Snake Oil

We are created with everything we need. Once we believed that. Once, long ago, before we had so many other people telling us what we believed that we began to doubt ourselves.

Modern medicine is wonderful. It does almost miraculous things, but that is no reason to negate the age old remedies that kept us alive and well in days long gone. If I believe that a soprano's voice can shatter a glass, how much of a step is it to believe that there are also notes that can bring something into my life?

If I believe that microwaves can cook food, and radio and televsion recieve information through the air, how hard is it to believe that meditation and prayer can create something within me?

Shaman's and priests, faith healers, and even the guy selling snake oil off the back of a caravan, all have, at least, one finger on something very real and important.

The Great Enablers

People with addictions are not helpless dummies. They want what they want and they want it all now. I can be pretty sure if they are smiling, they are momentarily pleased with themselves, but lo the moment they are not.

Let it not be said that they do not wish to be self-sufficient. The familiar tingle of discontent starts its first little tickle and they jump into action, immediately seeking what they need around their own area. Cookie jars are over turned. Piggy banks are robbed, rings sold, Cds pawned, whatever it takes to feed the beast. Then come the phone calls as they wheel and deal with those who have what they want. Their motto is, promise them anything, deal with it later.

Failing all this they visit those who are the softest marks, the Great Enablers. These are people who are handicapped by a false definition of love, believing that if they keep on giving, someday the hole will be full and everyone will feel good.

As the Enablers grow wiser, the addicted go for the jugular, stealing from them, threatening them with suicide, using the grand children as shields, or any tales of woe that might find a crack big enough to get a wedge in and pry out whatever it is they want in that instant. And they are not afraid to follow through, because, unlike the Great Enablers, the addicted are not hobbled by love, or respect. They are driven by FEAR. They want what they want when they want it and their greatest fear is that they will not get it.

People with addictions must choose to change, because that change is going to be hard, it is going to mean they have to admit some really tough things, and it is going to hurt. It means giving up the idea that a pill, or new furniture, or a new lover, or another drink will cure the problem. They may even end up just replacing one addiction for another, but it is still worth the try.

And it is possible.

It Is Who I Am

Sometimes I am just caught up in the wonder of life. Not that it is all necessarily wonderful, but it is certainly interesting. Like the stories I wrote as an eager seven year old, my life takes unexpected twists and turns. I have a friend who loves my adventures, as she calls them, and I guess I they are.

I do not set out to make things different, it just seems to happen. I have been thinking about this and I am not sure why. I just don't seem to think quite the same way as other people and I feel a need to act upon my thoughts more than some I guess. In a way, it is barely more than a necessity. It is who I am.

I am a woman who has a very difficult time paying attention to things that do not interest me and an even more difficult time tearing myself away from those things that do. Perhaps a bit narcissistic, but not really. I am capable of enormous love outside of myself. My children are the light of my life and even my tiny dog is so much adored it probably seems wrong to some people, but not to me.

I believe it is possible to love in unhealthy ways, but I do not believe it is possible to love too much. It is out of this love that my life moves forward along the Way, carrying me with it, an able, willing and wondering passenger.

From This Point On

I sift through a life time of memories in the space of one afternoon, tossing out handfuls of life as though they are simply the splinters on the floor. Yet what part is not important in the cycle of each life? What part can be thrown away and still allow the rest to continue on as before?

Perhaps this is only visible in hind sight. The statue that stands balanced and dark reflects light in all the right places. Only then does the artist know he is finished.

From that point on, it is up to the finished piece to prove its own staying power and the artist may sweep his floor, throw away the extraneous chips and sit back in peace.

Lessons

Learning what not to say is perhaps the greatest lesson of all.

Grandma's Bag

I dream of being near my son and his family. I want to give my grandson the opportunity for experiences he might not have otherwise. I want to be wise enough to be self-sufficient and content and still a vibrant part of their lives.

When lives are involved, there are so many possibilities for growth and change that plotting the course ahead of time might cause one of us to miss an important intersection, or even a central collision. Who knows what beautiful and itegral things might never come into being without these?

I plan on being there when the orchestra warms up and as the curtains rise, I'll be just off center stage, sitting in my old oaken rocker with a lap to sit on, a pair of arms for hugging and Gramma's bag of tricks and treasures, for entertaining and teaching.

It won't matter if we talk, or splash in puddles, or simply rock. It will all be real and personal and right in the moment.

Breaking Bread

I remember picnics when my mother made us cheese sandwiches with bread and butter, wrapped them in waxed paper and we took them to the lake where we ate them when she and my siblings stopped fishing. I would set my book aside and eat with them. Those were some of the best sandwiches I ever ate.

A friend of mine,who was 94, only remembered one thing about being really little. It was her step mother making her and her brother baloney sandwiches they took to the playground up the street and ate.

I'm not sure why we remember these things, but I think maybe they are just pure examples of love and peace, celebrated by the breaking of bread with others.

Transitions and Commitments

Sometimes I read what I have written and I am appalled at its banality. My life is in such a huge transition right now that every area is going to change to some degree. Moments occur that are so stunningly beautiful that I don't know how to write about them, this is when I get into the most trouble. It is so hard to write about the sublime without sounding like some sort of fanatic or flower child.

However there is also a down side to this transition. I will be living on substantially less money in a new place where I only know a few people and where the people have the potential to be so different from me it may be culture shock.

And now I have gone and made a commitment tying up almost a quarter of the money I need for this move. It is a good thing I am doing, but I still cannot quite believe I did it.

In the long run I am not really worried. The way is always winding and filled with surprises and I am always okay in the end. I am truly confident that all will be well. Just remind me of this when I have an urge for a panic attack.

Van Gogh World

I almost forgot to write about this day which seemed brighter than all other days. I rose from my bed and felt compelled to see my brother. I called his house and his wife said he was at the farm.

I drove out to the farm, something I used to do quite often, but have not done for a long time. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going there. It is a road I have driven on for over forty years, but today I was in awe of the landscape. The trees were greener, the sky brighter. It looked like a Van Gogh painting come to life with streaks of golden rod running wild in the fields and bushes whose leaves jumped out and shouted, "Look at me! Look at me!" The sky was too blue and the clouds too white. The vividness of it all made me wonder.

Was I imagining this, or was it imagining me? Could it be that I, like Van Gogh, had some deficiency of the brain that made me see this world as a place of wild feelings and unbearably brilliant colors?

It is the way of miracles to be miraculous. It is the way of the listening ear to hear. It is a blessing to do the work I am called to do. And it is even more of a blessing to look back and see that it was so.

It Is The Wanting

There is much to be said for optimism and faith. People make jokes about it, act like it is only the province of fools, but I know otherwise.

Sometimes it is only hope, or good luck, but either one of these qualifies as something good in my opinion. How could I possibly attempt the impossible if I truly thought it was a waste of time. In fact, believing this would most certainly jeopardize whatever it is I want. How often is it the carrot on the stick that draws the donkey forward?

By the time he eats the carrot it is probably old and soggy and stale. It is not the eating that makes him move forward. It is the wanting. I believe in the old hymn that says to make all my wants and wishes known.

If God wants to throw a little help my way? Well, I am more than grateful.

I Am No Goddess

This brotherhood of women - odd that I would even think to start with this phrase. How can women be a brotherhood? Why is it that the worst thing I can say about myself is that I run like a girl, throw like a girl, think like a girl?

What a prejudicial, terrible way to think -- when I am a girl. Well, I am actually so much more than a girl. I am the grape ripened on the vine who has already endured the sun and the plucking, the stomping and the straining. I have been on the shelf to age for some time now. I am a woman.

Just a taste of me and you will know the difference. Every drop of me is full bodied and heady on the tongue. Your palate will quiver as my fragrance bursts into bloom. Your mind will remember me as one of a kind, because I am.

I am more than giggles and adoring eyes. You cannot pour me out of a bottle, decanting away my earthly parts as if they are so much sludge. Every part of me contributes to the person I am. Every single drop of me is dark and rich and bold.

I am the sum of all the women and men who came before me. I am the sacred vessel chosen to bring new life into this world, new hopes, new possibilities. I do run like a girl, my hips are designed to carry life. I do throw like a girl, my collar bones are designed to carry and caress and work close to my body. And I most certainly think like a girl.

I am a life giver, a nurturer. I can and will do whatever is necessary to bring the life around me into fruition, but I am only a woman. I am no goddess. I make mistakes, but I learn from them. I change my mind, because the road twists and turns. I find strength in my sisters who walk beside me, because when all is said and done; we have much more in common than otherwise.

Loves Needs To Be Rooted

Stephen Mitchell, in his interpretation of the Tao Te Ching talks about Darkness within Darkness. The gateway to all understanding. All concepts have energy and shades within shades of meaning. Love is no different. From seed to full blown concepts, Love is a living breathing creation.

Love is the ocean and the parts of the ocean. Each particle of understanding reacting to the others as they come in contact with each other until the possibilities of existence are so infinite I cannot even conceive of them all.

Sometimes, the dark musky side of love allows room for creativity, even demands it. Other times all is lightness and whimsy and that can be creative too, but love needs to be rooted to survive. It must suckle and eat, gobble up the fertilizer of the old as it decays. It is the mystery that nurtures, that prepares a womb for the new. It is the light that catches the new born and introduces it to the world.

All Shall Be Well

Things just seem to work out when they are right. The trick seems to be knowing when you are right and knowing when the universe is just testing your patience. I guess it is better to err on the side of caution and keep plugging away unless there is something that is obviously much better to do at the time.

Today things are falling into place for me. Moving half way across the country is a mind boggling task even when people are being so generous and helping out the way they are. There have been times when I just wanted to quit, move without the furniture, or stay here because I wasn't feeling up to all the work.

Funny how something can appear to have no options one day and in the blink of an eye an option appears. I have been worried that I won't have the energy to make this drive, especially as the leader of a small wagon train of vehicles, but there did not appear to be any choice. Now I have a ride!

I read Little Gidding - A poem by T.S. Eliot in his four Quartets and I remember...And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well.

A Quart of Tree

Love is such an unimaginable word. There is nothing like it in all the world, nothing so volatile, or wondrous, or undefinable. I cannot tell you what it looks like, or even come up with accurate similes. There is a light to love so bright that even the sun cannot compare, but there is a also a darkness that belongs just as truly to this same word.

Growing older, I seem to be better able to find the strength of love without eating the poisonous seeds scattered around its core. I know these seeds come from misunderstandings, from trying to understand love by looking at the rest of this world, trying to categorize something with weights and measures that are not meant for such a thing, a process much more difficult than finding a quart of tree, or pound of clouds.

Coincidences

How do I get involved in things that other people I know are already working hard at? Somehow the universe seeks me out, allows me to feast on so many beautiful ideas and thoughts, people and places, that coincidences are bound to occur.

I get on an airplane and I listen. I listen to the young veterinarian talking about the seminar he is going to in Ohio and how he will be presenting along side Dr. Bramlage, the doctor who was at the Kentucky Derby this year when Eight Belles broke her ankles. It is an enlightening discussion and I learn much about horses that I did not know.

My flight finally gets to O'Hare Airport and I dash to make my next connection, barely getting on at the last moment. Or so I think, because after me comes a very tall man who turns out to be my seat mate. He also turns out to be the new Executive Director of the Saint Louis Chess Club returning home from a seminar on fund raising.

Once more I listen and when he pauses I ask if he knows David MacEnulty? I discover he wishes he knew him. He is in awe of what Davey has done and has seen the movie Knights Of The South Bronx. When I tell him I have met him and am a friend of the family, he is very excited! He gives me his card and asks if I will pass it on.

It turns out that Davey has been trying to get hold of this man! It is a small small world.

Coincidences? Like I said, I just listen.

Mother's Day at the Mercury Cafe

There is more to eating than just food. Shadowy vines creating a labyrinth of light lifts me into the silky sweet womb where we go to eat on Mother's Day. Soft music from live musicians carries us gently through the room and we are seated at a table surrounded by the sacred feminine in all her glory.

The Mercury Cafe nurtures both our bodies and souls. It feeds our eyes with whimsical lamps and tigers leaping out of the walls. Ancient Chinese dragons wrap themselves around the columns and Lao Tsu emits a slightly disturbing looking man-made light from under his large hat shade.

The food is all local and cooked to perfection. Everything from the delicate wedges of fresh pineapple to the Quiche Linda on my plate is exquisite. There are even plump little red strawberries lying in tiny puddles of their own juice.

And when all is said and done and we can eat no more, the lavatories have tiny sinks built over the toilets, so that not one drop of water need be wasted. It is immediately recycled as I stand there.

I leave here in tune with the universe, harmony humming gently, connecting my body and soul in a way that I seldom find.

Renoir, Monet and Man Made Mountains

I went to sleep one night and when I woke up my world had changed. Gone was Rip Van Winkle sleeping life away in quiet submission. Here was a world of man made cliffs towering over great bronze horses, blanketed, not by stars light years away, but by glimmering LED lights whose donors showered a museum with enough money to enlighten the minds of those who came after them.

Brightly lit galleries replaced dark caves, filled with the brilliant work of Renoir and Monet next to beautiful titians still reclining on lovely couches, flooding the eyes with an insight long outliving earthly bodies.

No peregrine falcons perching on these ledges. The eyes of people peer down on stairways and couches whose perspective plays games with the mind. And mixed in among the swoops and swipes of traditional hands are three foot cans of Campbell's soups for those hungry for the more familiar, or great moving definitions by Clyfford Still for those who aren't.

It is a world of imagination, a world of reality from the inside out, coming down through the ages in a man made mountain, meant, not for Rip Van Winkle, but for those whose spirits are alive and well, for those whose hearts want to feed on the present, which includes the past and the future of creativity in each and every moment.

My Son

My Son, that tiny baby I held in my arms thirty years ago, is going to be a lawyer. He graduates from Law School with his Juris Doctorate in two days and I am so proud of him.

I am proud of him because of all the work he has put into this life of his. His beautiful and wise wife, his very own home, his rescue dogs, his friends, the way he does things with such thoughtful gusto, all of these and more are reason enough to be proud.

Yet, on top of all these things, he is a kind and good hearted person, a man who is not afraid to give of himself for all the right reasons, even when it is inconvenient, or down right hard.

I am so proud of him and I love him so much. If he was my only legacy to this world, it would be an incredible gift, but there is more.

Dream A Little Dream

What are dreams, but some panoramic vision created by me for me in the most intriguing ways possible. I am not one of those people who can choose what to dream. I cannot direct my dreaming like some people claim to, but I remember many of mine. I may not remember some, but then how would I know this?

I have kept a journal of my dreams for well over seventeen years now. There are themes that reappear, topics that leave me sweating and trembling, visions that cause me to awaken in awe.

The reoccurring theme of bathrooms and bathroom fixtures is somewhat traceable to the years of horrendous periods I suffered through until my hysterectomy and somewhat traceable to my love of luxurious bathrooms. If I could only have one room in the house. It would be a beautiful bathroom with flushing toilets, running water, hot whirlpool baths, and hot showers. I would sleep on the bathroom rug and eat on the vanity to avoid going without the rest.

I also have reoccurring dreams of being lost on foot, but not as often since I was really lost on foot in Berkley, California one night after going to a Latif Bolat Concert in a park.

I suspect my dreams are just an extension of my creativity with a little spice and mystery thrown in for good measure. I don't know and that is what makes them so intriguing to me.

Robot Love

I just read an article which makes me wish I could live another hundred years. Seriously, I have never felt the need to live to any extreme age before. I have done most of the things I have longed to do and found them hard enough that I have no desire to do them again.

This is different! In 2050 they will have robots so human that people will want to marry them! I don't care about marriage. It's another one of those things I found over rated, but the idea of living forever with your perfect mate, a copy of your soul mate sans bad habits, sounds fascinating.

Imagine the perfect mate, always there to play Upwords, to talk and play music, to hold me at night and whisper sweet things in my ear, someone to go to concerts and the theatre with, or even occasionally find annoying! Of course I might have to pay extra for mine. He must also look a certain way.

I'd start saving my money now, but there's probably a catch.

The Family Bones

Growing up in my family, short was beautiful, unless you were a male. Then the taller the better. I’m serious. You could have the face of a frog, the temper of a rattlesnake and all anyone seemed to see was how tall you stood next to an old door.

Don’t get me wrong, intelligence was high on the list, but it didn’t help out looks wise. I was sure there was a chart somewhere that said, five foot two and under, adorable, five foot five, drop dead gorgeous. Over five foot five and a half, healthy. They were not exactly unkind, after all.

Bone structure did not figure into this either. My sister, who is beautiful inside and out, has short hands, still her fingers make two of every finger I have, but she was small so they were” tiny.” I was tall, so I had the hand of my forefathers, the German farmers. Except I don’t.

I have very long slim hands and feet. Every part of me is long, narrow and slim, except my face and the fat on these bones. I see the pictures of me now and I know this. I was a lovely looking person, just like most people are. It is just too bad I had to wait so long to figure it out. Now, if I lost all this weight and put a drawstring on the top of my head, I could pull all the wrinkles up and hide them under my curly hair.

Of course my personality would be the same and this big bundle of doubts I am carrying around are going to make me hunchbacked if I don’t let go of them.