time, I will not adopt another cat, and certainly not be part of yet another “risky” business.

Growing up in a house with four bedrooms and two bathrooms didn’t seem like an issue at the time. None of us were the type of girls that spent hours in front of the mirror, plastering on base make-up, teasing our hair into submission nor attempt to blow dry it. We didn’t fuss over clothes and shoes since none of the mirrors in the house displayed our full length. I washed then braided my tresses in the morning and, when I took it all out at night, it was still damp. I had enough hair for a family of five, as did my siblings. We could have donated to “Locks of Love” and committed to hundreds of wigs at a time, if it had been on our radar. Somewhere along the line, all of our hairs were chopped-off. I had a one inch cut that made me look like a tall boy with small breasts. I could not figure out why I didn’t have a date unless I hounded him to death ‘cause I was really love with him. I was finally kissed at the Junior Prom (went to two that year, the second will take up an entire blog on its own) and it was really a nightmare. Swore I would never succumb to another man’s lips for the rest of my life. What on earth was everyone talking about? It was sloppy and I felt as though I needed to special order a bib for the next go ‘round. Not certain I even had a next time for trauma inevitably set-in and I blacked it out.

He wore a chocolate brown leisure suit with a white shirt. I had on a hand-me-down slinky cool lime green dress with a slit up the side to emphasize my slim figure. Have no clue where I left that body but it’s probably in the shadow behind me somewhere. I was pointy elbows and knees. Despite my light-weight frame, I had to be on the bottom of the pyramid in High School since no one could stand being subjected to my lethal weapons jabbing them in the back. We double-dated with another couple, whom I cannot recall, for the life of me. Maybe someone will nudge my memory banks at the Reunion this summer. Ah, but then it will give the messy kisser a name, and he will be slightly embarrassed. Oh well, sorry.

We didn’t fall in love and get married nor even have a second date. At least not that I can recall. Sigh.

Raw deal

July 9, 2013

Taking risks; stepping off the curb into the busy city traffic, pushing my foot to flex even more than yesterday, sending off my writing to the New Yorker. The world is my oyster, somewhat edible, if enough Tabasco and a pint beer chaser are available. Grilled versus raw, even better.

Oysters and I never got on very well. About 2005 or so I agreed to a trip down the Highway 1 coastline. The first night of our three week biking/camping jaunt from Long Beach Peninsula in Washington state to San Luis Obispo, California, my then beau and I stopped for fresh oysters and a beer or three on the side of the road. It was one of the months ending with an “r” that those smushy delectables are presumably safe for consumption. For the remainder of the weight-loss trip, I had diarrhea so badly that every few hours I yelled “Stopping!”  and off I would race, to the nearest bush or large rock, roll of tp pinched in my hand. It was incredible, ghastly, ridiculous and time consuming. Often times in the middle of a meal, I would have to canter off to the nearest porta potty. Difficult to tell just how much weight I was dropping since, as they claim, muscle weighs more than fat. All I know is the up and down from the butt-pinching slender seat, stretching and pulling on my bike shorts until they were scanty-thread thin, and the sunken look I had in every darned picture taken on that excursion, I was much more tidy than at the start.

I’ll skip to one of the highlights of our journey. Mount Tamalpais in Northern California is a bitch to climb on a mountain bike. My two-wheeler was loaded down with tent, sleeping bag, provisions, water, clothing, towel and sundries. It was our last big climb before meeting up with the parents for breakfast in San Francisco. My stomach ailment had not subsided in the least. As I climbed Mt Tam, in fright of the motorists, I noted some pulled mammoth recreational vehicles with neck-catching mirrors. I trembled the long stretch up. Liquid sloshed around in my intestines. Hydrating before a big climb can be a double-edged sword with oyster flu. The top of the mountain cradled the camp grounds. I was keeping my head down, mumbling prayers that would scorch a monk’s bald head. The long stretch of road that leads to the hiker/biker sites sit well beyond the camp ground. I pleaded with God, Buddha, Universe, The Devil, that I make it to the long buildings down the slope that sported a woman stick figure on the door. Slid the length of the hill as I ran, and felt my body defying my appeal. I was losing control. Flung open the steel door and pulled down my already sopping bike pants that clung stubbornly as I turned the lock. I cried in frustration and incompetency. Had no choice but to wash out the lightweight pants, underwear and finally mop the floor with grey/brown paper towels. Damn near used the entire roll.  Seemingly hours later, I fumbled my way to my bike and set up the tent and sort my belongings.

In the early morning, we coasted down the long road, passing majestic redwoods, and catching a wind not to be reckoned with. The ex’s parents sat on the other side of the small round table as we gorged our meal, drank gallons of fresh water, and ate their leftovers. I even gobbled the decorative garnish from everyone’s plate; raw kale, thinly sliced tomatoes, spigots of carrots, red bell pepper tidbits and dripping lettuce. Inevitably, in the middle of swallowing the adornments , I felt a gurgle sensation in my gut and had to excuse myself. What a waste.   

Idle cars

July 8, 2013

The numbness is still prevailing around my left ankle bone, circulates up along the crease on top of my foot and down into the biggest toe. Unable to wear normal shoes due to the ebb and flow of swelling. I wear a open-toed sock that extends from my instep to the fatty yet flabby atrophied part of my shin. It is tight and the color of an ace bandage so it goes with everything.  Out of the house I slip on the clunky plastic black boot that is weighty, feels like a ski boot, hefty and doubles as a weapon. I have outgrown the cane so I hobble along taking the stairs one at a time and gleefully parking in the handicap spots until November when the tag runs dry. I do have to remove the obnoxious boot in order to drive, the Velcro sticks to any piece of fabric within miles so I have to arrive early to all of my events.

As I locked-up the house on my way out, to throw the dog a ball at the park a few blocks down, three cars sat idling in the street, obviously awaiting some hooha event. I examined one license plate, make, model and year of the car, to repeat the details to the police officer, when I dialed them. Promptly forgot the sequence, as I trod up the stairs to my place, and the neighbor hollered hello from the running vehicle in the driveway. Blew my cover. Would have been too obvious to backtrack and jot the numbers down on my hand. Drat.

Physical therapy is torture, my ankle has been tender and very painful since we started the program last week. I have succumbed to pain pills a few times this last week, in order to sleep through the night. Wake up in a slide of sweat since I refuse to turn on the ineffectual air conditioner. The ceiling fan whirs me away to an ocean breeze, once I doze off in a medicated stupor. I’ll let you all know when I am ready for an intervention. I demand chocolate chip cookies and some sort of flavored lemonade for refreshments.  

Oh deer

July 7, 2013

Two young deer were being chased by a small blue sports car with three up-to-no-good youth. They careened around the corner just in the nick of time for Tyrus to pick up the chase. He is an expert deer hunter and wound them around to the nearby woods for safe keeping. The juveniles re-appeared, exasperatingly discouraged to have lost the live bait and drove off to look for more trouble. Ty came running down the street and flopped his giant body down on the cool grass, tongue lolling like a satisfied python. Shocking to spot squirrels in the neighborhood, let alone deer.

Sang America the Beautiful today and was astonished at how easily the words came to my lips. I am the one standing in line at the Post Office who asks for “anything but the flags” in my order for stamps. Did I just admit that. How unpatriotic of me.

The back hall smells suspiciously of pot (or so I’ve heard) or perhaps it is sage or another burning herb I am not aware of. Still frequent coming and goings in and out of the upstairs duplex, which makes me consider selling tickets to the mysterious show. Gate left disrespectfully ajar, bottom door to the basement inappropriately gapes open so I fear Moose, the cat, will escape and be smooched like a pancake in the road out front. Small dogs have made their way home tonight, certainly not a “Homeward Bound” story, they hitched a ride with their owner, so unappreciatively eager and to jump into their little fashionable bags and get carted off. At least I do not have to concern myself of their safety and well being any longer.

Thunder is rolling across the rooftops, bearing down on the last survivors of fireworks demons. Hope they are drowned out and we have a better sleep tonight.

Guarded

July 6, 2013

The sliding of small pebbles across the sole of a soft shoe, creak of the gate, metal against metal as the hinge opens wide enough for a body to slip thru, it isn’t re-latched so it catches my attention. The covert cat drops down from one window ledge, to cross my body and glide into the open gap at the rear window, above my head, to pay attention to the figure in the dark heading to the back door. I see black Keds with white laces that catch the dim light, the shadow of pants and light t-shirt, face fades into the gloom. His cell phone flips open and a long, earnest, pleading conversation ensues yet I cannot make out the individual words, save an emphasized syllable or two. He leaves the same way he came. A sigh of exasperation escapes me as the gate gapes wide open as he departs. I heave myself out of the bed, not disturbing the multitudes of pets in my room and slither across the livingroom to peer out the front, observing the figure brazingly waltzing down the street on foot, after 2:30am. A loud, brisk call to Tyrus, who slunk down to the basement to escape the scary fireworks, and journey downstairs to retrieve his large cedar-filled bed. Feel more comforted by his presence in the dark room with the slow whir of the ceiling fan. Check the bolt on the back door and return to my crisp sheets and churning cool air, to roll over the motivation behind a pre-dawn visit. I vow I will make a 911 call the next time it happens. I don’t need to wait for another day to pass, for moments later, the perp returns with a white plastic sack and presumably Styrofoam cup in his hands. Same routine yet now he jumps up onto the wrought iron rail, pushes his way up the electric meter box and skips up onto the balcony above my head. I reach for my cell phone and make the call, heading into the livingroom to prevent the delinquent man from overhearing. The dispatcher is calm and steady in her questioning. A squad car arrives out of sight, down the street, and four police officers make their way with beams of light to invade around the house, flaming the siding, doors, and windows with intensity.  I can hear the climber pace the floor yet he doesn’t show himself. Eventually a substantial officer knocks on my door, absorbs my detailed story and suggests I talk with the landlord. The crew wanders around for a bit, visits exuberantly under the street lights, and departs. Must have nodded-off after 4:00am and splayed out of bed at 8:00 to let the miniature wrestlers out for a pee. Groggy and disgruntled, I suck down coffee laced with milk and sugar while contemplating my options. First things first, I have to rescue my black sandals from the fireworks observation area, where I tucked them under the chair, and promptly forgot about them as we moved back to get a better view. Hope they don’t feel too abandoned and take it out on me, on the Jerry Springer Show.