5 Things--People Collection List

I'm trying this again. Someone who paints and is a nurse politely mentioned that writing mostly about my parents might not have exactly followed the rules of this writterly exercise, the rules being to write 5 things profane or mundane about yourself. And god knows I try to follow the rules when the rules make sense to me and I am so inclined. So:


1. I was voted most popular in my high school class of 660 kids. This was quite an honor much to the dismay of Mary Ellen K., who wanted it more than I did. I haven't seen most of my high school mates in years, but when I do many comment that I'm more serious than I was back then. And that's true. When I was 16 I worked hard at being liked and likable. I was able to slide into and fit into any group, even the National Honor Society, of which i was NOT a member. I was an average student and a hellion who was in detention after school as often as not, but I was always good natured and ready for a laugh. These days, I don't work so hard to be liked and likable, but the good news is that the more authentic me has worked out just fine.

2. Well before Christopher Reeve brought independent living needs to the forefront, I wrote and published the first national resource directory for people with spinal cord injuries and other severe physical disabilities. I wrote to Lily Tomlin, who has a quadriplegic character named Crystal, and asked her to write the introduction. She wrote back saying she was not well enough informed to do that. So I sent another letter, this time addressed directly to Crystal, and asked her to talk to Lily. A week later I received what would become the back cover of the directory, complete with Crystal's "quad" signature.

3. I was trained by the U.S. Military in black-white relations and how to run diversity groups.

4. For two years my apartment in Germany had no hot water. None. My husband and I had to build and wait for a coal fire to heat up the bathroom water tank so we could take our weekly baths. And in bed at night it was so cold I could see my breath even in the dark.

5. I expect to have two self-help books published within the next two years, but my best love is writing poetry. Having a background in counseling is a treasure for a writer, as is living with this irrepressible passion that follows me everywhere. And it doesn't hurt that I think the best of most people, although I can see through phony-baloney like a laserbeam.

Cooking Up Trouble

When the prompt is the Moosewood Cookbook, you can't be surprised when the following poem spills out:

Cooking Up Trouble

Sneaking up the walkway
and through the back door
carrying a recipe filled with lessons
from the great books,

you mix together ingredients
that can be separated
only once
and even then you take your chances.

You start with young hope
sifted through intent and
measured nicely by honest hands
hoping that alone will suffice.

But of course it can’t.
So from the back cabinet
you reach for promises
waiting to be made and kept

and add them with fanfare,
simply because they must be mixed
with integrity--
otherwise they curdle at the first neglect.

This bowl can hold whatever you throw at it,
but not neglect.
And that is because some recipes
when they’re fudged or forsaken

fall into a million pieces
so even the great godesss can not reconstruct them,
and least of all you with your limited skills.
Better to take your time and measure
well enough, really well enough

So that when the rising’s done
you become whole
from those ingredients
you cooked up yourself.

In the offchance or hope that you might want or need to lighten up too, here's my favorite poem these days, courtesy of my pal Melissa and written by America's poet laureate, Billy Collins. Let yourself laugh!

The Country

I wondered about youwhen you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

Thursday 13: Love

This Thursday 13 is a tribute to love. I'm full of it. I'm not talking about the garden variety, department store brand of love, but about love that can bring you to your knees and make you better just by being around it, by feeling it, by giving it away and getting it back...the kind of love that can take your breath away, the way a prayer can. I've often and plentifully affirmed and shouted my love for my daughter, my partner and my mom. But there's more--other people who deeply matter:

1. Stella: she's not a person but she fully qualifies. This dog with soulful eyes entered our family 7 months ago expecting nothing. Not kindness, not food, not shelter. Today she wags that long tail of hers so often that she knocks over wine glasses and anything else in its path. Everyday she tells me she loves me. Clearly. Unmistakably.

2. My son-in-law Mike and a not-yet-known baby boy due in January: I continue to be amazed by the love Jess and Mike have for eachother and around them. They are my extended and expanded family and I know it will forever deepen.

3. My dear friend who-shall-be nameless: I can't explain how a kindred soul who speaks my secret language can appear from nowhere and so easily step into my heart and trust. I can't explain it, but I'm deeply grateful.

4. My friends in Northampton: I've always wanted nearby friends who could/would drop by for a morning cup of coffee and stay up late at night helping to plan a party or a funeral. We look at eachother on a Sunday night over pizza and marvel at our good fortune. And I think we're in it for the long haul....

5. My oldest friends: I don't make friends so easily. And even when I do, I put more effort
avoiding being vulnerable than I do planning a vacation. But finally, after years of our ups and downs and arounds, I know I can count on you. And I too would be there for you in a flash.

6. The Big Yellow: There is a small group of folks with whom I have a deep connection, grown from nights or weekends of writing together. You are all so much younger than me and yet the time I spend with you has no boundary or age of interest.

7. Jane: You've saved my life. Maybe forever we'll stop at the boundaries that a counselor-client relationship requires, but I'd do anything for you, and then some.

8. Rosie: It's been two years since you died. I can still see you swimming in the bay, running in the Scarborough fields, sleeping with your head in my lap. You are the best dog, Rosie, and wait for me because we'll play again in the rolling hills of where ever heaven is.

9. Dad: I wish I had been grown up enough and wise enough to be sure you knew and know how much I love you and admire the way you lived and died. I don't know how you of all people got a daughter like me who processes everything inside and out....

10. Jess' friends: You guys have always been my favorites. i hope you know this. I don't see you too often these days, but I'm always loving it when our paths cross.

11. Willa: I hate/despise/deplore that you've died! I still have your voice message on my cell phone and still consult with you whenever I need objective wisdom. You're a friend I can never replace. Fortunately, you've left me enough of yourself that I'm getting by.

12. Provincetown: On the tip of Cape Cod sits a coastal town with a mish-mash of 3000 residents--some combination of artists, gay men and lesbians, and Portuguese fishing families. The place magical. The light bounces off the ocean in impossible ways. This was my home for awhile and the sea salt, creativity, and dysfunction of it all is part of who I am.

13. I'm leaving this spot open to the future.

I'm overwhelmed sometimes by all this deep love. Sometimes it makes me cry. But I'm not apologizing any more than I'm hiding: I'm not sure how much room one person has inside for all the love I'm feeling these days, but I'm thankful for all of it.

And intrigued........

Roots and Wings

The lovely Cherry Pie has requested 5 facts, mundane or profane, about me for the benefit of who knows who. Who could refuse such a request? So here's a peek at my upbringing and family:

1. My father was Italian American and made it to fourth grade. He owned his own business as a bricklayer and mason, with unlimited pride in the permanence of his work. He could fix, build, make, configure, assemble, and disassemble just about anything.

2. My mother is French Canadian and made it to sixth grade. She worked as a cashier at a local supermarket until she got her big job as Head Seamstress at a state school. To this day, even though she has about zero working memory, she is a bright and vibrant woman.

3. My father picked up junk cars, rebuilt engines, and gave me at least a half dozen of his reconditioned junk masterpieces. The first was an Austin (before Healy) that had little lit arms extending as directionals. He specialized in Ford Falcons and Comets. But the very best was a little yellow Metropolitan, with a bench for a back seat and a zip I cherished. Despite his generosity, I was only allowed to drive within a certain radius, predetermined by my father.

4. My godmother Marie turned 90 last weekend. Her friend Dennis picked her and her assumed lesbian partner of 30 years up in a rented limosine and they drove 75 miles to Providence, where they had all-you-can-eat lobster at a local buffet.

5. For four months I helped my father die at home. Until the hours before his body started shutting down, he got up every day, put on his plaid flannel shirt and work pants, and sat in the same chair with an intravenous hookup and a spartan dose of tynenol every four hours dispensed by my mother. When he died, I felt a distinct strong and fresh breeze cross from him and his bed to the open window.

Joey's Story--Part 3

Joe Part 3

Here's the last part, at least until I one day sit down with Joe and pick up from here. He and I usually talk a couple of times a month. He still calls me his sister.......

Joe Part 3

While Bessie and a partial box of donuts lay calcifying across the street, Joey was spending his first 60 minutes as an orphan, and first time ever in his life, on the 8th floor of psychiatric ward in the hospital where he had worked for 35 years. He was calm as long as he had a listener, but that was not to be this Labor Day weekend. From the first moment of his admission, he ran his fingers through his thick black Italian hair, repeating what was to become a familiar lament for the next several years. “How could my mother leave me like this?”, he cried, “I’m a good guy. My mother told me not to worry about this”. And again and again, “I’m a good guy. How could this happen to me?”

That first night I asked the nursing staff to arrange for me to speak with the Psychiatrist on call. Joe and I practiced his ability to moan alone for up to five minutes. He was in full panic mode after two minutes, but he did try. I told the weekend crew that Joey would be okay as long as someone checked with him every five minutes or so. That never happened, nor did the doc call me back. I tracked him down at 7:30 am the next morning, calling three times in 30 minutes until he reluctantly came to the phone. I could tell immediately he was pretty useless, complicated further by the fact that he didn’t care a hoot. I asked him about the holiday weekend schedule—any individual therapy, any groups, any social worker, any recreation. His answers were impressively clear: no, no, no, no.

It was an eventual weekend. Joe paced and cried, cashed in dollar bills for dimes to make phone call after phonecall. He resisted when an aide told him no more calls, and he screamed for his parents when someone else told him he had to stay in his assigned room—alone. Sometime between that decision and my arrival, Joe was placed in four point restraints, and sometime inbetween the 20 minutes he was stretched out like a crucifix, his arm broke
In two pieces. For the record, broken bones are distinctly against all restraint protocols, and when followed by the news that Joe was a 35 year beloved employee of this same hospital, the direct care staff, the psychiatrist, the Orthopedic Surgeon, and the Vice President of Hospital Affairs all phoned me quickly and politely. It was at that moment in time that I officially became Joe’s Case Manager.

I can do case management. If a service is needed, a resource uncovered, or a plan developed, I’m your person. I do this across the United States for folks, and I like to say it’s about the three c’s: competence, caring and creativity. I try to bring out the best in treatment teams and family members and unsympathic employers and individuals for some reason down on their luck. So it was not much of a surprise when 45 minutes after Aunt Theresa’s bash for Bessie, she, Mary Jayne and I faced a social worker who quickly got to the point of saying that Joe would be discharged the following day and it was of course the family’s responsibility to make whatever arrangements he required. She provided no information and even less sympathy. Because I always prefer back doors, just in case, I had searched out a few psychiatric residential programs,already, and I had arranged for Joe to be evaluated by one of the better ones. It took some doing, but Joe would remain on in the psychiatric ward for another two days, until he could be transferred.

The transfer to Wild Acres took place with Joe’s arm in a thick cast and his face deepened with black potholes under both eyes. I picked him up, drove him to the residential house in Lexington, and met with the Director and all staff. I feel the need to mention, at this point, that I was able to do all this only because I was in the middle of the first time off from my own work and business in my adult life: I was giving myself three months to write the book on Happiness. I was staying at our little sanctuary in Provincetown—writing every morning and every late afternoon, and in between walking the bay and chuckling over my good fortune.

I was glad to help Joe get settled. I figured I would be needed here and there for about 3 months and my volunteer gig would come to a noble close.

That’s not the way it’s turned out. Soon after Joe began wailing and flailing at Wild Acres, his cousin Mary Jayne set up a trust for him and asked if I would serve as one of three Trustees—the other two being herself and Aunt Theresa. Bessie misled Joe = by telling him she would be around forever, and she may have checked out so suddenly that whatever coping devices he may have had went haywire, but she and Frank had saved for his welfare. There was ample money—enough to arrange for an appropriate lifestyle. The kicker from Mary Jayne was that she had selected three beneficiaries to serve as additional motivation to assure the money was well managed. One of the three was my 22 year old daughter Jessica. Mary Jayne was very clever: the potential of Jess benefiting from my good intentions was sweetly satisfying. I was in for the long haul. And long haul it is.

Six Words

My friend Ces is always coming up with new ways to shake things up. The latest, in her words, is to " write your own bio using three points each consisting of only six words". She got this idea from two interesting writers, Shron and Caroline. Since I don't know how to set up links (help!), you can take this opportunity to visit Ces and her Dishes. You will be serenaded by Ces' incredible paintings and, shall we say, one-of-a-kind take on life and love.

So here's my biography in 3 parts, 6 words.

1. Jess' Mother, JB's Partner, Rose's Daughter

2. A fun steady deep talking friend

3. Steward hoping the world will relax

Joey--Part 2

This is part 2 of Joe's story. There are 3 parts in all.


Aunt Theresa threw quite a bash for Bessie’s funeral. As I later learned, her style was to do things with fanfare and class. She rented a huge ballroom at a hotel in Waltham and there we all sat, 8 to a table, with full access to a buffet line that included mounds of shrimp on ice, two hot entrees, assorted cheeses and meats, and tropical fruit cut and sliced in brilliant colors that overlooked the fact that this was about Bessie’s untimely death.

I’ve never absorbed the details, although she’s told me more than once, but Aunt Theresa starting losing her sight when she was in thirties. She had 3 sons and a son-of-bitch husband at the time, but by the time she could no longer see anything but the faintest of light, she had transformed herself into a graduate student-soon-to-be-social worker. She was apparently quite a star in the world of rehabilitation, for which she is to this date quite proud and forever grateful.

We got to know eachother pretty well during the two years that Joey fell apart, moaned and rocked, and to everyone’s surprise, especially his, four or five years later found the missing pieces to life after mother. I never really liked Joey growing up, so I never expected to become a lifeline for him, and certainly not the imaginary sister he likes to call me—his clever way to let me know he expects and requires family like attention here and there. Back in those early days, and now, I have the skills to help him find programs and resources and people and possibilities, so even to this day he is my permanent volunteer client.

Which leads me back to Aunt Theresa. I like her, admire her, am in awe of how she manages her independence. She would like me to be a more available friend than I am, but I do try to be there for her in the big moments. Like the time a couple of years ago when, fresh out of rehab. for knee surgery, she phones me with a healthy cadence of terror and panic in her otherwise methodical voice.
“Help, Help”, she says. “There are little men all over my apartment. They are on the couch and at the foot of my bed. There are dozens of them. Help”.

“Theresa”, I say, “What do they look like?”
She hardly catches a breath. “They are small with top hots and big bowties. Red and blue and some are yellow. I need help”
“Theresa”, I say again. “I am going to drive over and I will talk to you on my cellphone while I drive. I am sure they will not hurt you, and I will be there in 15 minutes”.

Aunt Theresa is hallunicating. When I arrive, she is holding a fly swatter and moaning almost like Joey. “Oh my god” she says, “They are all over you. One is sitting in your lap.”

“Theresa, I will stay here tonight and keep them in the living room with me. This is probably because of your pain medication. We can go to the emergency room tonight and they will help you. But I’m sure these little guys are not harmful.”

That night, and the next, I stayed at Theresa’s until the little men with their vibrant colors faded and were gone. We laugh about this every once in a while. I have seen many people hallunciate, but this was something else, I think Theresa actually appreciated seeing the shapes and color as if she could rightly see.

Which brings me to an unrelated part of Joey’s story: my second albeit brief encounter with another sightless person. He was a friend of a friend of a friend and I met him at a piano bar in Washington DC, where I sat on a bar stool and there he was beside me. I know a pickup line when I hear one. At first I thought I would simply use my politeness skills to move away and on, but he couldn’t see the signals. Only words-direct words—would do. I am sure to this day that I told him I was not available because he was not my type, not because he was blind. I hurt his feelings and I admit I did and still do wonder how much of a risk he had taken, if at all, to put that hand on my knee.

Which brings me to another unrelated part of Joey’s story: my third, and lengthier friendship with Joanne, who was blind and by far the best magician, who could convince you she could see when she couldn’t. In restaurants, we would simply forget and she would finally say, “Guys, I’,m blind, remember. I can’t read the friggin menu.”
More than once Joanne told the story of growing up on a rural farm in Iowa and being sent to a school for the blind 100 miles away. “My parents would wave down a passing car and send me back to school with some stranger who was headed that way—can you believe it?” I couldn’t until I met Joanne’s mother, who said without a prompt at the dinner table, “Oh Joanne, we scraped our money to send you to that special school, but we could only afford the bus fare one way. We had to send you back with strangers.”

Joanne was married to Alan and together they lived comfortably in a Brookline condominium. Alan was a computer talent in the early days. He died just after he sold some rights to Nitendo. Before then, for several years Joanne and her little rug rat dog Bunnie would stop at the local corner drugstore to pick up essentials. She knew the pharmacist and cashiers as well as she knew the entire neighborhood. This was another story she told: “One day however, the owner walks up to me and says, “Joanne, I don’t want you to come in here any more.”
“Iwas floored. “What?” Why would you say that?”
I heard him sigh with a twinge of disgust. “Joanne, your goddamn dog is eating the candy bars”.

Joanne never went back to that Pharmacy, but not because the owner told her not to.

Joey

I'll be mostly out of the blogs this weekend. I'm taking the opportunity to post a true story about Joe. This is the first part of 3, so if it looks too long already to read, don't give it a thought and don't bother.

Joey

I was willing to do mostly anything but I did not want to see Bessie dead. I had already dealt with three deaths that year and that was plenty. That was 2 more than I had ever dealt with before in a twelve month period. I started thinking I was becoming an expert on how and when to die, which was a specialty that enriched me as a person, but not one that either held my interest or beckoned me from afar.

The night that Bessie died, Joey had reached his limit about four hours earlier. For the preceding six weeks he had moaned and paced through each laborious minute of each laborious day, muttering to himself and making one frantic phone call after another—sometimes more than a hundred a day. He had never been alone until Bessie found one morning that she was unable to walk the two blocks to the Star Market to buy her daily half gallon of milk. I never cared to learn the details, but she somehow ended up in front of a doctor who told her she had lung cancer and got her a hospital room that every day.

Until then, Joey would precisely leave for work at 5:00 each morning, precisely phone his mother at every break, and arrive home at just the precise moment when Bessie would open the door for him just as he reached the stoop and then hover over him with her rapid often intelligible speech until he went to bed at 7:30. Joey still slept in a twin bed, I was to later learn, and his room on the second floor of their dusty house displayed all the remnants of his childhood—a model plane, a grungy teddy bear, even a desk blotter with a calendar dated 1953.

Bessie and Joey, and Frank before he died, had lived on the little dead end lane next to my parents for probably 40 years. Maybe more. I never saw Joey when we were kids because he ventured out only with his parents, and even then, it was obvious he was always timid and tired. Long after I moved away from that little lane, several lifetimes later by my personal standards, my mother asked me to get involved because after a lifetime of precise hovering Bessie had stopped all communication with Joey the day she entered the hospital. The few times I saw her there, and later in the rehabilitation center across the street that was really a nursing home she would be lying in bed with her eyes closed and her mouth wide open, holding the phone receiver to her chest, off the hook so Joey could not call her 25 times in 35 minutes, which he did because he was too panicked to tolerate even a moment alone. He managed to work, and he drove his jeep back and forth to the hospital where he worked as a cleaner in the maternity ward, but he could not stay in that house alone.

My involvement really kicked in when my mother called me to say Joey was pacing up and down the lane in his pajamas, agitated because his cousin Marilyn who had come to visit from Florida had borrowed his car but would not stay with him overnight. Someone had called the police and when I arrived, Joey was sitting at his dusty dining room table, waxing poetic to the three policeman in the room. He was telling them about the events of a certain Tuesday at 1:00 pm on August 12, 1961 and about the date and time, with minute accuracy, when his parents were married, when he was born, when the city of Waltham was incorporated, when the great fire took place and exactly what his father had for dinner that night. The cops patiently listened with the intent, I supposed, of calming him down. They did not know or care that Joey could not tolerate being alone. When they left, he picked up the phone and dialed and dialed, moaning and hoping that he would not fall off the sidewalk and end up under the bridge, as he liked to say.

Joey was admitted to the psychiatric ward of the hospital where he worked approximately 15 minutes after Bessie died. His aunt Theresa, who is 75 and blind, and his cousin Mary Jayne, who is 63 and a businesswoman, left the emergency room to cross the street to the nursing home, while I stayed with Joey until he was admitted. He was wild. He paced and rocked and kept asking how this could have happened to him. I did my best to tell the weekend crew that Joey could not be left alone for more than a few minutes; but it was Labor Day weekend and nobody seemed to care too much.

I was glad to stay with Joey for awhile because as I said, I did not want to see Bessie dead. You can imagine my dismay when I arrived at her room almost an hour later and there she was frozen shut in her bed, her mouth open, her wild black hair jetting in every direction, her hook Italian nose looking just like the Wicked Witch of the West (or was it the east?) Aunt Theresa, Mary Jayne, cousin Danielle and a half full box of Dunkin Donuts surrounded her and her bed. It is my personal misfortune that I carry that vivid image of Bessie and the box of Dunin Donuts with me to this day.

Thursday 13: Half and Half

A few weeks ago, , I nixed the idea of writing 13 good things about myself. But here I am again, ever tenacious, this time thinking it will be just fine if I inject some balance by splitting the good and not-so-good right down the middle.

I'll start with the not-so-good in the hope of finishing strong:

1. I have no patience with moody people. This is because if I don't like you anyway, it's an extra irritant to put up with, and if I do like you, I will probably take it personally and think you're upset with me.

2. I can nag. I never start out that way. I try to respect your point of view in general, but I can get to thinking it might help if I restate how I see something, or explain my position in a different way, or ask you incredulous questions about why you think what you think or feel what you feel. I view this as an unfortunate character flaw...

3. I can be messy. I don't hang my clothes up right away, I spread out books and magazines and mail and folders every which way on the couch so I am surrounded by a virtual sea of papers, and I keep my car in a condition my father always affectionately called "Craphouse Deluxe".

4. I an be controlling. This is not the same as nagging. Controlling means that I benevolently try to pull things together or decide on the most desireable income. I'm at my happiest when I'm a non-working supervisor. I'm working hard on knowing the difference between stepping up and stepping back.

5. I can be obsessive (or is it compulsive?). I quit smoking and drinking now at least 15 years ago, I love the thrill and sound of the quarter and dollar slot machines, I prefer things to be orderly although that doesn't happen all that often, and I can get pretty passionate pretty quickly. When I'm not my enlightened zen-like self, I also can perseverate, worry, and overplan.

6. I'm the first one crying when my feelings get hurt, when animals are mistreated, or when true love doesn't work out.


Ok, now to the pretty good:

7. I try very hard to be kind. I don't hesitate to help anayone when I can lend a hand and I work extra hard to keep my ego in check.

8. I'm versatile. I'm a counselor, teacher, business consultant, case manager, project director, and writer. I can cook, landscape, listen, paint, parent, and persuade.

9. What I lack in smarts or thoughtfulness, I try to make up for in caring. If I'm on your side you can count on me for the long haul, and I'll do what I can to rectify a real or perceived wrong.

10. Six years ago I agreed to help a mentally challenged man named Joe after his parents died. It hasn't been a straight road but I've become a "trustee" in his life and I've promised him I will always be there to help him with his fears and finances .

11. I spontaneously make up songs that rhyme and sing them to jb first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and often during car rides. Most of them are about her, and most of them are pretty silly.

12. Give me a cup of coffee and I'm good to go. Early mornings I'm content to sit with my favorite orange mug in my favorite chair and read the paper before the day beckons. Or I stay up late into the night and brew a fresh cup while I read or write or think about life. And I love to drink coffee with a good friend while we talk about philosophy or share girl secrets.

and last: like the wide circle of life, my good points converge with my not-so-good:

13. I'm the first one crying when my feelings get hurt, when animals get mistreated, or when true love doesn't work out.........

Heading Home

I'm thinking alot about home lately. Not just a house or physical structure, but the places where I feel safe, welcomed, supported, loved--simply, home. Recently the place and space of "home" has expanded for me. I have some old, and some precious new, wonderful people in my life who I proudly call my family and friends. It's as though because I'm receiving giving and carrying love I'm always heading home because of it.


I believe the fact that I'm writing more often and more sincerely has affected the deep connections I am feeling. Once a week, and on an occassional weekend, I am in a writing group run by among other things, songwriter Nerissa Nields. I did not know she was a songwriter and performer until after I had gotten to know her, so I began listening to the music of the Nields Sisters after-the-fact.

There is one song Nerissa wrote that carries me directly to the connections I feel everytime I hear it. I wish I had written it myself. I'm sharing the lyrics and not the music, which is unfortunate, but this pretty much sums up what I hope to give and get from the people I love and care about.

Heading Home

Will you walk with me down the lonesome highway
Though at times we’ll have nothing to say?
Will you come with me though I won’t know where I’m going?
Someone will show us the way.

Will you follow me through the rain and the snow
The way the wise men go, they seem to know
When we follow our star, it won’t matter where we are.
Oh, for love made long ago, I’m always heading home when
I’m on the road with you.

Will you say “I do” even when you think you don’t
And hope things can change in a day?
Will you say “I love you” even when these are just words
The way words sometimes are when you pray?

Will you see me when I get mad again
I’ll apologize again and again
For the one thing that is true is I’ll fall again for you
Oh, for love made long ago I’m always heading home when
I’m on the road with you.

Ms.kj Does Italy.....

This is a sure cure for depression: look out an airplane window and be awed by the splendor of it all.

We stayed in the little village of Maiori on the Almalfi Coast. This is its pier. I barely know how to operate a camera so this beauty is the real deal.

JB dragged me shopping four days in a row. Given the bargains in leather and ceramics, I did buy a few things for myself, but I complained about 60% of the time. As an alternative, I begged her sit with me over a cup of cappuccino and watch the world go by. She obliged about 60% of the time.

Few washers or dryers in this part of the world.

Imagine having and taking the time every day to buy your fruit, vegtables, meat and fish. I was enthralled by the rhythm of daily life in Maiori.

JB does not allow me to post her picture on this blog, but who could resist this shot? Besides, you still couldn't spot her in a police lineup.

This is the view across the street from our hotel. The cliffs of Almalfi and the Mediterranean Sea are majestically everywhere you look.

I love storefronts. Always have. Always will.

I'm lying on the beach, feeling the warm sun, looking at this panorama, and can't believe my good fortune.

The Almalfi Coast consists of buildings, neighborhoods and communities, lemon groves, and thin winding roads ribboned around the coastline, way way high up. In one variation or another, it looks like this.

No doubt I'm headed back to Italy again one of these days. The food, folks and coastal beauty was awesome.

The Internet Interloper

Introductory addendum, explanation, or whatever: Yesterday I wrote this on the plane from Milan to Boston. I thought it came out pretty funny, which was my intention. But it seems I may have hit a chord we all think about. But, as a favor to me, try to read this post lightly. I'd hate to have you visit and end up depressed for the day. ):

They'll track you down in your own backyard--
pirates who have stalked you from another continent,
following your weekend restaurants and family reunions.

They'll break in through the basement on Sunday night
and tie you to the bedpost while they open drawers
and carry your television into the rented van.

They'll use your credit cards,
cash your bank accounts,
and make a few smooth moves so your hairstyle is theirs.

All because you have posted your entire life on the internet.
Because your e-mails and blogs have found their way
to Mad Max in Memphis and a 68 year old trucker in Kalamazoo.

They'll open your refrigerator
and pull out the special mozarella
from the second shelf rear

And marvel at the Indian placemats with the Mexican colors.
Then pull the red rickety chair up to the little round table
Commenting, by the way, that your dining room looks exactly like you described it.

That will be bad enough.

But when they ask you to sit down and break bread--one friend to another--
or carry the suitcase to the familiar guestroom,
When that happens,

I will say the same words with great syllabic pronounication and emphasis.
I will lecture and cajole and implore and direct
While your furniture is carried out the back door.

And you--you will politely and impatiently wait
Until the commotion dies down so you can get on-line
and share this fascinating adrenalin-shaking event.
"Dear friends", you will say.
"Guess who I met today?"

Time for a Break

In the meantime,

In the in-between time,

Even in the lean time--

I'm thanking my lucky stars

for the pleasure of your company.

Be back soon...

Thursday 13 on Wednesday

Thursday 13's a little early this week: a vacation's a-coming.

The Thursday 13 theme this week is no theme.


1. This is my lonely livingroom fireplace. Until one of us orthopedically recovers to lug and stack the woodpile, there'll be no fires in the household. Come by in a few weeks and it should be roaring.


2. Helpful Advice: Never name your car unless you know exactly what you're doing. This is Prissy (named for her attitude in snow). When jb finally traded her in for a Honda Accord, we left her in the dealer's parking lot with terrible guilt. In literature this is called personification.
Prissy called it abandonment.

3. This is Francine. She found her way to us from Santa Fe, joining other personified family members including Frank, Esther, Mildred, Uncle Kitty, and Emily Rabbit.

4. Once a week I drive 100 miles to spend the day with my mother, and 100 miles back. This is the same Massachusetts Turnpike immortalized by Arlo Guthrie and is particuliarly notable for the snail paced drivers in the passing lane.

5. Every bathroom should have this kind of inspiration. Afterall, what better place to concentrate on self-improvement?

6. A while back Andrea and others bared their refrigerators. Or was it freezers? If you look closely you will see Turkey Hill Chocolate Cherry Yogurt, Junior Mints, and Weightwatcher's Chocolate Eclairs. What's a freezer for if not emergency chocolate?

7. Thursday 13 turns serious....kj walks in the park, looks up, and the universe speaks.

8. Here is the spot where I often write. It's a little pond in a great park, an easy walk from my back gate. 9. Here is the spot where I look outside as I write. Amateur that I am, I couldn't get the camera to do it justice. But once I saw a baby fox run by, there are always fun loving woodchucks, and the towering pine and well of geraniums keep me good company.

10. No attempt to clean up the clutter here: it's my writing room and I love it.

11. Ces, this is for you. This is Stella and the miracle of healing.

12. My 90 year old mother has zero memory, really, but she somehow figured out how to call the florist and send me these funky flowers the day after my surgery.

and 13. Just words: Thank you for your visits and comments. You will never know how much they mean to me.

Strong Arms

I don't say "thank you" enough.

Strong Arms

I will catch you in the freefall
Should life become a grinding haul.
I will help you to your chair
Where you can play some solitaire.

I will stand in front of words and trains
Anytime they cause you pain.
And anything that blocks your step
I will beat back to safety’s depth.

You’ve done all of this for me
With simple generosity.
You complement so much I lack.
I just hope I give it back!

Songs of My LIfe

Cherrypie tagged me to share the songs that mean something to me. I was belting out and lip synching songs in the privacy of my bedroom as a pre-teenager. I've used broom handles as microphones and pretended to sing passionate songs in great theatre halls. Even after the nun teaching my first communication class pulled me aside and told me I could only move my lips and to cool it with my passionate attempts to sing, I've continued to be a fantasy singer. I admit I can't carry a tune. Oh, but I try.

So here are my favorites:

1. Someone to Watch Over Me: This George Gerswin tune has been sung by everyone from Ella Fitzgerald to Willie Nelson to the student in Mr. Holland's Opus. I listen to it and I tear up. The title says it all: who doesn't want this? And to someone to watch-over back....

2. Twist and Shout : Is there a better song to dance to? Mary Chapin Carpenter does this song fiddle country justice. I won't tell you what my daughter Jessica said about my dancing at her wedding to this song, but my uncharacteristic response was "Who gives a sh--?".

3. Blowing in the Wind: When I first heard this Bob Dylan song, I understood something about a peaceful world, and I deeply felt the wisdom and inspiration to do my part. I am a child of the 60's, really, and that has had a profound impact on who I am and what I believe.

5. Halleluiah sung by kd lang: This song mesmorizes, haunts and transports me whenever I hear it. Her voice is stunningly beautiful.

6. True Colors (Cindy Lauper)--Jess and Mike chose this song for their first dance at their wedding. I was surprised Jess liked it and it will always remind me of the day my favorite daughter married a man she truly loves.

7. If We Only Have Love"--When I was in college, I loved Charles Aznavour's "Jacque Brel is Alive and Living in Paris". I saw the play at the little Charles Theatre in Boston and listened to this album over and over. I've chosen this song in particular because in my mind some things are always true. Love rules.

8. The Great Peace Train: I'm at a Holly Near concert in my early 30's. She a lesbian comfortable in her own skin, has a fabulous voice, and isn't afraid to speak of peace without apology. All are qualities I want for myself--then and now--ok, ok, so I can't have the fabulous voice.

9. Angel in the House: If you haven't heard this sweet song, I recommend tracking down the group, The Story, and the cd of the same name. Jonatha Brooke was my neighbor and a dog friend when her cd was released. It was chosen by People Magazine as the pick of the week. Jonatha and I and and a varying dozen or so other people often stood in the open field of Cold Springs Park and talked about dogs and life and how this music was made. I look back on these days in the same way I currently cherish my blog relationships.

10. John Denver anything except his really hokiest songs: I like his simplicity, respect for nature and mountains and soaring. Last Christmas jb bought me a two cd collection of his greatest hits. You can see me happily singing along with him on the Massachusetts Turnpike. Of course, I am totally oblivious to you.

11. And last, Andrea Bocelli's Con Te Partiro. I'm not much of an opera fan but I played this song in Provincetown for the two years we lived there. Somehow it helped me understand both the sadness and the joy of life. I was knee-deep into both at the time, and hearing Bocelli belt this out helped me feel better about being very very human.

So now I'm tagging: Popscholar, Ruby, ValGalArt--Any interest in sharing the songs of your life?

Thursday 13: Miscellaneous

1. I have no clothes. Honest. Somehow in our move last year my winter clothes disappeared. Everything but a couple of sweaters. So today I went shopping. I bought two tops, two pairs of pants, a sweater, a blouse, and a camesol.

2. I also bought sneakers. So I can walk in the Isle of Capri and the park next door.

2. I haven't heard from the blog police (Jessica) in a while, so I must be posting more descreetly

3. Did I already mention that jb and I commissioned a dog communicator, which is a fancy word for a psychic, to tell us about Stella's life before we got her? She spoke to Stella over the phone and told us what she said. Everyone we know is making fun of us but we thought it was great. And helpful.

4. The last time I was in Italy was 30 years ago. I will soon go again, with jb, to the Almalfi Coast.

5. Cherry Pie has tagged me for my favorite songs. I know my very favorite is George Gershwin's "Someone to Watch Over Me".

6. Woo Hoo! The season opener of "Lost" aired last night. This is an awesome series, on every Wed. night. I don't watch much tv but I don't miss this if I can help it.

7. Last Monday the Big Yellow writing group resumed. It is called that because Nerissa Nield's house is big and very yellow. I was so glad to see Kris. I can't describe how great it is to hear people read their work outloud, and to read mine.

8. One of my favorite jokes is "How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?"
Answer: Just one, but the lightbulb has really got to want to change....) (smile)

9. This weekend Jess and I are taking my mother to her family reunion. There will be over a hundred people there and I will know about 20. My mother is the oldest and is known as "Aunt Rose".

10. No firewood, alas, in the household yet. Neither jb nor I can lift or carry--my back and her knee. We are thinking of putting an orthopedic doctor on retainer (smile again)

11. Our friend Heather is coming for the weekend. She and jb are enrolled in collage workshops at a nearby artisan school Sat. through Monday. When we get together, we talk all night and usually end up doing or discussing some kind of art.

12. Jess came to visit and stayed over last Friday night. We made pancakes Saturday morning and looked at pictures of her when she was a baby. Nothing--I mean nothing--is better than this kind of time with Jess.

13. I know I have misspelled two words in this post. One of the best teachers I've had used to say, "Perfect isn't coming today".

More to Say (who knew?)

Yesterday Stella and I resumed our walks in the Park. I bring one 8 by 11 piece of blank paper and a pen. At some point we find a bench. Stella sniffs and I write. This is what happened yesterday. To my surprise, my thoughts on destiny and life had more to say.

So this is, I guess, part 2 of "longing for destiny". If it's not obvious, the incredible honesty, sincerity and reflection I've found in so many blogs is the engine for these two poems. The counselor in me wants to offer guidance. The writer in me hopes my words are good . And the person in me--hey, it's just me--hopes I understand myself, and thus you, at least some of the time.....


If I knew you were weighing,
waiting,wondering about your place and space;
If I watched your emptiness
Take shape,
One day content in the simple act of
cooking dinner, with basil on your fingers,
Other times withdrawing
through the sting of disappointment,
Or confused by the countless dualities
That lead you to the familiar and unknown,
To the window and the cellar,
All at the same time. All at once.

If I knew and watched
Your hearftfelt effort
To find yourself
At the place you first got lost,
I would watch for so long;
I would be sad there is no shortcut
To wisdom
And fearful of sounding pompous,
But also, I would remember that
your heart can win out.

I could tell you a few things
That may help, depending.
I could tell you it is what it is,
That you have to feel your way through jagged walls sometimes.
But in the end they will help you balance
between the mundane and the sacred.

I could tell you the confusion stays.
It doesn’t really shrink with age,
Sometimes because of real or imagined hurts.
And sometimes because DNA works that way.

But—this is important-- the wonder stays too
As does the part you already know—
The part where love matters monumentally.

So here it is.
The Ying. The Yang. The best. The worse.
This is where you might lose it.
These damn dualities.
I can’t tell you why you might wake up in turbulence
When the rest of the world is busy watching jeopardy.

Or why sometimes you soar and other times crash.
But I can tell you to expect confusion.
To learn to work with it.
To work around it. And beside it.
And I can tell you there will always be wonder.
Exhaulted wonder,
Where for a moment the stunning fireworks
Pull you from your roots
And you know every single thing--
All of it compacted into the shining molecule of acceptance.

Can this help?
Can you stay with yourself
When the ground shifts
And you drift to uncertainty?
Can you accept before you seek?
Can you give yourself a break
And let not knowing
Sit in its own space without overflow?
You can.

Longing for Destiny

Last night I returned to my big yellow weekly writing group. It's been 3 or 4 months since I've read one of my poems or stories outloud. When I do that, I connect with how much I love writing. I love it.

The prompt this week was from a book on love and somewhere in it was the phrase "longing for destiny". I got to thinking that sometimes the search for destiny can take you to the wrong place:


It’s a bus to nowhere, really.
It’ll stop for you, transport you somewhere else,
Accept your token and save you the effort
But you won’t find destiny there, if that’s what you’re looking for.

Once or twice you might think you have—
You might settle in with great hope,
Ready to let love and longing
Tumble onto you like a box of cherrios—
One circle and another filling the circle bowl you call your life.

Over time you may travel a number of buses
And any one may be your portal
To rich ground where you build your home,
Where you fall into a softened corner
And find your cherished place.

You wish. You wish it works this way. That’s fair.
But wishes aren’t like bus routes.
Wishes wither in the moments of now.
They require nourishment that comes only from the future,
And there is no portal to pass through
That will take you there and back.

The right moment. The right person. The right place.
The right job. The right time. The right break.

Right is what makes this wrong.
All of it.
When you decide right in advance,
Your possibilities cool like reheated toast.

Forget the endless bus routes.
It’s about today Now. Here. This moment.
This couch. That’s all of it.
You show up. You notice. You try.
And then you let the universe steer
Into the night. That’s plenty. That’s enough.

Stress-Speak

Let me say this upfront: I don't know if the following post on stress is helpful, or boring, a good read or worthless chatter. I'll appreciate any opinion or feedback you're inclined to share. My criteria for writing something like this is very simple: it either helps because you understand something in a new light, or it puts you to sleep. If it's the latter, I'm better off knowing. :)


Stress is bad. And common. Even small anoyances and irritations--a rude sales clerk, a snappish friend, a messy bathroom--can trigger the body’s stress response--affecting digestion, immunity, cognitive and sensory skills, pain threshold, even sexual drive. It comes in all forms--a dead car battery when you’re late already, a sick child when you’re due to fly to Chicago, a broken promise, a performance review by a supervisor who doesn’t like you, or even by one who does. Then add the catastrophic--the unexpected diagnosis, a job lay off, the end of a relationship.

Stress and conflict are an inevitable part of life, but the actual events that take place are only part of the problem. Your body reacts when you only think about an event or problem, even those that have not even occurred--the IRS audit, the mounting bills, the career challenge, the inevitability of death. Did you know that your mind cannot tell the difference between imagined versus real danger?

Even with effort and awareness, you can't always avoid stress. You do not have to let actual or anticipated problems dictate your mood, but that is exactly what will happen if you do not intervene in some way. It helps to know that from the moment the alarm clock goes off and your feet hit the bedroom floor, you are influenced by last night’s dreams, yesterday’s worries, by old stress and new stress. You don't start with a fresh slate unless you find a way to bypass their effects on you, and if you don't do that, your day can start badly before it even begins.

You can’t control most of the events that happen as you live your life, but you can control how you respond to them. The trick is to be able to bypass your mind, which worries about every thing, and your ego, which needs to be right. You do this by not letting stress accumulate, by not letting one difficult event spill into another, by walking away from conflict whenever you can, and by using proven stress management techniques: Yoga. Prayer. Meditation. Exercise.

Chronic worry is bad for you--especially when you worry about things that may or may not happen. Because your mind doesn't know whether your house has burned down or you are simply worrying that your house may burn down, the result can be disastrous to your physical well-being. Symptoms from colitis, irritable bowel syndrome, chronic fatique, fibromalgia, and headaches have a direct link to this kind of worry overload. (Sapolsky, Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers, 1998)

There are many people who would tell you that stress is healthy and stress management is worthwhile. I'm not one of them. I view it a different way: I think it's best to keep a watchful eye not to let stress and worry accumulate from one day to the next. Take breaks. Take time. Remember to breathe out, not just in. And have a 2 or 3 minute technique you can count on when you need to clear your head fast. And, then, of course, live your life.......

Thursday 13: Not About Reasons I'm Proud of Myself

I told jb I planned to write a "Thursday 13" on reasons I feel good about myself.

Silence. "Don't you think that's alittle vain?"

Me: "I was thinking it might be inspirational".

jb: "What will you say?"

Me: "I'll write about some nice things I've done.

jb: "If it's not vain, it might be boring"

Me: "I thought I'd give myself credit for a few things that might help someone else."

Silience again. "What other topics are you thinking about?"

Ok. That ended that. I'm leaving it at the following few kj facts: I try. I care. I see. I'm fun.

In hope of a non vain, non boring Thursday 13, here then is a hum'drum update on life in general:


1. I am still recuperating from my back surgery. I can now admit it was a major deal and it's been hard. I'm spending a surprising amount of time on the couch.

2. Friday I see the surgeon and hope he will tell me I can move and bend without being my paranoid hypocondriac self.

3. I can't stand the fact that I won't be planting spring bulbs and fall mums this year. This screws up my ongoing plans for the yard, not to mention the little stone border .

4. Our local friends have been great: offers to walk Stella, dropping by with lunch, even stacking some firewood. I am again aware how difficult it is for me to be vulnerable. I'm really really really trying to be myself in all this, including the vulnerability, but it's not easy.

5. I went to physical therapy yesterday and she said I am doing great. I probably am...

6. Any suggestions for babyboy names?

7. The first time I ever used e-mail, I knew I would love it. I never guessed I would love the blogs. Sometimes I sit in wonder at the range of creativity I experience from them and how genuinely smitten I've become. Since I tend to gallavant, I am certain I will meet certain blogger friends someday, and I would have never guessed that either.

8. I find CherryPie very fascinating. I love her spirit and her wit.

9. If I were to write about reasons I feel good about myself, I would say I made a lasagna for my grieving neighbor the night before my surgery. Her husband Steve died when he shouldn't have.

1o. The book proposal was finished and mailed (yay!) on Monday. Now I wait for my agent's response and hope she and I are both ready for the next steps. If not, I'll make new decisions, but there's no stopping me ..

11. My recuperation has led me back to Book # 1. I redid the outline and table of contents and I'm falling in love with it all over again.

12. I wonder if I should/want to start presenting workshops again. I know they matter, but they take alot out of me. I'm thinking this because the "little workshops on happiness" would propel again me into material for the book.

13. jb and I have a four day weekend ahead. Next week I can drive again and I'm channelling that I will be well more my old self by then.

Poetry Thursday: The Writer

I write from the smallest space—
Stripping details from salmon walls,
A little room near the magic cottage,
A studio and coffee cups in Bemidji Minnesota
And the park bench where the muse likes to visit.

From a single chair in the smallest space
the writing life is wide and wild,
Carousing the world for the tiny details
Of gloriously flawed, and ever hopeful lives.

Writers sit in solitary rooms
And choose one word, and then another
Wrestling the spikes of humanity
And the softness of giving up,
Choosing words that string together
like the pearl necklace,
Around that long proud neck, extending
From one writer to the next
Trying, trying to tell the truth.

I’ve met writers this year:
Justin--the tekkie with the tender heart, traveling east
Sara-- the teacher teaching to learn.
Me—the optimist who loses moments
John Denver—who died flying empty, asking What does it take for a blind man to see that there’s more than just meets the eye?
Vanessa, who finds a hole to find herself
Jessie--whose words alone assure you this is a good good person
Mary Oliver—getting it right in the Provincelands.

Words that pop like a perfect tennis ball
Make the whole day worthwhile.
Astonishment. Integrity. Grace. Velocity.
Words that bridge,
From sorrow to senrendipity,
From fallen leaves to the first crack of spring.
Words that tell you in the wild wide world,
It’s all ok

Mom and the Orthopod

When I arrive at your house, you're impectably dressed and waiting. You know we are going somewhere but you ask me five time from the livingroom and five times in the car where we are headed, and why.

I answer you factually eight times and impatiently twice, but not impatiently enough that you tell me I'm not being nice, so I guess you don't notice my slips.

We have made this appointment for your knees because it's obvious you can't maneuver stairs without using a banister to pull yourself up, and lately you've asked if you can get a cortisone shot. But today you do not remember any of that, and you tell me your knees are pretty good.

We don't know this doctor. Dr. R recommended him and I am glad because the other knee guy, Dr. H, was too rote. This doctor has looked at your x-rays before we arrive (good sign) and asks you to tell him what about your knees bothers you. You say, "The weather".

He says, "No, I mean, can you walk a mile? What can't you do?"

I am amazed he asks my 90 year old mother if she walks a mile. She answers directly, "No doctor, but I never could walk a mile". She and I smile. He continues.

He tells my mother, "Your knees are bone on bone. You could have surgery but I doubt you want that". My mother agrees. He continues, "You should be fine as long as you avoid stairs".

You say, "I can't--my laundry is in the cellar".

He says, "You have to find someone to do your laundry then. You shouldn't do stairs".

You smile. I know this is going right over your proud defiant head.

He tells you again. This time you act surprised. "Oh", you say, "I can't use the stairs?"

He says, "Are you in the same room as me?"

Normally I would find a way to tell him politely but clearly to be more respectful and civil, but my mother does not let on she cannot remember from minute to minute and he is trying his best to make a point.

When you again do not hear, he says, "Look, your knees are not stable. If you continue to use the cellar stairs, you will fall and break your neck and die. Then you won't have to worry about your knees".

My mother smiles.

When we get home, I am determined to use this in-your-face medical appointment to wean you off stairs once and for all. I tell you the doctor has forbidden you to go down the cellar. You protest and refuse, "I am not going to stop doing my laundry". You are emphatic.

I become more forceful, to which you finally say, "kj, you're making me feel like I'm a hundred years old........."

OK, That's Enough

Forgive me if I end up making a political statement, but
I have to tell you so you don't ever think this is the way it is or should be.

It's a crazy world and some things never change. But something's happened in the USA and around the world that I can't let you believe for one moment is the way it was or the way it should be.

The United States is part of a body of nations that honors and adheres to the Geneva convention. This means we don't do and we don't condone torture. . This fact has never been up for discussion until the Bush Administration's response to 9-11. Please don't think that the current state of the US government--Congress included--means that something that's worked for fifty years needs to change. We don't do torture and we certainly don't expressedly condone it. Replace that and the moral authority of a free nation can no longer be a beacon for a free world. We've lost too much of that already.

Name calling by grown men solves nothing. Call a country a "evil" and label almost every mid eastern person who doesn't agree with you a "terrorist" and you get called names in return. That's how it works. Of course we have to have and consider military solutions for complex problems, but using "evil" as a black and white noun imflames and creates what we're now seeing: simplistic loudmouth cowboys who seem to forget we only have one planet at our disposal.

Ok, that's all I have to say. I know I am waddling into dangerous territory. War is hell whether it's for the right or wrong reasons. I won't debate that. I really don't want to know who's red, who's blue, and who's purple for that matter. But too many of my blog friends are in their late 2o's and early 30's. I have to tell you it's not supposed to be this way. Not this extreme. Not ever.

Thursday 13:

This week I'm sharing some of my favorite quotes, organized by yours truly's principles for a happy life.

1. Keep It Simple
“A mess can cover up more than tables and floors. People lose themselves in the day-to-day stuff, and they don’t get to be who they really are.”
Organizer Extraordinaire, Laurie Arriola

2.Stay Present: Correct the Past, Plan the Future, But Live Now
“We are born at the rise of the curtain and we die with its fall, and every night in the presence of our patrons we write our new creation, and every night it is blotted out forever; and of what use is it to say to audience or to critic, “Ah, but you should have seen me last Tuesday?”
Michael MacLiammoir, The Bell,
“Hamlet in Eisinore”, 1952

3. Commit: Find a Purpose and Live It
“I always wanted to be somebody. Now I see that I should have been more specific”
Lily Tomlin/Jane Wagner

4. Don’t Turn on Yourself
“When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included?”
Mary Oliver

5. Keep Conflict to a Minimum
"One cool judgment is worth a thousand hasty counsels. The thing to do is to supply light and not heat. "
Woodrow Wilson, 1916

6. Laugh and Cry
“Bad times have a scientific value. These are occasions a good learner would not miss.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson,
The Conduct of Life, 1860

7.Do Good Work
“Don’t ask your self what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive, and then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who come alive” (Harold Whitman).

8.Bend Bend Bend: Choose Happy Instead of Right
“There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.”
James Russell Lowell, “Democracy”
address in Birmingham England 1884

9.Create
“I entered biology to understand the beauty of life. I started with the ecology of animals, but that wasn’t quite right, so I went one level deeper, to the study of tissues, then to chemistry, and finally even dabbled in the depths of quantum mechanics. Yet when I got there, I saw that the wonder of life had somehow slipped through my fingers along the way.”
Allbert Szent-Gyorgyi,
Nobel Laureate Biologist

10. Connect
“Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love IS everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it. ..It really IS worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.”
Erica Jong, How to Save your Own Life, 1977

And a final word from the Saint of the Universe:
We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But if that drop was not in the ocean, I think the ocean would be less because of that missing drop. I do not agree with the big way of doing things.
Mother Theresa, 1975

The Little Girl

I must be better. I'm writing again. Thanks to each of you for all the well wishes.

Some of you know I have written a career counseling book called "Good Work!" and have been working on the proposal to shop to publishers. But this is my 2nd book: the first was started now four or five years ago and put aside when I became discouraged by my agent's feedback.

This first book is on Happiness and it is the literary equivalent of the love of my life. This morning I revisited some pages I have not seen for quite some time. And for whatever reason, I've selected an excerpt. It begins a chapter called "Don't Turn On Yourself", one of ten principles for a happy life. I can vouch that every word of he story of the little girl is true:


“When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks
through the world, yourself included?” Mary Oliver


The little girl left for school every day wearing some derivative of a red plaid dress with a black pattern leather belt that matched her shoes and her folded down white cotton ankle socks. Every day, usually just before she arrived at school, and sometimes during recess, she threw up.
Every day she walked back home because she had soiled her dress or socks or coat, and on really bad days, everything.

When the little girl opened the back door and and stepped into the kitchen, her mother was there waiting, ready to hug her and tell her how brave she was. She helped her little daughter change into a set of fresh clothes that were already laid out on the back of the kitchen chair, and within five minutes, she was on her way back to school, where she was the teacher’s favorite and popular and comical among her peers.

The little girl is now a mother herself. She cannot imagine having the patience to clean vomit and prepare a second set of dress clothes every day. She loves her own daughter, but she cannot imagine this level of enduring patience. When she tells her friends about her childhood nervousness, she holds back tears as she says that her mother’s message—in word and deed—was that she was a courageous and strong little girl, never a shameful or difficult problem.

The little girl who is now an adult knows that this message resonates with her still, and maybe that is why she is able to take risks and engage in life even when she throws up.

Some Facts:
In a study on adult self-esteem, researchers found that people who are happy with themselves take defeat and explain it away, treating it as an isolated incident that indicates nothing about their ability. People who are unhappy take defeat and enlarge it, making it stand for who they are and using it to predict the outcome of future events (Brown and Dutton 1995).

The Back-Side

A brief update:

Impatient.
Sore.
Slow.
Sleepy.
Improving.
Restless.
Up-set.
Alittle
Better.
Unbending.
&
Looking up.

Poetry Thursday: If I Were You

What would I write if it weren't me writing?

If I were you
What would I do
When darkened winds
Came tumbling through?

I would hope
I would mope
Just long enough
To start to cope.

I would clear
My plate of fear
and let the godess
guide me here

To where I'd stand
Feet in the sand
Heart in command,
And definately no reprimand

Just a sense that being you
Is all I really need to do
To find myself
And make it true.

Thursday 13: Autumn in New England

This is a great time of year. The leaves change color and wood gets delivered for the season. It gets me thinking:

1. I'm gearing up to cook more, especially soups and breads

2. When the leaves change color, they become the most vibrant reds and yellows and oranges you will ever see. I can't imagine any place can be more beautiful than New England in the fall.

3. Our witch Esther (and her daughter Mildred) is preparing to hand out Halloween candy. She sits on a high stool in front of a black curtain backdrop and waves from the front door. Sometimes she throws candy at kids and their parents and sometimes she stuffs candy bars in her mouth. When people shake her hand, they are often startled and spooked because it's a real handshake.

4. Normally I'm wanting to stack wood inside for the fireplace, plant mums, and clean up and mulch the garden. Not this year, at least not until my back cooperates. (damn)

5. Sometimes jb and I spend our little amount of free time driving up and down country roads, stopping to buy $ 2 pumpkins at the end of driveways and funky gourds for the dining room table.

6. I love planning Christmas presents this time of year: I start shopping for stocking stuffers and promise myself I will be done with gifts by Thanksgiving. I never am.

7. I cook a turkey for Thanksgiving even when dinner's not at our house. I can't resist the smell of it all. It makes me feel grateful.

8. I tend to read more in fall and winter. I hope I'll write more too.

9. I love walking in bad weather, as long as my feet and head are warm.

1o. My big yellow writing group starts up again next week and this includes a writing retreat weekend in October. I like these folks so much! We write, read aloud, and then offer only positive feedback to the fragile seedlings that we are. I wish this kind of "community" for every writer.

11. I also ove the smell of wood burning. And evergreen candles. And my ashram sidda incense.

12. I reluctantly accept the coming of winter. I'm afraid to drive in snow and I don't ski or do winter sports. The only part I really like is giant snowstorms when everything shuts down and I do too.

13. I complain less this time of year because I figure I'm lucky to have a roof overhead that doesn't leak.

There you have it. Happy Fall.

A Little Tree

Today I am scheduled for a hospital pre-op visit and final review with the surgeon who will delicately operate on my unsuspecting but appreciative upper back on Friday. I do not like the thought of being unconscious one bit, and I have no idea how I will feel when it's over. Last night I relied on butterscotch pudding therapy and it helped considerably, so I plan to use all the resources available to me for the next few days...

In this context of my first and only surgery since kindergarten, this morning my non-working supervisor-self gleefully watched the planting of an 8 foot crabapple tree, right outside my writing room. It will flower and grow as I do. So although I am driving into the little city soon for an afternoon of medical meddlings, right now I am looking at this little tree and I hear a soft little squeal of delight.

I'm taking the tree with me in my back pocket to bolster me through the day. And tonight if needed I'll arrange some more butterscotch pudding therapy.

September 11

Five years ago, like everyone else, I witnessed and watched the unthinkable. This hit very close to home: the Flight 11 terrorists stayed at a motel less than a mile from my house. And many of my daughter's colleagues were on that first plane.

Today, like everyone else, I watch and witness a world in turmoil. There are grave differences in the way we each hope and work for solutions, but today, and tomorrow, I pray that those differences pale from the weight of our common humanity. I pray that the commonalities and conscience of people across the world find a solution for a lasting peace.

Thursday 13 with a twist of yikes!

On this Monday, I'm very late in posting the latest Thursday 13.

1. When I'm depressed or scared, I handle my feelings pretty well but my body prefers to feel drained and sometimes sick.

2. My improving back problem isn't good: I saw a surgeon a few days ago and he said I need surgery--this week!

3. I feel drained and sick about it.

4. I haven't had surgery since my tonsils were removed in kindergarten.

5. I have no real symptoms in the area where the surgery is needed but if I were to, it could be difficult to correct--thus the urgency

6. This unexpected event is occurring at a very good point in my life--another forceful reminder to 'ride the horse in the direction she is going'

7. The doctor told me I cannot dig holes to plant the grasses and mums that await me. I will resourcefully find a way to be a non-working supervisor for this endeavor but I'm not happy about it.

8. It is easier for me to talk about something difficult afterwards rather than during, but I am doing it differently this time. Good for me.

9. My fall plans include the resumption of my weekly writing class, a big yellow weekend writing retreat, a trip to the Almalfi Coast in Italy, Jess' baby shower, adding a gas stove to the new porch, seasoned wood in the fireplace, and getting this yapping book proposal and book out into the world.

10. I am going to trust that my fall plans will all work out.

11. My mind is pretty ingenious: as soon as I have a problem I didn't know I had, I immediately notice the symptoms. This works in reverse too: if I think I am sick, then see a doctor who tells me I'm not, the symptoms I've had disappear. Just like that!

12. This weekend jb and I were in spectactular Vermont--visiting friends on Lake Champlain. I hobbled abit but had a fully fabulous time.

13. In health matters, I tend to be an optimistic hypocondriac. Or a hypocondriacal optimist. (pardon the spelling?). Either way, I'd rather be digging holes. But I'm pretty confident I'll be alright. This is microsurgery: I'll be home the same day as the surgery (Friday) or the next day. I plan to keep my feet well-grounded in front of me......

Poetry Thursday: Unmerited Grace

The title comes from Annie Dilliard's book on writing. I'm alittle "blue" writing this poem today(blue being the Poetry Thursday prompt this week) but blue is one of many colors in the fabric of my life these days.

Unmerited Grace

It slides through the window—
an elongated ribbon
Carousing the room,
A floating catapillar
With a mid air swish
Down the hall
into and over the lazy couch
And busy stove.
There it branches off blanketing
My footprints and car keys
And even my worn sweatshirt
With the Arizona decal on it.

I’m showing up here!
I’m trying to piece together
The cutting confusion
And the magnificent moments.

This unmerited grace
Wraps itself around my ankles—
Holding me in place
When I fall short
And pushing me forward
When I know better.
I’ve seen enough, really.
I know life can work when it doesn’t
And it can’t when it does.
I know prime can’t assure admission
And good people die
When they should be sunning.

I know all this
Only too well.
When that ribbon
Of unmerited grace
Finds me spent and shaking
In the far end corner
I could so quickly fold
like a dollar bill
Passed through too many idle hands.

But I don’t fold.

I shake and shudder
And sometimes whimper
From a place so deep
I can say
I’ve never been there.

But I don’t fold.

Finally, I know enough
To appreciate
The arrival of unmerited grace
In any form
And by any means.
When I see it
Sliding through my window
Swishing down the hall
Branching and blanketing,
I drop to my knees
And recite the only
Real prayer
I’ve ever known:
Thank you.

Simplicity

It's been an active week with not enough time be a good blogger.

Instead, I'm passing on some helpful advice:

Bark less.
Wag more.

Thursday 13: Just a Life

1. She keeps her "to do" lists on 8x11 envelopes
2. This has been an incompatible and intriguing summer of Weight Watchers and Diary Queen hot fudge sundaes
3. Once she fell through a manhole cover. The emergency room doctor who treated the cut on her leg called it a ##@@&&** big laceration.
4. Another time she passed out while eating lobster at a little pier in Maine. The emergency room doctor touched her shoulder and told her it was a pleasure to meet her. For some reason she knew he meant it.
5. She makes pesto and freezes it in ice cube trays.
6. She and her family do the best Christmas stockings every year--no drug store fillers for this group.
7. Her picture is included at the request of a feisty and talented blog-friend.
8. Her apartment in Germany was so cold that the toilet often froze.
9. She is capable of seeing flowers rhythmically dancing in the wind
10. Put her in a bookstore and she'll browse for hours. Try a clothing store and she's restless after 5 minutes.
11. Her two best friends are men.
12. Is this the face of a grandmother?
13. Will she paint birdhouses this winter? Will her book be picked up by a
publisher? Will she ever learn to carry a tune? Is she really as wise
as she occasionally feels? Are the Red Sox finished?

Your Jittery Mind

This comes from the work I am currently doing.
Part 1 is about "Your Jittery Mind".
Part 2--coming at a later date-- is about"Your Hopeful Heart"

Your heart pounds. Your hands sweat. Your head spins. Your balance sways. Are you facing a mugger in a fight for your life? Or a moving vehicle coming at you at 70 miles an hour? Are you on the receiving end of a phonecall that includes the words “cancer” and “inoperable”?

Or, are you preparing for that job interview, being introduced to your blind date, fighting rush hour traffic, or presenting a marketing plan to your boss?

Do you get the difference? Psychological fear is not the same as actual danger, but it will feel that way unless you understand how fear works and how your mind reacts to it.

Preparing for crises and creating contingency plans is useful in the concrete world of flying airplanes and repairing heart valves. But in your day-to-day life, the more you try to control events and bolster your protection against real or perceived hurts, the more fear begins to dominate how you live and what you decide. It can knock you right out of the present moment. Your mind’s response to fear can protect you from grave harm, but it can also close you down and freeze you shut.

From the dawn of personkind, the human mind has been hardwired to warn of impending danger. The warning comes through clear and compelling physical alarms: rapid heartbeat, sweating, lightheadedness, increased adrenaline, sometimes even unnatural strength and courage. But the days of fighting for food or guarding against predators is long gone. In the 21st century, our real life “dangers” are mostly psychological: the unexpected layoff, the broken heart, the fear of the dark--but your mind doesn’t know the difference.

In the world of DNA hardwiring, danger is danger, and until you understand that the difference between psychological fear and true threat, you may react to any of these symptoms as if you are in a fight for your life. Except you aren’t, because a blind date or a new job interview is not in the same class as facing a frothing wild tiger or feeling a knife at your throat.

So unless you actively intervene, here’s what happens as you prepare for that blind date or job interview: your mind reves into high gear, preparing, planning, and anticipating every step you take and every step you even think about. In high alert, it kicks off what’s called the ‘fight or flight’ response: you mobilize in an instant to either tightly stand and defend yourself, or run like hell. The good news is that in dire terrifying circumstances, you will try every means possible to shield yourself from harm—sometimes even through supernatural strength or courage that you didn’t know you had. But the bad news is that your mind’s focus on safety, facts, and guarantees can overreact to normal events and that can limit your possibilities and smother your movement. When it comes to life and career decisions, the very thought of moving to a new location or readying for a job interview can send you into full alert mode. From your mind’s perspective, the unknown is the enemy.

The trick is to find a way to convince your mind that things are ok. This is a problem because your mind can’t hear you very well when it’s searching so quickly for facts and solutions. You experience this as racing—a mind that never stops. When the facts aren’t clear, your mindresists taking any steps or making making any decisions without them.

You’ll do yourself a huge favor by simply recognizing that most of your fears do not fall in the category of extreme danger. Then you can help your mind relax and lighten up.

There are only two ways you can overcome the strict rationality and overprotection of your mind: you either need to quiet it (meditation? physical exercise?) or re-assure it (“It’s ok, mind, we are going to try something new, but I promise I will check with you before making a final decision).

Dr. Herbert Benson of the Mind and Body Institute has empirically proven the power and benefit of bypassing your mind altogether when facing important decisions or seeking a calm shelter. Doing this probably contradicts what you’ve been taught since childhood, which is that reason and logic are far more trustworthy than faith and emotion.

Since most of us apologize for being “too emotional”, you are probably accustomed to making major life decisions by minimizing or ignoring your emotions. Actually, the facts contradict this approach: reason works better when emotions are present: a person sees sharper and more accurately when his/her emotions are engaged. The truth is you really can’t see an object or a situation clearly unless you have some emotional involvement with it.

If you're relying on a brain surgeon or flight pilot, you want logic. But day-to-day fears cannot be quelled by your mind. And good decisions can't be made without the involvement of your heart.

A Rough Day and Random Thoughts

It's actually been a bear of a day. First, blogger demanded my password, rejected my name, kept mentioning google, and thoroughly made it impossible for me to post, comment, scroll, or enjoy. I assume google has changed its operating procedures, but, hey, how about some communication beforehand?

Then there's my ongoing problem with paperwork: a letter to my local city hall about a claim when the snowplow blew out the fence; another letter to a condo association that has fined me because my tenant's birdfeeder is too large (say, what?); and a search for a water meter somewhere in the house that will tell if there's a water leak underground. Then there's the challenge of figuring out why our bills and budget works perfectly well on paper but doesn't work that way in reality. And finding a sink vanity with the same demensions as the old one so the floor doesn't have to be replaced too. And weighing what to do about 10 minutes of blow in insulation that will cost $ 550, even after the company ripped up our porch roof and had to replace it. And a new referral for counseling: am I ready to take on clients again? (It's been a fabulously playful summer).

Sometimes, too often, my life is filled with too many chores and too little simplicity. Today was one of those days.

I'm still reeling about blogger. Is it fixed? I cannot say. After repeatedly and unsuccessfully trying to find a person to speak with--anyone--I'm resigned to the fact that I either have to hope I will learn more about blog operation, or....wait until something fixes itself. Guess which of these two scenarios has allowed me to write this post.

Thursday 13 in Pictures

1. Once upon a time a family lived in a 14 room house with 3 floors and one small patio. They were a happy family to the end, when they moved.

2. They lived in this house for 20 years: they and two dogs, two cats, one bird, two hampsters, and one special fish.

3. They moved because it was expensive where they lived, they were ready to simplify, and the house was a two family condo and they decided the privacy and yard of a single family house would be wonderful.

4. So they moved to this house:

5. The only thing wrong with this house was that the youngest of this happy family did not move here too because she fell in love and married a nice man and together they understandably got a place of their own. Fortunately for all, love multiplies instead of divides.

6. The new house is a cozy little place, after a year of painting and unpacking and moving things around and getting settled.

7. From the kitchen window you can see butterflies in the zinnias and birds in the birdbath and an occasional hummingbird.

8. The back hall of this ranch house ended up looking kind of spiritual, which is a good thing for any number of reasons. The back hall has been dubbed "the wing".

9. The view from the back porch overlooks the hollywood hot tub. The backyard used to be open to a major road and constant traffic but a fence changed all that.

10. This is jb's studio, the Magic Cottage.

11. The house sits on land that was a working farm, so the soil is rich and fertile. kj's garden has been awesome thanks to that, a full sun, and blessings from above.

12. The view from above includes very tall pine trees and a number of happy birds flying every which way. The view from the hammock is the best because you can look and sway at the same time. That approach can solve alot of problems and resolve alot of worries.

13. Part A: One day a very sweet dog arrived, after a bit of a tough life. She has an elegant tail and elegant paws.

13. Part B: This very sweet dog has joined a very nice family who likes to gallavant and play.

The End.

Poetry Thursday (a little late): Tick Tock

Tick-Tock

It could be my first breath,
Or my maybe my last.
I begin the beginning
And look past the past.

The earth offers up
Every clue, every start.
When I know how to look
I arrive at my heart.

It’s simple, not hard
When I let my pride go
To honor today
And all that I know.

The passing of time
Moves forward, not back
In the searching you gain
Everything that you lack.