Thursday 13

It's been a while since I've done a Thursday 13. Here's a mish-mash of happenings, in no order, except they make me happy (or animated) in one way or another.


1. Since when does a city have a separate department for WIRES?
2. And speaking of cities, one cold day in December 2006 a city snow plow drove abit too fast and the result was snow thrown with the speed of a rocket. The result of that was a blown out fence. Not just any fence, but a ##@&% new fence that jb and I had spent the entire summer staining and painting. Two weeks ago, after filing a claim with the city, appearing before their claims committee two times, and meeting with their attorney three times, our claim was DENIED. Don't ask me the defense for the denial, since everybody agrees the plow damaged the fence. We will now have to hire an attorney to handle this. @@##$$%**


3. I live in New England. This means cold winters and frozen ground. None-the-less, this hollyhock complete with flowers appeared in December, the only living perennial in the back yard. Here's why (I think): since my father died in 1996, odd appearances of plants and flowers in odd places and odd circumstances began cropping up. Once an abandoned flower box in my mother's yard surprisingly sprouted inpatients; another time one single flower greeted me where none had been planted. As soon as I began noticing this pattern, I started thinking this was my father's way of keeping in touch. Now 11 years later, I still believe this is true.

4. This is my daughter and my mother on Jess' wedding day. This is just about love.

5. And speaking of love, here's Ryan and his sister-beagle, Sadie.

6. OK, I've fallen in love again. He is a total doll. It's funny to think I will only know him about a third of his life. Here's hoping my influence is about wonder and wisdom and poetry and kindness and love and adventure. Oh I forgot: I'm pretty sure Mr. Ryan will get that from both his parents too. But he can definitely count on me to lend him money.... 7. I think I've posted this picture before but since it's a favorite, here's my mom and dad. My father was a gruff construction guy who cried when he talked about how much he loved my mother. She would roll her eyes and shake her head whenever he did this, but you could see the slightest smile break through on her face.

8. Two best friends and one dog in cold weather, just before a fabulous trip to the shoe store and just after a slow morning of catching up on everything and nothing.

9. This is the working cover design for my book called Good Work! Straight Up Advice on Choosing a Career and Building a Life. It may or may not end up anywhere in the book.

10. Oh Stella. In ten months you have healed before our eyes. Your eyes sparkle, your tail wags, you ask for cookies, you let us kiss you, you even kiss us back sometimes. You deserve every kindness , every walk, every scratch, and every cookie, Stella.

11. Here is a cauliflower. That's all it is, but isn't it beautiful? Western Mass. is farm country, so this is probably a special kind of cauliflower, but it just goes to show you that perfection can be found in suprising places...

12. No words needed:


13. And finally, jb's Magic Cottage one morning last week when the snow was fresh. I've never had a tree this size in my yard before. In the summer I lie in the back yard hammock, look up at it, and count my lucky stars.

Tarot Cards.......

I was around 16 years old when I got my first tarot deck. My mother bought me a "James Bond" deck and put it in my Christmas stocking. I can't remember when I started using the cards in earnest, but years ago on a trip to Big Sur with my then-husband, in the gift store among petrified branches and shimmering stones and crystals, there I found the deck I would use and keep. It is an Herbal deck: each card has a specific herb or plant attached to it.

I admit I am chuckling abit as I write this post. I don't broadcast that I read these cards, and I can go months or years without much thought of them, but when it becomes known, I am often asked for readings by believers and cynics alike. There seems to be a fascination that extends past logic and reality. I rarely do a reading for someone who is not 100% attentive and receptive. And I might as well tell you I've read for company CEO's, math scholars, atheletes, and engineers--not the kind of folks you would expect to participate in this type of sage guidance.

Like a regular deck of cards, the tarot has four suits: wands, cups, coins, and swords. Each suit has ten cards and a page, knight, queen and king. Each suit reflects a certain quality. For example:

Wands: Growth, enterprise, distinction

Cups: Love, happiness, relationships

Coins: Material status, possessions, money

Swords: Conflicts, challenges, struggles

In addition to the suits, there are 21 Major Arcana Cards: each signifying a value or quality such as Strength or Justice or Temperance. Often the major Arcana cards represent states of mind: the Star for bright and hopeful outlooks, the Moon for hidden forces that may not be seen, or the Hermit, when it is best to look down on things and sort them out from a distance, alone.

So! After almost 18 months without tarot cards, I've started to read again. Here are the three cards that keep coming up for me. Two of them are Major Arcana cards: that indicates a weight and significance that I am wise to respect.

I begin with "suspended person". This is a politically correct term for "The Hanged Man". This person is upside down but not afraid and not uncomfortable. There is action occurring but it is beneath the surface. It is best to wait patiently and let events reveal themselves. Perhaps take a step backward in order to move forward. Relinquish control and realize you do not need to be uncomfortable even when you don't know what's going on.

The Ten of Wands: Wands are about growth. This person is carrying a heavy load somewhere. She/he is alone and must keep things balanced in order to keep moving. This burden might be because of too much responsibility or baggage over a relationship or work or other circumstance. But the important thing is that the person does not put the load down and does give up carrying them to their destination. It is not easy, but it is important.

Well, ok, I admit this pretty much sums up how I feel these days. Not all the time, mind you. But change tends to throw me for a loop even when I've instigated it. And no doubt my life is changing. It's true that these days I am not sure what's happening and why, and it's true I am trying to carry the somewhat heavy "wands" that I care about with care, without dropping them, and without getting depleted.

The third and last card: The World. In the tarot, this is final, 21st Major Arcana card. It is the last and most positive card in any layout. Here's the meaning in a nutshell: "You can look forward to success, whether this involves your relationship(s) or creative enterprises. You will be happy and you can make others happy too. You have gained insight and wisdom about your place in the world and you can trust your path both emotionally and physically."

My mind, perhaps like yours, is now saying "Bull!". But guess what? My mind is no more equipped or able to know the best path or possible outcome for me than is the message of the tarot cards. And I have actual experience in trusting these cards over the years, even though I still can barely explain what makes them work. And this particular message seems pretty 'right on' for me right now.

So I am going to continue to patiently wait, with as little discomfort as I can; to carry and sustain a weight that may be burdensome but one which I truly believe is worth it; and to trust that through it all and from it all I will be blessed.

The End.

LIVE WIDE!

I had not known what it feels like to be lonely until about two years after my divorce. I was back in college then and there was a woman in one of my classes who was very bright and considerably overweight. We became friends. She would throw open her vast shimmering mind and I would wade in, totally awed. One day we were standing in the pychology building, talking, and she reached up and very gently took a twig or something out of my hair. It was the way she did it.

"You like me don't you, as a friend?", she said. I said yes. "And you're divorced and unhappy ane you wish you had someone t sleep with". I said that was true. "But you don't want to sleep with me because I'm too heavy." "Well," I said, "I suppose that's right" "Don't you see what you're keeping yourself from?" she asked me. "Tell me, how much better are you willing to let your life become?" But I did not answer, because I was very young and had not yet learned just how much someone who loves you can offer.
Hugh Prather, Notes on Love and Courage

I read this more than 25 years ago and I have never forgotten it. It's found its way to me again in what seems like coincidence, but here it is on my desk, on the heels of so many thoughtful comments on my last post about accepting differences and in a larger way being open to life.

All I have to say today is:

LIVE WIDE:
KEEP YOUR EYES & HEART OPEN.
OPEN UP.

Hugh Prather, one of my favorite writers, again:

Most of us don't look at things, we look at aspects of things. Our interests are specific. We don't see people, we see clothes or bodies or mirrors of our performance, or we see symptoms of wealth or grace or intellect or sensuality. And slowly we become what we look at most.

If we become what we look at most, doesn't it make sense to look wide and far until you see the possibilities and experiences you never thought possible, learn about the world and yourself in ways you might have otherwised misssed, let the universe lead you to the best friend you've always hoped for, and begin to understand the limitless potential of so many people and relationships? And doesn't it make just as much sense to look right next door and right nearby just in case a kind hand and heart--with whatever appearance-- might be in waiting?

You're Someone Who Hates People You Don't Know...

Our December holiday party was attended by a diversity of people. These included four people in particular:

Emma and Katy are two lesbian women who have been together for three years are and formalizing their commitment to one another with a celebration and wedding ceremony this April. Sam and Bobby are two mentally challenged men, both in their late 50’s, who accidently met each other 3 years ago when they became roommates in a supervised living program. They have developed a friendship bond I expect will be life long.

Sam is Emma’s cousin. Emma drives 120 miles every Saturday to visit Sam and help him with his needs. She has gotten to know Bobby pretty well and after some concern and forethought, she has decided to invite them both to the big event.

I have some role as a case manager in this constellation. In checking with Sam’s family, I called the Rehab. House Manager, James, to ask him to gently evaluate and talk to Sam and Bobby about the fact that they will be attending a lesbian wedding. This seemed important for the comfort of all, including Sam and Bobby.

This is what happened when I spoke with James yesterday:

James: “kj, It’s already come up. Bobby was brought up to believe that gay people are child molesters. He said he could never like a person who is gay. I told him someone in this house is gay and he said that can’t be true because he likes everyone here”.

James: "Bobby told me, ‘That can't be true. I don’t know any gay people.’”

James: “So I told him, then you’re someone who hates people you don’t know.”

James to kj: “ We talked about people who are gay, about whether they are different from anybody else and why some gay couples would want to make commitments to each other and become a family. Then I explained about Emma and Katy. Bobby was shocked. He said, “But how can they be good people if they’re gay?”

James continued, “We talked some more. Finally I said, 'Bobby, you’re bigoted. You can’t go to that wedding'.”

I was ready to thank James. He had told me what was important to know. But then he said,

“kj, Bobby sought me out a few days later. He came up to me and said,

Bobby to James: “James, I was wrong. I like Emma. I know she is a good person. I want to go to their party.”

James: “Ok, Bobby. Then you should go. They would like you to go. That is why they invited you.”

James to kj: "It's been a good thing, kj. All the way around".


“You’re someone who hates people you don’t know.”

I’ve never heard bigotry and homophobia expressed so simply. I found myself relieved by such simplicity. Perhaps this is the #1 reason for so many problems and misunderstandings in the world.

I’ll be at Emma and Katy’s celebration in April. Jb and I will probably sit with Sam and Bobby. I’m happy to say that I imagine our biggest challenge will be reminding Bobby to eat with his mouth closed. Not so bad for another small step in a few simple lives….

The Flight of the Heart: A Sob Story about Two Soul Mates Who Find Eachother at the Worse Possible Time

Here is Part 3 of the Flight of the Heart Sob Story. We join Izzy and Casey in progress. If you want to start at the beginning, you'll have to scroll down abit. But that's not necessary--as a not-so-objective observer who loves them both--I can assure you that these two can stand on their own just fine, thank you.

I would have flunked friend school. This is because I have a very simplistic view of friendship. If you’re my friend, that’s all there is to it. If you call me, or ask me, or need me, I’ll be there. But I won’t ask this in return because it makes me too vulnerable. But you won’t know this because I am very very smooth at looking wise and centered.

This is a method of deflection that has worked for me since 11th grade, when my wimpy boyfriend broke up with me 6 weeks before the Junior Prom. I never let on that I was prepared to cry the entire evening from the vantage point of my pathetic twin bed. Instead, I concocted some story that was so sad and so compelling—I can’t remember a word of it or I would tell you—that I glided on sympathy and skated around the truth so skillfully it was almost as if I went to the prom after all. Which I didn’t.

So this is the first reason I would flunk friend school. I don’t open up. I just pretend to. And then there’s another reason: I don’t keep in touch. I figure once you’ve made it to my closest friend list, that alone is a whopping deposit into the closest friend bank account.

You might think I lack friends because of these shortcomings. Not really: most just adapt to me and cut me some slack .

“Hello Casey”, the answering machine says, “This is Nick. It’s Tuesday September 18th at 8:27 pm. Would you call me back by Friday?”

“Oh Nick”, I think to myself, “I wish you told me why by Friday”. I don’t know that Nick developed this approach years ago to try to pin me down. I also don’t know he will call me once more before he leaves the following message:

“Hello Casey, this is your friend Nick. I’m calling to make plans for dinner. I have three dates that will work for me: September 17, which was yesterday, September 23, which is my birthday, and September 24, which the only Sunday I have open until Thanksgiving. I have my book in front of me, Casey. I’m asking you to call me either tonight or tomorrow.”

My approach to friendship unexpectedly changed one day when I told my friend Lucy that I loved her. I didn’t actually say it like that: more or less I added it at the end of a request for a local plumber. I said it quickly and smiled:

“Thanks, Lucy. Love you”
“Love you too Casey”, Lucy said.

That was the beginning. I was judicious but not withholding. “I love you.” I would say. “I love you too, Casey” a voice would say back. I liked it. Even my two guy friends Nick and Eddie said it back. I can’t tell you what prompted all this, but I liked it. It felt like fuel.

This is my history and the framework from which I began my friendship with Izzy. At first I would sign my emails to her, “Yours truly”. Sometimes I’d say “See you later alligator, and occasionally I would say “Love” by itself. I didn’t start saying “I love you” until one day on the phone I just did. And Izzy said “I love you too”.

Probably because of the long distance between Phoenix and Western Massachusetts, probably because we could not use hugs or hands or smiling eyes to get across our points and affections, Izzy and I got in the habit of saying “I love you” regularly.

But one day, while I’m walking my dog and Izzy is on the other end of my cell phone, she said, “Casey, you say that too much.”

I was flabbergasted. I was crushed. I didn’t dare ask what she meant. Instead I said,

“Ok, Izzy, you’ll have to beg before I tell you I love you again."

“Fine” she said.

Two days later I sent her the following email:

“Dear Izzy, I just wanted you to know I would now say what I would say if I weren’t saying it because you asked me not to.”

Her response was quick: “You mean to say you wanted to tell me what you wanted to say if you did not say that you were not going to say it?”

This woman is sharp. My follow-up email was as follows:

"I do not like it at all that it seems I give in and give up before you do. You should be asking and pleading by now."

All I got back was a smiley face—the one with a colon for the eyes, hyphen for the nose and parenthesis for the mouth.

I replied immediately:

“I’m holding out. You think I won’t but I will. I can’t have you thinking I fold so easily. Not even x’s and o’s until further notice."

Izzy, my free wheeling free spirit friend who once assured me I wasn’t high maintenance as long as I wasn’t neglected, then said,

“This is going to be a lot of fun. I’ll see if you can last a year!”

What's Happened to Basic Education?

I am still amazed when the grocery store cashier cannot count the change due me or the electrician's helper cannot spell words like 'circuit' or 'customer'. I'm troubled enough these days by the lack of civility and friendliness from one person to another, but how does someone manage to graduate from 8th grade, let alone high school, without basic skills?

This is the eighth-grade final exam from 1895 in Salina, KS, USA. It was taken from the original document on file at the Smokey Valley Genealogical Society and Library in Salina, KS, and reprinted by the Salina Journal. If you had any doubt educational demands have slipped and our fund of knowledge has pummulted, here's all the evidence you need. Clearly, an 8th grade education is not what it used to be! Jeez.

Grammar (Time, one hour)

1. Give nine rules for the use of Capital Letters.
2. Name the Parts of Speech and define those that have no Modifications.
3. Define Verse, Stanza and Paragraph.
4. What are the Principal Parts of a verb? Give Principal Parts of lie, lay, and run
5. Define Case, Illustrate each Case.
6. What is Punctuation? Give rules for principal marks of Punctuation.
7. Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you >understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.

Arithmetic (Time, 1.25 hours)

1. Name and define the Fundamental Rules of Arithmetic.
2. A wagon box is 2 ft deep, 10 feet long, and 3 ft. wide. How many bushels of wheat will it hold?
3. If a load of wheat weighs 3942 lbs ., what is it worth at 5 0cts/bushel, deducting 1050lbs. for tare?
4. District No. 33 has a valuation of $35,000. What is the necessary levy to carry on a school seven months at $50 per month, and have $104 for >incidentals?
5. Find cost of 6720 lbs. coal at $6.00 per ton.
6. Find the interest of $512.60 for 8 months and 18 days at 7 percent.
7. What is the cost of 40 boards 12 inches wide and 16 ft. long at $20 per meter?
8. Find bank discount on $300 for 90 days (no grace) at 10 percent.
9. What is the cost of a square farm at $15 per acre, the distance around which is 640 rods?
10. Write a Bank Check, a Promissory Note, and a Receipt.

U. S. History (Time, 45 minutes)

1. Give the epochs into which U. S. History is divided.
2. Give an account of the discovery of America by Columbus.
3. Relate the causes and results of the Revolutionary War.
4. Show the territorial growth of the United States.
5. Tell what you can of the history of Kansas.
6. Describe three of the most prominent battles of the Rebellion.
7. Who were the following: Morse, Whitney, Fulton, Bell, Lincoln, Penn, and Howe?
8. Name events connected with the following dates: 1607, 1620, 1800, 1849, >and 1865.

Orthography (Time, one hour)

1. What is meant by the following: Alphabet, phonetic, orthography, etymology, and syllabication?
2. What are elementary sounds? How classified?
3. What are the following, and give examples of each: Trigraph, sub vocals, diphthong, cognate letters, and linguals?
4. Give four substitutes for caret 'u'.
5. Give two rules for spelling words with final 'e.' Name two exceptions under each rule.
6. Give two uses of silent letters in spelling. Illustrate each.
7. Define the following prefixes and use in connection with a word: bi, dis, mis, pre, semi, post, non, inter, mono, sup
8. Mark diacritically and divide into syllables the following, and name the sign that indicates the sound: card, ball, mercy, sir, odd, cell, rise, >blood, fare, last.>9. Use the following correctly in sentences: cite, site, sight, fane, fain, feign, vane, vain, vein, raze, raise, rays.
10. Write 10 words frequently mispronounced and indicate pronunciation by use of diacritical marks and by syllabication.

Geography (Time, one hour)

1. What is climate? Upon what does climate depend?
2. How do you account for the extremes of climate in Kansas?
3. Of what use are rivers? Of what use is the ocean?
4. Describe the mountains of North America.5. Name and describe the following: Monrovia, Odessa, Denver, Manitoba, Hecla, Yukon, St. Helena, Juan Fernandez, Aspinwall & Orinoco.
6. Name and locate the principal trade centers of the U.S.
7. Name all the republics of Europe and give the capital of each.
8. Why is the Atlantic Coast colder than the Pacific in the same latitude?
9. Describe the process by which the water of the ocean returns to the sources of rivers.
10. Describe the movements of the earth. Give the inclination of the earth.

This exam took five hours to complete. I admit there are questions where I haven't a clue.

But it gives new meaning to my father's 8th grade education.

What's happened to us? What does a high school diploma represent?

Shining Bright

How does a best and blessed connection develop, expand, grow, sustain over the months and years? I can't rightly answer that, but I can tell you that if a friend is a gift you give yourself, I have been very lavish in my wonderful friendship with Ces. This piece is for her, with thanks for a wicked good time this weekend!

It’s a February day when the sky finally assumes its rightful chilling brilliant blue and the sun has gained enough confidence to bounce off the gleaming crusted snow and across the tiny fully white hills that make up this park. Two solid black shadows stretch four feet before us on this frigid day. We are arm in arm, walking in silence and noticing every sign that the world is right today, that this day alone will right everything that could be wrong-- today, this day, when fortune permits two best friends to steal and share three days to catch up and wind down, to begin at dawn in the little green and salmon room off the kitchen for a fiesta cup of coffee, and then to linger, to hold hands, to notice nuances, to retell stories that are so long and so much that afterwards, neither can recall or retrace a single word or a single moment

In this hour, the teacher teaches and the extinguisher lies down the hose. The sun approaches noon and everywhere, in between the glossy iced over pebbles and the boundaries of the mostly frozen stream, even ten stories up where the sun breaks through those thin proud pines-- there is the serentity of friendship and the absence of foreboding. This is stolen time when one moment falls and folds into another, telling a story that is all too real, and all too rare, to be remembered on common days.

This is a day when the torch is put to rest and the brilliant light of friendship shines forth anyway. This happens in the presence of grace, which is the way that love works best. This happens when two people who know every petty detail instead look across to one another and whisper a prayer of thank you.

This is a day when no words, no deed, no correction or diversion or direction is needed. This is a day when two friends walk arm in arm in the park and remember there is a reason they are safe in the world.

.

Appreciation

Some weekends shine from their own light.

This will be one of them.

I know I can be introspective and intense. But I can also
easily and fully squeeze unlimited joy and laughter from the
toothpaste and test tubes of life.

So this weekend I'm squeezing. Family. Friends. Food. Music.
Snow. Photo albums. Doin' nothing. Doin' everything.

I wish this quote were mine. I wish I could credit the
author. Though it isn't and I can't, it's my gift to
myself and you today:

The little things? The little moments? They aren't little.

Thoughts on a New Day

This weekend I had a reason and opportunity to look back my first 12 months of blog posts. I was reviewing the poems I've written to choose one for an upcoming and wonderful collaborative project. It's been just about a year since I began this blog and just about a year since I took my first writing workshop. It's been just about a year that I became aware of deep love and starting living that way.

I am surprised at the change in me. In one form or another, I've always been a glass-half-full optimist. I can remember sitting in first grade smiling at my secret knowledge that the world was a friendly place and I would be able to find my way in it.

I remember being slightly surprised that I was voted "personality plus" in my high school graduating class of 660 kids.

I remember moving to Germany and landing the one coveted job I had no business applying for.

I remember when I started my counseling and consulting business. I knew I would succeed and I never doubted it was just about the best job in the world.

I remember how cool I was when I married this handsome guy with a college degree and together we bought this sweet small house on a half acre of land in this beautiful coastal community.

I remember the depths of love raising my spunky daughter and the first time I knew without question that I would willingly and easily die for her.

Over the years I have been extremely fortunate. I am surrounded by good decent creative talented people. I have a good good life. I am loved.

When I started this blog, I wanted to achieve some blend of wisdom, optimism, and inspiration. Who better than me, the beneficiary of so many good breaks and opportunities, to talk about life and love?

But, as I re-read my posts this weekend, I can see that something has changed. It is still me. I still laugh and appreciate and look and hope for the best. I still walk my dog and write my books and poems and relish the chance to eat a pizza by myself. But within me something new has taken root. It is deep and real and it makes me the same way. I am a more authentic person. My ego doesn't do battle so often anymore, and when I give my word I know I can keep it. There are now a handful of people I love so much I am standing in front of a moving train to protect them.

All this sounds good--all the positive growth I've hoped for when I think of the person I want to be. But my transformation is not what I expected.

For one thing, I cry more often. I can tell straight off that deep love is not all it's cracked up to be. The more I love, the more it depletes me. I can more easily give of myself, but sometimes I need to plan for the aftershock , when I will be wiped, or sad, or afraid in a way I haven't known before. Sometimes I have to digest that my needs are secondary because the needs of someone I love matters more. The worse change is that I now love at a distance and that means I have to live without the benefit of proximity and spontaneity.

Sometimes I cry because I know I will spend too many days adjusting to what is nothing short of longing. Sometimes I cry because I know and accept that while there are no limits to love, there are limits to when and where and how it can be shared. There are limits to the way the world is and the way the world works.

For another thing, I see misfortune around me and as always I am mobilized to want to act against it. I have been in the helping profession most of my adult life. I have been able to reach out and help out without internalizing the pain I see. I'm particularly good in a crisis. I'm a good counselor. But lately I've come to know that, every day, I know less and less--not more and more. And ask me how to deal with the sorrow and threat that has befallen the planet these days and I am at a loss.

I've noticed my recent posts lack the hopeful exuberance of my early ones. In some ways I am weightier, not lighter. And in other ways I am more serious, not sillier. I did not expect this.

This is not a final chapter. I am not feeling sorry for myself, and I would not change one thing. I still believe that most of us are good people doing our best. I believe our best is enough. It's just that I have begun to live differently. I am just now understanding that people and circumstance have changed me and the change is now part of who I am. It will affect who I become. I hope I become a better writer because of it. But most of all I hope I become a better person. That means, unfortunately, that I still have a long way to go and alot left to learn. It means I have become vulnerable. I can be hurt, because I've knowingly forfeited some of my protection.

And it means that at least a chunk of my learning is loving in a way that I willingly accept what is possible and what is not. Acceptance. There's my word of the year so far. Acceptance. If I really get what it means to live from a place of acceptance, how then shall I live?

Pity Meets Petty Meets Pause Meets Practice

Promise Yourself:

To be too large for worry,
too noble for anger,
too strong for fear,
and too happy to permit the presence of trouble
Christian D. Larson

I say this abit differently: I try to be bigger than the situation.

Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don't.

Yesterday I revived a petty bitch I had promised myself and someone I love I would not bring up again. I did it because this little unfounded insecure part of me keeps squawking and I failed to let it calm down before I took to the computer keys and registered my 100th complaint. All is well, afterall, but I caused the two of us wasted breaths and energy that could have been spent in any number of interesting and fun endeavors.

And yet, remarkably, all this left me with reassurance that I am loved. This came in the form of no backing down and not letting me defend that I had a valid gripe, but ,despite that, a willingness to change--to protect me --if it really came to that. And of course it didn't. It doesn't.

The next time this petty bitch surfaces--and it will because I don't yet understand why it surfaces in the first place--I am going to sit on my hands and chant zip/lip lectures to myself. I am going to write myself a letter, eat chocolate, pace to and fro, buy a book, take a hot bath, get a manicure, catch a movie--something, anything that creates enough of a pause that I calm down, remember this is not about me, and let those loving arms stay sufficiently unencumbered to embrace me just because.

I am going to yet again try to be bigger than the situation.

With practice, my batting average is sure to improve, and for me, that's a gift to myself and to everyone around me.

An As(s)-i-nine Post

Really, I've tried to maintain a certain refinement in this blog. As some of you know I don't talk about bodily fluids, I avoid direct discussion of sex, and my writing is generally upbeat.
I like to think my blog is really educational and inspirational, based on my sincere and touching honesty and my intelligent and interesting fund of knowledge and--what?-I can be too serious and preachy? Oh yes, I forgot about that. But at least I show up and try. That has to get me some points.....

Anway, my sister-in-law emailed me the following and I can't resist sharing it. It is not refined, upbeat, sincere, touching, or honest, BUT it IS interesting. Don't tell me it doesn't make you smile.


We all know those cute little computer symbols called "emoticons," where:

:) means a smile and

:( is a frown.

Sometimes these are represented by :-) :-(

Well, how about some "ASSICONS?"

Here goes:

(_!_) a regular ass

(__!__) a fat ass

(!) a tight ass

(_*_) a sore ass

{_!_} a swishy ass

(_o_) an ass that's been around

(_x_) kiss my ass

(_X_) leave my ass alone

(_zzz_) a tired ass

(_E=mc2_) a smart ass

(_$_) Money coming out of his ass

(_?_) Dumb Ass

You have just been e-mooned!

Your Hopeful Heart

I think I've covered a good deal of this post previously. But as I'm tying up my book proposal for Good Work, I can't help but be reminded that understanding and using both my mind and heart is so damn important in my life. So here is a familiar theme on this blog of mine, and maybe even familiar words. I hope this message and information may find its way to you at a good time and for a good reason.

"Does this path have heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn’t,
it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other
doesn’t. One makes for a joyful journey: as long as you follow it, you are
one with it. The other will make you curse your life. One makes you strong;
the other weakens you." --Don Juan, as written by Carlos Castenada

You can think of information from your heart as faith, or intuition, or emotion, or your higher power, but whatever you call it, research bears out the mysterious and infallible accuracy of trusting a source that is not logical, or factual, or even understandable.

You ignore your heart at your own peril. Your mind wants facts and assurances. Your heart wants passion and purpose. Your mind looks at information and possibilities along a straight line. You better believe you want your airplane pilot and neurosurgeon to be proceeding exactly this way. But in relationships, life choices, and the pursuit of happiness, your heart truly has something also important to tell you. You can choose to disregard it, but in my years of counseling experience, that usually results in less than satisfactory decisions.

Here’s how Healing Arts Instructor Susan Kramer puts it:

“Heart decisions come from our total experience—bodily senses, mind, and soul. The energy for making the best decision is not centered in the top of our body, the head. The energy really is pumped all through us from the center of our body, our physical heart, energizing all of our body. By analyzing all the data taken in through the receptors of all of our bodily senses we can know that we have reached the right decision by noting how we feel in our torso, in our physical heart or physical body. We should feel relaxed in our body instead of stressed in our body. Some signs of stress are digestive upsets, raised blood pressure, and headaches that occur when making just head, instead of full-body decisions.”

The trick is to be able to bypass your mind, which worries about everything, long enough to allow your heart—your feelings, your body, your emotions, your faith, and your intuition—to be at least be heard.

Your mind asks the hard questions. It thinks things through. It objectively weighs the options. All of this is essential and appropriate. It's just not the whole picture.

A hopeful heart asks the tender questions, considers feelings and relationships, asks what feels right. Your mind isn't fond of this line of questioning. It is too vague, for one thing. Your logical mind prefers and often requires certainty: for example--if I do A, I can expect B.

But in most cases your mind creates a losing battle when it insists on guaranteess and known results before you ready to take action. When it comes "matters of the heart"--and this might include weighing a job offer or thinking about moving or a determining if this is Ms. or Mr. Right--making the “right” decision is actually impossible —you simply can’t know with certainty that you have every bit of information available no matter when or what or how you decide.

There is not one decision you will ever make in your lifetime that comes with an advance guarantee. Once you accept this fact, you’ll be able to approach the decisions you make from a place that includes and cultivates both your jittery mind and your hopeful heart. It usually takes both of them to get it right.

One Week In Review

What does it take for a blind man to see that there's more than just meets the eye?
John Denver

It's been a week. I've always liked this line from one of John Denver's songs but this week it's playing over in my mind in a cosmic kind of way. I think it's about my decision and direction to let faith guide me more than I'm accustomed to, but in the true spirit of what faith requires, I can only trust what I see and what I don't see.
I could write a book about this week. But how about I focus on a couple of wonderous aspects of it:

I'll start with Ryan. He is 3 weeks old in this photo. Last Friday his eyes were open for almost an hour. While I held him, I wound up his music box and shook his little lion rattle for some added percussion and I swear he listened and heard. I'll be introducing him to music and poetry for a long time.


And snow finally came to New England. Except for the probable effects from global warming, I have no complaints at all that it is February and until this weekend, there has not been one minor or major snowstorm. I don't see ice and sleet in my long term future. But it's also true that there is nothing more glorious than freshly fallen snow:


Stella and I take this walk almost every day. I open our back yard gate and off we go. She is off leash for the first 5 to 10 minutes, until we hook up with the formal path at the Park. We walk around the lake and past dozens of ducks and a few geese--once even a crane. The park is well populated and well visited but when I'm there I'm meandering in the woods. This weekend I was wearing my boots and heavy mittens instead of my sneakers and gloves, but the glisten of the snow was worth even my chilled-to-the-bone fingers.

This is the view I look at from my windown as I sit here typing this post. This towering pine is alot like I feel: sometimes it is full and strong and flexible. Other times when it's shed its branches it looks so fragile and unprotected. I worry about its longevity sometimes, until I remind myself it has been upright and proud and together for many years. I hope when all is said and done I can view my own life this way.

Back to the Park: this is the way the world looked on Saturday, when Stella and I were just walking along, taking our time, feeling the cold air, and, for at least one of us, wondering what it takes for a blind man to see....

A Short Story: Part 2

The Flight of the Heart: A Sob Story about Two Soulmates
Who Find Each Other at the Worse Possible Time

After two days of my own sob story, I am now feeling better. Thank you for your comments and advice wishing me well and spurring me on.

It's time to get back to the 2nd installment of what will probably be a 4 or 5 part short story. I advise you to scroll down to read Part 1 first if you have not done so already; otherwise part 2 may not make much sense. And please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction. My love for these two characters is exceeded only by my imagination.


Her name is Isabelle. She immigrated to the United States from the Philippines when she was 24 to work as a trauma nurse in New York. She dated her American husband for seven years, who she met in Manila while he was a Peace Corps volunteer, before she finally became impatient and asked him to marry her. She told me all this in calm detail, using her hands to emphasize a point here and there, speaking with an impeccable English accent that had a rolling soothing foreign quality to it, and she more often than not laughed right along with me at her colorful descriptions of events and people.

“My Father and Mother raised eight children” she said. “I have five sisters and two brothers. One of my sisters is a doctor and another a lawyer. My brother John is a genius. They are all very intelligent and successful. My father was a photographer. We were poor. We had two maids and drivers. And my mother would share our food and help anyone who deserved and needed help.”

“How could you have maids and drivers and be poor?” I asked.

“That is how it is in the Philippines.” she said.

“What about you?” she asked me. “Tell me about your family. Where did you go to college? Why do you hate airports?”

Isabelle and I talked for two hours with few breaths in between. She told me her co-workers call her Isabella, her family and friends call her Isabelle and two of her sisters and her blogger friends call her Izzy. By the time I left her at Gate 43, I knew she was a Nurse who wrote medical protocols for a group of hospitals . I knew she was an artist who painted with a palette knife on weekends. I knew she was a terrible dinner companion.

Just after I ordered a chicken and vegetable wrap and fries at the airport version of Chili’s restaurant, she looked at me very solemnly.

“Casey”, she said, “You should not order vegetables in restaurants. It is not sanitary. Even at home I wash and scrub all my vegetable before I feed them to my family. I wash and scrub all the fruit too. Then I wrap them in plastic and put them in the refrigerator”

I didn’t know what to say. I wondered if the unusual image of my chicken and vegetable wrap scrubbed from one end to another and then encased from top to bottom in plastic would affect my appetite.


One week after I left her at gate 43 in Dallas, I received the following email.

“Dear Casey, Do you remember me? Have you been avoiding vegetables in restaurants and scrubbing your vegetables and fruit at home? Do you have a blog I can leave a comment on? I don’t know why I am thinking of you, but it seems you have captured my interest. Perhaps we could be penpals. I love pens and have quite a collection of them. It is a shame that writing letters is a dying custom. Please do not feel an obligation to respond similarly.

Sincerely,
Isabelle

Two days later I began my own blog. The process took all of ten minutes and that included the time I needed to understand that I would write or share whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to, and anybody who knew about me could leave comments, which I could then respond to by way of my own comments. Once I was satisfied with the overall appearance of the blog space I entitled, “I Really Don’t Care” , I sent the following email to Izzy:

“Hello there. I was surprised and pleased to hear from you. On your recommendation I have set up my own blog. I have no idea what I will write about but if you will kindly comment, I will find my way to your blog. For your information, I resent that I now think about sanitary conditions when I eat an apple. And I would be happy to give pen pal-ing a try. I am a writer after all. We can write about how disgusted we are with George W and perhaps lament about the state of the world. I do not know when I will be in Dallas again but if I am, maybe we can find a germ free restaurant to have lunch again.

Best wishes,
Casey

It took all of five minutes to receive the following response:

”Dear Casey, I will not discuss George W with you unless you are willing to admit to the uneducated and uniformed arguments put forth by the Democrats. I contributed the maximum of $ 2100 in both of President Bush’s campaigns. I should have known you were a liberal. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Take Care,
Izzy

This began a string of spirited correspondences that ranged from the very mundane to the mostly innocuous to the highly charged political. Over the next two months, I learned that although Izzy worked full time, her spiel about leading a quiet life of service as a wife and mother was as accurate as her creative fire and conservative passion. She was normally quite good natured about preparing dinner every night for her 4 person family. She handled the family laundry and household chores in the same way: often she conveyed an enthusiasm, if not peaceful acceptance, for the vexing tasks of life. I wondered where she got her energy.

By month three we were talking by phone. That in itself was a federal story. We were like high schoolers deciding who should call who first. Izzy and I had become pretty comfortable in our blogging and emailing. We were writing eachother long letters and sharing petty little details about ourselves that nobody else would have given a damn about.

She finally made the first call on a Sunday morning. I was as surprised and calmed by her serene accent as I was back at the Dallas airport. She still laughed vigorously at her own stories. Sometimes the two of us were laughing so hard we couldn't talk for a long minute or more. Sometimes we were zig zagging from one topic to another before one of us noticed two hours had passed.

For two women who had no history of chatting aimlessly and endlessly to anyone else at any time on any telephone, this was nothing short of a major life change.

"Izzy", I'd say. "How come we have so much to talk about?"

"Well-l-l-l", she'd respond,as though she was going to think about it but instead, one second later, she'd reply, "Anyway...Casey, tell me a story".

And I would.

I found Izzy's positive attitude and indeflatable energy level so contrary to my own. Maintaining her attitude about chores and responsibilities was clearly beyond my reach. I bitched while she accepted. She painted on weekends--glorious artwork borne from a skilled hand and deep emotion that was anything but weekendish.

She did not have a fancy studio or space of her own. Instead she painted from a corner of her family room and completed chores, prepared meals, and did laundry in between. Interruptions didn't phase her. She never missed a beat in the animated observations and opinions that she spilled forth among me on the phone and her children and husband in front of her.

I was only slightly surprised when Izzy told me she was opposed to gun control, immigration amnesty, and most government programs, but I was floored when she told me that the evidence for global warming was not conclusive.

“You should read the Drudge Report”, she finally said. "The top scientists who do not agree about global warming are denied funding." She paused.

I sputtered. "You can't be serious."

"Do you know how old the earth is, Casey?”

I didn’t.

“It is 4.5 billion years old. Why are we overreacting now?”

To be continued......

A short story: part 1

The Flight of the Heart: A Sob Story about Two Soulmates Who Find Eachother
at the Worse Possible Time


I hate airports. I can tell you why. I have never managed the logistics of handling my purse, license, ticket, luggage and carry on bag all at once. I did better before the self serve ticket counters insisted that I become even more self sufficient, but I have always been totally capable of losing, finding, and losing again anything: including my cellphone and my work folders. Once I left my large suitcase just outside of one of those disgusting bathroom stalls. It was still there when I went back 20 minutes later but by then the two stalls on either side were so gross it was all I could do to pull the bag toward me and hightail it out of there.

This is another reason I hate airports. I don’t expect that much in life, well maybe I do, but please sweet jesus, let me have a clean place to pee. Let it be clean, let the toilet be flushed empty, let the goddamn seat be dry, and let my miserable minutes before I board the plane smell ok. All this is clearly too much to ask. I am waiting for the day I chase down some oblivious nonchalant woman for not wiping the seat. I plan to confront her and insist she return to dry things out. I’ve been thinking about doing this for 20 years.

So this August, when I expected to be home floating in the Clairion pool by morning, finishing my book by afternoon, and hanging out in my sweet sanctuary of a home by night, I am instead sitting at the airport in Dallas, waiting for a flight to Boston that has now been delayed twice. The gate is overflowed and if it weren’t for the clicks of keyboards and the rude rumbles of cell phones everywhere, it would be obvious that the frustration level has overtaken all polite semblance of patience.

This is the third reason I hate airports. Some people like the fascination and diversity of all these comings and goings, the drama of people greeting or leaving eachother. Some people like the quiet time sitting in those not-really-leather chairs with only grey walls to look at. None of these things interest me at all. My life is already fascinating, diverse, dramatic and quiet when I need it to be. I don’t need a false environment to entertain me.

Oh yes. And I’m also terrified of flying. I almost forgot that.

I’m tucked into my own little version of the chair I love to hate. I have checked my bag twice to be sure I still have my wallet. My airline ticket is in flapping from the outer sleeve of my purse, and behind it is my appointment book, which would be distasterous to lose. My cell phone is in my lap and my carry-on is to my left on the floor. I am my own air traffic controller keeping track of all this.

This Filipino woman has sat beside me, initially smiling and taking care not to overextend herself and her possessions into my chair space. She is about 5 feet 4 and meticulously attired. Her hair is jet black and falls just over her ears. She wears pearl earrings and a string of pearls around her neck, followed by a jet black running suit with a thin white stripe down each pant leg. She has new Adias sneakers and carries a Dell laptop, which she is balancing on both legs and is preparing to dive into it. I catch her eye.

“Are you on this flight to Boston?”, I ask.

“No”, she says gently. “If I were flying I would not be dressed like this. I am waiting for my husband to arrive from Phoenix. His flight is now 3 hours late because of this electrical storm”.

“I’m late too”. I said. “I’m flying back to Boston and I’m not happy”.

“Oooh” she said, “That is ok. You can talk to me”.

In my work I meet all kinds of people. I am a closet introvert with extrovert skills and I’m easy to talk to. I run feel-good workshops that make it easy for folks to feel like they know me. It gets alittle boring after a while—there’s actually a little hero worship in the way I am often treated , but I take it in stride and don’t let on how very private and self contained I really am.

I looked at her face as she spoke to me. She was trying to soothe me.
“Hey”, I said, “That’s alright. You look like your laptop is waiting for you.”

“I blog”, she said. “Do you?”

“No, I don’t. But I am a writer”
“Really” she said, “what do you write about?”

“I write about people like you and me. I write about love."

She laughed. “You write about the heart. That is not what I do. I am a mental person. I like rules."

When I am amused I throw my head back slightly and my mouth widens before its obvious I’m smiling. “Rules!” I said. “I hate them. What attracts you to rules?”

“Well”, she said slowly, “I am a wild stallion. If there is not a fence somewhere in the pasture, I will roam free and find myself in trouble,”

I laughed again. Then she said, “I am called the Rules Queen at work. I am a Medical Analyst and I write rules. I love my work.”

“I like mine too” I said, “Most of the time. Except I hate to travel and I especially hate airports and here I am”.

“Yes”, she said, “Airports have too many rules and are filled with too many strange people who ignore them.”

I laughed again. “You have a good attitude.”

“Oh yes”, she said, “I have a serene simple life and a kind husband who is affectionate, protective, and altruistic. I have beautiful children. What do I have to complain about?”

“Well, you could complain that you are hungry. Are you?” I asked.

“Yes” she said.

“Do you have any interest in joining me for a drink and maybe a sandwich or salad? You can tell me all about rules and I will tell you how to break every single one. Then maybe we can talk about where we’re from and why we’re in Dallas.”

She smiled. “Yes” she said. “ I would like that."

To be continued......

Happiness Mish Mash

“Everything has been figured out, except how to live.”
Jean-Paul Sarte (1905-1980)

T F An unhappy child is likely to become an unhappy adult
T F People become less happy as they age
T F Financial security contributes to happiness
T F Having close friends increases happiness more than having children
T F College graduates are less happy than high school graduates
T F Happy and unhappy people have an equal amount of misfortune in their lives

Half of these statements are true and half are false..........

This little quiz falls somewhere in the beginning of my book on happiness, which i put aside a couple of years ago and won't return to until I am very sure I can write it. This little introduction also falls somewhere in the beginning:

Long ago a panel of Gods and Goddesses held an emergency meeting to find ways to protect the secret of life. They were concerned that as humankind expanded its knowledge and reach, human beings would one day be able to access the knowledge known only to the highest Gods. One God said, “Let’s hide the secret at the bottom of the deepest ocean.” “No”, said another, “They will one day have submarines.” Another said, “Let’s hide it at the top of the highest mountain”. “No”, said another. “They will one day have airplanes and helicopters.” There was silence for a long time. Then, the youngest among them said, to the great relief of all, “Why don’t we hide it inside them? They’ll never think to look there.”


Every now and then I take a look at either the first draft manuscript or my book proposal for what I call " my happiness book". My favorite thing is always reviewing and rediscovering the facts and research that validate certain aspects and characteristics of happiness. For example:

1. Jessica receives a 10% raise at work. She is thrilled with the extra money and recognition that she has done a good job. Then she hears that Victor received a 15% raise. This information makes her immediately unhappy. What will happen the next time she finds that someone else is doing better? Even if Jessica manages to surpass Victor, her reference is likely to drift upward to Laura, and then she will feel unhappy again. (Social comparisons impede lasting happiness).

2. A passion for order and control is inconsistent with scientific findings that chaos is essential to the survival of life. A healthy heartbeat is more chaotic than a diseased heartbeat, and the normal brain is more chaotic than the dysfunctional brain.

3. From 1950 through the 1970’s, a controversial scientist at the University of Wisconsin brutally raised infant rhesus monkeys without mothers. Totally isolated at birth, he gave them a choice of two types of artificial “surrogate” mothers. One had a monkey head made of wood and a wire mesh torso to which a bottle of milk was attached. The other surrogate mother had a similar head and torso, but instead of a milk bottle, this one’s torso was wrapped in terry cloth. The baby monkeys chose the terry cloth mothers. (Nuturing contact is more important than life sustaining nutrition)

4. Simply touching someone’s arm or hand lowers their blood pressure. One study of victims of heart attacks found that pet owners survived the longest: petting and stroking a pet was the most calming thing a patient or former patient could do. (If the rhesus monkeys didn't convince you...)

5. Myth #1 When you’re happy, everything goes smoothly.
In a study of over thirteen thousand people, 96 percent of subjects rated their satisfaction with life typically no higher than “fairly positive”. The satisfied life was not one of the extremes but steady, generally positive feelings (Diener and Diener 1995).

6. Among people who say they are satisfied with their life as a whole, 50 percent report frequent worries (Glatzer and Zapf 1984).

7. The work of Mihaly Cikszetmihalyi has been a breakthrough in introducing the concept of “flow”—the moments in life when you are so involved in what you are doing that nothing else seems to matter. In those moments you are fully alive and masterfully content. (People who live in the present moment are happier than people who are pre-occupied with the past or future)

8. Describe the two most intense hours of your life. Then choose three words about those two hours that say it all (It's my nature: I have to ask intense questions....it's a teaching tool, really.)

9. 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).


I could so easily go on. If I had time right now, I would include another dozen of these facts and findings. What I like most about them is that they add scientific, not just "emotional", credibility to one of the most important things in all the world--a happy life.

That's all for now. My adrenalin is happily flowing.

And by the way, is this interesting?

:)

Introducing Ryan

Let's face it: it was only a matter of time before I had to introduce this baby boy grandson of mine. His name is Ryan and he is the son of Jess and Mike. He is the reason they have not slept one night in the last two weeks and the reason jb and I have yet again fallen in love. I told Mike we would buy him a little pocketbook some day to keep his little crayons in. He corrected me by saying we would call it a little man-bag. Okay, Mike.

When I told Ryan's parents that jb and I would someday let him have ice cream for breakfast, they both gave me a very strong look of disapproval. So I explained that he had to have something besides m & m's that early in the morning.
I think these are the hands of a concert pianist or a painter. My son-in-law thinks they are the hands of a baseball shortstop or a football quarterback.

It is beyond my comprehension that active and busy adults would spend hours staring into this sleeping face. But love trumps comprehension. Watching this little doll of a boy is as good as meditation, and maybe as good as __________ (fill in your own blank).

Jess spent months planning Ryan's wardrobe. His closet is filled with clothes ranging in sizes from newborn through the first year. But all that went out the window when he was born: here you see the hospital's standard baby hat and a recycled blanket. Fashion will no doubt resurface, but really, who needs it?

Here we are: Ryan is less than a hour old and Jess looks like she just left the beauty parlor. There's not much to say about me at 2 am since I had the same clothes on for far too long. As if there were any doubt, I totally absolutely heartwarmingly LOVE this daughter of mine. She is unique in all the world. I would give her both my eyes, not just one. BTW: jb will not allow me to post her photo on this blog. But I can confirm that her joy at this event, after spending every night before bed reading about how to care for babies, because she was nervous about being a new grandmother, is boundless.

Oh boy......My mother is now Ryan's great grandmother. Her face says everything. I will want to remember this photo for all of my life.

This boy will be loved and cared for. I know that is not true of all children, and I pray that I will never pass up an opportunity to change that. I hope you won't either. It's not right that kids get stuck with the luck of the draw when parents are assigned. I wish every child had a second family to watch over him/her, as a safety net.

I can remember Jess' birth as if it were yesterday. I can tell you every detail about breastfeeding her, entering her room at midnight just to smell her and then stand there and cry, the moment in the back seat of the car when she said her first word ("light"), her little birthday parties, the baby food I made and froze myself, the time she got hit in the face with a soccer ball, the first time she brought a boy home for dinner,...

I could go on straight through age 29, which is today. I would end at today by saying that my daughter is now Ryan's mother, and every bone in her body is good and decent and caring and spunky and kind.

How did I get so lucky to be able to say that? All I did was love her, afterall. For her part, she forgave my mistakes, she kept me honest, she insisted I be present, and she loved me back.

That, Mr. Ryan, is what you can look forward to.

The egg that isn't all it's cracked up to be....

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Anais Nin

The prompt for my Monday night writing group was an egg. I arrived late, when everyone else was already writing. Nerissa placed an egg in my hand. I whispered to her, "Can I throw it?". She whispered back, "No". So instead I felt its weight and shape and all around space inside my fingers. When I sat down to write, I was thinking about circles that weren't quite circles. I was thinking of the first moments of birth when this precious baby boy was rocked awake. And I was well aware of the unexpected and sometimes uncomfortable stretching and questioning and growing that the universe has in store for me and a couple of people I dearly love.

In any case, what began as "The Egg that Isn't All It's Cracked Up to Be" ended as:

The (Irregular) Circle of Life

You’d have to say the beginning
starts when you
first notice light,
squinting your eyes
strained in the first minutes to make
sense of voices and those five small crevices
set in those bobbing circles
that want you to know,
and try to reach you from within.

From the beginning your turns are
every which way,
depending
on how hard you hit the walls
and how softly you bounce off them.
The same creviced bobbing circles protect
or abandon you during those bounces.
It makes a difference
because the hardest bounces don’t heal well
and the soft ones push you forward.

Those turns and bounces
spiral and build upon eachother
until maybe when you are 12
you smoke a cigarette or
sneak that candy bar in your knapsack
and that’s another beginning
because you have begun
little deceptions you can call your own.

In those moments you know
but can’t describe the sweetness and light
you will revisit for all of your life.
In those moments
you decide
the shape of the circle--
the vessel really—
that will carry you home.

Some of your turns
are as wide as every possible outcome
and others
so narrow
you squeeze by,
your breath compacted so tightly,
that when it cannot expand
you know you just have to move
or you will be in that space forever.

The day your boundaries blur
and you find yourself drifting downstream
with others around you—
on that day another beginning
carries you to the spot where
destiny meets opportunity.
And there you are,
wondering again
who wants you to know,
and why it matters.

When you grow up,
by some standard anyway,
your circle may be closed shut
so your community and beliefs
are safe and firm.
Or by then you have had
the misfortune, if it is that,
where little point a and little point b
fail to reach each other.

When that happens
you are born again,
again noticing light,
and squinting your eyes,
straining in the first minutes to make
sense of voices and crevices
that want you to know,
that want to reach you from within.

And at that moment, if you are lucky enough,
the irregular circle that lacks a beginning
and lacks an end
and fails to protect,
this circle that is broken —
this irregular circle--
becomes a portal for
every step you will now take,
for every mystery and
every vision
that every person
who ever loved you
will tell you
if they could
is the truest straightest
way
to guide your way home.

Making Art, Making a Living

A few years ago I moved to Provincetown to build a local Artisan Cooperative and then help it to survive and thrive. Today, it is a member run retail store with a combination of voting members, who work the store and pay a fee of $ 100 a month in order to earn as much as 90% commissions from the sale of their work, and consignors, who are paid 50% of the retail price of what they sell. The result is a fantastic array of local Cape Cod artisans displaying and selling their art work in a ocean front tourist community. You walk into the cooperative and know immediately that this is a place where "made by hand" is true and real. You will find jewelers, painters, stained and fused glass makers, basket makers, metal workers, fiber and fabric artists, photographers, print makers, potters, clothing and accessory designers, and perhaps even my favorite jb's work of window collages and designer fleece scarfs.

Building this cooperative took somebody else's initial vision, handed to me in the form of time and modest start up money, and my own style of researching how successful coops run, recruiting and wooing local artisans to fork over $100 and 20 hours a month for a venue and community to showcase their art, and in the end, training 15 talented and feisty folks in making art and making a living.

For this concept to work, the coop had to function as a democracy. And democracies are messy. Allowing me the privilege of servicing as their "Director" for the first two years, members met once a month as a group, where they juried new applications, learned about sales and marketing skills, learned formulas on how to price one's work , and (begrudgingly) sat through communication training (by yours truly) on how to deal with conflict and talk to eachother without heat. They agreed on and wrote up Membership Rules and Guidelines, they voted on officers and set up five committees--Membership and Jurying, Display, Promotion, Quality Control, and Finance --each of which had the final say in how their areas would be conducted. They shared lunch, they decorated, they had demonstrations about how a certain craft was done, and they learned how to understand pricing and budgets and customer service and sales.

In short, the Co-op became a community. It is that sense of community, sometimes even beyond the real or hopeful income potential, that seemed to matter most. The co-op members were always making suggestions to other members about their shared creative ideas, what was selling and why, where they could find the best glue or the best stock or the best web designer. Community. It's like love: it all starts at the same place.

I left the coop now approaching two years ago. It's had some up and down times, but if you find yourself in Provincetown on Cape Cod, on the east coast of Massachusetts, in Whalers Wharf, past the rotunda to the ocean's edge, you will still find some of the most orignal and 100% hand made art and crafts anywhere.

Here comes my first transition in this post.When I starting blogging, even before I found a community of writers, I was drawn to Artists and Illustrators. Now everyday I marvel at the work Ces and Andrea and Carla and Rramone and Joy Elizabeth and Melissa and Cherrypie and WW and HE and Jessie and Hildegarde, and so many others. Like the Provincetown Artisan Cooperative, I see an evolving community--this time, not just artists, but writers and photo historians and other talented imaginative people who support eachother and cheer for their collective success.

So it is in this vein that I offer the following advice to anyone beginning or continuing the path of making art and making a living.

1. Figure out a way to earn your first $ 75. Your outlook on yourself as a "commercial" artist will change once you experience the satisfaction of selling your work. For many, including myself, that $ 75 might feel like $ 75 hundred.

2. Don't let lack of confidence underprice your work. There are pretty good formulas you can use to come with your initial pricing. If you need a hand with this, let me know and I'll shoot you an idea or two.

3. Your creative self is not an indulgence. It is not optional. When you relegate it to last on your life lists of chores and responsibilities, coming dead last after emptying the kitty litter box or cleaning the garage, you are denying your very core its right to exist, to express, to create, to share. You are messing around with your happiness if you do this.

4. Find a local buddy. My inclusion in a weekly writing group has made an incredible difference in the space and place writing now has in my life. jb may be more likely to complete the 3-5 clothing prototypes she dreams about if she has another fashion designer working along side her. The creative process is a lonely road. It helps to have a small fan club rooting you on and/or holding you accountable.

5. Get comfortable with sales and marketing and don't apologize for it. When it comes to promoting and selling your work, don't apron wring! There are a few principles that can really help in this area--but the most obvious and the most difficult is to push through and let your work get "out there" even when you want to crawl under a rock. This might hooking up with retail stores, or gallery shows, or online Esty or E-Bay, or the local high school, or self publishing or a local craft fair, but start somewhere. Make your first $ 75. Then keep going.

A Case in Point: My Pal CES

OK: here's an example of making art, making a living in action. Yours truly has been granted the distinct honor of serving as the unofficial art agent for an artist you may already be familiar with (smile). Her paintings speak for themselves. If you haven't seen Ces' body of work in a while, take a look at C.P.Adorio

Soooooo. Listen up! If you have an interest in one of Ces' paintings living and breathing in your own home, this could be the time. They are currently available at pre-gallery prices. Ces has asked that any of her blog friends also receive a 15 % discount, so all this combined makes this the deal of the century. This is not to mention the sheer joy and neverending glee of owning and viewing a Ces painting every day.

If you may need to pay in monthly installments (affectionately termed Lay-a-Way by the less articulate among us), that can be arranged. And since the artist-in-question (Ces) has asked her dear friend kj (me) to spare her the pain of having to deal with all this, you can contact me directly for information or--squeal, wow, yay--if you want to talk about owning one of Ces' available paintings. Just leave a note on my blog and we'll figure the rest out.

Making art, making a living. It's reachable. In this case I get to represent a talented friend simply by being a grateful friend. More deep love, except this time, if you're also a friend or fan of Ces' work anyway, you and I get a life long present in the process......