Moonrose Meanderings by Elizabeth Munroz

The Green Green Grass of Home

2012-01-29T07:22:00.000-08:00

Aromas, California, earthquake country. Just had a couple good kaboom shakers a couple days ago! These pics pinpoint the exact spot. What an interesting life I lead. Standing in my kitchen, I heard/felt a BIG SLAM! I wondered if someone had crashed their car into the front of my house. But, a few seconds later, another SLAM. Well, of course a little quake. My, but it was a noisy one for only a 3 pointer. But if you're standing right over it, of course you feel it!

~~~~~
Note: photos by me

44 Books I Read in 2011

2012-01-06T01:38:00.000-08:00

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius *****
Author: Dave Eggers

Steve Jobs ****
Author: Walter Isaacson

The Emperor of All Maladies *****
Author: Siddhartha Mukherjee

The Time Traveler’s Wife ****
Author: Audrey Niffenegger

No Impact Man ****
Author: Colin Beavan

The Son of Man ****
Author: Charles W. Johnson

The Help ****
Author: Kathryn Stockett

2:46: Aftershocks: Stories from the Japan Earthquake ***
Authors: William Gibson, Yoko Ono, Barry Eisler, Jake Adelstein, & The quakebook community

Palm Trees on the Hudson: ***
A True Story of the Mob, Judy Garland & Interior Decorating
Author: Elliot Tiber

Jerome and the Seraph (Quantum Cat) **
Author: Robina Williams

Admit One: My Life in Film ***
Author: Emmett James

The Man Who Would Be King ***
Author: Rudyard Kipling

Soul Identity ****
Author: Dennis Batchelder

The Bookseller of Kabul ***
Author: Asne Seierstad & Ingrid Christophersen

To the Is-Land ****
Author: Janet Frame

An Angel at My Table ****
Author: Janet Frame

The Envoy from Mirror City ***
Author: Janet Frame

Writing Life Stories ****
Author: Bill Roorbach

Rainbows End *****
Author: Vernor Vinge

Labor of Love: The Story of One Man's Extraordinary Pregnancy ***
Author: Thomas Beatie

Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping ****
Author: Judith Levine

Cats Are Not Peas: A Calico History of Genetics *****
Author: Laura L. Gould

Bel Canto ****
Author: Ann Patchett

Not Wanted on the Voyage ****
Author: Timothy Findley

Wake Up, I'm Fat! ***
Author: Camryn Manheim

Wrestling with the Angel: A Life of Janet Frame ***
Author: Michael King

Raleigh's Lost Colony ****
Author: David N. Durant

An American Childhood *****
Author: Annie Dillard

Pleasure: new poems ****
Author: Gary Young

No Other Life ****
Author: Gary Young

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan *****
Author: Lisa See

Porter Gulch Review 2011 ****
Authors: Many

The Funniest Cop Stories Ever **
Authors: Tom Philbin, & Scott Baker

Pompeii: City on Fire **
Author: T.L. Higley

Memoirs of a Snowflake *
Author: Joe Vasicek

The Big 5-OH! *
Author: Sandra D. Bricker

Coffin Humor: A Short Story *
Author: John Brinling

Hilda - Snow White Revisited *
Author: Paul Kater

Antiques Roadkill: A Trash 'n' Treasures Mystery **
Author: Barbara Allan

Fat, Forty, Fired **
Author: Nigel Marsh

The Apothecary's Daughter ***
Author: Julie Klassen

Boneshaker **
Author: Cherie Priest

Note:
I don't keep an ongoing list of my reading material. Perhaps I should in the future. I had to go through my list of purchases of hard copy books from Half.com and Amazon to jog my memory. After this, I perused my bookshelves and found a few more. Even though I have about 451 books in my Kindle. It was easy to compile.

It surprises me that I read all those. I have some others, too, which I started then set down somewhere forgetting about them. I didn't put them in the list.

I Miss You, Mom!

2011-12-14T00:03:00.000-08:00

Rest In Peace
February 9, 1920 - December 14, 2006

Genevieve Evelyn Borden Deane, age 86, died at her daughter's home in Cedar Park, Texas on December 14, 2006, following a fruitful and fulfilling life.

She was born February 9, 1920 in Breeseport, NY
She was the Daughter of Myron Rockwell Borden and Orilla Brewer Davis

On May 16, 1937 She was united in marriage to James Deforest Deane in Port Allegany, PA.

Most of her life, Mrs. Deane resided in Niagara County NY where she and her husband operated their own business and later she worked for St. Mary's hospital in Lewiston NY. After retirement in 1980 they moved to Southern California.

Mrs. Deane was a member of the Episcopal Church. And was a member of Gideon's International, Full Gospel Businessmen's Ladies Fellowship, and volunteered in the Ladies Auxiliary of Assembly of God San Bernardino helping to create quilts for the homeless.

Personally, her extended family includes all the friends of her children who called her "Mom".

Among her interests, Genevieve was an avid needle seamstress, hand embroiderer. Among pleasures in her life she enjoyed gardening, antiquing, thrift shopping, yard sales and swap meets, and collecting treasures such as sea shells and interesting rocks. She loved board games, cards, jig saw puzzles and was an avid reader. In her early years she wrote poetry which was recited on the WJJL radio station in Niagara Falls NY.

Genevieve attended Port Allegany High School in Port Allegany, PA and later graduated from Niagara Falls High School.

She is predeased by her parents, husband, sister, Carrie Borden Staples; brother, Alvin Borden, a son Lee Deforest Deane, and grandson, Raj Anil Megha.

Survivors include her four children, David, Lockport NY, Elizabeth Munroz, Watsonville, CA, Roger, Scottsdale, AZ, and Suzan Simpson of Austin TX. Her grandchildren include Christine Deane, Lockport NY, Laurie Blunk, Alta Loma, CA, Therese Burton, Chicago IL, Xavier Rodriguez, San Francisco, CA, Carl Deane, Niagara Falls, NY and Varsha Megha, Austin TX.

She is also survived by 17 great-grandchildren and 4 great-great grandchildren who will surely miss her loving arms around them.

Great-Grandchildren include Moses, Brittany, Marquis, Andrew, Justin, Michael, Breanna, Chloe, Moriah, Kezia, Tiara, Kory, Storm, Sterling, Jasmine, Rain, Anjulique, Ashanti and Rajen

Great-Great Grandchildren are Daniel, Matthew, and Alexander

With special thanks and gratitude to my sister Suzan, who devoted herself to my mother that last year of her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: new great-great grandchildren, India and Rylee have been born since 2006 with another one due any moment.

Photograph take by me, Elizabeth Munroz

What Mother Wrote 1969

2011-12-10T19:51:00.000-08:00

Lightening crackles across the sky and thunder's magnificent bass joins the foolish chirp of optimistic early birds as rain pelts off the eaves onto the once shiny, new green translucent plastic sheet now lying in the winter worn clay muck where I once thought roses would be blooming.

And that, in one overgrown sentence, that which became one grotesque paragraph, is the story of my life. Nothing more needs to be written. But since I long ago tried to prove myself poetic, I found I was only capable of writing terse verse, and am now much older and more foolish. I feel it might afford amusement to someone if I set down some of the bizarre consequences of this "Alice life". For it all seems to be a mad tea party. All the lovely dreams and the grand plans and hope are misshapen and run into grotesque patterns as splashes of paint thrown carelessly at a canvas.

As a young and naive girl I used to fear that lightning would "strike me still in my tracks" somewhat like a pillar of salt. Oh how cruel, but now if it would be so kind. No. There's no chance of such a romantic fate for me and I now realize there never will be. I shall be as the green plastic and once shining and hopeful of giving grace and shady welcome from the hot summer sun or shelter from the beasts of snow and ice of winter but left discarded unused, to lie in the mud and be of no consequence. Just beaten down, marred and scratched, unbeautiful and useless. Never having been in the right place at the right time to add any beauty or serve a useful purpose. Scarred and muddy and discarded.

Written by my mother, Genevieve Borden Deane, April 10, 1969 at age 49

I recall the green plastic tarp she had placed over a too early planted rose bush, that had been trammeled by a rain storm and dashed her hopes for her garden to be.

I didn't know she wrote this piece. I just came across it yesterday while looking for some old family papers.

I recall it was a short time after I had gotten out of the hospital for surgery on my recurrent chondrosarcoma (bone cancer).

I suspect the stresses of that alone could have contributed to her despondent mood.

But, I'm sure there were other things going on in her life of which I am unaware.

I'm sure, by looking at the photos, you can see she was not always so morose.

Butterflies Over the Golden Mustard Fields

2011-12-03T19:33:00.000-08:00

For ten years
we had a beautiful green garden.
For twenty years
the sun always shone on our thatched roofs.
My mother came out and called me home.
I came to the front yard
near the kitchen
to wash my feet
and warm my hands over the rosy hearth,
waiting for our evening meal
as the curtain of night
fell slowly on our village.

I will never grow up
no matter how long I live.
Just yesterday, I saw a band
of golden butterflies fluttering above our garden.
The mustard greens were bursting with bright yellow flowers.

Mother and sister, you are always with me.
The gentle afternoon breeze is your breathing.
I am not dreaming of some distant future.
I just touch the wind and hear your sweet song.
It seems like only yesterday that you told me,
"If one day, you find everything destroyed,
then look for me in the depths of your heart."

I am back. Someone is singing.
My hand touches the old gate,
and I ask, "What can I do to help?"
The wind replies,
"Smile. Life is a miracle.
Be a flower.
Happiness is not built of bricks and stones."

I understand. We don't want to cause each other pain.
I search for you day and night.
The trees grope for one another in the stormy night.
The lightning flash reassures them
they are close to one another.

My brother, be a flower standing along the wall.
Be a part of this wondrous being.
I am with you. Please stay.
Our homeland is always within us.
Just as when we were children,
we can still sing together.

This morning, I wake up and discover
that I've been using the sutras as my pillow.
I hear the excited buzzing of the diligent bees
preparing to rebuild the universe.
Dear ones, the work of rebuilding
may take thousands of lifetimes,
but it has also already been completed
just that long ago.
The wheel is turning,
carrying us along.
Hold my hand, brother, and you will see clearly
that we have been together
for thousands of lifetimes.

My mother's hair is fresh and long.
It touches her heels.
The dress my sister hangs out to dry
is still sailing in the wind
over our green yard.

It was an autumn morning
with a light breeze.
I am really standing in our backyard--
the guava trees, the fragrance of ripe mangoes,
the red maple leaves scurrying about
like little children at our feet.

A song drifts from across the river.
Bales of silky, golden hay
traverse the bamboo bridge.
Such fragrance!

As the moon rises above
the bamboo thicket,
we play together
near the front gate.
I am not dreaming.
This is a real day, a beautiful one.
Do we want to return to the past
and play hide-and-seek?
We are here today,
and we will be here tomorrow.
This is true.
Come, you are thirsty.
We can walk together
to the spring of fresh water.

Someone says that God has consented
for mankind to stand up and help Him.
We have walked hand in hand
since time immemorial.
If you have suffered, it is only
because you have forgotten
you are a leaf, a flower.

The chrysanthemum is smiling at you.
Don't dip your hands into cement and sand.
The stars never build prisons for themselves.

Let us sing with the flower and the morning birds.
Let us be fully present.
I know you are here because I can look into your eyes.
Your hands are as beautiful as chrysanthemums.
Do not let them be transformed
into gears, hooks, and ropes.

Why speak of the need to love one another?
Just be yourself.
You don't need to become anything else.

Let me add one testimony of my own.
Please listen as if I were
a bubbling spring.

And bring mother. I want to see her.
I shall sing for you, my dear sister,
and your hair will grow as long as mother's.

By Thich Nhat Hanh

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First photo taken by my sister, Suzan Deane-Simpson
Second photo taken my myself, Elizabeth Munroz

Happy Birthday, Mona!

2011-11-19T10:24:00.000-08:00

Swimming in the Air

2011-11-02T03:00:00.000-07:00

When fishes swim

in waters green

behind the cube of glass,

and wake me

in the middle of dreams

with bubbles,

speaking gibberish,

I lie there, staring

at tail fins

sweeping my ceiling

free of stardust cobwebs.

Then close my eyes

to puckered up Kissing Fish

cleaning my eyelids of algae.

I worry when my babies

swim in the air.

Won’t they drown?

~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Munroz 1974

Garden Memories – Lilies

2011-11-01T02:44:00.000-07:00

Looking back upon the past summer and the incredible heat of October, it seemed to me that Autumn would never truly arrive even though my Chrysanthemums insisted on their season. Finally, we verged upon November and I welcomed the colder weather so that I could get serious about my gardening. Like a greenhouse flower, I wilt in extreme temperatures. All the things I had left undone begged me to step outside and tackle them.

For me this was a time for general cleaning up and implementing my springtime plans. I had many ideas for enhancing my garden, and as I worked, I found that new schemes jumped into my mind altering everything. I have to admit that I am a spontaneous and haphazard gardener. While raking leaves in the area that I had intended to place some Jade plant, I suddenly daydreamed of it being planted with distinctive white Calla Lilies. I had recently excavated some out of a crowded corner of my yard just a short time before. Family members requested that I share my surplus. I had put them in containers in order to keep my promises to give them my lilies, just not so abundantly. I easily changed my "well thought out" plans and enthusiastically tackled my new Lily Patch when a parcel arrived.

I had forgotten my other previous autumn planting concept to create a bed of Stargazer Lilies, and here they were on my doorstep. I was so excited, it was like Christmas! Memory lapse made the surprise shipment even more pleasant. My mind overflowed with visions of pink splendor.

I recall my first introduction to Stargazers just seven years ago. Can you believe I had never seen any before then? Upon entering the home of a friend, I was assaulted by the most intensely breathtaking fragrance that literally commanded my attention. Instead of greeting my friend when she welcomed me in, I blurted out, "What is that incredible smell?" Then I saw the flustered look on her face. Some people think that the word, smell is not pleasant. My nose is in love with gardening as much as my hands, so smells of all sorts have very special appeal for me. I realized the error of my word usage, and quickly covered with scent. “I mean, that enticing scent!”

Smiling, she replied "Stargazer Lilies!" and led me to the exquisite bouquet sitting on the table in another room. I was astounded at their loveliness and have appreciated them ever since. Even though the fragrance can be profoundly concentrated (just one flower in the house can fill your home) I enjoy them. Last summer a catalog came in the mail with Stargazers on the front cover, and I made my very first mail order for plants of any kind. After receiving the package, I quickly got them into the ground. I can hardly wait for spring’s warmth to bring forth my garden fantasies.

Garden Memories – Lilies
October 24, 2003
By Elizabeth Munroz

Originally published in
Gardening on the Edge: Journal of Monterey Bay Master Gardeners

Halloween Horror Story

2011-10-30T00:25:00.000-07:00

Life, like Halloween, is full of tricks and treats. When we carry that bag around from door to door asking for tricks or treats, we take what is given with a thank you. Then, we walk home with that bag, hoping that everything in there is our favorite. When we get home, we have to go through that treat bag and decide what to do with what's inside. It's all treats! Right? It's whether or not we can appreciate each for it's own merit.

Light from Darkness

2011-10-29T21:13:00.000-07:00

When the sky is infused

with deep heaviness

it is like my life

when struggling

with despondency.

It's hard to see

the beauty in it

until that one

sliver of light

peeps through.

'Tis what my mother called

the "silver lining".

A full sunshine day

would not lift me

as much as noticing

that one little

ray of joy

in the midst

of my darkness.

Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

2011-10-27T14:21:00.000-07:00

She watched the hummingbird
through the slice of light in the curtains
wishing someone would come
and open them onto the world.

Just the branch showed the little gem
feeding on the red flower
like the blood ruby
on her hand
crossed over her heart
symbolizing their love.
Life was fleeting
and memories her last comfort.

Her loneliness taunted her
as she twisted in her bed
reaching for the light
with hope for freedom,

until the great grandchildren
came to visit,
and hope lay in the future
of new memories to be born.

In memory of Genevieve Borden Deane

February 9, 1920 - December 12, 2006

Photos by Elizabeth Munroz

Obituary of a Long Lost Super Star

2011-10-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
- Why the early bird gets the worm;
- Life isn't always fair;
- and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.

Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became
businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;
I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author unknown

From Personal Journal

2011-10-01T14:25:00.000-07:00

I'm overwhelmed today. I woke up feeling sad. Didn't even have the sleep gone from my eyes and all I wanted to do was cry. Well, crying is not my thing. It's too hard on me due to my asthma. It just stirs it up and makes things worse. So, a long time ago I learned to suppress crying. Or should I say? Sobbing.

When my kitty died two and a half years ago I awoke every day with this same kind of feeling. Just before falling asleep the sadness arose every night, too. My grief was over the top. Eventually, after adopting four kitties, they have kept me so busy that morning/evening sadness left me.

So, here it is, again. Same feelings. Different reason.

Obviously it is finally hitting me. I've been too busy and stressed out, going through all the tests and doctor's appointments. Today I'll be by myself. Nothing to do. No appointments. No having to drive anywhere. No relating to other people. Just me and my cats. Naturally my body knows this and has triggered letting these suppressed feelings out.

So perhaps today I will wallow a little bit.

NO IMPACT MAN

2011-09-12T00:51:00.000-07:00

Watching this documentary brings up a lot of mixed emotions.

On the one hand Colin Beaven ( No Impact Man) appears to go to extremes, trying to eliminate ALL .... from his life. It was painful to watch his wife "going along" with the program when obviously it was difficult for her. Or, maybe I was reading her body language incorrectly. I can understand giving up things, but coffee or tea just because it doesn't come from a 250 mile radius. Olive oil? Diapers for the baby?

I have lived in a time when cloth diapers and rubber pants were all that was available for babies. Not only is it difficult to get diapers sanitarily cleaned without HOT water and bleach, (or direct sunlight), the effect on the baby can be medically disastrous. A baby with raw sores on it's bottom suffers. A baby with a fungal infection is heartbreaking! And if one is trying to live a no impact life, what does one do to treat those conditions?

I cringed as I watched No Impact Man washing clothes in the bathtub by stomping on them like they were grapes in cold water. I guess he hasn't heard of a scrub board. My grandmother boiled her wash water over an open fire. She hung her clothes on a rope in mid air summer and winter. Obviously No Impact Man couldn't do that. How clean could those cloth baby diapers become?

They never did mention what they did to substitute for toilet paper.

Doing without A/C or heating in New York city seems extreme. They still used electricity for cooking and telephone in the first few months. Then lived in the dark with candles. How safe is that with a toddler in the house? There were exceptions to the rules, but who decided it? No Impact Man. He got to keep his computer running by using a small solar panel, which I thought was maybe a bit hypocritical. (I wont go into the carbon footprint of creating a solar panel.)Though in this day and age, why do without one's computer, even if there is paper and pen available? Okay. I will give him the computer. After all, he was writing a blog and a book about all this at the same time he was being filmed.

I do not mean to make this a criticism of the intent of No Impact Man. I think it's admirable when anyone makes a clear and conscious change in their lives to reduce their carbon footprint whatever their methods. But, I still would like to know why, what and how.

Some things I liked in particular, probably because I can see the feasibility for the average person.

1. No water in plastic bottles. This I already do by keeping water in bottles from previous beverage purchases of Tejava. I've done this for a couple years.

2. Using old clothes for cleaning rags instead of paper, etc. Some old clothes in good condition, I advertise on my local Freecycle, ( see: freecycle.com ) or donate to local charities.

3. Make do with what you already have. I always ask myself if I need this item I'm thinking of buying or if I just want it. Can I do without it? Can I substitute something else.

4. Don't buy new products, just used. I can go part way with this idea. Buying from thrift shops is not a problem for me. Though, I would rather not buy used underpants! Thank you!

5. Don't use electricity and gas. I like the idea, but find I am not committed enough to do without them entirely. I have made concessions though. I have permanently turned off the pilot in my gas-lit wall furnace. It's a big waste of energy, a very inefficient way of heating the house. In the wintertime, I am able to wear warm clothes in the house just like I did as a kid when I lived in New York. I have noticed, though, when it gets below 55 degrees inside the house I then feel chilled, and my bones get creaky. I think arthritis should be respected, especially when it is my own. I remedy this in one of two ways by using the electric space heater in whatever room I am in, or by using an electric blanket when sleeping. It is not necessary to run a space heater all night when sleeping! I am not being a No Impact Woman, but I am using considerably less energy than I would be if running the furnace throughout cold weather. I've been doing this for about two years.

6. Don't waste water. That's a big one for some people. I see it all the time as I drive down the street. Sprinklers are watering the grass, the sidewalk and into the gutters down the street. I don't have grass. My whole yard has been turned into a garden. I don't water the plants. I have chosen plants that grow in my area without watering. When I first made the decision to get rid of grass and have the whole yard be a garden (with pathways), I decided that the plants that wouldn't make it without watering would just have to go their own way. For the most part they have adjusted.

When I compare my water bills from a few years back to today. I have lowered my average water usage from 900 units down to 200 units. I think that's pretty good. I know I could lower it more, but not ready to give up bathing.

I like eating seasonally. That is how I was raised. It doesn't seem to be a sacrifice to me. Peaches in January shipped in from Where? Peru? Australia? Who knows where? Though I must admit I live in a part of the country where strawberries and salad makings grow almost year round. I would miss them if living in snow country. I didn't miss them as a child. We ate what was available. Root crops and what ever fruits that had been canned the previous summer.

One thing in particular stood out for me in watching this film is when I heard, "Why do I need to wait for congress or big business to change things? What can I do myself?"

Note:

The first picture is of my house when it had a lawn that needed mowing and watering.

The second picture is after the lawn was turned into sustainable garden which needs no watering.

The third picture shows how the trees grew up enough to provide shade for the house and eliminated the need for air conditioning!

To see a short and fascinating movie trailer on No Impact Man

Something to Think About

2011-09-02T15:19:00.000-07:00

I live and die; drowning, I burn to death,

Seared by the ice and frozen by the fire;

Life is as hard as iron, as soft as breath;

My joy and trouble dance on the same wire.

In the same sudden breath I laugh and weep,

My torment pleasure where my pleasure grieves;

My treasure's lost which I for all time keep,

At once I wither and put out new leaves.

Thus constant Love is my inconstant guide;

And when I am to pain's refinement brought,

Beyond all hope, he grants me a reprieve.

And when I think joy cannot be denied,

And scaled the peak of happiness I sought,

He casts me down into my former grief.

Louise Labé (french poet)

Sonnet VIII

in french:

Je vis, je meurs; je brûle et je me noie;

j'ai très chaud tout en souffrant du froid;

la vie m'est et trop douce et trop dure;

j'ai de grands chagrins entremêlés de joie.

Je ris et je pleure au même moment,

et dans mon plaisir je souffre maintes graves tortures;

mon bonheur s'en va, et pour toujours il dure;

du même mouvement je sèche et je verdoie.

Ainsi Amour me mène de manière erratique;

et quand je pense être au comble de la souffrance,

soudain je me trouve hors de peine.

puis quand je crois que ma joie est assurée

et que je suis au plus haut du bonheur auquel j'aspire,

il me remet en mon malheur précédent.

Louise Labé (french poet)

Note:

Art by Elizabeth Munroz

Blood Test

2011-08-25T12:29:00.000-07:00

I thought nothing of it. I didn't even realize he had ordered them. I attend a small clinic associated with Stanford University Medical Center. Since my original doctor retired, I had to hustle to get me a new doctor. It was difficult to find someone to measure up to her. She was an oncologist and with my previous history of cancer she was happy to take me on as a patient even though I had been cancer free for many years. Yet, I had a milieu of other medical problems and it was a nightmare seeing one specialist after another without having someone to manage my health.

After she retired, it took me several months before I turned to the clinic where I now have a wonderful primary doctor, and I can see any of the specialists within the clinic where each one has full access to my medical records at a click of a mouse.

So the day of the blood test, I met my new Rheumatologist, who patiently listened and discussed with me how to proceed with my arthritis, osteoporosis and permanent damage to my pelvis from the bone cancer. Checking my computer records, he noticed it had been a while since I had a blood test. So he ordered one.

Since he recommended that I get a scan done, I went down to that department and made the appointment instead of waiting until I got home to call. I also stopped at the computer help desk to get my new ID and password in order to get online to my account. This wonderful clinic gives the patient access to their records online!

I dropped by the pharmacy, picked up my prescription and started to leave when I passed by the lab. I dropped by to get a copy of my last blood test results. The medical assistant asked me if I was also going to have my blood test today. Oh, yeah... I had forgotten the doctor had ordered one!

Because of my complicated medical history I don't have very good veins. So drawing blood from me usually has to be done from the back on my hand. I have one really good thick popped-up vein on the left. So I was patting it when I met the lab technician. We had a nice chat while she gathered together the equipment for the draw. Perhaps that was why getting the blood out of me was quick and easy.

I left the clinic, went and had lunch, then drove home. That evening the doctor called me on the phone to let me know some of my blood tests results were in, and he wanted me to know it was abnormal. My white blood cells were highly elevated, a sign of infection usually. But because a certain component of the white blood cells, (the myelocytes) which show problems with the bone marrow, I am to see an oncologist next Wednesday.

All Palms Are Not Trees

2011-08-17T00:34:00.000-07:00

When my dear friend, Linda, was diagnosed with cancer, she didn't me until close to the end.

I recall a few times when she had symptoms she would ask me about. What would I suggest about a black spot in her vision, she asked. I thought she meant she had a floater.

What were the bumps in her neck? I thought she had swollen glands because of a throat infection. Why was she coughing all the time? Asthma, I suggested.

Apparently it was all part of her cancer. I figured that out later. There were other things, too. If I had only known!

She expressed her distress that I had moved five hundred miles away, and I missed her sorely. It would have been so much better had I stayed. Seeing her in person, I would have known sooner. She wouldn't have been able to hide it from me. It would have been obvious.

As it was, I had traveled down to visit her. We sat around the table after dinner when she asked me to read her palm. I hadn't done that for years, and begged off.

But, her husband jumped in and insisted. In fact, he demanded I read his palm first. I was quite surprised at Bob's insistence and I felt a little uncomfortable. I thought those "talents" had gone to rest.

Just for fun, I had taken up palm reading as a teen when I found a book on the subject that had belonged to my grandmother, "How to Tell Fortunes".

It had other methods besides palm reading in it. But, that was what resonated with me. I did it for fun until the readings started to be more seriously accurate.

"Oh, your palm reveals you have eight marriages!" I laughed, but the man across from me stared with mouth open. "How did you know that? No one knows about that!" But, when I accurately predicted the demise of someone, I refused to do any more fortune telling. Certain signs suggest the worst, and I didn't want to see such things.

By the time Linda and Bob were pressing me to read their palms, I had no qualms to keep me from playing along with them.

I must admit, however, that I stuck to the original protocol of observations I had learned, shapes of fingers and hand, how the mounds are formed and the measurement of lines as indicators for translation.

Bob stuck his hand in front of me. I asked to see both, as that was how I learned. One hand for your destiny and the other to see if you live your fate, or change it. I knew Bob had already been married before so I wasn't surprised to see two marriage lines, but I was curious to see the third marriage indicated.

I remembered that Linda only had one marriage line. So, I casually said, "After Linda dies, you will marry again." And to make a joke, I added, "Sorry about that Linda!"

But no one laughed. In fact Bob got an odd look on his face, and frowned at Linda. "What did you tell her?"

Her face was pale and eyes wide open, "Look at mine, tell me what mine says. Maybe it changed!" By this time I was really uncomfortable and tried to beg off from further prognostications.

Then little Andrea, their daughter, who had been eavesdropping on us all along came to me with hand extended. I took hold and kissed her palm. "It says everybody loves you and you will be rich and pretty when you grow up." But, she wasn't buying it. I hadn't actually perused her palm and she stuck it in my face. Then it was my turn to have wide eyes and be pale. There it was as clear as day.

She would face a very tragic episode in her life within a very short time. Of course, I told her no such thing.

But, once Linda sent her out to play, she and Bob plied me for what I saw. Why I didn't just make something up, I will never know.

When I learned from Grandma's book, it seemed the ethics of a respectable palm reader were ingrained in my mind as much as the meanings of the symbols. Integrity was my excuse. I could only hem and haw, with maybes and perhaps's and I'm not sure, but's.

It was pretty clear to me. But, Bob's next marriage and the tragedy in Andrea's future was to be the loss of my very dear friend.

It's odd how I totally blocked that memory until I read about it in my diary a few years after Linda died.

--------------

RIP

Linda Duran Watkins

Nov 1949 - Nov 1982

Hitching a Ride

2011-08-16T00:09:00.000-07:00

Two young raccoons came into my yard in the light of day while my significant other and I were gardening.

Because of a neighbor's dog who had recently been bitten, I cold-heartedly scooted them away with my broom sweeping back and forth in front of me as they approached.

I'm sure they lost their direction. A neighbor leaves cat food outside for them. They can go there for snacks.

One ran away immediately, the other needed a little more encouragement.

They scampered off across my driveway, beneath my car and off to the neighbors yard across the way.

Later, we left in separate cars to attend a wake. I led the way and Katsumi followed. In a couple of blocks, unbeknownst to me, my Honey watched in astonishment as one of the raccoons dropped onto the road from beneath my car and scampered off into the strawberry fields.

About a mile later, he heard a thump and looked in his rear view mirror and he realized the second raccoon had dropped from under his car and ran off to the raspberry fields.

Fortunately, I live near the edge of town and Mother Nature was there to welcome them.

I am totally shocked and wondering how they could have held on to whatever part of our cars they were located.

I feel so guilty for shooing them away from my yard1 Maybe we could have just gone into the house.

But, we were so sure we saw them continue off into the neighbors yard after I shooed them with the broom.

I have the strong desire to go searching the fields hoping to see large swaths of missing fruit for reassurance that they are okay.

Note:
The neighbor who was leaving food out for local critters has now moved to Oregon.

A Time to Live, a Time to Die

2011-08-15T03:26:00.000-07:00

When it comes time to die,

be not like those whose hearts

are filled with the fear of death,

so when their time comes

they weep and pray

for a little more time

to live their lives

over again in a different way.

Sing your death song,

and die like a hero going home.

~ Chief Aupumut, Mohican. 1725

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Photo Art, by Elizabeth Munroz

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

2011-08-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers is a "creative" non-fiction memoir.

The author begins his story as a young man about age 20 whose father and mother die of cancer 5 months apart. He's left to raise his 7 year old brother. He suggests that parts of his writing is fiction. Ah, well. I suppose any autobiography writer doesn't remember all the details and has to make up some parts.

Some people in my book reading group didn't like it. The first chapter is pretty graphic in descriptions of his caring for his mother in her last days. They would have preferred it to be a cleaned up version without what they considered the awful reality of his experience.

They also objected to use the F word through his descriptions of how he and his friends related as they enter into adulthood with one another. In his immaturity, his saving grace is he is very careful to raise his little brother with high standards protecting him from growing up too soon. He takes special care in attending parent teacher meetings at school, for example, even though he worried that he might lose his brother due to people thinking him an inappropriate guardian because of his age.

Yet, of course they still related as brothers rather than a parental figure and child.

He doesn't have any opportunity to grieve or have closure, yet it's all expressed in his behavior throughout the book. Life has to be lived. His responsibilities come first. It's difficult for a young man who hasn't reached maturity.

It appears to me that the author is a bonafide manic-depressive with a little bit of paranoid tendencies. Either that, or he is in permanent panic mode because of his circumstances. Yet he copes and is successful enough to hold it together eventually, and in collaboration of friends, sets up his own business.

I really loved the book because the writer has an interesting prose style that goes against anything we've ever been taught is the standard way to write. I was fascinated by his style.

I also liked the book because a great part of it takes place right where I live, in the San Francisco bay area. I'm not sure readers in other parts of the country would relate to his descriptions of neighborhoods and travels in the region which viscerally touch me.

Hope I didn't share too much.

Read what happens to Dave Eggers after he reaches maturity

You also might like to read chapter one in the NY Times.

Note:
My photos are San Francisco scenes. First is, Lombard Street. Second is the Dutch Windmill. Third is the Golden Gate Bridge.

Happiness

2011-08-10T11:28:00.000-07:00

What ever happened to happily ever after? That was all hype, like Santa Claus, Leprechauns, Fairies, and all that other bunch of lies that were perpetrated upon us as kids. There ought to be a Law!!! Am I being cynical? You betcha! Well, with a little tongue in cheek, too.

Seriously... I think happiness is what we make it. As the Buddhists say, one of the first truths is that we all have suffering, none can escape it. I think once that sinks in, we can work from it, or around it or with it. Got suffering? Make the best of it, if you can. Though, sometimes we might just have to muddle through and hang on before happy feelings return.

My life has often seemed as though it has all been one big dark pit of suffering, and a lot of it I brought on myself by my attitude towards things. But, I didn't know any better. How could I cope if no one I knew had the skills to be an example to me? A good excuse then, but as I grew into adulthood, opportunities arose that pointed the way.

The person I am today is not who I once was. Somewhere along the way I learned that happiness is not meant to be a permanent condition. What a shock when I found that out! I thought I had missed out on something everyone else had.

Though, truly, it is a good thing we don't have an abundance of joy. We would get bored with it, I think. So, in order to appreciate it, thrill to it, we must be deprived of it, before it fills us to overflowing. (Shades of "My Cup Runneth Over").

It is funny how the littlest things make me happy now, that I never even considered worthy of the title. Plus, just forcing myself to smile makes me feel (a fake) happiness that catches on and becomes real the more I do it. Sounds crazy I know, but I am probably somewhat that, too.

Then, of course, there's Chocolate Happiness!

~~~
Note: photo of my mother, Genevieve Borden Deane was taken by my sister, Suzan Simpson

Shadows at Dusk

2011-06-01T02:49:00.000-07:00

What is life?

It is the flash of a firefly in the night.

It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.

It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

~ Crowfoot, Blackfoot warrior and orator

Note: Photo by Elizabeth Munroz, taken at Capitola, California

Memory of Memorial Day

2011-05-31T00:14:00.000-07:00

In my childhood I had never lost any close relatives to death. Except for my grandparents who had died long before I ever had a chance to know or love them. Yet, a palpable emptiness existed in my life in reserve for them.

My first real understanding of death came when I was about three years old. My nine year old brother, Davy, told me most reverently, that he was not my only brother. Not quite believing him, I questioned my mother, and in a matter of fact manner, she verified it. The year before Davy was born, 1938, she had a stillborn baby boy, and she named him Lee Borden Deane. No one ever behaved uncomfortable about it, the only attitude was one of respect for the dead and a long ago sense of loss. And so, another palpable space occupied my life, labeled “Baby Lee.” He seemed so wise to me as he watched over us in heaven since he was older than Davy.

By the time I was seven, I had younger brother and sister who easily made up for any sense of missing family members. Our lives were quite busy and full.

We made yearly pilgrimages on Memorial Day to Baby Lee’s unmarked gravesite. About 1957, during my early adolescence, I remember one particularly miserable trip from Niagara Falls to Tioga County, Pennsylvania. I did not understand what was bothering my mother, but I was very aware that she was especially grouchy. My brothers, sister and I thought she was being mean towards us kids during that trip. We wondered is she was mad at one of us, but dared not ask. We felt trapped in the car; and sullenly sat in silence, not daring to move. We couldn’t wait to arrive, and run off into the woods to explore and play, working up an appetite for the picnic that was planned for later.

Mom and Dad stayed near the grave, pulling weeds and arranging flowers. Later, I wandered back to see if it was safe to get near them without suffering my mother’s wrath. As I came out of the thicket, I saw their backs were turned to me, surprised to see my father’s arm around my mother’s shoulder, I couldn’t remember ever seeing any show of affection between them. I stopped in my tracks, curious. Then, I noticed my mother’s shaking shoulders. She was sobbing bitterly. I wondered if she was feeling bad about the way she had treated us kids earlier. I sorely needed an apology or at least a kind word. I wanted to feel forgiving toward her. My Dad glanced back and saw me. Alarmed, I whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Mom, ignoring me, broke away from Dad and walked away, studiously pretending to look at some other dead person’s gravestone. Dad came toward me, blocking my view of her, and answered, “Your mother is crying for Baby Lee, because he died and she doesn’t have him here with us.”

I felt as though I had been slapped across the face. A burning resentment of the dead baby filled me, and suddenly, I decided I hated my mother. For the first time in my life I felt true rage. Like a child size volcano, I exploded. “Why is she crying about a baby who died ......How many years ago?..... Why does she care so much about that one and not about us? She has all four of us, alive and living with her everyday and she treats us so mean!! What about ME?” I sobbed. “What about Dave, Roger and Wendy?

As my father looked around to see if any strangers visiting the cemetery had heard me shouting, I turned and ran with my anger, back into the woods. After a while I calmed down and wandered aimlessly, looking at all the wild green things growing. I felt alone and unloved. Many times throughout the rest of the day, I heard my brothers and sister occasionally calling me. Whenever they came near, I ducked behind the nearest big tree trunk and they would miss me. I even, purposely ignored them when they yelled for me to come and eat. Their searching for me was sporadic and I knew my parents were not too worried about me, or they would have participated in the search. I was too hurt and resentful to allow myself to enjoy the picnic, or to let go of my self pity.

By the time the sun began to set, Dave climbed a nearby mountain, and was able to spy my hiding place. Not alerting me to his search, by calling for me, he silently came through the woods right to my location, and resigned, I walked out of the woods with my brother. I was no longer in a rage, but feeling whiney, I asked the same questions of Dave as I had screamed at my father. He let me know he was just as unhappy about it as I was. But, he was not angry. He tried to explain to me that I should try to be more understanding. I didn’t know how to do that. Yet, I became somehow strangely comforted to know that he shared my feelings. The burden of it was no longer so painful to me, and I forgave Baby Lee for abandoning us so long ago. It was many years before I ever got to a place where I understood my mother’s behavior and no longer held it against her.

In Memory of

2011-05-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

When Death taps us on the shoulder,

and we cannot run away,

we encounter a 3D vision of life.

When we escape the inevitable,

and return to life,

it's like a beautiful gift

wrapped in black ribbon.

For all the chondrosarcoma patients who passed to the other side, I mourn you and hope you found there the beauty I once saw on a short visit.

For all the chondrosarcoma patients who now have that 3D vision of life, I know you share that new inner knowledge with your loved ones and I hope it enhances everyone you meet.

My biggest wish, my greatest prayer is that soon, SOON, there will be a cure for this very rare type of bone cancer and no more need suffer.

It's Not a Tragedy

2011-05-28T13:30:00.000-07:00

This is my granddaughter singing , "Tragedy"

(a cover for Christina Perri)

Tragedy lyrics
If you could envision
The meaning of a tragedy
Ooooooh
You might be surprised to hear it's you and me
When it comes down to it
You never made the most of it
Ooooooh
So I cry cry cried but now I say goodbye
And I won't be made a fool of
Don't call this love

When did you decide I didn't have enough to buy
Forgive and forget you a thousand times
For the fire and the sleepless nights

And I won't be made a fool of
Don't call this love

Don't call this love

Lalalalala-love Lalalalalala-love
Lalalalala lalalala- love

Why did you feel the need to prove that everybody else was right
No I won't fight

Ohhhh your my Tragedy... Tragedy
You're my Tragedy ooohh
This is ohhh no no no no no

Reminder of a Gift

2011-05-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

Treat the earth well:

it was not given to you by your parents,

it was loaned to you by your children.

We do not inherit the Earth from our Ancestors,

we borrow it from our Children.

~ Native American Indian Proverb

PEACE and POSSIBILITIES

2011-05-01T00:05:00.000-07:00

May today there be peace within.

May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.

May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content with yourself just the way you are.

Let this knowledge settle into your bones.

Allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.

It is there for each and every one of us.

Note: Photo is of Santa Cruz, California Wharf

My Granddaughter Performs

2011-04-14T23:44:00.000-07:00

Hope you enjoy this kid's vid.

MY PROTECTOR

2011-04-13T14:46:00.000-07:00

MY PROTECTOR
(1968)

Dr. Mindell, tall, slender, well-composed, did not behave like a normal orthopedic Surgeon. The one’s I had met before were all too high and mighty to be human, to look you in the eyes as if you were an equal. They were accustomed to everyone idolizing them and took it for granted they were Gods. I did notice that when he made rounds, he carried a little bit of that remote untouchable aura, probably for the sake of his entourage, but when he arrived in my room, he did not stand at the farthest corner nor at the foot of my bed like other physicians. he came right up beside me and leaned against the mattress as he taught his students about the rare condition being treated. Rare condition or not, in the presence of Dr. Mindell, I still felt like a human being, instead of a “case”.

Even though’ he hacked away a large part of my body over several years of surgery to save my life, I don’t necessarily think of him as my protector for the reason of his medical expertise. Just one incident clings to my memory making me grateful for his existence.

After many weeks languishing in the hospital bed, I became well enough to be placed in a wheel-chair instead of a gurney to be transported to other departments for tests or treatments. One day, after a long wait in the radiology dept. a staff-person wheeled me in for a set of x-rays. And when all the required pictures had been taken, I was wheeled back and parted in the long empty hallway.

“Aren’t you taking me back to my room?” I asked.

“No.” I was told, “Someone else will take you up shortly.”

I sat there in the cold corridor until my butt became numb and the pain in my legs screamed for release. At which point, I unlatched the lock on the wheels and began to impel myself toward the main hallway. My arms were weak from having been abed for so long. The chair, at least a hundred years old, was made of wood, with a very high backrest and huge wheels. It was very unwieldy to operate, but, struggling mightily, my determination drove me further and further away from Radiology. It surprised me that no paid any attention to me. Dressed only in a short backless gown with hair splayed about my head, it was obvious I was a patient making her way alone in the busy hallways. Visitors passed me by giving wide berth. Hospital personnel bustled by sometimes blindly brushed up against me
as they passed.

I grew resentful. Not only had I been forgotten, left to rot in the drafty bowels of the Hospital basement, but I was for all purposes, invisible to the very people employed to watch after my health. What if something should happen to me? I would be ignored. Fearful of my invisibility, I strained harder to reach my goal; the huge main elevator that could take me up the many floors to my room. By the time I arrived, I was weak, cold and perspiring profusely. The hospital, as ancient as my wheelchair had an old-fashioned elevator. Every time I had been taken to it by a staffperson, they had hurriedly forced the wheelchair through the open doors racing against time to get me inside, before the doors clenched shut.

There were no safety features as there are today, no magic eye to bounce the elevator door back open should someone or something attempt to pass through while it closed. So, when the doors opened, people traipsed in as I struggled to wheel my cumbersome chair through. Needless to say, the doors clamped shut on me just as I pulled my arms out of the way. I looked at the people inside, who would not meet my eyes. It didn’t occur to me that this was serious, until the floor raised up beneath me and the wheelchair tilted precariously.

Not able to move my lower body in any way to save myself, I sat there helpless, as the chair began to crunch. The only view I had at this point was the ceiling. My last thought was, “after being heroically saved from the bone cancer and surviving, I am going to go by way of an elevator! Oh, well!” There was nothing I could do. I just resigned myself to my fate as I awaited my demise.

Just then, Dr. Mindell scooped me up in his big arms and carried me down the hall and placed me on the nearest gurney and personally returned me to my room. I don’t know what happened to the wheelchair or the people in the elevator. At the time I was too tired and sick to even care. I was just glad that my protector, my body guard was there to save me.

Old Memory Stays Fresh

2011-04-11T00:13:00.000-07:00

Today is a day in my history I cannot forget.

It sticks in my mind like clay at the bottom of a potter's wheel. You might laugh that this is such an "important" day when you learn the situation. But, it is just one of those things that when the day comes up, I automatically realize.... "Oh, it was this date that happened."

My hair all blonde, teased and sprayed in Marilyn Monroe style, I walked with my new date, Jeff, recently returned from Viet Nam, when my new pair of high heels caught on a rise of the sidewalk where a tree root had lifted it.

No big deal for the average person, but this fall caused me to do a split in the worse way possible. I had only been out of the hospital a few days after my Internal Hemipelvectomy surgery and the three months it had taken for me to recovery and heal sufficiently that I could actually walk again and go home. All I wanted to do was start my life all over again, and leave those haunting cancer memories behind me.

My mind set the incident in slow-motion re-play. I felt the heel of my shoe catch on the sidewalk, saw my body going down, tried to catch myself as my legs, betraying me, slid out in opposite directions. Then, the split of the incision pulled apart deep within me, and the hot blood seeped into the area where bone cancer used to be. It had not happened in a slow motion dream but in a blink of the eye, and there I was sprawled on the sidewalk.

Jeff had been a Medic in Nam, his flight or fight reaction were instinctual. When I fell, an odd look came across his face, something empty and desperate. His automatic response was to get me up, and hurry me off somewhere. Anywhere, to take me away from .... what? Enemy fire?

While writhing on the sidewalk, I had to convince him we were not on the battlefield, certainly not with my high heels. I told him there was no place to take me, no place safer than where I was. I had remain calm as I instructed him to go into the nearest restaurant and ask them to call for an ambulance. Because of my cancer history and the familiar physical symptoms I was experiencing, I knew I would not be able to get up and walk any time soon on my own.

I never saw Jeff again. He didn't follow the ambulance to the hospital. Perhaps he was as traumatized as I was?

Long story.....short. I spent another two months in the hospital.

So, today I look at this forty year stretch and pause. Many other things have occurred in my life with even more intensity. Today I no longer dream of falling and tearing myself open. Today I can smile about it. Maybe it's the ludicrous-ness of it all; blonde bombshell, soldier boy, romantic walk to restaurant; it was something out of a movie, and then, the twist...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note:
Jeff, if you are reading this, I understand and I hope you got good treatment for your PSTD. Sending you love and healing.

Grandma's Cookbook

2011-04-09T13:10:00.000-07:00

We may live without poetry, music and art;

We may live without conscience, and live with out heart.

We may live without friends, we may live without books;

But civilized man cannot live without cooks.

- Owen Meredith

Three Meals a Day
By Maude C. Cooke
Published 1902
by The Educational Co.

Free Brain Book

2011-04-04T00:26:00.000-07:00

A Primer on the Brain and Nervous System

Brain Facts is a 74-page primer on the brain and nervous system, published by Society for Neuroscience.

Designed for a lay audience as an introduction to neuroscience, Brain Facts is also a valuable educational resource used by high school teachers and students who participate in Brain Awareness Week.

The 2008 edition updates all sections and includes new information on brain development, learning and memory, language, neurological and psychiatric illnesses, potential therapies, and more.

Download the full book (PDF) or download individual sections below. All downloads are PDFs.

~~~~~~~~
Note: reposted from http://www.sfn.org/index.aspx?pagename=brainfacts

Cinnamon Toast

2011-04-02T15:58:00.000-07:00

My brother had played an April's Fool's trick on me. I was so little then that I didn't think it was funny and my feelings were hurt.

Mommy comforted me and explained how funny it could be to play an April Fool's trick on Davy.

She sat me down at the table and poured milk into my cereal. As I reached for the sugar, she pointed out how much the sugar looked just like the salt. I didn't need another hint. I asked Mommy if I could substitute one for the other to play an April Fool's trick on Davy.

I stood on the chair pouring the sugar into a bowl, then emptied the contents of the salt shaker into the sugar jar. I looked through the glass closely to make sure it didn't look like salt before I could convince myself that my April Fool's trick would work. I then attempted to pour the sugar into the salt shaker with little luck. Most of it splayed out on the table and onto the floor.

Mommy was not one to rush in and do the job for me. No, she stood by patiently and gave me a the broom to sweep the sugar from the floor. I didn't do a very good job of it to be sure. But, later that day the floor was miraculously clean of any evidence of the spill.

Since I was not capable of handling a five pound bag of sugar myself, Mommy got it down from the cupboard and put some into a glass measuring cup so I could more carefully pour the sugar into the salt shaker.

Once my plan was completed I awaited anxiously for the moment my big brother would come into the kitchen to have his breakfast.

Imagine my dismay when he asked if he could have eggs and sausage.

With a wink and a smile Mommy tried to help me out by suggesting Davy have cereal instead. But, we were out his favorite kind and he turned it down. He was not about to eat any of his little sister's cereal. I hadn't thought of that! So, I sat at the table pouting while Mommy cooked his breakfast.

Davy went to the toaster to put in the bread. In those days toast did not pop up by itself, the toaster had little doors that had to b opened when your toast was ready.

We had to stand there keeping an eye on it otherwise our toast would burn. I loved looking through the intricately formed slits in the little doors of the toaster observing the bright orange curly cues inside heat up.

As I stood next to him, he turned to me and asked if I would like some toast. I certainly did.

While Davy buttered his toast, he kept an eye out to keep my toast from burning. I was not allowed to touch the toaster as I would burn myself on it's hot metal doors.

Even if I could, I would not have been fast enough to get the toast out before it burned. I hated blackened toast. Scraping it never removed that charcoal flavor out if it!

Buttering my toast for me, Davy turned and said, "You want some cinnamon sugar on your toast?"

I loved cinnamon sugar and nodded enthusiastically. It didn't occur to me that the little crystal bowl my mother kept the mixture in was empty. When Davy reached for the sugar and mixed it with the cinnamon to put into the little crystal bowl I didn't give it a second thought.

Just as Mommy turned from the stove to give Davy his plate of eggs and sausage, and before she could say a word, I took my first bite of my cinnamon salty toast!

~~~~~~~~~~~
Photos are not my own

Which Way to Go?

2011-03-25T00:11:00.000-07:00

You can't change the wind, but you can set your sails in the direction you want.

Favorite quote of James Durbin

American Idol Contestant

from Santa Cruz, California

Note: Sail boat photo was taken in Santa Cruz.

Just in Case You Missed the Opportunity to Help

2011-03-23T14:12:00.000-07:00

It was not just one earthquake, and one tsunami that has done the unimaginable. The March 11 magnitude-8.9 quake (later changed to 9.0) was followed for hours by more than 50+ aftershocks, nearly 40 of them more than magnitude 6.0

Your donations are most welcome and appreciated.

Reputable organizations providing appropriate relief for Japan:

Relief orgs:

• Cruz Roja Española

• Canpan Fields (a Japanese nonprofit organization)

• Save the Children

• Non-Believers Giving Aid

• NGO Jen

• International Medical Corps

• Association of Medical Doctors in Asia

• Canadian Red Cross

• American Red Cross

• Doctors without Borders

• The Salvation Army

• Oxfam

• Global Living

• Care

• ShelterBox

Someone I love has family and friends in Japan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Photo taken by Katsumi

Dreams

2011-03-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

Deep into that darkness peering,
long I stood there,
wondering, fearing, doubting,
dreaming dreams
no mortal ever dared to dream before.
~ Edgar Allan Poe

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Photo Art by Elizabeth Munroz

Rowdy and Ruckus 1968

2011-03-13T22:48:00.000-07:00

With the dust roiling up in the air, my sister and I shoveled our piles of junk into the middle of the floor. It wasn’t long before we needed to throw open the windows and doors so we could breathe. We were hanging around the house at Ft. Niagara Beach, by ourselves, under strict instructions to get that room cleaned up once and for all, or else! Or else, what? Probably nothing, really. But we knew we needed to get the job done. It would have been a drudge, had anyone stayed home with us to look over our shoulder, but thankfully, we had been deserted by the rest of the family.

WKBW, our favorite radio station blared on full volume. We had to shout over it to hear one another. As Aretha Franklin belted out, R- E- S- P- E- C- T! FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS TO ME!“, we accompanied her at the top of our lungs. There was something a little evil in our glee, knowing we must be bugging the heck out of our neighbors, especially Mrs. Steffan. We knew she was reporting my every movement to my ex-in-laws, and took special delight in giving her ammunition. They all seemed to think it would go in their favor for removing my kids from me.

Once the radio began replaying the re-plays of the re-plays as they did on Saturdays, we turned it off and kept on singing as we picked up the clothes off the bedroom floor and separated the dirty ones from the clean. Then we carefully refolded the one’s Mom had just piled on our beds a few days before. Funny how everything had landed on the floor, with everything else. Well, we couldn’t help it. We were teenage girls. Or, rather, my sister was the teenage girl. I was the newly divorced mother of two, who wished she were a teenager again. Being with my sister automatically made me recapture being a teenager. She was full of energy and enthusiasm that I had thought deserted me, until I was around her.

We got a good rendition of “Amen” going traipsing around the house, clapping our hands, and swinging our bodies as though we were in a hot revival meeting. (I had never been to one before, but now, I know that is how we were acting).

Sorting out all the papers and trash was the easiest part. Anything that looked like schoolwork got trashed by wadding it up and giving a quick overhand heave-ho into the wastebasket. It didn’t take long to have it overflowing. Using the same method for sorting the dirty clothes we giggled and laughed maniacally. We both would have been great on a girl’s basketball team!

In the midst of our enthusiasm, we got carried away by the Four Tops, as we hauled the dirty clothes into the laundry room to wash. Energized, and no longer isolated to our room, we decided to surprise Mom and clean up the whole house. So, we began cleaning the kitchen and bathroom. Then, singing louder over the vacuum with Diana Ross and the Supremes, we cleaned and straightened up the living room. Our voices getting hoarse, we changed to the Polish station that Mom’s friend, always Annie listened to. The rollicking polka music of the OOM-PAH-PAHed as we grabbed each other and polkaed around the house until we grew dizzy, and tripped over furniture. We landed on the floor, laughing gleefully aware of how rowdy we were being and how it must be really annoying the hell out of old Mrs. Steffan next door.

What would she put into her spy report this week?

~~~~~~~~~~

Note: The first picture is of my sister. The second one is of me.

Verna's Lines

2011-03-10T00:07:00.000-08:00

Spring cleaning has taken over my life. While going through old file boxes, I came across the following written to me by Verna, which I find as touching today as when I first read it.

When someone believes in you
It is easier
to believe in yourself.

To know that someone
will remember your star,
when everyone else has forgotten
it was ever shining at all,
keeps you looking to the sky.

It is good and strong
to be happy for yourself
and all that you do.

It's just that when someone like you
has faith in someone like me,
the happiness is easier to find.

Look to the light for it never burns out.

1990 B.J. Verna

Free Yale Education

2011-03-08T02:29:00.000-08:00

Open Yale Courses provides free and open access to a selection of introductory courses taught by distinguished teachers and scholars at Yale University. You can take these free classes online from the comfort of your home. The aim of the project is to expand access to educational materials for all who wish to learn.

When you click on the link, a random class is featured. If you look at the column on the left you will see a list of subjects in which the free classes are available.

For example: When I click on English there are four classes being offered. At the moment, I am most interested in Modern Poetry taught by Professor Langdon Hammer. So when I click on the class title, the class description page is revealed. This also includes a bio of Professor Hammer. At the bottom of the description paragraph, it says: view class sessions

Be sure to check the column on the left of this page, too. There is a way to download the complete class in Zip file if you do not want to do it one by one.

I learned about this from a very talented young writer, Nath Jones. Thank you, Nath!

The World Inside

2011-03-05T00:07:00.000-08:00

WRITING AND KNOWING

8th Annual Poetry Workshop with

Ellen Bass, Dorianne Laux, and Joseph Millar

July 24-29, 2011

at Esalen, Big Sur, CA

Esalen housing sometimes fills up fast, especially the less expensive rooms, so register soon. Online registration is open now at esalen.org

Scroll down to the bottom for poems by Dorianne, Joe and Ellen

There is a world inside each of us that we know better than anything else, and a world outside of us that calls for our attention. Our subject matter is always right with us. The trick is to find out what we know, challenge what we know, own what we know, and then give it away in language.

We will write poems, share our writing, and hear what our work touches in others. We'll also read model poems by contemporary poets and discuss aspects of the craft. But mainly this will be a writing retreat-- time to explore and create in a supportive community. Though the focus is on poetry, prose writers who want to enrich their language will find it a fertile environment.

There is a vitality, a life-force, an energy…that is translated through you into action. And because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. If you block it, it will never exist… It is not your business to determine how good it is…It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. --Martha Graham

The focus of this workshop is on generating new poems. Dorianne, Joe and Ellen will each give a talk on craft to help us extend our skills.

Dorianne Laux will talk on: The Spare Poem

After I've put everything in, what should I take out? Big question. HUGE. We’ll look at a few poems by established poets such as James Wright, Jack Gilbert, Malena Morling, Jane Kenyon and Mark Doty to see what they might have left on the cutting room floor, how setting, implication and image can help us say it without saying it, how less can be more.

Joe Millar will talk on: The Fork In the Road

This year Joe will talk about various places where the poem in progress can change direction or mood and the delight that can arise from such turns and surprises. We'll look at a few poems which shift and change their way down the page and consider some strategies for incorporating these techniques of mutability into our own writing.

Ellen Bass will talk on: Embodiment

The body is a great resource in poetry. By paying attention to the body and using physical detail, we can move our poems along the continuum from telling to showing, from abstract to concrete, from reporting to enacting. You don’t want your reader to say, “Oh, this poet feels really strongly about this.” You want readers to actually have the experience of that strong feeling themselves. We’ll look at poems which achieve this visceral impact, study how they do it, and practice some of those gestures ourselves.

Please join us if:

*You've hit a plateau in your writing and want to break through to the next level.

*You're just beginning and want to get started with supportive teachers.

*You're an experienced writer and just want a chance to learn more from the best.

*You're in a dry spell, due to lack of inspiration or time.

*You love to write and want a gorgeous, inspiring retreat.

Although the emphasis is on poetry, this workshop is open to prose writers too. Rich, textured, evocative language is the province of all writers, so this workshop will be applicable to writers of fiction and memoir as well.

Lastly, there's Esalen itself. If you've been to Esalen before, you already know it's one of the most magnificent places on the planet. If you haven't, don't postpone it. It's breathtakingly beautiful and deeply nourishing. We'll be having our group meetings in the Big Yurt this year. We'll also be breaking into smaller groups for individual attention. Participants will have an opportunity to work with all three teachers.

ELLEN BASS's most recent book of poems, The Human Line, was published by Copper Canyon Press in June 2007. She co-edited (with Florence Howe) the groundbreaking No More Masks! An Anthology of Poems by Women (Doubleday, 1973), has published several volumes of poetry, including Mules of Love (BOA, 2002) which won the Lambda Literary Award. Her poems have appeared in many magazines, including The Atlantic Monthly, The Progressive, The American Poetry Review, The New Republic, The Kenyon Review, and The Sun. She was awarded the Elliston Book Award for Poetry from the University of Cincinnati, Nimrod/Hardman’s Pablo Neruda Prize, The Missouri Review’s Larry Levis Award, the Greensboro Poetry Prize, the New Letters Poetry Prize, the Chautauqua Poetry Prize, a Pushcart Prize, and a Fellowship from the California Arts Council. She is also co-author of Free Your Mind: The Book for Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Youth (HarperCollins 1996) and The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse (Harper Collins 1988, 1994), which has sold over a million copies and has been translated into ten languages. She teaches in many beautiful locations and at Pacific University's MFA Program in Oregon.

DORIANNE LAUX’s fifth collection of poetry, The Book of Men, was published by W.W. Norton in February, 2011. Her fourth book, Facts about the Moon, is the recipient of the Oregon Book Award and was short-listed for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. Laux is also author of Awake, What We Carry, finalist for the National Book Critic’s Circle Award, and Smoke, as well as two fine small press editions, Superman: The Chapbook and Dark Charms, both from Red Dragonfly Press. Co-author of The Poet's Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry, she’s the recipient of two Best American Poetry Prizes, a Pushcart Prize, two fellowships from The National Endowment for the Arts and a Guggenheim Fellowship. Widely anthologized, her work has appeared in the Best of APR, The Norton Anthology of Contemporary Poetry and The Best of the Net. In 2001, she was invited by late poet laureate Stanley Kunitz to read at the Library of Congress. She has been teaching poetry in private and public venues since 1990 and since 2004 at Pacific University’s Low Residency MFA Program. In the summers she teaches at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California and Truro Center for the Arts at Castle Hill. Her poems have been translated into French, Spanish, Italian, Korean, Romanian, Dutch, Afrikkans and Brazilian Portuguese and her selected works, In a Room with a Rag in my Hand, have been translated into Arabic by Camel/Kalima Press. Recent poems appear in Cimarron Review, Cerise Press, Margie, The Seattle Review, Tin House and The Valparaiso Review. She and her husband, poet Joseph Millar, moved to Raleigh in 2008 where she teaches poetry in the MFA program at North Carolina State University.

JOSEPH MILLAR is the author of Fortune, from Eastern Washington University Press. His first collection, Overtime (2001) was finalist for the Oregon Book Award and the Robert H. Winner Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America. Millar grew up in Pennsylvania, attended Johns Hopkins University and spent 25 years in the San Francisco Bay area, working at a variety of jobs, from telephone repairman to commercial fisherman. His poems have appeared in numerous magazines including The American Poetry Review, The Southern Review, TriQuarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Shenandoah, DoubleTake, New Letters, Ploughshares, Manoa, and River Styx. His work has won fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts in Poetry, Montalvo Center for the Arts, Oregon Literary Arts and a 2008 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. In 1997 he gave up his job as a telephone installation foreman to teach. He now lives in Raleigh, NC and teaches at Pacific University’s Low Residency MFA Program in Oregon and yearly at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, CA. and will be a featured teacher and reader at this year's Dodge Poetry Festival in Newark, NJ. Pulitzer Prize winner Yusef Komunyakaa has said, “There's a tenderness at the core of Fortune, where the commonplace becomes atypical and fantastical, and each poem possesses a voice that summons and reveals. Joseph Millar is a poet we can believe.” His third collection of poems, Blue Rust, will be published in fall of 2011 by Carnegie Mellon Press.

Esalen fees cover tuition, food and lodging and vary according to accommodations--ranging from $570 to $1105. The least expensive rate is for sleeping bag space which can be very comfortable, but it's limited, so you need to sign up for it early. Some work-scholarship assistance is available, as well as small prepayment discounts and senior discounts.

All arrangements and registration must be made directly with Esalen. If you have questions about the workshop itself, please email Ellen or call her at 831-426-8006.

Please register directly with Esalen

at 831-667-3005 or visit www.esalen.org

Enough Music

Sometimes, when we're on a long drive,

and we've talked enough and listened

to enough music and stopped twice,

one to eat, once to see the view,

we fall into this rhythm of silence.

It swings back and forth between us

like a rope over a lake.

Maybe it's what we don't say

that saves us.

--Dorianne Laux (from What We Carry)

*******

NATIVITY

Long after daybreak they were still trying

to deliver me, the birth blood dropping

on the hospital tiles, glittering under the lights.

I saw my father’s corporal’s stripes,

his tan army shirt that smelled of tobacco,

I heard the cold wind no one remembers

pouring out of Canada.

My mother wrapped me up in her robe

fragrant with camphor and sweat,

hushing my desolate howls.

She loved me and she hated me

through those early months

when I wanted everything she had,

and all my father wanted

aside from her warm, pale body,

was to finish his hitch and get

the hell out of the army forever.

Each morning fine grains of salt

glinted like ice on the kitchen table

and like the insatiable mammal I was

I fastened onto her chafed, dark nipples.

They named me Rent Money

because I didn’t pay any,

they named me Popsicle, Little Tongue, Gasser.

In August the Japanese surrendered

and he mustered out in Wisconsin.

We headed east in a ‘38 Studebaker,

its big engine swallowing the miles

of America, wheat fields and highway,

Chicago and Cleveland,

and they named me So Long

It’s Been Good to Know You.

--Joseph Millar

******

The World Has Need of You

…everything here seems to need us…

--Rilke

I can hardly imagine it

as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient

prayer of my arms swinging

in counterpoint to my feet.

Here I am, suspended

between the sidewalk and twilight,

the sky dimming so fast it seems alive.

What if you felt the invisible

tug between you and everything?

A boy on a bicycle rides by,

his white shirt open, flaring

behind him like wings.

It's a hard time to be human. We know too much

and too little. Does the breeze need us?

The cliffs? The gulls?

If you've managed to do one good thing,

the ocean doesn't care.

But when Newton's apple fell toward the earth,

the earth, ever so slightly, fell

toward the apple as well.

--Ellen Bass

Calls for Submissions

2011-03-03T01:14:00.000-08:00

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: ECHOES, A POETRY JOURNAL
Deadline: March 31

Their featured poet is Todd Boss, author of Yellowrocket
(W.W.Norton Publishers).
Guidelines can be found on the website, EchoesPoetryJournal.com or emailing Echoes@earthlink.net.

****************************************

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: WRITER ADVICE ANNOUNCES ITS SIXTH ANNUAL FLASH PROSE CONTEST.
Deadline: April 15.
Prize: $150

Looking for short fiction or memoir up to 750 words. Fee: $10 for processing only or $20 for detailed evaluation. Visit www.writeradvice.com for complete guidelines. E-mail questions but not submissions to Lgood67334@comcast.net.

B. Lynn Goodwin
Writer Advice Managing Editor, www.writeradvice.com

*******************************

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: GAY AND GRAY, AN ANTHOLOGY OF MATURE GLBT WRITERS
Deadline: April, 30, 2011.

Seeking creative non-fiction, short stories, fiction or memoir, poetry, digital imagery, and photography. Fiction and non-fiction submissions should be a maximum of 5,000 words. Each writer may submit three pieces for consideration. Reprints are acceptable as long as the author retains the copyright.

Submissions should be sent as attachments to an email and not pasted into the body of the e-mail. Multiple submissions are welcome and should be sent in separate e-mails. Use 12-point Times New Roman, single-spaced. Authors should include a photo when possible. The photo may be taken from any point in the author’s life. Also please include a brief biography.

While there is no specific theme, content may focus on aging in the gay community, historical hindsight and/or perspective unique to the GBLTQ person 50 and older.

E-mail submissions to: submit2gayNgray@aol.com

********************************

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: SWAN SCYTHE PRESS POETRY MANUSCRIPT CONTEST
Deadline: June 1, 2011

Swan Scythe Press announces its 2011 Poetry Chapbook contest.
Winner will receive publication and 25 copies of a perfect-bound chapbook with full-color cover.
For Guidelines: http://www.swanscythe.com/contest.html

****************************************

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: SNAIL MAIL REVIEW, A NEW AND UPCOMING LITERARY JOURNAL SEEKING SUBMISSIONS FOR SECOND ISSUE
Deadline: June 30, 2011

Please send 3-5 poems of no more than 35 lines and/or 1-7 pages of fiction to:

Snail Mail Review
c/o Kris Price, 3000 Coffee Rd, Chateau Apt #B6, Modesto, CA, 95355

Contact us if you have any further questions at snailmailreview@gmail.com

Also, you can find us on Facebook by searching Snail Mail Review

*******************************

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF GAY AND LESBIAN POETRY
Deadline: June 30, 2011
Edited by Shane Allison, to be published in Fall 2011

Open to performance poetry, academic and traditional forms as well as experimental. Themes: Coming out, sexuality, politics, growing up gay, civil rights, discrimination, love and relationships, same-sex marriages, erotica or serving in the military.

Submit unpublished work, or work that was published since 2000. 5 to 10 poems as long as queer content is relevant. They welcome queer voices from outside the US.

Submission guidelines: Title file with the initials of the anthology and author’s last name. Include your name, mailing address, email, and a bio. Submit work by email as an attachment in rtf format, to newqueerpoetry@gmail.com
If poems have previously been published please include in your document where and when and be sure you hold the rights to your work.

------------------------------

THE INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S WRITING GUILD PRESENTS
THE ALCHEMY OF LANGUAGE
Theme: Turning Simple Words into Shimmering Works
Friday, March 18 to Sunday, March 20, 2011

Bosch Bahái School, 500 Comstock Lane, Santa Cruz, California.
The California Conference, in its 28th year, takes place at a 67-acre retreat center situated in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Presenters: Rachel de Baere, Richelle McClain, Mary Reynolds Thompson
To register, please go to www.iwwg.org

*******************************

WRITERS’ RETREAT: THE LAMBDA LITERARY FOUNDATION ANNOUNCES THE 2011 RETREAT FOR EMERGING LGBT VOICES.
August 6-13, 2011
at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA).
Deadline: April 15, 2011 for applications and scholarship requests.

Begun in 2007, the Writers’ Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices is the first program of its kind ever offered to LGBTQ writers: a one-week intensive workshop immersion in fiction, nonfiction, or poetry. Retreat is open to emerging LGBT writers of any age. This year’s faculty includes Carla Trujillo, Ellery Washington, Eloise Klein Healy, Claire McNab.

Space is limited to 9-12 students per workshop. Some publication history is desirable but not required. To download a PDF of the 2011 Retreat application, go tolambdaliterary.org.

Overcoming Setbacks

2011-03-02T00:45:00.000-08:00

I will encounter setbacks along the way to my goals. These setbacks may depress me and crush my spirit.

But I will refuse to accept defeat, for these setbacks are only temporary. I will fight back. I will never stop trying, for there's always another way, usually a better way.

I will always remember that many of the world's most renowned leaders throughout history overcame immense obstacles, rebounded from crushing defeat and refused to yield to seeming disaster.

~~~~
Found in my old scrapbook
Author unknown

Down the Well of Darkness

2011-02-27T01:56:00.000-08:00

I've been sliding through life in a gray zone for many months. It's a sticky kind of slide, though. It stops me in my tracks whenever I get some kind of momentum going in my thoughts or actions. Then I fizzle out and the numbness becomes the gray.

I asked for help from a professional who had connections. She pulled her strings and got me in to see a very important man who used the opportunity to have one of his students take her exam by having her do the interview. I accepted that. After all, his expertise and knowledge would be present observing both of us.

I guess I appear too normal when I'm gray. My flatness indicated to him that I was stable and didn't need any help. He didn't tell me that himself. I only learned later.

I've lived long enough to know what comes next, and here it is born upon me again. It starts with diffuse dreams of sadness that prevent a full night's sleep. I awaken so early that I ask myself, "What are you doing up?" Before the realization hits me, I feel it in my body. I don't need my rational mind to tell me. There it is, that unrelenting greif that has no reality.

When they speak of anguish, I think of some poor woman who's husband and child have tragically died. When she learns of it she feels her body turn inside out. That's what I feel, even though my loved ones are healthy and safe and all is well. Yet that inner twistedness wrings me out. It's a wet rag clotting my throat, squeezing out the moisture on the edge of my lashes with no release. If I don't guard my soul like a warrior, I would be on the floor curled, lifeless and dark.

I've learned to ride it out, just like the flat gray numbness. But, it's now flat. It sinks down. And so I hang on to the rope hung over the well of greatness about to swallow me up. Is it my grip on that rope giving me those sensations of ants crawling on my face? Or is it just my face reaching for the sunlight peeping lightly in the high distance?

I know where this leads. I've been on this journey before, too many times. I want out. But, the slimy walls are lumpy and hard, too straight up to give me impetus to climb. I cannot let go of the rope. I must hang on.

I seek an appointment with the new family doctor. Only one intake behind us, will she believe the desperation I cannot explain? She does, but hesitates. Blood tests must be done first. I must hold on a little longer.

Reflections on Moodiness

2011-02-26T01:16:00.000-08:00

It starts with a feeling of numbness. The world is flat and so am I, like in a cartoon. Flat and gray. Even my energy is flat. I cannot conjure up more than a smile when others laugh at something funny.

I ride along like that, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. But, I always know what comes next. I wait it out, hoping I can pick myself up, hoping it will go away, hoping the sun will break through the fog clouding my brain.

Occasionally it does clear up and I can feel okay. Sometimes my okay gets to be more than okay and I feel great. In fact I feel wonderful. I can do anything when I feel like that. Yes! The world is round, full and three dimensional. Though, I would most likely tell you at those times, there are more than seven dimensions. That's how my mania goes.

It also goes a bit sour, too. I get agitated and irritable. I don't bite people's heads off, but I certainly have been known to go for the jugular. I hate myself then. It's a big let down after having been so inflated with my own self adoration and that of others. I've never been able to figure out how I become so popular during those times. I'm still the same person. How did the mania magnetize me?

I've been fortunate that my mania is the "hypo" kind, a low grade sort. Still, today I would trade my present mood for some of the happiness I feel when I'm in that riding high kind of mania I've experienced.

It's been a while since I've been there creating art, writing stories and poems, doing genealogy, sight seeing, using my camera to catch the nuances of light on color. I miss that part of me. She's so articulate and clever and fully enjoys life.

Oh My Darling

2011-02-21T02:22:00.000-08:00

Sitting there reading I feel her eyes staring at me. Did she bore a hole into my brain the last ten minutes to impress my mind to think of her just then? Or, did she break her reverie the same moment I did? I smile. She winks. I wink back. She winks again. We play this game a lot. Closing both eyes, she stretches her lithe body, and yawns, giving the impression she is bored with me. At the last second she re-opens them to see if I’m still enchanted. Then, petulantly, she sticks her tongue out. I make a similar face. She gets up, comes over to me and sits contentedly in my lap. She’s so enticing! I caress her. I’m so privileged, she chose to spend her life with me.

Some may think she is ordinary, but to me, she’s beautiful. Yes, she is on the puny side, but, courageous, even tough. Her under-slung jaw gives an exotic pouty look, but can never hide her Mona Lisa smile. Some genetic quirk inherited from her mother, gives her a flat nose. No elegant proboscis, that! Yet, her sea-green eyes. Ah! They hypnotize! The quiver ‘neath my hand when I caress her, I know just where to touch to give her pleasure. What a gratifying responsive creature she is. I can’t keep my hands off her. Which may explain her temperamental behaviour. She’s so independent. She only permits me to touch her when she wants it. Doesn’t matter what I want. If she’s not in the mood, forget it! She’ll reach out and smack my hand. Some of my friends think she’s cruel and I should put her in her place.

I can’t complain though. When I really need her, when I’m sick, she never leaves my side. A devoted nurse; I swear, her very presence is healing! Sometimes I stop breathing momentarily. Apnea, they call it. She gives me a gentle nudge until I awaken, airless, gratefully gasping for breath. I hug her to me and thank her once again for being there to watch out for me. She doesn’t hog the bed or steal the covers from me. If I have a rough night, tossing and turning she’ll get up and go sleep somewhere else, so I can have the bed to myself.

She adores my singing voice and stops whatever she is doing to run to me. Especially if I whistle, her favorite song, “Oh, My Darling, Clementine”. Whenever I go out, she is content to stay at home and waits for me ‘til all hours without complaint. No matter what time it is, she’s right there at the door to warmly greet me. Now, That's devotion!

However, she sometimes does insist on going with me. At first, it was a little awkward, but now I’ve grown used to it. As I’m ready to go out the door, she sneaks up behind me and jumps on my shoulder. She maintains her balance while I lock up, proceed down the stairs and out the door, through the parking lot, to get into my car. Other times I just have to head her off before she makes the leap. She understands when I tell her. “Not this time, My Darling. Then, she’ll growl and grumble at me, but, she won’t really be angry.

This beguiling female is my cat.

Written 1991 about Keli Clementine

Remembrance Quilt

2011-02-19T01:48:00.000-08:00

The big black garbage bag, shiny and ominous sat in the middle of my living room floor. I looked at my best friend, despair emanating from eyes; a little moist and red, a little blank, a little begging for release. I was surprised at the immensity of the job before me. How had the simple offer of help turn into this big black lump of death's leftovers? I started toward the bag, and Shirley put her hand up. "No, not yet!"

I stood there on the brink of suspense, waiting for her next move. She walked into the kitchen, turned her back, and said, "Okay, now!"

I felt so bad for her. How would I feel if my son had walked into a train? I wouldn't be as brave as Shirley, fetching his clothing from his closet a thousand miles away while his wife stood by weeping. I thought I should never have made the offer of a "remembrance quilt". It was obviously too soon. But, she told me Marissa was getting rid of her son's belongings, had called the Goodwill to haul them away, even his racing bike, they found at the top of the canyon where he had climbed down to put himself on the track at the most convenient time. I had mentioned making the quilt without thinking there would be an urgency about it. Long after my Grandfather died, I'd made one of his shirts, blue and white, a simple patchwork, a comforting summer quilt, that lost it's way after his wife died. I often wondered who slept under it not knowing the story beneath my hand stitching.

As I opened the bag, I began pulling out the jumble of men's suits and ties, winter sweaters, and jackets. This was going to be challenging, and depressing to say the least. How could I make a sweet remembrance for my best friend out of all these dark colors, this heavy fabric that would suppress her to lie beneath?

Eventually, Shirley slowly entered the living room and sat down on the sofa, dragging the bag over to her. We folded the clothes in silence. As the bag emptied, I was so relieved to discover summer khakis, many different colored shorts, light weight hawaiian print shirts. I was so grateful I could have kissed Wayne's ghost. Then Shirley spoke, "I discovered these in the back of the armoir, hidden in shoe boxes. I didn't understand why he would go to such trouble to hide them away, until the police came to the door. They had found his suicide note. He killed himself because he was troubled about his feelings toward other men and long term knowledge that he was bi-sexual. I couldn't believe it. Wayne has never shown any signs. Marissa and he always seemed so compatible. But, he wrote that he couldn't pretend anymore to be a good Christian. They belonged to that strict church, you know. They never would have approved of these short sleeve shirts, these bright colors. He said he couldn't live with himself, had been planning this a long time."

I swallowed. I couldn't think of anything to say, nothing that would comfort her, nothing that would make any sense, nothing that would undo the damage on top of the pain she already suffered learning her son was dead, committing suicide in a most gruesome way, leaving his body unrecognizable. And now knowing how tortured he had been, not just depressed but living his own kind of private hell.

"If only I would have known. If only he would have told me. He knows I am open minded. Maybe I could have helped him. Maybe I could have... " But, I could see her shaking her head back and forth in realization that there was nothing she could do.

Just for Laughs

2011-02-17T13:08:00.000-08:00

The very talented Bobby McFerrin and the Wizard of OZ

The intro is a mild build up.

Have fun!

Need I Say More, My Love?

2011-02-14T00:08:00.000-08:00

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Old Crone

2011-02-05T01:17:00.000-08:00

She stood in the copse of trees breathing in the cedar, wishing for a place to have a flame. Turning, turning to touch the branches, tilting her head back to see the circle of exposed sky. She waited. Not yet. Not yet.

She sat upon the earth drawing circles in the dirt reaching her mind deep down to the bedrock and watched the moon rise over the rooftops. Maybe now.

Standing, her melody rose from her throat in muted tones, only meant for the cedars, to bless them, to thank them for their existence, to ask them to communicate through their roots across the miles of soil until the connection with her willow was created. She waited, watching her breath curl in the cold air. Then, turning the directions she tilted her head and there it was, her sister, her mother, her lover, her soul... the moon in all it's fullness and splendor.

She extended her fingers to the sky pulling down the light, filling herself with Great Spirit until the moon passed beyond the edge of the cedars. In deepest exhilaration and tranquility, she felt herself shrink a little, as she pulled in the reins of her thoughts like fairies dancing around her head. No, not fairies. Too childlike for her. Just give her some sparkles. She's too serious for she has passed beyond summer now.

That was then. This is now. Now she sits quietly on her sofa imagining the soil, imagining the cedars, imagining the moon, even though they are right outside her door. She's peaceful about it. No need to teach anymore. Others are doing that now. Besides, it takes to much energy now. If only she could find the other ones again and sit among them, or maybe on the outskirts when they dance. She could borrow some energy to be present. She could take some energy home with her to last until the next moon.

She's tired now, wants to rest. Her heart is not in it tonight.

Karen's Story - A Snippet 2

2011-01-29T00:06:00.000-08:00

It wasn't until summertime that someone actually made friends with her. It wasn't me, though. I was surprised to learn it was my little sister. One day, I found the two of them, sitting on the ground leaning against the trunk of the old cherry tree eating tomatoes picked fresh from our garden. An unlikely pair, they looked odd together, Karen, tall, pale and gangly next to my short, rosy faced 8 year old sister. Karen looked more bedraggled than she had throughout the school year, her long bruised legs barely covered now by her too small dress. That same dress I'd always seen her wearing to school.

Karen, shyly kept her eyes averted from me until I asked her how old she was. I was shocked to learn she was a few weeks from her 13th birthday. I was 16 at the time. She seemed so much younger playing games and giggling with my sister. As the days went by I realized Karen was waiting outside at the edge of our property, probably since dawn, until my sister got up and went outside. So I invited her in and gave her breakfast. She didn't turn me down and thanked me profusely. That girl could put away a lot of food!

Her eyes spoke volumes. I just didn't know how to interpret the message. I thought I knew then why the guarded, sad eyes. Her mother had died and she lived in that shack with her father who left her alone to manage throughout the day as he went to work. No wonder she spent all her time hanging out with my sister. As they ran and played across the woods and pastures, the dogs lolling along with them Karen bloomed and ripened with the apple trees. I liked to think it was the three square meals we provided her every day.

A short time before school was to start in the fall I was up in my room sewing my new clothes. Farm girls did that back then. I heard the girls shreiking in joy and I went to the window to see what was going on. They were jumping up and down and going in circles, Karen holding some dollar bills in her hand. I don't know why it made me suspicious, but I went downstairs and called them in to have lemonade. Karen had the money rolled tightly in her hand as she whispered in my sister's ear and passed it on to her.

"What's going on?" I asked, wondering if the girls had stolen the money from the old man who took care of the chickens and slept in the converted cow shed. Old Jim had been a fixture on the farm since we had moved there and the landlord gave him the right to live there until he died, as he had worked for his family as a farmhand for generations. Old Jim swore like a sailor and drank too much in my opinion. I didn't care for him and steered clear. I knew he had recently recieved his social security check as his friend, Clarence with the old Bathtub Nash, had driven by to pick him up so the two of them could go into town and buy booze.

"Will you sew some clothes for Karen, for school? She has money to buy the fabric."

"And where did this money come from?"

"Old Jim."

I couldn't believe my ears. Not only did they steal the money but they were stupid enough to tell me about it. "You girls go put that money back from where you got it! Or I'm telling Mom!"

My sister, defiant, came to Karen's rescue. "But, she didn't steal it. She earned it. Jim asked her to clean up his place and gave her the money for it."

I was relieved and agreed to sew some new school clothes for Karen. It began to bother me as more money and more requests for new clothes came every few days.

How to Binge on Less Than 300 Calories

2011-01-28T00:10:00.000-08:00

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"Do you want to lose weight?"

"No. I've given up caring."

"Then, why did you call about this program?"

"I don't know. Maybe it will rub off on me and I will magically lose weight."

I didn't believe I was a "binge" personality, but I called anyway to ask about the study at Stanford University Medical Center. After a four hour interview with many questions and some testing I was accepted into the study. I begin next Tuesday.

I realize it must be my evening munching on "goodies" that qualified me as a binge eater. I was in denial because if I eat too much, my stomach pays me back with pain and suffering. So, I considered myself to be a "cautious" over eater. In some ways I am still in denial. It's not like I ate huge mounds of food. That's a fallacy that many people believe about those who are overweight. My problem was the high calorie density of the food I call goodies. And it is my lack of aerobic exercise that keeps my weight stable. Overweight but stable while climbing and falling the same ten pounds.

(Why I don't get enough exercise is another story)

Since I had a sudden gain over the holidays, and several days of my stomach getting even, I attempted to keep track of my intake. I threw away my goodies, and decided to just eat my healthier foods. Yet, I've been struggling. Is it habit that I spend my evenings craving food? I feel so hungry, even if I have eaten three meals plus snack per day. Is it that I want to feel that full stomach feeling? Is it a way to bury my stress? Habit... Hunger... bury stress... Maybe all three

I have altered the calorie count of my food choices and now I "binge" on salad. I mean SALAD. I live in a part of the country where salad making ingredients are plentiful all year long. So I have no excuse to not enjoy them.

Here's the recipe for tonight's binge:

272 calories 17 grams protein

1 ½ cup  SPRING MIX BABY LETTUCE - 10 calories, 1 gram protein

1 cup BABY SPINACH  - 7 calories, 1 gram protein

½ cup chopped CELERY - 7 calories .35 gram protein

½ cup sliced & peeled ENGLISH CUCUMBER, - 8 calories .34 gram protein

½ cup shredded CARROT - 25 calories .5 gram protein

1 medium, chopped APPLE - 35 calories 1 gram protein

½ cup TOMATO slices 20 calories 0 gram protein

½ cup  KNUDSEN FAT FREE COTTAGE CHEESE 80 calories - 13 gram protein

2 Tbsp LITEHOUSE YOGURT BLEU CHEESE DRESSING 80 calories 1 gram protein

fresh LEMON JUICE to taste

Please note:

I add water to the dressing so it will cover my salad more evenly and mix in with the cottage cheese.

It takes me about an hour to eat all this.

I'm not advertising the brand name products. They just happen to be what I use. Sure do like that salad dressing, though.

I prefer English Cucumbers because they taste better, keep their freshness longer and my tummy likes them better.

This is what Wikipedia has to say about English Cucumbers:
English cucumbers can grow as long as 2 feet. They are nearly seedless, have a delicate skin which is pleasant to eat, and are sometimes marketed as “Burpless”, because the seeds and skin of other varieties of cucumbers are said to give some people gas. Most commonly grown in greenhouses, these parthenocarpic cucumbers are often found in grocery markets shrink-wrapped in plastic.

Karen's Story - A Snippet

2011-01-26T22:06:00.000-08:00

Beyond the end of the road, the girl who lived in the apple orchard shack got on the school bus every day wearing the same faded nondescript cotton dress. While climbing the steps, she tightly gripped her schoolbooks. I wondered if she was afraid of dropping them. Her straggly brown hair hung limp and dirty over her eyes as she kept her head down looking at her dirty finger nails.

She always took the same seat directly behind the driver, stared out the window, and never spoke to others. Not that anyone ever wanted to speak to her anyway, except maybe to pick on her. But, lucky for her, she was more invisible than that. She was considered to be one of those "Cootie" kids.

I was very curious about her; wondered how anybody could be so poor as to not have a change of clothes.

We were poor, too, after the bankruptcy. But, at least my parents got decent clothes for us at the thrift shop and hand-me-downs from friends. We grew our own vegetables and raised chickens and eggs. We weren't bone skinny. I wondered why she was so skinny and most of all, how she could fall asleep on the way home from school on the bus and not wake up in all the noise. Why was she so tired?

Does He Ring Twice?

2011-01-14T11:19:00.000-08:00

The postman does NOT ring twice! He smacks the window where the cat sits watching the world go by. Does he dislike cats? Does he just have nothing better to do to entertain himself as he walks from house to house?

My new kitten, Buffy (the Vampire Slayer) was in the window at the time. At least it was her brave little self instead of my nervous Bambi, or shy Spyder, or obese Ninja. They would have freaked out. Buffy simply jumped down. So far, she has not returned to the window ledge.

A friend was visiting at the time. We sat at the table with our coffee (tea for me) as I opened the package the post man had just delivered earlier. Is he tired of delivering the little treasures I keep winning on Ebay?

I was surprised and shocked at the sudden smack on the window. My friend, on the other hand, reacted quickly, jumping up and going out the door to give the postman a piece of his mind. That surprised me too. But, the postman is a fast walker and already two houses further down the street.

No, the post man does not ring twice. He smacks the window and scares the cat!

(Can you tell that I am miffed?)

Begged to be Written

2011-01-13T00:05:00.000-08:00

I couldn't sleep but three hours, too much on my mind; my heart heavy.

So, at six when the kitty brought me his mouse, I flung it across the room for him to chase. He'll slam himself into a wall to fetch it and return to me, panting, with the thing crammed in his mouth.

I picked up my book to while away the time hoping I would grow drowsy, but to no avail. Got up, made tea and toast, and a poem begged to be written.

My eyes sting but do not cry,

Another friend to face surgery again,

another bone tumor in the skull.

How much can the front

of the face be cut away?

For years now, my friend,

phone calls across miles,

him joking all the time.

My insides churn,

My throat protests.

Why I took this on,

this helping others

with the same disease,

seems hollow to me now.

So hopeful was I

to imagine bringing others

down that familiar path,

one surgery after another.

Little did I know so many

would result in death.

I ask myself why did I survive.

Doctor Sherlock and the Mystery Solved

2011-01-12T00:03:00.000-08:00

Brr! It's quite cold and windy for this time of year, and freezing at night. There is even a wind chill factor! Would you believe it, in mid-coastal California? I guess I shouldn't complain, though. Other parts of the country are still having much more serious weather than here. I've lived in New York state and Indiana. I know what that is like.

I went to see the Neurologist to find out what he would say about the recent occurrence of breakthrough seizures. Lucky for me that I carry little plastic bags of my prescriptions with me. They resemble zip-loc bags, but are smaller and thicker. I get them at the pharmacy, and put my drug labels on them, so I don't have to carry a lot of bottles in my purse. Dr. G (stands for Gorgeous!) went over them all, looking for a correlation between them and the Lamictal which I take for the seizures. He determined it doesn't seem likely that there is an interaction between my meds.

I like it when a physician is willing to play Sherlock Holmes, and try to figure out the mystery of why something is going on with a patient. He could have just played the guessing game and said, "Let's try something else and see if that helps." I can understand why a physician might do that. Sometimes it would be too time consuming. Otherwise, if one has a large practice, perhaps the easier way to challenge a problem on their best guess based upon what they might know. As for me, Dr. Sherlock Gorgeous is the most fascinating challenge, as I really have to think, and respond carefully to the questions he asks. It's really hard to describe the seizures when I am not exactly aware of all that was going on! Some things that I take for granted, he was able to pluck out of my communications, and deduce the probable cause of this latest development.

As soon as Dr. G put two and two together, he pointed out that my insomnia might be the culprit. It clicked with me right away and was so simple! Among other things I have had a life-long pattern of sleep disorder. I wont go into all the boring details. Seizure prone people apparently need their beauty rest! We discussed it and if I can just get myself back into a good sleep pattern, then I wont really need to take any sleep aids, which is my preference. In the meantime, I have a prescription for break through seizures.

Finally! A chance to go for my walk! Since I was nowhere near home, traffic was heavy, and the wind still so cold, I opted for walking in the mall. It is nice and flat in there. I spent nearly an hour walking. Though, I did dawdle a little bit, and at one point I did break down and buy something. I wouldn't mind walking in the mall regularly, but I would have to leave my purse in the car!

Something My Sister Wrote to a Distraught Friend

2011-01-11T00:12:00.000-08:00

I see you, with your feet planted firmly on Mother Earth, absorbing blessed strength.

Your eyes fixed on the horizon, realizing your dreams.

And your heart connected with Spirit, knowing your truth.

And all is well.

~~~ Suzan Deane-Simpson

A Day of Revelation - Personal Journal

2011-01-10T04:11:00.000-08:00

"When the Cat Lady sleeps well and awakens refreshed it is because she sleeps with a cat sitting on her chest, purring in her face! The cat is her instant alarm with whiskers ticking her nose." You may quote me on that.

The preacher man at the holiday party was slimmer than the last time I saw him. I didn't think too much of it when he told those interested that he had done it the "easy" way. All he did was use a free online site where he recorded his daily intake of food. After the holidays I suddenly realized I had quickly, the easy way, gained too many pounds from over-grazing the highly laden table for several days. I was in shock. Had I really nibbled that many calories? How could I be so blind as to not notice. After all, I had gotten sick from the overindulgences. That's more than a subtle hint. But in my mindlessness, I didn't notice until too late.

Yet, the scale does not lie. I called to learn what the site was my Reverend Grandson had referred to. I signed up and have to agree, it is the easy way. There's no pressure, no insistent articles. No ridiculous ads. It is straightforward and useful. As long as I record my daily intake I naturally begin to limit portions and think twice about having seconds. I've also incorporated some exercise. (It's about time!) And spent more time contemplating and meditating.

The results have been mixed. I've lost ten pounds, but have gained back two. There is a place on the site where one can record one's exercise. It provides you with the calories burned for those exercises. Can you believe? You burn calories just sleeping! Hmm. I wonder if it is more if there's a cat on your chest. After all, one must work harder to breathe. RIght?

I went for a walk down by the ocean this morning realizing that I was in a low mood, and discouraged that I am not putting my all into this. The dichotomy is that I am doing too much. The intentions of my mind are stronger than my body. It betrays me! My body has it's weaknesses and cannot live up to the pressure I put on it to perform. For example: I had breakthrough seizures (Simple Partial) after my walk and it left me "out of sorts" for most of the afternoon. I struggle with clarity afterwards, feel unfocused and somewhat fuzzy. I don't like it. It's annoying. Will be seeing doctor tomorrow afternoon and I intend to discuss this with him. I am pretty sure he will encourage me to follow through on the walking program, but I hope there is some method or treatment to prevent the same results I had today.

Upon reflection I think about how, when I am well rested, that I don't have this problem. After a sleepless night, the seizures are more likely to occur. Perhaps I need more cats to sleep with me. Eh? I also have some books on gentle exercise. I have the feeling I need to pull them out from the shelves and re-read them to refresh my resolve.

Sweeping Out the Old Year

2010-12-30T14:41:00.000-08:00

Shirley stood in the doorway, broom in hand, fiercely shouting out into the 15 degree night, her dogs jumping excitedly about her feet. "BE GONE! BE GONE!" I was absolutely sure that whatever or whomever she was shouting at, most certainly had high-tailed it out of there. Still, it felt weird to observe this elderly gentile lady turn into a New Year witch.

Though she was a practicing Episcopalian, I knew she also had "aulde ways" about her. I couldn't quite join the two together in my mind, but she was fine with it. There had been times when she seemed to glow with with lunar light, or sprinkle the stars over a room full of people with her exuberance and wisdom. I remember the time we sat against the tree trunk and I felt enfolded by it as she introduced me to her own special source of strength.

When I think about it, I realize that her ways were little different from anyone else. As a society, we make a lot of noise celebrating the New Year. We leave the past year and all the mistakes we made in it behind us, sweeping it out of the way to make room for the fresh future with a new freedom in our hearts.

As I wrote about last year in this blog, my mother, raised in the hills of Pennsylvania, sent me out in the snow on New Years day clanging pot lids together to scare away all the bad luck from the previous year. Later that day, she scoured and cleaned the house from floor to ceiling. Another form of sweeping out the old year. From an early age, I learned about resolutions, promises we make to ourselves for self improvement. I asked myself how I could stop myself from being a naughty girl throughout the whole year, not just through the Christmas season, and I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish. Some of which was not always so high minded.

I know many people do not observe this old practice of resolutions, but I do. I take stock of my life. Like the ancient pagan God, Janus, I look back over the year and contemplate how it unfolded. Sometimes I am disappointed that I didn't achieve a certain goal. But, I don't allow myself to dwell on it as I am always pleased about some aspect of my life that turned out well. And like Janus, I look forward to the future with eyes open to possibilities.

When Shirley slammed the door against the night demons, she turned to me with a fire in her eye and said, "No regrets! Just go out there and live it with determination and spirit!"

Rest in Peace Shirley 1930 - 2009

Breakfast Treats

2010-12-30T00:12:00.000-08:00

Cinnamon coffee cake muffins and mini donuts. That's what I bought before getting ready to drive to Los Angeles. There would be many family members and friends present. I was sure breakfast would be forgotten. And, it was! I forgot to bring the many boxes of muffins and mini donuts. Because they were sitting there waiting for me when I arrived home, that is why I threw it all in the garbage yesterday. Oh, I could have eaten them. I could have eaten them all, given enough time. I could have scarfed them down in a matter of days. But, after the plethora of sweets and treats laden upon the table during those Christmas days, and the nauseated, heartburn pay-back of my innards, I knew eating them would be the worst thing I could do. Still, being the junk food junkie, I knew I would be tempted to make myself sick again. Therefore the toss into the garbage. They sit there now beneath other garbage, there insidious vibrations mocking me.

At least I have the presence of mind to NOT go digging down to fetch the "treasures" in a rescue attempt. Even the Lindt chocolate truffles still in their wrappers are laid to rest. I will not tell myself it is a sin to waste them. I wish it would stop raining long enough for me to haul it all to the outside trash, as it sits here in the house smoldering in angry rejection that they will not be eaten. "Too bad" I say. My new sweets and carbohydrates are going to be the kind Mother Nature has prepared for me! Yes, yes. I know. They are still sweets and carbs. But, if I'm going to crave them, better they be fresh. Eh?

I remember the first blood orange I ever had. Charles and his wife had a dozen shipped to them from Florida to California at great expense. Someone they knew owned one of the first productive orchards. Marlys held one in her hand as if it were a precious baby chick. "Guess what I have." She seemed to shimmer with anticipation or was it just the odd winter light behind her from the window? Before I could hazard a guess, she turned to the counter, grabbed a large knife, and with one precise quick slash, it was open. Blood orange is a good name for it. Blood red, the juice leaked onto the counter as Marlys quickly lapped it up with her fingers.

She handed me half, cut in thin slices, keeping the rest for herself not even asking if I wanted any, or even if I could eat oranges. What if I were allergic? But, thankfully, I am not. It was the most delectable thing I'd had in a long time. Afterwards, I enviously eyed those other oranges sitting in the bowl wondering if I would be offered more. But, alas... no.

So today, when I bought spinach salad makings, irish cheese, a chicken breast, some apples, bananas and blackberries, I turned in surprise when I saw them. Blood oranges!

Guess what I did next!

Santa Hat Grandbaby

2010-12-29T00:27:00.000-08:00

My youngest Great Granddaughter discovers Santa Hat

She's got the right idea! Yes?

That was fun!

Okay, I'm done with this. What's next?

Confessions of Christmas Indulgences

2010-12-28T18:29:00.000-08:00

Five flavors of Lindor truffles, imported puffy crisp cookies, chocolate covered macadamia nuts, rasberry streusel cakes...

Yeah! Yep! Yes! That's right!

All of them... in the garbage!

Whatever happened to Christmas?

2010-12-28T03:01:00.000-08:00

Whatever happened to Christmas?

It's gone and left no traces,

Whatever happened to the faces or the glow.

Whatever happened to Christmas,

to Christmas way of living?

Whatever happened to the giving,

the magic in the snow?

Remember the sights and the smells and the sounds,

And remember how love was all around,

whatever happened to it all?

Whatever happened to Christmas,

bells in the streets are ringing,

Whatever happened to the singing,

the songs we used to know.

Where was I, and whatever happened to you?

Whatever happened to Christmas and you?

Lyrics written by

Jimmy Webb and Frank Sinatra

1968

Christmas Presents and the Grandpas

2010-12-25T23:57:00.000-08:00

Memories of Christmas Past

2010-12-23T00:18:00.000-08:00

We practiced memorizing songs for weeks ahead, carefully choosing in what order to sing them. We decided that from one house to another we would jauntily sing Jingle bells, loudly, to let people know we were on our way.

Caroling late evening snow with Maria DeRosa, her little sister, Linda and the Milan girls, Maureen and Janet, I remember trudging through unshoveled sidewalks to houses where people wouldn't answer the door, though we could see their shadows behind the curtained windows, and there were some who offered money. We were confused by these unexpected occurrences and thought we were doing something wrong or would give into it.

Weren't people supposed to stand in their doorway, smiling, with the light shining behind them as they listened in joy and reverence as we belted out our three songs in the cold?

We were surprised too of the offer of coming in for cocoa. It had not been on our itinerary. We politely but firmly turned them down as any good girl should. After all Santa was watching to see if we were naughty or nice. Besides, I had timed all the songs to get us finished on our block and back home at the time promised to our parents. Another naughty-nice ratio to consider. Just the same, we were late anyways as I forgot to consider the hampering of the snow in that plan. Luckily our parents didn't mind, and assured us Santa probably approved of our caroling.

I have always looked back on that experience with fondness not for the final act for which we worked so hard to produce, but the time together, the bonding we had those weeks beforehand and the incredible love of music so easily memorized and engraved in my mind.

Then there was the short marriage with the husband, who shall remain nameless. He picked out the best tree in the lot, asked for it to be flocked, and did not pick it up until after the lot closed!

He had waited until the last minute and stole it on Christmas eve with my child in the car! What could I say? I wasn't going to spoil the magic for my daughter.

I've never liked flocked trees and I certainly haven't considered having one again. We lived on Chatauqua Lake in western New York state at the time. The evergreen woods behind our house abounded with heavily laden branches shimmering in the moonlight. There is no comparison to an artificial flocked tree.

One Christmas the local Mall in Indianapolis had a clever promotion supported by the pet shop located within. I took my cats in to see Santa Claus and have their picture taken. We stood in line a long time with all the other pets that had been brought for this special event. It was a cacophonous Christmas event!

My calico, Keli sat on top of her carrier sniffing the air with curiosity, inviting people to pet her, and daring the doggies to look her way while Boo Boo, my Siamese, cowered inside. When it came time for the photo shoot, I couldn't have them both together as I'd planned. Miss Keli calmly posed like a professional model.
But, Boo hated Santa and struggled so hard, Santa had to keep a good grip on him while the picture was taken. I wonder how many wounds that dear man suffered that evening. To this day anyone who looks at that picture of Boo, comments, "That is one pissed off cat".

Do you have unexpected Christmas memories dropping in to visit your psyche?

Wishing You Warm Fuzzies!

2010-12-22T00:37:00.000-08:00

May your season be bright

with laughter and light

and whatever makes you

feel all warm and fuzzy

Love,

Elizabeth Munroz

Great Expectations

2010-12-22T00:30:00.000-08:00

Wrapping gifts tonight, it started to sink in. The time draws near when the big day arrives. Will I still be in this Grinch mode? I hope not.

I recall childhood Christmases, and filter them through this age's interpretation and get frustrated with myself that remembering doesn't necessarily make the same feelings arise that once created impetus for future Christmas seasons.

It's similar to no longer enjoying that great car you once bought, and no longer care for.

It's like watching a movie of some kid who is enjoying herself, but her thoughts are her own. I remember little things that once meant a great deal to me. I think it is a lot like Ram Dass' book, Be Here Now. It's what I was doing then, but I cannot go back and recapture it all.

I realize this is the point I am missing. I'm looking backward and wishing I was there now, and I'm not. I'm here, of course. It's not like I want to eradicate the deliciousness of those childhood memories. A lot of them have come to visit me lately, carol singing in the snow with other kids, wrapping gifts for Mom 'cause she was "all thumbs", making all our christmas cards by hand. Great expectations of forcing those feelings is unrealistic.

By clinging to the idea that I might re-capture those previous experiences and renew my "joys of the season", I've made an effort to examine what might bring about new sensitivity on my part. The logical mind wants so badly to have it diagrammed in plain black and white. The reality is if I did have those answers, it would only be understanding and not satisfaction in "knowing". I mean the knowing from the heart, the knowing that passes needing explanations.

So, I wait to see, even in my mild anticipation, how things will be this year. I think I have a big chance to have a good time, as I will be seeing my kids, grand kids and great grand kids. Surely, their joy is contagious. So, it will be nice to soak it up like sunshine.

I have hope for a renewal, or perhaps a new way of experiencing the season, here and now.

Winter Solstice

2010-12-21T00:03:00.000-08:00

Winter Solstice

Copyright Andrew Jones @ http://www.conceptart.org/

Winter Beach Memories

2010-12-18T03:22:00.000-08:00

Sitting on a bench at Capitola Beach today, children nearby chasing seagulls reminded me of Linda and I, with our kids at another shoreline. Today the beach is deserted, no tourists. We've had a lot of rain lately, so only the locals come out to watch the sun drowse into the deep.

I've been feeling very blue most of today. I hate it when I get like this. It's such a miserable loneliness and longing. I miss having a close friend living nearby at times like this. Someone I can spend time with right here, right now. We can dump on each other all the woes of the world, and lighten our load. Whenever Linda and I got together for a session like that, it always ended up in laughter.

She had a great sense of the ludicrous and could see how silly some melancholy of mine could be. She was able to turn it into a joke. Although I often didn't think it was funny at first, by the time she got through with me I could laugh and realize things were not so bad as I had imagined. She was the only one who could insult me, hurt my feelings and still be there to cheer me up. It's not that she purposely insulted me or hurt my feelings. It was that I felt insulted, felt hurt. As she often pointed out, I chose to feel that way. Why not turn it around, feel happy instead? If not happy, then at least not wallowing!

My method was different of course, all serious. Linda was not subject to fluctuating brain chemistry as I was, but If there was something she was bummed out about, I always wanted to guide her in what to "do" to make it better. I showed her how to analyze it and tear it down so it wasn't so overwhelming and make a new plan for improving the situation. We were a fine compliment to each other. Yin and Yang. I need her ridicule, she needed my hard core rationalizations. It's odd how we could never employ our own techniques upon ourselves!

When Linda died, I went through three months of numbness and denial, always thinking I caught a glimpse of her in a crowd, and mistaking others for her. Then it hit me, and for three years I grieved and dreamed of her laughing eyes. Occasionally, like today, she nudges my memories.

Losing my Soul-Sister, I had hoped for a new friend to replace her. But, she was so unique; irreplaceable. New friends have come into my life. And I have finally realized that the empty space Linda once occupied in my heart is not meant to be filled up with someone else.

I still miss her.

The sun has set. A cold wind blows, more rain to come. Time to go home.

Linda Duran Watkins

November 24 1949 - November 24 1982

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Thank you to Peter Wall for permission to display his photo of sunset children.

Finding Meaning

2010-12-16T00:04:00.000-08:00

Some said I was wasting my time, just ignore it, or take happy pills. But, since the old way wasn't working, I've been fervently seeking new meaning of the holiday season. I questioned if we were all living in delusion, going along with what everyone else was doing in order to get through until New Years. I felt like we were all sheep just following the siren call that no longer has purpose. It all seems so buried under hype, TV shows, overwhelming competition of lighting displays, ridiculous holiday songs assaulting the senses, too wrapped up in ribbons and bows to be true-hearted with one another, too many shopping days filled with forced sales, too much of everything obscuring any possibility of clarity of the heart joining us together in spirit.

In my search, some little glimmerings came my way, things that made me smile, warmed my heart. But nothing connected, until I found the one thing that opened up the gateway. This video represents the pouring out of joy to be shared with others, to bring upliftment without all the trappings of "things" in the way.

I came across this accidentally, watched out of curiosity. I like to observe people so I waited in anticipation to see the reactions. But, quite dramatically it became more than that. It was visceral. Music speaks to me deeply, and the energy it takes for a voice to put soul into the melody is contagious. Smiles and tears, that's the way I like it.

I'm not saying this is the only way of doing it. I saying this is symbolic to me of what purity of spirit that needs to be present in order to open the heart to the season. And since I felt so lost and separated from it all, this has triggered it for me. I feel like I'm heading in the right direction to "make the season bright".

Scrooge Says Scroo the Christmas Lights!

2010-12-15T00:25:00.000-08:00

A cacophany of color dripping from house to house, flowing over roofs, front yards, covering bushes and wrapped about tree trunks, I cannot avoid the Christmas lights. How did they get all those lights up there? How long does it take to perform the feat? Do you know there are professionals who can come to your house and install all the lights you want... for a price?

Of course the lights are not alone. Angels, stars, reindeer and Santa proliferate, and oddly shaped lawn sculptures I cannot identify. A sordid carnival of grotesque artifacts soon to be forgotten in someone's garage for the next year. I cannot appreciate the simple beauty of what once was. Am I too blind to see? I avert my eyes.

I count in my head the possiblity of how many watts are in each bulb, how many kilowatts in each string, how many strings of lights are used to blanket a house, a yard, a neighborhood, a city, a country. A house at 1953 Eucalyptus street in San Carlos, California has a December bill of $5,000 according to the news. For 5,000 dollars one can buy a lot of LED lights! All the houses on the street, it seems, participate to have the show of decorations. It's such a popular neighborhood that it is closed off to traffic and you must walk to see it.

How much is it all costing? I don't mean just in our electric bills, but how much fossil fuel does it take to maintain Christmas? Am I Scrooge counting money, overlooking the value in the significance for the overabundance of Christmas lights?

Real Snowmen Melt

2010-12-14T00:30:00.000-08:00

I heard children screaming and headed outdoors to see what was happening. Two houses beyond mine, the little ones were running in circles like wild puppies. The adult among them, who I couldn't see, was inflating a fifteen foot Christmas snowman. I smiled. It is interesting how the screaming of a child, whether in terror or joy, sounds very much the same.

Yet, I was perplexed. We take these things for granted this time of year. Yet, I live in Coastal California, where the nearest snow is a long drive up through the mountains, about a five hour drive. Rarely do we get snow at the lower elevations in the mountains that separate the shore from inland San Jose area. So, how did the kids know to be excited about a blow up snowman? Perhaps simply because of the novelty? I'm sure some adult in their lives has told them about Frosty. With TV access in their lives, they've probably seen a number of programs with cute stories connecting Frosty to Christmas. And what child does not know the lyrics to "Frosty the Snowman"?

I was raised in Western New York State with snow in abundance every year from late October to the end of March. Some of it is pretty, in fact beautiful. I've made my share of snowmen, many times and not by inflation, but with real coal for eyes. and guess what? Just like the song, real snowmen melt. Snowmen are fun.

But, the majority of the time, snow is too real. I've stood in the cold, with red face and stiff fingers, snow stuffed down inside my boots, melting into my socks, helping others push on the back of a car that swerved in a ditch more times than I can count. I've huddled under blankets fully clothed, shivering, when the electricity failed during an ice storm. Frosty the Snowman was a cute song, but not something that exhilarated me and had little to do with Christmas. I wonder why Jack Frost is not as popular, as he was in my childhood. He was the ice artist that decorated my window pane. Now that was magic!

Yes, I smiled to see the children down the street. I understood their exuberance. I remember it continued in me long into adulthood. But, I want to know what happened to it? Am I too old to experience anticipation and joy over the upcoming holidays? Is that it? Have I lived too long? Seen too much? Been there, done that until it can't be done anymore? Okay, I know that was trite, but so what!

So... What? I want my Christmas Mojo back! That's what!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO XAVIER!

2010-12-13T00:04:00.000-08:00

Doctor's said I would not be able to have any more children after I had the cancer. When I found myself pregnant, I chose to take the risks, and this wonderful child came into my life and has blessed it everyday. Thank you for being you, my son!

Hawaiin Christmas Carolers

2010-12-12T20:50:00.000-08:00

They made me smile...

They made me laugh!

They made me cry... and sigh!

Christmas Songs - Are They Kidding?

2010-12-11T23:07:00.000-08:00

This is what plagues me. I question why Christmas no longer has meaning for me. The answer eludes me. I want to know what's missing. There's plenty of stimulus all about me. I can't turn on my favorite radio stations in the car without "the music". I don't think of them as Christmas Carols anymore. Who wants to listen to Silent Night with a Jazz-Rock flavor? How about "A Pimp's Christmas Song" by Snoop Dogg?

I drive in silence.

Did you actually listen to this?

I wonder what ever happened to Christmas Carols?

Disconnected Christmas Season

2010-12-09T23:50:00.000-08:00

I feel like I just dropped in from another planet, when I consider what's going on around me. A television show this evening was about one character searching for the meaning of Christmas. Where have I heard that one before? I am in a similar situation, searching for what is meaningful about this time of year that everyone is so involved in. I mean no offense, dear reader. I find some folks are so stressed by keeping up with traditions and social norms I wonder if it is worth it. I truly feel disconnected and outside, looking in, on what now appears so unfamiliar to me.

Bah Humbug doesn't even sum it up. It's more like what the heck is going on? At one point in my life I was very absorbed in Christmas with all the trimmings. I started my Christmas shopping in January, when everything was marked down and continued to shop throughout the year. I had a long list of people I bought gifts for. Those gifts sat in my closet waiting for the momentous occasion when someone would unwrap them, eyes aglow, and smile with satisfaction. Though that was not always the reaction I saw, I still felt good for my succeeding in providing a gift for everyone. And best of all, I thought, I wouldn't be stuck in last minute shopping hoards exhausting myself. Just the same, as the clock ticked down I found myself shopping. One cannot have a successful holiday season without stocking up on all those required food items. Then, of course, someone must prepare all that stuff, and someone must also eat it, not only at home, but at every opportunity that arises.

Today, I spent the afternoon with some friends in festive attire and shared great food and conversation. Lots of laughs and hugs accompanied the fun. This can happen any time we would like, and I wonder why we just don't do it more often. Do we really need Christmas season as an excuse to get together and have fun? Surely not. We were all dressed up in the colors of the season, red and green. Have you ever noticed that?

There seems to be an unspoken agreement among us that certain colors are to be worn at certain times of the year. Valentines day brings on the red and white. Easter has pastels. Red, White and Blue for Independence day. Black and Orange for Halloween. Brown, yellow and orange for Thanksgiving. I really don't look good in orange, nor pastels, either. I gave up dressing up in the appropriate colors a long time ago. It had no meaning for me to just go along for the sake of appearances.

Are we all pretending to have a good time so that we don't spoil another persons good time? Are we not pretending, but just caught up in the mania and following the flow of what others do? If so, then, are there others who wonder about all this besides me? Maybe I'm missing something here.

I know that getting together with family to party surely counts highest on the meaningfulness of the season. But, I'd like to believe that getting together for a family party is meaningful any time of the year.

It's not just the parties. The one I attended was lovely. But, how many parties are obligations? I overheard someone the other day say that she had 3 events to attend over the weekend and she was hosting another and it was all a nightmare for her to juggle life and family in between all that. We are not even into the second week of the month yet? Where do we draw the line?

Unlike the character in the TV show, I'm not searching for the meaning of Christmas. I'm wanting to understand how much meaning others are getting out of it all. Perhaps, then I wouldn't feel like such a Scrooge.

Lost in Translation

2010-12-09T12:19:00.000-08:00

Are you confused about Christmas? I certainly am. I ask myself, metaphorically, if the Emperor has new clothes and if anyone else sees this besides me.

DEFINE: Christmas
a Christian holiday celebrating the birth of Christ (Princeton Perl)

Christmas is a holiday observed generally on December 25 to commemorate the birth of Jesus, the central figure of Christianity.
(Wikipedia)

Etymology

The word Christmas originated as a compound meaning "Christ's Mass". It is derived from the Middle English Christemasse and Old English Cristes mæsse, a phrase first recorded in 1038.

DEFINE: Mass
In Roman Catholic Church and Protestant Churches, the celebration of the Eucharist or a sequence of prayers constituting the Christian Eucharistic rite; "the priest said Mass"

When saying to another person, "Merry Christmas", one is wishing them a happy, jolly, celebration of the birth of Christ in performance of prayers and celebration of the Eucharist.

Define: Holiday

A holiday is a day designated as having special significance for which individuals, a government, or a religious group have deemed that observation is warranted.

Etymology

The word "holiday" comes from the Old English word hāligdæg. The word originally referred only to special religious days. The word derived from the notion of "Holy Day".

Merry Christ Mass and Happy Holy Day?

imagine that

2010-12-08T21:06:00.000-08:00

Thirty years ago John Lennon faced death and died. That day, I awoke from my seventh cancer surgery and survived. I can never think about his death without ultra gratitude for my life. I never imagined that it would turn out that way.

Healing

2010-12-07T03:53:00.000-08:00

"...experience for yourself the potential of poetry to heal by feeling its power through your own voice. Many people have an intuitive sense that voice in general and poetry in particular can be healing. We have all experienced the comfort of soothing words. Finding the words to articulate a traumatic experience can bring relief.

.... People are frequently moved to write a poem in times of extremity. In mainstream culture there are subjects that are not talked about. They are taboo. For example, each of us is going to die, but we do not talk about dying. We are all in the dialogue of illness, death and dying, whether or not we are talking about it. Poetry gives us ways to talk about it.

...In the United States many people are scared of poetry. They have had bad experiences with it in school. People often believe that poetry is difficult or inaccessible or not relevant to them. Modern poetry is based on voice, and must be passed through our ears. This is where the sense is made. So, when you read this article and you see poetry,

Read it aloud
pass it through your ears
enjoy the
ride, and
know
the difference between poetry and prose
is that poetry is broken
into lines—
that is all.

Multiple ways of utilizing poetry for healing, growth and transformation will be presented including the Poetry and Brain Cancer project at UCLA. Particular attention will be given to issues of Palliative care. The reader will be directed to the scientific evidence of the efficacy of utilizing expressive writing. The developing professional field of Poetry Therapy and The National Association for Poetry Therapy will be discussed."

"Finding the Words to Say It: The Healing Power of Poetry" by Robert Carroll

The National Association of Poetry Therapy

~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Thank you to Mimi Olsson for sending me this information!

How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me

2010-12-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

I bought the book but never read it. I really didn't need to, I'm sure. You see, I have the same disorder as the author.

Today is one of those days, when the brain chemistry has taken over. I have to fight it. In the past I didn't and followed the inclinations of it's power. Despondency was the key. It hits me now and then, even with proper medication.

For years the diagnosis was not recognize and life was pretty much a roller coaster of heaven, hell and numbness somewhere in between. Of course, in those early years, the diagnosis really didn't have a name as it was clustered within Schizophrenia. But, it is a separate condition and now treatable.

Still, here I am with overwhelming feelings of despair and unwarranted grief. My friends tell me to call them when I'm like this. They will help me. But, you see, that's not what I do. There is no desire to reach out for help.

Something that has helped me in the past has been journaling. I've got page after page of misery written down. There's something to letting it seep out of me into the pen onto the page, now transferred to the keyboard in these modern times.

I will ride through today as best I can. One thing I've learned that helps is to distract myself. Go to the store, a restaurant, the library, a ride in the car, up into the hills, down to the ocean. Sometimes I cry. But not anymore. Seems impossible now. If I cannot drag myself out of the house, which is not a good sign, I will crochet, paint or draw, make digital art, read, write, listen to music, or watch movies on TV while petting my purr babies.

I am going public with this because I haven't forgotten what it was like when it was unbearable, when the suicidal thoughts were invasive and all encompassing. I didn't have the internet back then. How valuable it would have been for me to find others in the same situation, where I could read that there was hope. If I can help just one person because of this posting, then it is worth it being out with my own history.

There is hope. No matter how desperate the situation, if you can ride it out, like the roller coaster, there is an end to the ride. Just hang on for dear life. And yes, there is value in life. There is value in your own life, even if it doesn't feel like it. Even if you feel like you don't deserve to live, you do.

Just hang on. Get help. Keep seeking help, even if it seems to not help, keep hanging on. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Suicide is not the answer. I promise you.

Don't worry. I'm not suicidal anymore. I haven't been actively considering it for many years, though sometimes the feelings arise. The meds help with that.

But, here it is. The despondency is in the forefront of my mind, and like a sad old friend, I must take her hand and comfort her, distract her, and hang on!

How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me

Is it Winning?

2010-11-29T01:30:00.000-08:00

When you write like there is no tomorrow in the spirit of personal challenge, in the spirit of fun, is it fair to call it winning?

When you write from the heart whether it makes sense to anyone else, is it called writing?

Can it be something valued to others if you don't write to please them?

If you are just doing it for your own personal pleasure, is it selfish?

When you know there are thousands who are also applying themselves at the same time for one full month how is it that there is a sense of solidarity when you don't see them or know them?

Does 50,000 words make a novel all by themselves?

How can one just simply start at the word GO, and have a completed readable story in 31 days without having planned everything out ahead of time?

What happens to those who believe such a thing is possible and realize they cannot complete the task they set before them?

Enough with the questions, already!!!

Just celebrate that the goal has been met, the fun has been enjoyed, discoveries have been made and work with it until it is presentable!

National Novel Writing Month
I'm a "Winner"!

One Whole Self

2010-11-27T15:33:00.000-08:00

Its hard enough to make it through life without disappointing yourself.

It can be twice as hard worrying about disappointing others.

Either way, equip yourself fully, start with one whole self, then begin.

~~Brad Rice

Winter Warnings

2010-11-25T13:14:00.000-08:00

once verdant and plush,

once brilliant...

like red and amber jewels,

blessing with visions of warmth,

these harbingers of winter

hang listlessly now,

ready to fall

to their earthly graves.

Writing About Family

2010-11-24T12:56:00.000-08:00

Writers Call for Submissions for Anthology: Writing About Family

Submissions are being sought for an anthology about writing and publishing by women with experience in writing and publishing about family.

Possible subjects:
using life experience; networking; unique issues women must overcome; formal education; queries and proposals; conference participation; self-publishing; teaching tips. Tips on writing about family: creative nonfiction, poetry, short stories, nonfiction, novels.

Two Trees

2010-11-23T13:26:00.000-08:00

It's very difficult to untangle the roots of two trees that have grown too tightly together. The roots, clingy and knotted, are torn. Too often both trees growth will be forever stunted if not separated. It's painful to make that sharp final cut to be released from what is ultimately suffocating. And like trees in a forest, each needs it's own sustenance in order to survive and still live together in harmony. ~Elizabeth Munroz